#does anyone ever have a system that just doesn't talk all the time so you forget you're part of one | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tpwk-formula1 · 4 months ago

Text

Figure It Out - Landoscar***

SUB! Lando Norris X SWITCH! Oscar Piastri X SWITCH! Reader

REQUESTS ARE OPEN! I write for all drivers on the grid!

Summary: After Monza tension is at an all-time high in their shared apartment.

Authors Note: I've been writing for Kinktober and have been loving it so I decided to write a kinky little piece. The urge to post my Kinktober fics early is strong but I'm holding off. THIS IS NOT PROOF READ

TW - MxM action (Hand jobs and blow jobs), face sitting, slight masturbation, squirting, slight degrading

WC - 1500+

Y/N POV

"Just shut up, Lando," Oscar finally snaps at his complaining teammate turned boyfriend.

"Don't fucking talk to me like that," Lando replied back clearly still pissed off at the whole situation.

"Lando, on the track we are drivers. The whole point is to race each other that's exactly what I did," Oscar continues to defend his bold actions.

"I get that, and I don't even care about the fucking overtake but you could have done it during one of the straights not the first fucking chicane," Lando continues ranting allowing his voice to raise more as he continues talking.

"Both of you shut the fuck up," I finally snap making both of my lovers fall silent. It was rare for me to yell especially when it came to getting in between them when they were arguing about a race.

"Lando, I understand why it's frustrating, you're fighting for a championship while also defending against Charles and Oscar I understand being frustrated over your race result but both of you guys need to work together to make sure to secure constructors. To be completely unbiased here, Oscar the overtake was risky and luckily both of you guys are amazing drivers and were able to survive but Lando is right, it might have cost you guys too much time ruining the chances of a 1-2. However, Lando that does not excuse your actions either. Both of you guys love each other and you need to remember at the end of the day you got points and a double podium," I tell them softly to fend up to keep listening to them yell at each other.

"But babe," Lando started to complain before I sent him a quick glare making him shut up without finishing his statement.

"Both of you strip and go lay on our bed," I tell them both without even looking up at them going back to the book I was reading before they started arguing. When I don't hear movement I look up to find them both staring at confusion.

"Did I stutter?" I ask again a little more firm than before. Both of them shook their head before slowly making their wait to our room where I could hear them starting to strip down. Neither of them are talking but I know for a fact they're staring at each other. Mad or not they love each other and if anyone can turn them on it's each other.

With the layout of our apartment, I can hear every little sound they're making even if they're talking in hushed whispers.

"Lando, how long is she gonna leave us here?" I hear Oscar ask making me smile softly. I knew it was only a matter of time before their anger turned into sexual frustrations. Whether they will ever admit it or not after a bad race weekend especially one pitting them against each other the only way to fix it is to fuck it out of their systems. Sometimes it involved using my body and other times it was them using each other. Those were always the best ones to watch.

"Osc, please stop touching my thigh," I can hear Lando whimper which tells me right away who will be taking the lead tonight.

"Lando, we're sitting on the edge of the bed it isn't intentional, stop being petty," Oscar snaps back slightly, clearly just as frustrated as his boyfriend.

"I need, Y/N," Lando finally whispers out. Oscar doesn't say anything in reply which has me slightly confused until I can hear the tell-tale signs of Lando being touched in some way.

"Fuck," Lando gasps out before I suddenly hear them start to make out quite aggressively.

"Osc, please," Lando begs slightly making my pussy start to throb.

"You're gonna wait to cum until our pretty girlfriend decides to stop playing games with us," Oscar whispers to Lando making me smile. In that moment I made the decision to listen to Lando continue to whine and beg.

I stand up quietly before stripping down and sitting back on the couch with my legs spread wide open. I bring my fingers down to my pussy before I start teasing myself.

"What if she doesn't come in for a while," Lando asks Oscar making me smile cause we all know damn well I'd be in there as soon as I couldn't handle the teasing anymore.

"I bet you anything, she's sitting on that couch with her hand in her panties right now listening to you beg and whine like a little whore," Oscar tells Lando making both of us gasp at his harsh words.

In all honesty, it was rare for Oscar to be the dominant one between the two but it was always a favorite of mine cause he was just a different kind of cruel than when Lando is being the dominant one.

I can hear some movement before the sound of one of them spitting.

"Please Osc," Lando whines out again which tells me Oscar has to be the one on his knees teasing Lando. I can hear the sound of Oscar's wet hand moving up and down Lando's hard cock, which has him whing and gasping at the sensation.

I know how impatient Lando can get, so I decided to put him out of his misery by getting up and making my way to our room. When I get in there I can Lando's head thrown back while Oscar is taking him down his throat.

I make my way over to Lando where I grab his face before placing my still wet fingers into his mouth making him moan at the taste of my pussy.

"Look, she's come to save you. Maybe you'll finally be allowed to cum, but of course, you're gonna have to earn it first," Oscar teased Lando, making him whine around my fingers that were still in his mouth. When I pull them out I lean down and start making out with Lando. I can taste a hint of my juices which just makes me moan into his mouth.

"How are you already soaked," I hear Oscar ask clearly having seen just how turned on I was.

"You know I like when you take control Osc," I whisper once I pull away from the heated makeout session. It doesn't take me long to feel Oscar's fingers plunge right into my dripping pussy making me let out a gasp before moaning loudly against Lando's lip.

It's not long before Lando becomes a whimpering mess which tells me that not only is Oscar fingering me he's also giving Lando a handy.

"Fuck," I whine dragging out the word clearly overwhelmed with everything around me.

It's not even two minutes later that Lando is begging Oscar again.

"Please, Oscar. I'll be good. Please," Lando is begging as much as possible while also trying to keep kissing me.

"Our pretty little slut gets to cum first," Oscar tells Lando making me whine. This has Lando reaching down just enough to start playing with my clit trying to bring me over the edge faster.

"Oscar, please," I moan out once I feel my orgasm getting close to the edge.

"Cum for us," Oscar tells me making me instantly squirt all over both of the boys. Once my orgasm has concluded I hear Oscar tell Lando to cum which has Lando instantly tensing before releasing a high pitched whine before cumming all over Oscar's hand.

"Here," Oscar says while presenting me his cum covered hand which has me instantly licking all of Lando's cum off of it. Once it is clean enough for Oscar he climbs into bed pulling me with him to sit on his face.

"Get to work," Oscar tells Lando which has him shuffling around to get on his knees and start talking Oscar into his mouth.

Once Lando has settled into a good pace Oscar starts eating me out like it's his last meal on Earth. With one hand gripped on the headboard for stability before I tangle my fingers into Oscar's freshly cut hair. I know I'm pulling at it just right when I hear Oscar gasp at the slight pain I'm causing to his scalp.

"Fuck," Oscar moans out shortly after I hear Lando gag slightly on Oscar's cock. I can tell just from the sounds Lando's making he has all of Oscar's cock down his throat right now.

"Close," Oscar gasps out before instantly going back to focusing on my clit which also brings me closer to my second orgasm.

I hear Oscar groan out against my pussy signifying that he's cumming which has me tumbling over the edge with him.

Still slightly shaking I feel Lando lightly lift me off of Oscar before bringing me into his chest for a cuddle. Something that was always a part of our aftercare routine.

"How'd you know that would work," Oscar asks chuckling a little before placing a soft kiss on my lips preventing me from answering right away.

"We've been together for over a year. I know how you guys get," I reply back making both of the boys laugh a little.

Once everything has calmed down around us we all get up before getting into the shower together which inevitably resulted in a round 2.

569 notes · View notes

httpiastri · 1 year ago

Note

literally any driver: burying head in crook of neck, night kisses and shutting the other up with kisses

lacii my love <3<3 did this with lando, hope that's fine! merry christmas again, and i hope you enjoy this!! 😁

"lando, did i tell you about that time when i first met my friend clara?" the words are flowing out of your mouth like you're spitting bars. your boyfriend doesn't even get a chance to answer your question before you've started talking again. "oh my god, it's a great story. you'll love it. so, i was in a french class when my other friend, sarah-"

lando is smiling subconsciously as you ramble on about your adventures, just as you have ever since he picked you up from the club. his fingers help you slip out of your heels – not that you even seem to understand what's going on, way too focused on speaking – before one of his hands lands on your waist. he takes a deep breath to keep his composure and hold back the laughter threatening to burst from his chest at your continuous gibberish, before he guides you to his bedroom with soft touches. he chuckles quietly at the way you almost take the wrong turn and end up in his kitchen, too engaged in your storytelling to remember the layout of his apartment. he isn't surprised, though, because;

alcohol always makes you blabber.

in most situations, you're not the most talkative, preferring to choose your moments to speak with great care. but when you start to get tipsy, it is like you are the world's greatest extrovert. even after getting just a little alcohol in your system, you talk to anyone with ears, somehow assuming that they're really interested in whatever you're ranting about.

thankfully, if you have your friends around, they usually drag you away by your arm, apologizing to the poor stranger to whom you've over-explained the storyline of your favorite movie.

lando learned about this side effect of your drinking early on in your relationship. on your third date, after sharing a few drinks at a local bar, you wouldn't shut up for half an hour, not giving him a second to interject with anything. he'd been surprised, but mostly confused, until he got your text message the following morning: oh my god, i did it... didn't i?

he'd tried to pretend he didn't know what you meant, wanting to put it all behind you, but you'd persisted. i didn't shut up. i never do when i drink. i'm sorry :(

lando was always one to be quick to forgive and forget, not wanting you to feel too bad. everyone does some questionable things when drunk, and he'd seen tons of people act worse than you did. but after that date, there would be uncountably many more occasions of you not being able to hold back when booze was in the picture. award shows, drinking games at home with friends, podium celebrations. once, he even found you outside a club after a race, sitting on the curb with one of your hands petting a stray dog as your other helped you explain the meaning of life. safe to say, he is used to your habits by now.

so tonight, when he picked you up from your night out with a few of your friends, he wasn't surprised that your mouth didn't shut once during the trip back to his apartment. you were excitedly telling him about the people you'd met and the drinks you'd had, so eager to explain every detail to your boyfriend when you were getting into the car that you forgot about everything around you and he had to lean across the console to put on your seatbelt for you.

most of the time, he finds your habit endearing. but sometimes, like right now, it gets just a little tiresome.

"and then, when jamie came around, she was like, what are you doing?, and i was like, i'm just having some fun!"

you're both sitting on the edge of his bed by now, after lando's helped you change into something more comfortable for the night, your mouth still running like you're one of the gilmore girls. you don't even flinch when his hands reach for your cheeks and he stares intently in your eyes – but he can't do anything other than smile.

lando loves your voice. he loves it when you're whispering something in his ear when you're out with friends, when you're ranting to him about some stupid coworker, and maybe especially when you're moaning and whining his name.

but now, he reckons you've talked enough for today. your vocal cords must be sore, and his ears are about to fall off, so it's time to call it a night – and he only sees one way to shut you up.

mid-sentence, lando leans in, pressing his lips to yours. he swallows the yelp you let out in surprise, one of his hands gliding to the back of your neck to keep you close. it doesn't take long for you to relax into the kiss, your lips moving with his while your hands reach for the neckline of his hoodie.

it's so easy to get lost in kissing lando. when he parts the kiss, you find yourself wanting to seal your lips again, already missing the feeling. your mind is now completely blank; all you can think of is the kiss. the man beside you laughs at your hazy expression, utterly amused by how you're suddenly quiet for more than five seconds (something he's sure hasn't happened yet tonight).

when you slowly open your eyes, the very content look on lando's face makes something click in your mind. he sudden kiss, his big grin...

"was i rambling again?"

the silence that follows gives you your answer, and you throw your head back as you let out a little groan. "hey, don't worry about it."

"i really didn't mean to. you know how it is, it just happens, and i don't really feel it as it happens, you know? it's just, the alcohol, it's not my intention. i actually told sarah today that-"

and for the second time, lando pulls you into him, quieting you down with his own lips. this time, as you (for the most part) understand what he's doing, you can't help but giggle into the kiss. your boyfriend matches your smile, taking your bottom lip between his teeth as a joking warning. he lets it flop back against your teeth as he pulls away to look at you again, but you've already lunged forward, head resting against his shoulder.

"i'm sorry," you start, nuzzling your nose into the crook of his neck. "i really am."

his arms snake around your waist before he leans back against the bed, pulling you down with him and into his side. "don't be," he answers, one of his hands reaching up to the back of your head, stroking your hair. "it's cute. you're cute." you continue hiding in his skin and he makes himself more comfortable in bed, pulling the blanket over you both. "we'll talk more tomorrow, okay?"

he feels you shake your head. "i'm done talking. i've talked enough. you know those tiktok videos where you only have a certain amount of words you're allowed to say every year? that's me. i've run out of words, i used them all today."

"oh yeah, i can tell," lando chuckles, pressing his lips to the top of your head. "close your eyes, baby. tell me about those tiktok videos tomorrow."

"didn't you hear me? i said no more words. i won't talk tomorrow because-"

lando sighs. it's going to be a long night.

813 notes · View notes

comicaurora · 2 years ago

Note

do you have any tips on writing soft magic systems? I only ever see them talked about when people are comparing it to hard magic systems or criticising it, which is a shame because I love systems where magic is just in the background being unimportant, with implied rules that will never be explained

god I wrote up like eight paragraphs of explanation and I was really working out some cool stuff there and then the app glitched and destroyed it all and I'm so upset

Unfortunately this reduces to a previous problem, which is "figure out how Tolkien did it and then do that."

Middle Earth is laden with magic. Hobbits being good at hiding is magic. There's a random throne in the ruins at the end of Fellowship that lets whoever sits in it see literally the entire world, and that's hella magic. Aragorn radiates One True King magic and occasionally heals people with a touch. Galadriel's mirror lets people see any point in time, past or future. Gandalf knows several spells, but most of the time he's doing less granular stuff by making lights or small fires or going all Servant Of The Secret Fire Wielder Of The Flame Of Anor etc etc. Elves are inherently so magical that the words of their language are never forgotten by anyone who hears them, the laws of physics don't apply to them, their havens are magically pleasant and beautiful, and the planet itself is magical for them - flat for the elves, round for everybody else.

The benefit of a soft magic system is that it produces a feeling in the characters and audience that the world is vast, wonderful and unknowable. It's at its best when it can answer why, but not how.

Why did the old empire of men have a throne that let you see the entire world? That makes sense! It's hugely tactically advantageous! HOW did they get the damn thing? No idea, doesn't matter, they clearly made it work somehow because the throne's right there. Why does Galadriel's mirror give you limited, randomized omniscience? Because while it's a useful tool if you can use it, seeing the future is a dicey and weird game, and the future can change if someone knows it's coming. HOW does riverwater in a birdbath do that? No idea.

Soft magic systems start running into difficulties when the writer needs to decide how it can or can't solve a given situation, which is a very common issue in storytelling, a format almost entirely centered on problems and solutions. For hard magic systems with clear parameters on what is and isn't possible, this is comparatively quite easy. The wizard can't magic this problem away because-

They're out of spell slots :(

They don't know a specific spell that can do that specific thing

There's another caster nearby stopping them

The object that lets them do magic isn't working

They need to speak words/do gestures/use materials to cast, and they can't for whatever reason

There's something "antimagic" around stopping them

Etc etc. The possibilities are easy to run through, because the "how" is clearly defined, and can be negated into a "how NOT." If magic uses spell slots, stop the characters using it by taking those slots away. If magic needs a material focus, break or destroy it. This prevents magic from feeling like an unsatisfying "a wizard did it" fix for all difficulties because the wizards can only do specific things under specific circumstances.

Soft magic systems can contrive answers to this too, but it can be a bit tricky to justify, and if it's Too Convenient it can feel like the magic system really just does what the writer needs it to do. When asked "why can't magic solve this problem?" soft magic systems can answer in several ways:

Too tired, sorry :( magic is Taxing and stuff so the caster can tip over whenever's convenient

They're in a Bad Vibes zone that's hindering their ability to cast because soft magic can be impeded by soft problems like "somebody was very mean here once"

That specific magic is tied to a specific location, like a magical elf forest, and doesn't work outside of it because it's intrinsic to the place and can't be replicated

There's another magical being around and their kung-fu is more powerful

These explanations work, but that's conditional on the story not making the audience think the magic SHOULD work in this situation, and this is entirely based on what's been established in the story thus far. If the wizard has been able to fly up until now, parking the gang at the bottom of the cliff and saying "sorry, fly machine broke" feels contrived. But if we've only ever seen other, intrinsically magical beings fly, the audience is unlikely to expect that the party's humble wizard will suddenly bust out a set of feathery wings as a gift from baby jesus himself. On the writing side, it's really a matter of feeling it out and making sure nothing feels too jarring - if the character who's previously displayed a certain specific space of abilities suddenly does something completely unrelated (like going from clairvoyance to slinging fireballs, or from a healing touch to earthbending) that feels inconsistent AND it teaches the audience that this soft magic system is softer than they realized, and can then make it much harder for the writer to then convince them that this caster CAN'T spontaneously manifest a power or gimmick that'll save them. But if the magical characters or objects operate within a specific space - one character that specializes in fire, one object that specializes in remote viewing, one artifact that lets its holder control the winds - then the audience will expect and accept things that fit in those broad, soft categories without speculating too much on the underlying "how" of their mechanics.

But the temptation to explain "how" is very strong for writers, and soft magic systems especially have trouble with this, because soft magic systems start calcifying into fragmentary hard systems when they're forced to explain "how". It locks in a hard-defined axiom that can be logically extrapolated. Because a soft system is not DESIGNED for that kind of internal logic, doing that will usually cause axiomatic collisions as they contradict one another. If a hard system is a crisp, geometric crystalline structure where any tangent line drawn through it will intersect cleanly with other lines in very predictable ways, adding "how"s to a soft magic system is like drawing tangent lines through a bowl of pudding - you're gonna get a lot of intersections in awkward places.

To pull an example out of absolutely nowhere, if a soft system without clear rules establishes something like "this spell can be used to summon an object towards the caster, but it DOES NOT WORK on living things", there are a number of questions that can become relevant:

Who made that spell to have those limitations?

Why can't WE make spells that DON'T have that limitation?

How is the spell defining "living things"? Would it work on a plant or a skeleton or a piercing in someone's body?

Why did you let this character use it on a living thing anyway, joanne?

In a lot of soft systems that try to lock in hard spell parameters, "who made these spells" and "why can't WE make spells" become the first and most obvious axiomatic clash. If magic can be created to do what the caster wants, why and how does that work, and why can't WE do it? This forces the writer to come up with an explanation to solve the clash without letting the protagonists make up whatever spells they want, therefore solving all plot problems forever - sometimes something like "the inventors of spells were intrinsically magical beings, like elves or dragons or whatever, and thus we ordinary scrub mortals can't make new ones." That's a functional explanation, but it reduces to a previous problem again - that this hard-ish magic system was created by someone with access to an unstructured soft system.

In a soft magic system, the only answer to the question "how does this magical thing work" is "because magic." If any other explanation is needed, things rapidly collapse into hard lines and axioms and covering for edge cases. How can elves run on powder snow, shoot targets in the dark and see for hundreds of miles? They're magical. Does that mean they can fly like a balrog or sling fire like gandalf or control weather like saruman maybe can? No, of course not, that's not their kind of magic and we have no reason to expect it from them. They're just magic. Magic means a lot of different things, and in a soft system the audience has to operate based on vibes rather than rules.

This can be difficult to balance. For instance, Star Wars has a soft system in The Force, and if you squint, every single movie and show uses it differently. It's not super disruptive to the audience's immersion because it's never framed like a Hard System with Hard Rules and it almost never pulls something out of COMPLETELY nowhere, but if you look at what it does from movie to movie and then show to show, it expands from "influence the wills of the weak-minded", "seeing the future a little bit" and "force choking" to "general telekinesis" and "limited telepathy" to "FUCKING LIGHTNING FROM THE HANDS MAN" which is a hell of a twist the first time you see it, to some even more buckwild stuff in the two different animated Clone Wars (like Mace Windu fighting an entire droid army Samurai Jack style and using the force to pull every bolt out of one of them at once, or the planet with the living incarnations of the Light and Dark Side) and the explanation never goes further than "The Force is magic, it's in everything, people who are good at The Force can use it to do a buncha stuff." It's not consistent, it doesn't have rules, but the audience accepts that Force users can just kind of do stuff that fits the Vibes of the stuff it's already been shown it can do. And as SOON as they tried to say "The Force is strong in people who have LOTS OF MIDICHLORIANS" everybody hated it, because it gave us a "how" answer to a question nobody wanted to ask and it made this pervasive, wonderous, soft magic system that Surrounds And Binds Us Luminous Beings Are We into "we are space wizards because we contain an above-average number of bugs."

As a chronic worldbuilder myself, I absolutely understand the impulse to explain and overexplain and lock in the Hows and the Whys, but as far as I can figure it, soft magic systems live and die on the writer's ability to restrain themselves from saying "how." The answer is "magic." The rest is just writing the story in such a way that "magic" doesn't become plot-breaking.

#asks #writing stuff

2K notes · View notes

cybertron-smash-or-pass · 6 months ago

Note

You are so unbelievably correct about Animated Megashock. They are completely incapable of being normal about each other and it's the best thing ever.

Me every time one of my cool mutuals tells me I have good opinions

Real talk tho, TFA megashock lives in my head rent free. Megatron as a character is so fucking fascinating to me just because it's so hard to read his actual motives, but the clear, constant throughline you can always pick up is a DEEP distrust of everything and everyone around him. Even in the first episode, before Starscream tries to outright kill him, he tells him straight up that he doesn't want him going after the Allspark. He makes a grab for it alone because he just straight up doesn't trust anyone else with that much power. And then Starscream's bomb happens, Megs wakes up as a severed head with half his bits rearranged wrong, and he's on full alert all the fucking time after. He doesn't trust Sumdac, he doesn't trust anyone on Earth, he doesn't even trust his own Decepticons. He thinks LUGNUT of all bots might be out to get him, if only for a moment.

And the thing that's got me pacing around my fuckin room and scratching up the walls, other than pretty much every interaction megs has with shockwave through the whole series, is this one little detail in the Allspark almanac.

God. It's got me fucked UP.

Does Shockwave realize he's the only thing keeping Megatron from a mental breakdown? Does Megatron??? How close are they on a personal level, exactly? Because you don't just get mr. "I'm surrounded by enemies" to admit that on no uncertain terms in front of Primus and everyone unless he MEANS it, and he's PROUD of it.

That is the one bot he can depend on for certain. Shockwave is his stability, his rock, as reliable as the cannon on his arm (god the juiciness of their weapons being so similar too. Fuck. Just marry each other already). He is the trusty weapon he knows he can conquer with. And that's the closest thing to love Megatron would ever let himself feel.

I like to think Shockwave knows hes a weapon in the eyes of his leader and he wouldn't have it any other way. And a lot of that probably comes from how warframes were treated by the autobots before the whole Decepticon movement kicked up. They were assembled with the intent to be killers. Created to be powerful and terrible, treated as living weapons from the moment they came into existence, and hated for it.

To shockwave, Megatron treating him as a weapon is likely what he's come to expect. It's what EVERY warframe expects. But Megatron doesn't treat him as something dreadful for it. He doesn't look at him with disgust or fear or contempt when he carries out the exact destruction he's told to. He looks at him with pride. With a pleased smile. He's met with praise and tenderness. And after such a long time of being made to fight and destroy, only to be treated like garbage, it's probably pure euphoria to be told he's doing a good job at what he was created for.

He will never be good in the eyes of the autobots that made him to be destructive. He'll never be anything other than terrifying. But to Megatron, he's good enough. With Megatron, there's a right answer. With Megatron, he's okay with being a weapon because it finally feels right, if only because there's finally someone there to tell him he's done a good job.

They're both so fucked up by the system and their own trauma that they don't really know how to love each other in a way that's normal or healthy but that will not stop them from trying to love anyway.

#megatron #shockwave #not polls #tfa #megashock #doodles from lord megatron #im not fully sure why im still leaning into the bit of this blog being run by tfp megatron #but that first pic is arguably one of the funniest images ive ever created #but yeah god. fuck. them.#i cant believe they invented toxic yaoi in 2008 #megatron's bookmark

192 notes · View notes

daryfromthefuture · 7 months ago

Text

i have another wild au concept i need to share: bttf shifted like 40 years forward and marty and doc meet online (maybe during the covid pandemic even?)

doc has some sort of username that's just "science_guy_121" or something and he like. replies to martys instagram story at some point where marty maybe just had to tag random ass accounts for a challenge. marty didn't expect anyone to reply but doc was like "Thank you for tagging me! 😃" and marty knows just from this message that doc is OLD lmao

marty goes "yeah no prob" and doesn't think he'll talk to the guy ever again, but doc just keeps messaging him. they find out they share an interest in music and ramble about bands a lot.

the man does know about internet anonymity and doesn't say his name, but he does say how old he is at some point and marty probably should be concerned about talking to 60 year olds online at like 13/14 years old, but he really isn't since the guy is so friendly. he does ask at some point, and doc is just super confused as to why anyone would even have bad intentions and assures marty he just likes talking to people, and that topic is never brought up again

a year later or so, marty convinces doc to get discord, and that happens at like two in the morning, so doc asks what's keeping the kid awake and marty goes on to tell doc about his family situation. doc is really empathetic and grows to be martys support system, and even as an online friend, he helps marty so much, talking to him at 3 am to calm him after hearing his parents fight all night. doc also helps him with schoolwork via internet, essentially helping marty pass several classes.

in early 2025, doc leaks that he's building something really cool and that he'd love to show marty his new invention, to which marty goes "damn, i wanna come see. may i ask which city u live close to" and doc replies with "Oh, I believe San Francisco seems adjacent enough." marty cannot believe this and texts "NO WAY, SAME HERE".

doc: That's quite the coincidence! Well, I might as well say I live in a small town called Hill Valley.

marty: WHAT

doc: Yeah, I'd assume you've never heard of it. 😂

marty: NO NO

marty: I ACTUALLY

marty: I LITERALLY AM FROM THE SAME TOWN?!?!

and that's how marty finds out he's been talking to the "crazy doc brown" the ENTIRE TIME lol

the two can, without any trouble, meet in person, and the first thing marty does when getting to the garage is apologize profusely for still laughing about the rumors about doc while texting him online about how kind he was at the same time. doc forgives him, and that's how they basically start spending time together in person. marty's screen time goes down significantly, but he's actually so goddamn happy about having a friend like that and will defend doc with his life.

yeah that's kinda it. also a bit of a homage to all the awesome people i have met on the internet. love you guys <3

#back to the future #bttf #bttf au #marty mcfly #doc brown #i would love to just read how their text messages would go #i love pinwheel-plants 21st century au sm and the ao3 fic some snippets of doc and martys chats #its so fun #marty would definitely have to explain to doc how google maps works at some #we love generational friendships

226 notes · View notes

drdemonprince · 8 months ago

Note

The article regarding about annoying queer people sparked a by now long forgotten memory.

When I went to my first pride I snuck out secretly and thus was there after the parade. Most people were already some form of drunk or high(didn't know that at the time, I was 15 and naive beyond hope)

That was also the first time I saw puppies ever. In retrospect I must have stared and seemed like one of those annoying "no kink at pride" puriteens. They probably just wanted to allow themselves a small joke but what happened in praxis was, that a grown, white man in only puppy mask and boxers crawled up to me, stood up, started sniffing my breasts and when I started panicking and running away he run after me and everyone else watched and laughed. I think I screamed for help or cryed to please leave me be and was ignored but I can't remember much past the fear.

To them it was probably a small joke but to me it set me back for years. I didn't go to pride in that city ever again and took years to move past "no kink at pride" opinions, an opinion I didn't even have before that.

I felt incredibly isolated and wearing a small rainbow bracelet and cutting my hair took so much bravery. And it earned a lot of backlash too?

So often I see coloured hair and pins as this cutesy cringe thing of no consequence, but for me it resulted in hours upon of arguments and insults. It was worth it, because it helped me built my own identity apart from my families bigotry, but it sure wasn't fun or cutesy. Ultimately it led me to becoming brave enough to actually discover who I am and start making connections with the wider queer community.

Thankfully I had no social media accounts or I would have had some truly stupid arguments.

What I'm saying is, yes young queers can be annoying and it can be tiring to deal with them but being an asshole and vilifying them isn't the solution.

Making fun of teenagers doesn't make yourself more valid and doesn't give you the status of being an old experienced queer.

I'm saying teenagers here but the fun thing about queer people is that we can discover ourselves at any point in time. So it's less teenagers and more people newly discovering themselves as queer.

I get how annoying they can be very well now, doing voluntary work at pride does that.

Do many of those we consider annoying queers hold some harmful opinions? Yeah sure. (The amount of white queers, teens or adults, not dealing with systemic oppression beyond their own is staggering and they more than deserve to be called out. Just to be very clear, when I talk about annoying behaviour I do NOT mean microagressions or discrimination in any way)

But annoying behaviour is not synonymous to that and maybe we should all just start being less mean in public spaces? I get how satisfying it can be to get a hit tweet via a bitchy twitter reply now, but quite honestly I am more ashamed of that now than when I was running around in hoodies and short hair being painfully naive.

Because then I wasn't being mean to anyone. I had some stupid takes sure but no outlet. On twitter I was making fun of people to validate my own queer-ness. (Personally I think I was covering up for the fact that I was afraid the queer people I worked so hard to be part of wouldn't consider me one of their own. So I worked hard to show how I'm not one of "those queers".)

Either way, thanks for reading all this and thank you for sharing the article because it is something I strongly agree with. Just let people be annoying without making fun of them for it. It doesn't need to be a big deal.

Thank you for this wonderful, vulnerable, honest message about your slow path to self-acceptance in the face of a lot of barriers, anon. I'm glad that despite everything you've found your way.

Yeah, I think queer people have many reasons to feel terrified at the rising "no kink at pride" discourse, but sometimes when we lash out at puriteens we sound a bit like the childfree people who say that they hate kids?? Like, we're blaming literal children for an ideology of protecting "The Family" that has been foisted upon us.

I'm guilty of it. I was HAUNTED by the social pressure to get married and pregnant and raise a bunch of kids. It caused me massive dysphoria and didn't jibe with my queer identity. But I rebelled against it for far too long by saying that I hated kids.

It was not the kids' fault! It was the ideological specter of The Family as an institution that isolates and attacks all nonconformity and 'deviant' sexuality! Me being an asshole to children was not gonna set me free, kids were even more disinfranchised than I was!! I don't think I was ever overtly cruel to children, just kind of aloof and freaked out by them, but I definitely *did* say some numbskulled shit to my friends with kids a few times. Completely missing how disempowered mothers (and it was usually mothers) are in society BECAUSE of these same forces .

And I think something similar is going on here. Queer people are tired of having "Family Friendliness" shoved down our throats by corporations and conservatives, and so then we lash out... at young queer people. it's fine to have 18+ areas and events; It's very, very important to me that spaces like Furfest have them. But that's not the same thing as claiming young people have no space in our community as a whole. And I do think we need to erode the barriers between the adult and child worlds in a whole lot of ways, and reorient our attitudes toward nudity, sexuality, roleplaying, etc in public life. but that also doesn't mean a pup should run you out of a pride parade actually fucking sexually harassing you.

It feels great to be able to talk about this stuff! Thanks for your message.

339 notes · View notes

peppermintquartz · 7 days ago

Text

When he hears that Tommy has to work on Christmas Eve, Buck tries not to pout about it at first, and then decides, heck it, if I can't sulk about my boyfriend not being able to spend Christmas Eve with me, when can I sulk? So he weaponizes his big blue eyes and unleashes the full force of his pout, sticking out the lower lip and - by dint of some emotional effort - brings some tears to his eyes.

"Oh no, you don't do that to me now," Tommy says, raising a finger and tilting his head in that special way he does to ward off Buck at his most manipulative. He's about 40-60 when it comes to the win-loss ratio on that technique.

Buck sighs and wrinkles his nose. "I was planning on a nice dinner here at home. Tree. Nog. Roast beast."

Reaching out, Tommy ruffles Buck's curls and smiles. "At least we can decorate the tree together before then."

"They better be paying you extra for taking the shift for Christmas Eve night."

"Yeah, they do. It'll be a nice contribution to our honeymoon fund." Tommy smiles at Buck, whose stomach does a happy little flip. Technically, neither of them have popped the question, but they already know the answer is yes, and so they have already set up a whole system to allocate their money. They'll be ring shopping next week, to take advantage of Christmas sales, and just the thought of it makes Buck warm all over.

Even so, he can be melodramatic for his own entertainment. Flopping back in his chair, he cups his right cheek, adopts a pensive stare out the window, and sighs extravagantly. "I do wonder what could possibly be so important as to warrant my handsome, charming, incredible and sexy firefighter pilot boyfriend to abandon me on the most festive night of the year?"

"You know. The usual."

Wait. Tommy sounds shifty. He's usually very honest, so him trying to hide something is... off. Buck sits up straight. "Tommy...?"

"I'm serious. The usual." Tommy's ears are flushed dark pink. He's a horrendous liar.

Buck narrows his eyes, and then raises an eyebrow.

"Look, I can't tell you. I genuinely cannot. But, uh, it's a cool thing, an international thing, and it's really one of the best things I've ever done and love doing as a pilot."

"Wow," Buck murmurs. "You don't usually talk like that about your job."

"It's just a job. Most of the time. Sometimes I have to fly into hurricanes."

"No hurricanes this year," says Buck with a resolute nod. "Santa would not like flying through one. You'd have to provide Santa with air support."

"He's done it before though. The reindeer know what to do better than us," Tommy mutters absently, and then he freezes.

Buck freezes also. He stares at his boyfriend. "Tommy?"

"Hmm?" Tommy pretends he isn't terrified.

"Are you flying with... Santa... on Christmas Eve?"

"What? Hahahah of course not, ahahaha. No." But the rictus on Tommy's face tells a different story, as do the few beads of sweat that have just materialized.

Buck's jaw drops. He whispers, "You are flying with Santa!" His eyes go wide with delighted revelation. "Santa's real?"

"Shhh! No one outside of the escort party is supposed to know. And, not flying with, just providing air support to cover for him so he doesn't show on the scanners. And don't tell anyone!"

Buck mimes zipping his mouth and locking it and throwing away the key. Then he 'unzips' his lips. "I can't bear it," he declares. "You are way too cool and I need to have sex with you right now."

"What?" Tommy snorts, and then shakes his head in disbelief. "Evan, you're not being serious."

"Like a lightning strike." Buck stands, fluttering his lashes and pouting again.

Tommy doesn't fight it this time.

#bucktommy #evan buckley #tommy kinard #it's CRACK #tevan #pq writes

91 notes · View notes

kitweewoos · 11 days ago

Text

golden repair

Cw: miscarriage

[read it on ao3]

"Is there anyone we can call for you, sweetheart? Someone you want to be here with you?" the nurse asked as she helped Buck settle into the bed. There wasn't much they could do for him at this point, but they had him on some painkillers, and he had changed into a huge, impossibly thick diaper.

"Uhm. Yeah. Tommy, in my phone, he's the father. Please."

He unlocked the phone and handed it over to her with Tommy's contact open. He hadn't had the heart to block him or change it, still reading TOMMY 🔥❤ as if Tommy hadn't destroyed his heart.

"Okay, you rest, and we'll call him," she said, writing the number down on her notepad. "Does he know about the pregnancy?"

"No, he doesn't," Buck replied.

"That's okay. You rest, then. I'll be back."

The nice nurse disappeared, and left him alone. The wait was excruciating, worse than the cramping or the feeling of failure that was swallowing him, but he wasn't even sure that Tommy was going to show up so he didn't know if he was waiting on something that wouldn't happen.

Then, he heard the sound of the nurse's voice directing someone into a room - his room - and a familiar frame turned the corner. Tommy was dressed in his flight suit, and Buck winced, realizing that he'd called him straight from work.

"Evan," he said. "I - what's going on? They wouldn't give me any information over the phone, just said that you'd asked for me."

"I didn't mean to call you at work," Buck replied. "Your captain's probably pissed, huh?"

"Don't worry about that, any of that. That's - I can handle him. Are you okay?"

"Uhm. Well. Yea - well, no, I'm - I'm not. I'm having a miscarriage actually."

"A miscar- you're pregnant."

"Not anymore," Buck replied, and then winced at himself. "Sorry, that's - I was pregnant. I found out about two weeks ago, and I was trying to figure out how to tell you about the, the baby, but before I could, I started cramping really bad, and bleeding. My doctor wanted me to just wait it out, but apparently I didn't pass all the tissue naturally, and I'm past nine weeks along, they think, so they're considering doing a surgery to get rid of the rest of the tissue. But they're monitoring me in the meantime to see if we can avoid the D-and-C."

"Evan," Tommy said softly, coming to sit in the chair right beside him but he didn't offer his hand immediately to Buck, which ached in his chest even if it made sense. "I'm sorry."

"I know I probably shouldn't have had them call you, you made it clear that you didn't want me, but I just wanted to see you, I wanted you, I wanted you to hold my hand through this."

"You can always call me, Evan, especially if you need someone to hold your hand in the hospital."

"I just didn't want to make you uncomfortable, or make it seem like I can't respect your decision."

"Evan, I still care about you, and I will come when you call. I don't want you to hesitate before you call me, okay? I'll be there when you need."

There were just enough pain killers in his system now that he felt his tongue loosen before he spoke.

"Then, what was the point of breaking up with me, Tommy? Why'd you put me through this if you still care about me and will be here when I need you? Why can't we be together?"

"We - we shouldn't be talking about this right now."

"It's either that or I think about how I'm actively losing the baby we created together, so I'd rather we talk about this, actually."

Tommy flinched, and looked at Buck's hand where the IV was settled, and then back up at his face. There was an honesty there that Buck hadn't ever seen before, and he wanted to live in that openness.

"You terrify me, Evan. You move so fast, and are steps beyond me before I realize that you've moved, and - the last time I was in a relationship like that, the guy ended up realizing that I wasn't what he wanted at all, that he'd found something better with the next guy, and I'd already settled into the idea of us together. It was devastating, and I was left as this empty shell of a person afterwards, just floating from guy to guy in this empty cycle of sex and dates that went nowhere. And I didn't feel nearly anywhere as much for him as I did for you, and not nearly as quickly. It terrified me to realize how much I could lose if you, if you decided that I wasn't what you wanted, either, and obviously, you would move on from me. I'm a fuck up, I'm mean and rash, I've got scars that I've never shared, and I'll push you away when you try to see them. I can get quiet and withdrawn, I'm not this great perfect guy, I'm certainly no one to look up to or admire. I'm just... I'm not someone you would want."

"But I do want you, Tommy. I've been in that position before, too, where someone just decides that you're not enough for them, that you're not it, and I would never do that to you. I'm so in this relationship that I could build a home in it if you'd let me, and I know inviting you to move in with me was stupid because you own a house, and it was too soon because we'd only been together for six months, and I hadn't even told you that I loved you yet, but I do love you, and I want everything that comes with being with you. I want messy fights over stupid shit, and I want making love to you in the morning before you leave for work, and I want to make something worth having, I want to build that with you."

"Evan," he sighed. "You don't know that that won't change."

"And you don't know that it will! You seem to think that I'm some twenty year old still experimenting, and I'm not. I'm almost thirty-three, and I want to settle into something good for me, I did my experimenting already, I fucked everything that moved and I know what I like, and yes, I didn't fuck men, but I don't need to sleep with a bunch of different guys to know that I want the man who came to the hospital to be with me after we broke up so I wasn't alone. I want the man who is here, Tommy, right here, all the broken, angry bits of him, all the sharp edges and rough surfaces, all the places I could cut myself on. I don't just want the man who kissed me in my kitchen and made me realize how many things I was missing, but I want the man who had to keep his mouth shut in the army and under Gerrard to survive, who's scared and lashes out first. I want the man who gave me a second chance after I fucked up our first date, and I want the man who broke up with me out of nowhere and wouldn't let me get a word in. I want all of you, okay? I want you, because when I found out I was pregnant, when that fucking test read positive, I knew that I wanted to share it with you, because you love me, and you would love our child."

Tommy's eyes misted so beautifully, and Buck made the choice for them. He reached out and took Tommy's hand, drawing it back onto the hospital bed by his hip.

"I do," he murmured softly, and Buck squeezed his hand. "I love you. I - I didn't realize how much of me you actually saw, and I thought that you'd just - I don't know - settled for the first guy. But I love you, Evan, and I would've loved our child so much. I'm sorry you're going through this."

"It wasn't the right time," Buck said softly even though he ached thinking about this little bean that they lost. "The next time you put a baby in me, though, Thomas, you had better be there the entire time. Understood?"

Tommy nodded fervently, and leaned in to kiss Buck's hand, pressing his lips to his knuckles sweetly.

"I know this doesn't make up for everything, but I will be so much better for you. You shouldn't have had to go through any of this alone. I'll be so much better for you," Tommy said, and he leaned forward to rest his mouth against Buck's knuckles like a prayer. Buck lifted his free hand and brushed it through Tommy's hair, and sighed.

"You're here now, that's all that matters. As long as you keep showing up, I think we'll get through anything life throws at us."

He didn't kiss Tommy, it wasn't time for that yet, that would come later after an open and honest discussion when one of them wasn't high on painkillers, but he kept his hand moving through Tommy's hair as Tommy knelt his head in prayer over Buck's hand and beyond it his belly. Whatever came next, they could face it, their cracks mended with gold and made stronger for it.

#911 #bucktommy #kinkley #tevan #evan buckley #tommy kinard #mpreg but make it angst #breakup fic #ficlet #kit creates

107 notes · View notes

internetskiff · 9 months ago

Text

Breen's unfortunately pretty underrated amongst the Valve antagonists, which I suppose is understandable compared to the likes of GLaDOS or The Administrator, but just like those two I feel like there's plenty of things to talk about when it comes to him. He seems like a very conflicted character, especially if you take into account the BreenGrub account and Laidlaw's Epistle 3. First of all is, of course, the leadup to the Black Mesa incident, with the G-Man seemingly making an offer to Breen which seemingly involved overloading the Anti-Mass Spectrometer while processing an extremely pure sample of Xen Crystal - and yes, while it's pretty obvious that the order to overload the systems was very intentional and motivated by whatever deal they struck, I believe that when it comes to the aftermath he may have been sold on a lie. Considering his actions as Administrator of Earth being entirely in the interests of keeping Humanity from feeling the full force of the Combine, I don't think "Becoming the de facto leader of all of Earth" was on his agenda. Perhaps G-Man promised that whatever their deal would entail would bring about a prosperous future for humanity, perhaps all he promised was the possibility of establishing contact with another sentient species (which is something he technically did provide), or perhaps it was something else - there's simply way too much room for speculation there, I think.

A little detail from a HL:A newspaper implies that his position as Earth's administrator wasn't exactly handed to him on a silver platter, instead he had to go out of his way to reach out to the governments with information on how to communicate with the invaders, at which point, already beaten down by Combine forces, they simply gave him the all-clear to speak for all of mankind. This still begs the question of who, or what, gave him the knowledge of how to speak with them - however, it's safe to say if they didn't, Earth would've been left a smoldering pile of rocks and withered carcasses. Once again, he acts with Humanity's best interests in mind, having to choose between the lesser of two evils - it's either enslavement or extinction. He simply chose the option in which Humanity would survive, even if just for a little while longer.

And ever since, we're watching the aftermath. He's trying to talk the last generation of Humanity down, so they may either pass of old age or be absorbed into the Combine - at least if that happens, something gets preserved. Once again, the alternative? They'll just wipe the slate once they get the local teleportation technology they desire. Breen sees no other way than to go along with their demands. He's eventually proven wrong, of course, but he refuses to see the Rebellion as anything but a suicidal march towards the extinction of the human race, and he sticks to that belief up until he is killed by Gordon at the tip of the Citadel. Of course, this doesn't make him a good person. Not at all. This belief has lead him to seek out and destroy anyone who tries to resist. He shows no sympathy to them. He paints them as fools. He himself believes it so. This intense hatred for anyone who resists is seen perfectly in how he treats the Vance family. He views them as fools. As narrow-minded rabble in the streets, senselessly struggling against a tide beyond their comprehension. He's willing to send off a father and his daughter into a world far beyond simply to use them as a bargaining chip. Listening to the two comfort eachother as they're almost raised up to a fate surely worse than death, the only expression on his face is that of pure contempt and annoyance. He's a very fascinating character that I wish Valve would explore again if they ever do another Half Life set during a time period in which he was still alive. He's a coward that easily bends to the oppressor, yet in the end he only does it to make sure something survives. He's cruel to those who resist because he's completely convinced they're going to get everyone killed. He is the Combine's perfect puppet.

haha anyhoo so why was he straight up serving on the magazine covers in HL:A like what was up with all that

#hl #hl2 #hl 2 #hl:a #hla #half life #half life 2 #half life alyx #breen #dr breen #wallace breen #the combine #universal union #gman #the gman #g man #g-man #rambling #think about him a normal amount. sorry

259 notes · View notes

interstellarsystem · 2 months ago

Text

Plurality and Suffering

This was going to be a reblog to someone else's post, but this deserves its own. My wording might be slightly weird because I'm having some disorganised thinking, ask to clarify if you need.

People online have such an issue with plurals presenting themselves as happy, or enjoying the fact that they're a system in the slightest. If you're not all doom and gloom, people just... Assume you're faking it for fun? As if plurals have to share their suffering online? As if they have to suffer?

"You're clearly treating plurality like its all fun and games! Look at all these silly, lighthearted posts! Not a hint of distress or trauma! How can you be diagnosed with DID when you're clearly not disordered?"

Do you ever stop to think for more than 5 seconds about personal safety? There's people who hate systems left and right, cringe subreddit posters, and generally people who would take that information and use it against you in some way. You don't share your personal name and address online, so why should we share the ins and outs of our daily struggles? Our trauma in any amount of detail? Anything that could be used to hurt or manipulate us further?

Not only is no one else entitled to that information, but it's not safe to share in a place where strangers can see it. We don't share a list of our triggers for the same reasons--we don't want to hand out the keys to our trauma to anyone who happens to see us online.

Not every plural has to suffer either, mind you. So many types of systems tend to not struggle due to their plurality or even anything remotely related to it, and that's okay! You don't need to suffer to be real, suffering isn't a prerequisite to being plural. I'm not even just talking about nondisordered systems here either.

Systems with CDDs can heal. DID, OSDD, DDNOS, anything. They can get to a point where life is worth living if it didn't feel like it already. It could be through final fusion, but it could also be through learning to live together happily as a collective. They can get to a point where the major suffering of the past is far behind. Having a dissociative disorder is NOT a death sentence, I promise you. Things can get better, either through therapy, or medication or just time and learning itself--all while still remaining happily plural.

Acting like disabled people (or even a subgroup of them) will never ever be able to live a life with any happiness or one even worth living at all is an ableist argument used to support so many horrible things thrown toward disabled people of all kinds. It's a few steps away from saying we need to be put out of our misery because we can never live a meaningful, happy life. We've seen this exact argument used against all kinds of mentally or physically disabled people, saying it's cruel to keep them living. And that's absolutely ridiculous.

It's so sad that these sentiments are common in CDD spaces. Yes, there are struggles that come with the disorder, but you can heal. The idea that you will never be okay is a lie. You might not be at a neurotypical level of functioning, but you can be happy, and you can be happy being plural. You are worth it, your disorder doesn't change that, and neither does the general community vibe of "everyone has to suffer and hate their system". You can be happy, you can love your system, you can grow together and make life what you want it to be.

Being a system of any kind is never, EVER a sign that your life will never be good. It's never a sign that you can never feel happy again. It's never a sign that you should just give up. And being required to show off how much you struggle in order to have the basic amount of respect--people just simply believing that you experience what you say you do--is absolutely ridiculous. You don't need to suffer at all, and if you are suffering, you don't need to do it forever--much less share that with people who could use it against you.

Do better, for yourselves and for others in your community. It's okay to be in pain, it's okay to wish things were different, it's okay to share experiences and gather support, but it's not okay to act like no one who is plural could ever have happiness in their life, or claim that those who don't suffer as much as you are fake. Stop spreading the sentiment that suffering is the only way.

101 notes · View notes

scary-grace · 16 days ago

Text

what I don't remember now (part iii/final) - a shigaraki x f!reader fic

Tomura's life doesn't end when his death sentence is handed down, and he knows damn well that he's innocent. It won't be long before one of his appeals proves it, and he can come home -- back to his friends, and back to you, the girlfriend who stood by him through the trial. But death row is a nightmare Tomura can't wake up from, and as the years behind bars begin to pile up, Tomura starts to question if it really matters whether he did it. If he'll ever be free. And if you and the other people who love him have forgotten him for good. (cross-posted to Ao3)

This is the prequel fic to 'if my heart was a house', and covers what's happened to Tomura since the last time he and the reader saw each other. I did a not-insignificant amount of research into the criminal justice system in Japan, specifically on prison conditions, prisoner treatment, and the administration of the death penalty. There is some dark and potentially triggering content, especially in later chapters(execution, suicide attempt, etc) so please be wary! dividers/banners by @cafekitsune

part i part ii

part iii/final

sixteen

Chisaki has a new lawyer. Tomura knows because the guards are talking about it. Bitching about it, really. Tomura’s fine with anything that makes their lives harder, even if it’s improving things to Chisaki, who’s been a pain in the ass the entire time he’s been on death row. The guards don’t like Chisaki’s lawyer. “Fucking traitor. Who does he think he is?”

“Some pissant little bastard with a savior complex. Has he even met a murderer in his life?”

“He used to be a prosecutor,” one of the older guards says. He glances Tomura’s way, realizes Tomura’s watching and raises his hand to his baton. “This isn’t a peep show, 230385. Eyes on your business.”

Tomura’s business is giving himself a bath, which is hard to do thoroughly when his left hand is so fucked up, and the only ones getting a peep show are the guards, who are supposed to be watching him to make sure he doesn’t try anything. Tomura’s never been clear on what they think he’s going to try. He goes back to trying to wash his hair, facing away from the guards, and listening to every word they say. He’s not going to look, but he can’t turn off his ears.

“Yeah, I heard. His boss was the best in the business. What the fuck happened to him?”

“He probably read some weepy story about how hard life is for the inmates. He should think about how hard it is for the people they killed. He doesn’t have a clue –”

“He does,” the older guard says. “He’s been here before. I gave him the tour.”

That rings a faint bell in Tomura’s head, but not enough to capture his attention. He’s running out of time to shower, and there are parts of his body that he can’t stand thinking about, let alone touching. He closes his eyes and chases a few faint scraps of memory. There were times when he didn’t hate being touched, even by himself. There were times when being touched was all he wanted, and there was someone who wanted to touch him. Someone with warm hands, hands that were strong even though they were smaller than his. Someone –

Someone who’s long gone, just like everything else from before. The guards’ voices filter back in, and Tomura focuses on that instead. “Anyway, Chisaki’s making a mistake,” the older guard concludes. “If he thinks anyone cares about what happens to him – after what he did – he’s out of his mind. And if his new lawyer causes too much trouble, every prisoner in this place will wish we’d killed him the second he set foot on the block.”

Tomura already wishes that. Chisaki’s the only other inmate who still knows Morse code, and he’s constantly hassling Tomura, trying to get him to respond to whatever stupid idea he’s got in his head. He’s also damn sure that Chisaki’s actually guilty, because Chisaki goes the route of trying to justify the fucked-up things he did rather than claiming that he didn’t do them. Chisaki and Sensei would probably get along, just like Chisaki and the prison doctor would probably get along if the prison doctor wasn’t the one conducting the cavity searches. If Tomura could murder one person in the prison, other than the warden and the doctor, Chisaki would be his top choice.

And at the same time, Chisaki didn’t put Tomura here. Chisaki’s not the reason why Tomura’s been forgotten by everyone who cared about him. If it comes down to siding with Chisaki or the guards, Tomura knows who he’s lining up with.

He gets out of the shower on time, but he’s slow getting back into his clothes, and the guards are rough on him while they hustle him back to the cell block. They’re still bitching about the lawyer, and the older guard turns to Tomura as they’re unlocking the cell, pitching his voice to carry. “What do you think about Chisaki’s little lawyer friend?”

Chisaki must be awake, must be listening. It’s his turn to shower next, and as much as Tomura hates Chisaki, he hates the guards more. He doesn’t answer until he’s already stepped into his cell, until it’s already shut behind him. “I hope his lawyer fucks you sideways.”

seventeen

Tomura’s used to holes in his memory. Some of them have been there all along, so familiar that he doesn’t question their presence. Some of them he can see into, if he tries, if someone asks him to look. Some of them are just black. And some of them are important. What happened during his interrogation in the detention center, the one where he supposedly confessed to killing his entire family. What happened the night of the murders, before he woke up in the hospital. Not remembering is normal. Tomura knows the drill.

Which is why he knows something’s wrong this time. Not remembering isn’t supposed to hurt.

But it does hurt. Tomura’s whole body hurts, and even as he wrestles himself awake through the pain, he’s aware that nothing else around him is right. The air isn’t cold. The light that leaks in under his eyelids is gentle, not harsh. He’s not lying on concrete, on top of a futon so thin it might as well not be there at all. He’s in a bed with soft blankets pulled over him and a pillow behind his head, and in spite of the fact that he’s more comfortable than he’s been in years, he’s in excruciating pain.

The pain radiates everywhere, but Tomura can pinpoint a source. His left hand is cramped so tight that he can’t move his fingers. Something about it feels wrong. Off-balance. When he forces his eyes open, he can’t focus them well enough to see what’s wrong. And even if he could see, he can’t lift his hand to eye-level for a look. As bad as the pain is, it’s worse when it’s cut with unease. Something’s wrong. He needs to figure out what it is before it gets worse.

Tomura tries to sit up, then slumps back, hissing in pain – only for the bed behind him to shift, tilting to support him. He swears in shock, cringes away, and then curses with pain again. Why can’t he shut up? No one’s given him permission to open his mouth. Any second he’s going to take a guard’s baton to the gut. Tomura’s head is spinning, and he can’t stop making the stupid, pained sounds that only come out when he’s too confused to keep them in.

“You can press that button,” an unfamiliar voice says, and something’s nudged against Tomura’s right hand, the one that’s not twisted in agony. “For pain relief. It’s automatic.”

Tomura jerks his hand away. He turns his head in the direction of the voice. It doesn’t sound like a guard. There’s a tone the guards use when they talk to Tomura and the other inmates, and whoever this is, they aren’t using it. Maybe talking won’t get him hit. “Where am I?”

“You’re at a hospital. I’m not allowed to tell you where, but it is a civilian hospital,” the stranger says. Tomura’s vision isn’t clearing fast enough to give him a good look at the stranger’s face. “How much do you remember?”’

Tomura wants to laugh. “If I could remember, I wouldn’t be here,” he grits out. “You know more than I do.”

“For the last two years, the government has been required to report any inmate injuries or illnesses severe enough to require hospitalization,” the stranger says. “The organization I work for, One’s Justice, responds to those reports.”

“So what?”

“So,” the stranger says carefully, “when you were hospitalized five days ago with sepsis stemming from gangrene of your left index and middle fingers, it was reported to someone. To us. And now I’m here.”

This sounds like bullshit. Tomura’s out of it on sepsis, whatever the fuck that is, but even now he knows when someone’s lying to him. “Why do you care what happens to me?”

“Because you’re a human,” the stranger says. It’s quiet for a second, other than the hum of the hospital’s fluorescent lights and the steady buzz of the machines tracking Tomura’s heart, lungs, everything. “And, um – you might not remember this, but we’ve met before. My name is Midoriya Izuku.”

Now it makes sense. “We didn’t meet,” Tomura says. His mouth feels like sandpaper and tastes even worse, and the pain radiating through his body gives him zero incentive to check his anger. “You learned all about what they do to us in there and you walked away.”

“I couldn’t do anything then. I can do something now,” Midoriya says. Tomura blinks until Midoriya’s face swims into focus – wide-eyed, freckled, topped with messy green hair. “I founded One’s Justice to combat the human rights abuses occurring in maximum security and on death row. I’m here to take your statement and open an investigation on your behalf.”

“You’re out of your mind.” Tomura looks away from Midoriya. “I don’t remember what happened, and if I did, it wouldn’t matter.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” Tomura twists away from Midoriya, jarring his left arm in the bargain, and a sheet of agony drops over him. “You’re stupid if you think this matters to anyone. All that matters to me is what they’re going to do to me for talking to you – so even if I did remember – fuck!”

The pain relief button taps against Tomura’s right hand again. “Based on the doctors’ assessment, the initial injury to your hand occurred some time ago,” Midoriya says. “I have two sources – a former death row inmate and a current client – confirming that a guard purposely crushed it eleven years ago. Pre-surgical scans revealed at least three old fractures, none of which healed properly, and none of which could have been treated with the supplies on hand in a prison hospital.”

Tomura hears the sound of papers shuffling. “One of the doctors One’s Justice works with reviewed the scans and determined that if you’d received appropriate treatment for the prior injuries, the drastic measures taken this time would have been unnecessary,” Midoriya says. “I want to take your statement, if you’ll share it. But I don’t need it to prove a violation of your human rights.”

It would be great if Midoriya shut up about the human rights thing. Tomura’s tired of having to entertain the delusion that anyone cares about it but him. “Drastic measures?”

“Your, um –” Midoriya breaks off. “Your fingers developed frostbite, then gangrene. In order to save your life, the doctors had to amputate them.”

Tomura’s been trying to lift his hand to eye level this whole time. Now he looks down at his left hand where it lays uselessly on the bed. It’s wrapped in heavy bandages, immobilized into a useless club from the middle of his forearm down, but even through the bandages, he can see what’s missing. He coughs, which hurts. Winces, which also hurts. When he speaks, he sounds like he’s out of his mind. “Both of them?”

“I’m sorry,” Midoriya says, and Tomura laughs, his voice harsh and wavering. “No, I mean it! I’m sorry that we weren’t able to do something sooner, but now that it’s been reported, we can track your recovery – and ensure you’re receiving the standard of medical care –”

“Why, so I can be healthy when they kill me?” Tomura swats the pain relief button away, so hard that it flies off the bed and clatters on the floor. “It’s not my business if you want to waste your time, but you should waste it somewhere else.”

“If it’s not your business, I can waste it wherever I want,” Midoriya says. He picks up the pain relief button and sets it down on the bed. “I’ll open an investigation on your behalf. If you receive a request to meet with me once you’re returned to prison, please accept it.”

Lawyer visits have gotten more common in the last year or two. Chisaki sees his lawyer a lot, for all the good it does him. Tomura figures he’ll say yes. It’ll be something to do. Someone to talk to. A reason to get out of his cell. He nods, hoping Midoriya will leave. Tomura needs time to think about this. Time to think about the fact that he’s down to three fingers on his left hand, and that it didn’t have to be that way. The sooner Midoriya leaves, the better.

But Tomura has a question before he goes. “I know your prison source,” he says. “Who’s the one on the outside? People don’t leave death row.”

“Sometimes they do,” Midoriya says. “My other source is Shirakumo Oboro. That’s the name he goes by now. It’s my understanding that he went by Kurogiri in prison.”

Tomura’s jaw clenches tight, only half of his own accord. “Kurogiri’s dead.”

He pictures Midoriya shaking his head. “He’s on parole,” he says. “For the last two years. I’ve met him several times, and every time, he’s insisted that I try to reach out to you.”

A chair scoots back. “Focus on getting better. You’ll hear from me soon.”

Tomura doesn’t answer, and Midoriya leaves, ending the longest conversation Tomura’s had in seventeen years. Once the door shuts behind him, Tomura shifts gingerly onto his back, staring upwards until even the soft hospital lights start to sting. Someone is investigating. Tomura lost two fingers and he’s been in the hospital for five days. Someone is at least pretending to care what happens to Tomura and people like him. Kurogiri’s alive. There’s still someone in the world who cares what happens to him, who knows what’s happened. If there’s one person – if Kurogiri hasn’t forgotten Tomura – then maybe –

Tomura fumbles blindly for the pain-relief button and presses it until his system floods with enough morphine to blunt every feeling and thought. He’s fast and the medicine’s faster, but neither is fast enough to keep out the thought. Kurogiri remembers Tomura, and Tomura barely knew him. The people who knew Tomura best might remember him, too. Magne. Compress. Twice, Dabi, Toga. Spinner. You.

He hasn’t let himself think of you in years. He’s known better than to crack open the door to those memories when he’s so sure you’ve forgotten him. But now it’s unlocked again, and there aren’t enough painkillers in the world to keep the thought of you at bay.

eighteen

“Are you okay?” Midoriya asks Tomura, before the guards have even shut the door to the visitation room. “You don’t look so good.”

Tomura laughs. Or coughs. “Nobody here looks good.”

“I visited my other client last week. He looks better,” Midoriya says, frowning. “He says you were sent to the protection cell again.”

“Yeah, he and I have been trading off weeks.” Tomura never asked one way or the other to confirm it, but he knows Chisaki is Midoriya’s other death-row client, and the guards are making both of them pay for having the audacity to get a lawyer. “Nothing new.”

“He says they keep you in for longer than him. My other source said the same thing,” Midoriya says. “Do you know why?”

Tomura’s pretty sure he knows, but he’s not bringing that up in here. Midoriya can work out for himself that the warden despises Tomura for supposedly killing a grandmother he never met and uses every chance he can get to make Tomura suffer. He shrugs instead of answering. “You set this meeting up. What do you want?”

“First, I wanted to give an update,” Midoriya says. He has a notebook and a pencil, which is all he’s allowed to bring in. The guards read over it before he leaves and redact anything they don’t like, which in Tomura’s opinion defeats the purpose – but it’s Midoriya’s dumb decision to keep showing up with it. “We’ve collected enough evidence to move forward with legal action with regard to the human-rights violations. Since you, my other client, and the outside source were all incarcerated under the same set of conditions for a period of seven years, you’ll all serve as co-plaintiffs in the case.”

Fine by Tomura. It’s not going to change anything for him, but maybe the next unlucky bastard who ends up in Tomura’s cell will be spared some of the shit Tomura’s gone through. “I wanted to bring the paperwork for you to sign today, but they said I couldn’t without prior verbal approval from you, so I’ll bring it at the next visit,” Midoriya says. Tomura nods. “There’s something else I wanted to talk about, though. How much do you remember about your interrogation?”

“My interrogation was nineteen years ago. How much do you remember about nineteen years ago?”

“I have an eidetic memory,” Midoriya says. Huh. “But even if I didn’t, the moment I confessed to the murders I was sentenced to death for would be hard to forget. You don’t remember it at all?”

“If I remembered it, I’d be able to –” Tomura breaks off, frustrated. “If I remembered it, I’d be able to tell you exactly what I confessed to. Most of the shit they said in the trial was news to me.”

“Okay,” Midoriya says. He adjusts his grip on his pencil. “Tell me what happened during your interrogation. As much of it as you can remember. From the beginning.”

“I don’t remember shit,” Tomura says, but the longer he thinks about that, the less certain he is that it’s true. Maybe it’s not that he doesn’t remember anything. Maybe it’s just that he doesn’t want to. “It was my day off. When they arrested me. And hers –”

It was just a normal day off. Tomura didn’t have big plans for it, except for spending it with you, and taking you to meet Sensei for the first time. Tomura had tried to introduce you to Sensei before, and Sensei hadn’t wanted to meet you, so when Sensei finally said yes, Tomura jumped on the opportunity. Sensei sent a car to pick the two of you up and bring you to the restaurant, to make sure Tomura wouldn’t be late. You got there early. The cops were waiting. Sensei didn’t get there until after Tomura was on the ground. Sensei was the one who stopped you from trying to pull the cops off Tomura and getting handcuffed right alongside him.

Detention center. The first few days it was – not fine, but now that Tomura knows what the rest of it is like, the first few days were easy. He saw you. Spinner, Toga, Twice. You again. Dabi. You – and he still thought it was a mistake, so he was almost more worried about you than he was about himself. They pulled Tomura out of a visit with you and took him away for interrogation, and after that, time slips into a blur Tomura couldn’t pull into focus if his life depended on it.

He can’t remember the interrogator’s faces. They didn’t wear name badges. Tomura was hungry, but they wouldn’t let him eat. He was tired, but they wouldn’t let him sleep or lay down, or even put his head down on the table. Did he get water? He must have, or he’d have died. He wasn’t beaten, but he didn’t feel right. There was a scab on the back of his hand that always seemed fresh, and a painful knot in his upper arm that never relaxed. And none of that matters, because somewhere in the middle of all of that, Tomura confessed to seven murders and stopped being a human being.

“You’re still a human being,” Midoriya says. He never sounds anything but patronizing when he says that, but he looks disturbed as all hell. “What you’ve said about your interrogation is consistent with the reports made by dozens of other prisoners, across all security levels. Your charges and sentences differed wildly, but you had the same interrogators. Those interrogators were arrested and indicted two weeks ago on charges that they utilized multiple so-called truth serums to produce confessions.”

“What?”

“They drugged you,” Midoriya says. “The scab on your hand and the bruise on your upper arm are consistent with injection sites for sodium thiopental and scopolamine, and those same marks were seen on dozens of other prisoners during their intake exams.”

He’s looking at Tomura like he expects something, and Tomura doesn’t have a fucking clue. Tomura’s going to lose his shit. “What do you want me to say?”

“Standard interrogation practices are already coercive and inhumane, and the validity of any confession produced under those conditions is suspect,” Midoriya says. No shit. “You confessed after twenty days of interrogation, likely under the influence of one or more illegally administered drugs. That confession is inadmissible.”

“So?”

“So if you take that out of the prosecution’s case, what do they have left on you?” Midoriya asks, leaning forward. His eyes are overbright. “I think I can get you a retrial.”

“That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” Tomura says. “Do you think I want to be here until I die of old age? If they knock my sentences down to life without parole – which is what they’d do –”

“That’s not what a retrial is for,” Midoriya says. “A retrial is a reset. A review of all the evidence, including any that’s come to light since the original trial –”

“Which is nothing –”

“I’ve been looking into it. There’s a lot.”

A lot of what? Tomura’s trial was a blur to start with. Now it’s a black hole, pierced by a few memories here and there, strung together by the image of you in the courtroom, in the first row behind the defense table. You were always there. Tomura wasn’t supposed to look back, but every time he did, you were still there, still watching. You didn’t leave him. You never left him, and it’s been so long since he saw you that he’s not sure he remembers your face.

It crashes down on Tomura all at once – the weight of eighteen years behind bars, eighteen silent, frozen years in hell. He sucks down one frantic breath, then another, before the panic and agony crushes the air from his lungs. Tomura claws at his neck, trying to relieve the pressure, and in spite of the fact that he can’t breathe, his body still manages to throw up. He’s conscious, vaguely, of Midoriya reaching out to help, but the guards are already storming into the room. Tomura winds up back in the protection cell, one arm shackled behind his back and the other shackled in front so he can’t even raise his hands to scratch.

No matter how hard Tomura tries to escape into the blank recesses of his mind, he can’t. You’re there now, waiting for him – you and Spinner and Kurogiri and Toga and Twice and everyone, a whole world he stopped dreaming about a long time ago. Now he knows why he stopped. It fucking hurts. Thinking about what was taken away from him, feeling the places where it was torn out, could drive Tomura insane. It will, if he feels like this long enough. If he does nothing long enough. He can’t do nothing anymore.

The guards let him out of the protection cell some featureless amount of time later, throw him into the showers, and drag him to the meeting room without stopping off at his cell first. Midoriya’s waiting there, again, in his suit that makes him look like he’s playing dress-up with his fucking notebook tucked under his arm. “We need to talk.”

Tomura needs to talk, too. He coughs until his voice clears. “The retrial. What would happen?”

“It would resemble your first trial,” Midoriya says. “The prosecution would present their evidence. Your legal team will provide their own evidence to counter the prosecution’s claims and advance your cause. It won’t just be a judge hearing the case. They’ve changed things. Now there’s a panel – six jurors randomly selected from members of the public, three judges. They’ll hear the case and provide a judgment based on a majority vote.”

The rage humming through Tomura’s veins takes on a new target. “The fucking public decided I was guilty before the trial.”

“Things have changed,” Midoriya says. Tomura starts to argue and Midoriya interrupts. “I’ve been out there. You haven’t. And I know things about your case that you don’t. If I petition the court to rule your confession inadmissible, it’ll force a retrial. Without your confession and with the new evidence I’ve collected, it’ll be almost impossible to uphold the original verdict.”

Tomura remembers hearing the verdict. He remembers the applause from the people observing, but more than that, he remembers the muffled sob he heard from behind him. Remembers twisting around to see you, your hand clamped down over your mouth and tears sliding down your face. “What happens then?”

“You’d be acquitted,” Midoriya says. Tomura doesn’t know that word, and Midoriya spells it out, looking at Tomura with the kind of pity that makes Tomura wish he was back in the protection cell. “You’d be free.”

Free.

Tomura can’t remember the last time he thought about being free. Freedom is something abstract, something unreal, something that doesn’t exist on death row. Tomura’s not free to talk. He’s not free to sleep when he wants to sleep or eat when he’s hungry or drink when he’s thirsty. He’s not even free to die on his own terms – the state will kill him, or he’ll die here of natural causes after a life that’s lasted way too long. Freedom is a joke. Tomura’s tired of laughing.

But Tomura wasn’t always here. Tomura was free before. Midoriya’s saying he could be free again. “Do it,” Tomura says, and Midoriya looks up. “I want the retrial.”

Midoriya nods, but there’s a look on his face Tomura doesn’t like. “What?”

“I wouldn’t suggest a retrial if I wasn’t convinced we could win,” Midoriya says, “but I wouldn’t be doing my job as your lawyer if I didn’t warn you that there’s a catch. The government doesn’t like granting retrials, even when they’re warranted. In exchange for the retrial, they’ll demand that you waive your last appeal.”

“So if I win, they’ll let me go,” Tomura says. Midoriya nods. “If I lose, they’ll kill me.”

“And they’ll do it fast,” Midoriya says. He looks like he’s going to be sick. “The last time the original charges were upheld after a retrial, the defendant was executed within a week. So I understand if you –”

“They’re going to kill me anyway,” Tomura says. “I want the retrial.”

“Then we’ll do it.” Midoriya’s expression takes on a hard, determined cast that makes Tomura feel ever so slightly better. So it’s not all bullshit idealism and optimism that’s more likely to get Tomura’s hopes up than get him out of prison. Now he looks like a lawyer. “This is going to be different than your last trial. It’s going to take a lot more from you. Can you handle it?”

“I handled this place.” Tomura gestures with his left hand, sees the evidence of just how much he couldn’t handle it, and clenches his fist at his side. “Whatever else there is. I can do it.”

“Hey!” A guard raps on the door, startling Midoriya and scaring Tomura. “Time’s up!”

“Right. I’ll file the motion, and I’ll be back as soon as I hear,” Midoriya says. Tomura nods. His stomach is tying itself in a knot. “And one more thing. Is there anyone you want me to reach out to? Anybody who should know?”

“Talk to –” There’s a split second where Tomura can’t remember Spinner’s real name. “Iguchi Shuichi. Tell him. And –”

“I said time’s up!” The guards barge into the room. “That’s enough.”

There are four guards. One escorts Midoriya out, or tries to, and three of them grab Tomura, hauling him roughly out of his chair. They know better than to beat Tomura up in front of his lawyer, but one drives a fist into Tomura’s kidneys from behind, and Tomura’s so busy gasping for air as they drag him into the hall that he can’t ask Midoriya to look for you. But he will. The next time Midoriya comes back, Tomura’s going to tell him about you. Tell him that if there’s going to be another trial, he needs you to be there. So you can see it go the right way this time. So Tomura can turn to face you after the verdict and know he’s coming back to you.

nineteen

Tomura wore his prison uniform to the trial – the prosecution insisted – but for the reading of the verdict, he gets to wear a suit. Or has to wear a suit. He had a suit when he was on the outside – Sensei insisted – but everything Tomura owned on the outside is long gone by now. All he has left to his name is whatever he had on him when he was taken into custody, things he hasn’t seen in almost two decades. Things he’ll never see again, if this goes the wrong way.

Midoriya seems optimistic. The rest of the legal team does, too. Tomura’s in too much shock to be able to tell. Midoriya wasn’t joking when he said he had new evidence. The picture he painted of the night Tomura’s family was murdered rewrote Tomura’s entire life, and Tomura understands now why there are so many things he doesn’t remember. Why Sensei made him see his family again. Why Sensei testified against him like that in the first trial. Tomura went into the retrial still thinking that Sensei had cared about him. Sensei was using him the entire time.

Sensei’s going to be arrested, regardless of what happens to Tomura now. One of Midoriya’s friends – some psycho prosecutor Tomura wouldn’t mind sending on a field trip to death row – is already on the case. They’ll get him, and he’ll pay for what he did, just like Tomura paid for it. Like Tomura’s still paying for it, for another few minutes if he’s acquitted and another week or so if he’s not. Hope still hurts, sharper than the constant ache in Tomura’s bones, harder than the lump that never seems to leave the back of his throat. He’s ready for it to be over.

“It’s all going to be fine,” Midoriya says encouragingly. He and the rest of Tomura’s legal team are hanging out on the other side of the bars of the holding cell, doing everything short of popping champagne like they’ve already won. “None of the new evidence we presented was rejected, you were great on the stand –”

“And Deku absolutely killed it on cross,” the guy who’s in charge of preparing witnesses crows. He has the loudest voice Tomura’s ever heard, and the first time Tomura talked to him, he walked away with a headache. After so long in silence on death row, he can’t handle that kind of noise. “Better start thinking about what you want to do when you get out of here, Shigaraki. You’ll be free as soon as those geniuses on the panel figure out how to count to nine.”

“Your character witnesses were great, too,” Midoriya’s co-counsel says brightly. “It was amazing! Usually people who’ve been locked up as long as you have don’t have people anymore, but your friends were so happy to hear from us. It was like they’d been waiting this whole time.”

Tomura hasn’t had a chance to talk to his friends yet. Not directly. He’s written to them, and Midoriya’s made sure the letters have gone through – and he’s seen them, one after another, as they’ve taken the stand and given evidence about who Tomura really is. They all look good. Toga, Spinner, Twice, Dabi. Even Magne and Compress, who Tomura hadn’t known for all that long before he was arrested, got up and answered Midoriya’s questions about Tomura’s behavior, about what Tomura said about his family and how he sounded when he said it. About Sensei, because they all met him. Apparently Tomura’s the only person who ever met Sensei and wasn’t instantly overcome with bad vibes.

You’d probably have said the same thing, if you’d taken the stand. But you aren’t on the witness list. You aren’t in the courtroom, either. It took Midoriya two months to find any number to reach you by, and that number must be out of service or something. Even though he’s called you every other day, he says you haven’t picked up once.

Tomura waits until the rest of the team is distracted, then catches Midoriya’s attention again. “Did you call today?”

“Not yet,” Midoriya says. “I was going to wait until – after.”

Right. That’s probably smart. Smarter than what Tomura wants Midoriya to do, which is call you right now and keep calling until you pick up or until he’s called back to the courtroom to hear the verdict. “But after the verdict, I think there’s a good chance she’ll call me,” Midoriya says quietly. “Before – I mean, she has a lot of reasons not to pick up for unfamiliar numbers.”

“What do you mean?”

“Um – oh, I guess you wouldn’t know,” Midoriya says. He looks uncomfortable. “The news coverage of your first trial was – brutal. They were hard on you, obviously, but they were hard on her, too. Really hard on her. There were people following her. Reporters, and stuff. She lost a job – not the one she had before the trial, a new one – because they wouldn’t leave her alone.”

Tomura feels like he’s going to be sick. He clenches his jaw. “So when she sees a number she doesn’t know, and it’s some guy she’s never met who wants to talk to her about you, it probably makes her pretty nervous,” Midoriya concludes. “Once the verdict comes out, she’ll know why I’ve been calling. So I think we’ll hear from her then.”

People were following you because of him. You lost a job because of him. Maybe you’re not just ignoring Midoriya’s calls because he’s a stranger – you’re ignoring them because you know he wants to talk about Tomura, and you don’t want anything to do with Tomura anymore. That doesn’t sound like you. Tomura loves you. What if you don’t love him anymore? Why would you still love him? It’s been nineteen years. You moved on. You must have moved on. Why wouldn’t you –

“Hey,” Midoriya says at once. “Hey. Don’t worry about that right now. Everything’s going to be fine. We’ll get the verdict and then we’ll work everything out.”

“Call her.”

“Oh, um – I don’t know if that’s a good idea –”

“I don’t care if she picks up. Call her now and hold the phone up through the bars,” Tomura says. Midoriya hesitates. “If this goes wrong, I’m dead in a week. Call her.”

Midoriya places the call, then holds it up to Tomura’s ear. Tomura listens as it rings, rings, rings – and then there’s a click, some static, and your voice, for the first time since he told you to leave the courtroom. “Hey there. I’m not able to come to the phone right now, but if you leave me a message, I’ll get back to you when the stars align. Or in one to two business days. Whichever’s faster. So, like I said – name, number, after the beep.”

Tomura shoves the phone away before he can hear it. “Get out.”

“What –”

“I need to be alone,” Tomura says. “Get out.”

“We’re not going to just leave you alone,” the press liaison for One’s Justice says. “There have been concerns in the past with our clients’ safety while waiting for a verdict –”

“I’m not going to kill myself,” Tomura says. “I need to be alone. Get out.”

Once they’re gone, Tomura slumps back against the bars, his eyes burning. That was your voice on the phone. You’re older. You sound older, like Tomura’s older, but you’re still you. You’re out there somewhere – maybe married, maybe single, maybe happy, maybe not – and if Tomura gets out of here, he can find you. Find out what happened to you. What you were doing, all that time you were supposed to be with him.

The list of things Tomura’s scared of has shrunk over the time he’s spent in prison, down to exactly one thing – the idea of spending the rest of his natural life on death row. He thinks he’ll be scared going into his execution, but he won’t know about that until it’s moments away, so he won’t have time to really lose it. Right now, both of those fears feel distant, like he’s looking at them from a bird’s-eye view. The fear that’s immediate, that’s overwhelming, is that he’ll find you again, and you’ll have forgotten all about him. Not that you’ve moved on, not that you’re married, not that you’re so angry at him that you’ve been ignoring Midoriya’s calls. That Tomura’s such an insignificant footnote in your life that you barely remember his name.

That’s what Tomura’s scared of. That’s what he’s always been scared of, ever since your first date – and second date, that same day when you got coffee together instead of freezing outdoors. Even though it went well, even though he got your number, even though the two of you talked until the coffee shop closed and they kicked you out of the building, Tomura was halfway convinced you’d never call him. Things like you didn’t happen to people like Tomura in real life. He was a decent first date, like you said, but someone like you probably had a lot of those. Tomura wouldn’t stand out.

But you did text him. That night. And when he showed up at the library the next day you were happy to see him. When you had a spare second to talk, you asked him out on a third date before he could say a word. You asked about the first two. I figured it was my turn.

Tomura was amazed at how confident you were. Later he found out that you were too worried about losing your chance with him to be anything except blunt, and he was amazed by that, too. Yeah. I guess it can be your turn. What do you want to do?

Let’s go do something fun, you said. The arcade? I suck at games, but maybe you could teach me.

Tomura had had fantasies about something like that. Dumb-ass, cringeworthy gamer fantasies, but the fact that you were going to be in them shot them into overdrive. There was just one problem. I’m not a good teacher.

I bet you’re better than you think you are, you said. When are you free?

Tomorrow, Tomura said, on some weird impulse to play hard to get. Or maybe it was just so he wouldn’t tell you the truth: Any time, if it’s for you.

You weren’t telling the truth, either – there was one arcade game you were really good at, and it was the claw machine. You were good enough at it that you could actually decide what you wanted to grab instead of just grabbing anything, and you wouldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t caught Tomura staring into the machine. See something you like?

The corgi, Tomura said. He wasn’t sure how he knew you wouldn’t laugh at him, but he was right. You weren’t laughing. You were studying the machine like it was a math problem you were trying to solve. Don’t waste your money. That thing’s never coming out of there.

Wanna bet? You already had your wallet out. I’ll get it for you in four turns.

Your confidence was easy to fall for. Tomura still didn’t want you spending all your money. I’m buying the food later. Whether you win or not.

Deal. You fed a coin into the machine and grasped the controls, glancing Tomura’s way with half a smile on your face. You looked mischievous. Looking back, Tomura thinks you were anxious, too. You wanted to impress him, just like he wanted to impress you. Get ready. We might end up with more of these things than we want to have.

It took you four turns to get the corgi Tomura wanted, and on three of those turns, you came up with a plushie. You had them tucked under your arm when you presented the corgi to him, and you were grinning. One torpedo-shaped corgi plush, as requested.

I didn’t ask. As soon as Tomura said it, he kicked himself. You did something nice for him. Why did he react like a jackass? I mean –

I know you didn’t ask, you said. I wanted to get it for you.

Tomura’s mouth went dry. His hands were shaking when he reached out – past the plushie, to you. Why?

You gave him an odd look. I want you to have things that make you happy.

The other plushies were in the way. Tomura couldn’t figure out how to hold onto you, and he couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t pure stupidity. Don’t you think it’s dumb?

No, you said. You looked down at the plushie, half a smile on your face – and then you looked back up at Tomura, and your smile got bigger. Nobody looked at Tomura like that. Not if it makes you happy.

Tomura was happy. He wasn’t happy very often, and it was usually cut with something else. The closest he got was with his friends, and this was like that but not, simpler and more complicated at the same time. Complicated because of all the things that lay beneath you liking him, you wanting him to be happy even if it was over something dumb. Simple because you meant it.

Tomura waited too long to say something. He saw some of the anxiety flicker back across your face. Do you want it? you asked, and Tomura kissed you.

Tomura’s kicked himself for that every so often, before he was locked up and after. Kicked himself for giving you that second of doubt that you made him happy, that he wanted you. If he survives this, if he gets out of here, he’s not going to screw around for a second longer. He’ll get his shit together as much as he can, and then he’ll find you. Even if you’re over it, over him, he needs to make sure you know that it was real, all of it. Real enough to last twenty-one years and longer. Real enough to have kept him warm.

The door opens, and Tomura scrubs at his eyes and straightens up. Midoriya’s there, and so is the rest of the team, and so are the guards. “The verdict’s in,” Midoriya says. “Are you ready?”

He’s spent all day reassuring Tomura. Now he’s the one who looks antsy, and as the guards unlock the door, cuff Tomura’s hands, grab him by the shoulders and hustle him along, Tomura finds himself weirdly calm. He heard your voice again. He remembers you again, and it helps as much as it hurts. That’s more than Tomura ever thought he’d get. It’s enough to get him through the next few minutes on his feet.

The courtroom is different this time. The faces of the panel members show nothing as they file in, and although the seats behind Tomura are full, the room is silent. Tomura’s heart is beating painfully hard, and he taps into his memories of you one last time, thinking back to how you never put your hand on his shoulder when you kissed him. Your hand was always over his heart, and he imagines it there now, steady and strong. And warm. Even if he never sees you again, he has that memory for the rest of his life.

“We have returned a verdict,” one of the panel members says. She’s holding a folded piece of paper. “Will the defendant please rise?”

Tomura gets to his feet. He makes eye contact with the panel member and holds it. And then he waits, while she puts on her reading glasses and unfolds the verdict, to find out how long the rest of his life is going to be.

This is the final chapter of this fic! The story continues in if my heart was a house. Thanks for reading, and I hope to see you there!

#shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki tomura x you #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki x you #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #x reader #reader insert #man door hand hook car door #needle compass north

59 notes · View notes