#but still prides herself on being a hero like her brother and helping those in need

[vipermenace]

The Star Tarot

A young hero, raised by supervillains and heroes views the world with hope of the future. Her love and faith on both sides of the coin is endless.

[uattabat]

The Duke of the North

(Picture from Pinterest https://pin.it/4oKeauBp6)

OC!Duke x fem!reader

!Warnings!: Mentions of violence

A/N- I’m practicing my writing and writing short love stories sounds the most fun way to do it! If you have any critiques or advice, please let me know!

A/N pt.2 - I wouldn’t say this is a finished piece, but I have other things I want to write. But I’ll finish when I get more ideas of what to do for the rest of this story!

The Duke of the North. A terrible, terrifying man. With one look at his eyes you can see the deep vast sea of red, of what people say are of all the people he ruthlessly murdered. His narrow cut throat eyes would slice you down the middle with his antagonizing gaze. The Duke’s grim expression shows nothing but disinterest on whoever he encounters. He’s a tall and intimidating man, built full of muscle mass and impurity.

Though that’s what the nobles say. Gossip is all it was, rumors that go over the heads of some and into the ears of people who wish bring down the Duke’s reputation. Though the source of such discourse about him is that he was the Kingdom’s war hero. The one to save all the peasants and nobles from dismay. The once cold Duke went to war with his head aimed up high and his posture straight. Though when the kingdom won the war, the Duke turned hard and distant. His head bowed and his shoulders slanted.

Can the tragic Duke get rid of these horrendous rumors? Heal his wounds from war? Even find someone to…marry?

Can you save the Duke of the North?

————————————————————

Your from and highly esteemed noble family. With many siblings with amazing intelligence and abilities. Then there you are, with 5 siblings you’re the middle child. Born after your 3 go getter siblings. That have all achieved what everyone envies. The oldest and head of the family, your brother Robin, he has great pride in the family and all of his siblings. He has a lovely wife that is currently carrying their first child. Second oldest and most sought after, your sister Rowan, with elegant beauty and quiet demeanor she caught the eye of the second prince of the kingdom then soon after got married. Their romance was the talk of the century, many bachelors mourned the day they heard she was engaged. The third oldest and most stern out of the older two, your brother Noa, the captain of the Royal Guard. He was always uptight when he was younger so the title suits him. Just like his older sister he was graced with a beauty that many want for themselves, but as much he is stern he is also hardheaded and refuses to get married. As there is you the fourth oldest. Beauty still captivating, but around your siblings its dwindled into the background, your personality much the same. As you like scene of the nobles and luxury, you get uncomfortable being in it. Then your two younger siblings. Twin boys, Jean and Lane that have captivated the young noble society with their wild pranks and perky demeanor. With such bigs personalities in your family, you’ve blended to the background, wanting to reach out but too afraid of the attention. In the back of your mind you wanted someone to notice you for you.

———————————————————————

It’s been 1 year after the war. In a few days is the anniversary of when the soldiers came back home. The King made that day a celebration of the kingdom and of those who came back, also for those who didn’t. No doubt your family was invited to the royal ball that will commence. Your older sister giving you and your other siblings the invitations herself.

“It’s going to be a beautiful event I promise you that!” Her smile shines bright like the morning sun.

“I have no doubt in that sister, you took part in decorating, yes?” You asked with a light chuckle.

“Why yes I did, obviously the queen would want my help, I am more than just a pretty face.” She prided herself with her head tilted high, and a soothing laugh. You’ve missed your sister and her witty attitude.

With a small smile you say, “Sister, I appreciated you coming here but how come you’re staying to talk with me? I know your a busy woman?” You narrow your eyes at her, you see her once comfortable postures suddenly turn upright. She gives you a nervous laugh. Your sister is quite easy to see through, you knew her all your life. You know when she is up to something.

“You always send letters saying you barely have any time to visit us, or even have dinner. But now you able to sit and have tea with your sister with no worries? Is something going on?” Your eyes turned to a worried expression, concerned for your sister, thinking of all possibilities that she took the hard work to get a free schedule to talk to you.

“Sister…my dear sister (Y/n)” she gives an exasperated sigh. Which makes you worry more.

“I know our brother and his lovely wife is taking good care of you, and the twins of course. But I’m worried for you (Y/n), I spend nights wide awake worrying for your future!” She gives you a wide eyed look of exaggerated sorrow. You sigh loudly, knowing where this conversation is going. To think you were so worried.

“Don’t give me that look! I just want my sister to find her soulmate!” You shake your head not wanting to listen to any of her nonsense.

“Why don’t you go to Noa with all this soulmate nonsense.” You give her a slight smirk as you see her worried expression turned slightly agitated.

“Oh! You know Noa is a lost cause!”

“Yeah because you kept pestering him with this nonsense!”

“I just want my siblings to find love like I did.” She gives a deep sigh, giving up and hanging her head down.

“I get that you mean well, but I don’t think I’ll find it.” You turn your head away from her, feeling her gaze upon you.

“Don’t say that (Y/n), because it will…” she pauses before she finishes her sentence. Moving right next to you, putting your hands in hers as she gazes at your eyes.

“I’ll make sure it does, because I set you up to have an escort to the ball!” She exclaimed with and wide smile. Your eyes turned wide, and you try to yank your hands out from hers but she has a strangely strong grip on you!

“I know this may be overbearing of me but you know I have good intentions! Even if the man I picked isn’t the one, it will show others that the fourth daughter of the (L/N) House is ready for courting!” She talks like a madwoman.

“My goodness Rowan, I know you like to keep tabs on my life. But that doesn’t mean you can control it!” You yelled, getting agitated.

Your sister gives you an indescribable look, as the gears in her head are turning. “Okay, okay, I will admit I may have gone a little too far. But please just accept the escort!” She finally lets go of your hands. And gives you a nervous smile. She realize how crazy she was being. But that doesn’t stop her.

“Who even is the escort?” You give her a mean glare.

“Sir Lowan, from the Lucidean House!” Sir Lowan also from an highly esteemed house, he’s known for his good looks and good nature. The crème de la creme of bachelors.

You sigh, at least you know your sister has good taste, she married a prince after all.

“How did you even come across from having him escort me?”

“Oh, he was meeting with my husband! I was able to have a chat with him and asked if he was interested in being your escort for the first anniversary ball!” Her face lights up with the mention of her husband.

“Oh so he most likely did it for political reasons. As I’m the sister in law of the crown prince.” You deadpanned.

“Oh shush it, you never know he might just fall in love with you at first sight, or fall in love with you at your first words to each other! Or…-“ you stopped her before she continued on her delusions.

“Okay, I’ll accept his escort. Now please can we stop talking about this.” You heaved a tired sigh.

“Thanks (Y/n), I’m just trying to get you out there. I want to see you succeed. Though I’m not narrow minded, I know you can succeed without a husband, but your my only sister. I see myself in you.” She slides her hand in your hair, combing through it. She gives you an affectionate smile. You couldn’t possibly understand what she meant at she saw herself in you, but you didn’t question further.

The tea and talk went on normally after the uncomfortable conversation you had to go through. It was time for your sister to go and you say your goodbyes. You’ll see her again at the ball.

—————————————————————————

You were invited to have lunch with other noble ladies your age. Though you’re not a social butterfly, you still have enough social status to be invited for tea parties and lunches very now and then. To prepare for the ball you decided to go, to dust off your social skills.

The hostess decided on a popular restaurant to have lunch at. The restaurant being so popular because it’s the prince’s favorite restaurant, also many other eligible bachelors favorite spot. So if so happens a charming man comes through the doors, all the ladies have something to swoon over.

As expected it’s quite packed as nobles from further away the kingdom come to be able to attend the ball.

“The shopping area is so busy now that there are more nobles in the kingdom!” The hostess huffs.

“Oh I noticed that too, it’s so hard to be able go to the boutique because now there is a whole line out the door!” Another girl exclaims

“Exactly! It’s hard to get anything these days because everything is in demand.”

You look around aimlessly, half heartedly listening to the conversation having nothing to add to it.

Your eyes roam the front door of the restaurant seeing shadows in the frosted windows. The bell above the doors rings loudly, weirdly having more of an echo than the other times the bell made noise. The door opens all the way, people look to the door and stare. The restaurant goes quite. Loud foot steps echo throughout the large establishment. People start to murmur, hush tones going throughout your table. The people at the door is the Crown Prince, and the Duke of the North.

A waiter quickly leads them to a private room. The whispers getting louder and louder till the two men leave everyone’s sight.

You can’t help but be one of the many people who stared. You saw the Crown Prince before, but you rarely seen the Duke. Only getting glimpses of him when you and him are at the palace at the same time. Something about him entranced you. You know what others say about him. No doubt about it that the rumors unnerved you, but that’s all they are rumors. You’re curious about the Duke, he was always cold but he just seemed jaded now.

“Wow his eyes really are a deep red.” The hostess comments.

“Yeah, he also has some big muscles too!” A girl giggles. The other ladies around the table start to giggle too.

“You know the rumors say about him right?” Suddenly said the hostess, her demeanor turned serious.

You turn your gaze to her as so do the other girls. All waiting to hear most likely a story to give them goosebumps.

“I heard that during the war, he would slaughter anyone in his way! Even civilians, and that he would bath in their blood. Which made his eyes turn a dark crimson.” She whispered, you and all the girls lean forward to hear her very word.

“From all the blood he spilt, and bathed in, the devil came to him. Impressed by his brutality, and gave him a deal to win the war.”

“What was the deal” said a girl that was hanging onto every word the hostess said.

“Don’t know, that’s between the Duke and the devil.” She gave a devious smirk to the girl. She leaned back in her chair, done with telling her little tale.

“Was there any witness to say this happened?” You asked unexpectedly, you didn’t know what you said till you said it.

“Hm? Well no, I heard it from my brother. But he said he heard from his friends.” She crossed her arms.

“Do you think it’s true?” You started this conversation might as will continue it.

“Well, I’m not sure. I don’t know the Duke but... nobody is telling us how they won the war!” She exclaimed defensively.

“He most likely won the war, like how every other war is won.” The silence laid heavy, everyone at the table knows what you’re insinuating.

“That doesn’t make him a devil, does it? After all he fought for all of us.” The silence continued, the hostess staring at you with narrowed eyes. Finally someone breaks the silence.

“These crepes taste amazing, yum!” A girl exclaimed, then suddenly the others are joining in complementing the food.

The rest of the lunch feels awkward for you. Noticing the weary glimpses the other girls give you. Wishing for the time to go faster. Then finally the noble ladies are done with their food and are climbing into their carriages. As you climb into your carriage you catch a glimpse of the Duke walking out the of the restaurant. You notice his hardened face, he looks older than he actually is. His expression looks of disinterest. You can’t help but stare, no matter how cruel and scary people call him. He is a beauty, even after the cruelty of war. Before your carriage starts, he notices your staring, looking back straight at you. Eyes of neutrality, expression of nothing. But you can’t help the leap in your heart a little. You stare at each other for what seems like for eternity, but it was only a few swift seconds till your carriage starts to take you away. The Duke going back to his carriage, you continue to stare back.

—————————————————————————

The day before the ball, you’re currently at the palace where your sister lives. She invited you over so you both could have final touch ups to your dresses, created just for the ball. As much you value the time with your sister, your thoughts are set on something else.

“I can’t help but think you’re bored of me sister. What’s on your mind?” Rowan gives you a sly smirk. Obviously teasing you. You’re both in your gowns for the ball, tailors pinning and sewing around the both of you.

“Don’t say that, I’m enjoying my time with you.”

“Hm? You didn’t answer my other question. You thinking hard on something, and don’t dismiss me I know you (Y/n)”

“Well…I was just thinking of…” you start to trail off unsure if you should tell the truth to your sister.

“Thinking of?” She tilts her head at you.

“Of the Duke, the Duke of the North.” You said it fast paced, your head turned to the mirror in front of you. The instant you said it the room turned still. Maids faces in the room turned to shock but quickly natural. You see the tailors working on your dress stop for a quick second but then continue to work on your dress. Your head is turned away from your sister but you can clearly visualize the shock on her face.

“The Duke! Norman Verez! That Duke!” She yelled.

“Yes, that Duke.”

“Oh wow sister, you know the rumors right? Well I guess rumors are rumors but- well I suppose we all have our types…” she continues to ramble trying to wrap her head around your sudden interest about the notorious Duke Verez.

“I’m just curious, that’s all”

“Curious? Well I can’t say I have meet the Duke. He likes to keep to himself at his estate.” Your turn you head to face your sister, an inquisitive look on your face.

“Now I think about it, I think Noa knew him back you two were kids”

“What do you mean? When we were kids?”

“Well before you entered the academy he was in the same grade as Noa, both of them were quite skilled in swordsmanship! I remember Noa always pouting about how the Duke gets more attention for his skills and not him.” You sister nods her head thoughtfully, reminiscing all of your school days. Your brother Noa was only grade above you, while your sister was 4 grades above you.

“The Duke and Noa were rivals, well that is what I heard from others but, to be honest I didn’t think your brother nor the Duke thought it as such.”

“If anything Noa was probably grateful for someone as skilled as him” you nod your head.

“Yeah, but it’s too bad he left before the school year ended. His parents died from a tragic accident, his family elders then thought it would be better to keep him tutored at his estate. After that he was rarely ever seen.” Rowan shakes her head.

“Why tell me all this?”

“To cure your curiosity, sister I’m gonna be honest I know what they say about the Duke but I won’t judge him from that. But I just don’t think much will come from your interest in him”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll just say it out right. I don’t think he’s a good fit for you, and that’s even if he has any interest in marriage! I have heard from friends and acquaintances that he has turned down proposals left and right for years!” She exclaims her arms raised to make a point.

“It’s not like I’m looking to court him! Like I said it’s just curiosity.” You shake your head dismissively, starting to get annoyed.

“I’m just looking out for you I want the best for you, to have an happy future . I don’t think the Duke could or ever will be happy.”

“What a harsh thing to say about someone.” You glare at your sister but she dismisses the look.

“I’m just being realistic.” She turns back to the mirror in front of her.

The rest of the fitting was cold silence. The air became stale and hostile. Who knew that talking about the Duke could bring such harsh conversations.

———————————————————————

The night of the ball. Your nerves were on the rise, shoulders tense as maids help you put on your glamorous gown. Shiny jewels adorn it, sewed on to pretty ruffles. The dress would surely catch eyes, as it matched with your sister’s gown. For being family of royalty you obviously get special treatment. Not that you mind of course.

As the sun slowly goes down, you and the other people in your household get ready. You hear out in the halls maids and butlers running around to get things done before you and your siblings leave. But that didn’t bother you as something else was on your mind. Sir Lowan, your escort to the ball.

He will be meeting you at your family’s estate, outside with his carriage. To ride together. Just by yourselves. Alone. No attendant or anything.

Of course some olde values were left in the past. Being alone with the opposite gender isn’t scrutinized anymore. But it’s that fact for you that you would be alone with a man you have had no interactions with ever.

Time seems to past way to fast for your liking and your already done with getting ready. Your maids compliment you before walking out of your room, leaving you by yourself. Taking deep breaths, you try to prepare yourself for the endeavors that will happen tonight. You’re not use to so much activity happening around you.

You steady yourself and head for main entrance where most likely your siblings and Sir Lowan is waiting. You take your time walking the longs halls all the way to the stair way, you can over hear people talking and laughing. Seems like Sir Lowan is here and getting along with your older brother most likely.

Likely hearing your footsteps, the conversation stops while you appear at the top of the stairs.

“There she is, our lovely (Y/n)!” Your oldest brother Robin exclaims loudly that it echos in the large room.

You smile shyly, embarrassed with the way he is shouting. Your gaze turn to Sir Lowan, he bows his head down in a greeting you do the same. You descend down the stairs, when you reach the bottom Lowan reach his hands out to you.

“You look absolutely beautiful Lady (Y/n)” his voice was sweet and soothing. It reminded you of honey. He had kind eyes and a thin smile.

“Thank you Sir Lowan, and thank you for escorting me tonight.” you take his hand as you wrap you arm around his.

“The pleasure is all mine.” He smiles widely this time, turning to your brother. His eyes beam.

“It was lovely meeting you all, I’m sure to keep your dear sister entertained!” Your brother nods his head in assurance, chucking in response.

“We’ll see you at the ball, let’s get going now we don’t want to be late!” Your brother exclaims. You all head to your respected carriages. Sir Lowan held his hand out, to help you up into the carriage. You thankfully take his hand, noticing that even through the gloves you have on, his hands are soft and firm. Noticing your thoughts you blush to yourself as you sit down. Your sister really has gotten into your head with all her romance talk.

Your both seat across of each other, silence fills the carriage. The bumpy ride didn’t help with awkwardness in the air. You fumble with your hands, adjusting the gloves to fit your hand just right.

You continue to look down at your heads till you hear Sir Lowan clear his throat. You glance up at him his eyes on you.

“Ahem, your sister has told me quite a bit about you!”

“All nice things, though!” He laughs it off. You hum in mild amusement.

“What has she said?” You tilt your head in a Inquisitive manner.

He then rambles on about all the exaggerated things your sister told him about yourself. You nod along as if you knew where all these suppose accomplishments came from.

Lucky for you, him retelling all the tales your sister told you past the time quite fast. You’re already at the palace entrance.

The door to the carriage coming open with servants on the other side ready to help. Sir Lowan came out first. He turned towards you at the door holding his hand out for you to hold. There were other nobles arriving at the same, some were gawking at you and Sir Lowan. Two very powerful household members arriving at the ball together, rumors are bound to spread.

You take Sir Lowans hand. He takes a gentle grip to your hand leading you down the carriage steps. When you step down, he lets go of your hand and offers you his arm. It’s the basic of chivalry but couldn’t help but blush from the kindness. You wrap your hands around his arm and you both start to walk towards the palace doors.

———————————————————————

It didn’t take long till others went and took Sir Lowan away. Though the ball was ancelebration, it never stops eager nobles to make connections. Though Sir Lowan was polite and wanted to accompany you a little longer, you said you didn’t mind. You much prefer not being around the nobles that only think of business and opportunities for themselves.

The ball was lively as ever, pretty women in pretty gowns. Handsome men in sophisticated suites. People gliding down the dance floor as classical music plays romantic songs.

Your family members are somewhere in the large ball room, but you never bother to go look for them till the end of the parties. Their always to busy chatting to others that you rather not bother.

Though the lively environment makes your mood elevate, you were never use to parties such as this. You chose to go where you usually go when you attend a ball. The garden.

Where the ball room is, right next to it is the huge and lavish queen’s garden. The beauty of the palace, the heart. That’s what the queen calls it.

You enjoyed the mood of the garden. Though away from the ball, you can still hear the distant music and chatter of all the people inside. Still connecting you to the life of the night, while you wander in the calmness of the garden.

You know your way around the garden, from experience when you visit your sister. Going your usual route, you lead yourself to the little pond near the further back of the garden. Slightly hidden if you’re not trying to look for it.

You wander upon a pond. The full moon reflects off of it. A beautiful sight you thought. You walk to a tiny bench next to the pond, not the comfiest bench but it will do. Lost in thought you don’t hear the footsteps coming closer.

“I didn’t know anyone else knew their way around the garden.” A deep voice speaks out. You tense. You look at who was directly speaking to you.

And behold it was the infamous Duke of the North. Staring down at you.

[selitoxicmoon]

And for the Spyro and Crash gang members' personalities in your AU, what are they like?

I will start with the Spyro Gang, as a really old post of like 2020, I started with a base and later started to shape their personalities:

Spyro: He's mostly a self-caring dragon which only cares about his physical and actually a very narcissistic behavior (very similar to Skylanders Academy behavior and Spyro the Dragon). He's already a hero alongside Crash for saving the dragon kingdom from Cynder's Corruption (the past) and with it he and Crash became famous and heroes so people always say good stuff to them and Spyro rising his own pride, he works as influencer/streamer btw.

Ember: She's sensible and very innocent, the kindest dragon you would ever met. She works as fashionist (outfit designer) and her bestie is Tawna as she works along her side. She is an extrovert like Spyro, a loving and caring mostly for others specially for Cynder as she alongside Flame tries to help Cynder to have a better social life and go outside home. She loves going shopping, usually never goes alone bc Flame is always there to be her guard.

Flame: He's usually shy to meet new people, he's pretty unsecure around people, thinking everyone is judging him. To prevent those thoughts, he's a very good athlete and acrobat! He tries to not look like a fierce looking fire dragon like his father and bloodline, but with the exception to hurt, but be a protector of his most loved ones. He has a little issue, he might look self-confident, but he's really easy to manipulate.

Cynder: The deepest lore I've got for her is pretty tough. She's an introvert, after her corruption and being a Dark Dragon, people around the city is scared of her or even tho just bully her and reminds her what she did, outside is a nightmare for her, judging eyes, whispers, blames, etc. Ember and Flame try their best to protect her from those people and judges by replying back, in Spyro case is not the same than self-proclaim Cynder's savior like if she has to owe him something. She's a gamer, usually play violence games like Doom (lmao), but she has an inner talent that doesn't wanna show, she's a good singer, a good musician specially with electric guitar. She had a crush to someone (I rather people guess) once Spyro introduced his gang to Crash's Gang/family, that leaded her to try to get out of the closet with Crash's family help. Yeah and, she always, always, blames herself on anything, that leads to blame others when she's actually mad at herself.

----------------------- CRASH FAMILY -----------------------

Crash: Being the same crazy bandicoot, he had to put some clothes on to live in the city (bc he was freezing lmao). He's a shameless person that cares mostly for the others he loves, with his loving girlfriend Tawna, they're completely a wholesome couple. Crash doesn't seem like to use his brain that much lol, but either way he has some sense of humor and knows perfectly when there's something wrong, he can't talk, but he learnt sign language (thank you Tawna). Ah yes btw, he works as fashion model, you're welcome.

Coco: Your confident and crazy loving bandicoot, influencer and streamer. Coco have some sort of feelings for Spyro, they're super friends but they have some attraction which Cynder is kinda worried about. Coco's best friend is Ember, both of 'em loves to go together shopping and sometimes with Flame when he's available. She's good at technology and creating machines and inventions, it's like her hobby. She has more brain than his brother Crash but at least she's a caring sister who tries the best healthcare for herself and her loved ones.

Crunch: He's the strongest! Redeemed from Cortex's control (pretty similar to Cynder with Malefor), Crunch is a very caring brother like Coco, caring for his loved ones healthcare. He's gym trainer alongside his bestie Tiny Tiger, he stills learn about emotions to understand physical behaviors that are results of emotional issues. He's very self-confident but never says no to some life lessons and advices, he's your number 1 supporter that will be there for you to love yourself and never give up!

Tawna: A lovely motherlike bandicoot, Tawna is the best at everything and she's very smart that understands life very well. She was always trying to learn something new to use these knowledges to care and help more her family and with it, her loving ones. Tawna works of so many stuff, she is trying always to help everyone and make everyone happy (that's a big issue), volunteer in healthcare, baker, chef, even the most is with Ember as making her outfit designs become real and wearable. Her agenda is very tight, but she never says no to a family meeting, she never shows her stress than her eyebags of restless days. She's friend of everyone and tries anything to help anyone in need, specially for Cynder and Ember.

GOD I NEVER THOUGHT I COULD WRITE ALL THAT DAMN, Thank you man for the question, i'm happy you're interested of this AU even if it's (for now) cancelled. Now I can put this in my personal notes to never forget TwT

[gothimgem]

one, manah, and the hero complex trope

Let's take a look into my favorite Drakengard 2 character and my fourth fav Intoner. Be aware that there will be some slight spoilers for both Drakengard 2 + 3.

Manah, after 18 years since she nearly ended the world, is left alive to carry the weight of her sins. After losing her memories, she has witnessed the oppression the Knights of the Seal have placed on the people of Midgard. Thus beginning Manah's plan to become a rebellion leader by destroying the key districts (aka the seals just like she did in the first game). It's obvious to previous players that Manah's still in some possession by the Watchers to destroy humanity again, yet she is blinded by her goal to help save people mixed in with her need to be loved. She came from an abusive neglectful family, with her mother verbally and physically abusive for not having magical powers as well as an omen of doom. Obviously, this stems from Seere feeling guilty that he was a bystander to Manah's torment, with her being deprived of any love of some sort. She desparately seeks love to assure herself that she isn't a burden, whether that love comes from the Watchers, the people she wants to liberate, or Nowe who comes into her life later on.

Now, onto One. I personally think she's supposed to be a self-aware or a Yoko Taro take of the typical JRPG protagonist. She sets herself up with wanting to save the world, which she does by defeating the lords of midgard to bring the peaceful reign of the Intoners. She lives to save the lives of others much like Manah. Even if she has to kill those who stand in her way as well as all of humanity if she lets the Flower take over her. One is a very compassionate person too, she cares for her sisters despite the awful things they do, her dragon partner Gabriella/Gabriel, and her brother. Yet despite the just and caring front she puts on for others through her leadership, she is also doubtful of her plans, especially when Zero has to kill her in the end. Her pride also gets in the way as well, such as not revealing to her sisters what their true purpose is or why Zero has to kill them.

Overall, both Manah and One have their similarities within their goals, even with their own aspects of love that prevails, albeit in different ways.

[inkwell-intrigues]

Writer's Log: Characterizing a Legendary Hero

It’s another writer’s log!! I didn’t forget about you guys- I swear!

I just got my wisdom teeth pulled and then a week later I had a medical emergency and was in the hospital for a bit (I’m okay now, it just sucked while it was happening).

Anyway, I’ve still been chipping away at the rewrite bit by bit. I want to use the Save the Cat story structure to help with pacing and such, so I think I’ll need to restructure the story slightly, BUT my main focus for today is on the 3rd member of the Cuphead Trio: Ms. Chalice.

In my work, I find I’m best at writing children and messed-up villains. So- that’s got Cuphead, Mugman, and the Devil covered, but then there’s Chalice.

She’s one of the most complex characters in TSTS (with the Devil being the other). Chalice in some ways is still a child, in different ways, she acts like an adult: A child soldier who was forced to grow up, tasked with a divine mission, and stuck in purgatory as a spirit on Earth until her mission is completed.

A character like that is HARD to write at all, and even harder to write correctly. About 99% of my characters are based on people I know and last time I checked- I don’t know the holy ghost of a child soldier.

So, in my first draft of TSTS, I ended up not really giving her enough “screen time”. Like, she’s important in the first draft, but I didn’t give her enough quality time/chapters to develop her. This would’ve come back to haunt me in the climax of the novel where Chalice will play a MAJOR role.

In this rewrite, I’m going to change that.

First off- I want her much more involved. She is going to play a HUGE role in the story and the amount of time/care I put into her character should reflect that. For instance, my current plan is to put her in the first chapter (which will be VERY different from the original) and to be there when the brothers are kidnapped. Now, of course, I’m going to need to figure out how Chalice doesn’t just kill all the imps and save the brothers, but I think I have some good ideas for that. :)

Basically, I want her to have just as much “screen time” as the brothers in a separate but interconnected plotline. Everything Chalice does should affect the brothers in some way and vice versa.

To start, I need to iron out her personality: When I write, I plot out my characters by giving them a few “keywords” to define their personality as well as a “Character Archetype”. (I usually do 2 positive character traits, one character flaw, and then their deadly sin and heavenly virtue.) Originally I was going to take the Myer’s Brigg test “in character” for each main character, but that takes WAYYY too much time.

With all that being said, here’s my character personality outline for Chalice:

Ms. Chalice

The undying spirit of a prophesized warrior who hails from an ancient order of the Calix Animi. She is one of the novel's three protagonists and Cuphead+Mugman’s best friend.

Personality Traits

Loyal: Chalice is a true friend, loyal even to the point of death. Despite her sometimes oversized ego, Chalice has her friends' best interests at heart and will do anything for those she loves and cares for.

Clever: Chalice is quick-witted, resourceful, and knows how to stay on people's good side. Thanks to her quick wits, Chalice was an exemplary general in the Calix Animi, and nowadays she uses her wits to get those around her to like her/listen to her.

Arrogant: With how much Chalice was worshipped by her fellow Calix Animi warriors starting from a very young age, Chalice's arrogance was practically guaranteed. Chalice thinks very highly of herself and can become agitated when others don't respect her as much as she thinks they should.

Deadly Sin: Pride

From a very young age, Chalice was constantly hailed as “The Chosen One” leading to her having an incredibly inflated ego/self-image, and being incredibly prideful. Chalice's pride ultimately led to her death and the collapse of the Calix Animi. The Devil is very well aware of her pride and heavily enjoys using it to manipulate her.

Heavenly Virtue: Diligence

Chalice may struggle with her inflated ego, but no one works harder than her to get things done. Even when discouraged, Chalice pulls herself up by her bootstraps and keeps working till the job gets done.

Character Archetype: The Magician

“The Magician is most commonly a visionary, usually oozing with charisma and inspiration. They use their imagination to evoke change and find win-win solutions. Their cleverness helps them envision possibilities and invent means to desired outcomes in situations where others would dare not.”

https://www.dabblewriter.com/articles/the-magician-archetype

http://charactertherapist.blogspot.com/2013/06/character-archetypes-101-magician.html

Character Inspirations (there’s probably more I can’t remember at the moment)

Matthias from Redwall

Scythe Anastasia from The Scythe Chronicles

A mix of Zelda and Link from The Legend of Zelda

Character-Inspired Songs

Jericho - Iniko

Deathly Loneliness Attacks - Mafumafu

Now, my step would be to plan out her character arc over the course of the plot -but I still need to actually outline my plot. Oops. xD

I should probably do that next. I'll try and do a writer's log on that, but I'll need to censor a lot of spoilers LOL.

Well, until next time,

Ink (Also thank you for all the kind words and comments. I know I'm pretty inactive but they mean a LOT to me. <3)

[noxianwilled]

✒️ + her momther

send me ✒️ + a ship (romantic or not!), and i will write a meta about it.

— @visionoxus

In many ways, Soreana was how Katarina first faced rejection. Not overtly, at first, I imagine; but there's nothing that suggests her mother ever really had a bond with her eldest daughter. Katarina's bio only mentions her mother to say Cassiopeia took after her, while Kat herself followed her father's footsteps, and she barely ever thinks of Soreana at all, be it in short stories or even the comic. Her father is a constant presence even while Katarina believes he's dead. Her mother not so much.

In the comic, she thinks early on that "Mother has barely shown interest in me," and personally I see that as a definition of their relationship. From childhood, Katarina was made to be Marcus' heir; and whatever sincere love there was between her parents, they clearly didn't trust each other with everything. Soreana kept the Black Rose a secret from Marcus, she's said to have been "outraged and disgusted by her husband’s betrayal" when he supports Swain's coup, and Marcus' initial support still stands in the lore currently. So despite any feelings they had for each other, they were on opposite sides for a while — and I'm only bringing it up because I imagine it directly impacted Soreana's relationship with Katarina.

Because, at the end of the day, she was being raised to be Marcus' heir. It wasn't all of it, surely, but I imagine it may have made her less willing to put in any effort to influence her eldest daughter, who was also so much more willful and so much less interested in politics. I think Katarina would have been a difficult child, and honestly, when do nobles ever need to bother with the kids they don't easily bond with? And on her part, little Katarina would've been too busy worshipping her father as a hero to be overly concerned. Sure, she'd like her mother's attention — but I think over time she simply accepted that wouldn't happen (and she was already too busy trying to please one parent and have his pride and affection to care to convince the uninterested one to be slightly interested).

By the time Katarina was a teenager, her relationship with Soreana may not be outright resentful, but it was at best distant, and more likely barely existed. Which isn't to say Kat doesn't care for her — she cared for all her family — and the attempt on her mother's life would've gotten to her, too, when it happened (though with the distance between them, and her own nature not being very nurturing, she'd not at all react like Cass, who started to look after their mother and never left her bedside; I think far more likely her form of care would've been helping Marcus in looking into it and trying to find those responsible).

I don't think even though she cared Katarina ever... managed to express that openly. I think that's true for both her parents, and that even at their best there was simply too much distance, too many demands, too much judgment and so many years of finding her lacking in some way or another, and that embracing the distance was a way to protect herself from it, too. And if Soreana ever cared, she certainly didn't express that in any way Katarina could ever understand.

After Katarina is disowned, I think they don't have any relationship at all. Kat would not seek out her parents. She'd not have gone to her mother or attempted to reach out — she knows there'd only be judgment there, and even more displeasure at her failure, at shaming their house. But in many ways, that doesn't bother her because Soreana was barely present to begin with; it's very different from her father. Later on, knowing her mother is with the Black Rose and had always been, Katarina sees her as an enemy — as well as a huge part of the reason why her brother and sister have left her too. In part, she expects eventually she'll be forced to confront her, much like she was forced to confront her father. But while I don't think she's eager for it, I also think it wouldn't weigh near as heavily as facing Talon or Cass.

Soreana is a stranger to her; and one Katarina is aware wants her dead. I think she has her questions, that part of her may wonder what made her so inadequate even as a child to be of so little interest to her own mother, but I think those are also lesser issues. If no one else can get to her mother, she knows she will, and she knows it'll do the empire good to be rid of one of its thornier roses.

[variantia]

BELLUM. anyway there is one singular sole person from her family that Renata still genuinely looks up to and respects (aside from maybe her younger brothers)

and that's her paternal grandmother

her maternal grandparents were always "yes ma'am" and "yes sir" and her paternal grandfather died before she was born so she only knows him as Alberto / Berto, what the rest of her family calls him

but her paternal grandmother was always Abuela. she is the ONLY one out of the generations above Renata that Renata thinks cared about her in some way, even if her abuela was disappointed by Renata leaving

Abuela had GRACE. dignity. she did not like heroes, but it would be more accurate to say she didn't like the hero SYSTEM. she did have respect for certain heroes, as people, people with morals. she grew her family into villainy, because she herself had no other choice. she's one of THOSE villains, one born of tragedy and slipping through cracks and pulling herself up. as opposed to her son and daughter-in-law and Renata's maternal grandparents, who all valued their pride as a family of powerful villains over their family's actual happiness.

Abuela wasn't like that. she always wanted her family to be happy above all else. but things didn't turn out that way. she put up walls after her husband died, she isolated herself, and the only exception was that she would train Renata because Renata wasn't a natural fighter

SHE is the one who drove Renata to be better, stronger, who gave her a sense of pride in herself. "oye, what are you crying for? why are you still down there on the ground? you are not dead. you're bleeding, you're tired, but you're not dead. you're stronger than you think you are. pick yourself up, mi hija, raise your head, and TRY AGAIN."

was she a little harsh, pushed a bit too hard at times ? yeah, sure. but out of her entire family, Abuela is the ONLY ONE Renata thinks is proud of her, even after she left, even after she was disowned by her parents and her maternal grandparents

if heroes had helped Abuela before, Renata thinks her grandmother would have been a very different person, or at least her life might have been better. she may not have ended up so sad and angry and withdrawn.

that's why Renata chose to go into villain and criminal reform. her own story, and her Abuela's.

Toshinori helped save Renata herself. and there was no one to save Abuela.

but now Renata is determined to help save as many people as she possibly can, because PEOPLE ARE WORTHY OF HELP AND GOOD LIVES.

one day when Spinner is trying to live outside Renata's facility, but still maintains contact with her, he'll overhear that she isn't available right now. and he'll go to check on her, to make sure she's okay.

and he'll find her in her bathroom, being comforted by Toshinori, because she's sitting in the bathtub, fully clothed and soaking wet having been curled up in her clothes with the shower running, sobbing and all she can say is "I miss my abuela I miss her it wasn't fucking fair I fucking loved her"

and I wonder if it'll hit him that ... there was ONE PERSON before Toshi who would have supported Renata, ONE PERSON who actually loved her, but because her parents disowned her, she lost that person forever

and she couldn't even go home for Abuela's funeral. her parents probably would have killed her. she had to find out that her grandmother was dead by searching Abuela's full name on the internet and coming up with an obituary.

and she can never go back home, disconnected from her family and her culture, and she mourns in her new life without a single other person who knew her grandmother around her to mourn with her. she thinks she's over it, that she grew with the pain, but she NEVER got closure, and she misses her abuela like hell, and I'm not sure if that wound is ever going to be anything less than raw.

[liquidstar]

Hiii do you guys remember this piece I did forever ago? Even though it was just background practice I'm still considering it OC concept art, and I actually worked out some more concepts for their world and a basic setup. rn I'm calling the project "Godless."

To start, I always knew the general setting for the story would be a semi-fantasy world that takes inspiration from 1800s Greece (You can see it in their clothing) because I feel like too much media boils Greek culture down to the ancient stuff and I wanna highlight the actual culture of the country these stories take inspo from. But I still did wanna include the Gods in an indirect way (Meaning not making them characters themselves)

In this world certain people are born with "gifts" from the Gods and other often deified mythological figures. Each gift has it's own specific figure associated with it, for example someone with the Gift of Achilles would have invulnerability (With a weakness you can probably guess).

However, despite the existence of gifts from the Gods, the Gods themselves are... No where. They don't get involved in human affairs anymore, and the world has moved on on its own. Maybe the gifts were their way of saying "You take it from here" or maybe they're the last remnants of their existence all together. Has humanity become closer to the divine- an apotheosis? Or have they been abandoned, left in a Godless world, worshiping nothing? Time goes on either way, passed the ancient and into uncertainty.

The two characters I drew are meant to be kids living in a small rural village in Not-Greece (name pending). The girl is named Chrysoula, which means "Goldie," for her eyes. And the boy is named Theodori, literally meaning "God's gift," for his blessing of the rare Gift of Heracles (Which of course grands him amazing strength). We can call them Chrys and Theo for short!

Still, Chrys longs for an adventure- She wants to go on a journey, like Odysseus or Jason and the Argonauts once did (Keeping in mind that, for this world, these are real actual historical events). But there's no call to action for her to refuse (not that she would) so can she choose to take the Heroes Journey on her own accord? The time of Gods and Heroes has long passed, so is it even possible? If the day comes, Theo will also be faced with the choice to go with her or stay. Maybe she herself is the call to action.

Chrys is the type of kid who hates rural life, hates the day-to-day minutiae, and longs for something more. Theo, on the other hand, enjoys village life. He likes being a big fish in a small pond, he likes feeling needed by those around him, and he's not bored by it at all. Though he'll admit that things would be a bit more dull if Chrys wasn't around to antagonize him, since only she will.

Bonus character details:

Chrys's golden bow was inspired by the song "Nefeli's Tango" or "To Tango Tis Nefelis." Like the titular Nefeli, Chrys wears her bow to stand out from the others in the village. There's additional symbolism to it too but I don't wanna say it all here!

The snake on Theo's pants is of course a reference to the myth of baby Heracles strangling a snake (or snakes, depending on the version) sent to kill him in his cradle. Theo takes a lot of pride in his gift, so he flaunts its iconography.

Chrys lives with her aunt, while Theo lives with his parents and younger brother

Chrys swears like a sailor, but I've taken the artistic choice to depict all her swear words in actual Greek. She WILL call you malaka, you're welcome

Theo, despite his pride, is generally a mellow person who enjoys helping others. If you ask him for help with something it's very unlikely he'll say no. Does he know how?

.

..

...

AAAAAAANNNNDDDDDD if you wanna know about the Gifts themselves, here are my concepts of what gifts from different Gods and Heroes and whatnot would be:

Gift of Aceso: Wound healing

Gift of Achilles: Invulnerability

Gift of Achlys: Miasma

Gift of Adephagia: Iron stomach

Gift of Aegle: Sickness prevention

Gift of Aeolus: Control of wind

Gift of Aergia: Apathy

Gift of Aether: Control of ether

Gift of Aetna: Lava control

Gift of Agon: Agility

Gift of Alala: Scream

Gift of Aletheia: Lie detector

Gift of Alke: Encouragement

Gift of Ananke: Control

Gift of Apate: Deceit

Gift of Artemis: Control of animals

Gift of Athena: Path to victory

Gift of Aphrodite: Empathy link

Gift of Apollo: Prophecy

Gift of Ares: Weapon mastery

Gift of Aristaeus: Bee communion

Gift of Asclepius: Illness healing

Gift of Astraeus: Star creation

Gift of Atlas: Enhanced endurance

Gift of Attis: Seed blessing

Gift of Brizo: Prophetic dreams

Gift of Calliope: Poetic blessing

Gift of Cilo: Historic blessing

Gift of Circe: Potion brewing

Gift of Chaos: Void

Gift of Chione: Ice control

Gift of Cronos: Time freeze

Gift of Crios: Celestial powers

Gift of Dike: Balance

Gift of Dionysus: Alcohol empowerment

Gift of Demeter: Control of earth

Gift of Empusa: Shape shifting

Gift of Erato: Erotic blessing

Gift of Erebus: Absolute darkness

Gift of Eris: Misfortune inducement

Gift of Euterpe: Musical blessing

Gift of Gelos: Charm

Gift of Hades: Decay manipulation

Gift of Hecate: Necromancy

Gift of Helios: Sun empowerment

Gift of Hephaestus: Control of metal

Gift of Hera: Family protection

Gift of Heracles: Super strength

Gift of Hermes: Super speed

Gift of Hestia: Fire control

Gift of Hesychia: Absolute quiet

Gift of Horkos: Oath binding

Gift of Hyperion: Control of light

Gift of Hypnos: Sleep inducement  

Gift of Iris: Rainbow control

Gift of Kratos: Rulership

Gift of Lelantos: Invisibility

Gift of Melinoe: Underworld communion

Gift of Melpomene: Tragic blessing

Gift of Menoetius: Violent rage

Gift of Morpheus: Dream crossing

Gift of Moros: Fate shaping

Gift of Nemesis: Damage deal-back

Gift of Nephele: Cloud control

Gift of Nike: Battle charm

Gift of Nyx: Control of darkness

Gift of Oceanus: Ocean empowerment

Gift of Pasithea: Illusions

Gift of Persephone: Control of plants

Gift of Psyche: Soul reading

Gift of Plutus: Golden luck

Gift of Polymnia: Hymn blessing

Gift of Polymatheia: Philosophy blessing

Gift of Poseidon: Water manipulation

Gift of Soter/Soteria: Harm protection

Gift of Terpsichore: Dance blessing

Gift of Thalia: Comical blessing

Gift of Thanatos: Apathy

Gift of Triton: Water breathing

Gift of Tyche: Luck manipulation

Gift of Typhon: Control of monsters

Gift of Urania: Mathematical blessing

Gift of Uranus: Flight

Gift of Zagreus: Rebirth

Gift of Zeus: Control of weather

i dont think im going to finish this, ive been working on it for too long and i wanan get back to other projects.... but i wanted to try something with a background for once and just stuck two newer ocs onto it <3

[aimfor-theheart]

COIN TOSS– PART II

(18+ MINORS DNI)

PART I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read on Ao3

***

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

He keeps his distance.

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

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

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

You feel shockingly alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tells you everyone expected him to be a villain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shinsou is silent, watching you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re only kids.

You’re barely older.

Shigaraki is barely older than you.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

Toga, unfortunately, follows his line of sight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just the way he walks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouta would be proud of you.

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

You swallow hard, flex your freezing fingers.

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

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

But you followed him, didn’t you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This isn’t my home,” he answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shigaraki–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thought strikes him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You suddenly grab for his hands.

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

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

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

You squirm under his scrutinizing gaze.

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

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

He naturally keeps a finger lifted away.

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

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

But your eyes are bright with your Quirk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has to grit his teeth to keep from moaning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You moan, low and drawn out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whine a little, ‘Touch me again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe still are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You let your eyes fall shut, too.

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

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

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

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

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

You think the guilt should hit you now.

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

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

You don’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

You send a text to Shouta;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until Shouta.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s no happy ending here.

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lock had been picked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(He loved when you clung to him).

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

You’d fallen asleep all tied up in him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He says, “Touch yourself.”

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

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

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

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

You can hear the hiss of breath he takes, “Did I ruin you?” he croons into the phone lowly, his voice slithering through to you, making your thighs clench. “Can��t even touch yourself without needing me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gives you a cold stare.

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

“I’m not taking care of a cat.”

“I’ll take care of it!”

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

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

“Yes,” you respond indignantly.

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

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

All over this little stray.

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

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

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

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

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

He unlocks the door, he lets you in.

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

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

But he’ll have to unpause eventually.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is this about?” Shouta asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have every intention of going to Tomura’s.

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

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

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

You haven’t been here in years.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You walk home together, hand in seeking hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pretty, you think faintly.

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

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

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

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

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

***

PART III

[keldabika]

Hello! Can I have some hc with a protective mama Reader with Naib, Helena and Bane. They are my precious baby. I haven't play this game since season 13 and I miss them so much ahhhhhhh 😭😭. Thank you, have a nice day ❤❤🌷 (sr, my English is not good)

✨ Your English is wonderful dear ✨

[Naib Subedar, Helena Adams, Gamekeeper] S/O Is Overprotective

✨ As a reminder, my works will always include gn!reader unless specified by the requester! ✨

———————————————————————

[Naib Subedar]:

* You had been at the manor for quite awhile now, and were a rather nice person, getting along with most other survivors, and even some of the hunters to boot.

* It was quite surprising actually. You’d walked in the first day with a tough-guy attitude and gruff personality, and you didn’t seem like a very approachable person.

* Then, some survivors such as Victor and Emily started worming their way into your heart. Liam [Lucky Guy] and Norton were some of the first people to offer you a seat at the dinner table, and from then on you were one of them.

* You had scars, though most could tell they were more physical than emotional, from some sidejobs you used to complete for a gang on White Sand Street—robbing people and competing in fights with rivals.

* You quickly learned that most people fought back. Rival gangs always intruded on your own territory, and you were always left on guard, defending the last remnants of your livelihood and your sanity.

* Maybe that’s why you’re so protective over your things. Never letting anyone enter your room, never letting anyone see the pain you hide. Opening up to people enough to make allies, but never enough to show secrets.

* Now Naib…. Naib helped you out a lot. It seemed he understood you, far more than others. For some reason, he was always there for you, watching your back when needed, acting like a shield at times—sometimes literally.

* You never really understood at first, how he seemed to know you so well. From what you knew, he came from halfway cross the world, from Nepal, in India—a child, a soldier, a weapon.

* You guessed his life was rather similar, and assumed he’d come to the manor for quite the same reasons but, it was hard to see through the scowl on his face.

* At some point, you began to recognize the signs, the irritation, the avoidance. You recognized the silence, and the stiffness that came from Naib when he ate and smiled and nodded at their questions. You saw the signs of a brother, somebody just as lost and broken as you were.

* Children in the bodies of adults, forced to live life too fast and too furiously. Damaged and done in, waiting for someone to save them, but too scared to cry for help.

* Unwilling to hurt others again, unwilling to change.

* You grew wary—observant—of him eventually. You joined in more matches with him as teammate, and sat next to him often at dinner. When you noticed he didn’t eat as much, you grunted in concern. When he fell asleep in odd places, you’d bring him a blanket.

* It got to the point where he found out about your help, and tried to dissuade you from wasting your time.

* You never really listened. In fact, your worries only increased. Others might not have recognized, but you saw the signs of fatigue and death written in the lines of his face. You’d seen it every day back on White Sand.

* He gave up on making you give up, tired of attempted persuasions. Eventually began returning the favours—Naib is the type to have a ‘you watch my back, I’ll watch yours’ mentality.

* Everything you’d do for him is returned in kind. It annoyed the rest of the manor to no end because the giving and receiving eventually reached limits unheard of.

* You’d throw yourself on a rocket chair to save him, and next game you’d have your own personal bodyguard tracking your every move.

* He’d never admit it, but he appreciates all you do for him, and hopes you appreciate his efforts in making your life a little better too.

* Though your protective tendencies know no bounds, he hopes you’re a little more cautious with throwing your life on the line for him like that. This is a death game after all, be more careful…. please?

* At some point, the whole manor hopes you two could just get together and kiss it out in some storage closet. If you’re dating, what’s the need to be so consistent in you’re protective tendencies? Then you’ll always be together, which means nothing can ever happen to either of you!

* To be fair, that’s what most of them thought until an incident after the confession, where Naib wouldn’t let you out of the medical ward for a week due to a few hairline fractures.

* Please Naib! Emily begs you to let her use the examination table! You’ve hogged it for 5 days and she needs it to identify the infection spreading on Aesop’s leg! Vera broke her nose! William sprinted into the gymnasium wall and shattered his kneecaps! Please leave!

* You once set fire to a couch because Naib stubbed his toe on it.

* Please stop it you two, Freddy can’t budget for anymore furniture, and we’re fresh out of chairs.

———————————————————————

[Helena Adams]:

* Oops! Oh no her glasses! Aww shucks, Norton knocked them right off her face and onto the hardwood floor. She can’t find them because she can’t see, whatever shall she do?

* [S/o]! Please, she needs your help!

* You come in running with a pair of pliers, five bottles of anti-grease spray, and a box of extra lenses and a screwdriver.

* Oh how wonderful! You fixed her glasses—again—and saved her from the task of shuffling herself on all fours looking for them! Her hero!

* Helena…. praises you to say the least. You’re her best friend, her confidante, her…. big and strong, sometimes dumb partner!

* She adores everything you do for her, and tries equally as hard to do things for you that make your life necessarily easier, though it’s harder with her condition.

* She met you around the same time as everybody else, during your first days in the manor. Really, she didn’t actually know you were there until she bumped into a voice she didn’t recognize and became surprised.

* You quickly learned about her blindness, and made it your goal to form a friendship with her based on your willingness to help her around and get closer to her—she was very kind after all.

* Your protectiveness stemmed from the inherent feeling of a need to help guide and provide for Helena, much like a spouse would… jk, unless 👀….

* At some points, you were berated by her for your incessant protections, most of which made her feel highly dependent, which she didn’t like.

* She liked the feeling of being independent of others and being recognized as an autonomous, capable being. Especially considering what she came there for, it was a blow to her pride to be led around and pushed aside all the time.

* When she revealed these feelings to you, you had surprisingly promised her to cease in most areas of monitoring—however you still consistently check up on her—and settled into the realm of a relationship with her.

* Helena meets somebody who respects her opinions + acknowledges her intellect + isn’t a dingy asshole? Sign her up and slap on a ring, she’s marrying this person (eventually).

* She knows that your tendencies stem from a place of need and want, and tolerates most of them. Deep down, she likes being taken care of by someone who knows she can take care of herself. She really does love you.

* When you’re actually in a relationship with each other, you make sure to watch each others backs, more so you than Helena (because she can’t ‘watch’ per say), but you get the point.

* There was once an incident in a duo’s match where Helena became stranded on the Lakeside Fishing map. The terrain is rough, with piles of fish everywhere, randomly placed boxes and walls, and the barrels are bad enough when they don’t form a blockade.

* Her navigational skills, as good as they are with all her previous experience and staff, couldn’t for the life of her figure out how to move her way around a mess of box paths, pallets, and fishing stands.

* Most other survivors were occupied or dead—it had been a hard match against Jack the Ripper and Guard 26—and she was barred from reaching any form of help.

* So she screamed your name as loud as she possibly could across the map, and ended up attracting the attention of BonBon instead. During those moments where she could hear his clanks and heavy metalloid footsteps stalking towards her, the tick of a time bomb in hand, she heard a screech in the distance.

* A fierce battlecry—you came raging from around a windmill, propelled by William’s football and packing heat with a flare gun. BonBon, now stunned twice, stood there in astonishment, before chasing after you, who had grabbed Helena in your arms, running off at full speed.

* Your stamina bar, indicated by a small tab on your character, was running low, and you wouldn’t be able to run at full speed for another minute or two, having used your ability to buy time. Stopping near a closet, you lean down to place Helena on her feet, telling her to hide.

* Her blood trail was invisible from not actually having run anywhere, and she did as you said, making you promise to come get her when it was safe.

* You gave her a smirk and a small nod, assuring her that you would, before leaning in for a peck on the forehead as you shoved her into the locker.

* If only you could see her flushed in embarrassment.

* Leaving her to fangirl in the locker, you form a decoy in your arms—result of your max rescuer ability—and ran off once more, taking off around a corner just as Guard 26 reached your previous location, chasing after you and ‘Helena’ in hopes of landing two more kills.

———————————————————————

[Bane the Gamekeeper]:

* How does it feel to love a deerman? Good? Okay!

* Bane as you know is a little…. rough around the edges so-to-speak, and he has a lot of edges.

* Once you get around all the hooks, chains, and bear traps, and beneath that creepy-looking deer head of his, he really is such a sweet guy!

* At least you think so. In reality, he still acts like a complete dick to everybody else, and only shows his soft side around you, but that’s because he knows he can trust you with his lands, animals, and secrets! All those others out there only wish to hurt what he—you—have, and he’ll make them pay for it.

* Honestly, in order for him to have fallen for you so hard to have let his guard down around you, you probably would have had to be at your most vulnerable point in life, or a hunter yourself. Like a scared prey animal, uncertain of its future, waiting for something to happen, and somebody to help, or a huge predator, ready to strike out at any moment.

* Once you worm your way into his cold dead heart, there’s no way out for you. He’ll keep you close, as he doesn’t want you to be poached away like his precious animal friends from the past. He knows how cruel humanity can be sometimes.

* When you come to find out about his less-than-kind history, it’s all you can do to pity him. Your sympathy knows no bounds, and you become clingier, though he quite honestly likes it.

* You don’t want what happened to him to occur again, and with all these other traitors and murderers in the manor, you’re afraid of what the others could do.

* You keep to his side a lot more, take walks with him in the garden, and enjoy tranquil picnics from time-to-time on Lakeside. Anything to keep him close to you and away from all the pain.

* Bane can obviously see what your doing, and noticing that your protectiveness doesn’t yet border on the insane, he allows you to continue in your devotions.

* It’s honestly sweet sometimes how you both adore each other so much, even if you know that one day one or both of you will have to leave. Whether it be through death, disappearance, or another means such as escape is a question of time, and one that neither of you know the answer to.

* If you’re also a hunter, than both of you know that while you two are happier now than either of you were in life, that your individual deaths and worths will eventually determine your fates—whether that be a happy afterlife, or an eternity of endless wandering.

* It’s well known that you’ll both disappear the day the game ends, your souls being put to rest as they should’ve been however long ago. Until then however, you’ll continue to hold on to and vehemently protect the relationship the two of you have, and you’ll fight until your soul vanishes from the earth for what you have to remain that way.

* Now, if you’re a survivor, this is where the relationship can be a bit difficult.

* Avidly defending the actions of your boyfriend during and after a match to the rest of your survivor buddies isn’t a very good look for you, or your reputation. It’s been many times where you’ve almost been chased out of the dining room because somebody was pissed at you for costing them the match, or being the only one spared instead of convincing Bane for a win or tie.

* As they say, if you can’t beat em’, join em’. Some survivors, such as William, Kreacher, and Freddy, have more than once suggested that if you loved a hunter so much, you should become one to be with him. Dating the undead almost crosses the line of what is humane. Aesop thinks you’re kind of cool.

* The hunters over on Bane’s side hate you more. Are convinced that you’re the sole reason that Bane goes friendly sometimes (even in matches without you in them), and that your relationship takes away from his brutal and violent persona and nature.

* Violetta and Michiko are the most tolerant of you, mainly because you gifted them silk and a hand fan for Christmas once when they wished for them in their letters.

* All-in-all, basically everyone blames you, but you keep going forward because who cares about all the nasty bi*ches in the world, am I right?

* Once, to prove the integrity and devotion of your relationship, you set Freddy’s room on fire and locked Kreacher in a closet. You looked Bane directly in the eyes and kneeling before him stated, “I have committed arson for you m’lord.”

* You couldn’t see it because of his deerish head and all, but Bane really went “Heart eyes motherf*cker.” on you in that moment.

* You love animals and set things on fire to prove your loyalty to him? Ticket for one please, he’s riding the simp train all the way to the station.

* Just, please don’t accidentally burn down the manor, he wants to spend as much time with you as possible before he disappears.

* Also don’t joke around with your life, it’s too precious, even when you tackle your own teammate or risk getting hit by Ganji’s cricket ball to save him from being stunned.

* He doesn’t want you dying before he does—has already he supposes—or disappearing without a trace.

* You promise you’ll stick with him until the day you finally leave this wretched place.

———————————————————————

✨ Hope you enjoyed ✨

[ohheyitsokay]

strike

part 3 of the ‘hey batter batter’ series

pairing: Francisco Morales (Frankie, Catfish) x reader

wordcount: 2k

warnings: extremely mild mentions of sex, unwanted advances that don’t get far (not by Frankie)

summary: it’s a Triple Frontier baseball au - trust me, you don’t need to know anything about baseball.

In this chapter, we learn that a ‘strike’ is when a batter misses the ball when he swings, even though he shouldn’t have. And some strikes don’t just happen during baseball.

>>

“Jimbo, I'm here!” You called as you kicked the door closed behind you, arms heavy with grocery bags. Your grandfather would be in the living room, no doubt impatiently waiting for you to unload so you could watch the baseball game together. It was a few states away, which meant the two of you could enjoy evening on the couch with affordable snacks and air conditioning. Games in person were more exciting, but climbing all those stairs wasn’t great for his knees, and it was nice to chat with him without the roar of the crowds.

There was a faint squeak to his favorite rocker, and you unloaded half the bags onto the coffee table – his favorite treats – before tossing the rest haphazardly into their places in his little kitchen. You raced the commercials, listening to the final advertisements with one ear as you hurried to get yourself settled, even though he was always happy to chat with you during the game. For these times with him, you hated to miss even a moment. The chair to the left of his was yours, newer and softer and it would have been the perfect evening, eating and catching up with your favorite man.

Except this was the first real opportunity for him to grill you about your unexpected lunch with his heroes. 

There had been laughter in his voice when you had tried to call him afterwards, and he had told you he would wait to hear the story. To him, even over the phone you couldn’t hide how flustered you were, just moments after Francesco’s eyes had been in yours. All things considered, he had been more than patient, so as you fidgeted and you kept your eyes on the screen, you told him what had happened as casually as you could.

It was the top of the first inning – the very beginning of the game, and his boys were mostly crowded into the dugout. Their fingers were grabbing fistfuls of sunflower seeds or pulling on batting gloves or hanging on the wire, watching as Will walked up to bat. There was a fun country song playing, and it was surreal, thinking it had just been a few days since he had tossed a chunk of fried food into the air and his brother had caught it in his mouth. James thoroughly enjoyed you story, laughing and for once not lecturing you about leaving them alone to live their lives. He seemed approving, proud of you for taking a change, and proud that the boys from his favorite team did his favorite granddaughter well. You answered this questions and indulged his excitement over the little things, trying not to reveal too much of your own daydream fodder. Thinking of Francisco’s eyes as he laughed at the Miller boys, you grabbed a pillow to give your hands something to hold onto, to ground yourself.

The camera panned over to Tom adjusting his cap and without thinking you winced. When you realized that James had caught the movement, you winced again.

You had to explain, then, the biggest detail that you had glossed over – the only one that would disappoint your grandfather. The outfielder had looked at you with confidence and hunger in his eyes. His fingers on your hand left cool, invisible lines, slimy like residue of the stadium cup holders.

James listened with sad eyes, before he was reaching over, gently squeezing your hand, and asking about Will’s family in town to find out if he knew a relative. It was kindness - changing the topic, rewarming the memory as he coaxed out more details of their interactions with you and each other, making you blush and laugh and smile.

The discomfort that had been lodged in your heart regarding the athlete  lessened as you remembered that they were all human. It had been clear the other players respected him, maybe even looked up to him, and that had to be good for something. Even though it had just been a lunch, a single moment in time, the assessments of a group of open hearted baseball players already held weight on your opinion.

As you began to tell James about a joke Santiagio had told, you noticed that Tom’s turn had come and gone, and he had struck out.

-

Every professional sports group had a second team, full of people who pushed papers and cleaned locker rooms and handled press conferences. One of these people was a woman who was in charge of sorting through and organizing special fan appearances.

Flipping through applications and mail, she would have hardly noticed the broad shoulders and hazel eyes of the man who entered, had he not kissed her breathless the night before.

For all they were on and off and she knew he was a player in all senses of the word, she couldn’t help but stand, and let his hands find her hips as he pressed into her.

“Hi, Tom,” she whispered, already dazed and adoring as his beard scraped at her neck, warm and insistent.

“Hey, babe,” he returned, absentmindedly, squeezing her hips before pulling away. There was something about his eyes, the way he held his head, like his shoulders were comfortable bearing the weight of others, like he’d prefer it that way, that made him seem like a natural born leader.

She knew him better. He had the crowds and the rookies and the managers and even his brothers on the team wrapped around his fingers - the perfect mentorship allusion, but she knew. There was another side to him, a darker side, filled to the brim with pride and arrogance and power. Of all the men who flashed smiles as they shook hands and carried kids on their shoulders for photos – he was the one who preened the most. There was a hunger in his eyes, even greater than when he’d love her, when a chance came for him to do an extra interview, put some senior input in, or take a newbie to his first after party.

Still, she loved him. Too much, maybe, but her mind whispered not enough, and she hungrily took what ever he would give her. There were always flowers and jewelry and coveted high-status sex in his apologies, anyway, and she knew he’d always come back to her, eventually. She knew better than to guess.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, star stuck in spite of it all, but knowing there must be something. His “cousin” had stocks in the team, or a certain string needed to be pulled. There was always something. 

When he asked for the number of a girl from a few weeks ago, there was an all-too-familiar twist in her gut.

“Tom, you know that information is confidential,” she whined, masking her fear, turning back towards her desk. It was infuriating how disarming, intoxicating, and how solid he felt behind her, how smooth his words felt on the shell of her ear.

“It’s for Benny, babe, he’s got it bad for her,” it was a lie, but she didn’t know it, and the knot in her stomach loosened a little. His hand slipped under her blouse and it came undone, submitting entirely to the façade.

“Let me help the little guy out.” For all his charisma, she wanted desperately to believe he was sincere, so she did. Her hands started steady as she opened a thick binder and began flipping through the glossy dividers. She moved as slow as she could, hopelessly savoring his touch, knowing when it was gone, the unpleasant feelings would be just as strong.

But it didn’t take long to find you number and hand it over, and exchange more heated kisses and half promises before he slipped out.

The woman settled in her chair again, fingers tracing the letters of your name, the knot reforming below her breastbone. She reached for her phone, telling herself it was a courtesy, to give you a heads up.

-

When a player was about to steal second base, you always wondered if Santiago Garcia could tell, without even looking. If he could feel it in his bones, or if the hairs on the back his neck rose, against his sweat.

If he could, that was exactly how you would feel now, walking into the bar to see only Tom Davis waiting for you. The building was dim, strategically chosen by Will, allegedly, so they could drink in peace. As before however, there was no hiding the silhouette of a man like him, not when he was oozing confidence like sap from a tree.  

When he had called you, it had been so shocking you had agreed without thinking. It was surreal, but like following a trail of candy through a forest, not at all like the knights in shining armor of before.

He swung his arm around, cocky smile across his face, and you shook his hand.

There could not have been a more awkward boundary made, but he laughed it off as you considered turning tail and running. It was ridiculous, but you couldn’t help how guarded you felt alone with him, so you turned to the polished woof of the bar and ordered a lemonade. It would buy you time, anyway, to reassess. 

You had always thought of baseball players as beer guys, but he had a short glass of something gold and expensive, as if he were trying to prove a point. Slipping onto the stool next to him, you set your bag in between you like a wall. He was broad and he pulled close, making you almost press against his side, giving you the opportunity to realize his skin almost cold. Slow sips reminded you that there was no basis for your feelings, and you were the one being strange. 

It wasn’t bad, talking to him. You chided yourself internally, thinking you made unfair assumptions. Really, he was a nice guy. He talked highly of his friends, even defending their lateness, taking the blame for the mix-up. It felt like one of those interviews your grandfather would watch sometimes, the way he could go on about himself and somehow tell you nothing at all. Fighting your instincts to give short, guarded answers, you found yourself sharing about your life more than you expected. Not a lot, but not nothing either.

It was awkward and nice, not unlike a first date and when his large hand covered yours, it didn’t feel half as slimy as before.

A spider’s web was feather-light, so subtle it was almost impossible to feel until it was too late.

His eyes were sharp and deep and certain as he shifted closer, and you felt dazed, despite all the alcohol you hadn’t consumed.

When he leaned in, though, a thought struck you. With his deep hazel eyes, the perfect beard, and tanned skin, he looked like a prince. Not our prince, though, it was just someone else’s fairytale.

Clarity and your own confidence warmed you like a jacket one rainy day, and you touched Tom’s cheek, holding his face at enough of a distance. You shed the web before it stuck and something flickered in his eyes – doubt, maybe, or something like fear, as you spoke the most prominent thought on your mind. 

“What about Molly?”

-

When he heard you, again speaking words that weren't meant for his ears, warm pride shot through his chest.

That’s my girl.

Of course you weren’t, but it felt like you were.

You turned to him like you knew he was there, hand leaving Tom’s stunned face to wave at the grinning catcher.

Frankie had been at war with himself across the bar as he looked towards the two of you, heart wrenching. He had seen from the far side the room first how close you were to the other man. It was unreasonably terrifying to see that you weren't immune, to see you consider his friend. Then he saw how non responsive you’d become to Redfly, how politely you regarded him as he lathered on the charm. By the time he reached the two of you, he found you fully awake, handling it yourself.

When the woman had called you, her voice had betrayed something. It was formal conversation, just admitting she had shared your contact information, and disclosing that it was Tom, and he’d made it clear you guys were friends. Her tone, however, told you she was territorial and jealous, but also desperate, longing. It felt right to get out of the way – that’s what you and she wanted and you sort of thought that’s actually what he wanted, too. He was moving away from you, still processing, trying to play off the moment, and even more than pity, you felt a touch sad for them.

Still, you were impressed you were able to manage yourself. It was the same confidence that had filled you when you stood up for James, a confidence that came from a feeling that whispered something good was coming, something well worth the boldness.

When you felt a warm presence at your side, you felt even more sure. It felt wonderful, the way Francisco was looking at you. It was too early to read into it, but you were sure you wanted him to look at you like that again - like you were capable of telling mountains to move.

You smiled up at him, relieved, and he couldn’t help but beam back, wanting to hug you. He wasn’t feeling quite brave enough yet, but there was a resolve settling in his heart. There was no way he was going to leave your side tonight. 

The other guys came quickly. Each of them was excited to see you again, and you pretended not to notice them shooting confused glances at Redfly when he slipped outside to spit on the ground and stare at the sky. 

It didn’t take long for him to rejoin you, anyway, and his shoulders seemed lighter, his eyes just a little more thoughtful. 

The group as a whole accepted you into their fold like they needed you, like each one of them had missed you when you were gone, like you missed them, like you belonged there from the start.

You had no idea how long the daydream would last, but in that moment it didn’t feel like it mattered at all. Collecting stories for James even faded as a priority as you just enjoyed the feeling of the glass in your hands, the laughter in the air, and teasing the men like they were just boys. Even after the last half hour, it was easy to trust Will’s sincere tone, and Ben’s eager blue eyes. The others were grounded at your side, steady and comforting - you felt yourself open like a flower to the sun. 

There was something about the shape of the catcher at your side, safe and warm, like his presence was reaching for yours, aching with yours. Through the stories and the jokes you relished it, and his eyes made it clear that you weren’t alone. And even though the universe made it abundantly clear that you had no idea what would happen next, you didn’t feel any need to hurry. Fate seemed to know what she was doing.

In the darkness of the bar, only Santiago’s eyes saw Frankie’s hand find the small of your back.

<<

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[robininthelabyrinth]

Prompt: anything with Jiang Yanli, I’d love to see more of her PoV

part 2 of whumptober 20 (JYL/LXC field medicine)

ao3 link

-

It wasn’t that Jiang Yanli never thought about other men.

After all, she was a female cultivator, and her opinion was therefore one of the ones that was rather eagerly solicited when it came to naming the most attractive young masters in the cultivation world; it was only that it had never seemed to matter. After all, she was engaged, and always had been, to her mother’s dearest friend’s only son, and that, it had seemed at the time, was that.

Oh, her father spoke warmly about marrying for love and not for obligation, but Jiang Yanli had never quite understood what he meant. Even if she didn’t love Jin Zixuan, she loved her mother enough to want to respect her wishes, and it was easy enough to dismiss what negative things she’d heard about him – arrogant, self-centered, impetuous, but of course he was still young, and weren’t most teenage boys like that? – and instead daydream about the life she would have in the future.

When she was young, it was mostly daydreams of having some faceless man (she couldn’t imagine little Jin Zixuan, who at three years younger was barely more than a baby) bring her gifts and tease her and kiss her, then say she was the prettiest person he’d ever seen. The way she’d always heard was supposed to be how lovers talked, the way people said that a marriage ought to be like - the way her parents’ marriage had never been.

When she was a bit older, her thoughts drifted away from retreading romantic stories and to the actual work of being married, of being the mistress of Lanling Jin. In the beginning, her duty would be to first and foremost produce an heir and a spare, to remain healthy throughout the process, and to support her husband as he slowly began to take on the duties that would eventually become his, but later on it would get more interesting. A sect leader could not be everywhere, and his wife would often be left in charge when he was not at home – she would have to know everything about the sect, same as him, enough to make decisions in his absence; she would have to answer correspondence, make decisions, negotiate with traders, collect duties, enforce the peace, and she’d also have to manage the sect’s social scene on top of it all.

She probably wouldn’t have much time to cook, Jiang Yanli thought wistfully, thinking about how Lanling women prided themselves on never having to lift a finger for themselves, and threw herself into her favorite hobby now, while she still could. If she was clever about it, she might be able to get good enough at it that her future husband would find some dish of hers that he liked, something that only she could make, and then her cooking would be something done at his request – a charming idiosyncrasy, an indulgence of sweethearts.

When she got older still, and learned about Sect Leader Jin’s philandering and the iron grip of control Madame Jin imposed on Lanling in order to keep her position in the face of all the backstabbing and politics, she thought to herself that that sounded exhausting. But by that point, all of her childhood daydreams had Jin Zixuan’s name on them – although admittedly not his face, for all that he had grown up into one of the most handsome young men of his generation, and certainly not his mannerisms – and it was far too late to raise a fuss now. So Jiang Yanli studied willpower in addition to trade routes, learned how to exploit social norms in addition to how to manage a dinner party, taught herself how to play people just as well as she played the guqin, absorbed the lessons of both murder and mathematics, and above all figured out how to stand up for herself and what she believed in no matter what overwhelming pressure she might face.

Even though Jiang Yanli was pretty sure that Madame Jin wouldn’t appreciate that last part in a daughter-in-law, especially not one reputed to be as easygoing as her father.

(“Let her be upset,” her own mother had snorted when Jiang Yanli had tentatively raised the issue. “Are you supposed to ruin your own future because she’s a bitter old mother-in-law that’d rather not give up control so early? I may have agreed to marry you to her son, A-Li, but she agreed to marry him to my daughter. If she wanted easy and pliable, she should have thought again.”

“But she’s your friend,” Jiang Yanli had said, frowning a little. “Don’t you want her to be happy?”

Her mother had looked tired. “Once, more than anything,” she’d said. “But the chance for that passed long ago.”)

So it wasn’t that she didn’t notice other men. It was just that there was no point in allowing herself to look, and she knew enough of her parents’ marriage, and of Madame Jin’s, to not want to look.

And then, suddenly, there was.

Her engagement was broken. One could say that it happened at her own beloved brothers’ hands, at her father’s blind dislike of arrangements even when it was one his own daughter had long ago accepted and had even learned to long for, but in truth Jin Zixuan was a proper young master, old enough to make decisions for himself, to exercise some control over his own life, and the first bit of control he’d taken into his own hands was to decide that he didn’t want her.

It was – not fine, no. She spent some time crying over it, and yet more time comforting Wei Wuxian who was distraught at having caused her pain, and the most time of all quietly wondering what the point of her existence was now that she was no longer useful as a marriage tool. She’d never been much of a cultivator, never been especially pretty, never been anything more than average – what was the point of her?

Maybe that was when she’d decided to pick up medicine.

Field medicine was womanly enough to satisfy critics, and yet it was something useful in a practical sense: she could save people’s lives, if she only learned enough, and studying she could do.

Sometimes, she even got the chance to save the lives of very attractive people, like when the First Jade of Lan lay crumpled in the cot before her as she patched him up. So this is the one they ranked first, she thought, examining him with her eyes even as she kept her hands busy, and she was forced to admit that the other female cultivators of her generation had good taste. He was devastatingly handsome.

Kind, too, she soon learned; gentle and courteous in his mannerisms. He smiled often, which she appreciated in a person (if one interpreted Jiang Cheng’s scowls as smiles, he smiled nearly as much!), and he seemed to genuinely admire her efforts at medicine, however rudimentary. Over dinner, which he insisted on sharing with her even after he was well on his road to recovery, the conversation between them flowed easily and well: they both had brothers they loved, which was a conversation topic of which neither of them would ever tire, and they both enjoyed art and music. He didn’t know the first thing about cooking, but enjoyed asking questions (especially after she’d made him a meal he particularly enjoyed, which was often), while she enjoyed the way he blushed when she teased him.

She didn’t think much of it, of course. If she couldn’t keep the husband that had been promised to her since before she could walk – if she was too dull, too plain, too weak, too average to be worthy of an untried young man like him – then she definitely had no hope of catching the most attractive and capable young master of their generation, a dashing war hero and sect leader in his own right.

And then, when they were both laughing over an especially hair-brained scheme they’d concocted to try to get Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian to spend more time together – Jiang Yanli had noticed how much Wei Wuxian talked about Lan Wangji once he’d returned to the Lotus Pier, and Lan Xichen swore up and down that Lan Wangji had been no better – he turned to her and said, “If you were in Gusu, your brothers would be sure to come to visit you.”

“Me, in Gusu?” Jiang Yanli was startled into a laugh. “Why would I be in Gusu? As your guest?”

Lan Xichen coughed. “I had been hoping for something – a bit more permanent than that. If that would be something you would be open to.”

It actually took her a moment to understand, and then she had to raise her hands to cover her suddenly burning cheeks.

“You don’t have to say anything now,” he said hastily. “Just something to think about, if you’re interested…and of course, if your heart is elsewhere –”

“It isn’t,” she blurted out, and had to turn away.

“I’d hoped that was the case,” he said quietly, his voice warm. “I’ll take my leave, Mistress Jiang.”

Jiang Yanli had grown up thinking of herself as the future mistress of Lanling Jin, with its riches and its beauty and its poisonous heart, and then she’d assumed she’d be nothing at all, an old maid that helped Jiang Cheng manage his sect until he finally found a wife to suit him.

She’d never thought about being the mistress of Gusu Lan.

Gusu Lan, which was not as wealthy as Lanling Jin but just as complex – with its own trade routes and subordinate sects and business to manage – with its beautiful and serene landscape, its culture that emphasized harmony and unity rather than backstabbing – with no overbearing mother-in-law that would have barely been tolerable even when her own mother would have been there to hold her back, but would have been impossible without such protection –

She hadn’t dreamt of Lan Xichen as a child, or even as a teenager, but when she thought about all those dreams with a faceless man that she’d named Jin Zixuan regardless of any similarity to the real thing…

Lan Xichen fit in much better to the idea in her head than the real Jin Zixuan ever had.

“I won’t live separately,” she told him when he came over the next day, before he could even say a word; it had been just about the only problem she could see with his proposal. “In another house, certainly, but not an entirely different dwelling, and if I have any children, I would want them to live with me regardless of their gender.”

“I wouldn’t dream of having you so far away,” he said, and he was smiling again, broad and bright and – somehow, impossibly – hers. “Might I kiss you?”

“You may,” she said, and he did.

“Mistress Jiang,” Lan Xichen said a moment later, “you’re the most remarkable woman I’ve ever met.”

Remarkable, Jiang Yanli thought to herself, was better than pretty any day.

[aiyexayen]

re: that "I'll live for you post" - WHERE'S THE ESSAY

this post? [innocent face]

alright, alright, JUST TWIST MY ARM WHY DON'T YOU, just force me to talk more about my boys!

4.9k word essay under the cut

Wei Wuxian

Let us take a look at Wei Wuxian first. Wei Wuxian has no problems throwing himself in-between the people he loves and danger, or even certain death. Hell, sometimes he just throws himself into it for fun and profit!

To some extent, putting yourself in danger to help others and being willing to die is something of a cultivator thing in general, a hero thing in general, right? And Wei Wuxian is a prodigy, exceptionally strong and clever, so he has more reason than most to be a little cavalier. But most of the point of training so hard as a cultivator and getting strong and aligning yourself with a sect is kind of so you can be in real danger of dying as little as possible, one would presume.

So we're going to set aside the danger-as-a-profession thing for now, because I think it's only tangentially related.

The real point is, Wei Wuxian is sacrificial to a fault. If there is a problem, he decides he's the one who needs to fix it. And his first go-to solution is to throw himself at it, to give up anything of himself if it's viable. As clever as he is, if he finds a workable solution that involves his own sacrifice, he doesn't stop to look for anything else.

Some of it is pride--not wanting to admit he needs help from anyone else, and the shame of being seen as weak.

Some of it is arrogance--a very natural kind given his competence, the presumption that he knows best in a given situation (neurodivergent arrogance walking hand-in-hand with self-esteem issues is always a fun time).

Some of it is appropriate--ranging from his own moral imperative to protect the weak and do what's right to his understanding of his place in culture and in his own sect and relationships.

Some of it is a natural bent toward caretaking, "fixing," and heroics--someone has to do it, so it's going to be Wei Wuxian. He won't hesitate to take initiative in any other area of life, and this is no exception.

And some of it, yes, is a lack of value placed in his own life--between a more youthful, dramatic perspective on 'I would die for you/for this cause' taking priority in his worldview, and some genuine self-esteem issues. Issues largely stemming from his uncertain place in the world growing up and his uncertain relationship with parental/guardian/master and other familial figures, all stewing under the surface and brought to light sharply when the world went to shit and choices were made and he lost or seemed to have lost everything from his reputation to his home to his extant support structures. The paranoia and voices in his head (the ptsd and resentful-energy-as-ptsd-metaphor both) only drove that home.

Basically, Wei Wuxian was already trending in some unfortunate directions but his circumstances and the people surrounding him kept him grounded, and the events of the story as it unfolded really pushed him all in. No one thing or one person--even Wei Wuxian himself--is really to blame for that, which is the beauty of the story really.

I also think Wei Wuxian started to buy into some of his own stories at his lowest points--the things he said or came up with, lies he told publicly, justifications he made for his choices once the heat of the moment and the panic was over. Justifications he made to himself and to others. He purposefully led people to believe much that was incorrect about him and his character and his status, to which the response was distaste and horror, and even though he planned it that way in order to push everyone away I really think he started to believe it himself. Depression and trauma are just really fun times.

I'm getting a bit off-topic.

The point remains, Wei Wuxian is extremely sacrificial. He comes by much of it naturally, and not nearly all of it is bad or melodrama or angst or even unhealthy or problematic. It's one of his good qualities, too, and it's one of the ways he knows how to love.

All of the threads weaving together to make Wei Wuxian and the situations he finds himself sacrificing things in are all true, but it also really comes down to love. He loved Jiang Cheng enough to sacrifice his everything and risk his life doing so. He loved his sect enough he was willing to sacrifice his right hand. He loved his sect enough to sacrifice his very ties to it. He loved Lan Zhan enough to sacrifice their friendship. He loved Jin Ling enough to sacrifice himself to the curse he got in the Nie tombs. (And more!)

Wei Wuxian loved, and so he sacrificed. Thus, the initial post.

Jiang Cheng

Let's switch gears for a moment and talk about my darling Jiang Wanyin.

Ah, Jiang Cheng, Jiang Cheng. Taking the initiative and sacrificing at the drop of a hat and so forth are not really characteristics of Jiang Cheng's the same way they are for Wei Wuxian.

And yet, is he not also a disciple of Yunmeng Jiang; is he not also a young hero? Has he not pride, and the incentive to do good?

Does he not also see love as sacrifice?

Zi Zhizhu was his mother. The woman who sacrificed to get Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian to safety. The woman who killed herself and crawled across the ground to hold her husband's hand in death.

You think she wasn't Like That the whole time? You think Jiang Cheng picked up nothing of such behaviours from her, even before that day?

Hah.

Besides which, there's absolutely an underlying theme of Jiang Cheng trying to be like Wei Wuxian for much of their lives.

Partially just...Wei Wuxian, strong and clever and popular shige, always manages to get credit and glory and good stories and good favour, exemplary of the Jiang motto--the one Jiang Cheng's own name is tied to. They were supposed to be shuangjie, besides. How could he not want to be like him at least a bit? If nothing else, it's a little brother's curse.

And partially this is also due to Jiang Cheng's parents and that whole Situation.

It was complicated for so many reasons, and absolutely left Jiang Cheng feeling inferior to Wei Wuxian. As though he needed to be more like Wei Wuxian, to emulate him, in order to be worthy of his title and station and inheritance, something that turned out to be categorically untrue in the end. There are many kinds of leaders, and many kinds of strengths.

As an aside, I personally think that's something Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan knew, themselves, as adults and leaders and political figures in their own rights. Adults often don't realise or think about how the things they say can influence children's entire worldviews and senses of self (why, no, I don't speak from experience, why would you ask such a thing ahaha).

Jiang-zongzhu and Zi Zhizhu got a lot of their own relationship difficulties and misunderstandings and conflicts and conflicting attempts to want the best for their children (and ward) tangled up in everything. I think if they'd ever been able to speak plainly, if they could manifest into the Ancestral Hall and speak to Jiang Cheng, they would say so.

Just as Jiang Cheng would have cause to be horrified by much of what Wei Wuxian believed about himself, I think Jiang Cheng's parents would have cause to be horrified by much of what Jiang Cheng believed. (I mean, and Wei Wuxian, probably.)

Anyway.

Jiang Cheng has plenty of reasons to aspire to those same ideals of sacrifice. And it's not just aspirations, either--we see him follow through.

He walked outside from that inn, saw Wei Wuxian in danger, and made a decision in the space of a single breath--a decision with full understanding, too. He knew he was giving up his entire life for Wei Wuxian's. He said goodbye in his head.

I would argue (and I'm sure I've said this before somewhere too) that his sacrifice was the purest example of this in the entire story.

Perhaps some of it is that many of Wei Wuxian's sacrifices are premeditated and just about all of them have alternative solutions that don't involve him just diving in and giving pieces of himself up.

That isn't to say that Wei Wuxian wouldn't see a sword aimed at Jiang Cheng and take the blow himself. But we never see him do that, exactly. As much as Jiang Cheng has internalised this ideal of Wei Wuxian's, he both encounters fewer of these situations and has other problem-solving tactics in his repertoire.

The way Jiang Cheng hates himself doesn't lead him to think of himself as disposable. I could get into a (very amateur) discussion of negative schemas formed in childhood and their various similarities and differences, and the different ways Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian's brains appear to work (Jiang Cheng sees himself as inferior, while Wei Wuxian willfully dehumanises himself in other ways), but basically, it's simply a different set of psychological issues.

But! When he is faced with the choice, Jiang Cheng absolutely dies for the ones he loves.

He loves his sect and his family, and he internalises love as sacrifice, and when it comes down to an extreme moment he chooses to die for them.

And then he doesn't die.

And then the war happens.

Jiang Cheng's Growth

There are a lot of reasons for Jiang Cheng to grow in this area, and I think it starts with inheriting the sect.

(This leads to excellent thoughts about What If Wei Wuxian Had Somehow Become Sect Leader but that's an au for another day.)

If sect heir was a position full of responsibility and reputation management, how much more so is zongzhu? Jiang Cheng is suddenly responsible for all these people. Whether he's good enough or not doesn't even matter. The job is there and it's inescapable and he's the only one there to do it.

I'm absolutely sure he still has all kinds of inferiority shit he's dealing with by post-timeskip and he only just gets to touch on some pieces of resolution by the end of the story, with the one person still in the world who would even know anything about the life that gave it to him.

Jiang Cheng has been responsible for people before, in small ways--night hunts and such, I'm sure, and he was certainly in charge of the Yunmeng Jiang disciples who went to Cloud Recesses. But being at the top of that hierarchy entirely is such a different matter, and he did so at a very young age and in a very fraught time.

The fact that he had to deal with all this new responsibility and duty to people more than his family and to causes greater than the first people in need he encounters is a huge perspective shift. Especially as a sect with nothing to give and no wiggle room where it comes not only to basic resources post-war, but to things like reputation and political standing. This is, of course, a huge facet to the conflict between him and Wei Wuxian (and the Wen remnants) at that point in the story.

But on a personal level it also speaks to the sacrifice thing. If Jiang Cheng sacrifices his life, he is not just sacrificing his own life anymore.

When he gave up his life for Wei Wuxian, he had not yet inherited. His parents were only barely gone. There was nothing to inherit. There was no surety of there ever being something to inherit ever again. Everything else was already gone. It was only the three of them, barely surviving, running for their lives. It was only him and Wei Wuxian in a street, and one of them had to die.

But once he inherits? He's a commander. He's a leader. He has all the knowledge and all the networking connections. He has the reputation. He has the social standing. He might still have a long way to go in developing his skills, but he has a natural leadership ability and he does have training appropriate to his station.

What happens if he personally sacrifices his life? What happens to all of that? What happens to everyone depending on him?

That's not very satisfying, very epic-worthy. That's not very dramatic or romantic. It's gradual, and messy, that kind of change and realisation. Becoming that kind of person. Making choices based in that reality. Deciding that you do not belong to yourself.

And I think it really comes to a head when his siblings die.

I think it comes to a head personally. Not just in his role as Jiang-zongzhu. We don't see Jiang Cheng choose not to die, in as many words. But we certainly see him choose to live.

Or, perhaps, we see the evidence of that choice.

Jiang Cheng could have faded away. He could have started delegating all his responsibilities, gotten help from other sects, trained up a replacement. He could have made such things necessary by getting more and more reclusive. He could have pulled a Qingheng-Jun.

Hell, with a-jie gone already, he could have just said fuck this and followed Wei Wuxian off that cliff, and if you don't think he wonders about that sometimes--at least at first--then we have very different interpretations of Jiang Cheng as a person.

And no, none of those are sacrifice. But at some point, he still chose to do the opposite.

He chose every day to live for his sect, to keep growing it into something powerful and secure. He took that vow that he made and he fucking stuck to it.

And he chose to live for Jin Ling.

I don't half wonder if that was a bigger driving force at first than anything else.

Jiang Cheng could absolutely have left Jin Ling to be raised by his Jin family in the absence of his parents and fucked off to hide away in Yunmeng and had nothing to do with him. He could have done a lot of things, let himself develop in a lot of ways, unhealthy ways.

But he so very clearly did not.

Jin Ling and Jiang Cheng have a close relationship. Jin Ling defers to Jiang Cheng, is answerable to him on night hunts and beyond them. It's never questioned why he's basically just in the Yunmeng Jiang party by himself. Yunmeng Jiang disciples answer to Jin Ling in turn, follow his orders without question in the absence of their zongzhu. It's a Yunmeng Jiang disciple who hands Xianzi off to Jin Ling outside the Guanyin Temple in Yunping, and Jiang Cheng is intimately familiar with Xianzi's commands and is apparently a trusted person to give them (which, we find out, Jin Guangyao is not.)

As much as Jiang Cheng is not good at saying what he means, and especially after everything he's been through his softer bits have grown harder and harder carapace around them, Jin Ling never seems to misunderstand what Jiang Cheng means. They snipe at each other and snark and bitch and roll their eyes and so clearly love each other.

Jiang Cheng's love for Jin Ling shines brightly the second you know how to interpret Jiang Cheng, and Jin Ling absolutely does. Jin Ling's trust in Jiang Cheng is incredible.

Jin Ling is practically Yunmeng Jiang's heir, and practically Jiang Cheng's son.

That sort of thing doesn't just happen, because you're related or whatever. In fact, the story goes out of its way to present blood relations not being close, especially father figures.

Which means from a young age, Jin Ling knew Jiang Cheng's love. Jiang Cheng, struggling young zongzhu of a struggling newly-rebuilt sect, who just lost everything, barely more than a kid himself, figured out he needed to not only stay alive, but needed to live for Jin Ling.

He needed to teach him everything, needed to figure out how to be the best of his own father and mother, and the best of Jin Ling's father and mother, and live up to every lost bit of love Jin Ling should have had, and try, and try, no matter how unworthy or unfit or inferior he felt. No matter how much he fucked up and didn't know. No matter how much grief he was dealing with. No matter how many people hated him and how few friends he had. No matter how much there was to do. No matter how overwhelming the endless tide of days, of forever in front of him felt, horrible and empty of everyone that had come before. Jiang Cheng still chose to live.

He carved out that new life because of love. He didn't die for anyone, and he didn't die for anyone's memory. He lived.

"I never thought I'd be worth the work it would take to piece myself together," but he did, for his sect, his disciples, his family's legacy, his siblings' memories, and Jin Ling.

And, as a bonus knife, the things we see him chide Jin Ling the most for? Are specifically things Wei Wuxian would have done, and even things he would have done in following him. Grandstanding, not asking for help when needed, wandering off alone, making unnecessary sacrifices.

Wei Wuxian's Growth

That brings us to Wei Wuxian coming back. And, well, the boy still has a long way to go. He goes through a lot of kinds of growth post-timeskip. And I think this is one of them.

For one, he's already fucking died once.

Honestly, almost ironically, that death wasn't even fully a sacrifice. Perhaps in some ways it was, in some ways he internalised that it was. But regardless, after all his sacrificing, he finally died. And, much like Jiang Cheng's sacrifice, it didn't stick. He woke back up. Albeit 16 years later.

Now, he wasn't keen on dying, or he maybe would have just gone back. But that doesn't mean he'd suddenly decided to live for anyone rather than die for them.

And, indeed, we still see that side of him come back with him in full force. He starts off by deciding he will just live this new life without Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan altogether.

I think, for Wei Wuxian, this matter of sacrifice ends up being tied into a lot of other pieces of his growth--none of it happens independently of each other.

First, he is shown and told that he is wanted. That's the first thing. He cannot simply go on without inconveniencing/endangering/roping anyone else into his shit because his ties to other people don't work in only one direction. He is wanted.

Lan Zhan wants to be at his side, has not forgotten him, and loves him unwaveringly. That is a huge first step, right there at the beginning, when Lan Zhan grabs his hand, and they make eye contact, and by the time Lan Zhan turns to look away Wei Wuxian is grabbing his hand back desperately and that pretty much says everything it needs to right there.

The idea that Wei Wuxian can act at all without having any negative affect on anyone tied to him is something we see even outside the concept of sacrifice--how many times before his death, even before his defection, do we see him say things like "you can insult me, but don't involve the Yunmeng Jiang sect" like. Like. Wei Wuxian please. That's not how this works. That's not how any of this works.

So I think him realising that other people will willingly be tied to him and there's nothing he can do about it, that his actions affect the people who care about him all the time, is something he still has to learn/relearn even after everything that happened leading up to his death. I think, in particular, Wei Wuxian realising that it's not just his mistakes and fuckups that affect people, but his intentional actions, too. Like sacrifices. Even if they're at his own expense. Because people care and that's okay and good.

Lan Zhan drives that home with things like noticing that Wei Wuxian has transferred Jin Ling's curse to his own leg, and then insisting on carrying him.

Lan Zhan notices. Lan Zhan cares. This act of sacrifice does not end with Wei Wuxian suffering. It has cascading effects, even something this small. It is, perhaps, more effective a lesson on a small scale with fewer complexities woven in, than it would be on the larger scale issues he dealt with before his death.

This idea that his sacrifices affect people beyond him is carried through the rest of the story, too, from the way everyone seems to fret about him after the Burial Mounds and Lan Sizhui runs to hold him, down to the fact that he has to answer for how his sacrifice of his golden core to Jiang Cheng affects Jiang Cheng. Both the absence of his own golden core being a catalyst for a lot of other shit, and finding out about the core transfer actually fucking Jiang Cheng up. Which, it turns out, Wei Wuxian kind of knew would happen, he just thought he could get away with not dealing with it if he kept the secret better.

Wei Wuxian can't escape his sacrifices and his actions having an effect on those around him, the ones who care and the ones he cares about, or even the object of his sacrifice, and he really does have to have that hammered home.

He also deals with growth related to his pride and arrogance. He learns how to be weak, he learns how to have alternate forms of strength, he learns how to let others in, and let others stand with him.

Most of this is related to Lan Zhan, and I've already covered it at least somewhat in another meta, but it relates back to this, because those are two driving forces behind his sacrificial nature.

If Wei Wuxian is allowed to be weak, is allowed to hesitate, is allowed to go to others for help, is allowed to look for alternative solutions, that sets a better precedent for cutting down on the habitual self-sacrifice tendencies.

Additionally, he learns that others can and will stand with him in his sacrifices, when they are necessary.

Look at the way he pushes Lan Zhan away on the steps of Jinlintai, but Lan Zhan steps back toward him, and draws his sword, and declares his love before heaven and earth, saying in as many words that Wei Wuxian need not walk his path alone, and they fight together.

And the next time Wei Wuxian goes to sacrifice? In the Burial Mounds? He doesn't even think twice before volunteering Lan Zhan to stand with him. His entire plan revolves around the idea that Lan Zhan will stand with him--without even consulting Lan Zhan--and in doing so, they may be able to prevent Wei Wuxian from actually sacrificing his life.

Already we see him internalising a lot of that growth. He doesn't need to grandstand or prove himself; he doesn't care what everyone there thinks of him, and for the ones he does care about he is secure in their regard for him. He doesn't first attempt to sacrifice himself and be bait to draw the fierce corpses away while everyone including Lan Zhan runs off. He doesn't have to be convinced to accept Lan Zhan as part of his plan. He doesn't have to have Lan Zhan simply stay behind and then deal with the addition of him later.

Compare, if you will, the Xuanwu cave. Wei Wuxian absolutely expected everyone else to leave while he drew its attention, and Lan Zhan staying was not part of his original plan. Yes, later on they attacked the Xuanwu together, but that was different entirely. At first, he was just being bait to get everyone else to safety.

In the Burial Mounds? He's already worked Lan Zhan having his back into his plans.

It's still a sacrifice, but he's come a really long way about it.

So now that we've mitigated some of the sacrificial tendencies, modulated their effects on his choices, we come down to the "live for you instead of die for you" issue.

My positing that Wei Wuxian has reached this point by the end of the story has a lot more to do with having seen the patterns of his growth, watching the way he interacted with Jiang Cheng regarding the issue of the golden core transfer being revealed, watching the way he interacted with Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan in general evolve, and watching him allow himself to have more and more attachments by the end of the story. And getting the overall vibe that living is now important, and there are things to live for in this world now that he's back in it.

However, if I had to narrow it down to one moment to exemplify this, I would point to the moment where he's caught around the neck by Jin Guangyao.

Wei Wuxian absolutely knows that if Lan Zhan sheathes Bichen, they're all fucked. Lan Zhan could easily take everyone here who would fight him, but not if he sheathes his sword and seals his spiritual power. And at this point it's increasingly likely that if they let themselves be captured they're simply not going to make it out alive. None of them. No matter what Jin Guangyao says.

Lan Zhan's best chance for survival and Jin Guangyao's best chance at being brought to justice/captured are one and the same in this moment--Lan Zhan keeping his sword, and either taking Jin Guangyao down himself or escaping to go fetch the assembled sect leaders and such at Lotus Pier.

Wei Wuxian knows this. It's why he begs Lan Zhan to be okay with his death and to do this Right Thing anyway.

Lan Zhan is not, and does not.

I don't think Wei Wuxian is surprised by this, to be fair.

But he could have ensured it would happen. He could have ensured that Jin Guangyao would go down. He could have ensured, more importantly, that Lan Zhan lived. He could have prevented Lan Zhan from sheathing Bichen to begin with.

He could have sacrificed himself.

It would have been incredibly easy at that point. All he had to do was fight back instead of hold still. Jin Guangyao was not bluffing, probably, though he just as surely knew if Wei Wuxian died then he was next, he counted on everyone wanting Wei Wuxian alive more than they wanted him dead. So if Wei Wuxian had tried to fight back or escape, he would have died.

Jin Guangyao would have been shocked, very very briefly. The resulting chaos would have seen everyone in custody who needed to be. Perfect.

And, you know, Lan Zhan would have been once more Wei-Ying-less.

Wei Wuxian very notably does not make this sacrifice. Even if it means they get captured. Even if it means they likely die together instead of only one of them dying. Even if that math is terrible on the surface of it.

He doesn't make Lan Zhan watch him die again. He doesn't presume that his loss means nothing. He doesn't presume that his life is not worth it, that his sacrifice is worth it.

Wei Wuxian actively chooses to live. He chooses to live for Lan Zhan. For the chance that they will both find a way out, and if they don't, then they are together in this and that matters more.

And he keeps making that choice. At no point in the confrontation with Jin Guangyao, for all those hours and hours and hours of back and forth and monologuing in that damned temple, does Wei Wuxian try to grandstand or throw himself sacrificially into the mix in any way. He is always working with everyone there to whatever extent possible, to the ends that everyone (including people he cedes the political superiority to) decides upon. He releases ownership of the situation, of needing to fix the situation, of needing to fix the situation by giving himself up.

I've been writing this so long I'm starting to lose the threads of my own thoughts, but yeah.

By the end, I think Wei Wuxian learns a lot and grows a lot and finally hits the point that Jiang Cheng hit years and years prior.

"I never thought I'd be worth the work it would take to piece myself together," but he was confronted with the idea of it again and again until it had to stick, and so he did. For Lan Zhan, for Lan Sizhui, for Jin Ling, for the other juniors.

I do think there will always be some element of self-sacrifice to Wei Wuxian's character that remain unchanged. He is a caretaker and a fixer at the heart of him. He is a big brother and I think maturity has only expanded that trait. He's also notably not a leader, and to some extent he does belong to himself both more and less than he ever could before his death.

But that doesn't have to be a bad thing. And it doesn't negate him embracing the idea of living for the ones he loves, getting better for the ones he loves, and letting them keep him in their lives.

I'd like to think that this piece of character growth is another significant thing in favour of Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng being able to forge not just a healthy relationship but a healthier relationship post-canon than they may have ever had before, or at least in a very long time.

[malereader-inserts]

For the Sake of Family

Fandom: Harry Potter Pairing: Weasley Family x Son/Brother!Reader Summary: A son is missing, god forbid anyone see a wrath of a grieving Weasley Word Count:  1,233 Request:  it's the battle of Hogwarts and during the 1 hour of calm (Fred is severely injured but still alive) they're making sure everyone is there but they realise that 1 person isnt, one of their sons. Nobody has seen him since the beginning of the fight, no one can find him and they're all very worried. Eventually they do but he was injured because he took a spell for someone. Maybe Luna? (I just like the ones where they protect others-) Warning: Blood and Injury

Arthur and Molly held each other momentarily, Percy had returned to them and so far all their children seem to be unharmed, other than Fred who was almost killed. Fred was being attended by one of the nurses, whilst George fusses over his twin and Percy apologising over and over to Fred. Charlie had yet to arrive, as the mother and father of the big family knew where Ron would be, he was always inseparable from his best friends.

Ginny looked lost as Bill had his attention on Fluer. Ginny, despite not suppose to be in the fight, looking dirty from ash and falling dirt, looked at the band of her brothers before shuffling to her parents.

“Mum, where’s (y/n)?”

It seemed like all the siblings had heard the name as they all stopped, turning heads to Ginny and the parents. Molly stops short as she looks at the boys before her, counting, and missing three sons. Charlie - who could be on his way to help the fight. Ron - who was currently with Harry. And, you - missing. The second youngest son was currently not within their sight.

“Where was the last time you saw (Y/n)?” Arthur asked the boys as they all look sheepishly.

“I haven’t seen him,” Percy says, “I don’t think he’s aware that I’m back.”

Bill and Fleur shared a look before looking at Arthur, “Well, I saw him before the fight started, other than that, we haven’t seen him.”

“He ran past Neville and Sprout,” Fred commented, as he looks at his twin, “What about you, George?”

“Saw him with Luna.”

“Right-” Molly huffed, before looking around the hall before her feet taking her somewhere, she seems like she was following her heart rather her mind.

“Where’s mum going?” Ginny asked, she knew where her mum was going but sometimes it is best to address the unspoken.

“I would assume she is looking for (Y/n),” Arthur answering as he sits down - he can’t help but worry as well - it’s one of his boys.

The siblings silently sat down, exchanging glances. They were all concern with the second son being missing. You were the perfect balance of every sibling. The level headed from Bill, almost the voice of reason, but you got Charlie’s impressive quidditch skills but, unfortunately, have the genius knowledge behind jokes and pranks. You take pride in having Percy’s smarts and the driven motion to excel well in class as well as have Ron’s clumsiness, but Ginny’s spite. 

You were balanced, yet so chaotic all at once. You weren’t one to be forgotten, you were a quick-witted reckless idiot, who would calculate the percentage of how injurious he would get if he was to act on a reckless activity. Ginny sits by her dad and leans her head against his shoulder.

“I hope (Y/n) is okay.”

Ginny would never admit if she had a favourite brother, but if anyone would ask her she would always say you. You might be two years older than her, but you were by her side, unlike Ron. You would be the one to talk quidditch to her, and always cheered her on beating the rest of the siblings, she’s capable of standing up for herself, but you were always there to do so and she appreciates it because it’s so tiring to stand her ground. 

You would actually tutor her in things she doesn’t understand, unlike Percy who was too busy with his nose in a book or Ron being average at his subjects. You were the brother she would go to if she wanted to vent or to cry because you know when to joke about and when to give her solid advice. You were such a happy sibling - she would really take it the hardest if you were dead. 

Molly would not rest easy with the fact that one of her sons might be dead. As she leaves the hall, maybe there are fighters still making their way to the hall to receive aid. There were a few students limping, some just doused in the dirt, but there were other fighters pulling out the dead from the debris and rubble of the school. Molly’s heart was racing, fear was bubbling in her stomach. 

“Mum!” 

Molly turned so quickly that hands had caught her before she toppled over. Her eyes see dirty hands covered in blood, her attention quickly diverts to the face of the person who was holding her. 

“(Y/n)!” She exclaimed, releasing the breathe she had not realised she was holding in. 

Her excitement fades as concern rushes within her, one of her babies is injured. She grabs your upper arms as you wince, one of her hands had landed on something thick and sticky, as she lets go, you let out a breath of relief - her hand covered in blood, suddenly you’ve lost your balance.

“Oh, sweetie - what happened?”

To her surprise, Luna comes under your uninjured arm to allow you to find your balance, the sweet girl smiles politely to your mum.

“It’s my fault really, I should have been more aware of my surroundings.”

“Nonsense, Luna,” You hummed, grinning still, “I knew the risk, it’s not your fault at all.” 

You give your mother a tight smile as she realised that your arm was just a minor injury, but your side seems to be bleeding as well as she helps you to walk as well without you fumbling over your feet. Your family sits anxiously at the entrance door but beaming when they see their mum and brother coming through the door. 

Luna dipping out as Ginny takes over to guide you. 

“Oh thank Merlin,” Arthur exclaims as you groan as they gently sit you down.

“When did Perce get here?” You asked almost immediately, “Glad to see isn’t far up his arse to-”

“Don’t be rude to your brother,” Molly scowls as she gets her wand out to heal as best s she could.

“No, it’s okay,” Percy says, “I think I deserve it, (Y/n) has always been the voice of-”

“Sense.” You and Bill responded

“Intelligence?” Fred and George spoke afterwards. 

“Reason, but sense and intelligence make do too.”

“Well, I don’t think your brother was thinking sense of intelligence when he decided to take a spell for Luna,” Molly lightly scowled, keeping her breathing steady as she could hear you breathe heavily and wincing every now and then.

“You idiot!” Ginny exclaimed.

“Bet you’re a hero to her,” George waves the concern over, looking at you with a suggestive look.

“Trying to woo her, (Y/n)?” Fred teases as you sigh at the twins.

“No-” You answered, giving the twins a glare, “If you would like to know the reason, though I don’t see why it would concern you, Luna remind me of Ginny - and if anything happens to our little sister, those twats has more coming from us than Voldemort himself.”

The family was silent for a moment as Ginny cracks a smile, whilst Arthur chuckles and shakes his head, it’s as almost the tension washes away.

“You’re still an idiot,” Ginny says, but instead there was a light tone to her voice, “You knew were going to live, didn’t you?”

The family looked at you s you smiled charmingly, your eyes glistening, “Of course, I wouldn’t be able to do that to the family.” 

[saiyanandproud]

// over the years you've been RPing with , what can you say Mariko's character arc has been like?

Damn, sorry for the late answer! I forgot I had this ask in my box!

Well... It has been interesting. Not over yet but she definitely has changed. While her personality stayed pretty much the same -- sutbborn, enthusiastic and fiery -- her inner self has slowly matured I think.

Mariko started as a fresh rookie in Conton when I first wrote her in this blog. She was sixteen, she was cocky, wild, and took a huge pride in her newlyfound Saiyan heritage, to the point that she even omitted her hybrid status and just claimed herself a Saiyan and nothing more. Anything that would unveil that pretense of hers would make her react pretty aggressively, and she'd just stomp her feet and reply that no, she was a Saiyan, and that was all that mattered! But as I slowly wrote her, and thanks to her interactions with other RP blogs, she began to get more in touch with her full nature.

At first, Mariko used to link her human side to her life back on Earth, a life she wanted to disconnect herself from, with a family that never allowed her to express her true self. That was why, once in Conton, she wanted to explore the new opportunities she was given and rejected her human nature. She wanted to be seen by Saiyans as their peer, as if asking to be "adopted" into their family -- another reason why she was so anxious about finding out who she descends from, because those genes thanks to which Trunks had tracked her had been the key that released her from a life she hated. To put it shortly, she wanted freedom, and she wanted love, but she would never admit it -- maybe wasn't even fully aware of it yet.

As time passed, however, she began slowly realising how much of her cockiness was really a fear of being rejected, of being seen as weaker and hence lose both her chance of graduating as a Time Patroller and the acceptance she craved so much for. But time and new friendships in Conton showed her that she could be appreciated and loved regardless of her nature, so her obsession with rejecting her hybrid status went weaker. The threads with @nappainanotherdimension @radmanraditz offered Mariko a chance of finding a new fatherly figure and a new uncle/older brother one, @ssjkallion gave Mariko a Saiyan friend of her same age she could slowly open up and confront herself with, @shallxt was the epitome of a pure, ancient Saiyan who fell in love with Mariko regardless of her hybrid nature, @fyu-ture, a super clever being Mariko had a huge crush for, considered her smart enough to be the only person he relied on. Many people loved her sincerely even if she was a hybrid, and as a reflection, Mariko started loving herself a bit more too, and became more confident as I wrote her.

As a young adult, she can still be very insecure, and she still wants to find out who descends from, but more for a matter of self-discovery than anything. Plus, graduating as a Patroller helped a lot with gaining new confidence, as she finally became something she chose to be, instead of having her life set by someone else (her parents back on Earth).

There are still things I wish I could explore with her -- her discovering how she descends from Goku's lineage thanks to her resemblance with Gine, for example, or finally becoming a Super Saiyan, but that will be a huge and important thread to work on, as it will be a big turning point for Mariko's quest in finding herself.

Until then, it's great to write more adventures for her -- as she is an adventurous girl herself, and I doubt that will ever change! But if you ask me where Mariko will end up with her arc, the only answer I have is that she'll become a reknowned Patroller in the high ranks of Conton. Maybe not the next and ultimate Time Hero she always longed to be when she started, but someone she can be proud of being nonetheless!

[swan-of-sunrise]

Spellbinding (Chapter Three-Part Two)

Summary: (Y/N)’s magical training with Loki begins, and she begins to evaluate her growing feelings for her best friend.

Pairing: Loki X Reader

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings/Disclaimers: None

A/N: Hope you all enjoy!

Chapter Three (Part II) April 29th, 2015 Avengers Tower, New York City (Previous Chapter)

Over the next couple of weeks, Loki helped (Y/N) acclimate to her new and overwhelming role as an Avenger. He gave her tours of different parts of the tower, introduced her to several teammates she hadn’t met yet, and read with her in her room when she grew tired or was feeling too uncomfortable with all the attention. Whenever (Y/N) wasn’t with Loki, she was slowly getting to know the rest of the team. While she got along fairly well with all of them, she was the most comfortable around Steve and Bruce; She and Steve initially bonded over their mutual love of classic films and history books, and Bruce was always kind enough to invite her down to the lab for lunch whenever she wasn’t busy with Loki.

The only Avenger that (Y/N) couldn’t stand being around, however, was Iron Man himself. It was no secret that (Y/N) and Tony disliked each other; it turned out the Artificial Intelligence system named J.A.R.V.I.S. had caught their first interaction on camera and the other Avengers had gotten a hold of the recording; they thought it was hilarious that the self-proclaimed playboy had gotten a well-deserved talking-to and Tony fumed because it had somehow gotten leaked to the others. (Y/N) suspected that Loki had something to do with its release but whenever she mentioned it to him, he’d only flashed her a mischievous smile and changed the subject. Thankfully, whenever Tony wasn’t on a mission he was either busy in the lab or off overseeing Stark Industries, so (Y/N) didn’t see him around very often.

Once her prescribed two weeks of rest were up, (Y/N)’s magical training began. She, Loki and Thor gathered together in the tower’s gymnasium; now that she knew the brothers were Asgardian gods, it was amusing to see them dressed in ‘Midgardian’ workout clothes. And it’s official, she thought as she subtly examined her best friend and his hoodie-basketball shorts combination, Loki looks handsome in just about everything he wears.

“Magic is nothing without concentration, Lady (Y/N). You must focus completely on the task you’re trying to accomplish, or you risk failing and perhaps overexerting yourself.” Loki paced before her with his hands clasped behind his back as he spoke, looking every part the serious instructor.

Thor spoke up, “What did you feel when you used your magic on that Hydra agent?” Thor was only there to observe and occasionally offer advice, but (Y/N) had found herself comforted by the older Asgardian’s supportive presence.

(Y/N) thought back to the incident at the library. “Well, I remember seeing the man and thinking ‘He’s going to hurt us.’ Then, I sort of instinctively raised my hands and felt a tugging in the pit of my stomach; that’s when I pushed him back with the purple magic and fainted.”

“The reason you fainted was because although you had the proper concentration on your target, you didn’t have a clear thought about what to do to him, which caused you to use too much magic.” Loki explained patiently. “When performing magic, you must keep two things in mind: Object and intent. That way, you can control how much magic you use and keep it from exhausting or killing yourself.”

“All right, object and intent. Got it.” She nodded in acknowledgement. “And will I always have to use my hands to perform magic?”

Loki tilted his head thoughtfully and stopped pacing. “I’m not sure. Since very little is known about your particular brand of magic, you may be able to eventually use both your hands and your eyes. It will undoubtedly take a great deal of practice to even reach that level so for the time being, you’ll only try and use your hands. Now, let’s begin, shall we?” He looked around the room, his brow furrowing in concentration. “Thor, do you remember what Mother used when she first taught us levitation, before you stubbornly quit to train as a warrior?”

“Ah, you mean when you used your tricks to make an illusion of a troll chase me around the palace and I decided that magic wasn’t to my liking?” Thor chuckled as his younger brother shrugged innocently. “If I recall correctly, Mother had us begin by practicing on statues in the gardens. I don’t think that will work for a Midgardian beginner such as Lady (Y/N), though; they’re too heavy.”

(Y/N) pointed at the rack of weights across the room. “What about those?”

Smiling, Loki went over and came back with a ten-pound weight in his hand. “Brilliant, Lady (Y/N)!” He set the weight in front of her and backed away to stand next to Thor. “Try and levitate this. Remember, object and intent.”

“Okay,” She took a deep breath and raised her hands. Her eyes never left the weight as she willed it to obey her. Nothing happened. Frowning, she stared down the weight until she felt a familiar tugging sensation in the pit of her stomach; the weight was all the sudden surrounded by a purple glow, rising about a foot in the air before landing back on the ground with a dull thud. “I did it!”

“Well done!” Loki was beaming, a hint of pride in his green eyes. “This time, levitate it and see if you can’t move it in other directions…”

Hours later, (Y/N) was drenched in sweat and her body ached all over, but she’d progressed to controlling fifty-pound weights to move around the room; Loki decided to call it a day when he and Thor were nearly smacked in the head by a wayward dumbbell.

“I know it’s your turn to read aloud but I don’t mind taking over; you’ve worked hard today, after all.”

(Y/N), who was lying flat on her back on the ground, groaned. “Thank you, Loki, that would be great; I wouldn’t want to stumble over my words.” Over the past week, she and Loki had taken turns reading poetry aloud to one another; since he enjoyed reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream so much she’d introduced him to her leather-bound collection of famous poems, which he’d instantly taken to. “Why didn’t you two tell me magic was so tiring?”

Loki only chuckled from his seat on the workout bench beside her. “Don’t fret, Lady (Y/N), magic becomes nearly effortless after a while. I must say, though, you’re learning quickly for a beginner, it’s impressive.”

“Loki’s right, your magic is stronger than I could have ever expected, Lady (Y/N).” Thor spoke as he sat next to his brother. “And I know for a fact that it’s nearly impossible to impress him.” He nudged his brother’s shoulder with his own. “Perhaps she’ll impress you again when her magic surpasses yours one day, brother!”

“I have no problems with that, Thor, just as long as she promises to use her magic to bludgeon you with dumbbells whenever required.” That made them all laugh.

(Y/N) clambered to her feet and stretched her arms. “Well, I’m going to go take a quick shower before we read; I’ll meet you in your room in an hour, okay?” After turning to leave, she turned around to face the brothers, specifically the eldest of the two. “And Thor, if you even think about eating my snacks while I’m in the shower like last time, I promise that I’ll tell everyone about your secret stash of Pop-Tarts.” Thor gulped nervously as she shifted her gaze to the younger brother. “Could you please protect my snacks from him, Loki?”

Loki nodded, giving her a mock-bow and a grin. “I shall endeavor to guard your snacks from all who dare threaten them, my lady!”

“Oh, my hero!” Playing along with him, she clutched her chest and looked up at the ceiling dramatically, earning another laugh from both men. “See you soon…”

She left the gymnasium and as she walked down the hall, she heard Thor remark, “Well, brother, I can certainly see why you-Ow! That hurt!”

Behind all the pranks and insults they seem to care a lot for each other, she thought with a smile as she made her way to the elevator. She’d spent the past couple of weeks silently observing the brothers, and despite being slightly intimidated by him during their first meeting, she’d grown quite fond of Thor. And although he’d never admit it to her, she began to think that Loki was wary of living in Thor’s shadow, but she didn’t want to make him uncomfortable by prying. Pride filled her as she thought of his praise of her developing magical skills, and she couldn’t wait to learn more about her powers with him. Hopefully I won’t be as sore from now on, though, she thought with a wince when she stepped into the elevator and hurried off to enjoy a soothing shower.

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A moment after she knocked, Loki opened his door of his suite with his usual grin. “Your snacks, my lady, kept safe from annoying oafs as promised.” He allowed her in and closed the door behind her before gesturing to his large sofa and coffee table piled high with food. “Make yourself comfortable.”

(Y/N) smiled and sat herself carefully on the cushions, sighing in satisfaction at how comfortable they felt to her still-aching muscles. His room was very similar to hers, except his had a distinct green and gold theme whereas hers was more lavender mixed with other pastels. “Thank you, Loki. I was wondering, have you ever tutored anyone else in magic before?”

He sat next to her, her leather-bound book in his hand. “Never. I’m simply attempting to channel everything my mother taught me about magic when I first began, though I’m afraid I’m not nearly as skilled as she is…”

“Well, I think you make a wonderful teacher!” Her pulse quickened when he smiled shyly at her compliment, so to distract herself she began nibbling on her granola bar. “Now, where did we stop yesterday?”

“Um…” Flicking through the pages, he found the page that was bookmarked. “Ah yes, ‘She Walks in Beauty.’” He cleared his throat and began reading aloud:

“She walks in beauty, like the night  Of cloudless climes and starry skies;  And all that’s best of dark and bright  Meet in her aspect and her eyes;  Thus mellowed to that tender light  Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less,  Had half impaired the nameless grace  Which waves in every raven tress,  Or softly lightens o’er her face;  Where thoughts serenely sweet express,  How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,  So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,  The smiles that win, the tints that glow,  But tell of days in goodness spent,  A mind at peace with all below,  A heart whose love is innocent!”

(Y/N) sighed dreamily when he finished. “I’ve always thought that poem was brilliant. The way Lord Byron presents the woman’s beauty as a delicate balance between light and dark is so eloquent, and I love the conclusion he draws about inner and outer beauty living in harmony with one another. It’s very sweet how he describes this woman who he obviously has feelings for…” She trailed off when she noticed Loki smirking. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just that you’ve proven a theory of mine correct.”

“And what theory would that be, exactly?” Crossing her arms, she raised an eyebrow at him and tried not to smile at his smug expression.

“That you, Lady (Y/N), are a hopeless romantic.” Loki grinned triumphantly as a blush spread over her cheeks. “I suspected as much when you recommended Pride and Prejudice to me all those weeks ago; though you claimed you enjoyed the novel for the witty banter and period drama, it was obvious that you also enjoyed it for the romantic plot between Elizabeth Bennet and Mister Darcy.”

Shrugging noncommittally, (Y/N) retorted, “All right, I’ll admit that I’m a hopeless romantic…just as soon as you do.” His green eyes widened in surprise. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you flicking through Much Ado About Nothing the other day, and when you were reading ‘She Walks in Beauty’ just now you couldn’t keep the goofy smile off your face.”

Loki’s stunned expression shifted as he gave her a lopsided grin. “I suppose you’re right, Lady (Y/N). Though if word of that got out it would ruin my reputation as a terrifying, all-powerful god, wouldn’t you say?” He leaned closer and jokingly stage-whispered, “I promise not to tell anyone your secret if you promise not to tell them mine. Agreed?”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Loki.” She felt as if she were melting under his intense gaze, and it wasn’t until her eyes involuntarily flicked to his lips did she realize how close their faces were. Quickly pulling away, she fumbled with the hem of her peasant-top and trained her eyes on the book in his lap, fully aware that her face was reddening as she pushed her glasses back up her nose. “So, um, shall we continue?”

She heard him clear his throat and reply, “Yes, of course, um, right…” He hastily picked the book up and flipped the page, the sight of him licking his finger to do so only causing her blush to deepen. “All right: ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud…’”

As he continued to read poem after poem, (Y/N) replayed everything that had happened in her mind. She’d nearly thrown caution to the wind and kissed her best friend. Over their three months of friendship, the small crush she’d been harboring for the Asgardian had developed into something much larger and though she wasn’t sure if what she felt was love, since she’d never experienced it before, she knew that her strong feelings could jeopardize their friendship. Besides that, he was an Asgardian, practically a god, and she was just an ordinary Midgardian who just happened to have a Light Elf for a mother; there was absolutely no chance of him possibly returning her feelings so at that moment, she decided to try her hardest to repress them for both their sakes and the sake of their friendship.

But maybe I’ll let myself enjoy today, she thought, tentatively leaning her head on his shoulder and closing her eyes, reveling in the feeling of being so close to him. To her surprise, he reached around her shoulders and pulled her closer, leaving his arm wrapped tightly around her as he continued to read. His soothing musical voice combined with the warmth he radiated and his unique scent relaxed and lulled her to sleep, but not before she heard him flip back several pages and read, “‘She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies…’”

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A/N: Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! In the text I included a link to a Youtube video of Tom Hiddleston reading ‘She Walks In Beauty,’ you should really give it a listen! I’ve also created a Spotify playlist inspired by this series, and I’ll be updating it every time I upload a new chapter. Enjoy!

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2wx8TZwpDN0l33tES3W3Nk

Chapter Four

Spellbinding Masterlist

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