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aimfor-theheart · 4 years ago

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COIN TOSS– PART II

(18+ MINORS DNI)

PART I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read on Ao3

***

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

He keeps his distance.

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

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

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

You feel shockingly alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tells you everyone expected him to be a villain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shinsou is silent, watching you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re only kids.

You’re barely older.

Shigaraki is barely older than you.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

Toga, unfortunately, follows his line of sight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just the way he walks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouta would be proud of you.

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

You swallow hard, flex your freezing fingers.

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

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

But you followed him, didn’t you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This isn’t my home,” he answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shigaraki–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thought strikes him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You suddenly grab for his hands.

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

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

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

You squirm under his scrutinizing gaze.

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

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

He naturally keeps a finger lifted away.

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

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

But your eyes are bright with your Quirk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has to grit his teeth to keep from moaning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You moan, low and drawn out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whine a little, ‘Touch me again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe still are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You let your eyes fall shut, too.

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

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

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

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

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

You think the guilt should hit you now.

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

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

You don’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

You send a text to Shouta;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until Shouta.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s no happy ending here.

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lock had been picked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(He loved when you clung to him).

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

You’d fallen asleep all tied up in him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He says, “Touch yourself.”

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

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

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

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

You can hear the hiss of breath he takes, “Did I ruin you?” he croons into the phone lowly, his voice slithering through to you, making your thighs clench. “Can’t even touch yourself without needing me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gives you a cold stare.

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

“I’m not taking care of a cat.”

“I’ll take care of it!”

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

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

“Yes,” you respond indignantly.

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

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

All over this little stray.

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

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

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

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

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

He unlocks the door, he lets you in.

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

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

But he’ll have to unpause eventually.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is this about?” Shouta asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have every intention of going to Tomura’s.

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

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

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

You haven’t been here in years.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You walk home together, hand in seeking hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pretty, you think faintly.

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

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

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

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

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

***

PART III

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theggning · 4 years ago

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I Hate the Alternate Ending of Blind Betrayal, and Here's Why!

DISCLAIMER THE FIRST: Massive spoilers for Fallout 4 abound. This post discusses Blind Betrayal, a quest with suicide as a heavy theme. Content warning applies.

DISCLAIMER THE SECOND: This post discusses cut OFFICIAL content from Fallout 4 that has since been repurposed into multiple mods. I am not criticizing any modders or their implementations of this content. Mods are fun and people can enjoy whatever the hell kind of game experience they want with whatever mods they want.

I am ONLY interested in discussing the original cut content as Bethesda had written it, and how it would have impacted the story and lore of Fallout 4.

So, yeah, it seems there was originally going to be another way to conclude Blind Betrayal (BB).

As described in this Kotaku article (citing this post by Tumblr user tentacle-explosion,) there are unused audio files of Danse’s dialogue that show an alternate ending to his pivotal quest. These lines are the only evidence we have of this ending (suggesting that it was cut fairly early on, as no other actors/characters seem to have recorded for it.)

From what we can tell, in this alternate ending of BB, Danse comes up with a possible way out of the sticky situation re: his identity as a synth. According to the Brotherhood Litany, he is able to challenge Maxson’s authority as Elder via combat. If you agree to this idea, you go with Danse to challenge Maxson. The Paladin and the Elder duel one another, Danse wins, and Maxson dies. Then Danse names the Sole Survivor the new Elder-- or with a hard charisma check, you’re able to convince Danse to take the job himself. It is unknown how the main plot would have progressed beyond this point, as there is no other evidence of what being (or influencing) the Elder would have been like or what choices it would have given you.

There is understandable disappointment in learning that this ending was cut. Choices in games are great, and it could have been fun to have multiple different options for how to resolve the quest. In many gaming circles, people complain that this theoretical ending is superior to the one we got and shouldn’t have been axed. The Kotaku article calls it a “way better” ending, and you’ll see many players lamenting that it wasn’t implemented, saying Bethesda was bad at writing for cutting it, etc.

So why did Bethesda get rid of the Elder ending of BB?

In December 2020, after the Fallout 4 Cast Reunion, Danse’s voice actor Peter Jessop answered questions in a private signing session on his Instagram. Peter Jessop is an extremely kind and gracious man, an avid gamer, and a huge fan of Fallout. During the stream, he reflected on the alternate ending and remembered recording the lines, but stated the content was ultimately cut because Bethesda decided it was lore-breaking.

Peter Jessop is right. Bethesda was right. The Elder ending of BB is a bunch of dumb nonsense. It sucks, I hate it, and I’m glad they got rid of it. And now I’m going to tell you why!

SIDENOTE: King Shit of Fuck Mountain

There is no wrong way to play a single-player video game. If you are having fun, then you are accomplishing the task for which the game was made. Good for you! Play it on easy. Play it on hard. Mod it. Speedrun it. Make up an intricate roleplaying scenario. Perform “challenge” runs. Kill everybody you see. Ignore the story and run around collecting wheels of cheese. Games are meant to be fun and there is nothing wrong with enjoying a game however you damn well please. This is especially true for RPGs like Fallout, which are designed with player freedom in mind.

There is an RPG playstyle I like to call King Shit of Fuck Mountain: a naked power fantasy in which your protagonist is the most powerful person ever, even beyond normal RPG plot significance. Through brute strength, incredible charisma, or having completed tons of quests for world-breaking artifacts and weapons, your character wields godlike influence, able to control people, factions, and the fabric of the world itself. A game enables KSoFM gameplay when it allows the player limitless freedom to gain as much power as they like with zero consequences to plot or storytelling.

A great example of this is the Dragonborn in The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. If the player chooses to pursue every questline in the game, one single person can become Harbinger of the Companions, Archmage of the College of Winterhold, Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, Nightingale and Guildmaster of the Thieves’ Guild, hero of the Imperial/Stormcloak army, the chosen one of like, 11 different Daedric princes, a bard, a Blade, and otherwise just, absurdly goddamn powerful in completely unrealistic ways. And that’s not counting DLCs. A fully-kitted-out Dragonborn is King Shit of Fuck Mountain.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with playing KSoFM if you like to. But I’m not a big fan of this style, personally. Sure, my first Skyrim character became KSoFM while I was figuring out the game, but after my first playthrough I preferred my characters become coherent figures in the story of the world. I pick one or two character traits and things that my Dragonborn is good at, focus on them, and make them part of some overall story. My honorable Imperial paladin werewolf is in the Companions, and hunts vampires on principle. My Argonian sneaky archer is a gleeful thief, but would never jive with the College or the Dark Brotherhood. I like creating protagonists who fit into these settings immersively. I don’t care about power fantasies or being in charge. I don’t WANT my character to be all-powerful, because that ruins my immersion and my little story.

Additionally, in a plot-driven story-focused game like Fallout, KSoFM tears the narrative apart. Skyrim is fairly light on story, so the Dragonborn can be the leader of the Companions and the Dark Brotherhood and whatever other factions without any of them noticing or caring. But FO4’s themes, faction drama, and the main thrust of the plot don’t work at all if the Sole Survivor is able to become too powerful or too influential. The Sole Survivor cannot become the leader of every faction, solve every problem, or eliminate every inconvenient bend of the conflict because it makes the lore of the entire setting implode. Thus, the game forces you to choose between factions. You cannot be with the Minutemen and the Nuka-World Raiders. You cannot be with the Railroad and the Institute. And you cannot become Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel.

So if you’re the kind of person who loves playing KSoFM, if you like plots that your character can “solve” with relative ease, or if you just think it would be super cool for your Sole to become Elder regardless of surrounding storytelling, then you might think the Elder ending sounds super cool. You are absolutely allowed to disagree with me here. Install all the mods and write all the fic and have all the headcanons you like. I respect that. There is no wrong way to enjoy a single-player video game. Have fun!

But if you’re a big nitpicky pedantic lore nerd like me, a fan of cohesive storytelling, or if you just want to hear how the Elder ending of BB absolutely fucking ruins Maxson, Danse, the Brotherhood of Steel, and the entire plot of FO4 from a narrative perspective, read on!

1. The Synth Thing

The Elder ending requires the stupid plot contrivance of the BoS forgetting about Danse’s synthhood.

One of the biggest problems with the BoS as an institution is their strict and dogmatic beliefs, which include a widespread dislike of non-human species. Perhaps more than any other non-humans, the BoS hates synths. Synths are, in their eyes, machines given free will, a violation of the sanctity of human life and the ultimate example of technology run amok. To them, synths are not sympathetic, they are not slaves, and they are not victims of circumstance. They are weapons that left unchecked will destroy all of humanity for a second time. Synths are anathema to everything the BoS stands for, and finding out that one of their most beloved and trusted Paladins is one is an earth-shattering blow to their integrity and sense of security.

It is completely absurd that the BoS would allow a synth within their ranks, particularly as they are waging war against the Institute, who created synths in the first place. It is even MORE absurd that they’d allow one to influence their Elder, or even worse, to become Elder. It completely undermines their mission in the Commonwealth, and the core tenets of their extremely rigid beliefs. No matter the Elder, no matter the Litany or obscure BoS law, no matter how valuable the Sole Survivor is as a soldier or how much influence they wield. Danse is a synth. He’s the enemy. He is physically the embodiment of everything they hate.

Not only wouldn’t they trust a synth in general, but the BoS specifically believes that Danse is an infiltrator for the Institute. Even Danse believes that he is a danger, that the Institute may be able to take control of him and use him as a weapon. Sure, we know none of this is actually true, or possible, but the BoS don’t know that. And given how quick they are to order Danse dead without even the possibility of surrender, I don’t think there’s any charisma in the world that’s going to convince them otherwise.

According to Peter Jessop, this, ultimately, is the reason why the Elder ending was cut. He talks about it around the 11:30 timestamp in his Instagram stream, linked above:

“We recorded an ending where you keep Danse alive and you take over the Brotherhood. But there was a question of content… there’s no way the Brotherhood, once they knew he was a synth, would let him be even the right hand of the person in charge.”

Bethesda correctly recognized the incredible narrative contrivance for the BoS to shrug off the reason they’re trying to execute Danse in the first place. Whatever other beefs I have with this ending conceptually, they all come in second to just what a big dumb leap it is to get beyond this first and most important problem.

2. The Complete Death of Conflict

The Elder ending of BB destroys the conflict of the quest, and potentially the conflict of the entire game.

Greed is a poison. There is no such thing as a perfect ideal or a perfect organization. Power corrupts. Humanity has the choice to build back better. War never changes. The Fallout games are full of themes, depicted by the characters and quests and factions we play out.

Blind Betrayal is rightfully praised as one of the most powerful quests in FO4. Not only is it well-acted, but it puts the player in a very difficult position. The BoS has given you clout and glory and free power armor and lots of firepower, but now you see the price: unquestioning obedience. You are ordered to execute your friend and mentor Danse for the mere fact he is a synth. Are you going to follow that unjust order? Are you willing to give up your principles on command? Or is this where you can no longer stay quiet and stay in line?

To be honest, I’ve always thought the fact you can talk Maxson out of killing Danse but still remain with the BoS in good standing was a cop-out. BB goes 90% of the way to forcing you to choose between a companion and a faction, and then chickens out at the last second to let you have both, if your charisma is high enough.

(I believe this has the fingerprints of Skyrim’s development on it-- Bethesda’s writers got nervous about doing another Paarthurnax choice involving the fan favorite Brotherhood of Steel. That’s right. Danse is the Paarthurnax of Fallout. Frankly, I understand why they chose not to go there, but damn, wouldn’t it have been wild? You want to run with the BoS? Then kill your friend and feel the burn. THIS is what it means to follow orders without question.

As for me, I’d pick Danse every time and sleep soundly without the company of shitty bootlicking dieselpunk LARPers- but I digress.)

Anyway, you know what would have REALLY been a copout? If the game asked you to make a difficult thematic storyline choice, and you solved the problem by just not choosing at all.

You are supposed to feel uncomfortable when Maxson orders you to kill Danse, because the game is telling a story about how it is maybe a bad thing to thoughtlessly follow orders without question. It is asking you to think about what the BoS is, what they are doing, and how they are going to run things, if you choose to let them “win” the Commonwealth. It is pointing out that there is no room for gray in the BoS’ black and white. That a good, loyal man may die because of the way he was made, through no action of his own. That soon, you’ll be killing other people on command. The Railroad. Fleeing Institute synths and scientists. Others, down the line. It all depends on who’s giving the orders. Are you going to follow those orders?

Eesh, that sounds thought-provoking and unpleasant and difficult! Let’s just skip it by killing Maxson and making ourselves the boss. Now we get to tell everybody else what to do!

It’s unknown what powers the Elder ending would have granted the player, or how it would have interacted with the other factions. There is speculation that you’d have been able to ease back on the BoS’ dogmatism, or change some of the later events of the game. For instance, perhaps you could talk the BoS down from attacking the Railroad, sparing popular characters like Glory and Deacon who must die in the normal BoS storyline. Perhaps you could have made the BoS a kinder, gentler faction and directed them to run the way you want them to.

If this was indeed the case, then the Elder ending would not only suck the gravitas out of BB, but torpedo the entire main plot.

If you can get rid of any and all downsides to siding with the BoS, why in the hell would players side with anybody else? With the player given total power, the BoS becomes a perfect faction with no drawbacks, no weaknesses, no tough decisions to be made. Screw slumming it with the Railroad or the Minutemen, let’s take over the BoS. Free power armor and a giant robot! Forget the whole intolerance thing, I hereby proclaim the BoS No Longer Problematic! Now to force all the factions to get along, completely removing all conflict and nuance from the plot!

That’s some real anticlimactic “tell Legate Lanius to go home and then he does it” bullshit right there. King Shit of Fuck Mountain!

Look, it might be nice if there was a perfect path like that to take through the game. It would be cool if our characters could be that powerful and the game was that tailored to our individual choices. On the other hand, “I change all the factions to suit my exact liking” might be a fun idea for a fanfic, but it’s an incredibly boring plot for a video game. “I get to make everything in the world exactly how I want it” is Minecraft, not a story-driven RPG with a complex and intricate plot.

It would be great if complex conflicts could really be solved that easily and effortlessly, but hey, you know what? War never changes.

3. The Assassination of Arthur Maxson (Literal)

Arthur Maxson’s death is too significant and fundamentally disastrous for the Elder ending to make any sense at all.

Hero, villain, leader, monster, tortured soul, brutal dictator, immature twerp, bearded sex hunk. However you personally interpret Arthur Maxson, there is no denying that he is a venerated, popular, beloved figure in the BoS. He is the blood heir of the organization’s founder, a powerful warrior, a brilliant tactician, and a charismatic negotiator. He is responsible for reuniting the East Coast BoS with the Outcasts, leading the new, stronger BoS with a sense of shared purpose. There is a damn good reason his name is Arthur and he named his ship The Prydwen, echoes of King Arthur and the legends of his glorious kingdom of Camelot. Arthur Maxson is so beloved that many view him as a demigod, a messiah sent to lead the BoS into a mighty and prosperous future.

So I’m sure nobody’s going to be upset when some wasteland jackass recruited a month ago stumbles in with a synth, kills him, and takes over his job. Right?

It doesn’t matter that it’s “honorable.” It doesn’t matter that it’s done “by the book” via obscure BoS rules. There is no codex or litany or rule so binding that it’s going to overcome the cult of personality around Maxson. There is no way that the BoS is going to accept the death of Arthur Maxson, a man whose reverence borders on worship, especially not when he is immediately replaced by a wastelander, or a synth.

The death of Arthur Maxson removes the unifying glue that’s been holding the BoS together since mending the rift with the Outcasts. Maxson’s death eliminates the one person that both sides of that conflict agreed could steer the organization in the right direction. Some level heads may try to keep the focus on the mission and the Brotherhood tenets, but Maxson loyalists will never forgive the new Elder for his death, and that amount of passionate righteous anger will not be quelled by appeals to the rules. The new Elder’s war on the Institute is basically over before it begins, when the forces splinter and start infighting over the change in leadership.

And this is if the new Elder lives long enough to actually give any orders. I give them around 24 hours after the duel before some angry Maxson loyalist “accidentally” pulls the trigger and “tragically” empties a clip into their back.

24 seconds, if it’s Elder Danse, the dirty synth abomination.

4. The Assassination of Arthur Maxson (Figurative)

The Elder ending of BB falsely pretends that Arthur Maxson is the biggest and only problem with the BoS.

In the Elder ending, as written, the conflict of BB is considered completely and totally solved by the death of Arthur Maxson. The core problem, that Danse is a synth and considered an enemy by the BoS, has not gone away. But by getting rid of Maxson, this apparently no longer matters. Nobody else is going to take offense to Danse’s nature or protest his presence. Nobody else is going to attack him or try to follow through with Maxson’s prior orders. Nope, that meanybutt guy who gave the order is gone, and everybody else is going to welcome Danse back into the fold like nothing ever happened.

I touched on this a little bit on an ask about Maxson a few weeks back, but a lot of people seem to believe that the FO4 Brotherhood of Steel is the way they are purely because of him. That he is the one making them treat non-humans as second class citizens at best, and enemies to be slaughtered at worst. That it’s his fault the BoS is so vehemently against synths and the Institute. That he is the one influencing their imperialistic tendencies, and treating the Commonwealth like territory to be conquered and people to be ruled over by their betters.

He’s not. That’s the Brotherhood of Steel, guys.

The charitable, altruistic, virtuous BoS that many of us met for the first time in FO3 were outliers. Lyons’ group was literally disowned by the rest of the faction because their kindness to wastelanders had gone so far astray from the “core” tenets. The BoS as a whole has always been exclusive, isolated, and seen themselves as “superior” to the average wastelander. They have long disliked or outright hated non-humans (and even Lyons’ BoS in FO3 use ghouls, feral or not, for “target practice” if they get too close!) The rigid dogmatism of the BoS is not something that Arthur Maxson started, but has always been part of their fabric.

Now, it’s true that Maxson is absolutely going hard on the BoS tenets, and extremely dedicated to upholding them. His BoS are the way they are and act the way they act because he believes that this is the way it should be. Is it possible that a different leader may be a little more flexible? Absolutely. Could a skilled Elder eventually show them the benefits of a softer approach and a more generous worldview? Totally. Is getting rid of Maxson and replacing him going to make that happen overnight, or going to make the rest of the BoS who supported him shrug and follow suit?

Nope.

Blaming Arthur Maxson for everything unsavory about the Brotherhood is unfair to him and also foolishly ignoring the deep, massive problems that are far older than he is-- problems that plenty of its members wholeheartedly believe are not problems at all. Getting rid of Maxson does not make the BoS kinder or gentler. Even pretending Maxson isn’t as personally beloved as he is, any new Elder who steps in and starts trying to fundamentally alter the way the BoS operates and what they believe in is going to face some major, immediate pushback.

Like, a full clip of bullets in the back type of pushback.

In the face if it’s Elder Danse, the godless freak of nature.

5. The Un-Redemption of Paladin Danse

Last, and my personal least favorite!

At first glance, Paladin Danse is a steely jackboot, a die-hard Brotherhood loyalist who fully and firmly believes in their cause. Many immediately dismiss him as a humorless brute, or completely ignore him because they think that’s all there is. But if you spend any time with Danse at all, you’ll notice a sort of weariness in him. He is tired, overworked, and his years of service are starting to weigh on him. He has watched friends, comrades, and mentors die in horrible and gruesome ways, and he suffers from PTSD. Though he has always been told that his own sacrifices, the sacrifices of his brothers and sisters have been” worth it,” he’s starting to question if that’s true.

After telling of the incident where he personally executed his best friend Cutler, who’d been turned into a super mutant, the Sole Survivor is able to console him:

Player Default: You did the right thing. Danse: {Somber} It's what I was taught. I don't know if it was right.

This line is an excellent summary of Danse’s entire character arc. He learns to question whether to believe what the Brotherhood has taught him, or to believe in himself. His gut feelings. His sense of justice and his own ideas of what’s right and wrong.

(In the interest of not turning this into an essay about Danse’s character, I won’t even get into how this also applies to his beliefs about his worth as a person. But keep in mind, that dimension is there, Danse just covers it up by making everything about the Brotherhood.)

During Blind Betrayal, after getting the orders to execute him and hearing Haylen’s plea for mercy, we may expect Danse to be ready to fight back or flee. But when you confront him in the bunker at Listening Post Bravo, he’s compliant and suicidal. Danse is so deeply poisoned by the BoS’ rhetoric that his own feelings or will to live don’t factor into the conversation. He demands that you follow your orders and execute him, because he believes, as the BoS does, that all synths are dangerous and must be destroyed.

Danse: {Stern} Synths can't be trusted. Machines were never meant to make their own decisions, they need to be controlled. Technology that's run amok is what brought the entire world to its knees and humanity to the brink of extinction.

{Confident} I need to be the example, not the exception.

Through various dialogue options, if your charisma is high enough, you are able to talk Danse off the ledge. He is able to consider, at least, that the BoS’ merciless judgment of him is wrong and that what he was taught isn’t right. He is a thinking, feeling, self-aware synth, and that makes him as much a person as any human. Danse is no danger to humanity-- and maybe, most synths aren’t either.

Danse is an example, not an exception.

Later on, if you manage to get him out of BB alive, Danse shows further acceptance of his nature. His approvals about synths begin to soften slightly (or many of them do, at least… it’s not perfect.) He is still struggling with his identity and reconciling it with his former hatred, but his dialogue suggests that he’s on the road to being more open-minded and understanding. Along with this, Danse learns that he has value as a person beyond the Brotherhood. He no longer needs to define himself with BoS beliefs or judge himself by how useful he is to them. He learns that he is worth caring about, worth being friends with or being loved because of who he is-- not what he is, in any regard.

[SIDENOTE: Many players, myself included, are frustrated that Danse’s arc leaves off sort of midstream there. Due to the open-ended nature of the game, we don’t get a real conclusion to his arc-- even though much of his idle dialogue doesn’t change and he still espouses pro-BoS sentiments ( an unfortunate by-product of writing for a video game) there is every indication that he’s started down the right path, but understandably has a ways to go.

Also, Peter Jessop agrees with us.]

Meanwhile, in the Elder ending, Danse doesn’t get a redemption. His entire character arc, actually, hits the skids and does a total 180.

He never leaves the BoS. So scratch the need for Danse to ever think about himself as separate from them. He never needs to question what they’ve taught him or whether they’re right or wrong. He never needs to find any worth in himself beyond his use to the BoS. Why would he? He might be the Elder. The BoS is all he needs to care about anymore. The BoS is all he ever needs to be, ever again.

And I think, most horrifying of all, this Danse never needs to change his mind about synths. On the contrary, one of the surviving dialogue files includes Danse’s speech to reassure the rest of the BoS of his stance:

Danse: I want to make one thing clear to everyone. This body might be synth, but my heart and mind belong to the Brotherhood. The Institute is still a tremendous threat to the Commonwealth. They possess technologies that need to be confiscated or destroyed. And even if that means I have to pull the trigger on my own kind, I’m willing to make that sacrifice.

Elder ending Danse doesn’t grow more understanding on the nature of synths. He doesn’t accept that synths are people, or anything more than technology run amok. He won’t even accept that for himself. Elder Maxson wasn’t wrong about synths-- they’re the enemy and they need to be destroyed.

But, see, he was wrong about Danse. It’s okay for Danse to exist in spite of his nature. It’s okay for him to never fully accept his own personhood, and to outright deny it to his kind. Because his body is a machine, but he’s different from the rest because his heart and mind belong to the Brotherhood.

He’s the exception, not the example.

CONCLUSION:

The Elder ending of Blind Betrayal is dumb, contrived, stakeless, character-derailing powergaming crap at its finest and I’ll happily dance on its grave.

People give Bethesda a lot a shit for their writing-- whether it be stuff they left out, stuff they left in, or stuff that they never, ever could have made work due to the limitations of writing for a video game. Plenty of it is well-deserved, or at least worth a discussion. But from the minute I found out about its existence, I have always wanted to extend a congratulations to Bethesda for cutting the alternate Elder ending of Blind Betrayal. It was a good choice. A very good choice to cut a very dumb plot that would have fundamentally altered the story they were telling, and characters that I’ve grown to love. I think the writers deserve some credit and a hearty handshake for the wisdom of this decision.

Now as for why Nick Valentine isn’t romanceable--

#fallout 4 #fallout meta #paladin danse #arthur maxson #blind betrayal #this one was a long time coming #any thematic resemblance to any fics of mine is a coincidence #the blind betrayal manifesto #king shit of fuck mountain #the initial intrigue of the idea wears off if you think about it more than not at all

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timextoxhajima · 3 years ago

Note

Hi dana! When i saw your request is open i squealed almost immediately like no kidding! i looove your writings so it would be cool if you write my request, but if not then it's okay.

Can i request a sangyeon ceo au where the reader met him when they're solo traveling but ended up spending their time together, the reader (a broke college student) saved up some money to travel but that could only afford them a cheap tour and sangyeon decided to upgrade their tour by taking them to his private villa and they spent their days together? This may or may not be nsfw that is up to you. Thanksss

⋆ ࣪. glassware

⋆ ࣪. tbz sangyeon

⋆ ࣪. ceo! sangyeon x broke college student! [fem] reader [SFW!!!]

⋆ ࣪. 3.2k

⋆ ࣪. none. probably some cursing idk, diabetes too

⋆ ࣪. a/n: to the anon who requested this, this was SO specific and SO cliche i kind of laughed while reading it for the first time HAHHAHA but nonetheless! it's here! i changed up some stuff esp the ending but i hope it's still up to standard! also honorary tag for @lsangyeons

you should've just left the damn wallet alone. maybe take it home. anything but bringing it to the stupid security counter, claiming that you 'picked it up' - which you did! but for some reason, none of the CCTVs had footage of you picking it up from the floor of this humongous Dior boutique that you weren't even going to purchase anything from.

so of course, when the salesperson realised you were about to walk out with nothing in hand and only merely returned a wallet - dressed in some skimpy tank top and jean shorts and sandals, he probably thought: why did we let her in in the first place?

it's the wallet that somehow pulled a trigger. out of curiosity, you had already opened the wallet to check the contents, and god forbid your eyes to befall at least four different credit cards in the slots of the leather. it took you awhile to realise it was a saint laurent one too.

you don't know why, or in what universe did the staff think that zero cash in the wallet equated to you stealing it. despite going through your bag and even patting you down, here you were, sitting in a sad jail cell, because you were nice.

gently and carefully, you ram the back of your head against the wall you were sitting against, convincing yourself that maybe you'd multiply some brain cells with every thud you hear in your skull.

your eyes are still fluttered shut while you wait for an officer to come release you when they realise they had no other evidence to prove you were a thief. but your chaotic silence is finally interrupted in the form of a commotion forming outside your jail cell, and you note not the expected lone police officer, but also two other men. one was in a suit and the other looked like he was going to the beach.

"come on," the officer chucks the key into the lock. "this gentleman's just bailed you out."

relief washes over you when you pull yourself to your feet, the back of your head actually feeling a tad bit sore when you scratch your scalp.

"I assume the wallet belongs to you?" with a slightly snarky remark, you eye the one who's in the suit.

"uh- it's actually mine," beach boy chimes in, eyes bright and his smile stretching a little too wide across his face.

"oh," you put on your fakest-but-i-wanna-be-genuine smile, nodding a little as you glance between the two. "good to know. anyway! I'm just gonna head right out-"

"oh, wait! i'd like to treat you to something, actually," beach boy's brows are high up on his forehead. "for returning the wallet."

"and getting my ass in a jail cell?" a bemused scoff crosses your arms across your chest. "i saved up for an entire year to come on this vacation and i get thrown in jail for being honest."

then beach boy's lips part in slight surprise, looking very anxious. mr. kingsman looked a little too awkward to say anything, so he simply offers you a tiny, polite smile when you glance at him.

"ugh," throwing your arms to your side, you shake your head and wave it off. "forget it. thanks for bailing me out, though."

"no, of course. but can't i at least treat you to- to a meal? maybe a shopping spree?"

"what are you, an atm?"

"kind of," kingsman interrupts, earning a nervous side-glance from beach boy. "well, you've seen his wallet."

your lips are parted to settle the case and go back to your motel, patience running thin. but beach boy decides to interrupt again, hands coming together as he subtly pleads.

"a meal and a shopping spree. anything you want."

with a squint, you chew on the insides of your cheek. "anything i want?"

"yes," he nods. "you said you were here for a vacation right? you must have an itinerary to work around, i can meet you in your empty spots-"

"yeah, my itinerary is trash," scoffing, you feel your pride dip a little. the complaint silences the party, and it just so happened that the police officer returns with your backpack.

"here you go, miss l/n. sorry for the trouble."

with an agitated hum, you take your bag from him and sling it over your shoulder.

"how do i address you? do you have the rest of the day free? let me make it up to you."

this man really won't give it up, huh? fine. I'll spend his money since he's wasted my time.

"y/n," you offer your hand nonchalantly. "I'm gonna hold you to a meal and a shopping spree."

and with a wide grin, beach boy gracefully takes your hand, "I'm sangyeon."

first, it was the way he was treated just by entering a car that surprises you. sangyeon gets the door open for you and then kingsman gets into the driver's seat only after sangyeon joins you in the passenger's.

it was kind of pathetic - sangyeon had told you where he wanted to bring you for dinner and yet you didn't even register the name of the restaurant - or probably cafe - maybe coffeeshop.

you didn't care.

all you were looking forward to was spending the money, since you've spent most of yours on this dumb vacation that's deemed completely shit since you were thrown into jail for being honest.

you hadn't noticed you were rambling in your own head until the car comes to a stop, and you're slightly confused when the car rolls up onto a highway - that leads to the far side of the island.

"uh, i'm not getting kidnapped right now, am i?"

sangyeon laughs heartily, shaking his head as he gestures to the front of the car. there was a camera stuck to the windshield right beneath the rear window, and it was recording both the inside and outside of the vehicle.

"there's also a gps in that thing, for the car to be tracked. so don't worry."

"for the car to be tracked? why would the car need to be tracked?"

then kingsman locks eyes with you in the rear mirror. his amusement with the frown on your face brings him to a proper explanation.

"mr lee's the ceo of prism+, miss l/n. this car's government property and it's tracked 24/7 to make sure his safety isn't compromised."

your eyes widen, processing the information in just barely a sentence.

a billion-dollar mnc.

but you hide it with a cough and a quick glance out the window. "explains the cards."

"anytime you're uncomfortable, you can just tell me, okay? but... i can guarantee that if i were to... y'know, do something inappropriate... i'd consequences i can't face and- well, i don't want any of that to implicate you as well."

"don't sweat it, i have nothing much to lose anyway."

you should've felt guilty for the amount of sadistic pleasure you were getting from making him uncomfortable - but it was a great way for you to reduce the amount of interaction you'd need to have with him.

secondly, the villa. what the hell is this thing you're standing at the entrance of?

your face is scrunched up into a strange mess of confusion, overwhelming surprise and disbelief. it's in the middle of nowhere, and yet there were at least five people in the same uniform walking around, and there were stone stairs carved into the ground that led down to the beach.

kingsman disembarks first, then he comes over to pull the door on sangyeon's side open with a staff member jogging out of the villa to get yours open.

"good afternoon, miss. can i have your dietary requirements for dinner?"

"huh? dietary- what?"

"uh," the staff member blinks profusely, hurriedly glancing at sangyeon, who was busy patting down his clothes and talking to kingsman. "your dietary requirements. are you allergic to anything? seafood, peanuts? can you drink milk-"

"oh! uh, no, no," with a hand on your head, you find yourself unable to piece a proper sentence together. "no, i'm good with everything."

so with a slight bow, he smiles politely and turns back to the villa. kingsman follows closely behind.

your eyes are glued to this magnificence of architecture. the walls are limestone but the floors inside the villa are marble. the doors are made of glass and it's nearly completely see-through from the outside. there was a pond right outside the entrance, and to get from the sole parking lot you were standing in, you'd have to cross about 3 perfectly squared-rocks to get to the villa.

the grandeur of the building returns you your senses after a moment, and you turn your head to find sangyeon looking at you with one of his arms laying across the hood of the car.

"i know i'm gonna sound dumb when i ask this but - you don't happen to own that, do you?"

with a sweet chuckle, he pulls away and walks around the car, shoving his hands into his pockets. "so do you want me to make you sound dumb?"

you give him a dry laugh in response, nodding your head through a touché. "should've guessed."

"it's um," he begins, gesturing for you to start walking. "it's a family heirloom. whenever someone's in this city for business, we stay here."

"so it's like a work-slash-vacation villa thing?" you take the first step onto the square rocks.

"yeah, pretty much."

"very neat."

"so, you said you were on a vacation. where were you coming from?"

once inside the glass house, the scent of olive oil and garlic slaps you like an alarm clock. by instinct, you snap your head to where you can hear the sizzling sounds. to your absolute astonishment, you witness 2 chefs in the kitchen working around the most aesthetically pleasing kitchen you've ever seen.

and even beyond the kitchen, the bamboo covers are rolled up, exposing the ocean beyond. it's a perfect view for the dining table, already partially made up properly with a white cloth and champagne glasses and an unlit wax candle in the middle.

"you weren't meant to see that," sangyeon gestures to a passing staff, who merely nods and reaches over to press a button attached to the wall. the wooden door slides shut, cutting the kitchen and the chefs out from your view. he walks around you and stops, standing a safe distance before you with his hands in his pockets.

"i like surprising people, so... i hope the dinner later can live up to your expectations."

"when you said dinner and a shopping spree, i was just expecting a mcdonalds' meal and a uniqlo spending sesh."

"well, i'm-" he raises both hands and shrugs. "i'm sorry i didn't live up to your expectations of a 'thank you' gift," he pauses, and for a moment, it looked like he was admiring you. but you snap out of it by turning away first, your palms slightly sweaty and your anxiousness running your heart a little faster.

"i'd like for you to stay here for the night. we can go back into the city tomorrow for your shopping spree. take it like a hotel."

"yes, because your family would love a thief sleeping in your vacation villa."

you had expected your sarcasm to put him off, probably annoy him a little if he already isn't, but no. he simply laughs and shakes his head.

"you're not a thief, which is really redundant to you, but... my grandmother gave me that wallet and i deliberately don't put cash in it."

"that doesn't explain anything. stealing a credit card is stupid."

"yeah, and so is keeping the pin in the wallet," sangyeon purses his lips into a tight smile. he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, gently picking out a piece of paper that has 6 digits on it. "you don't know how many times i've misplaced this thing and had transactions made."

"now, why in the world would you keep your pin in the wallet?" you watch him with heightened confusion as he slides the wallet back into his pocket.

"because my grandfather used to think it's his and he used to bring it out with her," a pause. "he had alzheimer's."

right off the top of your head, the sudden usage past-tense strikes you first.

"oh," you swallow away the dry throat. "my condolences."

sangyeon shakes his head, sucking in a deep breath with his chest puffed. "it's alright. at least now you know why you're being treated by royalty."

a bird chips somewhere. the shore washes in the distance.

"so," sangyeon casually breaks the silence, nodding for you to turn and follow him as he walks around you again. "up for the stay? you can leave after your shopping spree tomorrow if you're uncomfortable but you're welcome to stay until i'm done with my work here."

he walks you to the second floor, greeting a cozy living area with a couch and a television mounted to the wall right above a fireplace. behind the couch was a hallway that led down into a bathroom and a bedroom.

"uh-" between your distractions as you push the door of the bedroom open, your eyes twinkle with delight when you're greeted with a gorgeous view of the ocean right over the glass barriers of the balcony.

there were sliding glass doors separating the comfort of the bedroom and the sun-coated platform outside, and with every passing second, the sky was slowly turning into a dark, sultry shade of orange.

"yes."

sangyeon licks his lips and giggles, obviously entertained that you're so smitten with the room.

"what?" you nearly snap at him, attention still mostly stuck to the view outside as you gawk at it.

"nothing. you just... you might be a little feisty but you're very easily marvelled. it's cute."

you turn around on your heels, frowning at him.

"what?"

"nothing."

the circular dining table was set up such that both of you had a perfect view of the sunset - and that led to bumping knees under the table, which, to your dismay, was a little bit hard to ignore.

"apple crème brulee topped with cinnamon and sugar."

the ceramics clink when the chef personally sets them down, and though he's been at your table with every dish you've already had, you can't help but admire the chef's hat he's got on him.

"thank you," sangyeon reaches up and gives the chef a pat on his shoulder.

then you are left with sangyeon again, amongst the crickets that were starting to come out, with the last bit of orange streaking the darkening blue sky and the final glimmer of the sun setting over the horizon. you could hear the water by the shore washing against the sand, and frankly, you'd take the glass of champagne and run to it now, but what would big ol' CEO sangyeon say?

"you like the water, right?"

his knee bumps into yours, like a child seeking attention.

"hmm?" picking up a spoon and digging it into your dessert, you let the cinnamon melt over your tongue. "i just... find it calming. your family must've liked it too since they bought a house right next to it."

"like i said, it's a family heirloom. they did renovate it like once or twice but i had no say about where this house was gonna be located."

"so i'm guessing you don't like the water."

"not a big fan."

the fork clinks into the ceramic when you drop it, jaw slack and brows furrow.

"no."

"yep..." he nods gently, his arms flexed and pressing into the sides of the chair. just under the cut of his sleeve, you could see his triceps- "it's just... there... I'm not entirely fond of the idea-"

"take your champagne and we're going down to the water."

"what? now?"

"no, when you're dead," shoving his glass into his hand, you pick yours up. "of course now."

"no, wait-"

"come on," by ditching him and heading for the stone stairs, you're more than excited about the floating glimmers on the surface of the water.

"wait!"

the sand finds the sole of your feet as you carefully jog down to the shore, champagne glass in hand and the ocean breeze in your hair. the sloshing of the water sounds like music to your ears, a fraction of the ocean tickling you at your shoes when you bury them in the lines where the water left a mark in the sand.

"be careful."

you turn, watching him huff and breathe out his pants with his hands on his hips.

"where's your glass?" you frown in disapproval at his empty hands.

"i don't want to break my glassware."

with an 'o' formed with your lips, you look down at your glass. "oops."

sangyeon smiles, shaking his head and resuming a straight position. "it's fine. one less glass wouldn't be a problem."

a pinch of embarrassment brings your glass to your lips, and you choose to down it all in one shot so you wouldn't have to worry about dropping any of it into the water or the sand.

"hey-"

"i'm alright," showing him your palm, you stop him before he takes a step toward you. "it's just champagne-"

and the sand decides to slip out from under your sandals when the water pulls back, and your ankle gives out under your weight.

yet sangyeon manages to get his timing right, swooping forwards with his arm circling your waist and

"whoa!" he chuckles, careful not to make you uncomfortable as you hold the glass awkwardly in mid-air. "i'll... take that."

his nails clink against the glass as he gently removes it from your grasp, and his eyes quickly dart away from yours when you've found your footing.

"you alright?"

"yeah," ashamed to look at him, you rub your hands on your waist where his arm was just at. "thanks."

an absent-minded hum returns to you as a response.

"so, where do you want to go tomorrow? i'm sure you didn't mean uniqlo."

sangyeon strolls past you, turning and walking backwards as he looks to you. the light emitted from the villa was a good distance away, but nonetheless still bright enough to illuminate one half of his face.

it's the way his eyes crinkles when he smiles, and his laughter was of a lower register, so it's not annoying.

you think to yourself that maybe you shouldn't trust him this quick - he did land you in jail earlier today.

but he also did bring you along for a nice dinner, offered you accommodation and seems to be enthusiastic about his shopping promise.

being around him makes you comfortable.

you don't even realise he's stopped talking until you can hear nothing but the water, and now he's stopped walking backwards too. silence ensues, besides the gentle rustling of the trees up the hill where his villa was.

"what are you thinking about?"

"hmm?" hesitation clouds your thoughts. "nothing."

"ah," he sighs with disappointment. "and over here i thought i scored myself some romance."

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inventors-fair · 3 years ago

Photo

Always the Bridesmaids

Congrats to our runners-up this week! @wolkemesser with Sangelier, @misterstingyjack with Component Scavenger, and @gollumni with Bouquet Toss!

Sangelier

I love some of the stuff you’ve done with this card. I like the pun, first off. It feels like a real word! I love how you didn’t restrict it to just blood, but you made it obvious via flavor. That’s not how most of the cards in the set works, so it’s a little odd, but it also makes it more reprintable (even if the flavor doesn’t). The colors are a little strange, but I like it. Sacrificing creatures is black and sacrificing artifacts is red, and both colors get access to scry (as do all colors), but it’s a little awkward that this really want to be playing blue for some extra extort synergy. Also, almost forgot, scry is really cool with blood specifically, since it lets you scry before drawing. If anything, that’s the least RB part of the card. This turns blood tokens into opts, which is kind of a big deal. I know this fits well with the blood theme in the set, but I don’t know if it fits with the rest of red black in the set. Rakdos in this set is still supposed to be aggressive, and a bear that just scries occasionally doesn’t fit in that well with the other cards in the set. Rakdo wants to be losing its creatures to combat, not to itself. It fits with the mechanics, but not the strategies, if you understand what I mean. It’s a good and well-made card, though.

Component Scavenger

This definitely feels like a card that could have existed in the set. It overlaps just a bit with the other 3/3 flying exploit zombie, but not too bad. My biggest issue is the timing restriction. It doesn’t line up with what WotC has been doing with these types of effects lately. This is closer to a card like Nightveil Specter than it is to the more recent Thief of Sanity or even Gonti. While I can understand wanting to give the opponent a way to deal with this creature, they already can stifle the trigger by killing it on the stack, or by leaving them nothing to exploit which just turns it into a bad Covetous Urge. I think paying a bunch of mana and sacrificing a creature is enough of a cost to let them cast that card unconditionally. But other than that gripe, I really like this card. It feels cool and fun and splashy, and it works really well with the themes of the set.

Bouquet Toss

Art direction is probably Olivia throwing a bouquet of roses behind her, but with the bouquet having a trail of blood following the path it arcs. Roses/whatever the target of the roses is would be in the bottom left, Olivia is like top right third of the art Dutch/canted angle.

So, first off, you can say “this spell” not the card’s name. Okay, anyway, here’s a weird fling. It can fling creatures or artifacts, which is kind of a big deal. I could easily see this being played in artifact decks in pauper with affinity cards for some massive damage. Was that the intent? The obvious comparison is to the card fling (or thud). This is a sorcery that’s harder to cast, but hey, it can sac artifacts! I think flings kind of make sense in this set, but it’s awkward that it’s in different colors than the exploit mechanic, meaning it’s hard to make those synergies work. The blood synergy is kind of cool, but maybe too good? It’s a payoff, but might be too good of one. I think if it were three damage, that would feel a little closer to the value of the blood + having to pay for this card. I think this card has some weird interactions with the set, but it’s a fine card in general. The main reason it gets the runner-up is because it really takes the set into consideration, but also could have ramifications in other formats, but while still being well balanced there.

And there you have it! The strongest contenders this week. I should have the commentary up in a jiffy.

-Mod Mr. ShinyObject

#mtg #magic the gathering #inventor's fair #custom magic card #plus one #runners-up #commentary

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longitudinalwaveme · 3 years ago

Text

Arkham Sessions: Captain Cold

These vignettes, and, more specifically, the characterization of Dr. Hugo Strange, are based on the wonderful Arkham Files YouTube videos produced by Mr. Rogues.

Here's his channel:

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCyxNOHiNclZlVpeRhYV2QRQ

Since I am a huge Flash nerd, I decided to use this idea as a jumping-off point to explore how the Rogues would respond to therapy sessions. Again, all credit to the basic format goes to Mr. Rogues.

Not everything Dr. Strange says should be taken as truth; his bias against costumed vigilantes affects most of his interviews with the patients.

Hugo Strange: From the patient files of Dr. Hugo Strange, director of Arkham Asylum. Patient: Leonard Snart, also known as Captain Cold. The patient displays a number of antisocial tendencies, but no formal diagnosis has ever been given to him, and since he arrived at Arkham only a few days ago, I have not had the time to give him a complete psychological examination. Session One. Good day, Mr. Snart.

Capt. Cold: Len.

Hugo Strange: Pardon?

Capt. Cold: Just call me Len, Doc. I ain’t the type to stand on formalities.

Hugo Strange: Very well, then. (Pause) So, Leonard-

Capt. Cold: Not Leonard, Len.

Hugo Strange: I take it you’re not especially fond of your given name?

Capt. Cold: Believe me, Doc, if your name was ‘Leonard Snart’, you wouldn’t be fond of it, either.

Hugo Strange: Fair enough. So, Len, what exactly influenced you to put on a parka and go running around robbing banks and jewelry stores with a freeze ray?

Capt. Cold: It ain’t a freeze ray, it’s a cold gun.

Hugo Strange: Besides semantics, what is the difference?

Capt. Cold: Mr. Freeze-you got him locked up somewhere in this loony bin, right?- has a freeze ray. It shoots ice. Me? I’ve got a cold gun. My gun negates thermal motion. Stops protons and electrons dead in their tracks. People too. Even the Flash slows to a crawl when I hit him with it.

Hugo Strange: (Surprised; a bit skeptical) Do you mean to say that you have invented a weapon that can create temperatures of absolute zero?

Capt. Cold: Yep. And I did it years before that lovesick freak got turned into a popsicle man.

Hugo Strange: Your records indicate that you dropped out of high school at the age of fourteen, Len. How could you possibly have the requisite knowledge to create such a weapon? Are you even familiar with James Prescott Joule or J.J. Thomson?

Capt. Cold: Who?

Hugo Strange: J. J. Thomson is the man who discovered the electron. James Prescott Joule is the scientist who discovered the First Law of Thermodynamics. If what you’re saying is true, you managed to exceed the wildest dreams of either of these illustrious men, without even knowing of them or their theories.

Capt. Cold: Huh. Guess I did. Well, how about that?

Hugo Strange: How could you possibly have managed this, Len?

Capt. Cold: Just ‘cause I’m trailer trash don’t mean I’m stupid, Doc.

Hugo Strange: Clearly not. So, how did you do it?

Capt. Cold: Sorry, Doc. Trade secret.

Hugo Strange: Len, we gave you a number of psychological and intelligence tests upon your admittance to Arkham Asylum, and-

Capt. Cold: (Cutting him off) About that-what’m I doin’ in this loony bin, anyhow? I ain’t crazy, and even if I were, I’m from Central City. That’s a thousand miles away from Gotham.

Hugo Strange: A few weeks ago, Iron Heights Penitentiary’s southwestern wall was destroyed in a mysterious accident. As a result, it is currently incapable of holding supercriminals, metahuman or otherwise, and you and your cohorts had to be housed somewhere. Through a series of political and judicial decisions that I confess make as little sense to me as they probably do to you, all of you so-called “Rogues” were transferred to Arkham Asylum until such time as Iron Heights is properly rebuilt.

Capt. Cold: I get havin’ to send us someplace else if Iron Heights is destroyed, but...I ain’t insane. Why not send me to Blackgate instead of the loony bin?

Hugo Strange: Many people are of the opinion that anyone who puts on a silly costume in order to commit crimes is insane by definition, Len.

Capt. Cold: That include you, Doc?

Hugo Strange: Whether or not you are insane in the legal sense of the term is not for me to decide, Len. That being said, I do believe that your decision to commit crimes in such a...theatrical...manner indicates some level of emotional disturbance.

Capt. Cold: Hey, Doc, you’re the expert on this stuff, not me.

Hugo Strange: In that case, why don’t we return to the subject of your astonishing invention?

Capt. Cold: I’m stuck in the loony bin anyway. Might as well.

Hugo Strange: Can you please refrain from describing this facility as a “loony bin”, Len? The term is pejorative, both for the staff who work here and the other patients who live here.

Capt. Cold: Pejorative? What’s that mean, Doc?

Hugo Strange: It means that it is rude. Describing the mentally ill as “lunatics” is unkind and unscientific.

Capt. Cold: Whatever you say, Doc. Whatever you say.

Hugo Strange: (Coughs) As I was saying, when you arrived at the asylum, we gave you a number of psychological and intelligence tests. While your scores in the area of mathematics were unusually high, especially for someone who never finished high school, your literacy scores were abysmal. You are thirty-eight years old, but you read at the level of the average six-year-old.

Capt. Cold: Well, we can’t all have your fancy education, Doc. What’s my reading ability got to do with my cold gun?

Hugo Strange: I find it difficult to believe that a high school dropout-a high school dropout, moreover, who can barely read-would be able to invent a gun that can produce absolute zero on his own.

Capt. Cold: Are you callin’ me a liar?

Hugo Strange: Not necessarily, Len. What I am saying is that I do not believe that the Cold Gun was created in the way that you may believe that it was.

Capt. Cold: Oh, so you ain’t callin’ me a liar-you’re callin’ me crazy.

Hugo Strange: I did not say that either, Len.

Capt. Cold: You didn’t have to, Doc. I may be a redneck high-school dropout, but I ain’t survived as long as I have by not knowin’ when people are bad-mouthin’ me.

Hugo Strange: Len, I am not bad-mouthing you. I am trying to help you.

Capt. Cold: Sure you are.

Hugo Strange: (Frustrated) Not everyone is looking to take advantage of you, Mr. Snart!

Capt. Cold: Funny. Hasn’t been my experience, Doc. (Pause) Look. I ain’t mad, Doc. If I had a buck for every time somebody called me trailer trash or a dumb thug or a stupid hick, I wouldn’t need to rob no more banks. You ain’t said nothin’ I haven’t heard a million times before. But I want you to know this: I invented my cold gun, and I did it by myself. I. Ain’t. Stupid.

Hugo Strange: (Looking to change the subject) Len, I never said that you were unintelligent. In fact, your criminal history makes it quite clear that you are an effective, pragmatic operative. An unintelligent man could never have organized the only successful costumed criminal combine in the nation. Every other group of costumed criminals has folded within a few months at most, usually due to interpersonal tensions, but you have somehow managed to keep your little group together for over a decade. What is it you call yourselves, again?

Capt. Cold: The Rogues.

Hugo Strange: That’s right. The Rogues. Now tell me, Len, what exactly is the secret to your group’s...ah...success?

Capt. Cold: (Amused) You plannin’ to start a costumed gang, Doc?

Hugo Strange: Certainly not. I am simply curious. It isn’t often that I get the opportunity to interview criminals from outside of Gotham’s borders.

Capt. Cold: It ain’t that complicated, Doc. The reason we’ve held together for so long is ‘cause we got an unspoken code. We watch one another’s backs to the end. Nobody gets left behind; everybody gets an equal share.

Hugo Strange: (Surprised) Are you implying that you are...friends...with your Rogues?

Capt. Cold: You think I’d trust people I hate to watch my back?

Hugo Strange: Admittedly, that wouldn’t make much sense...it’s just that I was under the impression that you were the leader of the group.

Capt. Cold: I am.

Hugo Strange: Most gang bosses I know keep the majority of the profits from their crimes for themselves.Why don’t you?

Capt. Cold: ‘Cause we’re a team. We do equal work; we get equal rewards.

Hugo Strange: A surprisingly admirable sentiment for a common thief.

Capt. Cold: (Proudly) There ain’t nothin’ common about me, Doc.

Hugo Strange: (Sigh) That’s certainly true, Len. (Pause) On the subject of things that are not common, why the parka and the silly goggles?

Capt. Cold: Practicality. Parka keeps me warm; goggles help focus my vision and keep me from bein’ blinded by the flare of my own cold gun.

Hugo Strange: I see. (Pause) And why call yourself “Captain Cold”? After all, you aren’t really a Captain of anything.

Capt. Cold: I’ll admit, it ain’t the most creative name in the world...but anything’s better than “Leonard Snart”.

Hugo Strange: Why not just change your name, then? Why take up a ridiculous costumed alias?

Capt. Cold: Because I’m not just an ordinary thug. Leonard Snart is ordinary; boring…..but Captain Cold? Captain Cold is cool.

Hugo Strange: Was that a...pun?

Capt. Cold: What can I say? I admit they’re dumb, but old habits die hard.

Hugo Strange: And the Flash had nothing to do with your decision to put on a costume and call yourself by a silly, alliterative name while committing crimes?

Capt. Cold: The Flash? Why would he have anything to do with it?

Hugo Strange: I was under the impression that the Flash was your arch-enemy.

Capt. Cold: (Laughs) Arch-enemy? What is this, a Saturday morning TV show?

Hugo Strange: The Central City papers make quite a big deal of your rivalry with the so-called “Scarlet Speedster”.

Capt. Cold: Look, the Flash is basically a cop. Sure, he’s a cop with superpowers, and he’s good for sharpening our wits, but at the end of the day, he’s just an obstacle to our getting the score.

Hugo Strange: Then you don’t view your battles with him as some epic confrontation between ideologies?

Capt. Cold: Why would I do that? Ideologies don’t pay the grocery bills, Doc.

Hugo Strange: And you haven’t dedicated your life to proving your superiority over him once and for all?

Capt. Cold: No. I fight the Flash for the same reasons I fight the cops: I want to get rich, and he’s standing in my way. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.

Hugo Strange: So the Flash is nothing special to you?

Capt. Cold: I didn’t say that. Like I said, he’s good for sharpening the wits. I wouldn’t be half as successful as I am if he weren’t around to keep me and the guys on our toes, and yeah, it’d be neat to finally get the victory over him once and for all...but really, he ain’t so different from us. He’s just another guy workin’ a nine-to-five, tryin’ to provide for his family. I don’t like him-he’s a stuck-up, self-righteous prig sometimes-but he’s a good person. He’s not a superhero ‘cause he wants hero-worship. He actually wants to help people. He’s even helped me, and I make a career out of trying to freeze-dry him. You gotta respect a guy like that.

Hugo Strange: You actually see the Flash as a man?

Capt. Cold: What else would I see him as? A Martian? ‘Cause I’ve seen Martians, and I can tell you, the Flash ain’t green enough to be one.

Hugo Strange: It’s not that. It’s just that I’ve spent so much time with the patients who view Bruce Wayne, formerly the Batman, as some sort of supernatural entity or as a grand opposite in a never-ending conflict between order and chaos that it’s rather...odd to listen to a costumed criminal who claims to view their local costumed vigilante simply as a person.

Capt. Cold: Man, you have got to get out more.

Hugo Strange: (Coldly) I don’t recall requesting life advice from you, Mr. Snart.

Capt. Cold: Well, you should take it anyway. Ain’t often I give stuff away for free.

Hugo Strange: (Annoyed) This session is not about me, Mr. Snart. It’s about you.

Capt. Cold: What else do you wanna talk about? I’m not stupid, I’m not creepily obsessed with the Flash, I don’t butcher people for fun, and I don’t have any weird hang-ups about dead relatives or riddles or plants or dolls or jokes or the number two. I’m not a good guy, but I think I’m a pretty normal guy, all things considered.

Hugo Strange: Mr. Snart, no one puts on a costume without some sort of psychological disturbance. Even if the Flash was not in some way responsible for your decision-something which I am not yet fully convinced of-no rational human being would do such a thing. I just need to find out what your disturbance is. (Pause) Perhaps it began in your childhood, Mr. Snart?

Capt. Cold: (Icily) My childhood is none of your business.

Hugo Strange: I am your psychologist, Mr. Snart. That makes it my business. (Pause) Let’s see. Your file says that you were born to Lawrence Snart, a forty-year-old police officer who was kicked off the force for public drunkenness and suspected corruption, and Shirley Snart, a fifteen-year-old high school dropout. You and your family lived in a dilapidated trailer park, and your father was a known alcoholic who drank away your family’s welfare money. Five years after you came along, your younger sister, Lisa, was born...and your mother ran away, never to be seen again. The neighbors called the police because of domestic disputes between her and your father no less than thirteen times in five years, which leads me to suspect that she was spurred to leave the family because of her husband’s abuse. You were left to raise your sister, essentially on your own, at five years old, and you were effectively the head of the household from that point on. You never had a childhood, Mr. Snart.

Capt. Cold: Don’t you talk about my sister!

Hugo Strange: I take it that you’re close to her? Understandable, I suppose, given that you grew up with her in an abusive household. Your grandfather, who drove an ice cream truck, did his best to protect you and your sister from your father’s cruelty, but he was old and in poor health, and he died when you were only twelve years old. You never got over the loss, and your father’s abuse only got worse as you and your sister got older. When you turned 14, you dropped out of high school; you then worked a number of odd jobs to support yourself and your sister. However, shortly after you turned 18, you and your father got into a dreadful argument, one that ended with you running away from home and leaving your little sister alone with your father. After that, you eventually fell into a life of petty crime.

Capt. Cold: I...I had no choice. If I hadn’t left, he would’ve killed me!

Hugo Strange: I am not blaming you for choosing to run away, Mr. Snart. You were an abused child with very few options available to you.

Capt. Cold: (Quietly) I could’ve taken her with me.

Hugo Strange: And why didn’t you?

Capt. Cold: ‘Cause I was an 18-year-old dropout. Nobody was gonna give me custody of my sister...and besides, I’d started hangin’ out with dangerous people. I...I didn’t want her to get hurt.

Hugo Strange: In other words, she would have been in danger no matter what you had done.

Capt. Cold: It don’t matter! I’m her big brother! I was supposed to protect her!

Hugo Strange: (Coming to a realization) And because you weren’t able to protect her from your father as a boy, you’re trying to make up for it now by becoming this “Captain Cold”; a larger-than-life persona that can do all the things you weren’t able to do as a child. You’ve made yourself too powerful and dangerous for anyone to threaten, and you’ve made a surrogate family for yourself and your sister. That’s why the Rogues are so successful...it’s because they aren’t really a gang at all. They’re your family. Isn’t that right, Mr. Snart?

Capt. Cold: (Sarcastically) An’ I suppose the fact that my grandpa drove an ice cream truck somehow subconsciously influenced my decision to become Captain Cold?

Hugo Strange: (Aware of the sarcasm, but ignoring it) That’s perhaps a bit of a stretch, but it isn’t impossible.

Capt. Cold: I don’t believe this….

Hugo Strange: Don’t be afraid, Mr. Snart. Admitting you have a problem is difficult, but it’s also the first step on the road to recovery.

#flash rogues #dr. hugo strange #flash comics #batman comics #fanfic #captain cold

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galacticlamps · 3 years ago

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im sorry im sorry im sorry i know it’s been well over a year but i accidentally thought about Short Trips: Deleted Scenes (again) and it’s killing me (again) so i think im just gonna go ahead and post all these stupid thoughts that have been plaguing me about it since i first heard it & maybe that’ll help clear up some space in my head for like, real life things.

Spoilers I guess? It’s like a year and a half old but also high key the most recent 2nd doctor content i believe we’ve gotten which is like, the only negative thing I can say about it

The TLDR version is this:

I literally cant believe how sweet it is? Painful, but sweet. Like. I don’t honestly know what’s more likely - did they set out to write Jamie a nice little straight love interest and just fail miserably at it by constantly likening her to the Doctor AND paralleling the Doctor’s perspective with her ex’s AND putting Jamie’s relationships with both of them in direct tension with each other while constantly letting his with the Doctor win out?

OR - did they do a very 1960s thing and say hey we’re gonna write what’s essentially a story about how much Jamie and the Doctor love each other and release it on Valentine’s Day thinly disguised as a one-off romance with a french lady?

Now, as a general rule, my attitude toward questions like that is usually “don’t know, don’t care, doesn’t matter” - and while I 100% stand by that, I also have to admit that this particular audio seems to pay enough attention to detail that I’d kind of think I was selling it short if I assumed too many of these things were just meaningless coincidences, you know?

Anyway, that’s the most coherent/overarching thought. And here’s a disorganized list of things I absolutely cannot get over about it (they don’t form any kind of argument, mind, they just all happen to live rent free in my head):

- Celine is first taken in by Jamie being an idiot (specifically him claiming not to speak French, in perfect French); likewise, her entrance in the scene where they actually kiss is marked with a little anecdote about her hat getting stuck on a doornail and her scolding it as she attempts to fix her un-tameable appearance, and the narration says Celine “would often clown for Jamie like this” - all of which, while undeniably adorable, don’t exactly strike me as entirely original traits to have been assigned to Jamie’s love-interest (but also Celine is so cool and her perspective on film/media/time is an excellent addition to the long list of dr who characters)

- When they’re in the present, describing Jamie’s relationship with Celine in 1908, they call him her “companion” and highlight his going nearly everywhere with her, which earns a laugh from the 4th doctor (and me as well, though probably for slightly different reasons - but like, is that really all it takes to have a fling with someone in 60′s era who? bc if so...)

- Celine’s ex-fiance is still in love with her and is jealously watching when she kisses Jamie ... and then the Doctor appears beside him, evidently doing the exact. same. thing. They have the following conversation:

“You know, it’s not prudent to spy on people. But then, people in pain can’t be expected to act prudently.”

“Pain, monsieur? You mistake me.”

“Ah, do I? Good, because I rather thought you’d lost something.”

“What would you know about loss monsieur?”

- I’m sorry doc but who do you think you are, saying stuff like that and smiling sadly at the floor to boot? I 100% had to pause it here the first time I listened, just to not throw my laptop across the room.

- Then when I recovered continued, the Doctor closes the door so they can’t watch anymore and explains “Possessing things comes so terribly easily to some men that losing them can feel cruel, intolerably cruel. In my experience, only the very best of men cannot be tempted to answer that cruelty with more - I do sincerely hope that you are the best of men.” (guess who gets described as the best of men by the end of the audio?)

- Jamie and the Doctor apparently develop a habit of walking along the river in Paris in silence

- During one such walk, Jamie suggests Celine come with them since she already figured out about the Tardis - and when the Doctor’s worried by this, he says he only allowed Jamie & Celine to grow closer “because of Victoria.” Jamie takes offense at the ‘allowing it’ comment and also refuses to admit he knows what the Doctor means about Victoria, which leads the Doctor to say that he knows how fond Jamie was of her - he was too, of course, but with him, “it was different, wasn’t it?” Jamie only says maybe that’s true and maybe that’s not, but his voice catches until he changes the subject

- Jamie doesn’t see Celine for days both times that she’s recovering from the shock and depression of her work being destroyed. In contrast, when the Doctor’s not well, Jamie’s "afraid” and “guilty” and hardly seems to leave his side at all, if his being there “rushing to embrace him” the second he wakes up - after a period Jamie describes as “at least a week” - is anything to go by, anyway. so either bf writers need to learn how to write a committed straight relationship or admit that’s not what they ever intended in the first place

- Oh yeah, and the Doctor spends that week "asleep” in Jamie’s bedroom - no, there’s no explanation as to if that’s where he was when he first collapsed or if it’s where Jamie decided to take him bc why would they feel the need to explain him being there? why was it even relevant to tell us it was Jamie’s room in the first place?

- The Doctor somehow manages to control the Tardis enough to take Celine on one trip to an alien planet and then return to the correct time & place for her to use the footage she recorded there in her new film - and while the audio doesn’t do very much to explain how that was possible, it does treat this as A Pretty Big Deal, and immediately afterward the Doctor has to spend a week communing with his past self (and/or the Tardis?) debating how likely it is that the Time Lords could use this to trace him. When he decides it’s not worth the risk and they have to stop the film from ever being shown to the public, Jamie asks why he agreed to it in the first place, and all he can say is “Because, Jamie, you asked me to!” earning awkward stares from the crowd.

- Oh, but, lest we forget, that little outburst is also immediately followed by him putting his arm around Jamie’s shoulders, and, shockingly, apparently beginning to actually explain the truth about the danger from the Time Lords - until they’re interrupted, of course idk why exactly but the idea of a 60s dr wanting to come clean with a companion but not being allowed to bc the show demands the war games be something of a reveal hurts me in a very good way

- The mental image of “the Doctor and Jamie, resplendent in borrowed evening wear”

- The audio admitting that Jamie’s not very good at subterfuge, and the Doctor asking if he’s going to be alright with them having to steal the film back from Celine - and Jamie’s little “Aye, Doctor” as he feels a ‘glass arrow piercing his chest’ glad to see bf is reading all my letters about exactly how i feel any time something sad happens to james robert mccrimmon

- The Doctor’s anxious to get out of there for obvious reasons, but he hangs around bc Jamie wants to see Celine again - which doesn’t happen, because of her aforementioned shock & depression, but she does leave Jamie a note that ends “you and that Doctor of yours - look after him Jamie, he loves you dearly, as do I.” yeah, if you didn’t want people to draw a parallel there, you could’ve picked, like, any other wording in the world.

- In case you weren’t fully convinced I’ve been reading too much into this whole audio already, consider this: Celine dies in Long Island in 1968, three days before her birthday - 1968 is when this story would’ve taken place in the show’s history (between Fury & Wheel), and dying three days before/after a birthday in America seems a bit... well I had some deja vu from it, anyway

- Four of all people being the one to bring back the film - I know he does it bc Sarah Jane makes him, but personally, I often feel like despite the length of his run, 4 is the Doctor with which we might’ve gotten the fewest glimpses into his interiority, so the fact that it’s him and not one of the more overtly sentimental Doctors makes it feel like it carries even more weight somehow, to me anyway. I think I wrote a post saying roughly the same thing about 4 & Fate of Krelos/Return to Telos but maybe I only did that inside my own head lol. Still, I’m all for any opportunities for Jamie to be one of the few characters to draw some noticeable emotion out of Four, but in fairness I haven’t touched too much of his EU stuff to really be able to compare the frequency with which this happens with other past companions

- Is Four referring to Two or Jamie when he says he got the film from “an old family friend”? Two did the actual stealing, but he probably means Jamie’s involvement - either way, it’s an interesting way of describing old companions - or selves?

- When Jemima goes to call Jamie a thief, Four is “roused” to defend him: “he really was the very best of men” again, any time four freely shows he cares about someone, im over the moon about it

- Oh ha ha, there’s an audio called “Deleted Scenes” featuring the Doctor who’s most affected by junked episodes. And at the end of it, a character who’s spent her life researching and lecturing about a lost film gets to watch it be ‘rediscovered’ after it’s gone unseen for decades. I feel marginally less stupid for reading into the other details of a story like this when it ends up deciding to be to be clever & slightly meta like that

But yeah

all in all, it’s kind of amazing to me that this genuinely reads like they sat down and said okay boys it’s valentines day, let’s write an audio where jamie kisses a girl, since that hasn’t happened except as a plot device in one story in 1967 - but then when they got down to business they accidentally(?) wrote a story all about how important his bond with the Doctor is and how easily that can be compared to a legitimate love interest (even if the love interest in question is a one off character & the extent of the relationship appears to be like one kiss & then having Jamie spend most of his time around the Doctor instead)

I realize there’s something slightly illogical about writing the words “shipping aside” after a post like this but seriously - no matter how many categories you’re able to see two & jamie’s relationship fitting into, this is 40 minutes of big finish just hitting you over the head with how powerful/special/important that relationship is, and with them being two of my favorite characters, i really haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since

#jamie mccrimmon #second doctor #big finish #Short Trips: Deleted Scenes #yes i am gonna tag this #two/jamie #i think it earned it with the line from celine's letter if nothing else #and quite possibly the doctor's so-called imprudent & pain-driven spying #but i'll leave it at that #in case anyone's looking at the tags to decide if they should actually read this rambling monster of a post #also if you for some reason read this but haven't listened to the audio -#a) that's kind of you to care what i have to say but #b) you could probably have listened to half of it by now lol #did i mention it's a stand-alone audio that only costs $3?#and it's more of a traditional audio book format with one narrator who voices all the characters?#sorry i wasn't ready to do a bf pitch in the tags here #i genuinely dont know why someone who hasn't already heard it would bother to read all this #but if anyone has - thanks?#i'll shut up now so you can get on w ur day :)

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whomst-art-thou-whomst-whomst · 3 years ago

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To Steal From A Thief:

A Lost Tomb fic

Prologue

“I’m so glad I don’t live in the real world.” —Leverage

“Growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others.” —Virginia Woolf

Although he could sleep through the noise of storms, dogs barking, and passing cars honking at each other, the boy was always easily awoken on the nights when the soft but insistent buzz-buzz-buzzzz of the intercom outside the front door whispered secrets into the cool, misty air. Only three kinds of people would request entry to the Wu family estate in the middle of the night: Wu San Xing on several occasions when Wu Erbai had gotten mad enough at his brother’s activities to lock him out, business clients seeking a discreet meeting for their problems, and thieves. It was this third category of visitor that the boy was most excited by, and he was more likely to slip out of his bed and sneak down to the door that connected the living space with the insurance business when he knew that thieves were within.

Certainly, the first two possibilities were entertaining on their own. The most recent passive-aggressive standoff between the Wu brothers had involved Uncle San-ye sprawled out in the street at 3am, drunkenly yodeling a 1990s pop song about betrayal in love while pelting gravel at Uncle Erbai’s bedroom window with surprising accuracy (Erbai pretended to be asleep inside, but Pan Zi finally took pity and secretly let San Xing in).

The midnight clients for the uncles’ business were also interesting to peek at from around the hall corner: they ranged from statuesque women whose faces were shadowed by large hats, to elderly couples clutching each other close, to nondescript suited men who came “on behalf of my employer”. These clients invariably had one common denominator that the boy noticed: they were all desperate.

Why else would you come to people like Wu Erbai and Wu San Xing for help? Why else would you throw your lot in with a den of thieves?

If you asked one of their neighbors about the gossip on the Wu brothers’ house, the reluctant answer would likely be, “not much.” The Wu brothers were the ones that ran that little insurance business attached to the house. Established in the neighborhood for decades. Took out the trash on time, no loud parties. That young nephew was living with them right now and going to school at the local university, such a sweet boy. Now, once in a while you might glimpse someone entering or exiting the house who didn’t look normal at all, but as Wu Erbai would explain with an unblinking and discomfiting stare, these were simply some paying customers from out of town. The insurance business takes all types, after all. Everyone has something they consider valuable.

Within a very different community, however, the Wu reputation was only normal in the sense that they were an established family of thieves (freelance goods retrievers, Wu Erbai hissed) going back to Wu Xie’s grandfather.

It had all started, as Uncle San Xing would tell an awed young Wu Xie during warm evenings in his childhood, when Grandfather Wu had come across an old friend stumbling his way through the street with tears streaming down his face. The friend’s story was sad but not unheard of; he had gambled too much during a game one evening at a private party and drunkenly bet away his prized family heirloom, a carefully maintained watch that had been passed down to him upon the death of his father. Once sober, the horrified man had rushed to the game winner’s house and explained his mistake. He offered the watch’s estimated value in cash, as he had scraped together the money for it, but to no avail. The winner of the watch liked it too much and wouldn’t exchange it for any money. To make matters worse, as the man grew increasingly desperate and upset, the winner (a powerful man in town) had him removed from the house and publicly thrown out onto the street. Humiliated and grieving, he stumbled home to tell his family about the loss. Wu Xie’s grandfather had caught him only a few houses away from his own. Grandfather Wu found himself angry on his friend’s behalf. Certainly, his behavior had been foolish and irresponsible—but for the other man to refuse a reasonable deal to restore someone’s family heirloom, particularly when he didn’t need the money himself, and to publicly embarrass this friend to boot?

Grandfather Wu never explained to his sons just how or when the thought came to him, but it was an idea that would change the family line forever: taking the watch back is the right thing to do.

His journals didn’t provide much information about how he accomplished it; a reference to a sympathetic servant in the house, tips jotted down for making an innocent diversion at the right moment. However he accomplished the watch retrieval (leaving the money in its place), Grandfather Wu got a taste for it after that—and other friends and acquaintances who had heard about the watch incident came by or wrote to him with their own problems and a tidy sum to ease the way. The rest, as Uncle San Xing would say while tucking young Wu Xie into bed, was history.

In the next generation, however, Wu Xie’s father pointedly set up a legitimate business in antiques insurance. Nothing against his family, he let them know, but he wasn’t going to get mixed up in that business. The Wu family was going straight from here on out. The uncles shrewdly went along with it, setting up their own business—as a cover for their real work. The job was still simple: clients came and told the uncles their stories about what they needed to get and why. After deliberating, and with Grandfather Wu’s input while he was still alive, they would decide on whether to take a case. As for their collaborators, the imagination required for planning a robbery invites all sorts of colorful characters to the table, and Wu Xie’s summers at his uncles’ house growing up were full of grifters teaching him pool, cardsharps giving him tips on how to make an ace vanish in his hand, and hackers showing him how to get the media he wanted for free. All of this, mind, under his elders’ noses. He was meant to be learning the insurance business, and summers were for learning to mind the store and keep the accounts, not for getting involved in that immoral thieving business.

Wu Xie unwittingly grew up as a sort of living olive branch between the brothers; the one thing that Wu Xie’s father and uncles seemed to really agree on was that their beloved Wu Xie, sheltered as he was, would not become involved in the shadowy world of “freelance goods retrieval.”

Or rather, Uncle San Xing claimed to agree. This would change.

**************************************

As you can see, it’s very much an AU (a leverage themed AU, to be specific) and I’m sure I’m getting stuff wrong about the family structure from the books. Apologies, please just think of it all under the banner of it being an AU!

Please let me know your thoughts, it’s just starting out!!

#the lost tomb #ultimate note #pingxie #dmbj #whomst #leverage au

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asmywhimseytakesme · 4 years ago

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Hi, I just saw your blog and I have to ask; do you have any recommendations for people who really, really enjoyed the Murderbot Diaries? Im kinda obsessed with it

Hi @extra-plus-ordinary ! I am so flattered to be asked this because I LOVE giving recommendations.

The first thing I’ll say is, there is a very active Murderbot discord server and if you aren’t in it send me a dm and I’ll get you a link! The lovely folks there can probably give you lots more recommendations than me. I’ll admit I haven’t been on there much lately because life be like that sometimes, but you can bet I’ll be active there plenty when the next Murderbot book comes out in a few months! The folks there also found me links to a couple Murderbot short stories that you should absolutely check out if you haven’t yet.

I have to admit, my first thought on getting this ask is... there isn’t anything else quite like Murderbot! Sometimes all you want is more Murderbot and we don’t have any (yet). The first time I finished the series I started over again at the beginning because all I wanted was More Murderbot Please. It took me awhile to be in the mood for anything else. I absolutely recommend indulging that mood because personally, when all I want is Just This Book, I end up disliking anything else I try to read, even when I normally would like it. But! If you are in the mood to try something a bit different with perhaps some overlapping appeal, let me offer a few suggestions:

The Queens Thief series by Megan Whalen Turner

I have to mention this first because it’s fans of THIS series that got me to read Murderbot. Also I’ve been obsessed with these books since I was a teen. Similarities between the series include:

Sarcastic first person narration—this is mostly just in the first book of the series, The Thief. If you, like me, fell in love with Murderbot because of its voice, give this book a try. Gen is a different narrator in many ways, but I find the appeal similar. There are also some similar character dynamics and interactions with a group gradually getting to know a character they previously underestimated, and forming strong friendships over the course of the series.

However, I will note that The Thief is notably different from the rest of the series in tone and pacing, and some people find it boring. That was not my experience, but many recommend starting the series with the second book.

The second book has a character that I feel is similar to Murderbot on many levels, but I don’t want to say much more about it because SPOILERS. Actually I don’t want to say any more about the series at all because it’s really best to just go in and experience it for yourself. Take my word for it—many people love both series, there is lots of crossover appeal.

The Mandalorian tv series

Ok I feel kinda dumb mentioning this because I feel like everyone’s probably heard of this show by now and has already decided whether they’re gonna watch it. I mean, it’s STAR WARS. So I’ll be brief here, but I really feel like Mando and Murderbot have a LOT in common and would get along really well, and people drawn to one of these characters might also like the other. Murderbot wishes he had as good an excuse as Mando for keeping a helmet on at all times. They’re both similarly good at their jobs (which involve fighting), and end up coming to care for characters weaker and less experienced than themselves. They then put themselves on the line to protect their new Found Family, while steadfastly refusing to admit that they have any feelings whatsoever. Also, so far? No romantic pairings. Murderbot would approve. There are more comparisons I could make but I’ll stop....So yeah, if for some reason you haven’t given The Mandalorian a try.... do it.

Digger by Ursula Vernon

Ok, so the cool thing about this recommendation (aside from the fact that it’s a super amazing story, which I’ll talk more about in a bit) is you can read the WHOLE THING. FOR FREE. RIGHT NOW. Don’t have to put it on hold at the library, don’t have to order it and wait for it to come in the mail, don’t have to track it down in a used bookstore. ITS ALL FREE: http://diggercomic.com/blog/2007/02/01/wombat1-gnorf/

That link should take you to the first page of the comic.

The first comparison I’ll make here is the VOICE. Digger has a first person funny/sarcastic voice that reminds me a LOT a of Murderbot. Different, of course, but..., I think Murderbot would really like Digger. She would be a good client. Practical, tries to stay safe and make good decisions, and she would 100% get Murderbot’s sense of humor. She gets thrown into a crazy magical world and takes it all in stride, making plenty of friends she’s ready to defend with her life.

Yeah, Murderbot would like Digger.

I’d go on, but seriously—did you forget I just said THE WHOLE THING IS FREE TO READ ONLINE so just.... go start reading it and get a taste for it yourself.

http://diggercomic.com/blog/2007/02/01/wombat1-gnorf/

The Vorkosigan Saga

This is a big one that will keep you occupied for awhile! I don’t remember how many books are in the series... 20 maybe? I don’t even know. This is the series I re read when I was coming off my Murderbot high a few months back, because in some ways it has a similar vibe.

Anyway, this is another Space Drama that explores some interesting potential economics, politics, and conflicts of a future of planets linked by wormholes. Some of the planets have a more Corporation Rim feel, others are like Preservation, with many others thrown in the mix. The main character, Miles Vorkosigan... he would love Murderbot. He’d recruit it on the spot—a competent person who shows initiative? Wonderful! On the other hand, Murderbot would HATE Miles.... no sense of self preservation, barreling into problems with no clear plan of how to get out... he would drive Murderbot absolutely crazy.

Personally, I started reading the series with The Warriors Apprentice, and that’s where I recommend starting. However technically Shards of Honor, which tells the story of Miles’ parents and how they met, is the first book chronologically.

The Winter Prince by Elizabeth Wein

This is a very short novel (so if the Murderbot novella length worked for you, give this a try). It’s a gripping take on Arthurian Legend told from the point of view of Medraut (Mordred). Medraut reminds me of Murderbot in many ways—he feels unworthy of love because of what he is, wrestling with a violent past and trying to be better, struggling to know what to do when he is loved by people who he doesn’t think should love him. Also, like All Systems Red, his narrative is addressed to a specific person, which affects how the story is read.

So those are just a few books/series I recommend for Murderbot fans! And everyone, really, because these are all excellent because my taste is impeccable ;-).

I hope there is something here to tide you over til the next Murderbot book comes out @extra-plus-ordinary 😁

#Murderbot #Murderbot diaries #queens thief #Vorkosigan saga #Mandalorian #the winter prince #digger comic

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thegrunkiest · 4 years ago

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Not gonna lie, returning to Skyrim over the past few days has reminded me of just how much I hope TES VI does factions like they did in Oblivion.

!Some critical ranting of Skyrim/positive rambling of Oblivion ahead!

I’m saying this after I started trying to immerse myself in the College of Winterhold, at last, after installing some good magic mods. But I just couldn’t. I couldn’t really care less about this Eye of Magnus or why the Psijic Order wants to talk with me specifically. I couldn’t care about stopping Ancano I can hardly remember what even happens in the questline aside from go into ruin, find orb, go into basement, talk to an aura, go to a ruin, beat up a skeleton dragon and something after that.

This is the same issue I’ve personally had with the Companions, and to a lesser extent, the Thieves Guild. I legit only remember the Companions as “the guild that gives you lycanthropy”. Thieves Guild is a little better, as I do distinctly remember a few of the characters and their quests could get quite creative. I never felt particularly invested however.

So why exactly do I (and possibly some of you) think Skyrim’s factions don’t work, and that they should look back on Oblivion when creating questlines for the next games? For me personally, it boils down to two components: the state of affairs, and sense of progression.

Sense of Progression

I’ll start with the simplest one first. Let’s use the College as an example again, comparing it to the Mage’s Guild of Oblivion. What do you do to gain entry to the College? Cast the requested novice/apprentice level spell (or alternatively, shout if you’re a Dragonborn or just schmooze if you, for some reason, already have 100 in speech). In Oblivion? You have to gain a recommendation from each of the individual chapters by completing a quest unique to each quild hall, which involve a little more work than simply casting a spell.

Alright, alright, so what do we do once we’re in? At the College, we engage in a little lesson with our many (see: three) fellow students. Cool (it’s also our only magic lesson from what I recall - great education system!). Then we’re immediately thrust into the questline, with no real or necessary deviations from the main subject regarding the Eye of Magnus. Then guess what - you’ve become Arch Mage!... wait what? I thought I just joined not too long ago?...

I find it hard to feel good about gaining the leadership role, despite me having just stopped a potentially devastating crisis to earn it, because I never felt more than a junior beforehand. This is how Oblivion does it right with its ranking system in my opinion. While I admit I might have chosen a bad example to draw from, as the Mage’s Guild quests also heavily concerns the main threat in at least some way, but what personally makes it more immersive for me is the fact you’re promoted whilst you’re playing - even to the point you’re being passed onto a different superior for more daring assignments! This is where the little things really count.

Then there’s the Thieves Guild. Unless there’s some backstory I’m glancing over, I don’t see why the Thieves Guild of Skyrim couldn’t have shared the same ranking system as the Oblivion branch, if no one else. In Oblivion, you can only initiate the quests after you’ve passed a certain threshold of fencing stolen goods, something that encourages you to actually be a thief to progress as a thief. I’m not just going from Pickpocket to Gray Fox, as I feel I am from an initiate to Nightingale/Guildmaster in Skyrim; you have various titles you earn in between.

If I had to summarize the point I’m trying to make - I’ll use Oblivion’s Dark Brotherhood. Arguably one of the most popular questlines in TES. Now, could you imagine an Oblivion Dark Brotherhood without Whodunit?, The Assassinated Man, Permanent Retirement, etc. - just axe those unrelated quests in favor of focusing on rooting out the Traitor. No promotions, just primarily finding ways to stop a person who, probably, has killed assassins much more seasoned than you! A deadly threat! Why? Because you’re you! And you obviously deserve to become the Listener after being a Murderer the whole questline.

Which leads me into my next point....

State of Affairs

Skyrim’s questlines seem to have a fixation on factions that are destitute and/or are on the brink of extinction. Business is dry with the Thieves Guild; in the Dark Brotherhood, all but the Falkreath sanctuary is destroyed and the Old Ways are abandoned; the Companions are struggling with the lycanthropy that plagues its strongest members; the College of Winterhold have little reputation in quite an anti-magic province; hell, even the Blades, who were previously slaughtered and run into hiding. The Dawnguard factions I feel are an exception (a reason I like that DLC so much), as the Dawnguard can excuse its low wealth and reputation with the fact that it was just reformed, and the Volkihar Clan have, for all I know, have just been... existing, in the shadows.

Admittedly, Oblivion also has a bit of a running theme among its faction - stable and well-organized factions plagued by a specific threat. The Blades have their Oblivion Crisis, the DB with their traitor ordeal, the Mage’s Guild with the necromancers/Mannimarco, the Fighter’s Guild with the Blackwood Company, Court of Madness with Jyggalag.

The reason why I prefer Oblivion’s guilds over Skyrim, I suppose, is related to my personal problem of power fantasy. Skyrim is a big old power fantasy. You’re the Dragonborn, the chosen one, the Hero of prophecy. So obviously you need to be the savior of each guild, right? You have to be the one the Night Mother deems Listener; the one the Psijics talk to; the one Nocturnal makes a Nightingale.

One might say it’s more realistic that way though, as it adds to Skyrim’s aesthetic of a darker, more unstable time with the Civil War and return of dragons. That’s a fair point. But did 90% of the guilds have to be restricted to poor little groups? Surely the Companions could’ve had other bases in some of the cities somehow, or the Thieves Guild have another hideout in, say Solitude?

You could argue you’re also chosen in Oblivion, sure. But while Uriel saw you in his dreams, you’re place as HoK wasn’t in part due to a superpower, either. I felt I was closing the Oblivion gates because my characters were who they were. You aren’t the only one who can enter Oblivion gates, but you were determined and skilled enough to make it through to the end. While in the factions, you were, for the most part, a newbie working through the ranks until eventually, you’re trusted to confront the threat. In Skyrim it feels less like organizations, and more like ragtag groups that were waiting for you to come in and fix them.

Coupled with the sense progression, this makes experiencing Oblivion’s factions much more organic and satisfying - in my opinion. That’s what’s most important. I’m not ragging on anyone who likes Skyrim’s factions, and I still love Skyrim despite my endless complaints. I understand I may have missed a few points (like the Civil War and Arena), and the ones I made could be disputed.

TL;DR: Skyrim’s fondness for power fantasy and the lack of ranks makes its faction questlines less immersive and more forced, whereas in Oblivion climbing ranks as a sort-of average joe feels organic and more rewarding. This is just my opinion. I don’t hate Skyrim. You’re free to agree or disagree and add to the discussion.

#VS BS #the elder scrolls #elder scrolls #tes iv: oblivion #oblivion #skyrim #i haven't played Morrowind so that's why i didn't mention it #dark brotherhood #college of winterhold #the companions #the mage's guild #the thieves guild #the blades #hope adding tags of the guilds i'm criticizing is okay

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the-blind-assassin-12 · 4 years ago

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Resol’nare - Part Two

A/N: I really wanted to have this up earlier today but this headache had other plans. Anyways, not much to say here except... meet Navina!

*this story will regularly be using words in Mando’a. for a good list of references click here.*

Summary: Navina Harsa has been on her own for a long time, and she has done whatever she’s needed to in order to survive. From time to time that means forsaking the teachings, The Way of her people. But there is one thing that she will never do, and that is forsake her family- even if they’re gone.

Word Count: 4.8k

Warning: language

Yavin 4.

Navina Harsa leaned against the window of the transport shuttle as the destination came into view. Clouds swirled in wispy white clusters, parting to reveal the marbled green and blue hues that the dense foliage and deep, clear water painted across the moon’s surface. Quiet gasps from the row behind her gave those passengers away as first time visitors to the remote jungle moon, the three young children chattering excitedly about all the things that their parents must have told them in the weeks leading up to their trip. Navina tried to put herself in their shoes, imagining what it would be like to see Yavin 4 for the first time all over again. But while the family of travelers was choosing this location for a vacation, her own reason for visiting was vastly different. And she had seen it many times. It is beautiful, though.

As the shuttle neared the docking zone, the landscape and vegetation became more defined, and she could make out the massive ziggurat that poked up from the trees. Neither centuries of erosion, nor years of war and conflict had damaged the structures that still loomed like imposing stone giants over the land.

“You can see them from anywhere you are on the ground,” the man behind her was telling his children. “If you think they’re big now,” she glanced back in time to catch him tapping the youngest boy on the nose with the tip of his finger. “Just wait until we get up close.” He curved his other arm around one of the older two, corralling the three of them close to the window. The children giggled excitedly, their parents exchanging warm smiles over their heads as they continued to buzz with questions and exclamations.

Navina clamped her eyes shut and faced front, blinking them open again when she was sure she’d only see the back of the seat in front of her. She stared at the bright red material, a bittersweet ache opening in her chest. Another year. Her right hand came up to her throat, fingers digging beneath her dark gray shawl for the leather cord she wore around her neck. Sliding it between her thumb and index finger, she felt for the cool metal pendant, wrapping it in her palm. Squeezing until the pointed tusks of the carved mythosaur poked into her flesh, she closed her eyes once more, inhaling deeply through her nose.

Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum, aliit.

She held her breath, letting that ache deepen for a few seconds as the three faces she would never forget appeared in her memory. Her mother’s sharp, shining eyes. The strength in her father’s calm smile. The little one, sound asleep and dreaming. You never left, because I carry you with me. Exhaling slowly, she released her grip on the pendant, the ache receding like she knew it would, and she tucked it back beneath the cowl of her shawl. Nothing can truly separate us. Hand falling back to her lap, she turned to look out the window once more as the Star Commuter began its final descent towards the docking platforms. Bending down, she scooped up the strap of her shoulder bag and slung it across her body, the contents clanging together as she adjusted its weight and readied herself to disembark.

An overhead speaker chimed before a cheerful pre-recorded voice rang out in the cabin. “Welcome to Yavin 4. Please be sure that you have all of your belongings before departing the ship. Passengers traveling with droids may claim them at the station hub once we have touched down. We thank you for choosing to fly with us, and hope that you enjoy your stay.”

There was further information regarding booking return passage from the moon, but Navina tuned it out. She wouldn’t be leaving Yavin 4 the same way that she arrived. And if all goes according to plan I’ll never have to shuttle hop again. Standing as the craft hovered closer to the platform, she reached for the handle above her head, using it to steady herself as the shuttle jerked into a parked position. Once the floor had stopped shuddering beneath her boots, and the children in the row behind her had all dramatically tumbled from their seats, Navina let go of the handle and pulled her hood up, tucking her long woven braid into it. As the cabin doors opened and the rest of the passengers fumbled to gather their belongings, she filed quickly past them and out into the thick, humid air.

Back again.

She wasn’t born here, so it technically wasn’t her home. But it was the closest thing that she had to one. Her parents had been forced to leave Mandalore when she was only a few months old, settling on Concordia with the rest of the warrior clans. They lived there as a family for almost six years, but she had no real memory of it, couldn’t conjure more in her mind than what she’d been told. Even the memories of the night that they left were scarce and came to her in pieces- Purple light. Deep voices. The frenzied feeling of being followed. She remembered being tired, wanting to sleep, and finally being able to, curling up with the baby and both of them drifting off quickly. Her parents explained as best as they could why they had had to leave, why they’d chosen to do they things that they had, and that explanation evolved to include more as she grew older. Even though she understood it, none of what they told her helped her to remember a home before they one they’d made there in the jungle caves of Yavin 4.

They’d only spent four years here, completely secluded, just the four of them, but she could recall almost every second. Training with her parents, learning how to fight among the wide, flat leaves and vibrant flowers, splashing in the shallows at the base of the waterfall with the little one as her parents watched, humming rhymes for him as he cooed and laughed. She remembered running through the tunnels that connected their cavern to the network of others, her own voice echoing off the walls as she practiced words she’d heard her parents say: morut'yc, cyar'ika, gra'tua. The language was harsh, hard to learn and harder to speak, but she remembered the pride that she felt when her pronunciation was correct, or if she used a word or phrase properly. Her mother’s pewter eyes would flash and her father would nod.

“This is the Way, Ina’ika,” her mother would always end every lesson, whether it was on weapons or traditions, with the words that every Mandalorian had heard thousands of times.

This is the Way.

But was she a true Mandalorian? It was something she struggled with for years now. Her parents were gone. She had no clan, no tribe, no one to swear allegiance or loyalty or anything at all to. She’d given up on wearing her armor at all times when several dire situations had demanded that she do so, donning it only when necessary. It’s not even my armor. Shrugging, she reached across her chest to pull the strap higher up on her shoulder. Had she grown up among other clans like her parents did, she would have been given her own armor as soon as she started training. When she reached a certain age she would have had the chance to swear the Creed and pledge herself to the Way of the Mandalore, and she would have been presented with her first custom piece of beskar armor- usually a helmet, sometimes a chestplate. Instead she carried her mother’s helmet, a pair of vambraces that she relieved a black market trader of, both too big for her wrists and needing extra padding so they wouldn’t slip when she used them, and a thin chestplate and shoulder pauldrons that had been salvaged from troopers during the Clone Wars and coated in several layers of durasteel. Beskar armor was impossible to come by, a Mandalorian armorer willing to smith something for a vagabond wearing mismatched steel even more difficult to find. She’d done her best to collect what she could. But it wasn’t beskar, aside from the helmet, and it wasn’t hers.

She’d called herself a bounty hunter and a pilot, a courtesan, a killer, a thief, a smuggler, a spice runner and a stowaway, and she’d done so without pause because at some point she had been all of those things, often a few of them at once. She hesitated, though, when it came to calling herself Mandalorian. I’ve broken almost every code there is to break. As much as she tried to keep the traditions and beliefs that her parents had instilled in her, she knew that for every action she took to walk the Way, she had taken at least one in direct opposition with it. Not to mention the things that she had planned. I doubt destroying the Darksaber counts as rallying to the cause of the Mand’alor.

The stone path beneath her feet gave way to the springy jungle moss that covered the ground as she navigated her way through the station hub, the only place on Yavin 4 that could be considered remotely crowded, and she forced such violent thoughts from her mind. Not here. For the last eighteen years, every move she made or job she took was influenced by one of three goals: survival, avenging the deaths of her family, or gaining information on the most infamous weapon in Mandalore’s history- specifically where she could find it, and how it could be obliterated. In her mind, it was just another thing that stood in the way of her people ever striking a balance, just another reason for Mandalorians to stay hidden or for clans to clash with one another instead of standing strong together. It unified them once...but it didn’t last. Any totem of power would attract corruption, she was sure of it, and that’s what the Darksaber was.

She’d never seen it herself, only imagining the way that the onyx blade would crackle to life, slicing through the air in swaths of glowing obsidian light. The stories that her parents had told her, the scraps of information that she was able to collect through the years were all she had to build her idea of the weapon on. But she was certain that she’d know it when she saw it, even if her imagination was off base. She exited the hub, something her father had once said about the sword tumbling to the forefront of her memory. “All the misuse… all the times it fell into the wrong hands… all that fear. There’s too much anger, too much hatred. The blade is imbued with it now. No one is strong enough to resist it anymore.” He didn’t believe that it could ever be used for good again- and certainly not if someone who’d been hardened and hollowed out by pain and loss and wrath were to lay claim on it. Someone like-

Shaking her head, Navina tried to clear her mind of the Darksaber and the emotions that it stirred in her. That’s not why I’m here. Her search for the blade, like her search for those who had betrayed her family, consumed most of her day to day thoughts and dictated almost every move she made or job she took. The leads she found determined where she travelled and how long she stayed there, chose her allies for her and taught her who her enemies were. But this trip was different. Her annual trip to Yavin 4 had nothing to do with her self-assigned mission. This is for them...and for me.

Behind her, the family from the shuttle was heading towards the Ruins, where a small camp was set up with accommodations for vacationers. The children skipped and jumped, practically tripping over one another with excitement now that they had made it to their destination and no longer had to sit still on the shuttle. A sad but wistful smile curved up the side of her mouth as she cast one last glance at the parents and their young ones. They’ll have fun here. Turning away from them, she headed instead for the thick underbrush of the rainforest. Pushing a leaf the size of an astromech droid out of her way, she slipped between the branches and out of site.

It was easier to push the Darksaber from her thoughts once the greenery had swallowed her, the air still and heavy with the heat, but fresh and clean and noticeably sweeter than it was closer to the hub’s docking platform. But before she could fully appreciate the comfort of being back in the only place she’d ever called home, a bright flash of light, this one amethyst, cut through her memory, blinding her. Suddenly, Navina recalled the face of the stranger that her family had encountered the night they left Concordia, his eyes calm but dark, the storm inside them contained but present. “Our enemies think that we are enemies.” His deep voice came back to her easily, more clear than it ever had before. “But perhaps more importantly, so do our allies.” The man had handed something small to her mother before passing a larger bundle to her father, and then within seconds he’d vanished.

The purple light flashed sharply in her mind once more, clearing the memory as quickly as it had assaulted her. Navina gasped, doubling over to brace her hands on her knees while she steadied her breathing again. That was… It’s never been that clear before, I… She inhaled shakily, straightening up and removing the hood from her head. Her long black braid tumbled free, smaller blue braids woven throughout it, and she pushed a silvery blue strand back behind her ear. I could never remember what he said, that man but now... She concentrated on his words, trying to etch them into her brain, desperate to find and keep any of the lost pieces of the puzzle she was trying to fit together.

“Our enemies think that we are enemies.” Speaking the words out loud, she started walking once more, her steps sure and confident despite the twisted roots and thorny vines that poked up from the ground. Navina knew each rock and root of these parts like the back of her hand, no matter how much new growth there was between now and her last visit. Feet finding the route for her, she continued to focus on the memory. He wasn’t...that man, he wasn’t a Mandalorian. That part seemed clear. But then… She chewed her bottom lip and shifted the strap of her bag, her armor knocking together and hitting her hip as she hopped a fallen massassi trunk. Then who was he?

Narrowing her eyes, she dug out the pendant that she wore around her neck again, this time pulling it out from under her shawl. Since she was alone it was safe to reveal the ancient symbol without giving herself away. Opening her palm, she stared down at the shiny silver skull, the faceted gem at the heart of the piece shining through the Mythosaur’s carved eyes. Sometimes, when the light reflected off the gem that was encased within her mother’s necklace, it appeared to be a soft purple color. Here, on the forest floor where only small patches of filtered greenish sunlight made it through the canopy, the gem seemed colorless. She sighed, dropping the pendant and letting it bounce against her chest. Who was he, and why am I remembering this now?

Immediately, the same hopeful flicker in her heart that had woken her from a dream a few nights prior came back, stronger this time. Maybe it means I’ll see them again… My father and-

“Well look what the loth-cat dragged in.”

A voice from her left broke her from her wishful thinking. Grabbing for the blaster that was hidden beneath her shawl, she whipped it from the holster strapped to her upper thigh. In one swift spin she pointed her weapon in the direction of the speaker before the familiarity in his tone registered. Wait, it’s-

“Woah, woah, woah there, Nav, take it easy, it’s just-”

“Firo!” She lowered her weapon, sliding it back into its holster as she sighed heavily. “Are you kriffing crazy? I could have shot you!”

“So,” Her friend’s green-gold eyes brightened, a smirk pulling his mouth crookedly up the side of one bearded cheek as he ignored her half-sincere outrage. “You didn’t know I was standing here?” He leaned casually against the nearest tree, arms crossed over his chest and one knee bent to rest his boot sole against the bark behind him.

“That wasn’t smart, Firo.” Navina rolled her eyes and made her way closer as the man fought to hold back his laughter, his long sandy brown hair falling in his face.

Shaking the strands away from his forehead, he blinked rapidly, each exaggerated bat of his lashes seeming to pump more sarcasm into his words. “You mean I,” he gestured to himself with his thumbs, hands clad in maroon leather fingerless flight gloves, “got the drop on you?” He extended both pointer fingers in her direction then, that same stubborn piece of hair flopping between his eyes again.

Technically, yes, but I was… distracted. She clicked her tongue and stepped over a boulder, half buried and covered in spongy green moss and bright orange mushrooms. “You need a haircut, Firo, you look like an overgrown bantha.”

“Deflecting, Harsa?” He pushed off from the tree with one foot and shoved his sleeves up his forearms. “Sounds to me like you’re deflecting.” He’s not gonna let this go. The bandolier that he insisted on wearing, even though it was too loose for his thin frame, fell down his shoulder and he reached across himself to fix it. “It sounds to me, like you don’t want to admit that I-”

“Oh dank farrik, fine. Yes. Yes, you got the drop on me.” Navina played into his gloating like she knew he wanted her to, lacing her own words with playful sarcasm. “So look out, Bounty Hunters of the Outer Rim, because Firostian Ottabok is going to claim all the highest paying pucks for himself.”

His grin finally grew too large for his face, and it burst into an open mouthed laugh. “Damn, Nav, it’s good to see you.” Throwing his arms around her, he pulled her into a tight hug and she smiled against his chest. Despite his lanky limbs and bony elbows, Firo’s hold on her was strong and secure. Navina returned it with equal force, sliding her arms under his to wrap them around his body.

“It’s good to see you too, scoundrel.” She pulled away and shoved that same piece of hair away from Firo’s face with two fingers. “But what are you doing out here? We always meet at the caves.” Her eyebrows came together in concern as she scanned his face for any of his tells. He’s not looking away or scratching his nose, so… “You didn’t run into any trouble, did you?”

“Me? In trouble? He blew out a puff of air and waved one hand, fingers spread wide. “Why are you always so quick to assume I’m in trouble?” Navina arched one eyebrow and stared up at him. Do you really want me to- “You know what?” He slung one arm around her shoulder and urged her to start walking again. “Don’t answer that.” She laughed, falling into step with him as they headed toward the cavern’s opening. Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Navina and Firo had gotten each other into and out of about as much trouble as two outlaws could over the past ten years. If she was keeping track though, she had a strong feeling that the scales would tip slightly more in his direction than hers. There had been the time she convinced a fellow bounty hunter to trade a captured Firo for the three pucks she had on her, and the time she corrected his Twi’leki translation during a deal, diffusing an already heated situation before it could become more volatile. They’d only met in the first place because his ship had crash landed on Yavin 4, and he needed to offload and hide the contraband cargo he was carrying before whoever it was that shot him down found it or him- she was never sure which outcome would have been worse because luckily, neither had happened. She had found him instead.

The network of tunnels and caves deep within the jungle that had kept her family safe for years had also proven to be the perfect place for a smuggler to stash his goods. If Navina hadn’t shown up a few days later for her annual visit, he’d have gone completely undetected, possibly for years. She may have never found him at all. But that’s not how it went. Navina smiled to herself every time she recalled that day. Attacking on instinct, it had taken almost no time at all for her to see that this intruder was no trained fighter. She had him disarmed and pinned with his then hairless cheek pressed to the cool stone wall as she clasped his wrist behind his back in one hand, his blaster in the other. A severely muffled “Um… I can explain everything,” had been the first words he’d ever said to her, and they had set the tone for a friendship that she wouldn’t trade for all the credits that ever passed through Imperial hands.

“Alright then,” she tilted her chin up to peer at her taller companion. “If you’re not being followed and there’s no trouble to worry about?” She paused, giving him one last chance to come clean. Laughing, he just shook his head. “Why didn’t you stick to the plan? I come to you, that’s how it’s always been.”

“Yeah,” another burst of laughter pushed past his lips. “Ever since the first time, right?” He reached up with the arm that was still around her shoulders, tugging at her braid. That earned him a quick smack in the gut from the back of her hand, only causing more rumbling chuckles to erupt.

“And you were lucky it was me that found you, bantha brain, and not whoever it was that you ticked off.” Just like I was lucky that Firo found me when… Absently, the hand she’d just hit him with fell to her waist, where beneath her clothing a long jagged scar crossed her body. Before a chill could settle in her bones, Firo’s warm grin poked dimples into his cheeks and he swiveled his head down to look at her. Why does he look so kriffing happy? She was only slightly suspicious of her friend’s behavior though, his elevated mood and obvious excitement almost contagious.

The gold flecks that shot through his green eyes shone as his cheeks rose up into them with his smile. “This time I...have something for you.”

They were nearly there. Navina could see the brighter shafts of light coming through the trees and bushes as they thinned out closer to the cave mouth. “You have something for me?” She scrunched her face up questioningly. “What does that- why couldn’t you just...give it to me when I got there? What’s-”

“Because,” they climbed over a fallen tree in unison, the bottoms of their boots crunching on small gravelly rocks. “You need to see it, and it’s too dark down there.”

Finally reaching the entrance to their hideaway- to my...my home- Firo stepped away from her and dug something out of the back pocket of his brown pants. Navina slung the bag off her shoulder, setting it down at her feet in a clatter of metal. She watched closely as he brought the leather wrapped object between the two of them. What does he have?

“I found this two...no, three nights ago. When I first landed.” Squinting, she followed his fingers as they slipped under the flap of leather to uncover her gift. “Don’t know how I found it or why or…” He shook his head, the excitement still in his expression. “But as soon as I got down into the cave, soon as I was ready to settle in for the night? Something caught my eye and-”

Navina gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as he revealed his surprise. “Firo… is that?” Eyes widening, she let her hand fall away from her lips to reach out for the small blade that he held in his hands. Asking questions was some kind of default setting that her mind had scrambled to out of pure shock. She knew without a shadow of a doubt what she was looking at. That’s a beskar kal… The short dagger’s hexagon-shaped blade glinted dark silver in the light as Firo handed it to her. Her heart thudded heavily against her ribs as her left hand closed around the grip, the fingertips of her right hand tracing the rectangular cut out that ran the length of the small but lethal blade. But these markings… Looking closer, she sucked in another breath. “Firo...this was,” tearing her eyes from the dagger was difficult, but she did so to look up at him. “This belonged to my father.”

The shriek-hawk symbol that was engraved near the handle alone wouldn’t have identified this particular kal as her father’s. It was the addition of her mother’s clan’s signet, along with the tiny carved lettering that she could actually remember her father etching into the Mandalorian steel. Ina’ika.

“This will be yours one day, it’s only right that your name is added.” His rich voice echoed in her memory, punctuated by the scratching and clanging of his tools, the little sparks flying from the beskar mesmerizing her.

“Firo, I,” her eyes fell back to the dagger in her hands. “I never thought I’d see this again.” Twenty-three years. She hadn’t seen her father in Twenty-three years, and while she knew her mother was gone, she had never known for sure what had happened to her father. To my father or… But another thought sliced through, bringing with it a rush of hope that she knew was dangerous but couldn’t stop from flooding her anyway. “Firo, do you think that means… Do you think he was here? Recently?” The two of them had been back to Yavin countless times, and neither of them had ever found the blade. So why now? How?

“Hey, Nav, I...I dunno about… if your dad was- when the last time he was here was or…”Firo lowered his eyes so that he’d intercept hers. “I know that it belongs with you. And I knew you’d be happy to have it back. That’s all I-”

She didn’t let him finish though, launching herself at him in another forceful hug and being careful not to carve him up with her father’s dagger. “I know. I know you don’t know if he…” she sighed. I may have lost my family but… She pulled away then, brushing a tear away before she let it fully form. “Thank you, Firo.”

He smiled, the muscles in his face far more familiar with that formation than any other. “You’re welcome, Nav.” Not letting the moment become more emotional than he knew she’d be comfortable with, he picked up her bag and shouldered it. “Now, come on. We’ve got some...things to discuss.”

The mischief was back in his voice as Navina secured the kal in the inside pocket of her shawl. “Oh do we? What kind of things, trouble?”

“Well,” he began as they ducked to enter the cavern. “You said you needed a ship, right?” Navina confirmed, eyeing him with a sideways glance. “Well. Word is that the scraps of Imperial garbage that were stationed on Nevarro left in a big hurry.” Navina grinned, already liking where this was going. “Such a hurry,” Firo continued with a wink, “that they left some of their...equipment behind.”

“What a shame,” she answered. “All those ships just...sitting there with no one to fly them.”

“We really should do something about it, shouldn’t we?”

We should.

Not only would she and Firo both love to steal from the Empire, it would solve her transportation problem, and possibly get her closer to the information she’d been chasing. Whatever had caused the Empire to leave Nevarro in such a rush… Navina was sure that it had something to do with other Mandalorians.

Thank you for reading! Please feel free to let me know if you would like to be added to or removed from the tags! :)

tags: @something-tofightfor @alraedesigns @pheedraws @valkblue @malionnes @gollyderek

#resol’nare #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian story #the mandalorian fic #din djarin fic #star wars fanfiction #mando x oc #din djarin x oc #this is the way #there is a lot happening in this chapter #but also not a lot at all #hmm #anyway #posting this story continues to make me nauseous so BYE!#pedro pascal characters

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