#everything is dull and silent and lonely and touch starved

[avpdyerm]

bruh

[taschamonnii]

Imagine This  - Fictional Love

You x Your favorite Character 

Big Sad Mood

Summary: How it feels to be in love with a fictional character. Found a playlist on YouTube that is an hour long video of just the biggest saddest mood ever and it has me in all my feels. I love Leigh Shaw with my entire being and it hurts that she doesn’t exist. 

TW: Big Sad, depression, soft, mood

1 Hour Video of Feels: Falling In Love with a Fictional Character

AN: If you want to be in your sad girl hours the above playlist is for you.

Word Count: 1,091

Imagine This:

It’s raining outside. You have your bedroom window open and the chilly air plays at the soft skin of your face. You are bundled in your favorite comfy clothes and are comfortably surrounded by blankets and pillows. You are reading. The story is of your favorite fictional character. It is warm and cozy and fills you with love. You love this character more than life and would give anything to leave your reality and escape into theirs just to be with them. Your heart aches for them and you know you will never love anyone the way you love them. You finish the story and reality sets in that you are alone in your room. The comfort leaves you and the chilly air settles into your bones. You know that no matter how many layers you wrap yourself in you will never be warm because it isn’t the air that makes you feel cold. It is the absence of the person you love beyond words. The only thing that would warm you would be her loving arms wrapped around you and her soft skin caressing yours in gentle touches. You know your heart won’t ever feel whole because her lips are not on yours and they never will be because she doesn’t exist here with you in your reality. Silent tears stream down your face. The pain inside almost makes you feel numb but you know you are in pain, you are so lonely and all you want is just a hint of the love you feel with your favorite character. 

You have been single and alone for far too long. You are not only touch starved but affection starved and you honestly don’t know if you have ever truly been loved. The relationships you have had are nothing like what you're reading about and it hurts. No one in your life understands why you don’t even bother to try dating anymore. No one seems to understand that your heart belongs to someone else. You are tired all the time but procrastinate sleep in favor of reading more stories about the love of your life. You want to sleep and dream of them but you know even if you do it will just hurt when you eventually wake up. You cry more as the ache to be home in their arms just intensifies with each roll of thunder outside your window. The world you exist in is dead and grey and you are stuck surviving each day with little moments of escape to the world where your home is. 

People don’t understand why you are obsessed with this character or why you are constantly reading or why you don’t want to hang out in the little free time you have. No, you feel alone in all these feelings. Sometimes you long for death in hopes that the nothingness might turn into the reality where you and this character get to be in love and live happily. Your heart aches more as the feelings of loneliness only increase when you interact with real people. It is like existing in your reality makes you feel so much pain that you begin to only feel things partially or like you are outside of yourself watching from a far as you live your life. Everything is dull and dim and happiness doesn’t feel like a real thing. You can’t remember the last time reality ever made you even half as happy as fiction did. It makes leaving the fictional world feel like you are leaving everything that makes life worth it. It makes you feel like you are sinking into the lowest of lows and you are surrounded by darkness and cold and nothing feels right. 

You listen to sad music and it fuels all the feelings and washes over you in waves, each sad lyric sinking into your bones. Your body doesn't feel like your own. You honestly can’t imagine ever being happy in the future with a real person, not even your celebrity crush because even if the celebrity plays the character you are in love with they are not that character. Your soul is incomplete and you are not sure if you believe in soulmates because you are positive that if they are real that this fictional person is yours and what can you do with a person who doesn’t even exist. 

It feels like the world is caving in on you and you are alone in the feeling and have to act like nothing's wrong. It makes doing school work and actual work feel like torture and you have an impending doom filling you as you think about your future and how everything is meaningless. No matter what your future is, it won't be what you truly want. Every piece of yourself belongs to this fictional character, and the worst part is that you are terrified when you inevitably fall out of love with this character and find another. Sometimes your heart belongs to several fictional characters at once and that feels like all of this multiplied. 

You have only ever felt love with a ghost, a figment of a fake reality. You are not even sure you are capable of loving a real person or accepting their love in return. You are certain that you will be alone forever because of this and that is comforting to know you won’t have to choose between reality and fiction but it is also so incredibly sad. Alone is better and worse all at once and you are filled with a constant uneasiness about your life. You may try to date even though you have never once felt connected. The worst part is you have hurt others by pushing them away when they start to show feelings for you because you don’t feel the same and you are certain you never will because your heart is already taken. 

All these feelings swirl in your head and force you to lay flat on the floor staring blankly, feeling numb but also feeling so much pain deep inside that you can’t even cry anymore. You can barely even breathe and you are sure that if you could just escape this reality and find the love of your life in their reality that you would finally feel real but you are stuck. You are lost.

Something is always on your mind, always in your headspace. I hope someday You and I make it out of here even if it takes all night or a hundred years. 

AN: I know I am not the only one who can feel like this sometimes or really a lot of the time. I hope that anyone else who feels these things finds love in this reality that makes all these feelings go away. Thanks for reading.

[justapoet]

(for you) I would ruin myself (a million little times)

The chaos, the sounds of shots, the blood splattered all over his face, clothes, and soul ― death, so subtly and surely coming around, with Its dark cloak, reaping hook, and empty holes that were more soulful than the eyes of some living humans.

Felt like being at war again ― but that was Buck. Buck, bleeding in the middle of the street and never looking away as long as he could. Eddie could see his erratic breathing, the pain in his features, life slipping away from his body as blood slipped away from the bullet wound on his shoulder.

Eddie felt at war again ― but there, looking at him, there was a reason for Eddie to risk it all. His life, his sanity, his heart; Buck was there, and Eddie needed to get to him.

Or,

What if Buck had been the one who got shot?

Read on Ao3

Life is not about death.

Death, though, is about living. A mere consequence, the insignificant reaction of an action or a collection of them ― a set of it we call life.

Death is not about life, although it comes only to the living.

And there's just no escape ― what can we do if the Universe always wants back what it gives? Like fate, or destiny, or a curse: we're bound to break, for we were bound to keep, to mend, and repair. And, for we were bound to be, we are bound to stop being.

These are mere consequences. Trifling nothings surrounded by anythings and covered in everything we could be ― and never will. Because that's how it goes, and it's just how life ends: a heart that beats grows meant to stop, and a life that's lived becomes intended to end. For we breathe, we're bound to cease ― and for we love, we're bound to ache.

Life is not about death, for the second is a minor reaction. Death isn't about life ― but living, for that's what it takes for someone's life to halt. And, especially, for those ― the living ― are the ones to suffer death, not as a consequence ― they are the ones to face the consequences of death itself.

Eddie had already faced death himself, though, with his bare hands and collapsing lungs. He had been to war ― death is just around all the time, and life seems meaningless even though they say that being a soldier is to have a purpose.

Eddie fully believes their only purpose there was to be scared, starve, and get traumatized for a lifetime ― if they made it out alive, of course.

Sometimes he wonders if it would've been better if he hadn't. It's just a second, an impossible hypothesis, for he is far from Afghanistan for years now, but it happens, sometimes. In the dark of the night, when he's alone, lonely, lying in a bed far too big for just one person and Chris is fast asleep in his own bedroom, Eddie can't stop himself from wondering.

He had seen death face to face. He had had death over his shoulder ― not only dead bodies but the cold, skeletal hand of the Reaper close to his ear, ready to take those he would take life from with his own hands.

Eddie wished ghosts were real, sometimes, just so he could get what he deserved for killing people who were there with the same purpose he had ― serving whoever sent them there, for whatever half-asses reasons they were given from someone else.

So, he had seen death face to face. Eddie had already stared deep in the dark holes of a ghostly skull and almost accepted the gruesome but unbelievably kind skeleton hand, It had so kindly offered him. After a few times, the Reaper didn't seem so cruel anymore ― It was only doing the job It had to do, just like everyone else.

The Reaper wasn't cruel but whatever made It do its job... Whatever it was, Eddie didn't like it. Not a bit, not at all, and not even just because.

After the well, Eddie really thought the Reaper had stopped ghosting over his shoulder, his mind and life ― he would still see It in dreams, but it was a friendly meeting. The Reaper would offer him tea and silently wait for whatever Eddie needed to say ― a friend he never thought he would ever make.

Regardless of whatever friendship they might have created, Eddie could still see the shadowy death wandering around the city. It wasn't hard since their line of work dealt with it every day, every hour, but there was something there that Eddie couldn't really get himself to understand.

There was something and someone.

Eddie didn't even see it coming. Time was ticking by around them, at first, and suddenly there was absolutely no time ― in a second, Charlie was being loaded in an ambulance, his crazy mother in another, and Buck was there.

"That kid is just lucky he met you," Buck had said.

Eddie had started to reply, smiling at his best friend, and suddenly his mouth tasted like blood.

But not his blood.

His body froze when he looked up, and Buck had his mouth half-opened in a fallen smile. His clear blue eyes so suddenly were filled with too many emotions for Eddie to be able to name any of them ― even less each one ― and, in the spare of a second, they were glassy.

As Buck's body fell hard and numbly to the asphalt, Eddie felt himself being pushed abruptly against the firetruck, just in time for another shot to ricochet close to them in the truck. Suddenly, he was on the ground, and he could see Buck from under the firetruck ― there was blood, so much blood, and those pretty blue eyes were glassy and hopeless.

Felt like being at war again.

The chaos, the sounds of shots, the blood splattered all over his face, clothes, and soul ― death, so subtly and surely coming around, with Its dark cloak, reaping hook, and empty holes that were more soulful than the eyes of some living humans.

Felt like being at war again ― but that was Buck. Buck, bleeding in the middle of the street and never looking away as long as he could. Eddie could see his erratic breathing, the pain in his features, life slipping away from his body as blood slipped away from the bullet wound on his shoulder.

Eddie felt at war again ― but there, looking at him, there was a reason for Eddie to risk it all. His life, his sanity, his heart; Buck was there, and Eddie needed to get to him.

So, he rolled over to get rid of Capt. Metha's grip around his shoulder and started to crawl under the truck to its front. Buck's eyes had slipped shut at some moment, and the despair on Eddie's heart grew even huger ― please, he thought, don't slip away too.

"Buck!" Eddie shouted, crawling faster. "Hang on, I'm coming!" he said and tried to look up from where he was, a not-so-effective way to calculate the risk.

Fuck it, the risks, Eddie thought, then.

"Buck!" He shouted again, hoping to get an answer that never came. Eddie stretched his arm and reached Buck's hand that tried to touch him at some point inside of the chaos, pulling him from view as fast as he could.

He vaguely remembers a car exploding in the background, but none of that mattered.

As Eddie pulled Buck under the truck, the firefighter groaned and yelled in pain ― Eddie understood; he remembers how much it hurts.

"Stay with me, Buck, please," he asked, and Buck could only groan heavily and close his eyes shut again. Eddie cursed and crawled all the way back to where Captain Metha stood, screaming at the radio to tell dispatchers their current situation.

"Off-duty firefighter down! We need cover; we need help!" The Captain was shouting, but absolutely none of that mattered. Not when Buck was bleeding out, and Eddie was seeing his life slip away from his hands.

"C'mon!" Eddie shouted when he got back on his feet and pulled Buck from under the truck again. They were still firing, and Eddie couldn't care less. He had been through worse, and the last time he waited had been too late.

He would lose Buck.

He wouldn't lose his mind.

He couldn't lose his heart.

With impressive ease, Eddie managed to throw Buck's dead weight over his shoulder and, with Captain's Metha and someone else's ― he didn't care about knowing who that was ― help, they got inside the 133's truck.

Eddie doesn't know and doesn't care about how, but they somehow lost one of the truck's doors while getting out of that Inferno.

"Buck, Buck!" He called, taking some gauze from somewhere and opening Buck's shirt with total carelessness. "Stay with me; I got you," he said, almost pleaded, while applying as much pressure as his hands could.

Buck groaned in pain, and Eddie was slightly thankful for that.

"Stay with me, Buck, please," Eddie said again, and Buck did his best to open his eyes. Those usually playful and lifeful irises were dull and glassy, and Eddie wished that was just another of his nightmares. "I got you, okay?"

Buck took a sharp breath in and tried to look up at Eddie.

"Are you hurt?" He asked, and Eddie could start laughing at the ridiculousness of the question when his best friend was bleeding out under his hands. He also could cry because Buck was bleeding out and still dared to ask him such a question.

"No," Eddie answered, breathless. "No, I'm not, Buck,"

"Good," Buck said, his eyes fluttering shut again. "That's good," his voice was weak, and suddenly, he was out.

Eddie screamed, begged for him to open his eyes again, yelled at whoever was driving to go faster.

They took an unconscious Buck away from him into de ER, and Eddie just stood there.

"You okay, Diaz?" Captain Metha had asked.

Eddie wanted to cry, shout, run after the team of doctors who took Buck away and beg them to hold Buck's hand in his so he wouldn't be alone. He wanted to find out who did all of that, who started a goddamn shooting out of nowhere, aiming Buck at first, and make them pay. Eddie wanted to crawl under his bedsheets and stay there until he and the bed were only one piece of furniture, and no one could ever find him anymore.

He wanted to tell the Reaper to take him instead. He craved to show the Reaper that it was okay to take him away, finally, if it meant Buck would be alright and have a long, lasting, happy life.

Eddie tried to swallow the lump on his throat.

"No," he managed to say.

―――

Grief is something funny to deal with. The word "grief" and "grieve" themselves come from old French "grever," which signifies "to burden," which comes from the Latin words "gravis" or "gravare," both meaning "heavy" or, in its original meaning, "serious."

How meaningless they become, though, when they're more than a dictionary definition.

As humans, there's barely too much our poor understanding can reach ― rationally and even more emotionally speaking. Feelings, as they are, are rarely understood, for we're only said to feel them without any further questions to which no one has an answer.

Eddie had a lot of questions, indeed. Why do we feel pain? Why does it feel like our heart is being ripped out of our chest, sometimes? Even if we've never experienced someone shredding our heart out of our ribcage.

Why do some smiles take our breath away?

Why do we cry when someone is away?

Why does silence hurt?

Why does living hurt? And why does death hurt almost as much?

And, the question bumping against Eddie's head and heart since he had sat on one of the chairs of the waiting room of a chaotic hospital: why Buck?

Read the rest on Ao3

[cheeriecherry]

Space Between [9/9][Shouta Aizawa x Reader x Hizashi Yamada]

EraserMic x F!Reader

Part 9/9

Warnings: brief descriptions of blood and violence, but nothing graphic. A little bit of fluffy shit at the end

You sense the impending darkness before you see it. No light shines through your closed eyes, nothing reminiscent of sun or fluorescence.

When you finally muster the strength to open your eyelids, the world around you is far from rewarding. Red shines off the buildings and structures around you, giving them some sense of form, though you can’t decipher where the dull colour is emanating from.

It looks like you’re back in the city, standing right where you were when Akuma took hold of you, but...everything is empty. Hollow. Cold. No people take up the streets, no sounds of voices or passing cars, not even wind or warmth from the sky.

You wonder for a moment if you’ve lost your hearing, but shortly realize you can hear the crinkle of small stones beneath your shoes.

Where am I? You wonder, whirling around where you stand.

The small movement nearly crushes you with a wave of vertigo, and the sudden onslaught of what feels like lead in your veins. It weighs you down, encouraging you to stay where you are.

Am I dead?

No, you think. You can still feel your heart beating in your chest, slow and wet and heavy. It feels wrong somehow, fluttering against your ribcage, while your mind supplies that you should be panicking, should be scared, wary, hysterical. It contrasts too harshly with the steady, even pulse.

You’re too calm.

You should be running, trying to find a way out.

But...you can’t find it in you to care.

You’re dying, a voice whispers in your mind, unfamiliar and separate from your own thoughts. You need to get out of here.

‘How?’ you try to say, but all that comes out of your mouth is a sickening gargle, followed by a series of phlegmy coughs. The pressure within your chest dawns on you then, another thing that you should find yourself concerned about,

But you don’t care-

MOVE!

The voice shouts in your head, briefly startling you forward a couple steps.

Your foot catches on the edge of the concrete, and you tumble forwards, crashing hard onto the sticky sidewalk. You stay like that for a moment, letting the cold tar seep in between your fingers, trying to catch your breath.

Maybe if I just rest for a while…

Something in you wants to stay where you are, let yourself breathe for a moment, let yourself rest. You can carry on in a moment, right? It’ll be okay if you sit there for a couple seconds…

Right?

How did you beat this? You ask in your mind, recalling how your old partner had fought against Akuma’s power. How he had faced her without an ounce of fear in his eyes, even as her tar sank further and further into his body. How he had remained steadfast and absolute until the very end. Even while her quirk was sapping the life from his limbs.

Surely he’d seen this place where you now sat? This lightless, lifeless world, devoid of hope?

How did you get out?

The pressure in your chest increases, and you gasp momentarily for air. 

Even hallucinating, your death was going to be slow and painful, sickening, dreary, dark, alone-

The second you shut your eyes to blink back tears, the feeling of a hand on your head lights your senses. It’s fleeting, the barest of touches, but it’s gentle and warm and offers you the briefest of respites.

When you open your eyes, no one stands before you. Not Shouta, not Hizashi...no one.

You’re alone.

Alone.

I’m going to die alone.

A laugh bubbles out of your throat, foreign and unsettling in a silent world. It’s cold and empty, but you can’t seem to stop yourself. Even as the laughter turns into sobs that wrack your body, you can’t do anything to appease it.

I’m letting her kill me. Why am I letting her kill me?

You tuck your knees up against your body, finding a more comfortable spot on the ground. 

I was stupid to think I could ever beat this.

The tar on the sidewalk soaks into your pants, chilling your legs and making them ache.

How am I supposed to get out of here, as I am now? I’m weak, and angry, and lonely, and alone-

You glance down at your hand as something tickles across your fingers. You feel, more than see, a swath of warm air cascade up your arm, prickling the hairs as it dances across your skin up to your shoulder. It dances around your neck a couple times, shivering your hair all about, before it blows directly in your face... and then goes still.

You breathe deeply, taking in the small comfort. It smells like…

Like the sheets on the bed you share with Hizashi and Shouta. Like the leftovers in the microwave, that you warm up at midnight for them. Like Shouta’s shampoo when you hide your face in his neck, and Hizashi’s cologne that’s rubbed off on his shirts you steal...

...it smells like home.

You open your eyes to the darkness again, when the leaves on the ground begin to crinkle ahead of you. You watch as they dance across the ground in circles, a little whirlwind just a couple feet ahead of you.

If you could get to it…maybe…

You scoot forward a little, your limbs shaking as you make your way towards the abnormally sentient breeze. You’re barely getting enough oxygen as it is, but the smallest of your movements spur on another bout of wet, sickly coughs.

The wind, however, twirls around you once again when you come to rest beside it, offering you another split second of peace. With your eyes open this time, you can see the slightest flecks of gold that float within it, shimmering faintly, no bigger than specks of dust.

And you’re less surprised when it takes off ahead of you again, then pauses to wait another few feet down the walkway.

You continue the little game of chase for several rounds, until your little piece of hope rounds the corner of a building and disappears from your sight.

Don’t leave, you beg silently. Please! I need you, I need-

Laughter echoes from around the corner. Bright and happy, a laugh you’d heard countless times over the years, achingly familiar in the best of ways.

Hizashi.

Without thinking, you push yourself to your feet and stumble forwards. Your lungs are burning, screaming at you to slow down, take a seat, rest, for the love of god, please just let me rest. But you continue forwards, cold and shaking, starving of oxygen, tired and battered and covered in tar.

This time when you meet your little hope again, and it tangles around you, you can hear the faintest of sounds. Distant yells of voices, car alarms blaring, the wind in your ears. 

The sounds of home.

The cluster of smells and gold dust and comforting sounds dashes forward yet another time, though it does not slow as it previously had, instead maintaining a steady pace while you tumble after it. Longer steps, a faster pace, faster, faster, faster, until you’re sprinting and panting, and you can hear the life of everything you left behind.

You barely even notice as the world around you shifts, tilts, brightens, as light reappears in the sky, and then-

----

You pinch your eyes shut as white light glares across your face, instinctively rolling to the side.

Rolling?

When did I get on my back?

You flail around for a moment, trying to catch your bearings, until your palm collides with what you assume is the ground. It’s sticky and thick, and for the barest of second you wonder if you’re still under Akuma’s control.

But when you blink your eyes open, readjusting to the regular brightness of daytime, you happily realize that no, no you’re not under her control anymore. You’re covered in her tar from head to toe, but you’re warm and you can breathe.

You made it. You won! You-

“Give it up, Eraserhead! Your little pet is dead, there’s no use fighting me. No one escapes me. No one!”

The voice that had been the cause of so many nightmares for so many years, chilled and grating and cruel, now sparks nothing in you but anger and hatred. White hot rage, a demand for justice.

She wont take anyone else from me ever again.

You push yourself to your feet, a task you’re glad has been made significantly easier now that you’re not under the influence of Akuma’s quirk, and turn towards where she stands.

Just in front of her, pinned to the ground under her heel, is Shouta. Your Shouta. Akuma’s tar soaking into his uniform, reaching his skin, soon to fill his lungs-

Without thinking, you dive at her.

Her surprise is evident, a brief expression of disbelief on her porcelain face, before you both crash into the pavement, the back of her skull taking the brunt of the impact.

You’re up in half a second, ready to fight her, and it takes several ticks for her limp body on the ground to register in your mind. Unmoving, unseeing, broken and lifeless. Blood seeping from the back of her head, pooling slowly in an uneven halo around her.

She’s dead, you realize. She’s dead, and you killed her. You killed Akuma.

You’re not entirely sure what you should be feeling right then. Relief, maybe? The woman had tormented you for years, made your life a living hell, and now she was gone. Pleasure? Vengeance achieved? Guilt over taking the life of another person? Fear over what the public would say if they found out?

The world moves slow around you, fragmented into still images as you stumble over to Shouta and collapse to your knees beside him. His breathing is shallow, but as Akuma’s life drains from her, so too does the tar enveloping your boyfriend’s body.

You rest a shaky hand on his cheek. “Shouta,” you rasp weakly. “Shouta, open your eyes?”

His eyelids quiver for a moment, before he squints away from the sunlight, turning his head so his face lies in your shadow. His dark eyes are unfocused for several seconds as he regains his bearings, and they widen by an alarming fraction when his gaze finally settles on you.

“Y/N-”

He tries to sit up, wobbling slightly on trembling arms. He ends up pitching sideways, straight into your chest, but you’re unconcerned. He seems to be relatively unharmed, no blood or signs of open wounds, not even a bruise. So you simply wrap your arms around him and hold him tightly against your body, reveling in his presence.

Even as police cars and emergency vehicles race up, and other heroes begin to appear on the scene, you keep him safe against you; and he seems content not to move, for the time being.

----

The next couple days are hectic. Police reports, hospital check ups, various news outlets trying to get into contact with you for an interview. Hell, even rebooking your missed therapy appointment is a bit of a bother.

Your doctors understand, of course, it couldn’t be helped that you had to miss your time slot, but a little piece of you feels guilty for not being in tip-top shape. You’re working on it, though.

You’re working on being more lenient with yourself, and trying not to be angry when you have a bad day. “It happens sometimes,” your therapist says, “even when you aren’t recovering from something traumatic, you can still have bad days. It’s okay to not be in good form all the time. It’s how your body and mind tell you that you need to rest a little and recuperate.”

Words that you’re only just starting to believe.

Shouta and Hizashi have been helping as well, neither one of them drifting far from you when they have the option. They’d been taking alternating days off for the past half-week, making sure someone was home with you at all times. You might have felt a little suffocated by the action if they’d done it before the attack, but now you’re glad you don’t have to be alone.

You still find yourself jumping at loud noises, peeking around every corner, and stirring in the night from unpleasant dreams, but you find it’s a little easier to deal with when you have a warm body to curl up against and stick your cheek on.

It’s a little easier to deal with, when they shower you in love and affection.

Despite the repercussions of everything still lingering, of still being tightly strung from several years of trauma, you’re...happy. You feel more like yourself than you have in a long time. You can feel the distance between you and your old life closing, and the space between you and Shouta and Hizashi is as slim as it once was.

“You alright, sweetheart?” 

Your blond partner’s gentle voice drags you out of your thoughts. You glance at him with a warm smile, away from where you’d been staring out the open window.

“Yeah,” you tell him honestly, “I was just reflecting, is all.”

“That’s a good thing, I hope,” Shouta rumbles from the doorway to the kitchen, balancing three mugs of hot liquid in his grip.

You and Hizashi both reach out towards him, taking your respective drinks, waiting for him to settle beside you before you take a sip. You lull into a comfortable silence, with a shoulder touching one boyfriend, and your knee brushing up against the other. You know things will have to go back to normal eventually, but for now, you’re content to enjoy the company of the two people you love most in the world. 

And who knows, in a couple of months, maybe you’ll feel ready to join them out in the field again.

-END-

[katsukis-sad-angel]

FatSquadCanons; During and right after the Chisaki arc

Pairing: Taishiro Toyomitsu x Reader, Eijirou Kirishima x Reader, & Tamaki Amajiki x Reader

Summary: The Fat Gum squad and their girlfriends/wives/fiancees during and right after the Chisaki Arc in My Hero academia

Warnings: Sex talk, slight angst, mentions of intercourse, cock-warming, swearing, cuteness

Author’s Note: That gif below brought back the sun, cured my depression, got rid of my anxiety, cured the coronavirus, and made Jesus rise from the cross and beat the shit out of Pontious Pilate

Enjoy!

Taishiro Toyomitsu

Mostly SFW

Misses you

A LOT

You’re so pretty and happy and you give the best hugs and have the sweetest voice so being deprived of those things for so long…

But he had to focus

They had to save Eri, so he couldn’t have your elegant features staining the cloth of his mind right now

You, on the other hand, try and cope with your worry, lust, and sadness by rolling up in his spare hero hoodies and his big black shirts because they’re warm and they smell just like him

You miss the way he held you in his arms as though you were made of porcelain, the way he kissed your lips like it was the last time, his big, warm, soft stomach you could sink into, the twisty blonde hair you loved combing your fingers through, his big smile, his huge hands, his hugs, his lips, his dick, and his laugh

That chuckle...

It would be the death of you

You just wanted to be back in his arms… or in his lap…

Or under him while he fucked your brains out

Pick one

He hasn’t been home in 2 whole week

So your touch starved as fuck, hungry for dick, lonely, sad, and worried

You’ve been eating dinner alone and the news has been on nonstop

So when he comes home with bandages all over his scraggly, skinny yet buff body, you immediately start bawling your eyes out

You’re so happy he’s safe and alive

He holds out one of his arms to you and you stumble from your chair and collapse into his arms

“Tai! Oh, my god!”

He picks you up and carries you to the couch like the goddess you are and lays down with you, kissing your cheeks, telling you how beautiful you are and how much he missed you until your stormy sobs have calmed to the occasional violent hiccup

“Honey bear, it’s ok. I’m here now. Don’t cry sweetheart…”

I want him to call me ‘honey bear’

The two of you lay there for the rest of the day

You get up occasionally to get your man food and to take a piss, but that’s about it

Refuses to let go of your waist even though his stomach sounds like a possessed garbage disposal

“Don’t worry about me Y/n, I’m fine. Just stay here, ok?”

You rest your head on his chest to listen to the beat of his heart

Nice pecs pillow

Forehead kisses, ear nibbles, ass and thigh grabs, hand kisses, etc

He’s all over you

He thinks you such a beautiful goddamn queen through the bright red tearstains and the evidence of emotional eating that had gathered on your hips

He tells you that, just the part about your cute and squishy hips

You end up falling asleep like that under a pile of blankets

NSFW

The very next day, as soon as you’re up, you start riding him like a horse

“That’s it babygirl, be a nice little cowgirl for me. Just like that~”

“Did you miss my cock while I was gone?” He’ll whisper in your ear, sucking on one of your piercings

“Yes, fuck yes I did Tai!”

Holds your bouncing hips with the one hand that works, kisses you, sucks tiddy, and makes sure you get off at least twice before he does

When he’s done, you collapse on his chest, panting

For a couple of hours, you lay there cock warming him because he asked you to

Then his stomach started up again and you got off and fed him everything in the house while naked because he asked you too

The end

Because you asked me too

Tamaki Amajiki

SFW

…

Poor sweet elf boi

Doesn’t really know how to cope

Spends a lot of time locked in his room

You notice he’s eating less

When he allows you to come into his room, he’s always wearing one of the hoodies you let him have

On those nights, there isn’t a lot of talking, but there is a lot of cuddling

He rests his head either on your chest or your stomach, wraps his muscley arms around your waist and holds you close

Whispers ‘I love you y/n.’ every so often

You’re really worried about him

His pretty black eyes are dull, he slouches more, Mirio can’t cheer him up, you can’t cheer him up, his indigo floof droops a little, dark bags under his eyes, stutters a lot more → talks even less than before, he looks sad, and is jumpy

He’s been really distant too

Staring off into the distance, completely zoned out and lost in his thoughts

24/7

So one day when he comes back from patrol with that spunky redhead and Fatgum, you go to his room and knock

No answer

You knock again

Still no answer

You fumble with the doorknob, but it’s locked

Using your quirk, you manage to get it open

“Tama, why is your-”

“Tamaki?”

Tamaki Amajiki was rolled up in several blankets, making him look like an adorable burrito

He was struggling to escape his warm cocoon, squeaking softly as he attempted to get his arms out

He blushed as soon as you saw him and then tried to hide his face in embarrassment, but you didn’t let him sink too far

You smiled indulgently and helped him unroll

“Tamaki, if you were cold then- Wait… are those my socks?”

“Yes.” He mumbled, hiding his face in your shoulder

You giggled

“Don’t be embarrassed Tama! If you want my clothes, just ask!”

You wrap your arms around him and pull him down so you’re laying comfortably in his bed together

“How are you doing?” You coo, stroking his soft indigo locks

“Awful.” He mumbled, burying his face in your chest

“I’m sorry to hear that…” You reply, tracing the indent on the back of his neck, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yes. But I’m not allowed.”

“Oh. That’s ok. I don’t mean to be insensitive, but just try not to think about it. I know it’s hard and you’re under a lot of pressure, but tonight, just think about me. Or takoyaki. Or Nejire and Mirio.”

“You smell good.” He whispered bashfully, “New perfume?”

“Mm-hm! You like it?”

“Yup.”

“Good.”

You smiled sweetly, letting his soft voice (I love you Aaron Dismuke) play its melody over and over again in your brain

You were so lucky

You kissed his forehead and whispered, “If you need someone to talk to, I’m right here Tamaki. Ok?”

He nodded sleepily, eyelids drooping from lack of sleep

“I love you bunny.”

“Sweet dreams.” You sigh, relaxing in his safe embrace

NSFW

Don’t get me wrong, Tamaki is one of the sweetest, kindest, most adorable yet hot guys EVER, but he isn’t some fucking pushover

He’s domming your sorry ass in bed, whether you like it or not

He’s got tentacles

TENTACLES

GOOD HENTAI ANIME = TENTACLES

And he fucking knows how to use them to make you scream

He also has a cow hoof you can stretch yourself on

What happens if he eats noodles?

But that’s beside the point

Tentacles

With those, he can tease you, tie you up, make you cum, squirt, serve as a second dick for ur arse, put them in your mouth, etc etc etc

Anything you can imagine

Picture this: Tamaki is fucking your from behind, buried to the hilt in your cunt. Two tentacles trapping your arms against your back, one in your ass, one in your mouth, and one massaging your throbbing clit

You’re overstimulated, moaning, and crying from the pleasure, pain, and overwhelming arousal

“Do you like my tentacles Bunny? Does it feel good?”

“So wet for me… such a pretty Bunny when I fuck you like this.”

“More? Greedy bunnies get punished~”

Loves it when you’re all needy, hot, and bothered underneath him, begging for just a simple touch

It makes him feel really strong and happy

Knows it feels good because you make the most erotic faces

Nuts almost immediately when you do → tongue lolling out, eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream, and cheeks flushed

Aftercare? 

You won’t even remember the accidental scratch you got from the lobster claw

Sore pussy and/or ass?

Hickeys?

Dry throat?

Hungry?

Anything marring the beautiful expanse of skin before him?

Gone

He’ll massage you, give you a bath, food, water, endless kisses, hums to you softly, bandage you up (if need be) and tuck you in

He NEVER wants to lose you to someone else, so he makes ABSOLUTELY sure, you’re 100% feeling loved at the end

He loves you so much

Never forget that

Eijirou Kirishima

Mostly SFW

Baby boy…

He has been very distant since this whole thing started

No more study and cuddle sessions (where you normally end up fucking)

Fewer hugs and kisses

No big girl fun time in bed

Not as many baby shark doot doo doo doo doo smiles

*author drowns in utter despair*

All you have are the clothes you steal from his closet every now and then

(every time you’re in his room) cough

So while boi is being a distant and depressing fuck, you bundle up in all 11 of his Crimson Riot hoodies (some of them are used as pants) and think about him

His garnet irises, his adorable sharp-toothed smile, his killer upper body, his soft red hair, his voice (thank you Justin Cook), his hands, his dick, his manliness, the tiny scar above his eyebrow, and his sharp jawline

Perfection

Kiri, on the other hand, wonders why you’re spending so much time in your room all alone and why fuck cuddle nights stopped

Right when he needed all of the love and support, it stopped

Were you mad at him?

Did he do something to upset or offend you?

Did he say something rude or insensitive without thinking about it?

Did you get tired of him?

Did you want to break up?

Had Bakugou finally stolen your heart from him?

He couldn’t tell

You looked to upset all the time, giving him distant looks, suddenly running to your room with your eyes full of… shit, were those tears?

No, not eyes full of shit

Eyes full of tears

Come on guys

He ran after you, but by the time he got to your hallway, you were already locked in your room

He knocked on the door

“Who… Who is it?” You whimpered in a choked voice

“Uh, Eiji… your boyfriend…” He said softly, running a hand through his softened locks, “Can I come in?”

“I…” You pause, “I guess. Gimme a minute.”

Shuffling sounds

*nose-blowing*

Then the door opened to reveal a slouching you in one of his hoodies

You had a used tissue scrunched in your fist

“Babe, are you ok? You’ve been acting really weird lately and I’m worried!” Said the pure ginger shark

“E-Ever s-since you s-started that work-study, you’ve been r-really d-distant so I thought you might’ve f-found someone else. Either that or you j-just needed t-time alone.” You whimpered, holding back tears for what seemed like the billionth time that day

“Baby girl, no one could ever replace you!”

Sharky pulls you into a hug

“I’m sorry you thought that Y/n. I’ve just been really zoned out because I’m trying to balance school, work-study, and our relationship all at once. I really need those study nights honey, I’m begging you. You explain stuff so simply and your notes are really descriptive. I love you so much and I don’t like it when you’re sad, because then I’m sad and then everyone is sad.”

“Eiji… I’m sorry, don’t blame all this on your self. I’m just being a whiny bitch.”

“Don’t say that!!”

“But I-”

You were cut off by a kiss

Eijirou cupped your flushed cheek tenderly with one hand, and with the other, he held the small of your back so you were flush up against him

“Eijirou…”

That night, you fall asleep on his chest, but Kiri can’t sleep

His phone on your nightstand flashes and he carefully picks it up, turning down the brightness so as not to disturb you

Apparently, it’s time

Carefully, he slips out of bed to join Midoriya, Ochaco, and Tsuyu downstairs

NSFW

When all of that is over and Kirishima is in your arms safe and sound again, he gets down on you before you even pull out your flashcards

Presses you back into the carpet and starts sucking your face

“Eiji? Wha-”

“Sssh.”

Clothes start flying everywhere except away from you and your horny boyfriend, who has moved onto your neck and jawline, kissing and nipping along your collarbones and mandible

You thread your shaking fingers through his pretty red hair

“So wet for me already?” 

“Mmmh, you smell so good…” Eijirou moaned, sucking your puffy clit, his hands clamped on your hips to prevent you from bucking or squirming

“M-More… please, more! I need more Eiji~”

“Did you miss me, or just my cock?”

“Both- fuuuuck~ Eijirou oh my gOd~”

“You like that sweetie? Huh? Tell me how much you like it~”

…

*coughs*

You can hardly walk the next day

But don’t worry

Kiri will treat you like a queen and carry you around until you fall off or feel better

No studying happened unless you count Eiji learning to make you squirt

Otherwise, no

Neither of you did anything productive

But you did have a fun, sensual evening with the person you loved most

Nighteye Squad hc’s coming soon!

[justatiredghost]

It wasn’t strange, seeing Ben just standing there in front of him. Klaus could always see Ben after all, but that’s not what this was. Ben was flesh and blood now, looking down at himself like he’d never seen his body before, which he supposed was partly true, it had been over a decade since his death. They were manipulating the timeline to stop the apocalypse, so why not tweak it a bit more to save a few lives? Best Timeline, and all that. So of course their brother had been at the top of the list.

And Klaus was overjoyed that they’d managed to prevent Ben’s death, of course he was. He’d always wanted this for his brother. But a quiet dark part of him that he hated more than anything whispered that he was sad too, because now he was truly alone.

His smile felt too brittle as he watched his siblings cheer and hug Ben, back from the dead, and he of course joined in, promising himself that he’d never let anyone know. This wasn’t about him, this was about Ben and he deserved happiness more than anyone.

“How do you feel?” Vanya asked.

“Too much,” Ben said with a shaky laugh, still looking at himself in wonder, gripping his arm tightly as if he might fly apart.

“All right, all right,” Klaus said, clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention. He regretted it when Ben flinched. He knew what it was like, the sensory hell that could overwhelm you, drown you. He continued at a more normal volume. “Let’s give him some space, yeah?”

Who would have thought Klaus out of all of them would be the voice of reason? It was honestly a little odd, having them actually react with something other than contempt to an order of his, but this was life and death and he was the only other one who had any experience with it.

“Are you hungry?” Mom asked, because that was how she showed her love. Klaus wondered what she was feeling, to be honest. Was it dulled as she struggled against the programming to be herself, or did it hurt just as much as it did for the rest of them, feeling so much?

“Yeah, actually,” Ben said with a sudden wide smile. “Fuck, it’s been ten years. I think I’m starving.”

“Great, I’ll make your favorite. Waffles with bacon?”

“Thanks Mom,” Ben said, shooting a grin in Klaus’ direction, like they were sharing a secret and Klaus treasured it, doing his best to mirror it. How long until they wouldn’t have this shared language and history anymore? He tried to ignore that thought and instead focused on all the times he’d eaten waffles for Ben. Eaten anything really.

Dinner was a loud affair, everyone wanting to talk to Ben, clamoring to be heard over each other. Ben seemed to be taking it in stride though, he always had been so patient. He was the only one who had been able to put up with Klaus, after all. Or maybe he was just so glad to be able to talk to them for a change.

After his death, for the longest time none of them believed he was really there, although Klaus supposed that was his fault. If anyone else had had ghostly abilities, everyone would have believed it and Ben probably would have been much better off, he could have been talking to them all this time instead of only recently on the few occasions he had managed to manifest him.

Klaus was sitting on the counter, legs swinging back and forth, for once staying mostly silent. He’d already hogged more than enough of Ben’s time and as selfish as he was, he didn’t want to be for this. But then he noticed the way Ben winced when their arguing siblings started to gain in volume, and figured he should intervene.

Klaus knew he could never really be there for Ben the way Ben had been there for him. He’d saved Klaus’ life more times than he could count, just his presence a comfort when Klaus felt like everyone had abandoned him. But he had to at least try to return the kindness. He hopped off the counter and headed over to lean against the table beside him.

“You hanging in there?” Klaus asked, dropping a hand on Ben’s shoulder.

Ben flinched at the sudden contact, but tried to cover it immediately. No luck, though, Klaus could read him like a book after all this time and he released him, giving him his space, making a note not to do that again.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” Ben said quickly. “I think I’m just getting tired. I should probably head to bed.”

“Righto,” Klaus said with a mock solute.

There was half-hearted grumbling but they let him go. Klaus followed shortly after, waiting for a moment when he could slip away unnoticed. He didn’t have to wait long. He poked his head into Ben’s room only to find it empty. He tried the bathroom door. It was unlocked.

After being literally tied together for ten years, even longer if you counted how inseparable they were as children, they both had no real concept of boundaries or privacy so he didn’t really spare a second thought, he just pushed the door open and walked inside. He found Ben just standing there, staring at his own reflection, looking so tired and grim.

“You are a handsome devil, aren’t you?” Klaus joked because he didn’t like his expression.

“It’s actually super weird seeing myself, you know?” Ben said, mustering up a smile.

“So what do you want to do? Shall I draw you a bath?” Klaus asked, gesturing dramatically.

“No thanks, I never really liked baths as much as you,” Ben said with a weak smile, arm absently wrapping around his stomach as if to keep his insides from spilling out onto the floor and Klaus supposed that was partly true when you had a monster living inside you. Ben quickly lowered his arm when he realized what he was doing.

“I’ll try not to be offended on behalf of baths everywhere,” Klaus said, trying to lighten the mood. “Ah fuck, I just realized, you’re gonna have to remember to brush your teeth now. That sucks.”

“Toothpaste tastes worse than I remember,” Ben joked.

“Come on, bro, give him some space,” Diego said, bumping his shoulder into Klaus as he walked past. It wasn’t done out of spite, there wasn’t even enough strength behind it to do more than jostle. He always had been bad at feelings, Klaus wondered if it was his attempt at friendly touch.

“Right, right, sorry,” Klaus said, hands raised in surrender. “I’ll let you get to it then. Do you need anything?”

“Nah, go sleep,” Ben said, shooting him a grateful smile.

But Klaus couldn’t sleep. There were the screaming of ghosts, sure, but also there was the crushing loneliness. He knew Ben deserved to have some alone time, he’d been stuck with Klaus for what must have felt like an eternity. Sure, he could disappear to who knows where when he wanted to get away from him which honestly wasn’t as often as Klaus would have if he’d been stuck with himself, but that was beside the point.

Ben had his own life now. He needed sleep, he needed to live and it wasn’t fair to selfishly demand all of his time just because Klas was feeling a little lonely. Would Ben even want to spend time with him now? Klaus had already driven all of their living siblings away, none of them could stand him as he constantly self destructed but Ben hadn’t had a choice, he had to stick around or be alone forever. Now that he was free, surely he’d make the only reasonable decision and put as much space between the two of them as he could.

Klaus wanted to be different, though. He didn’t want to make his siblings miserable anymore. More than anything he wanted to be there for Ben, he didn’t want to be selfish or for his family to think he needed everything to be about himself. He didn’t want to lose Ben after everything they’d been through. Not that Ben owed him the chance to prove that.

Consumed by his thoughts, Klaus sat with his head hanging over the edge of the bed, hands fiddling restlessly with anything within reach, full of a terrible energy. Being sober was fucking awful. That was a phrase that crosses his mind almost constantly. He told himself it was worth it.

Sure, Ben didn’t need him to use his powers anymore, but he still needed to see Dave. And, well, he didn’t want to disappoint his siblings again. He didn’t want to give Ben one more reason to leave him behind either.

Eyes tightly closed, he flinched as a ghost screamed his name. And then he flinched again at a light tapping at his door. For a terrible moment, he thought maybe he’d accidentally given a desperate ghost physical form and that it was coming for him, but then his door cracked open and Ben stuck his head inside.

“Can I— come in?” He asked hesitantly.

“What’s the matter? Missing my stunning presence already?” Klaus joked even though he didn’t believe it. Anything to lighten the mood and make his brother feel better about all of this.

“Yeah, it’s weird not hearing your annoying voice all the time. It’s like background noise at this point, it’s just not the same without it.” Ben said, because it was easier than saying he didn’t want to be alone, or so Klaus imagined. Maybe it was the monsters in his stomach, or the newly being alive thing that made Ben seek him out. Either way, it didn’t really matter. If Ben needed something, that was all he needed to know.

“Come in, come in, welcome to my abode,” Klaus said, throwing his arms wide. “We aren’t as small as we used to be but I’m sure we’ll both still fit.”

Ben rolled his eyes at his showmanship but did as instructed. The bed was a tight fit, but they didn’t mind. They used to share a bed all the time growing up, both of them struggling with nightmares almost constantly. Eventually even Dad had given up trying to catch them whenever one of them snuck into the other’s room. It was easier for him to just pretend it wasn’t happening. Klaus took his hand and squeezed it, trying for an encouraging smile.

“This is stupid,” Ben grumbled, rubbing his forehead with an embarrassed smile.

“Nah, happens to the best of us. You know how I sleep, though. Not my fault if I shove you off.”

“Brave of you to assume you could,” Ben shot back and for a moment it felt like normal and Klaus could almost, almost believe that nothing had really changed between them.

“Is it Them?” Klaus asked more seriously and they both knew immediately what he was talking about.

They’d had this conversation many times before he died. Klaus had to deal with ghosts screaming at him while Ben had to worry about his own body playing host to monsters even he was afraid of. That was partly why they got along so well. They both hated their abilities. The only difference was Ben couldn’t run away from them like Klaus could when he turned to drugs. If he could, maybe he never would have died.

“Yeah,” Ben said, looking away. “I’d forgotten what it was like. Obviously They were still there after I died, but I couldn’t feel Them like I can when I’m alive. It’s not just that though.” He paused for a long moment before continuing, voice quiet, still not looking at him. “I-- I don’t know if I like being alive.”

“What, too much responsibility now?” Klaus joked, desperate to make his brother smile. “You’d think there’d be less now you don’t have to deal with my sorry ass.”

He never had been very good at saying the right thing. Making people laugh though? He could usually handle that. It broke his heart that Ben was struggling but he wouldn’t be in this alone at least. Ben chuckled a little at the comment, but he could still see the pain in his eyes.

“There’s just so much, all the time,” Ben said. “I forgot how loud everything was, how much there was to feel. It hurts sometimes. And I don’t just mean the Horror.”

“I know,” Klaus said, feeling a pang in his chest.

He really did know. He’d spent most of his life, starting at age 13 for christ’s sake, trying to numb it all. Not just the ghosts but everything else they’d been put through, the trauma and the abuse. A part of him couldn’t help but feel special that Ben would trust him enough to confide this in him. Then again, he was probably the only other one fucked up enough to really get it, this sort of despair, deep down in your core that goes beyond sadness.

“Don’t tell the others,” Ben said. “I don’t want to worry them. I don’t want to die again or anything, I just, I don’t know. It’s a lot.”

“I get it,” Klaus said. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

“Thanks,” Ben said, offering up a weak smile. There was unfortunately little Klaus could do to actually help, but then he didn’t think Ben was expecting that. Hopefully this would be enough for now, knowing he wasn’t alone. Still, the atmosphere was getting a bit heavy so Ben changed the subject. “What about you? How’s being sober going?”

“Oh, fantastic,” Klaus said. “So great. Never better.”

“And, as usual, you are a terrible liar,” Ben said.

“Shut up, I’m a great liar,” Klaus said, taking his pillow and hitting Ben with it.

“Oh you did not just do that,” Ben said, grinning as he grabbed his own pillow, and just like that the tension was gone. “Finally I can kick your ass.”

It was nice to have Ben here and alive again.

-

Klaus was not doing okay. He rarely was, but today he was particularly bad. He sat in the corner of his room, hands over his ears as if that could help block out the ghosts. He couldn’t. He might have been rocking back and forth but he wasn’t sure. There was only the screaming. Every time a ghost reached out to him, he flinched, afraid that maybe this time they’d be able to grab him and then there would be no escape.

He could ask any of his siblings for help. Not that he knew how they could help, Klaus was still learning how to cope and had been having very little success. Then again, even if he did ask, would they even believe him? They rarely did, brushing it off as him just trying to be the center of attention. Annoying Klaus, always too loud and too much.

And sure, sometimes that was true, most of the time growing up especially. They all already had too much to deal with, he’d rather joke around than actually talk about the shit they went through. But even then, more often than not, he was trying to drown out the ghosts, to be heard above them. Being dismissed and ignored just made him feel worse.

Ben would believe him. He always knew what to do, what to say. Especially since he’d gone sober, Ben was probably the only reason he’d made it this far. But he didn’t want to go to him now. Ben had his own life, his own concerns. What time was it even? He could be asleep. Klaus couldn’t constantly harass him with this. He’d driven all of his siblings away, he couldn’t risk doing the same to Ben.

Klaus had spent the last few days slowly withdrawing from his siblings as he felt himself growing worse. He could deal with this himself, he just had to wait it out. And this way he wouldn’t risk losing any of them again. Maybe some music would help drown them out. Music always helped.

The door burst open and Klaus toppled over in his surprise. He tried to look casual, reclining on some pillows hoping he didn’t look too tense. It was Ben and Klaus mustered up a smile for him. That was a habit they should both probably work on breaking, otherwise it could become a problem. It would be harder to keep his problems to himself if Ben could just barge in at any moment.

“Hey,” Ben said, dropping to sit on a pillow beside him. “Diego and Five are planning to do some sparring, which sounds like a recipe for disaster. You should come down and watch with me, I’m making popcorn.”

“Hey, yeah, that does sound amazing. Why don’t you go ahead and I’ll follow in a sec,” Klaus said.

Ben started getting up but paused. “Hey, what’s up?” he asked.

“What? Nothing, nothing at all. Just lounging, ya know?” Klaus demonstrated by leaning back and raising an arm dramatically.

“You can’t lie to me, Klaus,” Ben said, leveling him with a look.

“It’s nothing, I’m just tired. You know, people get tired.”

“Look,” Ben said. “I know it’s easier for you to hide now that I’m not haunting you, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna let you wallow here all alone.” He leaned back, getting comfortable like he was planning on sticking around.

“Oh, come on, Ben,” Klaus said, throwing a pillow at him, trying to ignore the ghost screaming directly into his ear, hoping his voice wasn’t too loud. “I’m fine, just go back outside. I’ll meet you there to watch Diego and Five get way too into it and destroy the courtyard in a bit.”

“Look, we need to talk,” Ben said with a heavy sigh and Klaus couldn’t help but flinch in anticipation. “You’re shit at asking for help. And I know why, I get it, I really do, but I know your tells. I’m not letting you push me away too. Even if you don’t want to talk, the least I can do is keep you company.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Klaus said with a heavy sigh.

“I know, but I want to. You’re my brother.”

“That never stopped any of the others,” Klaus said. He didn’t sound bitter. And he wasn’t, really, just sad. And tired.

“That’s not fair,” Ben said.

“Isn’t it though? No, you’re right, I’m sorry,” Klaus said, backtracking immediately and feeling guilty he’d even let himself think that. “I’m not being fair at all. I didn’t make it easy for any of them. I wouldn’t let any of you help me. And there wasn’t really anything anyone could have done anyway. But you still tried. Saved my life countless times. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do in the helping department.”

“Okay, there’s apparently a couple different conversations we need to have,” Ben said seriously. “Yeah, you really didn’t make it easy, but that still doesn’t excuse how they treat you sometimes, and I know it’s frustrating. But also, this isn’t a competition, you don’t have to make anything up to me. Besides, you’ve done just as much for me all these years.”

“What are you talking about? I made your afterlife hell.”

“Even high out of your mind you always made my comfort a priority, even in stupid ways like making sure I had a chair. Besides, why do you think I stuck around? I mean, sure, it hurt watching you kill yourself over and over, and sometimes you’d drove me crazy, still do, but I wanted to be here. With my family. You guys didn’t abandon me and there is no way I was going to abandon you all.”

“You should. We’re not worth this. Especially not me.”

“Shut up,” Ben said, elbowing him gently. “You are. Especially to me.”

“This family is fucked up,” Klaus groaned. He dropped a hand on Ben’s shoulder briefly. “Guess we’re stuck with each other.”

“Yup,” Ben said, stretching out and resting his legs across Klaus’ lap.

They eventually did go watch the sparring match. A couple injuries on the part of those dueling and a destroyed courtyard later, Klaus was feeling much better. Ben still wanted to be there with him, even when things were bad even though he didn’t have to be anymore. Somehow just that knowledge seemed to help when the ghosts refused to leave. They both had a long way to go getting used to their new lives but at least they didn’t have to do it alone.

[sweetcatmintea]

Pedigree part 2

Here’s the second part to Pedigree! I hope you enjoy this little story ^u^ Feedback appreciated!

Part One: Here

Words: 1850

          Romeow learned quickly. Still clumsy on his paws, he took to launching face first at prey. He missed more times than succeeded, but the ones he caught were so sweet. He learned to trot blindside to Rosa. Of all the animals in these woods, she was the only who wouldn’t take the opportunity. His curiosity was voracious, her mothering was not soft. Too many times he ran headfirst into danger, saved only by a furious caterwaul and a blur of claws slamming into would be predators. There was no time to be grateful before she turned around, cuffing him about the ear for his foolishness. Somehow, he preferred that to what fallowed. Without fail, he would end up pinned down while she fretfully groomed his face until she could convince herself he was okay. She was a fearsome mother.

          There was no denying that Rosa had become, comfortable – for lack of a better word, with the solitude of her wild life. Equally, she’d be lying if she said everything wasn’t a little more with her son. The breeze was a little more pleasant. The water a little more refreshing. The scents a little more vibrant. He made her happy in a totally new way. The trance like happiness of her past was nothing like this new vitality. It was a buzzing feeling that swelled in her chest in a way she never imagined possible. She loved each and every one of her kittens but there was something different about this one. Perhaps she was covering her constant dread of the very real dangers of the wilderness with joy. Perhaps she was starved for someone to look after. She couldn’t tell. But when he would tear out of the long grass, rat clamped in his jaws and tail high with delight, she couldn’t hide her happiness. She was so very proud of him.

          He would speak of his old life every now and then. Musing about what his siblings were up to – had they gotten ribbons yet or was he still the only one? He would boast that, had that dog met him now, it’d be the one limping away. Though Rosa didn’t believe that for one second, she humoured him, purring at the thought. Sometimes he’d wonder about when his people would return for him. She really wished he wouldn’t. She had tried to be gentle about it, in her own coarse way. It wasn’t that she was worried they weren’t coming back, but that they would. And he would go with them. The thought that they’re hurt him again terrified her.

          The shivering winters gave way to spring, filling the woods with new life. Birds became reckless, dive bombing anything to step foot neat their nests. Rats and mice scurried about, collecting food to support their massive families. Though the cats did not have to worry about going hungry, the spring brought a different threat with it. Humans ventured into Rosa’s territory, attracted by the blooming flowers and the chance to see a baby animal. Although not exactly teeming with people, there were still more than she’d have liked. Given the option, she’d take none. As though she didn’t have enough to worry about without kids stomping through the bushes, climbing trees, and scaring all of the prey away. She thought she’d have a heart attack when Romeow was grabbed when he approached one. She’d torn out from the leaves, hissing and thrashing until they dropped him and fled. She marched him straight home, asking over and over if he was hurt anywhere. At this rate, she was going to go bald with worry.

          Despite that mishap, things were going well again. Romeow had been scared straight and they’d managed to avoid all human contact thus far. A particularly nice day, Rosa lay sunning herself on a forgotten slab of granite. She lazed, listening to the rustle of life around her. An especially daring skink copied her idea on a smaller rock. Luckily for him, she was full. She licked her chops at the memory. Rabbit was such a special treat. She wasn’t sure when, exactly, but at some point, she realised that she hadn’t heard her trouble making son for a while. She wasn’t too worried. He wasn’t entirely useless on his own. Still, she sat up, chirping to him. No reply. He mustn’t have heard her. Gliding off the stone, she wandered towards their home, calling as she went. When she arrived alone, worry began to twist her stomach. When there was no response to her calls, it took root, vines of anxiety tied her guts in knots. Her easy lope turned into a trot, then a sprint. He was nowhere.

          Catching a scent trail, she raced along it. Paws barely touched the ground as she slowed just enough not to lose it. Her heartbeat slammed her ears, but she heard it anyway. The frightened cries of her child. She’d never moved so fast in her life. Claws ripped open the earth and were frayed in revenge. White nothing filled her head. Romeow was struggling. Immobilised by human’s arms and wrapped in a towel. He saw her and shrieked. The person hurried to their car, another was halfway in with a box open, and a third behind the steering wheel. She hadn’t even processed what was happening as she ran to him. She wouldn’t let them take him. They couldn’t have her son! Whether because of the screaming mother or the renewed struggles of the son, they sped up. They all but threw themselves into the car. Gone before she could reach them. The roaring motor couldn’t drown out Romeow’s cries. She gave chase. Of course she did. It didn’t matter that it was useless, she couldn’t just let them go. Exhaust fumes teamed up with her biology to suffocate her, stinging her too small nose and making her eyes burn. Legs giving out, she collapsed, numb. Everything was too loud and silent at the same time. There was nothing left. The world had ended and everything was exactly the same. Eventually, she hauled herself to her paws and staggered back to her empty nest.

          Her husk fell into routine. Wake, hunt, eat, sleep. Wake, hunt, eat, sleep. She didn’t care when she’d caught a hawk. It was just a matter of survival. She didn’t bother grooming sticky barbs out of her matting fur. It left too much freedom for her mind to wander. Wake, hunt, eat, sleep. The rapid weight loss didn’t bother her. She hardly felt her bones creaking together. The instant her mind escaped her claws, it returned to Romeow. Where was he? Was he okay? Were they hurting him? What if they dumped him someplace else and he was cold and alone? It was too painful. She dragged her unkempt claws over stone to shut herself up. She knew that one day, she’d likely have to farewell her son. It was a part of motherhood after all. But not like this. This was too cruel.

          When her nest became too big and too cold, she left it. Preferring to curl in a hollowed log near where Romeow was taken. There was always the dull hope he’d find his way back. So, she waited.

          And waited.

And waited.

          And waited.

          When a car pulled up, she considered moving. Slinking back into the brush, returning only once they’d left. Lingering resentment whispered to stay. Chase them away. This was her territory. The decision was made when she heard an unexpected noise. Over the human chatter, Romeow called to her. She was going to vomit. There was no way. Peering out from her hiding place, a little cat with a squirrel-stolen tail stood amongst the people.  The world snapped into hyper focus. A harness wrapped his torso, a long lead in one of their hands. Blue met yellow and both cats became rigid. The humans seemed to notice, shushing one another. Romeow let out a delighted meow, running to his mum. Rosa met him halfway. All but barrelling him over to lick his face and inspect for damage. It wasn’t until one human tried to approach that she stopped. Arching her spine and teeth bared, she stood between them and Romeow. Whispers passed between them. Seemingly in agreement, they nodded to one another, then slowly lowered themselves to the ground. Rosa didn’t know what to make of their behaviour but growled for good measure. She almost choked on it when Romeow trotted back to the people, purring as they scratched his back. The human cooed softly to her, trying to coax her with chicken strips. She couldn’t move. They couldn’t be trusted. Humans let their dogs run free. They abandon their kittens to die in the cold. They steal your children. They leave you alone to wait and wait and wait. But there was her son. Returned to her and trying to convince her that these ones were different. These ones were good. Yeah right. They would get bored soon, probably try to take Romeow with them, and leave her alone again.

          But they didn’t. The moments stretched out and they stayed put. Night birds chittered and they continued to coo sweetly at her. Cold wind cut them until they shivered and they still didn’t leave. Rosa’s defences stood no chance against their gentle patience. One timid step at a time, she managed to approach. They fed her the chicken, or what was left thanks to Romeow, without a fuss. When Romeow led her into a carrier that shut behind her, she panicked, but he soothed her, gently grooming her like she’d done for him so many times.

          It took a long time to adjust to her new life. These new people were different to the ones she’d once known. They enclosed an entire section of their yard for her to go into whenever she wanted. The birds couldn’t get int, which was a shame, but neither could any of the other creatures that had stalked her just as often and she’d hunted them. She and Romeow were allowed anywhere they wanted to go in the house. No-one seemed to mind the fur that stuck to every surface. Romeow was spoiled with toys, scratch towers, and walks whenever he made a fuss. She was too old for that nonsense. She definitely didn’t race around batting the feather orb when no-one was looking. She wasn’t lonely anymore either. Each person greeted her every morning. Whenever they left, they petted her as soon as they returned. They didn’t mind when she didn’t want to cuddle, simply stating that her highness required space. Her fur had been shorn, too matted to brush. As it regrew, they took it upon themselves to ensure she remained knot free, not because she was beautiful but so she would be comfortable.

          Life was different here. She wasn’t Rosa Once anymore. Now she was Daisy. Romeow had many titles but was best known as Spunky. It’s been said that cats go by many names, but if she was honest, she liked being Daisy best.

Tag list

@inkovert and @snobbysnekboi

[gigiree]

the hedgehog dilemma

a/n: despite goodwill, human intimacy cannot occur without mutual pain. they never thought it was supposed to be literal. in which some idiot cursed the Ladybug and the Cat to experience pain whenever they touch.

a one shot for MariChat May Day 12- touch starved.

It is often said that you’ll see stars if a kiss is good enough.

Ladybug is fairly sure this isn’t what was meant, but it’s a somewhat humorous thought that flashes through her mind as the pain lances up from her lips and runs through her body. A sharp, stabbing pain that leaves an acrid taste in her mouth, mingling oddly with the fading scent of the menthol chapstick that had been on Chat Noir’s mouth.

It’s working. A gambit she knew would cause her pain is paying off. The only price is a few seconds bent over in agony, fighting off waves of nausea and stars shooting across her sight.

Somewhere to her left, Chat Noir has broken out of Dark Cupid’s spell with a high pitched yowl, hands furiously wiping at his mouth as if that somehow could relieve the sting of the magic.

The stars in her sight begin fading, and she looks at an irritated, confused Chat Noir with an apologetic, pained grin.

“Sorry Kitty. It was the only way I could think of to break you out of it.”

His mouth works to say something beyond the pain and the grogginess settling over him, post-hatred induced stupor, but Dark Cupid makes his entrance again and it’s all lost to the heat of battle.

She gives Chat Noir the usual air salute once it’s all said and done, the space between his fist and hers giving him that same old familiar longing. He hides it well and she usually seems unaffected, save for this time.

There’s something too melancholy in her expression to let him feel like this all ended on a good note.

“Ladybug...is everything okay?”

She shakes her head, nervously looking from him to a point over his shoulder, avoiding eye contact.

“Look...the kiss, I had to break the spell somehow. Figured something stronger than the regular pain would work best…” She wrings her hands together, anxiety punctuated by the beeping of her earrings. Time and circumstance are not on her side today.

“Wait kiss...What kiss? I thought….” He is cut off by another set of high pitched chimes coming from his own ring.

“I should go.” She shoots him another sorry smile, before sprinting off into the distance.

His quiet goodbye is left to fade in the growing space between them, swallowed by the backdrop noise of the bubbling fountain.

He touches his fingers to his lips, piecing together her words and the lingering threads of pain that made them slightly sore to the touch.

“HOLY SHIT. She kissed me?!”

——

“You’re drooling again.” Plagg points out unhelpfully, in between bites of Camembert. He’s curled up on a clean sock, tucked away in a corner of Adrien’s desk that’s hidden by a computer tower.

“Am not.” Adrien says petulantly, but wipes away at the corner of his mouth all the same. He sticks his tongue out at Plagg, who returns the gesture.

His fingers linger unconsciously on his mouth, straining to remember anything beyond the memory of pain. Searching for something pleasant that he could hold onto.

“She had on strawberry flavored lip gloss. And her lips might have been really soft.” He muses, and decides that these will be the few details he’ll savor. He knows the curse won’t let him touch her without pain, but he is a boy in love, and he’d rather keep his rose tinted glasses on. For the sake of his sanity, more so than anything.

Plagg shoots him a look full of pity that Adrien isn’t willing to indulge. It would be all too easy to fall into a “woe is me, I can’t even touch the person I love” bit.

He’s...mostly just happy he met her at all.

“You…” Plagg begins, but there’s something melancholy in Adrien’s stubborn clinging to his feelings and optimism. So the little god merely sighs, and pats his boy’s wrist. “...your priorities are a mess.”

Adrien gives him a wry smile, curling his fingers to scratch Plagg under his chin, glad that at least he can express this form of tactile affection.

—

She’s finally able to hold him, to touch him and encircle him in her arms, hold his sturdy weight and lay him down on her lap.

This isn’t what she wanted.

This isn’t what she imagined.

His breathing is as heavy as her heart in her chest. His words are sweet, and sickly as the blood pools in the corner of his mouth.

She’s holding him and her hands are pressed against the wound in his side, and the world is bathed in the golden hour, touching them delicately with a goodbye.

“Don’t go. Don’t go, Kitty. I need you.” She says.

His eyes are pained, but he tries to speak.

“I….I love…”

She leans over him, her red hair (this isn’t right) drifting over her shoulder and the edges dangling just above dark chainmail.

(This can’t be real.)

She kisses him without thought and there is no pain save for the sadness in her heart, her sobs sieving through her clenched teeth as he drifts.

“You have to stay. You can’t just leave!”

And when her tears clear up, she notices that his brown eyes (that’s not right) are dull. The emotions that well up in her chest and hurl out of her mouth in a grieving scream are hers and not hers.

This is too much. This is lonely. She doesn’t want to feel this. Feel him and his dead weight in her arms.

She wakes.

Her mouth is dry and open in a silent scream. Her cheeks are damp, and she’s curled up in a ball under her sheets.

Tikki is soothing her, whispering words of comfort as she smooths back her hair.

“I’m so sorry Marinette. It will be okay. It wasn’t yours. Those weren’t your memories. Breathe.”

And Marinette is crying but underneath all the horror and lingering bits of sadness that root into her chest, she wants to yell. She wants to rip the earrings from her ears and hurl them into a drawer.

But she swallows that frustration down and finally manages to choke back her tears.

Tikki is always apologetic when these dreams happen. Past Ladybugs who’d lost their Black Cats. To injury, to circumstance, to betrayal, to life.

But she’s only as powerful as what she knows. And all this little god knows is that it was the guardian a few hundred years ago that decided there had been too many dynamic duos broken apart because they’d managed to fall in love.

And it was this same guardian who had never told the Kwami how to undo the painful restrictions he’d placed on future Ladybugs and Chat Noirs.

Any other time, Marinette would have laughed. It was akin to a strict teacher, placing a ruler between a dancing couple and asking them to leave room for whichever deity you chose.

But the memory is fresh in her mind and no matter how sorry Tikki is, no matter how much this isn’t her fault, all

Marinette can manage is a broken “I know. I know.”

“It was for your own good. For his good too. Maybe the Guardian was a bit overzealous, but...there were so many...” Tikki says.

Marinette lets loose a bitter laugh, the sounds of nightly  traffic outside swallowing it up.

“I get it. Things get messy when there’s emotions involved. I’m not going to fall for him. I already love someone else...I just want…”

Tikki politely doesn’t mention that Marinette is already falling for her cat. She simply doesn’t know it yet. And Marinette goes on with her reasoning.

“It would be so much easier if I could touch him without it hurting. When he’s injured? When we have to work together? Even just telling each other good job and bumping fists? Something so simple like that shouldn’t hurt that much, Tikki.”

As wise as she is and as much as she tries to seem like she knows everything, there are somethings she simply cannot defend.

To Marinette’s excellent point, all Tikki can manage is a sad “I know.”

——-

It is at some point in this ever frustrating situation that Marinette cracks.

She stares at her Lucky Charm in disbelief, and sitting innocently in her hands are a pair of cheerfully polka dotted oven mitts.

“This Akuma can fly, and you give me oven mitts?” She shouts at the universe in particular.

When she’d first accepted this role, she’d accepted without hesitation that she’d be keeping her identity secret. Standard hero cautionary measures. What she hadn’t expected was the “no touchie the kitty” stipulation.

Tikki had apparently forgotten to warn her, and after their first “Bien Joué” had been swiftly followed with both of them bent over, clutching their hands as the brief sting faded away, Marinette had learned the hard way.

She’d taken it all in stride. But the Akuma had become increasingly difficult, and this condition had long passed the point of being irritating. It was dangerous.

The plan she comes up with is inelegant. Blunt force, but it’s all she can come up with.

She places the oven mitts on, checks with a befuddled Chat if he’s on the same page.

“How well can you land on your feet, Kitty?”

He grins.

”Good enough, I guess. Need oven mitts to hold me because I’m so hot?” He quips, and his smile softens as she laughs warmly.

“You wish.” She says, before hoisting him in her oven mitts and launching him at the incoming Akuma.

When all is said and done, and several aerial puns have been made, the little boy is back in his mother’s arms, clutching onto his good as new toy airplane.

Ladybug flings the oven mitts up into the air with a little much vindication cresting her expression, but the situation is resolved.

They give the same familiar “Bien Jouè”. The space between them is a sad thing to watch, and she withdraws her fist away faster than usual because she doesn’t like being reminded.

Chat Noir leaves first this time, a thoughtful expression crossing his face.

—-

The next time she sees him, his left foot is tangled in the fairy lights ringing her balcony, and a sheepish grin plastered all over his face.

Chat Noir has a strange relationship with Marinette. Something that teeters the fine line between very good friends and strangers that will trust each other with things simply because they can judge but it won’t affect their everyday life or relationships.

He has on occasion come asking for cookies or a midnight snack, and ever since she’d helped him defeat Illustrator all those months ago, she’s been sort of content to let these chips fall where they may.

But he comes to her today with a request.

“You’re the only one I could think of to ask for this.”

He hands her a crumpled piece of paper while at the same time, trying to untangle his leg from the lights. She peruses it, the sounds of a struggling Chat serving as her background noise.

She takes in the childish sketch. A scribble of what looks to be a stick figure with cat ears, sporting some sort of clear colored overcoat. Below is a list of hastily written out ideas

Gloves over gloves

Apron

plastic

A onesie

She’s not sure if she wants to burst into laughter or tears after seeing this list, but the silly cat looks ready to leap away back into the night if she so much as cracks a smile at his expense.

Chat...what...is this for?” She asks, her mind already blaring an answer that’s both heartbreaking and ever so sweet.

He runs at his arm, eyes askance as he struggles to phrase his answer.

“You’ve...uh...you’ve noticed right? I’m sure most of Paris has by now...especially after that Ladyblog theory article.”

Marinette plays dumb. It’s her only tactic in this moment when her emotions threaten to tear her tongue loose into a confession that is not needed.

“What theory? I haven’t been keeping up lately.” Her voice pitches too high at the end, and she winces. He doesn’t seem to notice.

He’s sheepish.

“Oh...the uh...speculation as to why Ladybug and I never really touch? It was...a pretty good breakdown. Whoever runs that blog has a good eye...and probably too much time on their hands.” He laughs, but it’s hollow.

Marinette gives him a reprieve.

“You can’t touch her...for some reason? Right?”

He nods, and she feels her chest lurch with the realization that he’s been suffering just as much as she has.

“Is it something to do with your powers?”

He withdraws further into himself, as if saying it all out loud is the final nail in his predicament.

“Chat...do you want me to design something that can let you two touch?”

He unfurls into the most awkward defense, a flush spreading across his cheeks just below his mask.

“I-it’s for our teamwork to be better. It’s been getting harder and harder to execute things together when it’s like this. I...i promise it’s not for weird, perverted reasons ...I just...want things to be better.” He finishes, with a breathless plea.

He’s nervous, standing now too close to her, looking down at the drawing with something like hope.

She doesn’t have the heart to deny him this.

“It might take a while to come up with something good. You can stay for a bit...there’s some cookies that just came out of the oven.”

His face breaks into beaming happiness.

“Thank you so much Princess! You’re the best!”

She feels a rush of heartache when she has to dodge his embrace, and he lands on the ground behind her with a yowl.

She shakes her head, and steps over him. Her heart twisting in her chest because she can’t even offer him a hand up.

“Uh...sorry...not good with touch, remember?” She says quietly.

He looks a little crestfallen, but is completely understanding as he apologizes profusely.

She waves it all away with a sweet bit of laughter, wishing that she could just reach out that short distance. Help him up when he falls, Give him a playful pat, ruffle his hair or lean on his shoulder like she does with all the other people she cares about.

Yet she’s so scared. She’s so unsure if the rules still apply when not suited up. She’s terrified of finding out.

(And deep down, it’s so much more than just the fear of physical pain.)

But for now, she can still enjoy his company. Can still laugh at his quips and dig in a few jabs of her own. She has that at least.

——

He stays over for three hours. Three hours spent with her viewing him from all angles, having him strike pose after pose.

Hours spent with her sketching a few ideas, bouncing them off him for opinions.

“Okay okay! Idea! A super soft, super comfortable cat onesie? It can be stylish and easy to wear!? Perfect right?” He

She has to resist the urge to shove a cookie in his mouth when he pouts ever so adorably at her.

She catches the small twitches at the corner of his mouth. The glittering mischief alive in his pretty green eyes. The tuft of hair that keeps falling into his face.

Something within her aches, yearns for something she never would have counted as a loss. She quickly tosses a pillow at home to distract him (and herself) and swivels her chair back to her current sketch.

It’s with an almost painful awareness that she feels the smooth wood of the pencil in her hand, the hardness of her desk where she rests her forearm. The crinkling of the paper as she moves.

It seems her mind is intent on reminding her how much touch can distract.

Marinette is a tactile person by nature. So this inability to bridge that final gap, the totally normal inclination to share human warmth, it’s become so much more than an annoyance.

It’s dangerous in a different way.

But he seems to take it so much better than she. He’s unbearably understanding. Gentle and careful when it comes to her, as Marinette or Ladybug.

She feels the tears prodding at the corners of her eye , and she spies Tikki’s sympathetic glances from behind the computer monitor.

She gives her a small smile, but it devolves into a disbelieving laugh when she hears thin snoring come from behind her.

She turns in her chair, and sure enough, Chat Noir has slumped against her divan, mouth wide open, and a thin line of drool at the corner of his mouth.

With a sigh, she pulls a spade blanket from the edge of her bed, and carefully drapes it over him, all the while avoiding touching him.

The blanket is finally settled, and he still hasn’t woken up. She’s closer than usual, and her wide eyes take in the lovely planes of his face, the lines of his jaw and the shadows that ring his eyes.

The lopsided tilt of his mouth, the recognizable scent of some luxury perfume.

“Marinette!” Comes Tikki’s startled voice, hissing a quiet warning.

That tuft of hair has once more fallen into his face, and she finds that her hand has begun moving to brush it away.

Her trembling fingers stop, just inches away from his forehead, and she backs away with a yelp.

This is certainly a dangerous situation, her heart sings in her chest.

She’s inclined to agree.

——

She wakes to the spare blanket draped over her shoulders, her head on her desk and her neck stiff.

Tikki bids her a good morning, and points to a sticky note stuck on her computer monitor.

Thank you for everything, Princess. You’re paw-sitively amazing. I didn’t want to move you to your bed because I wasn’t sure you’d be comfortable with that, but I hope the blanket helped. See you soon!

-CN

She tacks that note with a fond smile to a sketch that holds promise, and then moves to begin her day, grateful that she hadn’t dreamt of memories that weren’t hers to grieve.

—-

She sees him sooner than she’d expected.

Hawkmoth doesn’t exactly care for regularity, and today is no exception.

She’s ready for the nearly ritual routine. So is Chat.

He arrives, wrapped up in a scarf and mittens awkwardly placed over his leather gloves. He is ungainly and unsightly, the powder blue scarf out of place against the leather of his suit and the orange of the mittens is too loud.

Ladybug does not laugh this time, because she understands what he’s trying to do and it hurts her all the more how hard he’s trying.

“I’m sure there’s got to be technicalities to this whole thing, My Lady. But for now, I think we can manage it like this.” He tells her, sheepishly holding out a mittened hand to her, smile inviting and nervous.

He’s so vulnerable and she can’t help but overcome her fear just a little, and place her hand in his.

“Bien Joue, Kitty.” She tells him, gives his fingers a quick, affectionate squeeze, and then swiftly devolves into business mode, the loud monologuing of the Akuma sounding closer and closer.

She rockets off in that direction, and Chat follows close behind, all the while relishing in the momentary, pain-free warmth that had drifted from her hand to his.

——

He begins to suspect something is intensely strange about Marinette’s aversion to touch.

As Adrien, he’s watched her embrace and pat and touch just about everyone in the class, including him.

Their friendship has become something of a blessing to him, outside of his costume and in. She’s refreshing, bright and earnest in a way he hadn’t expected when first meeting her.

She’s grown more comfortable with him as Adrien, enough that she’d even consented to a brief, friendly dance with him.

Still, there’s an openness she displays with him as Chat Noir. A sharper tongue, a more raucous laugh, a head full of strange imaginings and teasing.

In a way, he thinks she’s closer to Chat than Adrien. In another, he wonders why, if that’s the case, she won’t seem to touch him as casually.

He wonders why, when fitting nights, turn into movie nights, there’s always a number of pillows shoved in between them on the bed. Or why everytime she finds herself too close, that he feels her hastily move further away.

He’s still hurt by it, but he will respect her space, ignoring the familiar yearning that tugs at his chest.

But in his mind, he’s begun to connect things. The avoidance of touch, little moments, little quirks, all building up into a wondrous, terrifying conclusion.

He wonders how thick he had been, to not notice the obvious similarities. Plagg doesn’t want to give him answers, no matter how much he bribes and pleads. But he doesn’t seem to dissuade him from his line of thinking either.

The only problem is he’s unsure how to prove this to himself, or if he even should. He feels ashamed for even thinking about this, remembering his promise to her to keep their secrets.

But it’s on the final fitting session that he finds the problem taken out of his claws so to speak.

—-

He finds that her design is the best solution. A hooded grey cloak, draping long and lightweight against his body.

She’s added small details. Little cat ears to the hood, a simple system of straps and buckles meant to hold his baton in back to allow him easy access to his suit should he need it.

Long cuts on the side to allow for ease of access. Matching gloves that aren’t cumbersome over his original ones.

It’s exceeded his expectations and he’s at a loss for words as he looks in her full length mirror. He catches the bright green lining, and the hidden interior pockets she’s sewed in.

“I uh...I don’t think I can add much more without making it heavier, and it’s a rush job, but I hope it’s okay.” She finishes, waiting with trepidation for his final verdict.

Fortunately, his enthusiasm is palpable. His eyes are wide and doing that stupid adorable shining thing, and his hands are clasped.

“Marinette...this is...the coolest thing?!!” He exclaims, whirling around happily to let the panels of the cloak float out around him. “It’s like straight from a video game or like a ninja cloak!”

She lets out a snort.

“I’m glad you liked it, Charuto.”

He laughs too, a wild, happy sort of sound that makes her own heart leap in answer. But she feels the giddiness of the moment thread through her muscles, it works through her jaw, preparing her to say something, but he beats her to it,

“Maybe...we should test it out?”

He stills for a moment, and sees her reflection in the mirror behind him open its arms wide and her smile turn nervous.

He turns to see exactly that. Marinette looking at him with something akin to hope, inviting him for a hug.

He strains not to leap forward and gather her up into the warmest embrace, his excitement fading in the remembrance of how his touch was always avoided.

“You...you sure, Princess?”

She nods quietly, and lets out a yelp of surprise when he closes the distance between them, and ever so slowly, pulls her into a gentle hug.

The cloak rests between them at every possible interface, and she finds her body slumping in his arms with relief.

The loophole had worked. But she’s been angry for a long time. The warmth between them, painless and natural and everything that should have been theirs long before this makes the decision she’d been contemplating for a while solidify in her mind. she throws all caution to the wind when she tells him…

“Bien Joue, Kitty.”

He stops breathing for a second, she can feel the little hiccup of his breath and she marvels that something so small as that seems miraculous in this moment.

As scared as she is, she’s only human. (She knows Tikki May disapprove, but Marinette is only human.)

She doesn’t move either, and then, with equal parts fear and joy, she’s pulled further into his embrace, her chin resting on his cloaked shoulder as his gloved hands come to press against her head and back.

“Bien joué, My Lady.” He says, and pulls away, tears welling over the edges of his eyes and trailing down his mask.

He gives a watery laugh at her startled expression.

“What?”

“You...you’re not very surprised.” She begins, but then shakes her head in frustration. “I guess the no-touching thing made it kind of obvious.”

“Just a little bit.” He says, but his grin is far too big for his face and even if they’re hugging right now, she still has to stop herself from pinching his cheek.

It’s a bit of a damper on their newfound discovery, but they decide that small victories should be celebrated too.

——

They become a little braver, a little more reckless. Despite the increasing frequency of her dreams and Tikki’s apologetic kisses, Marinette feels braver. Not enough to complete this whole reveal, because she’s scared that whoever he may be underneath the mask, would be lost to her too because of this curse.

The next time they meet, he plays with his ring, twisting it up and down his finger and she figures what he wants to ask before asks it.

“I...I’m sorry Chat...not yet. Soon, but not yet. I don’t know...if I’m ready to find out who you are yet.”

He wants to ask why, but the sorrow in her gaze stops him. He hides his hands in the folds of his cloak, and returns his gaze to the droning television, absentmindedly latching onto the conversation being had by the melodramatic actors.

Marinette falls into silence, but he sense she wants to say something more.

“Can we try something?”

He turns his gaze towards her, and he struggles to swallow his heart beating in his throat, because she’s lovely in this moment.

Fear and worry and burgeoning expectations linger in her expression, flashing through her face like a deck of cards. The dim light of the television throws her face into stark relief, deepening the shadows and reflecting off her large eyes.

Suddenly, his cloak feels too warm, even though Marinette had done an excellent job of making it with all sorts of weather in mind.

He shifts uneasily, imagined static building up in the space between them as Marinette lifts one of her hands up from behind the pillow barrier, and raises it, palm towards him.

There’s a flash of terror that lances through him, but it settles down as he sees the resolve wind its way into the set of her mouth.

She looks so determined to try, and he finds himself answering her call to bravery, peeling off a glove, and raising his hand, letting his palm hover inches from hers.

Parallel, never touching because of some overzealous idiot from eons ago.

She swears can feel the molecules of air, bouncing, kinetic, between their hands. She can feel the heat radiating through the leather, can see the way his fingers tremble.

She looks at him once more, just to make sure she’s not pushing him into something potentially fraught with pain.

He gives her his goddamned best smile, and she answers it by meeting palm to palm, and twining her fingers through his.

She’d expected pain. She’d expected to see white spots dancing in her vision and to be curled up in a ball.

Instead there’s nothing. It’s almost disappointingly anti climactic as they stare at their clasped hands.

Then the realization settles in.

“Holy crap...it worked.” He says.

“We can touch...like this.” She breathes.

And then, her hands are on the clasp of his cloak, and she barely manages to eke out a hasty apology by the time she unfastens it, and he shrugs it off.

When it’s all said and done, she’s fully embracing him now, head tucked into the crook of his neck, hands threading through his messy hair. His fingers patting her back, holding her close.

So much warmth and and long overdue affection flowing between them. When they separate for a bit, Marinette laughs and smooths back the bit of hair that keeps falling over his eyes. And he runs his claws gently through her ribbons, awed.

Wordlessly, they lean forward until their foreheads touch, and they remain like this. Both of them half laughing and half crying in disbelief as the space between them disappears in this moment.

And whatever may come, and whatever future struggles they may face with this curse, they’ll be okay, so long as they can celebrate these little victories.

—-

[shelbysbrother]

Wake Up Call (cora & helios)

Wake Up Call: One of our characters is trying to wake the other up

It was to be a morning of dull meetings for Helios. Or rather, it was according to the advisor that continued to squawk at her, rattling off every single detail to Cora like she didn’t already want to choke him. Finally, when they reached Helios’ bedroom doors, two stoic guards at either side, she rounded on the portly man with a forced smile. “Unless you want to see the king indecent, you’ll let me get him ready for these oh-so-important meetings. Okay?”

Without waiting for an answer, she bowed her head and glided through the grand double doors, closing them quietly behind her despite her heated exit. There were probably other attendants who could do this. Cora had her own rooms for more than one reason, and they were often where she spent the night, more comfortable and safe underneath her own sheets. As the dutiful wife she had to be, she came to his quarters when he called, but those weren’t always nights she wanted to remember. In fact, they hardly ever were. This morning, however, she had volunteered to rouse the king from his slumber, insisting the staff needed a break, and she needed more time with him. Truthfully, she’d had visions of being anything but sweet, yet as she turned to finally face her sleeping husband, all thoughts of toying with him vanished.

For as larger-than-life as Helios tried to make himself appear to the public, he looked awfully small in his extravagant room and his grandiose bed, the ceilings too high and the room too sparse. He looked alone. And she hated, more than anything, that he looked so innocent. Cora sighed and stepped closer to the bed, the room barely lit except for the light that slipped through the curtains. He laid face down on the bed, head buried into the pillows so much that she could barely see the side of his face. He still wore his pants and boots from the night before, his shirt the only thing that had been discarded. Probably too tired to do much else, she deducted. The sight of him made her want to put more covers on him, not off. Stars, how she hated this. She hated that her heart tugged for him right now.

It was too much like how she daydreamed it would be when everything was right. She would be the doting wife who woke him sweetly each morning, who took such good care of him for the rest of their days. And she would have, too. She would have taken such good care of him. But, the reality of it was, had he not betrayed her and everyone she loved, she would never be with him. And even with that, he still wasn’t hers. Not really. She tried to remember that as she carefully sat on the plush mattress, but the temptation to pretend, just this once, was too strong.

Her fingers glided along his bare back, running sweetly down his spine and back up again. She did this for a few moments, fingers tracing all sorts of different patterns on his back before her hand finally went to his hair, stroking it back with a gentle touch. How many times had she pictured doing this? Just this? Was this how Priam and Selene woke up next to each other? Or Rhea and Cadmus? Was this what it could be like to be married to someone you love? She sighed at the thought, finally pulling her hand away slowly when she knew she had to actually wake him soon. She couldn’t keep playing in a fantasy. Oh, Helios…

“Don’t stop,” came a gentle voice that wasn’t as thick with sleep as she thought it would be. Cora’s brows furrowed as she tried to peek over Helios’ shoulder, only to find that his eyes were still closed. Had he been awake this whole time?

Cora leaned in now, laying her arm against his back, and resting her head atop her arm. She used her free hand to stroke back his hair as she’d done before. “If you cancelled your meetings for today, I wouldn’t have to.” But he wouldn’t. “Would you cancel your meetings for me, Helios?”

It was silent, like he was afraid she might stop again if he told her the truth. He told it anyway. “You know I can’t do that.”

“I know.” She knew that if it came down to her and his stolen kingdom, he would always choose his crown. He would always do whatever it took to keep his power safe, and right now, that meant attending boring meetings. Cora could never completely have his heart so long as Norta was in the picture. If she could ever even have his heart at all. Did he know how to love? He supposedly loved Priam, and Rhea, and all of them. Look where that got them.

He turned a little now, not enough to disturb her position much, but just enough so she could lay on his chest instead of his back, her hand continuing to play with his hair as he gazed at her through hooded lids. While she watched him, she brought her hand down from his hair to stroke his cheek, then down further to trail her thumb across his bottom lip. His eyes didn’t leave hers the entire time. “Lie to me,” he whispered unexpectedly.

An unusual request, but she was curious. “What lie would you like to hear?”

Helios went quiet, expression becoming more serious, if that was possible. His hand came up to brush her hair now, a longing in his eyes that she wasn’t sure she could remember ever seeing there. “Tell me you love me.”

That, Cora had no expected. Nor did she understand why he would ask her to do that. Was this a cruel power trip? It didn’t make sense…“Why?”

“Because I want…” he trailed off, seemingly unable to finish that sentence. He wanted what, though? He wanted her? He wanted to pretend all was well as she did? What did he want? What could Helios Calore want that he didn’t already have?

She showed him mercy, though. She showed him compassion she used to always want to give him. Cora leaned in closer, not stopping until her lips were just grazing his. Then, finally, she moved just an inch more to make contact. She kissed him hesitantly at first, and then she felt his arms go around her, his response more urgent than she expected it to be. When she pulled away, she stared adoringly into his eyes, remembering days when she’d wanted just this. “I love you, Helios. I’ve always loved you, and I think I always will.”

How it would’ve made everything so much easier if that were a lie.

“Your turn,” she whispered, pressing another kiss to his lips. “Lie to me.”

He watched her a long time before answering. “What would you have me tell you?”

Cora thought long and hard about all the things she’d always wanted him to say. All the things she would never be able to trust were true now that they were married. “Tell me you love me.” He seemed surprised, like he was ready to protest if given the chance, but she didn’t want him to lie to her until she was ready, so she pressed on. “Tell me…tell me that even if you didn’t need a Skonos at your side, you would still choose me. Tell me that if you could have any girl in the world, you would still want me as your wife. Tell me I can trust you. Tell me I mean something to you.”

“Cora…” Sometimes she could see just when the realization hit Helios, over and over again, that he utterly betrayed her trust and love in him. Her eyes pleaded with him, though, to lay down his pride just this once and indulge her as he used to. Tell her these lies so she could hold on to something when she knew she could never hold on to him.

His mouth met hers again, never rushed, never demanding. Tentative, like he knew he may never get a chance to kiss her so intimately like this again. He tried to roll her onto the bed more, let her head rest against the pillows, but she stopped him, not wanting him to hover over her as he did…as he did some nights. Beneath him, she could let her mind wander. She didn’t want it to wander now. So instead they laid side by side, Helios’ hand trailing down Cora’s arm as he looked at her. It was hard to let down the stony walls she’d put up to keep out the raging inferno that was Helios. She was afraid that, if she let them down even for a second, she would melt right into him. But she tried now. She tried to let him in, if only for this moment.

“I love you.” What a sweet, sweet sound it was to hear. She closed her eyes a moment, let the lie sink in, then looked to him again so he could finish. “Could I have any woman I wanted, I would choose you. Always.” Another slow kiss to her lips. “Trust me. Please.” Again, another kiss. A ragged exhale. “You mean everything.” Carefully, he moved closer to her, pressed a kiss to her lips, her cheek, her jawline, instinct telling him to roll her over so he had a better angle. Self control telling him to pull back again. No one ever said he wasn’t a smart man. “Let me in, Cora,” he whispered, their eyes locking in a heated stare. “I miss you.”

It hit her, this time, that maybe he was as starved for touch and affection and warmth as she was. That being the violent king he’d become meant being a lonely king. And something inside her told her it was what he deserved. He’d asked for this - demanded it - and so he got it. Ironic, actually. She wasn’t the only one who should’ve been careful of what she wished for.

There was another part of her, though, that knew they were so similar sometimes. Both passionate people, both locked away in their own towers - by his own doing, but still. If they had no obstacles between them, they could set the world on fire. What an even bigger tragedy that made all of this.

She pressed her lips to his in a sweet kiss, pulling away after a while to rest her forehead against his. “Do you have meetings tomorrow?”

A huff of a laugh before he shook his head. “No.”

“Good.” She brought her hand to his cheek, thumb stroking the skin there. Maybe, just this once, she could let herself enjoy him. She could let herself enjoy her marriage. “Then I’ll come to you tonight. We can lay like this. Just this. And we can…we can wake up in the morning together. We can hold each other and not be rushed to let go.” She smiled, biting her lower lip to try and contain the overwhelming excitement and nervous energy she suddenly felt. “How does that sound?”

For the first time in a long time, she thought she saw a sincere, happy smile cross Helios’ face. She’d forgotten how boyish he could look when he wasn’t so stoic or stressed. “I think the day will go by too slowly now.”

Grinning, she gave him one last, lingering kiss before she reluctantly parted with him, not missing how he seemed to gravitate toward her just a little, as if he didn’t wish to part either. She got off the bed, walking toward the large window, and feeling Helios’ eyes on her for every second of it. “Prepare yourself,” she said, turning back to him with a smile. He smiled that infectious smile back, turning to bury his face in the pillows so the light wouldn’t blind him. Finally, she pulled back the curtain, and sunlight poured into the bedroom. It was the brightest she could remember it being in a very long time.

[sewrprince]

pairing: shigaraki/dabi

theme: highschool au

summary: after a fight with his father, dabi seeks comfort in tomura.

warning: aftermath of physical child abuse; description of wounds

The rain gently knocks against his window and so Tomura doesn’t realize the soft ‘plinks’ of tiny stones colliding with the glass. A gloved hand reaches up to rub at his eyes, sleep still numbing his mind. He halts, waiting, trying to see if maybe he simply imagined the sounds – but there they were again, insisting. Tomura glides out of bed and tiptoes over the cold floor to the window. Even in the dull light of the street lamps, he immediately makes out Dabi’s form, tips of black hair pushing up from underneath a dark hoodie. He stares up at Tomura, his face covered in the night’s darkness.

If this was anybody else, Tomura would be surprised. But this is Dabi. Nothing surprises him anymore, it’s almost like he’s expecting strange things to happen around this boy; after all, Tomura happened too.

In the time it takes him to unlock and open the window, Dabi manages to climb up the down spout, easily balancing his weight so he can reach for the window sill and pull himself in. For a boy of his height, he was surprisingly graceful, and so much more agile than Tomura – this they discovered on many occasions, like when Himiko suggested them to climb a tree so they could watch the sunset from up high. It took both Himiko’s and Dabi’s help to heave Tomura up and onto the first branch. He didn’t come much further than that.

Tomura steps aside, watching as Dabi rises to his feet, shushing him before the boy’s able to make a sound.

“What are you doing here?” he whispers, heart beginning to beat faster in his chest at the thought of Kurogiri discovering the nightly visitor. “If Kurogiri finds us, then we’re both dead.”

“You let me in,” Dabi retorts, taking a step into the room as Tomura closes the window to keep the rain from spilling onto the floor. “You could have just told me to go home.”

“And you would have?” Tomura asks, turning around to give the back of Dabi’s head a doubtful look.

“No.”

He’s opening his mouth for another remark, but then he notices the tremble in broad but thin shoulders. Gentle hands clenched to tight fists and an aura of tension weaving around the two boys.

“Dabi?” Tomura asks quietly, almost too stricken to break the silence of the room. “What’s wrong?”

The other turns around, pale light crawling over even paler skin and it’s then that Tomura gets to look at his face; his lips are slightly blue from the cold outside, minus the crimson mixing into it, hastily smudged with the back of Dabi’s arm before he arrived at Tomura’s place. Tomura stares at the large cut across the bridge of Dabi’s nose, the swollen cheek and bottom lip, both colored in shades of black and blue. He takes in the brutal sight, and suddenly forgets all his worries of being caught.

“Oh fuck,” he curses, crossing the distance between them in an unsure step, hands reaching out but not quite touching the familiar face. “What happened?”

Dabi chews his lips for a moment, biting the blood back into it. “My dad happened.”

After everything his friend told him, it should be less of a surprise, but Tomura’s mouth still falls open in a mixture of shock and disgust. “Did he– did he hit you? Did he do that to you? Dabi, what –“

“He was picking on Shouto again,” Dabi calls, silencing himself with a hand over his mouth, before taking it back to run his fingers through his hair. He stares at Tomura, almost like he’s expecting him to throw him out. He’s shaking from the top of his pitch-black hair to the tip of his toes hidden in muddy sneakers. The ever-so-calm, charismatic and confident Dabi was shaking like a leaf in the middle of Tomura’s room. The two boys stare at each other for a long, dreadful moment. Right now, for the first time since they met, Dabi is looking like a fifteen-year-old.

“That’s –,” Tomura begins, mouth opening and closing. Awful? Sad? Not supposed to happen? Dabi knows all of this and Tomura’s sure he heard these words before. From doctors who cared for his mother, social workers while looking at him and his younger siblings, school counselors who see just another tragic past and future in Dabi. He can feel the boy’s pain, can feel it running through the layers of his skin and bleed right into his heart. A deep dull ache, spreading like a black blotch over his chest, suffocating and robbing him of words. All the love and tenderness, all the pain and worry that’s been building up over the past months ever since Tomura learned about Dabi’s family situation has cumulated onto the tip of his tongue, only to take the form of nothingness fading with his breath. “I…”

“It’s fine,” Dabi says, as his eyes stray aside and lock onto something in the distance, as his fists unclench and all the tension falls from his bones like an armor. Dabi stands before him, defeated and unsure. It’s the first time Tomura feels helpless in the presence of his friend. “Nothing to do about it.”

“What happened?” Tomura asks, because he needs to fill the silence and if he can’t fill it with a cure then at least words. “Is Shouto okay?”

Dabi lingers, looking around himself as if in search of something. Tomura knows he longs for stability and he knows it’s something he can’t offer the lost boy. He relied a lot on Dabi’s strong nature, on his way of dealing with things in a way that doesn’t count as positively self-destructive. He relied on pillow forts and kisses in classrooms, on fingers hooked together under long-sleeved coats and texts filled with poetry and dreams. He relied on the brightness in Dabi’s eyes scaring the dark of Tomura’s days away – but now that Dabi is standing before him, shivering and lonely, he doesn’t know what to do.

“He’ll never be okay,” Dabi mumbles. He brushes over bruised knuckles. “Not as long as he stays with this psycho, with this goddamn –“

A sudden emptiness robs him of the rest of his words and Dabi doubles over, wheezing and gasping for breath that has been punched from between his ribs just minutes prior. He breaks apart, and Tomura watches the person he cares most about crumble into little pieces before him.

Tomura reaches out for the pale boy, the fear of somehow breaking him further lingering on each fingertip. He can’t fix him.

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispers, the words barely managing to climb past his lips. It feels wrong, shallow and Tomura’s heart clenches violently as Dabi flinches under his touch.

Just two lost boys together. How far did they think they would get?

He forces himself to stay still when Dabi reaches for his hand, tugs at his arm and pulls him into a tender-starved embrace. It takes him a long moment to relax, until Dabi’s familiar smell fills his nose, a tinge of copper mixing in and the tips of coal-black hair tickling his own colorless cheeks. In the moonlight, the blood decorating his lips almost seems blue. Tomura’s hands hover over Dabi’s back for some seconds, before they sink down in defeat, the fabric of the boy’s hoodie scrunching up between his fingers. They don’t share words, neither of them knowing how to lift the weight sitting atop their tongues like lonely kings.

Moments tick by and Tomura feels himself melt into Dabi, the cold of the night not able to erase the quirk-induced warmth seeping through his dripping clothes. His own thin shirt has soaked through, but that’s alright with him.

“I can’t go home,” Dabi mumbles into the crook of his neck.

“You can stay here,” Tomura whispers, chin resting on Dabi’s shoulder, as much as he’s able to with the few inches of height difference between them. He won’t tell Dabi he’s standing on his toes to protect the taller boy from getting a stiff back. “But you have to take off those clothes or you’ll be sick in the morning.”

Dabi pulls away, a lopsided smile pulling at his lips. It’s weak, but it’s there, hiding between the knuckled remains of his father and a makeshift heart filled to the brim with wonderful affection. “Wow, not wasting any time, huh?”

“You know what I mean,” Tomura splutters, debating whether he should shove Dabi in a friendly manner, but then deciding for a false glare from under his lashes. Even with the tragic written over his features, Tomura’s eyes soak in the boy’s familiar face like the gate to a different universe; a gentler world for boys with hearts of glass.

“Yeah right,” Dabi snickers, but complies. It takes him a moment to take off the soaked hoodie, the fabric stubbornly clinging to his skin. Tomura quickly turns around. He busies himself with looking through his drawers to find a shirt that fits Dabi, and doesn’t look like a badly cropped belly top on him. In the back of his mind, he echoes better times, happier times they had, as if they could somehow wipe away the stains of sorrow that Dabi left on his bedroom floor with each step.

“I never thought he’d actually do it,” sounds Dabi’s quiet voice from behind him. “He was violent before, but only during training… I kept telling myself he’s too much of a chicken to go beyond that. Maybe I was just hoping Shouto would be safe from him. God, if I hadn’t been such an ignorant idiot –“

“Don’t do that,” Tomura says, turning around with an old shirt tightly crumpled between his hands. Through his fingers, All Might’s bright smile graces the fabric. “You didn’t do anything wrong, he did. You shouldn’t have to protect your brother from your father in the first place. It’s just fucked up, Dabi.”

Outside the window, the moon hangs above them as a silent witness. Tomura watches the shadow deepen underneath Dabi’s eyes, eating up his youth. After a dreadfully long moment, the taller teen nods, reaching for the worn-out fabric still clutched in Tomura’s fingers.

“Thank you,” Dabi mumbles.

There are daggers stuck in Tomura’s throat, words to fill the void that gapes between Dabi’s tired bones. But all he manages is a nod. “I will get something for your face.”

The house is dark and quiet as he tiptoes through the hall, past Kurogiri’s bedroom, praying his rabbit heart won’t give him away. The bathroom floor is just as cold as the one in his room, and Tomura looks at himself in the mirror while the cloth in his hands soaks with water. It turns heavy in his grip, something he only dully realizes. He wonders how it came to this, how Dabi turned from a curious boy in his class to one that stumbles at night through his window, wearing descendant bruises upon his face and years-old sorrow in his heart. He has heard about the saying, how misery loves company, but he never imagined he would grow so fond of his own.

Dabi’s sitting on the edge of his bed when Tomura returns. Wordlessly, he hands him the wet cloth and watches as Dabi carefully presses the fabric against his lips, wiping dried blood off his nose and cheeks. It might be purely out of habit, but Tomura feels guilty.

“Looks worse than it is,” Dabi reassures when he catches the other boy’s worried looks. “He never held back in training either.”

“Are you going to tell Himiko?” Tomura asks as he sits down next to Dabi.

“She’ll figure things out the second she sees me, so I don’t really need to bother with my wording. Gotta see things positive,” Dabi adds, lips pulling into a lopsided smile that’s not nearly as light-hearted as usual. The cloth in his hand is stained with dark blots. It’s only now that Tomura sees the exhaustion in Dabi’s face, weighing down his features and drowning the usual playfulness.

“You know she’ll offer to stab your father, right?” Dabi snickers at that, charming Tomura’s heart into a flutter.

“And I wouldn’t hesitate to accept, if the douchebag wasn’t paying the hospital bills for my mom. That’s the least he could do, after putting her in there.”

The hint of warmth that crept into their conversation leaves as easily as it had come and they’re stuck in heavy silence again. Tomura doesn’t pull his hand away when Dabi reaches for it. He doesn’t flinch when Dabi guides it to his bruised face, leaning into the palm of Tomura’s glove and hums.

“Thanks for letting me stay like some kinda stray dog,” he says, voice low enough that Tomura could have missed the words.

“Of course,” is all he manages to smuggle past his lips, the sound leaving a bitter taste on this tongue. He wants to say more things, meaningful things, softly nurtured words to heal the wounds on Dabi’s face and the crater in his heart. But the leopard cannot change its spots and Tomura’s heart is too brittle for his young age, too many cracks pulling at the frame and threatening to tear it apart. He’s scared all his love might spill past the edges at once. And what would he have left then? It’s a scary thought, and it silences the ocean of affection pooling on Tomura’s tongue.

They lay down on his bed, Dabi stripped down to his boxer shorts with Tomura’s worn-out All Might shirt covering his lanky frame. Without any words of coordination, Tomura opens his arms so Dabi can snuggle up against the smaller boy, face comfortably tugged under Tomura’s chin. Every time Dabi’s warm breath ghosts over his skin, Tomura’s hair stands on edge. They have cuddled before, but never like this, never with the stars shedding their dusty light onto them and the smell of Kurogiri’s preferred fabric softener encasing their forms. It’s soft, and warm, and good – and all of that with the fear of losing it all at once the next moment, Tomura realizes with a hesitant heart.

With slow strokes, he pats Dabi’s damp hair, feeling his fingers twitch against Tomura’s back as sleep seeps into his tragic-worn bones.

“It’s fine,” he whispers, eyes closing against the pale moon. “I’m with you.”

[senseandaccountability]

Fic: So take this epitaph

Cleaning out my old LJ that will probably be deleted, I’ve decided to dedicate the Throwback Thursday to posting some of my old fanfics. I wrote this immediately after finishing DA2 and kept the entry private over at LJ so no one’s ever read it before. Probably because it’s so darn wangsty. 

F!Hawke/Anders PG-13; warning for character death Anders would have counted the losses.

Anders always counts them, the days he spends locked up in the highest level of the Tower. The rooms up there that breathe of isolation, of punishment and of this will teach you to respect our rules.

Three hundred and five. Six. Fourteen. Twenty-bloody-five.

The first time they drag him back with those loathed chains around his wrists, he is inconsolable and furious. The First Enchanter takes pity on him and brings several books with him which the templars pretend not to notice. He's their youngest runaway in many years; he supposes it counts for something.

And that first time, in between missing his mother's reassuring voice and mourning for the reunion that never took place, he buries himself in magical history. Arithmancy. Magic by numbers. Theories to guide him. A promise of finding a better way of harbouring this new thing in his life, helping him wield it, use it. If magic is reason, there is no need to lock it up.

He forgets most of what he reads in the Tower - most of what he hears, too, since the Circle mages are dull as dust and the only thing worth memorising anyway is how to sneak outside and kiss pretty girls in the high grass until someone finds you - but the consolation of those numbers will always stay with him.

*

Kirkwall has been his home for more than a year – and by then he has helped most of the citizens in Darktown and Lowtown at least once, often twice - when Marian first storms into his clinic.

She's unafraid, unrefined, unbridled and her magic burns inside her, like an almost too-hot fire. Anders instantly knows she has never belonged to a Circle in her life and for a good part of their first brief journey together, he nearly despises her for it. Her talk of freedom is infuriatingly casual because she has never fought for it. It has surrounded her, has become part of her like Justice is part of him and she can't question it because how does one question breathing, or sleeping? Her light-hearted idealism clashes with his own hard-won; he bites back his resentment and offers his aid instead, to compensate.

Soon, however, he finds that she is the revolutionary he could never be. Her resolution and conviction drives them on, urges them forward. She takes the lead, makes plans and gathers resources for whatever they need and she doesn't falter. She has kind words for strangers and coins for the beggars and at the end of the day, she doesn't hesitate to kill people to achieve her goals. Makeshift heroism, she jokes when he brings it up. She can afford it, of course. Being like this – good and brave and strong, occasionally heartless – doesn't take its toll on her. It's merely who she is.

Anders doesn't know if he falls in love with her or merely hopes that she will save him, too.

*

He has known her for exactly three years the night when he battles himself untiringly but unsuccessfully on the way to her estate. It's a dangerous game, a distraction from what they're doing and he keeps pushing it forward without sense or reason because he's too scared and too lonely. Because he's losing himself in all this rage, this self-inflicted terror inside his mind. He is here, he tells himself outside her door, because Marian reminds him of someone he used to be, someone who would not have asked for anything else ever again if she had looked at him the way she did in his clinic before, half-smiling and teasing and just right, fitting into a pattern in his head. He is here because he is so relieved to find that he can care this much about someone, that Justice hasn't taken that away from him.

And he is here, he realises later, because in her bedroom everything else disappears and he is nothing but starved and needy, all but apologising for his urgency. He transforms into someone else – into himself, the way he should be - and it's a maddening moment of freedom right there.

"It's been too long," Marian groans, shivering beneath him, clumsily pushing him down or herself up, clinging to his body.

Anders merely nods, grateful for the mutual lack of finesse.

Afterwards she puts her head on his arm, tracing the hair and occasional scar on his chest with a firm finger, as though she's marking him for some archaic ritual. His hands are still caressing her – one trapped in her hair, the other one tapping gently along her arm, her side. This may all very well be a dream or a frantic, pathetic slice of his own imagination but he doesn't care and it doesn't matter and he kisses her fingertips thinking he might yet be saved.

*

Their first anniversary marks a year of remarkable peace. In the broken, wretched city, they find it in each other. There's a certain amount of selfishness involved, of course, and he figures they have both earned it.

Most days they appear quite normal. He is surprised to find himself so fond of being tied to something, to someone, but perhaps all it took was someone like her. A story old as time.

Most days, he can't believe his own luck.

Marian brings out his humor; he brings out her tenderness and, she tells him in the middle of the nights when her mouth and hot breaths travel from his chest to his stomach and then further down, all sorts of wicked ideas. They argue and disagree – although they never agree to disagree because they're both hot-headed and stubborn as mules - and make up with feverish hands and gentle words in the bedroom; he brings her silly gifts and she tells him that in a better world, they would get married and have four impossibly unmanageable children but in this world they might have to settle for a hovel and cat when all is said and done, but that she won't mind. He never tells her how much it means to hear her say that, even if it's a joke. But he tells her he loves her and he can see that she believes him.

And they celebrate, they keep count.

Even if they combine their cooking skills or lack thereof, they can barely make a meal that is worth eating but it doesn't matter. They eat in front of the fireplace, spread out on the floor. Anders offers her the remains of the cheese, she wrestles with him over the last slice of bread and comes out victorious but only because she fights dirty; they talk until the house grows silent and then she demands to know more about that electricity thing Isabella hasn't kept quiet about.

*

The peace is not lasting.

"Clever to use that Hawke woman as your shield," one of the underground mages says, appreciatively and in passing. To them, she is a small thing. A convenience like any other. You are no different, Justice points out.

Disgusted, Anders fights so hard for self-control that his knuckles whiten around his staff.

As he returns to Hightown he slips out of his clothes and down under the sheets; he's cold and stiff and not even the extra blanket seems to offer what he needs. There's no one in this city I wouldn't kill to see the mages free. He winces at his own thought, his own truth, tries to reshape it but it spills over and transforms on its own before he can reach it. This is what it is. This is who I am. War for peace, for freedom.

"I would die for you." He puts his lips against Marian's neck, defiantly, breathes in her musky scent of sleep. "You know that, don't you?"

"How dramatic." Stirring a little under his touch, she grunts. "Is this about you killing Meredith in single combat again? Because you can't. Silly man."

He laughs at that – desperately, harshly – and she rolls around so she faces him. Sleep has softened her, left her momentarily vulnerable and Anders thinks of how much more he has to lose these days. How very unbearable it is, even the ghost of that thought. This is what Justice hates the most about her. Her hold on him, how she pulls him back.

She's got a small scar in the right corner of her mouth; when he kisses it she lets out a sound of approval that melts some of the cold and drowns the turmoil in his head and he thinks he ought to stay here, remain with her and just stay.

"I waited up for you," she says, heaving herself on top of him. "I expected celebrating."

"Oh." He searches his memory – his ever-growing collection of blackouts and confused half-truths - and sighs. "I forgot. I'm sorry."

Lowering her mouth to his, she grins. "You will pay for that."

This is how they celebrate their second anniversary.

*

In the midst of everything else that's going on around them, Marian forgets their third anniversary. Anders kisses her, smiles at her heartfelt apology – it's the blighted templars, I swear - but he hopes that it means she will eventually forget him, too.

* The last year in Kirkwall, he counts everybody else's sins in public and his own in private.

He's a healer, not a fighter and it's tearing him apart.

What good does healing do in a world where nobody is free? Shaking his head, he persists in keeping the clinic open when he can, growing the herbal ingredients needed, gathering food and supplies for those who still find their way down there in the dark. It makes almost no difference at all, these days. The templars are relentless, the apostates desperate. Justice feeds on the slow destruction of the city's order, steadily gaining ground - and Anders lets him. This whole city and all the people in it should burn. He gives in; the walls are crumbling around his previous strength and he needs to renew it, fuel it, find a new source.

The templars hunt him. There is another warrant, a new price on his head. It doesn't matter that Marian protects him, even the Champion of Kirkwall will have to bow her head to the Knight-Commander if it comes to that and it will. Anders knows with painful clarity that it will come to that. The Right of Annulment. Declaration of war, one they cannot hope to win. He can see it so vividly: Meredith vanquishing their best hope, having Marian executed and the mages made Tranquil. He isn't crazy- is he? am I?- he knows it can happen.

He hears his mother's voice again, ringing in his ears like it used to when he was a boy who escaped. It's one of those things that wakes him up. Every night he gets up, walks out of the bedroom and paces the floors upstairs and listens as though it would still be audible here, in this blighted mess.

She had been on her knees before the templars, shamed his father with her pleading. He's the sweetest little boy, he'd never harm anybody!

To watch her – anyone - kneeling in front of those -

His grip around the banister tightens when he presses back the fury. They are so faint now, the fragments of what once was his self and what once was Justice. So very faint. Swallowed, burned, tasting of ashes and regret. Not that he ever did anything particularly useful but he was a man and he was at least trying to be a decent one, minding his own bloody business. Ale, pretty girls and the dream of freedom - or at the very least another brief stay in a delightfully dirty inn. Simple enough.

"I wish you trusted me enough to talk to me about this. This is my fight, too." Marian stands behind him, the familiar, irritated note slipping into her voice again. It awakes an irritation in him as well, only his is terrible and wrathful and he hates himself for it, hates how much of a struggle it is not to lose control.

Not now, not her, never her. He closes his mind. "I do trust you."

"There is something you refuse to tell me, though."

"Yes," Anders agrees.

There is so much and almost all of it takes the wrong shape, even now he can see that. He could still change it, some of it, those small pieces of the whole that belongs to him. But he's slipping away. Even in Marian's arms, he is slipping away. It doesn't matter that she holds him, that her calloused, convinced hands press him against her own body, that her mouth finds his or that her voice, her soft soothing voice, tells him all sorts of lies. I don't want to go, he thinks as his lips brush over face and shoulders, her stomach; he anchors himself in this house, in this moment, in her eyes that observe him with more caution these days because Marian is intelligent and she's a mage and she can taste the changes in him however little he says about them. I don't want to go, he thinks again as she falls asleep with her head on his chest, merging her breaths with his heartbeats, counting down to the inevitable.

But the following night he sneaks into the Chantry and as he closes the door behind him, he knows he is irrevocably gone.

*

He half-heartedly tries to get people out.

Children, beggars, innocents. He tries to get some apostates to check for him, to spread a silent warning. It's a last-minute adjustment to the plan and he doesn't dare to look back to see how well it went; he doesn't count, but he tries. It's not a thought that will comfort him much, and neither will the scant number of people they manage to save while running through the city. There is no place for comfort – this is war, this is justice. Even Marian ignores the screams for help, furiously pressing them on. She is a rebel leader now. The breastplate on her Champion's armour is glistening with blood and her eyes are dark, resolute. The mages will be free. She is everything she must be, everything he has always seen in her.

Anders falls behind, cracks underneath the weight of it all once the Knight-Commander has been defeated. A fleeing family with three children almost takes his breath away just outside the Keep. He comes to a halt, ready to offer healing as some sort of blighted consolation. He recognises the family, has helped them in his clinic. The youngest girl screams when she notices the magic sparkling off his hands, the last sighs of mana in his blood. He's the enemy; when he calms himself and looks at her, he sees nothing but the reflection of her enemy in her eyes. One of those who started this war, one of them. The girl's father picks her up, shields her with his own body.

"Don't you dare, mage."

"I'm..." he struggles for words, for momentum. "I can-"

They have escaped before he has finished the sentence and Anders doesn't follow. He stops running, sits down. Closing his eyes he accepts defeat and everything inside him, every little bit of him merge with a horrible, wailing noise. Justice, Vengeance, Anders. Finally. 

It brings a certain peace, accepting what he is. A greater purpose, a greater good. Nothing comes for free and they say freedom is particularly expensive. They say it is worth it. That’s a lie. 

Marian finds him there in the courtyard. Her face is grey with exhaustion, her body shaking from too many lyrium potions and her left arm is covered in blood from a large flesh wound. He instinctively wants to mend it and tries to reach out but when he looks down he sees that his hands are still in his lap, immovable.

Marian gives him a long, searching glance before she sits down beside him.

"We have two ships with surviving mages." She says it matter of factly, nodding in the direction of the docks. "Most of Aveline's guardsmen are still out there, fighting the templars who sided with Meredith. The other templars have begun to search for survivors in the Chantry. Do you know... do you know how many people that were still inside?"

"No, I don't."

He doesn't say anything else, the words won't form themselves in his mouth.

It seems like a lot of time passes between them, too much wasted time for a night like this.

"I will continue this fight, Anders," Marian says eventually. There's something final in her tone, in her use of his name. Something hard as steel but not hardened. In these first hours of their bloody revolution, she reminds him of the Warden-Commander of Amaranthine and he is filled with a fragile sort of hope, oddly out of place here where everything seems doomed. She turns to him, looks at him for a long time. "It must be done, I know that, too."

Anders nods, tries to smile.

"He is gone, isn't he?" There are tears in her eyes now. It surprises him. She keeps her grief locked up in her chest, doesn't cry - in all these years he hasn't seen her cry more than once. Twice, now. "You've won."

"Yes," he finally says. It still sounds the same, his voice. Perhaps he still is the same and the only things that have changed are the circumstances, the deeds. Perhaps that is all Justice ever was – an excuse. "And no. We are one."

Marian shakes her head.

"That's where you're wrong, you know. I have always been able to tell you apart." He feels her fingertips map the contours of his face, a frantic sort of pace over old lines and new ones. There is so much familiarity in her touch, intimacy forged over the past six years. "Anders was a good man. He would have fought beside me, even without you. We would have started this revolution one way or the other. It would have been bloody and the price would have been high, no doubt about that."

"But Anders would have counted the losses," she adds softly as she buries the blade in his chest. He takes a sharp breath, steadies himself against the protests inside, pushing them away with all that is left of him. She's mercifully strong; she twists the blade deeper and he has never loved her more than he does in this moment, right before the warm light floods the filthy, burning street.

[abeautifulmind125]

Planes, Pains, & Dark Blood Stains

So, This is a quick write a did about a year ago, that I found in one of my folders - and I thought I might share it - if not for anyone then for myself to get me back into writing again. I may continue it in the future.

WARNINGS:: (For those who care) Minor swearing, kidnap/allusions to torture, and glorious innuendos

The plane was crashing as usual.

The rain was violently pounding against the windshield, with a vengeance so strong that with every drop that shattered against the reinforced glass - for a split second - it was as if the windshield was going to shatter into a million little daggers, attacking the pilot and co-pilot.

The cabin was shaking so hard that the food and other assorted items, carefully laid out on trays, were flying down the aisles. The stewardesses were clutching handles, counters, even other people for support. Children were crying, and mothers were frantically rubbing their hands up and down their child's little arms, in an attempt to comfort them. The sweet old lady sitting next to me was clutching her rosary in both of her shaking hands, mumbling silent prayers to whoever will listen.  It was to the point that people were being thrown haphazardly against each other like they were rag dolls.

A loud BANG tore my attention out of my haze, and back to what was happening around me, as the second engine of the plane blew up. The putrid smell of burning machinery fills my nose, and memories flood my head of that night. Looking out the window, we are surrounded by the ocean in every direction; the nearest island is so far away it looks like a speck of dust in the distance.

I knew what was going to happen to me - to the others - before it was going to happen; so I turned around. I had to do something. Say something. But what?

Somehow I had gotten up and started walking down the aisle. I could hear a harsh panting sound and it took me awhile to realize it was coming from me. I was running. The aisle seemed to go on forever - always moving out of reach whenever I got too close to the other end of the plane.

Glancing back I saw them. They were after me. You would think being on the run for 90% of your life, you would gather some knowledge and skills on how to get out of situations like these- but at that moment, I couldn’t reach them; I couldn’t reach for anything. I couldn’t stop what was about to happen, or yell out in hopes of someone - anyone - making it out of this alive. It felt as though my lungs were being crushed with an invisible weight I hadn’t known I’d been carrying.

Their eyes glowed gold, with an orange band surrounding the nearly non-existent black dot in the center; a stark contrast to their dark impenetrable exterior and presence in the back of your mind - like claws made of shadows sinking into the deepest reaches of your brain drawing out your fears. It drew me towards them, like a rope around my waist was suddenly pulling me forward.

Normally I don’t mind the predatory gaze men gave me, but this time it didn’t promise a fun night out - it promised my worst nightmares and endless pain at the hands of someone I thought I had finally outrun. Their claws slowly extended out from their fingers, and I knew that despite how dull they appeared they could slice me open like I was Jello. And their teeth, so large in numbers, lining their nearly detached jaws in endless rows, pointed at me with the sharp intent that their ferocious gaze promised. I knew if I let them get close to me I was a goner.

While all of this happened - me running, them hunting, nobody seemed to see them. Their looks of fear were more for where the plane was headed, not for who had suddenly boarded. They were all frozen in place by this fear that gripped them, but that was induced more by the toxic combination of time and magic these things wielded, that paralyzed its victims.

I looked back one last time, praying to God that I had put some ground between myself and them - and more importantly, between them and all these innocents aboard the failing plane. Most people look back on their memories and their past selves in hopes of seeing rays of burnt umber and sunshine yellow, and feeling the warmth of the sun on their face; but when I looked back, the warmth I felt was more searing - burning - than a light caress of the sun. The yellows and oranges I saw were from the fire extending, dripping in drops of molten reds from their claws and making its way towards me. Pulling me. Burning me. My defenses. Gold irises reminding me of what I was running from all this time.

*FLASH*

They grabbed me - I knew it would happen, but never saw it coming for me.

*FLASH*

Blood was everywhere. Not even the ocean could wash it all away. They were the ones that made the sea red - and they would be the ones to claim and feast upon the wreckage and carnage they plan to cause to the unexpecting.

*FLASH*

The world was spinning - my world was spinning. I was being dragged backwards towards a lone door at the end of the hall.

How did I get here?

The talons dug into my skin, drawing blood like it was nothing - wherever they touched. This only seemed to make their pace quicken in anticipation; all 3 of them.

Or was I just seeing triple?

*FLASH*

Needles that used to flow with a glowing liquid littered the dirty concrete floor. Laughter echoes in my head.

If this is my conscious than it is picking a HELL of a time to be an asshole and intercept the usual voices of mischief and insanity that rumble through my thoughts on a day to day basis.

*FLASH*

The plane came back into focus, and I realized I was lying on the floor. Dried up drool and blood stuck to my chin. My clothes were torn from where their claws had ripped through my jacket - my favorite jacket might I add. Everything was blurred - like I was looking through my mother’s prescription glasses, like I used to do when I was little. Screams echoed in the distance as I tried to sit up; but the pain was too excruciating and numbing. Blink. Blink. The world came into focus, but all I could do was turn my head and watch in horror. Frozen and helpless, I looked into malicious and hungry eyes. The eyes of a predator toying with its meal.

They say the eyes are the window to the soul, but what do you do when the eyes you are looking into belong to a creature without one?

“You’re mine now, bitch,” He sneered into my ear. I shivered, and turned my face back to where it once was to cover up the whimper that just racked through my core. Who the fuck gave the voices permission to take hammers and needles, and bang them against my head? Ugh - I think I see the light. … Wait, nope. Nevermind. That just an asshole with too many LEDs….

“You have no idea what power you wield in your blood - what you will give us,” he said in a low, rough voice that echoed through my head.

He turned around with a laugh to face his wannabe gangster “buddies”, before looking me directly in the eye. Without even moving his lips, he said to me, “I would take you for myself, but booze is hard to come by without cash, and I look forward to receiving the hefty ransom that my contact put out on that pretty little ass of yours.”

“Go to hell,” I rasped, before my vision went dark, and I felt hands not-so-gently roll me over onto my side which I now realized hurt like a mother- because of the hole they left when they injected me with whatever it is that knocked me on my ass. I recall being knocked on my ass to be much more fun when it’s padded by the bedroom carpet or a nice mattress...

“Oooh!” he said, turning back to the two  men standing behind him - stares a mixture of vague amusement and menacing intents. “She thinks she’s tough. Look at that fellas! And what, might I ask, would I have to be afraid of, from a little girl like you?” he asked, turning back to face me now. Wow. this dude really has a bad case of CRI. (Cranial Rectal Inversion).

I just stared back at him, not bothering to grace that with an answer. Instead, I pondered all the ways I can imagine helping him with that little problem of his - being an asshole. An asshole who is really pushing the limits of my I won’t kill anybody chastity pledge.

“I may be ‘little’, but that just makes it all the more impressive that I can see your yoga practice has paid off. You sure are flexible - seeing as you seem to have managed to get your foot in your mouth and your head up your ass all at the same time,” I say, spitting blood in an impressive spray right across that arrogant little smirk. “Tell me, what’s it like living such a shitty life that you must resort to kidnapping and torture to finally feel powerful and get off?”

It brings me some satisfaction knowing that you can get through almost any situation in life with a little sass and some confidence. Of course, drama helps too.

There is the distinct sound of a coughing fit and footsteps stomping and retreating, as his two buddies burst into fits of laughter, trying not quite hard enough to mask the sounds.

Quick Pro Life-Tip: When incapacitated and drugged, and faced with deadly opponents, do not, I REPEAT, do NOT spit blood in their face after knocking their ego down a peg and embarrassing them in front of their entourage - that’s like pissing of a pack of starved wolves. Only gets worse from there.

Which, I only came to realize after his expression grew darker, and his smirk had a tilt to it that seemed to only become more deadly - accentuated by my blood now running down his face.

“Oh, I will enjoy breaking you more than I thought I would,” he said while cracking his knuckles - which was the last thing I heard before passing out.

“See you when you resurface.”

*FLASH*

Screams intensified. The ocean was closely and rapidly approaching. The pilots dead next to me - I was in their place; bound and gagged. Whatever they used on me was some powerful shit - I needed to get some of that in case of emergencies.

Must have hurt like a motherfucker to extract their heads from their asses long enough to gather the quantity needed from their bodies.

My eyes darted across the cockpit, looking for something - anything. A violent crash, worse than any car accident I have ever been in, shattered the glass and threw me forward - at least the makeshift, body-encompassing seat belt was good for something.

The water was now consuming the front end of the plane - as if it were a hungry animal getting its first meal in weeks - and was rapidly leaking into the cabin.

Or not. Bastards.

My scream was muffled by the horrible tasting cloth smothered with the drug that they used earlier.

… And then I woke up.