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serafiel-jacobs · 10 months

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Down the rabbit hole (Fanfic)

New Chapter of my Fic series <3

January 7th 18XX

Pinocchio had told his father all about the the new friend he made, well, everything except the part where he got lost, Gemini didn’t say anything either, neither of them wanted to let the secret out and not be able to meet with Alice.

“She sounds like a lovely young girl, I’m happy that you made a friend so far away from home” Geppetto was proud of his son, making friends can be hard, even harder in an unfamiliar place, “Just be sure to come back before dark remember? Don’t stay out too late”

“Father, I’m not a five-year-old child, I know how to take care of myself,” Pinocchio said confidently.

“No, you are a one-year-old brat that is too over his head,” Gemini said with a smug voice, he was right, at least about his age.

Pinocchio gave a small shake to Gemini’s cage, “Shut up Gemini”

Geppetto laughed and patted his son’s head “No matter your age, you will always be my little boy, please take care, son”

So, Geppetto went to his work, and Pinocchio headed to the Royal Opera House to meet with his new friend, he asked at the entrance, and a woman pointed him to where Alice was currently, “A friend of Alice? Hopefully, you are in your full mental faculties” Pinocchio found it odd how people would make comments about Alice like that, it seemed rude.

Alice was in a storage room, it was filled with boxes that contained props and costumes, it had a bookcase in the back of one of the walls, but the most eye-catching thing was the piano that took up the most space in the room, Alice was playing a beautiful tune, Pinocchio didn’t interrupt her, the melody was lovely, Alice gratefully moved her fingers along the piano keys, until the last few notes came undone, at the captivating music was over.

“That was beautiful! I wish I could play like that” Pinocchio smiled at her.

“You know how to play the piano?” Alice was intrigued, aside from Nan Sharpe who taught her how to play, she hadn’t met others who played it, it was odd since she worked at an Opera house, yet only she and another man, the one in charge of playing when it was needed in a performance, were the only ones who could play the instrument, most of the cast sang, and most of the orchestra played string instruments.

“Yes, my mother taught me how!” Pinocchio always got excited talking about Antonia, “She is a great teacher”

“She sounds like a great woman” This boy was so full of energy and very innocent, but she could tell he was strong, and she needed the help, she felt bad for asking but this was a dire situation.

“I’m sorry to ask you for this, but truthfully I need your help with something’ Alice felt selfish, she had just met him and she was already asking him a favor, a huge favor.

“I can help, I love helping others” Helping others makes them happy and that made him happy.

Alice grabbed Pinocchio’s hand, “I need you to come with me” She took him back to the door to exit the room, but outside the room, the place was no longer the Opera House, it was a completely different world, the plain was filled with grass, but not green grass but rather it has a light blue tone, the sky had a shade of purple and it was filled with bright starts.

“Wow, where are we?”

Alice didn’t expect that reaction from Pinocchio, she expected him to freak out and start to panic, it looks like they have something in common.

“This is like, a place between reality and not reality, I found myself in it, and I help others battle with their mind demons, I battled to my own land, my Wonderland, and I want to help others as well” Alice had already helped a few in her quest, she knows first hand how cruel one’s own mind can be.

“This place is very pretty, how did you find it” Gemini was amazed by it.

“Well, it’s a long story and very bizarre” Alice took a small pause “Maybe the two of you are truly mad like me, how come you both find it strange?”

“Remember when I told you we helped save Krat? We have seen so much strange stuff” Gemini answered, they were just used to things like this by now, “Not the strangest thing we have encountered”

“Yeah, we love a good adventure” Pinocchio was thrilled about this, he came to get a vacation and he also got a fun new adventure. He was enjoying London so much. “So, who are we going to help?”

“That’s the thing…” Alice was wondering how she should say this, “This time, I’m not helping someone, rather, I want to capture someone, although I guess I am helping someone because I’m helping the victims, and preventing more victims”

Pinocchio looked puzzled, “Victims? Did some get hurt by this person?”

“Have you not heard of Jack The Ripper?” Alice rolled her eyes, not at Pinocchio but at herself, he isn’t from here, she figured he wouldn’t know who he was.

“No, but if they are called “The Ripper” then they are not a good person” Pinocchio could figure out something as simple as that.

“This man has murdered five women, no one knows who he is, but I found his world, I need to find who he is and stop him” Alice would be lying if she said that she was only doing this out of the kindness of her heart, but unfortunately Nan Sharpe still worked as a prostitute, and all the victims were prostitutes as well, she couldn’t lose her, and she won’t let anyone else fall victim, but as soon as she stepped into the world, she was bombarded with enemies, almost as if he knew someone was there to try and stop him if she could only get closer if only she wasn’t alone to stop him, then she could catch him, and find a way to expose his identity, maybe no one would believe her if she reported it herself, but thankfully the police accepted anonymous reports sent by letters.

“That’s horrible” Pinocchio was sad and angry, he couldn’t let someone like that get away with what they were doing, “Let me help, I want to help” he had set his mind to it.

“Won’t we need a weapon or something? How do we get one here?” Gemini wanted to help as well but he just realized they had no way to fight.

“Oh it’s very simple really” Alice gave them both a smirk and from her hand, a blade manifested, the vorpal blade, and then with a wave of her hand it disappeared, she showed them her arsenal of weapons; her teapot cannon; the paper grinder; her hobby horse (who was her favorite); the clockwork bomb, that one made Pinocchio gave out a small chuckle, he found it cute; and finally her umbrella to defend herself.

“You just have to think of it, and it will manifest”

Pinocchio thought about the weapons he had previously used on his quest, he found himself being able to summon each one he had in mind, the pulse cells too, and all the other objects he had previously used before, “This is great, this is so cool!”

“Alright, are you ready to go?”

“Yes,” Both Pinocchio and Gemini said in unison.

———-

They arrived at their destination, the world wasn’t like the one he was before, they were inside a mansion, a terrifying mansion, stepping inside, there was blood all over the walls and floor.

“Geez this guy’s mind is truly creepy” Gemini was sure it was more than just creepy, it was disturbing.

“Looks like the entrance is empty, for now, that is, let’s explore” Alice led them along, although with less than a minute walking, Pinocchio finally realized something.

“Wait, when did my clothes change?!”

Gemini was stunned, he was in Pinocchio’s belt all the time and even he didn’t notice.

Pinocchio was wearing a blue tea-length dress, the bottom part had butterflies flapping in rhythm, and a white ribbon was tied in the back of his waist, he still had his belt where Gemini was, but it was more than just one, three belts decorated his outfit, he wore white stockings with and black boots, he was wearing gloves, but not like the ones he usually wears, although they were also white, these gloves were larger and went up to his elbow, and the front of his wrist was decorated with two more blue butterflies, one for each hand.

There was a full-body mirror next to them, and Pinocchio looked at his new outfit in awe, “I look… so pretty!” Pinocchio had never worn a dress before, he didn’t know he could wear dresses, and he loved it.

“Look Gemini, your cage is different too!”

Gemini still wore the green ribbon that Pinocchio had given him for Christmas, but now the ribbon had a blue color and a heart in its center, it was simple, but Gemini also liked his new look.

Alice was wearing a blue dress as well, although simpler than his, black stockings with white stripes, talk black boots, a white ribbon on her waist, and the front part of the dress was white with two pockets with two symbols and it was stained with a few drops of blood, she hair was longer now, not shoulder length like him anymore.

“Yes you do, but we must move along before we find danger, or the danger finds us” Alice grabbed Pinocchio’s hand and pulled him towards a hallway, before she had to retreat last time, she had managed to find a way to sneak in further.

As they wandered, Pinocchio examined his surroundings, the walls were not only covered in blood but in guts as well, eyes were stuck in clocks that watched them move along, and the chairs and tables were made of bones and flesh, Gemini was right, this just too creepy. Finally, at the end of one corridor, Alice pointed at the bottom of a wall, a very tiny door was there.

“Alright, drink this” Alice handed Pinocchio a small glass bottle with a purple liquid inside, he found it odd, but Alice was the one to know about this stuff, so he did as she said, he took a sip and began to slowly shrink in size, Alice had drank it too and soon both of them were small as a mouse.

“Is this some, um, mind-altering stuff? We can get to our normal size again right?” Although Pinocchio had seen all sorts of abilities when he saved Krat, he had to admit some of these concepts were a bit hard for him to grasp.

“Oh don’t worry, we can go back to our normal size when we want, we can even get bigger by eating a small amount of cake, although I only have a limited supply for that, we better save it for the real danger, well I guess we are already in real danger, more so, the danger that is too big for us, and then, we will be too big for them” Alice formed sentences as if she was a rollercoaster.

Both entered through the tiny door, which led them to a small room that contained a bedroom, a bookcase, and a few drawers, there was a desk filled with newspapers, upon closer examination, they all talked about him and his victims, Pinocchio looked around and found a small diary in one of the drawers, they all began to read what it said.

“Today one of those whores at the Mangled Mermaid decided to turn me down, that ugly bitch, how dare she? I showed her that she shouldn’t mess with me, I’m tired of all these women who think they can reject someone like me, someone who is actually important, not some low life bottom of the barrel scum”

The motive was there, simple enough, he was just a pathetic desperate man with a delicate ego, the entries continued, most were of his hatred for women, and they found out that this man was someone in high society, someone with connections, after his 3rd kill, his murderers got more methodical, the other two were planned in advance, that last diary entry made Alice heart sank,

“This fat tramp at the Mangled Mermaid managed to get me banned from the place, her constant complaining got the better of the rest of the pimps and now I’m not allowed back there, she knows something, why else would they listen to a worthless whale of a slut? Pimps don’t care about what they say, she must have something on me. I’ve been spying on her, I know that you leave at the same hour every day Sharpe, you are not going to be like the others, I’m going to make you suffer”

Alice's head hurt, she briefly fell onto the floor but regained her composure, she had to save her nan. “We must go, the only thing to find is their name” As much information as the diary gave them, there was no name, and they also would need proof of the deeds, there must be something else hidden around this mansion that could give them clues.

They stepped outside and regained their normal stature, as they kept exploring, they came into a large room, this must be the main hall, the room had stairs that led up top, but from the floor, a black thick liquid began to form and disturbing creatures that were made of the ooze and baby doll parts began to form.

“That’s ruin, ugly gross, and evil in a single monstrosity!” Alice didn’t need to explain more, Pinocchio drew his weapon, and she drew hers as well.

A horde of enemies came after them, some drifted in the hair, and some small ones slithered into the floor; Alice and Pinocchio were fierce fighters, the hordes of enemies might have been overwhelming if faced alone, but together they made a great team, most of the enemies had been defeated, the last one fell, but it wouldn’t be so easy, it was too early to claim victory, as all the remaining ruin became a colossal creature, it gave a high pitched screech and charged towards them, at one point, Alice was about to be hit, but she suddenly her body disappeared and she turned into dozens of blue butterflies, before regaining her true form, Pinocchio was a but stunned, but he couldn’t let himself be distracted, he helped Alice by baiting the creature to attack him, and from behind, Alice gave the finishing blow.

They both wasted no time in going upstairs, as they walked Alice could tell Pinocchio was looking at her differently, “Do I have something in my face?” She was curious, it could be possible that she was stained with ruin and she didn’t even notice.

“No, it’s not that, sorry for starting, you just, reminded me of a friend that’s all, she can also turn into butterflies” Pinocchio was apologetic, he didn’t mean to stare, he just had Sophia in his mind at the moment.

“Yeah, and blue butterflies as well, what a coincidence am I right?” Gemini found the situation to be quite odd, what are the chances after all?

“I would love to meet this friend of yours, if she is your friend, she must be as interesting as you are”

“Her name is Sophia and-“

But Pinocchio was interrupted, and a new wave of enemies attacked, not just ruin, but malformed house objects made with disgusting body parts, they kept up with the pace until they made it to the final room of the house, filled with locks, it was only a matter of finding their way in.

“Let’s leave it here for today, we can come back tomorrow and finally finish this” Alice was determined, they had made it so far in just one day.

Pinocchio nodded and they returned to the real world, back at the Opera House, Pinocchio was thinking, what he saw, it was all so scary, so awful, but he felt the adrenaline, his fighting instinct took over, and he felt at ease that he wasn’t harming real creatures but rather figments of someone’s twisted mind, and he was determined just as Alice to find Jack The Ripper and stop him.

“Oh my… that has never happened before” Pinocchio’s thoughts were interrupted by Alice speaking, he looked around but saw nothing unusual.

“Huh? Pinocchio your clothes didn’t change back!” Gemini was just as surprised, his cage ribbon was back to normal after all, and Alice's clothes were normal as well.

“I suppose something went wrong when we went back” Alice might know how to traverse the place, but she was no expert, if she had to assume, this was a one-time thing, and the next time they went together, whatever clothes he came with won’t get lost in the transition back, Alice does remember one time in one of the first minds she helped, that a small octopus tentacle was left in the floor once she came back, nothing else has left that plain.

“I don’t understand, but, I like this dress!” He was excited about his new clothes.

Alice just smiled at him, “Why you look even prettier than me”

They made plans to meet again tomorrow and Pinocchio left to go back to the hotel, he got a lot of looks on his way, a few men blowing him kisses, Pinocchio was obvious about their true intentions, he was just too delighted about his new look, he entered the Hotel and his father was in the room, he had a blue paper with some sort of schematics in his hands.

“Son, what did you see today at-“ Geppetto looked up and saw his son, he became speechless for a moment, there was nothing wrong with his son wearing a dress, it was more the fact that those were not the clothes he left with, and they were specially not that ridiculously detailed.

“Did you buy yourself some new clothes?” Then Geppetto’s tone became a bit irritated “Did you buy those clothes because you ruined the other ones?”

“What? No Father I didn’t ruin my clothes this time! I just… um, lost them I guess”

“What do you mean you lost your clothes?!” Geppetto had so many thoughts in his mind, all the worst fears a father can have.

“Um, well…” Pinocchio didn’t know what to say, he couldn’t tell him where he was, I mean sure his father had seen a lot of strange stuff back at Krat just like him but explaining everything that happened would be too much, he just wouldn’t believe him.

“What happened is that we went to see Alice at the Royal Opera House and Pinocchio tried some costumes, and when it was time to go we couldn’t find his clothes, Alice said that they probably got mixed up with the other costumes and someone took them, so she gifted us the dress, it was something she made anyways”

Gemini had Pinocchio’s back, they wouldn’t let his friend get into trouble over nothing, and he was proud of himself for making up such a convincing lie on the spot.

Geppetto gave a sigh of relief, “Look, it’s fine, I guess something like that can happen by accident, I’m sorry for making assumptions” He really was sorry for thinking the worst, but hearing your son say that they lost their clothes isn’t something a parent wants to hear, there were so many possibilities and he was glad none of them were true.

“Father, I look so pretty can I wear dresses more often?” Pinocchio had a big smile on his face.

“Of course son, you can wear what you want” Geppetto gently played with his son’s hair, if others found it odd, he didn’t care, let people talk and think what they would, if wearing them made his son happy then he was happy.

“Although for now, it’s getting late, let’s get some rest” It was almost dark outside and both of them had done a lot of work that day, it was best they went to bed earlier than usual.

“Yes just um…” Pinocchio looked at his outfit, his beautiful, ridiculously detailed outfit. “How do I take it off?”

Geppetto laughed, it reminded him of years ago on his wedding night, how his wife ranted for an hour about getting her dress undone, but that’s something that comes with dresses, the more detailed, the harder they are to take off.

Geppetto helped his son take off the dress and promised him that he would later buy him more dresses, ones that were simpler and didn’t take 20 minutes to take off.

Pinocchio lay in bed, he could sleep, and he couldn’t wait to see Alice tomorrow, and finally put an end to what that man was doing, he felt like a detective solving a case, and he felt joy at the thought of saving others.

#lies of p #lop #liesofp #lies of p game #lies of p pinocchio #lies of p geppetto #lies of p fanfic #ao3 link #this is in ao3 too #lies of p gemini #alice madness returns #alice liddell #alice american mcgee

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odusseus-xvi · 2 years

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I'm not the type to willingly look at critics of stuff I like. Mainly cause it makes me sad. But I've seen some recently about c3, and I have to admit there are some valid points... But a lot of them just makes me confused.

For exemple one that comes up a lot : There is too much/not enough stakes.

Both are utilized a lot. 10/20 episodes back people kept saying the campaign was boring and "there is no stakes, and no overall goals, and nothing to look towards" etc... Now I see a lot of "There is too much stakes, I don't understand what's happening, It's too stressful, Why is there stakes that early" etc...

WHAT DO YOU WANT ? Like seriously, I'm not even mad at those people just... confused. They also keep comparing those aspects to C2 for some reason (because c2 is absolutely perfect of course and was cr's peak and all that bullshit) Don't get me wrong, I loved both the previous campaigns, but like, they had stakes too. The Chroma attack, Vecna, Lorenzo kidnapping half the party and killing one member permanently very early in the campaign, The Angels of Iron trying to f* release Tharizdun or help spread it's chaos, Cognouza and I can probably keep going.

Then there is : "Bells Hells don't talk about there problems like M9 did, They are all so open to each other already I don't understand. They feel unorganic."

Ok. Let's look at something.

Goals of the M9 at the start of c2 :

All (exception of Fjord) : I'm fleeing from things and people, I need to survive and make money. I don't know who I can trust, but I probably will have more chances if I accept some help.

It make sense for them to be wary of each other, and to open up later. They don't have an urgency, a goal that makes them go forward, not yet.

Goals of BH at the start of c3 :

Orym (Dorian and Ferane follows) : Set on a quest to uncover what happened to his home and husband, searching for Oshad Breshio.

Imogen (Laudna follows) : Get to the starpoint conservatory to undestand her (and laudna's) powers.

Ashton : Clear their debts. Understand what happened this day.

FCG : Uncover what happened to their old party.

Chetney : Finding people to help him controls his powers.

They are all tangled up in misteries the want to untangle. They want to understand their lives, why they are here right now. They really quickly realise they were all traumatized in some way by things like that, AND that each of their misteries are probably more dangerous and out of their league that they anticipated ; They both realize they are gonna need help AND understands the others situation very early on. They have reasons to keep going and walking without thinking too much about what to do next. Well shit. When you think about it... It also makes sense.

Last point. This made me laugh more than the others. It was two comments under the same critic : It went a bit like this.

1st "I fully agree. I think they should talk more. They don't open up enough, and too much is happening."

2nd " I agree, They talk way too much, I want things to advance. Even back in c1 they had this problem. I skipped all the roleplay parts to get to the combat and big events." (like wtf bud)

Finally this is just to say I absolutely think that critics is necessary to a healthy fandom, and I don't mind that. Not only that but there is also something i can respect about them, even the dumb ones ; it seems more and more realise and admits, that this is fully subjective ; That they don't like all of it, but that they are also part of the problem themselves. I respect that, and I'm happy to see more and more realise it instead of outright saying it's just "bad and terrible, and not what it was".

Honeslty, personally, as long as the cast is having fun at the table, I am too.

(sorry if there are some mistakes in there I am both a fast typer and a non native english speaker)

#critical role #cr spoilers #critical role spoilers #campaign 3 #campaign 1 #campaign three #campaign 2 #the mighty nein #mighty nein #bells hells #vox machina #don't forget to love each other #like a friend once said #love each other or I will break your neck

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centaurianthropology · 2 years

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The Critical Role reddit is wild, man. Every now and then I check over there, and I am consistently amazed by how ... out of touch that entire community feels? I know it’s a reddit thing that no one hates a thing quite like the reddit community for that thing, but damn do they really not like CR. Most of them seem to have not liked it since, like, C1, but they keep tuning in every week for 4+ hours? It’s bananas!

There is also a definite vibe of really wanting Senpai Travis to notice them. He and Sam get rained with praise. The girls are mostly ignored, except occasionally Marisha, which I feel like might be compensation from the old days when she was the favorite punching bag. Taliesin is now the favorite punching bag. They fucking loathe him for no reason in particular, but every post praising his work is inevitably filled with people hating on him. They also seem to forget Liam exists most of the time.

They hate C3. They’re divided on C2. They love C1. They seem to think that there’s no way Imogen and Laudna are getting together because they’re Gal Pals. Even after the last episode, when it was more or less confirmed that was the direction Laura and Marisha are going with the relationship, they dismissed that and talked about when Laudna and Ashton were going to hook up, because if an even-sort-of-male-presenting person and a woman talk in depth, they have to hook up. But god forbid lesbians exist in this not-at-all-queer TTRPG show. Another apparently popular theory over there is that Matt is going to kill off the C3 characters to bring back the C1 characters for this campaign, which ... huh?

It’s like they’re watching this show, but reacting to it like it’s a 90s network television show rather than a live-play series filled with actors who are both very progressive and at least two of whom are openly queer, and all the others seem intensely supportive of that and interested in exploring their own sexualities and identities through roleplay and acting. They have this weird, warped view of the cast wherein the ‘normal’ jocky and funny men (Travis and Sam) are the obvious protagonists of the group (this is completely ignoring the actual unhinged and delightful personalities of Travis and Sam and instead slotting them into these weird stereotypes), Laura’s okay because she’s with Travis but is rarely acknowledged to be her own person, Marisha is the girl who got a glow-up (they no longer acknowledge how they treated her pre-glow-up), Liam and Ashley are ... there, and Taliesin is the weird guy that everyone else secretly hates.

They cling to C1, I think, because it’s ‘traditional’ fantasy, with clear tropes and a bunch of non-colorful, potentially straight-presenting characters (most of the characters were, in fact, bi, but most also ended up in opposite-sex relationships). Queer and ‘weird’ and ‘cringe’ characters were the least prominent in C1, so C1 to them is the best one. C2 is ‘edgy’, and C3 is ‘cringe’. And despite all this, they still watch every single week just to complain? Do they not have anything better to do? That sounds fucking miserable, but then again, maybe they’re into being miserable.

Sorry to rant, but every time I go over there I am promptly reminded of why I tell myself NOT to go there. It’s like watching the worst wildlife documentary. The Twitch comment section may be the biggest cesspool for CR, but the Reddit is the most persistent.

#Critical Role #apologies for ranting #cw: reddit #which is the first actual content warning I've used in a while #but boy howdy did it feel appropriate #some reddit communities are delightful #but this one is a pit #and apparently there's an even worse one for the folks who hated CR too much even for the main community #which #yikes #why is the CR reddit like this?#CR spoilers #minor spoilers

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eremiss · 2 years

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Reminisce

Despite what the Adders’ reports and the increase in Ixali activity seemed to suggest, two days of reconnaissance in the Shroud has yielded little and less. No news is good news in the case of Primals, however, even if it makes the investigation feel a bit tedious.

The Ixali haven’t created any new routes to try and smuggle crystals under the Wailer’s and Adders’ noses, and their old paths have been abandoned since the last time Gwen laid Garuda low. The items stolen in the recent roadside attacks were mostly sundries and foodstuffs bound for Coerthas which, while troubling, isn’t cause for the Scions’ concern.

None of the travelers and merchants they’ve spoken with over the course of their investigation have been happy about being accosted in the middle of the woods, no matter how politely Gwen and the Adder recruits try to go about it.

Thancred watches the latest victim of circumstance storm off down the road from his vantage point high in the trees. He lifts a hand to his linkpearl and remarks, “Seems he took offense.”

Gwen shakes her head, casting her gaze around the trees in search of him. “Just a bit. See anyone else?”

Thancred scans the road. “The road is clear, apart from your new acquaintance.”

She passes that on to the Adders, and they have a small discussion he can only assume pertains to what they intend to do next. Given the way things have been going, this investigation will surely be coming to an end soon.

Eventually the recruits salute and depart back up the way the traveler had come. Gwen doesn’t follow.

Thancred waits until they’re yalms away before speaking into the linkpearl. “What’s the word?”

“They’re going to the rendezvous with the other team, then contact the Adders’ Nest.” She tries to spot him in the trees again. And misses him, again.

“And we get to hold position and await further word?” he drawls.

She nods. Then she remembers they’re speaking over linkpearl, “Yes.”

He sighs at the thought of more bells in the muggy forest. “Wonderful.”

Rather than continue searching the treetops for him, Gwen turns and makes for the bushes on the far side of the road. He watches with mild interest as she wanders through the untamed foliage, ducking out of sight every now and then and gradually wandering further from the road until he’s lost sight of her.

Foraging, if he had to guess. She’s never been a fan of sitting still, and it’s the perfect way to pass the time in a forest. He’s not sure how much she’ll find close to the road, as surely other travelers have already helped themselves to everything convenient.

Gwen has never hidden her skills as a botanist, per say, but she’s a great deal more open about them now than she used to be, particularly when it comes to gathering herbs for her own use. Fetching tea leafs for a friend or herbs for a leve is all well and good, but collecting esoteric botanicals for herself is, apparently, a different matter. Perhaps a few too many people have commented about her snacking on dandelions and roots, or balked at the suggestion that they could do the same.

Thancred winces and shifts on the branch, knowing he ought to count himself amongst the former. He puts that little blunder out of his mind, reminding himself he’d meant it only in jest. Her knowledge of Eorzea’s vegetation is nothing to be embarrassed about, nor is utilizing it as she sees fit, and they’re both well aware of that.

He idly surveys the road, musing about how she’s rather reluctant to discuss how she learned botany, evasive when asked and quick to direct the conversation elsewhere. Frustrating as it is, he can’t really blame her. Few people whose childhoods were spent mired in hardship enjoy talking about it, and the two of them are no exceptions. Necessity, desperation and survival are wonderful motivators, but they don’t make for good conversation

Which is likely also why comments about nibbling on weeds or foraging for odd ingredients are particularly unwelcome. If she was as truly on her own as he’s coming to suspect, those ‘weeds’ may well have kept her alive. And isn’t that a hell of a thing to admit?

He’s not embarrassed by his ability to pick locks in seconds, either, but he recoils from the thought of admitting he’d picked up the skill breaking into homes and shops to steal food.

Eventually her lightly-staticy voice rings in his ear again. “Hungry?”

He’s mostly bored, and tired of the tree bark making an impression in his rear. “I take it you are, if you went looking for a snack.”

“Just passing time, mostly.” A pause. Communicating when he can’t read her expression or fidgeting is always interesting, and occasionally vexing. “But we’ve been out here a while, so…”

Thancred gets to his feet and peers up and down the road again, straining his eye and searching for the shapes of travelers through the sparse trees. It’s all clear.

“I don’t suppose you managed to find a wild bakery growing out there?” he asks, stretching his arms and legs in preparation for his descent.

She laughs as the red of her coat comes into view through the trees. “I’m afraid not.”

He scoffs. “I thought you were an expert in botany, yet you can’t track down fresh bread in the wilderness?”

“Not even a single loaf,” she confesses, her remorseful tone colored with mirth.

“Shameful, honestly. Why did I even bring you along?” He starts climbing down with her laugh bubbling warmly in his ear.

Gwen’s excursion into the woods turned up a handful of roots, weeds and flowers that the average traveler wouldn’t look twice at. Between his survival training and his time in Dravania, particularly before he’d fashioned those obsidian knives, Thancred isn’t so easily perturbed.

They stroll along the road and snack, chatting and keeping an eye out for travelers or signs of movement in the trees. She walks on his left, covering for his blindspot. He has to turn his head to see her, but doesn’t mention it.

She shows him how to shave the tough skin off the roots, and then stares confusedly when he does it more masterfully than she had. He makes a bit of a show of it, reveling in her silent disapproval as he carelessly twirls his hunting knife around in his fingers in a way that has always made her tense.

When the idle topics run dry the road is still empty. Thancred isn’t sure whether to be glad, disappointed or frustrated. Maybe all three.

Gwen asks about Sharlayan and what the time he spent there was like, intent as ever to know more about him and draw out the things he normally keeps hidden.

He chews, thinks, and decides to oblige her. Mayhap she’ll be convinced to return the favor.

He lays the groundwork first, telling her about the city, the people, and the Studium to start. She has some questions, he has some answers, some more open and direct than others. Secrecy and facades are his nature, which makes her being so easy to talk to just as vexing as it is comforting. The thoughtful curiosity that flickers in her eyes shows that she notices when his reply is particularly short or cagey, but she doesn’t begrudge him his privacy, nor try to pry.

They spend a handful of yalms musing about the growing pains that came with maturing from a Lominsan wharf rat into a Sharlayan scholar. He doesn’t delve too deeply into it, but admits that the transition had been jarring and far from smooth. Part of his relatively quick adjustment to scholarly life had been out of pure necessity, adapting to survive, and part had been spite. Sharlayans and the Studium alike weren’t fond of outsiders in the first place, but especially not ones such as himself, and he’d had plenty of satisfaction rubbing his rapidly growing skills and exemplary marks in their faces--even though it ran him ragged more often than not.

When the scene is set Thancred weaves tales about some of his more harrowing lessons with Sharlayan’s masters of stealth and subtlety, sprinkling in a bit of his past antics and mischief for good measure.

Gwen makes a good audience, listening attentively and reacting at the right parts.

They haven’t run into another traveler yet or seen any suspicious movement in the woods by the time he finishes his tale, adding a flick of his wrist for a bit of flourish. He throws in a grandiose half-bow for fun, which earns a laugh and a brief applause.

After a brief discussion they turn around and begin making their way back to where they’d parted with the Adders recruits. They would eventually meet up with travelers headed either direction given their relaxed pace, it was just a matter of time.

“Your turn,” Thancred prompts, lacing his fingers together behind his head.

Gwen cocks her head.

“A story for a story,” he says. “Tell me about yourself.”

“I’m not much of a storyteller,” she says, not quite apologetically.

“I’ll temper my expectations,” he assures blithely.

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “What do you want to hear about?”

Everything, he thinks. I don’t know half as much about you as I should. He’s made due with reading between the lines and piecing together scattered hints and the small things she lets slip --a telltale habit here, an odd mention there-- but that can only get him so far.

She isn’t given to sharing much about herself, and she’s proven to be frustratingly skilled at passing off vague replies and non-answers as the real thing. He knows precious little about her beyond the basics, despite all this time and all his skill for gathering information. Her life before joining the Scions, in particular, is a mystery except for the broadest strokes. Even the fits of reminiscence she’s committed to the pages of her journal haven't afforded him more than a few pieces, glimpses, of a larger picture.

Thancred surveys the dirt and shady trees in silence, weighing potential topics.

“How about your life before Ul’dah?” he suggests eventually.

“Before Ul’dah?” she echoes curiously.

“Life in the Shroud, before you became an adventurer,” he says.

She tilts her head thoughtfully and silently studies him. He wonders if she might be trying to puzzle out his reasoning for the choice of topic. You asked about my life before the Scions, I figured I’d ask the same, is the explanation he’s ready to offer if she asks, because I’d like to know is too honest and will undoubtedly sound like a hasty lie.

But she doesn’t ask. Instead she hums an agreeable sound and turns her gaze back to the road.

They walk for yalms in silence while she thinks, fussing with her scarf to busy her hands. He resists the temptation to let the continued monotony lull him into a false sense of security, keeping his eyes and ears open for any signs of activity. Carelessness, particularly his own, has cost the Scions too much already, and he has no interest in letting it happen again, no matter how unnecessary this outing seems to be.

At least patrolling the Shroud means they aren’t missing out on the lovely day.

“Well, it…” Gwen laughs awkwardly and glances down at the road. “It wasn’t terribly interesting, honestly.”

“You sell yourself short,” he replies.

She laughs again, soft but not so awkward. “Whatever grand adventure you’re picturing, I’m afraid it’s not accurate.”

“Set me straight, then.”

She shakes her head, bemused but smiling at his insistence. “Well… I’m not a native of Gridania, though I was so young when I came here I scarcely remember anything before that.” She pauses, her lips forming the shape of words she doesn’t say for a beat before continuing, “Growing up I… I took care of myself and made my own way. I worked. I studied and trained.”

The look on her face says she’s no more satisfied with that answer than he is, though she doesn’t seem to know what to do about it.

“What kind of work?” he prompts.

“Anything, really. So long as it earned a bit of coin.” She doesn’t sound proud of it, but she’s not bitter or angry either. “I picked up a lot of skills along the way, and wound up becoming something of a jack-of-all-trades.”

“I admit, I don’t know much about the humdrum of Gridanian life,” Thancred says. “What did you do?”

She runs her fingers over her bracelets and lists off a few examples: a stablehand at the Bannock, trimming trees, culling problematic animals, catching squirrels and wayward pets, tending to private gardens, odd jobs for the guilds, and gathering whatever plants or herbs someone decided they needed. Once she’d proved herself trustworthy to Mother Miounne she joined the Adventurer’s Guild and started taking leves, too. Her last venture in Gridania was a stint as a waitress at Buscarron’s Druthers.

Like she’d said: A bit of everything.

“You were living like an adventurer well before you took the title,” he says.

“I was, wasn’t I?” she says with a small laugh.

Thancred asks what sort of work she preferred to do, whenever she had the luxury of choice. She looks surprised for a moment, and then thoughtful. Perhaps she’s never given it much thought herself.

Eventually she says, “I didn’t mind working at the Druther’s, even with all the rowdiness. Besides that… Working for the guilds, I think.”

“Which guilds did you belong to?” he asks.

“The botanist’s guild.” The solitary answer settles and she hurriedly adds, “But I worked for most of them whenever they had a use for an unskilled hand.”

Unskilled? He doesn’t ask it aloud, but the slight arch of his brow is easy enough to understand.

Her chin dips slightly and she admits that didn’t have the innate skill it took to be recruited as an apprentice craftsman, despite having a knack for wood- and leatherworking. Her ‘knack’ wasn’t enough to win a patron, either, and she hadn’t had the means to pay her own way training with the guild until she’d acquired enough skill to be taken on.

Instead, she was hired during busy seasons to gather materials and take care of menial tasks so the artisans could focus all of their attention on commissions and skilled work.

Gwen’s eyes are mostly on the branches overhead, but every now and then her gaze drifts to his face. She studies his expression only somewhat-subtly, plainly trying to gauge his reaction and figure out his thoughts on her less-than-auspicious upbringing.

Thancred responds by not reacting at all, listening attentively and offering a comment or question here and there to nudge the conversation along whenever it starts to stall out.

Judging by the way the hints of embarrassment and tension in her posture are gradually melting away, his steady attention and the absence of whatever judgment or pity she’d been worried about is just what she’d wanted to see. Her words come a little more easily as she relaxes, the pauses less frequent and her tone growing more open.

She’s talking around some things as much as about them, telling him about long days working her fingers to the bone, but never outright admitting to scraping by, surviving on little and less. She never states that she’d been on her own, but she also never mentions any family, friends, or anyone else that she’d been particularly close to.

It takes a bit of convincing, but eventually he gets her talking about the long hours spent toiling away preparing reagents, shaving hides, hauling wood, sweeping sawdust, and sharpening tools. Necessary tasks, but ones that didn’t require the same level of skill as crafting armor, clothing or furniture. The pay had been decent enough, even if the work itself had been boring, and once she’d proved her usefulness she’d enjoyed somewhat-steady employment.

What’s more, bells of practice maintaining guild tools taught her how to maintain her own, and all that time perfecting the basics made a solid foundation for her to build skills on. It took time to endear herself to some of the guild members, but once she had they were more than willing to offer advice, help, and even hand-me-downs.

A comment from Thancred about how she’d at least been spared unreasonable commissioners and demanding clients gets Gwen airing her frustrations about her other various jobs, from misleading requests to clients who’d try to haggle the price after the work had been completed. Apparently her fondness for guild work has as much to do with their reliability and honor as the work itself.

Thancred commiserates with a few gripes of his own, and they spend the next stretch of road companionably complaining about long days, arduous work, and troublesome clients. There’s still no sign of anything lurking in the trees, no matter how hard they look, which is just further proof the two of them don’t need to be here.

As the conversation begins to peter out he transitions into questions about her free time, as surely she’d had some at some point or another. Sooner or later work runs thin, whether you want it to or not.

At first Gwen merely calls it uninteresting again, but he coaxes her into telling him a bit more. She tended to turn to training, studying, and chores --foraging and tending to her gear and garden-- when earning a living didn’t fill her day. She put every minute to use however she could and rarely took, or even had,time to unwind or relax. Living on her own as she was, idle time was a luxury she typically just couldn’t afford to indulge in.

Small wonder why taking a day off is such a foreign concept and she feels so guilty for daring to be idle, he thinks. He’d assumed her work ethic and practically-minded ways were simply her nature, as they are Y’shtola’s. Alas, it seems they’re a learned habit that she hasn’t been able, or perhaps even tried, to shake.

They haven’t made it back to their starting point and Gwen doesn't seem quite tired of sharing yet, so Thancred takes advantage while he can.

“I’d assumed it was your love of flowers that inspired you to learn botany,” Thancred says. “But I’m beginning to think it was the other way around.”

Gwen hums, a small, wistful smile curling the corners of her mouth. If only.

“What made you decide to pick it up?”

“Well, ah, you see…” Her mouth wrinkles and bends into the familiar, lighthearted cringe everyone seems to get when recalling past foolishness, “When I was young I learned there was a place people could take leaves, sticks and flowers and get paid for them.”

“Leaves and sticks,” he echoes wryly.

She shakes her head bemusedly. “I didn’t know better.”

“I take it you thought to give it a try,” he prompts.

Her cheeks turn pink and she conveniently finds something to look at on her side of the road to try and hide it. “I did.”

“How did it go?”

Gwen clears her throat. “They… appreciated my enthusiasm, at least.”

Thancred winces sympathetically and chuckles, imagining a young, bright-eyed Gwen barging into the Botanist’s guild with handfuls of twigs and dead leaves and asking for money. He shies away from thinking about how it must have felt to find out the guild did not, in fact, pay people to bring in whatever detritus they’d scraped off the forest floor.

Gwen laughs ruefully under her breath and shakes her head. “To be honest I don’t think they really knew what to do with me. Eventually the receptionist said she’d give me a few gil to sort through an order of mistletoe and pick out all the bruised leaves.”

A tedious and simple chore. The perfect thing to occupy a bothersome child.

She looks down at her hands, flexing and curling her fingers as if remembering the feeling. “It took all day, and my hands smelled of mistletoe for ages afterwards. After all that, she gave me some gil and an old herbalism guide. She said it would tell me what I needed to know, and told me I had to memorize everything in it if I wanted to work for the guild.”

Something defensive and indignant tightens in his chest, and one corner of his mouth twitches down. There are worse things she could’ve done to send Gwen away, and she was safer foraging with a guide than without. Still, the thought is half bitterness.

“It was an old thing, and a hair's breadth from falling apart. But it had all its pages, and she’d written notes in all the margins and the insides of the covers…” She trails off, a bittersweet look easing across her face.

Whether or not it had been intended as genuine goodwill or merely a distraction to keep her away, it had still been a kindness and a tool. From the sound of it, she’d desperately needed both.

Gwen shakes off the melancholic look before it can fully settle on her features and idly kicks a loose rock on the road. “It was kind of her. But, honestly, I think she was just trying to get rid of me.”

“Memorizing a book is a tall order,” Thancred agrees mildly.

“I did it, eventually,” she says with a hint of pride. “Even all the notes and additions. After that, I started teaching myself everything I could. I read any book I could get my hands on, and I got advice from whoever wanted to share. Mostly botany at first, but eventually…” she gestures broadly with both hands.

Being self-taught would explain why she has such a unique way of doing things. He’d always written it off as simply being the ‘Gridanian way,’ much the same way Lominsans and Ul’dahns have their own eccentricities.

They come upon the rock again and she kicks it further down the road. “I couldn’t forage far from the city at first, though. The Twelveswood was even more dangerous back then, and I couldn't defend myself.”

“And so you learned the lance,” he says. “Did you teach yourself that, too?”

She scoffs and begins to shake her head, but stops short. “Well… Somewhat.”

Thancred gestures for her to continue, “And that means…?”

Gwen frowns thoughtfully and folds her arms, plucking at the wrinkled fabric in the crook of her elbow. “I was taught the basics as a child, but beyond that I watched others and taught myself. Until I met Valtemont.”

The name rings familiar, and after a moment he recalls why. The Wailer she was with.

“Aaaah, so that’s how he won you over, is it?” He teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and kicking the rock when she passes it by, “He gave you private lessons.”

Gwen’s cheeks are turning pink as she rolls her eyes and makes a disgusted sound.

Tempting as it is to tease her a bit more, he settles for chuckling at her affront. He’d rather hear more of her story. “Where did you learn the basics, then?”

“Some guild lancers. The guild started sending members around the forest every now and then to train the citizens living out in the hamlets. The training was free, so long as you genuinely wanted to learn. So, one day I followed them out to Bentbranch and asked them to teach me.”

And she stops there, her expression tightening slightly and the line of her mouth going flat.

After a yalm Thancred prompts, “...And they agreed.”.

“Eventually,” she replies. “It took a lot of begging and bargaining, but they agreed to let me go with them if I made myself useful. While we were on the road I helped pack and unpack camp, cook and clean, and they lectured me while we walked. When we were in town I ran errands, picked up supplies, and spread the word about the lessons. In the evenings they trained me and quizzed me about that day’s session.”

Her expression tightens and her mouth wrinkles, her fingers sliding over her palms and feeling out the shapes of her calluses beneath her gloves. “They were… harsh, and the lessons were tough, but I learned. I did basic drills until my arms were about to fall off.”

She makes an effort to say it lightly, but her eyes are hard and the corners of her mouth are noticeably turning down. They ran me ragged.

Thancred shifts his jaw to keep his mouth from bending with a similar frown.

“We spent a month trekking all over the Twelveswood. By the time I was back in the city I knew everything backwards and forwards, and I only learned more from there.”

“Did you ever join the Lancer’s guild?”

She hums. “Valtemont talked me into it.”

“Did you ever consider joining the Wailers?” he asks.

Gwen tilts her head curiously.

“You trained in the lance and lived in Gridania, which seem to be the prerequisites,” he says. “Not to mention being possessed of a heroic disposition and an ample supply of gumption.”

She huffs a laugh, still feeling out the shapes of her calluses beneath her gloves. “Heroic disposition?”

“That habit you have of going out of your way for others,” he drawls. “Particularly when it involves running headlong into danger.”

She laughs a little more at that, and it’s enough to dislodge the pieces of old frustration and irritation from her features.

“I can’t imagine your assorted odd jobs earned a Wailer’s salary, even when they entailed performing similar tasks,” he goes on. “Surely the idea was all the more tempting when work dried up.”

She mulls that over, her gaze making a smooth arch from one side of the road, up into the branches overhead, and then back down on the other side.

“It was,” she says at length. “And, I admit, I did consider trying to join a time or two, especially with all the work I did for them…” She trails off and shrugs. “I always wanted to leave the Twelveswood, and the Wailers are pledged to it.”

“Living hand-to-mouth isn’t the worst price to pay for freedom,” he muses. “And you’re hardly one for regiment or rank-and-file. Honestly, I can’t even imagine you saying ‘Wood’s Will Be Done.’”

That gets a genuine, if private, smile and a gentle tap of her elbow against his.

They’re just now passing where they’d started and he’s fully expecting the linkpearl to start chiming any second now, or for a yellow-clad Adder to pop up down the road. She’s told him so much, yet there’s still so much more she hasn’t shared.

“What of conjury?” he asks, more straightforward because they’re fast running out of time. “The guild knows you well enough. Were you a member?”

“You’re full of questions today,” she remarks, smiling.

“I’m cursed with curiosity,” he replies with a hapless shrug. “Naught to do but try to sate it when I can.”

“Well…” She thinks for a moment, “I attended a few lectures and studied on my own, but I was rather intimidated by it all. I was frightened of the elementals more than I revered them, and that wasn’t exactly a promising trait for conjurers. But…” She turns her eyes to the sky, “Then the Calamity came.”

Every city state had been desperate for healers for the wounded and soldiers to fend off lingering threats after the Calamity. Cartineau had also served to decimate Gridania’s population of conjurers.

“I had to do something,” she goes on. “And the Conjurer’s guild was taking anyone who had even the slightest ability with magic. I had potential, so they took me on. E-sumi is an excellent teacher, and I learned the fundamentals quickly, but…” She glances aside, as if guilty. “I had no dreams of becoming a full-fledged healer. I didn’t pursue higher studies and was satisfied with learning enough to make myself useful. It worked out that it was enough to prepare for red magics, but even then I had more studying to do.”

And then you joined the thaumaturge’s guild in Ul’dah. She’d carried a thaumaturge’s stave and slung black magic in their initial encounters, back when she was new to Ul’dah and he was running himself ragged trying to fill Louisoix’s shoes. She’d traded both for a rapier and focus by the time she’d returned the Sultana’s crown.

Thancred realizes that Gwen is looking at him again, trying to decipher his expression and what he might think about everything she’s said. What impression he might have about her ‘less than heroic’ beginnings.

“So you’ve always been a woman of many talents,” he says, ensuring his expression conveys naught but thoughtful interest.

She gives him a wry smile, but stops short of replying. Instead, she looks down the road at the yellow-clad figure jogging towards them and raises a hand in acknowledgement.

"But is he ending our sentence or extending it, that's the real question," Thancred says dryly, covering a twinge of disappointment. He can't say he's upset about getting to return to society, but he has dozens of questions that haven't yet been answered. How she met X’hrun, how she found and tamed Duskfeather, what her early time in the Adventurer’s Guild had been like, and dozens of other questions still hang in his mind, unanswered.

"Ending, hopefully," Gwen says with an agreeable sigh.

"Sick of me already, are you?" he teases.

She gives his shoulder a playful push, grinning.

Questions for another time, he decides as the Adder scout reaches them, huffing for breath and red in the face. Gwen had been open to sharing , and hadn't begrudged his nudging and prompting, either. Besides, mysteries are better with time to linger and mull over the pieces.

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

Writing has been a capital S Struggle for more than a year now, for me and a lot of my fic friends @_@

I've had this fic on the back burner for a while in a bunch of loose pieces, and finally picked it up again and got it all put together and polished. I hope to try and get writing more and more often this year!

Endings are hard, as usual

#FFXIV #writing #Thancred #wol x thancred #Guinevere Ashe #backstory #first thing I've written/touched in a while!#my writing

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lighthousegod · 1 year

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Hello and welcome to my rant from my time on Stranger Things Steddie and Friends Twitter for the past few months.

K I'm really pissed but its fine I wrote this all before the poll thing. Now I just. Can't get rid of it. (Me at tumblr headquarters right fucking now)

Anyway. Sorry for the interruption.

The fact that I've seen several ST fans claim most people who like steddie are fetishizing them is already shitty, but what makes it even more shitty is that they focus on them being two white cis guys fetishized by "white girls".

To reference the two white cis guys first, yeah, you got me there. That really is all those two are in the show. And if you wanna talk representation, well shit! Let's do it! Out of the main cast, we have 3 people of color: Lucas, Erica, and Argyle. Lucas is much too young to be in a relationship with either of them and already has one of his own, and Erica is ten years old. Now, I love Argyle, but he was written to be a comic relief character that had no arc and never met either of them. I think that's a wasted opportunity, Eduardo is great and would've done well as a fully fleshed out character, and there is a conversation to be had about whether that character would've been received the same way Eddie was being a white guy. But the thing is, he was never even CAST as a character who could be compared with Eddie- again, his whole character was "funny stoner." THAT is fucked, and people have definitely decided to ignore that fanon. In fact, Jargyle has become a pretty well known ship! Weirdly enough, the content I've seen of them has majorly been from people who also ship steddie! It isn't as popular as Steddie, though, and I don't think that's ONLY bc of half of the ship has less lore than eddie. There definitely is at least some internal bias us white queer folks should take into account when considering what ships we focus on in media.

However, I don't think that's why it's being brought up. I don't think I read tweets from lesbians with she/her in their bios condemning all us steddie ppl who just ship it because "they're two white guys we can fetishize for being in an mlm relationship" bc they're trying to be good allies. That COMPLETELY disregards that transmasc and nonbinary people (ESPECIALLY transmasc people of color) make a BIG chunk of the steddie fandom. Crazy, it's almost like Eddie was written to represent an outcast and literally GOT TARGETED BY CHRISTIANS and a bunch of people in marginalized communities related to his struggles! Except oh, yeah, that'd exactly what happened. And yeah, okay, he's a white guy and it IS pretty shitty that they cast a white dude to represent outcasts in general, but the people talking shit are watching the SAME DAMN SHOW that has a huge fucking cast and still has minimal representation. Fuck, man, Caleb McLaughlin has faced SO MUCH hate from assholes "fans" as the only black main character. Why the hell are people using that very real issue to back their shitty arguments against a gay ship on twitter?

Again, I wanna preface that 90% of these kinds of comments come from lesbians and bisexual people with she/her or she/they in the bio. I thought yall were COOL with the gay and trans people. Yall ARE queer people. Some of them were even big Ronance or Rovickie fans! YALL. WHY IS FRIENDLY FIRE ON??

A lot of this argument is backed by claims that steddie fans ignore canon queer rep, too, and I just don't understand that.

I know. Robin is representation. I am SO HAPPY to have her, and I'm so happy that Maya pushed for it, and as a transmasc person who was not out at the time and likes girls, I felt very seen when watching her coming out scene with Steve. However, I know I don't fully understand the lesbian experience as someone who likes guys too. I know Robin means a lot to wlw fans, especially lesbians. There have been instances where steddies have co-opted that scene to make it about steddie, and that is not okay. (I've never SEEN this happen, but I've seen people talk about it. All the steddie guys on Twitter that I follow were making it pretty clear that that was not cool and pretty fuckin lesbiphobic. I agree, whoever did that, fuck them. Wlw and specifically lesbian wlw relationships have very little rep and Netflix canceled all their shows and it's super fucked.) But besides this, I actually see a LOT of steddie fans who very much love Robin's character. Most of the steddie artists and fic writers I know are also ronance, rovickie, and/or Buckingham creators. A lot of them are wlw themselves!

//I should also note that Will is canonically gay now and I'm super excited, but truly, I just don't see as much appeal in byler because they're so much younger than me now. I totally love Will as a character, and I was around the kids' ages when the first season came out, but I'm in college now. I relate a lot more to the older kids! I'm real happy to have will as mlm rep and I hope he gets his moment in s5. I just didn't latch onto him and Mike the way I did Steve and Eddie! We all got preferences and that's fine.//

All this to say, I'm just so tired of Twitter, man. I just saw a post about how many cis women who claiming its "ableism" to say they have to be around anyone who identifies as masculine, including queer men, queer mascs, cis men of color, butch lesbians, etc. And I've seen a lot of that lately too. It's just so weird to see someone who identifies as a queer woman talk shit abt a steddie fan with a hellcheer shipper.

(man I can't even get into that rn. Chrissy and Eddie shippers in ST fandom are a whole other bout of drama. I've seen steddies be pretty nasty on the issue toward bi women who ship that bc of age difference, which I never really understood because eddie has no confirmed age?? Like idk how he can be a super senior AND 17 on his missing poster but whatever, I'm not stressing abt that as long as you dont make them have a weird age gap on purpose. Hell, I even thought they were love interests at first, too. But DAMN I've seen some hellcheer people that hate steddie. None of this justification type shit either, they just say "it doesn't make sense" and "I'm scared of steddie" and "they ruined the fandom and eddies character" like bro that's literally homophobia. like oogily boogily gay people jumpscare homophobia. So I just don't talk to those guys usually.)

Whatever abt the straight ppl tho they're never gonna get my weird gay stuff. But what SUCKS is when it's other gay people saying this stuff. Like what about mlm wlw solidarity man? Why do I gotta see a rovickie stan and a hellcheer girl talking abt how steddie shippers are all misogynistic and hate women?? Esp when so many are transmasc?? It's getting weird and TERF-y and I just. I wish we were cool again. ST is abt outcasts at the end of the day, it's why we root for them and relate to them. There aren't even a lot of queer people from the 80s around because of the kinda hatred people like us face. Not to mention racism, ableism, misogyny, all of it. For centuries. The people up top all hate us. We gotta have each other's backs and twitter is making us INSANE instead. God.

Anyway I'm gonna go watch the mandalorian now later losers.

#steddie #gay stranger things #discourse #sorry about this im gonna delete twitter soon #its rotting my brain #fuck twitter

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shenns · 5 months

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MEDEA’S ESCAPE PLAN

Step 1: Baby steps.

It’s a tiny, gray world, was the first conscious thought Medea ever had, a three-year-old left alone within the claustrophobic confines of a matchbox apartment. Mama and Papa were always at work, even when they were home. The nanny would leave after feeding her dinner and tucking her to bed, and it is only around midnight that she’d hear the sounds of the tiny apartment livening up. Papa and Mama would come home together and talk, laugh, dance in circles around the cramped dining space, eat ice-cream, and watch bad action movies on the television. The one thing they wouldn’t do, however, was come in to her room for a goodnight kiss.

She learned early on that she was something to be cast aside, something shameful, something secret, something hidden and inexplicable. A gray little ghost haunting a gray little world.

And when the living room grows dark and silent, she opens her door and tiptoes across the silent apartment to the corner balcony. The world sits there in all its sprawling glory, right beyond the edge of the horizon of the fortieth-floor balcony. In the cold wind of dawn, she realizes that it isn’t the world that’s devoid of color, just this tiny shoebox of a home.

Ghosts had one thing going for them. They were sneaky.

Step 2: Know your enemy.

When she was five, the nanny let her know that she was going to have a little baby brother. Nanny set her down to sleep early that evening, even though Medea knew deep down that she’s being hidden away. She had seen the balloons and colored streamers out in the hall, decorations that have never been brought out for as long as Medea could remember.

Not that they were ever brought out for her birthdays. Those tended to be a drab affair. A little white cake in the morning after mama and papa were already at work, and then the nanny would give her a birthday kiss and send her down to the kindergarten. Mama and Papa would inevitably be late, and no matter how hard she’d eavesdrop at night, all she would catch were casual comments about the flavor of the leftover cake.

Except, this night, the mood was actually festive. Bits and pieces of music in a language she didn’t understand floated in from the hallway, along with a chorus of excited voices. She could count - one, two, three, maybe four - four distinct voices that weren’t Mama and Papa. When she tried to push the door open, she realized she had been locked in – cast away from the fun balloons, the strange music, the smell of roasted duck, and the people. Oh, the people.

She grew very still when she heard a voice move closer to her door.

“You sure about having the baby when that thing is just a door away? Forgive me for asking, but that just seems like such an incredible risk. “

Mama’s voice tinkled with a laugh. “Oh, come now. It - Subject B – is only five years old. What would a little girl do? Especially with that bracelet of hers.”

That was the moment when her world started to shatter.

Step 3: Subterfuge

It stood to reason that if she were Subject B, there had to have been a Subject A. And the only way she had any chance of getting closer to the truth was to get that damned bracelet off her wrist.

By the time she was ten, she had already tried about a million ways to take that thing off. She wondered if the contraption was an electronic device and had plunged her wrist – bracelet and all – into cold water. She had grabbed a screwdriver and poked and fidgeted around to find non-existent nuts and bolts. On one occasion, she had grabbed a discarded cigarette butt and held the burning end hard against the bracelet until she could feel the fine hairs on her arm start to burn. No matter what she did, the bracelet remained, unharmed and snug against her wrist.

And then, it occurred to her. The key to taking the bracelet off was perhaps the only two people who knew about it: Mama and Papa. And in order to get them to trust her, to listen to her, she would have to make herself as small and obsequious and harmless as possible.

So it began: the long strenuous task of winning the pity of people who would otherwise never give her the time of day. She learned to cook and left meals for her parents with saccharine little notes, she ran errands for Papa, offered to babysit and take care of her little brother who was already so much better than her, and she even managed to get her grades up to a B+.

When her parents finally took note, she made only one request. Very tentatively, she asked if the bracelet could be taken off as she had started to outgrow it.

It was a gamble.

Step 4: Patience was a virtue

She lurked.

When things got tedious, she imagined herself as a predator lying in wait, crouching among the foliage and underbrush, fang gnashing against fang, claws digging into the sweet earth. Rage churned like lava deep in her veins, spreading like a disease through her organs. She felt manic and feverish, waiting at the edge of a grand revelation that spread itself thin.

And then, one day, Papa took the bracelet off. Only for a week or so, she was told. The thing was old and she was outgrowing it by the minute, and they were only going to make some updates, like you update an old computer.

At first, nothing happened. Nothing, except -

the world parting itself like the red sea, turning inside out, as though reality was an eldritch reptile shedding its skin. The moon hung low and cold on the sky, and the air teemed with electricity – no, not quite electricity, but a current of some strange energy that hummed deep within her arteries. She breathed in the magic in the air, head full of an empty sky, and while every cell in her body thrummed in unison with the universe.

It was like that butterfly story she’d heard in basic debate and logic class. Are you a human dreaming of a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming of a human?

Step 5: Plan, plan, plan

She made a list of things she had observed.

The bracelet being compared to a computer meant that the thing had a particular and intrinsic function that only it could perform.

Mama and Papa don’t immediately notice when she reaches out and touches the strange thrumming energy in the air. She can sometimes manipulate it to make slow little changes – like making their voices just a touch louder or making her footsteps inaudible.

Sometimes she can catch sudden glimpses of mama and papa’s thoughts, but only if she times it exactly right and only if they are distracted by something else. (Like when Mrs. Guo from next door casually asked which pregnancy was harder on Mama, the word ” adopted” flashed in Mama’s mind like a red-hot button.)

Around her twelfth birthday, Papa received a suspicious call that he rushed out of the apartment to take. Medea had followed surreptitiously, only to hear the word “twin” swimming all over his consciousness. The call went something like this:

“Subject A? Blood magic? Oh lord, that’s… gnarly,”, Papa whispered urgently on the phone. “No, don’t tell me, I can well imagine. Well, things here are fine, you can rest assured. More than fine, in fact. Just focus on finding him.”

Magic exists and it’s real.

Reality, however, is not real. It’s all a construct woven together by large groups of people. The key is to find the gaps in the simulation and rend it apart.

Do not use magic. It’s easier to detect.

Step 6: ESCAPE

She looked down at the little white birthday cake and realized this would be the very last one she’d ever have to eat in this wretched house. It was delicious.

Later tonight, she would gather up her favorite guitar and pick out her favorite book - The Count of Monte Cristo - and take the train to music festival in Shanghai with her bandmates. Half an hour after she leaves, the apartment complex will suffer through a series of short circuits until a fire catches in one of the apartments in the fortieth floor. By the time people notice the smoke, the damage would be done.

Medea would officially be an orphan.

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kassandras-one-braincell · 2 years

Text

I haven’t been able to stop thinking of a sitcom-style office AU featuring the AC ladies and a superb supporting cast, so I need to share:

Kassandra spends most of her time flirting with the pretty interns, getting next to no work done. But she’s invaluable when tough clients have meetings in the building and they need someone charismatic to diffuse any tricky situations, so they keep her around.

Alkibiades is the receptionist who has slept with many delivery couriers who drop off packages at the front desk. He can go from bitching about colleagues with Kassandra to a sickly sweet customer service voice on the end of a phone in a heartbeat.

Eivor gets all her paperwork done to an excellent standard, providing she doesn’t have to use spreadsheet software. She’s also the person in charge of fixing the staff room’s shitty coffee machine when it breaks every other weak. She is hiding two kittens in her desk, under the impression that nobody knows. Everyone knows.

Soma is in charge of the branch, and is a fantastic leader. Always professional. Except around Wigmund; there are no limits to how petty she can be in his vicinity, and her biting insults are always deserved because he’s homophobic.

Wigmund is only still there despite a multitude of HR violations because he’s all buddy-buddy with the CEO. Everyone hates him.

Ceolbert is there on work-experience. Everybody adores him and will fight to guarantee him a full-time placement should he wish to accept.

Phoibe is allowed to do her homework in the office after school because Kassandra is a very protective aunt and despises the school bus driver, so she drives her home after her shift finishes. She’s allowed to make paper planes out of discarded documents.

Barnabas retired recently, but Alkibiades still lets him into the office because he is a well-loved person. His banter is of the best quality, he always shows people pictures of his grandkids, and as part of the effort against Wigmund he likes to leave his glass eye in his coffee mug to freak him out.

Hytham is the office IT consultant who spends 90% of his time trying to teach Eivor how to use Microsoft Excel. He feeds the kittens in her desk when she is stuck in meetings. 100% has gained access to Wigmund’s browser history and shared it with everyone after he made an islamophobic comment.

Birna gives herself employee of the month certificates every month, even though that’s not a system the office has in place, because she deserves them. Soma has asked her to stop printing them in full colour because of the dent it makes to the office printing budget. Birna refuses to dampen her victory.

Ikaros is the office pet (unofficially, because the thought of the paperwork that would invoke makes Soma want to cry). Kassandra talks to him like she can understand him, and it concerns everybody in the building.

Synín breaks into the office frequently to torment Eivor. She eats her documents and pecks at the desk draw containing the kittens to try and rat them out. Eivor still feeds her though.

There is never a dull day in that office.

The branch has been banned from several team-building activity venues. Competitivity has many a time taken a swift turn down the route of “disorderly conduct” and “property damage” and “multiple violations of the law”.

Soma has a decently soundproof room in the office, so she can play music through speakers to keep her sane. But there was one occasion where she synced her Bluetooth to the wrong sound system, and the entire floor was forced to listen to her god-awful country music playlist for the better part of an hour. Nobody will let her live this down. She got a Billy Rae Cyrus fan shirt during Secret Santa (courtesy of Eivor).

When the computer software system the whole company uses got overhauled after new regulations were put in place, just after Eivor finished learning how to navigate the old system, she nearly had a breakdown. She picked up the kittens and took impromptu paid holiday, ignoring company policy. No one stopped her.

Ceolbert earned Kassandra’s immediate respect when he helped Phoibe with her maths homework, because, in her words, “fuck that nerd shit”. Ikaros also took an instantaneous liking to him at that moment. She tried teaching him how to flirt, but he’s too precious and couldn’t grasp it.

Hytham and Birna had a bet going on: which physical altercation would happen first? Would Soma finally lose her shit and punch Wigmund, or would Eivor punch a hole through her computer after getting frustrated with word processing software for the thousandth time? The result was...neither. Alkibiades bitch-slapped Kassandra after she jokingly called him a whore.

After hearing a complaint from the floor below over “loud desk chair skidding sounds across the corridor”, Soma didn’t even need to ask who it was. Eivor, Birna and Kassandra were all denied a homemade cookie that week.

Because of Wigmund’s connections to the top, and he’s a grade-A piece of shit, HR effectively ignores their branch. A maximum of three people would have their jobs otherwise, and Ceolbert isn’t even technically an employee.

Alkibiades has a code for when a particular client representative, who happens to be Kassandra’s rather bitter ex, enters the building. Kassandra has hidden in the cupboard under the staff room sink, under Eivor’s desk, behind the curtain in Soma’s office, and once in the ceiling vents.

Once, Kassandra was tasked with attending a meeting with this ex. “Kass, you’re needed the floor up. Odessa arrived ten minutes ago with—” “Tell them I died.” “I can’t tell her that you’re dead, what the fu—” But she’s already gone.

Ultimately they’re a very chaotic work family. But Barnabas always invites all - bar one, obviously - the family around to his house once a year for a barbecue, because family matters.

#sigurd and alexios aren't here because bleh #ac odyssey #ac valhalla #kassandra #eivor #soma jarlskona #kassandra of sparta #eivor varinsdóttir #modern au shenanigans #office au

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arty-shadow-morningstar · 3 years

Text

Con Man's Daughter (3)

I have probably said it before but I haven't watch MLB except for a few episodes and I basically looked at the wiki for the plot of origins. But whatever, Hope you like it.

[Masterlist]

(Part 1)(Part 2)(Part 4)

----

Because Marinette has John Constantine as a father. She might retaliate against Chloe in more….magical ways.

John brings Marinette over to his house to tutor her in magic more safely in a place more equipped to handle stray spells.

And said house is full of books filled with magic spells and some of them are exclusively filled with curses.

If a 9-year-old Marinette happened to go home one day with a book that was definitely off-limits to her. Her father doesn’t have to know.

Well, it’s just a coincidence that Chloe was unable to talk for a whole day because she could only ribbit like a frog.

And that she had a very nasty rash afterwards that made her absent for over a week.

And she somehow had her hair in a horrible shade of purple that was such an eyesore that made her too ashamed to come out of her room.

It was also a big coincidence that Chloe suffered from those bad things after she bullied Marinette and made other kids cry.

------

Sabine while talking to John about something on the phone one day, “I know I agreed to let you teach Marinette to protect herself but were the curses really necessary?”

John was confused and a horrible niggling feeling started in the back of his head. “Curses? Like what?”

“There is this mean girl in her class. Teachers let her get away with bullying because her father is the new mayor. Making people have lumps all over their body like a bubonic plague victim got to be one of your magic tricks. I appreciate you looking out for her like that but you have to tell me about things like this beforehand.”

“Sabine, darling, can you hold on for a few minutes? I need to check something.”

“What? John! Don’t you dare hang up on me! I just want some answers.”

A few minutes later….

There were a few swears heard on the other end before John came back. “Oh Bollocks!”

“Sabine, if I didn’t believe you then, I believe you now. Marinette is definitely my daughter.”

“Okay, what happened John?”

“Well, it looks like one of my books has been replaced with…’The Witches’ by Ronald Dahl. I don’t know whether to be angry or proud.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“The one about Witches. It is a classic, Mr Dahl nearly got it right except for the money thing, witches actually make diamonds and other gems and sell them off instead. The book of Hecate? It would be best if I took it off your hands before one of those spells backfires badly.”

----

Marinette was grounded but she somehow got her parents to agree to let her learn curses. She can only cast them at most five times a year so she had to make them count. (Sabine shouldn’t really encourage this behaviour but Chloe had made Marinette miserable and that school lets her get away with bullying other children. And because of Chloe’s father, they can’t do anything much. This might teach that awful girl a lesson or two.)

Chloe suspected that Marinette was behind the bad things happening.

No. Chloe knew for a fact that Marinette was behind the bad things happening to her.

After nearly everyone left the class except for Marinette, Chloe walked up to Marinette and did her usual mocking and how superior she was.

Instead of the expected reaction of tears, the ravenette simply looked at her straight in the eyes and chanted ominously in a foreign language.

Chloe at first rolled her eyes and commented that she was a freak until light shone from Marinette’s hands and Chloe began to glow but not in a good way.

“What did you do?!” Chloe shrieked, struggling to move.

Marinette after the spell was done, held up a mirror and Chloe saw that she had fur all over her body and she looked like a monkey. She screamed.

She felt something moving from her butt and turned around to see a tail sticking out of her skirt.

Chloe screamed again and fainted on the spot.

Marinette used an invisibility charm and got out of the classroom as the teachers came in to see the source of the screaming.(CCTV just showed Chloe being alone in the class with Marinette being the last one to leave. She tried very hard not to laugh when they questioned her.)

The doctors couldn’t figure out how Chloe ended up like that and every time she shaved the fur off, it grew back the next morning. They discuss surgically removing the tail to which Chloe paled although it was hard to tell with the fur.

Chloe didn’t leave her room until Sabine told Marinette to lift the curse when she found out about it. Which was two weeks after the incident.

During that time, Chloe plotted revenge.

First day back, Chloe stomped up on Marinette and began accusing her of turning her into that monstrosity and she will pay for it.

Marinette simply rolled her eyes to the back of her head so the whites of her eyes were shown which John had taught her how to do for funsies and began chanting in that unknown language. (Which was actually the recipe for her family’s famous cupcakes in Latin. She only had 2 chances left for curses and was going to save them.)

Chloe freaked out and she scrambled away from Marinette as far as she could, calling her a freak and a monster along the way.

“I prefer to be called Enchantress.” Marinette shouted after her good-naturally, her eyes back to normal.

The entire courtyard was silent before cheering. Congratulating the pig-tailed girl on defeating the wicked witch of the west.

Kim being a drama queen and kneeling before Marinette, “O Enchantress, you protect us from the wicked witch. We are forever in your debt.”

“Rise and live out your lives free from her ugly eyeshadow and terrible colour scheme.”

Chloe tried many different tactics to make other people believe that Marinette had magic and was putting curses on her.

Mme Bustier lectured Marinette about being the perfect example and to stop with the magic curses.

Marinette, not agreeing with the bullshit philosophy and being a Constantine, meaning she treats the rules as more of a guideline, cursed her teacher to have bad luck for a while.

(Sabine was at first angry that Marinette cursed her teacher until she found out about forgiving others' philosophy that Bustier tried to force on Marinette even though Marinette didn’t do anything wrong and Chloe had insulted Marinette’s heritage.)

Marinette, being a little petty, entered the school talent show and did non-magical magic tricks, lessons courtesy of Aunty Z (Zatanna) and looked straight into Bustier’s eyes as she announced what she was going to do.

This all results in Chloe less likely to pick on Marinette and try to stay out of her bad side as much as possible. Picking on other kids also results in curses so she is much less of a bully.

Chloe still thinks that everyone is beneath her but she doesn’t try to cause trouble as much for fear of retaliation.

She does actively try to prove that Marinette was the one putting curses on her which mainly backfires because everyone thinks it’s cool and Marinette is magic confirmed after placing first in the talent show. (John was there with Zatanna to see the efforts of her lessons and looked like a proud parent the entire time.)

Bustier doesn’t push Marinette to be the perfect example anymore but deeming her as a problem child and giving her detentions for it.

Tom and Sabine got the school board involved who were upset at Bustier for giving detention to a student who wasn’t even causing trouble in class except for entertaining her classmates with ‘magic’ tricks during lunch.

She was reprimanded and had to attend a few training courses and seminars.

Chloe gets away with less things afterwards. Mayor’s daughter or not

-----

When Adrien and Alya came into the picture, things were more different.

Marinette’s first day of school, happened like in canon.

Except Alya walked in on Marinette was arguing with Chloe about her seat and Marinette began chanting in Sumerian, causing Chloe to scream in horror and calling for Sabrina to stop her. Alya thought that was cool and wanted to befriend this awesome quirky girl with pigtails.

Marinette thought that the new girl would make a nice friend with how she backed Marinette against Chloe. She might have to be more careful of her things when letting Alya over.

Stoneheart still happened except Marinette’s first reaction to Tikki was a little different.

Marinette called her dad because the stone monster thing that was once Ivan had a hint of magic and she didn’t know what it was and how to fix it.

She told John about the Stoneheart before noticing a black box on her desk.

She didn’t have this box in her room before and someone managed to get through her wards to put it there so she was very suspicious of it. (Master Fu didn’t take note of the small shock when he went through the invisible barrier. Wyazz on the other hand was curious at the magical protection surrounding the new Ladybug but kept his observation to himself.)

“Dad, you didn’t happen to come into my room while I was at school, did you?”

“No, why?”

“There is a strange box on my desk that wasn’t there before. I am going to open it.”

“Don’t open it until I get there-”

She cautiously opened it, a spell on her lips when there was a flash of light.

“Hello, Marinette. I am Tikki and you are going to be a super-”

Tikki didn’t manage to finish her sentence before being trapped in a magic cage that resembles a crystal.

“Hello, sweetheart, Mari, darling you there?” John’s worried voice came from the phone speaker.

“Yeah, there is a floating red bug mouse thing called Tikki trapped in my room. How fast can you get here?” Marinette replied.

“It will take a few days to tie up some loose ends, after that I will be taking the next flight to Paris.”

Tikki giggled, “I am not a bug mouse. I am a kwami and I give you superpowers to be a hero.”

Marinette gave her an incredulous look, “You are joking, right?”

“A Kwami? Haven’t heard that in a while. What is a powerful magical artifact doing in the hands of my little girl?” John was very surprised and curious. He was also worried because they were only in use when the world needed it most.

“I don’t have time to explain but Marinette was chosen for the task. There is an akuma loose in Paris. It’s the stone monster you saw earlier. Marinette, you need to put on the earrings and transform.” Tikki quickly filled in her powers and what she can do.

“And this is important. No one can know about your identity.”

“Too late for that. My dad knows.”

“Your dad is that strange talking metal tablet?”

“What? No. Don’t you know what a phone is? You know what. I will explain later. Tikki, spots on.”

Her costume is more like a black bodysuit worn under a red coat with a black hood, buttoned up with black buttons and strategically placed black dots that wasn’t an eyesore to her designer senses. Instead of a domino mask she wears an all black one that covers her head with white lenses to show where her eyes are. Think Spider-Gwen from the Spider-Verse style except that the hood is part of the coat. (Okay, it sounds like the Sparrow's suit now that I think about it. But *throws canon out the window into a burning pit* Let's continue.)

------

Marinette slumped on her chair, exhausted.

Apparently, she had a partner. Chat Noir was a little over the top and not properly informed or trained for what they are up against. She might have to talk to him about it later.

She looked at the black butterfly fluttering around in the jar with trap wards carved into it. Marinette wanted to keep it and study it

Tikki told her to purify it with her yo-yo like it was something that made sense. But when it comes to Magic, everything and nothing does.

Right now, she was catching Tikki up on what has changed since the last time she was out.

Tikki was a little worried about her dad knowing about Ladybug. But Marinette assured that her father was good at keeping secrets and he isn’t in Paris all the time so there are less chances of him getting akumatized.

Apparently there is an idiot with a powerful magic brooch loose in Paris and is responsible for turning Ivan into that Stoneheart thing. And the city of Love is going to see more of these attacks often.

Boy, was her dad going to love this.

------

Marinette goes to school the next day while she is there, the butterfly somehow manages to escape.

She meets Adrien and upon feeling his destructive aura which surrounds him like she saw on Chat Noir yesterday. She tried not to groan at the fact that Chloe’s friend is apparently her partner and she doesn’t want to put her life in the hands of someone who is going to ‘torment’ her in her civilian life.

She wonders how he even got chosen as Chat Noir and be trusted with something as powerful as the embodiment of destruction.

She is going to have a talk with Tikki to find this mysterious person that ‘chose’ her and she was going to give them a piece of her mind when she finds them.

------- Time skip -----

Turns out the idiot with the powerful magic artifact is a dramatic bitch that chose the name ‘Hawkmoth’ who wanted her earrings and Chat Noir’s ring.

She was also going to have to find better entrapping spells.

Another thing is that Chloe’s friend is not as mean as she is. So one less thing to be worried about. A bit too trusting and naive for her taste.

No crush because this Marinette is much more cynical. ( It’s obvious that he wears a mask to school and this boy was given the miraculous of destruction for a reason. She tries to find out why, resulting in Alya thinking she has a crush.)

----

Taglist: @vixen-uchiha, @laurcad123

#maribat #bio!dad john constantine #chloe bashing #chloe salt #giggles in sleep deprivation

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dollslayer · 3 years

Text

Fight or Flight

Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: Steve comes clean, in the aftermath and shock you turn to the one person who you know you can trust.

W/C: 2,369

Warnings: Implied cheating, angst, swearing

A/N: Hello! I wrote this for @sweetlyscared 's 1k celebration (congrats, it's well deserved!), prompt is in bold. I'm still pretty new to writing and this is my first true Angst fic so any and all reblogs/comments are super appreciated! Please check out my other stuff if you liked this fic!! Cheers!

PART TWO I Masterlist

____

The feeling of everything crashing around you was slow. Like your world was moving in slow motion as you processed the words. Everything else he was saying became distorted, going to waste as he tried desperately to explain himself to you. All you could hear clearly was your own breathing while you tried to will yourself to do something, anything.

Fight or flight is a funny thing, you were always so feisty and eager to fight back, A Bulldog, Steve had affectionately called you. But when he told you he was in love with someone else, that he has been in love with someone else for months, your body couldn’t find anything in it but to walk away.

Your breathing picked up and your eyes searched the ground, refusing to meet his. You felt your legs raise you up to stand and start walking away, unsure of your destination. When you pivoted to leave the room your eyes met his briefly, staring emotionlessly as his desperately searched for anything at all in yours.

“Where are you going? Doll, please, can we talk about this? I’m, I’m so sorry I-”

Whatever else he was saying wasn’t heard over the noise of opening the door and shutting it behind you. You didn’t know where you were going or what you were feeling other than the obvious. You were in a state of shock, it’s one thing to hear awful news and another to understand that it’s true but you were fastly approaching that truth head-on.

You paused for a moment in the hall and heard no movement come after you. You almost let yourself be surprised but he’d admitted he gave up on you a long time ago, so it only makes sense he wouldn’t fight your exit. You kept walking and tried to hold the floodgates of your heart closed for a bit longer.

Flashes of what was said come back to you slowly as reality sets in. “I can’t put this off any longer. I want you to know that I will always love you, but there’s someone else.”

Your head hurt like it would as if you were already crying, the blood pumping in your ears and pressure building in your temples that would no doubt evoke a long-standing headache. Your face felt hot as you stepped into the elevator, maybe you’d go for a walk in an attempt to fend off your tears. Or maybe you’d walk to a safer place to have an emotional breakdown. Whichever is easier.

Brisk gusts of air greet you as you exit the building, making you realize you left your jacket on the arm of the couch. You took a second to evaluate yourself and noticed you’d also walked out in your house slippers and a thin pair of leggings. Trying to evade the cold you tucked yourself in the doorway of a bodega down the street and dialed Bucky.

Two rings and he picked up.

“Hello?”

“Did you know?”

The silence on the line only reminds you of the blood pumping in your ears. The silence tells you everything you needed to know.

“Liste-”

You hang up.

You’re breathing even harder now. Who else knew? For how long? How long was I the joke? You need to find somewhere else to be soon or all these strangers are going to get an eyeful of a grown woman sobbing. You dial the last number you’d expect to at a time like this.

“What’s happening, shortstack?”

You can hear Tony’s grin through the phone and his easy greeting gives you momentary comfort.

“Can I come over? Something happened.”

“I’ll let Jarvis know to let you in” Tony’s tone is understanding, not needing you to explain further, just letting you know you can come to him.

____

Tony’s only seven blocks from yours and Steve’s shared apartment, a fact you’re grateful for when you feel your feet aching every time they hit the pavement. The conversation replays in your head, you try to word what happened in your head and your anger starts overtaking the heartbreak. It’s almost a welcome reprieve from the settling heartbreak but you’re not sure if you’d rather be numb to it completely.

When the elevator doors open Tony’s waiting for you with two tumblers of scotch in hand. You shake your head and move past him to the couch. He joins you on the opposite armchair and sets both his elbows down on his spread knees, resting his face in his hands.

“Would you like to talk about it or not talk about it?” He asks with a sigh.

You don’t make eye contact with him so you don’t cry, choosing to focus on the Iron Man coffee table book you’d gotten as a gag gift for Tony all those Christmases ago. It almost distracts you enough to laugh, the fact that he just has it out. But you need to tell someone what happened and get it all out before you can let yourself feel it all.

“Steveisinlovewithsomeoneelse,” You rushed it all out in one breath afraid if you didn’t get it out fast enough that you’d break. “He has been for months. He said he doesn’t know when it all changed but when he was with her things just clicked,” you paused to collect yourself, “But don’t worry, I’ll always hold a special place in his heart and he hopes this won’t affect the future of the team or our friendship.”

“Oh, and he’s really sorry.” you added.

You laughed bitterly and shook your head in disbelief. His delivery had been so cold but so sincere, very to the point but pained in its delivery. “I just, whatever we had, it’s just gone. Things are just different now, with her, this kills me though, please believe me. You’re still really special to me.” Bullshit. Special enough to act as a placeholder until someone better comes, special enough to cast aside.

You’re broken momentarily from your spiral into anger by the sound of a glass hitting a coaster a little too hard. Looking up, you find Tony quietly seething. He and Steve aren’t close by any means so you figured that he wouldn’t have known, it’s why you called him over anyone else.

He moves slowly to your side on the couch and pulls you into his side. You can smell his aftershave and what you think might be burned grease from one of the many things he’s been tinkering with in the lab, it smells like him, like comfort.

“That fucking asshole. Unbelievable, I don’t even…” He leaves the thought unfinished.

His hands move up and down your arms in a soothing motion and you finally let yourself have it. You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel the tears wet his shirt when you bury your face in. You sniffle up tears and snot when your face heats up.

There’s no way to know how long Tony lets you sob into him, no doubt ruining his vintage Depeche Mode shirt. Somewhere in the back of your mind you make a mental note to buy him a new one later. But for now you’ll just allow yourself to cry and you can deal with the world in the morning.

____

Tony lets you fall asleep on his chest, feeling somewhere between furious and heartbroken by proxy. He thinks about letting you sleep and giving Steve a piece of his mind but figures that’s not what you need right now. Your phone sits on the table and he touches the screen to check the time. No notifications on your homescreen except for a missed call from Bucky and an old photo of Steve making a funny face as your background.

Had Steve not even tried to call you? Had he not even tried to go after you? Why was Bucky of all people the only one to be trying to get a hold of you? Prick.

Selfishly Tony is glad that he has a good reason to be rude to Steve now, he has to admit. You two had always been close but when you and Steve started dating he saw less and less of you. He couldn’t fault you for it though, you were so in love with Steve and you knew that the relationship between the two of them was strained so you kept your distance a bit.

He thought of all the sacrifices you’d made for Steve. You gave up your childhood home in the Bronx that your parents had willed to you to move in with him because he wanted you to be closer to the tower. You gave up a promotion and transfer to DC when you were still just an agent, granted you were an avenger now but it doesn’t matter, he’d made a very big deal out of you turning it down. You gave up the friendship the two of you had.

It was incredible, really. How much you had done for him only for him to turn around and love someone else behind your back. Brave enough to fight aliens and terrorists but too cowardly to break up with you and leave you with some dignity. Did anyone else know about this?

Tony had to stop himself from getting too angry, afraid he’d wake you up. So instead he went back to plotting up schematics for the half-finished suit mod he’d been in the middle of when you called.

____

It’s been a week and you still haven’t properly talked to Steve. After two days on Tony’s couch you need to look at things from a logical stance. Where am I going to stay? It’s not like you had your parent’s place anymore and you didn’t want to sign a new lease on an apartment. You could always move into the tower but that meant a higher chance of running into Steve.

You were thinking about all of this out loud to Tony when he offered you the guest bedroom in his penthouse. You were shocked, he’s always been a generous man but after you drifted apart from him you were surprised he even let you stay these past few days. Maybe now was a good time to rebuild your friendship with him and have some space from work.

What’s work going to be like? You agree and go on a temporary leave from the team, just a month to collect yourself. If you really wanted to you could go back but the thought of seeing everyone that knew about Steve’s affair was humiliating and enraging in one go.

It turns out Sam had been playing therapist to Steve in all of this, Nat figured it out through some sleuthing, and Wanda had inadvertently heard his thoughts about her. And none of them thought to tell you? To save you from the anguish but to let it fester? Steve wasn’t the only one that betrayed you. They all had.

What will I say to him? Should I say anything to him? Turns out the answer was ‘nothing’. You texted him to let him know you were moving out and you’d be by to get your things as a courtesy. You walked into an empty apartment and you were almost relieved.

He’d chosen to not be here but he’d left you a letter on the kitchen counter next to a framed photo of the two of you on vacation last year. You scoff but don’t touch the letter. Every ounce of restraint you have is being used as you leave it untouched. But you don’t need to know what excuses or apologies he has on deck, nothing he could say would exonerate him of his wrong-doings. You had no intentions of speaking to him but secretly you hoped he suffered as he stewed in his guilt and inner-turmoil. He deserves to.

When you pack you leave every gift he ever gave you, taking only what you’d brought with you in the first place. You take one look at the unmade bed and almost go to make it out of habit but then you think of the two of them there together. All the long missions you went on without him, all the times you stayed late at work or went out with your friends. How many times had he been here with her while you were there?

You end up only leaving with two suitcases and a backpack full of things. Tony waits for you in the lobby, understanding you wanted your space when you went to get your things in case Steve was there.

The elevator doors open to him taking a selfie with a couple of fans and shaking hands. He’s all too happy to be recognized but when he sees you his eyes soften. Not out of pity, but fondness, like he’s proud of you for getting out.

He sends you a questioning look with a silent question. Are you okay?

You smile at him and for the first time in days it’s a genuine, non-placating, happy-to-see-you smile. It’s okay, I’ll be okay.

He takes one of your suitcases from you and helps you load them into the back of the car before opening the door for you. The drive back to Tony’s is silent but comfortable. The trust you have in each other is strong and unspoken. Something you’ve always been grateful for between the two of you.

He doesn’t ask you about Steve or what happened, always letting you come to him first, which you appreciate. And when you talk he just listens. No bullshit unsolicited advice about moving on or how everything happens for a reason or getting back out there, just listens.

You know the road ahead is long and it will be difficult, but you have someone in your corner and the knowledge that what happened isn’t your fault and that you’re a badass and fuck Steve Rogers and fuck anyone else that did you wrong in all of this. Maybe you’ll forgive them someday but for now you’re gonna focus on you and work on building yourself back up. You’re ready for the ups and downs, you’re ready to fight.

#sweetlysad1kchallenge #steve rogers x reader #tony stark & reader #steve rogers angst #angst #implied cheating #marvel fic #marvel au #marvel x reader

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cheer-deforest-kelley · 3 years

Text

This is the amazing day I met DeForest Kelley on the set of Star Trek V: The Final Frontier.

My boss was friends with a woman who worked on a few of the Star Trek movies. He introduced us and told her of my love for DeForest and she invited me to the set when De was filming.

I could not take photos as it was a closed set, but it didn’t matter as everything I saw was burned into my soul.

In late December 1988, I drove through the gates of Paramount Studios and parked right by the Star Trek Production trailer (Trailer 12). My head spun as I walked inside and was surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the making of a Star Trek movie. While sitting in my friend’s office, a voice on the walkie-talkie said that Bill and De were in their dressing rooms. My head exploded.

My friend walked me to the stage that was the Enterprise bridge and I got to sit in Captain Kirk’s chair (my feet didn’t touch the ground—literally and figuratively). I saw Director’s chairs with the names William Shatner, Leonard Nimoy and DeForest Kelley embroidered on the backs. I would have loved to sit in De’s chair, but all I could do was touch the arm as we walked by.

The Stage Manager told us that Bill was on the New York street set, so we left the stage and walked to an outside set with a high stage. When we arrived, Bill was being strapped into a harness (which fit around his torso, waist and crotch and which would allow him to be lifted into the air). His legs were bare and very white (he was wearing gym shorts). He was making jokes and talking in a very high pitched voice as they tightened the straps around his nether region.

I forgot all about Bill when I heard a voice on a walkie-talkie say that De was stepping out of his trailer and would arrive in a moment. My heart started pounding and I started feeling very warm (it was 49 degrees outside— which by the way, is considered freezing for Southern California). I turned around and saw DeForest Kelley ambling towards me. He was wearing dark blue jeans, a dark green sweatshirt, a light blue jean jacket with a fleece collar, black cowboy boots and a multicolored scarf around his neck.

Tears welled up in my eyes. De said hello to a few people, hugged my friend and she then walked him over to me. She told him my name and said where I worked. De shook my hand for a very long time (eventually just holding my hand rather than shaking it) and called me a spy because I worked at different studio than Paramount. He commented on how cold it was and lifted his sweatshirt up to his chin to show us a fleece-lined shirt that a fan from Seattle made him. He was very charming and chatty; I said a few sentences but was mostly mute (just call me Gem).

After a few minutes, he said it was great to meet me, shook my hand again and went to talk to Bill (who was now wearing sweatpants with yellow stripes and a blue uniform tunic that was unlike their usual uniforms). They talked for a while, laughed a lot and then hugged goodbye. Bill (being the Director) had to leave to watch a previously filmed scene— he was driven away. Suddenly all the commotion on the set just stopped and much of the crew left, however De stayed.

He came over to talk to us again (OMG!!) and said “It’s always hurry up and wait.” I responded “That’s showbiz.” He laughed (thank God) and said “That’s right, you know it!” I found my voice this time when he asked about my job. We talked for at least 10 minutes— discussing the cold weather again, his being a little sad that production on the film was almost done (You’re sad De? Let me hug and console you.) and what we were respectively doing for New Year’s Eve. For De, it was was “Absolutely nothing except kiss my wife before midnight since we don’t stay up that late.”

A man holding a humungous binder came over and said he needed De. De said “Bye now” and left (sob!!). Of course I kept my eyes glued on him. After he conversed with the binder guy, he talked to some crew members, but when they left, he stood alone for about 5 minutes, during which he smoked two cigarettes (he had a very nice lighter). He looked around and found a random Director’s chair and plunked down in it (he first pounded the chair with his fist, to make sure it was sturdy-- it was an old looking chair).

Bill was gone for over an hour (lucky me). I was free to wander around the set, but I mostly stayed close and kept an eye on De; he talked to the crew, left once (potty break?), read a magazine and smoked-- sad to say he constantly smoked. He once looked over at me and gave me a big smile.

When Bill returned, they were ready to film the scene when Kirk falls from Yosemite’s El Capitan and McCoy berates him. There was a publicity photographer taking pictures of everything, including this scene (which happened to be printed in a magazine and is my first picture posted here).

The Assistant Director called for De, who stood up and unbuttoned his jacket. A woman appeared and De closed his eyes as she touched up his make-up and combed his hair (I wanted to comb his soft hair). Two big burly men then lifted De (by his outstretched arms and butt) onto the elevated stage; they lifted him so high and hard, he literally flew into the air before landing on the stage on one foot-- he caught his balance and then turned back to them laughing with his eyes wide. They both laughed nervously and said “Sorry De.” He told them they were very strong.

On the stage was the bottom part of El Capitan made out of fiberglass. At the time, not knowing anything about the story, it just looked like a huge rock surrounded by dirt, boulders and trees. There were screens surrounding the stage that looked like blue sky with clouds.

They connected wires to Bill’s body harness. He was lifted just off the ground and then quickly hung upside down where he swung around loosely. De came over and bent down with his face very close to the upside down Bill and they spoke quietly between themselves; De then stepped back and Bill called “Action!” Kirk said “Hi Bones, mind if we drop in for dinner?” and laughed like he was a little drunk. De took a step forward, bent down and McCoy started yelling at the slightly twirling Kirk. Kirk patted McCoy’s ears and squeezed his cheeks, laughing and making little noises. They quickly filmed the scene twice. The first time went fine, but the second time, they both began laughing and De said to the upside down Bill, “Kiss me.” They quickly kissed on the lips (I know, I know!!) and the entire crew cracked up. Bill called “Cut!” and someone else yelled “Lunch—45 minutes.” De said goodbye to the crew, got into a car, lit a cigarette and was driven away.

I had to get back to work. I walked (floated actually) to my car and drove out of the studio gate, ecstatic that one of my wildest dreams had come true.

A month later, my friend gave me my very own Final Frontier cast & crew jacket (similar to the one McCoy wore in the campfire scene), a photo of the cast & crew (Leonard’s and De’s smiles are absolutely adorable), some Star Trek notecards and a cast publicity photo.

Sorry this is so long. It’s taken from a note I typed up when I got back the the office that day. I didn’t want to forget a thing.

#deforest kelley #dr. mccoy #star trek #captain kirk #william shatner #Star Trek movie #star trek v: the final frontier #behind the scenes #watching Star Trek being filmed #de in person #I have DeForest Kelley’s DNA on me #bucket list item checked off

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aimfor-theheart · 3 years

Text

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

#shigaraki tomura x reader #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura x reader #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x you #tomura shigaraki x you #tomura x you #shigaraki x you #tomura x y/n #shigaraki x y/n #tomura shigaraki x female reader #tomura shigaraki fanfic #bnha x reader #bnha fanfic #tenko shimura #tenko shimura x reader #bnha

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charlie-rulerofhell · 3 years

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An interview with Måneskin: “It's not about out bodies, it's about our music”

Heyo, I'm back with another translation. This time the article is from the German Rolling Stone website who met with Måneskin after their TikTok performance at the Schwuz, Berlin, and posted the interview yesterday. Again there were some interesting questions asked (and the pictures they added to the article are quite nice, though severely lacking some Ethan content, but check it out!).

Again, I hope that no one has already gone through the effort and translated it or is currently working on a translation. Also this is an official invitation, if you stumble across any articles or video interviews in German that you would like to have translated just message me and I'll get to it! (or if you just wanna chat about Måneskin, my inbox is always open :))

Have a great day everyone!

Full article under the cut.

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An interview with Måneskin: “It's not about out bodies, it's about our music”

Jose-Luis Amsler

July 6, 2021

Måneskin are just what this generation has been missing. Passionate, corny, and full-on honest. In an interview with Rolling Stones, the ESC winners explain to us why they would never work in a normal job and why the hype for their appearance is sometimes going too far.

Damiano, Victoria, Thomas and Ethan are entering the nearly deserted dance hall, before they wait on stage in a red-blue spotlight. They are wearing glittering fish net tops, black tape across their nipples, leather pants, heels and make up. The camera men who are filming in portrait format (9:16) suitable for TikTok are whirling up the haze of the fog machine.

Måneskin are [in] Berlin to give a TikTok concert. A TikTok livestream of this scale has not been done often – tension is in the air. The four Italians don't know at this point that due to the stream the few people present are not allowed to clap or cheer. In complete silence and with slight uncertainty the four are crossing Neukölln's club Schwuz. A few puzzled glances are exchanged. Finally, Måneskin are striking the first chord.

Then the rich sound of Ethan's bass drum is tearing through the silence. It's almost as if someone has flicked a switch somewhere. There it is, the rock star presence that is hovering over everything they do, with an ounce of arrogance (in the best sense of the word). Singer Damiano is dancing lasciviously on his heels, and during an especially ecstatic solo guitarist Thomas is throwing himself down on the floor in a way it can only be done by a passionate 20-year-old musician who had never had to worry about the looming doom of an artificial knee joint [for 'passionate' the interview is using the term 'besessen' which means 'possessed', and although I think it's rather supposed to describe the way Thomas is 'possessed / obsessed' with the music, thus passionate for the music, you never know if they didn't mean to say that the way he dances looks 'possessed' … I mean, they might be on to something here ;)]. Around half an hour and about 120 decibel later, Damiano says their goodbyes with an almost shy-sounding “Okay, bye.” After the performance, we do our interview in the Schwuz.

Rolling Stone: It was a little bit weird, right, when you went on stage today?

Damiano: Yeah, that was really strange (laughs). They only told us after the performance that the audience was instructed to stay silent for the stream.

Vic: But at least they weren't silent because we were shit (all laughing). We are slowly getting used to playing without a live audience. I mean we are doing this now for more than a year.

RS: What do you think about these new kinds of concerts such as the TikTok livestream today?

Damiano: Well, at the moment it is the only option to perform anyway, so it's alright. But of course you cannot compare this to a proper concert.

Thomas: But it's pretty cool that so many people can experience our concert live.

Vic: Also we're gonna start touring again soon. Right now we are arranging some festival and gigs. In December we will be touring Italy and afterwards we are planning to go on tour through Europe. But we don't have anything fixed yet, there is just a lot going on at the moment.

“A lot going on”. Quite an understatement considering the recent journey Måneskin has made through the past weeks after their ESC win. Their singles “Beggin'” and “I Wanna Be Your Slave” went through the roof (also thanks to Social Media) and are currently dominating the international charts – lately they were also number one in Germany. There is barely a radio station that isn't playing the band on heavy rotation [would love to know what stations they listen to, have never heard Måneskin played in German radio tbh :( ], and everyone opening Instagram or TikTok these days is flooded by Måneskin content. Every second a new fanpage with the name of 'maneskin_obsession' or 'damianos_slut' is springing up like a (virtual) mushroom. It sounds like a cliche, but Damiano, Vic, Thomas and Ethan became international stars over night.

“Of course it's nice to get compliments. But sometimes they definitely cross a line.” – Damiano David

RS: How has your life as a band changed since your win at the ESC in Rotterdam?

Vic: I think we don't even notice a lot of what's happening. Right after the ESC we went to a studio in the countryside where we made music the whole day long. So at first we didn't realise that so many things were happening all around us – and that we had so many new fans. We're just now beginning to learn what's going on. We were at Sony yesterday, there were so many fans waiting for us. That was crazy.

RS: A large part of the attention you are getting now is about your outer appearance, your style, your attractiveness. Is that getting a little too much sometimes?

Damiano: Of course it's nice to get compliments (laughs). But sometimes they definitely cross a line. Especially when we just talk about our music or about a social or political topic that we care about. In those moments it's just completely inappropriate to reduce us to our appearance. Sure – when I'm posting a half-naked picture of myself on Instagram I know that I will get these kind of comments. And then it's totally fine, I mean in the end I'm posting the picture to show myself. But sometimes it's not the right place for it.

RS: And also you should be allowed to wear what you want without being sexualised, right?

Vic: Yes, absolutely. We are wearing these outfits because we feel good in them, not to put the focus on our bodies. And in general it shouldn't always only be about how you dress. We are musicians – so first and foremost it should be about our music. But I think it will still be a long way until we will reach that point.

“That the boys are wearing make up does not tell you what gender they are attracted to. Those things should never be equated with each other.” – Victoria De Angelis

RS: But still you are sending a message with your style against stereotypical gender roles. I guess it's also not only coincidence that we are in the Schwuz today, which is normally a party location and safe space for the LGBTQ community.

Vic: Yes, that is all part of the positive message that we try to send. We want to give our audience the feeling that they are free. Free to wear whatever they want to wear, be how they want to be and love whom they want to love. It's unbelievable that there is still so much intolerance in our times. That has always been really important to us so we try to talk about these topics. We also believe that the narrow-mindedness of society is an educational problem. When you grow up with people all around you telling you how you should be, you will never feel completely free. The more people are talking about it, the sooner things will change.

RS: Some artists who are advocating for these topics are accused of 'queerbaiting', that they are only pretending to be a certain way to gain more support from the queer community. Have you also been faced with those allegations?

Vic: Yes, a few times. But of course we never pretended to be anything. Some people accuse of us queerbaiting because we look and act the way we do. But that's flawed thinking. We don't believe that clothes are connected to a person's sexuality. That the boys are wearing make up does not tell you what gender they are attracted to. Those two things should never be equated with each other.

RS: This courage for free self expression that you are conveying is mainly lived by our (young) generation through Instagram and the like. What is your relationship to social media?

Damiano: For me it was almost scary at first. The more we grew, the more people were trying to twist all of my words. But over time you start to understand that with more fame you also get more criticism. The happier you look the more hate you will get. It's not only like that for celebrities. If you are brave enough to show the things that make you happy there will always be people that support you, but they are also those that envy you. Of course, this should never lead anyone to not express themselves openly but that's easier said than done.

Vic: We are also trying not to spend too much time on social media. In the end we just try to be honest with our fans and to avoid negativity.

[caption under the picture of Damiano: 'Is already being compared to icons such as David Bowie']

It's actually surprising how little power a win at the ESC holds in most cases. Almost 200 million people are watching this shining spectacle every year – and still, a few months afterwards it is hard to remember who those people were that got covered in confetti during the award ceremony. It's the well-known curse of a casting show that rests on the winning bands. When just next year a new sensation will come to marvel at, how much impact does a win have then? There are exceptions of course, like Lena who is until this day, 10 years after her win in Oslo, a part of the more famous music scene of German pop music. With their charisma, their unusual sound at least for our modern standards, and their contemporary message Måneskin could become such an exception, too.

It's likely also helpful that the band already had a standing in the Italian music scene prior to their ESC participation. Their first album 'Il ballo della vita' already achieved platinum in 2018, three years prior to Sanremo and the ESC. And then there is also the long way that led the four schoolmates to this point that helped them gain the necessary persistence. Because contrary to what some people might want to believe Måneskin are not a phenomenon that has just been deliberately bred to be this way by the entertainment industry for Eurovision.

“I have worked [in a 'normal' job] for a whole month in my entire life – it didn't really end well.” – Damiano David

RS: You were all raised in Rome, the capital of the catholic church. What was it like to start as a young progressive band in such a conservative environment?

Damiano: In the beginning, when we started as buskers, no one gave a damn about us anyways (all laughing). But of course … Once we got a bit bigger there were a few people who had a problem with us. For example when we went to Sanremo, there were quite many people who thought that the way we looked and acted we shouldn't be allowed to represent Italy. They didn't even want to listen to our music first.

Vic: Especially when it comes to appearance and sexuality, Italy is a little more backward than other countries. The church probably also has an influence there. They are often quite conservative of course, so many people grew up with such a [conservative] mindset.

RS: You once said that the song 'In Nome Del Padre' is an answer to exactly those people. What does the song mean to you?

Damiano: Back in the beginning [of our career] we had to deal with a lot of problems. They didn't want to let us play in clubs because we would take too much space as a band or because they didn't like our (fashion) style or because they didn't want to pay us. Italy isn't a good place for bands. Our musical style was also criticised a lot. Many people were telling us: Don't do that [rock music], you won't get popular with that in Italy, you will never achieve anything with it. Of course those comments were hurtful but they were also a good reason for us to continue with what we did. And we turned our sadness into anger. With that song we wanted to tell those people from back then: Fuck off and look at us, we did it!

RS: Did you ever consider working in a nine-to-five job and live a 'normal' life?

Damiano: Nah, not really. For one month in my life I worked [in a 'normal' job] – it didn't end well (all laughing).

Vic: We all made music since we were kids. It's a huge part of us, that we couldn't just ignore. And the most important thing is that you do something that makes you happy. At least that's what we believe. So we started from a young age to put all our time and energy into music.

Thomas: Yeah, exactly. Ever since we were in school together we always made music. That has always been our main focus and it is until today. We play and play and play because it is the only thing that …

Ethan: … we live for.

Damiano: Music has also something very therapeutic for us. Even when we are in a bad mood or fight with each other – yeah, that happens, too – then all of that is gone the moment we enter the stage. Maybe that's the beautiful thing about music – that it allows you to forget everything else. You're just standing on stage, having fun with your friends.

From most bands you wouldn't buy such a corny love letter to music. Mostly it just sounds like an empty phrase, a well-practiced quotable line. But when there is something that defines Måneskin and that becomes more and more evident during our conversation it's their uncompromising honesty. The four of them are definitely not lacking a sense of humour but they take their music very seriously. Which should not be taken for granted in a generation that has mainly produced sarcastic cloud rappers and has made cynical twitter comedy a national sport. And maybe Måneskin are exactly what this generation was lacking all along.

Still, the four musicians, all in the age of 20 to 22, are also prone to the constant need for self-expression, that has become an intrinsic part of today's life. This does not only reflect in the outfits of the band (always 'on fleek') and their Instagram profiles, but also in their lyrics. Their latest record 'Teatra D'Ira – Vol. 1' shows a clear theme: The album is an ode to individuality, accentuated by fast and hard sounds.

Sometimes this message fitting for a Disney movie [really? guess I have been watching the wrong Disney movies my whole life …] is wrapped in a contrasting loud and forceful packaging, but never so much that it becomes inauthentic or self-caricaturing [note: I'm honestly not entirely sure what they wanted to say with this sentence since it uses a lot of rhetorical devices that could be interpreted in different ways, but I'd say this sounds the most plausible]. And in the end, the thing that makes Måneskin so interesting is their unification of the spirit of this time – between TikTok hedonism and an omnipresent political statement – with the music of past generations.

“When you are twenty, you start to think about what the future will hold.” – Damiano David

RS: Your musical style is often described as classical 70s rock, but in fact there are many different influences in your music. Sometimes you groove almost into funk, sometimes it's more rapping than singing. How did this mixture come to be?

Thomas: It's just that we all have our own individual influences and then we meet somewhere in the middle. And we always try to stay open for experiments.

Ethan: Yes, we are very experimental in our song writing process.

Vic: We also don't want to limit ourselves to what is regarded as typical rock music. If rap fits better at some point then we just add that in. It just happens naturally without us thinking too much about it.

RS: So why was it still rock music in the end?

Vic: Because it's the style that we feel most represented by. But actually we just play the music that we enjoy playing. That's really important to us so that we can show something real on stage. We don't want to pretend to be something that we aren't or mock those people that really enjoy our music. You should always be proud of what you're doing and never fake anything just to sell more records.

RS: Is there something like an Italian rock music scene?

Vic: There are quite a lot of bands – but the most of them are much older than us or they are more going in the direction Indie rock. There isn't really a young rock scene, which we think is a pity. But ever since we got more famous people are telling us that they started listening to rock music because of us or that they bought their first guitar and such. That's incredibly nice!

RS: So you're saying that you also want to show this style of music to a younger generation. And you capture this contrast quite well in the song 'Vent'anni', which is a typical rock ballad but lyrically portrays the thoughts of today's youth. Where did the motivation come from to write that song?

Damiano: With the song I wanted to show that I'm just a normal guy, a really typical 20-year-old. I experience the same things that other people in my age are experiencing, I'm just doing another job than them. Also I wanted to describe this age as a whole because I think it's a really special age. At 20 you start to think about what the future will hold. I think it's one of the most important stages of your life. Since we (the four of us) are all in the same age, I then started to mix our experiences together. In the end the song shows what it means to us to be 20. There is a lot of good things – you are quite carefree and are looking at life enthusiastically. But on the other hand you're too young to do certain things and too old to do others. Some people are treating you like a full-grown adult, but …

Vic: … not entirely.

Damiano: Exactly. It can get pretty frustrating at times. We wanted to show our audience: Hey, we're also just 20 years old, and we're going through the same things as you. We understand you.

RS: Except that you are the ones who are becoming a world-wide phenomenon right now. How do you want to maintain this honesty?

Damiano: I think that we could just reach this point because we have always been authentic – for better or for worse. Also we are just trying to have fun with what we're doing together. That's something special that we don't want to lose. In the end we're just four friends who started to live their dream. It's actually pretty simple. Of course – we go on stage, we get a lot of attention, we give interviews – but when we come back home we're just four friends.

#måneskin #maneskin #måneskin interview #my stuff #esc #again if you ever want anything to be translated just hit me up i'm free most of the time #ig my blog is slowly turning into a måneskin fanpage for translations and shitposting #but tbh i'm not complaining #have a great day everyone and happy waiting for sooooon

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primrose-path-of-dalliance · 3 years

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jester began falling in love with caleb in episode 103.

not any earlier in my opinion, and not later, either.

there's two elements to why i believe e103 is the turning point.

(1) the first is caleb's actions and jester's responses to them during the night they all sleep by the waterfall—his support of her idea to sleep underwater, his conversation with her after her commune with artagan, and his casting of programmed illusion in the dome.

(2) the second is the way her behavior toward caleb pivots around e103. before e103 is a noticeably different beast to how she begins to treat him after e103—the attention she pays him, her efforts to hold more standout interactions with him, and a dramatic swell of emotion and thematic meaning in these scenes’ respective subtext.

the rumblecusp arc is the point in which jester’s character growth, and caleb’s efforts to unconditionally support her, really begin to shine. throughout the complex growing pains that jester and artagan's relationship was experiencing, the one person who truly takes a moment to offer her support without any agenda or judgment is caleb.

(e103, 1:22:55, bold mine)

CALEB: You okay over there?

JESTER: (tearful) Yeah, I'm fine. Just—I'm just drawing.

CALEB: Maybe didn't go as well as you were hoping?

JESTER: Um... In some ways it went better. But no.

CALEB: I can't speak for him. But you do have us.

JESTER: I know.

CALEB: So whatever you land on, Jester, we'll make it happen.

JESTER: (shaky laugh) I have to figure out what I want to land on.

CALEB: That is the, uh—sticky wicket, isn't it?

JESTER: Yeah. Everything's confusing.

CALEB: Maybe... Maybe we sleep on it, it'll make more sense in the morning.

JESTER: Yeah. Yeah. Thank you, Caleb.

CALEB: I didn't do anything.

jester confesses that her commune with artagan didn’t provide the answers she was hoping for—that he knew about the curse on the island—and caleb doesn’t remark on what that seems like. he deliberately avoids speculating on why artagan is doing these things because “he can’t speak for him.” he doesn’t assume anything about what she might choose to do and explicitly leaves that choice up to her. jester vents briefly about how difficult the choice is, and caleb offers her reassurance, a reminder that some time will make things clearer. he doesn’t suggest solutions.

unlike fjord or beau, caleb doesn’t ask her to voice outright whether artagan is being a good friend. he doesn’t continually question his character and imply any personal opinions to her or what he thinks she should do. instead, he asks whether she’s okay. he listens. and he offers unconditional support.

this is consistently the stance caleb takes in the rumblecusp arc. and it’s not discussed much, i think, exactly how monumental that was to jester.

(hold on, this is a long one.)

jester is a young woman who grew up sheltered and wants to define herself outside of that shelter. for her, this campaign has essentially been a coming-of-age journey (talks for e76-77, 14:12). she is deeply sensitive to whether or not she’s respected because she’s aware of how her personality and general lack of experience makes others think she’s naive, immature, or incapable (talks for e79, 31:51).

it’s also incredibly evident that her relationship with artagan is unique. in e105 (1:15:01), jester tells the m9, “he really got me through a lot when i was younger, you know? and he was all i had, really.” he was her best friend from childhood in a home where she spent most of her time hidden in a single room. when she was younger, the few times she left the chateau, she was bullied by other girls (e110, 3:34:59). her best friend, though? her best friend was a god. a god with an incredible sense of humor, an aggrandizing attitude, and adoring respect for a young girl in a difficult situation who had as wonderful a personality as him. in every way that matters, artagan’s friendship undoubtedly saved jester’s life.

and she is so, so aware of this. she cares for him deeply, trusts him unconditionally, and is determined to be there for the one person who had been there for her when no one else was, not even her mother.

the renegotiation of this friendship after artagan revealed his full identity was clearly extraordinarily difficult for jester. she was having to reevaluate her entire relationship with the being that pulled her through a childhood of isolation and misery, question his intentions with her and whether they could even remain friends at all. and this was amidst her arrival at a dangerous island with her other friends to help him clean up his mistakes.

asking her to make a judgment on artagan before she’s ready to do it on her own, while managing some high expectations at the same time—not only is it a lot of pressure, it’s frustrating and painful. jester did not want to judge artagan without giving him his fair due and a proper conversation. knowing that her new friends dislike her old friend, besides being hurt by it, distracted her. she had to both defend him outwardly and interrogate him internally. and if she tried to explain how important artagan is to her, a lot of vulnerability would’ve been necessary when she was trying to be a leader and seem competent and capable, instead of a child who needs patronizing guidance.

this latter point is exceptional. because jester lavorre is so vulnerable when it comes to how much she thinks her loved ones respect her and consider her a valuable, equal, and trustworthy individual. and it’s difficult to feel like you’re being valued and trusted when people are repeatedly questioning you about a person and a relationship that they don’t understand in a way that, despite genuine concern, comes across as them doubting your own judgment of one of the most intimate parts of your life.

in this precise moment in e103, caleb is the only person who acknowledges—to her in person, even—that he doesn't have any place in judging her relationship with artagan. that it’s not what she needs from him or anyone else. that he’s content waiting for her to reach a decision. that he will respect that decision.

and jester can believe him. caleb’s done nothing but remain consistent on this stance. he repeatedly supports her choices to run travelercon, trust artagan, and come to his aid.

when other party members question artagan's legitimacy, caleb is the one who almost always speaks up to support jester (some examples: e61, 30:43 / e77, 49:17 / e95, 1:09:17 and 1:15:24).

he actively and enthusiastically offers his magical talents to her to provide for the event preparations. he has a whole conversation with her in e91 (beginning 1:53:41) where he expresses his immense respect for her and her personality, explicitly validates her faith in artagan, and shows her a tangible example of how he wants to help her during the upcoming travelercon. when she suggests some ideas, despite their arguable silliness, caleb takes them at face value and openly admits his lack of expertise in this area (e91, 1:58:35).

when they first arrive at rumblecusp, he directly reassures jester about the ‘travelercon 3000’ banner she leaves on the wrong beach by mentioning that he can make her a new banner (e101, 48:18). once preparations begin in earnest, caleb expends spells very freely, including ones of higher-level, to produce whatever jester requests.

in e103, he hears out her idea of sleeping underwater and gives it equal consideration in spite of other party members trying to shoot it down. the first time she suggests it (36:23), caduceus comments against it and no other party member acknowledges her except for caleb, who agrees with her quietly while the others move on. the second time jester suggests it (46:08), veth comments against it and caleb steps in to openly agree that it’s a good idea, even after fjord and beau join veth in being dubious.

compare these active, consistent moments of support and validation from caleb to similarly active and consistent examples of the other attitudes that manifest during the rumblecusp arc, in contradiction to people’s apparent claims of trust (one such claim of trust: e95, 1:00:21).

plainly insulting artagan to jester as if it’s a given, such as fjord’s “he’s generally full of shit, right?” (e107, 49:42);

fjord, beau, and caduceus’s conversation about “not ruining jester’s big day,” yet distrusting artagan to the extent of planning to keep her from being alone with him, preparing to attack him should he try to sacrifice 200 people for some speculated unknown ritual and/or hurt jester, and discussing all of this behind jester’s back (e108, beginning 15:41);

caduceus’s said shift to distrust of artagan because of a semi-disturbing conversation that jester was equally a part of (e107, beginning 20:40);

and the discussion right before jester’s commune with artagan where beau questions if artagan sent them to rumblecusp knowing of the memory problems, without regard for their well-being (e103, 29:40).

the unfortunate assumption being made by these party members’ repeated questioning and protectiveness of jester is that she cannot be trusted to have good judgment. despite their familiarity with some of the context of her relationship with artagan (especially after e105), they disregard her repeatedly-expressed support of him. they indirectly disrespect her ability to judge for herself whether someone is dangerous to her or her friends. they don’t acknowledge jester’s own role in creating dubious situations and instead direct all their negative feelings and sense of fault to artagan, minimizing her agency.

the e108 conversation is a dense microcosm of how the party perpetrates these assumptions throughout the rumblecusp arc as a whole. without qualm, they discuss deliberately controlling jester’s time with artagan to ‘protect’ her and their willingness to kill the evil image they’ve constructed of him, and dodge jester directly asking them what they’re talking about—even though it is a known given that the m9 would defend her with their lives with or without any prior discussion. the purpose of holding this conversation isn’t to make sure that jester is safe. like caduceus near-explicitly says, it’s to “feel better knowing” that “anybody else was on board with this” (20:26 and 18:57)—to validate their unacknowledged distrust of jester’s judgment with each other, behind her back.

and as laura has said: jester, with her very high wisdom, tends to know what’s going on even if she acts like she doesn’t (talks for e79, 32:39).

in e103, when jester is crying because she’s found out that artagan did know about the island’s memory problems, caleb doesn’t show any sign of taking this as proof of artagan's ill intent. what he does instead: he offers compassion for her pain with zero judgment. he promises to support her, no matter what she ultimately decides to make of this information. these are offers of safety and trust, ones that jester desperately needed.

then—caleb creates a programmed illusion of the m9’s lives. and it’s beautiful.

in comparison to all the analysis prior, this moment is straightforward. jester is an artist. she paints, draws, and creates, and she loves doing it. moreover, she loves making art for other people. though she doesn’t get many chances to do so, the mural of a flowery meadow that she paints for yasha’s room in the xhorhaus is a perfect example. similarly, she enjoys the art she makes when defacing other people’s property—altered signage or statue of the platinum dragon painted in rainbow—in part because they’re gifts to the traveler. she loves making those she loves happy.

happiness and love to jester is overwhelmingly about emotional intimacy. i’ve talked about this to some degree in a previous post about jester’s jealousy. please refer there for in-depth explanation. in brief, though, she puts value on how deeply she knows a person; how often she’s been able to be there for them. this is the love she learned from her mother and from artagan, and how she continues to love once she’s older.

caleb’s arcane rendition of the m9′s lives floating around the inside of the dome is a display of exactly this kind of love. not only is it art crafted from his magic and imagination and love—it’s blatant evidence of how much he cares for every member of the party and where they’ve come from. he remembers their stories and hangs them in the air in hopes that it’ll help them resist the memory erasing. he moves the memory of yasha and zuala in a meadow over to yasha’s pillow-side so she can watch it until she falls asleep. he creates a memory for vilya of her, her husband, and her daughter, listening to and respecting the emotional gravity of what she’s confiding in them.

only a few minutes after jester’s disappointing commune with artagan and her conversation with caleb, she walks into the dome and sees this art. she laughs and stares in wonder at all the memories (e103, 1:46:08). when beau points out the humorous memories of fjord being attacked by turtles so they can all laugh, she tells caleb with equal awe and joy, “wow. this is amazing, caleb” (e103, 1:47:04).

...of course, as lovely and meaningful as these back-to-back moments were for jester, it's not quite evidence of her starting to fall in love with caleb around this time.

that’s where the following episodes come in.

[id: three screenshots of messages sent in a discord channel by the user “prim” (the op). all are timestamped to friday, august 28, 2020, the day after the live premiere of e107. the first has an additional timestamp of 12:53 PM, the second 1:03 PM, and the third 1:30 PM. they read:

honest to god though i don't know if it's just the shipper brain that is making me think laura is trying to roleplay jester beginning to reciprocate caleb's feelings [...]

like........ the golden dick hunt teasing is definitely on par with jester's past shenanigans, but the compliments have been Catching My Attention bc it's honestly not normal for jester to compliment caleb of her own volition like that, just as a one-on-one "i appreciate you" reassurance

and i'm thinking less about the spells from last night's episode (although how much jester was emphasizing the compliments made me go "awwwww") and more of the moments like jester telling caleb "that was impressive" after getting cad out of the tunnel with beau's help

but laura is absolutely a shipping troll with jester this campaign so i'm here like "I'M MAYBE 80% SURE I'M BEING FUCKED WITH BUT IT MAYBE HOLDS UP????" [...]

basically laura keeps doing things that make the alarm in my brain go off and i don't know if i'm picking up something legit or if i'm projecting my hopes, like the recent pattern of compliments from jester LOL

/end id.]

i’m not going to lie, if i try to list every single receipt like i otherwise prefer to do in these metas, i think we (and especially i) would all lose our minds. so while i’m about to provide a lot of citations, they genuinely are just a few possible examples that will mostly be within the dozen episodes after e103.

the more important detail that can be observed from this is that e103 is a turning point.

prior to e103, jester does not particularly go out of her way to interact with caleb. by and large, most of their direct interactions are either initiated by caleb or prompted by the context of a general party conversation. the majority of other moments that could be referred to as ‘widojest’ are of caleb’s evident feelings. beyond early campaign days, jester rarely teases caleb about sexual topics while insinuating things about her own sexual life at the same time.

after e103, laura and jester begin to go out of their way to interact with and intertwine jester’s time with caleb.

the rate of jester’s compliments and enthusiastic gratitude to caleb skyrocket (some examples: e104, 30:36 / e107, 16:49 and 1:11:28 and 1:12:15 and 3:10:39 / e110, 15:58 and 3:37:24 / e111, 36:15 and 38:41 and 50:58);

several mature jokes/flirtations she makes involve both caleb and herself (examples: e107, 1:16:17 / e110, 1:18:07 / e115, 1:52:53);

she deliberately and specifically engages caleb in full-blown interactions, such as the conversations during the tour of her childhood bedroom (e110, beginning 1:11:38), hanging out with him on the icebreaker ship (e112, beginning 3:45:29), and the reading of der katzenprinz (e115, beginning 1:52:43);

as well as the expansion of more extended ‘conversations’ like their motif of dancing (e108, 13:39 / e109, 2:54:14), their parental relationships (e110, 20:44 and 3:38:41 / e115′s der katzenprinz / e121, beginning 1:52:12), and polymorph shenanigans (examples: e107, beginning 2:58:41 / e117, beginning 1:13:55 / e118, 43:57).

thrown in are additional background details that further tie jester to caleb, such as her determination to recover caleb’s amulet after their defeat of vokodo (e106, 25:33), the knowing comments on his purchasing of paper (e109, 22:32 / e111, 1:25:49), her deliberate choice to ride whaleb during the avantika chase (e113, 2:32:28), her retrieval of caleb’s coat when he’s attempting to remove the necromantic emerald (e115, 1:30:56), and her deliberate reference to der katzenprinz to iver (e120, 3:05:14);

and simply everything about the tower. it’s another example of the art and creativity caleb produces with his magic to make his loved ones happy, which jester acknowledges at least twice (refer to the e111 compliments). contrarily, jester also makes note of the signs that this tower shows less love to caleb than she thinks he deserves, in keeping with her value of emotional intimacy (e115’s der katzenprinz / e122’s floor 8, room 1).

the reading of der katzenprinz in e115 is arguably the pinnacle of these examples. it’s intentionally initiated by jester. she both takes the step to visit caleb's room and indirectly requests him to read the story to her. laura’s implication that she remembered this subplot because of beau’s reading of a very romantic letter from yasha is particularly suggestive. the story itself incorporates many similar characters and themes that are present in jester’s backstory: the lonely, sheltered boy and his single working mom as jester and marion; the dubious cat prince who ultimately gives the boy freedom and confidence as artagan; and the deep love between the boy and his mother because of how they only have each other, which compels a powerful being to have compassion and thus set the boy free so that they can be together. very similar to both jester’s depth of relationship with her mother and her pleas on artagan’s behalf to the moonweaver’s celestial servant.

and the post-story conversation—caleb’s confiding of its importance to him because of his mother. jester’s open willingness to compare the cat prince to artagan, knowing that caleb respects their friendship and has treated artagan fairly. jester’s lingering, repeated looks toward caleb while smiling and holding her copy of der katzenprinz to her heart.

with all this dramatic expansion of the emotional and thematic intimacy between jester and caleb beginning to roll down the hill after e103—in brilliant contrast to their more muted, less reciprocal dynamic before this episode—e103 is more than likely the turning point of jester’s feelings. and based on the events and context, it was caused by the combined emotional appeal of caleb’s offer of unconditional support and his display of love for his family in the programmed illusion of memories.

#cr #critical role #cr meta #widojest #jester lavorre #caleb widogast #by popular demand #inb4 the wrap-up #prim post #prim says some things #readmore #long post

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