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ahtsumu · 4 years ago

Text

目送 ; oikawa tooru

「alt. title: five times oikawa didn’t look back and the one time he did」

↳ pairing: oikawa tooru x f!reader

↳ synopsis: you spend a lifetime watching him go, sometimes with your stomach tied in knots, sometimes with tears in your eyes, but always with love.

↳ genre(s): angst, fluff, basically an emotional rollercoaster, non-linear storyline

↳ warning(s): profanity, depiction of a panic attack, suggestive themes

↳ length: 5.4k words

↳ a/n: hq fam how we doing after 402 ?? LOL anyway this is my birthday gift to oikawa tooru: my sun, moon, and stars, second to none, yadda yadda. the title is taken from a book with the same name, in case you were wondering. please pay attention to the roman numerals ahead of each section!! enjoy!

“This is the last call for Japan Airlines flight 717 to Buenos Aires, now boarding at gate number twelve. This is the last call…”

Goodbyes are hard when you know they’re forever. Or at least a while.

The clamour of Haneda airport dims to a faint buzz as the two of you continue standing with touching shoulders–– facing the jetliner instead of each other–– in futile hopes of delaying the inevitable.

Oikawa knows that you’re holding in your tears by the light tremors running through your body. Permitting himself to steal a look at your side profile, he notices the familiar tensing of your jaw and hard-set look in your red-rimmed eyes.

Tch. You said you wouldn’t cry.

Impulsively, he unzips his backpack and pulls out a familiar turquoise banner. It feels like just yesterday the team handed him the silk fabric with everyone’s farewell gifts wrapped inside.

Out-of-sequence memories of the Spring High qualifiers flash through your mind. The orange-haired Karasuno player’s spike ricochets off Oikawa’s forearms. The numbers on both sides of the scoreboard slowly inch up like they’re taking turns. Oikawa’s white knuckles against the metal basin. Red eyes. Heaving chest. Something soft against your skin. Rule the Court.

And just like the last time, he gently drapes it over your shoulders, brushing his fingers against your neck as he does so. God, how he wants to kiss you.

“But it’s yours,” you protest weakly, making no move to give it back.

“It won’t be for a while.” His voice cracks when he speaks. But it will be mine again when I come back for it.

He wants to kiss you. One last time.

He wants your mouth against his like absolution to a sinner because he knows that what he’s done to you, what he’s doing to you right now, is comparable to desecration. But he remembers the look on your face that night he broke the news to you. How your megawatt grin caved into a wince when the length of his contract with Club Athletico San Juan finally registered in your mind.

You swallow your feelings of betrayal. You knew what you were getting yourself into.

“Five years is an awfully long time to be apart,” you say after a while.

Oikawa bites his lip. He doesn’t have the heart to say that five was just the starting number. If he does well there, he’ll probably stay longer. He’ll probably do well there. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

Seconds drag into minutes. The cavity in his stomach festers as he waits for your response, but he has a feeling that he already knows your answer.

So instead, all he can do when your floodgates finally burst open is cup your face in his calloused palms and wipe away some of your tears before offering you his own watery smile.

Through your blurred vision, you watch as the boy in front of you steels his resolve and disappears from your life through the jet bridge, ignoring his heart as it begs for one last look over his shoulder.

Oikawa nods numbly when the old man sitting beside him asks if he’s leaving home for the first time. Home, he realises, isn’t anywhere with walls, isn’t an address, isn’t even a person. When someone says they want to go home, it’s not a space that they yearn for, but rather, a time.

He watches Japan grow smaller through the window and feels himself yearn for the time he still had your heart in his hands. It felt like he was holding the sun.

You wouldn’t consider July 21st to be a special day. Nothing special happened earlier that morning when you woke up without your usual alarm. Nothing special happened when your friends texted you four simple words–– come to Azukihana beach!–– during breakfast. But (and this will come to you much, much later) something special happened when said friends left you to guard their things as they dashed to the supermarket for more snacks.

For now, it’s just July 21st, and you’re lying with your back against a towel on the first day of summer break, soaking in the sun, peacefully flipping through a book.

“DON’T FUCKING DO IT, YOU COLOSSAL PIECE OF SHIT!” The familiar voice tears through the beach. Was that Iwaizumi? You set the book down and sit up to check.

And suddenly, the yellow and blue volleyball that had been leisurely rolling your way halts perfectly before your toes. Behind it jogs a shirtless brunet you’ve definitely seen around school.

Oikawa Tooru stops right behind the runaway volleyball and peers at you through half-lidded eyes. “Sorry about that,” he says, flashing you a charming smile.

After casually picking up the ball with one hand, he flexes his abdominal muscles as he straightens back up. Chestnut irises attempt to discreetly sweep over your features but you catch his gaze in the act, quirking an unamused brow. You also catch the intrigued twitch of his lips that follow.

You’re not stupid. Despite having never met him, you know a lot about the Grand King (as many call him). He’s the constant subject of Iwaizumi’s ire and you’ve heard a lifetime’s complaints about him at joint-family luncheons.

But here’s what’s important: you know that he tears himself apart to be the player his team needs him to be, that he sometimes makes Iwaizumi wish he’d passed the Shiratorizawa entrance exam, and that he fiddles with hearts like origami and sets fire to those beautiful fragile trinkets right after.

And in the interest of self-defence (but against what the devil on your shoulder begs), you choose to not place your most prized possession on the table.

A simple “no worries” passes through your lips. You return to your book. A page turns.

Oikawa Tooru is dismissed.

Though your gaze is trained on the page, you can feel his presence at your feet for a few seconds longer. You wonder what his next move is. Much to your surprise, instead of trying to strike up another conversation, he simply lets out an airy hum and strolls back to the sand court where he came from without a second glance.

Iwaizumi wonders why Oikawa is smiling so victoriously after watching the whole ordeal, but your tan family friend has, unlike the calculating Grand King, failed to notice one important detail:

your book is upside down.

And, as if in a trance, your eyes have followed Oikawa all the way back to his sandy kingdom.

Once the sun has set, Iwaizumi checks his phone and notices a text he’d missed in the afternoon. It’s from Y/N. Unease digs itself in his chest when he realises it can’t possibly be for anything except…

hey what was that about?

This can’t be good. Thumbs rapidly typing a response, he races to quash any interest you may have budding in Oikawa. You… you’re good. Nice. Smart enough for UTokyo. A bit naive, but he’s been around your overbearing parents long enough to see it’s not entirely your fault. And even though you run in different circles at school, he feels obligated to protect you from monsters that hide beneath pretty surfaces. He’s known you since the two of you were in diapers.

just trash being what it is

Iwaizumi watches the three grey dots on your side appear, disappear, reappear, and disappear again. And that’s when he realises that he cannot help you. The villain in this arc of your story has already sunken his teeth in your tender, unsullied flesh.

trash?

He sighs.

oikawa

It isn’t a surprise to Iwaizumi when summer break ends and Oikawa’s chestnut eyes start hunting for someone in the cafeteria during lunch. He doesn’t raise a brow when he hears that the second-year captain has been sneaking into Class 7, sometimes with flowers in his hands, and strolling out with a dazed look on his face. He slaps his teammates out of shock when Oikawa mentions his troubles with pursuing some girl–– but not before slapping himself first. Because the Oikawa he knows is not a chaser.

“Her name’s Y/N,” the brunet says, suddenly realising that he has never introduced any of his temporary interests to the team. But it’s been well over two months and he’s starting to think he’s been friend-zoned. Or worse. “I think she hates me.” He laughs melodically, then cocks his head in contemplation. “Is it weird that I kinda like that?”

Iwaizumi hides a satisfied smile behind a sip of water. Oikawa’s revelation has cleared the unease your name brought to his chest. Just a little. Perhaps he’d misread you. You have a bite of your own.

iii.

It’s routine for Oikawa to slink into Class 7 with a dazzling grin during morning break, but he’ll sometimes show up with flowers instead just to remind you that his affections, along with his modus operandi–– haven’t changed since he first started visiting you in September.

The girls in your homeroom have grown used to seeing the six-foot-tall volleyball captain hovering around your desk like a butterfly. Most treat him as part of the scenery nowadays. To them, Oikawa Tooru is no longer the mysterious, out-of-reach deity the rest of the school still paints him to be.

So when he strolls into class on a chilly January afternoon with your name a tune on his lips, they leave him be. Recently, the ladies of Seijoh have focused their attentions on some fellow on the swim team, anyway. Oikawa doesn’t feel as upset as he thinks he should about his shrinking fan club, but when his gaze finds yours already steady, expectant, utterly adoring on him, he understands why.

“For the lady,” he says like he does every time. A cluster of yellow flowers wrapped in brown kraft paper plop onto your desk. He pulls a chair up to your side, purposely ignoring, again, how two certain grooves in the wooden floor keep growing deeper with his visits.

You remember the first time he started bringing you flowers.

A posy of pink flowers sits awkwardly on your desk, untouched.

“I tell you I’d rather take your serve to my face than attend the bunkasai with you and your response is to give me weeds?” you reply with your chin in the palm of your hands, amusement blossoming over your features.

“Stop being a tease, Y/N-chan, they’re flowers,” he huffs, crossing his arms on your desk. “And I know you want to take them. The florist even said I have immaculate taste.”

“Really? Then what do these mean?”

Oikawa falters.

“Hmm?”

“Pink camellias,” he finally says, carefully enunciating the flower's name, “means that you’re a fucking tease. And that you should come to the bunkasai with me.” You snort and tell him to quit volleyball and join comedy club, feeling a strange warmth in your chest when he laughs.

The two of you fall into the same rhythm as always, talking a little bit about this and that, throwing in witty remarks where they belong, never passing up the chance to make fun of each other’s little idiosyncrasies. He’s enraptured by the way you string words together to describe the story behind your class’s bunkasai performance and all the gears in your brain whirr when he explains the strategy he’s using against the team Seijoh’s playing later that day.

When the bell rings, he reluctantly drags his chair back to the desk he stole it from. Just before he slinks back out the door, though, you tell him with a stern gaze that the Ushiwaka from Shiratorizawa he just spent the break shit-talking doesn’t hold a candle to Seijoh’s Grand King.

It’s like you had just stepped under a new light. Oikawa pauses in front of the doorway, trying to decipher what it is that’s different about you. And suddenly, the roses in his cheeks are in full bloom. Delighted and puzzled at his own realisation, he turns around without a second glance your way and strides back to Class 5. Oh, man, he muses as he passes through the emptying corridor. Oh, man. Iwa-chan is going to love this.

Your phone buzzes later that evening.

seijoh v. shiratorizawa 1-2, the text reads, quickly followed by, GAH.

Your lips twitch, though it doesn’t reach your eyes. Tapping your fingers against your phone screen for a response that’ll cheer him up, you suddenly remember a phrase Oikawa said earlier that day. It drew a laugh from you when it came out his contorted face. He was obviously still hung up over with the words of the opposing team’s ace. Hopefully, it makes him feel something else coming from you.

you should’ve come to shiratorizawa, you send, grinning.

His response is immediate.

l m f A O

what flowers would you like at your funeral?

And then you’re reminded of his petalled gift on your desk, now comfortably sitting in a glass vase at your bedside. Pink camellias, he said? Curious, you open your laptop and type in the name for its meaning.

Longing, you remember, watching your boyfriend chatter about something–– probably aliens–– animatedly. The yellow flowers on your desk, you realise, are ones you’ve never seen before.

“Oikawa, what’s the name of these?” you suddenly ask. He stops in the middle of his sentence (he was definitely talking about aliens, by the way), and grins smugly.

“Jonquils,” he says with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “spelt J-O-N-Q-U-I-L-S, means that your boyfriend’s going to colonise Mars one day. And if you’re lucky, you can be the first queen of Mars. How ‘bout that?”

It doesn’t mean what he says it does, by the way.

ii.

Splashes of pink and orange have already settled into the blue sky above when you step onto the rooftop of Seijoh’s humanities building. Despite the breeze that has swept through the air, the flame of curiosity in your stomach burns just enough for you to turn a cheek to the cold.

Come to the rooftop at 6 PM.

It’s 5:59. Impatient, you study the note in your hand again. Maybe you’ll be able to glean something from the laconic letter this time.

Much to your irritation, no one had seen the author of this note. They had expertly placed the unsigned card on your desk with a single rose and Hershey’s chocolate kiss on top during lunch. Elegantly scrawled, their seven words have had your brain running circles all day around their identity. Could it be…? No–– he seemed completely normal earlier today. Still, you can’t shake your suspicions. They borderline hope.

Who else…

You inhale the cool air deeply and lean back against the rooftop railing, eyes burning a hole into the metal entrance. The door swings open with a high-pitched groan. Your breath catches in your throat.

… if not him?

Time briefly stops when Oikawa Tooru steps through the entrance, still in his volleyball uniform, sweaty from practice, cheeks the same colour as the setting sun. There’s an unusually tentative look on his face, though it’s immediately wiped off and replaced with the realisation that this is real when he sees you slightly slack-jawed, blinking once, twice, three times before letting out a breath.

“You look surprised. Expecting someone else to confess today?” he asks, crossing his arms in front of his uniformed chest. Despite how his features are contorted by his poorly hidden jealousy, you can’t help but feel a flood of blood rush through your veins, lighting every inch of your skin on fire.

Because whether he knows it or not, Oikawa, the Grand King of the Court, prettiest boy in all of Miyagi, has skipped the table and placed his heart straight into your hands.

“Of course not,” you retort. “I just didn’t think you’d�� well, do something like this.” And I didn’t want to get my hopes up. Iwaizumi’s words still find their way into your mind sometimes. I didn’t want origami made from my heartstrings.

Oikawa’s demeanour changes and his eyes dart away from your face. Shoving his hands into his windbreaker’s pockets, he admits, “I’ve honestly never done something like this before.” A faint blush spreads across his cheeks.

“Really? You’ve never stepped foot in the fourteenth shrine of Sendai?” you tease, referring to how Seijoh students have claimed this very rooftop as one of the God of Love’s many temples. You both know he holds the school record for the number of visits to this rooftop. At this rate, he could be one of its caretakers.

“That’s not what I meant,” he replies with a scowl, though the awkward tension between you two dissipates. And it feels like the two of you are back at your desk in Class 7, snickering uncontrollably while throwing playful jabs at each other. Sensing the change in atmosphere, Oikawa finally steps forward to join you by the railing.

Humming softly, he rests his elbows on the metal bar, props his head up with his hands, and sets his gaze on the lowering sun.

It’d be unfair to say that you didn’t at least try to enjoy the moment of peace with the boy beside you. But there’s a burning question on your mind that you can’t put off asking any longer.

“Why me?” you finally blurt out. “You could have any girl in this school. What made you choose me?”

The brunet whips his head around, disbelief written all over his face. “You think I chose to chase after the most annoying girl in all of Miyagi?” He laughs. “Ridiculous. I’d never willingly put myself through that unnecessary angst.”

You scoff and cross your arms.

“I think that when you like someone, it’s harder to explain why,” he quickly adds. “‘Cause it’s not supposed to make sense. I bet that the inability to explain your feelings is a prerequisite for true feelings, actually. It’s logical to say that you’d date Person A because they’re smart, or Person B because they’re hot, or Person C because they’re rich. But I’m pretty sure that that’s not… that’s not falling for someone. When you fall for someone… you just do. No logic required. You weren’t an option I ultimately settled on, Y/N. One day I just woke up and thought, if not you, then no one else.”

A beat passes. A flurry of words floods through your brain, only to evaporate when the devil on your shoulder decides that words aren’t quite adequate for what you want Oikawa to hear.

So instead, your feet take you one step closer into his space. Impulsively, your fingers find their way to his nape and your eyes flutter shut and suddenly–– suddenly, your parted lips brush against Oikawa’s. Instantly, he deepens the kiss, soft lips surging against yours like a pulse under pressure. You barely register his arms snaking around your waist, tighter and tighter until the space between your bodies is completely closed off.

Breathless, you finally detach your lips from his. Oikawa, who still has you encircled in his arms, pouts at the loss of contact, though he sulky façade only lasts a second before it gives way to a grin that stretches from ear to ear. He looks magnificent. Cheeks red, lips flushed, chest heaving, eyes wide with excitement. You want to kiss him again.

“One more.” It’s as if he read your mind. “To celebrate that last one.”

When Oikawa finally detaches himself from your lips, it’s to respond to the buzzing in his pocket. Noticing your raised brows, he explains that it’s an alarm for practice. The Spring High Prelims are just around the corner and he doesn’t plan on graduating without never having taken his team to Nationals.

“That’s my cue,” he states with a warm–– read: not apologetic–– smile. He doesn’t grab your hand or look imploringly into your eyes in hopes that you understand, never mind that you just shared your first kiss, never mind that you just became his girlfriend.

If Oikawa’s looking for any sign of your objection, he won’t find any. Instead, you step out of his space with an acquiescent nod. You knew what you were getting yourself into.

“Play well,” you say softly.

But before he heads for the creaky rooftop door, he presses one last kiss to your lips. And then he turns around, whistling as he goes, leaving you beaming behind his back with the light of a thousand suns.

iv.

When Matsukawa hands you the turquoise “Rule the Court” banner after the team lunch with a shit-eating grin on his face, the only resistance you offer is a resigned sigh.

“I’ve been dating Oikawa since we were second years,” you say flatly.

“Sorry, Y/N-san, but it’s the team’s hazing ritual,” he replies, not appearing sorry at all. “And you’re the only one who hasn’t done it.” He jerks his head at the blonde girl standing a little farther from the group with Hanamaki. “Emiko-san did it at the last game.”

“Plus, it’s the Spring High qualifier semifinals!” Kindaichi adds. “It’s an even bigger deal for you to do it now, especially since you had to miss our games on the first two days for school.” The team murmurs in agreement.

You shudder at the thought of your impending distress. Sit in the front row of the cheer squad and raise the banner with a scream every time your boyfriend serves? Fleeing from the Sendai City Gymnasium back home in an expensive taxi suddenly becomes very appealing.

Seeing the expectant and hopeful looks on the rest of the team’s faces, however, you begrudgingly place the banner in your backpack, signalling your acceptance of the horrible, cringe-worthy tradition.

“Where is Oikawa-san?” Kindaichi asks, rotating his turnip-shaped head around rapidly. “He was just at the team lunch. Iwaizumi-san’s missing too…”

Kunimi shrugs, pulling out his copy of the team schedule. He starts herding the team towards one of the courts. “Our game against Karasuno starts about an hour, so we should start warm-ups in around fifteen minutes.”

Worry creeps up your spine. For the past few days, all Oikawa has talked about is this match against his bratty kouhai’s team. And in the past two weeks leading up to today, you haven’t been able to even catch a glimpse of his face outside of break or lunch. To suddenly go missing before warm-ups doesn’t seem like Oikawa. You’re about to ask the team if he’s ever done this before, but your phone starts ringing a familiar tune and the question is set aside.

“Iwai––”

“Third-floor bathroom by the orange pillar. Come alone. Don’t tell anyone. Emergency.” Through his harsh and abrupt tone, you pick up traces of fear.

“What––”

“It’s Oikawa.” The call is cut before you can ask any more questions. Heart suddenly racing, you tell the team that your mother just called with questions about your new smart blender and excuse yourself to “explain what the manufacturers mean by salsify”. No one sees you bolt towards the nearest set of staircases with Oikawa the only thought on your mind.

There are very few things in this world that scare you. Stray hairs in the bathroom, the dark, essays longer than three pages… but the terror that short-circuits your brain when you find your boyfriend in the bathroom–– knuckles white around the sink, chest heaving violently, frenzied pupils surrounded by broken blood vessels–– trumps any fear you’ve faced before.

Iwaizumi stands helplessly beside him.

“Is he having a panic attack?” you question, still unable to move your feet. You’ve never seen Oikawa like this before. He’s the Grand King who hums while he walks, who spams your phone’s camera roll with peace-signs and funny faces, who winks and flirts and teases without regard. But watching the long-deified setter crumble like a measly human before you, you realise that Oikawa is also the guy who tore his meniscus from overexertion, who trades sleep to study his opponents play, who works his body to the bone just to stay a hairline above a certain Karasuno setter.

“A scout for the Schweiden Adlers said that Kageyama will soon surpass Oikawa in skill.” Iwaizumi explains how they had overheard the conversation lowly in your ear. “I got us into this bathroom just before he completely lost it. 5-4-3-2-1 isn’t working. And he won’t listen to a word I say.” What’s 5-4-3-2-1? Well, if it isn’t working then don’t focus on that right now.

Your eyes dart to Oikawa’s quivering body again. “I don’t know how to pull someone out of a panic attack.”

“The goal is to ground him. So use physical touch, make him feel something with texture, and get him to talk,” he responds instantly. Mechanically. Like he’s all-too-familiar with this set of instructions. A heaviness grows in the pit of your stomach when you realise what that means for Oikawa. And yet, from that very dread sprouts strength.

Slowly, you tread over to Oikawa and place a hand on his arm. His muscles tense under your touch but when you murmur over and over that it’s “Y/N, your girlfriend, the most annoying girl in Miyagi”, his fingers loosen ever-so-slightly from the metal basin. He lets you lead him to the bench by the door. He lets you drape the Seijoh banner over his shoulders like it’s armour and wrap your arms around his waist. He lets you press your cheek to his sweat-drenched back.

Get him to talk.

“Remember that quote you showed me from that interview of yours? What was it again?” you question softly.

No response.

“If you’re going to hit it, hit it until it breaks,” you say into his ear.

Through the mirror, you see his eyes widen with recognition. In the brief moment of lucidity that washes over Oikawa’s glistening face, you repeat the original question again, followed by his own quote.

Again and again.

And Oikawa finally says back.

“If you’re going to hit it, hit it until it breaks.” Focus re-enters his gaze. He blinks as if just waking from a spell.

“That’s right,” you say as firmly as possible. “So don’t you dare break first, Tooru.”

An unreadable blend of emotions scrawls itself over his features. While Oikawa washes his face with cold water, you remember rumination and resolve but can’t decipher the rest, giving up anyway when Iwaizumi pushes open the bathroom door. When the light washes over Oikawa, his face shows no signs of the episode he just had. It’s just like how the sky moves on after a storm, how the sun beams to say, “I’m here now. The rain has gone.”

But sometimes it still rains in spite of the sun.

A sunshower. It sounds so beautiful. But it’s wonderfully sad.

The three of you wordlessly make your way to the court where the rest of Seijoh is likely getting ready to warm up. What are you supposed to say after that? What can you say?

Once the smell of air salonpas and sweat finally greets your nose, Oikawa slips the Seijoh banner off his back and hands it over to you. Guessing that’s your cue to leave, you tell him to play well like you always do before starting to head for the upper deck. Softly, Oikawa asks you to wait.

“Stay for warm-ups,” he adds. “Please.”

From your spot behind the Seijoh divider, you carefully watch for any signs of another breakdown. To your relief, he goes the entire half-hour without a single crack in his disposition, exchanging laidback grins with the team, bantering with Iwaizumi. At one point he even has the audacity to taunt the Karasuno setter Tobio-chan, as Oikawa often says with a sneer.

Sunshowers, Y/N. Sunshowers.

Just before the referees call for the teams to line up at their ends of the court, Oikawa jogs over to you, eyes folding into thin crescents when he smiles.

He pulls the Seijoh banner out from your hands and gingerly cloaks it around your shoulders. Oikawa presses a quick kiss to your lips and murmurs, “Thank you.” Something in face tells you that it’s supposed to mean more than gratitude. Before you can read more into it, he turns back around and jogs to the line where his team awaits. Oikawa grins ferally.

Knowing that your luminous eyes are fixed to his back like his own set of wings, the monster crows on the other side suddenly look more like humans.

vi.

Oikawa isn’t surprised that his text is still unopened. At twenty-seven years old, he’s had his fair share of dead-ends when it comes to love. But he hadn’t expected radio silence from you of all people.

After closing all the tabs of Team Japan’s latest matches, he powers off his laptop and checks his phone again to reread what he wrote to your old number one last time. Still nothing. It’s highly probable you’ve changed phone numbers at least once in the last nine years, but the disappointment’s still there after he powers his phone off for the night. Tomorrow’s a big day and he’s not the same victim of self-destruction he had been in high school.

Or so he thinks, realising that texting the last person he loved the night before the 2021 Olympics volleyball finals might have been slightly irresponsible on his part. A thought arises in his head, though he quickly quashes it. Asking Iwaizumi to pass the message along would be a little overboard, wouldn’t it? Oikawa chuckles, imagining he response he’d get from his best friend (and Team Japan’s team trainer, that traitor).

“Go the fuck to sleep or I’ll put you to sleep, you dumbass simp,” he hears in Iwaizumi’s gruff voice.

He convinces himself that you’ll be there like you’ve always been. After all, he’s spent a lifetime with your pair of watchful eyes on his back. Satisfied, he drifts into a dreamless sleep.

The volume in the Ariake Arena is astronomical. Blood pounds against his ears as he sets the ball in the air, a monstrous grin carving into his face when his teammate José spikes the set straight down the net, drawing a wave of oohs and aahs from spectators on both sides.

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes at the flashy Team Argentina setter and finishes taping up Ushijima’s arm.

Oikawa turns haughtily towards the opposite team, gaze zeroing in on Team Japan’s raven-haired setter and the shrimpy ginger beside him. It’s been a while since he last saw them this close in person–– the chance encounter with Hinata in Brazil happened well over three years ago and he hadn’t had the time earlier in the tournament to say hello. Of course they’re the final boss in this arc, he muses, though the thought is void of vexation. Instead, begrudging pride blossoms in his chest. Truthfully, he had expected nothing less from his kouhai.

And he expects nothing less than finally tasting the ambrosia of victory against that monster–– no, an entire generation of monsters–– today. Monsters who happen to be the kids he grew up beside.

He wonders what you’d say at the sight of Japan’s greatest players all gathered on one court. On instinct, his eyes dive into the bleachers, searching for your face. Knowing he’s not likely to find you like this, he tsks, deciding to look for Iwaizumi instead. Maybe he knows where you are.

The referees signal for both teams to line up at their ends of the court. As he steps onto the white boundary line, he notices Iwaizumi’s gaze transfixed on someone in the upper deck on Team Argentina’s side. The neutral expression on his face morphs into shock, then recognition. And then he glances at Oikawa.

The latter’s brows furrow before everything clicks in place.

Who else…

All your memories together hit him at full force–– your face shimmering with tears in front of gate twelve in Haneda Airport, the feeling of your shallow breaths against his neck, the savvy lilt to your voice as you speak.

… if not her?

For the first time in his life, Oikawa Tooru looks behind his shoulder.

And there you are, leaning against the railing with the old Seijoh flag draped over your shoulders, a tender, splendid smile on your lips.

“Play well,” you mouth.

And Oikawa feels the sun rise back into his hands.

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shinsouskitten · 4 years ago

Text

How they say 'I love you'

So uhm. Hi. Feel free to skip this part if you just wanna read, but I just thought I’d let you know I’m still alive ha. I have a habit of dipping entirely when things get hard (that's what she said) and I'm sorry. But I'm back. Maybe. Maybe not. I’ll try

Anyway, here’s some fluff for y’all. It’s long overdue

Warnings: tooth rotting fluff, (SPOILER WARNING FOR DABI MANGA STUFF), also, it got… spicy with Dabi (what did you expect?)

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⚡ Denki Kaminari:

Denki’s always been a flirt. He’s playful; it’s in his nature. He simply didn’t expect how hard he’d fall for you. When anyone else is around, he’s suave, funny, flirty. But with you? It’s almost the exact opposite. For the longest time you think he hates you. Why else would he immediately shut his mouth the second you enter a room? But the answer is simple. He doesn’t want to make a mistake, scare you away, make you uncomfortable with too many pick up lines.

Instead, Kaminari turns to one of the oldest inventions to remind you that he cares. Paper. Colorful sticky notes dotted on your desk when you walk into the classroom (no one knows how he manages to get them there before anyone sees - some think he begs Hagakure to help him, but they don’t care enough to ask).

A simple black heart on bright yellow paper taped to your door after a hard day of training. The smile it brings to your face is probably the best thing he’s seen all day (and yes, he was waiting around the corner for you to see it).

---

💜 Hitoshi Shinsou:

Words are difficult for Shinsou. Most people ignore him when he talks, out of simple fear he’d activate his quirk at any given moment. He wouldn’t, but of course, teenagers aren’t exactly the most understanding (even in a world where people can defy gravity with their fingertips).You on the other hand, listened to him, paid attention, spoke to him like he wasn’t any different. Maybe that was what originally pulled him to you.

He’s head over heels, completely and utterly in adoration with you, but he fears you’d run for the hills if he blurted out that he loved you a mere month into dating you. Honestly he loved you before that, possibly before you even got together, but he’s not sure how to tell you. Does he just say it straight up or is that too forceful? Maybe he should wait until you’re ready to say it first, then he can take it at your pace. Yeah, that would be good.

In Hitoshi’s case, his love language turns to physical touch. The simple kind. He’s not about to make out with you in front of everyone (even though he kinda wants too), he just wants to be close to you. It’s the leg draped over your lap while sitting in the common room. It’s the ghost of a kiss to your temple after a rough day of training. It’s the curl of his pinky finger around yours as you sit in class, stares and judgy teenagers be damned.

---

🐙 Tamaki Amajiki:

God I love this man so damn much.

Unlike most people, Tamaki finds it incredibly difficult to say those three words. If anyone reading this has dealt with anxiety you understand how hard it is to admit those things. But physical contact is also hard for him to come to grips with, especially in person. Being part of the Big Three warrants too much attention for Tamaki’s liking, but he powers through.

He clings, and I mean clings to you in public. In a way, you ground him. All he has to do is look in your eyes and the rest of the world melts away. He tries to do the same for you, to calm you down if a training session goes bad, or plead that Fatgum lets him leave early when Nejire texts him to say you were hurt by some random villain. It’s the price you pay as heroes that you can’t be with each other every second of every day, both of you know that.

So instead it’s silent cuddles in your room. He doesn’t need to talk to tell you he missed you, and especially not that he loves you. You know it in the way his arms coil around your waist, the way he buries his head in the crook of your neck, the way his breath catches when you run your fingers through his hair, and the sigh he can’t help but let out when you say you understand, that he doesn’t need to speak, that you already know.

---

🧴 Tomura Shigaraki:

Crusty dusty mf.

He’s frustrating. So incredibly frustrating.

He keeps you off dangerous missions, tells you he needs someone back at base for some stupid reason. It’s stupid because he stays behind too, but you can’t be bothered to fight back. You know it’s pointless. He somehow convinces you to play a game with him, saying there’s no point in just sitting there bored until everyone else gets back.

You don’t play as often as he does, only really when the two of you are alone and bored, but somehow you keep winning. You chalk it up as him being distracted because of the mission, but it keeps happening, even on the rare occasions you play with everyone else there.

Little do you know, letting you win is Shigaraki’s way of trying to show love. He doesn’t understand enough about social interactions and courting to know how to care, so he does whatever he can. Even if it’s letting you win at a pointless video game just to see that slither of a smile on your face.

---

💙🔥 Dabi/Touya Todoroki:

(If I just spoiled that for you. I’m sorry, but I did warn you)

Touya is… difficult to get along with. Add to that his daddy issues and trust issues, love is going to be a difficult thing for him to express. Your relationship didn’t begin as a typical one. A few too many drinks and a night in bed together change whatever friendship you had before to something else. You kept up with it. Why not? Both of you seem to be enjoying yourselves.

Friends with benefits doesn’t last long. He doesn’t know when it happens, but he finally realizes when you’re sleeping soundlessly next to him, bodies still slick with sweat; he loves you. And he’s terrified. He’s never loved anyone before, never cared so much. You can’t tell what’s different with him, but you know it’s something.

If he tells you he risks losing you, so he keeps it hidden, at least for the most part, but you notice the changes.

It’s the way he seems to cling to you a little too long. It’s how he practically demands you stay in his room afterwards, with a boring excuse of someone catching you and having to explain why you’re walking through the bar naked at 3am. It’s the way you wake up with your head on his chest, unsure how you managed to get there in your post-sex exhaustion. It’s how he always manages to snag the seat closest to you in meetings, and the way he actually growls if anyone looks at you too long.

If he can’t tell you that’s fine. He’ll just have to show you.

#my hero academia #boku no hero academia #boku no hero #denki kaminari #denki kaminari x reader #hitoshi shinsou #hitoshi shinsou x reader #tamaki amajiki #tamaki amajiki x reader #tamaki amajiki imagine #tomura shiragaki #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki imagine #dabi #dabi x reader #touya todoroki #touya todoroki x reader #touya todoroki imagine #bnha x reader

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theres-an-impulstor-among-us · 4 years ago

Note

Villain!Etho + Tango in 3rd life for the reqs?

3rd Life is feral Etho but my writing is actual villain Etho /lh

...

One hot day, Etho and Tango travel to the desert to meet with Scar and discuss a deal. Scar himself is waiting for them at the top of the mountain, with Grian hovering nearby. “Welcome, you two.”

“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me, Scar,” says Etho, watching Tango go to stand near Grian. “I’ll cut to the chase; we need sand. You have it. I’d like to trade for it.”

“Ah, well, this is your lucky day! I can offer you one trip to the mining area and a no-lookie-at-enderman pass for a future visit to the desert, and in return, I want your lovely enchanted diamond boots.”

Etho frowns. “Okay, that’s… really steep, actually. A friend gave these to me; isn’t there anything else you want?”

Scar considers this. “Uh, no, not really. Tell you what: if you give me your enchanted diamond boots, I’ll throw in ten reputation points. They’re worth a lot, you know.”

After a moment, Etho draws himself up. “Scar, I suggest you make your offer a little better. Or you might find yourself… alone.”

At Etho’s hand signal, Tango grabs Grian in a headlock and holds his sword to his neck. Grian yelps and starts to struggle but Tango tightens his grip, causing him to fall still.

“Hey!” Scar snaps. “You can’t do that! Only red names can initiate conflict!”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that,” says Etho casually. “It’s pretty simple to me: I want sand and you don’t want me to put your only friend on a yellow life. It’d be stupid for either of us to deny each other.”

“Scar!” Grian cries. “Just give him the sand! Our failed monopoly isn’t worth my life!”

Scar hesitates, glancing from Grian to Etho. “How much sand do you need, exactly?”

“Oh, it’s not about how much sand I need. What I really need is a special coupon that gives me free, irrevocable access to any natural resource in this desert.”

“You’re crazy!” Scar bursts out. “That’s way too much! Best I can do is a coupon for sand, that’s it.”

Etho sighs. “Really, Scar? You’ve been going round giving people coupons for everything under the sun but when I ask for this simple thing, you shut down. You say no.”

“Because I don’t like it when people invade my home, threaten me and my ally, and demand stuff from me.”

“You’re really angling to lose your only ally in the world huh?”

“You won’t do it,” Scar bluffs. “If you kill him, you lose your leverage.”

“Seems to me that you lose more than me in that scenario,” Etho retorts. “You can’t patrol an entire desert by yourself. I can always sneak in and take as much sand as I need. But when Grian leaves, you really think anyone else will want to be your friend?”

“I-I have friends!” says Scar defensively.

“No you don’t. You have people who accepted your flimsy offers of friendship because they didn’t want to get on your bad side. They’ll take any opportunity to be rid of you.”

Etho draws his sword. “Anyway, enough talking; it’s decision time. Are you going to make the wise decision or the stupid one?”

Scar’s mouth opens and closes a few times, as his eyes again flicker from Etho to Grian and back again.

Finally, he says, “I don’t believe you’ll kill him. If you do, THEN I’ll give you what you want.”

“S-Scar!” Grian cries out. “No!”

Etho sighs and shakes his head, before turning to Grian. “I’m sorry, buddy. It’s not about the resources; it’s about the principle. I’m sure you understand.”

With that, he stabs Grian in the chest.

Centuries of existence in the universe has given him the knowledge and skills to be able to kill cleanly and in one shot, and that’s exactly what happens. Grian doesn’t even have time to make any kind of noise before he disappears, his inventory exploding around him.

Grian was slain by Etho

Tango steps back, his face a blank mask. A week ago, he would have been horrified; making threats is one thing but actually following through is another. But Etho has made him see things differently.

Etho turns back to Scar, whose eyes are wide with shock, horror, and panic. “I hope you’re a bit more receptive now,” he says coldly, holding up his sword. “I’m not adverse to spilling more blood today.”

Scar hurriedly writes Etho’s terms on a piece of paper and shakily gives it to him. Etho takes it with a smile, his eyes back to sparkling with their normal friendliness and energy. “Thanks, Scar. I’m sure we’ll stay friends for a LONG time, right?”

“I-I-I…” Scar can’t quite manage to respond.

Grinning, Etho turns and walks away, followed by Tango. When they get to the base of the mountain, Tango starts to relax.

“What do you think Grian will do now?” he asks. “I mean… Scar can retaliate. Grian can’t. Do you think he’ll stay with Scar and try to get revenge?”

“No, I think he’ll go straight to someone who’ll be able to protect him,” Etho responds. “Either Scott and Jimmy or Bdubs and Cleo. Whoever’ll take him.”

Tango hesitates. “Was it really necessary to kill him? You could have killed Scar instead.”

“I don’t need to do that. The man literally jumped into a ravine by accident. He won’t last much longer.”

“That’s… harsh.”

“I don’t mean to be harsh. You know this world is about survival of the fittest, and Scar, as sad as it is, isn’t one of the fittest.”

Etho’s words send a chill down Tango’s spine but he ignores it. He chose this life with Etho, so he needs to get used to the way Etho is now. It should be easy, considering Etho just killed their friend less than five minutes ago and Tango feels nothing over it.

“Are we the fittest, Etho?” asks Tango eventually. “Do we have a chance to survive long enough to win?”

Etho pauses.

“We’ll see, Tango. We’ll see.”

#3rdlifesmp #etho #ethoslab #tangotek #grian #goodtimeswithscar #vaunna’s requests

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midnightmoonkiss · 5 years ago

Text

Painful Stings & Sweet Apologies

Yandere! Izuku Midoriya X Fem! Reader

Summary: Rage fueled by failure, Izuku finds comfort in a bar, only to come home to a broken promise and a furious darling. He didn’t mean for this to happen.

WARNINGS!: blood, violence, alcohol (Izuku under the influence)

Category: Angst, one-sided fluff

Word Count: 9k+

A/N: This is my first yandere fic! I’m nervous as hell, I have no idea if I got this right lol. Though I did spend months perfecting it to the best of my abilities! Hope you enjoy~

Just To Clarify:

You’re both adults

It’s Friday

It’s cold and rainy (naturally--)

Izuku’s bedroom has a walk in closet and a bathroom

the kitchen is off-limits

THIS IS A YANDERE FIC!

Izuku is an obsessive yandere~

Cold, burning liquid rushed down the male’s throat as he gulped at the drink within the short glass.

Whiskey, or more specifically - a Jack Daniels, the honey-brown alcohol that delivered a bitter slap to all those who drank its refreshing nectar.

It wasn’t his usual drink, and certainly not one he’d ever guzzle like a parched beast.

Hell, who in their right mind would do that? Even with a single sip, it left your chest burning with its heat.

But desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

Or, more of, self-loathing times call for a quick, one-way ticket to Forget-Me Ville and Cringe Island.

The bar he sat at was lively, filled with drunken laughter and slurred speeches of men and women who have been out for far too long.

But it was Friday night, so who cared?

A rainy, cold, sucky, depressing Friday night, one of which his friends tried to make a bit better by taking the pissed off, green-haired hero out for drinks.

They certainly hadn’t expected Izuku, an innocent little guy who couldn’t handle his liquor for shit, to shoot down an entire glass of whiskey.

At first, he ordered a simple beer - a starter drink if you will.

It didn’t take but ten minutes for him to gulp that glass down, and he was onto his next drink - a sangria wine cooler. His typical drink. He always was more of a fruity guy, after all, preferring the sweet tang over the bitter bite.

But as the night raged on, and so did his inner turmoil, he kept ordering stronger and stronger drinks, until he got to the whiskey. You could say he lost his sense of reason a while ago.

He was still seething with rage, not as much as before but the mixture of anger and frustration swirled hotly with the alcohol pumping through his veins and sitting in his belly.

You could say it was keeping him warm in this lifeless atmosphere.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t think of you, his precious little darling. He could barely think straight, mind occupied with too many thoughts to be able to understand any of them. It was all a garbled mess, one he chose to ignore.

Was that a good or a bad thing? He’d find out later.

But for now?

He needed another drink.

In the beginning, this Friday seemed like it was going to be one of the best he’ll ever have.

For months this pro hero has been working alongside detectives with catching a murderous villain known by the name “Ghoul.”

They were sick and twisted, their motives unknown, their trail hard to tract.

He had only one encounter with them, but he was too late to catch them.

That’s the day he was brought in to help aid the case.

But, that day haunted him for weeks. He knew that if he had arrived at the bloody scene sooner, he could have captured that cannibalistic fuck, brought justice to those who had already died by their mangy hands.. and prevented the deaths that would ensue after.

He’d known horrible villains before, but this one was different. Their teeth were sharp, blood permanently stained their clothes, and they gave off a wolfish vibe. Yes, a hunter. One who tore flesh from human bones and munched on it until someone screamed in terror for help.

For months he helped gather intel, piece puzzle pieces together, aid with location predictions and stakeout missions, until finally - they found that bastard.

It was more of a hunch than anything really, that Ghoul would show up to that site.

Ghoul, while hard to track, left a pattern in their wake. They avoided certain areas, thrived where the poor were at their weakest. The murders always seemed to happen at the exact same time behind run-down fast-food restaurants.

It was unclear if the sicko liked a hearty human meal with their victims own stomachs filled with greasy, fattening food, or if it was just convenient to them, either way - the perp was too damn sloppy.

To regular ol’ police personnel, the murders would just always happen there, behind restaurants.

But after Deku’s team began tracking where each and every murder occurred, it was quite easy to tell they were drawing, funnily enough, a circle around the city’s map.

It was stupid, childish, and downright idiotic, but damn if that didn’t lead the team to find the cold-blooded killer.

Adrenaline and pure hatred for the villain fueled Deku’s onslaught of attacks, each seemingly more powerful and less calculated. His mind was muddled.

He was filled with rage, finally being able to see the shitty excuse of a human again, but it affected his movements. He was being hasty, careless, not his usual calculated self.

And that’s what brought him his demise.

His shoulder was harshly bitten, razor-sharp teeth tearing through the fabric of his suit and shredding up the skin on his shoulder. Their quirk pumped through his blood instantly, making him collapse onto his knees, paralyzed. He hissed in pain as the sickeningly warm liquid flowed down his arm, unable to stop himself from face planting onto the dirty gravel of the alleyway.

He had lost, and Ghoul got away.

He still remembers it, after all, it was only hours ago that it happened.

The sun had long since set, the crescent moon hung high in the sky as her stars shimmered around her. His wound was stitched up and healed by doctors, leaving only a bitter scar to remind him of his failure.

He failed not only himself but those who counted on him.

God, he sucked.

And so, he ordered another drink.

He wanted to forget. He didn’t want to feel the failure sting at his fragile heart anymore.

It was too much to take.

What type of hero let the villain get away, knowing full well that they would kill again?

They couldn’t track Ghoul’s trail anymore, for the circle had been completed - and they were left with nothing with the numbing feeling of brutal loss.

Hours blurred together as his mind went hazy. His speech slurred together, dull, green eyes unfocused and mouth blabbering out nonsense to his friends that he couldn’t even really hear. It just- came out.

Soon enough, he was being dragged out of the bar by his annoyingly sober friends.

The night had gotten colder since they first entered the warm bar, rain pelted down like freezing bullets flying from a machine gun. A dirty old awning kept them dry as they stood still at the front of the bars entrance, the loud music bouncing off the walls inside echoed down the empty streets.

Heavy streams of salty rainwater poured off the edge of the awning, splattering down into a mud puddle that emptied into the sewer grate below.

Who doesnt love the musty stench of rain on asphalt?

Hell, the smell itself, combined with the strong yet savory scent of the Korean barbeque joint across the street was enough to make him nauseous. He had drank far too much, and his stomach was suffering the consequences. He should have eaten more before drinking. How foolish.

“It’s pretty late, you should head home.” Reasoned his best friend, Todoroki, puffs of condensation leaving his mouth as the warm breath met cold air, pressing a freezing hand to the back of the freckled boy's sweaty neck to jolt his drowsy, drunken self into a more alert state. Nothing but time could sober you up, but damn if that hand didn’t help slap some energy into him.

“Yeaahh, ye-yeahhh.. I gooht you Todooroe.” God, he sounded like someone high on anesthesia after being awoken from a surgery - which he definitely would be able to compare this experience to. Being a hero meant at least a few surgeries a year. Comes with the job.

Plus, this wasn’t the first time he’s been drunk.

He sure as hell hated the aftermath, but some nights it felt as if the hot burn of alcohol was the only thing that could keep him sane.

This was just one of those nights - or perhaps it was multiple nights slammed into one from just how stupidly drunk he was. The world was blurred, and Izuku doubted he could even walk straight at this point.

The half and half hero waved down a stray taxi, street water splashing up onto the sidewalk as the yellow vehicle came to a screeching halt.

“Get home safe.” Todoroki sighed out his nose at seeing his friends out-of-it state, helping the giddy and jelly-like hero into the back seat.

Izuku pouted, grabby hands clinging onto his friend's shirt in protest.

With a half-hearted chuckle, Todoroki pried himself free from his grip, handing the cab driver more than enough yen to get the drunk boy home.

He gave the taxi driver an address, and soon the car was rolling off down the street, Izukus flushed face pressed against the cold, fogging glass and staring with eyes full of tears at his friend.

Though, it seemed as if he had forgotten a promise he made to someone very important to him. Someone who he devoted his entire life to.

Someone who he risked everything for.

You.

His princess who had been locked in a small, dark room all day, wrists tightly cuffed to loose chains on the wall. The only light provided was a rusty oil lamp Izuku had gotten at a yard sale one day. The flame was dull, and left the room covered in shadows.

The tile below was as cold as it had been since the morning when Izuku had forcefully chained you there for misbehaving the night before.

You had deserved this punishment for disobeying him.

That’s what he tried to convince, anyway.

He was only trying to keep you safe! He hated punishing you, hated the way you thrashed and screamed at him in protest - that only meant he had to be rougher with you. You had broken into the most dangerous room in the apartment, afterall.

The kitchen.

There were far too many harmful objects in there!

Knives that could slice your delicate skin to shreds, forks that could jab into your body, hot stoves that could leave you with a nasty burn, and canned food stored too high up on the shelf that could fall and hit your head.. It was for your protection that the kitchen was off-limits to you!

Plus, Izuku, your oh-so kind and sweet boyfriend, had no problem with cooking you meals to eat together. In fact, he loved it!

He felt accomplished whenever you'd hum in approval at his cooking, or even turned on if that slutty mouth of yours just so happened to moan around your utensil.

Those were the nights dinner was forgotten.

But you had been foolish, entering the kitchen for a midnight snack whilst Izuku was out on patrol. Your sneaky little self thought you were clever, leaving no trace of your betrayal.

Until you were awoken hours later by a green glow, blood running cold as a pair of murderous neon eyes stared into yours.

It had to be one of the scariest sights to date.

His pupils were shrunk, green electricity buzzing around his large body. He hovered over your trembling body, a wrapper in between his two gloved fingers.

He was so close, your noses brushed together.

You swore he could see into your soul, as well as see the fear in your (E/C) eyes.

“What is this, (Y/N)?” He had asked innocently, hurt coating his words.

“I-” you wanted to make an excuse, protest, say it wasn’t yours, but every single letter died on your tongue as his face pressed closer, a sadistic smile overtaking his features.

“You didn’t.. You didn’t go into the kitchen, did you?”

His hot, minty breath blew all over your face as he spoke, and you shriveled back in fear as insanity crossed his expression in that way you were far too familiar with.

The giggles bubbled in his throat as he tried to fight logic with delusion, “It wasn’t you, right? Someone broke in, didn’t they? You wouldn’t break my trust, would you?”

His voice was cracking, fingers digging into the flesh of the bed beneath you as his eye began to twitch.

He stared down at you, curly green hair brushing against the sides of your face, waiting far too long for an answer he would never get. His bottom lip wobbled, feat tears welling up in his eyes and falling onto your pale cheeks as his body shook with anger and sadness.

He was already stressed about the following mornings mission, and to come home to his princess betraying his trust was not something he enjoyed.

And so, you were punished.

But he had promised you wouldnt be locked in there for long, he knew how you feared the dark. He had conditioned you to fear it, after all. It was his greatest accomplishment.

You were always so willing to cuddle into him when the lights were off.

A few hours turned into nearly an entire day, the only indication you had of this was past experiences, skin around your wrists rubbed raw from the metal cuffs, and the unusual sting of your ass and bare legs burning from the freezing tile beneath you.

That was the least of your worries, though.

Worst of all - the flame, which was holding you together and keeping you from crying out for help to those who might hear you in this soundproof room, which would no doubt get you a harsher punishment, was about to die out.

That flame, albeit small, was your only hope of surviving this.

Izuku was typically a very reliable person, it was strange for him to not keep his word to you. He devoted his being to you, worshipped the ground you regrettably walked upon, why would he break his own promise?

The thought of being trapped in the dark, the echo of your chains taunting your delirious mind had you close to tears. You didn’t want to be alone here anymore.

You watched in horror as the flame got smaller and smaller, tears now rolling down your cheeks as you pleaded under your breath for it to last longer.

The air vents around you provided enough oxygen for it to survive, but that damn oil..

Where was he?!

Suddenly, the door to his apartment flew open, giggles seeping through the house and teasing your ears.

Then, there was no more light.

A screech tore from your throat, a desperate call of his name as you thrashed around, tears pouring from your eyes.

You felt as if you couldnt breathe as your head whipped around the space, desperate for more air and light as your lungs seemed to scream.

You couldnt feel the cold chill of the floor anymore, body numb as adrenaline pumped through your veins.

What was in the dark?

How big was this space again?

Rather, how small was it?

What was that noise?

Did something just touch you?

There was wind, there was wind, no. A cold chill?

Oh god what was that-

Loud, clumsy footsteps made their way closer and closer to the locked metal door. You sobbed as your heard the jingle of keys, metal scraping against metal as he fumbled with inserting them into the lock.

Until finally, you were basked in the honey-dew glow of the bedroom.

You fought to control your breathing as he dropped to his knees, taking far too long for your liking to get the cuffs off.

But at least now you know why he took so god damn long.

You could smell the putrid miasma of alcohol wafting off him the moment he stepped into the darkroom, tainted with the salty effluvium of rainwater as it dripped onto your skin from his damp, messy hair.

Rage bubbled inside you as he giggled once more at your tear-stained cheeks, “D-did yoou miss mee?” He slurred, a giddy smile on his face as the stale stench of what he had been drinking all night circled around your head like a rotten wreath.

Instead of answering, like you knew you should have, you turned your head towards the door, soaking in the light you were previously deprived of. Even if it was just a mere minute.

At your silence, his smile quickly turned into a frown. Big, forestry green eyes welled up with sadness, bottom lip trembling, “(Y-Y/N)?” He couldnt help but reach out, scarred fingers wishing to wipe away those stray tears from your face.

You missed him.

That’s why you were crying, surely.

He wanted to comfort you, say that he was there now and that you could both cuddle until twinkling dawn.

You weren’t alone anymore.

He was all you needed, and he was right beside you.

He’ll always be there for you, and you’ll always be there for him.

Because you love each other.

“D-Don’t cry-”

His cold hand was smacked away, and his usually sturdy body was shoved back so that you could scramble out of the freezing closet.

You needed space.

More room to breath.

To be on flooring that didnt feel like ice cutting into your flesh.

Hell, you were sure the skin that had the unholy misfortune of touching the floor were burned red at this point from how long you had to sit there.

Not to mention your poor wrists, you couldnt even bear the sight of them being so raw. You were pretty sure they would bleed if you even touched them. Your body was screaming in pain, stomach growing for food, mouth parched from not being given water so that you wouldnt make a mess on the floor.

You were weak, shaking, and afraid.

That bastard had the gall to say not to cry, to look concerned when he knew damn well how much you absolutely despised the dark.

At first it was a childish fear, but the moment he snatched you from your regular life, that fear became a reality. There were countless nights you’d be punished by being left alone in the dark.

He didnt want to hurt you, no, and he never has, but damn if he hasnt conditioned you to be afraid.

Storms were the worst.

What was once a peaceful white noise turned into a terrifying nightmare once the moon rose in the sky.

There were times you were locked in that closet during violent storms, screaming and begging to be let out.

Sometimes you were, other times you werent as lucky.

Though it was only raining right now, each pitter-patter of the droplets against the window or balcony made hairs on your neck stand up. The sound was previously muted in the closet, but now it was hitting you like a freight train on a track that never seemed to end.

You heard him scramble to his feet as you wiped your tears away, the creak of the floorboards as he stumbled towards you.

A subtle bang made you jump, his foot no doubt hitting the chest at the end of your bed. Everso the clumsy one, even in an illuminated room.

Suddenly, he was right behind you, arms wrapping tightly around your middle as his head dropped to your shoulder, nuzzling his cheek against your neck.

Perhaps it would have been pleasant, comforting, even, if he wasnt soaked to the bone. The cold water from his dark grey, long-sleeved sweater was now seeping into your own thin clothes, freezing wet hair sending shivers down your spine and it presses against your heated, sensitive skin. Some drops even went down your back, ripping a gasp from you.

This wasnt comforting at all.

This was suffocating.

You squirmed in his grasp, desperate to get the hell away from him.

You were already pissed, and him wrapping around you and squeezing you tight like a snake to its prey was the cherry on top of your disastrous sundae.

With a grunt, you used the rest of what little strength you had left to rip yourself free from his ‘hug,’ nearly tripping on your own two feet as you rushed away from him.

He pouted at you as you shoved yourself into a corner of the room, finding comfort in being able to see all around you, no surprise attacks from behind, only what was in front of you.

Your breath was heavy as you glared at him, nostrils flaring and jaw clenching.

Truly, you had some nerve.

But it was hard to help it.

He broke a promise.

He never does that, and yet in your time of need- he wasn’t there for you.

For once.

He knew damn well you were locked up, scared shitless, expecting him to return home in a few short hours, yet here he is - looking absolutely clueless as to why you were suddenly so angry at him.

Tears streamed down his drunkenly flushed cheeks, hurt by how you shoved him away again.

All he wanted to do was snuggle you, his body exhausted yet numbed by the alcohol still burning in his tummy.

“Where..” you started, voice low, scratchy, and dripping with venom that reached deaf ears. “Where have you been!”

Just as he was about to open that mouth of his, no doubt about babble nearly incoherently - form logical excuses with evidence to back him up, say he lost track of time which you know damn well he never did, you shut him up.

You hated dealing with him when he was drunk, hell - you hated dealing with his obsessive ass most days.

But drunk? Drunk he got worse. He was clingy, more emotional, and worst of all? He didn’t have a filter.

He always managed to hide those more sinister desires under that sweet mask of his - until alcohol brought it out.

God, the smell of it made you sick to your stomach, but luckily you didn't have any food to throw up.

No thanks to him.

“What the fuck, Midoriya?!” You leered at him, noticing quickly the way his eyes darkened in that way they always did when you referred to him by his family name - the name he hated being called by you of all people.

“I’ve been trapped in that room all goddamn day! You said it’d be a few hours? What the hell happened to that! Look at the fucking time! Nine hours! Nine hours I’ve been stuck in my own personal hell! I can’t feel my fucking legs because of you!”

“I-” he attempted to start, the firm grip he had on his sanity quickly loosening with every shout you threw at him.

You cut him off, again, pent up rage now overtaking your sense of reason and fear, “What the hell happened?! You know what! I don’t even care! Not only did you,” You pointed a trembling finger at his stilled body, “break a promise! Something you swore you would never fucking do, you also had the nerve at laugh at me as I was trembling in fear!”

You looked like a mess, body shaking and bent over itself, one arm clutched around your waist as if to hold yourself together as that accusing finger stayed trained on him. Your hair was messy, frizzy, soaked with sweat and oily as hell from being denied a shower. Your clothes, thin and girly - much to your utter distaste, but to his satisfaction - now damp thanks to his carelessness.

All of this was because of him.

It always was.

Every single thing that went wrong in your life always seemed to be because of him nowadays.

You couldnt believe you let yourself fall for that misleading smile all those years ago, only to end up like this.

A mouse in a lions den.

But hell if that would stop you from squeaking your heart out till his razor-sharp claws ultimately caged you back in.

“Do you see my wrists?!” with a strangled sob, you held up both of your arms to show him the mess he already knew was his fault, “look at them! They hurt so fucking much because you left me in those disgusting handcuffs! This is all your fault!”

Your knees were wobbling so bad you swore your legs would give out at any second, but you’d be damned if you didnt hold your ground to this lunatic.

True, some days he was nice, normal, even. But days like these, or days much worse, you were reminded of just who he really was.

A monster was stretching it. He never intentionally tried to hurt you, your friends, or even your family.

No, he just stole you from your apartment in the dead of night, convinced the reason you were crying was because of the thunderstorm and not because some psycho snatched you from your window like some sort of 1970’s movie trope. That night he cradled your thrashing body to his hard chest with his strong arms, cooing at you and whispering sweet nothings into your ear as you begged to be let go. You were just scared of the storm~ He would keep you safe~ He is the number one hero, afterall~

That was all utter bullshit, straight from the beginning.

And even now he was still wrapped in the delusion that you loved him as much as he loved you.

A fated pair.

Please.

But you still held on to the pathetic hope that one day he’d snap out of it, return to the Izuku you knew from the beginning and not the person who now stood a few feet in front of you, staring with cold, emotionless eyes.

“I’m sorry.” he says impassively, face as blank as a new canvas - unreadable and dangerous in every way imaginable. It was hard not to feel as if he was just waiting to strike, already calculating his next moves like he always seemed to do. It was far easier to deal with an angry Izuku than one where you couldn’t read his already complex emotions, thoughts, anything. He was the definition of expressive, and it truly took a fuckin bullet to the back of his head for him to be like this.

So clearly, you hit a nerve.

Wonderful.

“Oh?” Despite knowing the implications of the situation you found yourself in, it was impossible not to laugh at such a pathetic fucking apology.

Knowing him, he probably was sorry, deep down inside. You knew he didn’t like seeing you hurt, especially if it was because of his doing, and yet- you pressed on.

Pent up anger was a nasty thing to deal with, especially since it’s been brewing inside you for so long.

“Are you now? You don’t fucking seem sorry! If you were really sorry, you wouldnt have done it! But look where we are! You’re such a fucking-!”

“Shut up.” he growls out borderline maliciously, stumbling slightly as he turns to walk out the door. He was clearly fed up, his strong hands clenched into threatening fists, but so were you. Even if you were undeniably frightened to confront him, you wouldn't let that stop you from pushing yourself off the wall - your safe space - and wobbling after him.

“Look at you! You can’t even walk right! How drunk are you, huh? Washing away your feelings again, are you? What about my feelings! Huh?!”

You were pushing it.

You really were.

The entire house felt it, the air chillingly still as Izuku had to grind his teeth together so as to not lash out at you.

He didn’t want to.

That was the last thing he wanted to do, but all that stress and self-hatred previously washed away was coming back up to the burning surface that cages his discretion.

Heavy breaths blew out his nostrils as he made his way to the living room, desperate for you to get the hint from his hunched over body that he wanted you to fuck off.

Yeah, he messed up, deep down he knew he did but currently his mind was far too clogged to even begin to comprehend it.

You were like an annoying mosquito, your words morphing into a persistent buzz.

He was ignoring you, and that made you livid.

He always ignored you when your problems were deemed irrelevant, or when he found you were being far too vexatious.

He always did this, always.

You were trapped in a cell with some asshole who didn't even want to listen to you.

Obviously, you had enough.

Typically you’d back off, go fume in another room or punch the wall till the skin around your knuckles tore open and dripped blood everywhere, making him snap out of whatever state he was in just to suffocate you in his toxic love.

Oh how life proved to be full of surprises.

A low growl of your own slithered passed your teeth, eyes practically burning red as if you prayed you had a quirk that could do something against him.

“You’re a selfish bastard! You fucking piss-poor excuse of a hero-!”

SLAP!

A shrill scream tore from your raw throat, the echo of skin burning against skin dizzying you as you were thrown back onto the floor.

Boiling hot tears streamed down your face as you sobbed out of pure fear, body shaking uncontrollably and you shuffled backward, desperate to get yourself as far away from him as you could currently manage.

It had all happened so fast, you didn't even have time to register it as it occurred.

One moment his hands were gripping the back of the couch with such strength you could see his knuckles turn a ghostly white, and the next, crackling, neon-green lightning surrounded his body, illuminating the dim apartment in a slimy glow. Before you even had a chance to register just what happened, he whipped his head around, his eyes, typically blown wide with sickening love and sparkling under delusional illusions, were narrowed and glowing in a way that sent shivers of immense regret down your spine. His arm whipped back with his hand, the very hand that delivered a painfully paralyzing slap.

He always spoke with his hands, and you just happened to be too close to him at that moment.

The reddended skin of your cheek burned, and you swore you could feel more than just tears streaming down it.

You were stuck shaking on the floor, imaginary bile rising in your throat, and all you could do was stare at him with wide, bloodshot and terrified eyes.

He had never laid a hand on you like that before, you didnt know what to think.

He always promised to do you no intentional harm, to never lay a finger on you with intentions of making you cry out in pain.

He had never acted so feral and out of line before.

It.. it scared you in a way you never felt before.

The gap between you grew, you really were just a mouse trembling in a lion's den.

“P-princess-” he shakily called out, voice weak and uneven, quirk diminishing into thin air like it never was there in the first place.

His own eyes were wide and filled with immense regret, tears already pouring down his flushed, freckled face.

He took one step forward, and you scrambled back, hand coming up to touch at your cheek, shock making you feel faint at the sight of blood coating your trembling fingertips.

You felt sick once again, empty stomach feeling as if it was collapsing in on itself to push even the tiniest bit of nonexistent food out.

You didnt know what to do.

Choking on your own sobs, you tried desperately to shuffle away from him, but he only came closer.

You cried out the moment he dove at you, your hands clasped together tightening against your chest as if to hold yourself together as this bear of a man wraps his arms cold, soaked arms protectively around you, his large shoulders violently shaking as he buried his snotty, tear stained face deep into your unruly tresses.

The stench of alcohol burned your nostrils, edging you on to try and push his heavy chest away. You tried, but you failed miserably, resulting in his arms pulling you even closer to his sweaty and damp body. It was disgusting.

“L-let go of me!” you wailed, your own tears stinging your eyes as your vision blurred and you could no longer tell just what you were staring blindly at, the dimness of the living-room paired with the suffocating embrace of your captor swallowing you whole.

You couldnt take it.

You could barely breathe at this point.

“p-p-ple .. plea-s-se..!” your cries intertwined with his own desperate ones as he babbled nearly incoherently on about how sorry he was, how he never meant to do something so horrible.

“I’m not a monster!” he howled out, desperate words seeping with ululation.

He was desperately trying to convince himself of that.

He wasn’t talking to you at all.

He was talking to himself.

He wasn’t a monster.

He’s not like him.

He’s not like that piece of filth.

No, he’s so much better.

He’s a good man.

No, no, he’s not a monster.

He’s your hero.

He could never purposely harm you.

No.

It was an accident.

An accident.

You’d understand.

He knew you would!

You always understood him.

You were like two peas in a pod!

You forgave him, surely.

Yes.

Yes!

You did the moment he hugged you, the moment he started comforting you.

He was a good man.

How could you not forgive him?

He loved you so, so, so much.

You knew that-

You knew he would never do such a thing.

His breathing was even, eyes wide and straining as he stared at the floor, a crooked smile on his face as he repeated the words over and over again in his twisted mind.

He never met to hurt you.

No.

He didnt.

“Plea-” you tried once more, biting your wobbling lip as he squeezed you even tighter.

“No, no, no, no, no, no..” he heaved out, hand coming up to gently pet your oily hair as if to calm you. His head shook back and forth in your hair, “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m so sorry, honey.”

There was nothing you could do.

You were stuck alone in a mouse trap, the cold, metallic bar snapped down on top of your frail neck.

There was no escape.

There never was.

His form of ‘love’ far too strong for you to even attempt to.

And so, you gave up.

Just like you always did.

There was no point in resisting him.

Sticky blood trickles down your raw cheek, dripping down onto the chilled bare skin of his neck, still cold from the damp clothes he wore, instantly catching his wondering attention.

“You.. you’re bleeding?” he whispered guiltily, already feeling a new wave of salty tears building up in the corner of his eyes.

His large left hand trailed up the skin of your neck, idly collecting the thin trail of red liquid onto his fingertips and smearing a path up to your jawline, stopping the moment your shivering form flinched.

He frowned at the red mark taking up half your beautifully innocent face, a small cut resting in the middle of it where no doubt the ring he foolishly wore as an accessory swiped.

Guilt made his stomach churn, the familiar burn of acid rising in his throat.

A deep inhale, and he swallowed it down, arm still wrapped around you, languidly rubbing your back as he stared with nothing short of pity at your wrecked state.

Your lips wobbled, holding in a reply as you force yourself to look into the vast abyss of darkness that was the hallway of your apartment instead of his orbs gleaming with concern.

Concern.

Concern for something he caused.

At least he had a heart, but you were still scared shitless and wanted nothing more than to run away. You were still fighting to regulate your breathing.

His thumb suddenly pressed against the slap mark, ripping a yelp from your throat as your head flung back to avoid any more contact. It was then that you noticed a pounding headache echoing inside your skull, yet another reason to aid in the water running down your face. Pain consumed your body, and you wanted nothing more than to escape this shell you were trapped in.

Openly chewing on his lip, both of his arms went back around you, cradling your delicate form to his chest.

Without a word, he stood up, practically forcing you to have to wrap your bare legs around his waist to keep yourself steady, something you were trained to do by him. He loved it when your legs were around his waist whenever he picked you up.

It became a regrettable second nature.

Heavy foot steps brought you back to your bedroom, and then into the bathroom connected to it.

Your fears crept up your spine at the pitch black room you were forced into, remembering how you were in a similar position just a few minutes ago.

When would this cycle end?

Ah.

It wouldnt, would it?

You were set delicately down atop the cold marble counter as if you were a fragile piece of glass, which, in many ways, you were. The tears had at least stopped, but your body continuously shook like a chihuahua, your breathing still hard to control as fumbled around mindlessly with your fingers to serve as a distraction.

He flipped the light on, momentarily blinding your sensitive gaze with its bright light.

Sniffing, you wiped at your nose, watching as he walked about the bathroom, grabbing a wash cloth just to run it under cool water. The rain was still heavily pouring just outside the wall mixed with the loud splatters of the stream against the white sink. It would have been calming had cold water not splashed up onto your bare thighs, making goosebumps prickle along your skin. Your thighs were nearly numb at this point.

After ringing most of the water out, he held it up to your cheek, staring at you.

Taking the cue, you hesitantly took the cool, wet cloth from his grasp and gingerly pressed it to the swelling skin on your face. You hiss out in pain, dry sobs wracking your body at the stinging pain and the fact that he was still far too close for you to currently handle.

The pain on your cheek paired with the numbing cold was a good distraction.

You chewed on your lip as you squeezed your eyes shut, freehand gripping tightly at the hem of your shirt as you listen to him fumble around in the cabinet hanging over to the left.

You jumped the moment you felt his larger fingers ghost over the ones holding the cloth to your cheek, cautious (E/C) eyes opening ever so slightly as you looked over at him.

You couldnt help but feel idiotic as you suddenly felt flustered at the intense gaze he was giving you, eyes now gleaming viridescent in the white light of the bathroom almost staring right into your soul.

It was like he was reading you, pulling words off your own frail pages just so he could recite them to you.

He did this often.

Keeping silent, staring for long periods of times as he tried out scenarios in his head of the words he was going to say.

It gave you chills, but yet, it made you feel like you were the center of his drifting attention.

The sun his planets revolve tirelessly around, repeating the same cycles like a record forever skipping on repeat.

In these moments, though, he became an enigma.

Not exactly something your fragile state of mind entirely needed right now.

You shivered when his palm came to cup your soft jawline, thumb absentmindedly tracing over your parted lips.

His mouth opened, ready to say something, but he stayed quiet.

Mouth shutting, he leaned forward, tentatively bringing you into another hug.

“I’m sorry.” he repeated, the words nearly as quiet as your stilled breath, but you had nothing to say to it. And he knew it.

He was used to you staying silent.

He would prefer it most of the time.

So he could sink into his fantasies, the deluded fantasies that you loved him wholeheartedly, that you chose to stay silent as to not hurt his feelings, and always forgave him no matter what.

That you would forever and always be his.

He wouldnt give you the choice not to be.

He wouldnt let you leave when you’re his favorite person in the whole wide world.

The only one he needed.

And he was the only one you needed.

Yes.

Of course.

You didn’t need anyone else but him.

And he didn’t need anyone else but you.

So what if a few more people died because of his mistake, he would capture Ghoul eventually. Regardless, he would always come home to you.

Always.

And that’s all he needed.

He chucked against your neck, having buried it in the crook as his mind slipped through his shaky fingertips.

The Big Bad Wolf and his Little Red Riding Hood.

God how he loved the comparison.

Perhaps he was addicted.

Addicted to you.

Even now, as he inhaled your sugary sweet, natural scent stained with the metallic smell of dried blood.

Pulling back, he gazed into your hesitant eyes, delicately resting his forehead against yours.

His hair, now dry and no longer dripping with salty rain, tickled your skin, making you involuntarily take in a deep breath.

Closing his eyes once more, he soaks in the moment of your warm body in his frigid embrace, nothing else mattered to him.

Just you.

Only you.

“L-let me see your cheek,” he asks softly, words not as wobbly as before, afraid that if he spoke too loudly in such a thin atmosphere, everything would shatter abruptly like glass.

Your body moved on instinct as if you were used to doing as he asked immediately no matter what, pulling the cool cloth away from your burning cheek.

Resisting the urge to sniffle and flinch away, you allow him to rewet the cloth, holding still as he dabs lightly at the small wound.

“I know it hurts,” he breathes out, “shh, shh, it’s okay.” it was always so strange how his voice still managed to calm your nerves even after all you’ve been through.

Deep down, you knew he was still that loving and energetic boy you met back at that coffee shop.

If only you knew how sinister and twisted he could really be.

Perhaps.. perhaps you wouldn’t be in such a situation now.

But there was never any point in pondering the what-ifs.

All you could do was fight your mind from seeking normalities in such a relationship as this, if you could even call it that.

You wouldn’t succumb to his desires like you always did.

You wouldnt lose yourself.

No.

You couldn’t let that happen.

Or was it too late already?

You hissed when you felt the stinging seer of rubbing alcohol dotted onto your cut, cleaning the wound.

“It’s okay.” he repeats, cooing to you with a reassuring smile that should have made you feel sick all over again.

You let him apply antibiotic ointment and a small cheek bandage, his hands shaky yet careful. You could say he has experience in applying bandages.

It was uncomfortable as it sat on your raw skin, but it’s not like you were going to go and rip it off. That would feel like ripping off a wax strip on a sunburn.

Humming, he gingerly wipes away the dried blood on your neck with the same washcloth, not minding how blood-stained the innocently white fabric became.

Next came your still aching wrists. There wasn’t much he could do for your legs, but at least he had roll-on bandages on standby.

Turning the cold tap on, he lets you run them under cool water before gently dabbing the stray droplets away, careful not to press too hard.

He really needed to invest in softer handcuffs, it’s just- those were the only ones he had, and he didn’t use them often. Besides, it never got this bad before. But that wasn’t a good excuse.

He’d have to order some online tomorrow..

Applying more ointment around the area, the kind that offers instant relief, he wraps your smaller wrists up as best he could, cringing himself whenever you’d flinch.

He’d make it up to you.. Pancakes in the morning, perhaps?

Izuku then begins to sluggishly put away everything he brought out of the cabinet, tossing what needed to be tossed into the trashcan.

He was slow, almost as if he was trying to keep his balance, which he no doubt was.

Standing in front of you once again, he wrapped his arms around you, whispering “up” in your ear.

It was something he would always say when he wanted you to wrap your arms and legs around him so he could carry you like a baby.

But who were you to refuse?

It wasn’t as if he couldnt pick you up without your limbs wrapped around him, it was more for your comfort rather than his convenience.

So, tentatively, you wrapped your still shaking arms around his neck, doing the same with your legs around his bent waist.

“Good girl.” he praised as he began walking back into the bedroom, stopping just at your side of the bed to place you down at the edge.

Numbly, you let him remove your rain-soaked clothes from all the hugging, sitting on the bed in just your panties as you watched him toss the clothes in the hamper by the door

It wasn’t the first time he insisted on treating you like a child who needed help changing, but at least you didn’t have to walk.

It was hard to remember if it was a good or a bad thing that you didn’t care about being nude in front of him anymore, not even bothering to hide your chest as he came back over with a fresh set of clothes - the strawberry patterned pajamas he always seemed to adore you wearing.

You always looked so innocent in them. The shirt is far too large for your frame, the sleeves hanging off your hands and the large v-neck exposing your collar bones and parts of your shoulders. The bottoms were the regular run of the mill pajama pants, soft as cotton and comfy as hell.

The top truly was the part of the look that tied it all together.

He couldn’t help but smile as your arms immediately raised as he pulled the shirt out of the pile, making quick work of slipping it over your cute head and helping your arms into the sleeves.

He liked to take care of you.

You needed him to, after all.

You were his innocent, helpless little darling, after all.

Pulling your pants up, he guided your body down into a resting position, dragging the thick, grey, and black patterned comforter over your stilled body.

Such a good girl.

He tucks loose strands of messy (H/C) hair that fell across your face behind your ear, being mindful of the wound.

He stares at it for a moment, his expression holding that of worry and regret.

Pushing off the bed, he stumbles his way to the kitchen in the dark, having turned off the light as he went, the layout of the apartment burned to memory so he could easily avoid furniture.

In the kitchen, he opened the freezer and grabbed an ice pack, one he would commonly use on his own sore muscles and bruises. It hurt his heart knowing he was the reason you had to use it for the first time.

After wrapping it in some paper towels, he trudges his way back into the dark bedroom, eyes wracking over your balled up form, covers bunched over you like a shell.

“Put this on your cheek..” he whispered, placing the pack just in front of your face.

He would love to be the one to hold it to your cheek, but his mind was still hazy, and his words were still slurred. Events could sure as hell sober you up a bit, but damn did that nausea always come back crashing in through the brittle window full force when you’d least expect it.

Rummaging through the drawers once more, he picked up some of his own fresh clothes and made his way into the bathroom again.

All he wants is to sleep, but he also didnt want you to smell dried sweat and rain on his being throughout the night.

He knew you missed him, him and his warmth, you always did, right? No question about it. You must be longing for him even now.

Wanting him to hold and comfort you just like always.

Numbed adrenaline pumped in his veins as he stepped into the shower, letting the warm water wash away his filth and regrets.

God, it felt so good to be able to somewhere warm for once.

The entire night he’s felt nothing but cold.

Not even the fire in his belly or the breath stolen from his lungs could’ve warmed him up.

He was mad at himself. Mad that he lost control and hurt the one thing that mattered the most to him.

Mad that he let himself get disgustingly drunk.

Mad that he walked in the rain like a dumbass just to soak your clothes and make you feel as cold as him.

But at the moment, too many thoughts were flying in his mind for him to properly think, no, he couldnt really even say he was thinking at all.

He was just letting the water splatter on the back of his neck, forehead resting on the cold shower tiles and he watched as water swirled down the drain like a whirlpool. His hair stuck to his cheeks like glue, but he couldn’t find himself caring.

Absentmindedly, his fingers brush across the fresh scar on his broad shoulder.

He swore the longer he stood there, watching the clear flow of water, the looser his grip on himself became.

He couldnt really say he felt anything at all anymore.

When did he lose himself?

Was he ever even really found?

Ah.

With you.

You were the missing piece in his complicated and skull biting puzzle, the one who made him whole and lit up his dull life. You were the reason he felt things anymore, you were the reason he still managed to get up and save people with a clear conscious.

You always had such a positive impact on his life, and he knew he had just as good a one on yours.

A wobbly smile tore his flushed face in two, you both really did need eachother.

He was so happy to have you in his life.

Knowing you’d never leave him.

Turning the boiling hot water off, he stepped out, the plushness of the bath-mat embracing his wet feet as water continued to pour down his nude body.

It felt, it felt so hot suddenly.

His breath came out in exaggerated pants, hands sweeping his hair from his face as the burn of bile rose in his throat.

Lunging for the toilet, he emptied his stomach into the glistening white bowl.

Gasping for air, Izuku whipped his mouth on the back of his hand, still trying to catch his breath as he fumbled to flush.

God, he needed to sit down.

Shakily turning the bathroom faucet on, he washed his hand, making quick work of brushing his teeth before lazily drying himself off.

Ignoring the other clothes he brought in, the toned hero simply pulled on a pair of black boxers before walking out of the bathroom.

Green eyes immediately looked at your form, just to see the soft rise and fall of your chest as you soundly slept, the ice pack sitting comfortably on your cheek.

You looked so adorable.

You always did.

Smiling once more, he walked over to the bed, pulling back the sheets just to slide his larger, warm body in and next to your own.

He sighs blissfully the moment he tugs you into his embrace, relishing in the feeling of your soft body against him.

Removing the icepack from your cheek, not wanting you to awake to a cheek burning from the cold, he places it on the nightstand before snuggling closer to you.

You always fit so perfectly in his big arms.

You were meant to be by his side.

And you loved it, didn’t you?

Eventually, he fell asleep, soft snores echoing around the quiet room filled with the downpour of rain still pouring down outside the large glass windows,

But you were still wide awake.

It was hard to remember the last time you got a good night’s rest, especially when the room was spine-chillingly dark..

Hard to remember what life was like before you even met your own personal nightmare.

You were used to the exhaustion, the dark circles kissing at the skin under your eyes becoming normal the day you were brought here.

Oh, how foolish you were.

You should have locked your window that fateful night.

But heroes are quite stealthy, aren’t they?

Was this even reality at this point? Or all just a figment of your imagination, protecting you from the true horrors before your very eyes.

Either answer wasnt one you wanted.

But you never had a choice.

Tears slipping from your eyes like they always seemed to do, you stared longingly off into the distance, the warmth pressed against your back pulling you further into your own bubbling madness.

All it took was a signal thought for this to all become normal.

For the pain to wash away with your tears.

‘Maybe this is ok.’

754 notes · View notes

rason-rodd · 4 years ago

Text

The Night(wing) Before Christmas

Summary: Damian tries to convince Dick to come to dinner for Christmas. But duty calls and a weird surprise awaits Dick. Do you believe in Santa Claus?

Warning: No pairing. Just a family Christmas-themed OS.

Author’s note: This would certainly be the last Bat-Christmas one shot. I decided not to make it a Dick x Reader (though it was initially the plan) because I wanted to give Dick and Damian the chance to reconnect. Hope you will like it.

Blüdhaven was never quiet. Blüdhaven was always restless. Lively. Noisy. Blüdhaven was like him. In shades of jet-black and neon-blue. Shining. Glowing. Like a beacon by the ocean. But tonight, Blüdhaven was not blue. Blüdhaven was red. Blüdhaven was green. Blüdhaven was yellow. Blüdhaven was merry. Blüdhaven was childish. Blüdhaven was a little boy waiting for his gift in a small circus trailer, counting days and eating chocolate. Blüdhaven was getting ready for Christmas. But Dick Grayson was not. “You know Father still insists that you come celebrate Christmas with us at the manor this year.” Slumped on the chimney, feet hanging and swinging in the air, Damian Wayne was playing with a birdarang like a bored child waiting for action, demonstrating nonchalance and casualness that could have almost seemed natural and sincere if it hadn’t been for his little green eyes peeping at his brother’s every reactions. “I still have to think about it, Damian.” Damian clicked his tongue and crossed his arms over his chest to sulk in silence. “Todd said he was coming.” Dick snickered at the boy’s remark – which sounded more like a reproach - finding certain amusement in seeing Damian’s childish disappointment. “So who are you going to spend Christmas with? The poor waitress you used to date?” Those last few words were enough to erase the smile on Dick’s face. “Bea and I are over, Damian. I told you, didn’t I?” Damian shrugged and jumped from his perch to come and kneel by his brother by the edge of the rooftop they were on. “She wasn’t good enough for you, anyway.” And that was a lame attempt at comforting by Damian Wayne, ladies and gents. “Well, if I listen to you, Damian, no one is ever good enough for me. You said the same thing about Shawn when we broke up.” “Shawn? Oh right the mediocre artist/ villain you thought you had got pregnant. Almost forgot about her. What a lousy list of conquests you have under your belt, Grayson.” Dick’s jaw clenched to prevent any hurtful commentary to come out of his mouth. There was no point in debating with Damian in that situation. Dick knew well than to take his words seriously. After all, they were just part of a clumsy technique to attract attention, not ill intentioned at all and not to be taken seriously.

Police sirens suddenly screamed in the avenue under their feet, flickering blue and red. A code of alert. A perfect way to escape Damian. “Got to go.” And without any other word, Dick leaped over the edge of the building, grapple gun in hand, ignoring his little brother yelling at him “See you next Thursday at 6.” and his classic “Grayson, you fool.” when he didn’t get an answer.

Dick wasn’t a huge fan of car chases. Though appearing as simple and routine at first sight, he found them to be the most dangerous and scariest of a superhero’s everyday (or night) missions. They needed an extreme vigilance that was hard to fully have: requiring his attention to be sharp and focused on both the criminals and the police as well as the road and especially any citizen who were unfortunate enough to be on the way. But full vigilance didn’t mean no light-hearted commentary. “Where are you guys going with an organ recovery vehicle? The hospital is the other way. Might wanna update the GPS and reconsider the music. Last Christmas I stole you your heart would be more fitting for organs traffickers” “Nightwing!” The driver exclaimed as his partner in crime pulled his gun from his holster to shoot him. “Yeah that’s me. And you might wanna give me that.” Dick said as he quickly seized the gun to throw it through the car window. “Now pull over before Santa hears about what bad boys you two have been this year.” “Screw you, punk!” “As you wish.” Dick rolled his eyes, acting dramatically annoyed, and grabbed the wheel, taking the two men by surprise. “What are you doing?” They asked, screaming at him. “Checking the airbags.” He declared as he voluntarily led the speeding car towards a barricaded construction site knowing perfectly that there were no workers in there tonight. ”Hang on.”

The car hit the metal fence, bending it as if it was a mere piece of paper. Then it left the ground and flew right towards a hole of fresh concrete. When it landed, all the bodywork crashed like a can of tomato soup and the windows broke, leaving the two criminals screaming in fear. But their yells were brief, chocked by the airbags that suddenly inflated due to the powerful noisy impact. “Airbags, check. MOT test, over. You may get down of the vehicle gentlemen.” Nightwing said as he opened the door. But the two men were so stunned and terrified they couldn’t move. “Or you can wait here. That’s fine as well.”

The police car who had been chasing the two men suddenly parked on the site and a couple of officers ran to the accident car, guns in hands. Among them Detective Elise Svobada, Nightwing’s own Jim Gordon except that Jim Gordon had never kissed Batman. A memory that still made Dick want to puke. “Good job, tights.” “A compliment? Christmas makes you soft, Svoboda.” Dick smirked as he let the woman pushed the driver out of the car. “Don’t get used to it.” “Detective, the heart must be delivered in less than 15 minutes. We won’t be there on time. Not with this traffic.” Svoboda’s partner declared, panicking and trembling like a Chihuahua. “Damn it!” Svoboda kicked the tire of the car, angry and wondering what to do now. “Nightwing, do you think you can…” But there was no need to finish the sentence as the vigilante was already far away, swinging from building to building, the box containing the precious organ in his hand. “Thanks, kid… Nelson, call the hospital. Tell them there’s a special delivery.”

There’s nothing more gratifying than knowing you saved a life, except maybe knowing that you saved a life on Christmas. Makes you feel like some heroic caped Santa Claus in a way. But Dick never chose to become a vigilante for gratification or fame. He never wished for a thank you or some sort of admiration. Dick chose to become a vigilante to help people, to see the smiles on their face, that glimmer of hope shining in their eyes when they thought all hope was gone. Dick chose to become a vigilante to make the world a better place.

“That girl owes you her life.” The white-bearded doctor said as he shook Dick’s hand with a gratitude that was making the happy tears in his eyes sparkle like stars. “She doesn’t owe me anything.” And no one could doubt his sincerity. “Still what you did was very noble, boy. Thanks to you this young lady will be able to spend Christmas with her loved ones. And I hope you will as well. After all there’s nothing more important than family.” “We’ll see about that. Merry Christmas, Doctor.” He said as he headed towards the exit. “Merry Christmas, Richard.”

Dick froze and quickly turned around, wondering if he had heard right or if it was his fatigue playing tricks on him. But the old doctor was already gone and nowhere to be seen. Did he know the Batman’s disappearance act, too? “You really need to sleep, Nightwing.” “Indeed you look awful.” The nonchalant voice of Damian Wayne suddenly made Nightwing jump. That little demon could be so stealthy sometimes. “Would not want you to look like a walking dead at dinner. We already have Todd for that.” “How did you find me?” “Heard the police radio. No need to be a genius to do so.” He clicked his tongue as he crossed his tiny arms over his small chest. “So you saved the mayor’s daughter. Congratulations. What now?” “The mayor’s daughter?” “Yes. The two criminals wanted to use her as a way to corrupt the mayor.” Dick frowned. “What? Did you really think there was some sort of organs trafficking in Blüdhaven? Hello! It’s Blüdhaven not Gotham! You know the place where you’re expected on Thursday.” Dick laughed and tousled his little brother’s hair to annoy him. “Alright, little guy. I’ll be there.” “Thank you.” Damian sighed deeply. “Don’t thank me. Thank Santa.” Dick corrected him, still thinking about that weird old doctor. “Don’t try to choke with some cheesy Christmas spirit.” Damian declared as he pointed his fingers at Dick who were chuckling. “Alright.” He complied, gently grabbing Damian by the arm. “Wanna go drink some hot cocoa at my place?” “Are you sweet-talking me?” Damian glared at his brother, not really knowing how to take the offer. “Maybe.” “Would there be marshmallows in the cup?” Dick grinned and hugged his brother. “Of course.”

#dick grayson #nightwing #Damian Wayne #robin #bat-christmas #one shot #nightwing one shot #dick grayson one shot

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mourntheantagonist · 4 years ago

Text

Pain Reliever

read on ao3

Billy didn’t get headaches.

It wasn’t a minor dull pain that encompassed his skull. It wasn’t something that could easily be cured with a Tylenol or whatever off brand alternative was in their medicine cabinet. It wasn’t something that came sporadically. Every once and a while having an ache brought on by a various stressor.

No. Billy got migraines.

Migraines that compared to a stabbing pain localized on one area around his head. Behind the eye. Back of the head. His temple. All the pain of a headache centralized and focused and absolute hell. A pain so strong that he couldn’t open his eyes, any light at all being too bright against his blue eyes. Loud sounds ringing and bouncing off his skull making it worse and worse. Strong smells invading his sinuses and traveling into his brain creating a fiery burn. And nothing helped. No medication easing the pain. No dietary restrictions or vitamin supplements or even fucking meditation doing anything at all.

The pain could last for days. Even though sleep had seemed to be the only remedy, sometimes even that didn’t work. Sometimes he’d wake up in the morning and the morning sun would set fire to his eyes.

Oftentimes the pain would get so severe he would vomit up the entire contents of his stomach, until he was spitting up bile and dry heaving into the toilet bowl.

He’s had them since he was a kid. His father did too. Yet another undesirable trait he inherited from his father. But back then they weren’t so severe. He could generally push himself through the pain. The vomiting only ever happened on rare occasions. And sleep always got them to go away. He never woke up with a headache.

But then Starcourt had to happen. And he was in a coma for two months. And when he woke up underneath the fluorescent light bouncing off the white walls of his hospital room, his head pounded against his skull, like it was trying to escape from his body. He could hear his heartbeat echo in his head. His vision blurred and the incessant beeping of his heart monitor sending him into a craze. He slammed his hands to his ears and squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could and his whole body tensed.

Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.

The pain was so bad that he didn’t even recognize the gaping hole in his chest that was still healing over. Broken ribs that once punctured lungs no longer being the thing preventing him from breathing easy. The disorienting pulsating and the overwhelming nausea now being the vice.

And when he succumbed to the nausea, when he let his stomach churn and his throat open up, there was nothing that came out. just a pathetic glob of yellow bile and air. The heaving sensation finally caused him to recognize the pain in his chest where he had been skewered.

Billy wasn’t supposed to survive. When people asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, or what his plans were after high school. He’d tell you he didn’t know. Because he could never envision a life for himself past the age of eighteen. Couldn’t picture a life where it wasn’t his father who was standing over him as he took his final breaths. He definitely couldn’t picture a life where instead of his dad, it was a massive fleshy monster. And he most certainly would not have expected him to fucking survive it.

It wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to die tragically. With everyone around him wondering what they could have done to prevent it, but never actually caring that he died. Only giving a shit about what it did to their conscience.

It was surprising that he was still alive. That whatever greater power there was out there had decided that it wasn’t time. It went against everything he believed for himself. It was a shock. But nothing could have prepared him for the shock of a lifetime that was Steve Harrington sitting at his bedside holding his fucking hand as he heaved into a plastic container.

Not a single thing made sense when he woke up. When he closed his eyes on the floor of that mall, he thought he’d died the villain he was destined to be. He never expected to wake up a hero in the eyes of everyone. Especially Steve Harrington. The guy he hurt without remorse. The guy who saw right through everything he did. Billy wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t a good guy. That should be so obvious. Yet here he was, in a room surrounded by bouquets from strangers with cards reading get well soon and Steve fucking Harrington fighting back tears because Billy was awake.

Apparently Steve had been there every day. Max made him promise to take care of him, which he very reluctantly agreed to. He was doing it for Max. At least that was the original intention.

Steve started to find his own sense of purpose by seeing Billy every day. Watching as his body slowly healed itself. Steve’s life had hit such a roadblock. Working a dead end job with no outlook on his future. Seeing Billy get better gave him something to look forward to. There was a light at the end of this tunnel. And he wasn’t going to miss it.

Steve wasn’t prepared for what he was getting himself into. Wasn’t prepared to understand the full extent of Billy’s injuries and how previous injuries caused complications. He wasn’t prepared to learn who had inflicted those injuries. He wasn’t prepared to see cigarette burns constellating his upper thighs. He wasn’t prepared to wonder whether they were self inflicted or not.

Over the weeks he just kept learning and learning and sympathizing. So quickly he realized he needed to be there when Billy woke up. Needed to be there to hold his hand when his two month long dream finally came to an end. Needed to bring him back to reality when flashes of the mind flayer and his father flicked in his head.

And nothing made sense after that. Somehow high school rivals turned into friends and then turned into more. Somehow Billy found himself waking up next to Steve in his queen sized bed and not in his double on Cherry lane.

Well, actually. One thing made perfect sense to Billy.

Because when he went to bed with a migraine, he woke up with one as well. Sleep no longer serving as a reset button. Each morning waking up to the disappointment that the pounding in his head remained. That the light was too bright. That Steve breathed too loud. That Steve’s cologne smelled too strong. It made sense. It made sense because this was why he got to live. This was his punishment. Because Billy didn’t get nice things without some cost.

And it sometimes made Billy resent Steve. Resent him for carrying him out of the mall, rather than leaving him to die. Resent him for making Billy fall in love with him. Resent him for giving him something to lose.

But then Steve would be there, holding his hair as he threw up in the bathroom. He’d be there with a cool washcloth to lay on his forehead. He’d be there to hold him tight to distract him enough from the pain so he’d fall asleep.

But with time they only became more frequent. So much as say the word migraine within a fifty foot radius and it was on.

And when Billy had a migraine. They didn’t have sex.

Steve felt like he’d be using Billy. Because he wouldn’t be into it. The pain so strong that all pleasure washed away. And Steve couldn’t continue with Billy in that state. Letting himself hurt so Steve could feel good.

But it’s been a full week now and it was only getting worse.

And dammit Billy needed to release some of that tension.

So there the two are in a pitch black room. Billy lying on his back with the cloth over his eyes. The only sound is Billy’s patterned breathing. Steve’s hand on his chest as it rises and falls. Trailing down to feel Billy hard in his jeans, whimpering at the touch of Steve’s hand over two layers of fabric.

“I have an idea.” Steve whispers. “Just lay there and relax. I just want to try something.” Steve kisses his forehead gently, like he’s kissing a wound better. If only it could have been that simple.

Steve slowly unbuttons his jeans, struggling slightly due to the lack of an ability to see. This would definitely be more hands on than usual. He maps Billy’s body with his hands, up and down, tracing his fingers along every divet, every curve of muscle. Creating a vivid visual in his mind as he eases Billy jeans and briefs to his knees.

Steve lets his fingers trace around his groin, releasing another whimper out of Billy, and Steve can’t tell if it’s from the pain of his headache or his desperate need to be touched.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.” Steve whispers just loud enough for Billy to hear. His face mere inches away from Billy’s cock. Close enough that Billy can feel Steve’s breath hot against his dick.

“Please. Don’t stop.” The pain and desperation clear in his voice.

So Steve goes down, taking the tip into his mouth, swirling his tongue and relishing the taste of pre. Steve can’t see as Billy hands move from his head to the sheets, gripping and pulling at them as his breathing quickens from just the warm touch of Steve’s tongue. His head still throbbing in his ears, a weird feeling deep in stomach that he’s unsure if it’s nausea or not. The warm mouth around his cock serving as a pleasant distraction, but not a perfect one.

He wishes he could see Steve. But it’s dark underneath the cloth and he’s not sure he’d even be able to open his eyes anyway. So he listens intently to Steve’s gasps for air, imprints every sensation he’s feeling that Steve is providing to memory. His toes curl. His fists get tighter. Bites down hard on his lower lip as he groans. A groan that is definitely a cause of pleasure and not pain.

Steve takes Billy in deeper. Slowly bobbing up and down to match the rhythm of Billy’s breathing. Treating his own arousal with the sounds of Billy’s quiet whimpers. Rocking his hips against a pillow as he tries to focus all his attention on making Billy feel good. Making him release the strain.

“Close.” Billy says. It’s barely there and Steve surely wouldn’t have heard it had the room not been so quiet and void of any noise but the sounds of breathing and slow and steady movements on the bed.

Billy’s hips buck upward just before releasing his load directly down Steve’s throat. His orgasm accompanied with a loud moan and a release of a deep breath.

Steve continues to rock his hips against the pillow until he’s finishing into his pants at just the noises coming out of Billy. Noises that are unmistakably from pleasure.

Once he’s come down and reached his senses, Steve climbs his way up the bed until he finds Billy’s face, gently cupping the side of his cheek before planting a kiss to his lips.

“How do you feel?”

The answer. Good. Billy feels good.

The migraine is gone.

As if whatever was infecting his brain was released by the spurt of come shot into Steve’s mouth. Pleasure sensors in his brain activating all at once to override it.

“It’s gone.” Is all he can say. Stunned with the quick turn around. A full week of pain and all it took was Steve’s mouth and it was gone. It felt like he was freed from prison. He takes in the scent of Steve’s cologne with a deep intake of air. The fragrance mixing with Steve’s sweat and sex smell feeling so good in his nose. No burning. Just bliss.

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah. It’s definitely gone.”

Looks like there was a cure after all.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #stranger things #fanfic #mandi writes tresh #lemons #tw: vomiting #tw: implied child abuse

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alison-anonymous · 5 years ago

Text

what the hair?! ♡ varian

What the Hair ♡ Varian Imagine

Requested: noootttt exactllyyy, but @technolilly gave me the idea. Darling, if you're reading this, let me know what you think!!! 😉😁

Warnings: lovestruck Varian😍

Summary: basically the first episode of the Tangled series, but I weaved the reader in and tweaked a couple things!

♡♡♡

Your life was incredibly complicated.

Like seriously, if someone were to give out an award for Most Complicated Life, you would win the title, hands-down.

You were Y/n L/n, daughter of the infamous L/ns, or, as they are better known among the criminals as, the Kingdom Snatchers. Not a very creative name, but then again, their title was given to them by the puny-minded brains of burglars, thieves, and murderers. Your parents were villains who would weave their way into a perfect kingdom with the perfect Queen and King, and take over their kingdom before they reached dessert. They would murder the real Queens and Kings, imprison the citizens, and then leave the kingdom in ashes. They were driven to practical insanity from their corrupted, power-loving minds and became known and feared in all of the lands. Wanted posters littered the forests, offering generous amounts for their capture. But of course, anyone who tried to get close to them ended up dead.

And of course, after they had you, they tried to teach you their ways to become a Kingdom Snatcher so you could take over once they got old and withered. You were supposed to become a vicious, kniving, power hungry, and insane mass murderer/dictator/whatever the hell you want to call it.

There was only one problem.

You didn't want to be the bad guy.

Of course, your parents were furious. If you weren't willing to become an evil thief like them, then of what use were you to them? To have the ability to watch you grow up, living a happy and healthy life, making them proud that their daughter was able to find her own source of happiness in life? Ha! Your parents were killers! If you didn't want to join them, they might as well kill you and keep trying until one of their kids decided they loved the evil life.

And so, you did the only thing you really could do.

You ran away. You were only 7, hardly a child.

And as time went on, you learned how to fend for yourself against the treacherous ways of the world. You were alone for most of your life. And after a while, you began to fear that it might just stay that way. Until you met a certain blonde princess with seven feet of hair, and everything changed.

♡♡��

It was a bright, shiny morning; a morning that Rapunzel would fall in love with. You were out looking for the certain blonde herself, and lucky you to have found her sitting next to the fountain with her favorite Lady in Waiting.

“I was thinking about your hair,” Cassandra said as you walked up to them, pressing your hands on Rapunzel’s shoulders. She gave you her signature bright grin and motioned for you to join them. “Maybe we can find a way to get some answers discreetly, just us.”

“Ooh, mischievous,” you giggled. “I like it.”

Rapunzel nodded and leaned her head on your shoulder. “I mean, I still think you’re being a bit unfair about the Eugene thing, but what do you have in mind?”

Cassandra’s features grew a little more excited as she used hand gestures. “Well, I’ve heard stories about this guy named Varian. Apparently, he’s some kind of wizard.”

Your eyes raised slightly at the sound of his name. Varian... where had you heard of him before? Probably from some of the little off-their-rocker villagers. Rapunzel seemed pretty excited too as she clapped her hands together like a giddy child. “Wow! A real wizard? Like with a pointy hat and casting spells and stuff?”

You couldn’t help but snort. “Those only exist in fairy tales. My money says he’s selling something. Probably laxatives.”

Cassandra did her best to hide her laugh, but was still smiling as she continued. “No, girls we have to be careful. Very little is known about him and what is isn’t that good. He’s dangerous.”

“But if we want answers, he’s our best bet right?” Cass nodded.

“Looks like we have a wizard to visit!”

♡♡♡

It didn’t take long to make it to Varian’s house, which was in Old Corona. The house looked simple enough, had it not been for the dark and foreboding feeling that apparently only existed in Rapunzel’s brain as the three of you approached the door. It was actually a quaint little thing, simple colors, no broken boards or cobwebs, and was decently larger than the other houses you had passed by.

“It looks nice,” Rapunzel spoke nervously. “In an I-wish-I-said-goodbye-to-my-loved-ones-before-I-left sort of way.”

Cassandra pushed open the door just before you could warn them about the importance of knocking and you all proceeded into the dimly lit house. The shadows seemed to crawl towards you as you help up the caboose of the line, Cass leading the way through the halls of the house until you finally pushed through a door surrounded by some very suspicious looking fog.

“Geez, I guess those laxatives must really be working,” you joked as you propelled yourself through the cool mist. It passed through the soft fabric of your pants and your combat boots as Cassandra pushed open the door revealing yet another dimly-lit room covered in fog. Who was this guy? Just as you were about to speak, Cassandra’s boot made contact with some sort of string on the ground, triggering a myriad of complicated reactions that ultimately ended up with some sort of magenta ball being launched at your feet. You let out a shriek as it exploded into a goopy substance, gluing your feet to the ground. The three of you struggled to get yourselves free.

“A booby trap? Really?” Rapunzel grunted.

“Everything’s going to be fine, Raps, we just need to-” Suddenly a very scary, very robotic looking figure emerged from the shadows. Your heart began to pound faster inside your vest-covered chest as your eyes widened in terror.

“W-who... is...that?” You could barely muster as the figure got closer. Two, electric yellow orbs were all that you could see as Rapunzel held an arm out protectively in front of you.

“What do you want?” The voice boomed throughout the halls, striking terror into your heart. Your mouth fell open as you stared, slight PTSD forming from all of the moments you spent witnessing your parents torture innocent people.

“U-um, hi, sir, I really hate to bother you, but I was just wondering if I could get your help about my hair,” Rapunzel did her best to hide her stutter. “Because you’re such a magic exper-”

“Magic?” The metal laxative man robotically asked. “I do not work with magic!” He suddenly lifted the helmet off of his head to reveal someone a hell of a lot less intimidating and, dare you say, kind of... insanely cute. “I mean, technically, it’s alchemy but...” He drawled off the moment he laid his adorable blue orbs on you. It was almost as if though he had gotten lost in a trance as his eyes looked over every inch of you before finally resting on your face once again, a twinkle in his eyes that, the more you looked at it, reminded you of the way Eugene looked at Rapunzel.

A little butterfly flew around in your stomach.

“Um, hate to interrupt, but um what is this stuff?” Rapunzel awkwardly chuckled, breaking whatever just happened between you and this supposed “Varian.” Your cheeks held a tinge of pink to them as he quickly regained his composure, a bit of a blush to his own as well.

“Oh! Um, this is a chemical compound of my own design. We have a little bit of a beautiful- I MEAN critter problem,” he chuckled, glancing at you as he pulled out the “neutralizing particle” and sprinkled it over all of your guys’s feet. You watched with an amazed expression as the compound instantly dissipated before your eyes. Varian smirked slightly at your reaction.

“I am so, so sorry, Your Highness.” He bowed to Rapunzel.

“Your Highness?” Rapunzel asked in confusion. “You know who I am?”

“How could I not? Look at your hair!” He suddenly realized the error in his exaggeration and quickly apologized. God, how could one person contain to much adorableness?

...Wait, what?

“Rapunzel is just fine,” Raps smiled at him. “And this is Cassandra, and Y/n.” Cass gave him a firm nod and you offered him a polite smile. His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer.

“Y/n... okay! Anyway, so fantastical stories about your hair have spread throughout Corona. Most people think that it’s magic, but as you’ve probably learned by now, I don’t believe that.” You couldn’t help but smile at his boldness, the pride that he took in his work. He seemed to have something that you only wished you could have: pride.

“Listen kid, we’re kind of in a hurry here, but let’s just get one thing straight here. Everything that happens here stays here, you got-”

“I don’t think we need to threaten him, Cass,” you quickly removed her hand from Varian’s shirt and gave her a reassuring smile. “He seems pretty harmless. Right?”

He quickly nodded his head, like a love struck puppy as he stared at you. After figuring out that Rapunzel’s hair no longer held its fantastical healing properties, Varian stuck her in a machine that he apparently made himself to determine the entire chemical makeup of any substance.

“Woah,” you breathed as you stared at the great machine. “This is... amazing, you built this yourself?”

“Y-You think so?” Varian giggled, a bright crimson tinting his cheeks as he scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, I did.”

“It’s incredible.”

“You’re incredible.”

“What?”

“What?” You were both staring at each other with wide eyes until you finally started giggling.

“You’re funny,” you chuckled, shaking your head slightly and turning back to watch as the machine tried taking an axe to her hair. Little did you know that he was still staring at you the entire time. Time seemed to practically fly by as Eugene came in and then a bunch of Varian’s underground machines suddenly became radioactive or something. Cass and you went out to find him and before you knew it, Old Corona was in near ashes.

You slowly approached Varian after his father had talked to him, and by the looks of it, it hadn’t gone well. You stopped when you were just behind him, trying to debate whether or not you should put your hand on his shoulder.

“Varian...” You began, but stopped, trying to form the right words in your brain. He turned to look at you and instantly became flustered once again.

“Y/n, I am so, so sorry for this, I swear that I-”

“It’s okay, Varian,” you assured him, flashing him a smile and tucking a stray lock of your hair behind your ear. “I mess up too. But that doesn’t mean that we’re any less amazing.”

A small smile grew onto his lips at your words and he let out a soft chuckle. A short, comfortable silence fell between you two as you stared into one another’s eyes until he broke it. “Hey... I know we just met, but would you want to... umm... hang out sometime?”

“I’d love that,” You couldn’t help but grin.

♡ a.a.

#tangled varian #varian #varian x reader #tangled varian x reader #rapunzel's tangled adventure #tangled season 3 #tangled imagine #tangled the series

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four-rabbit · 4 years ago

Text

The Last Piece Left

This was supposed to be fluff the first time I had this idea. But then I decided that it could be fluffy with angst in the end. But then I got to actually write it and it became angst with even more angst in the end, so... hope you enjoy

I apologize in advance for any mistakes

Summary: For the first time since he left the Others, Virgil reunites the courage to talk to an old friend, but neither of them seem to know how to feel about each other. Or how to not make things worse.

Characters: Remus Sanders, Virgil Sanders

Warnings: swearing, mentions to death and dead bodies, angst (does that count as a warning?), fight, sex mention

Word Count: 2287

“I told them my name” Remus looked away from the canvas in front of him, just to see who he once called a friend standing in the middle of his room, with an expression as abstract as the paint Creativity was trying to finish. So many feelings in such a small space it became impossible to understand.

“Ok? Good for you, I don’t give a fuck” replied, focusing his gazes on anything except Virgil’s eyes, doing his best to keep his emotions simple. We hate each other. He abandoned us. That should be enough. Virgil stayed in silence for what seemed like a lifetime. “What do you want, emo?”

“Thomas painted his hair” he started.

“Yeah, I noticed. Purple doesn’t really go well with green. Unless we’re talking about a wound. Or a dead body. Nevermind, purple and green are awesome together”

“Yeah, I really liked the hair, actually. I was thinking… I mean, you and Deceit have green and yellow. The core sides also have colors. I’m kinda tired of the black”

“Are you? I think it matches you, boring, quickly establishes that you’re the villain, having been washed in at least some months”

“I just want you to teach me how to sew,” Virgil replied, already starting to lose his temper. Calm down, he said to himself,he may be hard to deal with, but you are here to help, not make things worse.

“Roman knows how to sew, probably way better than me. Do you think I should add like, blood red or more like a wine red?” He pointed to the canvas, answering his own question before Virgil could do so “Yeah, blood red of course, the classic”

“I kinda wanted it to be a surprise. Also, I don’t think Princey’s style really matches mine” Remus wishes he was as honest to himself as he was with other people. He knew deep down it would hurt more to do that. He knew that getting a bite of what used to be their friendship would just make him more hungry for something that didn’t even exist anymore. He knew it would probably hurt both of them even more. But someone wanted his help for the first time in… well. Virgil wanted his help.

“Ok, get out of my room” said, finally turning to Anxiety, who tried to pretend those words didn’t send a wave of disappointment though his body.

“Of course... This was a mistake” mumbled, starting to sink out.

“No dude! Fuck, I mean, like, intrusive thoughts and anxiety is never a good mix, let’s go to your room or a neutral room” quickly explained.

“Oh” Virgil came back, seeming surprised “I can take your room just fine, dude, I’m used to it”

“It got way worse since the last time you were here, trust me, Gerard Gay” Virgil looked around. The view did look messier, if it was possible. The floor felt like skin, but with something off. He could hear whispers in the back of his consciousness, to which he could never identify a source. The smell was less like trash can and more like a trash can on fire where a corpse had been discarded some days ago. But he could take all that. He could take hours in that room, the same way Remus could take hours in his room.

“I don’t see how”

“As much as I would love to see Thomas hyperventilating because his anxiety can’t stop thinking about how people are going to invade his house and slowely murder him if he doesn’t check all the locks at least five times, I’m pretty sure you don’t want that headache. And it will be a hell of a headache as soon as the room reaches your mind”

“Fine, My room, then?”

“Yeah, I’m in need of some new spiderwebs anyway”

Virgil’s room didn’t change much since The Duke was there for the last time, except for some new Disney posters, probably from Roman and a drawing on the desk right beside anxiety’s bed. It was terribly colorful and childish, with all the three core sides and Virgil. Patton, then. Of course it was Patton. Anxiety immediately took the gift out of Creativity’s sight.

“I’m not gonna eat it or anything, y’know?”

“It’s personal”

“Of fucking course it is” He could see how Patton seemed better compared to Janus. But they didn’t need a stupid - and shitty, let’s be honest - card to prove how much they cared for, everything was just so fucking stupid and boring with the core sides, why would Virgil fucking chose to be with them?! What was wrong with him?! What did Remus do wrong?! “It’s really shitty, but I guess daddy has always been bad at everything he did”

“Could you keep it down? For at least thirty fucking minutes?” Virgil snapped, clenching his fists and looking at Remus with pure danger in his eyes.

“Do you have a… “He looked around, wishing he could just stop fucking talking for at least one damn second “A sketch. For how you want your hoodie to be?

“I do, actually” Virgil kept his eyes away from his old friend, the tension in the room so heavy it could be cut, grabbing one of the drawings on the same table Patton’s gift was and giving it to the duke. It was… a concept. Remus conjured a pen, turning the paper and using it’s other side to make a more clear image, giving it back to anxiety.

“How about this?” Virgil tried not to smile, but his eyes betrayed him by shining. It was perfect.

"It 's cool”

“Great” he then started to reunite all the materials. One of Virgil’s older hoodies, purple fabric, white and black threads and…

“Why a spinning wheel?”

"It 's cooler” replied, shrugging.

“If I touch the needle will I also sleep for one hundred years?”

“Who knows? Now sit your ass down, emo, this will take time”

“Ok, what do I do first?” said, sitting on his bed and waiting for instruction. Remus flinched until the realization struck him.

“Wait, you actually want me to teach you? Buddy, I’m the worst teacher ever and you know that” And also I’m a selfish motherfucker who knows very well that if you never learn it every time you need to fix it you will have to ask for my help.

“It can’t be that hard”

“If you actually want to do something decent, it will take at least some days. Do you want The Duke in your room for days? I wouldn’t mind it, we could even have some fun” He smiled maliciously. He was right. Virgil wouldn’t want any of the core sides to know he still talked to Remus. Especially not Roman.

“Fine. How long will it take for you to do it?”

“One hour” He could do it in a couple seconds, actually, but sshhh.

“Ok” Virgil looked down, seeming almost… embarrassed. Creativity grabbed all the materials, conjured a bench, sat down and started to work. He tried to stay in silence, but it was almost painful to do so

“How are the core sides doing? Anything interesting, if that’s possible?”

“Are you trying to do small talk?” Virgil almost smiled. The only one of the Others good with that was Deceit and they all knew that.

“I’m trying to keep it down like you said to protect your now light side ears or whatever” Virgil chucked, rolling his eyes.

“What was that painting about?”

“Oh… I was trying to do an abstract representation of the emotions decay and rottenness bring”

“Sounds like you. How was it going?”

“Like shit. Not literally, even though that’s a good idea, did you know that when we die our whole body, like, relax, including our stomach muscles and all? And yeah, we shit ourselves, so go to the bathroom before you die, I guess” Virgil flinched with that unwanted information.

“I feel like you told me that before”

“I probably did, it’s pretty basic. I don’t know what the fuck is happening, I haven’t being able to paint anything good”

“I thought it was pretty nice” For Remus’ standards.

“Sure you did. But really, how are those dorks? Did someone already explained to Daddy what sex it or nobody had the courage yet?”

“That’s what you’re concerned about?”

“Of course!”

“Nobody did, obviously, but I’m considering, I like Patton, but if he refers to adulthood as adultery one more time I’ll lose it” Remus snorted.

“He does what?”

“Long story, dude”

“Holy fuck” He laughed “He’s definitely doing that on purpose”

“What would he win by doing that?” A couple of answers came to Remus’ mind but he was sure VIrgil would hate all of them. Still, he had to choose one, that how things work “Maybe he likes fucking with you guys”

“Not everybody finds it funny to manipulate the people around them like Deceit” Oh, here we go again.

“Patton and Janus are not that different”

“Name one thing they have in common” fortunately for Remus, the first answer that came to his mind was not that bad.

“Well, if you’re right, they both don’t know where babies come from” Virgil seemed divided between keeping arguing and smiling. He went with the second option. You can do it, Virge. You can not screw everything.

“I guess so. But Patton is definitely better with hugs”

“Which one of the light sides would you fuck if you had to chose?”

“Where did that come from?!” Remus shrugged.

“Just curious”.

“I won’t fucking answer that!” exclaimed, his face starting to get red.

“For me it would be Logan. Or maybe you. Do you count as a Light side already?” Anyway, Logan must be amazing. It’s almost like fucking a teacher and I always wanted to know how it feels like” Virgil was about to order him to shut up, but he knew Remus enough to know it would only make things worse, so he went with a more effective technique.

“How is Deceit doing?” Remus raised his eyebrows, the question surprising enough to stop his line of thought.

“Fine? Why do you care?”

“I mean… are you guys good?”

“As always”

“Haven’t he been… hurting you or anything like that?”

“Janus never hurted me, dude, what the fuck?”

“Except that he did. Except that he does it everyday. You just don’t want to admit it” Remus looked into his eyes, frowning.

“Emo, what is this all about?”

“What do you mean?” Based on how he focused his gaze on the floor, Remus raised his eyebrows even more.

“This is not just about the fucking hoodie, is it?” Virgil stayed in a seeming never ending silence.

“They accepted me, Remus.You guys said it was impossible for the core sides to accept us, but here I am. They could accept you too” Oh, so that’s what this is about. Remus went to one of his rare silences, which were always scarier than his loudest noises.

“We already talked about this, emo”

“But that was before! When we thought they all hated us! But they don’t! Logan is welcoming and Roman is trying and Patton… Patton is willing to receive us with his arms open”

“No, he’s fucking not. Patton hates me so fucking much I’m pretty sure he would get rid of me the second he had the fucking chance and would still convince himself it was the right thing to do” He got up without realizing, putting all his efforts into not crying like a pathetic child.

“I think you’re mistaken him for Deceit” Virgil also got on his feet.

“Janus, his name is fucking Janus, why can’t you just call him for his fucking name?! He yelled.

“He’s a liar, Remus! He doesn’t care about you or any of us! He just wants to… Follow his plans or whatever”

“Oh, do you think Patton cares about you?!”

“Actually yes, I know he fucking does”

“Well, yeah, maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t, but if I get there? Not only will he get scared and kick me out, he will also be angry at you for bringing the freak here into his perfect little world of sunshine and rainbows, so thank you so much, but Janus at least was there for me when I needed it, unlike those dicks or you!” Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

“I should have known this was a mistake” Virgil said, letting his shoulders drop with the height of defeat.

“Yeah it was. Here is your fucking hoodie” He finished it with a snap of his fingers at threw it at Virgil, sinking out right after. “Have fun with your new friends, Virgil”

Slowly, anxiety grabbed his new costume. It was amazing, Comfortable, spooky, creative. And it was so… detailed and clearly done carefully, It was… He started crying.Ugly crying, with the tears scratching his throat to came with violent sobs, their warm burning as they fell down his face, wetting his own clothes and the new one in his hands, the pain in his chest seeming like a monster was tearing apart his whole soul, trying to destroy his heart, it hurted more than anything that he ever felt.

He knew, deep down, it was impossible to have a real famILY like that. But he also knew he was a hypocrite and it was easier to pretend things were simpler. It was easier to pretend he didn’t need Remus. Or Janus, by that extent. It was easier to pretend they weren’t family. But not easy enough for him to not hold on to all there was left from what they once called a friendship.

He held the hoodie tighter.

#sanders sides #fanfic #tw sex mention #tw death mention #cw swearing #angst #intruxiety #rabbit writes

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ambssssssssss · 4 years ago

Note

supercorp +19 pleaseee

Supercorp + Sick Fic

Here’s the thing, Lena doesn’t get sick.

Not in the same way that Kara doesn’t get sick, not because of the power granted to Lena by the yellow sun or even because of an above-average immune system. There is one simple reason that Lena doesn’t get sick. That reason being, every time she is sick, Lena simply denies the fact until she’s healthy again.

She doesn’t take off work, she just secludes herself in her office and reschedules any meetings until she can speak without sounding ridiculous because her nose is stuffy and walk without getting dizzy because her head is pounding and she hasn’t had enough water. She’ll let Jess go home early, takes extra care to not come into contact with anyone she could possibly infect, she eats soup for lunch and dinner, takes a long bath and collapses into bed at the end of the day. Rinse and repeat until she’s healthy again.

It’s never been a problem before and it’s not even a problem now that she and Kara have officially settled their differences, admitted their mutual love for one another and entered into the most gratifying and inevitable relationship Lena had ever been in. The only thing is, Kara is a caregiver, through and through.

Lena knows that when Kara cares about something, especially about someone, she cares with every part of herself. Kara would give someone the clothes off her back and the food off her table without a second thought (though maybe a slight grumble when it came to the food). Lena’s watched Kara do both of those things, Lena’s been on the receiving end of both of those things and many others of Kara’s selfless acts both in and out of her super suit. Really, Lena shouldn’t be surprised that Kara would want her to actually rest and take care of herself for the few days it might take her to get over the common cold she caught after an unexpected dip in the ocean, in the middle of winter, courtesy of the unexpected back blow of one of the latest villain of the weak’s lackey’s weapon. Kara had saved her immediately, left Lena her cape to wrap up in while she dealt with the villain, but Lena must have been in the water for just long enough. After, Kara had taken Lena home and settled her in a bath then gave her a cup of hot tea and wrapped them both up in a blanket on the couch together until Lena’s teeth stopped chattering. Really, it shouldn’t be a surprise that Kara is there now.

She’s kneeling beside the white couch in Lena’s office, the super suit fading back into her day clothes as the affixes her glasses on to her face. Lena is laying on the couch, eyes closed even in the darkened room, her face flushed with a fever even as she shivers.

“Lena, baby,” Kara’s voice is soft as she cards her fingers through Lena’s hair gently. “You’re sick, you should be home.”

“I’m fine,” Lena’s words are mumbled even as she leaned into Kara’s hand. “I just need to rest for a moment.”

“For a few days, you mean,” Kara chuckled gently as Lena’s lips pulled into a frown.

“I’m not sick.”

“Yes you are.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not,” Lena sluggishly stuck her tongue out at Kara as if to say ‘so there.’ Kara chuckled softly and ducked down to press a kiss to Lena’s warm forehead.

“We can argue about that later,” Kara said against Lena’s forehead and then she stood up. “But for now, I’m taking you home. Don’t move.”

Lena thought about protesting as Kara swept out of her office, no doubt to tell Jess that she would be taking Lena home for the day and to clear her schedule for the next day as well, but decided she was comfy enough where she was. If Kara wanted to get Lena home, Lena would make her work for it. Kara returned a few moments later anyway and pulled her glasses off again to make her suit appear.

Lena must have made some kind of sound when Kara picked her up because Kara whispered, “it’s okay, it’s just me,” into her ear as she lifted her bridal style to carry to the window.

“You’ve got to stop carrying me this way,” Lena mumbled as Kara took to the sky. “People are gonna start talking.”

Kara chuckled, already thinking of the myriad of rumors about Supergirl and the Good Luthor, as Lena was most often called in the gossip magazines that were so certain there was something between them. If only they knew.

Kara flew them, as quickly as was comfortable for Lena, to the penthouse that they practically shared these days. Kara lived there in all but name, but neither of them were quite willing to admit that. She landed on the balcony and entered the penthouse after scanning her hand on the security system Lena had installed on the balcony door, holding Lena with one arm as she did so.

“Let’s get you into some comfy clothes,” Kara said, mostly to herself since Lena was more than half-asleep in her arms. Smiling slightly as Lena nuzzled closer to her, Kara walked them down to the bedroom and gently set Lena down on the bed. “I’m going to change your clothes, Lena. Is that okay?”

Lena gave Kara a weak nod, reaching for her. Kara sat on the bed for a moment to hold Lena as she had silently requested she do and then stood again to begin the process of removing Lena’s clothes. Luckily, Lena had worn a dress to work instead of slacks so all Kara had to do was carefully maneuver Lena so she could reach the zipper and then pull the dress off her. Her bra and shoes followed after before slipped Lena’s favorite National City University sweater over Lena’s head (the one Lena had stolen from Kara after their first ever sleep over, long before everything fell apart and then came back together again) and pair of yoga pants up her legs.

Now dressed, Kara tucked Lena under the blankets and made her way back to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water and some medicine to help Lena break her fever. She set both items down on the bedside table and then slipped into some comfy clothes of her own, a simple t-shirt and sweatpants, before climbing into the bed with Lena. Lena moved towards her immediately, seeking Kara’s warm embrace and comforting presence even in her sleep. Kara held Lena close, murmuring sweet phrases when Lena grumbled in her sleep and coaxing her to take some meds and drink some water when she was awake.

As much as Lena wanted to deny that she was sick at all, having Kara all to herself for the two days it took her to recover had been fairly nice. Kara was there almost every time Lena turned around, ready with a bottle of water or a cup of tea or even just a kiss.

“There she is,” Kara said when Lena woke up the morning of the third day after Kara had carried her home for work. “Feeling better?”

“Much,” Lena admitted, letting her eyes fall closed again and reaching for Kara. She opened her eyes again when she discovered that she had to stretch her arm out much more than she anticipated. “What are you doing way over there?”

“You don’t remember?” Kara was smiling at her teasingly. Lena raised one eyebrow, waiting for Kara to continue. “You pushed me away around four a.m. Said something about being plenty hot on your own and not needing a living space heater. I think you were still kind out of it but pretty soon after, your fever was gone.”

“Please tell me your joking.”

“About you being hot? Never,” Kara laughed as Lena groaned. “But yes, you really did push me away.”

“Well that was then and this is now, and now, I would very much like to cuddle with my girlfriend before we both have to go back to normal life. Get your super ass over here.”

Kara was still giggling as she scooted closer to Lena and was only silenced when Lena sat up, swung her leg over Kara’s waist to straddle her and pressed their lips together. Kara hummed contently, running her hands over Lena’s back under her shirt.

“What was that for?” Kara asked when they parted.

“To shut you up,” Lena ran her hands through Kara’s slightly mused hair. “And to thank you, for taking care of me.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” Kara pulled Lena closer to her. “I love you, of course I’m going to take care of you.”

“Still,” Lena half shrugged. Kara offered her a smile.

“Well, if you insist on thanking me, you could always kiss me like that again.”

“Oh, really?”

“You have been sick for three days. That’s three days without a proper kiss,” Kara pointed out logically. “We can’t make that four days now, can we?”

“I suppose not,” Lena chuckled and leaned in to connect their lips before Kara could say anything else.

They both missed work for an entirely different reason that day.

#supercorp #prompt fill #writing prompts #ambs replies #probably the last one for today #i'll keep on them tomorrow

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bichlordstories · 4 years ago

Text

9: old advice

You walked down the hallway of your middle school, eyes staring you down in fear and disgust.

Some jeers were sent your way, but nobody dared to go near you.

Unlike the brainwashing kid a group of kids bullied, you didn’t use words. The last time someone started something with you, you ended it faster.

“Oi, duck tape his mouth!”

You paused near the entrance of a classroom. It wasn’t yours, and you didn’t know why you stopped, but you did anyway.

“Can’t use your evil quirk if you can’t ask questions, can you, villain???” A voice behind the door taunted.

“Hold him down.” Another voice said.

This wasn’t your problem. Whatever they were going to do to this mysterious kid, it wasn’t your business.

“Huh? Who’s there?”

You stood inside the classroom, staring blankly into the widened eyes of some middle school boys. One of them had the target pinned to a desk, hold down his hand and holding a pen.

“Fuck, it’s that All Might wannabe!” One of the goons exclaimed and released the lavender haired teen.

“Oh? Does the evil All Might doppelgänger want to save this freak?” The leader of the group forced the head of the teen down by gripping his lavender hair.

The boy beneath him grunted in pain, nose bleeding and mouth covered by tape. His eyes were puffy from the bruises and from the tears in his eyes.

A truly pathetic sight to behold.

“Tokoro-kun, don’t provoke them, they’re crazy as hell.” The sensible one of the group grabbed the leader’s shoulder.

“We have our quirks, don’t we? We can just-“

Something yellow and sharp stabbed him in the arm, earning a yelp of surprise from the kid. Before he could scream some more, a hand shot out and gripped his cheeks, covering his mouth.

You got between his legs and forced his back onto the desk behind him. You gripped the pencil lodged into his shoulder and twisted it deeper and deeper.

By now, the whites of your eyes were a deep shade of red, leaving your (e/c) irises untouched by the crimson.

“Challenge me again, and it will be your eye.” You said before pulling the pencil out of the boy, who laid back on the table in shock.

You gave the boys enough space to leave, one of them grabbing their injured friend and left. You turned to the lavender haired kid only to find him sitting on the floor with his knees.

He barely struggled as you pulled him up and ripped the tape off of the boy. Since his nose was filled with blood, he breathed through his mouth, spitting out bloody mucus.

“You’re an idiot for staying behind.” You stated after recognizing the teen as Hitoshi, the brainwash kid.

He sat in the chair weakly, wiping his bloody nose and staring forward through bruised eye lids.

“...I didn’t ask for this...” he muttered under his breathe.

“Okay? And you not asking for it is going to stop it? You need to stop mopping around and adapt.”

“It’s not that simple-“

“It is. Finding the solution is easier when you not sitting on your ass and letting this happen. I see you make the same mistake every damn day. Today, those assholes beat you to a pulp because they got you alone. You don’t even try.” You scowled at the teen.

The boy glared at you with a trembling lip.

“Then how would you do it? You can defend yourself, I can’t.” He said as tears rolled down his face.

“You have a quirk. Use it.”

“I ca-“

“Work smart, not hard. You don’t use it to brute force your way through. That’s not how your quirk works. It involves using your head and your words.” You said before walking towards the the door.

Once exiting, you were met with an empty hallway. Everyone seemed to have went home, leaving just you and the lavender haired kid, but you knew that word would get around about what you did.

And you were right.

Nobody dared to say anything in front of you, opting to just whisper behind your back. The brainwash kid was hidden among the crowd, no longer taunted but instead ignored.

The two of you never really spoke to each other after the first time, only coming across each other in the hallways.

Sometimes you wonder if what you said was too harsh, but then again, he didn’t put any effort into defending himself.

Someone like him was bound to lose in the game of life.

This felt eerily familiar, walking down the hallway. Nobody acknowledged you, hanging out in their respective groups early in the morning. You didn’t see any of your classmates amongst the crowd much to your relief, but you are bound to see them in class.

After losing control of yourself in training exercise yesterday, you were stuck in Recovery girl’s room recovering from the overuse of your quirk. Obviously, this meant that you couldn’t return to class that day, seeing that you passed out and attacked your teacher.

Surprisingly, you didn’t get kicked out of school, which you were grateful for.

But you now had unwanted attention.

You knew that your high school will be just like middle school after yesterday, but you just had to deal with it.

You stopped in front of your classroom door and clenched the straps from your backpack.

A few kids passed by, talking to each other, so you didn’t really notice a pair of shoes walking towards you. When they stopped beside you, you moved away, believing it to be the teacher or one of your classmates.

It was neither.

Instead, it was the brainwashing kid, Shinsou Hitoshi.

He stood next to you, staring up at the letter B.

“So this is your class. You got into the hero course...” he huffed out a bit of air before continuing.

“I’m not surprised, since you are the best in your class, and word got around to everyone that you beat up a teacher yesterday.”

Your stomach dropped.

“...everyone?”

“Yeah, the General Ed class wouldn’t shut up about it. You became a celebrity over night here.” Shinsou said while staring at the same door you were.

Rumors.

That’s how it always started.

Technically, what you did happened, but people liked to exaggerate and blow it out of proportion.

But you attacked someone outside of training.

You had a serious problem.

“...I can’t fucking do this again...”

Shinsou turned his head to you.

“I can’t be the evil All Might wannabe... I’m tired of being compared to someone else, someone great, only to be called a villain when I don’t act like that person...” you bit your lip as your face darkened at the memories.

Shinsou continued to stare before reaching up to rub the back of his head.

“...adapt to it.”

He turned away from you and slowly blinked at the door.

“Don’t brute force your way through it. Work smart, not hard. Try to prove to yourself that your not a villain without punching someone.” He said before walking away, leaving you to stand in front of the door.

You gripped the door, taking a deep breathe, before slowly opening it. The voices inside the class continued, only dying down a bit when you passed the desks towards your own.

“(L/n)-kun!”

You froze at the sound of a cheerful voice before getting engulfed in a hug from behind.

“I was soooo worried! You were gone the rest of the day yesterday! Are you okay?” Pony asked before hugging your stiff arm.

“E-Eh?” You breathed out in confusion.

“Dude, we thought you completely lost it!” The cheeky brown haired kid, Tsuburaba, exclaimed.

Soon, you found yourself surrounded by your classmates.

“We already knew you were a beast in combat, but you had 2 teachers struggling to hold you down!” Honenuki said.

“Not just teachers, Juzo-kun, heroes.” Kurorio smirked to the toothy teen.

“One of them was All Might!”

You were getting compliments left and right, confusing you to no end. You just stood there frozen, unable to form words.

“I gotta say, I’m impressed.”

You turned your head to look at Monoma, who had a mischievous glint in his eye.

“You’ve proven that you’re one of the stronger people fit for combat, even more so yesterday.”

He walked over to you, brushing his blonde hair away with a flick of his wrist.

“Class 1A so far doesn’t have anything impressive on display, but you fought a hero with ease. All Might himself struggled to hold you down, and that’s saying something.”

He stopped in front of you, grinning ear to ear. It was a chilling smile, something that was anything but innocent.

“With you, class 1A will be no more...” he said in a giddy tone.

The teens around you grimaced at this, some even backing away.

“Jeez, can you chill the fuck out?” The guy with the headband, Awase, snapped at the blonde as he was put off by the creepy factor.

Luckily for everyone in the class, Kendo walked up from behind him and chopped him on the neck, making the sadistic blonde collapse. She plucked him off the ground by the scruff of his shirt and smiled to you apologetically.

“I’m so so sorry, (L/n)-san, he’s just relieved to see you back, that’s all.” She said.

“W-W-Why would you tell them t-that?” Monoma stuttered while looking up at her with a pale face.

“...uh.” You said.

“Ooooooohhhh, someone’s in loooooove~” Kuroiro teased, earning a few chuckles from Honenuki and Kosei.

“Eh? Who’s in love???” Tokage asked with interest.

“I’m not in love, d-damn it!!!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He’s not in love guys.

Not yet.

Buuuuut anyways, I wanted to kinda have Mc interact with Shinsou, involving a bit of their past, the whole shebang.

As you can tell, those two aren’t exactly friends, but they aren’t enemies either.

They got some ✨history✨

#bnha fanfiction #bnha x y/n #bnha x gender neutral reader #bnha x reader #blood sport

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ashintheairlikesnow · 5 years ago

Text

Outside: Chris With Sir

CW: Oliver Branch is a creepy motherfucker, referenced drugging, underage drinking (not to drunkenness, just a couple sips), referenced torture/conditioning, very vague reference to noncon/dubcon, internalized ableism, did I mention Oliver Branch is a creepy motherfucker

Tagging Chris’s crew: @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @stxckfxck , @slaintetowhump, @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout

The air is clear, with no sound of cars and no lights on inside the grand mansion. The only sounds are the usual night-sound noises whispering breezes through trees and a dog barking, somewhere far away.

When the boy looks up, the sky is full of stars, and he cannot stop smiling.

He should feel bad about the earthquake and the people hurt by the mudslide that happened after it, but he doesn’t - because with the power out and the governor’s mansion closed to the public and everyone but Sir and Miss Nancy and Mr. Nielsen, Sir’s security person, gone, he is outside with permission for the very first time.

He had to win a game, first - one of Sir’s games that always seem rigged for him to lose, but Sir let him win this one and now Baldur keeps his eyes on the sky, feels the thick plaid wool of the blanket at his back, nylon-backed so the dew already collecting on the grass won’t soak through it.

It’s so beautiful out here, and he is so grateful to be allowed the chance to see it. Even if his skin rises in goosebumps and he wishes he could be as warm as Sir looks in his sweater and slacks.

A soft pop off to his right means Sir has got the wine bottle open, and he hears Sir’s pleased hum as he lifts the top of the bottle to take a whiff of the scent of the dry red inside.

There’s a cocktail you can make with a good dry red. Baldur knows the recipe for it, locked in his head with everything else he’s trained for, twisted up in half-memories of a large cream-colored room with a bar in it and four other boys just like him, all of them sleepless and shadowed and afraid. Rum, red wine, lime juice, simple syrup. Shake and strain into a wine glass.

Shake just enough, not too much, don’t get it wrong or you don’t get fed. Don’t even blink for too long, don’t look away from the bartender they brought in to train them, don’t lose focus.

Pay attention

“-you think, darlin’?”

Baldur jumps a little, feeling a shiver of fear through his skin as he tips his head back, hair settling in a curtain of reddish-blond that the darkness turns to a deeper red halo. He can just see Sir, upside down from his angle, eyebrow raised, head tilted.

He’s been remembering having to pay attention and forgot to actually pay attention.

“Did you hear me, Baldur?” Sir pours his own wine, glass tipped just so. The little camp lantern is all the light they have tonight, a little circle of warm yellow-white lighting up the gray and orange plaid of the picnic blanket, turning the edges of Baldur’s hair to copper-gold, dancing hints of brilliance along the green of his collar, dyed to match his eyes.

It lights Sir’s face from below, giving him the horror-movie shadows of a vampire, a villain. Baldur shudders, just a little, at the way it turns his face to putty all pushed out of shape.

“I, I, I’m sorry, Sir,” Baldur says quickly, turning his voice a little airy, the way he was taught to do, giving Sir the softest look in his wide green eyes. Slightly unfocused, turning Sir’s face from putty to a suggestion of shape through fogged-over glass. “I was, was remembering, I was was was-”

“Baldur…” Sir’s voice is gently chiding, and Baldur swallows the words back down where they belong. “Silence is-”

“Better than, than stammering, I know. I’m... sorry, Sir,” He is rewarded for his apology with a warm chuckle that makes Baldur’s toes curl against the grass where his feet have settled just off the edge of the blanket. The little blades tickle his toes and he wants to smile at how wonderful outside is, how grateful he is to Sir for being so kind to bring him out here, for understanding how hard it is for him to get words right, for giving him so many chances to try again.

“What were you remembering, then, darlin’?” Sir yawns a little, covering his mouth with one hand. It’s past eleven o’clock at night - he knows because Sir told him a little while ago - and usually they are both asleep by now, but tonight the only people on the grounds were the people who already knew Baldur existed and Sir had said he was so good, he deserved something nice.

“Training,” Baldur answers honestly.

“Ah. Rememberin’ when I came by to see you, beautiful boy?” Sir takes a sip of his wine, then another, gesturing for Baldur to sit up. Baldur rolls his eyes back up to the sky, a little mournfully, and then pushes himself to sitting, resting his weight on his hands, legs out straight in front of him.

When Sir offers the glass, Baldur lets him tip the smooth edge just to his lips to pour a little of the cool, dry red wine over his tongue. He closes his eyes, thinking about the visits he can kind of remember, behind a wall of sharp-edged blades, of pain. Blurry flashes of wonderful in a never-ending parade of freezing and starving and exhaustion and fear.

A day, here and there, where he was fed real food from fingertips and kept in a warm room with a blanket and a cozy chair, allowed to doze away with his head in Sir’s lap, simple and perfect.

“I remember,” Baldur says, keeping his words slow and careful, and Sir feeds him another sip of wine. “Everything… was terrible… except you.”

Sir chuckles, a low rumble in his chest, and Baldur thinks sometimes he could happily drown in that sound. He lets himself fall back onto the blanket, look back up at the stars. He knows this one is called the Big Dipper, and that one the Little Dipper, but he doesn’t know why, or who told him that. He doesn’t need to know.

“That’s the idea, don’t you think? What I paid for, anyway.” Baldur isn’t exactly certain what his Sir means, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is the way it smells like flowers out here, the Evening Primrose that comes from the gardens Baldur can see from Sir’s bedroom window, sometimes, when he looks out to watch the field trip students with their teachers, wishing his life was like theirs. Feeling like it had been, before.

Baldur’s fingers start to twitch, but he stills them before Sir can see.

He is grateful for the dark, hiding the ways his body wants to move that are not allowed. The night is good for helping him to hide himself that way. The nights and the days when Sir leaves him in the bedroom and Baldur does backflips and cartwheels and every yoga DVD Sir has bought for him until his muscles are worn and weary and it feels like he’s been running, like he’s been allowed to run again.

It is so, so hard to always have to keep still. Sometimes being the pretty statue boy in the bed hurts because his arms and legs want to move, and he has to wait, to be given permission, and only the hallway is long enough to run in, and he has to have permission to go out there, too.

But anything is better than returning to the cold white room in the Facility.

“Do you know the names of the constellations, beautiful boy?” Sir asks, his accent thicker than usual, the genteel southern drawl that sets him apart in this part of the country, where everyone he hears in the hallways and downstairs speaks more like Baldur himself. He likes to listen to Sir’s accent, lilting sing-song softness.

The sound of all the good things he can remember is laced with that voice, slick and smooth, soaking into the folds of his brain and taking up residence in the core of him, warming from the inside out. All the good things come from Sir, will always come from Sir, have always come from Sir. The first food with real flavor fed from his hands, the first touch that didn’t hurt, the first time he was taken out into the world was to be delivered into Sir’s waiting arms.

Even if Baldur doesn’t like his games, the way he gets so twisted up in the phrases and expressions Sir uses that Baldur cannot follow… even so, Sir is the only good thing there is for him.

He must love him, to feel like that.

They told him it was love he felt, anyway.

“No, Sir,” He answers, eyes trailing the stars as though he could raise his hands to touch the velvet darkness between the sparkling lights. He doesn’t tell Sir that he knows the Big Dipper and the Little one.

Baldur sometimes doesn’t say things he thinks. It’s safer that way, to keep the trains running round and round, because if he says all the things he thinks then Sir will give him the pill again and the thoughts go away, dissolve like smoke, and leave Baldur in the awful hazy fog of only one thought at a time.

Sir sighs, a sound of pure contentment, and Baldur rolls onto his stomach, weight rested on forearms and elbows, looking up at him with pure adoration. Sometimes he is terrified of Sir, when he plays the mean games where Baldur isn’t allowed to eat or has to bathe in ice-cold water and see how long he lasts, or the worst one where he has to kneel on pebbles until he cries, and he always cries…

Sometimes, Sir is terrifying.

But in the dark, here - in the breeze and the shifting of leaves in trees, the smell of flowers and in his pretty sweater and slacks and Baldur in just the same… here and now, Baldur is not afraid. Out here, he thinks, he won’t be hurt.

Sir is the reason he left the Facility, the reason he has anything good, ever, at all. Sir will keep him safe from anything that might hurt him now. Safe as houses, Sir would say.

“Without all that noise and the light pollution, it’s a gorgeous view, isn’t it?” Sir swirls the wine in his glass, and Baldur watches the liquid slosh up one side and down and then up the other, a little hypnotized by the motion.

“It… it is,” Baldur says, voice low and soft. He feels a little thrill of something like power when the tone catches Sir’s attention and he feels the weight of his eyes on his face, tracing the lines of his skin like fingertips. The only power he has. “I would… like to be outside more, Sir.”

Sir’s smile widens, his TV-smile, artificially whitened teeth that don’t quite glow in the dark. “Now, darlin’, you and I both know that’s not going to happen.”

“It… it could, though. I can, can be so quiet now.” Baldur’s heart begins to race and he curls his fingers into fists to keep his hands still on the wool that itches against his bare arms. He settles for rubbing his bare feet against each other, at the other end of the blanket, where he hopes Sir can’t quite see him do it. “They taught me to be so quiet, n-no one has to know, Sir, I, I promise, I can be, be, be be so good…”

“Sssshhh.” Sir puts a finger up over his own mouth, and Baldur feels a wash of cold right down his skin from the inside, shrinks back into the dubious protection of his own shoulders, hunching them up somewhere near his chin. “I have a certain reputation to uphold, darlin’. How could I do that if anyone found out about you, hm?”

There’s a sinking feeling in his chest, the disappointment he’s mostly learned not to feel, and Baldur swallows back a protest. It won’t do him any good, and when he speaks up, there’s usually a new game to teach him not to do that anymore. “I… guess you couldn’t.”

“That’s right. I’d lose my career over you, and you are worth quite a bit of money, darlin’, but you’re not worth my ambitions, are you?”

“Are you…” Baldur’s nails dig into his palms, but he holds very still. He’s so perfect, like statue, just like he’s supposed to be. “Are you going to… to hide me, me forever?”

“Not forever, darlin’.” There’s a look on Sir’s face that Baldur can’t quite read, but he doesn’t like it. It’s the same look Sir wears when he’s about to start a game, had some new idea that makes Baldur feel frightened and unsafe even though Sir is the safest person in the world for him. “Just a little while, a few years.”

“A… a few years?” Baldur doesn’t think in years, he’s not allowed to think like that. There are only days, strung together sometimes into weeks but at some point the week starts over and he doesn’t remember how long it’s been any longer.

Years.

Years is so long. Years hidden in the single hallway, moving with careful soundless steps from room to room, years hidden underneath Sir’s desk with instructions not to make a sound, years of days strung together and games he always loses unless Sir wants him to win. How many days are a year? Baldur can’t remember any longer.

Did he ever know?

“Yes, sweetheart. Years isn’t so long, you’ll see.” Sir’s voice is low, and soothing, but Baldur’s jangled nerves don’t react the way they usually do. Instead, the sense of cold and fear and the ball of nervous inside his chest seems to sink even further, settling just behind his heart.

“What, what happens after years?” He asks, looking down at the plaid of the blanket just inside the circle of the camp lantern’s light. Light on one side, dark on the other, the fuzzy line of gradation between the two.

“Hm?” Sir drinks his wine and looks like he hasn’t heard but Baldur is sure he spoke loudly enough.

Somewhere nearby, a bird calls, a high-pitched ee-ee-ee-ee, again and again. The bird’s song is like Baldur’s jangled nerves were given sound.

“After… years. What happens then?” He is so very still. Statue boy, shirtless on the picnic blanket, back collecting drops of dew before morning. If Sir told him to he would stay here all night, shivering on the blanket, waiting to be collected and cared for again.

“Oh, let’s not think about unpleasant things, darlin’.” Sir smiles at him over the rim of his glass, and it looks like he’s enjoying Baldur’s fear.

This is just another kind of game, Baldur thinks. Rigged for him to lose, unless Sir allows him to win.

“You’ll be just fine,” Sir soothes him, almost coos the words, and he moves his hand as though he’ll pet Baldur’s head and then pulls it back at the last second. Baldur’s eyes drop to focus on that hand, those fingers, the denied hint of affection. “But we can’t risk you, sweetheart. I’ve worked far too hard for that. I have plans for my life and I won’t let you interrupt them. You’re a beauty, but no one would think you were worth gettin’ arrested over.”

There’s a silence, broken only by the bird’s high-pitched cry. He can’t think of what to say, so he says nothing at all. Baldur rolls back onto his back, looks back up at the stars, and shivers, wishing Sir had let him wear a shirt out here.

It felt fine before, but suddenly he feels so, so cold. Cold down in his bones, cold in the fear that beats alongside his heart, cold in his palms and his toes and his nose. His fingers want so badly to tap and he has to work so, so hard to keep them still. It twists the fear up tighter in his heart when he can’t get it out through his fingers.

You are frozen, he tells himself, in a voice far stronger than the one he is allowed to use to speak. You are frozen and can’t move because you are icicles now, icicles don’t tap. Stillness is better than what you do. One thought at a time, one movement at a time, everything with a purpose, nothing without one.

“You understand, right, darlin’?” Sir pours himself another glass of wine. He doesn’t offer Baldur any this time.

“Yes, Sir,” Baldur says, softly. I understand.”

The stars seem less brilliant now, and so much further away.

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autistic-girl-academic · 4 years ago

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Cookie Run OCs

gdi apparently one of the cookies in cr kingdom is named licorice cookie so screw it i’m biting the bullet and posting my half-baked (ha) oc ideas now even if some of them have already been taken anyway. sorry there’s no art bc i’m terrible with digital stuff and can’t access a scanner to upload my drawings. there are almost certainly going to be more to come later because this game refuses to leave my brain.

Black Licorice Cookie: The powerfully astringent flavor of black licorice certainly isn’t to everyone’s taste - and that’s just the way Black Licorice Cookie likes it! This daredevil of a Cookie loves nothing more than testing her limits, so she’s always on the lookout for something to get her adrenaline pumping. That doesn’t mean she isn’t without her sweet side, however, which comes out most strongly when protecting her precious little sister. Get between them at your own risk!

Red Licorice Cookie (Sibling): Don’t mess with my little sis if you know what’s good for you!

Mustard Cookie (Trust): Nobody else gets me like Mustard Cookie does!

Kiwi Cookie (Friendly): Hey, I’ve got an idea for some cool bike tricks!

Roll Cake Cookie (Friendly): Going for a ride in that road roller and smashing things is such a rush! WHOO!

Initially I had the mental image of her as a Cookie with a web design and a spider pet, but then Truffle Cookie came out, so now I pretty much picture her skill being that she runs a Ninja-Warrior-style obstacle course or something. Maybe her pet could be a black cat instead?

Red Licorice Cookie: Between the fruity fragrance of her signature red hair and her sweet, outgoing personality, it’s no surprise that this Cookie is so popular! Red Licorice Cookie is a champion at gymnastics with plenty of fans, and performing with the ribbon is where she shines the most. She and her older twin sister might be as different as night and day, but their bond is as strong as a thousand strands of licorice twisted together!

Black Licorice Cookie (Sibling): I’ve got the coolest big sis in the world!

Cheerleader Cookie (Trust): Cheerleader Cooke is my BFF!

Yoga Cookie (Friendly): She’s helped me train to be much more flexible for my routines.

Skating Queen Cookie (Admiration): I can’t believe I actually got her autograph!

At first I imagined her as being a sort of epic version of Cheerleader Cookie, performing double dutch with a few friends much like the cheer team. Her pet would be a charm bracelet.

Oatmeal Cookie: Every day at the crack of dawn, this dutiful cowgirl is already hard at work, keeping a watchful eye over her herd with the help of her trusty steed, Raisin. If even a single cow goes missing, Oatmeal Cookie won’t rest until she’s got them home safe and sound. The tricks she can perform with a lasso will certainly knock your socks off! And when the sun starts to set, you can hear the sound of her yodeling from far across the plains.

Peanut Butter Cookie (Family): I’m the luckiest Cookie alive to have such a beautiful gal as you...

Knight Cookie (Friendly): You sure know how to burn the breeze!

Adventurer Cookie (Friendly): Nice hat ya got there, pardner!

Space Doughnut (Tension): Hey, stop spookin’ my herd!

Her skill would probably involve dodging obstacles on her horse while catching some runaway cows, and her pet would be a cowbell.

Peanut Butter Cookie: There’s nothing better for a boost of energy than some delicious, nutritious peanut butter! And forest ranger Peanut Butter Cookie definitely needs that energy, as she spends every day traversing the woods to keep them safe. Whether she’s helping Cookies who have gotten lost find their way home or rescuing woodland critters from danger, you can always depend on Peanut Butter Cookie. She’s especially fond of younger Cookies and enjoys teaching them wilderness survival skills.

Oatmeal Cookie (Family): She and I pack each others’ lunches every day.

Pancake Cookie (Friendly): Be careful climbing trees for those Acorn Jellies, dear!

Cream Puff Cookie (Friendly): I’m sure you’ll get that spell right next time, hun.

Fig Cookie (Trust): They’re always eager for me to tell them stories.

Fire Spirit Cookie (Tension): You keep those flames away from the forest, you hear?

You can probably tell by now that I’ve put like 0 thought into any of my Cookie OC’s skills. Anyway, her pet would be a bear that she helped when it was a cub, who shows up to help her by smashing obstacles.

Coconut Cookie: The Tropical Soda Archipelago has a long history of telling stories through traditional dance. Coconut Cookie comes from a long line of those dancers, and Cookies will flock from every island to watch her perform. Crowned with a garland of bright yellow coconut blossoms, she moves with the utmost rhythm and grace. It’s said that she practices every day so that she can bring peace and good fortune to the islands.

Mango Cookie (Trust): My best friend since we were little - I remember his very first boat!

Ananas Dragon Cookie (Admiration): The Dragon honored my ancestors by praising their dances.

Soda Cookie (Friendly): Going for a ride on the waves is the best, isn’t it?

Squid Ink Cookie (Friendly): Poor little thing, there’s no need to be shy.

My first thought was for her to make a sort of bubble shield out of coconut oil, like Lemonade Cookie but without the magnetic effect (maybe slower energy drain instead?) - I’m still undecided about it though. Her pet would be a bunch of coconuts who make coconut milk potions. Also, I picture her being related to Artichoke Cookie, but he’s not in Ovenbreak...YET? (pls devsis)

Honeycomb Cookie: Out in a charming little cottage atop a hill lives Honeycomb Cookie - and her many hives of Jelly Bees. Years upon years of working with the bees has allowed her to understand them so well, it’s almost as if she talks to them! If you happen to arrive on her doorstep, you can be sure that she’ll treat you to some delicious tea sweetened with honey and send you on your way with a basket of homemade treats.

Herb Cookie (Family): My cute little grandson certainly inherited the family green thumb.

Spinach Cookie (Trust): Oh, how sweet of you to bring me a basket of vegetables, dearie!

Fairy Cookie (Friendly): Ah, you’re so small I mistook you for another bee.

Matcha Cookie (Friendly): A bit of a strange one, but it’s nice to have some laughter over tea.

Not sure what her skill would be, but I think her pet would be a queen Jelly Bee that grows from a baby to an adult as you collect more jellies.

Souffle Cookie: A chef famous for turning simple Jellies into extravagant and delicious meals. Though he can come off as strict and a bit intimidating, he truly does care about creating good food for every Cookie who comes to his restaurant. Souffle Cookie is quite the perfectionist, so if a recipe doesn’t come out as planned, he tends to sulk so badly that even his fluffy chef’s hat deflates! But it never lasts long before he throws himself back into his work with renewed passion.

Sparkling Cookie (Trust): My cooking and your juice is the ultimate combination!

Sandwich Cookie (Admiration): To create such simple but delicious meals...C’est magnifique!

Mala Sauce Cookie (Friendly): Just watch, I’ll create a meal more than spicy enough to satisfy you!

Dr. Wasabi Cookie (Tension): I am NEVER using your syrup as a ‘secret ingredient’ EVER again!

Again, not sure what his skill would be, but maybe his pet could be a spoon. Sous-chef Spoon?

Rainbow Sugar Cookie: Sugar Cookie was always painfully shy and never considered herself all that important. However, everything changed when she met Rainbow Puff, a creature who begged for her help in protecting the happiness of Cookies everywhere from the wicked Dark Puffs. Bestowed with a magical wand, she becomes Rainbow Sugar Cookie, chasing away darkness with prisms of joyous light! RAINBOW...BEAM!

Pink Choco Cookie (Trust): The two of us would make a perfect team!

Wind Archer Cookie (Admiration): Wow...what an amazing warrior...

Sandwich Cookie (Friendly): She makes the best toast as a snack on the way to school!

Dark Enchantress Cookie (Rival): I won’t let a villain like you make other Cookies suffer!

Pomegranate Cookie (Tension): Why are you helping the Darkness?

Originally her name was Glitter Cookie, but then Shining Glitter Cookie got announced. In any case, she’d pretty much be an epic version of Wind Archer Cookie, fighting a big ‘boss’ monster once enough little ones were defeated with her magic.

Jack-o-Lantern Cookie: Trick or treat! Wait, is it Halloween already? The answer doesn’t really matter to this young Cookie, who loves trick-or-treating so much that they never take their costume off! If you don’t have Jellies to give, then get ready for a mischievous trick! But if there’s one thing they love more than getting treats, it’s sharing them with friends, so don’t be shy and join in the fun!

Candy Corn Cookie (Trust): My bestest trick-or-treating buddy!

Devil Cookie (Admiration): WOW! What a great costume!

Apple Cookie (Friendly): Here, candy apples!

Onion Cookie (Friendly): Trick o- um, please don’t cry...

Vampire Cookie (Tension): Hey, don’t fall asleep when I’m trying to trick you!

I thought I was in the clear with this OC when we got Truffle Cookie for Halloween...but then Pumpkin Cookie was an NPC later, lol. At least the name was an easy change. Their skill would basically be like a slower version of Chestnut’s, where you go up to houses and trick-or-treat.

Candy Corn Cookie: This Cookie used to be a scarecrow who stood in the middle of a big field of candy corn. However, they wanted to travel the world, so one night they wished upon a star...and miraculously, their wish was granted! Bursting with curiosity, Candy Corn Cookie is full of questions about everything they see. They still have a habit of chasing birds wherever they go, though.

Jack-o-Lantern Cookie (Trust): This ‘trick-or-treat’ thing is really fun!

Alchemist Cookie (Admiration): Wow, this Cookie knows lots of things!

Blueberry Pie Cookie (Friendly): Ooh, what’s in all these ‘book’ things?

Mocha Ray Cookie (Friendly): Cookies can really live under the sea? WOW!

Carrot Cookie (Tension): Aw, I don’t wanna go back to the farm yet!

Candy corn apparently used to be called ‘chicken feed’, so their pet would probably be a chicken. Again, not sure about the skill.

#cookie run #cookie run oc #cookie run ocs

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neuxue · 5 years ago

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Wheel of Time liveblogging: Towers of Midnight ch 1

A wind passes through an apple orchard, and the world is changed.

Chapter 1: Apples First

Dragon chapter icon – does that mean we get to see Rand post-Dragonmount? I am… very curious.

Though apples in this story just make me think of Perrin, what with his entire family buried beneath the apple trees.

But first, the Wheel, and the wind.

Crisp and light, the wind danced

That’s a marked shift in tone from how the wind has been introduced in the last few books, as a darker and more violent or vicious force. It is entirely possible that I’m overthinking this. But the wind has always felt like something of a binding thread in the whole idea of ‘the Dragon is one with the land’ and it would be fitting for the wind to change as Rand does.

Then again, it does accelerate somewhat in the next paragraph or so.

Are we starting off in Seanchan? That wind sure does get around.

These were towers meant for war. By tradition they were unoccupied. How long that would last – how long tradition itself would be remembered in a continent in chaos – remained to be seen.

That’s an excellent line. It reminds me of another one from an introductory wind sequence: Trade slowed for winter and wars, and the Dragon Reborn, but it never really stopped, not until nations died. I’m not sure why, really; there’s not a huge amount of similarity there beyond an abstract concept of socioeconomics phrased in a particularly lovely way, but there you go.

Beyond that, though… how long tradition itself would be remembered in a continent of chaos is applied to Seanchan here, but it also touches on a rather central theme of the series overall: the tension between past and future, the weight of story and tradition, of myth and legend, against the inevitability of change and the passage of time.

The wind continued eastward, and soon it was playing with the masts of half-burned ships at the docks of Takisrom.

I like the contrast here between playfulness and violence, between caprice and destruction.

The Fields of Peace were aflame

Well that’s… an image. Okay. Damn.

Semirhage really did do her work well. She may be dead now but before she died, I think she made a pretty solid case for herself as one of the most effective Forsaken. Throwing an entire continent into utter chaos, even while helping that empire bring chaos to another continent? Driving Rand across the last of his own thresholds? You could even argue that her death was itself a triumph, because in pushing Rand to the point where he was willing to kill her, she achieved precisely what she needed to.

I mean, Moridin’s nihilism certainly played a role in Rand’s ‘none of it matters’ on Dragonmount, but Semirhage played a rather starring role in getting him there, and for that she deserves some villainous accolades in whatever terrace of hell she’s now decorating to her tastes.

Eventually, the wind encountered another continent, this one quiet, like a man holding his breath before he headsman’s axe fell.

Well. Depending on the exact timing of this – and I certainly have my guesses – that’s… exactly what’s happening. The land waiting, breath held, for the Dragon to decide its future. Salvation or destruction. And so of course the wind arrives to bear witness.

By the time the wind reached the enormous, broken-peaked mountain known as Dragonmount, it had lost much of its strength.

No, I’m not having emotions about wind, you’re having emotions about wind.

But…yes. Because by the time Rand reached Dragonmount, so had he, for all that he held more power than ever before (but power is not strength; the last several books have been a testament to that). Rand is the wind and the wind is Rand and the land is one with the Dragon and the wind both represents that and carries it outward and I just love how this is done.

I love how this sense is created of everything looking towards Dragonmount, and of this silence as the world holds its breath to learn its fate, as the whole dance that’s been spiralling out from Rand at its centre for so long now pauses, draws back towards that centre, and it all turns on the edge of a decision, a perspective, a single choice alone on a mountain that represents at once death and rebirth.

Hi, I’m Lia, and we’re like two pages in and not even done with the wind sequence and I’m already having a Situation about it. Anyway, what else is new?

An orchard of apple trees rather than a grove of olives at the base of Dragonmount. I mean. That works too.

Two figures stood there: a youth and a sombre man in his later years.

Tam? And Rand?

Oh wait no.

Hang on, Almen Bunt? As in, the NPC cart driver from all the way back in The Eye of the World? Wow. That’s some true dedication to conservation of characters right there.

The boy of thirteen had golden hair from his father’s side.

Uh oh, you’d better keep an eye on that one, Almen; sounds like a potential future protagonist and possible long-lost scion of a royal line you’ve got there.

And during the night, every single one of [the apple trees] had shed their fruit. Tiny apples, barely as large as a man’s thumb. Thousands of them. They’d shrivelled during the night, then fallen. An entire crop, gone.

Damn it Rand. (But also… how appropriate. Apples for innocence, and all of them lost).

‘I don’t know what to say, lads,’ Almen finally admitted.

I think in this situation, ‘…fuck’ would not be inappropriate.

So their storehouse looks about like a grocery store’s shelves during lockdown. No grain, no fresh fruit, probably no toilet paper.

Almen’s determined to make the best of it, but it’s hard to make the best of ‘cosmic shenanigans turned to possibly destroying the world with a stray thought because there really is only so much pain a person can stand and when that person happens to be tied to the fate of the world, things get a bit dicey’. But best of luck to you, Almen. Hold on a few minutes and things might get… better.

In all his years, he’d never seen anything like this. This was something evil.

And yet it’s caused by the one who is meant to be the champion of all that is good and bright in the world. He never turned to the Shadow, but with what he had become by the time he reached Dragonmount… he didn’t need to.

I like the way we see this, as well, not just by watching Rand directly in the latter half of TGS, but also in these brief thoughts and viewpoints of complete outsiders, who really don’t know what’s going on. I like that, from that perspective, there isn’t even any doubt. That it’s so obviously something evil, something wrong, something terrible. It serves to highlight just how far wrong everything had gone. Because watching Rand, book by book, you see it happening, but it’s slow. Gradual. So easy, a step at a time, to justify and understand. But then you take a step back and look through a pair of eyes with more distance and see only what he is now – or rather, what he was right before that realisation – and that realisation is terrifying.

The land is dying all around them and at the centre of it is the Dragon Reborn, who is one with the land and yet dying himself even as he lives. Who, at this point, no longer wants to live. And so the land obeys his will. It’s a slow suicide of a world because the weight of that world is too much for the one who has to carry it.

Staring down those neat, perfect rows of useless apple trees, Almen felt the crushing weight of it. Of trying to remain positive.

Rand your nihilism is contagious. Well. Moridin’s nihilism. Which sort of proves the ‘contagious’ point.

I like this as well, that Rand’s own despair is mirrored and echoed not just in the land, but in the people who inhabit it. Like a very slightly less literal wind; the wind is the land’s version of ‘something that reaches everywhere, far beyond where it originated’ and this despair – for now – is the more metaphorical.

This is it then, isn’t it? He thought, eyes toward the too-yellow grass below. The fight just ended.

Well. Yes, very possibly. But not quite in the way you might think.

This is so well done: the way you can tell precisely where we are in Veins of Gold by the thoughts and despair of a single farmer. The way it shows so clearly the reach of Rand’s… self? Effect? I can’t think of the right word, but it’s like how we see the wind brushing across Almen’s shirt, and now Rand’s despair brushing across his mind. Land and Dragon, and it’s all tied together.

Maybe it was time to let go.

He felt something on his neck. Warmth.

Oh no this is beautiful.

It just tracks so perfectly to Veins of Gold, and none of that even needs to be shown. And you can see the precise moment where that despair (‘none of this matters!’) turn to hope. Which is entirely the point, in a way: it may just be one lonely broken hero on a mountain finally trading despair for hope, but it touches everything. He may be alone and unwitnessed, but the entire world feels it. The sun, the wind, a change.

And I think part of what I love about this is that it’s not dramatic. Neither the despair nor the warmth. Instead it’s this soft almost aching gentleness, because that’s all any of it is. It’s not a battle or a dramatic pronouncement or a cheering crowd or a display of power. It’s just… a thought. A shift.

A gentle warmth rather than a… well, a force of light, if you will.

Which serves as the perfect contrast, really, to one of Rand’s darkest (for all that it was blindingly bright) moments. At Natrin’s Barrow he shone with all the cold brilliance of the Light’s power bent on destruction; all light and nothing of warmth. Now, though, in the moment that truly matters, the moment where everything changes, it’s as simple as the sun emerging from behind the clouds, a warmth on the back of a farmer’s neck, a quiet, unseen but all-encompassing realisation that there is something left to fight for.

He hesitated, then turned weary eyes toward the sky. Sunlight bathed his face.

I just… I love that such a simple statement can carry so much weight behind it. It’s the mark of an extraordinarily well-crafted plot point, that this is all it takes to invoke all its effect, and to convey that effect so perfectly. We know what this means, and it’s neither subtle nor heavy-handed; it’s just… right.

And I still can’t get over how perfect it is that we’re seeing this through the eyes of an utterly random and otherwise unimportant character, because that’s the whole point. That’s what Rand, finally, realises he’s fighting for. The chance for people – any people, random people, villagers and farmers and merchants and monarchs alike – to just live. And so of course we see this through the eyes of, to borrow another chapter title, just another man. Because that’s all any of them are.

The apple trees were flowering.

Oh.

I’m.

This whole scene is just hitting the exact tone of gentle yet powerful beauty-in-simplicity, little-things-that-mean-everything that just gets me.

The apples fell and famine seemed certain and yet here they are, flowering once more, a second chance. A rebirth, if you will.

OH NO OH NO HERE HE IS I’M NOT READY FOR THIS

Almen spun to find a tall young man walking down out of the foothills.

Coming down from the mountain like a benevolent wind and bringing flowers with him like the Aiel and the Nym of old, bringing life back to the land like a goddamn messiah and it’s all done so gently and I’m fine.

‘Ho, stranger,’ Almen said.

I don’t even know why this gets me but it does. Stranger, and yet he is the centre of everything. The centre of everything, and yet at the end of the day he is just another man, another stranger.

It’s been a long time since Rand has walked unrecognised. Maybe that’s it.

‘Did you… did you get lost up in the foothills?’

Well. That’s one way to put it. But the point is: he found his way back.

Or his way forward.

Or something.

‘No. I’m not lost. Finally.’

I’m FINE, this is FINE.

Maybe what really gets me about this scene is that it’s hard to remember the last time there was a scene involving Rand that wasn’t overshadowed by pain and desperation. And now it’s… yes, the pain is still there on some level, but it’s like this weight has been lifted, and so the gentleness of this scene stands as a – well, not sharp because the whole point is it isn’t – contrast to everything that came before, and it’s only in the absence of that pain and despair that you realise how heavy it was.

‘There’s nothing back there of use.’

Except for everything.

‘There are always things of use around, if you look closely enough. You can’t stare at them too long. To learn but not be overwhelmed, that is the balance.’

Ah. And so at last he understands. The importance of balance, but also in this specific circumstance which, I think, is in reference to his memories of his life as Lews Therin.

Because at last, at long last, he has accepted those. He has learned to accept them without losing himself, without fear of losing himself, without feeling as if it is an existential struggle, as if he must keep a barrier between them, as if accepting those memories means accepting that fate.

But now he understands: that he can remember, and learn, but still move on, move forwards, grow. Try again, try differently. Have a second chance, informed by but not bound to the doom of the first. To be himself, but to accept the entirety of what that means. Who he was, who he is.

The man’s words… it seemed they were having two different conversations.

It’s okay, Almen, you get used to him.

Perhaps the lad wasn’t right in the head.

No, see, the thing is, he finally is.

‘Do I know you?’ Almen asked. Something about the young man was familiar.

‘Yes,’ the lad said.

Okay, I love this? On so many levels.

Because sure, there’s the literal: Almen has in fact met Rand before, and Rand answers honestly. And then there’s the next layer down: Rand is the Dragon Reborn and therefore known to most at this point, and he answers that honestly as well.

But then there’s this sense of something even more figurative, less tangible. The Dragon is one with the land, and Rand stands as the Light’s champion and the land personified and the centre of the fight and the wind that brings the apple trees to flower. He’s a part of the world and so Almen knows him, as all know him, as all will know him, even those who have never met and never will meet him.

And finally, I love that Almen has to ask. That there’s still this sense of anonymity, for all that it’s threaded through with a familiarity deeper than any acquaintance. That Almen looks at him first and sees a man, a lad, a stranger, rather than the Dragon Reborn: saviour and destroyer, rather than a monster or a madman or a force of nature. That they’re just two strangers in an orchard, and yet they’re not.

Honestly any kind of play on names and naming and identity gets me every time, and when you combine it with my other fictional love of the space between humanity and divinity and monstrosity, you get a very happy Lia.

‘Gather your people and collect those apples. They’ll be needed in the days to come.’

I mean, for projectile weapons you’d be better off sticking with Aludra’s fireworks, but sure.

‘Gather those apples quickly. My presence will hold him off for a time, I think, and whatever you take now should be safe from his touch.’

There’s just this almost startling and yet utterly peaceful sense of calm to him, that we haven’t seen since… honestly ever. Calm and accepting of who and what he is, and for the first time since he left the Two Rivers, not fighting himself in some way. And what a difference it makes.

It's also remarkable how differently it comes across compared to the icy emotionlessness he surrounded himself with after Semirhage. Because that, too, was conveyed as a perfect calm – but there was a wrongness there that’s lacking here. It’s only a few lines of dialogue, and yet it’s so clearly different.

‘I do know you,’ Almen said, remembering an odd pair of youths he had given a lift in his cart years ago. ‘Light! You’re him, aren’t you? The one they’re talking about?’

HE FINALLY REMEMBERS HIM AND IT’S AS THE BOY RAND AL’THOR FIRST, RATHER THAN THE DRAGON REBORN. I’m sorry, but everything about this just gets me. That for once, he is the person first, and the role second. That the true recognition is of a boy from a dusty road.

It's a lovely kind of irony – rather than cruel, for once – that it’s only after he truly comes into his power and accepts it and stops fighting himself and his role and everything he was and is, and is finally ready to face the world as the Dragon Reborn as the Dragon Reborn is meant to be, that he is at last recognised as human by a stranger who sees him.

Meeting those eyes, Almen felt a strange sense of peace.

Well that’s new. And a welcome change. How long has it been since people looked at him and felt anything but fear, or saw him as anything but dangerous?

‘It is likely,’ the man said. ‘Men are often speaking of me.’ He smiled, then turned and continued on his way down the path.

Peaceful and wise and making his way through the orchard like the wind, knowing and acknowledging but not forcing his place in the world. A force of nature still, but this is worlds away from ‘I am the storm’.

He just… is. And he understands that. And accepts it not begrudgingly, or out of duty, or despite the pain it causes, but entirely and unreservedly and with the understanding, at last, of why.

‘Where are you going?’

The man looked back with a faint grimace. ‘To do something I’ve been putting off. I doubt she will be pleased by what I tell her.’

I would bet actual money that means he’s going to see Egwene, and I had to laugh at how even this new wise, calm, peaceful Rand is fully recognisable as the boy from Emond’s Field in this moment. Because those two are never going to be anything but at least a little exasperated with one another at all times, and it’s such a perfect childhood-friends-turned-sweethearts-turned-basically-siblings dynamic and the faint grimace really sells it. (I would not be remotely surprised if there is name-calling. ‘Woolhead’ and ‘stubborn’ will likely be thrown around)

But it also serves as a reminder that, for all his newfound wisdom, Rand is still human. Which... even that little touch is perfect, in this scene. To ground him, just a little. I just love everything about this entire chapter.

Almen thought – for a moment – he could see something around the man. A lightness to he air, warped and bent.

WHERE ONCE THERE WAS DARKNESS. Because he is who he is meant to be now! The champion of the Light in truth! There is finally light to Rand, in more ways than one, and it’s really kind of surprisingly beautiful.

Everything is different, even if no one but Rand will understand why.

I still just love the way such an absolute change came not from a battle or a crown or a display of power, or even an achievement, but purely from… himself. So much played into creating that moment, yes, and so much was focused on it, but ultimately it was just Rand, alone on the mountain of his suicide and birthplace, coming to terms with himself and seeing something in the world worth saving.

And I’m struggling to express precisely why I like that, but I think it’s something about, I don’t know, the power of the individual, I suppose? The way something so existential can come from something as simple as acceptance? The way nothing has changed, and yet everything has changed, and the cause of it all is finding a purpose, a reason, a last decision to choose a chance at hope over the certainty of despair.

I mean, so much of epic fantasy is about the magic and the power and the politics and the battles, about everything taking place on a grand scale, about the fantastical. But sometimes you also get moments like this, where balanced against all of that you still see the importance of just… a person, and a choice.

Next (ToM ch 2) Previous (ToM prologue pt. 3)

#I'm! fine! this is fine!#wheel of time #neuxue liveblogs WoT #Towers of Midnight

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shootingcookielover · 5 years ago

Text

So I wrote this based on this prompt from @transformationloveb

I hope it makes sense and isn't too bad

Warnings

Uhm. I honestly don't know what to put here, please help? I don't thin kthere's anything too bad in this?? Maybe there is and I've just become de-sensitized

Characters

Mostly Roman and Deceit, but Patton, Virgil and Thomas show up too, Logan is there as well, but he doesn't say anything, Remus appears too and gets mentioned sometimes

Roceit

“Would you please love me when I don’t love myself?”

The request had been made in the middle of another all-nighter, with Thomas running on several cups of coffee and a headache.

Roman had looked as disheveled as all the others did, sash missing, hair ruffled, clothes wrinkled.

He could barely stand upright, using the doorframe to keep from falling.

His eyes were dull.

Janus didn’t fare much better at the moment; none of the sides did. His hat sat askew, his capelet was rumpled and his shirt was only partially closed.

He rubbed the scales on his face; they felt dry and itchy, a consequence of Thomas’ horrible sleeping habits.

That night there was no answer given, however, as Thomas finally fell asleep on the couch, his TV still going.

There were precisely four knocks on Roman’s door the next day.

He mumbled into his pillow without answering.

For a while the creative side thought whoever had been at his door left. He’d already slipped back into a half-sleep kind of doze.

Then the four knocks repeated.

Roman huffed in annoyance as he rolled over, sun light from the imagination hitting his face.

He really had to work on that, he thought, as he pulled one arm up to cover his face.

Another four knocks.

The creative side groaned. “I’m asleep!”, he yelled at the door.

“How sad. Then I’ll just come back another time.”, the voice was dampened by the double doors, but still understandable.

The arm fell of Roman’s face as he snapped into a sitting position.

The door handle rattled, as the door was pushed open.

“Deceit!”

The snake-like side raised an eyebrow. “No, I’m afraid it’s Remus.”, he replied, stepping into the room.

He closed the door behind himself, while Roman struggled to get out of his bed. The blanket had wrapped around him quite unfortunately, so he ended up in a crumpled mess on the floor.

Deceit snorted in amusement.

The creative side finally managed to get out of the blanket heap, his hand wrapping around the handle of a sword that hadn’t previously existed.

He pointed it at the lying side, eyes narrowed. “What do you want, Jack the Fibber?”

“I’m sorry, am I not allowed to inquire what you’re little… proposal means?”

Roman’s eyes widened and his sword sunk a bit.

He quickly regained control of himself, raising the sword once more. “That wasn’t a ‘proposal’! It was a simple jest that you fell for!”

The snake looked unimpressed. “Ah. I assume this ‘jest’ is the reason for your…”, one gloved finger poked at the blade turned towards him. “…completely normal reaction.”

Roman huffed. “Why you-! This is an entirely acceptable reaction to a villain such as yourself entering my room without permission!”

Deceit took a step back, as Roman started to wave his sword around, instead of making his usual hand gestures.

“Of course. That must be why you’re in tears laughing at me, for falling for your little joke.”

Roman shifted uncomfortably on his feet. His eyes strayed from the snake for a second, but he was quick to snap them back on the fiend. He couldn’t let the bad guy out of his sight.

“Face it, Roman. You can’t lie to me.”

The smirk on the snake’s face made Roman grit his teeth. “So?”, he managed to get out, “What of it?”

“Well, if you’re still up for the original terms, I would accept your request. For Thomas’ sake you need to be in good shape.”

The creative side… honestly hadn’t expected that. His sword wavered.

“You… what?”

The snake sighed. “I accept your request, Roman. ‘To love you when you cannot’?”

“…you love me?”

Deceit rolled his eyes once more. Annoyed, he pushed the sword aside, stepping closer towards Roman.

There was a smirk playing on his lips now, as he leaned in close.

Roman realized that Deceit was slightly shorter than him.

“I don’t, but that doesn’t mean I can’t pretend to. That’s why you came to me, not your precious famILY, isn’t it?”, his voice was smooth, warm honey, sweet and alluring.

Roman’s breath hitched as he felt gloved fingers curl against his cheek.

“All you need to do is say ‘yes’.”

Deceit’s face was so close to Roman’s, he could feel the warm puffs of breath against his skin. Against his lips.

Deceit’s scales glittered a beautiful shade of emerald green in the sun light from the imagination. The snake eye didn’t look sickly yellow anymore, the light bouncing off it gave it a richer, much more pretty shade.

Roman knew he shouldn’t even contemplate agreeing to this. Deceit was a dark side, he was lies and selfishness and evil.

…

But he’d thought the same of Virgil, once. Had rejected the anxious side, pushed him aside.

When he really was an integral part of Thomas. Not evil or destructive.

A protector.

A stronger side would have been able to reject the snake; see the flaws in the proposed arrangement.

Roman had never been strong; he’d only ever pretended to be and, well.

Deceit would see right through him, wouldn’t he?

Their arrangement worked surprisingly well. Roman had always been an expert at lying to himself and the snake was obviously quite good at pretending as well.

It wasn’t hard to fool himself into thinking Deceit actually cared.

That the nights spent together meant something; that the quiet late-night strolls weren’t just make-believe; that Deceit actually wanted to marathon Disney-movies with him.

That the quiet mornings with chaste kisses and murmured conversations weren’t just a lie.

The only problem with that was that Roman was the romantic side.

He realized the depth of this problem when he awoke one morning to Deceit in his arms. The snake was practically on top of him, still asleep.

His face was turned so that his scales were visible.

Roman found his hand reaching up and tracing the scales thoughtlessly, a small smile on his lips.

He almost let out a surprised giggle when Deceit’s forked tongue flicked outwards, as if to taste the air.

The creative side repeated the movements he’d done before and this time really did let out a quiet chuckle as the side in his arms bleped once more.

Deceit was adorable.

…

Roman’s eyes widened. His heart started beating faster in his chest. His face almost burned with the blush following his realization.

He had fallen for the snake-like side.

His first instinct was to shake Deceit awake and tell him – but Roman stopped himself.

There was no way the other side would keep up their arrangement if he admitted the lies had gotten to him. Roman wouldn’t be able to let him, anyway.

Wouldn’t be able to bear the lies he was told, knowing full-well they were lies, while his heart ached for them to be true.

With this truth spilling from his lips he wouldn’t be able to keep up the façade.

He just had to keep quiet; pretend there was nothing wrong. Then this could keep going.

This would continue to be as wonderful as it was.

Shortly after Roman had decided what to do, Deceit blearily opened his eyes.

The creative side smiled at the snake-like one, as he raised his body temperature ever-so-slightly.

Deceit sighed contentedly and snuggled closer, his tongue flicking out again. “Morning.”, he mumbled.

“Good morning.”

As long as Roman didn’t say anything, things could go on like this forever. Perfect. Fake.

Roman had been wrong. Of course he had been. He was always wrong.

Despite Deceit’s lies reassurances, that fact was blatantly obvious.

Of course things couldn’t go on like that forever. ‘Happily ever after’s didn’t exist outside of the fairy tales Roman loved to pretend he was a part of. None of the arrangement constituted a ‘happily ever after’, it was nothing but lies and make-believe.

They’d grown too comfortable, too secure in their secret meet-ups.

Roman had dropped one too-many hints for Deceit; just wishing to spend time with the other side. Truth be told ha! Roman had simply craved the lying side’s touch, he hadn’t even felt all that bad today.

He’d abused the arrangement, broken the deal, and of course the punishment was immediate.

“What are you doing?!”

Roman immediately shoved Deceit off of himself, standing up from where he’d been half-lying on the bed.

The snake-like side almost tumbled to the ground, but managed to catch his balance before that happened.

He straightened his capelet with a huff and conjured his hat with a flick of his wrist, to set it back on his hair.

Virgil’s eyes were wide, his eye-shadow bleeding down his face like black tears.

Roman raked a hand through his hair, trying to get it in some sort of order. “I- Virgil- this isn’t-!”, the words seemed to allude the creative side and Deceit quickly took over.

“I assure you, Virgil, this is exactly what it looks like.”, the smirk was back in place; it looked so much sharper than the expressions Deceit wore around Roman.

The anxious side leaned back, eyes flickering from Roman to Deceit, disbelief pouring from his body language.

“Roman what the fuck?!”

The creative side didn’t feel very creative at the moment. He glanced at Deceit who didn’t bother looking in his direction.

That hurt. Why had he let this go on for so long?

“I- I didn’t-“, why was talking so hard?! Roman wished he could have wrote down what he was going to say beforehand, but he hadn’t thought of that. He’d been an idiot.

Again.

Deceit gave him a pat on the head.

Confusion intermingled with the panic. He looked towards the lying side who only moved past Roman, towards the door. The creative side wanted to reach out and pull him back.

But Deceit wouldn’t want that.

Deceit was only lying.

He didn’t really care.

The lies came crashing down around Roman, breaking and splintering the wonderful illusion he’d lived in for so long.

“It appears that I’m no longer needed. Goodbye, Roman.”, the lying side gave him a wave.

Deceit sunk out.

The creative side stared at the spot where the snake had disappeared.

“What did he tell you?”

Harsh, quick steps approached him.

Roman glanced up to see Virgil much closer than the creative side was truly comfortable with.

“I- I don’t…”

Virgil sighed. He rubbed his face, right where the eyeshadow resided. It was almost covering the entire lower half of his face.

Roman idly wondered if it hurt or itched or was generally uncomfortable.

“Whatever-“, the anxious side cleared his throat. “Whatever it was; it was a lie.”

“I…”

The sympathetic look in Virgil’s eyes hurt.

“I know how good he is at… pretending to care for you.”

Roman was pulled into a hug.

Virgil hated hugs; was uncomfortable with most kinds of touch. Roman should feel honored to be on the receiving end of it.

That he didn’t was just more proof of his idiocy.

Virgil agreed to keep the… incident under wraps. Neither Patton or Logan caught wind of it; though they did notice Roman’s mood dropping.

The sudden realization that everything was a lie, left the creative side feeling…

Unsparkly.

Of course he’d known it were lies and an elaborate game of pretend but…

Well.

He wanted to continue the arrangement; it hadn’t been ended, after all, but Roman couldn’t bring himself to drop a hint. Couldn’t bring himself to leave his room with no sash.

It would just make him feel worse to be surrounded by fake love, wouldn’t it?

Roman had thought it was better than receiving no love.

Now, though, he was receiving more attention from his fellow sides.

Well, from Virgil. And Patton. No doubt because Virgil had dropped hints when he was with the fatherly side.

It made Roman feel horrible for worrying Patton. For taking up Virgil’s time.

He’d already made the anxious side’s life hell once. He didn’t need to do it again.

It was the entire reason he’d sought out Deceit in the first place, instead of asking anyone else.

It would make him feel horrible to worry the others.

Why was he so selfish?

The callback was a miracle wrapped in a golden opportunity. It was heaven on earth, the taste of freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies and the feeling of waking up aside someone who loves you.

The wedding felt like a punishment, like the walk up to the guillotine or the blade falling down to cut off your head.

The comparison made him shudder; it was so similar to something Remus would say.

The trial made Roman feel even more conflicted than he already did.

With Deceit throwing compliments his way every chance he got, Roman’s head spun. He was confused.

But none of it was truth, he knew that, deep down he knew that.

And this time, other than before, he wasn’t alone. The others were there.

Sides stronger than him, aiding him in his decision making.

“One day at the St. Clifford’s chapel on the day of Lee and Marry Lee’s wedding!”

For the first time since Virgil had found them in Roman’s room, Roman left out a clue.

He neglected to wear his sash to dinner that evening.

When Deceit and Remus swooped in to collect their food, he knew the snake-like side saw it.

The others didn’t.

“I thought our arrangement had met an end, truth be told.”

Roman sighed. He rubbed his temples.

“I just…”, his eyes moved up and met Deceit’s. “don’t feel very much love for myself at the moment.”

The snake-like side inclined his head. His arms spread wide.

Roman took the invitation and hugged the lying side.

Then Remus showed up. He knocked Roman out for almost an entire episode.

He had his own theme song.

It made Roman feel even less needed than before. The others had gotten through one episode without him.

Surely they could get through others without needing the creative side’s input.

Roman didn’t wear his sash to dinner that night.

Remus joined them at the table for the first time in years.

Nobody invited him to sit; nobody necessarily wanted him there. He just conjured himself what Roman assumed was a chair and sat down with the others.

He giggled and laughed and threw around uncomfortable ideas.

Every now and again he tried to kick off their usual banter; the way they’d talk in the imagination, but…

Roman wasn’t feeling it.

He barely talked throughout dinner.

“You let him out because of me, didn’t you?”

The snake didn’t have to ask who Roman was talking about.

“Contrary to popular belief I can totally control what Thomas knows and what he doesn’t. It absolutely isn’t Thomas’ will whether he wants to face the lies he’s told himself or not.”

“Why would I believe you, snake?”

For a second, Roman thought he saw hurt flit across the other side’s face. But surely that must have been his imagination, he was projecting.

The constant distrust running through him was exhausting, but voicing it hurt. Openly admitting it, made everything they’d had so much less… real. So much more fake.

It hadn’t been real from the beginning, he knew that, but that was beside the point.

This was the perfect opportunity.

The perfect opportunity to finally get rid of Roman, to stop the arrangement altogether.

It was messing with Janus’ head, made his thoughts muddled when he thought of Roman and his heart beat faster, for some reason.

Even as he squared his shoulders and set that smirk back on his face, he didn’t want to, he felt everything inside him scream to stop.

But he couldn’t risk whatever was happening to him.

Seeing the harsh smirk directed at Roman felt worse than he could‘ve imagined.

His breath caught in his throat, tears stung at the edges of his eyes that he willed away.

“I didn’t think you would. You always had a habit of seeing through my lies.”

There was a short pause. Roman was confused by the statement, until the snake continued.

“Oh, wait. You didn’t. You fell for them all.”

Deceit reached out, a gloved hand against Roman’s cheek. The creative side couldn’t help but lean into the touch.

It had been so long.

“Even now you eat them up like the gullible, little sheep you are.”

Roman pushed the other side’s hand away, pain erupting in his chest.

“I thought we had an arrangement!”, the creative side said. He could feel his fingers twitch, aching to wrap around a grounding sword handle.

The snake’s expression turned cruel. “The arrangement is off.”

He turned to leave.

Roman couldn’t help himself this time, couldn’t stop his selfish nature to rear it’s head. His hand shot forward to wrap around Deceit’s wrist, stopping the other side.

He turned his head, the sneer on it only stoking the flames of pain in Roman’s chest.

“But…”, he choked on his own words. “After everything… it was just a lie, wasn’t it?”

Deceit quirked an eyebrow up, face incredulous and it hurt, it hurt so much.

“That was the agreement, yes.”

Feeling like he couldn’t breath, Roman let go of Deceit’s wrist.

Just in time for the doors to be pushed open.

Patton was standing in the doorway, silent tears running down his face.

“P- padre…”, Roman’s bewilderment almost overpowered the break in his core. Lie. “What are you doing here? Since when have you been there?”

“Long enough.”, Patton replied. He trudged forward, standing in-between Roman and Deceit. His eyes held a fierce glare.

“You better leave, Deceit. Before Virgil finds out what you did.”

The snake looked the fatherly side over. He sent Roman one last look, then, with the slow incline of head, he sunk out.

Apparently posts have a limitation, didn’t know that, so...

here’s part 2

#sanders sides #fanfiction #janus sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #part 1

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