#it vaguely looks yellow on top ... do we see the vision or has been doing nothing but playing sth for a month done nothign for my health | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dancingamongstdust · 3 years

Text

Creepypasta Scenarios - First Meeting Part 2

Hoodie

The area where you lived had a ton of back alleyways that acted as shortcuts in a pinch. They were generally safe but you often got an uncomfortable feeling when using them so you preferred to take the busier roads if you could.

Unfortunately, when you had gone to leave work that day, you had spotted the customer who had been harassing you the entire day. It wasn’t anything creepy but it was over-the-top persistent and you weren’t in the mood to deal with it. You slipped out the backdoor as a result. At least you’d get home sooner.

For the most part, you didn’t encounter anything too suspicious and the light from the streets illuminated where you were going.

The large bins outside the grocer’s home indicated that you were getting close. You sped up and rubbed your eyes blearily.

Ahead of you, a dog was barking from inside one of the buildings. It was a pretty noisy animal and you began peering around to see what the source of its agitation was. Ironically, you ended up bumping directly into him.

“I’m sorry,” you apologised, rubbing your shoulder.

The guy was tall, wearing dark clothing and standing right in the shadows. You could have probably noticed him if you were a little more awake.

He turned and your breath caught.

His face was obscured by a dark mask with red features stitched onto it. His hoodie which originally seemed dark was now illuminated into a soft yellow or orange, stained with a dark substance.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. His voice crackled out, clearly coming through a voice changer of some kind.

“I – I was just taking a shortcut home. I live near here so I thought… I really didn’t mean to bump into you. I’m super tired.”

“Tired or not, you shouldn’t have seen me,” the guy said. “Do you have a phone or a camera?”

Slowly, you reached into your bag and pulled out your phone. “I don’t have any cash in my wallet –“

“I don’t want your money!” he snapped. “I’m not some petty thief, believe me, I have better things to do with me time. Unlock this.”

You did so and he went through it with a gloved hand. He didn’t have a weapon but something in your gut warned you to just go along with it. Nobody covered up everything, including their voice, when they were up to something good. This guy may not be a thief… but the alternative didn’t feel too much better.

He shoved your phone back at you. “Get out of here and don’t breathe a word of this to anybody. Consider yourself lucky that I’m in a good mood today.”

You swallowed nervously. “Thank you?”

“I’m serious,” he warned. “I can let you go just because you seem pathetic enough to not take this to the police but unless you want to catch a bullet in your back, you’ll keep quiet. My boss doesn’t like people getting involved with this nonsense.”

“A bullet?”

He didn’t answer and your heart thundered in your chest. Part of you wondered if he was going to kill you while you ran away but his attention seemed to have moved away from you. You hurried away, holding your breath the entire time. Every time you glanced over your shoulder, the guy remained unmoving.

When you reached your home, you locked the door tightly and slumped against it in exhaustion.

Homicidal Liu

The sunset was beautiful over the graveyard – the only beauty to an otherwise morbid place.

You stared at the purples and oranges dancing across the sky. The wreath pricked at your hands after a while and you stared down at it. Why did you still bother with bringing flowers? Hadn’t it been long enough? Still, you made your way down to the grave and placed them there, not even bothering to read the name on there.

Lately, your graveyard visits had becoming fewer and fewer. Time hadn’t been on your side recently and thus, your precious solitude had to suffer. You relished in the way that nobody really bothered you here.

An orange glow warned you when the streetlights came on. Perhaps you had been there for longer than you thought but this was to be your last visit.

Better to make it count.

Something caught in the wind made you raise your head. A piece of fabric was stuck in the nearby fence, identifiable as a scarf when you ventured closer.

You took it from the fence and looked around for its owner. Nobody was in view… maybe it had been blown off one of the graves? It did seem homemade.

Guessing, you began to place it on a grave when a voice startled you.

“I’m sorry to bother but I think you have my scarf?”

The man was standing far too close for you to have not seen him when you were glancing around but you blamed that on your night vision. He wore dark clothing and seemed awkward just to be speaking to you.

“Thank goodness,” you said. “I was just going to leave it on one of the graves because I didn’t know who it belonged to.”

He thanked you for it, wrapping it around the lower half of his face almost immediately. “That would be a waste,” he said. “Especially to leave it on this one. Thank you for grabbing it.”

A harsh wind blew through the graveyard, carrying with it the smell of an incoming storm. He grabbed his scarf just in time to prevent it from going flying away again.

“Seems like the weather is determined to steal it from you.”

“Far more powerful things have tried.”

You buried yourself further into your jacket and smiled. “I haven’t seen you around before, are you new in town or just coming to visit a new grave?”

“I’m not visiting a grave,” he admitted. “I just thought that this would be the way back to my house… I grew up in this town but only recently moved back and I’m already lost. It’s a little embarrassing if I’m honest.”

“Well, I like to know everybody,” you said. “What’s your name?”

“Su – I mean, Liu,” he said. “Liu. Sorry, I nearly gave you my surname.”

You laughed. “Oh that’s no problem. It’s nice to meet you but I really like your name. Is it Chinese?”

“I don’t know,” he said. He looked around and began walking away. “I really have to go. Thank you for getting my scarf and all that.”

“I’ll see you around,” you said with a wave.

It was only later when you realised how suspicious that entire interaction was. You had never seen Liu before in your life and he was just hanging around in the graveyard? He hadn’t seemed too creepy at least. Maybe you would see more of him in the coming days.

Jane the Killer

It wasn’t that you were unobservant or inattentive toward girls but nobody had really caught your eye until Jane.

She was stunning in a way that few people could ever match with dark hair that tumbled past her hips and soulful eyes. Her walk was always confident, her smile always perfect, and her attention always desirable. Your main regret about life was that you didn’t speak to her sooner – especially when you thought back on what happened not too long after your first meeting.

You organised with your friends to somehow bump into her but instead, you wound up getting treated for a pretty painful bruised hip. Your second plan didn’t work out either and your third never even left the drawing board.

“Just go up to her and say hi. Tell her that she’s beautiful,” your friend encouraged. “She’ll say thanks and then you’ll be able to talk to her.”

“That’s so boring though,” you said. “It’s not like something out of a romance novel.”

Your friend groaned and stood up. “Well, I’m going home. We have like three months left of high school and I’m not going to spend that time obsessing over how to speak to a girl. She’s literally a regular person.”

They were right and you knew that. No matter how you tried to set up a sweeping romance, it probably wouldn’t work out.

So you tried.

And you tried.

Two weeks later, you were about to give up on mimicking a romance novel and it appeared that your friend was thinking the same thing. She grabbed your arm and began to drag you somewhere, muttering about changing the topic. You had a vague idea of where you were going but you didn’t fight too much.

“What if she’s still dating that Woods boy?” you asked. “The older one.”

“They broke up after literally a month of dating. I don’t blame her – those Woods boys are pretty enough but the older one has something seriously wrong with him. And the younger one is always talking to himself…”

“I really don’t care about the Woods’,” you commented.

“No, you care about Jane who is honestly quite weird as well,” they said. “But that is going to be your problem and not mine.”

They dragged you directly up to her group. It wasn’t large – despite Jane’s beauty, she wasn’t incredibly popular due to her associations. Your friend wasn’t the only one who was a little scared of the Woods boys and Jane had hung out with them for quite a while.

“Hey,” your friend said before even letting you go. “You have no idea who we are but my friend here has a massive crush on you. Could you please just say hi so they can get it out of their system?”

You were sure that it was unhealthy to be as red as you were. It felt like your heart was about to leap from your chest.

Jane laughed, a soft and gentle sound. “I’m not really interested in a relationship,” she hummed. “But thank you. That’s very flattering.”

Somehow, your heart sped up still and you awkwardly rubbed your arm. “No problem?”

“Why don’t you join us for a little bit?” Jane offered. “Just because I don’t want to date anybody doesn’t mean that we can’t become friends. You look like my kind of person.”

You stumbled over your words but somehow, your conversation managed to go extremely well. Jane was brilliant in every possible way and you quickly grew attached to seeing her every day. That was why you mourned so greatly when she died.

Jason the Toymaker

The sun was so warm against your skin. You could stay there forever, stretched out on the grass and basking in the sunlight.

“It’s done,” your friend’s voice broke through your daydreaming

You opened your eyes and rolled over to see exactly what they had been working on for the entire trip. After realising the first few times that you weren’t going to get a reaction, you had decided to wait for them to finish working before you tried to have a conversation.

“I didn’t know you could draw,” you said. “That’s amazing.”

The hyper-realistic man was sketched to perfection with a top hat, a fur coat, and a small mouse sitting on his left shoulder. It felt like his eyes could piece into your soul.

“Who is that?” you asked them.

They stared blankly at the image and shook their head. “I don’t know,” they said. “He’s been in my dreams for so long. I think it has something to do with my amnesia. Maybe I knew him once before.”

“He’s a little intimidating,” you said. “I could imagine him to be a ringleader in a circus that’s like a secret cult. Maybe he’s why you lost your memory.”

“Maybe…” they said, tapping the picture. They suddenly shoved it into your chest and stood up. “You keep that. I don’t want it anywhere near me. I need to go talk to my parents.”

You watched them race out of the park in confusion. The man in the picture stared up at you with haunting eyes.

Folding it in half so it didn’t freak you out, you stood and dusted off your clothing. Maybe it would be best if you headed home. It was getting late either way.

Later on, you’d call your friend and check up on them.

About 10 minutes away from your house, the feeling of being watched snuck up on you. It hung heavily around your shoulders like a cloak. You glanced around but saw nobody.

Still, you didn’t feel comfortable leading whoever was following you back to your house. You made a point of walking amongst large crowds and headed for the police station.

They were watching you the whole way.

You sped up. A few people bumped into you and you apologised as best as you could. Your grip on the picture was getting tighter enough for you to tear it. The later it got, the fewer people were on the streets and so you were pretty much alone when you bumped into him.

It took you a few seconds to recognise the man from the drawing.

If you thought his drawn eyes were captivating, they had nothing on his real ones which glowed with an almost ethereal light.

“You’re him,” you breathed.

He stared at you, smile falling from his face in confusion. “Who?”

You shakily held out the drawing and he yanked it from your hands. “My friend drew that,” you explained. “They said that its of somebody from their past. They have amnesia you see.”

He was unmoving as he studied the picture. You began feeling a little uncomfortable and then his gaze snapped to you. “Is that so?” he asked.

You nodded and took a small step away from him. “Maybe you should go and talk to them? See –“ you swallowed nervously. “See if you can help them remember?”

“No need,” he said, dropping the paper on the ground. “Who are you?”

Your name came out as little more than a soft whisper. Something about the entire scenario made you uneasy. His appearance was too unnatural.

A gust of wind came by, picking up the drawing and whipping it away. You watched it go and when you looked back down, his eyes were locked on you.

“Such a pity,” he said. “You would have been the perfect doll.”

Wearily, you took a step backwards. His words made your stomach churn uneasily. “What are you talking about?”

He smiled. It was kind and warm but it only made you more nervous. His eyes looked like they had almost changed colour; shifted a shade darker than previously. “Thinking aloud my dear,” he said.

“About dolls?” you asked.

He tilted his head a little towards you. “I’m going to have to bid you goodbye. It seems I have other matters to attend to.” He brushed past you, stopping briefly when directly next to you. “Consider yourself lucky.”

He was gone before you could even spin around to face him.

Jeff the Killer

Pausing the song, you removed your earphones as quietly as possible and placed them down on your desk. According to the blinking numbers on your phone screen, it was nearing 2 AM. Far too late for anybody to make an excess of noise.

You listened closely. The music had been too loud for you to hear anything and you almost brushed the strange noise off as your sleep-deprived imagination. Until something squeaked like shoe soles on tiles.

In retrospect, you should have immediately called 911 but you didn’t want to sound a false alarm.

The light switch was thankfully directly outside your room. The hall illuminated most of the house when they were on and it steeled your nerves. Your roommate’s door was open, allowing you to confirm their sleeping state, curled up in their bed amongst the piles of mess. They had had to move to the spare room due to a faulty window earlier in the day and had clearly given up sorting items.

You glanced into the apartment’s other rooms before heading to the kitchen. There was nothing odd. The scuttling when you entered the kitchen just suggested that your neighbour’s rat infestation may be migrating.

Making a mental note to call the exterminator, you turned to switch off the kitchen light.

Something slammed into you, forcing your back to collide with a wall. A hand covered your mouth and the overwhelming scent of blood and decay invaded your nose. Something cold and sharp pressed against your neck.

“Shut up and stay still,” the man snarled at you. “I don’t think anybody will appreciate you getting blood in the kitchen.”

Your heart leapt into your throat and your body stilled. The man in front of you was terrifying. His skin pale and mutilated. Eyes far too wide for a normal person and dancing with an insanity that sent chills down your spine.

And his mouth… a bloody smile carved across his face, stretching halfway to his ears.

He studied your face carefully and his expression twisted. “You’re not the right one,” he snapped. The knife moved away from your neck, so he could point with it. “I had this all planned and yet when I came into that room, I found it empty. Why?”

Even if he hadn’t been holding your mouth shut, you doubted you would have been able to formulate an answer. The pounding heartbeat in your ears was nearly blocking out his voice.

He lightly tapped your cheek with his knife. “Not that it matters,” he said. “I’ll just have to adapt my original plan. You’re not the right target but I’m a huge fan of collateral damage.”

A small whimper escaped you and tears welled at your eyes. You didn’t want to die.

“Don’t blubber!” he ordered. “View it as a good thing. You’ll be all over the news. Another victim of Jeff the Killer. Hell, you might even be added to a Wikipedia page or something.”

You could recall that name from the news. Often followed by a lengthy list of deaths and the police chief begging for any information about the murderer.

Jeff stared at you for a long minute before he pressed the knife’s blade to your throat and moved his hand away from your mouth. “Scream and I will remove your vocal cords,” he threatened. “Who are you?”

It took several deep breaths and a flicker of impatience in his expression to give you the ability to talk again. You stammered out your full name as quickly as you possibly could.

He rolled his eyes and tilted the knife so it scratched your skin. A sticky and warm substance ran down your throat in small droplets. “Pathetic.”

“Sorry,” you whispered on instinct. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Why not?” he asked. “You ruined my earlier plans to take out my original target by interrupting me before I could find them. Why shouldn’t I settle for you instead?”

You didn’t have an answer.

He took the blade away from your throat. “If you call the police and report what happened here tonight, I will slice you into little pieces.”

It was almost twenty minutes after he left before you regained any movement in your body. You slumped into a heap on the kitchen floor and started sobbing.

Kagekao

Things had been going missing around your house.

Initially, you had thought it was just due to you forgetting where you’d plopped things because it was simple things. Drinks that vanished, keys turning up on the opposite side of the house, and random spills that you didn’t remember making.

But then it started getting weirder still.

You would make food and pack it away, knowing that you would eat it later, and find it gone. Picture frames disappeared, never to be seen again. Your rug half-unraveled during the night and you found it in a pile the next morning. A candle in your bathroom fell over and, somehow, the curtains on the other side of the house had caught alight.

It was suspicious, to say the very least. You began to think that you had some kind of intruder – once, the news reported that a woman found a homeless man living in her attic and eating her food when she wasn’t looking.

So you went out and bought cameras, setting them up throughout your house.

For two weeks, they caught nothing until one of them ended up breaking. You went to get it repaired and the company managed to recover what it had last seen. Which was nothing on your first glance.

But you were soon to realise, that was only because you had been looking at the floor.

While you were rewatching when you got home, you noticed something. The window was sitting wide open and the camera’s angle only allowed you to see half of it. Right toward the end of the feed, a gloved hand appeared on the side of the window and a slight shadow indicated something climbing through.

So you got reinforced windows and made sure that none were open unless you were in the room.

Things still continued happening.

You were beginning to get really annoyed by this. It was tempting to go to the police and let them just handle it but that was going to be a lot of effort that you really didn’t care for. You didn’t feel like you were in much danger. Nothing had happened in your bedroom.

Your next plan was to set up a trap of some kind. With a hidden camera set up, you made extra food and left it on the counter to see if something happened.

The next day, you watched as a plastic toy of some kind was thrown directly into the plate from somewhere off-camera, breaking it and leaving an absolute mess everywhere.

Still not considering it to be anything dangerous, you just cleaned up the mess and loudly cursed out anybody who was listening. You stalked the house after that, searching every nook and cranny with a bat in hand. The final place was the closet in your bedroom and you peered in, expecting nothing.

When you turned around though, you spotted something sitting in the corner of the room.

It was humanoid with arms twisted into awkward positions and a mask on its face. Half the mask was black and the other white, both sides bearing an unnaturally smiling expression. The creature cackled when you saw it and scuttled out of the door, stuck to the roof the entire time.

A second passed.

Then another.

You pinched your arm hard and waited to wake up. Surely there was no way… I mean, why would… humans didn’t generally crawl along the ceiling? Well, you were quite sure they never did that. You must have been imagining it.

A second laugh corrected you on that.

You swallowed thickly, walked over to your door as calmly as possible and locked it. Then you took out your phone and finally called the police.

Kate the Chaser

The day when Kate was sent away remained very clear in your mind. It was a moment that brought extremely change to your life, mixing up your friend group and sending you in a different direction.

The years has passed and you had never gotten over your best friend. They said that she had lost her mind and you knew it was true. All those games investigating the woods and ghost hunting must have put a toll on her mind. Sometimes, you blamed yourself for all the pranks and you knew that Lauren had similar doubts.

And now she was back.

Lauren and you hadn’t remained close, the entire situation feeling too real with one another. Your greeting was stilted but neither of you wanted to be the first to approach the house.

“Do you think that she remembers us?” Lauren asked.

“If she didn’t then her mom wouldn’t have invited us over,” you said.

You stood in complete silence, staring up at the house. Would you even recognise Kate? The last time that you had seen her was when you were both young children and her face remained at that age in your memories.

Eventually, you gained your confidence before Lauren and you walked over, knocking on the door before anxiety could find you.

Kate answered the door and you forgot why you had ever been nervous.

Time had slimmed her face and shortened her hair. Her eyes were still a gentle brown and the cockiness had faded from her smile, but it was recognisable from your nostalgia. It made you feel warm and known – an aura that you had missed without even realising it.

“Hi,” you greeted.

Kate pulled you into a tight hug and you returned it, clutching at her tightly as though she could slip through your fingers. It really had been too long and when you moved away, she held onto Lauren with the same enthusiasm.

“How have you been?” she asked. “You have to tell me everything.”

The three of you spent the rest of the afternoon having tea and just talking about the world at large. Kate didn’t have many stories from the hospital – she claimed it was because the place had been extremely boring and neither of you pushed to find out more about it. Honestly, it was more comfortable to act as though she had simply moved away.

Lauren had to leave first and you were going to go with her but Kate had looked so down that you remained just a little longer. That was when things got weird.

“I’ve missed music a lot,” Kate sighed.

“Did they not allow you to listen to music?”

She grimaced. “No, they did but often I couldn’t hear it over the static. Its mostly gone away now but it came back last night… it fills my brain and all that I can think of is a way to make the pain stop.”

The colour drained from your face as you stared at her. You didn’t know much about what happened to her but you had thought she would be okay now.

Realising it, Kate hurried to reassure you, “I really have recovered,” she said. “My hallucinations have faded and my medication keeps my emotions in check. You really don’t have to be scared of me.”

You stared down at your cup awkwardly. “I’m not scared of you,” you reassured her. “You’ve never done anything to me.”

She nodded. “It will be alright, you’ll see. I’m ready to get back to a normal life with my friends and not have to worry about that ghost stuff ever again.”

Laughing Jack

It was on your leg…

The glare you fixed the small child with could wilt plants. It didn’t care though and merely clutched at your clothing with a happy smile. “Come play with me?” it asked. “I can introduce you to all my friends!”

“How old is she again?” you grumbled at your friend.

Your friend laughed and ruffled their cousin’s hair. “I had an imaginary friend when I was 10. She’s only 6, she’s still at the stage where they’re a big deal.”

The child was oblivious to your conversation and reached out her arms. “Come on. The parents are being boring. I have candy that my friend gave me. We can share it.”

“I agreed to come along to your family get together to keep you company,” you said to your friend. “You know I don’t like children. Babysitting really isn’t my forte.”

All you received for your complaining was laughter.

By the time you had the 4th teddy bear had been introduced, you were done. Why did one kid have so many toys?

“Now which one of your friends gives you candy?” your friend asked. “Because if it’s from Princess, I don’t think it’s edible. What if she secretly puts glitter in it?”

Expected to play along, you sighed. “Unless it’s glitter from rainbows because then it’s got magic powers and allows you to fly.”

The child liked your thumb-sucked statement because she jumped up in excitement. “I don’t get it from Princess. Jack gives it to me! But if Princess can make me fly, I want to have that kind of candy instead!”

“Which one’s Jack again?” you asked, eyeing the line of toys.

“He’s not here right now,” the child said, biting her inner cheek. She turned in a circle. “Sometimes he hides in the cupboard though!” She ran over to her cupboard and pulled the doors open. “I don’t think – OW!”

She reeled backwards, clutching her cheek. Both you and your friend immediately jumped up and ran over to her. A tiny slice mark ran across the side of her face. It wasn’t anything serious, but she was sobbing as though it would kill her. You presumed a small edge on one of the boxes in the cupboard had been the cause.

“Do you want me to take you to mom, so she can kiss it better?” your friend asked. “Your new best friend can wait here and make sure all your toys are safe.”

The child nodded, and she got led out of the room. You rolled your eyes at the sensitivity and reached into the cupboard to push the box out of the way. A clawed hand reached out of nowhere and grabbed your wrist tightly.

Before you could even shout, it lifted you off the ground by your arm and a second hand had wrapped around your mouth.

The monster’s body appeared out of the closet.

It was a clown. Easily 7ft tall and comprised of monochrome colours with a sharp, pointed nose and long, greasy hair. Its black lips spread into a smile, revealing pointed teeth and a sickeningly sweet breath.

You writhed against its grip, trying to scream or do anything but it was insanely strong, and it just laughed at your efforts.

“How mean,” it purred, leaning in close to your face. “You ask who I am and then, when I appear to you, you insult my appearance. Awful etiquette. Your parents should be concerned about how rude you are to strangers.”

You strained your memory to think about what you had been doing before it grabbed you but the adrenaline was clouding your mind. What had you asked? You struggled more with the lack of memories.

The clown shook its head. “I haven’t revealed myself to somebody so old in a long time. You should be flattered but instead you choose to try and kick me. This is why I don’t do this. Children are far more polite.”

He released you suddenly and you landed hard on the ground. It winked and disappeared, right as your friend and her cousin returned.

“You met Jack!” the child shouted excitedly, pointing to the candy lying next to you.

You shoved it away from you as quickly as possible.

#creepypasta #scenarios #hoodie x reader #marble hornets #homicidal liu #jeff the killer #jane the killer #jason the toymaker #kagekao #x reader #jeff the killer x reader #laughing jack #kate the chaser

187 notes · View notes

rayofsunas · 4 years

Text

otherworldly! s/o

A/n: happy monday! I woke up at 7am and since then I've been grinding out assignments/classes and now this, so I actually feel productive even though I've been staring at my computer for a while. but thank you for requesting anon! I enjoyed writing this and I hope you enjoy reading it! <33 also to understand this more, I'd like to point out that this connects to the speculation Genshin and Honkai are alternate universes of one another. so for example, Scaramouche is a harbinger from his time, but he may have been a warlord in a different, with a completely different name (keeping his appearance ofc) hope that makes sense. so if you've paid attention to what I've been saying about Scara and his mini-series, etc. you'll understand what I mean in Scara's lol. his reader insert is fem for the same reason as above btw!

Summary: otherworldly! s/o who arrived as a fallen meteor, that can bring back plants to life/heal deep wounds/scars and resurrect people.

Parings: Albedo/Gn! Reader, Xiao/Gn! Reader, Scaramouche/Fem! Reader

Warnings: swearing, fluff, alternate realities/time traveler au! (reader is not the traveler), death/resurrection

Word count: 1.7k

Albedo

you don't have a vision like some people in Teyvat, because you're not from there; you're from a whole different world itself. instead, you have healing abilities that allow you to any energy you absorb in the form of food/sunlight, and you can use that energy to heal others. though, the healing can only go as far as healing minor injuries such as shallow cuts, scratches, or smoothing out scars. the same can work if you were to heal yourself.

Albedo is so intrigued when he finds you passed out in the pit of a meteor, half of your body hanging out while the other is awkwardly still in it

one, because who is this stranger in a meteor for crying out loud

and two, he notices your wounds on your arms are healing by themselves, slowly though

as someone who studies alchemy, life forms, and such, he's very intrigued that you're able to heal yourself without medicine, and he wonders if you can do the same to others

so he takes you to his lab, and runs a few tests

yes, you're still passed out when this happens, but he's just so curious and couldn't hold back

don't worry though, he's just drawing some blood and testing to see what you can do, because who knows, you may not even speak his language and won't be able to communicate with him (doesn't make a difference Albedo, you need COnSENT-)

so, just for science, he cuts the palm of his hand a little and decides to see if you can heal him

it doesn't take him long to notice the way the tips of your fingers are glowing a light greenish-yellow, so he immediately assumes that's the source of your powers and places a finger on his palm

it takes a second before anything happens, but eventually his cut starts to slowly close

once again he's even more shocked and intrigued

you have the natural ability and he's never come across someone with so much raw strength being able to do that

so you're right up his alley

when you wake up you're confused as hell (obviously) but thankfully, you can speak his language and are able to share your story

Albedo decides to make a deal with you

he'll help you get home if you can educate him more about your ability and your homeland. you agree

it works out perfectly, because you both have something the other needs/can do for the other (you have your power that he's interested in, and he's found a way for you to return home)

it's also easy to work together because of those same common interests, and it helps that he studies alchemy cause he's way more knowledgeable about you and the process can go a tiny bit quicker for you if you wish to return home sooner

at first you're merely friends, co-workers if you wish

but then he starts falling for you and vice versa

you both genuinely enjoy each others company, so you decide to stay in Teyvat a little while longer, even after he finds a way for you to go home

I wouldn't put it past Albedo to want to return to your world if you allow it

he'd be interested in this new or not so new world ;)

Xiao

you're like the traveler in a sense, where as soon as you climbed out of the meteor, you felt this connection to Teyvat and your vision randomly appeared. you have a dendro vision, something you learned was a rarity within liyue and mondstadt. along with that vision, you had the previous ability to grow/heal plants. you can bring back dead plants, though if they've been dead for a very long time, that's beyond your ability. they also can't be brought back if they've been badly burned.

Xiao may not be interested at first about what vision you have or even where you came from + why the hell you climbed out of a meteor

he's more interested in getting you home so you can stop asking questions about his own abilities/vision and odd, unfamiliar, but beautiful world

but boy when he catches you bringing back a wilted Glaze Lily?!? shook

he secretly thinks you're so cool and it piques his interest

he's never seen anyone do this before, and though his eyes were deceiving him when he first saw the lily spring to life again

but then when he catches you healing more plants, on your way to Liyue to hopefully find Zhongli for answers, he's so interested

he doesn't ask a crapload of questions, BUT he's going to ask at least one or two

"how're you doing that?"

"what are you?

the questions are kind of vague and require more in-depth explanations than he'd originally hoped, but he's surprisingly willing to listen to your story on the way to the harbor

after he learns your story and calls for Zhongli, he'll immediately leave and claim he has no further interests in you

but he's obviously lying

he finds as he's sitting on top of one the smaller mountains one night, looking down at the glowing Liyue town, he has more questions

way more questions

surprising Zhongli, Xiao shows appears when he's showing you around and getting you accustomed to the people/culture

he finds himself hoving behind you, shyly almost, never asking questions (at least not in Zhongli's presence

his reason for standing behind you is to protect you from any harm, so that way, when he decides to ask you more questions, you'll be there for him to do so and not dead or lost

when you tell Zhongli you'd wish to stay in Teyvat, specifically Liyue, Xiao is happy ngl

he can ask you questions and now that you're somewhat used to Liyue, having been here for four months already and planning to stay forever, he can catch you alone and ask questions without Zhongli hovering or acting as your tour guide lol

slowly, and I mean sluggishly slow, he's going to ask you more questions and he may, emphasis on may, tell you his own story

Scaramouche

you're from an alternate reality of Teyvat, a former doctor in your world. basically, Teyvat hundreds of years in the future. you've studied the human body to become a doctor obviously and you used to be able to bring back the dead using your bare hands. it didn't matter how far back ago they've died, as long as their full-body was still intact (full skeleton needed). though, the further back they died, the more energy you'd use, and if you run out of energy too soon, you couldn't bring them back. but now in this strange land, you can't. in exchange for your powers being lost, you're given an electro vision.

Scaramouche is tasked with finding out more about these odd meteors that keep appearing in various corners of Teyvat

and one very large one

he doesn't care who you are, what you are, what your excuse for being in Teyvat is, but he's been ordered to explore the fallen meteor and since you happened to be passed out inside it upon further exploration, you're part of the mystery he's been told to check out

and, it doesn't further help your situation that you landed in Snezhnaya, in the weirdest, not-so-warm clothing AND he finds you attractive (yes, you heard it here folks), plus you're going to catch hypothermia out here dressed like that

it would suck for a pretty girl such as yourself to be frozen to death

so Scaramouche decides to take you to the Tsaritsa, who leaves you in Scaramouche's care since he found you

she says he can do whatever he wants you, dispose of you, etc.

when you finally come too in an odd room on a couch in front of a fireplace, you're confused, cold as hell despite the flames, and when you see his face, you're immediately angered, which he finds odd

it's almost as if you recognize him... but he doesn't recognize you so he's confused as well

"what're you doing here?"

bold of you, he thinks. to question him with that tone as if you have authority here, over him

"watch yourself. I was going to ask you the same."

you don't seem too pleased with him though

"we agreed to never speak again, or so I thought..."

"are you stupid or are you just playing the stupid card to be released?" he'd say

though as soon as you burst and yell at him about a situation he's not familiar with, he's starting to understand a bit more

you're not from here, not anywhere in Teyvat at least, and by the way you're talking to him as if you know him, he assumed correctly that you're from an alternate reality, where he's also present

though despite his correct assumption, he demands answers and you cannot be allowed any kind of freedom until he gets them

you tell him your story and how in your world, a version of himself exists and that you were briefly married, though split because he was too much of a control/power freak for you and your daughter

he disagrees with the last part about him being a control/power freak ofc but

he decides he'll keep you around, against your wishes

one, because you can become useful if your resurrection abilities are awoken; you'd be able to save many fallen Fatui soldiers, with more training so you don't run out of energy ofc

and two, he doesn't think his other self would miss you very much if you're both on bad terms, he sure would miss such a pretty face if you were to leave though, that's for sure...

so, he's going to keep you around, so he can help train/get used to your electro vision. it works best that way since he has the same vision and can train you more efficiently (I think Scara has electro powers, just an assumption!)

he will also hopefully be able to awaken your resurrection abilities and if you can't, well then sorry you're disposable

overtime, all the Harbingers tease him about his little crush and he either denies it or strongly provokes it cause his ego is through his fucking hat

exhibit a. literally doesn't care that he's caught by childe staring at you train and will say something like, "and? you're just jealous she's not interested in you like she is me."

exhibit b. will throw a fit if someone accuses him and says he has, "no room for crushes or love." even if he was somewhat capable of it in your world...

3.22.21, rayofsunas

#rayofsunas #genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact scenarios #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #albedo #albedo x reader #xiao #xiao x reader #scaramouche #scaramouche x reader

654 notes · View notes

sylvia-forest · 3 years

Text

[L&N] Osborn - At your Fingertips

✧ Warning: This date contains some highly suggestive scenes and is Not suitable for minors!!

[Option 3: Aimless Joyride]

MC: You said before that you want to take me out of this dizzying world.

MC: Do those words still count?

Osborn: Of course. Why don't we just do it today?

Osborn: Forget the purpose, forget the time, and keep moving forward to the end of the world.

The word, "the end of the world" made my heart skip a beat, and there was a throbbing of anticipation within me.

MC: What will be there?

Osborn: We'll know when we go.

Osborn: But although I don't know what's there, I know what isn’t there.

MC: ?

Osborn: At the end of the world, there aren’t any annoying tasks and jobs, and no noisy crowds whispering in your ears.

Osborn: We can leave all the worldly worries behind and concentrate on enjoying the world as a couple.

MC: Why does it sound like…

Osborn: Like what? Elopement?

Osborn winked at me with a wicked grin.

Osborn: The elopement story of a wild boy and a rich girl, I like it.

MC: Don't talk nonsense, let's go quickly.

Saying that, I took Osborn's arm and wanted to get into the car with him.

Osborn: What's the hurry? The car hasn't been repaired yet.

Osborn: And… you forgot one more thing.

MC: ?

I turned my head to meet Osborn's gaze, his gaze moved down and landed on the dirty clothes belonging to the two of us.

Osborn: Are you sure we are not going out to "escape" like this?

MC: …

Osborn: Okay, you go and change your clothes first,

MC: Okay.

I changed my clothes and went to the living room, and waited for a while, but Osborn never came out.

[Knock knock]

The door to his bedroom was ajar, and I could vaguely see the scene in the room. I reached out and knocked on the door.

MC: Osborn, you haven't…

Before I could finish my words, the door in front of me was suddenly pulled open. I raised my eyes reflexively and met a broad chest.

[Nosebleed!! WTH THIS MAN IS SO SEXY AND MAN HE HAS TWO MOLES ON HIS WAIST!!]

Osborn: I just took a shower, by the way.

Osborn was casually wearing a white shirt, and the ends of his wet hair still had some moisture, making him look a little lazy.

Sunlight poured through the curtains and poured down on the skin that had not yet been covered, as if plated with a beautiful color.

The gully-like muscle lines spread down from the abdomen until they were hidden in the black fabric of the sweatpants.

The scene in front of me was too shocking. I took a big step back, my face flushed, and I hurriedly looked away.

MC: Why aren't you wearing any clothes…

Osborn slowly buttoned his shirt, his eyes fell on my red cheeks and ears.

There was a smile in his eyes, but his tone was quite confident.

Osborn: What nonsense, I obviously wore it.

MC: …The buttons weren’t fastened.

Osborn: Buttoning it up now.

Hearing Osborn's words, I looked back and found that the person in front of me had only button the top pieces, and the hem of the shirt was still wide open.

MC: You, you liar!

Osborn: Who asked you to be so good at fooling.

After a while, Osborn changed his car and drove me aimlessly on the highway.

The afterglow of dusk softly shrouded the straight road, as if driving in a golden light.

The scene on both sides gradually changed from tall buildings to flat fields, and the sky was dotted with layers of cirrocumulus clouds like fish scales.

I was lying on the edge of the window, watching the huge splendid sunset in the sky receding quickly.

MC: It's so beautiful, it seems to be going all the way to the clouds in the sky.

Osborn: I haven't had such a freewheeling experience in a long time.

MC: Huh? Have you this before?

Osborn: Occasionally. But after reuniting with you, it was the first time.

Osborn sat in the dim yellow glow, the afterglow falling on him through the front window of the car, like a still movie in the constantly beating scene outside the window.

There were fewer and fewer other vehicles in our field of vision, and finally there were no more. We were like balloons floating in the air, completely out of touch with this world.

I don't know how long it took, the night slowly caught up from behind, engulfing the whole world.

MC: I can't see anything anymore, and I don't know where I am now.

Osborn: It's the same for me, on my side.

The night was getting deeper and deeper, and I couldn't even see the expression on his face, but the familiar voice and tone made me feel a lot more at ease.

Outside the window was still the wilderness, there was no light as far as the eye can see, there was chaos in the pitch black, and even the horizon had disappeared.

MC: Is this the end of the world?

Osborn: Do you know what is at the end of the world now?

MC: Well, there is you.

Osborn: It's a pity that our "elopement" is coming to an end.

MC: Huh?

Osborn pointed to the oil gauge on the car, and the pointer entered the red area, and the oil volume almost bottomed out.

Osborn: It's a lil’ unpleasant, but we have to find a place to refuel and eat.

MC: Sure…

The speed of the car gradually decreased, and Osborn drove the car off the road. I looked at the dark night in the rear-view mirror, and I was still reluctant to part.

Osborn: Why is the little greedy cat so unhappy when she hears that there is food to eat?

Osborn: We can take a trip to the end of the world whenever you want.

Osborn: This time, it's just a trial run.

After a while, the car slowly pulled into the gas station.

Osborn got out of the car and went to refuel. I also got out of the car and looked around curiously.

At this time, a sign entered my eyes, and the flashing neon lights formed the words, "drive-in theater".

Osborn: Fuel up, let's go.

MC: Let’s eat later and go there!

I pointed to the theater I saw just now, but Osborn gently moved my arm and pointed my finger at a sign next to it that said, "Motel".

Osborn: Good idea, after watching the movie, we can go there to rest.

MC: You…

I wanted to give him a look, but Osborn was already smiling and walking towards the car.

Osborn: Little glutton, keep up and come eat.

After a delicious dinner at a nearby small restaurant, we went to the car theater.

After buying tickets and popcorn, the car slowly drove into the parking space, and the movie just started.

This was a movie about long-distance travel and homesickness.

Osborn turned to the corresponding channel on the speaker for the movie viewing instructions, and then adjusted the seat back to a comfortable angle.

MC: Why did you bring this?

Osborn: Comes with the car. The temperature drops quickly at night, just in time to use.

He shook the blanket over my lap, then stretched his long legs slightly and leaned back comfortably into the reclining seat.

Between the floating light and shadow, I leaned on the seat and heard a faint sound from Osborn's side. I turned my head in some confusion.

He seemed to be holding "popcorn" in his hand, and when he realized that I was looking at him, he fed the "popcorn" into my mouth.

MC: Huh?

The taste of sweet and sour lemon candy spread on the tip of my tongue. I opened my eyes in surprise, and then I noticed that the glass sugar jar on the side was the gift I prepared for Osborn.

Before leaving, I quietly stuffed the candy into the back seat, trying to surprise Osborn, but he found it unexpectedly.

MC: How did you find it…

Osborn: Next time you want to hide things in my car, at least hide it a little bit under the covers.

Saying that, he stuffed one into his mouth and nodded with satisfaction.

Osborn: Tastes good…

After a brief interlude, we re-engaged in the film.

The plot of the movie was getting better, and the dialogue of the protagonist in the film reverberated in the quiet square.

Osborn: In the world, there should be travel first, then doubts and nostalgia.

MC: Seems to make sense…

Osborn: Does it?

I tilted my head and found that Osborn was looking at the screen seriously, the light and shadow reflected in his eyes.

MC: Don't you think so?

He nodded, lowered his eyes and thought for a while before turning his head to look at me.

Osborn: I think that it is because of nostalgia and attachment that a long trip becomes a trip.

Osborn: Otherwise it can only be called "wandering".

I caught a hint of disapproval in his words, and I was a little puzzled.

MC: But don't you think this is very similar to what we did today?

Osborn: With you by my side, how can it be the same?

Because of me? His side face flashed with a gentle luster under the screen, and I looked curiously and gradually realized one thing.

MC: I see that you have changed.

Osborn: Eh?

MC: You are not the little cool brother who doesn't bother to take care of anyone even if he is floating on the sea for a few months.

He looked at me in surprise, then smiled knowingly.

Osborn: I didn't even realize that freedom and wandering were no longer the whole meaning of my life until you said so.

Osborn: Maybe life is like our journey today, and we need to keep moving forward.

Osborn: The station is exceptionally warm after that thrilling experience. After staying in my comfort zone for a long time, I feel like exploring the outside world again.

I stared at him blankly, with some inexplicable anxiety and admiration in my heart.

He is like an invisible flame that can't be caught nor possessed.

Osborn: MC?

Osborn seemed to sense something and called out my name. I quickly raised my head and looked over blankly.

Osborn: What are you thinking? Your eyebrows are frowning.

He put his hand between my brows and gently pushed my frown away.

The warm palm soothed my hesitation, and I looked at Osborn and couldn't help asking the question I was thinking about just now.

MC: Can I stay by your side all the time…

He didn't seem to expect me to ask such a question, his green eyes widened slightly, and then he raised his hand and pinched the tip of my nose. It left me a little overwhelmed and my cheeks got a little hot.

Osborn: Are you mistaken?

Osborn: That’s not called “staying by my side”. It’s called “keeping me company”.

Osborn: As I said just now, we can go on a trip to the end of the world whenever you want.

Osborn: If you feel tired, then…

He stood up slightly, opened the glove box and took out something.

Before I could ask, he had already taken my hand and put a key in the palm of my hand.

MC: This is?

Osborn: The key to my house…

MC: Huh?

The generous palm held my hand, touched my fingertips, and held the key tightly.

Osborn: If you feel tired, wait for me at home.

Osborn: No matter how many difficulties that need to be overcome and how long it takes, I will come back to you.

Osborn: Where you are, is my hometown and my eternal destination.

In the dark, the breath mixed with the warm smell fell on my eyelashes, as if it was a kiss falling through the air.

I looked at his eyes that were so close at hand. It was like a deep ocean, making people forget how to breathe.

The key in the palm of my hand was contaminated with the temperature of the two people, and it became extremely warm in the cool night.

I couldn't help but to hold it tighter.

MC: Then I say yes…

Osborn: If you say yes, then no regrets.

He made the promise in a solemn tone, and the words were deeply etched into my heart.

Osborn: The movie’s over, let's go home.

At night, our car is driving on a straight road, and the lights of the city in the distance are like stars twinkling in the Milky Way.

In the infinitely extended city, everyone is constantly looking for coordinates, and his coordinates are by his side at this moment.

Option 4: Fix the Car first

Prologue: here

✧*:･ﾟ.✧*:･ﾟ.✧*:･ﾟ.✧

#sorry for uploading late!!#i was busy with work!#osborn #Sariel＃光与夜之恋＃夏鸣星＃萧逸＃齐司礼 #light and night #light and night＃Evan＃Jesse #charlie

42 notes · View notes

spxllcxstxr · 4 years

Text

Bridge Over Troubled Water • R.L

(Gif not mine)

Requests: can you do a blurb with Remus where the reader is nervous and anxious, maybe has a tough week and he gives her a massage and helps her relax? — anon and Hi! can you write an imagine where the reader is dating Remus and is disappointed in her school grades / results and is overall doubting herself and is disappointed with herself? — @emmaev

Summary: Things are getting really tough. Remus is here for you.

Warnings: mention of food, not eating/skipping a meal, hunger, depression, anxiety, a bit of a panic attack, homework, school, self deprecating thoughts, kinda take how we’re feeling in this pandemic and that’s kinda what this fic is, Snape being an ass for like two sentences, crying

Word Count: 1.7k

A.N: I hope it’s alright that I combined your two requests. But, I decided to make it longer with a lot more comfort. I really hope it’s ok with you guys ❤️ Kinda a vent fic? So that’s why it’s lowkey all over the place and the ending is sorta..abrupt? I hope you like it, though. I wanna say that I’m always here for you guys. This whole thing has been kicking my ass and school has been extremely tough for me, so know that you’re not alone. Know that you’ve got this. I believe wholeheartedly in you. Love you all. ❤️

Title: Simon and Garfunkel - Bridge Over Troubled Water

****

You trudge up the stone steps to the boys dorms, your bag dragging heavily behind you. With your robes slipping from your shoulders and your tie dangling loosely around your neck, you almost consider letting your bag go. Watching the heavy sack of books tumble recklessly down the spiral staircase seems like a great idea to you. However, you make it to the sixth year dorms before you’re able to loosen your grip.

The oak door was closed but not locked. What use was a lock when the door was charmed to singe off the eyebrows of any unwelcome visitor? Thankfully, the boys granted you complete access to their room in third year, so the door couldn’t harm you.

Turning the brass doorknob and stepping through the threshold, you’re greeted by somewhat organized chaos.

Sirius and Peter’s side of the room was a complete disaster while James and Remus’ side was at least nicer to look at. Sure a few books were scattered on the floor and James’ red and yellow underwear was hanging from his bedpost visible to anyone who walked in, but that’s nothing compared to whatever the other two have going on. You don’t even want to look at it, knowing full well that just one tiny glance would make your already terrible day worse.

The room is empty and completely quiet, the boys, just like every other person in the castle, were down in the Great Hall for dinner. At the thought of dinner just downstairs, your stomach grumbles before quickly churning in agony.

Quickly, you dump your bag next to the door and go through Remus’ drawers, searching for that one specific jumper.

It’s the deep blue cable knit one that always smells like him. The jumper is soft and warm and the perfect piece of clothing to cuddle into when you needed a good cry. And Godric, you needed a good, long, ugly cry.

After finding it and throwing it on, you barely lift up your feet walking to your boyfriend’s bed to get swallowed up by his blankets.

The weight of the day hits you full force the moment your head collides with his pillow, and your lips wobbles, the day replaying in your mind.

Your morning started with a Transfiguration exam that definitely was not on what you studied all night for.

Then, your potion bubbled out of your cauldron and started disintegrating the stone flooring, making Slughorn shoot you very disappointed look that made you want to disappear into the Forbidden Forest forever.

Defense Against the Dark Arts turned into a complete disaster as well when Professor Bluebell handed back your essays on inferi, and yours ended up with a spikey red D scrawled angrily on the top. D, which stands for Dreadful, as Snape snidely reminded you from over your shoulder. He flashed you smug little smirk along with the delicate O that adorned his own essay.

And to top it all off, you had to meet up with Flitwick right after classes to go over the vinegar to wine charm that for some reason wouldn’t work for you no matter how hard you tried. And you still weren’t successful.

This was becoming a common occurrence.

You always knew that your N.E.W.T. year was going to be tough, but Merlin, you never expected it to be this awful.

Classes were longer and harder and your professors were relentless and unforgiving with the amount of homework and exams they started handing out.

Sure you had more free periods, but those were filled with research and essays and studying, you had no free time at all—it was all a lie.

You couldn’t escape it. Sleep was just more time to be plagued by anxiety to the point you barely even slept at all. Most of the time you stared blankly up at the ceiling thinking about all the assignments you could be doing instead.

It’s this torturous and vicious cycle that you just can’t get out of.

And your motivation was quickly disappearing.

It was getting tougher and tougher each time to even do your homework. Lifting up your quill and taking out a stack of parchment was just difficult. It took too much energy out of you.

Smothering your face in Remus’ pillow, you groan out your frustration, balling your fists around the frayed sleeves of the jumper.

You’re so wrapped up in your despair and panic that you don’t hear the door creak open and four sets of footfalls and laughter bounce around the room.

“Damn, what’s up with you?” Sirius chuckles. You hear him flop onto his own bed.

You bury your nose in the fabric of the jumper, inhaling the sweet and comforting scent of chocolate and old parchment that always accompanies Remus Lupin.

“Don’t be a git, Pads.” Remus scoffs, making his way towards you.

He crouches down by your head, placing a delicate thumb on your cheekbone.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” His tone turns soft, drenched with concern.

You squeeze your eyes shut tight, tears trickling down the bridge of your nose and dripping down to the white sheets.

“Alright, darling, hold on.” Remus whispers, placing a dainty kiss on your forehead.

He straightens up, knees creaking the way no sixteen year old’s should.

“Alright, lads, clear out.” Remus declares to his friends.

“You can’t kick me out of my room, Moony. No way.” You hear James whine.

“Yes, I can, Prongs, c’mon. Go play chess with Peter or something.”

“But he always beats me.”

“C’mon, Prongsie, we can scam the first years by making them place bets on you winning.” Sirius suggests. His boots click against the floorboards, trailing towards the door.

Peter’s light footsteps follow after them.

“Fine.” James huffs dramatically. “But I’m not sleeping on the couch again, so no funny business.”

The door slams shut and once again you’re met with silence, though you do hear Remus changing out of his uniform and into more comfortable attire.

The bed dips underneath Remus’ weight and his hand gently starts to stroke through your hair.

“Tell me what’s wrong, my love.” Remus mumbles just loud enough for you to hear.

You try to swallow down the lump in the back of your throat.

“Just a very shitty day, Rem.” You manage to croak out, the words choppy and wavering.

Tears begin to flow freely, warm salty streaks making their way down your face in rapid succession.

“Oh darling.” Remus coos, practically pulling you into his arms and between his legs. You bury your face into his neck, tears dampening his scarred flesh. “It’s alright, let it out.” He continues to run your hair between his fingers. “Let it all out...”

“I-I’m just so stupid!” You sob, choking on spit. “Everything’s just getting too much and I can’t fucking take it anymore!”

He squeezes you closer to his chest, opting to stay silent so you can vent everything off of your chest. His cheek is pressed to the top of your head and you’re vaguely aware that you’re being rocked gently back and forth.

“It’s so hard!” You continue to wail, lungs constricting rapidly. It’s a struggle to keep breathing and your words barely come out fully, instead broken fragments are the only things spewing out.

“I’m a failure!” You spit out, face wet with tears.

“You’re not a failure, my love. I promise.” Remus tried to soothe, his voice adopting a small but noticeable waver. His hand rubs your back.

“I am! I’m a disappointment!” You sniff, taking in deep gulps of air.

“Shh...” Remus pulls you back a bit so he can see your entire face.

You already know you look disgusting. Eyes blotchy and red, tears streaming down your face. Snotty, spitty, wobbling, and watery features taking up his entire vision.

“What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours, hm? Let me help.” He consoles you softly.

You gaze into his warm honey brown eyes, glistening with his own tears.

You sniff, rubbing the sleeves of Remus’ stolen jumper across your face in an attempt to dry yourself off.

“Everything’s slipping, Rem. My grades, my mental health, everything. And I’m so lost I don’t know what to do anymore.” You confess. “What am I supposed to do?” You bring your hands up to you hair, tugging at your scalp enough for you to feel sparks of pain.

Quickly, his own trembling hands take yours. He stops you from tugging, instead bringing them to rest on his jumper clad chest.

You swallow harshly.

“I’m going to help you, (Y/n)—“

“You can’t help me, Remus! I’m beyond help—“

“No, you’re not.” He retorts lightly. “I’ll help you with homework and help you ask for a few extensions...we can get you back on track.”

“Remus...” Your voice trembles at his kindness.

“I’m sorry.” He rasps out, a tear or two slipping from his waterline. “I’m so so sorry that I didn’t see you suffering like this. Merlin, (Y/n).”

Shaking his head at himself, he brings his forehead down to your own.

“I’ll be better. I’ll be better, I swear.” Remus keeps repeating in a pained mutter.

“It’s not your fault, Rem. I got good at acting like everything was fine.” Your voice cracks.

“Still! I should’ve realized!” He mutters angrily.

“I love you, Remus. I love you so much, please don’t beat yourself up over this.” You plead.

He bites his lip, deciding to drop it, instead focusing on you.

“Why don’t we try to relax, hm? Just take a nice night off?” Remus suggests, pulling away to brush strands of hair away from your sticky face.

“But what about homework—?”

“Tomorrow, love. I think we deserve a break, don’t you?”

You shlyly nod, and he presses his lips to your forehead.

“You’re beautiful, darling.” Remus whispers.

“I just bawled my eyes out, Rem, I’m sure I look like a swamp hag.” You snort.

He brings his hands to your shoulders, rubbing deep circles into your back muscles. The knots start to dissipate.

“Never seen a swamp hag as angelic as you.” Remus flirts. But his voice is so sincere and honest, you have no choice but to somewhat believe him.

“Thank you, Remus.” You smile. “It means so much to me.”

“Anything for the love of my life.” He confesses, trailing his pink lips down your neck. “Now let me hold you close.”

He lays down, resting his head on his pillow, your head resting on his chest.

Things are going to get better.

Probably not tomorrow.

Probably not this week.

But things will.

•

All Character Taglist: @aspiringsloth20

#Remus Lupin #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin angst #remus lupin fluff #the marauders x reader #the marauders

259 notes · View notes

its-warm-in-here · 3 years

Text

Playing Pretend

I’m sorry I didn't get this up sooner. I gutted the end but here’s the first part of the first chapter of a Heisenberg x reader fic that will probably go on too long. This is more of a prolog. No smut yet! Written with a female reader in mind, but I may have versions for both m and f when the final product goes up. Gonna start out kinda fluffy before we get darker. Comments and constructive criticism are always appreciated!

Summary: This summer trip to Romania was supposed to be momentous, life changing, and the bases for your master’s thesis. Too bad the villagers want you gone and this ‘Mother Miranda’ won't even see you. Luckily, you run into a greasy engineer who says he can help.

Karl tries to take a day off from being ‘Lord Heisenberg’ with the cute stranger who wandered into the village. Things only spiral from there.

~2080 words

Miranda loved the yearly festivals. She always made a big show of the village, flowers and banners everywhere. The townsfolk would bring out their best clothing, even if their best was still black and brown. The dreary village would come alive with drinking, dancing and merry making. Even some of the neighboring villages would join in the festivities. The town would be near bustling, the local tavern would be full, laughter and song would echo from the church to the castle.

He hated it. All of it. Heisenberg avoided the celebrations, instead opting to stay holed up in his factory as much as possible. And it wasn't just because of the excess of people, while that didn't help. No, it was an insidious purpose for these gatherings. He exhaled a ring of cigar smoke.

First, boost morale through the village and reaffirm the people's faith in Mother Miranda. Second, and far more insidious, was to widen the flock, to expand her influence and bring in new blood for her experiments. The surrounding towns were just as small and removed from the rest of the world as Miranda's village. Made it easy to bring new blood under her wing. Youth would meet and marry, a drunk or four would go missing, and some of the visitors would become new members of Miranda's community. More meat for her Cadou grinder.

Heisenberg flicked the ash from his cigar and watched it float down before the wind caught it. The early morning view from the top of his factory wasn't bad. It was his own part of the world: no view of the village, the stench of the reservoir was nonexistent, and the most he could see of Castle Dimitrescu was a massive wall keeping their territory separated. Just him and his machines. He took another puff. As much as he planned to avoid today, Heisenberg knew that he would have to make at least some appearance. All the Lords did, even if it was just for a moment. Just another way to show her power; having all of her ‘children’ before the townsfolk. He grimaced at the thought. Târgul de Fete was set to start soon. At least that gave him the morning to get shit done. Heisenberg kicked a bit of metal scrap off the roof and it bounced off the scrap heap below with a ping! before landing in the dirt. He rolled his shoulder. Time to get to work.

---

"Well fuck you too!" You slammed the door behind you. Why even bother going through the proper channels? No matter what, they turn you down, tell you to leave and treat you like an outcast. You spoke to towns folk, to village leaders, hell, you even wanted an audience with their 'Mother Miranda,' but she refused to even see you! You stormed along the path and the few people that had not made their way to the Târgul de Fete celebration steered clear of you, opting to give you a side eye and shuffle to their destination. All you wanted was to observe their festival, and maybe take a few pictures, but even that was negotiable. You had even offered to leave your camera behind with them for the day. Why hadn't you gone to Sweden with the rest of your class? No, instead you went to some culty, backwater town in Romania!

You kicked a rock, hard, sending it flying into the tall grass. "God Damnit!" This was supposed to have been your thesis! Supposed to be life changing! No, now you were just stuck, miles from any true civilization and being kicked out of some stupid, ramshackle heap, whose plants can't even grow right in a Romanian summer. Some of the plants were barely green, most appeared dry or yellowing. The flowers were either wilted and falling apart or hadn't even bloomed. You were no botanist, but you were certain that wasn't healthy.

You kicked another rock, it soared through the grass, but it struck something metal this time before landing with a thud. They didn't want you here, didn't want you at Târgul de Fete? Fine, but they didn't take your camera. Without thinking, you dug the old DSLR out of your bag and snapped a picture of the church.

And immediately deleted it.

You signed. Even if the villagers were a bunch of jackasses, this was their culture and they made it very clear that you were not welcome. Even if they had agreed to all this three months ago. And even if they had called you a bad omen, a poison and a danger to the whole village. You weren't about to infringe. Crestfallen, you huffed your bag over your shoulder and began the trek back out of town. It was at least a four hour walk to your rental car and a good chunk of that walk was more of a hike. Not like there was much you could do other than leave after cussing out the town speakers and nearly slamming the door off its hinges.

The village had felt abandoned when you walked in, and now that everyone had headed off to a celebration, the village was positively desolate. No traditional brightly-colored dresses or intricate belts to be seen. And no wary or hostile glares from the inhabitants either. It was... quiet. Aside from the occasional crow, you might as well have been in a ghost town. It took you a bit to find the correct path out of the grave yard, but after spinning in circles for a good moment, you pushed past a red door and were back on your way. The village wasn't large, most of the paths were poorly maintained and the whole place was enveloped in a strange fish smell.

You bit the inside of your cheek. This was a good thing, really. Who would've wanted to stay in the ramshackle place for more than a few hours, let alone a few days? You groaned and kicked at the ground again. While not lacking in repellent attributes, the pagan worship of the place fascinated you. They had their own religion but had incorporated traditional Romania holidays into their culture. Where else in Europe could you see that happen in real time? Of course, you could think of a couple of places, but you had picked here in the Carpathian mountains in particular! While you did have a second choice, you couldn't stop the self pity from setting in.

Ugh.

The village was relatively small and was quickly fading to forest, the castle that overlooked the town vanished behind you as you shuffled down a particularly steep part of the path. The trees here looked more normal, less sickly. While it was only marginally, you felt a bit better, a bit less mad. Stepping away from that place was a breath of fresh air.

Your boots skid a bit as you reach a flat spot. With a huff, you grip both backpack straps to center yourself. If this couldn't be your thesis, that didn't mean you had to hate the walk. This was Romania afterall, when was the next time you were going to be here? The sky may be overcast, but it sort of added to the eerie charm of this place. You sidestepped your way down another steep incline, using one hand to grip overgrown branches for balance. The last step is a bit further, but you find your footing easily.

And the rock gave way under you, tilting forward with an abrupt grinding sound. A burst of panicked adrenaline rushed through as you struggled to stop. You pitch forward, stumbling over branches and underbrush, your eyes forcibly losing focus.

"The fuck?"

That wasn't your voice. You slammed full force into something, another body? And it gives under you. The other person takes the brunt of the fall, landing on their back with a distinct, "oof."

For a moment, you don't speak, too focused on catching the breath. Finally, your vision swims back and you find your voice, "Damnit... are you ok?"

The man under you goans, sitting half way up to look you over. His hair is grey, and a bit too long, but he couldn't be any older than forty, possibly younger. "Get off." Your eyes go wide and that panicked beat fills your chest. "Ya deaf? Off."

"Er, right," you scramble to your feet and, without thinking, extend a hand to the stranger, "Sorry about... that." You gestured vaguely to the path. "Lost my balance."

He lets out an exasperated huff, and knocks your hand away. For a moment, he doesn't acknowledge you, instead retrieving something from the grass behind him. He's wearing a loose linen shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up with black leather gloves. You force yourself to look somewhere, anywhere else, nervously bouncing from foot to foot. When he turns back to you, he has a tattered, wide brim hat in place and is looking over a pair of broken sunglasses. One of the lenses was clearly shattered, but he hooked them over his shirt collar, his attention finally turning to you. "You're not from around here, huh?”

You couldn't help but snort, "What gave it away, the wind breaker? Don't worry, I'm leaving."

"Leaving?" He repeats.

You start moving back to the path. "Yup, your village speaker has made that very clear."

"They were clear? Not all back and forth on it?" He chuckles, "That's impressive, they must really not like you."

You stare at him, was this a friendly face? It was certainly a handsome face, even with scarring and stubble. But a trustworthy one? "You sure you're ok? Didn't scramble that brain when I ran into you? The rest of the town was pretty dead set on driving me out."

" 'Cause they're a bunch of morons, sweetheart," he insisted, "All part of Mother Miranda's big, idiot mob."

"Huh," you are walking ahead on the path, and he's not but a footfall behind you.

"But they don't matter."

"No?"

"What matters is, why didn't they want you here?"

You stop, turning to face this stranger. He was gruff, and more than a little rude, but in comparison to the townsfolk, he was downright friendly. Hell, you were surprised he was so forward with you. "Masters thesis," you put plainly, hoping he'll leave it at that.

"On what?"

"Anthropology."

He leaned in close. He wasn't that much taller than you, but you couldn't help but move away from his imposing figure. From this distance, you could smell motor oil and some kind of smoke on his clothes. "That's it?" You scoff, the sooner you are back in your car the better. "I just mean, it's surprising they'd want you gone. You sure there's nothing else? Didn't kick over any goat statues?"

"Not that I noticed," you started back down the path. You'd wasted too much time talking to this weirdo anyway. Just based on his demeanor and dislike of the rest of the village, you wonder if you'd maybe tripped over the town pariah. He certainly wasn't dressed like anyone else from the village.

"I could get you back in."

You stopped, not fifteen feet from him. "You're assuming I want to go back in." And didn’t you? You just risk getting yelled at again. But if there was a chance to write your thesis...

“Well, if you're not interested,” he turned to leave. You grit your teeth, your nails digging deep into your backpack straps.

“Hold up!" It doesn't take much to catch up to him. "How exactly are we going to do this?"

"My word carries a certain amount of weight," he carried on, "Though, the village doesn't meet on these matters till next week."

"But what good does that-"

He isn't listening, "For today, I know a place you can watch the town. Besides, you're an Archeologist, you probably want an interview, right?" Of course he gestures to himself with a sort of half bow.

You roll your eyes, but still follow, "Anthropologist." He gives you a blank look. "I'm studying Anthropology, not Archeology."

He doesn't seem to care, instead pulling a cigar and lighter from his pants pocket. "Got a name?"

"Oh, (y/n). You?"

The stranger is part way up on the path you had tripped down. "Karl," he had extended you a gloved hand. You look from him to his hand, before brushing past him, pulling yourself up next to him without the offered aid.

#Karl Heisenberg #Re8 #re8 heisenberg #karl heisenberg x reader #karl heisenberg x you #Ill keep this going as long as i can #wow creativity is hard #karl can be nice if he tries

59 notes · View notes

lizzie-saltzman · 3 years

Text

I’LL CRAWL HOME TO YOU

A Hizzie fanfiction / update

Pairing: Hope Mikaelson/Lizzie Saltzman Fandom: Legacies Rating: M Chapters: 2/? Summary: In many ways, meeting Hope in a different reality had helped Lizzie put things in perspective, and perhaps even understand her in ways she hadn’t before. Understand them, their connection, the palpable animosity that had turned into a reluctant friendship and now something far more tangible. The rest, well, she doesn’t tell Josie. Not about waking up after three weeks away from her real home, tucked under the covers of Hope’s bed with their clothes discarded around the dormitory, with a light sheen of sweat on her forehead and her hair sticking to her cheekbones. There were some things better left unsaid. (Upon her return from an alternate timeline a Malivore monster teleported her to, Lizzie must deal with the aftermath of her time spent away, and her newly doormat feelings for Hope Mikaelson.)

chapter 1 here

READ CH. 2 HERE ON AO3 or under the read more

[ 3 WEEKS AGO ]

A muddy splash sends speckles of murky water coating a pair of white boots. Under the full moon, an owl hoots, as Lizzie Saltzman breaks through the branches that leave a bloody mark on her left cheek. She reaches for it, with a mumbled expletive as her breathing grows heavier and her knees start to give. Behind her, a black wolf with yellow tinted eyes that shine through the darkness of the woods gives chase, snarling as it draws closer to her.

She’s been sprinting for a while; Lizzie’s exhausted, pushing past the burn on her thighs as she rounds a corner and leaps over a log dangerously set on the ground, almost losing her balance as her boot skids through the mud. Its drizzling, her clothes are weighing her down, her hair is ruined – if she had the mind to complain about the other terrible but insignificant, personal circumstances, she’d be holding an ice pack to her cheek and ranting over a Strawberry Smoothie. Instead, she finds herself here, in the outskirts of the woods in Mystic Falls, barely managing to get on her feet before the wolf catches up to her.

“Lecutio!” She’s all out of magic after –– the ball of energy flies ahead of the wolf and crashes against the tree behind it, effectively snapping off the branches and watching as they fall near the wolf long enough to distract it. It wasn’t her intention, really – she was aiming for it’s head. Soon enough, the wolf turns it’s head (and it’s disorienting eyes) in her direction, growling.

“Crap…” And she takes off again, her boots splash, splash, splashing rapidly on the wet floor. This is not how she pictured spending a Sunday night.

Her lungs are giving out, her body begs her to stop running; she might pass out from exhaustion alone, and her vision – on top of that – blurs as the light drizzle of rain washes over her face. She wipes it away with the palm of her hand, but it obstructs her already impaired vision in the dark, and trips over a boulder on the ground. Lizzie groans, her body rolling through the mud, and the wolf slows it’s approach. She’s cornered. She’s screwed. She’s dead.

The wolf stalks forward. Lizzie raises her hands to her face, and it launches itself through the air.

Lizzie screams, anticipating the powerful impact, the bite, but instead another wolf collides in the air with her attacker. White, with speckles of grey. They roll around in the mud, snarling at each other, growling, taking bites anywhere their teeth can sink into until they’re both back on their feet. Lizzie watches, covering her mouth as she gasps, pushing herself back until her shoulders meet one of the trees behind her.

Then, the white wolf attacks the black one again. They begin their vicious snarling, and as Lizzie finds the force to pick herself off the ground, she hears one of them whimper. When she looks back, the black wolf is retreating, disappearing through the trees, and the white one turns, even slower in its approach. Lizzie’s eyes widen, out of magic, and out of breath, but she turns around in an attempt to try and run away again.

Except she spins out, when she feels her black hoodie being yanked away from her body, leaving her in a tank top under the rain that starts to pick up. She turns around angrily, but instead of finding a white wolf stalking back, she finds –

“Hope?”

Hope is sporting her too-big-for-her hoodie over her naked body and watching her with her arms crossed over her chest. It covers just enough. Not everything. Just enough.

“Oh, thank God!” Lizzie exclaims, throwing her arms around Hope in sweet, sweet relief as she tries to catch her breath. “I thought I was dead. Dead, dead.”

But she knows Hope Mikaelson. Always coming through with her last minute heroics.

Except this time, Hope pushes her away, hands on her shoulders, taking a step back to get a good look at her. They look at each other, almost comically; Hope with an eyebrow quirked and Lizzie, with her mouth agape. Then, Hope’s strange behavior is perfectly clear –

“Who the hell are you?”

------

[ PRESENT DAY ]

“Lizzie!”

Hope’s tired voice carries down the hallway. Behind her, Lizzie can hear her footsteps approaching – faster, faster – until they stop at her side, walking in tandem with her into the vast, otherwise dusty library at the end of the hall, where students gather quietly over a pile of books raging from anything about the occult to the mundane – European History and an old, thick Gaelic book about Magical Portals that thuds on the ground as it falls sloppily from the top of the bookshelf and almost takes Lizzie out. Talk about head trauma.

“Hey, watch it!” Lizzie looks up as dust gathers below her. Alyssa Chang stands on the top of the rolling ladder, shrugging nonchalantly. Whoops.

Lizzie picks up the book, coughs, swatting the dust away and piling it on top of Hope’s already busy hands. Hope says nothing, only blinks away the speckles of dust as she trails behind Lizzie with concern.

“I haven’t seen you all day. Is everything okay?”

She shouldn’t be taken aback, but she is, by the genuine worried inflection in Hope Mikaelson’s voice. Hope is tired, the evidence marked clearly on her face, vaguely darkened circles under her eyes that Hope barely had mind to conceal this morning with even the smallest layer of makeup. No one would be able to tell, not really, but Lizzie can. She knows that look Hope carries around like a weight on her back when something’s been keeping her up at night.

In front of the tinted window sill, Lizzie turns. The yellow light reflects off Hope’s exhausted, blue eyes, and Lizzie almost stutters, opting to instead, snatch the book back from the pile already gathered on Hope’s arms and toss it onto the nearest unoccupied table.

No, Hope. I’ve been avoiding you all morning until this very unfortunate meeting where we’ll be subjected to a torturous hour of incessant nerd rambling on how to kill the very same monster that sent me through a hell portal into another dimension where I hooked up with you and your unforgettable muscles and now I can’t even look at you in the eyes without thinking about it, so–

“I’m fine”. Lizzie says, saccharine sweet. Too sweet. Enough to make Hope suspicious, as she looks at the book Lizzie tossed on the table with an eyebrow raised. “I was having a perfectly fine morning until MG interrupted my strictly scheduled morning meditation and after reluctantly agreeing to meet here in exactly five minutes, the kitchen was out of Belgian Waffles, so I had to settle for a non-fat Greek yogurt. So yes, I’ve been severely inconvenienced, but it has nothing to do with you”.

“I never said it has –” Hope starts. “Shouldn’t we talk about it? About what happened…”

Lizzie stiffens.

“With the monster…”

She deflates.

“We still don’t know if there are any side effects to any of this. Doctor Saltzman said you refused to talk to Emma about what happened –”

“And now you’re giving me advice about what I should and shouldn’t talk to our school therapist about?” Lizzie scoffs, on the defensive, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “That’s rich, Hope”.

“That’s not what I meant –”

“Everyone at this school is so prolific at internalizing every shitty thing that happens to us on a weekly basis but since this one particular thing happened to me, then of course I’m the one who has to have the damage control, witchy therapy sessions with Emma despite the fact that I’ve already told everyone who’s asked that I’m fine!”

“Lizzie –”

“Is that why you were looking for me this morning? You wanted to check up on me?”

“Yes”. Hope says sincerely. Its her version of an olive branch – honesty. Lizze frowns, but Hope touches her wrist and she stays frozen in place, like she’s been jolted and immobilized by an invisible force. “The same night you found your way back to us you rushed into the woods on a near suicide mission to help me fight a monster we’re still not sure how to kill. Of course I wanted to check up on you. I was worried. You left my bedroom so suddenly last night that I didn’t even have time to ask how you were feeling. I wasn’t sure if you were ever going to come back. I wasn’t sure if we were ever going to see you again.”

Lizzie takes a breath, defeated. We, we, we – she has no right to be stung by the plurality of the word, but it gives her that feeling in the middle of her throat, like it runs dry, like one wrong word from Hope and she might break down in tears.

“I want to make sure you’re okay”. Hope continues. “You’re my best friend”.

And that’s the tragedy of it. She’s Hope’s best friend. Anything beyond that is nothing but something she could only clearly wish for in another timeline. One where Hope doesn’t know about her baggage, one where they got a clean slate to restart their history, no rumors, no backhanded comments…

“Me too”. Lizzie whispers. She brings her thumb up to brush over the side of Hope’s hand.

She thinks about holding it. She almost does, until –

“Yo, guys. We should get this show on the road”. Jed interjects, seemingly out of nowhere, picking up the book Lizzie had discarded on the table earlier and hopping over the banister towards the center table in the now empty library, where the rest of the squad has now gathered around one of Wade’s Dungeons and Dragons books.

By the time Lizzie pulls her hand back and they both gather around the table, Wade’s already settled in with the group.

“– That’s the thing though. Dimensional Warpers don’t usually engage in combat, but they do like learning about their enemies and their battle tactics. They’re not usually ones to initiate but they’ll fight if they sense that their life is in danger.”

“That explains why it disappeared last night and didn’t come back”. Hope pushes her way in between MG and Jed at the front and center of the table. “Do you think it’s after something?”

“Maybe. I can’t imagine another reason why Malivore would’ve spit that particular monster out. They’re elusive, hard to kill, and they only come out at night. Their night vision is impeccable”.

“How do we kill it?”

“Well, they are giant, bipedal, flying snakes, but they’re still snakes. I think we all know what the easiest way to kill one is –”

“Cut off it’s head”. Lizzie deadpans. Everyone turns, and Lizzie stands on the other side of the table, looking intently at the picture of the creature on Wade’s book.

And Hope, looking at the magical artifacts on the far side display, slumps her shoulders.

“We’re gonna need a very big sword”.

------

[ 3 WEEKS AGO ]

“Is your name Lizzie Saltzman?”

“Yes”. Between two slender and shaky hands, an orb flashes blue.

Across the antique, expensive looking desk in front of her, and a family portrait in the space where a tinted window used to sit, Klaus Mikaelson looks at Hope with concern and curiosity. Hope, looking taller and prouder as her hand rests upon Klaus’ leather chair, gives him a side eye.

She remembers Klaus from when she was younger, just as intimidating and commanding as he had been the day he’d sought out their help to save Hope from the Hollow all those years ago. She also remembers the Klaus she’s read about, in the books tucked away in the very same library a couple of doors down the hallway; the tales about The Great Evil. The boogeyman to end them all. The man who had terrorized Mystic Falls and claimed New Orleans like a dynasty, the man who had courted her mother until the day he died — but she also remembers the Klaus Mikaelson that Hope had told her about. The father. The man weighed down by the consequences of his choices and the drive to ensure his family’s survival, their safety, no matter the cost. In one universe, it had already cost him his life. In this one, the story seems to have been painted differently.

In this story, Hope is different. She’s prouder, she wears a scowl like armor but not with the purpose of pushing everyone away. This Hope reminds her of an heiress. Someone destined to inherit something bigger and greater than herself. Maybe it’s all this, Lizzie thinks. The Mikaelson School. Maybe it’s another kingdom entirely.

She looks… Good. Really good.

“Are you Alaric Saltzman’s daughter?” Hope continues.

“Yes”. Blue again.

“That doesn’t make any sense”. Klaus moves to take the orb from her hands, but Hope is faster — much faster — grabs his father’s arm before he can snatch it.

“Dad, you can’t fool the magical lie detector. They’re simple yeses or no's”.

Klaus respects her, she can tell, because he backs off and opens a drawer in his desk, takes out a heavy looking file — and pulls out a picture of her dad. He puts it in front of her.

“This man is your father?” He asks her again.

“Yes”.

And like clockwork, the orb shines blue again.

“That doesn’t make any sense —” Lizzie goes to interject but Klaus holds his finger up, standing from his chair with his hands behind his back, circling around the office like a man with a decision to make. Technically he is… a man with a decision to make. About her.

Which really, really gives her the chills. The bad kind.

“— You see, Alaric is a slobber of a drunk man who unfortunately lost his wife on his wedding day. He was supposed to father two children, twins actually, and his psychopathic to-be brother-in-law murdered his fiancé at the altar. His daughters perished with her. He lost his Tenure at Mystic Falls High, now teaches a second-rate-history class at a local college, and he let the rest of his dreams die in the bottom of a bottle of stale whiskey and fatty liver disease. That man never got to father any children. He’s barely a man at all. No purpose. No drive”.

“Apparently not in this life —” Lizzie mutters. The orb flashes blue and Hope’s eyes immediately snap to Lizzie’s.

“What is that supposed to mean?” She’s the one taking the orb from her hands in a blink of an eye. She’s fast. Really fast. It takes her a second to realize, as Hope holds it between her fingertips and looks at her with blind distrust, that the Hope in this universe might not be jaded by the loss of her family, but this one might be jaded by something else.

Like her own death.

Oh.

“You’re gonna want to sit down for this one”.

------

The Mikaelson School library is even bigger than The Salvatore School’s. The Stallions were branded as the rich, spoiled, and troubled children of Mystic Falls, but the Mikaelson school rivals the self-made stereotype by a tenfold. Lizzie’s staring at a row of books about magic she could have only ever dreamed of reading — it’s obvious to her that Klaus Mikaelson’s vision for a school for the Supernatural was slightly different than her father’s. Somewhere witches, vampires, werewolves and others could live their powers to their full potential.

She picks a book from the rack, takes another one down with it, but Hope catches it before it can fully fall off the shelf — Necromancy: The Art of the Undead — and pushes it back in its place.

“If what you told me is true then your father built a school with the same purpose my father did”. She offers. This Hope, now a little less guarded and lit by the light of the full moon by the library window, is much softer, willing to momentarily let her guard down around the pretty stranger with the wavy blonde hair. “He wanted a place where I felt like I belonged. Somewhere he could offer a safe haven not only for me, but for all the witches, all the vampires, and all the werewolves who are forced to do all of this all on their own. The world is cruel and unrepentant. My dad knows that. So he and my mom bought this mansion, expanded it, and made it into a school for the Supernatural. It’s taken off since; we have a branch in Belgium and another one in development in South America. Argentina. Something about the wine…”

For the first time since she’d been blindly dropped into this dimension, Lizzie smiles. But after a much noticeable glance at Lizzie’s lips, Hope continues. “We thought all the Gemini witches were dead. They’re rare. Powerful —” Hope says. It takes a second for Lizzie to notice she’s sizing her down.

She doesn’t want to talk about how that makes her feel.

“You have to take someone’s magic to use it, right?”

And Hope offers her hand. Lizzie’s brows furrow, but she takes it anyway. She’s siphoned magic from Hope before, but not a fully triggered Tribrid Hope. When she drains her power Lizzie feels an adrenaline rush like no other, like sticking her hand directly into a fuse box and taking all the energy in Mystic Falls with it. She watches Hope carefully for any sign of pain, but Hope doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t move, only watches their joined hands.

Then Lizzie raises her wrist, flicks it, and closes all the doors of The Mikaelson school in simultaneous fashion, making the building tremble.

“Something like that”. Lizzie grins and Hope lets her hand go. She’s grinning back and Lizzie doesn’t know why that makes her feel drunker than taking all that power from her. “The stronger the source the stronger and the magic we can do, but we can take from anything that’s come in contact with magic. This building, for example. A vampire, a werewolf — miscellaneous…”

“Well, here at the Mikaelson school we’re always looking for other powerful witches. I know you want to go back home eventually, once we figure out how to send you back, but if you want to stay, we can make room for you.”

They walk past the archway, to a display case with magical artifacts and weapons of all kinds. Some she recognizes, like the dagger that had started it all that brutally eventful day when Rafael joined the school, the urn, an enchanted compass, Papa Tunde’s blade…

“We’ve collected those over the years”. Hope motions to the display case. “Some of them were already in my dad’s possession before we put them here. The display case was enchanted by my aunt, so it’s practically impenetrable and impossible to open unless you’re a Mikaelson, but my mom thinks it’s important to teach these kids everything we can about magic and everything that could hurt them. Some of them —” She continues, sliding her finger over a display case of weapons. “— are just purely decorative though”.

Lizzie watches Hope’s finger land on the glass over a large broadsword.

“What exactly do you know about my family?” Hope asks. When she looks at the display again, Lizzie can see her own reflection next to Hope’s on the glass, and when she looks closer at the weapon, their faces on the side of the broadsword.

“Oh, you have no idea”.

------

[ PRESENT DAY]

Sparks cloud Lizzie’s vision. At the old mill, in the dead of night, Hope sharpens a sword Lizzie thinks is larger than her standing up. She’d poke fun at her, for wielding such a big weapon for such a small person, but if the past few weeks — days — weeks — whatever, had taught her anything, is how immeasurable the power Hope wields at her fingertips is. Maybe she could provide them both with a quip, if she wasn’t so busy staring at her, agape.

God, get it together, Lizzie.

She clears her throat and Hope stops.

“Hey! I thought we could get a head start with this old thing. Your dad kept it downstairs but I think it’ll give us the firepower we need. It’s a shame though, it’d make for a nice decoration”.

Lizzie wants to laugh. No, it would make for an awful piece of decoration. She’d seen it displayed neatly on a case, but ancient artifacts and old swords make her think of ancient cursed castles and the ghosts within them.

“So asks-too-many-questions Hope has now become knight-in-shining-armor Hope. I gotta say, I think I like this version a little bit better”.

“Because I’m not asking questions?” Hope challenges.

“That’s part of it”.

They both laugh, look at each other as Lizzie takes her place beside Hope, until Hope goes stoic again. She puts the blade down, wipes her hands on her dark jeans.

“Lizzie, I know this isn’t by far the most threatening monster we’ve ever faced but, I think you should stay inside the school. Kaleb and I designed a foolproof plan to kill the —”

“Why are you sidelining me?” Lizzie frowns. “I was of perfectly good help last time you almost got sucked into a portal too, remember?”

“That’s not what I meant —”

“Then what do you mean Hope? I know this isn’t about glory. So what is it? Martyrdom? Pushing people who care about you away?”

And Hope is surprisingly calm, despite the tension in Lizzie’s voice, despite the way she raises it, despite the way it cuts through the sound of the chirping crickets in the woods. “No. It’s the opposite, actually. It’s about trying to keep the people I care about safe. I don’t want you to end up somewhere you won’t be able to come back to us if we risk it”.

“What about Kaleb, then? Surely you care about him”.

A beat.

“Not the way I care about you”.

They stand there, in the cold of the Old Mill, looking at each other as Hope picks up the sword on the table, and Lizzie realizes for the first time, Hope is making an entirely selfish decision… And it’s all about her.

#hizzie #hizzie fanfiction #hizzie fic #hope x lizzie #legacies fanfiction

29 notes · View notes

bnerdler · 3 years

Text

WIP Wednesday! 7/7/2021

Here’s an excerpt from the first chapter of the yullen soulmate au that I’ve been teasing:

The lights flash on and off three times inside the tent.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls! Thank you for coming to tonight’s show. At this time, we ask that all guests be seated and remain seated for the duration of the show. Please, for the safety of our performers, no flash photography. The entire show you are going to see tonight is completely student run….” The announcer over the speaker system drones on. Kanda tunes it out till he hears, “Now please, enjoy the show!”

It’s quiet for just a second before loud brassy music starts to blast through the speakers. The lights swing wildly around the crowd and the three rings in the middle of the tent. A young man with elaborate makeup that even without being able to see colors, Kanda knows must be a nasty mash of the rainbow, comes running from the side entrance that leads to the backstage. He has a bejeweled microphone in hand that he raises to his lips. Kanda assumes he must be the ringleader.

“Hello everyone!” He says with overflowing enthusiasm. He jogs to the raised stage in the middle of the tent. “How’re we all doing tonight!?”

A raucous cheer erupts from the crowd.

“Ah, you guys can do better than that! I said, how’re we all doing tonight!?” The ringleader throws his arms up in the air and the crowd shouts again. Lenalee cups her hands around her mouth to add to the cheer. Kanda winces at the sounds. It’s grating as hell, and he’s always had sensitive hearing. The music swells and then the show really starts. Five performers in costumes in varying shades of gray come pouring out of the backstage entrance and run around the stage. A girl does several cartwheels, and one guy claps his hands in big motions over his head to the thumping beat of the music. In the left ring, they do some tumbling. Kanda finds it to be underwhelming (he can totally do all those flips and handstands too), instead he watches the stagehands set out a wire between two poles across the right ring of the tent.

“Alright, give a big applause for our amazing tumblers!” The ringleader shouts into the mic. “Next up, please welcome our spectacular tightrope walker!”

A twiggy guy comes out in a unisuit and a long pole and walks across the wire a few times. Kanda yawns – the whole thing would be a lot cooler if the pole or the wire was on fire. After the tightrope walker, its two muscular guys that swing on a trapeze and toss a small woman between them. That’s a bit more entertaining to Kanda. After the trapeze performers, it’s a guy and three girls doing some crazy stuff on a bike that he rides around and around the left ring. After them is a girl with a really large cat that she gets to jump through hoops. When the cat starts to wander off in the middle of their performance, Kanda snickers a little. The gray thing is so massive and fluffy, he’s sure it weighs twenty pounds.

“Give a round of applause for Amy and the spectacular Sasha the Cat!” The ringleader announces. The crowd roars around them. Kanda claps his hands lightly. Watching that girl chase after the big cat was pretty funny. “Now when you think of the circus, what is the thing that first comes to mind?”

“Stunts!” Someone in the crowd yells.

“Lions!” Another screams.

“Bearded women!” This one gets a chuckle from the crowd.

“Those are all great answers!” The ringleader says. “When I think of the circus the first thing that comes to mind for me is clowns. And here we have our own clown, who’s going to do some crazy juggling for you guys!”

“Oh! That’s Allen! That’s Allen!” Lenalee slaps Kanda and Lavi’s arms excitedly. The people cheer as the spot lights swing over to the dark gray curtain blocking the backstage from the front.

“Ladies and gentlemen, he seems to be a bit shy, can we get a drumroll please!” The ringleader says before rhythmically slapping his thighs. The crowd mimics him by hitting their legs or stomping their feet on the metal bleachers. Kanda rolls his eyes. This kid is getting more buildup than even the trapeze trio did. He better be a damn good clown.

The curtains part and reveal pitch black behind them. And then a young man in a baggy costume comes running at top speed from the back. He does a cartwheel into three rapid backflips before landing nimbly in front of the middle stage, right in front of Kanda. He throws his arms up in the air with a wide grin on his face. And Kanda finds that he can’t look away. He has barely done anything, but he holds the audience’s attention captive like no other performer tonight has. He has a charisma that palpably ripples from him, like he was meant to perform.

“It’s Allen!” Lenalee screams, voice barely audible over the noise of the crowd. Allen turns to face the crowd on the left and then to the crowd on the right. And then when he spins back to face them, Kanda watches Allen’s performer’s grin turn to a more genuine smile when he spots Lenalee. That smile makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. Then those eyes slide from Lenalee and lock with Kanda’s and he sees that the blue makeup ringing his eyes is cracked where they crease at the corners.

Blue?

There’s blue makeup covering Allen’s eyelids out to his temple and up to his eyebrows. Then Kanda sees the red stripes on his clown costume start to bleed into his vision. Kanda rockets up out of his seat.

No. No. No.

Allen’s smile falters to one of confusion and concern as he holds Kanda’s stare. The colors fade into clarity slowly and then all at once. Like when someone turns on the light after having sat in the dark for a long time, Kanda’s vision swims as he’s bombarded with pinks and yellows and greens and purples. The onslaught of reds and blues and oranges makes him dizzy. He vaguely feels a hand on his forearm, but everything has faded away except for the colors and Allen’s face. He doesn’t hear anything, he doesn’t feel anything. And then the colors swallow up his vision into black and Kanda passes out.

#dgm #d.gray-man #becca writes #kanda yuu #allen walker #yullen #long post #wip wednesday

34 notes · View notes

emotionalcello-makefanfics · 3 years

Link

Disclaimer tho, all my knowledge of the fandom is strictly from fanfic and google. I don't read the comic or watch the anime. I only have some vague knowledge of what's canon or not and making this fanfic has been somewhat of a fever dream.

Tags: Fluff and angst. Attempt at humor. Crying. Probably ooc. No smut, just holding hands and some hugging and some kissing. Shouto smokes, and probably incorrect depictions of smoking. Implied child abuse (you know who). Lowkey Fuyumi bashing.

Warning: In character cussing from explodo boy.

Summary:

They found each other in coinciding vulnerability. Shouto was smoking, Katsuki was crying. Miraculously, no one died. It seems that vulnerability is exactly what they need to get through their respective problems, because vulnerability makes them do the one thing the two boys are allergic to do, opening up.

Or, Shouto and Katsuki cope with each other. It miraculously didn't end in explosions, just a lot of physical affections and crying.

Words: 10.9 k

You don’t have to take life so seriously Shouto! It can be whatever you want to be, it’s yours!

Shouto knocks his head back and parts his lips. White ribbons bleed to the orange sky. The clouds are pretty pink instead of white. The smoke doesn’t blend in with the white clouds anymore like a few hours ago. He taps the amber ash on the portable coffin-shaped ashtray. More than a dozen filter buds crammed there.

He should go back to his room. Any darker then it would be noticeable when goes back to his room. But there’s always that small whisper at the back of his head: Maybe after one more. This spot has been his salvation from overstimulation. It’s the highest building in UA, the rooftop of the dorm. He’s been here for two years and has always been alone.

The door slammed open.

High on nicotine, Shouto passes through shock to immediate acceptance that he’s busted.

Only, he’s not busted. The next sound that came is sobbing. The first thing he sees is awry blond hair and a tear-streaked red face. Soon came the already red blood-shot eyes, staring at him with a sadness that not even in Shouto’s wildest imagination can imagine on Bakugou’s face. It takes a few seconds too long for the default glare and anger to return.

“The fuck are you doing here!” He yells, his voice croaks in a not angry way. Wet and breaking at the pitch.

Shouto, still a bit floaty and relaxed from the nicotine in his system, nor is he yet to register the shock from seeing Bakugou’s tears, just points down towards his fingers.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” his voice is scratchy, a tad bit deeper. He never smoked so many that that happened. Then again, today is a special day.

Seemingly just as shocked, Bakugou seems to still. Shouto expects crackling hands, bared teeth, or maybe a ‘TELL ANYONE AND DIE’, but never that he strides his way and sits on the floor beside Shouto.

“Still have one of those?” Bakugou leans back.

Wordlessly, Shouto digs the last pack from his pocket. There are six left. Bakugou takes one, and Shouto lit a fire on the tip of his thumb towards Bakugou.

“How do you do this?” Bakugou says, eyeing the fire.

“You’ve never done this before?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I have Icyhot! Now fucking tell me already.”

“You put it between your lips, and inhales a bit as you put this corner on the fire.” Shouto crowds him cupping the end of the smoke with his palm and keep the fire controllably small. It feels like Deja Vu, but this time, Shouto is showing someone how to smoke instead.

Bakugou tries, and before Shouto can say to take it slow, Bakugou already choked and doubled over coughing. Shouto pats his back.

“What the fuck was that!” Bakugou roars and grimaces when he sees the stacks of cigarette buds on his ashtray. “How the fuck do you smoke that many!”

Shouto shrugged, “I’m used to it.” He puts out his bud on top of the pile and picks up the mostly one-piece cigarette that Bakugou chucked to the floor and lights it up. He feels eyes on him as he put the filter on his lips and lit it up in one smooth move.

With the cigarette properly lit, he offered, “Wanna try again?”

“No! That shit’s nasty.” Bakugou snarled at the hand holding the smoking cig.

“Suit yourself,” Shouto takes a deep drag and sighs. Surprisingly, Bakugou doesn’t up and leave, and more so that Shouto doesn’t mind the silence.

Alas, it only lasted exactly 33 seconds.

“How the fuck did you get in here!” Bakugou grumbles, “The door was locked.”

“I made ice stairs from my balcony.”

“Like how Elsa did?”

“Exactly like Elsa did, she was my inspiration.”

Bakugou snorts. No sadness left, just a condescending smile, which is better than the ghostly tears in his eyes.

“How did you get in through the locked door?”

“How else would you think?” Bakugou lifts his hand, cradling a small cluster of explosions.

Shouto face palmed, dragging it down.

“What?” Bakugou barks.

“Well when they figured out the door broke then they gonna figure out that someone’s been here, don’t they?”

“That nicotine is already killing your fucking brain cells.”

“That’s not how it’s-”

“Let’s get the fuck outta here before anyone finds us you loon.”

“But I-”

“You’ve burned through enough death sticks, let’s go!” Bakugou grabs his hand and pulls him up.

“Fine fine, let me tidy up.” Shouto could barely close his ashtray with all the buds in it, and he dusted the ashes that drops to the floor.

Shouto already makes the stairs down to his room before looking back at Bakugou, “Want me to drop you to your balcony?”

“I don’t know,” Bakugou narrows his eyes dangerously, “Will it suddenly melts away as I walk on it?”

Shouto huffs, “You have no faith in your favorite sparring partner?”

“The only thing I learned these past couple of years with you being shoved at my face as my sparring partner is that you’re a little shithead.”

Shouto makes the stairs towards Bakugou’s room first, reveling in how badly Bakugou tried to cover his amazement at the stairs.

“Just like Elsa’s, right?”

“You want me to give you Elsa’s number 1 simp trophy?”

Shouto melts Bakugou’s step and lets him fall blond head first into his balcony.

“YOU’LL FUCKING PAY FOR THAT, COCA-COLA SHITHEAD!”

Bakugou roars, and Shouto giggles as he jumps upstairs to his room with explosions fading behind him.

Not until he’s laying in bed that night that he thinks about Bakugou’s tears again. Rest assured, his imagination spiraled to ‘what could it be’ until 4 am.

++++

I don’t understand why your dad wants you to be number one when he should’ve want you to just be happy. Nothing in life really matters unless you’re happy.

Shouto loves everything about living in the dorm, but it has one and only one weakness. He can’t smoke as freely.

His dad knows and just rant about how it’ll affect his performance.

Now, Aizawa knows, and he’s at the principal’s office.

Shouto instantly knows how. Bakugou broke the rooftop door. Iida must’ve found it, reported it to Aizawa-sensei. Maybe his homeroom teacher has magnifying vision too because Shouto could’ve sworn he left no trace.

Yet Shouto can’t find it in him to blame anyone. He knows as an aspiring hero he shouldn’t smoke, those reasons never matter at those desperate times he needed to smoke.

“Tea?” Nezu raises his pot of pink teapot, Shouto narrows his eyes at the paw (how did that paw hold the teacup?)

“Yes, thank you.” The cup is equally pink, with two cheerful yellow flowers on each side. This looks like a tea set Eri had.

Shouto sips the possibly herbal tea, trying to ignore the glare Aizawa-sensei is sending his way from beside Nezu.

“Todoroki, how long have you been smoking?” His sensei’s voice gravels, like he just woke up from bed, his bed hair supports the theory.

Apparently a little mental, Shouto said, “Overall or in school?”

“Both.”

“Started when I was in first-grade junior high school.” As soon as he has any time away from home. “In UA, as soon as I stayed at the dorm.”

“Now, Todoroki,” Nezu put his paws together, “You know someone as young as you shouldn’t smoke. You’re underage, and an aspiring hero on top of that...”

Nezu then continues his PSA on smoking. Nothing Shouto hasn’t heard. Every word goes in the left ear and came out the right. He also isn’t surprised that Aizawa will be taking his stash of cigarettes. It doesn’t suck as much because Shouto doesn’t have a lot left anyway, nor is he been regularly smoking. He smokes when he’s stressed and nothing else could calm him down. He never reached out to the cigs first. The coffin-shaped portable ashtray reminded him that.

As soon as he’s back at the dorm, he’s greeted with a cheerful environment. Half his classmates are hanging in the living room. There’s a group playing Mario Party, a group that’s putting on nail art, and a group that seems to cook something ambitious. Shouto usually joins the group, but not today.

“Todoroki!” Iida comes from the hall, “Aizawa-Sensei came earlier and ran through your room! He seems to confiscate a pack of cigarettes. I’ve tried to tell him that it’s all a misunderstanding-”

“No, it’s mine.”

“Todoroki! At our young age as aspiring heroes we sho-”

“Nope, sorry not today Iida. Good night.”

Todoroki feels a few eyes on his back, but he walks on. With him naturally keeping things to himself, his friends tend to worry but they trust him to reach out to them in his own time. When it gets too long they usually check up on him. Shouto wished they never will.

+++++

You have the power to be whatever you want, but why are you following the wishes of someone you hate? I know he’s your dad, but your life is yours, Shouto.

Shouto’s wish didn’t come true when Bakugou bugs him on the rooftop again two days after he was raided.

It’s Deja Vu, but fewer tears from Bakugou and Shouto isn't a pack and a half deep in cigarettes.

“I fucking know you’d be at my spot again!” Bakugou spat scathingly.

“Excuse you,” Shouto scowls, “I’ve been smoking at this spot since the dorm opens. This is my spot.”

“Well, I’ve been- I’ve been-” Shouto should’ve known that Bakugou would turn red and explodes instead of admitting he’d been caught emoting, “What the fuck are you doing here anyway! You’re doing nothing!”

“No thanks to someone.”

Bakugou narrows his eyes, confused at the implication, but his exploding friend is smart, so he figured it out, and isn’t happy with what he figures out. “The fuck, get your accusing eyes away from me discount Sans, I don’t tattle.”

“No, but you exploded the door which leads to Iida reporting it, which leads to Aizawa inspecting the premises, and him figuring it out that smoked here.”

“That’s just your fucking fault for not covering your trace clean!”

Shouto inhaled indignantly, but then too tired to justify himself. There’s no ending of arguing with Bakugou, and Shouto had learned to choose his battles.

“How about you? How did you get in here?”

“Stole a key from Iida.”

“Are you here to cry again?”

Bakugou’s palms explode, his face an embarrassed flush and teeth bared in anger, “WHOS FUCKING CRYING!!?”

“I have eyes.”

“You’ve been sucking on those death sticks way too much.”

“I wasn’t smoking that type of substance.”

“Whatever, I’m not dealing with this,” Bakugou turns to step away.

“I don’t get it, it’s not a big deal!” Shouto raises his voice a bit, for some reason his heart rate picks up when Bakugou starts leaving. “So what if you sweat through your eyes? Midoriya does it almost every day, sometimes twice a day...”

“Don’t fucking compare me to fucking Deku you fucking fried ice cream!”

“...And Midoriya beat you at this year’s Sports Festival,” Shouto dismissed.

Bakugou grits his teeth, but his eyes watch over Shouto. “Stop stalling and tell me what you want from me,” Bakugou growls.

Shouto’s eyes widen at the sudden honesty, he nibbles on his bottom lips, “Stay here?”

For a second, Bakugou glares at him, but after two years of being his classmate, Shouto can confidently say that they’re friends. He knows Bakugou isn’t angry at him. As to prove his point, Bakugou sits beside him, a bit closer than Shouto expects him to, though still with that permanent scowl. Shouto moves his palms from his pocket, letting go of the aluminum ashtray. Shouto tests the waters and moves closer so their shoulder bumps. No explosions, no snarl, success.

Instantly, Shouto relaxes. Focusing on the pressure of their shoulders, the light shifts Bakugou does (because he can never fully stay still), and the clouds moving. No thought, just being alive.

Alas, no quiet ever lasted long with Bakugou, he expected it though.

“No wonder Aizawa figured it out, this place still stinks of tobacco.”

“It does?” Shouto takes a deep sniff, all he smells is Bakugou’s sweat that always smells sweet because of his quirk. “I didn’t smell anything.”

“Yeah no shit scar head, your nose is probably numb at this point.”

“I don’t smoke that much.”

“Said someone who smoked more than a dozen in one sitting,” Bakugou’s nags turns to worry, “Damn, was it really in one sitting?”

“Is that worry I detected?” Shouto deflects.

Bakugou grits his teeth, “I’m not worried! Go die off lung cancer I don’t fucking care!”

“Good, then, because yes it was, and there’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Fucking hell it’s not! What the actual fuck are your lungs made of? I barely suck it past my throat and I almost coughed out my insides.”

“I missed your dramatics,” Shouto says genuinely, and he waits for an explosion to come. Bakugou doesn’t do well with praises thinly veiled with snark.

It never came, Bakugou watches him closely instead, “Yeah? And who’s fault is that?”

Shouto dared to glare back, but it didn’t last long, he knows the answer. Shouto had come out of his shell nicely, as Momo had put it. He’s still awkward, can’t really quite grasp ‘pop culture’ and how to correctly implied it, but he regularly hangs out with his friends. As of late, he’s noticeably withdrawn. Going straight to his room after class, and opting out of game nights, nail nights, and even soba nights.

They had been giving him space, which he finds endearing. Of course, Bakugou isn’t one to give anything liberally.

“Mine...” Shouto admits, and Bakugou looks surprised.

The fun part of befriending Bakugou is that Shouto could be a bit of a bitch and Bakugou would be a bitch back, and it wouldn’t matter. No one’s feelings were hurt, and Shouto can let go of steam without guilt. Shouto could’ve been in denial, said that Bakugou should step off his dick and no feelings would be hurt.

But he had enough of space, though admittedly, he should’ve confessed that with someone that wants to be in his space.

“Finally, you’re done moping around, everyone’s been on my ass worrying about you.”

“Why would they be on your ass?”

“Hell would I know.”

“Was that the reason you cried?” Shouto is just teasing, but the grim in Bakugou’s face isn’t a familiar one.

“I told you that didn’t happen!” he growls lowly.

Shouto considers, clueless yet curious. “I’ll tell you about me if you told me about you.”

“Just because you’re vomiting your crisis that I didn’t ask for, doesn’t mean I’m obligated to do the same!”

“Okay, that’s fine too.”

“No, shut-”

“My mom and dad are getting back together.”

Bakugou’s expression mellows to confusion, “That sounds convoluted as hell. Didn’t they just got a divorce or something?”

“They never got a divorce. She’s just sent to a mental hospital and never came home, doesn’t mean the marriage is legally broken.”

The fact seems to sink slow with his explosive friend, “What the fuck.”

Shouto sighs, looking down his jittery hands, his mouth dries. “Last year when I visited my mom, we were talking about the future. She said she’d filed for a divorce, and I’d live with her.” Shouto feels oddly numb, but there’s this dull ache deep in his chest that’s constant. “I should’ve known. She said that before he ‘tried to change’... she said that when everything was still bad, she thought it still happened.”

“What still happened?” Bakugou sounds angry, but he always does.

“I got hurt a lot when I was a kid, because of training. She thought he still hurts me.”

He felt the shoulder beside him tensed. Beside Shouto’s jittery hands is Bakugou’s clenched shaking fist. Shouto looks up from their laps and finds that Bakugou’s face... an eerie stoic.

“Hmmm,” Bakugou hums, and a chill runs down his spine. “When did you start training by the way?” not even a curse in that sentence.

Shouto realizes then, this is Bakugou truly angry, even though Shouto can’t figure out why on earth would he be.

“The day after my quirk manifested.”

His childhood is unforgettable. The day his training starts with fear and pain, then ends with exhaustion and anger. The day Touya never came back, the day his mom left, the longing stare towards the backyard wanting to play with his brother and sister. He remembers it all, like a tattoo in his memory.

“We been knew that Endeavor was an ass but I didn’t know he’s a fucking child abuser.”

The words snap him away from his musing. This time, Bakugou looks angry angry. Teeth-gritting, scowling, boiling anger.

Oh, that’s why he’s angry.

“It was training.”

“Not at five fucking years old you e-boy himbo!” Bakugou barks.

“That’s new, what’s a himbo?”

“Not the fucking point!” Bakugou takes his shoulder away, and suddenly Shouto feels cold. Then he’s held by his shoulders, pinned by sharp maroon eyes, and the lack of warmth turns cold when a growl says, “You’re telling me that your dad’s been abusing you, and no one stopped him? And he’s fucking getting away with it??”

There are so many things wrong with that question and implied statement. One is that it was not abuse. Two is that no one could’ve stopped the then number two hero. Three is that Shouto didn’t tell him any of that but Bakugou assumed anyway.

Shouto doesn’t get to say all of it as Bakugou lets go of him and takes deep breaths. Bakugou pinched the bridge of his nose, seemingly displeased at what he’s thinking.

“Why did you think your mom wants to get back together with your dad?”

Shouto feels relieved now they’re back on topic, “I don’t know. It feels like one moment she’s afraid of him, and now she wants to be with him again. I guess... he did ‘try to be better’. Everyone else seems to forgive him, but I can’t.”

Then Bakugou does something that he didn’t expect, he defends them, “I mean... He’s not that much of a dick now, right? He’s a dick but he was pretty alright when we have a work-study at his agency. And your mom’s better, so maybe they could make it work?”

Shouto knows it’s technically true, but displeasure clawed him still, his blood boiling.

“I don’t care whether it works! I hated that she forgives him so easily!” Shouto shouts.

“Well, that’s selfish of you, isn’t it! It’s her decision, not yours!” Bakugou barks back.

“What the fuck do you know about it?” Shouto spats, he stands up, “They’re going to destroy each other, and what then? Do they want me to just look at their trainwreck while they insist everything is okay? No! I’m not going through that again!”

“You’re just not trusting your mom! Things changed!” Bakugou stands up too, he looks exceptionally angrier than ever.

“No, I don’t. Especially after she said she wanted to get a divorce with him then changing her mind only a year later. Of course, I don’t trust her!”

“But isn’t it better to have both your parents together?”

“No, it doesn’t especially when she’s not happy!”

Bakugou doesn’t bark back, and Shouto only realized how Bakugou’s question was laced with a cracked voice. Shouto looks, only partially surprised that the eyes that look back thinly veiled with tears. The heat in his bloodstream wanes out, more worried/horrified that Bakugou is now openly crying.

This is the worst. Both of them are socially awkward lone wolves that have no idea how and what to do with emotions. So, Shouto does his #best.

“You can tell me.”

Bakugouu glares. Okay, so maybe Shouto’s #best isn’t what he needs.

“Only if you want, if you don’t then it’s okay too.”

“Shut the fuck up, thermostat.”

What else do you do when someone cried? Shouto racks his memories of times when he was crying a lot when he was little, trying to find examples he could follow. He remembers his mom.

“Come here.”

“The fuck are you trying to-”

Shouto cuts him off with a hug. It’s as awkward as it comes. Shouto has his arms around the broad shoulders, his chin hooked on the right side. Shouto doesn’t know how tight he should hug, but it’s enough to press their chest together. Then one of his arms, the left one, rubs Bakugou’s back, emitting a slight warmth. In two languid swipes, Bakugou’s tenseness bleeds slowly.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Shouto says, mimicking what his mom had said once upon a time when he’s upset. “But it’ll be okay. Maybe it’ll take a long time, or it’ll be really hard, but you...” have me, you don’t have to deal with everything alone, was what his mom finished with. He doesn’t know if Bakugou would see him as reliable, but Fuyumi had said that intentions are the most important. “You have your friends, and you have me. I don’t know what will help, but I’ll do it if you asked.”

Shouto surprised himself that he means it. When he encounters an emotionally fragile situation, he usually gets Midoriya, or Urakara, or Momo to handle the situation. With Bakugou however...seeing that his usually prickly friend tipping at the edge like this, Shouto felt like he wants to help. Perhaps it was the camaraderie of the S.S. Emotional Constipation that makes him reach out his personal hand towards Bakugou.

Shouto found another surprise when Bakugou hugs him back, his spiky blond head tucked at the crook of his neck. Shouto also didn’t expect the reflex tears pooling in his eyes at the feeling of tightening arms around his torso. He’s being held, tight and needy. When was the last time he’s held like this? Tears pours without his will when he realized the last time someone hugged him was Touya as Dabi when he was about to burn himself along with Shouto.

They stay there on the rooftop just holding each other as if they’ll fall apart if they don't. When Bakugou lets go, his eyes are even redder than it already is. When those red eyes look up, he noticed the tear streak down Shouto’s face and doesn’t comment about it.

Instead, Bakugou says, “My parents are splitting up.”

Shouto says nothing, only to pull him in his arms again.

They say nothing else as they sit at the same spot on the concrete floor leaning on each other, hand in hand. Shouto instinctually teared up again when he remembered the last time someone holds his hand was his mom as she walked him to a park, all those years ago. Other than that, it was for survival and fighting.

Bakugou leans his head on Shouto’s shoulder first, Shouto says nothing about it. He then leans his face on top of Bakugou’s hair, it feels like a bed of grass, Bakugou says nothing about it too. Shouto realizes that Bakugou can be vulnerable as long as no one points it out. Being untalkative, Shouto can do just that.

The future is scary, especially when their supposed foundation is changing. Bakugou’s foundations are breaking apart, while Shouto had grown accustomed to the torn apart pieces now move together crossing fingers that they fit.

But the future is for tomorrow. The changes are not theirs to make. All they can do now is hold themselves together as everything changes, hoping they don’t break in the process.

Eventually, nightfalls, but none of them moved. Shouto suspects that Bakugou might be sleeping on him.

It’s a suspicion no more when Aizawa found them there, and Bakugou doesn’t stir from being found. Those tired eyes already look exasperated as he finds Shouto’s tear-streaked eyes looking back.

Aizawa sighs, “Is it life-threatening ?”

Shouto knows that the teacher is prone to worries despite his appearance. Their stumble at first year seems to scar him and made him extra vigilant with his students ever since.

“There’s nothing we could do about it,” Shouto says, which is true, but seemingly a wrong thing to say.

“That doesn’t answer my question, trouble child.” Aizawa scowls, which means his worry cranked up to max. “Are the both of you facing a problem that harms you, or threatening your life?”

“It’s nothing like that,” says the bundle of blond in his shoulder. Bakugou sits up and stretches, yawning so big his jaw seems to unhinge a bit. He doesn’t look angry, just tired. “It’s family drama, you know how it is.”

“Is it really just drama?” Aizawa squints at Bakugou, too knowing for someone without a mind-reading quirk.

Bakugou looks at Shouto, searching and prodding. Shouto doesn’t understand what he could be looking for, or what he wants. Bakugou just sighs, “Yeah, just drama.”

Aizawa looks at Shouto too and softens. “If you two need to cuddle you can just do it in your respective room.”

“Nah, too many nosy people.” Bakugou starts to leave.

Shouto follows with a “Good night Sensei.”

Aizawa grunts.

“We can use my Elsa stairs,” Shouto pipes in as he walks alongside him.

Bakugou looks at him and huffs, “Turns out you’re not a himbo after all.”

Since Bakugou won't tell him, Shouto looks up ‘himbo’ himself. This raises a lot of questions about how Bakugou has been seeing him, but Shouto decides that he’d be offended by it.

++++++

You could still be lonely even though you have tons of sibling, or even when they really love you. I guess they just don’t know how to show us they love us.

He really should’ve known. He really should’ve fucking known.

The thought spins in his head as he smoked the last cigarette on his freshly bought pack. No one to catch him this time. It’s the weekend and he’s supposed to be at home, but it’s unbearable to be in the same room with his family. Usually, he could just slurp his soba in feigning ignorance but not now.

He’s sitting by the bench of a lonely park. He’s been sitting here since sun down. He has no idea what time it is. His phone in his pocket is on silent, he hasn’t checked on it since he walked out.

He should’ve stayed at the dorms, fuck the family dinner.

It’s not that Shouto wants things to end up badly. It’s not like he doesn’t want to be home, especially since his mom finally comes home after so many years. Everyone is happy that she’s back, even Natsuo, even his dad. Everyone except her. It looks so hard for her to be there. Shouto can see in her face that some places still hold strong bad memories for her.

His mother is strong because she pulls through. She holds herself through it all even though it seems only barely.

Yet why is he still so angry at her? Maybe not angry, frustrated. Shouto wants to ask her clarity. Why is she doing this? Why did she change her mind? Why come back here? Why not grasp the independence she had been telling Shouto she strived for? Was she coaxed to be here? Was she feeling some kind of responsibility to go back here? To salvage that sham of a marriage she had with Endeavor?

Shouto wants to ask, wants to understand. He crowded her with questions that moment when they said they’d be getting back together, only for his mom to wince, eyes widen, and quickened breath. For the second time in his life, his mom had looked at him with fear. Today, Shouto could barely meet her eyes again.

Is he really such a monster in her eyes just because he’s half his father? Then why go back to his father at all?

Shouto bought half a dozen packs as per tradition. Also because of his self implied tradition, he puts all the ashes in the coffin-shaped ashtray, even though there’s a park ashtray right beside him.

“You carry that everywhere,” Says a groveling voice that Shouto would notice anywhere.

Bakugou is in casuals. Black jeans and a grey hoodie seem like he’s out in a hurry. Just like Shouto.

“You’ve got to stop stalking me,” Shouto inhales deep, watching red amber burns till the filter and sighs.

“Who fucking stalking you Zuko.”

“Zuko doesn’t have-”

“Shut up,” Bakugou plop his ass beside Shouto, sitting waaay too close. He snatched the coffin tin, inspecting it. “Even when you didn’t smoke you carried this.”

“How did you know?”

“It shows your pocket, not big enough for a phone.”

Shouto knows he can’t get away once Bakugou began prying. “My first friend gave it to me.”

“That fucking Deku???”

“No,” Shouto chuckles at the image of Midoriya taking the role of what his first friend did. “It’s someone I met first-year junior high. She gave me this after introducing me to cigarettes.”

“That’s so fucking passive-aggressive I would’ve punched her in her teeth,” Bakugou grumbles, putting the ashtray to Shouto’s lap. “And why the fuck would anyone smoke at thirteen anyway!”

“Exactly because we’re thirteen, Katsuki, just because,” Shouto chuckles again at the memory. Seemingly too carefree from the nicotine, Bakugou had become Katsuki in his tongue. Katsuki bristles at his given name, but says nothing about it. It mysteriously made Shouto very happy.

“Among everything though, she was my first best friend, she teaches me a lot of things that make me who I am. She made me realize that I didn’t have to follow my dad’s wishes. That I can be what I want to be instead of what I was born for. That it’s valid to be lonely even though I technically have a big family. That it’s okay to not strive to be the best and just to be... happy.”

Shouto closes his eyes, remembering her lessons always fell bitter-sweet. But he’ll hold it in his heart forever.

“What you’re born for?” Katsuki says scathingly.

“Yeah, you know about this.” Shouto was told that Katsuki had eavesdropped on his conversation with Midoriya. Shouto was born to fulfill another man’s vendetta. A purpose first, and a son last.

“Seem like a wise person for a thirteen-year-old,” Katsuki sneers.

“She was, I loved her,” Shouto’s confession brings Katsuki’s face to a red grimace.

“Shit, I didn’t ask you to tell me your fucking secrets.”

“It’s not a secret.”

“Oh, really?” Katsuki spat bitterly, “Then why are you hiding your girlfriend from us?”

So many things wrong with that question. Shouto raises his eyebrows in surprise, “She’s not my girlfriend, and I’m not hiding her. She’s dead.”

The grimace fell like a hot potato, it would’ve been fun watching how Katsuki splutters if he didn’t look like he’s legit choking. “Holy fuck, that's... fuck, then why the shit you’re so stoic talking about it,” Katsuki seems appalled.

“It happens a long time ago. She seems accepting of her death that I... well I want to respect her decision.” Shouto knows it’s weird to not feel mournful of the departure of your closest friend. He still misses her, but she had been so positive until the very moment she left. Shouto was sure that she’s happy, so Shouto wants to be happy for her.

Katsuki paled, horrified, seemingly to misunderstand again.

“She had a terminal illness. Very likely no chance of survival. She chose to live her remaining time normally instead of undergoing treatment.”

“There’s... There’s no way her parents let her do that.”

“They’re economically challenged. They tried though, just too late in the end.”

“Fuck...” Katsuki cursed, running through his hair roughly. “Never thought you’d be the type of person to have life-changing moments like that.”

“A lot of people have proven to me that everyone has potential to be unexpected, and that’s just how it is.” Shouto looks pointedly at Katsuki, who glares at him in retaliation. “There’s a reason why we’re both here instead of home.”

“Yeah?” Katsuki mumbles, clearly not wanting to talk.

Shouto doesn’t too, to be honest, and yet keeping it in feels more exhausting, “My mom’s home.”

“No shit?” Katsuki was mildly surprised, “So it’s really happening huh.”

“It’s like walking on eggshells with her. I wanted to ask, but last time I did she flinched at me. I couldn’t look at her today.”

Katsuki sighs. This time, Katsuki is the one that scoots over till their shoulders touched all the way to their thighs. The contact makes Shouto breathes easier, he’s drawn to it like moths to a flame. His body goes limp as if it’s been too tense too long from holding itself together, and he drapes himself on top of Katsuki. Shoulder pressed together, his head heavily falls on Katsuki’s shoulder. Instinctually, his hand looks for another hand. Katsuki snakes around his hand and clasps it with his. It’s uncharacteristic, but Shouto finds himself grateful for it.

It’s warm, it’s damp, it’s grounding. Like lying on even earth after running away for so long.

“I don’t want her to be with him under the obligation that parents are supposed to be together for the kids. She’s been through so much, I would’ve understood, but I didn’t know how to say it without triggering her.” Silence follows, and Shouto realized what he said. “Sorry, uh, I’m not insinuating-”

“Shut up candy cane, I know.” Katsuki leans closer, his head on top of Shouto’s.

It’s warm, just what he needs in the middle of an emotional crisis at the beginning of November. It’s a bit out of character for Katsuki to do this, nor Shouto, neither of them are known for physical contact or talking about their personal lives. Yet here they are.

And Katsuki speaks anyway, “They’re fighting.”

Shouto, contrary to what Katsuki called him, isn’t a himbo. He knows who they are and he knows what a fight could entail.

“Did they hurt each other when they fight?” Shouto asks, then mused even if they did, could Katsuki do anything about it? Shouto couldn’t back then.

“No!” Katsuki says, indignant, “Of course not, they’re just bitching at each other about... about... I don’t know, it’s fucking stupid.”

“Hm, that’s good.”

“Fucking hell it’s good, they’re being idiotic!”

“They’re not hurting each other.”

Katsuki paused, his hands clenched tighter, “Did he hurt your mom when they fight?”

Shouto takes a deep inhale at the surge of memory. The fear that settles is old, he knows. Just leftover trauma that never went away, still, it bubbled to the surface, makes his skin cold.

Not trusting his voice, Shouto nods.

“They were fighting about me,” Katsuki says after a while, his voice a bit shaky, and Shouto knows better than to point it out. He keeps his head on the shaking shoulder and listens. “They didn’t know I was listening, they never did. They never... Turn-Turns out they didn’t even plan on having me.”

Katsuki holds his hand tighter and trembling.

“I’m a fucking accident,” Katsuki spat, venom dripping in every word. “Then they had a shotgun wedding, they didn’t even love each other at all.”

Shouto hears one escape of a sniff and lets himself relax, feigning clueless that Katsuki must’ve been crying. He lets the silence stretches until the hand holding his relaxed and the shaking subsides. Shouto had the same breakdown before. It downs to him that they’re not so different after all, children of a loveless relationship. Though he wonders if that instantly means he’s unloved. It had felt that way, but now... now it feels so much complicated than yes or no.

“Does it matter why we’re born?” Shouto hears a deep inhale of an incoming rant but he cuts it off with, “We’re our own person, with our own lives, and our own dreams. No one can tell us otherwise. Not even the one who makes us.” Shouto pauses and listens, what came to his ears is soft breathing, so he continues. “So what you’re not planned? That doesn’t mean you’re unwanted,” Shouto rubs his thumb over the damp knuckles, “You’re not unloved.”

Because Shouto had been to the Bakugo residence. Bakugou Mitsuki is as explosive as he is, but he can see her adoring stare at her son even when she’s scolding him. Bakugou Masaru is softer, always trying to calm both of them and giving small smiles when Shouto tells him stories about his son at school.

“What the fuck do you know, water dispenser?” Katsuki lowly growls, but it doesn’t have that biting hate, he doesn’t move away from Shouto.

So Shouto only hums and lets the silence stretch. He grabs the ashtray with his other hand, rubbing the plain surface with his thumb, remembering her, thanking her.

“What’s her name?” Katsuki says after minutes of silence, his voice with less snarl.

“Arisu.”

“... I’m sorry you lost her.”

And that’s what happened, isn’t it? Shouto may be able to let her go, but she’s still lost to him. Still hurts, Shouto still mises her. “Thank you.”

They didn’t let go of each other until Shouto’s phone rings. It’s Natsuo. His brother is just as unhappy about their parents' reunion, though for him it’s more about hating their dad and less about questioning their mother as Shouto did. Natsuo called to offer to spend the rest of the weekend at his place. Shouto immediately agrees, then he remembers Katsuki.

“Is it okay if I bring one of my friends?”

Katsuki instantly glowers at him.

“Who?”

“Katsuki.”

“Who??”

“Bakugou.”

“Oh, yeah sure. Buy some dinner on the way, I didn’t get to eat much.”

“Okay, me too.”

As soon as they hang up, Katsuki bares his teeth.

“Who says I’ll go with you, Pokeball?” His voice raised a bit, his arms crossing defensively.

“I’m not, I said if. You don’t have to, but if you want, you can.”

“No one fucking asked you for shelter,” Katsuki scoffs, facing away.

“I know...” Shouto knows Katsuki would rather leave than accept help. The only way he accepts it is that if no one acknowledges it. He knows Katsuki can take care of himself, but Shouto is the one that doesn’t want him to leave just yet. Shouto knows he’ll go back to Natsuo’s place only to hear him bitch about Endeavor when the real problem is with their mom and her odd decision.

“Can’t you just stay for dinner?” The desperation in his voice is real, Katsuki seems to notice it and is bewildered by it. “Please?”

Katsuki’s eyes widen at the magic word because no, Shouto doesn’t say it often, much less towards Katsuki, he had enough ego already.

Nose flared and fist clenched, Katsuki finally barks, “Fine! But we’re cooking instead of ordering take-out, I fucking know what you’re gonna get you soba simp. Your brother better has a kitchen.”

“He does,” Shouto replies, the upbeat tone in his voice is rare. Can you blame him? He’s excited that he’s not coming home, and Katsuki goes with him with his admittedly superior cooking.

At Natsuo’s apartment, Shouto helped Katsuki cook, nothing more than chopping stuff. Natsuo gave him a brief summary of what happened at home after Shouto left, but thankfully, he’s not saying too much because Katsuki is there. Once Natsuo finished talking and left to get beers, Shouto gives Katsuki an arm squeeze of thanks. Katsuki only grunts.

Dinner is ‘simple’ in Katsuki’s opinion. Stir-fried vegetables, miso soup, and hamburg steak. As always, it’s delicious, and Natsuo who’s none the wiser to Katsuki’s God-like cooking skill is blown away.

They’re in the living area on the sofa watching TV when Shouto scoots closer again. Natsuo is in his room studying.

“You can stay here for the rest of the weekend if you want,” Shouto says, bumping shoulders.

Katsuki frowns, eyes on the screen. “I don’t have my change of clothes with me.”

“You can borrow mine, I have some here.”

“Ran away a lot don’t you?” Katsuki sneers.

“You have no idea,” Shouto admits.

The sneer falls, “Why?”

“Just because I finally can.”

“You couldn’t before?”

Shouto shakes his head, finding his head heavy, so he lays his head on Katsuki’s shoulder again. “Before he was number one, he insists on using all my free time on training. If I didn’t, he’d take my phone, or the internet, or my manga, even burned them on some occasion. He even flushed my pet fish, rest in peace Kiya. Then he’s number one, and the dorms are established... so...”

Shout shrugs. He doesn’t reach for Katsuki’s hand this time, just pressed against him, afraid if he pushed then Katsuki would retract. Shouto doesn’t want to stop his newfound comfort just yet.

Then his hand is grasped by a firm clammy hand. Shouto keeps thinking of how Katsuki’s sweaty hands must be because of the nitroglycerin of his quirk. If he’s not thinking about Katsuki’s quirk then he’d think about how it makes his heart skipped a beat that Katsuki initiates the touch again. So yeah, clammy hands that hold him tight.

“Why didn’t you tell anybody?” Katsuki says, weaker than he’s accustomed to. It makes Shouto wary.

“I don’t know what is there to tell.”

A groan stretches, “What do I do with you?”

“Hey...” Shouto mock complains “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Does he still train you like that?”

Shouto feels a bit of whiplash with all these questions. Katsuki has been asking personal questions left and right, and Shouto doesn’t understand why answering it doesn’t feel as hard as usual.

“No, not since he became number 1.”

Katsuki scoffs, “Got what he wanted didn’t he?”

“Sometimes I wonder if that’s the case. When he got it, he didn’t seem happy, just angry. Then he started wanting the family he broke to get that number one spot.”

That renders Katsuki to another bout of silence. He knows Katsuki strives to be number one too, and at first, Shouto had ridiculed him about it. Why does a superficial title mean so much anyway? Katsuki changed over the years though, with Midoriya being the main cause of it.

Heart on his throat, Shouto dare asks, “Hey, Katsuki? Why do you want to be a hero?”

Katsuki tensed, but Shouto holds him tighter, “Why are you getting nosy all of the sudden?”

Shouto knows he’s not getting things easy, “I just wanna know.”

“Yeah, that’s nosy.”

“No, I just want to get to know you.” Shouto bites his lips as soon as the words left, was that too forward?

They’re not looking at each other, but Shouto can feel the glare directed at him. “Why?”

“We’ve been friends for a while...”

“We’re not fucking friends-!”

“...But I feel like I’m taking you for granted. I didn’t even know you’re going through something so big.” Some friend I am, Shouto broods.

It takes a few seconds, but Katsuki defeatedly sighs, and Shouto smiles in victory, “At first, I just want to be the best.”

“Best at what?”

“Everything...” Katsuki muses, his head knocked back, “Then I realized that it was an impossible goal... Did a lot of thinking, did a lot of uh, self-reflecting. Started talking to Ito-san too. I realized that I just want to be needed.”

It makes sense why Katsuki is here then. Shouto wished he could outright say that he needs him so Katsuki would stay longer, but just imagining him doing so already makes him pink in embarrassment.

Ito-san is the school counselor, her doors are open for every UA student. Shouto had half the mind to go to her, but there’s always this weight of silence from being a son of a high-profile hero. Endeavor always drilled him about secrecy and how he shouldn’t say anything about his family to anyone or it’ll ruin everything. It’s the reason why Arisu was his only friend, she was dying, and she did take his secret to her grave. Shouto still feels guilty about that.

“Have you ever talked to Ito-san?” Katsuki asked as if reading his mind.

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Everything that comes out of my mouth is tabloid-worthy. Endeavor had drilled me from way young that I can’t run my mouth about our lives. He’s right about that at least, I didn’t want paparazzi swarming us demanding half-assed rumors if I can help it. It had happened before, someone even sneaked into my mom’s hospital to reach her. I guess... that’s also why I never told anyone at all about anything.”

“You told Arisu didn’t you?”

Shouto bites his lip, guilt gnaws at him, “Because I know she won't carry my secrets long enough.” Please don’t hate me. Shouto’s grip on Katsuki tighten.

“But you told Deku, you told me.”

“Well, I trust you,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing. “You sure you don’t want to stay over?”

Katsuki leans away, and the cold strikes immediately. Shouto leans back, pointedly not looking at red irises.

“Fine.”

Shouto quickly looks up, then he finds Katsuki’s face odd. There’s something familiar with it. He’s... smiling, only slightly, but it’s a smile, and his eyes aren’t furrowed or angry or glaring. His eyebrows relaxed and he looks.... soft. Maybe Shouto fell asleep and currently dreaming.

“I’ll need to call my parents first,” Katsuki says after clearing his throat, looking away a bit flushed.

“Sure, I’ll get you settled.”

Shouto is half excited half worried. He told Natsuo that Katsuki will be borrowing the couch, which only replied with a hum while his eyes doesn’t leave the book. His brother is not unfamiliar with runaways. Shouto isn’t the only one seeking shelter at his place.

Shouto passes the balcony where Katsuki is screaming at his phone. Shouto can only hear muffles, but he gives Katsuki some privacy and gets some spare clothes. When Shouto sees that Katsuki is still on the phone even after ten minutes have passed, he takes the liberty of taking a shower first.

When Shouto walks out, he finds Katsuki sitting by the sofa, his hands suspiciously inflamed. He faces the screen but looking particularly nowhere. Shouto had seen those empty looks before.

“Katsuki?”

He jerks slightly as his name is called. Katsuki schooled his expression to a careful stoic, walls up. No matter, Shouto thinks, sometimes you don’t need to tear down walls to help a person, just hold their hand through the gate.

“Go take a shower, bath’s warm.”

Katsuki nods, taking the towel Shouto offered and the spare clothes. Shouto makes tea, for him, his brother, and Katsuki. Shouto delivers the cup of tea to Natsuo’s room, seems like the books are multiplying around his brother.

“Tea,” Shouto says before putting it on a coaster.

“Thanks.” Natsuo finally looks away from the book and takes a sip. “That Bakugou, how is he?” Natsuo asks, knowing that Shouto only brings his friend here in a dire situation.

The only other person he brought was Kaminari, believe it or not. Kaminari had said he didn’t want to come home for the weekend because he was scared of facing his parents after he came out via text. From the replies, it hadn’t been good. Kaminari spent the rest of the stay switching between sobbing and full-on crying. Only God knows why Kaminari asked him instead of any of the Baku-squad, but Kaminari is still his friend too, so Shouto provides.

But today with Katsuki is different though. Shouto had to beg him to stay, whether it’s for the benefit of him or Shouto the line had blurred.

“Hopefully he will be,” Is all Shouto can offer. Natsuo nods before going back to his book.

Shouto lays out his futon in the living room adjacent to the sofa. He’s laying down, scrolling at his phone. Putting his dad on read and ignoring Fuyumi’s and mom’s chatbox. He opted to look at cat videos instead. Soon, Katsuki came out of the bathroom, drank the offered tea, and laid down on the sofa.

They spent probably an hour separately looking at their phones when Shouto finally calls it a night. He turned off the lights, and tuck himself in. Before he said goodnight, Shouto thinks and his desires take.

“Wanna hang out tomorrow?” he asked.

Blood red eyes look at him from the screen, “Where?”

Shouto shrugs, “I don’t know, just around, get my mind off things. There’s a cat cafe I’ve been wanting to see, then we’ll go from there.”

Katsuki stares, seemingly thinking it over, “Have you ever been to a rock climbing gym?”

“A what?”

Katsuki smirks, sharp-teethed and evil, “Oh you’re in for a fucking experience, red velvet oreo.”

Shouto is a bit suspicious, even so, he finds himself looking forward to tomorrow.

+++++

I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, but you shouldn’t think that way. Of course you’ll have more friends. You’re more lovable than you think, Shouto.

Something changed between them after that weekend. Comfort grows between them. Comfort that they don’t want to let go just yet, perhaps not anytime soon.

The bad thing about it is that everyone notices. Everyone.

To their friend's credit though, they came to school together, walking very close to each other. It was fully initiated by Shouto, but Katsuki didn’t snap or push him away, so he assumed everything is okay.

Everything is absolutely not okay because the moment he walks to class everyone has eyes on them. Shouto thought it won’t matter to him, but Katsuki tends to be defensive. When Katsuki is defensive, he pushes people away. Shouto tried not to watch Katsuki for the whole class.

Momo noticed, of course, but she notices more than superficial things.

“Shouto,” Momo whispers, “Everything alright?”

Shouto gives her a smile and nods.

It’s not until they’re getting up for lunch that Shouto is tested in a form of Kirishima.

“Bakubro! How long have you been dating Todobro?”

The world screech halt, and Kirishima tensed at the sudden chill he’s feeling. When Kirishima found the source of burning in his back, he sees Shouto, glaring hard and terrifyingly at him. Face darkens, pupils small, ready to kill.

Kirishima squeaks, “He-hey, uh-”

“Back off Kiri, it’s none of your business,” is all Katsuki says. Not even a scream, just a conversational tone as if he’s bored. No defensiveness, no snarling at Shouto in retaliation. “The fuck are yall extras staring at? Move outta my way, I’m hungry!” Then he left.

No one is barging Shouto with questions instead. It’s out of character of his classmates to not poke their nose in something juicy, but as he drops his butt at his chair, he finds himself alone in class.

Shouto is left in class with a big wave of relief, so much that he couldn’t stand. Why is it that the thought of Katsuki pushing him away scares him this much?

A hand landed on his desk, he looks up to find Momo’s honest stare, “Something is not alright.”

Shouto sighs, “No.”

Unlike Katsuki, Momo never pries, only assuring that she’s there for him. Unlike Momo, Katsuki understands that some things can’t be fixed, wherein if he opens up to Momo and some others, they tried to help by fixing. The number of times his friends told him, again and again, to go to Ito-san when they found out about Dabi being his brother is an exhausting amount. Maybe that’s why Shouto has been more comfortable with laying his problems to Katsuki.

So he eats lunch with Momo in the silence of comfortable company, and there’s just that.

+++++

Thank you for being there for me. You’re the bestest best friend I could ever wish for. And you won’t be lonely for long, you’ll see.

Shouto has peaceful days following that first Monday. His comfort with Katsuki doesn’t change. Though they don't get together on the rooftop anymore (Iida never let go of his key since Katsuki managed to steal it), they still gravitate towards each other whenever they don’t feel particularly great.

Katsuki would approach and say things like, “They want me home this weekend.”

“You wanna stay at the dorms or my place?”

“Can’t. I know they wanted to talk to me about who I wanna stay with.”

“We can make up an excuse if you want.”

“Hm.”

Then they spent the rest of the day together, just sitting at the school’s lawn, looking at particularly nothing. And if they sit too close together and their clasped hands only partially hidden by their legs, no one pointed it out.

Shouto would approach and say things like, “Fuyumi wants to call me, I know she’s just gonna talk about how I’m tearing the family apart.”

Katsuki snaps from his bed towards the window where Shouto is stepping down from his Elsa stairs.

Katsuki’s shock then turns to fury, “Your sister, Fuyumi, THAT Fuyumi said that to you?”

“She wanted the family together. I think she’s frustrated that I keep making my parents' union difficult.”

“You know what, her spicy mapo tofu isn’t that delicious anyway!” Katsuki barks his hands clenched down mini-explosions. It’s one of Katsuki’s outbursts that Shouto doesn’t understand, nor does he understand why her mapo tofu is related in any way, so he doesn’t comment.

“I’m gonna head up to the roof, wanna come?”

“No, you’ll just smoke and you’d give me fucking cancer.”

Shouto feels cold, Katsuki had never said no from hanging out before, “Fine.”

“Who said you can leave? Come here!” Katsuki held his ankle from the balcony, gripping tight.

Shouto blinks, remembering what Aizawa-sensei had said some days ago. “Oh, are we gonna cuddle?”

Katsuki’s face set aflame, “Just fucking come in here Katy Perry, before I yank you by your stupid Poland flag hair.”

Shouto finds himself obeying at the thought of cuddling, but then confused, “Why Katy Perry?”

“Hot and cold.”

“I guess that’ll make sense if I know who Katy Perry is but.”

Katsuki spat a curse, “Alright, time for a session of pop culture.”

“But I already had them with Mina and Sero”

“And they’re doing a shit job about it if you didn’t know the person that shapes a whole ass generation.”

It started with a music video of Hot and Cold by Katy Perry and ends with a retelling biography of Lady Gaga. Who knew Katsuki is so knowledgeable about female pop stars.

“TELL ANYONE AND DIE,” He said after Shouto pointed it out.

Most important of all, they did cuddle. They were sitting on the bedside then suddenly they’re laying down side by side. They’re watching a gameplay video of a Swedish man playing a horror game, another important role in pop culture as Katsuki said. It’s an old video, and Katsuki said that the man owns some part of Antarctica, which Shouto knows it’s some kind of an inside joke.

The nights getting late, and Shouto is reminded of the text on his phone, how it vibrates occasionally. Shouto has been in Katsuki’s room for four hours, but he doesn’t want to go back to his room.

Katsuki notices him lingering, “You wanna stay here for the night?”

Shouto looks up from Katsuki’s phone with big sparkling eyes, “You sure?”

“Tch, I wouldn’t have offered if I don’t.” Katsuki looks away, exposing his neck that seems red to the tip of his ears, “It’ll be a little cramp though with my single bed.”

“I don’t mind it. Just don’t kick me out of bed.”

“No promises.”

Katsuki didn’t. He curled away from Shouto as soon as the blankets tucked. Their backs pressed against each other because of the small space. Shouto finds it hard to fall asleep, could be the new environment or the gnawing anxiety.

He’ll admit that Fuyumi is his favorite sibling. She’s there for him when he was condemned in that lonely manor only to train and study. Fuyumi stays back for him, tend to his wounds, cook for him, keep him company. Natsuo had left and rarely come back, even though he’s there for Shouto in the end.

Then his dad had a bootleg redemption arc and Fuyumi dropped him like hot potato and shoved both of them together despite what Shouto feels about his dad. When his parents are getting back together, Fuyumi stopped consoling Shouto and started to support them blindly. So desperate to have their family together. Doesn’t she know that there’s nothing to salvage? Doesn’t she remember what he did?

“I can hear you from here, air conditioner,” Katsuki grumbles, his back vibrates, “Go to sleep.”

“I’m trying.”

Shouto can’t stop thinking, can’t stop getting angry and getting hurt. It hurts when his sister is pointing the blame at Shouto, it hurts even more when it’s kind of true. It hurts that despite his fear of facing her, he still owes her a call at least. He’ll never be ready for what she’s about to say, never be ready to be hurt by her. Shouto turns around and buries his face at Katsuki’s back, ducking under the cover.

“What is it?’ Katsuki asks, not demanding, but Shouto’s floodgates are opened.

“I don’t understand how they could forgive him. He hurts mom, he hurts Touya to a point that he left and hates us, and he... he hurts me. It’s just training but-but- fine, okay, it hurt and I was scared most of the time that he’s not gonna pull his punches. Fuyumi forgives him so easily, and mom just went back in there even though they were never in love in the first place. It’s like they’ve forgotten what he had done, how deeply he scars all of us. Like what- like what happened didn’t matter.” Shouto’s voice breaks the whole time, a sob escaped in between the jumbled words and he’s trying so hard, so hard not to cry.

Katsuki turns around, his arms wrapped around Shouto’s hunched shoulders. A burnt sweet scent hits his nostrils, his face pressed against a defined neck and collarbones. All tenseness bleeds away when Katsuki starts rubbing his back, and tears break from his eyes without his will. Shouto wraps his arms around his friend’s torso, feeling his chest constrict when Katsuki mercifully says nothing about the silent tears landing on his chest.

He shuts his lips, pressing tightly because he’s not sobbing to Katsuki’s chest. They’re comfortable with each other but not that comfortable... right? Shouto’s tolerance to breakdown cries is thanks to exposure to crying most of his childhood, the same can’t be said for Katsuki. The hug is enough, it’s everything. Shouto never realized how much he craved being touched until that day Katsuki sits way too close to him.

His lips pressed tight keeping from sobbing, but his hands tremble on Katsuki’s back instead.

“Damn, you’re touch starved aren’t you,” Katsuki sighs to his hair, his face buried there.

“I didn’t know,” Shouto’s voice shaking pathetically, breaking at the edge and Shouto is too torn to care about it.

“Me too.”

Shouto doesn’t know which one Katsuki meant, but neither let go until they sleep.

++++++

I love you too, Shouto. Don’t be scared of letting people in, okay? Not all of them are gonna leave you, I promise.

Things get rough, but their comfort pushes each other through.

Katsuki chooses to stay with his dad, but he’s co-parenting with his mom. Katsuki spends his weekends at both their house, switching every weekend. There’s still tenseness between his parents, and Katsuki explodes whenever his dad or mom asks Katsuki about the other. ‘Stop fucking asking me! If you wanna know so much then you shouldn’t have gotten the divorce!’ Katsuki doesn’t want to hear their reasoning, feeling better to just accept the change and move on, but Shouto thinks he’s just not ready to hear it. Sometimes Katsuki stays at the dorms with Shouto or the Todoroki estate when he gets overwhelmed.

Shouto finally talks to his mom. At first, it didn’t go anywhere. She’s as unsure as Shouto, but her willingness to try and salvage the marriage is as honest as it comes, even though her feelings might not be there yet. It feels like hearing Fuyumi talk, hearing the same desperation and blindness in putting things together. It’s hard to understand her foolishness, but Shouto tried to trust her. Shouto’s opinion might have been persuaded a little when his father announced that they’ll be moving houses due to mom’s tense reaction to the place. It’s a plus that his dad is willing to do that for his wife, but Shouto is still keeping an eye on them.

Then things get better, but their comfort doesn’t stop. Shouto is comfortable in following his desires without questioning them, but he quizically finds that Katsuki seeks him too even though he no longer approach Shouto with that near tears scowl, and situation bomb.

“How’s your mom?” Katsuki asked out of the blue under the summer blue sky. They’re sitting by the school lawn, their backs to a tree trunk, their friends strangely been leaving them alone.

“She’s fine.”

“Then why did you want to meet here?” Katsuki murmurs, looking down at the comic book Shouto lends him but not reading it. The tips of his ears are red.

Oh, Katsuki is testing the waters, “I just want to be with you.”

Katsuki flushes, “Ew, where the fuck did you even get that cheesy line.”

Shouto pays the snark no mind. “We haven't had any excuses for being together lately, do we?”

Katsuki hums.

“Do you not like it?”

“It’s fine,” Katsuki grumbles.

“Say... If I ask you to go to a cat cafe this Saturday, will you go?”

“Satan in hell, cat cafe again? I still have fucking fur on my black jacket from the previous visit! I felt like we’ve been to all the cat cafes in the country!”

Shouto pouts, “That’s not possible.”

“Let’s go hiking instead.”

“Okay.”

Katsuki twist his head towards him, “You would?”

“Just us two right?”

“Obviously, there’s no way I’m taking those extras. Those nature documentaries made them wimps.”

Shouto only listened to the first word he uttered, “I’ll go with you.”

Then Katsuki looks him that way again. Soft eyes, relaxed eyebrows, fond stares, and the most devastating of all, a small genuine smile.

“Cool. Come to my place, we have to wake up early. I miss seeing the sunset there, it’s awesome.” There’s light in his maroon eyes, excited to go, and he’s taking Shouto with him to his hobby, his precious place.

Shouto feels warmth radiating from his chest all the way down to his toes, a smile blooms on his face. He’s been feeling this mysterious warmth pretty often lately, only now has he realized that Shouto is happy and that he hasn’t been lonely despite his current family strain.

Katsuki’s rambling about his favorite hiking spot is cut short when Shouto leans in to kiss the corner of his lips. The smile is exchanged with shocked parted lips. Shouto feels himself shrink by the silence of Katsuki’s loud mouth and the pinning stare of his sharp eyes. Blood rushed to Shouto’s cheeks, knowing that he’s blushing up a storm, suddenly nervous.

“Is that okay?” Shout asks, too cowardly to say that he wants more, closer, to continue being together for no reason at all other than just because.

“No.”

He’s grabbed by the face, and a pair of lips pressed against his. Shouto expected to be bitten, his head clawed, and his lips bruised. But the weeks he spent with Katsuki should’ve made him know better. Because the gentle hands cradling his face, the complete capture of his lips, and the soft nips are all unsurprising. Shouto melts away, leaning his whole weight so they’re chest to chest. He grabs Katsuki by the hips, pulling closer, kissing back.

Katsuki hums, and the vibration echoes on Shouto’s body deliciously. Katsuki’s lips taste sweet and hot as it moves to nibble Shouto’s bottom lip. The hands cupping his face moves past his neck. One is clutching his back and the other plays with the hair at the back of his head. Fingers card gently around his nape and Shouto has a whole body shiver.

Then the lips go missing, and Shouto goes limp in Katsuki’s arms, gasping for breath on his chest.

“And that’s how you kiss, Strawberry Shortcake,” Katsuki says smugly, patting Shouto’s back condescendingly.

Shouto scoffs and leans back. Katsuki still has that fond eyes as he looks at him, but now paired with a cheeky smirk. Shouto wants to kiss that too, and Shouto does.

From then on, it’s expected that he sometimes steps down his icy stairs just to cuddle with Katsuki, and it’s perfectly acceptable that Katsuki barges into his room and starts pulling his hand towards wherever he wants.

They’d still bicker sometimes, and sometimes Shouto unintentionally steps on some lines that set Katsuki to explode. Sometimes Katsuki is frustrated with him. Those days they fight makes him nervous.

But they always say their apologies eventually. Katsuki always comes back and tries again with him. Even when the fights are between them, they eventually get over it and get better while they’re still leaning onto each other for comfort.

Eventually, Shouto keeps the coffin ashtray in his keepsake instead of his pocket.

He’d like to think that he can finally let her go now that she’s proven right.

Shouto finds someone that loves him, someone that makes him happy, and someone that doesn’t leave.

++++

nicknames that didn't make it: Colgate toothpaste, hot pocket, tide pod, dry ice. nicknames that I magically forgot: Half and half.

Tag yourself as Shouto’s nickname, I’m water dispenser.

#todobaku #bakutodo #todoroki shouto #todoroki shōto #bakugo katsuki #todobaku fic #todobaku fanfic #Todobaku fanfiction #emocel's #I'm crying #i googled shouto's nickname for this #I saw 'Strawberry Shorcake' and I lose my mind #I saw a trope that Bakugo smells like caramel becs of his quirk and i lose my mind #todoroki shoto fluff #boku no hero #boku no hero fanfic #my hero academia #my hero academy fanfiction

15 notes · View notes

jesuisgourde · 3 years

Text

gay/queer references in Peter’s journals

Again, I have probably missed stuff due to going through pretty quickly and also due to having stared at this document for so long, everything has kind of blurred together.

Sometime close to the day that Carlos & I watched 'Love And Death on Long Island' (and afterwards paraded through the tea rooms of Picadilly) we both filled in application forms and were tres excited to be invited to the same group 'interview' - twas more like an audition though. I got the part. Carlos never. This did not bring any animosity - we both know that success for either of us is magnified a million times if it is shared by us both.

from 'A Diamond Guitar' by Truman Capote "Except that they did not combine their bodies or think to do so, though such things were not unknown at the (Prison), they were as lovers. Of the seasons, spring is the most shattering: stalks thrusting through the earth's winter-stiffened crust, young leaves cracking out on old left-to-die branches, the falling asleep wind cruising through all the newborn green. And with Mr Schaeffer it was the same, a breaking up, a flexing of muscles that had hardened. It was late January. The friends were sitting on the steps of the sheep house, each with a cigarette in his hand. A moon thin and yellow as a piece of lemon rind curved above them, and under its light, threads of ground frost glistened like silver snail trails. Tico Feo had been drawn into himself - silent as a robber waiting in the shadows."

Then a meet with Bounds Green's African prince outside whitechapel tube, rugged lookies at I in military attire & to a ruptured Albion rooms tidied in hours and now lids drawn heated on the eyes. A young looking fella has a crush on me.

Jackie/Camillia/Marie/Kate/Chris/V. churchill Jackie/Evelina/Jasmine/Sachi/Dalston/Sussie Sandra/Carlene/FP/Jay/Dalston/Kraut

There sat a young black man, perhaps in his early or middle twenties. He looked for all the world like the archetypal rude boy. Clean, cheap reebok, nike, adidas variously rolled, laced & zipped about his lean, spreadeagled body that hung loosely about the waiting room chair. Gold & tattoos adorned his person, and a blank animal look was attached to his clear face. He sat before me in a row of four empty chairs, staring at polished floor or the mundane television. A balding white man minced in & all perceptions were suddenly proven to be false as they embraced and snuggled up to each other, giggling & whispering & touching each others noses.... very much in love, fingers crossed for the blood tests.

[Image: an article from Gay Times of an interview with Peter. For some reason, the portrait included alongside the article is of Carl wearing a grey and black t-shirt.] Name? Peter Doherty Age? 22 Where are you? I'm on the motorway just north of Southampton. What kind of day are you having? (Vaguely) Erm... quite misty. Something's waiting around the corner, but there are no corners on the motorway, so we'll just have to wait and see what lies ahead. Maybe something will happen tonight.... What's this we hear about you once being a rent boy? Well, when times are hard, duty calls. How long ago was it? When I was 19, about three years ago. How do we know this isn't just a Shaun Ryder-type lie? 'Cause if it was, it would make me a complete scumbag and I'm not, and I'm not interested in that kind of pantomime. It wasn't a very happy time. I didn't really enjoy it. Why did you give it up? (grimly) Well, certain people disappeared... and anyway, ultimately I found myself no longer in such a vulnerable position anymore. Dawn broke, and I realised that it was a beautiful world after all. Have you done any other dodgy jobs? All of us in the band have tried to deal, but it's not good if you like the drugs too much. You just end up using them yourself! I once was a gravedigger. I used to do it with my mate in Willesden Green cemetery. We didn't actually do the digging, a machine did that, but we used to have to fill them in. It was pretty grim work. So are you gay then? Love is love, wherever it comes from. I'm not anything, really. I am a very sexual person but... I dunno, I believe in liberty... The Marquis de Sade has a lot to answer for... Do you get a lot of gay fans? Yeah - well, there's one guy in particular. He's very shy and he follows us around. He brings in letters and cards and stuff, but he's very quiet. I think John (the bassist) is the main pulling power in the band. Are you jealous about that? Nah! I've known him too long.

You know I'm alright i dont even care i like it when they stare & stare call me queer, dear oh dear a million things & what I wear He's real hard when he's with his mates but I'll saw him again & he was too late

Dear NME I'd have thought after the Gay Times piece, the interview with Rapture fanzine & our recent gig at the Slum Club everything would be clear. No it still remains to give a big hearty fuck off to all these twisted suburban types calling me a liar. Vulnerable young men & women all over the world find themselves victims of circumstance.

she was dressed in suit & tie & lightly etched-on moustache. 'I've always wanted to kiss a bird in the back of a taxi.' she says, running her hand up the fishnet ladders of my thigh. Stepping onto the front line in Bow puddles, elevators, buzzing doors,

[Image: the original page in the book has been preserved. Two paragraphs have been boxed off with biro. They read:] “...cast Richard Burton and Rex Harrison as bickering queer barbers and then much more uncompromisingly in William Friedkin's adaptation of The Boys in the Band (1970), which introduced some of the plainer four letter words in the English language to the screen for the first time. 'Who,' asks Cliff Gorman, in his brilliant portrayal of the most effeminate of the homosexual group as they gather for a soul-searching party, 'Who do you have to fuck to get a drink around here?' Other homosexual manifestations to occur in movies around this time included an elliptical but unmistakeable male fellatio scene in John Schlesinger's Midnight Cowboy (1969) when Jon Voight, as a broke and disillusioned Texas stud importunes in a New York cinema....”

[Image, top left: a blurry photo of John onstage, playing bass. Image, top right, sideways: a photo of the band onstage. Carl and John are on the left, sharing a mic. Peter is on the right, playing guitar and singing into his own mic. Image, centre left: a torn photo of Peter sitting in a chair, shirtless, playing guitar. Only his bottom half from the chest down is visible. Image, centre left: a torn photo of Peter sitting in a chair, shirtless, playing guitar. Only his top half from shoulders up is visible. Image, bottom left: a torn fragment of a photo. What looks like a denim-clad knee and a yellow carrier bag are visible. Image, bottom middle: a photo of someone's knee in torn jeans, taken from under a table. Image, bottom right: a torn photo of Carl in a black sleeveless shirt, posing with his fingers in his mouth.] [A paragraph from the original page of the book has been left exposed and boxed off with black biro. It reads:] “The Boys in the Band was displaced by an immeasurably more powerful portrayal of homosexual groups, Fortune and Men's Eyes (1971). Set in a Quebec prison, this disturbing, factually based drama vividly recounted the corrupted of a heterosexual convict trapped in a tough, potentially vicious homosexual society. In one horrifying scene, a weak, put-upon prisoner is gang-banged by his fellow inmates; in another, the 'hero' is blackmailed by his cellmate into accepting him as his lover for the duration...”

Like a cat on a hot tin roof Like a macho man in a roomful of poofs I have tried in my way to be free.

[Written in Peter's handwriting] Jerome... is that how it's spelt? [Written in someone else's handwriting] Yes it is [Written in Peter's handwriting] Can I read you something? [Written in someone else's handwriting] Yes please.....

I insist, new book of Albion, befuddled by drugs I may yes about 2 but I do not miss out entirely on the subtleties of the inhuman relation ships that are this the mainstay of my stay here in one bounce of a loaf. Boys are fooled into fooling with boys. [...]

More general references/some extra explanations:

“The boy looked at Johnny” is a line from Patti Smith's song “Horses,” part one of a three-part song called “Land.” In the song, a young man named Johnny is assaulted by another man in a locker room; he then mentally journeys to other fantastical lands and visions. A lot of people interpret it as being about gay sex, although some people interpret it as being about a stabbing.

Peter quotes and references Jean Genet's writing and works about Jean Genet many times. While Genet's works are nearly all about crime and prison (one of Peter's main interests and points of fascination), all of his works are very explicitly gay. The Thief's Journal is more about Genet's various lovers than it is about his criminal history. Our Lady Of The Flowers is about a drag queen and her criminal lovers, and is also extremely erotic.

(“Jerome” is Jerome Alexandre, vocalist of The Deadcuts, who was friends with Peter and Mark Keds.)

#squash transcribes books of albion #peter doherty #feel free to request compilations of other kinds too

36 notes · View notes

cheri-translates · 4 years

Text

[CN] Victor’s Patio Date (Eng Translation)

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date which has not been released in English servers! 🍒

MC: It’s finally over!

I stretch, basking in the warm afternoon sunlight.

MC: The air-conditioning in the meeting room was so strong. I almost sneezed...

Victor: That’s why you held your breath till your face turned red?

MC: I did not...

I want to retort, but both our phones vibrate at the same time.

Curious, I tap and open the message. The sender is Ronan. The beginning of the message reads: “Inviting Mr Victor and Miss MC...”

[Note: If you don't know who Ronan is, check out Victor’s Understanding the Human World date before continuing]

Victor: To attend an appointment on the sky garden of the CR Building, a subsidiary company of LFG, after three days, at 7pm.

Victor softly reads the bottom half of the message aloud - he has received the same message.

MC: I remember that Ronan invited internationally renowned architects to build the film sets for his new movie. It should be this sky garden then? Since he has invited us, could it have something to do with the new movie?

Victor: We’ll know when we get there.

He looks at the phone in his hand indifferently. Despite his expression, it seems he already has an answer.

Three days later.

Victor and I reach the CR Building punctually.

Ronan: The two of you are here. Come, the movie preview is on the top floor.

Without much idle chat, we exchange greetings, and he enthusiastically leads us to the elevator.

MC: The shoot has already been completed? That’s pretty fast.

Ronan: Mm, the shoot this time went really smoothly. Whether in the capacity of a friend, or the biggest investor, I want the both of you to be the first few to see my movie.

MC: Why did I receive an invitation too...

Hearing my soft confusion, Ronan laughs loudly while he responds.

Ronan: When we were shooting Dévotion, it was only because of your cooperation that I could shoot a romantic and poetic Chinese wedding. Also, the movie this time was largely inspired by the two of you, so inviting you is definitely reasonable. For example, Victor revealed that, to him, you are actually...

Victor: Often impudent, and require improvement in time management. But once you slow down, your work capabilities have indeed improved quite a bit.

MC: ...why do I feel like what you told Ronan had nothing to do with my work capabilities.

I arch my eyebrows, not wanting to show signs of weakness. I toss a grimace towards Victor.

Before phrases in my mind such as “a woman’s instincts are very accurate” leave my mouth, Ronan starts laughing as he watches us from the side.

Ding--

Along with a soft ring, the elevator halts steadily at the highest level of the building. The exquisite sky garden greets my vision as the elevator doors open slowly.

Green trees display their leaves on mid-air platforms, and flowers of differing colours are scattered around, decorating the area.

The course of a river is guided by steel, flowing into a waterfall, gathering into a river, and slowly flowing around the trees and flowers.

Victor: The movie preview will start in ten minutes. How much longer do you plan to dillydally?

As though he isn’t drawn to the view at all, Victor simply holds his hand out in front of me.

MC: Yes, yes. As expected of the Mr CEO who has seen the big world - displaying an unchanging expression even after seeing such a view.

I hold onto his hand readily, and subtly lean against his side a little more.

The corners of Victor’s lips seem to curl upwards slightly. He accommodates to my footsteps, and we head to the venue together.

The movie preview is extremely successful.

Summarising the legend of the sky garden, Ronan illustrated a story of the male lead’s struggle at the end of the world, looking for an oasis.

And the climax of the story occurred at this very sky garden--

Lights and shadows merged with drifting flower petals, the last green leaf, and the last water source at the very end of the world...

Apart from the excellent narrative, the visual effects from the film alone gives one unparalleled enjoyment.

After the movie ends, I can’t help but give a standing ovation.

A few members of the audience, who were immersed in the movie like I was, send their cheers to the directors and actors.

MC: As expected of Ronan’s movie - it’s really brilliant.

Victor: Mm. It’s his usual standard.

Although Victor says this, he isn’t stingy with his applause.

MC: There’s a really immersive feeling knowing that we’re in the most beautiful scene of the movie...

Victor: Let’s go then.

Right after the words land, my palm is already encased in warmth.

Victor: To look at the garden you’ve been thinking about in your heart since just now.

MC: Okay! It’s a rare opportunity to walk into the beautiful scenery crafted by world-class directors and architects. If we don’t take a proper look, it’d be such a pity.

Victor: In that case, follow me and don’t let go of my hand again.

MC: Anyway, no matter where I am, you’ll always find me in the end. I won’t get lost.

We stand up, and I smile while holding onto his hand tightly.

He lets out a soft laugh. Maybe it’s my misperception, but the night seems to become gentler along with him.

I hear the sound of gurgling water in my ears, and red corn poppies bloom among the shadows of trees.

My fingers brush against the tips of bushes, and I feel the branches carrying the coolness of night.

MC: Sigh... it’s a shame that this place would be torn down after a while. And it’s such a beautiful set-up designed by a famous architect...

The more we stroll in the garden, the more I feel sorry for its impending disappearance.

Victor: You really can’t bear to see it gone?

MC: In the bustling city, such a garden is just too precious.

The corners of Victor’s lips lift in response to my words. He responds calmly.

Victor: The garden will be retained, and will become a cafe open to the public in the long-term.

MC: So in the future... it will also be LFG’s property?!

Victor doesn’t comment.

Victor: Once the movie preview is over, there will be a gradual adjustment of the layout and decor.

MC: ...it’s really nice to have money.

Victor: That’s your biggest takeaway after watching the preview?

MC: Of course not. I have very deep thoughts regarding this movie!

Victor arches his brows, as though waiting for my “deep thoughts” and review.

I clear my throat, temporarily tossing aside my feelings towards capitalism. In my mind, I start recalling the images from the movie.

MC: In Ronan’s movie, the lead keeps searching for an “oasis” in order to settle down and have sustenance. Every person needs his own “oasis”. It’s only when one has a foothold and a place to rest can he continually move forward.

Victor: Looks like you really watched it seriously.

MC: Which is why I’m very surprised by your decision to retain this garden. Perhaps it can become an oasis for busy people in this bustling city.

Victor: If it’s possible, that would be best.

MC: You don't think such an idea is overly vague or idealistic?

Victor: You can only move forward with some resources. This is the same for everyone. Moreover, it’s only when you have a goal in mind and know where you’re heading towards, can you walk far, and walk steadily.

I run a few steps in front, then turn around to stick out my tongue at him.

MC: Are we here to participate in the movie preview, or to do an inspection with you?

Victor: Watch where you’re going.

Slightly resigned, Victor pushes aside some branches sticking out along the path. He reaches out and pulls me back to his side.

Suddenly, a different view from the slender and delicate poppies enters my vision.

MC: Roses!

I blink. In one corner of the garden, in replacement of poppies, crimson roses bloom warmly under the moonlight.

At the side, there are even a few bean bags and a small coffee table.

In the luxurious and majestic garden, the roses, while sharing the same colour as poppies, add a different style to the courtyard.

My thoughts drift to the rose-scented town I had once taken a slow walk with him in.

[Note: This is a reference to Victor’s Magnificent Date]

I can’t help but smile and ask Victor a question.

MC: Is this one of the methods to attract visitors and raise property value?

Victor: Yes.

Victor admits it matter-of-factly, but there’s a smile in his eyes.

Victor: Ronan’s team insisted on adding different understandings of this theme in order to portray a richer definition of an “oasis”. Since they asked for my opinion, I naturally gave them my view.

Standing under the warm yellow street lamp, Victor’s expression looks exceptionally tender.

Victor: From what I see, the result isn’t bad.

There is a subtle sweet aroma of roses in the air. I sit comfortably on a bean bag, asking Victor with a grin:

MC: What other adjustments will be made?

Dressed in a well-ironed suit, Victor is also half-lying on the bean bag, looking somewhat languid. The aura surrounding him has become much more gentle.

It’s as though we aren’t at a bustling movie preview, or a sky garden on the top floor of a building.

It’s just a normal weekend evening, in a small courtyard belonging to us, as we shed off the week’s worth of fatigue.

I can’t help but think of the afternoon he slept in front of me, and remember the day he had revealed an almost imperceptible state of relaxation to me.

[Note: This is a reference to Victor’s Return Home Date]

Victor: You look like you have a lot of thoughts?

MC: Of course I do! I’ve been to various shooting locations, and have met mature producers with differing styles. Apart from that, I’m also a contemporary member of society with a delicate mind and good aesthetic sense. Which is why I’m clearer than anyone else about what a stressed worker needs most in terms of external care. Just look - even my house is very warm, right?

Victor: If you can change your habit of leaving things lying around, it might be considered a “warm” house.

MC: This is called “integrating with the masses” - it’s a small beauty in life.

Recalling the earlier topic, I stand up, pulling Victor as we head to the inner area of the park.

MC: For example, I think this place could have a few more elegant seats.

I point at the hanging rattan chair underneath the flower stand.

MC: That way, visitors would be more comfortable when sitting down. Also, this path we walked on - although it looks very pretty in the movie, it’s easy to get hooked by bushes at the side. If it weren’t for your words just now, I would have definitely bumped into it. Also...

I look towards the trail lined with trees on both sides, leading towards the centre of the park.

MC: Maybe this is just my selfish thought, and has nothing to do with increasing practicality or comfort. However, if I had a choice, I would change these trees to Platanus trees.

Several strands of shock flash across Victor’s dark eyes. Then, he opens his mouth to ask in slight amusement:

Victor: Why is that so?

MC: Legend says that the Hanging Gardens was created by the king of Babylon for his wife who was suffering from homesickness.

[Note: Platanus trees were part of the Hanging Gardens. Platanus trees, also known as Oriental Plane Trees, are a frequent motif featured in Classical Chinese poetry as an embodiment of sorrowful sentiments due to its autumnal shedding of leaves]

I walk along the small trail, staring at the poppies swaying in the wind.

I wonder if that king, all those thousands of years ago, carried such a heart - wanting to give such a luxurious gift to the person he loved.

MC: No matter what others may say, I also wish to leave the best things to the person most important to me. To build an oasis within his sight and touch where he can have a peace of mind. You’ve left a corner of the camellia garden for me, so I also wish to give you a small trail lined with Platanus trees.

[Note: This is a reference to Victor’s Maze date, which is available in EN]

I raise my head with a smile, not caring that my cheeks have already heated up. I observe Victor’s dark coloured eyes carefully, and tell him what’s in my heart calmly and sincerely.

Victor pauses for a moment. Apart from surprise, his eyes also contain an undercurrent of a deeper and heavier emotion.

Victor: With so many ideas, not letting you write a proposal to collaborate with the design team would be a waste of talent. When exactly did you learn to say such things?

In the end, all his emotions culminate into his usual ridicule, which is more tender than usual.

Curling his fingers, he taps me on the forehead with some affection.

MC: If you feel happy, you can just say it directly, really.

Victor: And when did you hear me say that?

MC: I felt it!

While laughing, I step onto the stairs, looking at the blooming poppy flowerbed.

The flowerbed, which is suspended in mid-air, is the highest point of the garden. It is held up firmly by chains above the pool.

MC: Do you feel like I’m especially thoughtful and especially cute right now?

Victor: I only feel that you’re especially childish.

While Victor says this, he walks up to the stairs and holds onto my hand.

Victor: And that you’re truly a dummy.

It is only when he draws nearer that I can clearly see the upward curve of his lips.

Apart from the faraway lights and the water under us, his eyes also reflect my brilliantly smiling face.

The flowerbed sways back and forth in small motions.

Sitting here, I not only have a panoramic view of the garden, but can also overlook the entirety of Loveland City.

In the distance, the city lights are scattered around, artificial light sources forming another galaxy on earth.

MC: Victor, you once said that you would look at Loveland City from a height whenever you’re in a bad mood. I think I can understand something I didn’t think of before!

Victor: What do you understand this time?

MC: This garden on the top level of the building, where you can overlook Loveland City, is perhaps your oasis. Now that I think about it, everything I said just now was unnecessary, right?

Recalling my eloquent suggestions to Victor earlier, I start feeling slightly embarrassed.

Victor: Looks like you still don’t know anything.

MC: Tell me - what should I know then?

Supporting myself on the flowerbed with one hand, I grin, turning around to ask him.

The suspended flowerbed sways violently from my sudden movement. Only then do I remember that there are only a few fulcrums holding up the flower bed.

With an unstable footing, I subconsciously reach out to clutch onto Victor, trying to maintain my balance. However, I still fall against the flower bed, hurting my shoulder blade.

Victor: You’re being impatient again.

[Note: There isn’t a direct translation of the phrase used here, 毛毛躁躁 (”mao mao zao zao”), but it conveys the idea of doing things hurriedly and inattentively]

His voice resounds very close to me. I open my eyes, and directly meet his line of sight.

Because of my sudden movement, Victor has also been pulled towards me.

One of his hands is wrapped around the back of my head, preventing me from hitting it. Another hand is at my ear, holding me steady.

Right now, this action seems to be imprisoning me between the fresh flowers and himself.

MC: S...sorry, I’ll pay more attention next time...

I stammer, my heart rate speeding up.

Victor: You said this the last time as well.

The heat from summer has not fully dissipated. Humidity lingers in the air.

The poppies in the garden bloom quietly, and the night is warm. It’s as though everything I see and feel have become gentle.

Even Victor’s eyes and outline grow blurry from the light and shadows, encasing him in a layer of tenderness.

Our sudden proximity causes my heart rate to accelerate, and it feels like my thoughts have been stuck in place.

I avert my gaze, slightly guilty. I raise my palm to put some distance between us.

MC: We’re about done with the viewing. The dinner is about to begin, so we should head down... I remember it’s one level below?

Victor: ...do you know that your ability to change the topic is very poor.

Victor sighs softly, then gently shifts his hand away from the back of my head.

When the warmth belonging to him vanishes, a sense of longing floods my heart.

It’s as though I have awakened from a charming dream surrounded by warm currents, returning to reality once again.

But in the next second, the warmth I’m most familiar with envelops my wrist.

Looking into his dark eyes, I think I must have truly misunderstood.

Whether it’s the Babylonian king from thousands of years ago, or any other ordinary person, the thing people truly want isn’t the view from their memory. It’s the person they want to share the view with.

Victor: I’m going to answer your question from just now. Listen carefully.

Victor: The words you said are not unnecessary.

Victor: And I am indeed very happy.

Victor shifts upwards, encircling me in front of him again.

He is so close that the entire world seems to be condensed into his pair of eyes.

The fountain spurts at regular intervals, shattering the calm of the water. Water vapour floating in the air refracts light, caging us in a colourful curtain of light.

Victor: Just now, someone eloquently mentioned wanting to build an oasis within my sight and touch. And now you’re so anxious - where do you want to run off to?

Perhaps the temperature of the evening is overly gentle, and the light from the water is too fine. I’m unable to see what emotions lie in Victor’s eyes.

As the distance between us closes, I can clearly see every gentle quiver of his eyelashes, and can feel the heat from every lingering breath from our noses.

His lips move slightly, as though wanting to say something to me.

Before he can speak, the fountain spurts again. This time, the cool water happens to spray onto us.

MC: Ah...

I want to hurriedly straighten up and dry Victor, but a gentle yet irresistible pressure pushes me back down.

The water columns from the fountain change, forming into different heights and shapes. Scattered droplets of water patter on us like light rain.

Victor’s hair, which has always been tidied meticulously, droops slightly because of the water droplets.

The slender poppies beside us sway slightly. Water vapour condenses on the flower petals, dripping down along the body of the flower.

Victor: No need to care about that. Having you here is enough.

His slightly hoarse voice brushes against my ear along with his breath. It circles past the nape of my neck, evoking a certain numbness.

Victor’s body temperature continuously travels to my wrist, entering my heart.

Victor: My “oasis”... has already belonged to me since a very long time ago.

🌹

Phone Call: here

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc spoilers #mlqc victor

288 notes · View notes

whump-town · 3 years

Text

Pretending

@genevievedarcygranger and I are dorks so here is my take on the thing we did together

Fingers stretch up past his throat, a thick arm pushing at the walls of his esophagus. Stretching it until his head is pushed back, lips parting to breathe around the obstruction. The fingers find his brain, wiggling and tearing through the dura mater as if it’s nothing more than jello. His thoughts shift sluggishly to when Jack was just a baby. The beaming sun against his back as he held his son on one knee, watching in horror as Jack smacked and tore through the cake in front of him with chubby grabbing fingers. He can feel those fingers cupping at his brain, making his knees weak and his body light. Aired out thoughts as nothing lays between his mouth and his thoughts. As if he could float away.

“Daddy?”

Leaning forward on the bench, Hotch presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. Post Traumatic Stress, he’s sure Reid would identify easily enough, is crippling him right where he stands. In every little thing that he does. He’d just stepped outside for a book in the yard he left on the chair after watching Jack swing and been hit with such intense panic he’d fallen down into the grass. Couldn’t think or move. Jack had found him hunched over himself pressing his forehead into the warm ground, trying to think past the feeling of his paralyzed lungs.

The park had been their compromise - Jack lives in intervals and the park is a fantastic compromise to easily forget what he’s seen.

“I’m okay,” he whispers, clenching his jaw and focusing on the burn of the sun against his back. It takes an excruciating amount of energy but he lifts his head back up. Settles an unsteady smile and red-rimmed eyes on his son. With a hand that tremors, he cups Jack’s cheek. “What is it, buddy? Want help going across the monkey bars again?”

Jack frowns at him - a face Haley used to love. She’d laugh until she cried, always assuring him that he makes the exact same face. And despite the fact that he’s supposed to be making sure Jack has a normal childhood he’s crying in the park. Thinking about when Jack was so small he fit in the crook of Hotch’s elbow. Flailing asleep in the nursery counting Jack’s little breathes, terrified of what would happen if he walked away. Haley sitting in his lap, the two of them watching the boy they brought into the world together. How Haley had warned him he was going to blink and find he’d lost everything and now he’s sitting on a park bench having taken it all from her.

“Sorry,” Hotch rasps. He rubs his eyes, clearing his throat and forcing his body upright more. “Sorry,” he repeats. “Monkey bars?” He pushes himself up onto his feet, smiling as he offers Jack his hand. Waiting for the boy to grow distracted again by the overwhelming amount of options of things to climb on.

Jack looks over his shoulder to the monkey bars, envy burning his chest as he watches a girl older than him make her way across them. “Yes please,” he chirps, his small fingers wrapping around Hotch’s calloused ones. He beams up at his father, seeing only the man that takes him to the park and cuts his sandwiches into shapes that vaguely resemble dinosaurs. Past the sadness and how tired he is. “One day,” Jack says, pouring his concentration into jumping over the raised edge of the playground. He holds Hotch’s hand a little tighter, giggling when Hotch pulls him up even higher. He lands with a grunt and grins back at Hotch. “One day,” he continues, “I’m gonna be big and strong and --” Jack trips over his feet as he eagerly tears off for the monkey bars. He manages to stay upright. “One day I’m gonna be all growned up, just like you! And then I’m not gonna need no help!”

Hotch nods, following at a slower pace. Between the heat and sweater he’d chosen to wear (to cover the bruises still purpling and angry up his arms) he’s hot and the weakness of his body from too little sleep is draining him rapidly. He knows making it back to the car - a distance of only a few yards - will leave him light-headed and vision hazing. His body aches needs sleep and rest but he has to take care of a four-year-old and both of those things are nearly impossible.

“I wanna be as tall as you!” Jack says, pulling himself up on one of the bars. “Do you think I can?” Jack asks as Hotch ducks down into the contraption. “Mommy said I could,” Jack informs him. “She said I’d be just like you!” He beams at Hotch as he says this, thrilled by the idea of being just like his father. Tall and strong and nice and funny.

Hotch nods.

“But your hair is the wrong color,” Jack pouts.

Hotch smiles, genuinely, at that.

Jack doesn’t understand the amusement and frowns. “Why isn’t your hair yellow?”

Hotch bends down and picks Jack up, holding him around his hips so that Jack can reach up and grab onto the bars above his head. It makes his ribs flare up but he doesn't pay the pain any mind, it won’t stop him. “My mom and dad had dark hair. You have mommy’s hair,” Hotch says. Haley promised this constant talking phase would eventually wear off but Jessica’s theory was that it was just Jack’s way of making up for the “creepy” way Haley and Hotch never seemed to have to have verbal conversations. Haley just rolled her eyes and repeated her earlier promise - little kids just like to talk your ear off, he’d stop with age.

Hotch hopes he doesn’t.

“Why don’t you have mommy’s hair?”

Hotch smirks, “it doesn’t work like that, buddy.” They get to the end and Jack kicks his legs. “Want to drop down?” Jack makes a panicked sound, clearly not liking that idea. One of his hands leaves the bars and grabs Hotch’s wrist so that Hotch can’t let go. “Alright,” Hotch relents. “Do you wanna go again?”

“Yeah!” Jack just let's go, trusting Hotch will catch him. “Just one more time, though. Cause then I’m gonna go down the slide.”

“Alrighty.”

They begin again. Jack is light but Hotch’s ribs scream from having his arms raised up. The bones of his hand groaning as pressure is placed on them. It makes him light-headed, the sharp pain and the dull swelter of the heat. He steps forward, knee buckling, but he keeps both hands on Jack - the boy doesn’t notice.

“Good job,” Hotch praises, voiced rasped as Jack finishes. He lets Jack turn and settle down into his arms, pulled in against his side. Jack pulls both his hands down, showing his father the red patches of irritated skin. “Does it hurt?” Hotch asks. His thumb is nearly the size of Jack’s palm as he presses over the hurt. “That’s how you get callouses,” Hotch mumbles lowly, smirking at Jack’s surprise.

Jack forgets the pain in an instant. “You promise?”

Hotch hums his confirmation and Jack eagerly squirms at the idea. Hotch sets him down on his feet and Jack jumps up excitedly. “Daddy,” Jack calls, turning around and tearing off in the direction of the other equipment. “I’m gonna go to the slide!” Jack pays him no more mind and with a sigh, Hotch leans into the metal bar to his left. Knees shaking and head spinning.

He pushes himself upright, glancing at Jack out of the corner of his eye. He’s in the clear, he knows, but he’s still careful. Makes sure to keep his gait even and strong as he clears the space between monkey bars and the rest of the playground to the bench screaming his name.

“Daddy!” Jack yells from the top of the slide, waving.

Hotch stops and waves back, waiting for Jack to get distracted again before forcing himself forward. He sinks, bone-tired, back onto the bench. Scared that if he’s upright for another moment he’ll pass out. His vision swarms and dips with the heat around him, logged by his exhaustion.

He feels something splash on his pants and at first, he ignores it as just a ghost sensation. They happen and he’s anxious and uncomfortable enough he’s sure his body is just playing all kinds of cruel jokes at his expense. When isn’t it? It happens again a few minutes later but it’s not the same feeling. He looks down and he sees blood-- not just a stain that happens to be red, he sees blood far too often to mistake it for anything else-- and glances over to his left to locate Jack. The boy is obviously to him, shouting happily as he shoots down the slide. He lifts his hips enough to work his hand into his pocket to the handkerchief nearly all his pants carry. He presses the material to his nose, faking to just wipe it in case either of Jack looks over.

His nose is bleeding.

Back when he worked in Seattle, he’d seen a guy get shot in the leg. The bullet nicked an artery and he’d seen that bright blood, the way it gushed so quickly it was hard to put pressure over the flow. Frozen in fear, he’d never seen anything like that. Sitting here on this bench he looks down at the bright blood and gets lost. Frozen once again.

“Daddy!”

Hotch swallows thickly, grimacing at the taste of the blood that’s slid down the back of his throat. He clamps his hand over his nose, still smiling despite the fact that Jack can’t see it. “Hey-” Tears swell in Jack’s eyes as he sees the blood. “I’m okay,” Hotch assures. “It’s just a little blood, buddy.”

Jack whines softly, clearly not convinced. “Daddy, I wanna go home.” He tugs at Hotch’s sleeve. “Can we call Aunt Jess now,” Jack asks, anxiously. He worries the fabric of Hotch’s pants between his fingers, shifting as he waits for a reply.

He wants to assure Jack that they can stay a little longer but he sees the tears pouring down Jack’s face and Hotch nods. He leans to the side, digging his phone out of his pocket. It’s probably not his most coherent text but he manages to put together a few words - the letters all a blur - and it takes only a moment for her to respond. She’s on her way. He sags forward, head falling into his hand. “I’m sorry Jack.” He feels Jack’s hand come up to rest against his cheek, his warm palm sliding until Jack is hugging him. Even if he has to stand up on his toes.

Jack squeezing his neck. “It’s okay,” Jack assures him. “Me ‘n Jess are gonna get you a bandaid and a popsicle and then you’re gonna be all better.” Jack doesn’t let go. “It’s gonna be okay, right Daddy?”

Jack’s conviction is so strong that Hotch doesn’t bother explaining that he can’t put a bandaid over his nose and that it’s going to take more than a popsicle to fix this mess he’s created. But for now, he’ll let Jack hold onto him and “help” him walk to the car. He’ll let Jessica smother him with her worry and take it in stride because it’s important Jack understands getting help is just a part of life - even if each time Jessica touches him his stomach will roll.

He’ll choke down enough of his dinner to assure everyone he’s fine.

And, with any luck, he’ll manage to pretend his way into truly being okay.

“Yeah, buddy, it’s gonna be okay.”

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #jack hotchner

34 notes · View notes

seas-storyarchive · 3 years

Text

My take on blind!Scrooge

Credit to @ai-higurashi for blessing us with the Blind Miser and Werewolf Housekeeper AU.

It happened during The Last Adventure, with everyone fighting against FOWL on the top of the base. Gladstone, being Gladstone, is able to maneuver to and fro with no problem to avoid attacks, leaving his foes confused and letting others take them down for him. Some find it helpful, Della for once does, so it isn't an issue.

Even when Gladstone is cornered, he still has backup. Until Bradford decides it's time to put an end to the Lucky Gander because he's annoyed with him. As Gladstone is being dramatic, the sword being swung at him, knowing he won't be hit-

"Gladstone!"

Wait! Was that-

"Uncle Scrooge!" [[MORE]]

In a flash, Gladstone is knocked onto his butt in shock, his uncle laying on his legs and cradling his face as tears and small outlets of blood leak between his fingers.

"Uncle Scrooge?" Gladstone checks on Scrooge as eight blurs of white attack Bradford when he isn't looking.

The duck removes his hands, smeared with bloody tears, to reveal burns that are around his eyes that are bleeding. His eyes..

"Ar' ya alrigh', lad?"

Gladstone is staring into those off focus orbs who are no longer black as coal, whose color he can't even begin to describe, finding himself crying and feeling sick and-

A scream is heard, making them both look up. Gladstone sees the vulture, no longer covered in the armor from the sword, falling into some swirling vortex. His eyes look for the sword, panic in them, seeing that the little pink girl has it. But everyone is looking at them, seeing Gladstone looking at them and his most likely blind -if not completely than very close to it- uncle looking in the vague direction of the screaming.

Everything else is a whirlwind, the little pink girl has a yellow sister and a blue sister. Triples or clones or what have you. Oh? Clones of Scrooge? Huh.. well, there are other ways to get kids, he supposed. Everyone is freaking out. Donald is pushing him, Della is yelling at him, the kids all look either disgusted with him or angry. Fethry is trying to keep the peace, but even Gladstone can tell he isn't all too truthful in his not blaming him.

At the hospital, Scrooge is given the diagnosis of incredibly low vision. So very close to being blind. And Gladstone feels sick, not going to see Scrooge when they are let in. Not until a miffed Green Bean comes up to him.

"Uncle Scrooge is asking for you."

Gladstone sees the kid doesn't even have his phone, either he lost it or it's in his sweater pocket, but he nods to him. On the way there, Gladstone tries to put a hand on his shoulder, but the kid shoves it off and walks to everyone else who is crowded around the door to let the Gander in.

By the bed sits the housekeeper, both her and Scrooge are speaking to each other in hushed tones-

"This was nae yer fault, Bentina. Things like this happen love."

"I know, but I should have protected you. That's my job."

"You also 'ave a responsibility ta take care of- goodness, 'ow many gran'daughte's do we 'ave now?"

"I know! I just.." she looked up, her eyes wide, to see Gladstone. "I'll leave you and Gladstone to talk."

His face looked worried, almost afraid. "You'll come back, righ'?" His hand, with surprising accuracy, found her cheek and cupped it.

She turned to kiss his palm, smiling at him. "Of course love, I'm just going to check on everyone else." As she leaves, Gladstone can see her shoulders shake. Can see the girls hug her, everyone does actually.

"Gladstone." Hearing the soft voice, almost drowned out by Scottish noises making him sound similar to Donald (was that where Donald's voice came from?), spoken with confusion and compassion..

It was sick. It was wrong, Gladstone told himself as he walked over to the duck.

"I'm here, Uncle Scrooge." He swallowed his tears, his cries, his guilt, swallowing it all down like bile, sitting beside the miser.

The head, still facing towards the door, slowly turned to him. "This, wha' happened to mah eyes, it was nae your fault."

"Oh spare me the lecture!" Gladstone didn't need this. He didn't need sympathy, he wasn't the one who was blind. "This is my fault! If I hadn't let that stupid buzzard corner me-"

"Lad." A shaky hand was moving towards him, which Gladstone grabbed in what would later be described as desperation, with a kind smile that churned his stomach. "Now, list'n ta me an' list'n good. Ah protected you from tha hit b'cause Ah did no want you ta ge' hurt." The other hand gestured vaguely to his face, or Gladstone supposed. "This? I' was b'cause Ah was protectin' a nephew tha' could nae protect 'imself."

Gladstone threw himself onto Scrooge, sobbing and crying, making incoherent screeches as he felt arms wrap around him. "I'm sorry! This is all my fault!" He gripped Scrooge's coat, the soft fabric tightening under his fingers, trying to ignore the smell of neutral magic from the contract that cling to him, as arms wrapped around Gladstone.

"Is alrigh', lad. Uncle Scrooge is 'ere. Aye go' ya.." Bradford, if he hadn't been tossed into The Pit, would have gotten what he wanted, Scrooge thought to himself.

He could never adventure again.

#blind scrooge au #unlucky duck au #name may change #credit to ai-higurashi #gladstone gander #scrooge mcduck #scroogeley mention #fight me may and june are his granddaughters too #bentina beakley #the last adventure au #long post #sadstone gander

19 notes · View notes

erazonpo3 · 4 years

Photo

(This is a written collaboration between myself and Hemlock/pathygen in the ‘Cassandra’s Tangled Adventure’ AU verse, featuring our characters Alphecca and Violante. This was just a fun little back-and-forth with our two villains set in the period in which Violante has possession of Alphecca’s phylactery.

The formatting is based on our replies, it was really fun to get to write together and watch Violante flex on Alphecca. I’d recommend reading it on my blog’s desktop page for the formatting)

The Eagle and The Mole

Ever since her rebirth in flame and ash, Alphecca hasn’t known the icy grip of cold; yet Countess Violante’s chateau inspires it in her bones. It’s a monument of stone, glass, and drapery, and at this time of night the torchlight in the hallways are extinguished; malingerers are unwelcome. Even the ever-present ache in her chest takes its leave here, something she would have been thankful for if it weren’t Violante’s doing. Her soul burned like a dying star, but since her phylactery fell into Violante’s hands all she has known is its absence— numb apathy— the closest thing she knows to cold.

She’s sure to school her features before entering Violante’s parlour, smoothing out the notch between her eyebrows and the curl of her lips that may as well have been sculpted into her flesh these days. Trinket shrieks at her as she walks past, aggrieved that her delicious bones are today wrapped in the illusion of skin and, on top of that, a stupid uniform. It’s stiff and it pinches in ways she can’t feel but is nonetheless frustrated by, and whenever she catches her reflection in the silverware she can’t help but grimace at the militant emblems and pageantry she advertises. All that’s missing from her marionette costume is the strings.

The Countess is waiting for her as expected, perched perfectly poised on the gaudy piece of furniture she likes to pretend is a throne. She resists the urge to sneer at the pretentious display, if only because Violante would find it so amusing.

“I’m back,” she announces flatly, absently picking at the cuff of her jacket.

“Yes, I noticed.” Violante replies, crystal and calm as a winter morning.

The countess has a quill pinched between her fingers; sharp motions carry the crimson plume across the page laid out in front of her, scratching. The chamber swallows sound and bounces it back. Dim moonlight ekes through tall, arched windows of blue stained glass, and casts a watery pattern against the polished floor.

Violante does not look up at the dead woman.

A minute and a half passes before she finally caps the tiny, neat scrawl on the parchment with a looping signature, rolls it into a neat cylinder, and sets it aside. The feathered end of the quill finds its way between her lips, ponderously. She tilts her head up and her smile is delicate. There’s something of a spider in it.

“That certainly took you long enough. One little village could hardly have been all the effort.” The Countess of Solanales stands with a fluid motion, and folds her arms loosely across her chest. A cigarette smolders in it’s holder on the edge of the desk, filling the room with an oily, herbal smell. She inspects Alpchecca like one might a mannequin stuck in a display, lips pursed.

“Well, at least you kept everything in order this time. See? You can look nice. I knew the collar would be a nice touch. The color accents your eyes, now that you have them in.”

Trinket croaks from her perch. The monochrome vulture returns to preening, bored now that the arguably edible bits of the lich aren’t on display. Violante leans back against the edge of her gilded seat. “So how did it go? Did you make any friends?”

This time Alphecca doesn’t withhold the grimace that curls back her lip to expose a yellowed canine. She’s aware of the way the moonlight makes her pale skin seem especially waxy and sallow, which typically serves to unnerve humans- all save the Countess. Violante’s eyes glitter like a cut diamond as she appraises her, and Alphecca forces her gaze away in a show of deliberate disregard. She stares through the blue washed windowpane to speak to the waxing moon, but keeps an eye on Violante’s figure in her periphery.

“I was just being thorough, I’m sure you can appreciate that. No stone left unturned, no building left standing, everything razed just right, just for you,” she says, flashing Violante a quick, sardonic smirk before returning her gaze to the window. “I don’t imagine you’ll have much of a problem marching your people down there and claiming a new pile of dirt, or whatever it is you do with the ashes. There’s nothing left.”

The moon’s bright glow begins to burn a spot into her vision, but facing the window makes it easier for her to keep her face blank. Her excursion today would be considered a success by Violante’s standards, but she had been sure to cause enough of a racket as she tore through the streets that most villagers had ample time to flee before she tore into the place. If they couldn’t escape even after all the time she gave them, well, Cassandra can’t say she didn’t try.

Under the scrutiny she can’t help but scratch at the briarthorn collar, and she chances another glance back at Violante.

“Thoughtful. I can’t say I have much use for more dirt than I already seem to own, but,” Violante gestures and Trinket stretches her neck. The vulture flaps off the stand and onto the desk with a crooked hop, and remains still while the countess fastens the scroll to her leg. “I’m sure whoever is left will be happy to accept all the aid Solanales is willing to provide, in the wake of their unfortunate devastation.”

Eyes glittering, she crooks a gloved finger under the large bird’s beak and hums. “The world is lousy with monsters, after all.”

And in the end, it was only a barrier town. But every little bit counts, every scrap of seizure. Scraps still. But these were things that couldn’t be rushed. Or shouldn’t have been, if she had been able to stick to her original schedule. Plans were important, but the ability to adapt to a situation was worth even more. Put attention in the right places, stress on the right joints, poison in the right tea.

Or get creative, and toss a skeleton into a henhouse. Ho hum.

“Go on.” Violante says to the bird. Trinket makes a clicking noise low in her throat, and takes off without a backwards glance at Alphecca, winging towards some high and hidden exit. Violante watches her go in silence. She doesn’t expect it will take long for a response, in some capacity, but she doesn’t really plan to wait for one either. Aldara is out in the field somewhere, hopefully stalking her other quarry, but there’s a decent chance both situations will muddle together eventually.

“Now, what to do with you?” Violante turns back to face the dead woman, who looks hilariously unsure. It’s already late, and she needs to keep some space between the raids, as she creeps them closer to the borders of the Iron Kingdom.

Alphecca scowls at the vulture’s retreating form, however glad she’d normally be to see it leave. With Trinket gone, only the two of them remain. It didn’t exactly make for a good buffer, yet in the leering bird’s absence the room tightens with intimacy. Violante and intimacy are her two least favourite things, and combined they manifest as the bane of her existence. The only thing that can make it worse is Violante’s voyeuristic shadow who is thankfully out on her master’s orders tonight, likely committing her own fill of atrocities.

The Countess’ icy veneer betrays nothing of her intentions. In a game where information is everything, Alphecca knows she’s at a woeful disadvantage. If she tries fishing, Violante will know what she’s doing the minute she speaks, no matter how vague or disinterested she comes across— but she might be indulged. It begs the question of whether it’s better to stumble around blindly or sniff out a trail she can’t trust. Either way, she needs to say something- the longer she concedes to silence, the further the scales tip in Violante’s favour.

“How about giving these old bones a rest? You’ll find a siesta does wonderful things for the constitution,” she quips. “I’m assuming you don’t want to cause too much of a stir, anyhow,” she adds, unable to deny the temptation of the gamble. Now she forces herself to keep her eyes trained on the Countess, and settles into a smirk.

“You’re dead, you don’t have a constitution,” Violante drawls.

She glances away towards the window, the picture of disinterest, thinking. Ghostly evening light blankets the room, and flows over the silent collection of statues and armor bordering the walls, the curtained archways. Rooting out the location of the lich’s phylactery had been more of an effort of time and money than anything else. She had a number of contacts stretched over the continent, from tomb takers to Morcant to disgruntled former servants who had once swept the halls of the Spire. The crumbling little ruin of a shrine had seemed like a forgotten afterthought, nestled on the edge of an icy valley north of Ingvarr. The pendant had been wrapped in hay and rue. The plain little goat skull carved into the stone that boxed it had worn smooth with time. It was imagery that had become much more frequent among the information she lately received. So many old stories seemed to be pulling themselves up out of the grave these days. Even keeping the new ones in the ground was proving to be a challenge.

No one died like they used to. The lich had certainly been involved in that most recent of frustrations.

Although, maybe, her decision to poison Cassandra had been a little hasty. She had maybe been a little angry. A little perturbed. Corpses and memories were generally less useful than breathing attendants, even if they were less trouble. People were so stubborn. Still, even there the lich might prove..useful. If that was the way things shook out in the end.

“Besides, we both know rest isn’t really in your cards.” The countess says, stepping down away from the desk, towards Alphecca. Reaching up, she adjusts the collar the lich keeps fiddling with, smooths down the epaulettes on her shoulders. The illusion of flesh truly was impressive. Almost as much as the facade of confidence. “You know, I once heard that a long life eventually deprives you of optimism. They also say that time heals all wounds. People never seem to be able to make up their minds about just how sad they think they’re supposed to be.”

Alphecca wraps her grimace up into a wry grin, though the fury in her eyes burns a palpable heat in the gelid room. Violante ignores said look as she smooths out the creases in her uniform, abusing all sentiment of personal space. The woman isn’t physically intimidating in the slightest; even wearing stilettos Alphecca has to look down her nose at her. But the proximity is unnerving. If her physical body is merely an extension of her soul, then Violante owns both, and she isn’t shy about making it known— so Alphecca does her best to ignore it, training her eyes on the wall in front of her instead of the head of perfectly coiffed curls only a breath away and the nails that cross her clavicle to smooth over her shoulders.

“In my experience, more time is just an avenue for more procrastination,” she admits. It’s the truth, or at least it’s her truth, and there’s no harm in admitting it- the information has no value to Violante. If the Countess got her claws on immortality, the last thing anyone should be concerned with is if she were happy or sad.

“People also say that destroying people’s lives and livelihoods won’t make you happy, but we both know that’s not true,” she adds. She hasn’t actually heard anyone say that, but it’s one of those unspoken things- and it’s wrong. Schadenfreude and victory are one hell of a cocktail.

“A common adage, is that?” Violante hums, stepping back. “Stagnation is hideous. And regret is a waste of energy. If you’ve really wasted all this time waiting for a death that’s never going to come, then it’s fortunate I came along to make better use of your… afterlife.” She tilts her head. “Especially considering that I found you rooting around in a cave, talking to bones. I can’t imagine skeletons make for very good conversation.”

For once, Alphecca isn’t bothered by the barb. She wastes her time however she pleases, spending her years harassing new villages until she gets bored and moves on, or searching for new fossils to reanimate, playing in the dirt. She knows she’s a disappointment but that’s how she’s come to like it— fuelled by the spite of those more ambitious than her who have to watch her gnaw on the unending life they can’t have. That is, until Violante took it from her.

With more distance between them now, Alphecca releases a breath; it’s unnecessary, but calming all the same.

“They make better company than your pets, at least,” she says. They don’t talk back, for one thing, but she’ll keep that part to herself. All the bones she finds have very interesting stories to tell, but unfortunately Violante’s dreadful companions only find them useful for teething.

“Tsk. Oh, kettle.” Violante says, sotto voce. She has very little interest in making any argument about the quality of company Aldara or anyone else brings to her circle. She doesn’t keep them around for their people skills. Mostly. The countess reaches out to tap the bottom of her jaw. “You’re so uncertain for a corpse. You chatter so much for a tool. But if that’s the way you feel…” A thoughtful pause, wintry silence. Violante steps past her, the dark pool of her gown trailing on the floor. “Come.”

“What, you’re not a fan of our stimulating discussions?” Alphecca jeers, cocking her head. Blunt as they are, words are the last weapons she has in this fight, but she turns to follow her nonetheless. She kicks her feet up off the ground to hang a foot in the air to let the click of Violante’s heels echo down the hollow hallways alone, creeping behind her like a spectre.

She’s hesitates, trailing behind at a healthy distance, but she can’t deny her curiosity is piqued.

“I think your talents lie elsewhere.” Violante answers without turning around, wry. The castle is large and cold and strikingly empty of people. There are servants, courtiers, of course, but this late at night the work has gone to ground. Most of them, having been around this long, have learned to work out of sight, or in silence. Violante lifts a low burning candelabra from a table in the tapestried hall, wax dripping into the filagree crevices that tomorrow will be picked clean again before she wakes. The halls stretch on, half covered portraits lining the walls, tall arched windows that continue to leak in cool evening light. Violante takes them down, towards the ground floor, and eventually comes to rest in front of a heavy, ornate door set back far from the main vestibule.

“Wait here.” she commands, and without stopping, the countess takes off down another hall and vanishes around the corner. She returns about ten minutes later, unchanged and smiling. In her hand is a small pouch, dangling with a loop of cord that she drapes around her neck. She nods at the door. “Shall we?”

Alphecca lingers back as she follows Violante through the chateau. She’s no stranger to silence, and she can even appreciate the servants’ scarce presence; humans can be such annoying creatures. However, there’s a hostility that comes with the quiet— an unspoken threat that has butlers and maids scurrying away like rats in the corner of her eye, only daring to move when the Countess strides past.

She halts when instructed, taking the time to inspect the portraits of Violante’s ancestors while she waits. The dim light is no obstacle as she takes in the details, sneering at the pompous Lords and Ladies that line the walls. The different fashion styles over the centuries blend together in her mind, but she recognises the distinct ruffles that predate the Shampanier Era crossing over to the more modern style of headdress, evolving across the row of portraits. They have matching brutal, patrician features and cold eyes, and their arrogance is palpable even through the oils. She wonders if Violante sees them as an inspiration or an embarrassment.

Alphecca drops to her feet when Violante arrives, eyeing the new fashion accessory.

“Ladies first,” she gestures in a parody of an usher, trying to avoid the sense of dread that accompanies the sight of the heavy wooden door.

“True.” Violante says agreeably, placing her gloved hand on the door. In the other she still clutches the flickering candelabra, and the light plays shadows against its surface. The front of it is carved with vines and flowers, mountains and snowflakes. It opens with a heavy grinding sound when she tries the handles, with some effort. Cobwebs stick and pull between the gap, and Violante sneers a little at the dust that collects on her fingertips. A staircase leads down into darkness. It reeks of earth, dry and undisturbed.

Violante’s face remains impassive as she starts down the steps, the click of her heels ringing against the stone. The walls are featureless rock, and roots start to press through the gaps the farther down they travel. Eventually the stairs level out onto a narrow, dark, landing. Violante moves with a caution in the dark that relaxes when she finds the torches set into thick pillars that frame the entrance, and she lights them with the candle flame. Orange light fills the cavern.

“Homey, I imagine.” she says. “But still better than what you were used to.”

It is a tomb, of course. More a mausoleum, seemingly built into the naturally limestone cavern underneath the castle. The roof of the crypt rises up high above the chamber, arched ribs and all angles like the inside of a cathedral. Violante doesn’t pause in her intrusion, gliding down the center aisle with a curious fervor, idly stroking the covered parcel around her neck. She finally stops as they near the back of the chamber, in front of a stone dais that elevates two, long, solid coffins. Side by side, in their lofty place of honor. Violante sets the candles down. She looks back at the lich.

She says, “You’re going to wake them up.”

Violante isn’t wrong to assume that the cavernous underbelly of the castle is more comforting to Alphecca than the bleak architecture and furnishing upstairs, but it’s still far from homely. The crypt is stale and azoic, lacking the warm smell of rot and soil that accompanies her usual hovels. Nonetheless she does feel more at ease here, and it takes the tension out of her shoulders.

“Is this mum and dad? I didn’t really take you for the mournful orphan type,” Alphecca says, her smirk eking into her voice. She approaches the left coffin and slides a hand over the lacquered wood, which is stained with black and ornately carved. The golden filigree is finely engraved and the craftsmanship of the coffin itself is masterful. A thrill runs through her bones; as disinterested as she is in the coffin’s inhabitants, she’s eager to see what bijous and tchotchkes she’ll find inside.

It takes her mind off of Violante’s request. Resurrecting one body, one soul, takes more effort than she is usually willing to expend. Two isn’t out of the question, but it’s going to take time. There are shortcuts she could take-

No. She’ll take all the time she needs.

“I can do it for you, but it’s not going to be quick or easy. I’m assuming you want more than just a couple of braindead puppets, after all,” Alphecca states, glancing carefully at Violante.

Violante watches the dead mingle, the old and the ancient. There’s a stone bench opposite the dais, maybe long ago a place meant for prayer or meeting. The back of it curves up into a chiseled swan’s head, with the beak broken off. She sits, and crosses her legs, eyes lidded, observing Alphecca as she circles the caskets. The lich’s interest is evident, undisguised. She’s being so nice.

“Mmm.” she confirms, very calm. “Lady Fiore and Count Viator. I poisoned them when I was seventeen.”

She draws a finger across the jagged beak of the swan and rubs the grit between her thumb and forefinger. The black fabric of her gloves are already powdered with dust. Idly, she pinches one finger and slips it the long glove off, stretching her hand in the cool, dry air of the crypt. The tips of her fingers are stained purplish-black, even deep under her nails.

“They need to be able to speak, and answer questions truthfully. I’m not especially worried about mobility, but memory is important.” She tilts her head, dark eyes focused on the bone witch. “How long? Describe the process for me.”

Alphecca’s lips twist as Violante confesses to her parents’ murder, but continues to investigate the coffins.

“Well, the process involves bartering with Death, binding the soul to an anchor and then binding said anchor to your will- it’s something that can take months, depending on how long it takes to get the reagents, and that’s just for one soul. Doubling up will save time, but even you don’t have infinite resources,” she explains.

Without asking Alphecca lifts the nearest coffin lid, and lets out an involuntary whoop at the burst of pungent aroma. There’s not much left of the carcass itself, despite what she’s sure was a vigorous embalming. Corpses are meant to return to the earth, and the ones buried above ground have a messier time of trying to find it. Lady Fiore’s robes are completely soiled with corpse juice, but she’s surrounded by a few glinting baubles that could still be disinfected- although she’s sure Violante won’t let her play with them.

“A fresh corpse is always easier to work with, but it’s just as well you kept the remains at all- souls will anchor to their own bodies with less of a fuss,” she says, disregarding all the loopholes that come to mind. With a snap of her fingers Fiore’s bones glow a pale blue, battling the orange torchlight for a moment before it subsides. It’s a basic preservation spell that she uses on all her creatures to protect their bones from the elements, which she hopes Violante will take as a sign of her veracity.

“You’ll find my resources will more than suffice.” Violanate says. “Considering the state of your previous arrangement, and what you’re used to.” Scrounging around in the shadows and the muck couldn’t have been all that profitable for the lich. Procuring things, especially things of an elusive nature, is not usually a problem for her.

The stench that emanates from her mother’s coffin is certainly vile enough. Violante’s nose wrinkles, and she nearly rolls her eyes at the bone witch’s obvious enthusiasm for it. For a moment she has to tilt her head to the side, and she brings the pouch around her neck closer to her face. There’s baby’s breath and rosemary inside: a good dampener, or so she’s been told. The Countess is not unfamiliar with corpses, but they’re usually less decayed, and less in her face. She could have used a stronger perfume.

“Useful little spell.” She says, turning back to face the dais.

And then, “..bartering with death.” Violante drawls, stretching the words out slowly. That has her curiosity piqued. Something about it, a string to tug. “Like it’s a person.”

Alphecca hums absently, neither in agreement or disagreement.

“I suppose we’ll see,” she says. She swipes a thumb over Lady Fiore’s cheekbone, imagining how the muscle would have wrapped across it and how the skin might have sat on top. Her sharp jawline mirrors Violante’s, and she’s willing to bet they shared the same nose. She was no doubt a very attractive woman in her prime, and Alphecca finds herself almost frustrated that she’ll be deliberately prolonging the reconstruction process.

She crosses over to the coffin on the left but her fingers tapdance across the lid, and her head perks up at the mention of Death.

“Well, yeah- okay, she’s not really a person, but she’s the shepherd between this realm and the realm where lost souls are... supposed to go, and you’re not going to get a soul back from the realm of the dead without her noticing,” she explains, smiling at the memory of the spectre. Absently she traces shapes in the dust of the coffin lid as she continues.

“It’s far simpler to make a trade with her than to try and steal one, but that’s still easier said than done.”

Having to watch the lich inspect and handle her parents' remains doesn’t seem to phase the Countess very much. Legs crossed, she sits back on the mourning bench, and rests her chin on the back of her fingers.

“‘She’. You make a trade with death.” Violante repeats, not a question. “What could..death-the-entity possibly want in exchange for a soul?”

There’s a visible sneer on her face at the word soul. It’s not that she doesn’t believe in spectres or spirits: she’s essentially speaking to one, even if it’s trapped in a bone. The concept of anything trying to tell her what to do, even after death, dissatisfies. Even at a young age, playing with her first herbs and poisons and staining her skin, Violante knew that she wasn’t going to go until she was good and ready.

She can guess what the lich might think of her. The many things, every terrible notion. Most she’s probably right about. But Violante has no interest in living forever. Cavorting around for centuries as a moldering corpse isn’t an appealing notion, and it obviously hasn’t done the witch any favours. No. She is going to build something great. Something right, something hers.

In the end, if it is really worthy, it will outlast her.

And if it’s not...well.

Violante hums, “Longing for death is a bit of a cliche, even for you.”

“Depends,” Alphecca shrugs. “Sometimes she asks for help wrangling the ghosts that refuse to let go, or she has a specific soul in mind, or sometimes she just wants a favour to keep in her pocket. There’s always some kind of catch though, because she’s hardly going to ask for something she can get herself.”

Even if she weren’t already planning on delaying the process, she anticipates bargaining for two souls will be the most difficult part. Bartering with Death isn’t exactly something she makes a habit of; she can count on one hand the amount of times she’s made the deal, and every time had brought its own headache. Just the memory of it is enough to make her head hurt, so she turns her attention back to Violante.

“Yeah, well. Even you’d be begging her to come take you after long enough. You and I both know Death can be a mercy,” she says with a smirk, and cracks open dear father’s casket.

Help, promises, wayward souls. “That’s a lot out of death’s reach.” More than one would think, for such a definite force. Violante listens to the dead woman without looking up, thinking, rubbing the pad of her thumb across the velvet pouch dangling from her neck. There is another wave of foul scent, all earth and rot. The sound of heavy stone dragging on stone. Her father had been a count of some notable prowess. He had been good at getting people to listen, and always spoke with confidence. Curt at times, but he shared a warmth with her mother that would have seemed anathema to the traditional Solanales chill, to anyone outside of their family. They were a private people. Violante had loved her parents. She had loved them even when she was putting them in the ground.

“Who said anything about mercy?” The countess murmurs, tilting her head, a silver-dark curl of hair sliding over one side of her face. Wintry, she says, “How long is this going to take you? Approximately, for one body?”

Alphecca rakes a finger down Count Viator’s sternum, making a mental note of his measurements. She’s sure there’s a portrait somewhere in the castle she can look to as a reference for their bodies, which are clearly tall but perhaps wider than their frames let on. Violante’s voice echoes in the cavernous room, yet the words themselves float around in the air. There’s a few trinkets scattered in the coffin, rings and jewels and heirlooms; they’re gaudy and expensive, but far from valuable to the dead. The sudden change in the intonation of Violante’s voice catches her attention, and she only catches the tail end of her question.

“Hm? Oh- well, for one? It’d normally take around a month or so to source all the reagents- meat, ivory, rare herbs and spices and whathaveyou- then somewhere between one to two weeks to build the body itself. After that it really depends on what I need to do to recover the soul,” Alphecca explains, finally dragging her eyes away from the remains.

“And of course, I wouldn’t want to rush perfection.”

“How thoughtful,” Violante drawls. “But they don’t need to be perfect, just functional. Enough to answer what I want to ask of them. You fare well enough without lungs. Or gray matter.” The countess tilts her head again. “They’re going right back in the ground after I’m finished with them.”

Pushing away from the bench, Violante stands with fluid, gossamer grace. Holding one arm loosely tucked around her waist, she climbs the steps and despite the reek, peers slowly into each of the caskets, expression unreadable. Swipes one stained fingers against the dust collected on the stone lip, rubbing.

Almost conversationally, she looks back and says, “Tell me what you need, and you’ll have it within a week. If not sooner. We have the merits of civilization here.” With a surprising amount of ease, Violante leans back against her mother’s grave and lifts herself into a sitting position on the skewed cover, ankles crossed. She smiles, her mouth a sharp, dark slash. “Three weeks, I think, is more than enough time for you to finish the work.”

Very slowly, she lifts the velvet pouch and threads it open. The amulet is heavy, and Violante curls it’s chain delicately around her fingers, thumb hooked under one of the horns. Scarlet light suffuses her from below.

Coy, Violante hums, “If you put your mind to it.”

Alphecca scowls at Count Viator, cursing him for ever procreating.

“If you want a botched job, then fine,” she sneers, bristling at the intrusion on her oasis. The presence of the phylactery is like a sneeze sitting at the back of her nose, painless and yet impossible to ignore. However, the Countess has extended her a favour in the same token, providing her the irritation necessary to redirect her attention elsewhere.

“The souls of the dead don’t tend to like being torn from their peace and shoved back inside their corpses, and the further the vessel is from their actual flesh and blood, the harder it is to attach them. And if a soul doesn’t attach properly, then you’re going to have a very uncooperative, likely half-braindead, pale imitation of your dearly departed loved one. So it’s your call,” Alphecca explains, drumming her fingers on the coffin lid.

It’s a gambit for more time, but the phenomenon of corrupted souls isn’t unheard of. And it’s not exactly something she’s keen on dealing with.

And then there was silence. It was followed by the shrill whistle of a lofty wind, swiftly swallowed by the cavern, sucked down. Above, a jagged crack in the apex of the cave opened up to mountain air and evening sky. Snow-melt had formed thin icicles which dripped with languid precision onto the old stone. There were some places within the cavern where if you listened close enough you could hear the sounds of running water; more runoff that was kept flowing by the warm channels that ran all underneath Solanales. The recessed thermal rivers: mineral rich, were responsible for the health and diversity of the medicinal herbs the county was able to cultivate. Her father had shown her maps, long ago.

Violante regards the lich cooly. The sneer; the constant flow of excuses, the obstinance. There is a moment before she speaks, where the slick consideration in her dark eyes slides towards bored. Just as quickly, the flat stare is replaced with a knifelike flash of malice, penetrative and acute—then a return to hawkish study.

“You’re right,” The countess says smoothly, examining the blemished fingers of her free hand, “it is my call.” She tilts her head, and wrly continues, “..and if I cared about what they liked, I wouldn’t have killed them in the first place.”

The glow from the amulet gives her skin a rosy tincture it doesn’t usually possess. Violante places her empty hand back on the coffin lid behind her, relaxing back into a lounge.

“Alphecca…” her voice is deadly soft. She rarely uses the corpse’s name. She’s never seen much point. The countess peers down at the phylactery, slim fingers curled under the horns and through the chains.

“You know, this really was remarkably easy to find. Time; a few simple exchanges of gold, a barter with a like-minded contact—who will no doubt realise, eventually, the true cost of that information, and likewise, the great loss she would accrue attempting to take it back.”

Calm, easy, her posture is that of a woman relaxing in a parlor; not an arm's reach away from her mother’s seeping skeleton. Violante runs her thumb up the side of the crystal. It’s warm, with a steady, pulse-like thrum.

“That is a part of what it means to have dominion—to have dominance. Laying the foundation. Control over people and their emotions, so that they don’t go spinning them out into actions they haven’t thought over properly. Something always there, in the back of their minds.”

With a sly smile, Violante tilts the amulet. “Like this.” Her fingers tighten, squeeze around the pulse.

“Come here.” she commands.

The Countess’ silence brings the familiar weight of dread, the coils of her contemplation winding and tensing before their inevitable release. The use of her name, soft as it is, is like the snap of a twig; the arrow is coming next, but she has nowhere to run. When Violante speaks, her words are dripping with nightshade, and Alphecca pays less attention to the words as she does those eyes and the way they peel back the illusion of her flesh. How long ago was it that Zhan Tiri had stood in her place, holding the phylactery that they’d created together, swinging it before her like an aberrant hypnotist? The image lingers in her mind, branded into her being, and it burns again now. Violante holds her ransom with equal avarice and even more capriciousness.

She doesn’t fight the command.

One foot drags after the other, pulling her away from Viator’s putrid remains towards his fetid offspring. The ends of her hair dance in the waves of heat that surge from her body, casting her pallid skin in the same glow mirrored in her bottled soul, and her sclera seeps with augural ink. She looks down her nose at the Countess, but stays mute; her glare speaks for itself.

“Oh, that face again,” Violante smiles slyly as the lich draws near. “You looked at me like that the last time you tried to get me to break this. For all that trite dribble about souls, they pack rather nicely into tight spots, hm?” She lifts the phylactery and lets it dangle from her fingers again. The carved crystal twists, shedding ruby light.

Tilting her head, the countess adds, “..though honestly the sheep-theme is a little provincial for my taste.”

From her perch on the coffin lid, she and the lich are almost at eye level. Idly, she taps the curled horns of the amulet against her lips, and takes a moment to inspect the flickering hair, warmed by the unnatural heat in the cold center of the crypt. She’s seen the witch dressed in bone before, skeletal, human then very much not. She hasn’t yet been able to divine whether the flesh is an illusion, or a simulacrum.

“...you know, it’s almost funny,” she says after another moment, musing. Gently, Violante reaches up to take Alphecca’s chin between her fingers, feeling for bone or for the presence of a seam. Without much force, she tilts her face left, then right. “The creature that made you this way got to die before you, didn’t it? Whether it wanted to or not. And even though it’s gone, you’re still here. That’s an impressive act of malice I’m not even sure I could aspire to.”

She brushes a strand of winding hair behind the dead woman’s ear, the fingers of her other hand wrapped around the amulet. They rest there, lingering.

“Mercy,” she hums, “Death. Do you really think that force regards you as anything more than a vague afterthought? Do you know why?”

Close, her eyes are dark and flat. When she smirks, her lips part, and there’s something of a serpent in it. The fingers set behind the corpse's ear hook suddenly, sharply. “It’s because you’re a commodity.” Softly, “A body. It was a waste having you be as you were before: running loose, childish and deranged. Whatever worth you had was decided on ages ago by something greater, and then discarded in one instant, only to be defined again, now, by me. That’s the only thing that matters here.”

Drawing her hand back, Violante twines another piece of fiery hair around her stained, lacy fingers. The amulet beats a rhythm against her palm. “Like that little village you destroyed. Garbage, right? But now, it’ll be built up again into something useful—desirable. Not only as a consequence of my birthright, but because I have the power to make that happen, and the will to speak through it. Because that’s the zeal the world recognizes. In the end, it doesn’t matter who you are or who you’re trying to be. Whether you’re a shambling monster… or a wayward sword, I’ll use the power I have; my proof of conquest, to assert my will—” a rough tug on the strand of hair, closer “—and change the meaning of value.”

Silence, and the drip of distant water. Violante lets the strand slide free from her hair, and inspects her hand with distant disinterest.

“Three weeks,” she says cooly. The phylactery thrums in her grip. “Don’t ever try to argue with me again.”

Alphecca’s phantom heart thumps in her hollow chest. Words intended to cut to the quick come close to their mark, but nothing Violante says can slice deeper than the futility of her situation. She can’t remember needing to gasp for air like this, not for a long time. And yet for all her vast networks of contacts and flies on the walls, Violante doesn’t know everything. She clutches that thought like a final matchstick in the dark, for all its limited warmth. The Countess doesn’t know Death; not like she does. And she’ll get those souls that she wants, and she’ll do her finest job— but Violante’s not the only one that has strings worth pulling.

For as tainted as Violante’s hands are, they’re still warm. Blood pulses right to the tips of her fingers and beats against her false skin, and she feels its absence when her hand draws away. Alphecca responds with a cock of the head, and a sneer.

“I’d better get going, then.”

#cta au #alphecca #violante #my art #my writing #and also hemlock's but that's just my fic tag

53 notes · View notes

five-rivers · 4 years

Text

Long Night in the Valley chapter 5

Toshinori found himself thinking about his brief and extremely ill-advised time as a quirkless vigilante. He had a sinking suspicion that it because of his uninvited mental guests, but he couldn’t exactly do anything about that. Between the two of them, Izuku had always been better at the mental portion of their quirk.

He finished washing the bleach out of Izuku’s hair and couldn’t help but wonder if Izuku had ever contemplated going down that path. It had been cruel, and knowing what he did now, he would never repeat it, but his speech to Izuku on that rooftop had been intended to keep him from making the same mistakes Toshinori had in his youth.

If Nana hadn’t picked him up… he shuddered to think what would have become of him. He’d certainly been in over his head, hitting far above his weight class.

Although, to be honest, they weren’t in a good position right now, either.

“I’m sorry,” said Izuku, softly.

“It isn’t your fault,” said Toshinori.

“But I couldn’t make him leave. And now he’s going after your secrets.”

“My boy, they sent a highly skilled infiltrator into your mind.” Toshinori was not entirely sure how he knew this, but it felt correct. “You don’t have the training to combat that. What you have done is remarkable.” He toweled off Izuku’s hair. The damp and the product had conspired to make it less fluffy than usual. “The last you told me, you couldn’t even manifest fully in that place.”

“I tried to distract them,” said Izuku, miserably. “It didn’t work. It—He’s still there.”

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” said Toshinori. “Other than One for All, I don’t have any secrets worth all these tears.” It might be annoying if they found out about all the illegal stuff he’d done over the years, but most of it would be nigh-impossible to prove. “Let’s get you into that suit.”

“Right,” said Izuku, peeling out of his clothes. “Why a suit, though?”

“It’s something you’d never choose to wear and relatively anonymous,” said Toshinori. He started to put on his own coat, checking that all the hidden pouches were filled. To stay true to his disguise, Izuku was only carrying a messenger bag, and they would need the supplies.

“How do I look?” asked Izuku. The first thing Toshinori noticed was that he hadn’t bothered with the tie, but Toshinori had planned to take care of that from the beginning.

The second thing—

Toshinori did not blanch.

Of course, that’s what he looks like, whispered seven or so voices. Knew from the beginning. Have to read the DNA to rewrite it. Can’t give this to just anyone.

Yes. Of course.

“You look wonderful,” said Toshinori, reaching for the tie. “And also unrecognizable.”

“Well, that’s the point, right?” asked Izuku, running a hand through his hair. “So… How are we going to do this?”

Toshinori made a face. He wasn’t terribly good at this part. There was a reason he’d relied so heavily on Sir Nighteye once upon a time.

“I… could come up with a plan,” proposed Izuku. “Tell me how Trace’s quirk works.”

The fight reached the other side of the tunnel, and spilled out into bright, yellow sunlight. Midoriya had been fighting Iida up until a moment ago, but upon exiting the tunnel he had run off. After stabbing Suzuki in the eye with a pencil.

Meanwhile, All Might, Teenage Menace special edition, was holding his own against them.

One thing Aizawa didn’t understand, though, was why All Might wasn’t using his quirk.

Thankfully, after leaving the tunnel, the boy began to falter, and then ran off after Midoriya. Aizawa wasn’t interested in pursuing either of them. Were there questions he wanted answered? Yes. Did he want them answered at the cost of invading his student’s privacy and breaking his trust? No.

In the meantime, he did have to see if the idiot needed medical care. That was, unfortunately, part of his job.

“Want help with that?” he asked.

“No,” said Suzuki, pulling the pencil out. In less than a second, his eye was fine. “That hurt,” he complained.

A small part of Aizawa mourned the fact that breaking Suzuki’s legs would not be enough to stop him. A small, but very present part. He pushed it away. Thinking on might-have-beens was illogical.

“Sensei!” called Uraraka. “I think we’re in America. All the signs are in English!” She pointed.

The signs were, in fact, in English. Considering how much time All Might had spent in America, it wasn’t terribly surprising that Midoriya would construct such a place for him in his mind.

… Although, he had to wonder why Midoriya’s mind had a teenage vigilante All Might running around in it. Because if he were Midoriya in this situation, and he could pick any All Might, he’d pick top-of-his-game natural disaster All Might, so, this had to be an All Might that Midoriya just. Had. For some reason.

“This proves it,” said Todoroki.

“Proves what?” asked Aizawa.

“That Midoriya is All Might’s secret love child.”

Iida sighed, heavily, leaving off prodding his formerly impaled shoulder.

“Think about it!” said Todoroki, as emotive as Aizawa had ever seen him. “Who else would All Might tell about his dark past?”

Regrettably, he had a point.

“Add that to the quirk, and the smile, and how they meet up for lunch at least once a week—”

“That is literally the dumbest thing I have ever heard,” said Suzuki. “All Might is a natural-born hero. A pillar of society!”

“Yes?” said Todoroki, squinting at Suzuki as if daring him to say something that made sense.

“He isn’t going to have a secret love child.”

Regrettably, he also had a point.

“Much less one like Midoriya Izuku.”

Okay, the point was gone.

“In any case, black tentacles are not at all like All Might’s general enhancer.”

“It is like his mother’s, though,” said Todoroki, “and even though I keep saying ‘secret love child,’ my current theory is that Midoriya-san and All Might are, in fact, married, but they had to do it secretly, so that All Might’s enemies wouldn’t find them.”

“Todoroki, please, you can’t just spread baseless rumors like that about your classmates!” said Iida, chopping at the air. “Much less your classmate’s families!”

Todoroki looked hurt. “But I have evidence!”

Aizawa should probably put a stop to this, but he kind of wanted to see where it was going, and there was no way this was true. At all.

If Midoriya was All Might’s kid, he would never shut up about it. All Might, that was. Midoriya was, evidently, capable of keeping secrets.

(On the other hand, Aizawa didn’t have a better theory for their obvious close bond.)

“What evidence?” asked Iida, clearly intrigued despite himself.

“Midoriya-san is amazing.” Todoroki’s eyes sparkled like he was in a manga.

Aizawa sighed, he should have known the ‘evidence’ would—

Wait.

“Where’s Uraraka?”

Uraraka really should have been paying more attention. Especially after all the situational awareness classes Aizawa-sensei had given them.

Izuku didn’t blame her. This was a distracting situation, and he rather suspected being asleep and ‘dreaming’ was affecting their judgement.

Still. It was almost too easy to pull her to the side and through a door into another part of the dreamscape.

But after that, she shook off his grip and readied a fighting stance.

“I don’t want to fight,” he whispered, making a quelling motion.

Uraraka looked like she wanted to believe him but frowned. “Sorry, but I kind of find that hard to believe after you stabbed Iida. I mean, I know you’re under the effects of a quirk and all, but you’re still under the effects of a quirk.” Despite her words, she matched his volume.

“I know, I know,” said Izuku. “It looks bad, but…” He wrung his fingers together and adjusted the sleeves of his uniform. “There’s something you guys need to know about what’s going on, and you were easiest to grab. Can I explain? I’m not going to fight you guys anymore. Not like- Not like I was.”

Uraraka sighed and relaxed her shoulders, just slightly. “Alright, Deku, I—” she faltered. “Midoriya.”

“You can still call me Deku,” said Izuku. “I mean, it is my hero name.”

“Yes, but… they used it to hurt you, didn’t they?”

Izuku shrugged. This wasn’t the conversation he wanted to be having. “If—I guess, if you want, you can call me Izuku. It would feel weird for you to go to calling me Midoriya.”

Uraraka blinked. “Are you sure?”

“Yes?”

“Then you have to call me Ochako!”

Izuku blushed. “Okay,” he said, in a tiny voice. He coughed. “So. Um. Imagine, imagine you’re in a room.” He gestured at the facsimile of the American diner. “You’re standing in the middle.”

Ura—Ochako nodded. “Sure,” she said.

“Right. So, you can’t see all the walls at once, no matter how you turn. Unless, like, you have some kind of vision-related quirk, or a quirk like Shoji’s I guess.” Izuku shook his head, putting aside that train of thought for the moment. “Does that make sense, so far?”

“Yes,” said Ochako, “but I don’t see what it has to do with… this.” She spread her hands in front of her.

“Well, um. It’s what was going on back there,” he gestured vaguely towards where they’d come from. “From the beach until the tunnel. You were in my head. Kind of… inside my personality, I guess? So, you couldn’t see the whole thing at once. Just the walls from the inside. Each, um, each one of me? Each one of me was like a different wall. You couldn’t see the whole shape. They were incomplete.”

“Okay,” said Ochako. “But that should still be what’s happening, then, right? We’re still in your head.”

“Yeah, that’s why I needed to talk to you. You aren’t. You’re… This me, the me you’re talking to, right now, I’m complete, because you’re seeing me from outside, now. Well, mostly complete. Like, you can’t see the other side of the room from the outside… Oh, no, All Might is right, I’m terrible at metaphors.” He buried his face in his hands.

“It’s fine,” said Ochako. “But, um. You’re saying we’re in someone else’s head?”

“Sort of. Just… not my dreamscape. Mindscape? It’s-It’s complicated.” He lifted his head.

“D—Izuku-kun, is this All Might’s mind?”

It was going to be pretty obvious once everyone woke up, so Izuku nodded.

“Why?” asked Ochako. “How?”

“I can’t explain everything right now. It’s too much, and I don’t know if the commission has someone listening with a telepathy quirk from the outside. I know they’re not using it on me, because I’m awake, but—”

“What? You’re awake?”

“Sort of, sort of. It’s a side effect of what’s going on here. I woke up when Suzuki-san shot me. And I’m sort of on the run. It’s really, really, not something I can give details about, though, because, you know. Listening.”

Ochako took a deep breath. “So, what did you want to tell me?”

“Well, all of that, but also, we need to coordinate. It would be best if we could get Suzuki-san to stay in one place, but I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“We were trying to do that before.”

“I kind of thought so,” said Izuku. “The problem is, if you’re moving around, you’re going to run into All Might like you ran into me back in my dreamscape. If Suzuki-san’s quirk works the way I think it does, and he keeps using it on me, that’s not a problem at this point. But if he starts using it on T—on All Might, that’s different.”

“You know what his quirk is?” asked Ochako, raising her eyebrows.

“I think he can make people think of particular topics,” said Izuku. “Like secrets and stuff. Which is why him realizing he’s in All Might’s mind would be bad.”

Ochako nodded and perched on the edge of one of the tables. “All Might was number one for so long,” she said, “I’d be surprised if he didn’t know a whole bunch of different classified things. Should we try to go back?”

“… I’d say yes, but I need my brain power for escaping, not rendering traumatic moments from my childhood, and I know a lot of different classified things. Some of which are, uh. Significantly more recent. Plus, I’m not sure All Might will let you go back.”

“Oh,” said Ochako, tilting her head. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but there isn’t any truth behind Todoroki’s secret love child theory, is there?”

“Absolutely not,” said Izuku.

“Okay. I’m guessing you have a plan?”

“More like a distraction,” said Izuku. “I don’t know how well this will work, but…”

“You know,” said Izuku as he shouldered his bag, both fascinated and horrified, “with your head shaved and the face mask bit, you kind of look like, you know.”

“Ah,” said Toshinori, uncertain how to react to realizing that he had dressed both himself and his successor as their worst enemy. “I suppose,” he said. “The coat is very different, though.”

“Yes. It is.”

“Speaking of which,” said Toshinori, forcibly changing the topic, “remember to take the tie off if you get into a fight. It’s too easy to grab on to.”

Izuku nodded, partially distracted by all the conversations happening in his head. Then he blinked.

“Vigilantism?”

Toshinori shrugged sheepishly. “Did you ever consider it?”

All Izuku had ever wanted to do was help people. Save people. Heroics had been the best option. For a while, the only option. In theory, a person could get into heroics on merit and skill. Everything else… Anything like a doctor or a police officer or a lawyer… It would have been impossible for a quirkless person. Even finding housing could be difficult for the quirkless, because most landlords made people disclose their quirks, to ‘prevent accidents from bad quirk interactions.’

Toshinori wrapped an arm around Izuku’s shoulder. For a moment, Izuku had forgotten he’d been listening in. For a moment, he’d forgotten how bitter he could be about that particular

“Not then,” he said. He’d known that he’d never survive without training he couldn’t get except at a hero school like UA. “But now?”

“Heh. We’ll make quite the duo, won’t we, my boy?”

They needed to leave. Before Trace got too close. They both had their directions, but it didn’t really matter if they remembered them clearly or not. Not when they could hear and feel each other, and they had so much help.

They exited the hideout, climbed up through the storm drains, navigated through the building above them, walked a block together, and split up without another word.

Trace’s quirk could tell where a person had been. She wasn’t as good at determining when they had been there. Any trails left within two hours of each other looked more or less the same, according to her registration with the hero commission. According to an interview Izuku had seen her give once, in the aftermath of a kidnapping, after ten, the trail disappeared entirely, and she needed to have the trail to follow it.

If Izuku and Toshinori looped over their trails often enough, she wouldn’t be able to tell which trail was which. With luck and planning, they could lead her in maze-like loops, break their trail up with buses and jumps between buildings, and get a head start on her. A head start that they could use to outdistance her, because her tracking quirk took time to work.

At least, that was what Izuku hoped would happen. In reality, the commission records tended to be out of date, heroes rarely gave completely correct information about their quirks to the public, and even Izuku’s encyclopedic knowledge had limits. After all, encyclopedias gave only short overviews of their subjects.

But there had to be some relation between reality and record.

And if it didn’t work… Izuku’s self-preservation skills was trash, but eight minds whirred behind his, more than ready to put theirs to work for him. The consensus was to fight, and, in this state, they would operate by the consensus. Nine of them together.

Nine here, keeping them physically away from the commission. Nine inside, keeping their secrets safe. Nine keeping the doors strong and the vault clo—

He stumbled at the unexpected direction of his thoughts. His head throbbed.

It would be much easier if they weren’t in his head anymore.

He hurried forward.

Miles away, in the most secure prison in the country, the guards of the most dangerous villain in the worlds scrambled for answers. They had sedated the man known as All for One to what was, frankly, a dangerous degree. He hadn’t so much as twitched in hours, nor had he spoken, even before that.

His brain activity was elevated.

Highly elevated.

It had been for hours, and they had no idea why.

All for One smiled at the vault door in front of him. It had been a long time since he’d seen it, but, nevertheless, his memory of it was pristine. It was, after all, a place he revisited often in his thoughts.

Wondering, wondering.

But this wasn’t then. This wasn’t a result of him being lost in thought. Oh, no. This was something infinitely more interesting. Infinitely more valuable.

He ran his hand through his curly hair and hummed contemplatively. Interesting, interesting indeed.

He walked to the door an ran his fingers down the cold interior, the little scrapes and knicks catching at his fingertips. Now, this, this was more detail than he had retained, but not, perhaps, more detail than, say, someone who had been imprisoned here for a long time would recall.

A smile stretched out over his face, wide and sparkling and full of glee.

This, he thought, would be quite amusing.

He pulled back his hand and made a fist.

“Knock knock, little brother.”

Izuku slowed to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk.

That.

He blinked, hard.

That would be a problem.

He started walking again, faster.

Toshinori leaned against a grimy city wall, out of breath. The mask was thick and made it hard to breathe, especially with his singular lung.

Of course, what had him gasping wasn’t anything physical, but the massive weight of dread that had just settled on his chest. Was Izuku in trouble? Did the commission get him?

No.

Slowly, unerringly, he rotated until he faced Tartarus.

Ah.

Not again.

Izuku broke off mid-sentence and grabbed Ochako by the wrist as the restaurant vibrated.

“What was that?” asked Ochako.

“A problem,” said Izuku, staring off into the distance, as if he was seeing something completely different. Well. He could be, Ochako realized.

“Something in the real world? Wherever you are?”

“No,” said Izuku. “Change of plans. You guys really, really need to get out of here.” He pulled her out the door onto the street. The sky was rapidly darkening. He seemed to realize he was still holding onto her, and blushed, dropping her wrist. “S-sorry.”

“We don’t know how, though. I thought that was why we were doing the distraction.”

“We don’t know how, but…” Izuku bit his lower lip. “Yeah, yeah, no, one might be able to do something. But if they’re closer… Can’t just wait. Can we still wait? What do you think? What… That would work? Maybe. We can work with maybe. Seven, that’s too far. Okay, yeah. Yeah.”

“Izuku-kun?”

“Sorry! Sorry. I think… I think you might have to go forward after all. The others have been here longer than I have. They know more.” He started running down the street. “Come on!”

“Others? What others?” asked Ochako, hurrying to catch up.

“The, um. The others we’re connected to, me and, and All Might.” He wasn’t looking at her as he ran. “If you ask them—They’ll know more than me. They’ve been doing this longer, and this is tangled in one’s quirk. One of them might have seen a quirk like this before, been in this position before.”

“But—”

“It’s just really dangerous for you to be here right now.”

“Why?”

Izuku stopped and bounced in place. “Weakened mental immune system, basically. Something else is trying to get in. Can’t do both at the same time.”

A building behind him exploded into rubble. He winced.

“What’s going on?” asked Ochako.

“Flashback,” said Izuku. “Toshinori…” He shook his head and pointed down a cross street. “If you go this way, you’ll be able to meet back up with everyone.”

“What about the plan?”

Izuku shook his head. “Just try to stay alive, for now. This isn’t going to be fun. I’m sorry, I have to go!”

Before Ochako could protest further, he was gone.

#bnha #fic #fanfic #long night in the valley #boku no hero academia

48 notes · View notes