#make it much more normalized through sheer numbers

[ochrearia]

ether

I'm normal (lying) and I needed to put this somewhere so bad and it's still not enough but YS I'm sorry. I'm making you suffer even more but you need to understand we're basically the same at this point and you're really the only bitch that I can pretend like feels exactly what I feel. Fuck. RGBFverse prompts aren't just silly fiction anymore

Every damn prompt in the last two or so days has been real. Been me. I feel like that was obvious

BFs in this one-shot: Yourself (YS)

God it was getting rather ridiculous now. Could he even blame it all on the angelic instincts anymore? Sure, they certainly didn’t help, but that wasn’t… it wasn’t quite the same. At least, YS wasn’t really sure if it was or not. The guardian angel thing, that was more of a possessive protectiveness that flared up practically any time he saw or thought about his people he’d attached to. Which, good god, he was understanding why angels didn’t attach to this many people. It was bad enough to have one person taking up all your thoughts on any given day, because you were hard-wired to dedicate yourself to them, but he was at what, fifteen now? Probably more. And he wasn’t stopping his erratic attaching either. He’d probably keep making that number go up. Not like he was known to make good choices.

But this felt a little different. YS was no stranger to working himself up into trances over the sheer amount of sappy, sentimental thoughts he started getting over any given brother. And it wasn’t like those thoughts were specific to one idea. The protectiveness rang true in those trances and made itself known through his half-aware mumbling. And paired with it came thoughts of love, and appreciation, and everything in between he had no idea how to name.

But… were the trances even because of his angelic instincts? Or did he just feel so damn deeply about things in general? Suppose YS couldn’t really recall feeling much of these trances before he started meeting all of his brothers. Maybe he had thoughts pooled together like this about her, and he was sure of that but he probably just never considered it as a “trance”. Because it’s not alien to just love your girlfriend that much that you think every nice thought possible about her, right? And he used to be able to kiss her any time he wanted, show properly his affection and she’d understand it. Maybe feel it too.

So what the fuck was going on here? Every time his brain snagged on a thought about a brother it was like a fucking disaster was set off. YS very much didn’t care in terms of ‘what affection he could express’ compared to what he ‘couldn’t’, because it was all going to slip out at some point eventually. If you asked him, he was technically not allowed to express any type, because he didn’t deserve to, but Beefer would sooner crash straight through his mirror in full dino form and try to like, eat him or something. Because he could tell when YS was being an ass to himself and was sticking very clearly to his ‘job’ of butting in before it kept going.

God his heart. YS was going to die it felt like, because fuck, why did his heart have to ache so bad thinking about his brothers? Tripping himself up over the fact they cared about him, dizzying his own mind over the concept of being loved by anyone, much less this many people. And yeah, okay, sure, they were all technically the same person. And there was probably some merit to his previous idea of reality getting confused when there were two or more of them in the same world. Getting so cuddly for nothing because it felt like they had to become whole again despite not being fractured at all. But this was just… something else.

He loved so hard. Holy fuck, he really did to the point it was debilitating. That’s really what it was. It was debilitating, completely paralyzing him on the spot despite things he needed to be doing. It was so much, almost all the time, it took days sometimes for the ache in his chest to go away for a little, only for it to come back later to torment him again. It was like YS almost couldn’t breathe sometimes, thinking in a spiral of how much love he had for the people in his life now, people loving him back, caring for him, quite literally making him want to wake up to be alive tomorrow so he could keep them in his mind again and maybe even spend time with them. Family like he’d never experienced before, because angels in his world didn’t really care about each other. Couldn’t, when they had others to attach to.

God YS had so much of it to give. That was all he really wanted to do. Give, give it all, drain his heart to empty and still continue giving because he could, and that’s what his brothers deserved and more. Giving the world to the people he loved. For the asshole he believed so much he couldn’t want things, he wanted this so badly. Give all of himself away, unhealthy mindset be damned. He would do anything for his people. Because he cared. He cared, so much, and that thought was powerful enough alone to bring slight tears to YS’s eyes. Truth, raw and strong.

But that was the problem. He’d give everything. But he couldn’t give this feeling in his chest, the swirling in his brain, raw emotions that rippled in his body like tsunamis but were confined there. YS had no way to directly broadcast the exact things he felt, and it was like he was dying. Because it was all trapped and it wasn’t fair. Words weren’t enough, actions weren’t enough. None of what he’d been doing so far was enough no matter what he shared. And god, it was so bad, but he’d been describing it all with such negative words when it was literally the opposite.

He’d take being debilitated like this over any other kind of feeling, any day. Wanted this. Wanted.

This was… possessive. Very possessive. His brothers. Every single one of them. His. His to love and hold and appreciate, his to care for and lift up. And not a single damn regret about it. Too possessive? Probably, but this was all so new to him. He’d never done this before, in fact, he doubted that any angel had done this before. Attaching to this many people and feeling just as equally strong about each one. It was so much. And he could never give enough.

So important, all of them. Stuck in YS’s brain and he couldn’t get them out. And it didn’t matter how much he spoke about this to them, telling them point-blank that he loved them, holding them tight and not letting go until told, it was still just… not enough for what he felt in his heart.

YS’s heartbeat was freakishly slow. As were angel’s heartbeats. Probably didn’t help with the whole cold-blooded thing either. But every time he worked himself up into a trance, getting so mind-swirlingly loving, possessive, and almost needy, his heart would speed up. Noticeably speed up, because Beef had pointed it out before. God, he was so disgustingly sweet in his actions and that was mortifying to admit. Biff had a habit of saying it like it was though.

Tear my heart out of my chest, lay bare the ache it holds and feels because I cannot fucking take it anymore. I want you all to know. I wish I could perfectly convey it, I wish you could all feel what I feel, know how powerful my love and care really is, and if it’s too much then I’m so sorry. But it’s exactly what you deserve, and still more. Wonderful to me, kind to me, after all of my mistakes, stains on the world because of my wrong choices. People that aren’t here anymore because I didn’t do enough. But you’re all still here. And I know I have done nothing to deserve any of you.

YS felt like he was dying. But that was okay. If he got to die feeling so positively, then it would be his final victory.

God, I love you all. I promise. For the rest of my time here I will try to convey that as it is. For the rest of my time here I will work to repay and make up for everything I may put you through and you still stay.

For the rest of his time here. However long he’s wanted. And he hoped that would be forever, but that was usually never the case.

So he would love, like it would be over tomorrow.

[rabbit-flaying]

Humanity's Collector

Genres: Fantasy and Science Fiction

Content Warnings: Dehumanization, Kidnapping, Casual Violence, Claustrophobia, Mild Cosmic Horror

Note: I want to get back to positing my writing on Tumblr. Maybe someone will recognize this. Probably not.

"Gosh you're pretty," Glade cooed, its voice sounding a bit like Harlow's mother, a bit like a brook, and a bit like paper being crumpled up and cast aside.

Harlow looked around desperately. For he had to find escape from the strange realm he had woken in. All manner of miscellany took up space in the void around him. It looked like a storage closet, if every storage closet in the world were connected together, and the possessions of kings and paupers alike were granted permission to socialize.

He ignored Glade and stood from his wicker chair, quickly overwhelmed by the sheer size of the realm and number of objects held within it.

Above him the color white stretched out into infinitum. True white, not the dirty kind found in snow and house paint. It hurt his head, making his temples throb and blood vessels contract, so he looked away from it.

"Where am I?" Harlow demanded. "Who are you?"

"My name is Glade," it answered. "You're in my home."

Harlow made the mistake of eye contact. Glade's eyes shone with the light of galaxies, a dazzling rainbow of nebulae, planets, and suns. The entirety of the universe, and many more beyond it, seemed tucked away within the perfectly spherical marbles buried in the putty-like flesh of its glowing face.

He finally broke away from the hypnotic sight, his puny brain unable to handle the visions within. How much time had passed, every one of his neurons firing at once in an attempt to process the cosmos of Glade's eyes? Seconds? Minutes? Hours, even?

He needed answers, yet he did not know the right questions. Glade didn't seem human, instead a creature from a story book. And this monolithic hoard couldn't possibly be real.

"Your home?" he asked in a strangled sort of voice, staring pointedly at the patch of ebony wood ground he stood upon.

"I'm a collector," Glade explained, running their sharp nails, painted with glitter and adorned with scraps of emeralds, through Harlow's silky hair.

"What do you collect, exactly?"

Harlow watched a glittering blue beetle crawl across the ground, finding a hiding spot underneath a red and purple feathered ball gown displayed on a copper mannequin.

"All sorts of things," Glade said, flapping its hands wildly in a mimicry of human excitement. "Your world is fascinating. I remember when your kind learned how to create fire and tame animals. You have grown so much since then. I needed to have one of you for my own. Your creations are not enough any more."

Harlow carefully took in Glade's appearance, avoiding its hypnotic eyes. Despite its alien nature- as clear to Harlow as it would have been to his ancestors as they huddled around campfires concocting stories to explain their world- it chose to appear humanoid, though not precisely human.

Glade was the kind of thing that would hide in a child's closet, and speak to them in a parental fashion, loathing the knowledge that the child would never be believed no matter how loudly they spoke of its existence.

Its iridescent skin glimmered, changing colors with every movement, no matter how slight, as stunning light produced by the void poured over its body. Its proportions sat beyond the human view of normal, uncanny like an airbrushed model, but far more monstrous. Behind its smiling lips were two rows of porcelain and copper teeth, slicing perfectly through its pale gray gums.

Delicate jewelry of book pressed flowers and dragonfly wings adorned its warped elven ears. It was clad in a fur cape, the stitched together pelts of numerous small animals, fur colors clashing and asymmetrical. Its heels, as thin as sewing needles and seemingly impossible to walk on, granted half a foot of height to their seven-foot frame.

"Don't worry," Glade continued. "I'll take care of you. I've been collecting humanity's creations for millenia. You may use what you find around you to its fullest extent."

"I want to go home," Harlow said, finally realizing that this was not a dream that could be banished away by opening his eyes and pouring himself a cup of black coffee mixed with salt. "Please let me go. I'm sure there's someone who would love to be here. But I like my life on earth."

"But I wanted you."

Glade hugged Harlow tightly, mimicking how it had observed humans comforting one another. Its skin had none of Harlow's warmth, and he found this hug as uncomfortable as cuddling with a marble statue would have been, if he had ever been bold enough to break the omnipresent rule of not touching museum exhibits.

Harlow closed his eyes. "I have to be dreaming," he said, his lie cloaked in a defeated sort of tone. "This can't be real."

"Of course this isn't real," Glade said, holding its newest acquisition out at arm's length. "But it isn't a dream either. You are within my home, far outside of your universe."

"Please send me back. I don't know why I'm here, or how, but I can't do this."

"Yes you can," Glade said. "It's easy. I will take care of you, and you will be my plaything. Doesn't that sound nice?"

Harlow broke away from Glade, and took off walking. There had to be an exit. Everything had an exit, whether it be a school or a church or a corner shop. The exits were always there, saddened as they were that so many people were afraid to break the rules and only took advantage of their ability to leave at certain appointed hours.

The void still seemed to stretch on into infinity, swelling larger and larger the farther and farther Harlow walked. But everything had an end if you traveled far enough to find it. Even the deserts that passed past any human line of sight and the mountains that seemed too high to ever climb over.

But now Harlow was applying rules from his original plane of existence to the alien one he had been so rudely whisked away to. And that was very foolish indeed.

"No, that doesn't sound nice," he said angrily, as Glade easily matched his pace, wearing a concerned expression it had stolen from a grandparent not too long ago. "I'm leaving."

"You can't leave. Because I didn't steal you. The original Harlow Finch Echowood is still in his home, playing solitaire and chatting away to his cat. You belong here with me."

Harlow stopped in his tracks, sitting down on an ancient jeweled throne. It had held countless kings before him, but he respected them not, only using their seat to keep from collapsing in shock.

Glade smiled. "We are going to have so much fun, and no one will ever know you to be here. Come now, I have food prepared for you."

"I can't eat your food," Harlow argued, remembering what he had learned from a book that lived in his elementary school library. It had worn a shiny green cover, and the name Susan Macintosh was written inside the front cover before his own. "I'd never be able to leave if I did that."

"I'm afraid you've mistaken me for some of my cousins," Glade said. "You will eat, or you will starve. And you're never leaving because you belong to me. It doesn't matter what you choose to do."

Harlow stood up, his dizziness replaced with a red-hot temper. "I hate you! Let me go! You can't keep me here!"

Glade looked deeply wounded, but Harlow knew within the depths of his very soul, that it was only mimicry of human emotion.

"I couldn't send you back, even if I wanted to. Then there would be two Harlow Finch Echowoods trying to live your singular and unique life."

"I don't believe you. I'm still me. I still remember my life."

"You are an exact duplication of the original Harlow Finch Echowood. You have the same soul and the same mind and the same DNA. Of course you still remember."

With every passing moment, Harlow's belief in Glade's words only grew. Any attempt to fight against them was snuffed out by diluted logic and the omnipresent knowledge that he was still alive. He breathed. Blood rushed through his veins. More importantly, his mind continued to produce thoughts and feelings to process the outside world.

"Just combine us again or something," Harlow begged. "I want to go home. I never asked to be brought here."

"I cannot combine nor reconstruct nor mend. I can only make copies of beautiful things, and things not quite so beautiful."

Glade spread its arms, gesturing to its hoard of human objects collected in centuries long past. The treasures of every empire ever risen and fallen was present, both the spectacular and the mundane side by side in a discordant visual melody.

"Why me?" Harlow asked. "I didn't do anything."

"You speak as though this is a punishment. I have simply added you to my collection." It flicked the tears from his face, scratching him with its nail. "Now come, I have made you good food."

Glade gripped Harlow's arm and dragged him far away, weaving throughout its collection at a brisk and even pace, avoiding falling into the gaps between pieces of floor, which only infinitum laid below.

Soon enough, they came upon a small 1950s era kitchen. Two marble counters, a dirty stove, and a teacup filled sink formed a corner tucked away between a row of unplugged televisions and a huge crooked stalagmite growing from the polished tile floor.

Glade opened the oven and pulled out a pan of fresh bread. Its hands were bare, but unburnt by the hot metal dish. It grabbed a knife from one of the many drawers and cut through the bread without displacing a single crumb, before laying the slice out on a neon green plate.

"Eat while it's still hot," Glade said with a bright smile. It was a well used expression by those of Harlow's time who prepared meals for other humans, and it planned to repeat it often.

In its time spent with Harlow, its teeth had dulled significantly, and its gums had taken on a pale shade of pink. Why it had not mimicked a perfect human before meeting Harlow was beyond him, and it seemed perfectly capable of warping its appearance to become more like him.

He reluctantly tried the seed filled bread, finding it to be heavenly and soft. Faerie food or not, he scarfed it down, suddenly famished beyond all reason.

"Thank you," he said automatically.

"I have much food. It is scattered about my home, and easy to find if you look. It never spoils, so you may feast on it as you please."

Harlow sighed, and clambered up to sit on the counter. An act of rebellion his twelve year old self would have been proud of, even if Glade didn't give him the smallest sliver of annoyance, having no understand of manners itself.

"I'm really never leaving…" he said, his voice like a half-deflated party balloon still adored by a kid who refused point blank to throw it in the trash. "If that's it then, what happens when you get bored of me?"

"I never get bored of my playthings."

"How big is this place? Is it a universe, or a realm, or a room in some alien mansion?" Harlow thought these reasonable enough questions, considering his circumstances.

"An infinite pocket dimension," Glade replied. "If you travel far enough, my collection begins to grow thin. There is a boundary of where my possessions lie, and after that is the abyss. It is nearly impossible to find one's way back from nothingness."

"I hate it here," Harlow said, as though he had not made this feeling quite clear before. "I want to be around other people. Not you."

"I will bring you some," Glade promised. "Allow me a few minutes to collect them. You shall have a companion, as all humans crave, or more than one if it suits your fancy."

Harlow froze, debating his own morality versus the loneliness soon to bloom from this isolation. How could he allow more people to be stuck in this horrible purgatory of preserved humanity, just so he could have someone to talk to? The truth? He couldn't bear it. At least, not yet.

"No," he begged, the first tears ever created in this pocket dimension blooming in his eyes. "Please, don't put anyone else through this. I'll be good. I won't complain. I promise."

"Oh, how you confuse me." Something odd bloomed over Glade's face, a poor mimicry of a half-understood human emotion. "I see… Come along then."

Harlow hopped off the counter and followed Glade as it walked under a vast canopy of safety pinned together curtains fashioned from every familiar fabric and exotic cloth created by the hands of humanity.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Glade called in a sing-song voice. "I've brought a new trinket. This one can talk, so I'm sure you'll like it."

People approached Glade and Harlow from the shadows. Well, not people, exactly. They were like Glade, monstrous and wonderful, stepping straight from a story book and into Harlow's waking nightmare. There stood more figures than Harlow could keep track of, intent on viewing the treasure Glade had discovered.

"I finally brought a human home," Glade said proudly, if such a being were capable of pride. "Isn't it just a doll?"

Harlow flinched as numerous hands and insect-like feelers crept over his body, Glade's companions examining him all too closely. He felt as though he had jumped into those foam pits he had so loved as a young child, touched in all directions yet floating in oddly empty space.

"Get off of me," he demanded, forgetting his promise not to complain as he shoved the nearest figure away. "Stop it. I said stop!"

Harlow tried to break free of them, pushing and shoving, even striking at them with closed fists and elbows. But he was pulled back, the creatures murmuring in appreciation on how bizarrely Glade's newest acquisition behaved.

"Stop touching me," Harlow cried. "Please. I hate being crowded. What are you doing?"

"What is it doing?" the specter asked. It brought its freezing yet intangible hand to Harlow's face, as though to seize his tears.

"That is so weird," another remarked, clicking its pincers in an oddly specific pattern.

The different figures murmured to each other, formulating explanations.

"Is it because we're touching it?"

"It's water… I think."

"He's crying," Glade explained, flapping its hands in mimicry of human excitement. "It means it's upset. Isn't it the most delightful thing?"

"I hate you," Harlow said thickly, as tears continued to stream down his reddened cheeks. "I want to go home."

"You are so repetitive," Glade remarked, before perfectly imitating Harlow's voice. "I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home."

Harlow finally relented. As the nightmarish figures poked and prodded him, discussing him amongst each other, he only hoped that they would soon grow bored and move on to newer shinier pursuits.

How could he stand to do this for the rest of eternity?

[cloverhighfive]

Just like walkers have various shoes. Makes total sense.

We need an infomercial with ppl falling on their face all the time for no reason. "Difficulty walking in spite of a perfectly well-functioning body? Get a wheelchair!" (sparkles and balloons) cue to a series of situations where it is so convenient and a call-now number.

So abled ppl will buy wheelchairs and make them more affordable for everyone.

wheelchair users deserve a minimum of three wheelchairs to meet different needs. like, bare minimum of indoor chair, outdoor chair, and off road chair. chairs that meet different needs for transport, activity, positioning needs, energy levels, etc.

there is not "one chair" that can meet every need. wheelchair users deserve to have multiple chairs that meet specific needs, no matter how complex their seating/positioning needs. we deserve to at least have a backup if our chair breaks that is just as suited to our needs.

[redvdress]

IF YOU WAKE HER UP, YOU’RE DEAD

A/N: oooook since anon have been asking for some relationship bakugo stuff, here’s my version for it. it’s my first time ever writing for him but i tried my best to picture him canon, soo enjoy!! you fell asleep on your boyfriend’s shoulder and you got caught too, what did he do?

The night was quiet, and the halls of U.A were empty. It was late—later than Bakugo usually stayed up, especially with a brutal training session awaiting him in the morning.

Still, here he was, sprawled on the common room couch with textbooks and notebooks scattered on the coffee table in front of him. He wasn’t one to study in the dorm’s common area, much preferring the solitude of his room. But tonight was different.

You were there with him.

He hadn’t planned it this way. Bakugo had been cramming, prepping for an upcoming test that Aizawa had threatened them all with. Normally, he would’ve told everyone else to stay the hell out of his way, barking at any idiot who dared to disturb him. But when you suggested studying together earlier, something in him gave.

He wouldn’t admit it, but the thought of you by his side made it tolerable—maybe even enjoyable.

The two of you had spent hours working in a comfortable silence. Well, comfortable for you. Bakugo had his usual scowl, occasionally muttering about the idiots in the class or cursing out loud when a particular formula or hero law didn’t make sense immediately. Despite his fiery demeanor, you could tell he was laser-focused, determined to come out on top. That was just who he was—always aiming for the number one spot. It was one of the many things you admired about him.

At some point, though, the exhaustion caught up with you. Katsuki had noticed you rubbing your eyes, trying to keep yourself awake as you scrawled down notes. He’d been keeping a sideways eye on you ever since, but said nothing, too proud to outright suggest you stop and go to bed. But deep down, he could see you were tired.

It had been a long day, and between morning classes and the intense afternoon training led by All Might, you were wiped. The sofa was comfortable, and the rhythmic sound of Bakugo flipping through pages and scribbling notes was strangely soothing.

Before you knew it, your eyelids grew heavy, and your body leaned unconsciously towards him. Your head found its way onto his shoulder, and before either of you realized, you had drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

Bakugo stiffened at first, feeling the weight of your head gently resting against him. The sudden warmth of your body against his side sent a jolt through his system. His first instinct was to wake you up with a sharp nudge—he wasn’t exactly used to people being this close to him, much less while he was supposed to be studying.

But for some reason, Bakugo couldn’t bring himself to do it. His eyes flicked down to your face, now completely relaxed in sleep. The furrow between your brows that had been there during studying was gone, replaced by a soft, peaceful expression. Your breathing was steady, slow.

“Damn,” Bakugo muttered under his breath, careful not to disturb you. You looked so calm, so vulnerable like this.

He wasn’t sure what to do with the feeling creeping up in his chest.

It wasn’t something he was used to—a strange mix of protectiveness and warmth, a side of him that he hadn’t fully come to terms with yet.

He shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position without moving you too much. He glanced around the empty common room, the soft glow of the single lamp casting long shadows on the walls. The dim lighting, paired with the quiet ticking of the wall clock, made the atmosphere feel almost intimate. His usual instinct to keep people at arm’s length was quieted by the sheer peace of the moment.

Still, he couldn’t help himself.

He muttered low under his breath, “Tch, idiot. You’re drooling on my shoulder…”

But there was no real heat in his voice. In fact, there was a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, though he’d never admit it. He reached out, grabbing the throw blanket that had been draped over the back of the couch, and carefully pulled it over you. His movements were slow and deliberate, making sure not to wake you. Normally, the thought of someone leaning on him, invading his space like this, would piss him off. But somehow, with you, it was different.

His red eyes softened as he watched your chest rise and fall, lost in your dreams. You trusted him—enough to fall asleep on him, enough to let your guard down entirely.

Katsuki knew what trust meant in this line of work. It was something you built through blood, sweat, and tears. It wasn’t something he gave away freely, either. But somehow, you had managed to crack through that thick, explosive shell of his.

Not that he’d admit that to anyone. Ever.

“Damn extras would never let me live this down,” he muttered to himself, feeling the slightest flush of embarrassment. His pride wouldn’t survive the onslaught of teasing that would surely follow if anyone saw him like this. Soft. Vulnerable.

Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall, and Bakugo tensed. His eyes snapped towards the door just as it opened, revealing none other than Kirishima. Of course, it had to be him. The red-haired idiot had a knack for showing up at the worst times.

Kirishima’s eyes widened the second he took in the sight before him—Bakugo sitting stiffly on the couch, you curled up next to him, sound asleep. And there was a blanket.

Bakugo had covered you with a blanket.

A wide grin spread across Kirishima’s face, and Bakugo could already see the teasing coming a mile away. “Whoa, man, this is too cute!” Kirishima’s voice was loud, his words brimming with amusement. He took a step closer, clearly ready to capitalize on the rare sight.

Bakugo’s glare could’ve melted steel. His hand curled into a fist, and he raised a single, deadly finger to Kirishima. “Oi. If you wake her up, I swear on everything, you’re dead.”

Kirishima froze in place, hands raised in surrender, though his grin only widened. “Whoa, whoa! Chill, dude. I’m not gonna wake her. But come on, Bakugo, this is a side of you I never expected to see.”

Bakugo’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding audibly. “Shut it, Shitty Hair. Get lost before I blow your dumbass to pieces,” he growled, keeping his voice low enough not to disturb you.

But Kirishima wasn’t backing down. He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck as he shot Bakugo a knowing look. “Man, you’ve changed. You know that, right? I mean, I didn’t think I’d ever see the day you’d let someone fall asleep on you without, you know, blowing up half the room.” He gave Bakugo a thumbs-up, his smile genuine, despite the teasing. “She’s good for you, man.”

Bakugo’s eyes flashed dangerously, and for a moment, it looked like he might actually follow through with his threat. His hand twitched, tiny pops of sparks dancing at his fingertips, but he held himself back. Barely.

“You got three seconds to get out of here before I wipe that dumb grin off your face,” he hissed, his voice a low growl.

Kirishima laughed again, clearly enjoying how riled up Bakugo was getting. “Alright, alright! I’m going. Don’t get all fired up.” He took a step back, still grinning. “But seriously, Bakugo, it’s nice to see you like this. You should let it show more often.”

Bakugo’s eyes narrowed to slits, but before he could retort, Kirishima had already slipped out of the room, leaving Bakugo to seethe in silence.

“Tch. Stupid idiot…” he muttered under his breath, glaring at the door where Kirishima had been standing. His hands unclenched, and he leaned back against the couch, letting out a long breath. The tension that had built up in his shoulders slowly melted away as the room fell silent again. He glanced down at you, still fast asleep, blissfully unaware of the brief interaction.

The scowl softened on his face. He wasn’t one to express his feelings easily—or at all, really. His love was shown through action, through the way he looked out for you during training, or the way he pushed you to be better, stronger. But moments like this, where he allowed himself to be close, to let down his guard, were still foreign territory for him.

Carefully, Bakugo shifted his arm, resting it along the back of the couch behind you. He glanced at the clock. It was later than he thought, and the weariness in his own muscles was starting to catch up with him. He hadn’t planned on falling asleep out here, but with you curled up beside him, warm and steady, he could feel his eyelids growing heavier.

His eyes flicked back to you one last time. For all the hell you went through at UA, for all the chaos and danger they faced in their training and in the field, this was one moment of quiet he wasn’t going to take for granted.

Bakugo let out a quiet sigh, his body finally relaxing against the cushions.

His hand, still resting on the back of the couch, slowly found its way to yours under the blanket.

He laced his fingers with yours, feeling the warmth of your skin against his.

He closed his eyes, letting the steady rhythm of your breathing lull him into a rare state of peace.

Before he knew it, he had drifted off too, his head leaning back against the couch, his breathing evening out into soft, steady inhales and exhales.

When Bakugo woke up the next morning, the first thing he noticed was the sunlight creeping through the common room window, casting long, golden beams across the floor. He blinked, his mind still foggy with sleep, before realizing he was still on the couch. And you were still nestled up beside him.

His heart gave a brief, surprised lurch before he quickly masked the feeling with a grunt. He shifted slightly, careful not to disturb you, but the movement must have been enough because you stirred, your head lifting slowly from his shoulder.

“Mmm… morning,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes as you blinked awake.

Bakugo turned his head slightly, trying to sound casual. “Morning,” he grunted, his voice still rough with sleep. He felt you pull away a bit, and immediately, the cold air hit where your warmth had been. His first instinct was to grumble about it, but instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets, standing up quickly. “You drooled on me, idiot,” he said, his tone sharp, but not biting. It was more teasing than anything else.

Your face flushed with embarrassment, a small, sleepy smile tugging at your lips. “Sorry…”

Bakugo rolled his eyes, turning away as he stretched, trying to shake off the lingering drowsiness. “Tch. Just don’t make a habit of it,” he muttered, though the usual harsh edge in his voice was absent. There was something softer, more subdued, as if last night’s vulnerability had lingered in the air.

As you stood up and stretched, Bakugo glanced towards the door, half-expecting Kirishima or another one of the extras to barge in with more teasing remarks. He wasn’t in the mood for any of that right now. But the common room was still empty, the rest of the dorms quiet in the early morning.

Bakugo walked towards the door, glancing back over his shoulder at you. “C’mon,” he said, his voice back to its usual gruffness. “Let’s grab some breakfast before the damn extras wake up. And don’t expect me to wait for you,” he added, though there was no real bite in his words.

But as you fell in step beside him, your hand brushing against his briefly, Katsuki felt that familiar warmth bloom in his chest again.

[brynn-lear]

A Tasteless Cup [Yandere!Joker/Reader]

Prompt: After the destruction of your previous reality, you and Akira Kurusu landed in Teyvat. In an effort to stay afloat, Akira had set up a book café in Mondstadt alongside you. However, is this the true flavor of "Freedom"? [Dedicated to: Riley H. Goodheart, for the Alone Together event]

CW: yandere themes, dubious food, manipulation/controlling behavior, toxic relationship dynamic. P.S: Akira is aged up [20s] in this fic, happens after Persona 5.

To Akira, those he lets into his heart will become an intrinsic part of him. They are more than a trick of a card, more than a mask to mimic and steal for his own, more than a numbers game. Every bit of them is his soul. His relationships are the culmination of his being and, eventually, his raison d'etre. 

And Akira Kurusu had a hard time coping with losing these links. 

To others, relationships are no different from chains. The surrounding people are less a home and more like bars to a cage— a prison. And despite being somewhat of a Mr/Ms. Congeniality, you aren't as affected by the fact that neither of you can return to your respective world.

You are both empty. You have been handed a clean slate, an empty card, and an empty vision.

You are both "fools" again.      

"Bit too early in the morning to start a serious discussion…" Akira tiredly muttered, removing his glasses before rubbing his eyes.

But as long as the sun rises once more, does a rebirth truly matter?

Anyone would be remiss to disregard the sheer jadedness in his eyes and the slight breathlessness of his speech. Akira poured himself a cup. Normally served to others rather than his indulgence, you quietly noticed that his cup lacked sugar. The cafe owner drank and embraced its bitterness, unflinching. 

It's been three months since you both arrived in the world of Teyvat. Getting by as an Outlander proved difficult, and thankfully, Akira is kind towards you and a jack-of-all-trades. One might say he has "maxed out his stats." Charismatic, skilled, and bold, he has the makings for an entrepreneur with a pyro vision to boot. Unsurprisingly, he had become one of old Mond's eligible bachelors in a short time frame. 

So, by just the third week, he managed to persuade Master Ragnvindr with a solid pitch. The cafe you both sit in is a testament to your shared hard work. With his brew proficiency and your hobby of accumulating knowledge through books and art pieces, the cozy place had become a second home for individuals such as the local librarian and the Guild's investigator. 

But you'll always remember his words the night before he was invited into Duke Ragnvindr's study room.

"Akira, are you sure about this?" You muttered, tugging his sleeve. "Once you finalize it, you can't just..."

"Hmm? Why are you hesitating?" He tilted his chin up slightly, confused. "It's a good way to keep our finances afloat, right? Don't you want to keep collecting books and art supplies? I thought you said you wanted to have a small library someday."

"But, for you to work this much for it-"

"You matter to me. You are the only thing left binding me down here in Teyvat." He casually shot you down, but his light tone could not erase the heaviness of his words. "Besides..."

"Don't you like it when I make a hot cup and fresh pastries just for you?" 

That dream materialized into something called Cafe LeBlanc. Though he claims the name wasn't his but a charming, cranky old man's— you doubt anyone else can come up with that. But he sounded genuine enough. His unexplainable "silent" face can sometimes make him a hard read.

… This isn't one of those times. You know what's troubling him quite well. 

"Yeah…" you muttered. "Can't we save this conversation for the end of the day instead?"

Akira laughed. 

"Smart," he hummed humorlessly. 

"You know I get too tired to do anything at night except washing dishes and doing crosswords. It's not happening. We'll have this talk now."

Fair enough. Avoiding one's problems is a mindset you never advocated. You'd be a terrible hypocrite if you start now. "Alright, I'll hear you out."

You shifted from your seat, dragging it closer to the counter. Akira downed his cup on the other side, revealing no liquid gold in its bottom. His eyes were wide awake thanks to the caffeine, yet you couldn't even glance upward. 

"(Y/n), do you remember how I got this pyro vision?"

You blinked, unsure how he'd make the fact relevant. Still, you nodded.

A long time ago, you liked how open Akira was about himself. You can tell he had immense trust issues he had worked on fixing. Akira is a good man. Being wrongfully expelled and imprisoned at a young age must've done damages you can't quite comprehend fully. Sometimes, you wish you had the courage to be just as vulnerable, too.

He traced the outline of a pyro symbol on the table with his slender finger collecting not a single dust nor stain. Despite the warmth his vision may hold, it did not detract from the cold atmosphere you both had to face. With the angle you were viewing him, you can't help but notice his eyelashes. They're prettier than yours, you thought. If only his glare wasn't so pointed.

"When I arrived in this world, I was alone and confused. But you? You weren't. I saw your face— the face of someone who had nothing to lose to begin with."

Akira's gaze softened. He was right. You adapted to this new world so suspiciously well. 

"I couldn't tell whether you saw our situation as a positive or whether you thought this whole transfer to another reality was a cruel joke. But I had a feeling you were as horrified as I was. That you couldn't bear the thought of living alone. I think that you also had friends you cared for, but now, you will never be able to hear their voices again."

He breathed in shakily, his eyes heavy. Akira may seem like a silent person, no different from Duke Ragnvindr, but the time you spent together backs up what your instincts are testifying right this second.

There's one true thought in his mind.

After all his efforts.

After all that he has gone through so that you'll stay by his side.

What was it all for?

"So, when a Lawachurl wounded you in Windrise, I stepped in. I can't help but project myself onto you. I thought about how you must also have friends waiting– family waiting– whether it's a cat or a sister— I knew I just had to. I had to risk everything, even if you were just a stranger to me then." He clenched his fists. "And you were worth it. You were absolutely worth every risk. You were worth everything. I knew I had to survive, if not for myself, but to help you."

"Even without some sort of— card– or whatever— to indicate it, I knew our relationship was progressing. That our understanding of each other has reached such high ranks. I know we had become each other's most trusted confidant, so why? Listen, I value freedom too, but—"

He slammed his cup down— you jolted as you heard it chip slightly. It wasn't his intent to scare. Akira would never wish to frighten you. But he can't stop his emotions and movements from being brash and pointed. 

"... Why did you want to quit working with me?"

There it goes.

"Is it because I haven't spent much time with you lately? You know I've been busy with trying to invest in a better flat—"

The pace of his breathing was starting to quicken.

"Kurusu, it's not that…" You need to rationalize this with him. Fast.

"I-Is it because work has been too much? I told you we could hire someone if you feel too faint for the job. I care about your health— hell— maybe even more than you do—"

"Akira, listen to me—"

His futile attempt to maintain control was like an age-weakened thread. The fibers of his composure whittled away string by string, itching to snap entirely. Akira's jaw clenched. 

The manacle may not be anchoring his feet down as it did in the Velvet Room, but there's no denying that doubt is tugging and clawing at his neck. He knew that if he should continue, only strained words would come from his coffee-bitter lips. 

He rubbed his head against his shoulder. He had to have been wiping a tear away, trying to make it unnoticeable but failing.

"But why are you LEAVING m—"

"Behold, for this fine hour, you are not only graced with the presence of soft rays— you are also blessed by myself: Fischl, the Prinzessin der Verurteilung!"

"Mein Fräulein meant to say good morning to you both, Arsene and Sholmes."

... Akira chuckled a short and strained sound that could easily be missed by a weak ear.

As though a switch had been flipped, Akira's contorted expression turned back to his customer service smile. You trembled slightly. Perhaps it's a skill he mastered during his part-time worker years in high school, but he seemed a little too good at hiding such overwhelming frustrations— almost shape-shifting.

It's… 

Eerie.

He's smiling. It's his usual smile he has that has a calm allure and a hint of cockiness.

As if nothing happened five seconds ago.

"Ah, greetings, Your Highness!"

The guests were none other than some of the regulars, Amy and her bird familiar. This blonde, eye-patched girl is the only person in Little Mond who consistently makes Akira act dramatic. 

He bowed, not missing a beat of young Amy's theatrics. After spending so many years chatting with Yusuke, he's gotten used to bouncing back conversations of this nature. Akira enjoys the young investigator's company. He saw tiny bits of his friend in her.

"What shall we, humble servants, offer you this dawn? Will it be your usual order, or does our dear royal have something else in mind entirely? We will do our best to provide you with maximum entertainment! After all, this is your castle, Mein Fräulein."

You stiffened.

We.

He's not letting you go just yet. You caught a glimpse of his dark pupils, slightly moving to meet yours. Imploring you without words to act out of his best interest.

Akira Kurusu has always been a witty man, but there is no way there's no anger beneath that mask.

"Are you alright, Sholmes?" Oz asked.

For whatever reason, Akira persuaded Amy to call you both Arsene Lupin and Herlock Sholmes. The former was likely a nod to his first persona's name. His explanation for the latter was something along the lines of "you strike me as the type who always wants to search for your truth."

You blinked.

Right. You're his version of Sherlock Holmes.

Ha.

Even here, he gets to dictate everything about you.

"... Yes, Your Highness, to what do I owe the pleasure?" you said. The blonde girl smiled and tilted her head up pompously. 

"What other brew could I possibly order but the darkest taste that leaves any normal mortal to shrivel in imagination?" Amy shrugged, her eyebrow raised as though everyone knew what she babbled on with commendable sass. Her aviator companion thankfully cleared the air— albeit a little too blunt.

"Mein Fräulein desires a cinnamon ginger affogato with more sugar than last time, please. Two spoons for the poor Mein Fräulein."

"O-Oz!?!"

It's easily one of the least bitter cups on the menu. It consists of vanilla gelato, a tablespoon of espresso powder, cinnamon sticks, hazelnut liqueur, and bits of dried sunsettia. I can't say what would make anyone fear such a thing except for those with complications. Someone else shared the same sentiment.

You and Akira laughed in unison.

Your eyes widened in astonishment. That was in sync. You immediately looked away as Akira busied himself with Amy's order. It was awkward knowing that even with your efforts to cut things off, there was still some vague commonality between you two.

"... Say, your Highness?" Akira smiled softly. "Would it be alright for me to probe some of your most revered royal musings?"

...

...

... What is his play this time?

"You have my ears, dear subject."

"Suppose there is a princess who is facing an uphill battle. Furthermore, her valiant knight aspires to rescue her. However, the princess, for unknown reasons, declines his assistance. Is that..." He shut his eyes, laughing that strained chuckle once more. "... equittable?"

"Oh, most grievous indeed! A knight, who is obligated by the code of chivalry, shall always respond to the plea of his princess when she is in peril. His solemn obligation is to protect her honor and safeguard her from any danger!"

Akira looked at you.

His eyes were cold.

"But what if the princess doesn't want to be saved? What if she believes she can handle the situation herself, or maybe she thinks having assistance would make her weak?"

"Ah, but thou dost speak in riddles!" Amy scoffed, unamused. "A princess may exhibit abundant power and courage, yet it is the responsibility of her faithful knight to guarantee her safety, especially when she questions her own necessity. For what good is a knight's valor if not to serve and protect his liege?"

"Would you say her actions essentially strip him of his purpose?"

"Why, of course!" Amy replied with full conviction. "One would not require Oz if he lacks such a necessary trait! It is the basis of our trust– our relationship! A true knight's honor lies not in the glory of battle, but in his unwavering commitment to his princess, even in the face of her refusal."

You sucked in a deep breath.

Akira, you—!

"Speak frankly. Do these inquiries pertain to me?" Amy glared at him. Akira shook his head immediately, umping up his flamboyant voice inflections.

No.

It's about you.

It's always about you when it comes to him.

"Of course not!" Akira feigned worry. "It was for a novel I'm writing— to honor one's love."

… To honor one's "love".

Love? You froze. He calls this relationship love? It hadn't been that for the past few months! Love is meant to be like coming home to a comforting home— not a cold palace with your unfeeling statue at the heart of it all.  

You were hoping that your life would be dictated by what you want it to mean this time around. You hope to create your own purpose, your own identity. You hope to reject his titles—being his partner and his "Sholmes." 

But mostly, you sincerely hoped his words were untrue and did not allude to something as sinister and self-destructive as his love.

Besides, you already have a lover waiting for you to leave this mess behind.

You and he already have everything planned out. A rented flat, food, work— everything is set. The only box to tick off was leaving itself, and then you'll be in your lover's arms.

But you swore.

You swore you just saw him smirk.

"(Y/n), could you please lend me a hand? Can you pass the cinnamon sticks from the cupboard?"

Starting your day by serving Amy leads to serving a hundred more. You can't just stand up and leave whenever someone asks for your service. It's impossible to make the shortest comment about how you no longer work for LeBlanc, even more so when people beg for book recommendations. Being friendly is part of who you are. It can't be helped.

What made matters worse was that people were ordering seconds. Apparently, Akira must've adjusted all the recipes on the menu because whatever was added to those cups made it all the more divine. You knew his skills were perfection, but to think he could even exceed that...

In the end, despite multiple delays, Akira still got you right where he wanted you.

"Thank you. Please come again!" He escorted the final customer outside and flipped the closing sign himself.

Now, it was just the two of you left.

"... You must be tired." You offered, hoping he wouldn't catch on. "It's been a long day, why don't you take a rest—"

"Nice try." 

Well, it was worth a shot.

You stiffly waited for him to say something. Anything. But instead, he took a kettle off the icebox and heated the stove with his vision. 

"Back to my story, do you remember where we left off?"

The wisest thing to have down was biting your tongue or pretending not to know what he was talking about. Unfortunately, your answer was immediate.

"Something about how you got your vision?"

"Ah, yes, that." Akira laughed. "Say, I told you about how I used to be the leader of the Phantom Thieves when I was in High School, right?"

While waiting, Akira tapped his fingers against the table but stopped when he realized you were becoming distracted. Snapping out of it, you cleared your throat.

"You were stealing hearts in the Metaverse, yes, I recall..." You mumbled. Due to the sudden need to speak, you ended up unwittingly playing by his script again. "You manifested a Persona and used that to reform the heart of rotten adults."

You flinched slightly when his tea was starting to release thin smokes. It smelled too much like rust. Maybe he exhausted it too much today. The customers you had were double the amount. You had to commend his willpower for still managing exceed his usual sleep schedule.

"Isn't the kettle burning?"

"Trust me, it's not," he answered nonchalantly. "I remember when I told my story to you, you were mostly understanding of our actions. You didn't judge us. Rather, you told me that humanity is selfish and destructive."

"But back to how I got my vision," he finally turned the stove off. "I genuinely thought my most distinct trait was my appreciation for Freedom."

"Yet you got a pyro vision." You joked lightly.

He didn't laugh. Instead, he nodded.

"Strange, isn't it?" Akira tilted his head to look at you for a bit, before back at the hot cup he was pouring. It's the same liquid he's been adding the entire day. This must be the last of those ten pints. "Here, try it."

You slowly took it. It's still a bit too warm, so you continued talking.

"I thought about it, too. If we go by theories, it will make more sense if Barbatos blessed me instead. But with you here..." Akira laughed. "Pyro is definitely my element. I'm seeing a pattern with vision-wielders like me. Based on what I've seen so far, pyro users are often the most passionate. And passion can put a leash on freedom when need be."

You took a sip.

He put an elbow on the table and propped his chin on his palm.

"How is it?"

"It's... tasteless?" You blinked. 

You thought he must've added something grand to the cups today. Was it all just one big placebo effect?

"Makes it no different than regular water, huh?"

"Well, yeah, I guess?"

"I've actually been disposing of this the entire day, that's why the coffees looked darker. Diluting the original sample is hard work but worth it. Enough as a substitute for normal water in case we run out. Who knew you could empty 10 pints so quickly in a day..." 

"You. In case you run out." You sighed, finally addressing it. "Akira, I'm no longer your partner."

"So is he."

You both paused.

He returned the kettle to the ice box before unmasking its contents.

"You were near-fatally wounded once before. You tasted it in your mouth when I defended you from that Lawachurl-

"You should know by now that blood isn't supposed to be tasteless."

Riley H. Goodheart can now message Akira Kurusu

[quirkwizard]

Final Chapter: A Look at the Ending of MHA

With the manga of My Hero Academia finally coming to a close, I thought I'd give my opinions about how the series ended. I will be covering everything from Chapter 424 to Chapter 430. This is going to mix my thoughts on the ending, a proposed rewrite, and a lot of responses to people's criticism towards it. Because I'm going to be real with you all: the past two months have been the most frustrating and exhausting experience I've had with this fan base. 

I have been writing this since the finale ended. In that time, I've been listening and taking in all the discourse of fans in order to make a more informed opinion. It's been miserable trying to read through all the thoughts people had about the finale. The sheer amount of opinions that were based off misinformation or misreadings of the series has been staggering. So, if I sound more exhausted or if the writing comes across as more scattershot then when I normally do something like that, that's the reason. And, as always, if you have anything you want to discuss, whether it be about the post or the ending, feel free to ask about it.

Review

Miscellaneous Notes:

So there are some bits of the story I wanted to talk about, but didn't feel the need to include full on diatribes about.

-Oh hey, Koichi from Vigilantes is here, that's so- and he's gone.

-Even when Izuku is his peer, Aizawa still finds time to be a jerk to his students.

-Mirio is the number one hero. Makes sense, but it does feel out of nowhere with how little Mirio has been relevant up until now.

-How on Earth is Miriko still working, let alone as a hero? She's down three limbs and in arguably worse shape then Enji.

-Man, they are really taking Kai to task these past few arcs, aren't they? I mean, I get why, but jeez. It's honestly sad to see what's been done with his character.

-I like how All Might's light returned to his eyes. It's a good way to show him getting his spirit back after all this time and reigniting hope in himself..

-So if Eri's horn is back, does that mean her power is back? Kind of wish we had something saying about why she isn't healing people. I get if it's her choice or the recipients choice not to do so, but there needs to be something for that.

Hospital Visit

This works as little cool down from the big battle, especially since we really needed to see some of the immediate consequences on the main characters. I actually like a lot of the stuff with Bakugou. After all this, he finally understands Izuku, shown by them getting similar injuries, and lets himself be emotionally vulnerable about wanting the two to be rivals. And we finally got some thoughts on part of Izuku here, like his regret about seemingly failing to save Tomura and how he doesn't feel hurt about losing out on "One For All". How he's glad that he even got this chance in the first place. I do feel the need to mention All Might saying that Izuku saved the "soul" of Tomura. I think a lot of people missed or ignored that line. It's important to Tomura's death, but I'll get more into that later.

Speaking of consequences, I don't mind Izuku losing out on "One For All". In the grander scheme of things, "One For All" doesn't need to be a thing anymore. With "All For One" gone, it no longer has a purpose to exist. And as we've all seen with All Might, someone holding that much power over he world is a problem, regardless of whether it's used for good or evil. Having it gone helps even the playing field and will push for the idea that people should rely on themselves and each other instead of focusing all on a single symbol. What's more, I think Izuku having to sacrifice it and lose it gives the ending a lot more weight. Because Izuku sacrificed the thing that made him a hero in order to stop Shigaraki. To me, that's one of the most defining aspects of a hero: the willingness to sacrifice something important to themselves to help others.

UA Stuff

All of the things happening at UA are fine.  I do like that Aoyama chose to leave 1-A of his own volition instead of being forced out. Plus, now Shinso is in the Hero Course. Good for him. I've never been all that invested in Shino's story, but this is a good way to get him into Class 1-A without making an exception or replacing any of the core cast members. I liked Mirio's graduation speech. I think it works with his arc of trying to inspire other people and trying to honor Sir Nighteye's memory. And they got to have their own little party. That's nice.

Honestly, I find myself having very little to say about all of this, at least the parts within the school itself. I'm all for a calm after the storm to talk about what happened and to build up characters. I'm honestly glad we're back at the school to help ground things after that massive battle. But I think there may have been too much time spent on this. It just feels a little longer than what's needed. Like the bits with the cotton girl feel like they weren't needed for the story and could have been better used setting up or wrapping up something else.

Todoroki Family Prison Visit

The Todoroki family drama has always been one of the stronger plotlines, especially in the latter half of the series. And I believe that it ended on a pretty strong note. It's to the point where I struggle to really say much about the resolution of it.  I do like how Shoto asks for something as basic as his favorite food. I also like how Dabi let go of his hatred towards Shoto, who was as much of a victim as he was in all of this, but still held on to it for Endeavor. Because in spite of what a lot of fans seem to think, the manga does take Enji to task and isn't saying he should be forgiven.

Dabi being in this condition is pretty awful, but I concede that it was necessary for him to have a resolution with the other Todorokis. I'll get to my thoughts on the condition of the villains later in the post. So for now I'll just say the metal coffin looks equal parts cool and horrific. I think it's too long at least in the wrong places. I understand that this is an important part of the story. But when it takes up so much of the chapter it's in, I feel like at least something should have been given to the other family members. They aren't the main players of the subplot, but they still could have used some resolution.

Afterburn

Now, there are those who say Enji got off too easy. Uh, no, he didn't. The man lost everything he strived for in the number one position, something that turned out to be totally hollow, and is left severely injured after the battle, due in large part to Dabi. Now the only thing that would bring his life purpose, his family, is all torn apart by his own actions. Now he's resigned himself to seeing his dying son, who hates him with every burnt fiber of his being, every day until Dabi dies. Enji's punishment is to live on, knowing what he did and failing to ever put his family back together. That's not a happy ending, that's a sentencing.

Which is something I do find frustrating about the end of their arc. While we get solid conclusions with Natsuo and Dabi, how Shoto, Fuyumi, and especially Rei feel about all this and their relationship with Enji is ambiguous at best. At least with Shoto and Fuymui, we had some idea of where they stood with their father before now, but Rei is still not clear. I'm not sure about the implications with Rei and whether she's still with Enji. I choose to think that she isn't just trying to help him out in the few panels we see them together, but it's not exactly clear. Which certainly does leave the door open for some... less than favorable interpretations.

Commissioner Hawks

I'm not sure how to feel about Keigo's conclusion. On the one hand, I don't mind where he ended up as the head of the Hero Commission. It's still a way for him to help heroes to make their lives easier without getting involved as a hero. And if there is anyone that can clean up the Hero Commission, it's the guy that's worked under them his entire life. On the other hand though, it does kind of feel like he did got off scott free for a lot of the stuff he did while under the Hero Commission, namely killing Twice. It never feels like Hawks personally was taken to task for his part in all of this. So now we have a murderer as the head of the Hero Commission. 

It doesn't matter if he was under orders to do it or not, nor if there were extreme circumstances that pushed him to such actions. The pragmatic side of me does see the reasoning of that, but the story enforces that what Hawks did is a bad thing and does so constantly. Nothing about the manga takes Hawks to task for what he did or makes it feel like he's been punished for that. He may have lost his Quirk, but we don't really know how he feels about that. Which is weird considering how much of his life came from having that Quirk. Unless his comment about not being ashamed of his "filthy wings" as long as he got to help Tokoyami? Maybe it will make more sense on another read.

Spinner and Izuku

I feel like this scene is pretty underrated. Heck, it may even cemented Spinner as one of my favorite villains. To me, it really goes to show the tragedy at the core of Spinner's character. That, for all of his desire to change things or help out his friends, he was too weak to see any change made for himself. So he attached himself to idols like Stain or Tomura. He was always manipulated or pulled by something else. Whether it be the radicalization of Stain or the machinations of All For One, his hopes were used against him, his mindless actions given meaning by peons. All it did was lose him everything. He was, ultimately, a kid who was in over his head and was turned into a monster because of it. The monster everyone saw him as.

And while I've heard some people complain about Tomura only having a message for Spinner, I think that's more about the relationship Tomura had with the rest of the League. They were aligned together for a mutual goal and had some care for one another, but I don't think they ever understood or were close to one another. Spinner is the only one Tomura had any kind of real closeness. That's the whole point of the gamer line, as silly as it was. So, while to the rest of the League, he was Shigaraki, the force of destruction and change, to Spinner, he was Tomura, a friend who he wanted to fight for. My only issue, again, is some unfortunate openness with the ending. Spinner writing a book to spite the heroes is fine, but it leaves this unfortunate implication that this book will be used to radicalize more people. I don't think that is the intention, but again, it's not very clear.

Everyone Do Your Share

I was originally frustrated by how much of the final chapters spent on the cleaning up of things, especially since there were so few chapters left. However, looking back, I do feel it's pretty important to reinforce the idea of everyone trying to help in their own way, no matter how big or small it may be. And in doing so, show the changes on every level possible. It's there to show how things are changing by how people act and see heroes. We've got the civilians doing their part to help the heroes, and we've got the next generation changing their perspective on heroism. All thanks to Class 1-A and their efforts. It's just a nice and efficient way to show things changing from a broader perspective.

Which leads me to the stitch mouth kid. I saw people begging that this kid would be the new Tomura and show that society is still bad and broken. As if something like that wouldn't undermine the entire point of the ending. The whole point is that anyone can be a hero in any way, as long as you are willing to reach out and help others. And people who see a problem can and should do something to help people. They should help when they have the chance before it is too late. So having the old woman reach out to help another lost child is a nice way to tie up that point. And the whole point of all this is that the heroes, especially Izuku, don't need to do everything themselves. 

The More Things Change

Many people were upset of the idea of aspects like hero rankings and the Hero Commission not being abolished by the time the series ended. I disagree. I never thought that the rankings themselves were bad or wrong, nor did I think the story ever shows that the rankings are bad. That only seemed to be an issue with Enji and that had a lot of personal issues behind it. Every other hero seemed to be perfectly content to do hero work regardless of the rankings. Now, the Hero Commission, I can understand more. It's shown to be morally gray with its power. However, I don't think the existence of this kind of system is inherently wrong. Having oversight to heroes isn't a bad idea. It's just that the usage of it use to a lot of problems. And most of those people that propagated it are dead and gone.

Further still, there are people that say nothing has changed in the setting. That, since these systems are still in place, it's always going to be like this. Again, I disagree. Because of the massive devastation wrought by Tomura, it gave Japan a fresh start with the current generation. This gives the country the chance to overhaul those systems, even if they are still around. At the end of the day, systems are made up of and by people. The story makes it clear many times how important it is to win the crowd over. And if you win the hearts and minds of the people, it could go on to propagate massive change to the system. If enough people want to change and push for it, things will change. Saying that "things didn't change because systems can't be changed" is such a horrifically pessimistic take on the ending.

The Death of Villains

I've mentioned it before, and I'll say it again: I don't mind Toga dying. By extension, I don't mind the villains dying either. While it may seem tragic and pointless for her to die, I do think that is kind of that point. And no, I don't think this means that she "couldn't be saved". I think it's more of a tragedy. She was the one that people could have been saved before, but it was far too late to help her given how far she had gone. And her dying isn't a failing of that. Because Toga's ultimate goal was to live and die on her own terms. Specifically, being able to express herself and her "love". And to a lesser degree, to have someone try to understand her. I think her dying to save Uraraka is a good end to her character. By extension, that's how I feel about a lot of the villains' deaths in this. They got what they wanted, tragically died in order to see it through to the end. At least there's some peace for them, in that respect.

There's also a matter of "saving". I think a lot of fans took this too literally. To me, "saving" was more about reaching out and trying to understand villains rather than simply fighting them. "Saving" was never going to be the same as "redeeming". Because let's be real, there is no redeeming these people. Not because they can't be redeemed, it's because they don't want to be redeemed, and I think it'd betray their characters to do so. They are unapologetically bad and have hurt a lot of people. Every member of the League is complicit in the deaths of thousands and throwing an entire country into chaos. They aren't wrong for fighting the system, they're wrong for killing countless people to do so. And I have to ask what the other options are? You either have them be forgiven and turn good, which would be insane given the crimes they committed and their characters, or have them locked up forever, which is a fate worse than death. At least in death they can have some form of peace by escaping the consequences of their actions and all the suffering they went through.

Izuku x Uraraka:

Yeah, I'm kind of confused about why it turned out like this. I'm ignoring all the shipping concerns that come from it. I'm more focused on the story and characters. The whole idea of Uraraka and Toga's shared story was about understanding your feelings, both towards yourself and other people. Especially how bad it is to repress and hide your feelings. The whole catalyst of Toga's story was her being forced to repress herself. So having this whole subplot end like this is really odd if Uraraka doesn't express her feelings. That's not mentioning all the hints, setups, and teasing that pushed these two as a potential couple that fell through by not having any conclusion. I honestly wonder why Hori, or his editors, decided to back down like this. 

Which, hey, now may not be the best time for a confession, but it's still jarring not to see anything come of it after all this time. Especially since so much of the chapter is about the two talking about their feelings. So why is it written like this? Now, I want to dismiss the popular concept that Hori changed this because of death threats between the two. While it's not something I'd put past obsessive fans, there hasn't been anything to substantiate the claim. So, barring rogue translators, my only guess is that Hori or an editor didn't want to do the reveal now and wanted to focus more on the important parts of the two's connection about inspiring one another. I can understand that, but it feels like a part of their dynamic is missing without any real acknowledgment of the two's feelings.

Izuku and Uraraka:

And I say all that to preface that I do like a lot of this scene and I do think it's important to each of the characters. Because Ochako is being open with her feelings here. It's just not the feelings that were being set up all the way in the first chapter. It's the two trying to connect and come to terms with their own failings with their villains. Only to have Izuku reach out his hand, reaffirming that sometimes all people need is a small act of kindness. Though it's hard to always do that, he's willing to do it because he's just that good of a guy. And having Izuku say that Uraraka is his hero is more heartfelt and important to these characters and the story at large then any confession could have been. 

And then we have the rest of Class 1-A coming to help as well. It works as a good parallel to Uraraka saving Izuku back during the Dark Hero Arc. It fits with the idea of heroes saving and helping one another. My only major issue is that I kind of wish we had gotten a little more with Izuku talking about his own feelings regarding Tomura, but we already got that back in Chapter 424. All and All: am I still disappointed that Izuku and Uraraka didn't have any romantic resolution? Kind of. It's less that I wanted them to get together and more I wanted some kind of resolution for it. But I still think what we got is good and that people are focusing way too much on what isn't there than what is there. Which I feel like is a problem with a lot of the ending, but we'll get to that.

Class 1-A Futures:

I do wish we got to see more of the future of Class 1-A, even if they were brief snippets. There are glimpses of Shoto and Bakugou. Bakguou's is alright, and I do like the final bit about no one connecting Shoto and Endeavor. I think that's a good ending for him. The most we get with any kind of detail are Shoji's and Urarak's groups. And I guess Shoji had a good future? Look, the Heteromorph plotline is arguably one of the worst parts of the whole manga. It may even be worse than the Stars and Stripes arc. So I can't exactly muster a lot of enthusiasm seeing it resolved by Shoji in the end. I suppose him thanking the people at the riot was nice? That whole part of the story honestly deserves its own post talking about it.

On the flip side, I'm fine with Uraraka's ending. Because I think people tend to conflate a lot of what makes up "Quirk Counseling", mostly thanks to people like Curious and Toga. One is part of a cult that wants to destroy society and the other most grievously targeted by it. From what we've actually seen of it, such as Tamaki's flashback, it just seems to be a lot of training and understanding your Quirk. Toga was just an unfortunate case where the system as it was couldn't help her and could only try and fit her into a niche. So I don't think expanding it is that big of a problem. Plus, expanding could include more extensive counseling that is more tailored to each child. I do think it's kind of odd that Iida and Momo seem to be stapled on to this ending, though. I'm not sure how this works as an end for either of them. I guess their roles as leaders of the class?

Great Teacher Izuku

Look, I don't mind Izuku having this job. Do I think there could have been other choices for this? Yes, but this is by no means bad. Being a teacher is a lot more respectable in Eastern cultures. Especially since he's teaching at the best hero school in the country, if not the world, it is certainly a high-profile job. And he is still being a hero in his own way and helping out the next generation as a teacher. More importantly, I still think that Izuku achieved his dream of being the greatest hero. The man brought down the greatest villain in human history and was one of the two people responsible for causing a massive shift in the way the world of heroes works. He is truly the world's greatest hero. There is no debating that. This is like some kid wanting to go to space to be the greatest astronaut. They not only go to space, they're the first person on Mars. They also stop the martins from invading Earth, killing the king of the martins, and save humanity. Now injured, they instead teach other cadets how to be astronauts. Would they not have success in their goal of being the greatest astronaut? I don't think anyone could match up with that.

However, my issue is with everything surrounding it. There isn't any set up for him becoming a teacher. It gives us the sense that this was the back-up option for when his real dreams feel through. Especially since Izuku gave everything he could to try and be a hero, and it doesn't happen until the very end of this manga. Which doesn't seem like the intention, since Izuku seems happy enough, but I heard a lot of people saying that. It's lacking in that catharsis and satisfaction that you'd expect from an ending. But you can have an ending that's not exactly happy and still be cathartic, and I think that still applies here. And another problem I have is that he's teaching at UA. Yes, he's helping out the next generation of heroes, but he's not helping out the people that need it most. The kind of people who don't make it into UA. The kind of people like Tomura, Spinner, and Twice. Those are the kind of people that should be getting help like this. Why not put him in a position with a much greater ability to help people? Finally, wasn't the whole point of All Might's arc? That there are other ways to be heroes and life outside of hero work? Why not have that aspect of the story be resolve with him instead of Izuku? He was already going down that route to begin with. Why repeat the same idea?

Walk and Talk

Again, I'm going to have to counter a major talking point I've seen in the fanbase. No, Izuku is not unhappy in his job. He seems to enjoy it and is in fact very good at it, as seen when talking to his students and the plate kid, Dai. He's only unhappy in one panel, in which he's being talked down to by Aizawa. No, Izuku is not forgotten by the world. He's mentioned in the same breath as some of the greatest heroes in the series, has his own statue with the rest of Class 1-A, and is so famous that people know his real name and is of such mythical status that people question if he is real. No, Izuku's friends did not abandon him. The most that Izuku says about that is that it's difficult for all twenty members to get together. He's still probably seeing them in smaller numbers. And I can tell you as someone who has had trouble even getting a quarter of that number of people into a single time slot, it's going to be difficult to get twenty people with separate schedules and lives together.

As for everything with Dai, it's fine. His perspective is pretty important as we get to see the changing worldview. With the demystification of heroes and the elevation of other roles in helping others, young people are now all getting into different fields. The talk around the statue is pretty good as well. Having Izuku effectively talk to a younger version of himself is a good way to close out his arc and all the insecurities he's had over the manga. However, part of me feels like this kind of talk should be done with the stitch-mouth kid. We do actually see him as a part of UA students with Kota. I think having Izuku end up talking to him about his Quirk could have been a good way to end his arc by having him be able to help someone similar. Not to say that the Dai stuff was bad or pointless. It just feels odd to include the guy that's supposed to be the metaphorical spirit of Tomura, put him in Izuku's class, and have them not interact.

The Suit

Again, this is another point where I don't have a major issue with it. At least, I don't have an issue getting the suit itself. I have some issues with the semantics. Did it take too long to build? I wouldn't say that. It was revealed in a piece by Horikoshi that it took all of All Might's vast resources to build, and it lacked a lot of the proper safety features. Having it take some time before it's battle ready for Izuku makes sense. However, that isn't in the manga, at least as far as I can tell. Maybe this makes more sense in the volumes, where stuff like this is included all the time. For real though, these people built this in secret for eight years, and they are just now letting him find out. Was there really no explanation you could have added to make that make more sense?

It creates this odd juxtaposition of endings as well. It gives the feeling of the story wanting to have its cake and eat it as well. Someone wanted Izuku come to terms with being Quirkless and to have a life outside of hero work. The other person wanted Izuku to still fight and be a hero. I also wonder why not just have be both at the same time instead of doing this twist. Make it clear that heroes have a lot more time, both thanks to Hawks and the contributions of the many heroes in the world all working together. Izuku doesn't need to be a full-time hero to save people and chooses to be a teacher to help people in a way that only he can do. That way, he can still be a hero that isn't necessarily the profession while being a professional hero without a Quirk.

Final Thoughts

Now, what are my final options for all of this? I think that ending was pretty solid, leaning good. I do agree that it's better than what is on offer than a lot of shōnen series and a good enough ending for the story. I'm not saying it's amazing or perfect. Though I do find myself more satisfied than frustrated. I get a lot of what the story is going for, and it makes sense. It just needed some refinement to really work. As for what everyone else has said about it, I honestly think that a lot of people are overreacting. I wouldn't go as far as to say people are "lacking media literacy" or that they are "reading in bad faith" like others have on either side of the debate. I just think this as a case where the context and delivery of it resulted in a lot of confusion. And more often than not, people will tend to go with the worst version of the implications. This is not helped by the leaks and bad translations which fans ran away with, as well the built-up hype and headcanons, which poisoned the well for a lot of people.

However, I cannot deny that there is part of the fanbase that is simply not getting the manga. I don't want to use the word "tourist", because that's a No True Scotsman fallacy, but it's starting to feel applicable here. The people who simply aren't reading the manga, whether it be through engaging with it solely through other people talking about it, or trying to look at it anything beyond the most kneejerk and surface level reactions. Because a lot of people tend to conflate what My Hero Academia is about or what its story is conveying. And unfortunately, those are the people with massive followings. Anyone with a differing opinion is drowned out in the sea of angry comments. And I think we really need to get away from that. What I'm saying is that you read the story as it is. Focus on what is happening and what it is trying to say. Don't force a meaning or headcanon on something that wasn't there and don't rely on word of mouth for what the manga is about. Just focus on what the story is trying to say.

My only hope is that this will pass, and calmer heads will win out. That once it's stepped outside the zeitgeist, people will be able to analyze it as a whole. If not, then I'm terrified to think that this will become My Hero Academia's legacy: a bunch of stupid jokes made by people who can't bother to read the official version of the story or try to understand a culture outside their own even when it plays a vital role within the story. If not, then I can hope that maybe something else will come to replace it. Because I'm not sure if this is truly the end. I've heard rumors that there's going to be something akin to Naruto: The Last or the Naruto Wedding Special coming out after the anime ends. If not that, who knows who other kinds of side material will come out to follow up on the world or characters. Which would make sense. The ending doesn't feel like an ending as much as it does "And the adventure continues." Which could be why I'm not as affected by this ending as other people.

There's certainly the cultural side and how that surrounds the manga. I'll always stand by the fact that this manga is a Japanese story by a Japanese author for a Japanese audience. And there's a lot of cultural context that goes into the series. I keep thinking about how a lot of Japanese fans seemed to like the ending and how much I wished I had the context to understand it. Another part of it is how much I'm thinking about Hori. Because for all the popularity of it, being a mangaka is one of the most stressful jobs in Japan. One where the artist has much less say over how their story goes. I'm so curious about what went on behind the scenes to make My Hero Academia turn out the way it is. Was all this Hori fumbling his own story, whether that be through incompetence or failing health, or were there outside forces pressing on him to do things a certain way? It's like how people became more forgiving of Kubo or Toriyama once they found out how hamstrung they were by their higher ups. I suppose only time will tell.

Rewrite

Now, time for the Rewrite portion. As a reminder, I do try to keep to what the manga does as close as possible. For example, I personally would just let Izuku keep some version of "One For All" if the ultimate conclusion was him still being a hero. However, it's obvious that Hori didn't want to go that route with it, so I'll be sticking to him getting with the suit.

Starting things off, we'll be in the hospital with Izuku and All Might recovering. We're told about "One For All" leaving him, and we'll get some reaction from Izuku about it. He will be sad but resolved. He may not have "One For All", but he's still alive. He's got the skill and will to help people without it. And he still wants to do that, even in his own way, because he still has value without "One For All". This could help soften the blow of Izuku losing out on "One For All". That and it's at least something to try to tie up Izuku's self worth issues. This will also be something confirmed by Inko, putting a nice little bow on all this with her being more properly encouraging of Izuku as opposed to how things were in Chapter 1.

Then we're going to reveal how many people want to talk to Izuku. Reporters are going to be hounding Izuku for his story, considering how he was key in stopping Tomura. Which he obviously can't do right now due to his condition. After some time, he will eventually recover enough to give a press conference. This will also be where we get the varying opinions on Tomura, having a panel overwhelming Izuku with questions and thoughts. Izuku is now going to use his newly found position to try and change things for the better. He's going to emphasize the importance of the role of the other heroes and not have it all focus on him. He's going to use it as a platform to talk about who Tomura was and why he did what he did.

It's going to be something emotional and vulnerable, something propping up Izuku as a person rather than the hero Deku, working to prevent another situation like All Might where everyone keeps putting them on pedestals. This way, we have both the validation of Izuku saving everyone and wanting to bring about change on the societal level. It shows him being a hero in the traditional way with the defeat of All For One, now he's being a hero in the non-traditional way. This will be cutting into some of the time we have at UA, but to me, I don't think a lot of what's in that part is ultimately necessary to what the story is trying to say.

For the sake of this, Hawks will still be working as the head of the Hero Commission. He'll talk about how he feels free now that his Quirk is gone and everything that came with it, more so than ever before. However, he still wants to make life easier for heroes so that they can feel this kind of freedom. He initially didn't want the position, but felt the need to take it on after everything that's happened and make things right, implying the guilt he feels over his actions. Plus, it has some nice irony of Hawks still being trapped within the Hero Commissions. So him taking the role is more of his own penance and a punishment.

So while Izuku is fighting on the public front, changing the hearts of the masses to enact change, Hawks will be fighting on the political and systematic front, using the devastation of the country as a fresh start. He'll encourage groups of heroes to work together rather than focusing on the individual. He'll push for a greater level of training or vetting when it comes to people who can get a license for hero work. Most importantly, a greater level of accountability and transparency in both heroes and the Hero Commission as a whole.

Lady Nagant will remain in jail, but it's more for reasons of atonement rather than wanting to wait and see how things play out. Hawks will try to offer her some deal or reduction as a way to make things right, but she feels like it's the right thing to do rather than trying to pretend it never happened. This will also be the part where we explore some of the points with Hawks we talked about earlier. Lady Nagant can even question if the Hero Commission is needed, but Hawks can talk about all the reforms he wants to do with it.

For Chapter 426, we're shortening the Todoroki family time, and it will only take up half of the chapter. I will have some confirmation on whether or not Rei was able to move on from what Enji did and do more to cement how Enji is alone now. He may be resolved to change and make things right, but he is not getting his family back. That ship has sailed. Instead, we'll be sticking to everything involving Hawks and Toshinori in the latter half of this, with him talking to Lady Nagant and him discussing his plans for changing the ranking systems in general. I think it'd flow a lot better, works with tying up another character so closely tied to the Todorokis, and gives us more time for other stuff.

However, we're keeping 427 mostly intact. I think Spinner's material is good, and everything that got brought up needed to be mentioned one way or another. The most I'd do is cut down on the ending gag, since it frustrates me so much, and some of the interviews since we may not need them as much with how I'll be changing things in those sections. I am removing the Kai part of the chapter as well. I like Kai, but this honestly feels pointless in the grand scheme of things.

The biggest change will be that I'll include a bit where, instead of Izuku saying to make it a comic book, he'll remind Spinner to think about what would happen if someone like Spinner read it. About how important a book like that could be and how it should be written, but also how it could hurt someone who reads it. Spinner will remain silent in response, thinking back on how he saw Stain and how he was puppeteered around by the likes of One For All and the PLF during the Final War.

I think you could do a nice parallel between Izuku and Spinner here. They were two young men who were ultimately racialized and hurt by their idols and their lack of self-worth. Again, it's showing Izuku thinking about himself more with what has happened to him and tying that to Spinner's own situation. Plus, it prevents something like Spinner's book from having the unfortunate implication of turning out to something like the MLA book.

We're cutting Chapters 428 and 429 in half and stitching them together. Specifically, all the stuff with the new Class 1-A and the Old Class 1-A will be removed. I just feel like we don't need to focus on this as much as other parts of the world or story. Preferably, I would want them to get together. With the Bakugou and Shoto being seen bit, we're throwing in Izuku as well. There needs to be some confirmation that people did in fact see him as a hero as well and confirm that the three are in fact the new Big Three of UA. I'm not asking this to be the norm of it like they do in Naruto. I just feel like there should be some external validation.

The fight between Toga and Uraraka will be around and released to the public. Her death will be seen as something tragic to the world and help spark the change we see later on with people empathizing with villains like her. This could also lead to Izuku seeing it and being the impetus for Izuku and Ochako talking about their feelings. Yes, this chapter will include a confession for Ochako to Izuku. It won't be during a breakdown, but it needs to be put in somewhere and might as well be here. I'll even settle for an implication. Up to you on whether or not you think this should solidify them as a couple, but I feel like you have to include that in order to complete all of the set-up in the series and especially with Toga.

The new Chapter 429 will instead be a two-year time jump into the future before everyone is graduating. We can still start it off with some of the "where are they now" bits, but not have it take up too much time. With the final embers of "One For All" starting to fade out, Izuku knows this is the end of him as a proper hero, but it doesn't matter to him. He got to be the greatest hero in history who literally saved the world. He doesn't define himself by having a Quirk or not and knows that he can still help people without a costume on. Izuku plans on either going into counseling, charity work, or even trying to get a job at the Hero Commission. Up to you on this one. He still wants to help and stop the various hurting people of the world from ever becoming like anyone from the League ever again. Make it clear this is something Izuku wants.

This is when Toshinori gives him his graduation gift: the suit. Between Toshinori's remaining resources, gifts and gratitude from the various people across the world, and contributions from members of 1-A, they were able to build him the suit. Toshinori kept it from Izuku because it wasn't ready until a few days ago, needing to be properly prepared and built as opposed to the rush job that was the dangerous prototype he used. Izuku, of course, has notes and ideas for improvements on the suit. Toshinori reaffirms that Izuku earned this, and he will still be a worthy hero and successor, Quirkless or otherwise. The chapter ends with Class 1-A and 1-B graduating. I know that two years seems short, but I think that the timespan is enough of a time gap to get the suit together, at least with how I am setting it up, and to have the embers of "One For All" fade. 

The alternative route is that, knowing that the embers are running out, Izuku still wants to be a hero. So he's spent the last two years trying to prepare himself for that, putting as much time into training and learning how to use equipment made for him. He doesn't care if he isn't going to be the top hero. He's going to do what he's already been doing: helping people, because that's all he really wanted out of life. That this whole experience changed how he saw himself and hero work. You could even say that it's the prototype for him, eventually becoming the suit. Maybe even combine them both, with the former being a backup plan after hero work. And while I have never been the biggest fan of the whole "Quirkless Hero" concept with how little it's supported in the world, I think we can let it slide because it's the finale. But I wanted to mention it because I thought it'd be an interesting path for the story to take.

Then the real chapter 430 will cut to the future, roughly five to six years. I could take or leave Izuku being a teacher, but for the sake of this, let's say that he is one. Heroes have more time off, so he decides to help educate people. We'll get a similar series of panels that will focus more on the world with how it is now, mainly in relation to Class 1-A. This will show a lot more of how the 1-A kids have grown and the affects they have on the world, like Uraraka actually interacting and helping a kid like Toga come to terms with their power to show how Quirk Counseling has become a tool to help people. I think we really need more scenes like that to really show that things have grown and changed with the world. Izuku's suit will have changed as well, commenting on how much he's been involved with the modeling and planning throughout his most current iteration.

Toshinori will be living his life and still teaching at UA. He talks about how all the kids want to be like Izuku, especially with Kota, and that they never stop talking about him. He jokes to himself about how he feels like he's been forgotten. Cut back to Izuku's old school with the kid in the back. Events will happen similarly to what they did in Chapter 430, with Izuku meeting a kid similar to himself at All Might's statue. There will be the usual stuff he said, trying to encourage the kid, making comparisons to himself, maybe even showing the photos All Might took of him when he was training. He gets a call about an incident and needs to leave. He tells the kid to never forget about the hero he can be and to never stop striving to be that hero. The final words of the series are the ever-iconic "Plus Ultra".  This is beyond cheesy, but if we're going to end the series, we might as well end it with some cheese.

[livwritesstuff]

I've had a consistent thought in my head of the girls learning more about the upside down.

Like they know a bit: uncle Dustin still lives in Hawkins doing research on something, they've seen their dads and they know about the scars and their disabilities. They know something happened to their entire family and they know there was an earthquake that wasn't really an earthquake. But they've never learned more than that and they'll never know the details as long as Steve and Eddie have a say.

But at some point, each of them realizes that the monster hunter jokes that their dads make aren't really jokes.

In general, I think Steve and Eddie’s sentiment surrounding how they address the not-so-pleasant aspects of their past with their daughters is that they won’t lie (because that’ll only come back to bite them in the ass later), but they’re also only going to tell them as much of the truth as they literally need to.

Not that Moe knows any of this.

All Moe really knows is that her dads went through some scary-ass shit when they were her age and they don’t really talk about it.

Still, Moe has eyes. Maybe she didn’t realize it when she was little, but even just the sheer amount of scar tissue her dads have isn’t exactly normal. When she asks where they got them, though, all they ever say is that a monster tried to eat them.

Moe also knows that the reason Pop doesn’t usually join them on shopping trips at the mall is because they can trigger bad migraines, and she knows the reason he gets migraines in the first place is that he’d taken too many hits to the head in too short a time, but when she asks how he’d gotten a concussion and then a TBI and then two more concussions in the span of four years he always just says something like picked a fight with the wrong Russian spy, or something like that.

And it’s public knowledge that Dad was accused of murder when he was in high school and nearly died before the charges got dropped, but when she asks about what happened, he gives her some spiel about curses and demons and portals to alternate dimensions and monsters (again, with the monsters).

They’re kidding, Moe knows. They’re giving obviously fake answers because…well, for a lot of reasons, she can imagine– not wanting to relive whatever actually happened, not wanting to put their own trauma onto Moe and her sisters.

Honestly, Moe doesn’t really even bother asking about it anymore because they clearly don’t want to talk about it, and if it really was that bad, she can’t even blame them. Besides, she’s pretty sure that dads are supposed to be total mysteries to their kids, so…whatever.

The story of what happened in Hawkins, Indiana starts to gain some public attention again while Moe is in high school – one of those true crime conspiracy theory-type stories people make Reddit threads and YouTube videos about, and apparently (because Moe has no interest, but Robbie likes that kind of stuff) Dad almost always comes up in them, Pop sometimes.

Around that time is when Moe’s dads start to get all kinds of media requests – not that Pop had any idea. He’s basically chronically offline, so no one is really able to track him down other than finding his work email on Psychology Today, but he’s got filters set up to send that shit to spam so he doesn’t even have to see it. Dad, on the other hand, is (supposedly) well-known for his books or whatever, so he doesn’t have the same kind of anonymity. He got all sorts of calls and emails from people wanting his first-hand account, but he always refused to participate, told them to lose his number and never contact him or his family ever again.

That’s the kind of thing that really rattled Pop – Moe didn’t like that. He’s kind of an immovable object in that way, so seeing him rattled just seemed wrong.

They’d even needed to threaten legal action against one online tabloid who just wouldn’t leave them alone – not that Moe is supposed to know about that, but she’d eavesdropped on a phone call between her dads and Uncle Dustin, who seems to exist as a central point in it all even if Moe doesn’t know why (maybe it has something to do with how her dads always complaining about how he still works for that lab, whatever that means).

“Are you ever gonna tell us what really happened?” Moe asks one day, when it’s just her and Pop in the car on their way home from a basketball tournament in Connecticut.

He sighed, not taking his eyes off the road.

“Hon, can I ask you to stop and consider that maybe we have been?”

And for her dad’s sake, she does, she makes herself run through the mental log of all the lore or whatever she’s unlocked over the years.

Monsters, Russian spies, superpowers, demon-animals, curses, portals to alternate realities, government corruption, evil scientists.

Bullshit, she’d always thought, but…her dad had never bullshitted her before. Why would he choose to start with this?

Moe looked back at him, some kind of question on the tip of her tongue even though she had no idea what to ask, and this time, Pop spared a glance back.

“I’m not telling you everything,” he warned her as he looked back at the highway stretching out endlessly ahead of them, and Moe tried to keep any signs of disappointment off her face, “But I’ll tell you some.”

[conwise]

Dracula from TAZ vs Dracula might just be my favourite version of the character solely because I LOVE the way he's portrayed as an antagonist (and also Griffin's voice)

*TAZ Dracula Spoilers Below*

Like, of course he's a bad guy, he kills people and terrorizes the populace of Angrave. Heck, look at what he did to Renfield! His evilness has always been immediately apparent just from the fact alone that its Dracula. Dracula as a character usually has, historically speaking, been an evil dude!

But this Dracula is also a bad guy. He's honestly kind of a dick, and that makes him worse than if he was just some inhuman blood-sucking monster. We get to know him as a person through the diary entries and his relationships with other people, we get to learn about the normal people things he does, and you can so clearly see just how kind of terrible he is as a person.

He doesn't care about other people and constantly regards himself as a victim (I can practically hear the :( in his opening monologues). He treats the people around him as disposable; Frankenstein meant so little to him that he just dropped him the moment his plans required it, leaving a subpar replacement to placate him, and Renfield was his number one guy until the moment came when he needed a test subject. Not to mention the letter to Sweater Drac/Vlad where Dracula tells him he'll probably be killed but should put up a good fight anyways just to keep up his own reputation. And then he just sits down with a pen at his little table and goes "Dear Diary, why am I so unhappy and alone :("

And that's just the half of it.

But the thing that gets me the most is the bones in his car. THOSE ARE LADY GODWIN'S BONES. He's never cared about the fact that he killed Godwin, it's just a funny story to him, but the sheer fact that he just casually tossed what was left of her body in the trunk of his car and forgot about it had me fuming. It's insult to injury to Godwin at that point. That body meant as much to him as the old gym clothes that were in there with it. Is that a monstrous and evil thing to do? Not really. Is it a dick move? Absolutely.

And we see more of him being a selfish prick than we do of him killing people and doing evil things. Sure still does those things, but at his core he's a selfish dick who also just happens to be an evil vampire/monster. And I LOVE that. I hate him as a person, not as an inhuman big bad evil guy, the same way I wouldn't be able to stand it if I had to deal with a jerk like that in real life. I hate him in a very specific and real way, like a coworker who's always talking about themselves and gives waaaaaaay too much detail as you just kinda sit there as they talk at you and wonder how on earth they don't realize that they sound like a dick

I just think this version of Dracula is such a good concept for an antagonist and it's done so well

[lightsofthe-living-gvf]

Si Vis (if You Want to)

18+ Minors DNI

Danny Wagner/Sam Kiszka

Summary: Fueled by racing adrenaline and alcohol, Sam and Danny find themselves in one of their dressing rooms post-performance, blurring the line between friendship and something more.

Warnings: smut, porn with plot, friends to lovers (eventually), swearing, some banter, light mentions of alcohol and drinking, tipsy sex, kissing, handjobs.

Little disclaimer: this is purely fiction and is in no way making speculations about the guys and/or their relationships.

Word Count: 4.8k

A/N: Hello, everyone! This has been in the works for a while, now, and I am so excited to finally share it. It will be a sporadically updated series, at least until my work schedule slows down a bit. I know that Sam/Danny isn't everyone's cup of tea, so if you don't like it, scroll on!

Danny could still hear the crowd as he made his way through the maze of hallways that would lead him to the greenroom, so loud and unwavering in their applause and exclamations of praise. He would always be absolutely floored by how the audience roared for him and his bandmates, and the number of shows Greta Van Fleet played nor the ever-increasing size of the venues at which they performed would never change that. Sometimes, he would pop out his in-ear monitors at the end of a song (Highway Tune, normally, right after his drum solo) to listen, just long enough for his hearing to go fuzzy from the sheer volume that echoed throughout the arena.

He felt as if he were up in the air, his head buzzing either from the adrenaline rush that came with playing such a fanatical show or the shots and other alcoholic beverages that had been passed around their set. He couldn't pinpoint which, but he figured it was a generous mix of both. He was replaying moments from the show in his head: Jake's guitar being so crackly and thunderous that it shook his cymbals, the swells of flame so close to his body he could reach out with a drumstick in hand and singe the tip of it, and Josh's joy while singing Light My Love, so infectious that he just had to crack a smile, and sing along with his entire chest. He was still so caught up in it all that he hadn't really registered the sound of his name being called or who it was being called by, not until the source of the voice was right beside him.

"Did you lose your hearing or something? Slow your ass down for a second."

Sam.

"Oh, hey, sorry," Danny said, slowing his pace a few steps and allowing Sam to catch up to him without having to speed-walk. "What's up? You sounded really good, tonight, by the way."

"So did you." He nudged playfully at Danny's side, then looped and arm through one of his, so that they were walking with linked elbows. They were then close enough that Danny could smell the alcohol on his breath, and he could see the flush across the bridge of his nose and all over his cheeks. Sam continued, "I have some more shots in my dressing room. You down?"

Danny pondered the offer. Or, pretended to, anyway. He never could find a reason to say ‘no’ to Sam. Even in this situation, where he most likely had more than just a few shots hiding away in his dressing room and that meant that he and Danny were going to wake up with a hangover the next morning. However, it wasn’t as if they couldn’t handle a hangover.

So, without much thought, he agreed, "Yeah, sure, Sam."

"I knew you would be." Sam grinned. He pulled his elbow from Danny's, his fingers just barely trailing down his friend’s forearm as he reached for his wrist instead. He always got a bit more touchy-feely when he had something to drink, but it had never really bothered Danny. He was well used to the Kiszkas’ love language.

When they stepped inside his dressing room, Sam went right into the mini fridge and pulled out some shots and a few bottles of beer, too. Just as Danny had assumed he would. He then straightened back up, grabbed a shot without looking at the label, unscrewed the cap, and threw it back.

"Heads up," Sam said suddenly, giving Danny only a few seconds to whip his head in that direction and get eyes on whatever was flying in his way. Sam had tossed him a shot and luckily, the small bottle was made of plastic, because Danny was too slow to catch it. It bounced off his chest and right onto the carpet beneath his feet.

Sam laughed as Danny bent over to pick it up, "Nice catch, dude."

Danny tried to raise his eyebrows all unamused-like, but he couldn't help but to chuckle a little as he spoke, "That was a bad throw."

He took the shot, scrunching his nose until the burn went away.

"Hey, watch this," Sam said. He grabbed a beer bottle, positioned its top against the edge of the vanity counter, and in one swift movement, slammed his palm into the bottle cap and popped it off. The beverage bubbled over the rim of the glass and onto the floor, but Sam didn't really care. He showed the bottle—now without a cap—off to Danny with a goofy smile on his face.

"Cool, Sam," Danny praised lightly, as if Sam hadn't been proudly performing that trick since they were old enough to go to parties, and even before that. "Do one for me?"

Sam happily obliged, opening a bottle in the same fashion and then handing it over to him. Danny took a swig, his curls just barely sweeping over his bare, freckled shoulders in a way that had Sam's eyes lingering for just a moment longer than what would be traditionally considered platonic. Honestly, Sam had abandoned ‘platonic’ ideals in regard to he and Danny’s relationship long ago, even if he hadn’t outwardly expressed that. He just didn’t feel the need to ignore the beauty his friend so obviously exuded, both physically and as a person, too.

Briefly, the picture of how Danny had been when they first started touring crossed Sam’s mind. He’d been so lanky, still not having grown into his height. And his hair- Sam could laugh out loud at how he and Danny had done their hair, back then. Regardless of his slightly dorky appearance, however, Danny—at his core—was the same person now as he was when they were just graduating high school. Gentle, considerate, and as sweet as can be. Just with a little more self-confidence backing it all up. Despite the lack of mental qualms Sam had about admiring the physical features of his best friend, his cheeks still flushed when he realized he’d been thinking about all of that while looking entirely into Danny’s direction. And they perhaps got even redder when he saw that Danny was, in fact, looking right back at him with a slightly confused expression that countered the face Sam was pulling, which was a moderate display of heart-eyes. Sam wondered if the fact that he’d been nursing boozy drinks since well before their acoustic set would be a good excuse for the little moment that he had just created between himself and his best friend.

But before he could dwell on it any longer, there was a swift banging on the dressing room door and a subsequent shout, “20 minutes ‘till go-time!”

Instead of apologizing or making it any more awkward, Sam decided to deplore, “Only 20 minutes?”

Danny shrugged. “The venue probably just wants us out of here so they can clean up. I’m gonna go change.” He turned to grab the door handle, but Sam’s hand settled on his forearm, stopping Danny’s movement. He turned back with a raised brow, “What’s up?”

Sam stared at Danny for a moment, letting his own thoughts reel. Why the hell did he do that? What was he going to say?Sam genuinely had no idea, because the only reason he’d really stopped Danny from leaving was to satisfy the impulsive urge to kiss him dizzy. It had been tugging at Sam all night, flaring up and searing like bright blue flame whenever Danny- well, whenever Danny did basically anything. So much for never outwardly expressing his non-platonic feelings.

After a few stretched-out seconds, Danny gave Sam a look, his brows tipped slightly in concern. “What’s the matter, Sam?” he asked in a tone so tender and caring that Sam truly believed he could weep if he wasn’t trying to keep it together.

“Nothing’s the matter,” Sam assured him quickly. And maybe it was all the alcohol catching up to his brain or even just plain desire rendering his self-control entirely useless, but he added, “I just have to ask you something.”

“What?”

Fuck! Why did he say that?? Suddenly so nervous he could hear his own heartbeat and immensely regretting opening his mouth in the first place, Sam faltered, “Well uh… It’s kinda hard to word.”             Danny chuckled a little. “Just tell me, Sammy.”

“Okay, okay. Fine.” Sam gave a short sigh before continuing hesitantly, “Do you ever think about me in like- a different way? Or, you know… us? In a different way?”

Sam had hoped his vaguely-worded question would be enough for Danny to understand what he was trying to say, but he just tilted his head in a painfully oblivious manner. “What do you mean? Different how?

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Sam, huffed.  

“Well, what—”

Sam—now acting only on his unmanageable desire and nothing else—cut Danny off by crowding him back against the wall next to the door with firm hands on those pronounced hipbones of his. The skin beneath his fingers felt like heaven, and the warmth of their closeness perhaps even more so. And before Danny could say anything else or even make a noise of surprise, Sam kissed him.

Danny’s mind went totally blank. His limbs stiffened in sheer shock from the move that Sam had just pulled, and the only thing he could register was the faint taste of beer on his best friend’s lips. But before he could even relax himself and try to chase that taste, Sam broke away from him.

Danny blinked at Sam, his lips parted dumbly. Sam had just kissed him. Right on the mouth. No hesitation, no bashfulness, and certainly no flirty smile or batting eyelashes. Danny was rendered totally speechless as the reality of it all sank in, in the same way a cannonball would sink to the ocean floor after being fired: slowly.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Sam’s voice, as small as it had been all night, broke through to Danny and for a few seconds, they just looked at each other. Sam, waiting with bated breath and Danny, still unable to find his voice. It was just a moment too long for Sam because he shamefully turned his head and took a step back from Danny, his hands falling from his hips as if the skin was burning his fingertips.

“Sam,” Danny breathed, tugging him back with a hand on his wrist and connecting their lips once more. And this time, Danny reveled completely in Sam’s kiss. His best friend kissed like he spoke, vivaciously and free from most inhibitions. His lips were as soft and as plush as they had always looked to be, and Danny felt the sudden—but not unwelcome—urge to kiss them red and swollen.

 Sam weaved a hand into Danny’s hair, his fingers trembling ever so slighting. And despite the anxiety—albeit rapidly fading anxiety—still gnawing at his stomach, Sam deepened the kiss with a gentle tolt of his head. To his delight, Danny went right along with him, bringing his hands to rest on Sam’s waist and pulling him close to his chest with a little tug.

While Danny was a little surprised by the way Sam had just outright kissed him, he certainly wasn’t upset about it. Afterall, Sam always acted on whatever was in his heart without so much as a question, and Danny knew that. He trusted in that, and he trusted in that indescribable and indestructible bond of theirs, because… why wouldn’t he? Sam was his closest friend and musical counterpart. It was all very black and white; Danny adored him.

Danny also knew that the very way he was entangled with Sam could change the dynamic of their friendship for as long as it would stand—if it could even be called a friendship, afterwards—but he couldn’t- he wouldn’t bring himself to even entertain the thoughts of the consequences, especially not when it felt so good and so right to hold Sam as close as he was.

And all of the thoughts tripping around Danny’s head came to a stuttering halt when Sam broke away and began pressing delicate, yet meaningful kisses along his jawline and down the column of his throat. So, Danny did what anyone else would do and tilted his head to bask in the treatment. Each warm touch of Sam’s lips to his skin sent delightful little tingles down his spine, and he wouldn’t ignore that just for the sake of overthinking.

Danny hummed and it was only a low, hardly audible sound produced from the bottom of his throat, but it was just enough to encourage Sam to sink his teeth into the skin beneath his lips. He found himself needing more of those noises, and he received more in the form of a pretty, choked gasp. Danny wondered fleetingly about how he was going to explain he mark to his make-up artist, but when Sam soothed over the reddened spot with his tongue and a few more light kisses, the thought was quickly replaced by the strong desire to feel his lips and hands all over his body.

Danny started grappling lower, pointedly digging his fingers into the soft flesh of Sam’s ass. And upon hearing Sam’s grunt, followed by the subtle movement of his hips pitching forward, something so warm and so electric stirred in Danny’s belly, leaving him fighting to keep his composure. In that moment, Danny wanted to do anything and everything with Sam, but he couldn’t be sure how far Sam wanted to take this, if he wanted to take it any further at all. So, instead of making any more moves, Danny zeroed in on the sensation of Sam lavishing his skin with kisses and nips, occasionally giving his bottom a light squeeze.

“Fuck- Sam,” Danny inhaled sharply as Sam scraped his teeth over the protruding point of his collarbone. It stung, but in a way that had his cock twitching helplessly in his pants. He used his hold on Sam to yank him impossibly closer, the friction of it all causing him to let out a short, low whimper.

Sam warmed the spot with a lap of his tongue, then came off and murmured, “Was that too much, Daniel?”

If Danny hadn’t looked down and seen the daring smirk on Sam’s face, he would have almost thought he was genuinely worried that he had been a little too rough. But, no- the words were a tease, and Danny had to play along. In fact, he had never felt more compelled to do anything in his entire life.

So, Danny huffed with feigned sass, “It wasn’t enough, actually.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sam pulled away, gazing at him with a cocked brow. “Is that why you’re already a little hard?”  

Instead of answering, Danny took Sam’s lips once more. Almost instantly, Sam was poking his tongue out from behind his lips, prodding at Danny’s own. Danny opened up for him gladly, and as soon as he did, he was delighted by the taste of sugary beer coating his tongue.

At that point, Sam was acting on instinct, and instinct alone. His languid movements and banter were all products of his unrelenting desire; there was no critical thought behind them at all. He would rather have it that way, anyway.

He certainly wasn’t thinking about the consequences of his actions when he pulled away from the kiss and breathed, “I know we don’t have a lot of time, but do you wanna do this?”

“We’ll just have to make it quick,” Danny urged, catching Sam’s eyes with an unexpectedly desperate expression. “I want this. I want you, Sam.”

Without another word from either of them, Sam brought his fingers down to the button on Danny’s pants and in one swift motion, popped it open. He pulled the zipper down and the moment he was able, gently freed Danny’s cock from his boxers, and holy shit- if Danny didn’t have the prettiest cock that Sam had ever seen. Sam was—by no means—ignorant to the attractiveness of other men, but he had never really seen anything like this. Even only half-hard, Danny’s cock was still modestly long and perfectly rounded and a soft pink color. Sam had to stop himself from muttering some sort of expletive.

Danny watched him with his teeth sunk into his swollen bottom lip, a sharp stab of need shooting through the walls of his weakening resolve. It was so electric, the way Danny found himself longing for Sam with his entire chest. And when Sam spit wetly into his palm and gave his first real touch—a tentative stroke downwards—to Danny’s cock, all of those cracked walks crumbled and he let out a soft, pleasured moan.

“Tell me how you like it, Danny,” Sam commanded gently.

Danny managed to choke out a question in return, “How would you do it for yourself?”

“Um… Fast? Firm?”

Danny huffed a laugh at that. “Don’t say firm. But do that,” then he politely added, “please.”

With that, Sam wasted no time building up a steady rhythm, pleasantly firm and hurried with the hopes of getting Danny to the edge before management came banging on the dressing room door again. Danny tossed back his head and drew a shaky breath. There was some rational part of him, way in the back of his mind, that still couldn’t quite process that he and Sam were doing this, but he shut his eyes, anyway, and focused on the perfectly thrilling feeling of Sam’s nimble fingers wrapped around his length.

Sam allowed his free hand to run fervently down Danny’s side, mapping out the skin he’d always snuck glances at, yet never had the explicit privilege of touching in the way he’d really wanted to. He smoothed that hand along Danny’s ass, next, then over the dimples on he small of his back, before bringing it back upwards to press against the plan of muscles between his shoulder blades. He wanted to explore and appreciate all that he could while he had the opportunity to do so.

He then slowed the movement of his working hand, thumbing right at the head of Danny’s cock until he saw a dribble of pre-cum appear from the slit. Danny couldn’t stop the broken whine that peeled from his throat as Sam continued on with his movements, faster and just a little slicker than before.

Sam hummed with delight at the noise. “How’s that? Is it good?”

“So good,” Danny returned breathlessly. “Don’t stop.”

Sam murmured, “Not really planning on it.”

As he worked, Sam watched Danny; the way his eyebrows furrowed when he did something that must have felt particularly good, and how he bit his lip to desperately keep from making a sound too loud for the small confines of the dressing room. And the more he watched Danny dissolve into boneless bliss, the less he could bear the ache of his own cock straining against his pants. So, with his free hand, he hastily undid his own button and zipper, then pulled himself out.

Danny blinked sluggishly at the loss of Sam’s hand roaming his body, and realized he’d been so caught up in his own pleasure, that he hadn’t been paying any mind to Sam’s. He was then quick to spit into his own palm and bring it to Sam’s cock, moving his hand out of the way and giving him a soft, apologetic look. Sam made a low noise and pushed his hips needily into Danny’s fist.

Sam and Danny worked themselves into a hasty, harmonious rhythm, not unlike the one they were able to form when up on stage, playing for a crowd of thousands. They had always been so in-tune with each other; it was just something that came with the bond they shared so fiercely. It was a trust rooted deep in their hearts, formed not only by years of making music and performing with each other, but by laughing together, bickering with each other, and everything in between.

And when Danny’s orgasm began to approach, it wasn’t the way his chest started heaving or how he was no longer able to choke down his noises that told Sam he was getting there, though those were all good hints. No, it was a knowing feeling that came from deep inside his stomach, showing itself with a shimmering intensity that he didn’t exactly need to look into at the moment. He tore his eyes away from where they had inadvertently begun to gaze at their hands and instead cast his glance upwards with a burning need to see Danny’s face- to see if it was anything like those sinful looks that he pulled on stage.  

To Sam’s entirely depraved joy, the expressions were deliciously similar. Danny’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes hooded and glossy, and his lips—so pink and pretty—were parted. And his tongue was even darting out from between them sporadically, as if he didn’t quite realize he was doing it. He looked so debauched and divine that it made Sam’s stomach flutter with desire, and his cock leak pearly drops of pre-cum.

“Sam—” Danny choked.

But Sam already knew what he was going to say, and cut him off, “You’re gonna cum, aren’t you?”

Danny nodded fiercely.

“That was pretty quick,” Sam teased lightly, as if he wasn’t nearing his own peak and just as desperate to come undone as he assumed Danny was.

“Shut up,” Danny retorted, jerking his hips along with the rhythm of Sam’s hand. Sam was right: he was achingly close, and he had gotten there fast, too. He wished he could blame it on all the alcohol and the adrenaline that came from playing a show, then immediately doing something like this. But he couldn’t. Really, Danny knew the only reason he was approaching the edge so rapidly was because it was Sam who was dragging him there.

And eager to reciprocate the ecstasy Sam was working him towards, Danny doubled down in the pumping of his fist over Sam’s cock. In response, Sam let out a breathy moan and bit his lip, his head dropping lazily forward onto Danny’s shoulder. His fingers—though calloused from years of drumming and playing guitar—felt so amazing that Sam couldn’t help but to buck his hips, too, fucking himself into his friend’s willing fist.

“You’re so hard, Sammy,” Danny whispered breathlessly, as if he couldn’t quite believe that he was the one causing it.

Sam whimpered in response, “Uh-huh.”

He was almost at a loss for words, which wasn’t something that happened very often. Sam knew he could ramble on forever if he was allowed to. But now, with Danny’s pace picking up and with the fingers of his free hand curling around his ass, he found that he only words he could say were broken phrases and mindless curses.

Soon enough, however, Sam began to pull out all of the stops, yearning to watch Danny lose himself to the pleasure they had created. He hastened the movements of his hand just a tick, while simultaneously dragging his thumb over the head of Danny’s cock and following the prominent vein down with every stroke. He was so hard and hot and slick beneath Sam’s fingers, that he found it to be intoxicating. In fact, it had him periodically biting at his already-red lips.

“Shit,” Danny gasped. “I’m almost there.”

Danny’s hand then snaked around Sam’s shoulder to hold the back of his head. He pulled him forward and connected their lips amorously, delighting in the sweet, muffled noise Sam made. It caused Sam to falter in his movements. He just couldn’t help it, not when he couldn’t ever recall a time when he’d ever been kissed like that. Danny’s kisses were so fervent, it was as if he were trying to draw all the breath from his lungs and replace it with stardust.

Sam was losing himself to the feeling, at least until Danny interrupted their kiss with an impatient whine against his lips. He hastily refocused his attention to the task at hand, rubbing his hip and breaking away to kiss at his jaw in apology. Despite being truly sorry for slowing down right as Danny was nearing his peak, he did feel a little rush of satisfaction at the way he had lost his composure.

And without much more than a hitching moan as a warning, Danny came into Sam’s hand. Sam’s cheeks went red-hot as he eagerly worked Danny through it. He watched his expression transform from a scrunch into something all pleasured and fucked-out, and that was enough to nearly make up for Danny having let go of Sam’s cock in the midst of it all and instead clawing at his wrist and hip.

But still, it wasn’t enough to get Sam any closer to the edge, so he took hold of his own cock—so hard it nearly hurt and so slippery with—and began pumping himself with a relit desperation to finish himself off before their bus had to leave. He groaned into the thick, open air, and that’s when Danny regained his senses and swatted Sam’s hand away.

“Let me do it,” he murmured, and began stroking Sam’s cock with a rapid fervor. Tilting his head downwards and guiding Sam to tilt his, he started pressing kisses and nips to the hollow of his throat, tangling his hand in his hair to keep him still as he continued his onslaught.

“Danny,” Sam’s moaned unexpectedly high in his throat.

“Close?”

When Sam nodded vigorously, Danny worked his wrist in a twisting motion, watching at the slit of his cock wept and thoroughly enjoying his responding whine. Sam bucked his hips, wordlessly urging Danny to go faster and accompanying the silent plea with a gasp. Danny complied, flicking his wrist hastily until—

“I- Ah- I’m coming- fuck!”

Sam shot directly into Dany’s palm, and maybe it was because his head was still a little floaty, but in that moment, he could swear it was the most beautiful he’d ever seen Sam. And while Sam was still panting from the force of his orgasm, Danny surged forward and captured his lips in a bruising kiss. And Sam let Danny kiss him hard, until they had to break away from one another for air.

“Well,” Sam was the first to speak after a moment of only shallow breaths. “That was hot as hell. I’m gonna get us something to clean up with. Not that it’ll do much.” He punctuated his statement with a short, boyish laugh as he looked down at their hands and freshly ruined stage pants.

“Right,” Danny nodded, leaning his head back against the wall. Coming out of his warm, post-orgasm haze, he could feel the coolness of the drywall against his skin and the ache in his shoulder blades caused by pressing against it for so long. He stayed like that, though, until Sam came back with some tissues.

Sam and Danny made themselves decent in a silence laced with a little bit of tension, cleaning themselves up and straightening their clothes and running their hands through their hair until it laid as flat as it could. Sam glanced over to Danny, and his heart panicked and sank to his stomach as he watched him wipe mascara smears from the corners of his eyes. What was Danny going to think of him—of them—nowthat they had tipsily stumbled across an unexplored line? In the morning, when they were nursing slight headaches and dry mouths, would Danny hate Sam for what they had done? Would Sam hate Danny?

But then, Danny caught his eye and gave him a little smile, and Sam felt himself relax. They couldn’t ever hate each other, could they? There was no room for hate in the relationship they’d spent so much of their lives strengthening and relying upon.

Banging sounded throughout the room, and this time it was followed by Josh shouting from the other side of the door, “What in the hell are you guys doing in there? We have to go?”

Sam then braced himself for the door to open and for Josh to just come barging in, but it didn’t happen. He almost cried in relief. Danny turned to open the door, but before he could reach it, Sam stopped him.

“Wait- how are we gonna explain our fucking clothes?”

Danny looked down at his clothes, then looked back up at Sam. “Uh- we can… tell them we spilled some beer?”

Sam narrowed his eyes and contemplated the suggestion, before deciding that it was truly their best option.

“Okay. But be cool, alright?” he said. Then, his voice dropped to a whisper, his tone erring on the side of desperation. “We can’t let them know about this.”

Danny nodded, biting back some sort of bitter emotion with a swallow, and agreeing, “I’m always cool, Sammy. It’ll be fine.”

Sam then allowed him to open the door, internally praising Danny for being the one to explain and subsequently take the brunt of all the nagging, from his older brother or otherwise.

[604to647]

Mi Galleta (Part 1 - Ginger Molasses)

5.9K / Modern AU Grumpy Bouncer!Pero Tovar x Sunshine-Rich Girl!reader

Summary: You meet Pero Tovar, the grumpy bouncer of a high-end restaurant your friend really wants to eat at, and over the course of one week, you try to convince him to grant you and your friends access.

Warnings: Kind of a silly premise, but let's go with it! Fluff (Pero has one dirty thought), lots of food (including dishes I made up in my mind), cute nickname (won't spoil).

A/N: I love food and I love Pero? And I know Pero loves food, so I said, let's put him in the restaurant business 🤭 Did I mention that this whole thing was born from a dream? All cute dividers by @saradika-graphics 🥰 Series Masterlist

“Uggghhh!! I don’t understand how you’re supposed to eat here??!”

Your friend Dorothy is having an absolute fit, bordering on a tantrum, and you can’t help but bite down on your lip to keep from laughing.  Normally, you can diffuse Dorothy’s rage with a well-timed joke and a hug, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to work just yet.  Better let her exhaust herself a little more first.

“It’s like this restaurant doesn’t want people to come!!”

“Well, maybe it’s not worth going to then?” asks your other friend Eloise in a helpful tone, which seems like a miscalculation because Dorothy’s arms flail in the air erratically at the question.

“Of course, we have to go!  It’s only the hottest restaurant opening; everyone is talking about it!  We have to be there!!”  Dorothy crosses her arms and exhales with an exaggerated pout.

Very gently you put your arms around her and pat her arm soothingly, “A new restaurant opens, like, every week.  We can’t go to them all?”

Dorothy looks like she’s going to cry, “But I want to go to this one!  And the fact that they’re making it so exclusive is making me want to go MORE.”  You giggle and kiss the top of her head.  Some people (okay maybe a lot of people), might say that Dorothy is a brat, but you love her to bits.  And Eloise too.  Of all your friends, the three of you are the closest, having known each other the longest.  There are a lot of misconceptions about kids that go to expensive prep schools, the biggest being that you don’t make friends, you make connections <insert eye-roll>.   You’ve known these two women since your days of school uniforms and college prep classes; you’ve seen each other through thick and thin, no one knows you better and is quicker to uplift and support you whenever you need.  They are the dearest, most loyal and steadfast friends a person could ever ask for and you dare anyone to say differently. 

“Okay,” you say, not one to give up on anything, even if it’s your friend’s short-term dream of eating in a restaurant that apparently doesn’t want any patrons, “what do we know?”

“Food and wine critics have been hinting that a major restauranteur is opening a new location this month and it’s going to be called ‘Lin’.  There’s no phone number you can call to make a reservation.  There haven’t been any private or soft opening invitations sent out.  There is no information or even contact information online.  The only thing I know is the location, and that’s only because my wine guy is supplying the restaurant and he told me he’s been making big deliveries in preparation for the opening.”

“Right, your wine guy,” you chuckle.  Of course Dorothy has a wine guy.  There's not much Dorothy doesn’t have. Nor Eloise.  Or you, for that matter.  You’ve always been more than aware of the privileges and good fortune bestowed upon your life by the sheer cosmic luck of having been born who you are and to your loving family – for the entirety of your life, you’ve been lucky enough to never want for anything, nor suffered any great misfortune or injustice.  You know you’ve done nothing to deserve such advantages and so you’ve vowed never to take any of it for granted.  You studied hard, work hard at a job you love, give back generously, and intend to make your way in the world with a positive impact on those around you, the way your parents have modelled.  And right now, Dorothy is in need of some positivity.

“Well go on, what’s the address then?” you ask; Dorothy perks up at this and shows you the address she has pulled up on her maps app.  “That’s right by my office!” you exclaim, surprised, “How about this?  I’ll go and poke around on my lunch break this week and see what I can find out?”

Dorothy squeals and throws her arms around you, and Eloise comes over laughing to join in the reverie.  Joyfully, the three of you spend the rest of the afternoon cooking up schemes for your investigative adventure on Monday.

Monday

You look up at the building number, then back down at your phone to double check the address.  This doesn’t look like a restaurant at all, never mind a trendy one on the precipice of opening its doors; this looks like… an office building.  You peek through the double glass doors and see exactly what you would expect in an office lobby: an information desk, a few modern design chairs arranged into a makeshift waiting area, and an elevator bank.  Pushing lightly on the doors, you’re surprised to find that they open easily; you step in to the quiet lobby and with a slight trepidation call out, “Hello? Is there anyone here?”  Met with silence, you walk in a little further and look around – not finding anything remarkable, no signs or directions for Lin or any other clues, you make your way to the elevator bank; surely there will be some sort of building directory near the elevators that can tell you something.

“May I help you with something, miss?”

You practically squeak from surprise before turning around to face the deep, accent-lilted baritone voice that snuck up on you.  Whatever you were expecting, it wasn’t the tall, broad shouldered, brute of a man scowling at you.  His impossible width and towering presence, coupled with the scar over his left eye should be enough to frighten you, but his chocolate brown eyes flash a momentary softness that has you more curious about him than anything.

“Oh yes please!  Do you happen to know which way to the restaurant?” you figure pretending to know more than you do can’t hurt.

The stranger’s countenance shifts to something softer, something more like disapproval rather than outright distain (an improvement!) and he hesitates, as if deciding how to answer.  Then suddenly, as if to proceed before he can talk himself out of it, he gives a slight nod to the elevators.

Though he maintains his outward glower, Pero can’t help but be charmed by the gleeful smile you give him as you press the button to call the elevator; you look giddy with excitement, and he almost wishes he doesn’t have to disappoint you. 

Once the elevator doors open, you step in looking for any additional signs or clues on where you’re supposed to go; finding none, you decide you’ll just try every floor until you find what you’re looking for.  However, when you go to press the first button, it lights up at your touch but quickly dims when you let go. Same with the next button. And the next.  Holding the elevator door open with one hand, you peek your head out to find the tall stranger waiting for you at the end of the elevator bank, almost expectantly.  Although still wearing his scowl, you’re sure you detect a small smile itching to escape, struggling valiantly to tug up the corner of his mouth.  Ever so sweetly you call out, “Excuse me!  Do you know how I can get access to these floors?”

In response, Pero wordlessly holds up a plastic fob he retrieves from his pocket and smirks (there it is).

You chuckle to yourself; this is shaping up to be quite the puzzle.  You love puzzles.

The gatekeeper to the restaurant has already turned to silently return to his post when you step off the elevator and follow him; you find him sitting behind the information desk, looking sternly at his laptop and some papers.  You’re positive that he’s only pretending to 1) fill out the paperwork and 2) ignore you, so you don’t feel bad about the Grade A pestering you’re about to inflict on him.

“Soooooo… who gets to decide who you let up?” you chirp, cheerily.

Silence.

Your sweet tone does not waver one bit, “Is there a list?  Or like, an application, to get on the list?”

Silence.  Then something like a sigh.

“There must be a list.  How does one, get on the list?” you smile because you know you’re wearing him down.

“You won’t know until you try.”  Finally!  A response!

You make a big show of pretending to think, pursing your lips and tapping them gently with your perfectly manicured nails, “So bribery.  Cool, cool.”

Silence.

“Do you want… my sandwich?” you hold out the lunch bag you have in your hand from your favourite sandwich shop.

“No, thank you.”  Pero’s not looking at you; he’s afraid he might crack if he does.

“Good.  This is my favourite sandwich,” if you’re not mistaken, you think you see the stranger’s shoulders shake a little, as if suppressing a laugh.

But still, more silence. 

“Are you here everyday?” you tilt your head questioningly, and even though the man is not looking at you, you give him your widest doe eyes and softest pleading expression.

Pero almost wishes he hadn’t looked up, so instantly disarmed he is by the innocent look you’re giving him.  For a moment, he imagines what it might be like to have you giving him this same look from between his legs while on your knees, before he forces himself to snap out of his daydream with something close to a groan.  To cover up this noise, he gives a curt nod.

And then, although you couldn’t possibly be reading his filthy mind, you say, “May I come… back?” and Pero almost perishes when he hears the first three words of your question.  He once again gives you a brusque tip of his head so not to betray any of his thoughts.  Perfectly satisfied, you throw him another heart-stopping smile before practically flouncing out of the lobby, leaving Pero feeling positively thrown at what just happened.    

Tuesday

You stand in front of the information desk, patiently waiting for Pero to look up.  It takes him a few minutes to look at you, but you don’t mind.  You rock back and forth on your heels, taking in the finer design details of the lobby that you hadn’t had an opportunity to admire yesterday.

“Hello again,” his tone is gruff, but you think not unfriendly.

Excited, you brace yourself on the desk and lean forward, eyes full of mirth, “Hi!  Are you ready for your bribe?”

Looking impassive, Pero leans back in his chair and gestures openly with his hands, “Alright. Show me what you got.”

Pulling a container out of your bag, you place it in front of him and smile expectantly.

Pero examines the container with suspicion, but when he opens it, he does so with mock trepidation, as if the contents might explode and you giggle at his theatrics.  It’s the sweetest sound Pero’s ever heard.  Looking into the container, he sees it’s filled with cookies; he doesn’t know what he had expected, but it certainly wasn’t home baked goods.

He picks up a cookie and bites into it gingerly, trying to ignore how adorable he finds your look of anticipation.

“So?”

Pero arches his eyebrow in silence, a question in response to your question.

“Have I successfully bribed you into letting me and my friends up to the restaurant?” your eyes wide with hope.

“No, sorry.”

You can’t help but let your face fall, “Oh shoot.  Were they not good?”

“Oh no, it’s very good… just not my favourite cookie,” Pero knows he could lie to you, but he’s sure you wouldn’t want that.

“Oh!” This you can work with, “Ok, if we’re going to do this, I’m going to need you to rank it, so I know if I’m getting closer.”

You lean over his desk and help yourself to a note pad; pulling a pen from your purse, you write the date, then neatly next to it “Ginger Molasses” and “_ /10” before pushing the paper back towards the bouncer.  Pero tries not to smile while you impatiently watch him as he makes a show of thinking, tapping his fingers against his lip much like you did yesterday; he carefully pencils in a “7”. 

“Not bad, not bad, not bad,” you chant to yourself, invigorated as you get up to go.  “I’ll grab the container next time,” you say over your shoulder while giving the man a little wink.  Pero waits until you’re gone before stuffing his face with your delicious cookies.

Wednesday

The next day, you return on your lunch break with white chocolate macadamia nut cookies.  You’re not sure, but the bouncer looks like he’s expecting you; at least his scowling face seems to relax slightly when he sees you.

Keen to get started, you hurry through the usual pleasantries before quickly depositing the box in front of Pero.  Inwardly, he’s amused by your eagerness.

You burst out laughing when Pero holds up a finger after he opens your container and reaches down next to him to open the door of a mini fridge and pulls out a bottle of milk.  Confirming what he thought yesterday, that your laugh is the loveliest sound he’s ever heard, Pero’s chests puffs in pride at having been able to draw it out of you. He makes a big show of biting down into an oversized cookie for your amusement and takes a comical swig of milk before pulling out the pad you had used yesterday for the cookie rankings.

When you try to peer over him to see the score he’s giving, his hunches over and covers the paper with his arm, huffing dramatically.  You giggle some more.  You have to admit the bouncer is growing on you, his scary glare clearly a facade for work, because he’s actually quite funny.  And cute. 

Pero leans back and turns the pad towards you.  You see he’s written neatly under your writing from yesterday: the date and “White Chocolate Macadamia 7.5/10”

“Oh!  It’s an improvement at least!” you say with pride.

Pero nods, though not smiling, no longer bothering to put on his customary frown, “It’s very good.  But still not my favourite cookie.”

“That’s okay, I’m doing better, that’s what matters.”  Pero thinks that if he could be responsible for the smile that’s currently on your face for the rest of his days, he could die happy.

Then to his surprise, you pull out two more containers from your bag; for a moment, Pero thinks he’s in for another cookie, but when he leans forward curiously, he sees that the containers contain some kind of pasta salad.

Holding out one of the containers to the bouncer, you offer, almost shyly, “Can you have lunch?”

“No.” 

Oh.  Maybe this was too much.  Your face falls a little, before nodding, “I guess you’re working, sorry.”

Pero falters a bit when he sees your sweet face looking sad; he knows his grumpy exterior can put people off, but he didn’t mean to do so this time.  Not to you. “You can have lunch though,” he gestures to the other chair behind the desk, next to him.

You brighten immediately, face breaking out into a big grin, “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Pero pushes his chair in a little to give you some more room to pass behind of him. 

Happily, you plop down on the free seat and get out two forks.  You lay one on a container and push it towards him, and pick up the other to start digging into your salad, “Is it a rule you can’t eat here?  I hope you don’t get in trouble for the cookies.”

Touched by your concern, Pero explains, “There’s no rule, but it doesn’t look very intimidating if I’m savouring a baked good while turning people away from the restaurant.”

Mouth full of food, you cover your mouth daintily with your hand, “Why do you turn them away?”

“The owners are really passionate about this restaurant; so much time and heart has gone into every aspect, from the menu to the decor.  Lin is a fusion of Spanish and Chinese cuisines, with some Latin influences; all these cultures are rich in history, beloved and cherished by their people and the owners.  The restaurant is named for one of their wives.  They just want the people who come and eat here first to be people that will truly immerse themselves and enjoy the experience and food, appreciate it for the labour of love that it is.  Not people here for clout.”

“That’s really sweet.  I didn’t know Lin held such a special meaning,” you smile, genuinely touched as Pero tucks the containers you brought him away for later, “How can you tell who’s here for clout and who isn’t?”

“Just my gut,” Pero says simply; he reaches into his drawer and pulls out the container you left him with yesterday, cleaned.

You’re surprised and gratified, “Oh, thank you!  You didn’t have to clean it!”

“You would have done the same.”

“Well, I mean… yes, but…”

“Then you deserve the same back,” his tone kind, but factual.

You grin as you look down, taking the container before looking back up at Pero with an amused look, “You seem fairly sure in what you know about me, but you don’t even know my name.”

“I’ve just been calling you ‘Cookie’ in my head.”

You feel your face flush at the idea that he’s given you a pet name and tell him he can call you ‘Cookie’ if he wants, but also give him your name.

“Pero Tovar,” he introduces himself, holding out his hand; when you shake it, you’re pleasantly surprised at the gentleness with which he touches you.  You can feel a strength and self-assuredness in his grip, but the way he handles you is almost careful.  Like you’re precious.

“Ok, Pero Tovar,” you beam, loving the opportunity to let his name roll off your tongue, “what’s your favourite part about working here?”

“The bribes,” he quips without missing a beat before he winks at you.  You shouldn’t feel your heart skip a beat from such a small gesture, but you’re filled with a lot of fondness for Pero suddenly and you look back down at your salad so he can’t see the way you’re grinning.

He does see, however, and he finds himself experiencing a similar fondness for you.  He earnestly answers your question, telling you about the delicious food, the months of recipe R&D all the staff took part in, and the hardworking team they’ve put together upstairs.

The remainder of your lunch hour passes too quickly for your liking.  Your conversation with Pero never wanes; you find that not only do you have a love of food in common, but can apparently both talk about it for hours.  Pero is funny and thoughtful; something that is readily reflected in his more natural expression.  You almost laugh out loud each time a potential restaurant patron comes in and he immediately flips a switch and turns on what you now suspect is just a scary work persona.  Especially if once that person is out of sight, he immediately softens his handsome features and goes back to telling you about the best gelato he’s ever had.

Thursday

The following day, you’re met with a surprise as you approach Pero’s building; normally anytime you run into your friends unexpectedly, it’s a pleasant surprise, but it doesn’t appear to be very pleasant for Eloise and Dorothy today.  In fact, Dorothy looks downright surly. 

“Babes!  What are you doing here?  What’s wrong?” you exclaim, both confused and concerned.

“Ugh!” Dorothy actually stomps her foot, “That neanderthal won’t let us up for lunch.  What is it going to take?  He won’t even tell us why or give us a chance to change his mind.”

“Pero?” you ask, still unsure of what happened, “You talked to Pero?”

Eloise steps in, because Dorothy looks like she’s about to have an aneurism at the sound of his name, “We finished up some of the content we were making nearby, so we thought we’d come down and give getting in a shot, since you said you don’t think it’s impossible.  We figured, best case, you’re coming down here anyways – maybe we could all have lunch at Lin together, and worst thing would be we don’t get in, but then we’d be meeting up with you and we could go get lunch somewhere else?”

“NO,” Dorothy grits through her teeth, “The worst thing would be if we had to deal with that self-important ass.  Who died and made him king?!”

After what Pero told you yesterday about the owners of Lin and how they want their patrons to experience the restaurant, you know exactly why Pero didn’t let your friends up, but you’re not about to tell them lest you want to hear more expletives directed at him.  Maybe you can help smooth it over.

“Do you guys think you can give me ten minutes to talk to him?  Then let’s go to Quattro for lunch?” you ask, picking one of Dorothy’s favourite restaurants in an effort to placate her.

“Come on, Dorie,” Eloise tugs at Dorothy’s sleeve, employing the nickname only she and you are allowed to use, “There’s some really good lighting down the street.  Let’s get a couple more shots for Instagram.”

“FINE,” Dorothy begrudgingly agrees, then points at you, “but ten minutes only.  Then we’re coming in to rescue you from that asshat.”  You don’t tell her that her scowl right now could give that asshat’s scowl a run for its money.

When you walk in to the building and approach the front desk, your heart melts when you see Pero’s face crack a small smile upon seeing you, “Hey, Cookie.”

As you approach the edge of his desk, he moves to scoot forward in his chair like he did yesterday when he invited you to eat with him, “Can you stay to have lunch again today?”

Staying where you are, you shake your head and give him a look of regret, “No, sorry.  Not today.” You shouldn’t but you feel your heart warm a little at the way his face falls in disappointment.  You reach into your bag and bring out two containers, one with a sandwich for him, and the other with today’s cookie offering: salted caramel.

“I was going to stay, but now it seems that I have two very upset friends that I need to take out to lunch,” you give him a small playful smile so he knows it’s not (too) serious.

It takes him a second to make the connection, but the instant he does, his face reverts back into the deep scowl he probably gave your friends.  You’re not sure what possesses you, maybe it’s the desire to see the softer expression that he normally reserves for you, but you reach out and touch Pero’s face, your fingers lightly grazing the scruff of his jawline.  He looks at you with a small look of surprise but doesn’t move away.  “Please don’t judge them too harshly,” you ask of him gently, “I know they probably didn’t come off that way, but they’re the exact type of people who would appreciate Lin in the way that the owners hope.  They are very good people, I promise.  And very dear to me.”

Pero doesn’t know how he could ever refuse you anything, the soft lilt of your voice and the eloquence of your words would be enough to convince him of anything he’s sure.  He gives you a little nod and is rewarded with your sweet smile.

He misses your touch immediately when you withdraw your hand from his face; so much so that when you ask if he’s ready for today’s cookie, he reaches out to place his hand on your waist before nodding.

You gasp a little when he holds you, wondering how you got here, from strangers to exchanging small familiar touches in less than a week; but you can’t say it doesn’t feel right.  You don’t know what this connection with Pero is or where it’s going, but you know you don’t want it to end.

Opening the container, you tilt it towards him and watch him select a cookie.  Giving it a once over, Pero takes a big bite and chews thoughtfully as you wait for his verdict.  You don’t try to peek at the scorecard today, but when he shows you, it’s with an apologetic look on his face, “Sorry, Cookie.  Don’t be mad.”

“Oh no…” your eyes widen when looking for the number, “… a 2??!” You look up at Pero, horrified.  “Did I do something wrong?  Mix up an ingredient?”  You grab a cookie from the container and take a bite; it tastes as expected, no surprise ingredient or taste.  Oh no.  It tastes the way you think it should and he hates it.   

It’s so silly.  People are allowed to not like your cookies, but you hadn’t realized how badly you had wanted to impress Pero until you… didn’t.  He’s being very nice about it, still eating the one he’s holding in his hand, but you think you might cry; although you try not to, your face assumes the corresponding saddened expression anyways, “Oh, I’m so sorry they’re not good.”  You attempt to close the container and take it away.

Pero’s heart nearly breaks at the look on your face, and he chastises himself for being the cause.  Wanting more than anything to make you feel better, he gently takes back the container, “They are very good.  Really, Cookie,” he tries to convince you when you look up at him, dubious, “I’m just not a big fan of caramel, that’s all.  They’re still delicious.”

You can’t tell if he’s lying just to make you feel better, but a little part of you likes the idea that he would care to. 

Desperate now to make you smile, Pero suggests, “How about you and your friends come back tonight for dinner at Lin?”

“No!  No way,” you practically shout, to Pero’s surprise, “Not for a 2!! I didn’t earn it.”

He concedes a little, “It’s more like a 3, maybe even 4.  They’re delicious, just not for me.”

Shaking your head, you won’t budge, “No, no, no.  I don’t want your pity points.  It’s a 2, and that’s the final score.  And that’s not a sufficient bribe.  I’ll try again tomorrow.”

Pero breathes a little sigh of relief upon hearing that you plan on coming back.  When he reaches into his desk to get you your cleaned containers from yesterday, he confirms, “Ok, tomorrow it is then.”

As you’re packing away your containers, he continues, “…until then, I have something for you.”

You look up in surprise, “Something for me?”

“Of course. You bring me delicious food everyday, it would be ungentlemanly of me not to return the favour.”  With that, he pulls out a takeout box from the mini fridge that he’s been saving for you.

You’re delighted; you’re not sure what it is but you’re touched by Pero’s thoughtfulness.

“It’s the shrimp toast I told you about yesterday.”

You squeal, “From upstairs?”

He nods as you happily take the box from him; it’s one of the Chinese-Spanish fusion dishes that he had described to you that supposedly exemplifies the type of cuisine Lin does best.  He’s been looking forward to sharing it with you and seeing what you think.

“Oh Pero, thank you so much!  I’ve been thinking about this and how it might taste since you told me about it yesterday!  Is it okay if I share it with my friends?” you ask, shyly.

Of course, you would think of sharing with others; Pero nods his permission.

“Thank you, thank you!” you’re beaming and before you can talk yourself out of it, you lean down and give Pero a kiss on the cheek and promptly skip out the front doors.

Hand to his cheek, Pero watches as you wave over your friends, the same two women he had turned away from the restaurant not 15 minutes ago, and sees you excitedly present the box to them.  The three of you open the box, and peer in eagerly, each reaching in to take out one shrimp toast; you wait for each other and adorably cheers your food before each taking a big but elegant bite.

He can’t help but grin as he listens to your collective squeals and exclamations of approval that he can hear even through the closed doors.  The flavour explosion on your tongue is incredible, the flavours of the two cuisines melding perfectly; each bite is perfect.  “So gooood!” Eloise moans, and the three of you dance around happily while savouring a second toast each.  When you’re done, you wave enthusiastically at Pero through the glass and give him a big thumbs up, then you and your friends chorus “Thank you, Pero!!!” before setting off for lunch, giggling.

Friday

You had mulled over which cookie to bake all evening.  Pero doesn’t seem to like the cookies that are too sweet, which kind of feels in line with his personality, so you settle on Oatmeal Raisin; an oldie but a goodie.

Unable to contain the skip in your step when you’re heading to his building today, you’re feeling positively giddy.  And it’s all due to Pero.  He’s so different that you initially thought – he’s thoughtful, and funny, and capable of unexpected kindness.  Of course, he’s still a bit rough, bordering on fearsome, but you think it lends itself to his particular brand of handsomeness; his scruffiness and that scar over his left eye have invaded your dreams more than once this week.

Before you can even take out today’s cookies though, Pero invites you to sit down behind the desk and asks you to wait for him while he disappears into an opening in the far corner of the lobby.  You wait there for about five minutes, amusing yourself with what you might do if a restaurant patron were to come in, when you hear the ding of an unseen elevator and see Pero reemerge from the same alcove.

He’s carrying a little tray with a cover on it; setting it down in front of you, he says with exaggerated flair, “Lunch is served, princesa” and lifts the little silver dome.

The only thing that can distract you from the new nickname is the mouthwatering smell of the food that's on the plate in front of you.  Pero watches you examine the dish and is mollified when you ask, “Is that... stewed pork belly in an arepa??!”  Proud that you got it right away, he gestures for you to try it, and you enthusiastically pick up the stuffed patty and take a giant bite.  You can’t help but moan.  The rich savoury flavour of the pork is perfectly offset by the crisp veggies and the light spread inside the bread; the softness of the fat positively melts into the crispy texture of the warm arepa.  You’re in heaven. 

“Good?” Pero can’t help but feel a sense of pride from your obvious approval of the dish.

“Omigod, s’good,” you mumble, mouth still full. When you’re done swallowing, you feel a surge of tenderness towards the man in front of you who seems to share your love language of food, “Thank you, Pero!  This is so amazing.  Lin has to have some of the best food I’ve ever tasted.  This and the shrimp toast from yesterday are all so well executed and flavourful, and all so incredibly unique.  You can taste the love the owners put in; please, please pass on my compliments if you don’t mind?  This place is going to be such a success.”

Pero sits back down, looking at you with a look that you can’t quite place, something between adoration and amusement as you continue to stuff your face.  In between bites, you hand him your box of cookies, which he eagerly opens.  Unbeknownst to you, he’s already decided that he would give you and your friends the go ahead today; after yesterday, he knew he would do anything to put a smile on your face.  But he also didn’t expect you to have guessed his favourite cookie on the fourth try.  Devouring two cookies in a row, he takes out the now familiar pad of paper and marks down today’s score: 10, circled three times for effect.

You practically squeal in excitement, eyes wide in disbelief, “Really?! You liked it that much?”

Pero nods, thrilled at your reaction, “Loved it, Cookie.  Oatmeal raisin is my favourite.”

You throw your arms around him in a big hug, and revel in the warmth that flows through you when you feel his strong arms encircle your waist.  Getting a hold of yourself, you sit back down in your chair, making yourself presentable with your back straight and your hands clasped in your lap, “So, Mr. Pero Tovar, have I successfully bribed my way upstairs?”

Unable to supress his chuckle, Pero answers in equal seriousness, “I would say so.  How about tonight at eight.  Dinner for three, I presume?”

“Oh yes!  Thank you!! Eloise and Dorothy are going to be so pleased! And I am as well, of course,” you look at him with some renewed shyness, “Will you be working tonight?”

“I will.  I’ll probably be off before you finish dinner, but I’ll be here to let you up.”

“Ack!  I can’t wait!” You ask if you can help Pero with the dirty dishes, but he waves you off.  You leave him with the quiche you brought him for lunch before waving goodbye and texting the girls the good news.

---

At 8 p.m. on the dot, you, Dorothy and Eloise, walk through the front doors of Lin; Pero is in the elevator bank letting the people in front of you up, so the three of you wait patiently by his desk.  When he turns, he has his signature work scowl on, but immediately softens when he sees you.

“Hey Cookie, ready to go up?”

You nod happily, and introduce your friends.

“Oh, we’ve met,” Pero’s eyes narrow before he smirks, to which Eloise looks bashful and Dorothy puts on her most innocent expression.

Once you’re in the elevator, Dorothy pokes you in the back and gives you an encouraging look; taking a deep breath, you stop Pero’s hand when he reaches in with the fob and gently push him backwards, walking him back down the elevator bank.  Pero looks confused, “Is something wrong, princesa?”

Looking at him innocently, you ask, “Pero, may I have your phone?”

He unlocks and hands it to you without question, curious.  You quickly snap a selfie and put yourself in as a new contact with your phone number, before handing it back, “In case you get a craving for any cookies.”

Pero blushes when he realizes what you’ve done, but as he walks you back towards the elevator, he does so with his hand resting comfortably on your lower back.  Leaning in to press the elevator buttons for you, he whispers, “Can I call you later, Cookie?”

You answer with a quick peck to his cheek and a small nod; his grinning face is the last thing you see before the elevator doors close.

[boundinparchment]

Chiaroscuro

Il Dottore cannot sleep and his mind cannot help but wander. Established Dottore x GN Reader, absolute fluff. It needs no explanation. Also on AO3 here.

Your book was open, spine cracked, pages pressed against your chest in a desperate attempt to not lose your place.  He heard you catch it in time, sigh in relief that the pages weren’t wrinkled, and then return to the steady breathing he’d heard for the past few hours.

In your defense, it was late by normal standards.  Any other night, he’d have joined you on the other end of the sofa he kept in his private office, your head in his lap as you read aloud.  But this formula wasn’t going to work itself out and he couldn’t easily hand this over to a Segment, not this time.

He sighed softly and tried to relax his hand, lest he snap yet another pen (this time, out of sheer frustration rather than a passionate fervor).  It didn’t make sense.  By all accounts, the way the variables interacted should lend itself to this calculation perfectly.  So where was the snag?

Dottore tried to work backwards, thinking through step after step, logically, impartial.  The potency of the residue…entirely dependent on the strength of the dead Archon…which was based on the faith their mortals had in them…

Faith wasn’t quantifiable.  There was no magic number that served as a benchmark.

As intangible as the stars and just as much a lie.

His hand began to move of its own accord; he worked best when he got his thoughts down on paper, could see the words.  

When had he drawn…?

Dottore’s finger traced the outline of the hand in the margins of his notes.  Not his.  He knew the intentional style of his own studies, for he’d spent centuries without a Kamera through which to capture specimens.  Accurate details and representation were only as good as the eyes and hands that could capture them until Fontaine’s invention was available.  He’d even found something close to peace in creating detailed sketches of specimens and structures; he would never admit that giving visuals to his ideas was one of his favorite parts of development.  It was one element he hated giving over to a Segment, even if a younger part of him was better suited.

But it still begged the question: what was your hand doing in his notes?

Red eyes shot up at you, still fast asleep, head lolled to the side.

He leaned back in his chair, clipboard propped against his knee, a pencil instead at the ready.  He couldn’t keep wasting ink, he’d be left with nothing but a mess.  

Usually this difficult of a time meant his perspective was skewed and that even a Segment would be useless.  He’d have long started pacing if you weren’t here but he didn’t want to disturb you.  Funny thing, how self-aware he’d become around you.

His hand moved of its own accord as his eyes traced your sleeping form.  

You’d come down here one day by accident, looking for a quiet place to escape to, book in hand.  One of his Segments pointed you back upstairs to the library with all of the bluster and impatience his younger self was known for.  But you’d shot back that a debate-bordering-on-duel between Arlecchino and Tartaglia had broken out, leaving the library more of a war zone than a place for research; who was he, in any form, to deny a person a safe haven for that?

You were warned of the screaming, the shouting, the mechanical dangers.  All you’d done was shrug and say that you’d keep out of the way.

He doubted you would find it any better down here.  And yet you returned, week after week, a pile of books and notes in your arms, and kept to your little nook near the stairs.  Unobtrusive.  

But you were always there and your absence was felt nonetheless when you fell ill or whenever your department pulled you back.

You always returned, though, and he hated how that soothed a strange knot in his stomach. 

It wasn’t until several months in that he offered the tranquility of his office that the two of you really spoke at length.  He couldn’t afford for anyone to know about the Artificial Archon project, and having you in his office, where he could keep a better eye on you, seemed to have been a sound decision.

Until both of you spent the better part of an evening and the early morning in deep discussion about the redundancy of the entire Archon system when clearly, there was no point to it.  The Tsaritsa ruled with an iron fist; the Anemo Archon was all but absent.  It fit the nations’ respective beliefs, you argued, but it kept the people divided, focused on things that didn’t matter.  No wonder Khaenri’ah hadn’t subscribed to the notion of a god.  And why was Fontaine dealing with a floating threat, clearly on Celestia’s radar, but not Snezhnaya?  

Soon enough, he couldn’t be rid of you and he didn’t want to be.  He couldn’t place when, precisely, which was a source of frustration he couldn’t rip out, not like the weeds of his past.  But at some point, his heart yearned and you answered and now he spent his sleepless nights marveling at you, not unlike how he marveled that Ruin Golem so many centuries ago.

Your eyes, curious but cautious, caught things he did not.  So much life there, in a way he could never quite capture in his mind’s eye.  He did not find it tedious to explain something to you, to break it down in a different way.  Food tasted better when you were around.

You’d lament having to iron your uniform again with the way your shoulder was positioned.  Even in sleep, your lips always moved ever so slightly, as if speaking in your dreams.

Lips so soft he did not deserve them and yet you bestowed upon him kiss after kiss anyway.

No matter how dark the room you entered, it was as if you brought the sun with you, brightening even the darkest corners of his mind.  He angled the pencil, pressed harder at the shadow cradling your face as the nearby lamps flickered.

He carefully smudged and blended, flicking his gaze up just long enough to confirm the shape of your cheek, your nose, your brow.  

He could not help but wonder if he was growing soft in his fifth century. 

The world had not worn him down.

But you certainly had.

[physalian]

On Tournament Arcs (I want more of these in lit)

The “tournament arc” is a staple of shonen anime. I’d find it very hard to believe anyone on here hasn’t at least seen gifs of it so here’s a quick breakdown: Your core cast of characters + extras and new adversaries are all thrown together in a tournament competing for anything from the low stakes of cash or bragging rights to who lives and who dies by the hand of the nefarious god throwing the tournament.

These are extremely popular for a few reasons:

They’re fodder for a ton of episodes without a whole lot of complicated story—the story is baked into the different rounds of combat

There’s a chance for a lot of different intense character interaction that might not normally happen pitting two random names against each other

They can sometimes artificially raise the stakes—in isolation, winning the Round of 16 in a series about saving the world doesn’t mean anything, but winning any one game might give the heroes the chance to stay alive just one more day

I just rewatched the first tournament arc of My Hero Academia a few days ago (the first sports festival) and man, I do miss when this show was good.

So! While tournament arcs aren’t exclusive to shows with super powers or magical abilities like Naruto—they’re baked into a sports anime—today’s essay is all about the efficiency and shake-ups that MHA pulled off, since its pacing is something you could realistically cram into a written novel, and, well, I like this one.

Disclaimer: This show is incredibly manipulative, in a good way (at least in earlier seasons it was in a good way). Elements are way more dramatic than they should be due to the music, the animation, and the pacing, but you’re having fun right along with the characters at the edge of your seat. The excitement isn’t manufactured, you’re hyped right along with the people in the stands. This isn’t very translatable to page, unfortunately.

Second disclaimer: I DNFed this show midway through an episode in season 5 and never went back. It got so bad I literally turned it off in both disgust and sheer boredom. I am not an MHA superfan.

—

Pacing:

For a shonen anime, this first tournament arc is brutally efficient. Take a show like Naruto or DBZ, shows known for their filler, and their tournament arcs for any given season will last 50 episodes or more. MHA’s is 11 episodes, 12 if you want to include the setup in episode 1. In that time, there’s three unique stages of combat and an entire three-tiered 1v1 tournament within the tournament.

Some fights last two episodes, some last about 30 seconds, but none are too drawn out, or too rushed, based on who’s fighting and what their powers are.

Example: Todoroki kind of has “instakill” powers (or at least he does in this arc, he forgets about it 6 episodes later) and if he’s up against anyone who doesn’t have the specific kind of powers that can counteract his, the fight’s decided pretty much instantly, like when he’s up against quasi-Spiderman Sero, and manifests a whole glacier from teenage angst. When he is up against somebody who he can’t freeze immediately, well, that’s where the drama comes from. This is his arc, after all.

Character fodder:

Not only that, but it’s not 11 straight episodes of 1v1. The first leg of combat is an obstacle race, the second is a “cavalry battle” with teams, and the last, the majority, is 1v1. These different challenges require the core characters to think different ways, and as the number of competitors thin dramatically, different side characters get the chance to shine at different points in the arc as more and more are disqualified.

But the way that this arc is written leaves even some core characters in the protagonist class on the outs pretty quickly, even those who make it to the final round, usually due to bad matchups. Characters who had excelled either in power, physical ability, or intelligence just aren’t suited to face whoever they’re up against and it shocks them as much as it does the audience. Even when it forces them to get creative—and that is one thing I loved about this show in its early years, how smart some characters had to be with their niche powers to compete with the natural born powerhouses.

A surprising standout fight was Bakugo vs Uraraka, where nearly every single person in the stands, including the teachers, all professional heroes, were like “dude you can’t hit a girl, you can explode shit with your hands, she’s only got anti gravity” and Bakugo did not give a single fuck about what’s in Uraraka’s pants. It shows that he’s smart, and that he’s a dick, but he has a shit ton of respect for other people’s power and determination when they have as much as he does. Only one other character, their personal teacher, Aizawa, notices: To go easy on her would be a far greater insult than to treat her like an equal challenger.

She lost, in a heartbreaking defeat, but she absolutely made him work for it. It did so much for his character, this whole arc did, but more on that later.

Audience expectations:

But the big reason this arc worked so well was how it subverted expectations. Midoriya is (or used to be) the show’s protagonist. In this arc, he’s got two real main adversaries in his way to gold: Bakugo, a kid with extremely impressive raw talent that he’s honed with a dangerous perfectionist streak, and Todoroki, who wants to win by half-assing it to piss off his abusive hero dad. Both of these two are far more competent with their powers while Midoriya still has the training wheels on his.

Usually, in these types of shows, if the hero doesn’t win, he comes in a very close second in the big dramatic final showdown. It’s part of his arc to be not quite ready yet. But usually, he wins, and the character he’d beaten to a pulp learns some humility and joins the hero squad in the next arc out of respect to their better.

MHA doesn’t do that. Midoriya never faces Bakugo in the 1v1 and he faces Todoroki in the semis, not the finals, and he loses.

The big fight of the tournament is Midoriya vs Todoroki. I used to hear it compared to Rock Lee vs Gaara (which I actually have seen despite not liking Naruto) and it’s… not, if only because it’s missing about 300 episodes of buildup and drama between these two.

But the fight isn’t just a fistfight. Midoriya wants to win, yes, but he’s a hero, first, and he wants to save his friend in the true shonen way of punching friendship into his enemies. Their fight plus the buildup takes two episodes, littered with Todoroki’s PTSD flashbacks (to a gorgeous score) that basically boils down to:

Todoroki: Wah I hate my powers, fuck my dad, I’m gonna half-ass this out of spite and my raw power is enough to win

Midoriya: Fuck you dude, if you want to beat me, you have to give it your all, and it’s not his powers. You may have inherited them, but it’s your power.

Well, Midoriya gets what he asked for, and Todoroki does not at all hold back.

And that’s the semifinal.

With Midoriya out, there’s still the rest of the semis and the final round. This does not happen.

So why did it happen? Because our hero isn’t ready yet. He’s so new with his powers, so inexperienced in combat, that so far he’s skated by on his smarts and his sheer raw ability the few times he’s able to let it out like releasing a pressure valve, seriously injuring himself in the process. Against kids who’ve been training their whole lives, being smart only got him so far.

It was the perfect path for his character, one we’ve only known for maybe 30 episodes in total at this point in the show. If he won or even just barely lost, that would have left so much less room for growth in later tournaments. He’s hella OP, but he’s not at all a Mary Sue, and his greatest strength—his heart—is what cost him the win. In the end, he lost the medal, but he won a friend.

And then the final round comes.

Bakugo vs Todoroki, the two most well-rounded kids in the class (in their whole grade level probably), after Bakugo opens the entire tournament with “I pledge that I’m going to win”.

Thing is, with Bakugo, he’s an asshole, but he’s an asshole who continuously puts his money where his mouth is. He’s never blowing smoke. If he says he’s going to do something, by god, he will do it.

So the final round comes and Bakugo tells Todoroki that he wants to win fair and square, that Todoroki'd better not hold back, he’d better give it his all, because going easy on Bakugo would be giving him the win, and he ain’t no charity case.

That… does not happen. One does not overcome a lifetime of childhood trauma by the Power of Friendship and one speech in this show. Todoroki botches it, gets his ass handed to him, and Bakugo wins the tournament, and he is pissed.

Character Arcs:

I already talked about Midoriya above and won’t repeat myself, but like I said above, tournament arcs are a fantastic way to do many things at once, which is crucial to pacing. It won’t feel stale, no matter how long or repetitive it is, so long as the characters are still developing within that repetition. This was about showing off their powers, yes, but the pressure to perform and get their names out their in a highly saturated, cynical heroism market of capitalism is a lot for 15 year old kids.

Some are out there to make money, being a hero to their families. Some are out there to be the best. Some are out there to be the friendly neighborhood super kid. Since all but one character must lose, everybody but Bakugo failed in some way, big or small, to make the impact they wanted on tournament day. And Bakugo, though he won, feels like he still failed because he won basically by default.

Since it’s set so early in the show, one would think that it would be a fantastic foundation for where all the core characters see themselves and where they go from here. If you’re writing this into a novel and you don’t have a million characters that don’t matter, it’s a brutally efficient way to establish the major players in high-octane fashion.

I’mma gush about Bakugo for a second now: He and Todoroki are two sides of the same coin in this arc. Both are plagued by expectations because of their powers, and both suffer because of it. Todoroki’s been beaten like a dog by his dad to hone his fire and ice powers to one day usurp the number one hero.

Bakugo, though, Bakugo is “the gifted kid” who suddenly entered a world where the gap between him and everyone inferior to him is a lot smaller. He has incredible power, which has always gotten him high expectations and little margin for fucking up and looking weak—cause if you’ve got the ability to make explosions with your hands, you have to be the best all day every day. There is no falling off the wagon, there are no sick days, there is no flab or fat or cheat days.

All of this is an undercurrent in this arc. He has such high expectations for himself, such high expectations thrown on him by hero society, such critical views of his attitude and his powers—he was literally called a villain when he fought Uraraka and didn’t treat her like a “frail” little girl—that when he wins because Todoroki throws the fight, it’s the biggest insult anyone could do to him.

Nobody else cares, but Bakugo cares. In his desperate quest to always be the best or else, winning by default doesn’t prove anything to him. He doesn’t want the medal, he doesn’t want this victory by his name, he doesn’t want anything except a rematch that truly challenges him. And mad respect to this kid for it.

—

Some things to consider for your tournament arc should you choose to write one

Every character should have their own separate goals and reasons for winning, beyond simply “winning”. Why do they want to win, or what will happen to them, internally or externally, if they lose?

Would it be better for your hero to win right now, or lose so they have room to grow? Who else loses and how? Are they disqualified, do they cheat, is it a devastating defeat or a photo finish?

What do these people do to themselves in their desperation to win? Do they hurt themselves, go past their physical limit? Do they bully themselves and pick their faults apart? Are they completely different people when they’re under this kind of pressure? Who’s overconfident? Who’s exactly as competent as they say they are?

What are the best matchups, not for spectacle, but for character development? In the written medium, character work absolutely comes before how pretty it might look one day on the silver screen, and that’s what will hold audience attention long after the arc is over and done with. That’s what will have people coming back to reread over and over again.

Remember: The tournament is never just about the combat, it’s about the combatants.

[moonsandmobilityaids]

Muggle Benefits

Pairings: Poly!marauders x disabled!reader Summary: You get news about your benefits. Warnings: Disability, financial anxiety, ableism, references to invasive government assessments. Notes: This references the UK disability benefits DLA and PIP as those are the benefits I am deeply familiar with. Reader gets the benefits she needs in this fic. Series Masterlist

You’re in your room, sitting in your wheelchair by the window, when an owl swoops in, dropping a letter onto your lap before taking off again. Picking it up, you notice straight away that this isn't a normal Hogwarts missive. It's forwarded from home—from your mum—with the distinctive markings of a muggle stamp on the envelope. Its official look makes your stomach churn: Department for Work and Pensions, it reads, followed by your full name and home address neatly typed out.

An icy tendril of anticipation curls around your heart as your fingers, trembling ever so slightly, tear into the paper. You unfold the crisp sheets within, the crinkle seeming too loud in the silent expanse of your private space. You don't need to read the words to know what this is about—you've been expecting it, dreading it, ever since your sixteenth birthday came and went.

The shift from Disability Living Allowance to Personal Independence Payment was never going to be easy. Even though you were on the highest rate for DLA, the spectre of applying for PIP had loomed over you like the shadow of some unnameable beast. But at least this means they've made a decision—right?

You unfold the letter, your heart pounding as you scan the printed lines. Words and phrases jump out at you: "award," "enhanced rate," "daily living component"—each one a shard of hope piercing through the fog of uncertainty.

A gasp leaves your lips before you can stop it. Enhanced rates for both the daily living and mobility components. You knew what this could mean in theory, but seeing it confirmed in black and white sends a jolt through you that's part relief, part disbelief.

"Your weekly amounts will be..." Your eyes flicker down to the numbers, then widen. For daily living, £108.55. For mobility, £75.75. A total of £184.30 every week—equivalent to £737.20 every four weeks. The figures blur before your eyes, a sudden rush of emotion making them swim.

This is more than you were expecting. More than you dared to hope for. It's significantly higher than the £434.20 you've been receiving on DLA every four weeks. But it's also a lifeline. With this, you might just stay afloat.

Unconsciously, your fingers tighten around the paper, creasing its edges. A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips, not from joy but from sheer, overwhelming relief. Your shoulders slump as tension seeps out of them, leaving you feeling strangely light.

But there's a knot in your stomach that won't unwind. Not yet. Because now comes the hard part: explaining all of this to James, Sirius, and Remus—your partners who share your heart but live in a world where money works differently, where disability isn't quantified by assessments and payment tiers.

They've seen you in pain, held you through dizzy spells and fatigue so deep it feels like gravity itself pulling at your bones. But they haven't seen the paperwork, the assessments, the endless justifications to faceless bureaucrats who hold your financial stability in their hands.

And why would they? This is a part of your life that exists outside Hogwarts' stone walls, tangled up in muggle laws and systems too complex to explain between classes or over dinner in the Great Hall. You haven't hidden it—not consciously, anyway—but when has there ever been time to sit down and discuss something as mundane as benefits?

But now, with this letter clutched tight in your grasp, you realise how much you've kept from them without meaning to. The PIP application alone took hours filled with medical jargon and questions designed to strip away dignity piece by piece. And then came the assessment—a probing examination that left you feeling exposed and vulnerable in ways you can't begin to articulate.

You sit on your bed, the letter still in your hands. The parchment is smooth beneath your fingers, a stark contrast to the turmoil within you. How do you explain this world of assessments and payments, of medical evidence and tribunal appeals? How can you make them understand what it means to be constantly evaluated, your worth determined by a system that sees only limitations?

"Fuck," you mutter under your breath, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes until you see stars. You want to keep this part of your life separate, tucked away where it can't touch the magic of Hogwarts or the warmth of their love for you. But you know it's futile. This isn't just about you anymore; it's about all four of you.

The realisation settles heavily in your chest, its weight threatening to crush you. But there's also relief—a glimmer of hope amidst the fear. They're your partners, after all. They deserve to know, even if the truth is messy and complicated.

Your hand hovers over the envelope, then slowly, resolutely, you fold the letter back along its creases. It fits snugly inside, like a secret waiting to be shared. As you seal it once more, you make a silent promise—to yourself, to them—not to hide any longer.

A knock at the door startles you out of your thoughts. "Y/N?" James calls through the wood, his voice muffled but unmistakable. "Can we come in?"

You clear your throat, tucking the letter behind you as you call back, "Yeah, it's open."

The door swings inward, revealing James first, his glasses slightly askew and a sheepish grin on his face. Sirius follows, his hair tousled from the wind outside, carrying a plate stacked high with sandwiches. Behind them, Remus slips into the room, balancing several cups precariously in his arms.

"Hope you're hungry," Sirius says, setting the food down on your bedside table. "We may have liberated some things from the Great Hall."

Despite everything, you can't help but laugh. "Liberated, huh? I think there's another word for that."

James flops onto the bed beside you, his arm brushing against yours. The contact sends a jolt through you—comforting, familiar. Safe. He nudges you gently, a playful glint in his eye. "Well, if you don't want any..."

"Hey, I didn't say that." You reach for a sandwich, taking a bite and savouring the taste of something other than worry. For a moment, everything feels almost normal again.

Almost.

Remus sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed, watching you with soft concern. "You okay, Y/N? You seem a bit... off."

"Yeah," Sirius adds, frowning slightly. "Is everything alright? Did something happen while we were gone?"

There it is—the question you've been dreading and longing for all at once. You set your sandwich aside, suddenly aware of the letter still hidden behind you. Could you brush it off, tell them it's nothing? Maybe. But that would only delay the inevitable. And you owe them more than half-truths and deflections.

"No, nothing happened," you begin, reaching behind you for the envelope. Your fingers close around it, the edges sharp against your skin. "I just... got some news today. News I should probably share with you."

James leans closer, curiosity sparking in his hazel eyes. "News? What kind of—"

His words cut off as you bring the letter into view, its official seal catching the light. "News about my DLA and PIP."

The boys' expressions shift at your words—curiosity giving way to confusion—as they exchange a glance.

"D...L...A?" James repeats slowly, as if testing the unfamiliar acronym on his tongue. "What's that?"

"Disability Living Allowance," you explain, tracing the edge of the envelope with your thumb. "It's money I've been receiving from the government for years because of my disabilities."

You look up to find them watching you intently, the earlier levity gone from their faces. Even Sirius has stopped eating, his sandwich half-forgotten on the plate before him.

"And PIP... it's Personal Independence Payment." Your voice is steady, betraying none of the anxiety coiling in your stomach. "When you turn sixteen, you have to apply for it instead of DLA."

"So this..." James gestures towards the letter, brow furrowed in thought, "this is about whether or not you'll get that payment?"

"Exactly." You nod, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The room feels suddenly smaller, the walls closing in as you peel back layers of a reality you'd hoped never to expose them to.

"But why didn't you tell us?" Sirius asks, his grey eyes searching yours. "We could've helped somehow, couldn't we?"

"That's just it, Sirius," you sigh softly, folding your hands in your lap. "There's no magic solution here. Just paperwork and waiting and hoping they see me as disabled enough."

You can see the questions forming in their minds, the gears turning as they try to make sense of something so alien to their world. But there's also understanding dawning in their eyes—a shared acknowledgement of the unseen battles you fight every day.

“They've awarded me the enhanced rate for both daily living and mobility components," you explain, your voice barely more than a whisper. "It's... it's higher than what I was getting on DLA."

The relief that floods you is palpable, but so too is the guilt—for every pound they give you, there are countless others who need it just as much, if not more. You swallow hard, trying to stave off the lump forming in your throat.

"That money helps with all the extra costs that come with being disabled," you continue, willing your hands to stop shaking. "Medical supplies, mobility aids, adaptations to my home..."

"And let me guess," James interjects, his tone edged with frustration, "the magical world doesn't have anything like this? We're expected to just pay for everything ourselves?"

Your laugh is hollow, void of any real humour. "Got it in one. No help for potions, tests, nothing."

Sirius' brow furrows deeper at your words, his gaze shifting between you and the letter still clutched tightly in your hand. "But that's... that's not right. It's not fair."

“That's just it, isn't it?" you say, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. "Fair doesn't really come into play."

Remus, who has been silent until now, leans forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes never leave the letter as he absorbs each word, each implication with a quiet intensity that speaks volumes.

Sirius shifts closer to you, his arm settling around your shoulders—a protective barrier against the tide of injustice threatening to pull you under. You lean into the embrace, drawing strength from his unwavering presence.

"But what does this mean for you now?" James asks, ever practical amidst the emotional storm. "You said the PIP is higher than the DLA—how much more are we talking?"

"You don't have to—" Remus begins, but you cut him off with a shake of your head.

"It's okay," you assure them, pulling the envelope open once more. A sense of finality settles over you as you unfold the crisp paper inside. "I want you to understand."

"DLA was £108.55 per week," you begin, tracing your finger along the printed lines of text. "PIP... the daily living component is £108.55 per week, so the same as DLA, but the mobility component is £75.75 per week."

"So that's an extra seventy five quid every week," James murmurs, mostly to himself. "Every four weeks, that'll be..."

"Around seven hundred and forty pounds, or three hundred pound more than I got before," you finish for him, tucking the letter back into its envelope. The room falls silent again, save for the distant hum of life outside the castle walls. For a moment, you allow yourself to imagine a future not so constrained by financial burdens—a glimmer of hope amidst the uncertainty.

"Well, then," James says at last, breaking the silence with a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Guess we won't be running out of chocolate frogs any time soon."

"More than that," says Remus, his voice carrying a note of gravity. "It means Y/N can afford the care they need without constantly worrying about money."

"Yes," you agree, though your mind still races with what-ifs and how-tos.

The conversation continues, branching out from the benefits themselves to broader implications—what this means for day-to-day living, for future plans, for the fear that has been a constant companion since your diagnosis. Their questions are not limited to the financial aspect, but also extend to what you need, how they can help, and what this means for you going forward.

"You'll have more freedom now, won't you?" Sirius asks, his arm tightening around you ever so slightly—a silent promise of support that warms you despite the chill seeping in through the stone walls.

"I suppose so." A half-smile tugs at your lips as you consider the possibilities. More independence, less reliance on others—it's a daunting prospect, but one tinged with hope.

For a moment, silence settles over the room once again, broken only by the crackling fire and distant sounds of life beyond these ancient walls.

"How do you feel about it all, really?" James finally asks, leaning back in his chair with an air of cautious curiosity.

You pause, considering the question. How do you feel? Relief, certainly. Hope, perhaps. But there's something else too—a sense of unease that lingers just beneath the surface, gnawing at the edges of your newfound optimism.

"It's... complicated," you admit, tracing invisible patterns on the worn upholstery beneath your fingers.

"But we're here for you, Y/N," Remus assures you, reaching across the space between you to place a comforting hand on your arm. "Whatever you need, however we can help—we're in this together."

His words hang heavy in the air, each syllable underscored by the sincerity etched into his features. You glance at each of them in turn—James with his earnest concern, Sirius' protective gaze never wavering, and Remus, steady and unwavering like the moon itself—and something inside you shifts.

It's not pity you see in their eyes, nor discomfort at the reality of your situation. Instead, it's understanding—or, at least, the desire to understand—that shines back at you.

[clumsiestgiantess]

My first piece for the @gtgotcha4gaza fundraiser! This one was donated by @biggnansmol with the prompt Overhead; enjoy!

My body presses close to the ground as I watch the traffic rush by in a cacophony of tremorous footsteps and raucous voices.  I hunch down near the street corner of a building who knows how many thousands of times my size, looking intently out over the giants walking past.  They travel without a single downward glance at the tiny man just barely taller than their palms.

Many, if not most, of my kind avoid anywhere near this kind of foot traffic.  As a borrower, you can only withstand so much noise and movement constantly around you before your instincts tell you to run.  What separates me from the rest is that my instincts can guide me through the crowd of gigantic beings, to other places entirely.  I can make it to stores all the way on a different street if I really want to.  I haven’t, but I can.

Cracked Concrete Colony — my home — lies halfway between the giants’ colony above, and the giants’ watery wasteland below.  You’d think the giants — humans, they call themselves — would try pitching in to help us ever since they found out we exist.  They didn’t.  In fact, they now have the audacity to label us as pests; vermin.  No wonder we decided to stay away from them.  

As a seasoned package-runner, my job is to deliver supplies from our place to other smaller groups above, and sometimes bring supplies back again.  Oh, and myself.  I bring myself back every time.  Not everyone does.

The worst shape I’ve come out of running is a sprained wrist, but there are some who’ve broken bones, lost limbs, and even died on the exact routes I take.  I’m not too worried, though.  My instincts are better than theirs, I’m sure.  No one in the history of my colony — that people know of — has survived as long as me.  I’m the best there is.  Sure, I’ve come a mere arm’s length away from the sole of a shoe multiple times, but that’s normal for my line of work.  Defying certain death is my average Tuesday.

So, once I see a break in the crowd, I make my move.

My brain and eyes work in tandem to spot every potential danger coming at me.  Thankfully it’s mostly coming from the same side.  The first few pairs of feet I dodge with ease — weaving in and out between the giants’ legs with perfect timing to their methodic gait.  

However, one giant hurriedly stumbles through the crowd in the wrong direction.  I have just enough time to brace myself before their foot rushes up to meet me.  For a brief moment, I believe they’ll dash by right overhead, but the idea is short-lived.  

The tip of a gigantic shoe digs into my stomach, catching on my side and kicking me across the rugged surface of the cement walkway.  I cry out in pain as skin tears off my bare arms in shreds and I land in the ditch between the walkway and the awful road of machines.  Rule number one of package-running: never go into the road.  Ever.  Everyone knows it’s certain death.

Agony spreads through my body, but I grit my teeth and bare it.  I have to get back up onto that walkway.  After a few minutes of desperate struggling — getting blown down and dragged backwards by the sheer force of the machines’ speed — I realize it’s pointless.  It’s hard enough just hauling myself up with my scratched arms.  Even without the machines, I don’t think I’d make it.

Just as I break out in a cold sweat, a shadow descends over me.  A giant’s hand grabs me from above — fingers coiling around my midsection.  Shrieking in both fright and pain, I claw at the human’s hand and get this close to biting them, when I’m flipped over and tucked much more securely against their palm.

Only briefly do I stop struggling to wonder why their grip is so cautious before trying to escape it again.  “Hey, no no; it’s ok!  I’ve got you little guy, you’ll be alright.”  I… what?  The giant slides their hand up against me to keep me from squirming out of their grasp.  Their palm settles against my chest and my heart skips a beat.  “Let me just find a safe spot to put you down.”

Fear still spikes through me like lightning at the way their fingers wrap around my torso to keep me still.  My mind screams at me to keep fighting them because they’ll hurt me for sure if I don’t.  However, there’s something about the way they’re handling me — as much as I hate the fact that they are handling me — that deters me from wanting to escape.  

Then there’s the way they spoke… they immediately wanted to assure me that I’d be alright.  The only things I’ve been told by giants are “Get out of here!” and “Oh eww, what the heck are you?!” so it’s quite the unexpected upgrade.

Suddenly, the hands around me slide away and I’m deposited gently in a small alleyway.  I peer hesitantly up at the giant, kneeling down over me.  Their worried expression softens slightly when I do.  “There you go, safely away from the road and people.  Don’t go back there anymore, ok?”  My mouth drops open, utterly shocked.  “Th - Thank.. you?” I say in awed confusion.  How am I not dead?  Were they helping me get out of the road?

With a small smile, they stand back up and walk off into the crowd of other giants.  I was left standing only a storefront or two up from where I began.  In a few minutes it’s as if none of it had happened at all.

Briefly, I think about trying to go after the giant — ask them why they did that for me.  Then, I take a step and my entire body tenses in pain — dragging me out of my stupor.  Actually.. I think I’ll just head back and get healed up.  I’d tested my luck enough for one day.  Even without the giant’s help, I’m still lucky I hadn’t been stepped on, only kicked.

Maybe I’d dodge past my unlikely hero on the walkway sometime again and ask them then.  I’m just lucky that the strangely benevolent giant had given me another chance to keep surviving.  Hauling myself to the street corner once again, I dash off into the crowd, making it home in only a little less time than usual.

[thesuperiorgenshinaddict]

Can I ask for an Emily x reader from class of 09?

Emily x GN! Reader

AN: yo w i fuckin love emily. literally the goat. tbh i highly doubt emily would date anyone who's not actually at least mildly insane so i'm gonna make reader kinda fucked up yk :thumbsup: Pairing: Emily x GN! Reader Warnings: Drug use, Codependence, Unhealthy relationships, Violence, idk just expect similar shit to the stuff in class of '09

HCs:

The two of you met when you were trying to find a plug to hook you up with some Addy's. It was pretty fucking surprising that you hadn't gotten your hands on some already, but that was mainly because you didn't want to die on the side of the road after downing some fake laced shit.

Emily was apparently a solid dealer. Sold for decent prices and gave discounts to people she liked more and it was pretty easy to ask her. You literally just walked up to her locker with a wad of cash and she tossed you a half-empty pill bottle and talked with you for a hot minute.

Somehow, you managed to win her over by bitching about Ms. Ames once and the two of you spent a shit ton of time together. Like, a LOT of time. Skipping classes together, going to the mall and selling crack, even sleepovers (that had way too much tension to be considered platonic).

After she stopped taking her anti-psychotics, she went full on batshit. All the shit about Emily being actually insane that all the bitchy kids were talking about? Fuck, they weren't lying. Emily was defending you with her fucking life. Fucking Jeffrey called you the lamest insult known to man and she practically jumped that fuckass.

Even though you guys were literally saying 'I love you' to each other like, 9 times a day, she was just your friend. Supposedly anyway.

Honestly, you highkey started thinking that you'd be 'just friends' forever until her gang boyfriend got his old ass hands on a huge fucking package of crack. You told her to sell it because some dumbass middle schooler would probably pay their life savings for half a gram, but of course, she doesn't listen.

Normally this shit would be mild as fuck but her parents were acting up and being bitchy whiny fucks so Emily had the genius idea of snorting a concoction of whatever mystery substances she had on hand and like half the entire supply of coke.

She was fucking blasted as fuck and she had the dead fish eye shit going on when she just started being weirdly clingy and she gave a violent but oddly heartfelt confession. It was like highkey concerning because of the sheer number of threats she not so subtly inserted in but it was endearing in its own twisted way.

Her words were slurred and the entirety of the little speech she gave could be summarized as the same shit she told Nicole in that one route but more sociopathic sounding???

Anyway boom I'm gonna put HC's on what it's like dating her now.

She probably wouldn't bother telling anyone that you two are dating, but it's so obvious. Like, everyone knows.

If someone says one thing that can be taken as offensive in the slightest to you, Emily will fucking pounce on the asshole and curb stomp them. She'd act all nonchalant about it afterwards.

Since a ton of the other people in the school have beef with her, if you defend her and slander the shit out of them, she'll be super happy about it.

Free drugs. She's not worried about OD'ing at all and takes smoke breaks with you all the time when skipping.

You guys have sleepovers like, everyday. Not even an exaggeration at this point. If your parents or her parents try to tell her no, she curses them out. If they're being particularly bold, she goes through with the slashing tires shit and is on the verge of actually beating the shit out of them.

If you ever get her a gift that she actually likes, she's going to constantly flex it. Get her a nice necklace or something and she'll literally never take it off.

Choose your words carefully. She's going to get pissed as fuck if you say one thing that she considers harsh. Drabble time woohoo "...Fuck, this is totally laced." Emily groaned, leaning her face onto her palm. She ran her free hand through her hair. Diverting her gaze from blankly staring at the table, she stared at you and raised an eyebrow. She opened and closed her mouth as if she lost her train of thought before giggling and leaning closer to you. "I love you. Like, I love love you. I'd kill anyone who even dares to be a bitch to you. I'd kill myself if you asked me to." She nonchalantly says. Batting her eyes, Emily firmly tugs you closer to her. She coyly twirls her hair around her finger while pursing her lips — and she's like 2 centimeters away from violently making out with you. What do her lips taste like? Xanax probably. Fuck, she's actually so pretty. "You're not gonna say it back?" She pouts. She's clearly high off her ass right now. At this distance, you notice the little minute details, like how she painted her nails today and how her mascara's just slightly fucked up. With a hesitant 'I love you too', she digs her nails into your shoulders and pulls you in for a kiss. She's acting almost rabid and she desperately wraps her arms around your torso and breathes into your lips. Slipping her tongue in, she pushes you onto the couch and pins your shoulders down. After what feels like a long ass time, she parts the kiss and takes heavy breaths while staring down at you. "Can I stay the night at your place?" AN: lmfao sorry that took a lil while my internet was freaking the fuck out. anyway this was fun as fuck thank youuuu :3

[velvet4510]

Look, I know the novelization has the “he didn’t know her, there wasn’t time” line about Jyn and Cassian.

I get the strong points made by takes and fics that bounce off this saying the two of them were an “I could have loved you” situation.

It’s unquestionable that their relationship would’ve only deepened and strengthened if they’d only had more time. There was a lot more they could’ve learned about each other’s pasts plus, you know, the little things like favorite colors and favorite food, things that normal couples know about each other. They were robbed of the happy future that they deserved and should have had more time among the living, no doubt about that.

But still, I don’t feel like that makes their feelings any less real.

Especially, you know, considering that people buy into the Titanic love story which plays out over just as short a span of time as RebelCaptain’s story (72 hrs max), and I’d argue that within those hours, Jyn and Cassian went through as much, if not more, together than Jack and Rose did. There’s just no “could” about their feelings. They got there.

The looks they shared, the total lack of personal space, his face when she took down the Jedha troops, their perfect teamwork in battle, the sheer number of times he came back for her, the sheer number of times he chose her over everything else, the fact that she canonically wanted to throw herself after him when he fell apparently to his death, the fact that in her head she placed him on the same level as her parents when thinking about what Krennic took from her, the fact that he made his way to the top of the tower with a broken back to save her, the sheer intimacy of the elevator moment and final hug… You don’t do any of those things for someone you don’t love.

Plus just the fact that they affected each other so quickly, that within only a few days they had already changed each other for the better and brought out the best in one another, the fact that they willingly died for each other and she didn’t leave him behind to escape when she could’ve, the fact that he literally declared himself her home … If that isn’t love, I just don’t know what is.

It happened so quickly because they’re soulmates; you only need to watch Andor to know that’s true. I’ve lost count of the number of parallels between their stories thanks to this show.

It is admittedly likely that mutual self-doubt about feelings made them think that it wasn’t real yet, and they were fooling themselves. It certainly was too soon for them to say it out loud, considering how inexperienced they were with relationships this deep and this loving. But they said it in the elevator, with their eyes (and maybe a kiss).

Their feelings were real, whether they knew it or not. By the end, they were in love.

I’m sorry, but nobody can convince me otherwise.