#cycles of mourning i tell u

[sentientsky]

and, to the surprise of absolutely no one, here we are once again

very excited to see the tenth doctor and experience heart-wrenching grief at the hands of david tennant but i’m also looking at nine like

[strong-with-the-sarcasm]

part 16 - but I know where to start

“Feeling my way through the darkness, guided by a beating heart. I can’t tell where the journey will end, but I know where to start.” -Wake Me Up by Avicii

Regent Masterlist Part 15

Was it a cop-out to summon Jazz back to the Far Frozen? Yes. Did Danny particularly care? Nope! 

Jason was comfortable, propped up with a book Ghostwriter who had popped by to personally deliver. How the ghost had known about Jason Phantom wasn’t going to question, but he suspected GW kept an eye on the bookworms that passed through the Realms- or at least those close to the “Royal family”. Phantom wasn’t much for reading, not unless it was space-related, but he enjoyed listening to the Liminal man reading out loud. He had a brash voice, accented with a cadence like those from Crime Alley, but it only underscored the passion he held for reading. Phantom didn’t interrupt him once, not even when the halfa pulled out his ecto-phone and texted Ellie. 

(His little sister was in Kansas, spending time with another clone she’d literally run into.) 

Almost another full day's cycle passed before Phantom realized Jason had fallen back asleep, a book resting open on his broad chest and soft snores coming from the man. 

Yeah, he could see how he and Jazz fit together so well. 

There was just something about the Once-Revenant, a part of what made him Jason, that resonated with the Phantom. It’s what made him talk to the man as Red Hood, feel comfortable enough to stay in his company for so long, trust him with his older sister- the person who raised him. 

(Spent her birthday money to get him those cheap plastic glow-in-the-dark stars.) 

(Taught him how to read.) 

(Held him as the nightmares of his death shook him to his core.) 

(Did not fear him.) 

(Not as Phantom, Danny, or Dan.)

(Loves him.) 

(Mourns him.) 

(He would never tell her, but he understood how Dan could succumb to grief.)

(Jazz was his.) 

(His first friend, his true mother, his rock.) 

(She wouldn’t have claimed Regency without that tie.) 

Remix & Original chat 

Remix: Lol hows weenie Original:   jasons x3 ur size pipsqeak                    Remix:  ur point?  Original:  lol hes ok                                 frosty says he got hurt wth shrpnel                        new healed core + shrapnel = bad time Remix:  sucks 2 b him  Original:               so tru        Whre r u? Remix: omw 2 spain barcelona Original: ooh send pics if u need me call Remix: pics or nay gotcha txt u l8r luv u  Original: love u 2

Safely back in the living Realm and tucked away in Jason’s apartment, Jazz and Danny tried to investigate the bomb- unfortunately there was nothing for them to do but wait. 

On the upside, the Justice League was about to hit the UN full force with all the subtlety of a tsunami and who had front row seats to the drama? 

Yep, the Regent.  Jazz wasn’t exactly thrilled that her presence was requested, even though it was on the path to the desired outcome the Nightingale siblings had fought for, but both her soulmate boyfriend and little brother would be by her side as support. 

The Birds and the Bats Group Chat

Zombie: I lived bitch Spoiler-Alert: Jason!  Fly-Like-A-Dick: Little Wing!  Blood_Heir: Todd. Zombie: don’t sound too excited there demon brat.  Blood_Heir: Never.  Sleep_When_Im_Dead: Where have you been? Zombie: Stayed overnight at my Docs for observation.  Fly-Like-A-Dick: For three days? Blood_Heir: Fail to find that humorous Todd.  Zombie: wasn’t meant to be a joke brat.  I was actually at my Docs.  Zombie: Got a shovel talk from my girlfriends little brother too.                                     Spoiler-Alert:  Whoa GIRLFRIEND!!!! 😱 Jason!  Why is this the first were hearing this??? Fly-Like-A-Dick: Little Wing!!!!!! Quiet_Dancer: 🤗  Zombie:  At least Cass and Dickiebird are happy for me                                    Spoiler-Alert:  Ecstatic! But details! Now.                                                      Zombie: No.                                              Fly-Like-A-Dick: Is she a redhead??? Sleep_When_Im_Dead:  Jasmine Nightingale.                                                      Zombie: Babs.                                               Oracle_of_Gotham:  On it.  [member Sleep_When_Im_Dead has been blocked from the group.]  Spoiler-Alert:  too late!!!!!! Cass  with me! Quiet_Dancer: 🫡 Oracle_of_Gotham: DENIED Batdad:  Welcome back Jaylad.                                                        Zombie:                                           Old man       You and I need to have a talk with words                                              Fly-Like-A-Dick: battle stations everyone!!!

Council of Uncaged Birds

Queen_Regent: Ellie, I want you to meet Jason.  Officially meet him.  WanderingPrincess: eh??? temp said wasnt srs Queen_Regent: Danny No InfiniteStarPrince: Danny YES Frosty said they are  soulmates!!!!!! WanderingPrincess: 🤯😱 wha th fuck!!!1 Queen_Regent: language!  WanderingPrincess: ENGLISH imma get a shovel gotta undead weenie 2 bury.

Template. [user InfiniteStarPrince has left the chat]  WanderingPrincess: coward Queen_Regent: I have many regrets.  WanderingPrincess: u luv us 👻

Lady & Knight chat Lady: Jay remember when I told you I wanted you to meet Ellie?  Knight: She’s bringing a shovel isn’t she.  Lady: I love how brilliant you are.  Knight: I aim to please. 

Lady & Knight chat Knight: you patrolling tonight? Lady: wasnt planning on it Knight: wanna meet me? Lady: same time same place? Knight: you know it

The abolishment of the Anti-Ecto Acts officially happened at three pm on a dreary Gotham Tuesday. Jazz was cuddled with Jason on his couch, dozing off to his heartbeat as he read Pride and Prejudice for the thousandth time. The comfortable silence they had wrapped themselves in only occasionally broken by Jason turning a page was completely shattered when Jazz’s phone rang with the Ghostbusters theme song. 

“Danny?” Jazz answered surprised, “School isn’t out yet, what’s wrong?” She was greeted by Danny’s heaving cries as he replied. 

“Batman, he- he did it!” Danny sobbed, “He saved us.” 

It clicked then. The Dark Knight had completed the task he was entrusted with by a Spirit of Protection, the Once and Future Star King, and unknowingly kept the promise a ghost made to a young Jasmine Fenton. 

One day my son will stop this. All of this. You only need to be strong. Take care of yourself and your brother. I promise. 

She had waited years for the promise to be fulfilled, the sworn promise of the dead to a living child. Jasmine was a patient soul, but she had still been a child that night in Gotham. 

(The Drs. Fenton believing the stories about a ghostly vigilante patrolling the streets, a never aging child by their side.) (Dragging their children with them. ) (Hungry and cold.) (A dead man who swore his son would end their torment one day.)

(She should’ve known it wouldn’t come fast enough to save Danny.) 

How was she to know the ghost was speaking of the Realms inhabitants, not the abused and neglected children of Ghost Hunters? How was she to know that the hope such a promise kindled wasn’t hers to keep?  Jason wrapped his arms around her, the book set aside and her phone gently taken from her grasp to be put on speaker so they could both talk to her little brother. Danny had dissolved from heaving sobs to muffled hiccups, seemingly now that he’d shared the news with his sister. 

“He really did,” she muttered. “He really did it.” 

(The furry fucker actually did it.) (She’d known that he was going to try, but humans are stubborn creatures.)

A/N: Hi! Welcome to an update for the Regent. Just to be fully transparent with each of my readers - The Regent is still on Hiatus.

I have deleted so much of my writing because I don't like the flow/dialogue/pacing. Original ending thrown out and rewritten twice- still don't care for it. Who knew something other than Angst would be so difficult.

(Not me!)

Having said that, this entry is of course beta'd by the wonderful @meditating-cat who has put up with my random messages.

(You are amazing!)

(In all honesty, I wish I could just skip right to the ending because at least I know 100% I can get it just right....eventually.)

Thanks for reading and happy easter!

[disneyprincemuke]

okay, can we go now?

you blink and take a couple of breaths to steady yourself. mick stares back at you curiously as he awaits your response. instead, you turn away and drop your head in shame. “okay, can we go now?”

you stand up from your side of the bench and take small steps towards the parking lot where you’d parked your car. your hands shake as you walk, feeling his stare on your back and practically hearing the questions he wants to ask.

“where are you going?” he asks. he assumed the you would turn back but you just carry forward. “i know you heard what i said.”

“i don’t think we should be doing this right now, mick,” you say softly.

you hear his heavy footsteps following you, desperate to get a hold of you. “why not? i’m telling you how i feel.”

“because i am your ex-girlfriend!” you shriek, stopping right in your tracks. you turn around and huff in frustration.

how is he not getting it? it’s simple — you’re his ex-girlfriend. it doesn’t get any simpler than that. in fact, you’re not even sure why you’re here in the front porch of some house party you’d both gotten invited to.

you’d caught his eye in the heart of the party you’d both been invited to. instinctively, you followed him out into the front porch when you saw him leaving the dark room.

you didn’t know what to say to him when he turned and greeted you with a small smile. your breakup understandably left both of you heartbroken but sometimes it feels like it hit you more than it hit him.

and you just missed him. but you know why it wouldn’t work even if you tried your hardest — you’d just end up where you started over and over again.

it’s just not meant to be.

“do you not remember how crazy we drove each other?” you point out, rolling your eyes. “mick, i miss you too, but we need to face that fact that we’re not right for each other. we’re going to die forcing to fit the puzzle pieces.”

“why does that matter? it will have to work out somehow,” mick scoffs, taking a step toward you. “because it has to — because i miss you.”

you sigh and drop your hands to your sides. you purse your lips together as you feel another sob arising in your chest. “we’re going to hate each other if we keep doing this. how many times have we found ourselves here? too many to count.”

the on and off again relationship cycle has to stop at some point, you realised some time last week as you sat in the shower mourning your relationship. 2 years is way longer than either of you should have dragged it on for.

but there’s always something about the glint in his eyes that always seem to draw you in.

and right now right here, in some random suburban street, you feel yourself being reeled in the longer you look up at him. you miss the way he holds you and waking up next to him in the morning. the breakfasts he would make you and the cup of coffee that would always greet you without fail.

“this has to be the one time we get it right.” he carefully wraps his hand around your wrist and sighs, his breath fanning over your bare chest. “this has to be the one.”

and you almost fold but you can’t help but remember how you left his apartment in tears. this time, you wiped his apartment clean of all your things after swearing that it was the last time you’d let yourself cry over him. the box of pictures with him still sits hidden in the trunk of your car, collecting dust and nearly making it into your apartment.

yet, even months following your breakup, it still stays in hiding. always almost making it into your apartment for safe keeping but you always make a u-turn for your car to throw it back in.

“we said the last time was the last time we do this,” you whisper shakily. “we always swear we’ll get it right and we never do…”

mick knows that. he remembers watching you helplessly pack your things and leave his apartment in tears, no longer listening to a word he’s saying to try and make you stay. but he just has a gut feeling that this time, it would work. you would somehow find a way to make it last this time.

it shouldn’t always have to end in both of you on the floor in a sputtering mess.

“just one more time.”

“i can’t do this with you anymore, mick.” you look down at where his hand wraps around you. you carefully tear his grip from you and try to ignore the way his hand tries to chase for you. you put your hands behind your back and take a step back. “i miss you too, but we can’t keep doing this, i’m sorry.”

you turn away again and continue your way to where your car is parked. but mick persists, following you once more. “just stay. let’s talk about it.”

“i feel like there’s not much to talk about at this point. you tell me you can live with my habits and then 2 months later we’re tearing one another down in irritation. let’s stop.”

you want oh so badly to stop where you are and ultimately find yourself in his apartment again somehow. you want to go against all intuition and get in his car and wake up next to him in his bed.

just like old times when everything was just right between you. you love that way he loves you but you can’t keep living counting the days of your relationship.

“but–”

“give it up,” you wave him off and stop right where your car is. you lift your head and throw him a sad smile. “we need to move on, mick. i don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

@33-81 @darleneslane @happy-nico @nikfigueiredo @namgification @c-losur3 @sakuramxchii @kissesandmartini

[hoodreader]

the lynching/murder of Khaliifah Williams (Rest in Power & Peace ✊🏾🕊️)

transit, mundane, & political astrology ramble from a pro-Black + afro pessimist leaning astrology student. i’m still learning so take that into consideration when reading.

trigger warning: state sanctioned violence

it is with insurmountable sadness that i write this post regarding the recent lynching of Khaliifah Williams, a wrongly convinced Black man who was sentenced to death by the state of missouri/mike parson. after countless of calls, protests, marches, blockades, pleas from the victim’s family and the williams family, Khaliifah was murdered by this system.

i see his face and i see all of us. all of us black people!!! i see oldhead uncles, barber shops, corner stores. i see something so familiar. do not let this mourning be for nothing. arm urself with knowledge, community, and bravery.

i know i can’t physically hold a moment of silence with text, but please allow thirty seconds of quiet before clicking ‘Keep Reading,’ to simply honor the memory of another soul lost to this system.

read his poetry here: “Perspectives and Emotions” by Khaliifah Williams, aka, Marcellus Williams.

On September 24, 2024 at 6:10 pm in Bonne Terre, Missouri, Khaliifah Williams was lynched by this system / Mike Parson.

1H in Pisces containing Saturn in Pisces Rx

a water sign shows emotional sensitivity. in a mutable modality, it shows that there is change coming. i feel Khaliifah is represented by Saturn in this chart, as saturn in the mundane chart represents the oppressed, isolated, imprisoned, dead, and poor or enslaved. i also personally ascribe race (and racial oppression) to saturn as well.

if u have any understanding of the USA prison system, it is derived from the abolishment of chattel slavery in the united states. when it was illegalized to own slaves on plantations, it was then only allowed within prisons, and so, black people became disproportionately imprisoned. thus… slavery persists. source.

communally, saturn in the mundane chart rules sadness, sorrow, depression, and disappointment in the public. as u can see, saturn is in a tight conjunction to the ascendant. the moment of his lynching was a moment of disappointment and misery to the people, as it became (once again) grimly bleak what the state of this nation is. i wonder if it functions as “the last straw.”

jupiter is the chart ruler here. and it’s actually quite interesting… while saturn is the signifier for the proliteriate, the poor, the enslaved, the imprisoned, and the marginalized… jupiter is the signifier of the bourgeoisie, the wealthy, judicial leaders, justice, and judgment. but not only that, it represents hopes and aspirations.

the ascendant being in a jovial sign shows hope & aspiration. but saturn Rx in pisces shows hope is misplaced. it shattered the delusion that the united states - of all governments - and the crooked people running this nation would suddenly gain a conscience. but the united states is devoid of that. mike parson is devoid of that.

saturn in pisces Rx and the recent partial lunar eclipse in pisces tells u to let go of ur delusions, especially with saturn telling u to let go of delusions regarding structure and hierarchy. yes, this is a sad moment, but the sign pisces is the last mutable (transitionary) sign in the zodiac cycle. there is an impending change.

we need to invest hope in ourselves instead of those who oppress us. when has an oppressor EVER given their victims the keys to free themselves?

“Nobody in the world, nobody in history, has ever gotten their freedom by appealing to the moral sense of the people who were oppressing them.”

— Assata Shakur

5H Cancer Moon conjunct Cancer Mars

the moon represents the common people, and with the moon conjunction mars (strong moon, weak mars), it can definitely be read as some form of defensiveness happening among the people. which i don’t blame. we need to defend ourselves. i interpret this as the response being heavily emotional, and the people feeling like they need to protect themselves and their sense of “homeliness.” in this case, the fifth house represents what is valued by the people, and here, it’s valued to protect itself.

8H Libra Sun

the sun represents rulers and leaders. i feel like the president is represented here, as we are nearing a presidential election. but also general leaders (of law). it’s weakened times three — in fall, in the eighth house (bad house), and it’s conjunct the south node (a malefic). it’s also harsh aspecting the moon (benefic, ruling over the people). the sun is not in a confident configuration, and i feel like that’s reflected in the people’s (moon) lack of confidence in the country’s ridership. there’s a lot of uncertainty. and this didn’t help.

the eighth house represents death, lack of control, fear, anxiety, psychological illness. with a weakened sun here, i wonder if someone judicial or presidential is going to die in response to this, or have declining health… delays in getting in office. or if there’s going to be a dramatic deconstruction of how the president/law is viewed due to radical change in belief of the general public. the south node (the headless body of the dragon) represents destruction in the mundane chart, and being in conjunction to the sun shows a destruction to the ruler/head. in libra, i wonder if the deconstruction relates to the USA’s part in imperialism/genocide/colonialism in sudan, the DR congo, haiti, palestine, and more. libra is the foreign affairs, venus rules giving/receiving, and the eighth house rules economic foreign affairs to the states. but i’m truthfully struggling to interpret this.

10H in Sagittarius, 10H lord Jupiter in Gemini

the tenth house is those in power or authority; the ‘rulers.’ in sagittarius, it shows that the authoritative figure is a judicial person (and thus, i think this what mike parson represented by). fire signs represent action - some possibly violent - and mutable modality again represents change.

i notice sagittarius is significant in the mundane charts of cultural events. for example, the death of george floyd had a sagittarius ascendant. and the january 6, 2021 chart also had a sagittarius ascendant. i wonder if there’s going to be another incited cultural action in response to this - or maybe that could be represented by all of the protests that had already happened in response to his sentence. it’s something that mobilizes the people.

i feel like because jupiter is in gemini — which is detriment for jupiter — it can be read as this lacking direction. the sagittarius sign is the archer, so it’s right on target. but gemini is scattered, & while the people may mobilize (sag energy, sag rules masses/gatherings & worldly affairs such as protests), they can lose sight of the objective thru being distracted. which is quite literally what happened with the 2020 Floyd/Taylor/etc. protests. and it’s interesting because there’s quite a few thematic overlaps between the chart of George Floyd’s death and the chart of Khallifah Williams’ death. i may or may not make a post on it. depends on my mood.

moving on though. since jupiter is read for optimism, a weakened jupiter in the invisible house supports the idea that this will be a time of confusion, distraction, anxiety, and pessimism. it’s expected that people feel hopeless in response to this.

11H in Capricorn, 12H in Aquarius, Lord in the 1H

there is awareness of how we bypass, deny, repress, or ignore reality. the twelfth house is how we are responsible for how we undo ourselves. i’m thinkinggg it may be readable as us thinking we were at the end/close to a resolution, but we are actually just beginning. same for the eleventh house lord in the first.

eleventh house is our alliances, our community, our communal goals & aspirations in the mundane chart. and i think it shows our (meaning anti-colonial radicals, i guess lmao) goal is to dissolve this system due to its violence. pluto is present in this house, retrograded and at the anaretic degree. pluto brings destruction and so does the anaretic degree. in capricorn, the destruction is to institutions, customs, hierarchies. it’s the tower card. the lord placed in the first house may signify that the power to manifest hope in placed in the hands of the people, not the government.

regarding the twelfth house, maybe it’s saying that naïveté and misplaced hope is how we undo ourselves. deluding urself into thinking voting, peaceful protests, or petitions will challenge hundreds of years of colonialism in this country. especially because of the 2020 protests. mfkas really thought that was revolutionary and it’s like no… it was cute and all i guess but that wasn’t revolution.

revolution can’t be planned or organized, and the eleventh/twelfth lord = saturn in pisces Rx shows that. i’m not saying that tomorrow mfkas gon go outside and start burning shit to the ground (although i wish they would). but hopefully… this death won’t be another forgotten name. i know he won’t be the last to get murdered to this system, but i hope we see this for what it is: it’s genocide, it is modern day lynching, it’s anti-black, & there is no justice in this justice system.

like i said, i don’t really post mundane or political astrology. but i’m trying to speak from my heart about something very sensitive to me. if there are any more seasoned mundane astrologers who can provide feedback, that would be helpful & even more helpful if they are also black.

the shit that happens in this world is so fucked up. we supposed to be using these tools (spirituality, divination, etc) to aid us because the colonialism we experienced was also spiritual warfare. like i said, as a black person this shit hit mad close to home so when i see another one of my people getting murdered to this system, i know it can be any of us. & that’s because the black body & black soul is disposable to this anti black world. so yea… #HellNaw #FuckMikeParson #FuckAmerica #FuckIsntreal #FuckEmAll

black power, HoodReader

[sugar-grigri]

wait if we're talking about timeloops. and endless cycles. well how about power telling denji "when we next meet I wont know who u are but promise me youll befriend the blood devil again" ???? part 2 as a prequel to part 1.. ur so genius brained

OMGGG what you just said is turning my brain upside down??? Don't tell me I'm a genius, I didn't even think of that! Maybe it's what I do every week, seeing genius where it just happens to coincide… Actually, I don't think it's Fujimoto's luck… I believe in his genius... But for me… A mere human who has never tasted a dead fish… (well… technically…) a dead fish carrying mourning… Chance helps me, I can't fight it!

[rollercoasterwords]

hey rae in wfrau how do u think r would react rn is s just died. like would he continue with the same train of thoughts as now and just circle like that or would that be the breaking point where he becomes totally wrought with misery?

ooh fun question…i mean currently in his own head he is already kind of. torn between understanding why s did what he did & feeling as though the guy he fell in love w essentially killed himself. so! he’s already in this weird in-between place of mourning & telling himself he’s never getting s back but also not acknowledging or processing the grief that comes w that & instead mostly just getting angry. so i feel like if s actually died it would kinda just be…an intensification of that cycle ig? like definitely more grief but again he would be focusing his energy on trying 2 retroactively not have ever been in love w s so he doesn’t have 2 deal w the grief which means being angry & if s was never around 4 them 2 potentially have the opportunity 2 work through all that then r would probably just end up hating s but also carrying around grief 4 the rest of his life etc…..wouldn’t that be fun guys….

[saintmeghanmarkle]

RolloTheMagnificent on MM's narcissism and the BAFTAs by u/ElectricalAd9212

RolloTheMagnificent on MM's narcissism and the BAFTAs RolloTheMagnificent wrote an outstanding reply to my OP about William and the BAFTAS and it only received a few upvotes but is so good and well written I am going to post it here. I hope Rollo doesn't mind me doing so. It is really good!+++++On the surface, one would be drawn to the notion that the relationship between the BRF and the BAFTAs would have been perfect for Meghan's designs and desires if the couple had stayed in. A-list celebs who ignored the ageing, pick-me "starlet" in Hollywood would have to literally bow and scrape in front of the London cameras, to demonstrate in front of the world that Meghan was superior.Yet after listening to H G Tudor's observations on narcissism and Harry's Wife's case in particular, I have come to a different conclusion.I think the annual BAFTA awards would actually be a step down for Meghan, as deep down inside, her mind would be able to separate that the respect given towards her would be due to the Crown- a case of borrowed valour- and not because of the superior talent, beauty and general brilliance of Meghan herself (as she perceives it).In fact, the borrowed sheen of the Crown could start to grate quite quickly in the short attention span theatre that is her understanding of the world, as the protocol that surrounds the position of Princess would keep her public at arm's length.Even something as simple of a posey of flowers is proof to the Training Wheels Princess that she is the centre of attention and affection- a situation she is loath to abdicate. So much so that she famously refused to give posies over to her waiting staff on walkabouts. ​I can imagine her mindset.Those flowers are for me, not for the Crown. They want to smother my light, sideline me, claim what is rightfully mine, keep me from my public. But I can use their rules against them- can't make a fuss in public, so at least when the cameras are there, what I say goes. So those flowers, MY flowers, stay in MY hands, not for my position. Me. ME. ME!!!The BAFTAs would have been a gilded cage scenario for Meghan- look, but don't touch the world of adoration that could have been hers to own. The BAFTAs could have been torture for our Saint. In her mind, Meghan could have been up on that stage, both as an actress and Princess, if it weren't for those fusty, dusty, boring old Royals who don't have a clue as to what a fierce, independent, feminist momma bear with both a diamond tiara and a backbone of steel was capable of.But no, instead of the half-in, half-out scenario (so they only did the fun stuff), the Firm forced Meghan's hand. Those tears she turns on at convenient times? They are tears of mourning her natural, pre-ordained destiny, beyond mere single track identifiers of actress or Princess in her realm of understanding.For all this supposition though, I feel nothing but pity for Meghan. This is a woman who will never be satisfied past the fleeting moment of victory over one's enemies, which fades faster than a firework. The future, once there are no more secrets to tell, no more tea to spill, no more merchandise to peddle, will provide nothing but a lack of comfortable contentment, which will poison everyone and everything around her and Harry.The BAFTAs are going to be an annual wounding of Meghan and the hopes she had for her future- a ritualistic opening of the scar tissue on her tattered ego. I simply hope their children are able to escape this destructive cycle to find some measure of peace, as I doubt neither Meghan or Harry ever will.​ post link: https://ift.tt/sqyaICX author: ElectricalAd9212 submitted: February 19, 2024 at 06:17PM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit

[alvin-draper]

I'm sorry did Erik just drop a FUCKING STADIUM ON CHARLES. Like plausible deniability on the knowing he was there front but fuck me. Ohoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo okay flashforward central we killing off all the people now. Oh my godddddd what a finale man. I'm sorta liveblogging bc I no longer have the energy to go find random posts to write notes essays off of. Too busy watching Hank and Logan do weird shit cirac 1973. MF DO WHAT U WERE MADE FOR. ERIK WTF ISTG. For all his mutant love bollocks he really only loves them where they're on his side. This is not solidly the case with him always but it's where he's at after 10 years of solitary and it sucks arse. Poor Kitty trying to hold him. Furthermore I absolutely need to see the Rogue cut of this at some point. Already found an extended cut to watch at a later date. Erik just fully yoinked their secure bunker out of the ground which is actively quite funny, however he's wearing the evil helmet and has nearly killed Charles. Also I'm seeing evil speech coming. vfbdsqjihcv bjkdLAN BXWLKEDBCX SAKDLB THIS FUTURE SHIT. Also that clip of fucking Peter watching the TV jgbjajabsdjb. And all the kids in the future dying. He still talks a good talk though. If you brush off the uh. The murderey stuff. And the fighty stuff. IT's like he's never heard of grassroots activism and community organising. Erik this is not how movements succeed and you should know it. 'All those years wasted fighting each other Charles. To have a precious few of them back...' Gayboys. Furthermore I am very sad about this. Oh my godddddddd Charles Erik. Mr President?????? Oh my God it's RAVEN!!!!!! Oh my god she shot him. Oh my fucking. Oh my. Oh hey Charles forgor about u. Pretty boi. He's so right though. Bloodshed leads to more bloodshed. Cycles of violence. It's her chance to break them all. While Bobby dies and Kitty mourns and they all die 50 years from now. She gets to make a different choice. Ohhhhhhhhhhh the silence of that empty room. That chance of their future coming to fruition. Also Charles getting that chance. And giving it up. Goodbye old friends. Goodbye Erik. I'm gonna go freak out about this aren't I. And Logan. What became of him? How does 2014 look in a world sideways from their original? There's sunlight coming through the blinds. The tech is weirdly advanced. He's in the school and the kids are alive and class is in session. Hank's doing fine. Storm. It's like everything went perfectly and perfectly wrong all together. Oh my god JEan? NAH. Put it back in the box. SCOTT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Girl aren't you a telepath can't you tell at least a little?? Anyway hey prof. He could use some help with everything from 1973 on apparently. Oh good God. This has to be equal parts dream and nightmare for him. RIP Logan though even after all that the Stryker thing fucking. Oh ejwkvh dnksv fsj sfvnsdjke. Hey Mystique. She should always get the last word. Okay so that movie was INCREDIBLE. Post credits??????? Post Credits!!!! One thing to thank Marvel for then I love post credits. Maybe not this one fucker seems ominous af. Are they seriously fucking giving a fake explainer on the pyramids to me right now I am going to ferqfvdwe someone. Time to go watch all the deleted scenes too hope those'll be good. More Cherik maybe? Oh the Rogue scenes yayyyyyyyy. Rescuing Rogue goes hard I like it. Erik protecting them????????? Yes humanise my bb. Bobby though!!?? Did they kill Bobby early in this cut?????? Wild. Oh wow she got. The grew up. Oh God Kitty. Hello Logan? Yeah Hi babes. Ur pseudo daughter is here. Oh but they all ended up fine! Yeah they shoulda kept this I fear. Some of it anyway. Her being able to fully take over from Kitty destroys some of the tension on that end though. Hmmmm. Done w this kinda horribly written post now just needed to liveblog it a little due to the brain worms you understand. I LIED DELETED STORM LOGAN KISS WHAT. Yesssssssssssssssssssssss.

[mommy-salami]

Hi I need to b annoying again. 🙃

I was re-watching 4.1 of stranger things (as one does). I just need to talk specifically abt That Man getting his shit absolutely rocked when taking a door to the face. Like I just think that scene is super telling. He wakes up, right, "aw fuck my head" (paraphrasing) but instantly "oh fuck my child" totally ignores the pain he's in to instantly see how the kids are. I mean i think part of him is super upset at the loss of his experiments but also he's for sure shook at loosing all of 'his' kids. Anyway I love dat trash can man sm and he for sure loves the bbys at least a lil bit. Thank u for ur time 🙏💃

Never annoying I prommy 💖

They do such a good job of using lots of little details with him to reveal where his heart's at. Like in that scene the second he remembers where he is he checks on the kid and is immediately grieving like u said, but later in that same sequence when he sees Eleven all bloodied up then passing out the FIRST thing he does is check the wall, not her.

I think it's definitely indicative of his entire approach. He's beyond selfish and abuses other people and the children to get what he wants, and that doesn't mean he's incapable of having feelings like enjoying working with the kids or mourning their loss as people not just as his experiments, BUT, ultimately, his first priority is always himself.

Which isn't to say he was actually "good" the whole time, more that I think it's a nuanced way of showing abuse as a tactic and choice that isn't tied to "bad people" vs "good people." Which they elaborate on with p much every character in the show. It's all about breaking the cycle 🤐

But he never did anything wrong and he's babygirl so it's all a moot point anyway 🥰

[palbabor-writes]

OK so please consider typical Shig/reader where theres unspoken mutual attraction and they're not quite together but it's Post-kamino Shig, like IMMEDIATE post-kamino where he's still processing and incredibly vulnerable from just losing his sensei. I've had this in my head for a while but IDK how it would go and I think you'd do it justice (just ignore this if u don't wanna i just needed to put it out there 😌)

ugh, i loved this idea. where do you find them lydia? they just live in your mind rent free and i want to go to there. gosh, thank you for the ask.

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Adult language, SMUT, NSFW/18+ only, mild angst, pivotal life moments, TW: drinking/drug use, masturbation, blow jobs, face fucking, spanking/mild pain play, vaginal fingering, cunniliginus, overstimulation, switching, dirty talk, loss of virginity (if you squint), dominance, vaginal sex     

Word Count: 11,800

Notes: oh man. so, if the word count didn’t give it away, this is plot, with a hefty dose of porn. in my mind, this is all part of the grieving process for shigaraki and he’s having a rough time coming to terms with what he’s needing to do. yeah, AFO supported him and enabled him to build a following, but he also hid all of the major pieces from him (i.e. the doctor & gigantomachia) so i can see him mourning for AFO as a teacher & as a psudo loved one, after all, at the end of that chapter he’s clutching those hands to him like he’ll fall apart without them. 

Edited by the lovely Lydia: @kugutsuu. she is the best and if you’re not reading her works, all I have to say is: YOU SHOULD BE. 

Mise en Place

/mē-ˌzäⁿ-ˈpläs/ noun or verb  a French culinary phrase which means "putting in place" or "everything in its place.”

This has got to be the strangest, hole in the wall, bar you’ve ever worked at. 

The patrons are touchy and most seem downright dangerous. The whole lot of them are more like mid level criminals than the usual haggard, overworked, regular, citizens you find in local watering holes.  Meanwhile, the gentleman who runs the day to day operations shares more similarities with a will o’ the wisp than a man, and the bar itself is smack dab in one of the seediest parts of town. 

The liquor selection, however, is top of the line. Some of the labels you haven’t seen outside of posh hotels or high class country clubs, and many of the older bottles are rarities. Honestly, there are so many of the high brow bottles that you’re not sure who to ask about the rail selection. There’s no real order to the place and it’s the most free reign you’ve ever been given with your mixology experiments. There’s not even a listing of drinks to go off of. But, if the disgruntled evening crowd is happy, then so is the upper management. All they ask is that you lock up before you leave.

No, nothing about this place makes sense. But, it does pay well and, right now, that’s the only thing you need to worry about.

There’s one other barkeep, a stogy man named Akio. He usually works the day shift, but late yesterday afternoon, he’d given you a call and asked if the two of you could swap for the duration of next week. At first, you’d balked, worried you’d need to schmooze with an unfamiliar bunch of regulars, who’d then decline to tip simply because you were new. But, Akio had sweetened the pot with the promise of $20,000 yen, so, you’d agreed. 

“It’s fairly quiet in the afternoon,” Akio reassured you. “It’s really just putting away shipment and serving the odd customer who happens to pass by. The only thing...well, I’m sure you’ve met him. You’ve been working there for over a month, no way you could miss him.” 

“Who?” you ask, twirling your spoon in your mid-morning coffee, curious, but not wanting to seem overly eager in your questioning. You like your night shift and you’re not wanting this to become a regular swap. You detest having to lug heavy boxes to and fro, pulling liquor and checking lot numbers, ick. Plus, if it really is that slow in the afternoons, it would only be a matter of time before Kurogiri would come after you with a duster and ask you to clean the upper shelves. Yeah, no, thanks. This would be a one week deal, ONLY.

“His name is Shigaraki. He’s, er, different. I suppose you’ll meet him soon, if you haven’t already.”

“Shigaraki? No, that name doesn’t ring a bell. Is he--”

“I have to go, my son is here. Thanks again for the swap and talk soon, (Y/N).”

The line clicks and you let your phone fall from your ear, clattering the metal and plastic along your kitchen table. Shigaraki, you think, taking a scalding sip of your coffee, no, that’s not a name you’ve heard before. Wonder what it is about him that has Akio so on edge. It’s not like him to give you, er, whatever that strange heads-up had been. Either way, it would take more than a vague descriptor like different, to spook you off. 

******

Akio was right, on all counts, about the haze of monotony that permeated the afternoon shift at the bar. 

Well, right on everything except a sighting of that elusive Shigaraki guy. No, the whole afternoon it’s just been you, Kurogiri, and one, rather sloshed old man, who you’ve long since cut off, and propped at the far end of the bartop. It’s been a dull, slow, day. Thank God you’d taken that extra cash from Akio, or this might not even turn out to be worth your while. 

You’re slipping another bottle of whiskey on the lower shelf when you hear a barstool scrape back. You turn at the sound, your head already lifted and a small, friendly, smile lingering on your lips. There’s a lanky guy, dressed all in black with a mop of wavy white hair, working himself onto the small seat. His head is lowered and he hasn’t bothered to look up at you, not yet, anyway. He looks, not really young, but you can’t tell and you’re not about to let some underaged kid worm his way in here. You’ve had enough of those punks sneaking in in the evening, thank you. 

“Gimme a shot of scotch,” the man says, his voice low, with a quiet rasp racing along the tone. It’s a strange timbre and it makes you pause, your eyes scanning those pearlescent strands of hair that are hiding his face from view.

“Hmph,” you snort, arching a brow at his attempts at concealment. He must be underage, who comes up to a barkeep with a ducked head and demands a scotch? 

“Let me give you a piece of advice, don’t come into a bar and immediately refuse to make eye contact with the bartender. We’re like animals at the zoo, we startle easily and don’t like surprises. And, with your face tucked like that, I can’t gauge your age. So, before I get you that unnamed and unbranded scotch, I’m gonna to need to see some ID.”

The man lifts his head at your preamble and you feel your breath catch at the raw annoyance that’s etched across his scarred and cracked face. His eyes are a rich red, closer to ruby and they latch onto yours, insistent and sharp. It’s a deeply intense stare and you can’t seem to pull yourself away, your brow furrowing at his sudden shift in demeanor. 

“I don’t have an ID,” he snaps, his lips lifting into a snarl, showing you the vivid whiteness of his teeth. 

You lick your lips and his gaze follows the motion, eyes lowering, freeing you from that uneasy imprisonment he’d abruptly ensnared you in.

Your heart is beating rapidly against your throat and you shake your head, refocusing your bewildering reaction to this guy's presence. “I-I haven’t heard that one before,” you say, taking a few steadying breaths and tossing a dirty glass in the dishwasher, looking for any task that will let you step away from this strange interaction. 

“You must be new,” he says, leaning back and hunching those dark shoulders. You watch him out of the corner of your eye and shut the dishwasher door, hitting the button to run a cycle. 

“Nope,” you correct him, pulling out two fresh glasses and lining them up on the bartop, reaching for the rail scotch. “I’ve worked here for over a month.”

“Never seen you before.”

“That makes two of us,” you reply, flipping the bottle up and filling both glasses with four counts of the dark liquor. You press one to him and lift the other for yourself. The man narrows his eyes at you and looks pointedly at the glass in your hands. 

“You supposed to drink on the clock?”

You laugh and he shifts back at the sound, his head bowing forward, another scowl lifting his lips. Realizing you must have made him uncomfortable, you step toward him and clumsily clink your glass against his, tilting your head at the surrealness of this whole conversation. “They don’t really care what I do. Come on, stranger who has no ID, bottoms up.”

He looks from you to the shot a few times before finally relenting and taking the vessel in a strange four fingered grip, his middle finger arched carefully away. Once you’re sure he’s actually going to toast with you, you sling your shot back, enjoying the sharp burn of the rich liquor. 

You’re about to ask your new drinking companion another question when you hear his chair scrape back. By the time you’re stepping toward him, he’s already pacing down a back hallway, blending into the darkness and disappearing from your sight.

“Um! You can’t...I don’t think you can go back there. And you gotta pay, dude! Hey--”

“He doesn’t need to pay.” 

You always hear Kurogiri before you see him and today is no exception. He’s standing at the entrance to the back of the bartop and he’s watching the path the strange young man took, his shifting face turned from you. You cock your head at his assertion and swiftly place your empty glass into the soapy water of the filled sink. He likely saw you take the shot, but you’re not about to leave evidence behind. 

“What do you mean?” You ask, watching as the wisp like man turns and steps toward you, his amber slits watchful. It’s like he’s sizing you up and you shift on your feet, uncomfortable at the frank, open, assessment.  

“He’s Tomura Shigaraki, and he owns this bar.”

******     

You’re off for the next two days and the wait, the silence, is abjectly harrowing. You can’t sit down, can’t relax, can’t focus. The one time you decide to get overly familiar, of fucking course, it would be with the owner. But no one has called, and no one has sent you any messages. The empty static of your job's reticence doesn’t alleviate your nerves. 

Who knows, they might want to act out the sick power play of having you show up for your shift, only be fired as soon as you darken the doorway.

The next afternoon, you take a familiar route to the bar, your feet tapping hollowly along the steps and alleyways that wind to the rusty entrance. You come in the front, blinking against the darkness, and lock the door behind you. Everything is quiet. But, in forty minutes, the open sign will switch on and you need to get your bar set up, plus slap on a little bit of makeup. You’re so lost in thought that you’re almost to the long bartop when you spot him.

It’s Tomura Shigaraki. He’s sitting at the same bar stool and his head turns as you approach, those unearthly red eyes lingering over you. It’s a different look, very, very removed from that harsh glare he’d given you the other day. He looks less hostile and more, well, curious. 

You give him a cursory nod and pad behind the high counter, taking the final glasses out of the dishwasher and removing the stoppers from all the open liquor bottles. He’s still watching you and you can feel his gaze as it bores into your back, your side, your front. You attempt to ignore him, but the constant threat of those insistent red eyes is beginning to frustrate you. Finally, once you’ve replaced the cash drawer, you lift your gaze to his. 

“What is it?” Your voice sounds waspish, but you don’t care.

“Nothing,” he replies, leaning forward and propping his chin on his palm, not breaking that unsettling leer. 

“So stop staring at me,” you bristle, unsure why your heart is starting to beat a rapid tattoo against your ribs. You don’t know this guy. Sure, he’s mysterious and almost handsome, in a dark horse kinda way, but there’s no reason for him to give you this odd staredown. You’ve done absolutely nothing to warrant this attention, well, besides drinking on the job, but he could just fire you for that, if it was so troublesome. Either way, he should either speak up, or knock it off. 

He smirks at your impudence and murmurs a raspy, “No,” back, his head tilting, waiting for your next move. 

“You’re a real charmer, you know that?” You scoff, crossing your arms and jutting your chin defiantly. 

“Whatever you say,” he breathes, that smile of his deepening, making his vermillion eyes shine. And, just like that, the two of you wander into a stilted game of give and take. 

For the first few days, he makes sure he’s there before you arrive for the last of your afternoon shifts, his dark back already perched over the bartop as you shut the door behind you. Then, when you transition back to the evening shifts, he’s there too, sitting at that familiar perch, his eyes always, always watching, observing. You continue to ignore him and he seems to relish your agitated silence, flashing you dark smirks and quiet laughs.

Finally, two weeks into this stagnated stalemate, you make a point to strike up a real conversation with him. He’s obviously taken aback by your first few questions, his eyes wide and jaw tense, but he plays along. 

Over time, the two of you carefully erect a haphazard friendship. And that chair of his? That center barstool? He used to not mind if another person was sitting in it when he arrived late, but recently that’s all changed. Now he guards it ferociously. Snapping and glaring at anyone who is stupid enough to drift into it. 

Along with the lingering looks and burgeoning, almost flirty, dialogue you’ve pushed him into, he’s also gotten very demanding of your attention. If you spend too much time talking with another customer, or with Kurogiri, he pouts and darkens until you return, his tense form losing that sharpness.  It's almost like he’s got a crush on you, but he’s not sure what to do with the newfound sensation, lost and confounded by your teases and grins. 

Most people, you notice, give him a wide berth, but not you. No, you like his keen wit and heated musings. He’s fascinating and you want to see more. And in his flustered confusion, he lets you lean in, blinking and wide eyed at your open, flagrant interest in him.

******   

As the weeks drift into summer, things start to change at the bar. 

There’s some atypical deposit of power that’s been bestowed upon the place. People you’ve never seen before, begin to frequent the premises, sharing videos and whispered conversations about that man, Chizome Akaguro, better known to the general public as the Hero Killer. 

Tomura flits between several, dark moods, clutching his newly injured shoulder and murmuring complaints about hero society, All Might and the Hero Killer. Apparently, there had been an altercation between the two of them and Tomura didn’t hide his ire, his agitation from you. No, he would vent to you, his voice gravel and ash as he snarled his rage.  

Then, as if things couldn’t get any stranger, one evening a young girl begins to hang around, pestering you for a soda and prattling on and on about blood. Another new guy slips in a few hours later, his skin marred by thick, ragged burns and staples. He’s quiet, rudely demanding a shot and nursing it in a corner, his bright blue eyes flashing as he stares vacantly out at the crowd by the well. 

A quiet man, called Spinner, asks you for a water, and you acquiesce, watching as his green hands wrap around the glass, downing the liquid in a quick gulp. Later, there’s a robust, loud, clearly confused guy, wearing a skin tight black bodysuit loitering by your bartop. He keeps entreating you for a drink, then tells you to buzz off seconds later. Exasperated, you plunk a whole bottle down beside his glass and continue on with your work, ignoring his chatter. 

Finally, a man in a white mask and a top hat rounds out the strange posse and the group gathers together, hovering around Tomura, asking questions and listening to his rasping answers. 

Thankfully, the rag-tag group leaves soon after closing, all of them shouldering their way back out into the night. You shake your head as the door closes behind them, gathering the collection of dirty glasses they left in their wake. Only Tomura remains, sipping meditatively on his drink, his red eyes foggy and unfocused. You know from experience that it’s not a good time to ask him questions, so you continue with your closing duties, keeping your eyes down.

Something is going on, that much is clear. But, unless you could worm the information out of Tomura, you’d likely never fully know all of the details. Part of you warns that it’s likely dangerous. Many of the people who haunt the bar are low level villains or brokers, not a winning combination if you’re wanting to stay out of the fray, and on the right side of the law. 

You finish wiping everything down and return to Tomura, asking him softly if you can wash his empty glass. His eyes lift to yours and the expression that greets you almost makes you want to reach out and cup his cheek. He looks tired, worn thin and so, so needy. You’ve never seen him like this. It almost feels like he’s showing you something he’s never revealed to anyone else, a vulnerability that only you can see. He’s giving you access to a quiet secret that can hang between the two of you, safe in the knowledge that he can trust you with it. That urge to stroke a finger down his roughed brow rises again, but you shove the impulse away, rattled by your sudden, visceral, reaction to him. 

To distract yourself, you snatch up his glass, and turn from the intensity of his stare, a slow prickle of gooseflesh trembling along your skin. As you run hot water and soap over the vessel, you feel your heart begin to pound and you chance another peek at Tomura’s quiet form. As usual, he’s watching you, but he looks unfocused again, that broken vulnerability tucked away. You want to ask him if he’s ok, but before you can croak the words out, he pushes his stool back and paces down the dark hallway, leaving you alone and bewildered. 

******

A few days later, you ask Kurogiri if you can sneak away for a minute, you need a break. The bar has been packed since nine and you could use a quick breather. It’s the first night Tomura hasn’t stopped by and his absence has bothered you. You missed his grumpy quips and his persistent glances. All this time, you’d thought it was just him that was catching any kind of feelings, but it looks like he’s somehow managed to nag his way into your psyche, too. 

You take the back stairs quietly and let yourself out onto the alleyway balcony, climbing the rickety fire escape to the rooftop. You’d found the access to the roof your second week and it’s still your favorite place in the whole bar. On a clear night, you can see all the way to downtown Tokyo. It’s always quiet this high up, tranquil and serene. You brace yourself against the concrete wall and watch the lights of the city glimmer, like distant jewels, in the darkness.

You pull a small joint from your pant pocket and flick your lighter on, setting the edge of the rolling paper alight and taking a slow drag. The inhale fills your lungs with a light pressure and you savor the feeling before blowing a thin line of smoke into the night. You get a few more hits in before you hear the fire escape stairs rattle, signaling that someone is coming your way. You debate dampening your roach, but you don’t want to waste it, so you tuck the smoldering paper in your other hand, maneuvering it out of sight. 

The white shine of his hair always gives him away. 

Tomura hops over the ledge and his eyes are already lifting, searching for yours as he stands. You arch an eyebrow at his tense stance and you can’t help your giddy smile. “Everything ok?” 

“Kurogiri said you were taking a break,” he replies, dipping his long fingers into his pockets and sauntering over to the patch of concrete you’re braced against. 

“Yeah,” you confirm, waiting until he’s closer to lift the joint back to your lips, taking a steadying pull and scooting over, so he can fit beside you on the wall. “It’s busy, and I’ve been slinging drinks all night. Just wanted to decompress for a bit.”

Tomura doesn’t reply, but he does slot himself close, the warmth of his broad shoulder radiating against yours. The two of you drift into a companionable silence, and the only sounds that greet you is the quiet hush of traffic below and your inhales and exhales of smoke. 

“You got another meeting?” you ask, crossing your arms and pressing minutely closer, enjoying the distant shiver Tomura gifts you. 

“No,” he murmurs, his voice low. You think that might be the end of the conversation but he continues a few seconds later, his head tilting toward yours, those red eyes scanning your upturned face. “They’re on a mission. I’m not able to participate. It will need to be like a SIM game. They are the pieces that I’ll move over the board, they’ll act to my battle plan.”

You turn to him, your eyes wide. “So, they’re just...pawns? Little NPC’s that don’t matter?”

Tomura laughs and his teeth gleam in the moonlight and distant shine of the neon lights. “Of course not. Do I look that heartless? No, they’re valuable players and if this goes right, we’ll be able to take on the next level with a decided edge.” 

You let that last comment hover, pausing to take another huff, your eyes lowered, brooding over his words. “So, you’re their vanguard leader?”

“Sure,” Tomura nods, “We can’t keep grinding each mission, hoping to pick up any XP these heroes happen to drop. We need to make waves of our own.”

“Oh? Like the Hero Killer?”

“No,” Tomura snarls, his arm tensing beside yours, a hand rising to scritch at his scarred neck agitatedly. “Nothing like him. We’re looking past him. He was too short sighted, so busy following his own code of justice that he didn’t notice he was breeding more heroes, not putting them down.”

“Hmm,” you sigh, thumping your head lightly against the concrete behind you. “That is true. But, you can’t deny he’s brought up some serious divisions. It’s funny, really. It makes me think of this little hero toy I had when I was younger. 

It was of an older hero, he prolly died long ago, but I loved that toy when I was a kid. Then, as I got older, it stopped mattering and one day, without me even realizing it, it lost its importance entirely. I wonder if hero society will ever shift to that. With the fractures that have been seen at UA and all over Japan, it could be a matter of time before real change starts to happen. Anyway, I wasn’t meaning to grill you on your, uh, projects. I was--”

“What toy?” 

His question nonpluses you and you cock your head, blinking up at his peripheral stare. “Um, I think it was of that fast hero, O’clock. It was my older brothers originally, but he passed it down to me. No idea where it is now. It likely got lost in a move or accidentally left behind.”

Tomura lifts his eyes from yours, his jaw clenching and a slow gulp echoing down his lean throat. You watch the bob of his Adam’s apple, fascinated by the movement. That urge to touch him is back and you have to clench your fingers into your palms to quiet it. 

You’re so distracted by your primal reaction to him, that you miss his question and he has to repeat it, his eyes slipping back to yours, the red dark. 

“What?” you ask, blinking against the acuteness of his gaze. 

“Can I take a hit of that?”

“Of what...oh.” You lift the half smoked joint and chuckle at yourself, pressing the smoldering paper toward him. “Sure. You had one before?”

“Does it matter?” He scoffs, carefully taking the white roach from you and raising it to his chapped lips.

“Go slow,” you warn as he begins to inhale, his eyes drifting to a half mast, concentrating.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he grumbles, pulling a tentative, but heavy, drag into his lungs.

“Fine,” you scoff playfully, “do what you want. But don’t blame me when you’re coughing up a lung.”

He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t heed your advice and, seconds later, he’s clutching at his throat, dropping the joint onto the broken gravel and concrete as he heaves. Instinctively, you thump him on his back and run your palm soothingly over his lean shoulder blades, surprised by the corded muscle that greets you. For a relatively thin guy, he’s certainly packing some strength under that unassuming form of his. 

Tomura startles at your touch and he yanks himself away from you, his head ducked, eyes fastening onto yours, the irises accusatory and bright, burning with some underlying emotion that you’re too nervous to name right now. 

“Uh,” you begin, aghast that you’ve upset him, “m-my bad…”

But, he’s already leaving, his head firmly turned from you, clambering over the edge and back onto the fire escape, leaving you alone in the darkness. 

******                

After that night, you can’t slip him out of your mind. Even when you sleep, you can see those red eyes of his, gleaming and hungry. One evening, you’d even woken with your fingers firmly pressed to your throbbing clit, stumbling and gasping, shaking free of a dream of him. He’d felt so real, so in focus and you can’t catch your breath, fingers still rubbing a tight circle over your quivering bundle of nerves. You pant as you break yourself, sukling in the whites and reds that haze over your vision. Yeah, that crush of his definitely isn’t a one sided thing.

The next shift you work, he’s waiting for you, perched in his familiar seat, his shoulders curved and tight. You give him a glance, but he doesn’t meet your eyes. His hands are lowered, fiddling with something under the bartop. You begin to open your bar, trying to quiet your wandering thoughts, not wanting to perturb him again. You’re uncorking a red wine when he presses something across the mahogany wood of the bar, toward you.

It’s small, with dark colors and a tiny, familiar, upper half mask. You let the bottle of wine thud against the counter, abandoning the half opened bottle to move closer. It’s...it’s your-- No. It can’t be yours, but it is the same toy, the one you’d mentioned on the roof the other night. How did he?

You gulp and look up at him, your heart pulsing wildly against your ribs. For the first time, he looks away from you first, his white hair pillowing across his brow. His lips start to rise in an all too habitual scowl and his raspy voice lifts to your ears. “If you don’t want it,” he grouses, one hand pulling away from the offered toy, clearly flustered by your wondering gaze. Without thinking, you slip your fingertips over the top of his hand, prolonging the touch, sulking in the warmth of him. 

His fingers curl, some unconscious tremor racing along his digits. He almost yanks himself away, but then he stops, sighing as his eyes lift to yours. For a long moment, the two of you watch the other. You can hear his breathing speed up and you can almost smell the shift in the air. All it would take is one, tiny push to break that delicious tension. 

Tomura’s nostrils flare as you start to lean closer, your body curving toward his, fingers still pressing into his skin. Your tongue dips out, wetting your lower lip and pulling it into your mouth, sucking on the plush flesh. His eyelids have lowered and he’s mirroring your motions, his elbows assisting his lift, his face upturning, seeking, reaching.

With a bang, the front door is flung open and it breaks the spell that’s fallen over the two of you. Tomura leans away first, his eyes narrowed in agitation, sliding from your open face to the darkness of the entryway. You exhale a shaking breath and follow Tomura’s gaze. It’s that masked man, the one with the top hat and he’s already striding confidently forward, peppering Tomura with a series of questions. 

Snagging up his gift to you, you walk back to your bottle of wine. 

******    

You don’t have a chance to see Tomura again until he tells you, one evening, that the bar is going to be closed for the next few days. Then, over his shoulder, you spot the blonde boy, strapped and bound into a stiff chair and you blanch, stunned, too overwrought to give him more than a one word acknowledgement before stumbling back outside. In all of your talks, he’d never mentioned anything like this. That boy looked like a kid, barely past middle school, his eyes wild and defiant, but also so, so frightened. 

No, you think, pacing your apartment, it’s impossible to come to terms with this. You can’t stay there, can’t work there. It’s too dangerous, too close to a real criminal den for comfort. You have to look out for yourself, no matter your feelings for the man who’s wandering down some long, lost pathway, toward a future you can’t even comprehend, let alone see.

So, you hand in your written resignation. 

Kurogiri is behind the bar when you bring it in, and you’re hoping that the early morning conversation will spare you from having to see him. The wispy, purple hand of Kurogiri is just about to take your letter when Tomura barges down the hallway. His eyes immediately land on you and he steps forward, a dark look passing over his palled features. 

“Why?” he growls, fingers snatching the paper from Kurogiri and crumbling the parchment to bits, his quirk rendering your typed words to nothingness. 

“I don’t want to be a part of any kidnapping. It…” you pause, looking toward Kurogiri and, to your surprise, he nods to Tomura and moves away, leaving the two of you alone in the vacant bar. Tomura is still glaring at you, but he’s waiting for you to finish your thought, his jaw grinding quietly. 

“This doesn’t feel like you.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Tomura scoffs, his chin jutting at the assertion. 

“This doesn’t change society. This is just some petty attempt to get back at the UA staff. It’s like...It’s like you’re asking for trouble to seek you out. You’re smarter than this. Besides, what are you going to do with him?” you smart, crossing your arms and balling your fingers into your fists. 

“What do you know about anything? That kid’s been oppressed by hero society, literally muzzled and bound--”

“As if you’re doing any better! He’s still muzzled and bound, Tomura! He’s just in a different location. This is insanity. Who put you up to doing--”

“That doesn’t matter. This conversation has nothing to do with that. You can’t leave,” Tomura snaps, his head lowering, soft white hair falling over his face. “Give it a few more days.”

“What? I can’t stay if the bar is raided and it’s prolly gonna be if you keep that kid. Besides, that’s not--”

“Just...just give me a few more days. I don’t want to beg you, I shouldn’t fucking need to beg you. It’s not an impossible request (Y/N). Just--”

“Fine,” you sigh, uncrossing your arms and watching him. He looks on edge, haggard and angry. Those emotions aren’t projected at you, you know that. Nevertheless, it doesn’t lessen the danger he’s asking you to stand with him in. But, you can give him a few days and you tell him so, trying to ignore the pattering of your heart when he looks at you and smiles.

******

Then, Kamino happens. 

You weren’t there, thank God. But he was, and now, no matter what he’d asked of you, no matter what he’d hoped for, everything shifts apart. Days linger into weeks and you’re trying your best to reason that he’d made it out in one piece. Surely, you would have heard something. The capture of the leader of the League of Villains would have been a morsel that the media would have wanted to crow about, especially after the loss of All Might. 

Late one evening, your phone rings. 

It’s an unknown, blacked out number, but something tells you to answer, so you pick it up. You almost gasp when you hear that familiar rasp and you listen to what he tells you. You can’t get over how brittle and cracked his voice sounds but you write down the address he gives you. He cloaks his true motivations with a lie. Apparently, he has your last paycheck. Like that even matters to you. Honestly, you’re just glad he’s safe and whole. But, he’s gone to all this effort to build a bridge back to him, so of course you’re going to go.

You check and double check the directions, carefully maneuvering and weaving through bus stops and back streets. Somehow, you make it and find yourself pressing open a dilapidated door and stepping into a small room. Only darkness greets you, even though the bright midday sun is shining outside. The place he’s brought you to is on a dock, on the outskirts of town, close to the salty edge of a bay. You can hear the mournful cries of a seagull as you close the door behind you, sealing yourself inside and blinking into the gloom.

It takes you a minute to catch sight of him.

He’s lingering along the edges but you can make out the glow of his eyes, red and fierce. He looks different. It’s only been a few weeks, but it looks like the weight of years has crushed him under its unfeeling grind in that short amount of time. No, Kamino has changed him, rendering him unhinged and dangerous, drifting along the peripheral of your vision. Still, you haven’t come here to witness him falling to bits at your feet. No, you’d come here with another, darker motive. 

Now, to work.

“What happened?” you ask, keeping your back firmly against the door. Watching him move closer, those red shoes of his glinting over the dark wooden floors.

“Sensei is...gone,” he replies, his voice hollow and faint. He’s mentioned his Sensei before and you’d heard the man’s strange voice echoing from that back television, like some distant, terrifying specter. But, you knew he was important to Tomura, more like a father than a teacher. However, you’d seen the news. You knew he was beaten to a pulp and captured, locked away and out of Tomura’s reach. Now, he can’t ask his Sensei for advice or support, not anymore. Even knowing what little you’ve gleaned about the strange man, Tomura must be devastated by his loss.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, genuine in your sympathy.

Tomura nods and fishes for something in the pocket of his trench coat, lifting a thin slip of paper out and showing it to you. “Here,” he sighs, still not meeting your eyes directly. 

“Oh,” you say, moving away from the door and taking a few steps toward him. “You really did ask me here for the check, huh?”

“What else did you want?” he grumbles, his voice regaining a small slice of that familiar rasping. The question lingers and you feel your pulse speed up, your palms itching at your sides. “Or, did you want to scold me again?” Tomura continues disgruntled, and you can see a grimace pass over his face.

“You deserved it,” you confirm, taking another step, only wavering when you’re a few feet from him. “You wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn't kidnapped that UA student. Now, the kid, and your Sensei are gone and you’re stuck here. Wherever here is”

“Look at you, quite the oracle aren’t you? So, you did come here to berate me.” Tomura snaps, dropping your pay stub to the dusty floor. 

“No,” you shake your head, not wanting this to spiral out of your control, not wanting him to simply shut you out, alone on that pier, left with all of your what ifs. “No, I didn’t come here to do that. I-I...it’s just that...well...that wasn’t you. That whole plan...it still doesn’t make sense”

“How the fuck would you know what is, or isn’t, me? You said that that morning, too. I didn’t like it then and I don’t like it now,” Tomura bristles, closing the distance and bowing up to you. You can feel the sheer heat of him radiating against your shirt and you shiver at the sensation. If you lift your hand you could touch him, you think distantly. He’s so close...He’s so... 

You gulp, trying to quell your rising emotions. “I guess, I don’t know then.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Fine,” you say, biting your lip.

“Fine,” he repeats, no doubt thinking that will be the end of it, but you’re not finished.

“You’re better than this you know,” you tell him, eyes searching for his, not relenting your glare until he finally meets you halfway, his red eyes flashing.

“Better than what? Better than you? A half baked woman, slumming her way from mid range bar, to mid range bar. Hoping you’ll catch the eye of the right person, someone who can pluck you from all the muck and grime that you lift that pretty little nose of yours at.”

“What?” you breathe, a snarl of your own etching across your face.

“Don’t act like you didn’t know what you were doing. Fucking leading me on like that--”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You thought I’d be your ticket out, or you could wager me later for a better piece, something stronger, someone that could do something for you.” Tomura is seething, his chest bumping against yours, the red of his eyes burning as he glowers at you. 

“Tomura- I don’t know what you’re talk--”

“Stop saying that. You stupid, or something? And stop saying my name like that. Like it fucking matters. You could have had anything, you know? But...but you took it all for granted. You had the world...and then it...it’s...it’s just gone.”

He’s not talking about you anymore. Even though he’s growling and spitting rage at you, he’s not talking about you. “Shigaraki,” you begin, trying to see some way to reason with him. To bring him back to you. 

“Don’t call me that,” he groans, his head dipping, almost resting against your shoulder. “I haven’t earned...that’s not me.” 

“Alright. What am I supposed to call you?” you whisper, overwhelmed and trying to resist that urge to pull him into your arms. You’ve never seen him like this, and you don’t know, you don’t…

“There you go again, acting like you care.” Tomura scoffs, rolling his eyes. 

“I do care, you ass,” you bite, turning your head toward him and letting your voice fall beside his ear. He snarls at the assertion and presses impossibly closer, trying his best to put on a show of wavering strength, knowing you might still be bullied into backing down, into denying him. But it’s not working, no you’ve come this far and you don’t want to leave him, not like this. 

“I care,” you repeat, still murmuring next to his cheek, so near you can hear, and feel, his ragged breaths, hot against your skin.

“About what?” he grunts, moving his head from you, determined to not let you win.

“About, well, you.”

“Liar,” he spits, but his voice wavers, showing you a tiny, tiny sliver of hope.

“Am not,” you counter and watch as he leans back, those vermillion eyes searching for yours. One of his hands lifts and he ghosts the digits over the top of your shoulder, watching as you shift toward the distant touch, pulled to him, like a magnet.

“Such a liar,” he posits, fingers hovering beside your neck, twitching with want. 

“No, I’m not,” you gasp, your voice so faint, you’re worried he might not hear it. But he does and he dips his head toward you, inches from your face, lips already parted and waiting. 

“Prove it,” he challenges, his voice deepening, losing that sharpened edge at long last.

So, you shove him. 

You’re not sure why that’s your first, instinctive reaction, but it’s too late to question your motives and it sparks a crazed response from the man in front of you, snapping him out of his head and refocusing him. 

He fumbles backwards, caught off guard, his red shoes catching as he lumbers, trying to not fall. His eyes flash at you and he instantly rights himself, moving back to you. Through it all, you can hear yourself saying something. It sounds like it might have been another taunt, but you can’t focus, not when he’s pressing himself against you, his fingers finally, finally touching you. 

Tomura can’t seem to settle now that he’s gotten ahold of you, his fingers tracing over your neck, your shoulders, your face, your sides. He’s panting and gasping, his fevered exhales fanning over your prickling skin.

“Get off me,” you moan, batting at his wandering hands.

“No,” he sighs, cupping your jaw and dragging you to his shaking lips. His kiss is clumsy, almost childlike. He lifts and leans, pressing halting smacks against you, grunting when you twist from him, fighting his hold.

“You don’t deserve it,” you tell him, wanting to lance that boil that’s festering in his mind, knowing he needs the pain before he can handle the sweetness of the pleasure. The last thing he needs is love. No, not right now. Hopefully, there will be time for that later. But for now, he needs something raw and shattered, something that will let him see that it’s not impossible to pick up the pieces, that he can be whole again, he just needs to try.

He drags his rough lips over yours and you lower your fingers into his snowy hair, pulling him closer, demanding that he give you more. He gasps at the sudden shift and you slip your tongue into his mouth, tangling it with his and yanking stammering moans from him. Your lips are slick now and you use the extra lubrication to slip down his neck, leaving him trembling above you. 

You dip into each and every scar, laving over all those old hurts until he’s snarling. You leave a bruising bite against his pulse and he snatches your face between his palms, dragging you back to his lips. 

“Stop squirming,” he complains, his forehead bumping against yours, trying to keep up with your rapid fire laps and sucks. 

“No,” you laugh, fingers lacing into the lapels of his trench coat and using the leverage to drag your breasts over his hardened pectorals. He grunts at the sensation, one arm wrapping around your lower back, pinning you to him. When he finally manages to work his way free of your frantic presses, he lowers his lips to your neck, mimicking the same path you’d taken with him, his teeth nipping and pulling until your humming, giving him a thin cry of encouragement that spurs him on. 

Tomura drags a canine over your pulse and you shiver, folding into his crumpled embrace. He’s almost having to hold you upright and he growls when you slip from his arms, annoyed you’re making this so fucking difficult. 

“I said, keep still,” he reminds you, heaving you back up, lean forearms bracing you to him. You smile and lace your arms around his neck, wanting his lips again. He allows the pull, loving the contrast of your plush skin against his. He’s a fast learner and this time, it’s his tongue taps and maneuvers for entrance, swallowing down your needy pants. His nose presses into your cheek and you cup at his jaw, stroking the warm skin until he slows his frantic pace, meeting you halfway, and lingering in your wet softness.

Then, just as he’s getting comfortable, you dig your teeth into his lower lip, pulling until you bleed out a little taste of copper. He snarls and shoves you away, lifting the side of his hand to his injured mouth. 

“What was that for?” He snaps, tapping his fingers against the wound, watching as they come back red. “The fuck is wrong with…” His ire stutters to a halt when he catches sight of you. 

You’ve already slipped your shirt over your head and now your fingers are twisting until you unclasp your bra, sliding the lace down your arms. The cool air makes your nipples tighten but you don’t attempt to cover yourself from him. Instead, you arch an eyebrow at his abashed expression and begin to unbutton your pants, your fingers teasingly lingering over the button and zipper, before lowering the denim down the curve of your hips. 

You don’t even hear him approach. No, you’re too distracted by your little show to notice him until you feel those warm fingers tracing over the newly bared swells of your skin. You lift your head and your eyes catch his, smiling at the hazy hunger that’s blazing out at you. His touch is tentative and you roll your eyes openly at him, lifting your own hands over his, pressing him until he’s digging those four digits into your sumptuous flesh. 

His thumb rubs over your pebbled nipple and you reward him with a low moan, your eyes slipping behind your heavy eyelids. He cups at your other breast and lifts the weight of you into his palm, openly marveling at the feel of you. Still, it’s not enough and if you’re going to get your point across, you need him to give you more than these lazy strokes. 

“Take off your jacket,” you tell him, stepping away from him, quaking minutely in the loss of his warmth. 

“What?” he asks, clearly too overwrought to hear you. So, you help him along. Your fingers snatch the shoulders of his trench and you yank it off him, tossing the fabric down to the gritty floors. Then, you shove at him again. He isn’t as taken aback this time and he rallies immediately, snatching at you and dragging you against him, making you gasp at the harsh sensation of his dark clothes against your bare front. 

“What do you want?” you ask him, licking your tongue along the underside of his jaw, listening to his shuddering breaths. “What do you want to do to me, Tomura? Come on, I know you’ve got some idea. Fucking show me. Don’t let me boss you around, unless that’s what you’re wanting today to be about. I can take those reigns from you. I’m better at this after all. Less...flustered,” you pause, sucking and nipping at his neck, enjoying the indecisive flex of his fingers on your upper arms.

He allows you one more bite and then he’s tossing you down, not caring where you land. Thankfully, you sprawl over his discarded jacket, the fabric sparing you from the neglected wooden floor. You’re trying to regain your bearings when you hear his belt clatter to the floor. You look up at him, watching as he flings that dark shirt away, showing you the lean muscles that you’ve wondered about for so long. God, for someone so lanky, he looks fucking good. 

Tomura smirks at your expression and swiftly yanks his pants and boxers away too, revealing something even more mouthwatering. Fuck, fuck, you think, an involuntary gasp leaving your lips. His cock is thick, pulsing and absolutely dripping with his precum. The tip is a lovely pink, curving toward that chiseled stomach of his and damn, you want to suck on it until he’s putty in your hands. 

As if he can read your mind, Tomura steps closer, giving himself a few tugs as he peers down on you, imperious and almost perfectly in control. “You want it?” He asks, trying to hide that sudden shift in his voice, wanting to show you that he understands what you’re expecting from him. You nod and bite your lip, looking up at him from feathery eyelashes. 

“Come here,” he requests, slowing those pulls and letting his precum slip from his fist to the floor, tempting you with those tiny droplets of arousal. Obediently, you rise to your knees, fingers tracing up his thighs, smiling at the light buckling he gives you, his calves twitching and shaking. 

You tease your way to the apex of his hips and pause, lingering along that dip of his stomach. “Can I taste you?” you question coquettishly and you adore the moan that falls from his lips. 

Taking that as a yes, you slowly lower your mouth to him, ghosting the tip of him over you. Rubbing him back and forth, painting that thick precum over your lips until they’re glistening. Tiring of this little game, his fingers dip into your hair and he grips you, hard. With one pull, he’s burying that velvet heat of his length past the ring of your lips and into the sweet cavern of your mouth. His cock swells and throbs as you lap ravenous at the hefty weight of him.

He’s salty and earthy and you let your tongue swirl over his slit, lapping into that leaking gap until he’s murmuring nonsense over you. He’s almost too big for you to take, so one of your hands lifts and wraps around his base, easing your sucks and ensuring that none of him is left out of this gift of mind numbing ecstasy you’re bestowing upon him. 

There are several veins, racing along the side of his cock and you tickle along each of them, pressing until you can feel the beat of his heart, frantic and fluttering. Soon, he begins to silently ask you for more, rutting his hips against your face, scraping himself along the back of your throat. When you heave around him he lets out a loud, elongated moan and digs in again, lingering until you’re nearly choking. 

You chance a peek up at him and are surprised to see him gazing right back, those red eyes of his clouded and muddled. His hand keeps an insistent pressure against the back of your head, demanding that you keep going. So, you pick up the pace, lapping and sucking, hollowing your cheeks until a thin line of your drool begins to trickle along your chin, dripping onto your knees.

“Can...can I…” he begins, fingers starting to tremble, his knees buckling. No, that’s not what you want from him. You shake free of his hand, letting him slip from your mouth, and he stammers and sputters at the loss, his eyes narrowed and dark, glaring at you with a raw frustration. 

“No,” you tell him, keeping one hand on him, stroking him, maintaining that steady pressure until he’s grunting, his hips instinctively canting into the tantalizing motion. “No, you don’t ask me for anything. Yeah, I can finish you off, if you need me to take control, but it’s not going to be on your terms. If you’re wanting something Tomura, you better fucking take it. Stop asking me for permission. I’m not-- mmph--”

He rips your hand off of his dick and his fingers curl beside your ears, forcing your mouth back, and impaling you on his length, immediately gagging you on his heady thrusts. You inhale sharply, your breath catching, failing as he keeps railing into you. More saliva slides out of your lips and you falter, a weak whimper echoing around him. 

“Mmm,” he growls, holding your face as he presses against the back of your throat loving the clenching and mewls you give him. “That feels fucking good, (Y/N). Taking all of my cock, ah- fucking choking on it. You’re so fucking greedy. Don’t worry, I’ll give you more. Let’s see, what would make this even better, oh, I know. Saw it in a porn once. Put your hands behind your back and don’t move them unless I tell you to.”

Immediately, you clasp your fingers together, letting them rest against your lower back. The suspension knocks you off kilter, but Tomura braces your head with his other hand, pinning you between his palms. His dick is still lancing in and out of your mouth, scraping against your tonsils, making you swallow and open, trying to push yourself past that oppressive gagging sensation.

“Ahhh, such a good girl, now spread your legs and lift up, just a little bit, yes- right there. Better keep those hands still,” he taunts, pulling his cock out until it hangs against your lower lip, glimmering with the sheen of your ministrations. Then, he dives back in, thrusting and grinding until his balls are papping against your soaking chin. Your legs tremble as you hold yourself up and you can feel your own arousal, slipping down your inner thighs, splattering onto that dark trench coat of his. 

You’re heaving under him, grunting and slobbering trying to not fucking choke on the girth that’s being pistoned into you. He’s gasping praise at you, his white head thrown back, and his lower abdomen is rippling, letting you know he’s so, so close to spilling down your abused throat. He bows over you as he cums, spewing thick ropes of his release into you. You gulp at him, determined to let every last drop slither down your waiting throat, longing to savor everything that he’s giving you. 

True to your promise, you keep your hands clasped and you nearly topple over when he tugs free of your lips. Tomura takes pity on your wilted form and lowers himself to his knees, wrapping one hand around you and tapping twice on your shaking digits, letting you know you can relax your grip. You fall forward, and he waits above you, watching you with a mounting fascination. Once you catch your breath, you look up at him, not caring that you’re still covered in a mix of tears, spit and his cum. He smirks at your dishevelment, pleased by your open display of your wanton lust for him. 

“See? It’s not hard to take what you want, to do what you want,” you pant, still trying to gulp down a few more rough intakes of air.

Tomura sucks his teeth at your bravado, but you notice he’s having a little bit of trouble steading his own breathing and his hands are twitching as they reach for you. You hum when he cups at your dips and curves, lingering over spots that make you moan for him. As he plucks at one of your puckered nipples his eyes lift to yours and he leans close, pressing a wet line of kisses against your collarbone.

“Lay back,” he rumbles, still sucking at the hollow of your throat. You do as he says, propping yourself on your elbows, curious and waiting. He’s slowed down now that he’s slaked that first brush of pent up aggression, but he’s still got a little more to burn. You can see it, lingering behind his vermillion eyes, gleaming under the carnal intrigue. 

His fingers, so dangerous and deadly, race down your sides, falling to the juncture of your legs and dipping into the slick that he finds. He parts your folds, bracing himself over you, his lips sucking bruises into your skin. The gossamer threads of your leaking cunt run down his fingers and onto his open palm and he groans into your neck, nuzzling his nose to your skin and inhaling, deeply. 

“Does that feel good?” He asks, his voice scraping, like sandpaper, hoarse and undone along your heated cheek. Ok, you think, arching as he dips one digit into you, you can let him have that one question, especially when your mind is fogging over like this, unable to think of anything but that ache that’s pounding through your core. You roll your hips again, urging that finger to slip further and he hisses as you pull him in, your walls trembling at the intrusion. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, lifting himself to look down at you, his eyes wide with an awed marvel. “You’re so…”

“Mmm, so what?” you ask, wanting him to keep talking to you, loving rasp of his tone as it tells you such sinful things.

“So soft and warm and...God...so wet,” he replies, adding another finger, watching as you whine for him, your lower lips parting and welcoming him. He pumps the digits, in and out, at a steady rate, waiting for each quiver and ripple, trying to feel his way along, wanting to please you. 

“Can--” he stops himself, flushing as your eyes open and snap to his, a rough displeasure written over your face. He tears his gaze from yours and scowls, letting his fingers press a rougher rhythm into you, sucking his teeth at his unspoken inexperience. 

“This feels good,” you reassure him, not wanting to completely leave him adrift, knowing that he does need a little piece of guidance, for this part, at least. “Why don’t you get a closer look?” 

Tomura looks back to you and nods before sliding down your body, lowering himself until he’s face to face with his prize. His mouth drops and he licks at his chapped lips, painting a few, warm, exhales against your sensitive folds. You squirm at the sensation and he grins, leaning closer, his free hand spreading you for his inspection. 

“Is this…” his voice trails off and you can feel him wandering his way to just the right spot. When he lifts the fleshy hood of your clit and thumbs the distended pearl you gasp and shiver, your head falling back against his jacket, thumping against the floor. 

He laughs and you can feel him getting ready to swipe at you again, his thumb already slippery and near, the heat of it radiating against that sensitive bundle. “You like that,” he crows, repeating the motion until you’re writhing. “But—” he ponders, moving so his lips are pressed against you, resting on those sopping folds, waiting for you to look up at him. Once your head lifts and your eyes meet his, he lowers his mouth, sliding his tongue over you. 

“Oh,” you whisper, your hands automatically lifting and curling into his hair, threading the white tendrils along your palms. His tongue is rough and bumpy as it glides along, pausing to lap at some of your arousal. He smacks his lips at the taste, savoring the flavor before voraciously pressing back into you for more. When he pauses his explorations to give your clit a soft suck, you can’t help but flail, your back bowing and thighs tightening around his head. 

Tomura grunts at the rough treatment, prying your legs apart but not letting up on that suction, pleased he’s found something that makes you tremble to pieces in his hands. He’s always liked working you up, so it makes sense that, in this instance, he’s no different. 

His long digits are scraping into you, dragging along your quivering walls and spreading your cunt apart, leaking your arousal all over his jacket and onto his chin. He’s not satisfied yet, you’re not satisfied yet, so he keeps going, listening and watching, catching on to what makes you cry out his name, learning and adapting at an alarming speed. 

“T-Tomura,” you keen, your hips lifting, grinding yourself against his face, begging him to not stop. You feel a smirk lift his lips and his tongue begins to circle and lick over your clit, maintaining a steady pressure. Meanwhile, his fingers have latched onto something delicate and spongy within your pussy, repeating an arched gesture, curling and uncurling as they stroke your budding flames higher. 

“So good…” you murmur, hardly able to form the words as you feel that all encompassing tingle race along your bloodstream. “You’re doing so f-fucking good.” 

In response, he begins to suckle on your clit, lightly tracing a canine over the pulsing bundle and that’s all that it takes. Your head dips back, pressing into the floor so hard that your neck arches with your back and your legs wrap around him, holding him to you as you quiver and shake under him. You can feel your heartbeat as you return to yourself, thumping a rapid beat over your breastbone and radiating out to your fingers and toes. 

Tomura, for his part, hadn’t stopped lapping at you, his tongue replacing his fingers as he pushes the wet appendage into you, soaking up each wave of your release. Even when you’d dropped your death grip, your legs and arms flopping away from him, boneless and shaking, he’d kept on. After a few minutes of this, his lips suddenly feel a little too ragged, the chapped skin scratching against your sensitive, overstimulated, flushed lower lips. You do your best to wriggle away, but he stills your movements, not quite finished. 

“Ah- that...it’s starting to hurt,” you grouse, pushing a hand against his bowed head. That declaration seems to get through and, finally placated, he gives you one last lick and lifts his head, his eyes glinting down on you, dark and mischievous. 

“I want to fuck you,” he tells you, wiping a hand across his mouth, dragging the last of your essence away. You tilt your head and grin up at him. “So fuck me,” you reply, spreading your legs again, making room for his trim hips.

“Not like this,” he qualifies, his eyes hooded as he runs a hand along your leg, enjoying your skin, warm and pliant under his palm.

“Then how?” you ask, a little bewildered by this shift in attitude. Tomura leans up, resting on his haunches, leering at your nakedness, another smirk lifting his lips, arching that scar.

“Stand up,” he instructs. 

You pull your legs away and slowly rise to your feet, waiting for him to do the same. Once the two of you are eye level again, he tugs you to him, his lips pulling and nipping at yours. You can’t help but melt into his persistent touch and when he feels you slacken against him, he starts to push you backwards. He walks you slowly, carefully, but once your back touches the cold wall, his caresses become rougher, more insistent. 

He’s lifting your chin and his teeth are doing more biting than nipping, pulling at your lips until you’re gasping and swollen. He begins to lift away and you protest the movement, but his hand presses into your chest, shoving you back to the wall. You freeze at the forceful treatment, your eyes opening and fastening onto his. Waiting for his next move.

Tomura’s regained that wild look, his eyes hardening, sharpening like ruby slips of flint as they linger over you. “Turn around and brace your hands against the wall,” he commands and, for an instant, you debate pushing back, challenging his order, but that’s not what you’re here for. No, you’d come here with one thought in mind. 

To see if you could show him what choices, what strong inner drive, wholly independent of his Sensei, he did have. 

You’d watched that kidnapping debacle and all you could think about was how much better, how much stronger he’d be if he could just get out from under the thumb of that man, that voice on the tv. Even with this informal exercise of your own, Tomura had taken to your carnal lessons like a fish to water. He had always been a natural born leader, someone who cultivated and demanded change, he just needs a chance to try. A chance to prove that he didn’t need to ask permission, to ask questions. No, he only needed to act and he could make his aspirations a reality. 

So, you turn, splaying your fingers against the wall and waiting for his next move, tilting your head, wanting to see him. He runs a calloused hand over the plush swell of your ass, kneading the skin and stepping closer. Once his hips are flush with your posterior, he ruts his newly re-hardened cock against you, his ever copious precum aiding his motion, letting him glide between your cheeks, easing into that cleft. You groan and press back, wordlessly asking for him to keep going. 

Suddenly, his palm smacks against your ass, stinging the flesh and sending a sharp crack around the barren room. “I said, push out more. How am I supposed to fuck you when you’re plastered to the wall like that?” Tomura questions, his voice deep and guttural. You brace your hands against the peeling wallpaper and jut your ass out, presenting yourself to him, quietly hoping he’ll reward you with another spank. Pleased, Tomura does just that, his other hand lifting and smarting against your other, neglected cheek, imprinting his mark on you, even if it’s only for a brief moment, and his fingers linger on the warmth he’s raised from your skin. 

“Good girl,” he groans, taking his cock in his hand and searching for that weeping entrance to your waiting pussy. You aid him as best as you can, arching your hips until he finally, finally slips into you. Tomura lets out a deep sigh as your cunt devours his cock, slicking him into the heat of your rippling channel. “Oh, fuck,” he moans, pressing until his hips are flush with your ass, grinding his bony hipbone into your supple softness.

He gives you a brief second to adjust before he bows his head over your shoulder, panting and grunting. “Hold on,” he gasps, slowly pulling his hips back and then ramming his straining cock back into you. You mewl at the sudden ferocity of his thrusts, your head dipping against the steady weight of the wall. 

He offers you no reprieve as he pounds into you, his teeth latching onto your skin, sucking and drooling, losing himself in you. His balls tap against your swelled ass and you moan when he traces one hand around you, his fingers seeking your clit and pinching at the nub. 

Your teeth begin to chatter, but he doesn’t let up, maintaining that mind numbing pace, pressing and grinding until you can’t fucking think straight. He’s completely untethered and he slakes out all of those pent up questions, feelings, hurts and wants against you. After a time, he begins to murmur things to you, finally sucking up his loose tongue and resting his chin on the mess he’s left on your skin.

He’s worried he can’t do it. 

He’s never been alone, not like this. 

Sure, he has the others, he has Kurogiri, but it’s not the fucking same. 

He needs to see this through. 

He wants to, he has to.

Where do you go, when there’s no one else to turn to?

It’s like a confessional, this rutting he’s doing and it’s bleeding all of those thoughts away, letting them pool against the front of his mind and then, pop, they shift away. 

Oh this helps, he thinks, loving how you’re fucking taking him, how much you fucking need him. He can’t let you go. He can’t, he won’t. You’re all he has left. After all this, he can’t lose anything else. No, you were right, he’s gotta start taking things, snatching up pieces until he becomes this unstoppable force, greater than his Sensei, greater than All Might, greater than all of them. Yes, yes, yes, when he has you like this, everything else feels so fucking simple. 

He’s slowing, his hips beginning to stutter and press erratically against you. There’s no need to worry about you cumming for him, not when you’ve already broken around him so many times in the last few minutes. No, the second he started panting all of those thoughts against you, you were lost, your cunt gripping him so tightly you were worried it might never let go. 

Finally, with one last thrust, Tomura grinds his hips against you, his cock swelling and pulsing as he spills himself into you. The sensation of his cum splashing against your walls hurtles you over that edge one last time and you almost collapse, your legs shaking so badly you can't support your own weight. The only thing that prevents you from falling is Tomura. His arms snake around your waist and he holds you to him, his forehead resting heavily against your shoulder, sticking to your skin. 

After a long beat, Tomura pulls himself out of you, grunting at the loss of your warmth and sinks to the floor, dragging you with him. Naked and gasping, the two of you cling to the other, waiting for the world to stop spinning as you come back to yourselves. Tomura recovers first, tugging you to his chest and wrapping himself around you, his chin perched on the familiar slope of your shoulder.

“You didn’t...you didn’t need to do this, but...” Tomura halts, his voice soft as his lips press rough kisses to your skin, silently saying what he really means, what you mean to him.

“That’s not true,” you counter, turning your head toward him. “You deserve to make a choice for yourself. You’re your own boss now. Now all you have to do is act like it. Don’t make those mistakes again. You call the shots, not your Sensei, not anyone else in the League, just you. You’ll have other choices soon, so don’t doubt yourself, it’s not like you.”

He huffs out a laugh and buries his nose in your neck, inhaling your scent as he licks at a rising bruise. “I don’t think you’ll like my next choice,” he rumbles, one hand drifting over your side and cupping the soft mound of your breast.

“That depends on what it is,” you smile, your eyes closing at the tempting touch.

“Mmm, do me a favor,” he begins, nipping at your earlobe. “Get on your knees and open your mouth. You looked so fucking pretty when you were sucking on my cock, I wanna see it, one more time.”

“What?” you question, absolutely incredulous, “again?”

“Do as I say (Y/N),” he replies, rubbing his rising length along your ass.

“God,” you gasp, bucking at the sensation, “what have I done? At this rate, I won’t be able to walk for a week.”

“You’ll like it,” Tomura promises, his voice dark, “I’ll make sure that you do.”

Notes: never have i ever liked that kidnapping bullshit. i guess it lets AFO face off with All Might, but for Tomura’s development? it makes no sense and he’s never done anything like that again, in canon. so, uh, yeah. booo kidnapping scheme. 

Tags: @spicy-skull, @xwildskullx, @yixxes, @ghstmthr, @rekoii, @diaouranask, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love

[newsagogos]

Hi, hello, please *please* expand on cherri cola and immortality (when u have time/want to, ofc). I am so looking at ur tags 👀👀👀

it's like, just thinking about it right now but it can't die because the witch needs it for a purpose but she didn't tell it what so it figures taking down batt city and it's true but not in the way it thought (it happened 12 years later and it's role was with helping the girl). so at first it's like going on drac rampages and being very violent thinking this was its purpose and it loses people but stays alive when it shouldnt.

Then newsie gets taken and it *has* to bring them back/do something. but then it's taken into the battery and the whole gary levko thing and then somehow getting out and it's still very much alive. and its friends (ish. the fab 4 i mean) die while its in there and it thinks maybe it was its purpose to save them but it failed. then it miraculously doesn't die and it's like confused "i thought this is what you wanted from me" sorta deal.

then that becomes anger and frustration and in some moment of clarity and after properly mourning and whatnot it figures maybe its purpose was the opposite of this. maybe it's like helping souls pass to the witch and it does that and after a while it stops caring if that's its purpose or not. it just knows that this is what it's doing rn and it's good. And then the girl shows up and it helps her of course because that's what it does and eventually dies but it's all there in the grand scheme of things.

also the immortality thing works in a it dies but keeps the scars from the injuries but like. something as big as losing an arm doesn't heal as in it doesn't get it back.

also to simplify timeline wise what happened.

young cherri somehow dies and meets the witch and is told she's bringing it back for a purpose, can't take it til it's fulfilled. -> cherri thinks it's taking down the battery in a violent way -> loses a lot of people in the process + frustration + maybe this isn't my purpose + the anger + the waveriding -> newsie gets taken and it goes after them -> gets captured and the 4 die in that time -> it escapes + the guilt and anger and that whole cycle repeats -> back to waveriding for a while -> something happens it properly takes the time to mourn (help from d and show pony and newsie and even chimp because where would we be without support) -> it figures its purpose was to help souls pass on and help the living keep doing so -> the girl shows up it helps her shoot and find her place (by being there, answering questions left unanswered from before) -> it dies for the last time.

okay now i realize this isn't very simplified.

[wokestraightpuffy]

Hallo, i hope you are alright and that my ask aren’t annoying but I wanted to ask do you have any c!puffy headcannons? —🤡

YOURE NOT ANNOYING AT ALL !!! NEVER THINK THAT ILU VERY MUCH. MUAH /p

as for c!puffy headcanons, i am not the best person to ever organize their thoughts properly but ill try my best >:’D

ahaha. this got. super complex and way too long and more of like an introspective study to puffy now instead of harmless fun headcanons so, uh. under read more <3 (also reminder this is all /rp and /dsmp)

* i like to think that she has a hero complex, but its a bit different since she never really sees herself as an ‘important’ part of the story, not the main character but a support one, hence ‘im fine with being the side character’ or how she’s said she doesnt care what happens to her and would gladly sacrifice(?) herself if there werent other people she had to protect. girl u need therapy urself <3

* though very open with how she feels and never afraid to say when someone/something is upsetting her, ‘opening up’ is still a whole mountain climb for her, apparently. like, she’d rant about the egg, get mad at the eggpire, let off some steam by committing arson or exploding stuff, she’ll rarely ever talk about how much the stuff that upset her actually HURT her. does that make sense? LIKE, she’ll lash out, she’ll get mad, she’ll take NO SHIT thrown at her face, but to show the kinda vulnerability of dealing with that? to cry about it talk about those feelings with someone? I think she’d rather eat her own foot lol

* adding onto the thing above, she doesnt necessarily actually realize this about herself. less of actively doing it and rather growing... used to the ‘cycle of violence’ in the smp as they call it. and the fact that rarely have people really asked, that no one’s actually available for that, w her losing her closest friends, bad and ant, sam being busy w the warden stuff... and niki. yeah. there’s foolish, but i doubt she’d ever see venting to someone she considers her son appealing

* also. puffy is just sometimes... really bad at conveying sadness. i think she’s a rare crier. id go as far to say that shes even more emotionally constipated than dream, lol (but maybe not while the guy’s in his prison arc) and that she’d be the type of person to tell you its okay to cry but beat herself up over something if she let a tear slip in a heated moment

* speaking of sadness. she’ll only ever actually Be Sad if she’s alone or with someone she doesnt necessarily care the opinions of. yknow how she mourned for tommy and blamed herself? those dialogue bits? yeah, those are only times shed actually be vulnerable

* puffy’s go to response to the egg and how its fucked up her relationship w her friends is pure fury. but, going off of her line about ‘failing bad and ant’ i like to think that she probably hates herself the most about it. THAT IS A STRONG WORD LOL BUT YEAH. she yells and curses and gets mad, but sometimes i wonder if the words she had spat before were more directed to herself

* THIS GIRL HAS SELF-IDENTITY PROBLEMS. CAN WE GET A HELL YEAH FOR THAT CHAT? outside of having no goddamn clue about where she came from, how she got here and who she even is, scrounging up a role for herself in a server with a war on the background and traumatized kids got her resignedly coerced into thinking that she is only a Parent. Only good enough when she’s actually doing something Useful for people. SO. when she finds that ship? of having a crew and having a curse? OF FINDING OUT SHE MIGHT HAVE/ HAVE HAD A MOM THATS WAITING FOR HER?  the sense of control she has on herself is absolutely crushed. shattered, and she’s left to pick up the pieces w no one to talk abt it with <3

* adding onto the above, it’s why the line ‘I’m supposed to be mama puffy. me.’ hurts me so much! so yes! please cry with me :D

* also to add more on the fact that she thinks she’s only worth something when she’s being useful, puffy literally contemplated leaving the server, thinking that it wouldnt matter leaving since no one really needs her anyway, since she’s failed so many people. bad and ant, tommy, dream. shes said how foolish can take care of himself on how tubbo and ranboo have each other, how she and niki have drifted so far away from each that it might as well be a break up.

HOOOOOOOOOO OBOY . anon youve really given me the perfect chance to ramble huh? sorry for the rather incomprehensible brainrot, here’s more lighthearted headcanons about puffy asdhfkd

* she cannot stand still sometimes. she always has to be doing something extra, walking when the prime path is right there? shed rather go through tedious little holes or hop and balance onto fences to get where shes going. she’ll mindlessly fix up the path when there are holes or mismatched wood, and one time went on a long, long LONG journey cleaning up the paths tommy purposely DESTROYED near lmanburg and even added cobblestone sidings which werent there before

* puffys a bit of a sentimental person. writing in her log to clear her thoughts sometimes and cared enough to try and preserve lmanburg with the glass sheet and trying to find possible surviving artifacts of history to respect it, even though she’s never been a part of it. its also why, when doomsday happened and lmanburg got permanently poofed, she began to appreciate the buildings that are still standing and began taking more pics 

* she’s not used to being... what do you call it, um, cared for? she’d deflect compliments sometimes, when shes having a particular bad day, like, she’d laugh nervously and change the subject, sometimes she’d outright deny it, most days she’d jokingly say ‘staphhh it’ and add a very genuine thanks. my point being is, do something for puffy that is mildly nice and she’d keep that moment in her heart forever. 

* also funny story regarding the above. u know how karl is notorious for stealing her materials? and how puffy was contemplating doing something in retaliation for them? karl says hi for once when she joins the server and she goes ‘alright fine youre safe for saying hi’ LOL THIS WAS PROBABLY A BIT META WISE but something about this implying that the bare minimum or LESS is enough to make puffy forgive someone is very sad and funny at the same time for me. girl really said ‘oh you said hi to me? thats nice all the crimes youve ever done towards me is now forgiven. <3’ (this is a bit of an exaggeration on my part, ofc, i just think its funny LMAO) 

* ironically, despite being the ‘captain’, whenever riding a boat with someone, she prefers being on the backseat and letting them drive. ig shes just there for the ride i suppose, her and her uber drivers :3

 * she either has a rather unhealthy obsession with baked potatoes or she just doesnt wanna waste eret’s massive potato farm

* idc what cc!puffy says is c!puffy will always and forever be 5′2″ in my HEART. u are the shortest member, u cannot change this <3

* shes really fond of animals/ neutral mobs. she often baby talks to them and they help boost her mood a lot when shes having a bad day :D

* up to this day, the little secret rooms she’s created around the server have all been yet to be discovered, unless the one under bad’s house has been found. she rarely ever really keeps tabs on them, and more often than not they are just collecting dust. she still visits sometimes and cleans them up ofc

* she still genuinely thinks dream can change. cc!puffy’s line about that, ‘i’m his last hope.’ really makes me think about this a lot. 

* ive seen people talk abt it a bit but the headcanon that puffy acts as the server mom to fill the ‘void’ of her missing her mom makes me cry at night /hj

* she really likes her rainbow onesie! i headcanon that eret gave her that along w the sunglasses, but she started wearing that less when she found her old captains uniform. shes never really said why, though, and nobody ever really bothered to ask

* god bless this woman but sometimes the server members get on her nerves sometimes so she goes out of her way to traverse along far away from the main community to maybe commit a few crimes. let off some steam. these take a few days but she always returns

i probably have a lot more hcs but i cant remember them >_> THIS IS A LOT ANYWAY. HOPE U ENJOYED MY BRAIN VOMIT. IF U READ THIS FAR ILU THANK U

if there are mistakes it is bc i am crying and cannot see my keyboard and also i am sleep deprived /hj

[daaedoodles]

Building walls (just to tear them down) | 2, Memories

A/N, TRIGGER WARNING for semi-graphic descriptions of self harm and anxiety.

Cloaked in the darkness of night, the urges come again.

She knows she shouldn’t do it.

She knows she shouldn’t hurt herself anymore than she already has.

She knows she shouldn’t throw away all of that progress, all of the good in her life.

But she does.

That feeling is intoxicating, the quietness and the sense of calm that passes over her - a promise for a release in the pain she causes herself, a way to escape, to feel better - Sarah Reese can’t find the strength in herself to refuse.

It tempts her with every birthday that comes and goes, with every time she's taken the backseat, watching a past version of herself wandering through the endless halls of her childhood home.

She’s suddenly 18 again, standing in the kitchen staring down at a stove she once remembers being so much taller that despite her 10 year old self’s best efforts at tippy-toeing could hardly see the top of. Dragging the pads of her fingers against every wall of the house and memorizing each and every bump and dent beneath her fingertips. Sitting at the foot of the tiny bubblegum pink bed that was hers once upon a time.

The image of a little girl, a shiny rainbow party hat sitting on top of her lion's mane of curls that frames her chubby cheeks, catches her eye from across her bedroom. She’s sitting before a massive cake that’s at least twice the size of her head with the biggest smile on her face, flashing a missing tooth. Carefully piped clouds of white cream surround the words ‘Happy Birthday Sarah!’ piped in a pink, messy scrawl she recognizes as her own mother’s, atop the cake. Tentatively reaching out, she picks up the photo frame. A lump rises in her throat as she studies the photo with intent, feeling the grime of the dust that’s collected on it over years of never being even looked at. Thumbs sweep across the glass thoughtfully, hot breath shuddering against her cupid’s bow.  Her father is grinning too, bending down to the left of the young girl as he reaches out with a flickering flame in his hands to light the number ‘5’ candle that’s stuck haphazardly by tiny hands into the chiffon. Her mother is at her other side, an arm slung around her shoulders as she draws her close to her chest. It’s the only memory Sarah can begin to place as the last time she or her family were genuinely happy.

Because come her sixth birthday, her father is gone. 

He’d simply packed his things and left without a word. 

She remembers her mother’s voice, screaming and shouting protests through broken sobs. They paint the walls of a home she once loved in the dark blues and purples of the pain in her every cry. She remembers her father, his silhouette through the cracks of her bedroom door, grabbing fistfuls of her mother’s shirt. She can’t tell whether it’s the floor beneath her feet or her that trembles with every thud that reverberates through her home. 

Then, silence.

The next morning, his study has been cleared of every book that lined his walls, his half of the closet is suddenly empty and the photos of her family that hung in the living room are on the ground- cherished memories, now shattered beneath the glass of broken picture frames. 

Even then, aged five and three-quarters, she knew things would never be the same again.

Sarah Reese isn’t a sentimental person. There isn’t much sentiment to spare for the things in her life. They’re empty and hollow, she tells herself, nothing but painful reminders of the memories she could have made if things were different.

Despite every rational thought in her head pleading with her not to, she’s removing the backing of the photo frame and removing the photo that was affectionately placed for display all those years ago. She holds onto the foolish hope that after being let down so many times, she’d be ready to let go. But she stuffs the image in her pocket and packs her memories hastily into cardboard boxes. They’re crammed and shoved desperately into the back of a U-Haul, a last minute addition to a boot packed to the brim crisp, white boxes, full of more brand new things that could ever use.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there Sarah.” Her mother’s voice crackles through the speaker, the cold screen of her phone pressed against her ear. This time, she doesn’t feel her heart sink into her stomach.

Although, she can’t help but hope - that her mother might still come home and scoop her up in her arms like she’s five again, tears tracing down her cheeks as she places lipstick-stained lips against Sarah’s forehead in a goodbye. She knows better now than ever that it’s nothing but wishful thinking.

“I want to make sure you have everything you need.”

She’d convinced herself months ago where she’d go.

Chicago, thousands of miles away from Amsterdam. Thousands of miles away from all of it, maybe she’d finally be free of all of the haunting memories, of all of the silly hopes and pain.

But it isn’t so different after she leaves home and the dread that she’ll never escape begins to close in on her.

Sarah was alone on her 19th birthday, like the year before and the one prior and pretty much every birthday she could remember; left only with her thoughts that easily filled every inch of her apartment. They hang thick, full of grief as she mourns the loss of hope in the way the whiskey seems to coat every inch of her mouth and burn as it makes its way down her throat. Grief, a bitter companion in her isolation that refuses so adamantly never to leave her side.

She can’t tell how much she’s had to drink, too out of her mind to even think straight because suddenly the air is too thick to breathe and she feels like she’s choking, her chest tightening as she feels her heart begin to race. Her skull feels like moments away from exploding, the thoughts in her head too loud and too quiet all at once. Sarah can’t stop herself as her hands scramble, clawing desperately at her skin and pressing her face into her knees as the scraping of her fingernails cuts through the noise, a scalding heat spreading across her entire scalp. It’s the only thing she can focus on at that moment. The sensation of her fingernails digging into her skin, the strange dampness that begins to stick to her fingers and the harsh smell of metal that hits her nose. It doesn’t even register in her brain what she’s done to herself until she’s scrubbing her hands and fingernails of her own gore.

When it happens again, she finds herself subconsciously beginning to scrape at her skin, sending shocks of pain throughout her body under her touch.

It became a crutch that she found herself relying on more and more over time as things grew hectic with the turn of 20.

As the competition between her classmates grew tighter at 21, it wasn’t enough anymore.

So completely blind and oblivious to it - the way her entire life tears away at what was left of Sarah Reese by 22.

At 23, she was nothing but a terrified girl who’d learned to pin every last hope on her own self-destruction.

She’s 24 now. Sarah grew to appreciate the brief moments when that crushing feeling she’s lived with all of her life releases it’s relentless grip on her, where she smiles and laughs and then the weight on her shoulders suddenly lifts, in the memories of quiet comfort she holds close to the heart that she’d collected over the years in Chicago. It’s an absolute relief while it lasts.

But just as quickly as they come, they leave. It becomes easier to hate the good because those fleeting moments of freedom only begin to hang over her head, pointing at her, taunting, mocking, laughing at her.

25 and she finally feels like for once in her life, things might turn out okay. It’s still hard, every single day is a struggle because that hurt never truly goes away, no matter how badly she wants it to. She falls into the cycle of throwing her feet over the edge of her single bed in the cold winter mornings, wandering through her apartment with her mind still cloudy with sleep, slipping her flannel pajamas off her feet and into her work clothes then catching the bus to Gaffney Chicago Medical. In the ED, that girl realizes a warmth, a genuine sense of comfort and belonging in her colleagues and the companionship. Sarah Reese is exhausted and she can’t help but feel like she’s found a home, even a family, in these people. There’s a part of her that wants so badly to push them away so she can never get hurt again but she’s too comforted by the way her heart swells in their company, with what she can only discern in joy, to listen to it. Now, there’s a reason to fight and she doesn’t know if she wants to give up anymore.

Near 26, her pale skin.once a blank canvas was left brutally scarred and damaged in hues of purples, reds and whites. Scars layered on top of one another as she’d run out of space in places easy to conceal, easy to hide from people. There’s a sickening feeling of guilt that fills her each time she sees the damage she’s done to herself.

In the moment, she's too far gone to care. She’s lost count of just how many there are, just how many times she's found herself frantically trying to patch herself up, just how many times she's woken up to blood on her sheets and scabs under her fingernails.

Her thoughts barely come back into focus only as she’s shakily pressing the adhesive of the bandages around her wounds. It’s absolutely silent, her mind foggy and clouded with pain - the panic, fear and anger have passed - and she’s focused on nothing but the heat of the blood pooling at her skin and the darkness seeping and spreading across the white gauze. Sarah’s vision flickers in and out of focus, eyes hazy and heavy, begging for rest. As the adrenaline too begins to fade, just how exhausted she is becomes apparent as she falls back onto her bed, greeted by a pitch black when her eyes fall closed despite her willing them to stay open.

Sarah's jolted awake when her phone buzzes on her bedside table. Through her foggy vision, it's lit up with a brand new notification.

She groans, reaching for her phone and pressing fingers blood encrusted onto the power button. It flashes on, the time displayed in bold in the foreground of an image of herself caught mid laugh as she's surrounded by the people in the ED who are donning cheap Christmas hats and silly expressions, the ward around them decorated with paper ornaments on the glass of each bay in some attempts to brighten the place against hospital policies. Beside her is Dr Charles who has a hand raised and stroking the fake Santa beard strapped onto his chin. Halstead is directly behind her with sparkling red tinsel wrapped around his neck that extends its way down the row of Dr Manning, Connor and Choi.

The memory of the banter and laughs shared that Christmas Eve rises in her head and she feels lighter already.

She's staring blankly at her superiors and the tinsel that hangs off their shoulders with enough left over on either end to fall to a heap on the ground, brows furrowed and lips pursed. "Found it at Party City," Maggie announces nonchalantly, motioning from her spot where she's kneeling with the rest of the nurses, April on her left turning to face the younger girl with a tinge of concern in her eyes.

Sarah blinks, shaking herself out of her thoughts, eyes wide as she looks at the Head Nurse. "They sell Christmas decorations?"

Maggie laughs, "Never been Reese?" She queries, earning a shaking head in response. "They sell just about damn near everything."

She's dismissing the memories from her mind as she taps the text notification that pops into her vision.

It's from Dr Charles.

As her eyes scan the words, Sarah feels her lips begin to tremble as they turn upwards in the tiniest of grins.

‘Happy Birthday Reese :).’

It's funny how just three words could mean so much to her - how just a simple text could make her heart shatter into a million pieces and so carefully piece it back together again.

It’s a bittersweet feeling.

For the first time in years, she's not alone anymore.

[mystiika]

re; wesley

h i s t o r y

   meet adrastos wesley sharpe ! so to start, he was born as adrastos zika but his legal name in present day is adrastos wesley sharpe, going exclusively by wes or wesley so no one really knows his first name aside from doctors or the bank. he’s from an ancient race of people that we would call high humans but for him, all he knows is that there’s something different about him. there was no way of knowing if his family was the same as him, but as his life went on, it seemed more & more like it was pure chance he’d ended up the way he did. regardless, he’s been alone since he can remember. whether or not he was given up willingly or if something happened, he really has no idea who his parents were. but for the most part, it never bothered him. he did well enough. he was smart & charming & could talk his way into or out of almost anything. hailing from greece, he grew up as a sort of apprentice to the blacksmith in his village. he was good at it too. he had a talent for the craft & could create designs & small sculptures that his senior was happy to sell along with the usual catalogue of tools. he liked it too, quite a bit actually. but around 17 he decided he wanted to travel, see the world that lay beyond the horizon. so he did. 

   adrastos became a merchant trader at that point. their ships had mainly been contained to be within the mediterranean, traveling from coast to coast. & eventually they decided to branch out further than their usual trading route. they made their way across the mediterranean, heading through the middle east to a port town in kuwait. it was there that they chartered a large cargo ship that then carried along the coast of the arabian sea, hitting more port towns along the way.

   then, they landed in a place they’d picked at random. but in that growing city, his life changed forever — or rather, to forever. he jumped down from the ship & in the midst of taking his bearings he locked eyes with a stranger, a beautiful one at that. for a moment they were both frozen ( at least for adrastos ), he was mystified. it was love at first sight. he managed to break his thoughts long enough to offer a smile, small but genuine & she offered one of her own in return.

   it was a few days before they’d meet again. & while the language barrier made it difficult, it was clear she’d fallen for him just as quickly. they made it work. his troupe stayed at that town for a few weeks, but at the end of the stay, adrastos couldn’t bring himself to leave just yet. so he left his old life & stayed with her, beginning to build a new life for himself with her — myra.

   it’s been a long time since that day, & they’ve spent a lot of lives together. but even if he has to go through the pain of losing her, it’s still that much more time he’s able to spend with her, loving her.

   present day he finds himself as a chef & owns his own restaurant. it’s a nice place with great staff & he’s happy. well, as happy as can be while he waits for myra to show up in his life again. he’s got so much to tell her.

i n f l u e n c e s

   very loosely inspired by hancock ( 2008 ) but largely is the result of original lore we’ve come up up with on our own. some influence from generic soulmate tropes but nothing too concrete.

l o g i s t i c s  /  l o r e

   figured i’d make this its own section lol. they met in ancient times, thousands of years ago. fated soulmates with a twist. one of them is close to immortal & the other is the same species but is fated to die. in their case, wes is the former & myra the latter.

   as such, wes has to watch myra die over & over again, the universe drawing them together where they live happily for a few decades, a few centuries, until myra dies & reincarnates, always with the same face.

   they lived the first 20 years of their lives completely normally. maybe they didn’t catch a cold as often as some of their peers or that they were marginally faster/stronger but it was never anything that stood out. it wasn’t until they met that something changed. it was almost as if their genetic code was somehow unlocked.

   the two of them belong to a race of beings myself & sofia have thought up & what we’re calling high humans. historically, this race of beings have existed since the beginning of humanity, living among the ancient humans, helping them move along through time. being more advanced than the regular humans, they acted as a sort of guide, assisting them in advancing their technology & techniques to help them through life. almost guiding them through evolution if you will.

   so, the human race has evolved to be what we know as homo sapiens, there was still cross species breeding between homo sapiens, neanderthals, denisovans & other unknown species sub archaic sub-species of human. & just like this successful cross species breeding, the high humans began to intermingle with them. as a result, the genetic code of high humans began getting covered by other species & became recessive. whether or not that gene will become the dominant is random, but it’s fate that ties the two as soulmates.

   now, what exactly does it mean to be a high human. they look the same, talk the same, act the same as any other human. but their abilities & their senses are strengthened & enhanced. they’re faster, stronger, healthier etc. they heal faster than regular humans, & sickness doesn’t affect them the same way if at all. their bodies are quite simply, built different. aging is also affected.

   growing up wes & myra aged normally & blended in normally. as far as they knew, they were normal. then they met in their early 20s & things sort of started to change. then after they met, their enhanced abilities only grew stronger & after a few years, it seemed like they stopped aging. technically, they did age, but it was a long time before they realised because of how slow the process became. the reality was they they had no idea what was going on, or why it was happening really. everyone in their lives were still unaffected. it was so sudden for them & they sort of had to go with it & figure it out as they went along. there was no blueprint to follow, no people to ask for help. still, they had each other & eventually they adjusted to the new normal.

   for a century they lived like this. & then myra dies for the first time. wes was mourning of course, he’d lost his first & only love, his soulmate. but part of him assumed that he would go back to how he was before they’d met & that he’d become ‘normal’ again. but it didn’t take long for him to realise that now that his new abilities/aging process was awakened, he was stuck with it. he also realised that after a while, he wasn’t aging at all anymore. but now he was living on his own & didn't really know how to process any of it. for all he knew, he was now stuck with this existence, forever & without myra.

   then after some time, myra reincarnated & they met again. they’d been drawn together by the universe just like they had when they were young. myra had no memories of her previous life but after they met, she went back to the same enhanced state as when they met the first time. which meant that wes had to explain, what was happening & their past together. he had to teach her how to adjust to this new life of hers. but the cycle just sort of repeats.

   myra ages normally until they meet ( matching wes’ visual age ), then her aging slows down drastically. but on his end, he starts aging again but matches myra’s speed. basically, his life is in a standstill in time until they meet again & he only ages when he’s with her. present day she’s in her mid 30s & visually he looks to be about the same age.

[britishassistant]

But I Like One Piece (4)

Somehow it gets worse after that.

It’s hard enough living with the realization that she’s been reborn with an entirely new circulatory system that parasitizes energy from her training and studying and doesn’t like her.

But then the teacher begins making noises about learning to mold this system to their wills.

Like trying to harness the weird unnatural force for its powers isn’t going to end horror movie style.

Especially since they’re using those dumb hand signs to do so.

She feels a little bad for disparaging it, since Naruto’s trying so hard to form them properly.

But most of them look like they’d dislocate her fingers if she wasn’t careful, her mind recalling videos of howling children who tried a little too hard to copy their favorite show and were left with fingers that dangled the wrong way.

She can’t risk damaging her tools again.

“Ketsugi.” The teacher says. “Demonstrate the Ox sign for the class.”

She cautiously twists her fingers, then drops them when something twinges. “Can't do it.”

“Of course you can, if you bother to try. The Ox sign.” The teacher snaps.

“But these aren’t necessary, right?” She pushes.“They just make using ch-chakra easier. A handicap.”

The teacher sighs. “They’re a tool, not a handicap, which you would know if you were paying attention to the lesson. Form the signs, Rat through Serpent.”

“I’m not doing them.” She snaps. “It’s embarrassing as a human being!”

There’s a moment of silence as what she said sinks in.

“Mizuki-sensei, why does Ketsugi-san look so smug?”

“Because she’s about to serve detention Uchiha.” The teacher growls. “Ketsugi, out in the hallway, now!”

She pouts as she holds the water buckets. They’re not even that heavy after training with Gai-sensei.

And so what if she was smug? She got to say Nico Robin’s line, she deserves to feel proud for that.

“It’s embarrassing as a human being.” She whispers to herself and can barely stifle slightly hysterical giggles.

Naruto and Kiba end up in detention with her after school.

Somehow they managed to turn the teacher’s white hair orange enough to rival Nami’s. It’s almost the same length too, making her snicker.

She thinks of her own hair, now below her chin. It’s too fine and straight to pull off Nami's look. She pouts down at her fingers.

“What is your family symbol anyways?” Kiba says, cracking his knuckles and shaking his fingers out. They’ve been cycling through the dumb signs for the past twenty minutes.

She peeks down at her shirt where there’s a little embroidered grey pelican with its wings raised to almost form a circle and a red tomoe where its beak meets its breast.

“It’s a pelican.” She says. “A sea bird. Their beak can hold lots of water, like a bucket.”

“Oh.” He fidgets, scratching the markings on his face. Akamaru barks. “Is that why it’s your family symbol? Carrying water?”

“Ah, no.” She gestures towards it as covertly as she can. “There’s this idea from a long time ago that pelicans babies are nursed on blood. So the pelican stabs itself with its beak so it can feed its babies. It’s a metaphor for something, like self-sacrifice, I think. I’m pretty sure they don’t do that in the wild.”

Kiba “hmms” and a frown creases Naruto’s face, but he doesn’t say anything for the rest of the afternoon, and that evening he’s back to normal.

She wonders if she should’ve questioned it.

One day a little under half of their class is gone.

She looks around. “Where is everyone?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Ino gasps, looking vaguely ill. Her skin’s pale and there’s bags under her eyes.

She and Naruto glance at one another. She shakes her head.

The blonde leans in close, voice dropping to a whisper. “The entire Uchiha clan was killed last night. Massacred.”

She blinked, looking around at the empty seats. Then it hits her. “What?! Even the—”

Ino shrugged, rubbing her arms. “I don’t know. They haven’t reported any survivors. J-just that the clan compound was—w-was—”

The blonde began trembling violently, breath coming in harsh gasps. Her eyes widen and she slips an arm around Ino’s shoulders, frantically gesturing to Naruto who looks like he’s confronting a bomb instead of a panicking girl.

Between them they got Ino sitting down and nibbling half-heartedly on an orange slice. Shikamaru, Kiba and Choji are in just as bad shape. Chouji is chewing his thumb so hard he makes it bleed, while Shika jumps at the slightest sound. Kiba’s just curled around Akamaru.

Nobody talks much that day.

Eventually the teacher throws his hands up and tells them all to go home early.

All the other civilian kids leave immediately in twos and threes. The clan kids stay seated.

Ino laughs hollowly when Sakura asks what’s taking her so long. Chouji won’t stop trembling. The quiet boy in the back buzzes restlessly. Kiba even lets out a whimper.

She exchanges glances with Sakura and Naruto.

They’re scared stiff.

Naruto stands up, and goes to where his stalker and the quiet boy sit at the back of the room. “Hey,” He says, “Wanna walk home with Mayu-chan an’ Sakura-chan an’ Ino an’ Shika an’ Chouji an’ Dogbreath and me?”

He sounds out of breath once he’s finished.

“U-um,” The stalker stutters. The quiet boy says, “That will not be necessary. Why? Because...”

“Oh come off it and walk with us.” She snaps. “We’ll hold hands and everything. Safety in numbers, right Shikamaru?”

He scoffs, but stares intensely at a spot on the wall. She can practically see the cogs turning in his head.

“Okay.” He says. “Here’s how we’ll do this.”

They run into Lee on the way out, but he gets incorporated into their weird-dodechahedron-chain-thing easily enough.

He and Naruto are at the front, laughing and talking like nothing’s wrong. Naruto holds Kiba and his stalker’s hands, while Lee holds the quiet boy’s and Shikamaru’s.

The clan kids make up a mass in the middle. Kiba (after much grumbling) holds the quiet boy’s other hand, while the stalker holds Ino’s and Shikamaru grasps Chouji’s hand.

She and Sakura take the rear, holding hands and not doing as good a job as Lee and Naruto at pretending everything’s fine. Sakura’s also holding Ino’s other hand and she’s holding Chouji’s.

People stare at them as they walk, barely tripping each other up.

Some snigger, but more look pitying.

She spots a couple of masks following them at a distance and tightens her grip on Sakura and Chouji.

They go to the compound that’s farthest from the village proper first and work their way in.

The quiet boy’s father has glasses like his son, and thanks them with a low buzz for returning “Shino”.

Kiba’s mum gives him a noogie and her dog calls them “good kids” gruffly.

The stalker is welcomed by an attendant who calls her “Hinata-sama”, flicks cold eyes over them and shuts the door in their faces.

Ino’s mum is almost in hysterics and she can’t stop hugging and kissing her daughter.

Chouji’s dad looks on the verge of tears, and he calls them brave for looking after his son.

Shikamaru’s mum keeps it better together, but her voice cracks when she thanks them.

When she closes the door on them, Mayu, Naruto, Lee and Sakura all look at each other, pensive and grave. The four “civilians” with no compounds to hide in.

Not that the compound saved the Uchiha.

“Wanna go cook something at my place?” She asks.

Her parents return with Gai-sensei and a pink-haired man and a blonde woman who introduce themselves as Kizashi and Mebuki Haruno.

They hug their daughter for a long time.

Lee looks longingly at the scene, so Gai-sensei slaps him on the shoulder and challenges him to run 100 times around their garden on his hands. Otou-sama eagerly asks if he can join in, which Gai-sensei enthusiastically agrees with.

Otou-sama repeatedly falls on his face, but he looks like he’s having fun.

She checks to see if the meat is done, then calls out that the food she, Naruto, Sakura and Lee have prepared is ready.

Naruto grabs the extra chairs while Sakura balances a pitcher of ice water and the hot plate and Lee brings out covered dishes of thinly sliced vegetables and rice.

It’s too hot for hot pot really, and they’re all sweltering as they crowd round the dining table Gai-sensei and Kizashi lugged outside, but at the same time it feels like the heat of the dish could almost burn away the horrors that happened today, warm and mild flavors grounding them in the idea of home and family and making it seem ridiculous that such things could be violated.

Her mother brings out bottles of sake, and she can tell by the way Mebuki Haruno whistles that it’s good stuff.

She uncorks one bottle and pours a dish out for everyone, even the children.

Then her father uncorks the other and holds it up in one hand, his sake dish in the other.

“To the Uchiha. May their memory be honored, may they find justice, and may their spirits be at peace in the next life.”

“To the Uchiha.” They chorus, and he pours the bottle out into the grass as they drink.

She’s never had the tongue for alcohol so it doesn’t taste very nice. From the way Naruto’s sticking his tongue out, Sakura’s hacking, and Lee’s pulling a face, they think the same.

Luffy, I know this isn’t really your thing. She thinks. But maybe get Robin or Nami or Brook to help you out. Please, please get those poor souls somewhere they’ll be happy and free. And knock the fucker who did a Buster Call on them out with a gomu gomu no bazooka.

She tosses back the rest of the sake with that silent prayer.

Naruto leans into her side, resting his head on her shoulder, so she rests her head atop his. Okaa-sama sits down on his other side, taking his hand and carding her free one through Mayu’s hair. Otou-sama brackets them on the other side, throwing an arm over their shoulders and drawing them all together, a bit squashed, and adds his hand to the pile.

They watch the sun set and mourn the lives lost.

Nobody goes home that night.

The masks don’t even come for Naruto.

They end up spread out around the living room, futons and bedding haphazardly laid out.

She wakes up in the early morning with Naruto spreadeagled beside her on the floor, one foot in her father’s stomach and her mother curled up behind her and—

The mask that hurt her standing over them.

She tenses weakly, eyes frantically darting around. Her father is at their feet, so he’ll have to go over them to save her, giving the mask enough time to slit her throat.

Gai-sensei is sitting in her mother’s armchair, head thrown back and snoring while Lee is curled up on his lap. He won’t get to her in time either.

Kizashi is squashed on the couch, with Mebuki blocking him in. Sakura is on the coffee table for some reason, cuddling a paperweight. She can’t drag them into this.

She’s not strong like the Monster Trio. Hell, she can’t even hold a candle to the Coward Trio. There’s no way she’ll be able to take the mask and live to tell the tale. She’ll barely scratch him.

The mask looks at her. She curls a hand around Naruto’s arm protectively and glares back.

He raises a single finger the mouth of the mask and bursts into a flurry of leaves.

She can’t go back to sleep after that.

They’re in the morning paper.

Not as the front page headline. No, that’s reserved for a picture of a little boy that’s so much like the anime stills that used to be bandied about in flame wars of her past life, with the headline UCHIHA ITACHI CONFIRMED KILLER above it and the phrase SEVEN YEAR OLD SOLE SURVIVOR OF MASSACRE underneath.

They are halfway down the second page though. There’s a grainy photograph of their hand-holding escort, taken so as to obscure Naruto as much as possible behind Lee.

It doesn’t quite work, because you can see his hair and ear, and his hands holding Hinata and Kiba, the Uzumaki spiral clearly visible on his shirtsleeve.

Naruto eagerly points this out, and bragging about how “We’re famous now, believe it!”

The caption under it reads: Clan and civilian children draw together in historic show of solidarity. Whoever writes for the paper likes alliteration too much for anyone’s good.

Her father peers at it. “That’s quite a scary face you’re making there Mayu-chan.”

She says nothing and eats her rice quickly while her mother gives Otou-sama a Look.

It’s not her fault she was glaring at the masks when the photo was taken.

Everyone’s talking about the photo in class too.

Ino’s even signing copies of it.

At least she’s feeling better. The others seem to back to a semblance of normality too.

All except the stalker. She keeps stealing quick, furtive glances at Naruto, before gazing sadly back down at her hands.

Ino notices her staring and nudges her. “I heard Hinata’s dad blew a gasket at the picture. Said she’s not allowed to associate with Naruto anymore.” She says conspiratorially.

She winces. For a moment she’d been so caught up in the sense of communal mourning, she’d forgotten she lived in a world where Naruto was a pariah.

“Anything we can do?” She murmurs to Ino.

The blonde purses her lips, tapping her chin, but Sakura, with bags under bloodshot eyes from drinking a bit too much and sleeping on a table, is the one who answers. “Have her sit on the girl’s side of the table. That the way she’s close to Naruto without associating.”

“Sakura, that’s brilliant!” Ino gushes.

Instead of blushing and modestly denying the praise like usual, Sakura presses her face into the desk and mumbles, “Fuck yeah I am, shannaro.”

She cracks up at the expression on Ino’s face.

Naruto invites Shino to sit with him as well to disguise their intentions.

He accepts, but seems a little on edge with all the noise, curling in on himself a little whenever Ino or Kiba or Naruto go a little loud in the volume department.

It’s not his fault; some people just don’t do as well with noisy gatherings like this.

Hinata’s perked up a lot though, so there’s that.

She tries to follow Ino’s efforts to make Hinata feel included, but her mind keeps going back to the headline picture.

She knows about him vaguely. She used to participate in many arguments by claiming that Roronoa Zoro would definitely kick his pasty little arse seven ways to Sunday, magic eye or no.

There were enough pictures and videos of him and Naruto fighting online that she knew they were enemies, even if she didn’t know the whys or hows.

She knows his brother killed his clan, and the flame wars over whether this was justified would always take over the thread.

Sitting here with under half the class gone, dark-haired kids whose names she should’ve made more effort to remember, it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it. But she digresses.

The image of the little lost boy staring at the camera like he can’t understand what’s happening to him returns to haunt her. Naruto used to look like that, when he went home covered in rotted produce and belly growling.

Sanji preserve her, but she’s a sap.

“Will the Uchiha go hungry now?” She asks herself, pushing a grain of rice around.

There’s a silence.

When she looks up, the rest of the table is staring at her. Some inquisitive, some suddenly calculating, one despairing.

Naruto groans, startlingly loud. “I’m not sharing my lunch with him, believe it. You can make him food, but I’m not gonna sit with him.”

“I don’t want to either.” She says honestly, and bites into her red bean bun as those around her stare in bemusement.

Naruto suddenly grins, bright and vicious. “You’re so weird, Mayu-chan.” He crows, biting into his own bun.

She shrugs. Well, he’s not wrong.

[tillman]

Can you tell me more about gawain and lancelot in the arthurian myths? I really ship then in FGO and I heard that they are bestfriends

ok this is straight up going to be an essay without the revisions so just a stream of consciousness on my thoughts of how their relationship is handled in both fate and then the legends themselves since fate pulls a lot yet changes some key aspects that really makes their relationship what it is. it kinda goes from a one sided pinning for an idiot who doesnt comprehend love to a more. theyre just bros. which kinda makes me upset anyways. under the cut. im so sorry for hwo long this is gonna be i have a lot to say about gawain and lancelot. 

ok honestly i think fgo handles their relationship pretty well from what ive seen. they genuinely are just bros too stupid to realize the other is flirting with them in their own ways which is fucking hilarious. i think the only thing that bugs me about how fate actually likes. has them interact is they remove like. the greatest bit of their friendship and i think make it just about the war between them at the end. i cant say for certain but from what i can figure out i think they reduce gawain and lancelots conflict at the end of the main story to just completely them fighting and gawain dying via lancelots wound? but i dont know for certain dont quote me on this. this both a) removes all the REAL tragedy of this situation of both of them just being really fucked up over grief and regrets stirred by arthur in the first place and b) completely ignores one of the best bit of gawain characterization in le morte, gawain forgiving his literal best friend on his death bed and pleading for his return, to come back and mourn for him, to try to save whats left of the world they both helped build and protect. in an adaptation of le morte (which fate lore mostly is) i think gawains final letter is NEEDED to complete his arc and his like. entire character since malory (and then thus fate) spends more time focused on lancelot. 

like just pulling from their dialog w each other in the My Room things, gawain talks about his regret and immaturity over... not forgiving lancelot? what . and lancelot just offers to play chess which is extremely funny. (on another note hwy does fate gawain hate bors. i ltierally can not figure this out at all why is he so mean to his best friends cousin theyre bros.... theyre bros!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

anyways now onto the legends because this isnt about fate. fuck fate i hate fate all of my homies hate fate. im gonna focus MOSTLY on le morte since that connects to fates version more and pull some quotes from other legends i have memorized but there is absolutely more, and the vulgate delves into it a bit more but i havent ... gotten that far im so sorry the prose merlin is kicking my ass. 

the thing to note is gawain (excluding guenevere) was kinda the first person to show lancelot respect when he came to court. gawain kinda took him under his wing for a bit, and they end up VERY close. they have a relationship built off of respect and understanding for each other and it ends up being one of lancelots only Real friendships throughout most legends since he has issues w communication and understanding intention that i could (and will) rant about for hours so i wont delve too into it rn. but like. theyre arthurs best knights basically. troyes will say otherwise and say eric and yvaine are better than lancelot but troyes is fucking stupid and a whore, and most sources will tell you its gawain and lancelot (most sources favor lancelot over gawain due to the french influence on some later literature, and le morte is on the lancelot side due to being pulled a lot from the post vulgate, which pulls from the vulgate, aslo called the lancelot-graal cycle. its a whole thing)

but basically for a lot of the main legends you have two Absolute Best Bros who would literally do anything for the other, one being extremely horny and the other being so hopelessly inept when it comes to communication he doesnt understand how love works. theyre a wonderful pair :-) im kidding theyre so fukcing stupid watching them interact is like watching a car crash. its fucking disastrous and you want to yell at them to just beat the shit out of each other homoerotically and understand their feelings (which they do! wow! shout out to le morte!) anyways to keep this from getting too long lets go over some fun gawain quotes about his Best Friend. Who he thinks about a lot. but like... in a no homo way. he swears.

anwyays uhhhhh to keep this short heres a fun compilation of gawain being gawain. and a pretty good overview of how how gawain talks about his Best Friend in a totally not gay way. its straight if he says no homo. 

in gawains death note, which i think is the peak of gawains character in le morte 

“Sir Launcelot; for of a more nobler man might I not be slain. Also Sir Launcelot, for all the love that ever was betwixt us, make no tarrying...”“And I require thee, most famous knight of the world, that thou wilt see my tomb.“

and then. for equality since i skimmed all of knight of the cart for this, have some good lancelot lines. for context some idiot locked him in a tower for a year and lancelot just does this the entire time

anyways: tldr lancelot and gawain are in love even if both of them are too stupid to realize it. thats basically their entire relationship. everything goes to shit after lancelot accidently kills gareth and gaheris because lancelot too thinks of them as his brothers and is so torn up about it he lets everything happen. gawain starts a war with him because he would rather die than face the music. like its insane.... they should kiss. fate kinda gets this ok, but i think they should have had them just more homoerotic at every given moment because they Are. thanks for listening to my ted talk. im sorry im like this. 

find u a bro to have a homoerotic duel with and live your best life babey