#me supporting all one eye meta

[homeless202]

I hate you. for hitting me and breaking my trust

I love you. for giving me yummy food the next morning

[dcxdpdabbles]

I found and read this cute story on AO3, about Frostbite being Danny's legal parental guardian. In the story Bruce Wayne runs into Frostbite (in his full yeti glory no disguise) who is setting up for school bake sale. Got me thinking about what if Danny's past rogues took turns filling in and doing parental stuff especially at school functions. Like Frostbite does the bake sale, Pandora shows up for his games, Ghostwriter goes to all of the PTA meetings, Clockwork goes to teacher meetings, so on and so forth.

The 43rd Annual Gotham Academy Bake Sale by Faeriekit

Ohhh, that sounds good! I'll get it a read when I have some time. Thank you for the rec!

Danny Fenton is one of the lucky few who have a very involved household. His various family members would always sign up for any school event the boy needed support in. It didn't mean that the boy won everything, but as a teacher for nine years, Emily has come to learn how much it mattered to just have someone show up.

She had seen students whose entire faces light up after spotting someone in the crowd in the same amount she saw a student's hope crumble after they scanned the room.

Danny was a polite young man, a bit on the shyer side, but kind and not a troublemaker, his previous school had her believe. If anything, he seemed to struggle with fitting in, but no students blatantly disliked him.

The general opinion of Danny matched, as her students would say, "I know him from class, but I don't really talk to him. He seems cool though".

Maybe that's why so many people were supposed by his family to march into the auditorium during Danny's talent show. Seeing him wave at the row before starting his gymnastic act had been such a surprise.

Now, Gotham wasn't a close-knit community, not with the size of their city and the millions of people living within it, but everyone would have noticed that Danny was adopted.

After all, he was the only one that wasn't glowing or a large humanoid animal. They cheered the loudest among the crowd; uncaring Danny got bronze- having lost to Joey's tapping dancing for second and Damian's spectacular multi-instrumental cover of a meme song for first place- and Danny beamed back at them.

Gotham was known for not being meta-friendly, but that was only due to a few mean people who shouted the loudest on media outlets. Many of Emily's students were meta, had family that were meta, or knew someone meta. It wasn't a common enough trait one would encounter a meta on every outing, but you would see them in Gotham well enough.

Everyone knew, but no one said it out loud. In the same way, she knew which students' parents were in the country illegally but worked harder than anyone else. Saying anything would help the cops, or worse, the rich running Gotham.

Even the most prejudiced Gothamite would rather be spat on then give them aid. And those who were so prejudiced to help the poor man's enemies, well, Emily has lived here long enough to know they vanished rather quickly. The smart ones kept their mouths shut.

No one could forget what happened to that guy who accidentally insulted Penguin. His grandmother had been an illegal immigrant on his mother's side.

No one messed with that side of the family.

"Hello, Mrs. Jackson." Danny's adoptive father, Dr. Frostbite said, ducking down to avoid banging his head on the door. On one of his shoulders was a box of hotdog wieners; on the other were multiple bags of bread. "I'm here for my snack bar shift."

Emily tilts her head back to look the Yeti in the eye. He had been shocked the first time they met, but she could admit that Dr. Frostbite was a relatively gentle and wise soul. "Welcome aboard. The girls are just about to take the field. You can put that down by the crock pot over there."

The mountain of white fur brushes by her with the grace of a king as Dr. Frostbite does as she says. There were no customers at the window, so she leaned on the counter and offered him a smile. "Did you enjoy the game?"

"Yes. I was saddened our team did not win, but Danny hit a home run." Dr. Frostbite's sharp smile could have been frightening if he wasn't oozing parental pride. "I caught it all on video."

Emily opens her mouth to respond when a hand lands loudly on the counter with a loud crack. Her heart leaps, and she looks into Danny's Ember. She isn't one of Emily's students, though she does appear to be a teenager in appearance.

You know. If it wasn't for her hair made of fire. Or her blue skin. Or her glow.

"I set a boy on fire," She announces with a cackle.

"That's so?" Dr. Frostbite gently rips open the box, taking out the hotdog packages. With one large claw, he rips a hole into it and lets the few weiners slide into the crockpot with a gentle splash. "What did he do?"

"Tried to slap me on the butt." She huffs, rolling her eyes, but her smirk doesn't lose an edge of smugness.

"Well done." Dr. Frostbite praises placing the lid back on. It always surprised Emily to see such careful actions from the large creature. "I assume you did so out of Pandora's line of sight?"

"Naturally. I don't want her lecturing me in front of the whole community." Ember scoffs, crossing her arms. Behind her, the top of Pandora's head can be seen swinging side to side over the dugout, keeping an eye on the ball.

She was the best volunteer referee because even the parents knew not to shout insulting things when she was present. Emily doesn't think she has had such peaceful games in a long while. Hopefully, Danny will try out again for baseball next year so the woman can return.

"Oh hey, you're Danny's English teacher, right? Mrs. Johnson?" Ember asks, leaning on the counter to give Emily a curious look.

When the blond nods, holding out her hand for a shake. "That's right. It's nice to see you again, Ember."

The girl's hair flairs a little as a grin grows on her face. Her hand is ice cold to the touch, but she's got a firm grip that her husband would appreciate. "Likewise. I got a message for you from Ghostwriter. He sent the notes for the last PTA meeting to you and the revision playwright for the musical you two were working on."

Emily's mood brightens up. "That's wonderful. Could you tell him I'll check it out when I get home and get to my laptop since my phone broke in the last Two-Face attack?"

Ember's hair flickers in the wind when she nods, but Danny bounces right up behind her just as she opens her mouth to speak. He's wearing his Gotham Acadamy Baseball uniform with pride despite them losing. "Hey, Frostbite, can I go with Tim and Duke to get Peoeria Pizza? We'll be back before the girl's game ends."

"Only if you take Ember with you," Dr.Frostbite says, nodding to his daughter, who looks alarmed to be included. "She needs more friends."

"Hey!"

"Sure. Come on, Ember, you'll get along with Duke. He likes old-school rock."

"It's not old-school!"

Emily laughs, watching the two siblings bicker as they stride away, blending into the crowd with no one batting an eye at the glowing girl anymore. How blessed that boy was.

"I'm glad Danny has gotten comfortable here. I always worried he never was going to have a normal childhood." Dr. Frostbite confesses to swirling the hotdogs around in the water to ensure each one is cooked.

"I think you and the rest are doing a wonderful job. You're a great father." She assures him, thinking wistfully of her William. He's been on deployment for a few months now and will likely miss the holidays again, but his contract is almost up. They may try for a child when he gets in the reserves. "How are things at the clinic?"

"Oh, wonderful. I'm grateful that Mr. Wayne has allowed the expansion of Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic. Dr. Thompkins will be covering the east side of Gotham while I help those on the west. It's much more fulfilling than working in some hospital that demands funds for the silliest things. Back home, that would have been illegal. The people would have burned me at the stake if I had allowed anyone to pass away due to greed."

"My kind of people." She laughs. A sharp crack sounds from the field as the bat makes contact with the ball, and the crowd goes wild. It's a wonderful day.

[sakuravalelp]

The Dance Academy isn't a gang- DC X DP Prompt

Inspired by this prompt

Clockwork suggests to Danny, who's been the king of the infinite realms for 6 years now, that he should take sometime off in a mortal realm. He doesn't feel like going back to his own dimension (you choose the reason), so Clockwork suggest another dimension where he thinks Danny might have fun.

Danny investigates the dimension, and finds it is a dimension where some humans, who are called meta-humans, develop powers, mostly during their childhood. Danny knows how tiring and alienating it is to grow with powers that one have to hide. He wishes to give this kids a safe space to experiment with their powers, but not as a weapon, just as part of themself.

He chooses to create a dance academy, because dancing is something in which you use your body and express yourself. It would be an excellent way to encourage this kids to use their powers while enjoying themself. He decides to open the dance academy in Gotham, were it seems metas may feel more pressure to keep themself hidden. With his ability to see and feel the differences in soul it's easy to identify metas, so he starts scouting kids for the academy.

Of course convincing the kids that it's just a a dance academy that wants to create a save space for metas, instead is of a trafficking ring, is difficult. But once he gets the first couple kids in, slowly more come too.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Bruce is worried about the new possible meta gang that it's forming on Gotham, and sends Duke undercover.

It's hasn't been long since Duke joined the bats, and this is his first official undercover mission. He's excited at the start, feeling proud that he's been trusted with an independent job, but then he finds out that the "gang" it's just a dance academy. He's a little disappointed, thinking that this job is more of a probation thing than anything, since there isn't anything suspicious.

The bats tell him to stay in the dance academy, because maybe the dance thing is just a cover up and they'll reveal their real motives when he's actually accepted in the group. And Duke takes it as them wanting him to have a meta support system. See? He's learning to understand how the bats show love to each other!

Duke finds himself enjoying being in a dance group. It's a lot of fun. Danny it's fantastic, he has a lot of powers and isn't scare to show them. Which makes everyone in the group feel so much safer to use their own.

Danny encourages them to integrate their powers in their dance. It's freeing. Their powers are treated as a normal part of them, and not as this exotic ability that has to be controlled. It's such a safe space that all of them have gotten used to using their powers for day to day stuff when in the dance studio. It all feels so casual because no one bats an eye to it. There's no talk about how they should try to do things "normally," or limit their use of their power.

Danny: "Why would you? That's your normal, and this place is safe for you to just be you."

Duke realizes a bit late that the bats were actually suspicious of the group, and that his placement there wasn't really a probation. He's glad to know he was actually trusted with a job, but, he had really thought that every time they had asked about his day with the group was because they were interested in how he was doing. That they were showing love and interest in him in that evasive ways the bats did, and it kinda suck to know it wasn't the case. It also meant that he had to confront their family in their clear meta-discrimination.

"Would you have been so suspicious if it wasn't a meta group? No. Other than them all being metas there wasn't anything off. No proof of fights, no proof of robberies, no proof of trafficking, nothing.

There's no proof of anything other than a group of teens dancing, and you know that because you checked it out before sending me.

Like, I don't blame you for checking it, I'm not naive, but you were so sure it was a gang, just because they were metas. That's fucked up guys."

[flightyalrighty]

FIRST | PREVIOUS | NEXT CH 1 PG 36

Infested will return on June 27th. --- Thank you to the following Ascended supporters: @chaogongoozles, @fiiresiidefrfr, @elizard4227, @grogar, Ezzoh, @susivoi, @calculuscacophony, Eros, @ivycorp, @summersdale @borrelia, @mizukiz, @sanicdetails, @combinegrunt-echo-1, Pica, @veeceear, @quackenburt, ItsmeMonarch, @memendoemori, @trans-girl-sonic, & savarsenic

Content Warnings | Store | Ko-Fi (Discord!) | Read On Comic Fury! DISCLAIMER: "Infested" is a horror comic ft. content not suitable for those under the age of 17.

A long-winded looking back on things below the cut:

The first few pages of Infested were uploaded to this blog on March 2nd, 2023 -- Over a whole year ago! I was so busy, too, that I completely missed its birthday (Sorry Infested). Looking even further back than that, the original story was was something I began writing on December 25th, 2022 (Merry Christmas).

It took two years to get to this point.

And hey, not to toot my own horn about it, but completing even one chapter of a webcomic is a big deal. Especially for me. My first webcomic, Fight/Flight, didn't get very far. I completed the prologue, started Chapter 1, and then had to drop it for a number of reasons (I didn't really agree with what baby-me had to say, politically, anymore).

This comic was born from a lot of intense feelings. The story, itself, too. Some good. Some bad.

I had been forced to move away from my hometown, and with that move, I lost the physical connection that I had to all of my friends. I lost the familiarity of a place I'd known for most of my life. I'm now stuck somewhere... Worse. It felt like a cage. Still does. Disconnected from the life I thought I would be living after college. I didn't have health insurance, either -- Got kicked off of it because of the move -- And as a result, I was off my antidepressants.

So there I was, at a pretty low point in my life. I miserable and lonely and every single day dragged on. And on. And on. And I felt so disappointed in myself. That disappointment became self-loathing, and it all kinda spiraled.

Have I mentioned that I'm a huge Sonic fan? I don't think I need to. I'd say it's pretty obvious. But for the sake of this story, I'll say it again: I'm a HUGE Sonic fan. I've been that way since 2003 with Sonic Heroes. The franchise has been in my life for over two decades. I had a monthly mail subscription to Archie's Sonic the Hedgehog. Sonic the Hedgehog was something that I truly loved more than any other piece of media. It brought me endless joy. Until I didn't.

I had dropped Sonic after Lost World was... Itself. I had already felt pretty irritated with the Meta Era, and Lost World was the final straw. The last bit of hope that the series could recover was snuffed out when Forces was released. It was over. I was done. If Sonic was truly that embarrassed by itself, if they had truly lost touch with what made the series so great, then I wouldn't waste my time any longer. I was so sure that I had to just... Grieve and move on. My beloved childhood game series was dead. Long live the king or whatever. I'd just bitterly read IDW Sonic and think about what could've been. I was lucky to have that comic, at least. Archie had been canceled, too, after all. I was lucky to have my scraps.

Then Sonic Frontiers came out. And it changed everything.

And my god, it was everything. It was everything to me. Flaws be damned, it was everything. To. Me. The spectacle. The serious tone. The vastly improved writing. Kellin Fucking Quinn. It was FUN! It was actually FUN to PLAY. He was back. I was back. Sonic pulled me by my hand out of the ocean of misery I'd fallen into, and he looked me in my eye and he said;

"Hey. You're gonna be alright."

Metaphorically speaking. Sonic The Hedgehog didn't actually literally speak to me -- And sure, okay, maybe it's a little dramatic to describe a game as this great Depression Annihilator but I'm dead serious when I say that, for that time, before I was able to get back on my meds, I was self-medicating with Sonic.

Sonic was all I was thinking about. I reread the Unleashed arc in Archie Sonic, which got me sorta realizing something, and which led to my post where I said something along the lines of "Sonic would hide a zombie bite."

Archie Sonic would, at least. Because he basically did do that in the Unleashed arc of that comic. He let that problem fester until it became an even bigger problem because, ironically, he didn't want to be a problem.

So one thing led to another. I thought more about Sonic becoming a zombie. Bada-bing, bada-boom, Infested was born.

I didn't expect it to get the attention that it did. I felt lucky when the first page I drew Rouge on (Page 6 I think?) blew up. The right people saw it at the right time. I'm extremely grateful for that.

I'm extremely grateful for all of you.

So yeah, one chapter. Woo! Here's to many more.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

I’LL MAKE A HOUSE INSIDE OF YOU, I’LL GO IN THROUGH THE MOUTH ; SUGURU GETO

synopsis; what awaits you by the entrance to the woods is not a wolf, but a man. he thinks your grandmother can wait.

word count; 14.7k

contents; suguru geto/reader, gn!reader (’girl’ is used only in allusion to the actual fairy tale), fairy tale au, hunter/wolf!suguru x little red riding hood!reader, yan!sugu, captivity, forced caretaking, infantilization, excessive use of ’little one’, hints of stockholm syndrome, slightly suggestive in one part (suguru gets a hard-on, blink and you’ll miss it), noncon kissing but that’s the worst it gets, instances of gore (ie; descriptions of a corpse, horror-inspired imagery), depiction of cannibalism (not involving reader), violent undertones, suguru never physically harms you but it’s mentioned that he could. open ended + almost entirely from reader’s pov. meta narrative.

a/n; happy halloween <3 (i’m late)(it’s 2025) this au has been haunting me since last year so i’m happy to finally have it out …. i don’t dabble in yan!sugu v often but it’s . so so sooo easy to turn him into one just by tweaking him a little bit … if nothing else i hope he ended up awful & hot 🫡 + biggest shoutout in the world to my beloved mickey (@teddybeartoji) for all your help and encouragement w this fic :’< also my belovedest dilly for doing the same and supporting me always … i love u……

[ once upon a time, there was a dear little girl... ]

the sun is stuck in vitro. 

a glance up at the sky, in tune with your rapid steps. you’re threading through a meadow, red hood over your head, a basket hanging off your arm; wine and apricots and slices of cake, covered by a crocheted blanket your mother made. the sky you see when you tilt your head is painted gray, a bottomless pit, cotton clouds sticking together like the light layer of mist laying its legs across the landscape. dewdrops stick to your bare ankles as you wade through tall grass.

everything smells wet, fresh, the heavy scent of leaves and dirt — the end of autumn. everything bursting and blooming and decaying all at once. 

and you’re all alone. threading through the grass and flowers, nearing the edge of the familiar woods, on your way to see your sick grandmother. it’s a force of habit; from the basket hanging off your arm to the pep in your step, a feeling like that of a page being turned. all of it familiar. this story is your home, you live within its walls. you know your lines, you always have. you know how it begins, how it ends, what it feels like to be swallowed whole — you know your steps will lead you right into the belly of the beast.

you know this story.

(you should know this story.)

only this time, it is not a wolf that awaits you by the entrance to the woods. it’s a hunter.

it’s a man, of tall stature, a shotgun slung over his broad shoulder and secured by a thin leather strap. poignant, a threat and a reassurance all at once, barrel pointing at the sky like a maw wanting to open wide. the first thing you notice. his hair is tied up into a bun, neat and tidy, charcoal strands tousled by the morning breeze, bangs swaying almost hypnotizingly under the hunter’s hat he’s wearing; your eyes drink him in, from head to toe. a dark-furred vest, engulfed by a coat that does nothing to hide the outline of his meaty biceps. his boots are stained with mud. 

it’s nothing new.

(but he isn’t supposed to be here.)

before you can look around, make sure you didn’t take a wrong turn, leave your mother’s cabin on the wrong clock-tick — the hunter turns to look at you. eyes like the bark of a tree, smudged at the corners with flecks of rusted gold, their warmth beckoning you forward. the jingle of a bell chime. and only then do you spot a splotch of red in his calloused hands, cradled closely, a poppy. young crimson petals.

he’s caressing them, and he’s smiling.

like he knew you’d be here.

molten, rainy clouds stick together in the sky, allowing no flicker of sunshine to seep through the gaps. once you step inside the woods, the mist will only thicken. a ceiling made of tree-leaves to obscure the world around you. it’s straight ahead, the main road that leads into their depths — the one you’re meant to follow. from where you’re standing, you can spot bugs on the mossy rocks, shimmering beetles, hear the buzzing of a lonely little bee busying itself with a honeyed tree trunk. shadows upon shadows. you’re right at the edge of the second act, but there is no wolf to be seen. no monster to fall into. 

only a man, parting his lips.

”and where are you headed, little one?”

his voice is deep. steady, sturdy, seeps into your spine. but tailored with silk all the same; a pleasantly raspy undertone. he’s speaking softly, and your heartbeat slows down, grows quiet as a mouse.

it’s only him, after all. 

(the ever reliable hunter.)

”… to my grandmother,” you answer, hands gripping onto the handle of your basket, a smile gracing your features. still confused, but polite, even sweet. he’s weak to it, you’re well aware. ”she’s sick, you see…”

he nods along, smile never changing shape — hand only briefly reaching down to his waist, slipping the poppy into his pocket. you wonder why he doesn’t just throw it away, but there’s no time to ponder on the smaller things; he speaks before you can try.

”i see,” he hums, a low buzzing in the back of his throat. ”and on such a lovely morning…”

the irony in his tone is evident, ripe like a peach. smiling along, you let out what could almost be considered a chuckle — it’s a little out of breath, your lungs constricting in wake of the mist-ridden air. 

”mm… it’s alright. i don’t mind.”

that makes him pause, for a moment. ”how kind of you.” it’s praise, sweetened by a roll of his tongue — the hunter tilts his head, honeyed eyes ripe for plucking. ”i’m sure your grandmother will be thrilled.”

”… i hope so,” you hum, blinking through the dew. ”it’s the least i could do, really…”

golden eyes seep through the gaps between his lower lashes, gazing down at you. a piercing stare. you wonder if he can tell you’re lying. a moment passes, and then he’s speaking again, with a click of his tongue— that same pleasing lull to his voice.

”and where does your grandmother live, hm? not too far off, i’d hope…”

”it’s… still a bit to walk,” you chuckle, adjusting your hood, picking at a piece of lint dangling off the fabric. ”her house is just under the three large oak-trees, with the nut-trees below… you surely must know it?”

”… that i do.” for a moment, his smiles laces itself with sticky nostalgia; something warm.

then, suddenly, he’s taking a step forward. boots crunching against the ground, clicking against the gravel underneath his feet. like he’s walking on a frosted lake. aside from the low buzzing of tired bugs, and solemn whooshing of the morning breeze, it’s all you can hear. when he gets close enough for you to see the mole just below his jaw, he’s towering above you — shielding you from the wind, broad shoulders obscuring your view of anything but him. his eyes, his smile, the shotgun over his shoulder.

and he parts his pretty lips.

”would you do me a favour, little dear?”

a tug at your heartstrings. your eyes gaze up at his, wide with curiosity, rising up like bubbling foam in the sea of your iris. a request, something to do; it’s hard for you to ignore its call. always has been. 

so you speak before you think.

”sure.”

a pleased hum. ”… i’m on the hunt for wolves, you see.” his eyelids flutter, but you don’t think he misses the way your smile evens out, your grip on the basket growing tighter. ”i know your grandmother needs you… but would you let me treat you to a cup of tea?” 

”… tea?”

your baffled inquiry pulls a soft bout of laughter from the depths of his throat.

”tea,” he nods. ”any kind you’d like. i couldn’t sleep at night, knowing i’d left you all alone here with those beasts roaming around… and my home is close by.”

a pause. you inhale the earthy air, taste it on your tongue. a sense of delirious foreboding settles into your veins, a call from deep within your gut. 

your mother told you not to let anything distract you.

(… then again, when have you ever been the type to do as you’re told?)

”i don’t know… i’m not really supposed to,” you try to convince yourself, fidgeting with the strings of your cape. you can feel the hunter’s gaze, heavy in a comforting sense; like a mother wolf gazing at her cub, making sure no harm befalls it. intimidating in the sense that you don’t know what he’s thinking.

”… how very well-behaved,” is all he says, adjusting the strap of his shotgun. he sounds like he wants to say something else, but he takes a moment too long to speak. then; ”you seem a little out of breath.”

and you are. your breathing is all out of sorts, your throat shivering under the force of your chilly inhales. it’s cold, and your legs feel sore. the fabric of your cape is too thin to shield you from the chilly autumn breeze, and your bones yearn for some respite. 

your mind, however, yearns for something different. something new. a different story, another chapter.

(… you shouldn’t, but…)

”it was awfully reckless of your mother to send you off alone,” he mutters, a low click of his tongue, voice slipping down an octave— something rough gnawing at his vocal chords. ”a little thing like you…”

(… he shouldn’t be here at all.)

”i’d like to rectify that.”

there’s a stability to his words, something self-assured. he personifies a security you’ve never had, an absent smile that warms your numbed-out hands; there’s a warmth to it you couldn’t find in the woods, in the dark and gritty path carved out before you. it makes you think a cup of tea wouldn’t be so bad. 

(maybe two wrongs do make a right.)

you stop to think, for a moment.

you could walk into the woods, down the main road, like you supposed to. one step after the other, right until you reach your grandmother — or a hungry wolf. you could wait by the flower meadow, and pick poppies until your hands grow weary, until you have enough to bring home to your mother. alternatively, just until the beast remembers his curtain call.

… or, you could follow the hunter. follow him, like a pliant lamb, until you reach his cabin.

(ultimately, only one of the choices entices you.)

”… alright, then,” your breath turns into white smoke. ”i’d be glad to. sorry for the trouble, though…”

his eyes gleam, suddenly; a honeyed whisper on his tongue. a sense of contentment in the sigh that slips past his lips, the sway of his bangs when he shakes his head. ”believe me — it’s no trouble at all.”

two sparrows take off from a branch ahead of you. 

a breeze brushes past your cheek. he holds his arm out, ever the gentleman; waiting for your fingers to curl around his bicep, cling to it for stability. and you do, if only just to please him, because you know the hunter needs to be needed in the same way your grandmother needs pie and wine. the same way the wolf needs something soft to sink his teeth into.

his eyes crinkle, like autumn leaves on golden trees. pats your arm, once, then twice, and says;

”let’s get you warmed up, hm?”

and you follow his lead.

you know this man. that’s why you aren’t afraid. why you can’t help but match his step, as he guides you away from the road you’re meant to take, slowing down his strides just so you can keep up. the sun is still obscured, a slob of amber in the middle of the sky, engulfed by sticky clouds. the woods sway in a solemn waltz, bugs scatter away like ravens from the moss-ridden rocks, and when you pass the bushes on your far left you swear you catch a whiff of iron. 

before you know it, he’s led you away from the woods — across a field of poppies, beyond the bridge of a river, down to a cabin with a freshly-painted fence.

his home is as warm as his smile.

the moment you step over the threshold, a scent of sandalwood invades your lungs — thick like you just fell into a bag of sawdust. it seeps into your nostrils and burrows itself deep inside your chest, curls up and sleeps there. rich, earthy, firewood and basil from the living room and kitchen, liquid comfort in your veins. warmth, peace; even with the butterflies pinned to the walls, gleaming behind glass. a deer mount watches you from across the hall, its antlers curled up proudly, eyes dumb and dead and animal. 

all you can think is respite. rubbing your chilly, frostbitten hands together, blowing hot air on the interior of your palms. the hunter leads you inside, hangs his coat and puts away his shotgun, takes off his hat and steps out of his heavy boots — waits for you to do the same. you leave your crimson coat as is. gently, he takes hold of your basket, gives your shoulder a break. it comes to him naturally, this sense of service; a perpetual motion machine.

you think him a dog, finely trained. it puts your heart at ease. 

”make yourself at home,” he smiles. 

an absent nod. you’re still busy glancing around, following just behind him as he moves towards the living room. it looks cozy. knitted blankets thrown over chairs, books gathering dust on the shelves, a lit candle by the windowsill. there are carnations in vases, all smelling of spring, the same colour as the eager fire crackling by the chimney — sparks of ember against freshly cut wood, fireworks for only you to see. an axe catches their angry flicker of light with its dull edge, where it lays against a pile of logs, leather sheath curled around it; serpentesque.

already, your eyes have strayed too long. he doesn’t seem to mind. when you raise your head he’s looking at you, standing by the threshold to the kitchen and waiting, lips curled into a soft, ikebana-like smile.

a flicker of amusement passes through his low-lidded eyes. and then he’s turning on his heel.

you follow him. 

”take a seat,” he hums, dragging out a wooden chair for you to sit on; and you do so without putting up a fuss, absently scanning the walls and shelves, jars of honey and jam and spices, cloves of garlic hanging in a happy row. a kettle rests idly on the stove, white little petals soaking in a bowl of sweetened water right next to it, reminds you of a bleeding bride. the kitchen table is small, just big enough for two. cozy.

”thank you, mister hunter,” you offer him a smile.

”— suguru.” he pushes the chair forward again, makes sure you’re all sorted, and then steps away. ”just suguru is fine. no need to be formal, little red…”

his voice comes out as something like a purr, interwoven with a morning residue of smoke, fatigue. you can hear it, though, the tender hint of happiness beneath it. he faces the stove, lifts his large hands to open the cupboards above him, and you spot a vast assortment of tea bags; dried yellow leaves, petals and stalks, silken bags and paper wrappings, an earthy scent that pervades the air. cuts into it, forces its way through the thin gap. you inhale, deeply, and feel it take root in your kidneys — no exhale makes the feeling go away. chamomile, rooibos, earl gray…

a cacophony of remedies pulsing in your ribs.

as he busies himself with boiled water and strainers, you gaze out through the window to your left. all you’re privy to seeing is a field, speckled with ghostly pale flowers — barely visible under the shadow of a sky yet to be broken through. in the distance is your destination, the murky woods, tall pinewood trees and willows and clusters of dried up leaves. you wonder if your grandmother will worry if you linger here for too long, if your mother will be disappointed. if they’ll even notice. the basket of goodies you brought rests on the kitchen counter, unassuming. 

”here you are,” suguru hums, setting down a mug for you. pure white ceramic. he slips in a teaspoon’s worth of honey, and fills it up with water from the kettle, piping hot, orange in colour, tiny calendula buds swimming like fish in the sea. ”drink up, little one,” he croons. ”we don’t want you catching a cold.”

when you reach out to touch the rim of the cup, you’re stung by the warmth — it sparks against the tips of your fingers, spreads throughout your veins. gives way to a soft smile. ”thank you, suguru.”

his eyes gleam under the dim lights. 

”have a sip,” he encourages. ”tell me how it is.”

and you do. you bring the mug to your lips, feel the warmth of the tea seep through the ceramic, steam rising from it and tickling your skin. when you drink it’s an assault on your senses, like the flowers snuck inside your throat and bloomed along your windpipe. hot enough to burn your tongue, rich and sweet. 

a sigh leaves your lips. laced with contentment.

”it’s delicious,” you compliment, still feeling the sting on the tip of your tongue. putting the cup back on the table, just to hear the clink against wood.

a warm smile.

”i’m glad.” seamlessly, casually, he leans forward; curling his fingers around the handle, bringing it to his own lips. you watch, owlishly, as he blows on the tea — quick to slide it back towards you. ”… there.”

he must notice your bewilderment, at his familiarity. but he only exhales a soft breath; grazing the surface of a chuckle. resting his jaw on the heel of his palm.

”… go on. have as much as you’d like.”

he doesn’t pour himself a cup until you’ve finished your first. watching you, from across the table, eyes melted into something fond, glimmering faintly.

enamored.

(in every version of this story, the hunter is in love with you.)

that’s why you aren’t worried. that’s why you can’t help but tune out everything except the faint glow of his kitchen, the budding warmth of his home, the tea he keeps on pouring you, cup after cup. the feeling of something deliriously new. listening to the purr of his voice, allowing time to slip you by — sinking into a state of dizzying comfort, slick with safety.

before you know it, he’s shown you around the house, told you all about the lilac-coloured flowers growing in his backyard, coaxed you into warming yourself by the fireplace — he insists. it’s already well past the time you would have made it back home after your outing. your grandmother’s basket is still resting on the counter, untouched, wine and pie and peeled apricots that have probably begun to grow stale. she won’t tell the difference, but you will.

with decision, you rise from the armchair you’re seated on, closing the book he lent you. feeling the stir of a pep in your step, like the kick of a rabbit.

a shallow breath — ’duty calls,’ you muse.

(perhaps it’s for the best; you were beginning to bore of the silence, anyhow.)

suguru makes a low noise, in the back of his throat, seated on the armchair to your right. sleeves rolled up; a light patch of dark hair running from his wrist to his elbow, muscles embraced by the flame-slicked shadows of the fireplace. he gazes at you, silently.

”thank you for letting me stay,” you smile, picture perfect, easy and polite; curling your fingers together as if praying. ”but i really should get going, now.”

the wind whooshes, sharpens its claws against the windows behind you. the sky still dark, rain drizzling down, nothing a cluster of trees can’t shelter you from. the hunter stands up, to his full height.

”… i don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

a twitch of his brow. covered up by a smile. for the first time since meeting him this morning — you catch a flicker of distaste dance inside his pupils. 

you aren’t sure what to say.

it doesn’t matter, either way. he parts his lips to speak. ”it’s dangerous… and it’s already getting late. surely, your grandmother can wait until tomorrow?”

”i’m… not sure i should,” you try, fingers idly slipping into the pockets of your red coat. mustering a cheery voice. ”besides, i wouldn’t want to trouble you!”

”i insist.”

…

crackle, crackle, wood splintering into ash. the silence is deafening, thick like a slab of butter on bread. it makes a lump form in your throat, hard to swallow, though you aren’t sure why.

”… tomorrow,” he continues. smile a little stale. ”wolves roam around in the evening. it’s not safe.”

something in his tone tells you he’s already made up his mind. something staggeringly aware — like he’s stating a fact, something unquestionable. 

it’s not safe out there. 

(he’s right, of course, but…)

(when he opens his mouth, you swear his teeth look just a little sharper than they should.)

a kick to your heart makes you cough up a response, a string of jumbled words. it comes to you almost like an instinct, an unsteady voice. ”if it’s really okay…”

he perks up, at that. 

”of course,” he smiles, a little wider. ”of course it is.”

a warm voice, and a warm home, the crackling of a warm fire behind you. it should feel peaceful — yet you can’t help but gaze out the windows, nervously, watching the faraway trees sway. if you squint you could almost make out those golden, piercing eyes, the black fur of a beast in a bush; unease settles in the base of your gut and gnaws at your flesh. 

just until tomorrow, you think.

his cabin is a safe zone, of sorts. you’re well aware of that. nothing can get to you, as long as you’re here, with his shotgun close by. suguru is tall, reliable, the only one you can trust — at least he should be. even if he isn’t where he should be at the moment.

it’s in his nature. he looks out for you.

he loves you.

(it’ll be fine.)

”it’s about time for dinner, isn’t it?” he breaks the shaky silence, stretching his arms out, craning his neck with a quiet crack. a clean break of bone. his gaze is kind, attentive. ”time flies… let me make something for you. what would you like?”

”… anything is fine.”

”anything…” a low chuckle. ”what would you say to some warm stew, then? is that alright?”

it is. after a nod, and a moment’s pause, you sit back down; just to feel the soft fabric sink beneath your weight. suguru hums, pleased, makes his way over to the kitchen. the axe gleams under the glow of the fire, and the deer on the wall watches your every move. the butterflies, too. wings for eyes.

(just for the night, you repeat to yourself.)

a hearty dinner, a warm bed to sleep in, and tea with honey in the morning — it doesn’t sound so bad at all. your mother probably won’t be worried, and your grandmother probably won’t die. no repercussions, the script already broke. staying one more day is fine.

… except he doesn’t let you leave, the morning after.

it starts out small. it always does. 

(creeps up on you like a bug in a carcass.)

“it’s too early.”

“it’s too cold, you’ll get sick.”

“don’t you want to stay for dinner?”

a warm smile, a smooth voice, a face with sharp lines and soft skin; tailor-made to put you at ease. suguru is beautiful, familiar, eerie in a sense that only makes you feel at home. he’s always been stubborn, you recall. some part of your body remembers.

but never like this. never, ever like this. 

never as suffocating.

“you’re too small to know what’s good for you.”

— there’s that bite. it sneaks up on him and grows teeth. he pats your head, with a calloused hand, and you relent. only gnaw at your bottom lip, jutted out into a frown you hope won’t rouse his anger. you’re still not sure he can even get angry, but he’s scary enough when he makes these choices for you; makes you think you have control over your own actions, all the while stealing it from underneath your feet.

(soon, he’s outright denying you.)

“i— i really need to leave,” you try, almost pleading, on the third night. your lungs are constricting, from the heavy scent of peppermint in the kitchen air, and he’s watching you like you’re nothing but a child demanding candy before bed. “please.”

a sigh, and a shake of his head.

“you aren’t listening, little one.” he turns around, clinks a teaspoon against the edge of a porcelain cup. “it’s safer here. your grandmother can wait.” 

nails paint crescents on your inner palms.

“… she’s waited long enough.”

frustration sneaks into your tone. bubbles up into your words like venomous pores. you think he must notice, because his smile is especially gentle when he turns to face you again, all lips and no teeth, still as composed as ever. he steps forward, curls an arm around your waist; he’s starting to lose all pretense of caring about your personal space, of not appearing too familiar. pulling you close. steady, steady, steady.

so much stronger than you. 

even when you stir, he doesn’t budge an inch. only lets out another mellow sigh, that fans against the side of your face. you think it sounds a bit amused.

“she’ll be okay,” is all he says. “she doesn’t need you.”

…

“she needs you to be safe.” he must have noticed the crestfallen look on your face. “as do i. you’re staying here, for the time being — it’s no trouble at all.”

he gives you a smile, to ease your nerves, honey-slicked and sweet; but something rotten settles in your gut. bile at the base of your throat, sour. it feels constricting, to be held so close, to be forced to inhale the scent of oakwood and musk on his skin. he’s warm. squeezing you firmly, and you’re sure it’s meant as a comforting gesture, but all you can think is burly arms, solid muscles, the crack of a bone. all you can think is that you’re well and truly powerless.

”believe me.”

when he lets you go, lets you scamper upstairs, you feel as though you can finally breathe again. leaning against the door to the guest room — gazing out through the window at the end of the hall, finding comfort in the swaying of the jade-dyed curtains.

something is very, very wrong. wrong with the hunter, the story, wrong with the home you’re in.

(you think you’re beginning to realize what.)

the hunter’s name is suguru. he appeared right by the edge of the woods, seven pages too early — or four, depending on the edition. he hasn’t let you leave his home, despite his initial offer to shelter you for no more than a day. his voice is deep and smooth, gravelly in the mornings or late at night, like an axe dragged through rugged grounds; or the bark of a tree yet to be cut in half. rough. the pieces dig a grave inside your brain, start to reek of decay.

the hunter is trustworthy.

in the story you call home, this is code of law; a black-and-white truth.

(but hunters don’t smell like wolves.)

hunters don’t watch your every move, or keep you locked against their chests, or make you sneak out in the middle of the night when everything is silent. hunters don’t will you to run away.

but on the fifth night, that’s exactly what you do.

once you’re almost certain he’s asleep in his own room, just two doors down from across the hall, you crack your eyes open and slip out from underneath the covers. shivering, shielded only by the flimsy nightgown suguru lent you to sleep in, sheltering you from the cold seeping in through the windowpane. it’s big on you. every step you take is slow and calculated, soft enough not to make any noise; you hold your breath as you crouch down to pick your coat up, lying in a pile on the floor, stretching your arms out through the gaps and pulling it over your head. then you walk to the door, the window behind you leaking in the faintest strings of moonlight. 

the sky is dark, the room you’re in cocooned by its shadow. you can barely even see your own hands when you reach for the doorknob and twist.

no noise. no creak.

a soft sigh slips from your lips, just under your breath. your fingers pull it open, and you step out into the hall— not bothering to close the door behind you. paintings line the walls on the second floor, all depicting landscapes, fields of poppies, sheep in circles, a house on top of a windy hill. watercolour on canvas. you wonder if he painted them by hand.

out of the corner of your eye, you gaze at his bedroom door — you can’t help it. under the light of the moon, it gleams like an omen. sealed tightly shut.

your heart strings together a tale of worry.

(it’ll be fine, you tell yourself. he’s asleep.)

and so you venture down the stairs. placing one foot in front of the other, gripping onto the handrail with all your might, trying not to put too much weight into your steps. heart stuck in your throat. one steps, two steps. you can see the fireplace from here, though the flames have long been stifled. pieces of coal gleam under the light streaming in through the windows, blue flickers that disappear when clouds devour the moon. red carnations painted indigo.

eight steps. nine steps.

when your foot meets the rug on the living room floor, soft under your bare soles, a pang of relief squeezes your veins; a moment where you allow yourself to simply breathe. inhale, exhale, because the hardest part is over. almost there, almost free.

your next couple steps are hungry. burning with delight, moving towards the front door, still careful not to stumble over or into anything — but really, all you can think is that the crispy midnight air is just beyond your grasp. it’s all you can think when you fumble for your shoes in the dark, glance up towards the top of the staircase every other second. anxious, despite your excitement. it all bleeds together.

it’s all you think when you pull up the rug by the front door, grab the key you knew would lie beneath it. all you think as you stick it into the keyhole and twist.

freedom. that’s what the air smells like, as it floods your starving veins — as you move your feet to cross the threshold. floods your lungs, as you gaze up at the moon, smiling in the sky like nothing’s wrong. welcoming you back to the narrative. the wind feels cold on your cheeks, streaming into his house when you push the door open, wild and untethered; swaying the field of flowers just beyond his fence. 

freedom. freedom. freedom.

you take a decisive step, leaving the boundary of his home — 

and the door slams shut behind you.

(a betrayal of the wind.)

it rings in your ears. you stay frozen in place.

the light flickers on, behind the window right above you. casts a glow on the frosted landscape, on your figure — and you know he’s watching. you feel it.

so you run.

it’s sudden, the spike of pure adrenaline rushing through your veins, completely flooding your senses and numbing your legs — you do not feel the cold of the air, barely see the way your breaths turn into mist as you inhale and exhale. you only think to leap towards the fence, fumbling with the lock, your shaky fingers pushing and pulling until you finally decide to simply climb over — placing the sole of your shoe on the picket and tearing your nightgown on the way down, tripping over your own feet and landing on your palms, scrambling to get back up again. the bruising doesn’t ache, the drag of your skin against gravel — you don’t even hear the tear of fabric. you only hear the pounding of your own heartbeat, feel it crawling up your throat like a snake suffocating on the rabbit it just swallowed whole. 

it pitters and patters, against your windpipe, and you run. sprint. everything in front of you is dark, mist thick enough to drown in, clouds devouring the moon again — you don’t really know which way you’re going, only that it’s away from here. 

your lungs feel on fire, the air gasoline.

and you hear the door slam shut behind you. 

(— the hunter begins his chase.)

tall grass melts around your ankles, ice-cold drops of dew and frosted flowers whipping your bare skin, but you don’t feel it, only feel the fear in your heartbeat as it threatens to make your ribcage burst. fear, fear, the primal kind. everything ahead of you is dark but it doesn’t matter, you’re only focused on running as far as your legs can take you — you’ve never felt a rush like this before. never felt so much like an animal being pursued. the wind tugs your hood away.

distant woods beckon you closer, closer still, swaying and waltzing on a moonlit night. you think yourself mad, to follow that shimmer, but you’ve never been quite right in the head, never really. frost, mist, harsh nips at your skin. the sky above is wide and vast, and everything is silent. everything except for you — a litany of frightened whines tugging at your tongue. 

you don’t need to look to know he’s after you. yet you still cast a glance over your shoulder, shuddering suddenly, a gasp pushing past your lips —

he’s stares back at you. 

golden eyes, sharpened in the night.

you’re knocked off your feet. thrown forward, with an almost brutal lunge, your body hitting the ground of the flowered field beneath you — it knocks the air from out your lungs, and for a moment you can’t breathe, can only feel the wet earth under your cheek and the sickening weight upon you. he’s pressing you down, with all his body weight, and he’s panting into your ear. holding your wrist so tightly you’re scared it’ll break. the fight doesn’t leave you. the rush is still there. but it has nowhere to go, with your legs stuck, it’s just wasted blood sugar. 

you can do nothing but wriggle like a worm. fruitlessly. feeling his hair tickle your neck, hot breath leaving goosebumps in its wake, you want to cry, the fear is coursing through every narrow of your bones and you’re completely out of breath. you trash and trash, a sparrow with broken wings, but it’s futile. 

(he caught you. he caught you. he caught you.)

”i caught you,” he finally pants, like a wounded dog, collapsed on top of you. but you hear his smile, that sickening sound of relief. ”silly, silly little thing.”

it hurts. he’s heavy. your knee is pressing into the soil, uncomfortably, you feel the moisture seeping through the fabric of your nightgown, his pulsing heartbeat against your spine. now the adrenaline is leaving you, sinking out of your body, leaving you boneless. like an animal about to be devoured. 

resigned. surrender.

suguru presses a kiss against the side of your neck, teeth just barely grazing your pulsepoint— and the fear inside you spikes like the snap of a mousetrap.

”what were you thinking, hm?”

he doesn’t sound upset, only gently reprimanding. fondly exasperated. somehow, that scares you even more — the shift, the dichotomy, his voice a soothing thunderstorm as he keeps you pinned against the flowerbed. his overwhelming strength, in contrast to how relaxed he sounds. like this is nothing but the natural consequence of your actions.

”… you never change.”

the vice grip on your wrist begins to loosen, as he lifts himself up, no longer crushing you. it’s easier to breathe, but you’re still too rattled to try. still playing dead at your instinct’s demand, eyes pried open as you stare into the eyes of bugs above your nose. you can’t do anything but go limp, as he scoops you up, holds you against his chest, stands up straight. one heavy hand on your head and the other on your back. 

he turns around, begins to walk back to his house, and your stomach fills with dread.

”n-no…” is all you can muster, too exhausted to make anything other than a quiet whimper, a weak weep of a protest. but he hears you, and he croons.

“shhh,” he soothes, as you whine into his neck, panting softly. rubbing your back. as if shushing a child that just had a temper tantrum. “you’re okay. i wouldn’t hurt you, little one, you know that.”

but you don’t.

(you don’t know anything anymore.)

”you’re my baby,” he continues, another sickening coo, and it sounds like a death sentence. giddy. he leans down to kiss your throat and you can only think of his teeth. ”only mine. my silly baby.”

a final glance at the sky, before he’s closing the door behind you. you see darkness, only darkness, a page being sewn shut. worms crawling out of the moon. 

your skin itches from the burning cold. 

suguru wastes no time in seating you by the fireplace, cocooning you with knitted blankets, murmuring something else about how you worried him sick, doing something so reckless. you barely hear him, there’s still blood on your palms and bruising static in your ears, everything stings and you’re still shaking from the rough fall.

he apologizes for that, too.

”i’m sorry i scared you,” he smiles, cupping your chilled skin, the slightest tufts of hair running down the tops of his fingers. ”but you needed the lesson.”

maybe you did.

he can hurt you. he’s capable of it.

you’re sure of that, now, no matter how much he’d insists he wouldn’t — no matter what he says. he’s fractured any dream of a cohesive narrative.

the tea he brings you smells of cinnamon, hot and sweet, but you make no move to drink it. just kind of sit there, as he tries to comfort you, rub salve into your bruised skin, assure you that he isn’t mad. you vacantly stare at the butterflies pinned to the wall, until he says something that catches your attention.

“once i’ve found the wolf, you can leave.” he promises, rubbing your shoulders, your already aching muscles. as if it’ll soothe you, as if telling the truth. “it’ll be okay… just let me handle everything.”

you raise your head to look at him, to meet the river of gold inside his eyes, weaving webs of silk. holy grails are always hoaxes, that’s how the stories go.

”… do you mean it?”

his lips curl up, just a bit, at the sound of your raspy voice, at the sight of you taking shaky sips from the cup. and he nods, silky, only slightly tousled hair swaying tenderly with the lull of his voice. ”i do.”

when he kills the wolf, you can leave.

if only it were that easy.

this is what you know; the hunter’s name is suguru. he appeared right by the edge of the woods, seven pages too early — or four, depending on the edition, give or take. he won’t let you leave his home, never runs out of tea to pour you, his voice turns raspy when it’s late and his arms are hairier than they were yesterday. this past week, you haven’t heard a howl echo from the woods at night even once.

it always starts small. small, decaying pieces, molding together and creating something bigger, more rotten. more than just a carcass.

it’s a corpse.

(and he’s inside it. playing hide-and-seek.)

he’s still smiling at you, making his hands useful, throwing wood into the fireplace when the angry flicker begins to sputter out. you recall your mother’s words, her many warnings. wolves are dangerous. wolves only want to do you harm. wolves don’t know how to love, they only ever show it with their teeth. always the same old stories, the same monsters at the end of every book. wolves, wolves, wolves.

always a wolf, never a man.

when you glance up at the hunter, his ever so softly parted lips, his keen eyes — you think to yourself that you can scarcely tell the difference. that even if you could, it wouldn’t matter. rot is rot, it still decays. you’re still at the mercy of it, of him.

(you’re beginning to think that’s all there is to it.)

you make no move to protest, when suguru pulls you into his lap. holds you close and kisses your wounds until you’re all warmed up, his honeycombed eyes never leaving your face, lit like a slowly sinking sunset. like a man who finally has what he wants. 

by the end of the first week, a pit has opened up inside your gut. it smells of a freshly doused fire.

the more time passes, the worse he gets. 

the more comfortable. 

(he must have taken your resignation as an invitation.)

every morning, when you walk into the kitchen, he pulls you in for a kiss — always just his lips, no tongue, as if he’s afraid of what he’d do to you if he parted them. his big hands squeeze your hips and even if you struggle, try to push him away, he brings you back in, keeps your wrists locked in a steady grip if you’re really putting up a fuss. purse your lips and he’ll pry them open, as simple as peeling an orange.

he’s sweet, about it. gentle.

”let me say hi, little one.”

all you can do is turn limp. just give in, let him take what he wants — which usually isn’t a lot. a kiss, and he’s satisfied, a kiss and he beams like nothing about this is wrong even in the slightest. a kiss, and then he’ll make you tea, and then he’ll watch you drink it.

it’s been just shy of a month since he lured you into his home. you know what he expects of you, by now, you’ve settled into some semblance of routine; one that mostly consists of you being doted on, coddled. suffocated by his presence. he makes you tea every morning, every night, homemade meals of chestnuts and berries and meat. right now, he’s making lemon tea; slicing them with the blade of his knife, dipping them in honey, coating them in sticky-sweet residue. it does nothing to get rid of the sour essence, bitter on your tongue — only makes it bearable.

there’s a gentle smile on his face when he fills a tiny cup and hands it to you, watches you gaze into it. watches as you put your lips against the porcelain and sip, sip, sip. he doesn’t look away until there’s nothing left, his stare like a dagger to your throat.

it’s rare that he lets you out of his sight.

during the day, you’re free to do as you please — anything that doesn’t involve leaving his home, which isn’t a lot. you spend most of your time reading through the books on his shelves, tracing their spines, writing stories on the walls with sharp marker, painting animals and forests on the canvases he lends you. there’s joy to be found in captivity; you think of the rabbits your mother used to own when you were little. anyone can find comfort in a cage.

and it’s not like he never lets you push the bars a little. you may not be allowed to step anywhere near the woods, or outside his field of vision, but he’s taken to letting you play in his garden when he deems the moment right. just to give you some fresh air, as much sunlight as this time of year offers. of course, even then, he has his eyes on you — watching from the window, cutting wood just beyond the fence, each swing of the axe ringing in your ears like the drop of a guillotine. steady hands, toned muscles and arms, broad shoulders and those sharp eyes, sharp like his teeth when he smiles too wide on accident. you can always feel his gaze, and it keeps you from running away, even though the animal inside your chest screams at you to do it already.

but you’re sure you’d fail again. 

and were he to catch you — you’re sure he’d no longer be able to resist. the temptation would be too much for him to bear. you were lucky, last time.

(lucky that he still hasn’t realized what he is.)

you’re stuck here, for now. forever. stuck with a man who seems convinced that what he feels for you is love, and not possession, something to hang up on his wall. love like hunters have for headless deer. 

or a wolf for a stack of bones.

anyone can find comfort in a cage. it’s true, it’s true, you repeat it to yourself every night, try to find the silver lining in the home he’s made you. he does make it comfortable for you — a soft bed and fluffy pillows, warm food that settles nicely in your stomach, arts and craft to keep you happy. silken bags that never seem to run out. there are always more dried petals to pour into boiling water, a flavour you haven’t yet tried. he always expects you to drink it all. then, when the moon hangs itself in the air, and you’ve tired yourself out — he tucks you into bed. gentle, doting, his voice like a lullaby when he drags the covers up and sits by your bedside, or curls up beside you and reads you bedtime stories until you’re fast asleep. like you’re his grandchild. it’s never easy to relax with his hands on you, but the stories help. 

that’s typically when it happens. when you’re lying in bed, when he’s unguarded, his own mind beginning to drift into slumber. he flips through the pages of a dusty fable, smooths your hair down with a steady hand, and his voice loses an octave; a noise that curls around the base of his throat, rumbles through his chest. deep, raspy, gravelly. just shy of a growl. it comes suddenly, reverberates through you, makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

suguru clears his throat, and you pretend not to have noticed it. he rewards you with another page or two.

that’s how he is, you’re well aware. what he does best. he tells you things without opening his mouth, shows you his teeth without letting you see them. he knows you know they’re there, and he rewards you for pretending otherwise. keeping him content is in your best interest — he hasn’t hurt you, doesn’t seem like he wants to, but you know that he will. 

no one can fight against their nature, and he has one set of teeth too many.

for now, playing into the part he’s made for you is your safest bet. the fire inside your eyes has dwindled, he’s suffocated it, and the rabbit in your chest is pretending to be dead. every morning, you drink the tea he makes you, go pliant as he kisses you, and every night you let him lull you to sleep. 

a comfortable cage is exactly right. 

(but the temptation to rebel never truly leaves you.)

it’s already been a month. a whole moonspin. that thirst for freedom is lingering, festering, pushing up against the walls of your throat. makes you nauseous, makes the thin thread of your patience tear at the edges. you yearn for the woods, the flower meadows, the squirrels and bugs of the forest grounds. willows and chestnuts and silky splotches of sunshine, fumbling fawns. your grandmother’s sickly stench, your mother’s striking hand. anything but this stasis. 

you miss feeling alive. 

(you’d cut your skin open to feel it again.)

you know running blindly would prove futile, but that doesn’t halt the desire. you’re trapped, one foot in a bearclaw, and you want out. he’s stronger than you, faster— and he’s always, always watching. you can’t outrun him, he’s always making sure you’re near.

the only advantage you have is this:

suguru believes himself to love you. 

maybe, if you just beg enough — beg again, when the moment is right… he’ll let you go. maybe he’ll take pity on the pitiful, defenseless baby he caught.

(maybe if you hide your contempt, but show your desperation— you can win.)

the pot boils over with the stench of rotten apricots.

they’re still in the basket you brought with you, under the knitted tablecloth, discarded in a storage room linked to the kitchen. you just wanted a quiet place to read, but now you feel too sick. sick with the stench of rotting fruit-flesh. you can smell it even without removing the cloth, and you know what you’ll see if you do — a bottle of wine, molded slices of cake, and sticky, sickly-sweet decay. dirt-brown in colour.

you’re reminded of the day you came. reminded of how long it’s been, who these apricots were for.

and suddenly, you can’t take it anymore.

(no one can fight against their nature. that includes you, too.)

with a start, you stand up straight, and leave the rotting basket behind you; opening the door of the storage and making your way to the living room. a wreath of bluebells is hung above the fireplace, crackling and sputtering, snowflakes falling softly from the skies beyond the windowpane. suguru is right where you knew he’d be, seated on an armchair and knitting a sweater, looping two needles through thick thread. his hair is down, and his eyes are closed in pure contentment; formed into thin crescents. 

the air smells of chestnuts and incense.

you inhale it, walk up to him with a plea on your tongue — your voice a desperate push of air.

”please let me leave.”

his smile falls. before he even has a chance to open up his eyes, caramel spilling out through slits, before he can usher you into his lap and knead his hands into your body, ’warm you up’ the way he likes.

it’s rare, to see him without it. it makes him look naked.

(it makes him look unsettling.)

but he’s still gentle, when he breathes out a sigh, places the needles on the wooden table to his left. 

”… this, again?” he clicks his tongue, sounding disappointed in a way you don’t like, a quiet lull. ”and i here i thought you’d finally decided to behave.”

his tone makes you shiver. something about it feels final, like you’ve pushed too far, reached some kind of dead end he’d been keeping concealed until now. there’s a barely noticeable crease between his brows, and his jaw is tense, lips formed into a tight line. not rough enough to be truly reprimanding, but it’s close. you’re suddenly aware of how small you feel, like this.

how powerless you are against him.

but you push through.

”… i just —” you try, gnawing at your bottom lip even though he’s told you not to bruise it. ”i’m just tired. i don’t want this, i — i’m not happy.”

a slip of your tongue, and a twitch of his jaw.

(his lips curl into a scowl.)

”you are,” he exhales, strained, like you just struck a narrow nerve. ”you’re happy. i take care of you.”

a shuddering breath. you inhale, shallow, trying to stay your ground, trying not to falter after snapping on the twig of his patience. you know what sleeps inside him, and you’re afraid of it. terrified. the hunter is one thing, the wolf is another. but there’s a line between the two, and you can tread it through — 

tread it through and through and through. 

”… you take care of me,” you concede, watching as the muscle of his jaw slacks, softens, ever so slightly. ”but i’m still not… i’m not happy. i want to leave.”

the fire crackles behind you, logs of wood splintering and snapping, budding heat easing the tension in your bones. silence settles over the scene, stretches out and lays itself to rest there like a wounded animal. suguru just watches you, with smothering eyes, like he knows something you don’t; gaze focused, expression set in stone. knitting your features into his mind with a broken needle.

and then a grating sigh. 

”… how many times have we repeated this, little red?” he asks, his voice thick with anger, though you’re unsure as to who it’s aimed at. his eyes burn with something devastating, something that smells of a forest fire and wails like a bleeding dog. ”how many times will you make me go through this?”

suddenly, he’s standing up from his armchair. rising to his full height, towering over you, lifting a hand up to caress the apple of your cheek. it makes you flinch, and his lip twitches, and suddenly his fingers are trailing down to the very base of your throat. as gentle as if he were handling one of the butterflies on his wall. you’re worried he’s going to squeeze down, but he never does, just keeps a hand there like all he wants is to feel the rapid thumping of your pulse.

and his eyes burn you to cinders. 

”how many times have i had to watch you be swallowed down… by someone other than myself?”

the question hangs in the air like a noose. grates your ears, heavy with an anguish you couldn’t hope to understand. a skip of your heartbeat — except it feels more like a crash. his fingers never move and your body turns to ice, accepts the hand that feeds it, if only because he looks like he could swallow you whole and still not feel satisfied.

”… far too many,” he seethes. palm finally moving from your throat to cup your cheek, and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. ”you’re too frail, too — naive. i can’t trust you to be good.”

a gasp pushes past your lip, when his other arm curls around your waist and tugs you closer, keeps a possessive hold on your hip. his body heat is suffocating, it only makes your heartbeat sputter. 

”… you can’t keep me here forever,” you murmur, the words laced with fear. spoken carelessly.

(and this time, you can practically hear the snap.)

a dangerous flicker, through his earthen eyes. it’s there and then it’s gone, and it’s enough of a warning on its own, a spark of fury that has you biting your tongue, squirming where you’re held against his steady frame. his grip around your waist morphs into something almost painful, just a pinch away, not quite enough for you to get away with pulling back.

you hear the words before he says them. they rattle against the back of your teeth.

”i can.”

spoken in a whisper, through gritted teeth, an echo from deep within his stomach— he practically spits them out, eyes burning into yours, an overwhelming density in how he carries himself. the words are heavy like lead, and you can tell he believes them. 

he can keep you here. 

(forever, and ever, and ever.)

a shiver claws against your spine, drags its nails down your back, and you think he can tell, that he feels you shudder against him. like a frightened fawn in front of a headlight. it’s enough to have his pupils dilating, his fingers loosening their grip, a breath of shaky air escaping his lips— like he’s finding it hard to keep his composure. to be tender and merciful. 

once the silence has stretched on for a beat too long, and your breathing still hasn’t mellowed— he speaks. 

”don’t you think it hurts me?” he asks, just above a tender whisper, brushing a thumb against your cheekbone. just barely grazing your lower lashline, streaks of black hair framing his burdened eyes. ”watching you be deceived, again and again…”

suguru exhales a bated breath, chest moving in tandem, pressed flush against your own. for a moment, you think he looks rather sad.

”… i’m tired,” he admits. ”i’m tired of having to cut you out of his stomach. you did this to yourself.”

…

when you empty your thoughts, you can still feel it. the warm embrace of succulent flesh.

(you never asked to be devoured.)

”you can’t protect yourself,” he tells you, with the same tone that he always has, the tone that tells you he knows best. ”so i will do it for you.”

a twitch of his fingertips. you feel it, as his hand slides down the expanse of your face, tips your head up with a finger underneath your chin. you’ve gone pliant, again. he leans in, until you can’t tell who the breaths you’re exhaling are coming from.

”do you understand?”

every bone in your body wants to move, pull away, but you’re worried his nails will sink into your skin if you dare to try. he’s positively suffocating, like this. demanding a response. you want to flee, you want to fight, you want to grab the axe behind you and drive it into his skull. you’re terrified of him. you loved him, once. the hands that are keeping you locked away are the same that dug through blood and guts to drag you out of your grave. he’s never letting you go.

never again. 

no matter how much you beg. 

you can see it in his eyes, the trail of ash they leave behind when he blinks. the carnal desperation in his voice. there is no ’leaving’ him — the fire that burns in him is brighter than yours, far more damning. 

so there’s no point.

his lips are inches away from your own. golden eyes peeled open, palm covering the expanse of your jaw, arm like a bear trap around your waist — snapped shut. suguru awaits your response, and you give it to him with a voice that barely sounds like your own.

”… i understand.”

(obedience and ignorance, you echo inside your mind. obedience and ignorance is all he asks.)

a moment passes, and his muscles finally go lax, eyes softening like melted snow; a sigh slipping past his lips. closing in, claiming your own. you can taste what he’s feeling, but it’s too much to bear. 

”… good,” he smiles, against your lips. ”good baby.”

the praise does nothing to soothe the pit inside your stomach, but it doesn’t matter. he’s not angry, anymore, and that’s as good as anything. you let him kiss you and it doesn’t even make you want to vomit.

it doesn’t make you feel a thing. 

”if you just stay here, you’ll be fine,” he continues, breathing you in and out again. ”you’ll be safer.”

safer tucked between his ribs, or lodged inside his throat. so much safer playing dead all year.

(you think of rotten apricots, and bile rises in your throat.)

a moment’s hesitance. you find the will to speak. ”just… my grandma,” you murmur, pulling away from the kiss by a hair, not that he’d let you go if you tried. you look up into his eyes with a pleading gaze, voice a little broken. ”can you at least… give her the wine?”

suguru pauses. 

then sighs, a rock from out his heavy chest. pulling back and giving you space to breathe, cradling a lock of your hair with greedy fingers. ”you don’t have to worry about her, anymore,” is all he says. ”believe me.” he’s smiling, just barely, voice meant to soothe you out of making a fuss. but there’s really no need. 

you’re well aware of what he means.

(and that’s the end of that.)

”… okay,” you answer, the words pulled out of your throat by an invisible string. ”i won’t, then.”

the smile you muster is strained at best, but suguru glows in its light. looks proud, eyes crinkled at the edges, burning pages of paper on an open fire.

a coo on his tongue that he wants to let out.

”sweet thing,” he purrs, sweltering. ”you were just feeling a little cranky, hm…? must be hungry.”

his hand caresses your stomach, rubbing the skin just beneath your navel, and you feel the beginnings of nausea swell up in the very back of your throat. but you stifle it, lean into it, you have no choice.

you nod, and he smiles.

”i was meaning to use that wine for something, anyway…” he lets out a hum, thinking for a moment. ”coq a vin, perhaps? would you like that, little dear?”

”… mhm.”

he seems content, with that response. 

the snow outside the window mocks you with its shimmer.

time continues to pass. the cycle repeats, the same as always.

you think you’re finally starting to get used to it.

suguru grows more wolfish by the day. there’s more hair on his arms and chest, his teeth are longer, when he kisses you he sometimes starts to drool. his voice is deep, his meals taste about the same, he still never runs out of lullabies or bags of tea. wolfsbane, lupine, ipomoea alba — he tastes them on your tongue, drinks them from out your mouth. you’re beginning to forget who you were before him. every day, he tells you that he loves you. you think you could believe it if you tried. maybe, you could even love him back.

if only you didn’t know the truth.

it’s more than a suspicion, now. no longer an if, but a when, a question you don’t dare ask — but there’s no need to. when the hunter falls asleep, the wolf makes tea in the kitchen. you live with them both. they’re a duo, a pair of lovers; never one without the other. 

(one of these days, you’re sure they’ll eat you.)

the book you’re reading feels weighty in your hands. you’ve already read it before; you’ve read nearly all of them, fingers far too familiar with the dusty shelves. suguru promised to go get more, though you have no idea from where. you’re not sure knowing would do you any good. he’s upstairs, in your room, scrubbing at the walls to get rid of all your scribbles. it’s bound to take a while — if you dashed out the door now, maybe he wouldn’t notice. but the key is in his pocket, and he’d hear the crack of window glass.

it’s nothing more than a temporary comfort— something to indulge in, roll around and around in your head until you realize how silly you’re being.

you’re broken down, plain and simple, and winter is gnawing itself into the world. ice-cold teeth sinking into the ground beneath your feet, and eating the baby hares buried there. suguru chops wood for the fireplace every single day, just to keep you warm, made a sweater for you that smells too much like him. you sneak a glance out the window, admiring the heavy blanket of pure-white snow draped around the woods; a red fox scurries across your vision, yipping joyeously, skeletal trees shimmering faintly in the distance. a whole world just without you.

it’s comforting. the air smells slightly toasted and your feet are warm, clad in fuzzy socks. you haven’t been outside in some time; suguru’s been reluctant since you sprained your ankle on a sheet of ice in the backyard. you wish you’d hit your head instead. 

(you miss the cold sting of the wind.)

each turn of a new page drags you deeper into your own subconscious, sinking into a fragile illusion of peace. paper-thin, falling upon your thumb, your eyes scanning the inked letters tiredly. stories aren’t worth reading more than once, you think, the magic fades away eventually. you can barely taste the citrus the protagonist eats, fingers dipping between the ridges, teeth sinking into the tender flesh. rinse and repeat. boring, boring, you want something new — a thriller, a romance, even something like —

a noise, echoing from the hallway.

rap, tap, tap. 

(knuckles against wood.)

it rings in your ears. rattles down your spine. two seconds, eight, ten — all thoughts disappear from your brain and leave only misty foam behind them. a blank slate. rap tap tap, curling inside your ear canal. 

when you come to, your heart is pulsing.

a moment of silence. the house is quiet, so very quiet, you’re afraid suguru will hear your breathing from the second floor. everything feels frozen solid and suddenly you want to hurl, get the sickness out of your gut — watch it spill out all over the floor. but you remain planted in front of the fireplace, watching flames flicker and lick a stripe from coal to wood, waiting for something to happen. 

(it already has.)

another knock.

this time, you shoot up to your feet — like your mind just realized it wasn’t an auditory hallucination, another mass of hysteria seething in your frontal lobe — your hands clammy as they try to find solace in the fabric of your clothing. gripping onto the wool.

on shaky legs, you move forward. making your way towards the hall, slow and steady, soles against soft flooring. eyes blown wide, skittishly peeking around, out the windows and towards the stairs. suguru. you picture him on his knees, tail wagging behind him, dragging wet cloth against faded tapestry, salvaging his ruined walls so you can ruin them again. you picture him hearing the knock, rushing down, pinning you against the floor until your knees ache. 

you picture him none the wiser, and inhale the air like you haven’t in days — gathering courage, dragging your feet towards the source of the noise. 

pitter, patter, pitter, patter. 

your heart throbs inside your chest, flexes its legs until it knocks against your ribs, makes you jolt — your lungs holding onto every breath you take with shaky fingers. the deer mount on the wall gazes at you, antlers pointing towards the front door, and when your eyes land on the handle you swear you can feel it. the presence of a living, breathing thing.

just behind the door.

and you can do nothing but stare. unblinking, heart still crammed at the base of your throat, scraping at the walls like a squirming bug. you feel like a deer trapped in headlights. your mind crackles, halts, comes to life again, the pages coming undone from their bindings and spilling out over the floor — smudged with ink, a seven-letter word.

freedom. freedom. freedom?

(hope.)

a third knock, more curt. it sends a tingle down your spine, down your bones, makes your hand twitch, as if eager to twist the doorknob. finally, someone is here. someone came to get you. no one forgot. 

no one forgot about you. 

you move your leg, and — 

”keep still.”

… a breath brushes against your neck.

(ba-dump. ba-dump.)

only stillness. only silence, strangling you. there’s someone behind you and you didn’t even notice, there’s a hand on your hip to keep you in place, another latching itself onto your mouth to keep you from making any noise. your heartbeat spikes, collapses in on itself, but he is there to catch you.

he’s always there to catch you.

suguru has you enveloped, his scent like a heavy pelt tossed over your shoulders, familiar tones of earth and musk polluting your senses. you’re wrapped up in it. you feel so small, small enough to disappear into the dip between his chest and stomach, right between his ribs. he’s keeping you so still you barely remember to breathe, can only pant shallowly against his big hand and pray he isn’t angry at you.

too frightened to do anything else, you gaze at him out of the corner of your eye.

and ah, there it is. black hair, golden eyes, a silent quiver of his jaw; like he’s trying not to snap it, trying not to bare his teeth. they’re sharp. when he kissed you this morning you felt them nip at your skin.

(you think he was trying to control himself.)

his pupils are sharpened, eyes blown open, staring straight ahead. he’s making no noise, no sound, only the most subtle of breathing patterns — like a hunter in waiting, like he’s got one finger on the trigger. 

yet another knock, impatient, and his grip around your waist grows tighter. a barely audible growl rumbles in his throat, you feel it against the back of your head, let out an involuntary whimper that has something growing hard behind you but you refuse to acknowledge it, refuse to think about it, you’d rather die. he’s immobile and you’re just as paralyzed, only able to watch the door, watch your salvation slip away. again. again and again and again.

one, two, six, nine. the seconds tick on in time with your mismatched heartbeats, and nothing happens. 

then, the sound of boots against gravel. 

moving farther, and farther away. 

(they’re leaving, they’re leaving, they’re leaving.)

”… there,” he rasps, finally, lethally deep, as if culling a calm to your nerves. it doesn’t work, only makes your heartbeat pick up in speed, another tiny whimper muffled against his hairy palm— 

you swallow down a sniffle.

and he loosens his grip, sharp eyes melting into liquored honey. a coo, as he spots the beginnings of tears at your lashline, glistening like morning dew. 

(you can’t take this, anymore.)

”… my poor baby,” comes a croon, a voice thick with fondness; shushing you softly, brushing a stray tear away with his thumb. ”poor little thing.”

you’re still pressed against him, chest to back, he’s warm and suffocating and you’re reliant on his thrumming heartbeat just to find your own breathing. he’s cradling you like a mother to her child, and it makes you feel anything but safe— makes you feel like a bird in the maw of a rottweiler, like your clothes are soggy and dragging you underwater. your chest is caving in, hot tears burning at your eyes, and god, you’re just so fucking tired.

you’re tired of this. tired of him, tired of the story you’re in. tired of having to hope again and again.

(no one’s coming to rescue you. no one at all.)

”must have been so scary,” he continues, rubbing his cheek against your head, leaning down to smear a kiss against the side of your neck, ”’m sorry. i’ll handle everything, you hear me? don’t be afraid.”

another sniffle, you can’t help it. you bite down on your lip to stop it but all it does is make you taste iron, hot and heavy, a burning sting. your voice feels wobbly, forcing it into shape feels like trying to turn water into ice with your bare fingers; yet you try.

it comes out pitiful. 

a broken, battered whisper.

”… i wanna go home…”

more of a whimper than a sentence, it pulls a sigh from out his lips. ”you are home,” he tells you, softly.

you struggle to withhold a bubbling sob, one you know will have you stuck in his arms for the rest of the night. your limbs feel limp but you still dig your teeth into your bottom lip and wipe at your eyes with frustrated humiliation, refusing to let him see you crumble. suguru stays still, just watching, waiting for the ripe moment to pluck your tears and comfort you, but he won’t get it. you won’t give it to him.

when he noses at your pulsepoint, something like an animal whine rips from your throat, scratchy and dry. you squirm, scratch at his forearms where they’re wrapped around you — panicked, feral — and he lets go. he lets you glare at him, through eyes wet with freshly spilled tears, only gives you a look you know means he’s feeling sorry for you. something like a silent oh, look how you’re trembling, look how much you need me, poor thing. it’s demeaning, but all you care about is pushing him away, storming up to your room. for once, he lets you. must think it’s best you deal with your little tantrum on your own for now.

you’re sure he’ll come knocking when it’s time for your bedtime story, but for now you’re alone. free to close the door behind you, collapse against it.

a weak, gurgling sob.

home. this is home.

(if you accepted that — would it hurt any less?)

all you can muster is the strength to smush your snotty face against your elbows, knees against your chest, curling in on yourself. choking out hitched little breaths, all broken and bruised and wrecked into bits. a marble bashed against concrete, over and over and over again, there’s nothing there but glass-splatter. you’re glad he isn’t here to see it. glad he can’t force you to seek out his body warmth, his steadying heartbeat, that you won’t have to hear him coo out reminders that you aren’t needed out there. 

(nobody out there needs you. not your mother, or your grandmother, not the story you’re in.)

(you’re a lousy protagonist. better off in the ground.)

if only you could bring yourself to believe it. if only you were capable of swallowing down hope without spitting it back out again. if only you knew better than to trust a wolf, or a hunter, or anyone at all. 

if only you weren’t you — 

maybe this wouldn’t have happened. 

broken, broken, a crack in the middle of your heart.

suguru comes knocking at your door, eventually. there is no lock, you have to let him in, but by then you’re fast asleep. faded into a dreamless slumber.

(you won’t feel it, won’t see it, won’t have to kiss him back. he’ll tuck you into bed without waking you.)

it happens, at last. a long overdue curtain call.

but not to you.

the smell of rot sticks to the walls, bleeds out against the carpet and wails like a dog. the stench of flesh, suffocating ever narrow of your cells, the marrow of your bones. he probably thought you’d be asleep. he probably doesn’t know how thin the walls are.

you stand by the threshold to the kitchen, and peek in through the gap left by the storage room’s open door.

pale moonlight spills in through the window, casts a dim-lit blue across the floorboards and shatters on suguru’s back. illuminates him, where he lays, hunched over like a dog. eating something.

someone.

(a man with a shotgun over his shoulder.)

you can barely make it out, seeing only shadows and shapes. hell on earth, hell permeating the world and forcing it down your throat. you can’t see his face, only his ears, his tail, beautiful blood pooled underneath his knees and glistening in the light. can only hear the noises of him chewing, the sickening crack of a bone being split, gnarls and growls like he’s having trouble fitting it all into his mouth, taking too-big bites all at once. they make you nauseous, make your stomach twist with panic and disgust. desperate to quell your terror-struck breaths, you keep a hand clasped over your mouth— willing your guts to stay unspilled. you’d rather not have him clean it up; rather not owe him any favours at all.

rather not interrupt him in the middle of his meal. 

the stench is excruciating. iron and molding meat, damp clothes and patches of wet fur. thick. it makes tears sting behind your eyelids, burn at your lashline, your entire body shaking, skeleton rattling under your skin— panic wailing in your shuddering veins.

it’s happening. it’s happening, but not to you.

(and isn’t that a blessing? to play the role he always has. always just watching everything go wrong.)

(maybe you’ve always hated him. maybe you just couldn’t tell.)

it takes effort to keep yourself upright, to force your knees not to buckle. you’re scared, you’re scared, whatever rabbit made a nest inside your heart is trying to gnaw its way out and it hurts. you’re cold and hot all at once. you think you might pass out, like this; clutching onto the wall with unsteady fingers. 

suguru seems to be enjoying himself, feasting on god knows who, tearing through veins and muscle tissue, carving a path that reeks of rotten fruit and guts. it’s horror incarnate. you pray it’s all a dream, a nightmare. you pray you’ll wake up soon. but you’re still frozen when you squeeze your eyes shut, and he’s still hunched over in the storage room when you open them. shallow breaths scrape against your throat, and you swallow down the bile building up at its base. taking a wobbly, wobbly step back.

you thank your lucky stars he does not peek over his shoulder. tip-toeing towards the stairs, leaving the blood and the grit behind before he spots you. you are gone by the time he’s finished, gone by the time he licks the entrails from between his teeth and cranes his head to look behind him.

golden eyes violating the dark.

when you crawl back into bed, fruitlessly trying to gain control over your trembling limbs, wipe the sight from your mind — you are sure of only one thing.

this is the tipping point. this is where the cup runs over. it has to, or it’ll break into pieces, bleed open. you’re never going to forget this; the buzzing of fleas, the smell of rotten apricots. the smell of death, hot and heavy, iron seeping into the back of your tongue and tearing out your teeth. warm, hot blood. gurgling up at the base of your throat with steady thumps.

(your story wasn’t supposed to be like this, a voice echoes in your head. not like this.)

terror. terror. desperation, a silent crack in the night. something in your gut settles, right when you feel so faint you’re sure you’ll pass out — a cold calm.

suddenly, you know what you have to do. you know exactly what the story is about to demand.

(keep that fire burning. even if you burst aflame.)

you stare at the ceiling until dusk turns to day.

a tentative sip.

you hold onto the rim of the cup with steady fingers, warm skin against cold porcelain, and drink slowly; one gulp after another. it tastes good. mellow and vibrant, makes a home on the roof of your mouth, sticks to the back of your teeth. there’s a nutty aftertaste that you can’t help but savour.

he’s trying out something new, today; a bundle of golden leaves, simmering in the liquor-like water, a trail of sweet-smelling steam wafting up into the air. beautiful, if nothing else. flickering softly.

it’s a wonder you still haven’t grown tired of tea. a wonder he keeps finding new ones for you to try.

(he’s fond of flowers, you’re well aware. fond of plucking them by hand, while they’re young and pretty, robbing them from the ground, putting them in hot water and vases and paintings on the wall.)

(yesterday, he asked if he could do your portrait.)

it’s time for your bedtime story. you’re curled up in bed, on freshly washed silken sheets, buried under a fluffy blanket with suguru to your right, sitting on a wooden chair with a fable in his lap. paintings of rabbits and foxes, girls and goats. they’ve grown more childlike, over time, the books he reads to you aloud; the ones he keeps on his shelves. he doesn’t like it when you indulge in anything too graphic.

a nightlight keeps you company, shines a light on the pages in the dark of your room. a small comfort.

in tandem with his words, the curtains sway, tender as the lull of his tongue— window barricaded just behind them. he’s wearing a blouse, with puffy sleeves that barely reach down to his elbows anymore. he’s gotten bigger. there’s a rasp in his throat when he speaks but the softness is still present, the silent turning of another page, he holds them in between his fingers before letting them fall. looks at peace. it’s raining outside, a quiet drizzle, warming up the earth from the frost and snow — a gentle pitter patter against the windowpane. you can almost smell the damp earth, the moss and worms, content to imagine it as tea trickles down your throat, pumps its way into your heartbeat.

content to watch your captor playing house.

(soon, this’ll all be over.)

(soon.)

”… your arms are hairy, suguru.”

your words cut into the silence, shatters the illusion of peace and quiet, spill into the open air. the wolf by your bedside looks surprised, for a moment; a silent series of blinks, raven lashes taking flight. usually, you’d be nothing but silent during this routine. 

”do you not like it?” he asks, letting the page flutter shut, fall over his thumb. ”i can shave.”

you pay no mind to his response. only push yourself up on your elbows, sluggishly, reach your fingers out to curl around his roughed up knuckles.

”and your hands are big…”

a flicker, in his ashen eyes. he lets you trace along his hands, dip your fingertips down the valleys and across the bumps, the callouses and scars. 

(and oh, he knows what you’re doing now.)

so he plays along.

”… the better to hold you with,” he whispers, low and sweet — bringing your hand to his lips, smearing a kiss against the inside of your palm. you feel the curve of his smile cut into your skin.

a beat. your hand slips away from his touch, travels down to his jaw, tips it up with a thumb beneath his chin. suguru eyes you. hungrily, your instincts tell you. he’s pliant, though, a domesticated thing — doesn’t bat an eye when your fingers tug at his upper lip and expose a row of white teeth. pink gums.

a silent intake of breath.

”… and your teeth are sharp.”

silence. you can see your own reflection in the gleam of his canines, watch it waver like great tides in the sea. you look nothing like you remember.

and suguru looks conflicted.

”the better to…” he whispers, latches onto your wrist and cups your palm— keeps it in place as he nuzzles against it, closing his mouth. ”protect you with.”

something in your chest tightens and coils, at that. he smiles, almost sheepish, and you want to kill him, want to drag his own axe through his stomach, hear the clanking of metal against the bone of a rib.

a voice like no other rings in your ears.

(at least have the gall to say it out loud.)

the fwhip of a book being shut. his thumb slips out from between the pages, comes to rest against the spine, and you know it’s time for bed. you feel a tentative lick, against the skin of your palm, before he’s letting go of your wrist. it makes you shudder, and his eyes crinkle like you just did something cute. 

(it’s nearly over. it’s nearly over.)

you feel as if you might throw up.

”… goodnight, sweet thing.”

his voice curls into your mind, around your neck, wriggles like a worm inside your ear. you don’t say it back. you stay silent, as he pulls away. 

the nightlight flickers off.

once upon a time, you’re sure your story had an ending.

it’s a distant memory, at this point. a bundle of blurry memories, a sense of knowledge about what goes where. but you can still recall the catharsis.

at its core, little red riding hood is a tale about foolishness. a tale about girls who stay snug in the bellies of beasts, curl up close to their intestines and wait patiently to be rescued. this is no surprise to you. you’ve been devoured thousands of times, it’s in your nature, what you were born to do— there is no version of the story where you aren’t tangled up in meat thread or being swallowed whole. no version where you aren’t a victim, born to wait your turn.

you’re well beyond accepting that.

all children must exit the womb, and all little reds must escape the wolf’s stomach. neither cage was meant to keep you, even if he’d disagree.

but now you really are trapped.

(trapped in the cage he made you, a bookmark glued to paper-skin.)

you sit in his armchair, and gaze into the fireplace. waiting for a cue. suguru is in the kitchen, as always, the sound of a whistling kettle seeping through the air, chattering with steam. gusts of wind claw against the windows, wail and whine against the glass. the woods sway in the distance, mocking shades of green shimmering faintly; beckoning you closer, closer still, into their depths. winter is about to end. 

the sun is stuck in vitro.

the deer mount on the wall looks at you with dead, glazed-over eyes. dead like the pinned-up butterflies, dead like every single thing in his home. dead tea leaves, dead men in storage rooms, dead little reds.

the axe glimmers by the fireplace. 

an inhale, inflating your lungs. it has to end. the story hungers for it — there has to be some way to reach it.

(everything’s already broken, anyway.)

crackling, splintering, wood on fire. ash gathers at the bottom of the hearth, tears itself into pieces and crumbles into a lifeless heap. your eyes watch the flames lick into each other’s mouths, make a home there. they’re consuming each other. getting their fill. you think of his tongue, his teeth, his voice— you think of the shotgun over his shoulder and the glint in his eye, his greedy hands squeezing at your midriff. you think of the axe, just resting there, leather sheath snug around the steel. waiting, waiting, waiting.

”the tea is ready, honey.”

— and you stand up.

his voice carries across the living room, a jumbled growl of syllables — you scarcely hear them, eyes fixated on the gleaming steel in front of you. fingers hungry for contact, eager to rip the sheath right off. 

it’s time to choose an ending. 

you could live in his belly, if you wanted, just like this. forevermore. could tuck yourself between his teeth and grow comfortable there. that, or you could cut your way out — stain the last page red yourself, before he gets the chance to. lick the excess off your wrist and tear the binding in half. it’s all or nothing, this or that; an axe in his stomach, his teeth in your neck. your choice, yes, but it’s time to make it.

you know which one you want.

(”and little red riding hood reached for the axe.”)

— it feels right, in your hand. feels right to hold, have it weigh you down, become part of your skeletal structure. everything finally feels just right.

an inhale. your breathing turns more shallow, quiet breaths seeping from out your throat, lips parting silently. a flicker, your gaze darting in the direction of the kitchen, zeroing in on the shadow cast across the threshold. heart, liver, lungs. you can feel them all, count them all. they’re all clambering up your esophagus. worms in your throat, under rocks.

(now. now. do it now.)

hunger. hunger. hunger.

you don’t care what the consequences are, anymore.

a moment of silence. you hear not the whooshing of the wind, the whistling of the kettle, or the sound of tea being poured into cups. you hear neither his voice nor your own footsteps — only the steady beating of your own heart, a bunny about to break into sprint. one step forward. two. his back is visible, the hair at his nape, he’s pouring tea into porcelain cups. he’ll never know what hit him, what he brought into his home. ba-dump. ba-dump. the floorboards split apart, and the binding comes undone.

his guts will spill out just the same.

[ … and ▇▇ ▇ne did ▇▇▇ing t▇ harm h▇▇, ▇ver again. ]

you creep up behind him, stealthy as a fox —

and swing.

[limarkova]

Yandere Batfam x Neglected Reader x Yandere Al Ghuls

Pt. 6

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Author's Note: this chapter gets really dark and reader does describe what happened in the experiments with detail. If you can't read that than here's a little summary. Reader was injected with numerous strange liquids. One labeled LPW caused her meta abilities to awaken. Once they ensured she wouldn't die they took her organs out of her body. She was alive and awake for most of it. That's what made her determined to escape. You can skip from the first Pov change to when it says "Damian was in front of you."

Dick stood outside of her door. His hand hovered over the wood. He wasn't a 100% sure what he was supposed to say. Obviously it would have to be a delicate conversation. This was traumatic for her on some degree but she needed to know they were there for her. She needed to know he was there for her.

Yet all he could remember surrounding her were broken promises. He knew he had a bad habit of ditching people cause someone asked for help. Yet with her it had always been a little worst. He remembered at one time he promised to be at her first science fair and ditched her for a date with Starfire. When he got home she looked upset but told him she knows he was busy being a hero. That some people needed a hero more than she needed a brother.

God she said that to him at five. Did he really deserve to barge in and be her supportive big brother now. No his mistakes stopped today, he would do better for his sister.

Dick knocked on the door. She called out, "Just a minute."

There was shuffling noise beyond the door. She opened it and Dick immediately felt himself stiffen. (Name) was taller than he remembered. That was to be expected, it had been two years. But when had she gotten that mature look about her. Dick put on his best casual smile, "Hey, I wanted to check up on you."

"I'm doing fine." She nodded at him once. There was a brief pause before she continued, "I'm still missing a few essential items but I should be fine until I can a new debit card."

"Yeah, Alfred called the bank about that actually." That caught her attention. She gestured with her head and stepped aside. That's a good sign, she's inviting him into her room. Dick walked into her room and took a seat on an old bean bag. Despite spraying it with enough frebreeze and lysol to kill three generations of germs it still had a slight smell of mothballs. He clear his throat than continued, "They had turned off that card three days. Someone tried withdrawing too much cash at an ATM."

"I told you it was stolen at school. I'm not surprised they did something stupid with it." She shrugged before taking a seat in her desk chair. Half the stickers that decorated it this morning had been peeled off. There was a box now in the middle of the room were it seemed she was packing up old novelty items. Was she cleaning out her room?

Dick gave her a nod, "Yeah. So how was Miss Rose's? Despite the troublesome roommates I mean."

(Name) paused. Tilting her head to the ceiling she thought for a minute before sighing. She bit her lip, looking between her hands and him, "I... I would have preferred to stay at Gotham Prep. Honestly I feel like I fell behind going there. Not to mention half the people there seemed like they wanted to eat me alive."

Dick paused, licking his lip. He knew he couldn't do this by letting her think he didn't know. He had to come clean. "So umm, Alfred called Miss Rose's and they said you never attended."

"What?" Her eyes went wide and her breathing went unsteady. Her eyes began to shift between all the exits in the room. A slight tremble began in her lips.

Dick swallowed but pushed forward, "and the debit card. The statement show it was being used to withdraw cash in Gotham for the past two years when Miss Rose's is in the UK. (Name) I know you didn't attend a boarding school."

"So. You know what happened." Her muscles started locking up. It was like watching a mask fall off her face. The trembling in her lips gave way to a snarl. Her eyebrow scrunched up as she directed a look of utter rage squarely at him.

Dick stood from the bean bag holding his hands out in front of him, "I don't know what happened but I know you weren't at school."

"Liar." She hissed the word like it burned. There was nothing on her face of the understanding five year old. It felt like he looking at Jason when he was consumed by pit rage again.

"I'm not lying. I didn’t know you weren't at school until yesterday when Alfred called them."

"Am I really expected to just believe that?" She shoved herself out of the chair. It toppled to the ground with a loud thud. "That you, of all people, wouldn't notice an entire child just disappearing. Your own sister no less."

"We... I... (Name), I really thought you were at a boarding school." Dick step forward, reaching blindly for them. This was not how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to comfort her, not upset her.

She flinched away from him. A caged animal look cross her face as she scrambled towards her bed. "Prove it. Where's the letters you got from me while I was at 'school', what reasons were you given for me to not show up on breaks. Or did the 'school' just conveniently not have those. What proof were you given that I was at this place that you so throughly believe it for two years?"

Dick frozen because there was none. He had truly just accepted she was at school with no proof. That easily, he accepted it with no questions or second thought.

"(Name), please."

"Well, I'm waiting." Dick flinched at the words. Something like shame must of be on his face because she scoffed at him. (Name) stood up straighter, disgust mixed with the rage, "You can't because there is none. So you knew, you had to have known because there is no way anyone in this fucking manor was stupid enough to the forget about a whole child for two years until she showed up at the door. You knew and did nothing! I needed you and you did nothing!"

She screamed the last sentence, the words bouncing around her room like a ping pong ball. Tears had started streaming down her face. Her breath was ragged that cage look disappearing from her face. Panic mixed with utter despair blanketed her eyes.

Dick's chest tighten. There it was, bare and simple. He had failed so throughly and he couldn't deny it. Dick tried walking towards her again. He was desperate. If he could reach her, hold her he could make things right, "I'm sorry (Name). Please let me make this right, let me help you."

The rage was coming back. She jabbed a finger towards him, but to Dick it might as well of been a bullet fired directly at him. "You don't deserve a chance to make it 'right'. Get out now."

Dick started, "I know I messed up."

"No you failed. You failed and there is no making it right. Just get out, I don't want to look at you, just leave already." More tears streamed down her face. Her hands gripped at her ears, her every breath was labored. She was having a breakdown and he was making it worse. Dick knew he couldn't leave her like this but he also couldn't help her.

There was a tense standoff before Dick released a breath. Leaving that room felt like a mistake but he didn't know what else he could do. He truly had failed. When the door closed he heard her sobbing. He pressed his back to the door listening, knowing he couldn't do anything to help her right now. Pulling out his phone he texted Bruce, "we're all on the shit list."

There was no way, they didn't know. You refused to believe it. If they truly didn't know and had forgotten about you than it was all for nothing. Surviving had all been for nothing. They had to have known there was no other option. At least one of them.

Memories coursed through you as if they were happening all over again. The first time they strapped you to a table and inject something into you. It had caused so much burning in your left arm, you hadn't realized you had started screaming. When you looked over your arm was an angry red with intense swelling. Your world had started to spin as panic state in. First you begged, than you just cry. The man who administered the shot just watched a small monitor that continued to beep.

The injections continued. Vials of weird liquid following close behind. Sometimes you threw up, choking on your own vomit until someone remove the straps and rolled you over. Your mind echoing the chant "they will come, they'll find me." You repeated it at night till sleep claimed you. Whispered it like a prayer when the pain became too much.

Than one day, they injected you with a thick blue green liquid label LPW. Something about the liquid stuck with you as important. It caused a sharp change in your vitals. From what you understood you flatlined shortly after it was injected into you.

You had your dream again. A strange comfort in being some place familiar. Than you were thrust back into life with someone on top of you performing CPR. Things got worse from there.

They run some test before the trials started. You hated the trials as much as wished for them. They also started saying the date when they started the test. It was the only way you knew how long you had been there. Then the pain would begin. Stabbing, whipping, electrocution, drowning, at some point you began to believe that the man administering the test was getting off on your pain. That he was intentionally getting worse and worse to experience more and more of a high. Yet you had your comfort "They'll find you, they'll come."

At some point you stop experiencing pain. Something about pain being an alert to the immune system. It all went over your head and stopped making sense. That's also when they told you about the expanded lifespan. It was a theory but the compound they injected you with was known to bring people back from to life after they died or back from brink of death. If they were right you could potentially live to be hundreds maybe even thousands of years old.

After the two years mark they did their 'final test'. You woke up already strapped to a table. Everything was kind of hazy, yet there were the normal bright lights and beeping monitors to tell you where you were. They said the date and it blurred in your head. Was this another drowning test? Is that why they sounded so far away?

Your body felt warm and light. They were wearing different uniforms. Why was that, what were they doing? A blade was handed to someone. There was a cut down your chest. Clamps held you open so you couldn't heal the wound shut. If there was an object lodged in the wound you couldn't heal. They knew that.

Hands reached into you torso. It felt funny, like they were tickling your insides. There were five people all making your inside feel weird. Scalpels, blood, and other strange liquids flashed in your vision. Than they removed something. It was small and covered in blood. The strange lump looked like a grayish pink pillow. They set it into something just outside your field of vision.

More and more lumps followed. The people were there for a long time or maybe it was a short time. It was still blurry; time could be blurring together. At some point they stopped. There was an argument between the people. They were pointing to you. Two of them walked out. The other three got oddly close to you before the tickling started again. They pulled out three more lumps before letting the flaps of your torso close. One of them holding a strangely shape lump that was leaking blood over the place pulled his mask down. With crooked, yellow stained teeth he smiled.

The wound didn’t heal not at first. Instead, the flaps of skin fell into your chest. The haziness started to slowly leave your body. They had drugged you for that test. You stared and stared at your chest when it finally hit. That weird feeling in your chest they caused was them removing your organ. They literally hollowed you out. You tried to speak, repeat your prayer but without lungs that was no air to create the noise.

Something broke that day. They weren't going to find you; they weren't going to come. You had to leave, clearly something had gone wrong, and they were unable to find you.

It was a strange sensation, having your organs regrow inside your body. Strange to watch too. For some reason you stayed awake during the whole process. Realistically, without oxygen the cells in your brain should have given out. Gone to sleep until your lungs regrew. Yet you never actually passed out when drowned or choked. At some point your brain flipped to no longer need oxygen. You became a zombie, unable to think properly but still seeing, hearing, and importantly remembering.

The morning of the second day you regained feeling in your limbs. Finally able to think you crawled to your spot. Taking your shit pillow with you. They would send someone to check in a few hours. Pulling the pillow apart you revealed the excessive amount of scalpels you had stolen over the past year. No one was coming it was time for you to leave.

One of the guards opened the door. He walked towards you. Then he reached behind you? Wait there was nothing there, you were against a wall. There was a sudden weight and warmth being wrapped around you. It was so unexpected, that you blinked. That must have cleared your vision.

Damian was in front of you. He was crouched down on his knees, wrapping the comforter from your bed tightly around you. Nothing was said as he finished. The two of you just sat there in a blank silence. You broke it first, "Why?"

"You are my sister. As such it is my responsibility to look after you and ensure your wellbeing." He looked at where his hands rested on his knees. There was another beat of silence as his green eyes danced with emotions. "I am sorry about attacking you and how I acted when I first met you."

He seemed genuine in his apology. You looked at the blanket wrapped around you. Maybe you had been too quick to judge Damian. But he acted just like him in those few moments. That man that got off on causing your body to spasm in pain. The one that, now in your clear mind, you knew had removed your heart and smiled when he was done. That man would never apologize though. You looked at Damian, "You don't have to stay."

"I am not leaving your side until I know you are well." Damian gave you a sharp nod. Then seemed to think for a moment, "Though I admit to not be good at comforting people. If you are okay with it, I would like to take you somewhere that might provide better comfort."

"I'm fine." You shook your head and pulled the comforter closer to you. Your room felt safe in a strange way to you. It was small with only one entrance that was easily accessible. Your window had an old Victorian style metal grate over it. Leaving even for Damian to show you something felt more threatening than any comfort could make up for.

Your brother considered you for a minute. The look made you want to crawl under your bed. Finally, he sighed than stood, "I shall return."

Once he was out of your room you climb under your bed. Screw Alfred's request, you needed safety from any prying eyes or cameras. In the dark quiet you allowed tears to fall again. You felt hollowed out again, pressing your hands to your chest. The assurance that something was there pushed the feeling back a little. It wasn’t enough.

Your door opened again. A part of you want to scream at the person to leave. But that required lungs and you weren't 100% certain you weren't hollow. There was a heavy sigh followed by shuffling.

"Can please come out and tell me if this helps?" Damian's voice interrupted your descent again. Sighing you rolled out from under the bed. It didn't matter if you got hurt.

Yet instead of pain you were in a blanket fort. Damian was a little ways away from you holding a black and white cat. He nodded to you and set the cat down. It stretched before walking over to you and curling up on your stomach. You began to pet the cat on your stomach gently, feeling the hollowness disappear.

"You confuse me Damian."

Damian eyebrows scrunched up and he started to pout. "How?"

"First you attack me. Than you try to spend time with me and get shot down just get back up and try to help me." You kept petting the cat. It purred and nuzzled into your hand. You smiled at the feline chasing the hollow feeling away.

Damian considered your words before sighing, "I believe there was a misunderstanding between us. All I was told about you in the manor was that I have sister. So I wrongly assumed they were talking about Cassandra."

"So when you saw me walking around the manor?" The cat yawned and curled on tighter on your stomach.

Damian sighed, "I once again wrongly assumed you were an intruder."

You laughed bitterly, "So they really didn't talk about me? Why am I not surprised."

"Honestly it's pathetic. World's greatest detectives and they don't even properly informed me about my sister cause they all assumed someone else had." Damian crossed his arms. This prompt a two hour long complaining session about the family.

Damian was shocked at the fact of you didn't know about half the family's drama. You were shocked how little they actually knew about you. Their vision of you boiled down to an innocent little kid who like science experiments and space. Meanwhile they're out there literally dying, getting blown up, drugged with God knows what, and so much more. No wonder Bruce need some way to make someone capable of healing any injury or illness. That had to have been his motive.

There was a knock on your door and Duke poked his head in. "Hey guys, it's time for dinner."

"Go away Thom-"

"No Dami, he's chill." You opened the flaps of you fort. Waving to Duke you announced, "We're complaining about the family. Come on."

"Dude wait until you hear about what I just learned." Duke hurried over to the tent. He was a little too big for the tent and ended up laying on his stomach with his legs hanging out. You handed him a pillow that he could lay on. He took a deep breath before spilling the beans, "So apparently everyone but Dick, Cass, Alfred, and Bruce had the wrong location on where your school was."

"Are you kidding me?" You could feel your rage coming back. Calculations began to run rampant in your mind at the realization.

"What were going to do if she was in danger?" Damian gestured to you. Rage blazed in his eyes. Oh, he was on her side that was good.

Duke shrugged gesturing to the space in the center of the tent, "Go to the wrong country I guess?"

"Country?" You gave Duke the most indignified look you ever made in your life. It would be the perfect diversion to throw any of your siblings that did care off the trail. Sending them to the wrong country would give them months to find, secure, and move you to a new location if they got to close. Bruce really was a fucking mastermind though you had to ask. "How did everyone get the wrong country?"

"They found boarding school brochures around the manor and assumed that was the one you were attending. In reality Cass just forgot to put them away." Duke facepalmed. He looked kind of disappointed. "When Jason found out, I thought he was going to get in a fist fight with Bruce. He literally stormed out of the manor and is standing at his apartment right now."

"Okay, Bruce, Alfred, and Dick, I can understand but Cass? How was she involved?" As far as you were aware Cass stalked you for three weeks than ignored for two years.

"Bruce asked her to help choose a school cause he thought she could choose the best one for." That bitch. Just when you were considering let her off the hook. But that also meant they were planning this for years before it actually happened. Was Cass brought into the manor strictly to be a weapon against you? This went deeper than you orginially thought.

There was no more delaying your plans. It was time to start making some bigger moves before they could.

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Taglist:

@stove-top96 @00hellohello00 @mysticalhills @yhin-gg @twismare @charlenexoxo1 @a-lurking-fae @moondust-clouds @darkumbreon92 @jsprien213 @bellethesleepypotato @time-shardz @randomlyappearingartist @kittzu @bat1212 @vanilliona @welpthisisboring

[absolutebl]

2024 BL - Top 10 Trend Report

In last year's trend report I said:

"I think Taiwan has the chops to give us something as good as The 8th Sense or Old Fashion Cupcake but in their style, and I would like to see them exercise their talent for good rather than just profit."

And Unknown happened.

I asked for it, they gave it to me. I could not be more happy. So anyway, I just wanted to crow a bit.

And now...

2024's TRENDS!

1 Trope Subversion Levels Up

My Stand In went so far as to subvert the whole damn romance genre. But in general we saw a lot of BL recognizing, highlighting and calling out it's own absurdities and tropes. From Korea commenting on the Dead Fish Kiss to Wandee Gooodday actually promoting green flag behavior (the real deal).

It was an interesting year for meta commentary, it kind of whole scale left parody behind (say goodbye, Japan) and entered almost every BL from Thailand, even the ones who should have left it alone. (Side eyes Mame.)

2 Old Tropes Revisited

Unknown revisited the step-brother trope (as did Addicted Heroin of course). But there were other old ones we haven't seen in ages, like kidnapping for love, kissing on rooftops, and all the dub con (Blossom). Love Sick rebooted with very little modernization (except where it counted) right up to and including no kisses. Mix Up even did "trapped on the rooftop" which I haven't seen in over a decade.

And then Wimpy dropped. And it felt like I was reading yaoi in my tiny attic bedroom in the 90s.

3 BL Enters All the Workplaces

I love how many adult leads and sides we are getting, even from Thailand. By which I mean, BL outside of a school setting. We still have high school and university set stuff, but that used to be ALL we got. I don't mind school settings, but I like that we have some kind of balance going on these days.

We are starting to get not just cubicles and offices (as Japan foretold) but all kinds of workplaces from retail to authors to the film industry.

4 BL Passes the Sniff Test

He smells good has always been a trope that I love. It was one of my favorite things about Bad Buddy. But this year it felt like every third BL trotted this one out. I was delighted by it. Of course I was. But it happened A LOT.

Century of Love was a key use of it since smell is so coupled to memory, I thought they dealt with it particularly well. But even Japan and Korea deployed the sniff test.

(Seoul Blues)

(Blue Boys) Same actors, different characters.

Pitt Babe

Century of Love

Meet You at the Blossom

Soul Blues

Blue Boys

Dangerous Romance

This Love Doesn't Have Long Beans

Cosmetic Playlover

Sunset X Vibes

Monster Next Door

Secret Love

Perfect 10 Liners (technically a 2025 show, but the sniff happened in 2024)

5 Fewer Shipper Characters within BL

Negative trends are always harder to call (it's easier to track the presence of something over the absence) but I'm still calling this one.

In a discussion of The Shipper @heretherebedork and I got into a discussion about this. It really seems like both we are getting less "female shipper" characters and/or they are evolving into overly interested but very supportive female friends instead. Softening, if you will.

I think partly this is because there has been a general decline in this archetype in yaoi over the past 5-10 years, but also they tend to incur pretty bad reactions in fans, and Thailand (especially) tends to pay attention to that kind of thing.

Unfortunately this also means we are seeing a worsening of the "no female representation at all" backbone of BL. We Are, which I loved, didn't have a single female character. Not even a throw away.

6 The rise of the green flag seme!

The seme (active attacker in the relationship) got a lot of green flag action this year. We saw lots of Dommy boys, Daddy types, and players asking for permission, trying to communicate, talking about safe sex. Particularly out of Thailand.

To make sure this is clear, green flag means he communicates about the relationship and sex, takes no for an answer, asks for permission for (almost) everything, and doesn't do things like (just spitballing here) take a hotel room key and go into the other mans private room when he's not around (or asleep). Okay? Christ on a cracker. (When it comes to flags Mame has red/green colorblindness.)

Some examples:

Alan from Pit Babe

God from Monster Next Door (except for the one journal reading incident)

Sun from Sunset X Vibes (almost too far)

Yak from Wandee Goodday

Latte from Knock Knock Boys

7 Japan Came to PLAY

Japan came to play and will not leave the field that they built. I may not always like JBL, but when I love it, I REALLY LOVE IT, and when it hits it hit hard (pain or joy). And even when I don't like it, it always gives me a lot to think about.

We had 19 JBLs in 2024:

Sahara-sensei to Toki-kun

At 25:00, in Alaska

Dominant Yakuza and Wimpy Corporate Slave

I Became the Main Role of a BL

Love in the Air: Koi no Yokan

Takara's Treasure

Although I Love You and You

I Hear the Sunspot

Living With Him

Love is Better the Second Time Around

Love is Like a Poison

Perfect Propose

Cosmetic Playlover

Sugar Dog Life

0.5D

Let's Eat Together Aki and Haru 2

Mitsuya-sensei no keimakutekina ezuke

Happy of the End

Ossans Love Season 2

Japan had 18 total BLs in 2023.

17-15 in 2022 (a couple I couldn't get hold of and a couple I just don't think are BL, so 2022 is vague).

7 in 2021. <- THAT was when the big jump occurred, 3 years ago. Which might have more to do with the pandemic than anything else.

But back to now: 19 in 2024 means they are actually just increasing their production gradually and in a steady way, as might be expected. In round numbers we didn't see anything unusual.

BUT

The series they've been airing in 2024 are running longer (for them) and being aired over longer periods of time. Not to mention getting better and quicker distribution.

By which I mean, Japan used to have more shorts and movies, less actual series with full run times (by their & Korea's BL industry length standard) on streaming platforms. So I think it's JBL runtime and distribution that is experiencing real growth. And the consistency of that runtime.

In other words, it feels like there are more JBL airing because we have access to most of them (for a change) and they're running long enough to cross into each other (which has been rare in the past).

What's almost more interesting to me is...

8 What the hell happened, Korea?

Korea cut back on their BLs in 2024. I am not sure if that's money drying up, a crack down within the industry over there, the political situation, or something else.

Still, it was wild to see such a stark fall off in production. They had 18 BLs in 2024 but fully half of them were shorts, and more than half were poor production quality than is prior standard. By contrast they had 21 in 2023, but only 1 was a short, and most were very high production (getting 8/10 or higher from me).

Since Korea tends to produce some of my favorite shows, it's no surprise I had no 10/10 BLs at all in 2024 with so little KBL's stepping up to the plate.

I sure hope this isn't a trend but it feels like it might be.

9 Why the hell is the not-kiss back?

Korea doubled down on being a pain in 2024 by bringing back the "they don't actually touch lips and we pretend they did by panning around the back of the head" with the camera. (Jazz for 2 sides, example. Yes, I'm still mad.)

Then Thailand did the with Addicted Heroin. AND with Love Sick.

What is this, 2016?

Color me annoyed. I thought we saw the last of that nonsense with Make It Right.

I remind you all, if they would kiss if they het but they don't kiss when they gay, it smacks of a phobia and I'm salty about it.

Yes yes, there are actor (idol, age) excuses in play. But they should cast differently if this is going to be a problem.

End of discussion.

No really, I don't wanna talk about it. I just want it to go away.

10 The rise of Great Grandmas

We have had cool grandmas before in BL but in 2024 we had so many of them. The Sign, Love for Love’s Sake, Monster Next Door, Jack & Joker, Every You Every Me, The Rebound, Wandee Goodday.

(thanks to @small-dark-and-delicious for bringing this one to my attention)

See the comments for additional discussion of the "why" behind some of these trends as well as a few I missed.

(source)

2023's Trends report here.

[audliminal]

Survivability Bias Pt 5

Masterpost Ao3

“So hypothetically,” Superboy begins, glancing over at Robin. “Say I met another meta, and they, like, needed a civilian identity...” He trails off, listening intently. Trying to get anything from Robin's expression is pointless - between his skill at maintaining his composure, and the expression obscuring mask, there's not a lot to be read on his face. Instead Superboy focuses on his heartbeat, which speeds up the smallest amount as Robin turns away from the tablet he'd been working with, and settles his full attention directly onto Superboy.

“Hypothetically,” Robin repeats.

“Yeah. You know, in theory, if that ever happened.” Robin stares at Superboy for a moment, presumably reading everything that's missing from his own face in Superboy's.

“Well. In theory, the Justice League has the means to grant any meta hero a full identity. Is this about you? Because honestly it's insane that they haven't bothered yet, and I will straight up make you one right now if you-”

“No, it's not about me,” Superboy interrupts. “But like, you could do that? Without the Justice League’s support, I mean?. Like, say if this hypothetical person really didn't want the Justice League knowing about them?”

“You met a meta who doesn't like the Justice League.”

“I don't think it's really about the Justice League specifically. I mean, they definitely don't exist, but if they did, then I would say that the second I showed up they were bracing for a fight. Like before they even saw who I was.” Robin sets his tablet to the side without looking, and leans just a touch towards Superboy as he talks. It's honestly wild, he thinks, how the other boy can manage such intense eye contact through white lenses, but, well, that's the bats for you.

“Theoretically, I could absolutely make this person an identity, if they did exist. But I would want to meet them first.”

“Cool, cool,” Superboy says leaning back into the couch. “I offered to introduce you and they said they'd consider it. I think, maybe they don't trust adults very much, bc they asked if you were our age.”

“Theoretically?”

“Exactly.”

* * *

Though the specific details as to when the founding member first became acquainted, it was only after multiple incidents of near-worldwide devastation that they realized the necessity of an organized front.

The details of the forming of the Justice League should be fascinating, if only for the revelation that world-ending disasters are, apparently, relatively common in this universe. In a way, it’s a comforting thought. Memories of Dan sit as heavily as ever in Danny’s mind, especially now that he’s effectively lost his family, just like in Dan’s timeline. Of course, here there’s presumably no risk of him getting fused with Vlad, so probably that specific threat isn’t likely, but - well, if it comes to the worst and Danny does go mad, there’s at least a reasonably good chance that the heroes here will be able to stop him.

On the other hand, this also means that if the heroes turn out to actually be evil or whatever, he has less chance of getting away. Of course, Superboy hadn’t really seemed evil, but Danny really has no clue if he would even be able to tell. Sure he’d known Vlad was a nightmare from a mile away, but Vlad wasn’t exactly subtle about his obsession with Danny. Evil steeped in calculation would surely be harder to spot, wouldn’t it?

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” someone says from behind Danny. “But are you going to be using that computer for much longer?” Danny blinks, staring back at the teen who’s looking at him nervously. Danny glances over at the clock, but it’s now reading 2:30, which means that he’s been here for like three hours already,and he really hasn’t read much of anything in all that time.

“You can have it,” Danny says, pulling back to shove his notebook into his backpack.

“You sure, man? I don’t wanna chase you off, but I really could use it. Physics project, you know?” 

“Yeah, I get it. Wasn’t really making much progress anyway. Might as well take a break.” Danny says. He never got to take physics in school, but he remembers struggling with lit class enough to understand the sentiment. And he really isn’t making any progress, if he’s been staring at the same Justice League page for multiple hours.

“You working on a history project or something?”

“Yeah.” It’s close enough to the truth.

“What teacher d’you have? It’s pretty cool that they’re letting you do it on the Justice League.”

“Oh, uh,” Danny quails for a moment, focusing on closing the tab so he doesn’t tell the kid he’s not going to school. After all it’s probably reasonable to assume the laws about delinquency are the same here. “It’s more about the meta protection acts than like, the Justice League itself. And I’m not really local, so...”

“Ah, that explains why I don’t recognize you,” the other teen grins.

“Yeah,” Danny says, stepping back so the other teen can take over the computer. “Well, good luck with your physics project.”

“Thanks, man, and good luck with your meta-acts essay.” The other teen turns his attention to the computer as Danny steps away, heading for the library exit. Clearly research isn’t going well today, and Jazz would definitely yell at him for trying to force his brain to focus when it clearly doesn’t want to. He pauses outside for a moment, trying to remember what Jazz said to when your focus was shot. Obviously part one was to take a break, but he’s certain that she’d had more to say than that.

He thinks he remembers her going on a rant about monotony, and boredom, but he doesn’t really feel bored. Actually more than anything he feels wired and anxious. And anxious means he should...

“Turn slow tigers into fast tigers,” Danny mutters, gaining a deeply confused look from the couple other patrons standing outside the library. He ignores them, though, and starts heading for the nearby park, so he can do some stretches. Fast tigers means he has to exercise, which he would usually complain about but- well, his routine has definitely been a lot less active since he got here. Other than the train crash the other week, Danny’s been spending most of his time sitting and reading, and while it’s been insanely nice to have nobody hunting him, honestly the idea of exercise sounds almost horrifyingly nice.

He does his best to run through the kind of stretches he remembers doing in PE, warming himself up as best he can before starting to jog the little looping path. The jeans make it a little more annoying than he remembers in PE, but luckily they’re kind of loose, so they’re not too terrible to run in, and Danny has no intention of going very fast. There’s too many people around even if he wanted to, and he does his best to be polite and not in the way as he jogs. it doesn’t take long for his breathing to go heavy with exertion, and as he finishes his second circuit, Dannyt relaxes into it, and just lets himself run.

Thirty minutes later, Danny is feeling markedly more tired, and he lets himself slow to a walk. His heart is thudding rhythmically in his chest, the occasional stutter only more prominent in the heightened pounding, and his legs feel a little wobbly, but he keeps walking, The sweat he’d worked up feels gross against his clothes, so probably he could’ve gone about it better, but Danny figures a whole thirty minutes without worrying about his existential situation is more than worth feeling gross for a bit. His usual tactic of sneaking into the local gym while it’s closed isn’t gonna cut it during the day, so he’ll have to wait to shower, but in the meantime, he can walk off the remaining adrenaline, and decide what to do for dinner.

* * *

“Hey, did you really mean what you said about me having a civilian identity?” Robin looks up as Superboy sits in the air beside his work desk.

“I have four different identities, ready for you to choose from,” Robin says.

“Wait do you just keep possible identities around in case anybody needs them? Is that, like, a Bat thing?” Superboy leans over to examine the tool Robin had been working on. Like everything else he uses, it’s emblazoned with a bat insignia, not that the marking does anything to help identify what the little machine even does. It’s ridiculously small, definitely not any kind of weapon, unless Robin’s been tinkering with the idea of murderous nanobots, which honestly wouldn’t be that shocking. Of any hero Superboy’s ever met, Robin seems uniquely predisposed towards mad scientist-type stuff.

“I keep exactly two emergency identities on hold, but those are separate. I was talking specifically about identities for you.” Superboy freezes, turning his eyes back to Robin, who looks at him like this is a perfectly normal thing to say. Superboy is at least ninety percent sure it isn’t, but what the hell.

“What the hell,” Superboy echoes his own thoughts. “Why would I ever need four identities?”

“You don’t need four, you need options. There’s no point in giving you an identity you hate.”

“Okay, but people don’t get to choose their names? So why would I care.”

“Most people don’t choose their names because most people receive them when they’re babies, but everyone has the ability to change it later if they decide they don’t like it. You have the unique advantage of being cognitively developed enough to have a say from the beginning, and you should have the opportunity to use it.”

“Huh...” That’s actually kind of sweet. “Do you like your name? I mean, like, that’s not why you don’t want to tell us, right?”

“My name is adequate,” Robin answers slowly. “It’s mine and I am... accustomed to it. The reason I haven’t told you my name is because it... implicates the other bats, and Batman considers that to be a significant security risk.”

“Oh, yeah. I guess that’s fair. Could I see the names you were thinking of?”

“Certainly,” Robin says, pushing back from the desk. “Let me get my tablet.”

* * *

“Uh, Superboy?” Danny shouts, trying to ignore how fucking ridiculous this feels. “Are you, like, free to talk? I think I want to meet your friend.” He’s hovering in the sky about a mile out from his town, in as close to the middle of nowhere as he could manage. He’d done a bit of looking into Robin this morning, before making his decision, and what a wild discovery that Robin was a name that had been held by multiple individuals. It makes him think of Dani, and he almost hopes that wherever she ends up, she might use the name Phantom too. After all, if anyone else rights to it, it would be his genetic clone.

Danny has no clue if time is flowing the same here as back home, but with any luck his friends have managed to orchestrate Dani’s escape too. It was always going to be a little more dodgy than Danny himself- his death being inherently tied to the portal had meant it was a bit more responsive to him than it otherwise would be, and that detail had been pretty quintessential to the rewiring that had needed to be done in order to send him to an entirely different universe, but they’d been hoping that her nature as a post-portal clone would mean that she had a close enough tie to the portal to send her through as well. Not that Danny would likely ever get to know for sure.

The soft rush of air alerted Danny to someone’s arrival, and he just managed to keep himself from falling into a defensive posture as he turned to look at the newly arrived Superboy, and the other teen being carried in his arms. Danny recognized the other boys outfit as that of the current Robin, who was now staring at Danny through a pair of disconcerting white-lenses set into a domino mask.

“We were free so I figured we’d just come meet you?” Superboy says with a nervous grin.

“Yeah, that’s, um, kind of obvious. Should we land?” Danny’s pretty sure that none of the Bats have flight, and like, as much as flying is cool as hell, Robin doesn’t look particularly impressed by it.

“That would be preferable, please,” Robin says, confirming Danny’s thoughts. He nods, and heads for the ground. Superboy follows just as quickly, and a moment later they’re all gathered on a gravel road in farmland.

“So, uh,” Superboy begins, once he’s deposited Robin on his own two feet.

“You told him about me before,” Danny says. Superboy may have had plenty of time to fly over here, but there hadn’t been enough of a delay to have explained the situation to Robin just now.

“It was an entirely theoretical conversation,” Robin offers dryly, before Superboy can respond.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means that he was asking if I could theoretically help a meta acquire an identity if they were uncomfortable with the Justice League. Nothing of it was mentioned to anyone else and he told me no details about who any theoretical metas might be.” Danny blinks, taking a moment to process Robin’s explanation. In a way it makes sense, and he can see why Superboy would want to make sure that what he was offering was even possible.  Besides, it’s pretty obvious already that they both really trust each other.

“Okay, sure. I guess I get it.”

“I would like to know why you’re concerned about the Justice League, though, if you’re willing to share. If there’s anything illicit happening-”

“Oh, no, it’s not like that,” Danny cuts in as soon as he realizes where Robin’s going. He’s suddenly glad he’d already decided to explain his situation in more detail. “It’s like, I’m not from here so my shit is entirely unrelated? It’s just, they’re -you’re?- associated with the government, you know?”

“And your government is a threat to you.”

“Honestly, everything was. But they can’t get to me here. It’s why my friends- that’s why I’m here.”

“Okay, but are you sure you’re safe? Because like, space travel is a thing, and if you need protection...” Superboy trails off, looking concerned.

“I mean, it should be fine? Even if the GIW did manage to figure out inter-dimensional travel, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t be able to figure out where specifically I went, so yeah.” Danny really doesn’t want to think about a GIW that’s gone inter-dimensional.

“Well if they did manage to make it here, they would be breaching the meta protection acts if they tried anything, so I hope if that does happen you inform myself or Superboy.”

“Yeah,” Danny laughs. “It’s honestly been kind of crazy trying to wrap my head around the idea I have protections here?”

“That’s understandable. Plenty of meta-individuals have complicated feelings about them, even if they grew up here.”

“Oh?”

“Well, just because it’s illegal to exploit or discriminate against someone doesn’t necessarily mean it doesn’t happen. And metas who have been treated poorly often have trouble trusting in the protection acts.”

“Or sometimes you just didn’t get that info programmed into you and then you have to adjust to your understanding of history being manufactured,” Superboy mutters under his breath. Robin doesn’t react at all and Danny’s pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to hear it either. The implications are a bit concerning, but Danny’s not about to press him on it.

“Yeah, I mean that’s kind of where I am, I guess. I think I’d like it if you’d be willing to make me a legal identity? I’m basically homeless at the moment, so I’d like to be able to get a job or something. But I’d really rather not end up on the Justice League’s radar yet. You guys seem nice, but databases are- a lot.”

“Easy enough. I can actually do it all with my personal resources, so the info never goes anywhere near the Justice League’s databases. We just need to determine what name history you want to have.”

“I mean, I’d like to keep my name, if possible?”

“Sure, What’s your name?” Robin tilts his head.

“Danny Fenton.”

[sylusjinwoon]

{ 137 }

like you do.

jinwoo sung x fem.reader

notes: this story is going to get so meta, so my apologies in advance. also, despite my status of requests being technically closed, this one was too good to ignore. full request description and story under the cut ♡

p.s. - listen to joji’s like you do.

{ and everyone else… they don't matter now | you're the one i can't lose | no one loves me like you do… }

anonymous said: Thank you for answeringgggg. This gonna be long. Be ready to get bored✨🫶 I keep thinking about your Jinwoo post. The divergent one to be exactly. What I've been thinking is kinda similar theme. What about, a reader who's always there for Jinwoo but not visible? Like she's a system or a quiet constellation that supports him from behind but under shadow. In the early chapter when Jinwoo is running out of coffee. Suddenly he found a thermos inside his bag with a warm coffee. He didn't remember to prepare it, but since it was already inside his bag maybe Jin-ah put it in or he forgot, but it was the readers! Another chance, readers always help him in silence like, sometimes heal him a little by little, didn't want make a big question mark if he suddenly fully healed in a sec right? Helping to take care of Jin-ah and his mom whenever he's not there for them, healing the resident when war so there's no much loss happen and many little things that she do to help him. She gets jealous seeing him asking Hae-in to the amusement park, but what she can do though, she just loves him too much to be happy for him to find love. In the end, when he reaches his happy ending, the reader finds the courage to say goodbye. Whispering to Jinwoo's ear softly, saying goodbye and hoping he'll be happy. Then it felt like a snap for Jinwoo. It's... Warm, it's felt like it's always there, the reasons able to fight every problem and challenge, then it's gone, he doesn't feel complete anymore. This time for Jinwoo for searching readers! 📸📸 Sorry if my English is not good, it's not my first language 😔😔. Just want to drop this idea instead let it run around my mind and make me crazy to thinking Jinwoo and his readers who are always there🫶🫶🫶 Love you, my top list favorite person❤️❤️😼

{ ... }

it was pathetic, really.

sung jinwoo wasn't even someone that existed-

so why was it that your heart raced each time you would see his achingly handsome features against your phone's screen?

why does your heart continue to pound and fill your chest with butterflies with each new volume of solo leveling that came out?

and why did you have to get so jealous, witnessing the pure love jinwoo had in his eyes for cha hae-in?

it was so obvious that you were in love with him; genuinely in love with him despite how he would never be real.

in reality, you were bit of an introverted person, attending university with your head bowed down in a manner that let your peers know that you were closed off and shy. that you never could find the confidence to be your true self while in front of those who didn't know you.

perhaps that was why your heart was so drawn to a character like sung jinwoo. after all, he started out as being known as the weakest in the world; a meek and timid man who hid his anxieties behind a kind smile.

but you loved him all the same.

even when knowing he would never be able to see you-

or how you would never get to feel the safety of his arms around you-

or see the passion in his glowing eyes each time he would protect you from danger.

it would never be a reality for you-

yet still, you cherished jinwoo deeply,

like a lover would.

so, you spend your days reading stories pertaining to him, inserting yourself within these various daydreams as you tricked your heart into believing that he loved you, too.

after all, it was the one thing you could do to assuage the heartache you constantly felt whenever you saw jinwoo chasing after hae-in, even after he reset everything in order to protect the world.

even if you could never be his true lover, no matter how hard you tried to shift into his reality and be with him.

with a heavy heart while being surrounded by the various volumes of solo leveling, you lay still in your bed and put your phone down. you had finished re-reading the side stories that pertained to jinwoo's life after the reset and how his shadow soldiers were so happy that he found hae-in again-

and you had to stop because you felt your throat closing up due to the heartache and jealousy of it all.

feeling the warm tears streaming down your face, you close your eyes and fall into what you hoped would be a dreamless slumber-

only to be proven wrong the moment you lost your consciousness.

{ ... }

[ ... resetting ... ]

[ ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ]

[ now loading ]

[ SUNG JINWOO'S GUARDIAN ]

a strange sensation was felt coursing through your veins, and you awaken with a gasp, feeling your heart pounding as your eyes take in the scenery that surrounds you.

it takes you a minute to reorient yourself, with you standing shakily on your two feet, wiping the sleep from your eyes. you were dimly aware of the translucent screens that block your periphery. but... you weren't paying attention to that.

you allow your eyes to look around, widening upon feeling the sudden nostalgia that fills you. somehow... you knew that you recognized this city. but something felt... off.

for starters, the colors were so much brighter than what you were used to. it was as though the city were made by an artist who was passionate about their drawings coming to life. as you were left feeling awed, all while wondering why this all looked familiar to you was when you finally realized-

you were in seoul, south korea-

specifically, the seoul that was the main setting for solo leveling.

you felt the air rushing out of your lungs in labored puffs, your heart seeming to palpitate out of your chest when you allow your eyes to look in front of you, finally seeing the translucent screen and its message:

[ the system welcomes you... ]

"i... can you understand me?" you were speaking to the screen, feeling your heart jump against your chest when another message appears.

[ yes. i have chosen you to help with the development of the future shadow monarch. ]

you recognize jinwoo's title, ready to say something had it not been for the fact that you saw sung jinwoo himself running past you. your heart was caught in the confines of your throat, seeing jinwoo who had yet been awakened.

even with his frumpy appearance and lackluster clothes, your heart still managed to race for him. his grey eyes was much softer now, not attaining the edge of his post-awakened self quite yet. he was uncertain and shy, but you knew that deep down he had a heart of gold that wanted nothing more than to care for and protect his mother and little sister.

that was the sole trait that never changed-

and you loved him for it.

filled with a longing to be with him, to reach out and touch him, you didn't even think twice when you extended your hands out to him. you wanted so badly to touch his shoulder and tell him how everything was going to be okay-

that all of his dreams (and more) would come true as long as he remained vigilant and brave throughout each trial and tribulations he had to face-

yet the moment your hand was placed on his shoulder, you felt it pass through him…

your eyes became wide once more, looking down at your hands as you saw that they were also translucent. that your appearance seemed to mimic that of static itself, not quite taking a physical form despite how much you knew that you existed in this realm.

[ i am sorry, but i cannot have your existence meddle with the monarch's story. ]

you turn your gaze back to the screens-

back to the system's way of communicating with you.

[ however, i do know that your heart and soul are pure, and that your feelings for sung jinwoo remain true. ]

[ so i will grant you your desire of helping him. the system i have made for you is deeply tied to sung jinwoo. whatever item you wish to give him shall appear as the young man continues to level up. ]

[ do you agree to remain as SUNG JINWOO'S GUARDIAN? ]

"...yes."

your voice suddenly became much stronger now, being filled with a determination that you didn't believe was even possible. just the thought that you were given this chance to be close to jinwoo was enough to bring you an immense amount of joy.

"i accept being his guardian... and helping him whenever he is in need."

[ ... very well. go on and carry out your first mission. ]

with one last nod, you await the system's next message as it read.

[ MISSION 1: FOLLOW SUNG JINWOO TO THE FIRST GATE; CONSTRUCTION SITE ]

already knowing the scene that was meant to play out, you keep your gaze honed in on jinwoo as he quickly crossed the street, with you chasing after him.

your movements were fluid, and you were so happy that the system gave you the ability to fly, allowing you to keep track of jinwoo and where he currently was at all times. you bask in such freedom of flight and stopped when you reached the construction site.

as if flight came as natural as breathing to you, you gently land next to jinwoo, seeing his forlorn gaze each time the older hunters insulted him, referring him to the weakest in the world. all you wanted to do was comfort him, and despite how you knew he would never feel you-

you couldn't stop yourself from wrapping your arms around him.

"it's okay, you will become stronger. and... i will be with you every step of the way." you say while keeping your arms hovered over his shoulders, your lips press against his skin in a phantom kiss while whispering lovingly within his ear.

suddenly, you take notice when he perks up, grey eyes filled with a newfound determination. you weren't sure what happened, but jinwoo seemed to find a bit of confidence as he steps closer to the coffee stand and speaks to the worker.

"hi, may i have a cup of coffee?"

the worker gives him a nervous smile while giving jinwoo a gentle shake of his head.

"ah, hunter sung jinwoo... i'm sorry, all the coffee ran out just now."

you watch as a look of disappointment appears on jinwoo's face, hearing him let out a sigh as you quickly called out to the system.

"please, give me a thermos filled with warm coffee, made the way jinwoo likes it."

the system then flashes you a screen, showing you your inventory as a green thermos was seen with the words FRESH COFFEE printed below it. you reach your hand and touch at the screen, allowing the thermos to appear at the palm of your hand before disappearing completely from your inventory.

with gentle movements, you manage to move the thermos filled with hot coffee towards one of the pockets seen on jinwoo's backpack, the sudden weight and appearance of the thermos making jinwoo take a step backwards.

"what the...?!"

you stand off to the side, feeling your heart beginning to race with happiness the moment jinwoo reaches into his backpack and pulls out the warm thermos, his eyes going wide. you couldn't help but gently laugh at his bewildered expression.

he was just so cute to you.

with a smile on your face, you watch as he opens the thermos, taking a swig out of the coffee while letting out a happy sigh. "wow, just how i like it, too. maybe jinah made this for me?"

"i'm really sorry about this, hunter sung jinwoo!" the worker calls out to him, but jinwoo simply smiles back at him.

"no worries! i think my sister packed some coffee for me before she left, so it's fine!"

before you could watch jinwoo enter the gate, you were suddenly pulled back by a force, preventing you from moving forward.

[ MISSION 1, COMPLETED ]

with a look of absolute yearning, you call out to jinwoo,

"STAY STRONG AND BE BRAVE! I BELIEVE IN YOU!"

and for a brief second, before you were ripped away from this tiny portion of his life, you could have sworn that jinwoo turn around to look in your direction-

{ ... }

despite how this all felt unreal to you, you couldn't deny the sheer amount of happiness you felt, being labeled as jinwoo's guardian by the system.

in fact, you had felt so blessed, being a part of jinwoo's most prominent moments in his life.

from his second awakening, being resurrected due to the system's choosing while giving him several side quests and missions-

to helping him heal even the most grievous of injuries when he had to go against kang taeshik-

you were just so elated by it all.

never once did you leave his side, using your own system in hopes of making jinwoo's life easier.

[ COMPLETE ]

[ COMPLETE ]

[ COMPLETE ]

it was strange, but each mission that was given to you was tied deeply to your desire to help and protect jinwoo. whenever jinwoo had a need for a certain potion or elixir to help with replenishing his stamina or mana (especially during his earlier stages of leveling up), it would always mysteriously appear in front of him.

and during the moments where jinwoo showed his concerns for his mother and the well-being of his little sister, you would always stay behind and make sure that they were doing well. you knew that someday soon, jinwoo would make the holy water of life for his mother, but still kept watch over her to make sure that she remained undisturbed.

you kept going through the motions of his life, and once jinwoo was able to safely awaken his mother, you left jinwoo's side to give him a moment of privacy between him and her. even though you knew what would happen (burning the image of his crying face filled with relief and joy into your memories), it didn’t feel right to intrude on such an intimate moment.

yet you leaving the scene in the hospital suddenly brought you to a different part in jinwoo's life.

it had to be sometime after his mother's awakening, as jinwoo was seen dressed in all black. his hair was blowing gently with the wind as he remained seated on top of a building. his eyes were glowing, and it seemed as though he was waiting for something. you trail your gaze up towards the skies, seeing it being painted in an ominous, glowing violet hue.

you suddenly felt a strange pang against your chest, recognizing this scene as being the one that made you so jealous that it hurt.

it was the scene where jinwoo ask hae-in out to the amusement park before showing her the starry skies.

you watch with your heart clenching so painfully when he chooses cha hae-in's number and gives her a call, his voice filled with a gentle fondness as he asks if she was free. knowing what would happen in the chapter, it was clear that she would drop her training, just to be with him.

despite how you felt your throat clenching in response, you were given little time to react as the scene suddenly shifts once more, leaving your form cast to the side as you landed haphazardly against the street of the amusement park.

you could feel the heat dyed against your cheeks, finally grateful that no one could see you. you look to your front to see jinwoo and hae-in walking together, feeling your heartache reach even new levels. surrounding you were people who looked at the two hunters with awe, clearly admiring them as they stepped aside and made room for them, allowing them to walk freely around the amusement park.

if you thought reading this chapter was difficult, then your past self was dead wrong-

for witnessing this in action hurt far worse than this.

you shake your head just then, fighting back your tears as you stood back to your full height. with a determined nod, you take to the skies once more, following the future couple as they continued their endeavors within the amusement park.

you kept your focus on jinwoo, ignoring the pain in your heart each time hae-in was beside him.

like a movie playing out on the big screen, you watch as they rode every ride the amusement park had to offer. their expressions were left blank and filled with a boredom, not feeling the thrills like normal people would.

in fact, the scene was so funny and cute that you couldn't help but laugh.

after spending a few hours tailing from close behind them, you follow jinwoo and hae-in as they had lunch together.

"are you getting bored?"

"hey, no. i'm having fun."

hae-in admits to jinwoo while taking sips of her soda.

you could hear the amusement in jinwoo's voice when he asks, "then how come you haven't cried or screamed at least once?"

he sighs while playing with the straw of his own drink, resting his cheek against the palm of his hand while stating, "the games are a bit 'slow', aren't they?"

"hm, ah... yes..." there seemed to be a bit of an awkward silence when hae-in trails off.

suddenly, your heart was felt clenching once more when jinwoo gives hae-in a charming smile.

"so should we get on to something more exciting?"

her blush was evident, and you could barely breathe when the scene shifts once more.

you were back to the skies now, with jinwoo and hae-in riding on one of his shadow soldiers, a large dragon that flew across the heavens while seeming to cut through the setting sun with its shadowy wings. even as the tears were felt streaming down your face, you couldn't deny that such a scene was utterly beautiful to you.

you could not hear a single word that was being said between them, but you recall their words clearly from reading it so many times, back when your pain felt so fresh- just like an open wound against your heart.

you continue to hover above jinwoo and hae-in, allowing your tears to fall down against his cheek as his eyes seemed to widen in response.

"what... is it raining?" jinwoo trails his eyes up at the sky, and you had to move away from them as hae-in gave jinwoo a questioning glance.

"no, there are no clouds... it's not raining at all."

forcing your heart to calm down its rapid beats, you let out a shaky breath, wondering if somehow...

he could feel you after all...?

you shake your head at the thought and continue to follow them, knowing exactly where jinwoo planned to take her as the scene shifts for you once more. you watch as they arrived at a gorgeous meadow surrounded by the gentle forest, remaining up high in the sky as they admired the stars together.

"system... could you do something for me?"

[ of course. ]

you close your eyes and allow the tears to freely fall now. "summon a meteor shower... a show of the stars and heavens themselves for the lovers to enjoy."

[ as you wish. ]

you allow the system to summon a gorgeous meteor shower, hearing hae-in's gentle gasp while looking up at the stars. streaks of light trailed behind each meteor as the starry skies seemed to glow in response to the strange and ephemeral phenomena.

"it's so... beautiful."

your smile was filled with a hidden sadness, yet you couldn’t deny just how happy you felt being able to do this for him. and as you look over to see jinwoo's own reaction, you felt your heart stop in response.

for he was not looking at the skies or the falling stars-

he was looking directly at you.

"yes... beautiful."

yet before you could even speak, you saw the system's message as you were pulled away from the moment once more.

[ COMMENCING FINAL MISSION: FAREWELL ]

your heart was pounding as the tears fell freely down your face, suddenly taken to what looked like a more peaceful time.

your feet were staggering, trying to maintain your balance when you take shaky steps against the sidewalk. the sun was setting, and you saw what looked like jinwoo in his university years, standing with hae-in as he spoke to her while admiring the setting sun.

you knew what you had to do. now that you had done what your heart had always desired to do, you step closer to jinwoo to whisper in his ear.

"jinwoo, even though i am certain that you never saw me, i thank you for giving me this chance to be with you... to help with making your life even the tiniest bit better."

you let out a sniffle before shakily continuing,

"you have always been a sole source of comfort for me, and i know i need to take this chance and let you go so you can find the happiness that you deserve."

as jinwoo continues to smile down at hae-in, hanging on to her every word, that was when you let your tears fall once more before telling him one last time.

"i love you, and i'll always wish for your happiness."

with those finally words set free from the depths of your heart and soul, you felt a warmth filling you, with your form disintegrating into thin air as you felt your consciousness slowly return back to your world. yet even though you knew you would never see him again, you felt... content-

at peace, even.

[ well done, it is time for you to awaken... ]

the last thing you recall was seeing a blinding light… allowing your body to bask in its brilliance one last time…

{ ... }

there was a sudden emptiness felt within the depths of sung jinwoo's heart-

and he wasn't sure what was wrong with him.

jinwoo was never the same after he lost... something; even after he had used the cup of reincarnation while proceeding to live his life as a normal human being, there was a gaping hole left within his chest.

he remembers the feeling of a warmth surrounding him; of the sounds of a gentle voice calling out to him while encouraging him. it may have been silly, but...

jinwoo developed a great courage and strength thanks to that gentle voice alone.

yet now, he felt as though he had suddenly lost it.

no longer did he feel such warmth coursing through his veins. no longer could he feel that comforting presence that made his courage soar to new heights-

heights that he never could believe he could even reach.

such feelings of emptiness was what ultimately made his heart feel closed off from those that he loved...

from his parents and sister...

from cha hae-in.

he spent the following days being lost in a trance, and he didn't know what to do to feel whole again.

"my, i did not believe that the loss of her presence would affect you so deeply."

jinwoo lets out a gasp, suddenly finding himself within the same meadows ashborn had confronted him in; the moment he had died and was fully reborn as ashborn's successor- the shadow monarch.

the wind was felt coursing through his hair, and he could not bring himself to speak to ashborn, eyes losing what little light it once had.

had he fallen asleep? was that why he was back in the land of repose?

"you are unhappy." ashborn's voice echoes throughout the realm, and jinwoo could no longer ignore him.

"am i unhappy?"

jinwoo was dimly aware of the bitter laugh that escapes from ashborn's parted lips before suddenly changing into someone-

an unfamiliar young woman as his voice takes on her tone.

"have you forgotten? i am you and you are me."

jinwoo recognizes that voice, eyes going wide as he reaches out to the unfamiliar figure-

he was certain he had never seen such a young woman before in his life-

yet that voice-

that resounding voice who always always always seemed to comfort him when his fears had taken over him-

the strange image of the young woman and that comforting voice-

it had to be one and the same.

"who is she?! and... how come i can't seem to find her, or even know her... yet- i-i know her voice! she-"

"the woman hails from another universe, one that is like the world you currently reside it, yet different."

jinwoo could feel his head begin to spin upon hearing such a revelation. "she... she is-"

"she is not from your world. your lives would have never collided had it not been for my intervention."

the young hunter's throat began to turn dry, unable to form a coherent thought when ashborn continues to speak.

"the world she lives in is a safe one; one where the only monsters that exists are simply those selfish humans and their own dark desires. gates and the presence of rulers and monarchs have never touched her world..."

he watches with a fascination, seeing the alluring girl flash him a smile.

"in fact, your whole life may be nothing but a mere story within her world."

jinwoo finally snaps out of it, hands clenched into fists when he asks, "how can i reach her? is there a way for me to be with her with the way i am now? can i use my powers as a monarch to find her?"

"... don't you think it's foolish to give up all that you've known for her?"

ashborn's words were enough to make jinwoo freeze in his tracks.

"think carefully about my words, i told you she comes from a world where beings like monarchs and rulers do not exist.

if you decide to find her; to join her in such a world that is so vastly different from your own, then you will lose your powers as a monarch. you will be reverted back to a normal man.

will you truly give up your peaceful life here? your family, your friends- every battle you have faced will be all for naught if you decide to reach her."

jinwoo allows his hair to fall across his eyes, covering them from ashborn when he steadily asks, "why did you allow her to come here, then?”

a silence was felt permeating at the air, becoming thick with tension as ashborn decided on whether to tell him the truth or not.

"i sent her here, allowing her to live certain moments of your life together solely because of the strength of love she held for you."

that was all the answer jinwoo needed as he met with ashborn's gaze, telling him his answer with a determination seen within his glowing, purple eyes.

{ ... }

you wake up with a start, your breathing coming out in shaky breaths as the tears couldn't seem to stop. with a sigh, you cover your swollen eyes with both of your hands, struggling to catch your breath as you sorted through your every emotion.

you felt happy-

you felt love and adoration-

and the pinpricks of heartbreak coming into full fruition at the memory of jinwoo and hae-in together.

yet perhaps more so than that was the feeling of utter peace you felt after waking up from your dream.

feeling your smile going wide, you decide to wake up and begin your day.

you collect the volumes of solo leveling that you owned, making a note to yourself to buy the next volume when it came out. as you placed the solo leveling manhwa on your bookshelf, you begin to tidy up your room (making your bed and charging your phone in the process.)

it was strange; despite how you were 100% certain that you had been dreaming about being close to jinwoo as his guardian, you couldn't deny how much happier you felt once you woke up. it was true, the heartache was still there, yet you knew that as long as jinwoo was happy-

then you would be happy, too.

letting out a content sigh, you decide that it was high time that you changed your life for the better-

all while using the courage jinwoo had given you to become stronger.

{ ... }

there were rumors going around about a cute new freshman who transferred to your university, and despite how you held zero interest for any new students (because truly, new students came in troves each semester), you couldn't deny that you felt intrigued.

apparently, he was korean, with a face that could match with any current idol. according to the rumors, he had messy locks of black hair and dreamy, grey eyes. several girls had already tried speaking to him, practically throwing themselves at him-

yet he would always turn them down and tell them that he already had someone he liked.

but that didn't seem to discourage the girls (and some of the boys, too) from crushing on this handsome freshman. and admittedly, their antics seemed to greatly amuse you.

after completing your study sessions with your friends, you tell them that you had to go back to your dorm and make some dinner while working on your paper that was due soon. despite how they didn't want to see you go, you admitted to them how you would be too distracted at wanting to talk to them to get much work done.

in the end, they relented and allowed you to leave. you were simply walking back to your dorm, finding safety and comfort from within the street lamps that lit up the sidewalks. as you continued your trek, you look up to see an extremely tall young man walking down in the opposite direction.

the sight of him dressed in a hoodie and jeans makes you stop dead in your tracks, unable to look away from him. he also takes notice of your stance, yet instead of ignoring you and walking away-

he takes several steps towards you.

you were frozen on the spot, left staring up at him as the young man pulls down his hood, revealing unruly locks of ebony hair and a kind smile to you.

"hey, i've been looking everywhere for you."

his tone had a hint of an accent on it, but you couldn't deny that his english was impeccable. his presence made you feel butterflies all across your abdomen, and you weren't sure why that was.

"d-do i know you?"

you hear his rich chuckle echoing throughout the campus as he steps closer to you, allowing his large hand to gently touch at your cheek in an almost tender manner.

he whispers your name all while tracing at your bottom lip with his thumb.

"you do know me... i think you know me better than anyone else in the entire universe."

you then trail your gaze up to his eyes, only to see the perfect grey quality of them.

"sung jinwoo?!" his name comes out as a shock to you, yet before you could even fully process it, he takes you in his arms, allowing you to bury your face within his chest as a sense of relief courses through him.

"you have no idea how utterly lost i felt without you... how much my life had gone stale the moment you had said your goodbyes to me."

words were unable to come from your parted lips, your breathing coming out in ragged gasps as you suddenly felt the tears dot your vision. unable to deny the love you still held for him, you allow your arms to wrap around his back-

almost greedily.

"y-you know who i am?"

jinwoo's chuckle was a light one, and you felt something soft touching at the top of your hair when he admits to you.

"ashborn showed me your actions through the system... and once i realized how you were always there for me, i knew that i could not let you go."

he gently pulls you away from his chest, his eyes filled with emotion as tears streamed down his cheek, "i know that it was selfish of me, giving up everything that i have known just to be with you-

b-but in the end, it was worth it because i know that no one loves me like you do."

unable to hold back your happiness, you lean up to meet with his parted lips in a searing kiss. you could taste the saltiness of his tears as he held on to you, not daring to let you go as you basked in the arms of the man who loved you enough to give up everything he had ever known-

a man who would choose to cross universes, just to be with you.

a.n. - damn, this story was 5k words 🥹 but i hope that this was a story that you dreamt of, sweet reader of mine; one that would help put your daydreams to rest as i tried to bring each word to life. this is unedited, but i promise i'll make any edits after i post this absolute masterpiece of a request

all stories are written by rei; reposts, translations, and plagiarism are not allowed.

[dashielldeveron]

soulmate trope | midoriya izuku, part one

Midoriya's route of soulmate trope. Part two here. “this doesn’t match the manga’s canonical ending!” correct. and isn’t that sexy? please read this route last, as it contains spoilers for all other routes. warnings: female reader. manga spoilers up to 411ish. angst. sexual content. moderate injury (not reader). indulgently meta on behalf of the author. a note: some meta elements in this route may lead you to think it’s the true route for this fic. not necessarily. the true route is whichever one is your favourite :) ~57k overall. ~39.5k for part one.

“Aizawa-sensei, you’re good at sleeping.”

Aizawa rubbed his good eye with the heel of his palm, propping his forearm on his doorframe to support his weight. “It’s certainly what I’d like to get back to doing,” he said through a yawn.

“No, please, I—may I come in? This is kind of important.” You glanced over your shoulder towards Eri’s and Tenko’s dorms down the hall, both without light emanating from underneath the doorways.

“Kind of?” The sleeve of his dark t-shirt strained as his bicep tensed and relaxed when he let his arm fall to his side again. “You woke me up for kind of important?”

Sucking in through your teeth, you said, “I lied. It’s really important. Possibly the most important thing to happen to me since the war. And you’re the one most likely to be able to help.”

Aizawa glared at you, narrowing his good eye and shifting his jaw. But he stepped aside to let you pass, gesturing towards his kitchen table. “Why am I not surprised?”

***

You jolted awake, and you were wet.

Damp, really. Dew-heavy strands of grass crawled up to brush your sides, catching the morning chill, and hey, why were you sleeping outside?

Rubbing sleep out of your eyes, you pushed yourself upright and took in some sort of clearing with little vegetation besides yellowed weeds and shrubs stretching out to a dense treeline. The sun hadn’t appeared to have been in the sky long, but you’ve been here for a while based on how soaked through your clothes were these weren’t your clothes.

What were you wearing? Had someone bothered to dress you on top of dragging you out of reach of civilisation? Moreover, were they—you held your breath, taking in the weird half-gloves that had an intricate, painted floral pattern—some stranger LARPer?

Gracious, they’d put you in a corset, and you’d slept in it. Well—you felt along your spine for the ties—at least they’d loosened it for you? Huh. Layered with some kimono-style top that actually looked like it could’ve belonged to you, but the trousers and boots were unrecognisable.

But everything fit you, and fit you well. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment heist; this had been thought out, definitely by some deranged role-player. Even down to the props inside a battered pack nearby (starting with knitted socks, two other kimono tops, and a traditional tea set), this had been planned.

Shoving the socks back inside the pack, you scanned the clearing again in hopes of catching a camera lens, but all you could make out was the morning breeze’s light rustling of leaves and grass.

You nearly jumped out of your skin at shuffling and a quiet grunt: a taller sweep of dying grass had blocked you from discerning another person sleeping near you. With caution, you—

A groan came from their direction as they flipped over to stretch, along with the bitter murmuring of “That didn’t feel like more than three hours.”

Pushing the taller grass out of the way, you grinned in relief, scrambling over to Shinsou as his bleary, dark-circled eyes blinked up at you. “Hey, Shinsou,” you said, “Do you know what’s going on?”

He folded his arm behind his head, his mouth crooking up in a weary smile. He had on some strange, LARPer get-up, too: archer’s gloves, a faded armguard running up the inside of his forearm, some fucking medieval whore outfit that accentuated his waist (but your LARPer kidnapper, at least, gave Shinsou the courtesy of making it somewhat resemble his hero costume). “Still disoriented? Yeah, I think we shouldn’t’ve rushed the Gauntlet yesterday. I don’t think any of us even got out our bedrolls. Still, we don’t have to do it again.”

Huh?

“Are you asking where Touya and Monoma are?” Shinsou pushed up enough to lean back on his elbows, and he tilted his head back, eyes fluttering shut. “You were the one who assigned them breakfast, remember? They’re probably scoping out that brook fifteen minutes back.”

A deep-set dread sank into you like an anchor into too-shallow swamp water. Shinsou was acting like this was normal, like there was a routine, and you were the one out of the loop. Where were you? What were you doing here? Were you—and the thought made your throat run dry—the only one out of place?

You may not know what’s going on, but the thing to do now is collect information. For that, you have to act like everything’s fine. “Yeah, you’re right,” you said, examining the flock of birds in flight embroidered onto your kimono top, “I’m a bit out of it, I suppose, from not sleeping long enough. You said three hours? Feels like we were asleep twenty minutes.”

(Shinsou had used minute as a unit of time, so you could use it. Good to know something was the same as back home.)

“Too bad we’ve got to get going after breakfast,” said Shinsou, sighing as he sat up fully and running a hand back through his hair, which sprung back upright despite his flattening it, “We should start a fire before the others get back, just to speed up the process.”

You fumbled your way through starting a fire, but the two of you got one going. Shinsou rooted around in one of the rucksacks you hadn’t noticed earlier, next to a pair of crunched silhouettes in the grass, untouched by morning dew, to retrieve Monoma’s cast iron rotisserie spit, fish-shaped trammel hook, and tin percolator, along with two of the mismatched enamel mugs bought back in Renfield…

Your eyes glazed over as Shinsou dug the two ends of the iron spit on either side of the fire. How do you know that? Why is your brain supplying words for things you don’t recognise? But you had this information, regardless, and something in your gut told you that it was accurate.

You could picture the Renfield shopkeeper who sold the mugs to you.

“Will you wipe those down, please?” Shinsou set the mugs into your lap and opened his own pack for the coffee, which you’d known he’d stored there, in that outermost pocket, because he was encouraging it to get crushed.

With a cloth stored with your tea set, you cleaned both mugs slowly, wiping the black insides before the blue and cream-coloured outsides.

The brewing coffee smelled just like Shinsou’s flat back home.

“Pass me a cup?” Shinsou asked, eyes on the flame while he held out his hand.

The cream-coloured one was yours. Your gut said so. You placed the blue mug into Shinsou’s palm. He hardly glanced at it, but he shot you some sort of look you couldn’t understand.

You were drinking your unsatisfying, campfire coffee when Monoma and Touya showed up, laden with four, silver fish and a duck, for some reason, under Touya’s arm like a football. And oh, Monoma was Monoma, clear as day by his loud, barking yet melodic voice, but you hadn’t expected this Touya to be fucking Dabi.

(Sure, you tried to calm yourself down, taking another large gulp of coffee as they both settled down around the fire next to you, overly familiar and making too much noise this early in the morning.

Back home, Todoroki Touya had been living with his family, heavily reformed [?] and in therapies, both for his brain and his body. Beyond a curt introduction at a formal event, you hadn’t personally interacted with Touya outside of the battlefield, years ago. So, why is he with you now?

Moreover, why are you with this particular combination of people in the first place?)

“Hold him,” said Touya, plopping the duck into your lap, where it loafed like a cat, and he unhooked the first fish from the line to toss it to Shinsou, who was ready with a clean knife.

You averted your gaze from the gutting, knowing in your heart of hearts that you’ll have to eat that without looking disgusted. Sighing, you patted the duck on its head and stared down at it, reaching for its name through whatever memories you somehow had, and it settled its neck into the crook of your folded leg, making a contented noise that was not quite a quack.

Don’t tell me, you thought, lifting your hand from its back, This duck is someone I know, transformed into a duck.

***

“Enough about the duck,” said Aizawa, clanging his Put Your Hands Up Radio mug onto his kitchen table.

“The duck is important,” you said, holding your excellent, non-campfire coffee close enough that the steam billowed into your face, “I love the duck. His name is Granddaddy Slapkins.”

Aizawa clapped his hand to his forehead. “Is he anyone we know?”

“No, he’s just a duck. But he’s as much a part of the party as anyone else,” you said, as Aizawa’s cat, Konpeito, leapt onto the table and rubbed the upper curve of her tail on your face. “Oh, I love you, too, baby,” you said to her, free hand sinking into her thick fur, “I know you’re real.”

Aizawa dragged his hand down his face. “So, to confirm, you don’t believe the events you just described are real.”

“That’s the thing: I don’t know. At first, I thought it was just a silly, fantasy-themed dream with some people I know in real life. But it got stranger,” you said, scratching just before the base of Konpeito’s tail, arching her back in a stretch, “It wasn’t a one-off dream. I kept going back, to the exact spot where I left off. No inconsistencies or plot-holes, like dreams usually do. I go to sleep here, and I wake up in this fantasyland. I go to sleep there, and I wake up here.”

Aizawa squinted to ascertain how much time was left on the oven for the muffins. “Are you getting any rest from this, if your consciousness is active throughout it all?”

“I am,” you said, considering the fact for the first time, “Should I not be? Now that you say it, it seems obvious that I should be exhausted all of the time.”

“If you were exhausted, I’d be more inclined to think that these weren’t just dreams.” Aizawa tapped his fingers on the table, trying to attract Konpeito. “The fact that you aren’t grounds you in this reality. It rules out something as far-fetched as—as living in different universes or timelines.”

You laughed through your nose. “Come off of it, Aizawa-sensei. Not very logical of you to entertain ideas that impossible.”

Rising as the oven timer beeped, Aizawa blinked slowly at you, mouth curving into an oddly soft smile. “I tend to consider the impossible, when it comes to you.”

“I’m glad you have such faith in my total incompetence,” you said, holding your mug at arm’s length to prevent Konpeito from lapping at your coffee, (though she was trying to climb onto your arm to get it), “So! The second time it happened, I was weirded out but chalked it up to coincidence. The third time, I tried to figure out if anyone were from here and now, like me.”

***

“Shinsou,” you said, hanging back on the winding, mountain path while Monoma and Touya trudged ahead, “I’ve been thinking. Do you think we could source some milk at the next town? I’ve been craving a cappuccino.”

Shinsou tightened a rucksack strap over his shoulder, hiking it farther up his back. “A what?”

“Oh, a cappuccino? Cappuccinos? I thought we talked about them before. Just for, y’know, adding some variety to our routine.” You tripped over an exposed root but caught yourself. “If that isn’t a good option, we could skip milk and just try to brew espresso instead. If that’s okay.”

Shinsou pointedly stepped over the root. “Forgive me for not remembering. Remind me what exactly those are?”

“Oh, uh.” How anachronistic would it be if you explained what they really were? “Energising. Spells. Energy spells that require milk, y’know, as an organic component.”

“Ah. That would be why we haven’t used them yet,” said Shinsou, nodding, “since milk doesn’t keep long when we’re on the road. Perhaps when we have a consistent source, we can try them out.”

***

Aizawa swallowed his bite of muffin. “Well. It’s not the Shinsou we know, for certain.”

“Yeah. It makes me feel like I’m in the twilight zone, that I can look at my best friend and know things we’ve done together that he has no recollection of,” you said, steering Konpeito away from a loose chocolate chip, “And Monoma didn’t recognise the plot of Lord of the Rings when I started to tell it over the campfire one night, and Touya didn’t say anything when I Naruto-ran—”

“Those aren’t foolproof.”

“But the Shinsou one is.”

“Hm,” said Aizawa, mouth full, and he fiddled with the band on his night eyepatch. “And they’re the only people you’d seen.”

“Up to that point. We’d been travelling to this town, Alderside—beautiful place, really, nestled along this ghastly mountain range with bad roads, fabulous spring festival—”

“Why did Shinsou accept that a cappuccino was a spell? Is he an idiot?”

“Oh, uh. That would be because there’s magic there. Spells are normal,” you said, biting into your muffin.

Aizawa shook his head, glaring into his coffee. “If you ever tell anyone else this story—which I advise that you don’t—give that information earlier. It sets the tone for how ridiculous this is.”

“Yeah, I—sorry about that,” you said, scratching the underside of your chin, “Forgot. Magic has become so normal to me, in that context, that I forgot that it’s not implied.”

“Do you do magic?” Aizawa sat back in his chair. “Are there quirks?”

“Yes and no, and then to an extent.” You moved your muffin out of Konpeito’s way. “To the best of my knowledge, no one has a quirk exactly like we have here, but I’ve found that people’s magic usually mirrors their real quirks somehow. Monoma’s an illusionist—uses magic to make copies of himself or whomever we’re fighting, and if he’s made that particular copy a lot, then that copy can use their magic. Touya’s magic is this sort of freezing fire; I don’t really get how it works, but it means we can’t rely on him to cook by himself.”

“All right. Is the magic something you’re born with, then, similar to a quirk?”

“It’s hard to say, Aizawa-sensei; sometimes I think I have it figured out, but life’ll throw me a wrench. You can study different types of magic, sure—for example, Shinsou’s studying necromancy right now. But I think everyone has a natural talent for a certain type of magic, and you have to try a lot of different kinds to figure it out. So, effectively, there are quirkless-slash-magicless people, because it’s a hassle to find out what you’re skilled at out of thousands of types of incredibly specific magic.”

“I’m assuming what magic you’ve learnt is highly specific and useless?”

“Oh, rude! That is rude, and mean, and accurate! Shut up,” you said, grumbling into your muffin before taking an angry bite out of it and rushing to swallow with a dry throat. “But the main thing is that I didn’t learn this stuff. I already knew it when I got there. I have a whole different life I’ve apparently lived.”

***

Over a week’s worth of living in this unfamiliar world while you slept had you feeling uneasy and isolated. Moreover, you missed being able to fully trust your best friend. While washing your filthy socks by a riverbank, you made up your mind to confess to this Shinsou that you lived in a place called Japan and were at a loss for why you were here now.

You returned to camp, wrenching the water out of everyone’s socks before hooking them to a shitty clothesline near the fire. Monoma, half-asleep, was turning the spit over the fire, while Touya was distracting Granddaddy Slapkins with oats while he tried to repair a hole in his boot (Touya was trying to repair a hole in his own, human-sized boot, not that he was trying to fix a duck-sized boot—obviously). Shinsou was scanning necromantic glyphs from a handwritten book, but his eyes kept drifting closed too often to be absorbing information.

“Hey, Shinsou,” you said, gathering everyone’s sweat-stained undershirts, “Come with me to the river? I know it’s my turn to do laundry, so you don’t have to do anything, but I think I just may fall in if I don’t have anyone to talk to.”

Taking a few moments to register your words, Shinsou blinked blearily up at you, and, snapping himself out of it, he slammed his book shut. “Yes,” he said in a stilted voice, and he cleared his throat. “Yeah, let me come with you.”

Weaving through the trees behind you, Shinsou carried his shirt and Monoma’s down to the river, claiming that he should have to deal with his own sweat, and if you did all four by yourself, you wouldn’t get back to camp before the Night Wyrms started wandering (the what? You pulled your cloak closer).

You knelt on the rocks, set the soap and scraping knives between you, and started wetting your undershirt’s sleeve (yours was a slightly thicker fabric than Touya’s, so yours would take longer to dry. Better do it first—and again, this routine already was imprinted in your brain, like it was instinctual).

“Hi,” you said eventually.

“Hello,” said Shinsou, hunched closer to the ground than you were so that he could squint through the water while he rubbed at a bloodstain on Monoma’s shirt. “Come here often?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Historically, yes, but if it’s funny, I’m afraid I’ll have to tell everyone. What’s on your mind?”

You opened your mouth, closed it, and bit the inside of your cheek, grimacing. How do you say this? Since this world has magic, it’d be easier to take, but—

He flicked water off of his fingers. “Does this have anything to do with how bizarre you’ve been for the past two weeks?”

“Wha—whoa, what? Shinsou, what do you mean?”

 “That,” he said, nodding, “First of all, you haven’t called me Shinsou this consistently since we were ten. Call me Hitoshi right now.”

“Wha—? Hitoshi,” you said, thrown off.

“Good. You’ve been scaring me.” Shinsou finally scraped a tough splotch of blood away, and it flecked and disappeared into the water. “Now, what’s wrong? Did running the Gauntlet that quickly make you develop amnesia? Do you have a conditional curse on you that you can’t tell everyone?”

“Wow. You are the same in every universe.” Grabbing the soap, you scrubbed at the sweat stain on a kimono sleeve. “Overattentive to the point where it’s helpful. How irritating.”

“Hm,” he said, rubbing his knife underwater, “So. You’re not the woman I grew up with.”

“Not exactly.”

“What’s going on? She still in there?”

“Yes. I’m also her, but not,” you said, glowering at the flaky soap, “Everything you experienced with her is still here. I know all of that. I've lived all of that. It’s as if I have overlapping lives right now, because I have those memories and memories of what I consider my real life—and I know a version of you there.”

“Is he as pretty as me? Bet not,” said Shinsou.

“Well, he has access to mousse, so his hair’s a bit better, but I think you’re winning in terms of ruggedness. Living outside, and all.” You pursed your lips. “But no, I’ve started coming here when I go to sleep there. To me, this is a dream.”

Shinsou paused. “I’m glad you like it here?”

“Okay, you daft dimbo, you know what I meant. A sleep-dream, ongoing, and when I go to sleep here, I wake up back in reality. My reality, I guess.”

“No wonder you haven’t had a lot of stamina lately. You know we’ve had to slow our pace down, right?”

“I don’t go hiking; Bakugou took me once and yelled at me, so I don’t wanna do that anymore.” You tilted your head. “Do you know Bakugou?”

“Another friend from your reality?”

“Yes. I wonder if he’s somewhere here, too? I know Monoma and Touya, too. What was I—” You cut yourself off and sighed. “I know everything that’s happened to me in this life is in my brain, but it’s slow-surfacing. Usually, something has to jog my memory a bit before I remember something fully. So, we did grow up together?”

Shinsou nodded. “Same castle town. Both in families serving the king.”

“Really?” Cute. Memories of running together around cobblestone streets and murky hallways surfaced. “Same job, or?”

“I happen to come from a long line of—” He coughed. “—torturers and executioners, and you were the first in your family to pursue poetry.”

Your fist curled around the soap. “I’m sorry; I must have hallucinated. What?”

“You didn’t want to be a jester, like the rest of your family, so you studied to be a bard—”

“Please tell me you are lying to me,” you said, grabbing Shinsou by his kinky, medieval collar and yanking him towards you, “Please say that you are getting back at me for spilling coffee on your bedroll.”

Shinsou blinked, once, twice, and then a wide, toothy grin stretched across his face.

Releasing him with a groan, you pouted and scrubbed at a stain while the memories came flooding back. You had been studying to get out of foolery, and being a bard had been the most enjoyable way out. “We were friends, and we had life plans. I happen to notice that I don’t carry an instrument with me. Am I not a bard?”

“You quit once we figured out what type of magic you’re skilled in. Around the same time King Todoroki banished you from the castle for unsavoury verse.”

Swallowing that salami slice of crazy information, you asked the question that was easiest to talk about, now that memories were coming back: “Todoroki Enji? The king?”

“Correct. But don’t feel bad about being banished; you get bad luck just by being near the man. His own marriage is in name only, and one of his kids is missing—”

“Only one?”

“Technically two, but we know where Touya is. Prince Shouto’s whereabouts are unknown. But more pressing is that you don’t appear to remember your magic?” Shinsou scratched the back of his neck. “We’re gonna hit Alderside soon, and the reason they summoned us is your technique.”

“Explain it to me,” you said, spreading your wet undershirt across a dry rock, deciding it was clean enough, and you checked the sky. “Do we have time before night falls?”

You’d apparently studied and become very skilled at two types of magic (which was a low number of magic disciplines; most people studied around three to five types but never become great at them). The first type explained some of your luggage: it was a support technique involving a shortened tea ceremony. While the rest were in a physical battle, you trapped everyone within a certain area, the breadth of which depended on what type of tealeaves you used. From glyphs painted from the dregs of the last ceremony, tea sprigs would sprout out of your forearms. You’d harvest and process them, with magic speeding the process all the way to serving and drinking. Everyone within the boundary was compelled to physically stay within it until the end of the tea ceremony, and occasionally, though you had no control over whom this affected, a fighter would be compelled to sit and complete the ceremony with you. Their drinking the tea would weaken them, usually in endurance, but not by much. Your previous memories informed you that you had been working on brewing teas that had greater magical effects.

“You really only need your whisk; you’ve just been carrying around that teaware for misdirection, and everything else is conjured from the glyphs on your arms,” Shinsou was telling you on the way back, burdened with wet-wrung shirts, “So, you’re not directly fighting, but you’re valuable support.”

“So, why does a whole town need a tea ceremony?”

“Oh, they don’t want you for that one.” Shinsou held back a branch for you to pass into camp. “They want you because you’re a soulwalker.”

The rest of the journey to the town of Alderside, Shinsou didn’t explain. Said you’ve never talked about how it works because you didn’t know. Soulwalking was rare. Soul magic was one of the extremely few types of magic that couldn’t be studied: you could either do it, or you couldn’t, and almost everyone couldn’t. You’d never met anyone else who could.

It’s why the group of you get jobs across the country: something will go awry in the mirroring spirit realm, and you’d leave your body behind for your party to protect, while you—your soul—wandered through the spirit realm.

Monoma showed you the letter that you’d gotten by hawk from the mayor: Alderside periodically was engulfed by a purple fog. Every night and occasionally during the day, it acted as a totally blinding smokescreen that could teleport someone around town and the surrounding cliffs. They wanted you to come investigate so that they could travel at night again, before someone could be teleported off the mountain entirely to fall to their death.

Something that Shinsou had neglected to tell you was that you had a reputation. When your party rounded the last bend of the mountain before Alderside, you were greeted with a loud, excited clamour from a gathering of five, the leader of which embraced you on sight and exclaimed into your ear that she was pleased as punch that the Dango Lady was finally here.

Otherwise trapped in the hug, your head whipped towards Shinsou, who, after a moment, gathered himself and nodded. “Thank you,” you said into her pastel pink hair, stiffly raising your arms to return the hug and wondering why you’d been content with calling your professional persona the Dango Lady, “I hope we can meet your expectations and solve your problem.”

She pulled back, hands sliding down to grip your forearms (Were all citizens in this town this touchy, or was it just her? Based on the similar way your friends were being greeted, perhaps physical touch was integral to this area’s culture). “Hi,” she said, her cloud-fluff earrings bobbing as she spoke, “I’m the one who summoned you; I’m Fuwa Mawata, the mayor of Alderside. You’ve come just in time to salvage our spring festival in two days. If this smokescreen persists, we may not be able to have it, and this festival hasn’t been cancelled in over two hundred years now.”

Giving your wrists a squeeze, Fuwa dropped your arms with a gentle smile, and she glanced over the rest of your group, taking a step towards Monoma. “I’m afraid I don’t have any more details other than what I’ve said in the letter,” she said towards you, standing on her tiptoes to rest her chin on Monoma’s shoulder while she hugged him, “But I can guarantee that you’ll have a safe spot to perform your ritual, and we’ve set aside the best rooms in our inn for you.” She released Monoma (looking rather alarmed) and moved onto Touya, unable to push her away because of his tight grip on Granddaddy Slapkins’s carrier. “Whatever supplies you need, we will do our best to provide. Perhaps you’d like to drop off your belongings at the inn and then visit our magic shops?”

“That sounds faaaaaaaantastic,” said Monoma, tightening the straps on his pack for the third time that day (it was his turn to carry most of the cast-iron cookware again), “Thanks for your hospitality. Dare I—may I ask what the bathing situation is at your inn?”

“You may,” Fuwa replied, and there’s something in the way that Shinsou’s entire body froze when Fuwa wrapped her arms around his neck (she’d kept them around the torso for the rest of you), how his eyebrows shot up towards his hairline above wide, panicked eyes, and how he didn’t even try to return the embrace, arms rigid and hesitant—something that made you realise you’ve seen her before, but you didn’t know where.

(Later, when you were awake, you’d find her instagram. She’d been in the year above you at U.A., and, thinking back, she’d had a crush on Shinsou. When she’d graduated, she’d even asked him for his second button, and when he’d evaded by pointing out he wasn’t wearing the school cardigan that day, she gave Shinsou her button.)

Fuwa and the rest of the committee escorted your party through Alderside. Your first impression of it was that it was bright. Half of the town’s buildings were carved directly into the mountain, the natural rockface reflecting the sun with a harsh glare, and the rest were neatly whitewashed and embedded with shining stones that formed a mosaic, each one depicting a different scene from the town’s history, broken up only by stained glass windows, glinting and glittering with any shred of sunlight they could grasp, and stained-glass windchimes dangled from roofs and archways, clinking in the crisp, morning breeze. Your boots even clinked a bit on the streets, since they, too, were crafted with reflective stones in a mosaic, this one meant to resemble a river.

“I apologise about the level of noise,” said Fuwa, holding open the door to the inn herself, “We’re still preparing for the spring festival regardless, so we’re more hectic than usual.”

“Noise is good,” Touya said, “It’s when it’s quiet that you’ve got to be on guard. My friend won’t be a problem, right?” He shifted Granddaddy Slapkins underneath his arm.

You’ve never been more grateful to have a separate room from Touya. Shinsou conked out on his bed in your shared room the minute you’d set your bags down, and Touya, despite trying to nurse a mug of apple cider, was drifting off in his chair.

Monoma folded his cards on the table when Touya’s forehead finally rested on it. “Well, I don’t think I’m going to win this hand,” Monoma said, gathering his cards and Touya’s, “Now that we’ve eaten, I am more than aware of how disgusting we are. Fuwa had better not have been lying about their hot water.”

“Tell you what,” you said, sliding your cards over to him, “Why don’t we both bathe and head out to their market? We can resupply while these two are sleeping. Plus, we can garner what the general public’s thoughts on this smokescreen are.”

Forty-five minutes later (Monoma took long showers), you were going from shop to stall, weaving your way through the townspeople preparing the festival, having to duck out of their way when they turned corner bearing what you thought was an excessive amount of firewood, all carved with colour-coded runes, along with planks for temporary game stalls and what looked like a maypole but a person carrying it was quick to tell you was called a spring-stick.

Since you were going to soulwalk that night, you went ahead to the magic shops while Monoma fossicked around for the usual travelling supplies to cut the outing in half. After going over the list with him again (“Socks, especially, Monoma. Everyone in our group always goes through so many socks.” “One of these days, we should all learn how to knit.”), you headed downtown and he uptown.

Alderside’s four magic shops were all carved into the mountainside together; the only reason they weren’t one, big store was because the owners wanted to have clear boundaries between inventory type. You opened the door, bell clanging, to the enchantment quarter.

(Enchantments were the most powerful category of magic, more potent than other disciplines like sorcery, witchcraft, and warlockry. Soul magic was a type of enchantment, and so was your tea ceremony, though that was balanced with one of the lowest types of magic, herblore.)

You felt a little pretentious walking into the enchantment quarter, where magic users who clearly knew what they were doing were sifting through the racks—although there was ostentatiously just a magician in here; shouldn’t he be where the sound-based merchandise is—because you still felt like you were just some normal person, from a world of quirks and heroes instead of magic.

When Monoma eventually came meandering in, chewing on some locally made, closest-thing-to-gummy, peach candy, you could’ve sworn he was the Monoma you knew awake. He didn’t even manage to get across the shop floor to you before he stopped to riffle through a ribbon-bound book and frowning at the first illustration. He bent his head to the side to get a better look, jaw chomping down, before shaking his head and heading towards you.

Monoma made a big show of sliding up next to you at the botanical display, and he popped the collar of his shirt, not noticing how it immediately folded again. “Golly gee, miss,” he said, affecting some accent that was definitely not local and exacerbated further by the peach gummy in his cheek, “I reckon I’ve never seen you around these parts. I’d be delighted to show you around this here festival, if you let a varmint like me even grovel to be in your presence.” Monoma lifted the tiny bag of peach candy from his coat pocket to offer you some.

“Thanks, Monoma,” you said, taking one and popping it into your mouth, “How’d your end of the trip go?”

“Very well. No obstacles,” he said, dropping the silly voice and onto his elbows as he leant against the display table, propping his chin on both of his fists, “Got the non-perishables easily, and of course I was able to haggle the price down for the supplies we buy in bulk. I was able to get two extra pairs of socks thrown in, but we’ll have to fight for who gets them.”

You traced the brittle branch of a potted, staked vine, labelled as Cat’s Clover, but as it bore no leaves, you couldn’t discern why. “Fine by me.”

“I was also barraged by a curator at their local museum who didn’t care that I had better things to do. Have you heard that this spring festival is supposed to be a final splurge on the winter store before the spring planting? Two days from now, it’ll be eight hours of partying, and then they’ll climb to the top of the mountain to plant the first crops of the year.”

“Is that why I’ve been seeing onions and leeks everywhere?” you asked, giving a featherlight tap to the single bud on the vine.

“Yeah, it’s the festival’s symbols. Same with why there’s so much green and white.” Monoma flicked the tiny leaf of a potted shrub as if it’d personally offended him. “By the way, if someone gives you a packet with a single seed in it, don’t do anything to it yet. If you crack open the shell too early, the spell won’t work. You’re supposed to open it the dawn of the planting, and whatever flower grows from it—it bursts fully grown from the shell—is supposed to tell what your year is gonna be like. Looks like they have flower symbolism guides,” said Monoma, jerking his head towards the checkout, “We should pick one up on our way out.”

“Got it. If it’s that significant to the festival, we’ll probably be getting ours from Fuwa,” you said, peering into a bell-shaped bloom, “Hopefully there won’t be any sort of ceremony about it. I’d like to get in and get out without being seen by many people.”

“Oh! Speaking of not being seen. I saw a liripipe hood you’ll like. I didn’t get it, because I think you should see it first, but,” Monoma said, pausing, a sneaky little grin growing when you caught his eye, “it’s got buttons, so you could attach it to your surcoat, if you wanted, and it’s embroidered. Got that type of floral motif that you like so much.”

You raised an eyebrow. You hadn’t mentioned to anyone that you’d decided you needed another hood, but if it’s a liripipe hood—you’d probably be able to fit all of your hair into it, keeping it cleaner for longer in this filthy place without your normal conditioner—and he must have noticed how you’ve been acting since your last hood was destroyed, absent-mindedly reaching for it and adjusting without it.

“I’ll bite,” you said, already thirsting for it in the back of your mind, “I want to see it, at least, but since someone spent months embroidering it, it’s probably way out of our budget. But I would like to see. I would like to perceive.”

“Right. But,” said Monoma, jabbing a finger in your direction, “what if you requested it as part of your payment? For getting rid of the smokescreen?”

“Oh, Monoma, that’s—” You wet your bottom lip. “—that’s a little evil.”

His grin turned extremely smug, and he hummed. “I know. Isn’t that why you keep me around? Besides my love and blissful companionship?” Pushing himself up from his slouch, he pulled this strange move in which he nuzzled your shoulder like a dog, but he wasn’t acting like it was weird, so he must have done it before.

“Yeah, yeah,” you said, patting him roughly on the head, “I’ll think about it, but that assumes that I’ll be able to fix whatever’s going on in the spirit realm.”

Monoma finally stood upright, stretching and cricking his back. “Of course you will. What are you talking about?” Grunting, he rolled his shoulders backwards and then forwards. “You always solve it somehow, even if you’re panicking the whole way. I have complete faith in you. Everyone does. May we go look at that wand display in the corner?”

“Is your wand broken?”

“No, I just like to look,” Monoma said, and he tugged on your arm, beaming as he guided you away from the plants and back to a revolving display of sorcery-and-above level wands, all secured by chains so that they wouldn’t escape. He honed in on one he liked right away, coaxing it out of its attempt to burrow out of the shop’s walls. “Have you managed to find everything you need for tonight? I can charm someone if these people are hiding things from you.”

“Thanks, but they had the main ingredients I needed, already dried and bottled. So, yes, it’s the most expensive Red Lace and Cottoncrown I’ve ever bought, but I don’t have to prep it myself.”

“Red Lace?” Monoma cocked his head, his index finger scratching the head of the sourwood wand as he would a cat, “Isn’t that for the tea ceremony? Don’t you need some Gold Comb?”

“Oh, you’re right,” you said, names of herbs straightening themselves out in your head now that someone’s talked about them with you, “I usually have to ask about that one, though.”

Monoma gave the wand a firm pat. “I’ll come with you.”

“No, I’ve got it. Stay with your new friend,” you said, nodding towards the sourwood wand and then the magnolia and sycamore wands that were edging closer to Monoma’s palm, “You’ll know if I need you.”

“Don’t you always?” he called, smug voice carrying across the shop while you waved him off.

You had to wait in line, since the shopworker had to explain in embarrassingly excruciating detail to the magician in front of you that magician-level magic did not and could not use any of the heart-shaped quartz he was trying to purchase. When you plopped your bottles of pre-made potion bases and ground herbs on the counter, your arms cried out in relief.

Blowing her blunt, blue-black bangs out of her face, the shopworker wrote down the serial number for your first ingredient without thinking, but she paused when she read the label for your second. Staring you down, she moved to write down its number, more slowly this time, but when she read what your third bottle was, she clonked it on the counter. “I think I have to arrest you,” she said, more pissed that this was going against routine rather than at whatever law you’d just broken, “You can’t buy all these together. You’re going to create a poisonous miasma, and if you add this—” She picked up another of your bottles. “—then it has a chance of developing consciousness. If you use this as the base—” Another. “—then it’ll cause hallucinations and nausea to those who only even get a whiff of it. What are you up to? You planning a terrorist attack during the festival?”

“What? Of course not. I didn’t know these could do that,” you said, hands raised in defence, “I’m—I’m not even aiming to make a miasma. I won’t be burning anything at all. I’m making—liquid. This is staying in liquid form.”

“Is that so?” The shopworker’s shoulders slackened, and she glanced over your ingredients again. “I usually don’t see these go into liquids. If you’re telling the truth, I think we legally have to watch you make your potion so that we can ensure you’re not crafting a miasma. Give me a moment to call my supervisor.”

“No, no, wait. I don’t—I have permission,” you said, hating that you were pulling this card but desperate to get out of this interaction, “Mayor Fuwa summoned me for a safety procedure involving this potion. I have the letter from her requesting I do this job, but we can go find her, if you’d like—”

“Hold on, are you the Dango?” Her eyes lit up. “The Dango Lady who’s going to remove the purple smokescreen from Alderside?”

You needed to leave before anyone else heard. “Yes. I was trying to work undercover.”

“I’m certain I can speak for everybody in this town when I say that we’re so, so relieved that you’re here,” she was saying, body language relaxed and familiar (so that her large, imposing presence became non-threatening in an instant), conjuring a quill to compose a note to her supervisor while she bagged your ingredients, “No one’s been able to leave their houses at night for the past two months, and it’s been miserable trying to communicate with anyone past this new curfew; I haven’t talked to my girlfriend in a week, and if there’s an emergency while the smokescreen is up, no one can do anything about it. We’ve had to allow people to suffer while we waited for the smokescreen to dissipate. I swear on all the ratsbane on the mountain that if that Jackrabbit scoundrel ever returns to Alderside, I’m going to curse his bloodline on sight. And then I’ll take him by his ears and plunge tiny bits of soapstone glyphs into them so that they damage his ear canals—”

You snapped out of your examination of her neck, which appeared to have a scar from beheading. “I’m sorry,” you said, swallowing thickly and rubbing your fingers over your own neck, “A jackrabbit?”

“No,” she said, miming spitting off to the side, “The Jackrabbit. The soulwalker we’ve hired in the past.” She shoved your last bottle into a paper sack, clinking against the others. “You’d better not betray us like he did.”

There’s…another soulwalker?

“I’ll do my best not to,” you said, glaring over your shoulder to beg Monoma for help, but he was being lovingly swarmed by wands, snuggling against him like a herd of cats. “I was unaware another soulwalker had come through Alderside. Was he unable to get rid of the smokescreen?”

The shopworker floundered, her jaw dropping in incredulity. “Get rid of—he caused it. He was hired to consult a recently deceased judge for help on a murder trial, but he did something in the spirit realm to attach a dark presence to Alderside that causes this smokescreen.”

The shop owner came over before she could explain anything else, and the owner was equally thrilled to have a new soulwalker in town. They looked over the letter for Fuwa’s magical signature on it, and they did insist you make the potion in front of them to prove your project would stay liquidous. Monoma had disentangled himself from his wand fan club by then and helped you measure herbs, including the Gold Comb kept behind the counter.

“Right, so it can settle for now. I’ll have to bring it to a boil at the ritual site and stir counter-clockwise for eight minutes before giving it a clockwise stir, and it’ll have to cool before I use it, obviously.”

The shopworker traced the scar on her neck. “What does it do? Does it take you to the spirit realm? Does it stabilise it?”

“Neither,” you said as Monoma handed over the payment, “but it helps me get started.”

The shopping had exhausted you, so you headed back towards the inn, allowing for a detour to pick up dinner from a restaurant Monoma had been bugging you about all day, to rest until the soulwalking ritual that night.

Before long, you headed out to the ritual site. A spot staked out before you’d even entered Alderside, the limestone overhang boxed in a tiny clearing, able to be guarded by your friends while you were out of your body. The process wouldn’t take as long as it normally did due to your pre-mixing the potion at the shop, so all that had to be done was kindling a fire and laying your bedroll.

As the potion heated over the fire in Monoma’s kettle, memories of its effects came back to you. You could soulwalk without any supplements, but this recipe you’d crafted helped you start and stop the process more easily. When soulwalking, your soul had to slip out of your body as close to a sleep state as possible without actually sleeping, because relaxed muscles were easier for your soul to slip out of. The current edition for this recipe was leagues more effective than Shinsou’s sirenic magic had been when you first started out: it helped you grow drowsy, but the Gold Comb kept you just aware enough to notice when you were about to fall asleep—and therefore most easily able to leave your body. Another recently added ingredient, Cottoncrown, was an herb that promoted lucid dreaming, so it helped you have more control in the first few minutes orienting yourself as an unbound soul. Everything else was designed to keep you unconscious while you were conducting business in the spirit realm.

Unfortunately, as your potion began to boil, you realised why people have been calling you the Dango: if you take your true form when soulwalking, then your soul can get trapped in the spirit realm. If a soul matches a nearby body, then the realm registers your soul as dead and tries to shuttle it to the afterlife. Therefore, all soulwalkers had to have a transformation unlike their natural appearances, and you…

After the half hour of Shinsou softly telling you a story while Touya played his mouthharp, your soul crawled out of your body with the tiny, cat paws of your real-life cat. How on earth did this version of you become Dango when she’s never seen her? You tried to examine your toe beans, but you found that you didn’t have good control over your elbows; you had to lie on the ground to study them.

You were your cat. A chocolate-point fluffball, prone to bouts of extreme violence.

No one’s making you stay in the spirit realm. You don’t even look human.

The spirit realm mirrored the flesh: you were still lying on your bedroll in camp—both physical you and cat you. With a touch of alarm, you noticed you were lying on your own chest, so you gambolled off.  Shinsou, Monoma, and Touya had vanished, because they were bound by flesh to the world of the living. The shadow of your body was here as your portal out.

The spirit realm always smelled pleasant, if not in a subtle, hazy way, as if you weren’t supposed to notice it. Around Alderside, it smelled of freshly mown grass, which was an oddity in itself; no vegetation grew in the spirit realm. Painted in shades of greys, the realm betrayed its anomalies in stark colours.

So, looking for any flash of colour, you jumped onto limestone rock, out of the clearing, and towards Alderside. Not a long walk, but it took longer on your little legs, and wow, you were getting so much grit between your toe beans, and would you really have to lick to clean them?

Cold in the overcast weather, you stalked towards the town entrance, grumbling about tangles in your fur, when your ears twitched, detecting the sound of running water. Slinking into town, you followed a babbling brook along the same, mosaiced streets designed to look like a river, its stained glass dull, grey, and glossy underneath the current.

The fog became dense purple around midtown, near the raised spring-stick. Clearly unnatural, since it’s got a colour. You trotted along the brook’s bed, keeping an eye near the roofline, where the smoke clung the thickest, and you darted behind a crate at the sight of another soul in the middle of the square.

It’s human, current rushing around his thin ankles. Barefoot, but wrapped in bandages. So were his arms, but his compact body was obscured by an oversized, scarlet jacket, with a wide collar buttoned over his mouth. He ignored how the smoke emanated from him.

A human soul. You hadn’t expected to meet someone here. To the best of your knowledge, you tended not to. You leapt atop a stack of crates and spoke to him (never mind that your vocal cords were not physically able to speak; it’s magic. Don’t think about it too hard). “Hello.”

He didn’t look away from the water.

“Hi! Over here. By the storefront.”

Shifting his weight, he blinked, shifting his gaze from the brook to the overcast, night sky.

“Nice to meet you,” you said, frowning, “I’m here to help you. Are you lost? Stuck? Do you need to go on to the afterlife?”

He took a deep breath in, closed his eyes, and then exhaled.

“Okay,” you said, jumping down from the crates and skulking towards him. Maybe this guy couldn’t hear you, so the next step would be to go rub against him like a friendly cat to get his attention, and then, perhaps, pantomiming ways of helping him. It pained you to wade through the brook, water almost wetting the fur on your stomach, but you head-bumped his leg when you reached him, making a point to purr loudly.

He finally looked down and picked you up. Tensing, you mrowped in distress before he secured you to hold you like a baby, your stomach exposed and facing upwards so that he could look at you.

“What do you want?” he asked, quiet, reserved. He’d already turned back to the sky, despite five of your six ends’ sharpness.

You sighed the best a tiny cat could sigh. “The smoke is coming from you, correct? Is it your—” Out of habit, you’d almost asked if it were his quirk.

“Yes,” he said, too quickly for you to think of another term.

 “I represent this town. What would it take for you to stop using your smokescreen?”

For some reason, at your question, the man snapped his gaze to you, visibly taken aback despite his mouth’s concealment. He must not have seen anything further in your expression, because he continued, albeit cautiously. “I cannot accept a bribe, for I cannot control the smokescreen here. It leaks out of me against my will.” He shifted you to one arm so that he could hold up a hand, purple smoke seeping from his pores. “It is behaving most unusually. Not like itself at all.”

“It’s harming the town.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then please leave?”

“I’ve been stationed here by my master,” said the soul, covering his leaking hand with his sleeve, “I cannot leave this place.”

A soul with a master? This other soulwalker must also be a necromancer. “All right. I can help you break from his service.”

“No,” he said, wading through the water towards the spring-stick, “I serve him willingly. I’m honoured to aid him when I can.” He neared the barrels and crates, still unpacked, near the spring-stick site, and he lowered his arms to let you crawl onto them.

You nestled into the sacks of dried petals, settling into a catloaf. “Can I help you fulfil your task, then?”

His narrow eyes flickered towards you as he leant against a barrel and crossed his arms, the thick fabric of his coat puckering. “Nothing you can do. I’m to stay in Alderside until the next new moon, and then I will move on.”

You shifted, pulling your little legs farther underneath you. “Listen, I’m not actually a cat. I am more than capable of helping you. I have magic, you know.”

“I’m aware,” he said again, “You must be the other soulwalker my master is avoiding.”

“Avoiding? Say more about that,” you said, growing more distressed by the minute at the unequal levels of information between the two of you.

“No.”

“Fine,” you said, trying to spit but failing, “Will you tell me why you’re stationed here?”

He tugged his collar farther over his mouth and nose. “No.”

“Forget it, then.” You unsheathed your claws to tap them on the crate, your dewclaw sticking in the wood. “Let’s re-route back to your smokescreen. Is there a way to stop its leaking?”

He held up his hand again, flexing it. “I’m not certain.”

Unhelpful. “If you can’t stop the leak, can you control where the smoke flows?”

He paused to think, and he shook his head.

***

“My back is starting to hurt,” said Aizawa, slumping in his kitchen chair, “Do you mind if we move this conversation to my room so that I can lie down?”

“Not at all,” you said, standing and taking both of your coffee mugs to the sink, “I apologise for taking so long to get to the point, but there’s so much context, I think, that’s necessary to understand it.”

“I don’t mind,” said Aizawa, stretching, back popping in two places, shirt riding up as he did so. He rolled his shoulder backwards and started towards his bedroom. “How did you manage the smokescreen?”

“Well,” you said with a grunt, bending to scoop up Konpeito and rushing to follow Aizawa, “You know what a bag of holding is? It’s a bag that can hold an infinite amount of anything, but it only takes up the space and weight of the bag itself.” Once in his bedroom, you released Konpeito onto her worn cat tower, tag jingling, and she retreated to the topmost tier to gaze down at you in disdain. “I went back to the magic shop and got the staff involved to cast the spell to make bags of holding on an airtight jar, and I took it back to the spirit realm. We couldn’t stop his leaking smokescreen, but it stopped harming Alderside if it all funnelled into the jar.”

Aizawa shot you an incredulous smirk before collapsing on his bed, bouncing his sleeping bag off of it and covering his eyes with his arm. “You’re insane.”

“I like to think so,” you said, kneeling on the other side of the bed before fully sitting on it. “Alderside’s problem was fixed, even though that guy wasn’t leaving. We stuck around for the spring festival—fantastic, beautiful, perfect—fruit preserves on everything. I think Monoma ate his weight in baked brie with pear preserves on top. Dancing. Games. Tag where you hit people with fake leeks. Flowers conjured by magic everywhere. I got one of those fortune-telling seeds.” You scooted backwards towards the headboard and accepted the throw blanket Aizawa offered.

“I’m not falling asleep, by the way,” he said, peeking out from underneath his arm, “Just resting my eyes. Dry eye, you know.” He nestled his nose back into the crook of his elbow and rested his other hand on his chest. “And your fortune?”

“My knowledge of flowers is not expansive,” you said, kicking underneath the throw blanket to cover your lower body, “We couldn’t discern what our flowers were from the guides, so we had to ask around. I got a lotus. It’s silly, but Alderside’s flower symbolism doesn’t match up with reality’s, which is for enlightenment, self-regeneration, and rebirth; I looked it up later. For Alderside, a lotus means indifference and grief. Which is rude of it.”

“It’s just a fortune. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“I know. There seemed to be more negative fortunes than positive in those seeds; Shinsou got the worst of it; his flower has negative connotations in both worlds. Snowdrops mean consolation and hope here and vigilance and loneliness there. But nothing matters,” you said with a curt laugh.

Aizawa ran his tongue over his lower lip. “How was it being a cat?”

“Surprisingly okay. It was interesting to compare how unlimber I am in my own body. I also think it’s unfair humans don’t have a comfortable way of lying on their stomachs and looking around at the same time.” You smiled down at Aizawa, though he couldn’t see it. “It’s just like you to hone in on the cat stuff.”

“Isn’t it about time you brought Dango over to play with Konpeito again?”

“I’ll bring her next time I need to consult you about a crisis.”

Aizawa sat up to reach for his prosthetic leg. “Speaking of. When does this story become a crisis?” He detached the prosthetic with a quiet hiss from the pressure release, and he propped it against his bedside table.

“It already has. I actually did know that guy in the spirit realm.” You scratched the back of your neck, averting your gaze as he turned back towards you. “After Alderside, we kept getting summons to help out towns with similar problems, all stemming from souls being stationed there by the Jackrabbit. I, uh. Didn’t realise until Shimura Nana that they were all vestiges.”

Aizawa groaned your name in frustrated disappointment. “You didn’t. You didn’t.” He lay back down, hair splaying across his pillow while staring at you with a constipated expression. “I see we’ve arrived at this morning. I had to stop class so that my students could get it out of their systems.”

“Sorry about that. What I wouldn’t give for everyone not to have that information. I’d only just learnt it myself,” you said, grumbling and tucking yourself under the blanket as you, too, lay down, teeming with bitterness, “But no. Not quite this morning yet. We’re getting there. Like I said, it took me until Shimura Nana to figure it out, and it didn’t even matter that I was able to piece it together. He was still there when I arrived.”

***

Fury radiating from every pore, you stormed away from Shimura Nana on little cat feet, racing towards the cove she’d said her master’s body was, and on the shore outside of the coastal village, he sat next to All Might’s wispy vestige, trouser legs rolled up to dip his feet in the greyscale water, heels digging into the sand—very human-looking heels. How come he still looked like his human self?

You bounded down the beach, sand sticking between your toe beans and in your fur, and you pounced onto his back, sinking your claws into his stupid cape.

“How dare you,” you said, your cat weight making him hunch forward as he scrambled to catch you, “You’re causing a mess of trouble for me, you rat. I’ve been summoned across the country to fix your mistakes; how come all of your vestiges have something wrong with their—” It’d only been a split second in which you’d almost said quirks. “—magic. I’m going to rip you to tiny, edible shreds,” you said, fuming, claws catching onto his rabbit-earred hood as he dragged you over his shoulder.

You yanked at his hood, desperate to see that stupid, freckled face so that you could scratch it, but it wouldn’t budge. Violence tapering off, you sheathed your claws once it hit you that he was disguising his soul by making his mask part of his body.

Midoriya blinked slowly, eyes large and uncanny underneath the mask. Monstrous. Teeth look sharper, too. His silence unnerved you; you’ve never known him to shut up. But that was All Might next to him, swaying and diffusing in the nightly sea breeze, so this was Midoriya. Jackrabbit. You should’ve realised it sooner.

“You’re the other soulwalker,” he finally said, loosing his grip on your scruff as you calmed down, letting your weight rest in his lap.

“Are there only two of us? I know it’s a rare discipline, but only two makes us look like an endangered species.”

“If there are others, I don’t know of them.” He petted the back of your neck, as if reminding you he could still strangle you to death.

Of course the only other soulwalker, the only rival in an extremely rare, difficult magical discipline, the one whose chaos you’ve had to ameliorate, would be the number-one hero. You didn’t stand a chance in surpassing him. At the same time, it made you feel the tiniest bit special that hey, the number-one hero is the only one to rival you here, wow. Especially since your magic—unfairly—doesn’t resemble your quirk at all. Turns out with his vestiges, the soulwalking must be somewhat familiar to him. You’ve had to wing it from scratch, and he’s—well.

“I want to talk to you when I’m not a cat,” you said, nodding towards him and at All Might out of politeness, “My party is nearby with my body. Want to have dinner with us tonight? I’ll ensure your safety.”

The ears on Midoriya’s hood twitched. “You’re so sure you can trust me. I could destroy you right now, and I would be the only soulwalker in the realm.”

“I don’t care. I trust you,” you said, because people here tended to mirror their selves from reality, and Midoriya was just a little baby boy. Just a little guy. He’d even be a great addition to your party, especially for strategizing, and you wouldn’t have to follow his trail of disaster anymore. “Look, do you want me to come get you in my real body first? I’ll be unarmed. Or we could meet up in town, if you’re worried about meeting in private.”

Midoriya glanced towards All Might. “All right,” he said slowly, “Dinner. There was a beachside restaurant, wasn’t there?”

“We can meet you there. There’s four of us,” you said, answering his question before he asked it. He closed his mouth. “We’ll buy, if that’s any incentive. We’ve gotten paid pretty well for fixing the problems you’ve left behind.”

He nodded again, eerie in his stiffness, and he stood, keeping you out of the water. “How will I recognise you?”

You laughed through your nose as he gingerly set you down on dry sand. “I’ll be the devastatingly beautiful one with something deeply wrong with her.”

When you led your party into Suoh’s Seaside Café, you meandered through a packed front of house celebrating a birthday, and out to its deck, where Midoriya sat alone, scribbling into a notebook at the umbrella-covered table closest to the ocean.

It’s strange, seeing him out of his hero costume, labelled t-shirts, or hero merch, and it’s odder still seeing him out of anything green. Everyone else appeared to share their real counterpart’s preferences for clothing, so it was weird that Midoriya instead was keeping it monochrome with some pirate-ass, billowing long-sleeve, the tightest black trousers you’ve seen this side of consciousness, a double-breasted vest from a vampire’s wet dream, and—okay, never mind—now that you’ve gotten a good look at it, his cloak’s not fully black; the inside was dyed deep green. Made it feel more like Midoriya.

But it occurred to you, as Touya elbowed you to approach, that you haven’t really seen Midoriya in a while, in real life. He might dress like this now. You wouldn’t know. Midoriya tended to run around with the Iida-Todoroki-Uraraka-Asui-Tokoyami crowd, always scraping his nose to the grindstone, always in high demand, never having much free time. Everything you knew about Midoriya was filtered through headlines or through Uraraka in the breakroom at work, like how he’d gotten her flowers yesterday or how he forgot to get dish soap last time he was out.

You haven’t properly hung out with Midoriya in about three years, and even then, it’d only been because you’d been the only two U.A. graduates at a fundraising event. Latching onto each other for the night had seemed safer than going through the hordes of strangers alone. And that night had been the first time you’d spent time with him since graduation, and before that, he had—all that other stuff to deal with.

When you tapped on the table to get his attention, the way he dropped everything to beam up at you made you want to pursue his friendship again.

“Hello!” Midoriya shut his handbound notebook, and you swore his boyish smile took up over half his face; it’s almost too blinding to look at. “I assume you’re the cat I met?”

“Meow,” you said with a flash of your eyebrows, pulling out the chair next to him, chair legs screeching on the wooden deck.

“It’s good to meet you officially. I’ve heard a lot about you, as a soulwalker. I’m Midoriya Izuku,” he said, reaching out to shake your hand.

After ordering and introductions, the notebook was opened to a clean page when Monoma started talking about his copy-illusions, and Midoriya began asking questions. You slurped at your iced tea, feeling more comfortable now that this Midoriya was acting like the Midoriya you knew—asking about magic/quirks felt much, much more familiar than the uncannily stiff, stoic man you met in the spirit realm. He got to rambling underneath Touya’s reluctant explanation of his freezing fire and Shinsou’s necromancy and sirenic call, but when he got to you, it tapered off.

He'd bent over to write more quickly, nose practically touching the paper. “And you soulwalk, same as me—we should talk about it later; I don’t want to bore everyone else at the table—is there any other magic you can do?”

“Yeah,” you said, unable to make out what he was scrawling diagonally, “I have this boundary-binding tea ceremony.”

Midoriya’s hand halted for the first time in ten minutes. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Yeah,” you said, lifting a scallop from your soup (Shinsou, at least, could share in your raving about how fabulous the soup was, but Monoma ate his popcorn shrimp with pride while Touya’d ordered chicken at a seafood place), “It’s a bit of an obscure technique, like soulwalking. I’d classify it as a type of conjuring, if you want a broad category.”

Midoriya scratched out the previous two sentences and began to copy what you’d said. “Fascinating. I’d love to hear more about it.”

His awkward, abrupt pause had been the only social hiccup all evening. Otherwise, he’d been lovely—eager to share information and to listen, apologetic for the trouble he’d caused, boyishly charming to the point where even Touya got a little flustered, easy to laugh and to make others laugh. You could see why he’s the number-one hero back home. It’s easy to feel like you’ve known him forever, like he belongs at your side.

When Touya wanted to test how Granddaddy Slapkins felt about Midoriya, you knew what was coming. The instant Granddaddy Slapkins settled into Midoriya’s lap, quacking softly as he fed him a stir-fried snow pea, Monoma propped his chin on steepled fingers, shooting looks that were not subtle around the table before opening his mouth.

“Midoriya, you seem a decent fellow. Would you like to join our party?”

Taken aback (or perhaps just startled at the nip Granddaddy Slapkins gave him), Midoriya considered. “Are you sure?” Midoriya clutched the duck to his chest, petting gently, and looked at you. “You wouldn’t have to follow me to fix my problems,” he said, tilting his head very slightly, brow pinched in thought, “I wouldn’t have to—you could help me, most likely. In what I’m searching for. It might be better to have more than one person investigate it.”

Grinning, Shinsou crossed his arms on the table to lean on them, hand gripping his opposite elbow. “Tell us more.”

“I—” Shaking himself out of it, he broke from you to look at Shinsou. “Yes, actually. I’m on a mission myself, and since your missi—quest to solve what problems I’ve caused is coming to an end, I might be able to offer a new one,” said Midoriya, stowing his notebook away at last and pulling a threadbare, velvet box out of his satchel. He popped it open like a ring box, and on its cushion sat a clear, perfectly spherical crystal with the barest suggestion of topaz yellow glinting off it.

“Do you want us to fence it?” Touya was asking as he lifted Granddaddy Slapkins out of Midoriya’s lap and circling back to his seat on the bench, “We passed through a gem market when before we entered the Gauntlet—”

Monoma cut him off. “The only way we are going back through that abominable place is if we can conjure a carpet to fly over it.”

“I’m not trying to sell it,” said Midoriya, shutting the box again, “I’m trying to restore it. It’s a soul crystal, one that belonged to my master, Yagi Toshinori.” All Might’s real name. Tracks, with Midoriya. “My master’s body has gotten frail in his old age,” said Midoriya, worriedly rotating the box from hand to hand, “After sustaining a stomach injury, he used up all of his magic in preserving his physical form, which has gone into hibernation. His magic is gone, but it’s not yet his time to die. I’m trying to take his soul crystal to the soul altar to restore his magic. He’ll be able to resume living in his body if I can do that.”

“All right,” said Shinsou, nodded while he took an enormous slurp of his coffee, “Where’s this soul altar? We can help you get to it.”

Midoriya laughed nervously, scratching his cheek. “I don’t know exactly. I’ve been given the parameters. It’s why you’ve been following my vestiges, actually,” he said, nodding towards you again, “Entrances to the soul altar move around in the spirit realm. It has consistent places it spawns, but I don’t have enough vestiges to watch every spawning point. What I was doing was stationing them at the most common ones, but they don’t—something’s been going wrong with all of their magic; none of them have been working right. I—”

“So, are you saying we’d be travelling around for these entrance points?” Touya asked thickly, mouth full of fried chicken. “What about just going to where the altar actually is?” At Midoriya’s perplexed stare, he swallowed and continued. “If its entrances keep changing locations, then they’re probably not actually in those places, taking up space. It means that there’s a solid location for the altar, and the entrances are the only things that jump around. How stupid are you to forget that loose magic, the stuff that’s not bound to anyone or anything, doesn’t last very long? You’re saying that these entrances have been bouncing around for a while, so they’ve got to be bound to something. So. There’s probably a physical place where the soul altar is bound.”

You stifled your smile at Midoriya’s silence by tilting your bowl to get at the last of your soup.

“To—ya,” said Midoriya slowly, eyes glazed over, “You may be onto something.” Mechanically, he returned the box to his satchel, and he bowed his head. “Please let me join your party.”

And that was that. Midoriya left the restaurant with all of you, spitballing theories about the soul altar, all the way up until it was time to set up camp again that night, and after that, he lay on his bedroll next to yours, laughing until while you told him about soulwalking as a cat with his vestiges, until the both of you fell asleep.

***

“Aizawa-sensei?” You prodded the arm covering his eyes. “Are you awake?”

“You’ve got to stop calling me that,” said Aizawa, shifting underneath the covers with a groan, “Someone your age calling me sensei makes me feel like I’m on a rollercoaster into my own grave.”

“Aren’t we all,” you said, sitting up, the blanket pooling around your waist, “Were you even listening?”

“Midoriya joined your party, and he’s been travelling with you for a few weeks now,” he said, finally lifting his arm from his face to sweep hair off of it, “Just stop calling me sensei. I haven’t taught you for almost a decade now.”

“It hasn’t been that long,” you said, rolling your eyes, “What do you want me to call you? It’s not going to feel natural, whatever it is.”

Aizawa ran his fingers through his hair and scowled at a tangle. “Shouta is fine. We’ve been friends for a while now, wouldn’t you say?”

“I guess,” you said, “but it’s not easy to make the mental shift from thinking of someone as distinctly an adult to a peer. I’ll try. But back to you, teaching. We’re up to this morning. We are up to what your students wouldn’t shut up about.”

He pulled at the knot in his hair, wincing. “Should I be taking notes?”

***

Six hours ago, you’d gone to brunch with friends, most of whom you hadn’t seen in a long while because of work. Yes, you saw most of the women because of the all-female hero agency that you’d founded, but seeing everyone together was like stepping back into the past, the way people relaxed into familiar patterns of interacting with each other, even though it’d been months or years since you’d spoken to each other.

It usually took a couple of weeks out to reserve a table at this brunch restaurant, but they’d been more than enthusiastic about renting their whole place out to, essentially, the former Class A. Kind of guilty seeing all the vacant tables, but comforting to know no one was eavesdropping on you.

You sidled up on the end seat next to Shinsou and Monoma at the tables they’ve pushed together for your group. You scanned the menu once you’d set your purse down; in your dream world, your party had had breakfast for dinner last night and left you craving it for real (Shinsou was already sipping at the largest frappe on the menu, and your heart ached for dream Shinsou, who’d never have one [last night’s dream Shinsou had stubbornly held back tears drinking black coffee after Midoriya and Monoma used the last of the sugar for their strawberry toast]).

“Where is Uraraka?” Monoma scrolled through his phone, pouting. “Shouldn’t the one who organised the event be here on time? I have some design proposals for the formalwear collab we’re doing to promote her miniseries. I simply have no patience for all of those bubble dresses she keeps sending me.”

“She’ll be here,” you said once the waitress took your order and menu, “I wouldn’t worry about—”

“They don’t have a classic silhouette, so they’re not a lasting style—”

A bell chimed when the restaurant’s door swung open, with Uraraka waving to everyone, the tips of her fingers lightly pink. “Hey, guys! So sorry we’re late,” she said, weaving between tables towards ones pushed together, “We got caught up at Sakura Grove and then that home improvement store again; they just have so many interesting lamps.” She sat in the seat across from Shinsou, and—oh, you didn’t even see him trailing behind her—Midoriya sat in the last available seat, across from you. Uraraka slung her purse off her shoulder, rooting through it for her phone before draping its strap over the back of the bench. “What have I missed?”

Mina reiterated her cute anecdote about being paired with Kirishima for an undercover mission, not even because they were soulmates but because the situation called for their specific quirks. Tokoyami and Jiro shared that they wanted to release an acoustic album together, and if Bakugou would play percussion in it, hey, then no one would have to suffer through Aoyama’s maracas. By the way, Sero, did you know that Present Mic was asking after…

You stayed quiet. With your mind running a mile a minute both asleep and awake, you felt like you spent a lot of time talking nowadays. Instead, you considered Midoriya, who, bags under his eyes, remaining quite silent himself, kept his mug of oolong tea, double-sweet, to his lips, answering and laughing when prompted by Uraraka and not much otherwise. He’s sitting on the edge of a shared bench, right on the edge so that his ass doesn’t entirely fit—but he seems like he’s consciously trying to downplay his large presence right now, not taking up a lot of space, despite having the broad shoulders and muscled thighs expected of a number-one hero. Midoriya’s wearing a t-shirt labelled Nice Button-Down, the fabric that sort of transparent-thin that comes from being well-worn, thrown on hastily enough that the sleeves were still twisted and straining around his biceps, stretching the fabric even thinner (you could make out some of his darker freckles on his shoulders from across the table) and jeans that were crumpled enough to have come out of the dirty clothes hamper, his hair wildly dishevelled so that most of it still obscured his eyes—you’d think they’d just overslept and lied about it. But Uraraka’s even got those little rhinestones glued to the corners of her eyes, so maybe Midoriya was content with wandering around looking like—well. The number-one hero must be exhausted all of the time, you supposed. Your eyes fell to the veins on the back of the hand encircling his mug, and after a few moments of staring, they pulsed visibly. At least he’s drinking enough liquids.

If the real Midoriya had become this quiet, then perhaps the dream Midoriya’s behaviour in the spirit realm wasn’t so out of character. And if he’s anything like himself in your dreams, then you wanted to rekindle your friendship.

While Shinsou and Uraraka were critiquing Monoma’s design for a dress inspired by the elves leaving Middle Earth in The Fellowship of the Ring, you waved your fingers at Midoriya. “Hi.”

Midoriya blinked slowly, as if it took him a moment to realise you were talking to him, and he set his tea down on the lace tablecloth. “Hi,” he said back, with a rasp to his voice, “I don’t think we’ve seen each other in a while. When was the last time we…?”

“Around three years ago,” you said, taking a bite of your waffle, “That idiotic fundraising event full of old people who wanted to feel your biceps.”

“Has it been that long?” He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, and something about this felt wrong felt off felt like that action, inflection, and dialogue was planned and fake and—

You ignored it. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m—” He wavered his free hand from side to side. “—busy.” Midoriya smiled again, cupping both of his hands around his mug, fingers overlapping and making the mug look much smaller than it was. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss what I’m currently doing, because I’ve signed an NDA, but non-mission-wise, I’ve been up to my nose with this advertising deal for protein shakes, and I’ve been working with Hatsume about redesigning my boots now that my kicks are reaching around 1200 psi on average, and—” He broke his gaze from his tea, glancing around the table as if he just remembered it. “—and Uraraka and I are working on pre-production for her miniseries, and—oh, thank you so much,” he said to the waiter who set his strawberry French toast in front of him.

Midoriya turned back to you. He blinked blearily.

You stared back at him. “No one’s asked you how you are in a while, haven’t they?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Midoriya, unravelling his silverware from his napkin, which he spread across his lap, “Uraraka knows everything going on with me, and I’m not often allowed the free time to speak with people who’ve—friends, I mean.”

“Well,” you said, cutting into your waffle while he did the same with his toast, “I’ve actually been thinking about you lately, and it’s a shame we don’t hang out very much. I was actually thinking about that fundraising event and how good it was to be with you then, and—yeah. If you’re cool with it, I’d like to talk to you more.”

Midoriya faltered, fork lowering from his mouth as he gave you a toothy grin with something unreadable glinting in his eyes. “I’d—that’d be good. I’d like that, too,” he said, and he took his first bite of strawberry-stained French toast and let out what could technically be labelled as a moan. “Ffffuck, that’s good. That’s good. I haven’t had strawberry toast in forever. My nutritionist won’t—”

“I didn’t know forever was only a few hours. You just had some last night, moron,” you said thickly through your own waffle, shaking your head at how he’d deprived dream Shinsou of sugar for his coffee, and you stopped mid-chew.

Midoriya did, too.

The silence between the two of you lasted a lifetime, though your friends continued chattering on a single topic, chairs scraping and echoing around you.

You couldn’t taste your waffle when you swallowed it. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

“I’ll show you where they are,” said Midoriya, standing in a rush, “I’ve been here before.”

Hastening away from the table, you pulled Midoriya into the hallway where the bathrooms were, but he shook his head and steered you the opposite direction. “The sound carries in here,” he said, pushing open the doorway to the restaurant’s covered porch.

He’s already pacing, muttering to himself, and frantically pulling at his hair when you collapsed into one of the flimsy deck chairs. Empty, like your insides have been scooped out, you watched him pace back and forth before he spun around to point at you. “Right. How long have you been going there?”

“Don’t be vague,” you said, a stone of dread splashing into your stomach, “We’re talking about that fantasy world when we fall asleep, right?It’s actually you I’ve been travelling with?”

“Yes,” Midoriya said, swallowing, Adam’s apple bobbing, “I haven’t found anyone else who travels from this reality to that one. My vestiges know, of course, because they come over with me. Actually, is anyone else in our party—”

“No. They’ve all lived there their whole lives. Dream Shinsou knows I come from this reality, though, and that I have overlapping memories of two lives.”

“This is it, then. It ends here,” said Midoriya, running his hands down his face, reminding you of Aizawa, and he slapped his cheeks. “I have to end my relationship with Uraraka.”

You jolted in your seat. “What’s wrong with—Deku,” you said, holding your hands up in concern, “What are you talking about? Just because we’ve been meeting in dreams doesn’t mean—”

“I’ve been expecting something like this.” Closing his eyes, Midoriya took a careful breath in, and his shoulders heaved as he exhaled. His eyes snapped open. “Uraraka and I aren’t soulmates. You and I are.”

Throat drying, you narrowed your eyes. “No, we’re not. I don’t have a soulmate, and I would know. Ito hasn’t said anything about my having a soulmate at work, and she’d know—”

“No, please—please let me explain.” Midoriya pulled out the chair opposite you, and he shifted it over to your side of the table. “Uraraka and I were never soulmates. We were wrong when we thought we were bound.” He took both of your hands in his, and, startled, you looked around the vacant deck for help. “Do you remember what our bond was? Sharing the same song in our heads. But we were stupid,” he was saying, shaking his head, “and we already had feelings for each other. So, when we seemed to share a song, we didn’t take into account that we have the same music taste and were always recommending music to each other, always blaring music whenever we were around each other, as if enforcing it—and when it was clear that we weren’t actually bound, we stayed together, anyway. We were in the public eye by then, and things were messy. And now—” Midoriya winced, sucking in through his teeth. “—she and I are extremely popular as a unit, as if people can’t think of one of us without the other, and we do work exceedingly well together, and—”

Midoriya cut himself off, head bowed so low that his bangs grazed your fingers and that you could see where his undercut began on the back of his neck. “I couldn’t mar Uraraka’s reputation. Women are always villainised in breakups, and she especially would be, since, by all accounts, it looks like she’s cheating on me.”

You opened your mouth, but your voice wouldn’t come out.

Midoriya raised his head, eyes watering. “She’s already found her real soulmate. Almost a year ago now. We’ve stayed together for public image, because I haven’t minded, and we’re both too tired to deal with the fallout. Now that you’re in the picture—”

You cleared your throat until you could speak. “Why would I matter? We haven’t exactly been friends. I don’t know you. You don’t know me.”

“I could,” said Midoriya, squeezing your hands tightly, “I could love you.” Holding eye contact must have been difficult while crying, but he did it, raising your hand to his mouth to press a kiss to your knuckle.

“What the fuck,” you said, ripping it away.

***

Grimacing, Aizawa laughed through his nose. “Wow,” he said, rubbing his good eye, “That’s unfortunate. It’d be hard to ignore at this point, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you said with a jerk of your head to the side, “I left after that, but you saw the—did you see the video? It was some reporter whose quirk allows him to turn into a beetle, so he was sitting on the railing—wanted to overhear anything from heroes during brunch, and he ended up finding out horrible news at the same time we did.”

“I never saw the video, but my students described it to me in great detail.”

You clicked your tongue. “Fabulous. Then you heard how Deku brought Uraraka out to the same spot, so Beetle was able to get everything about how excited Uraraka was that they could break up. What’s ironic is that they were discussing a plan about how to end their relationship with delicacy so that the public wouldn’t villainise anyone, but now that this video is out, there’s no need for a plan or delicacy. I’ve turned my phone off ever since Uraraka texted me that she had to protect her soulmate, since she’s just a civilian who’s been doxed. I did some stress-wandering-about, and then I came to you.”

Aizawa pushed himself up, bending his knees to rest his arms on them. “You finally have a soulmate.” He tapped his fingers on his leg. “Thought you were one of us.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” you said, giving him a dismissive wave (but aware he was trying to make you feel better about it), “I should’ve considered everyone in our soulmate-less club before getting assigned. How careless of me.”

(Out of everyone in ground gamma when Tainted Love’s team invaded, only a handful of you weren’t assigned soulmates [Bakugou, Monoma, Todoroki, Aizawa, Shinsou, and you], so whenever there’d been a soulmate-based event, you’d instead hung out with some or all of the soulmate-less group, eager to grumble about your lot in life and engage in non-romantic conversation.

There’d been in-group jokes about how its members should all just get together. Looking back, you wished you had, so that you’d have more of an excuse to get out of this Midoriya stuff. But you couldn’t pin down which of your friends you’d go for, like something deep inside you wouldn’t let you—and you supposed that was the soulmate bond, at which you seethed.)

“So. We’ve caught up.” Aizawa covered his yawn. “How can I help? I’d break the bond if I could, since it upsets you, but I believe that’s beyond the scope of my quirk.”

“I knew that coming in,” you said, “I’d like your advice on how to have dreamless sleep. I don’t wanna face Deku right now; I can’t handle it.”

“Hm. It’ll be hard, considering you’ve been dreaming every night for half a year now.” Aizawa pinched his lower lip, brow furrowed. “You can’t run away from a soulmate bond.”

“Yes, but I would like to.”

Sighing like the weight of the world curled on his chest, Aizawa reached for the knob of his bedside table’s drawer. “Fine. Let me give you what I give Yamada when he’s fresh off of his radio show.”

***

When you lurched awake in your bedroll by a smouldering firepit, you scratched Aizawa’s advice off your list. Maybe it’d prolonged the time until you woke, because these thunderous river rapids should have woken you earlier, but you couldn’t count on it.

Joints aching, you pushed yourself upright. Funny, you hadn’t been in your bedroll but on it—probably due to the layer of filth coating you. Last dream had had your party in an unexpected scuffle with earth mages, and they’d pounded you into the ground. Camp had been set up near this waterfall so that you could wash yourselves when you woke up, because everyone was too exhausted to do anything after that fight other than sleep. Looks like Touya didn’t even both setting up his bedroll and slept directly on the riverbank.

Camp was vacant, save for you, but the eternal coal was still hot, buried under the ashes of the hastily dug firepit. Wasn’t there a village nearby? Could that be where—yes, the results of Monoma’s scouting included that the nearby village tended to not even talk to women who passed through, due to insane objectification, and everyone else had probably gone there to restock.

Well, you’re taking the good soap, and you’re going to bathe in the waterfall, because it’s the closest thing to a modern shower’s water pressure that you’re going to get. Unlacing your corset as you walked, you trailed along the river and climbed onto the jagged rocks by the waterfall, and through it took you a minute to find secure footing on the slippery stone, you made it onto the stone ledge that would let you slip behind the waterfall for some privacy.

Yanking your loosened corset over your head, you did the same for your shirt as you dropped your clean clothes to the ground, sighing loudly against the ambience of the deafening waterfall and its softer, coursing showers flowing through rock interstices. You’d plopped your shirt onto a dry section of rock, about to pull off your undershirt, when you spotted Midoriya across the inner plunge pool. Hidden behind a sheet of water and submerged almost to mid-chest, his bulky silhouette washed its hair, rinsing out soap and shaking the water out like a dog.

You lowered the hem of your undershirt.

Crouching to gather your clean clothes, you winced at your knees cracking but kept vigilant, eyes darting between the exit and his shadow, holding your breath despite—

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

Your blood turned cold. You spun back towards the pool, keeping your distance from the waves sloshing against the rim and your gaze towards your feet, listening in horror to the swishing of water as he swam towards you. “What do you want, Deku?”

“What do you mean by that? I want to talk to you.”

In your periphery, Midoriya swam to the edge of the pool, water lapping around his infuriatingly narrow waist, and he rested his forearms on the rock’s edge to lean towards you, collarbone poking out and shoulders hunching in the effort to stay above the surface. “If it’s all right with you,” he said, with the air of defusing a bomb, “I’d like to pursue a relationship with you, as my true soulmate.”

You hunkered back towards the only section of dry stone, clutching your knees to your chest. “Well, I don’t.”

Midoriya gave a breathy exhale, eyes softening but still pinning you to your spot against the rock wall. “I could be so good for you,” he said, shaking his head, “I know I could love you.”

You bit your lip. “Aren’t you in love with Uraraka?”

His hair dripped into his face at the same moment his expressed sharpened again, just barely. “I was.”

“I don’t want a relationship right now,” you said, gaze flicking towards the exit, “I’m content with how I am by myself.”

Midoriya hummed, narrowing his eyes, and he hitched up his elbow placement on the stone’s edge, his abs flinching when they grazed the side of the pool. “I don’t think that’s your reason. Tell me.”

(Who is this man? What happened in the past few years?

You kept a vivid memory of the fundraising event from three years ago close to your chest, guiltily hoarding it from sunlight, because you weren’t supposed to—

Midoriya and you had ducked out to the venue’s third-storey balcony, him in his stupid pinstriped suit and you in some silky dress that vaguely resembled a jellyfish, both sweaty from the packed crowd and bright lights inside. You’d made a joke at the punchbowl that’d made Midoriya splurt champagne out of his nose, so you’d slinked outside to avoid glares while you laughed—charity was serious business, and you were only figurehead heroes representing your agencies, anyway.

The two of you had hidden on the spiralling staircase outside while you finished your champagne and talked about your agencies. Both of you had been the sole members of your U.A. class to start an agency, and your processes had evidently been tremendously different. You’d found yourself disagreeing with your classmates, as you’d gazed up at Midoriya, sitting two steps higher than you were, champagne flute at his side, because his rambling—constant analysis, making strange jumps in logic with synthesis you didn’t expect, riddled with moments of admiration for those who’d gone before him—had made your heart sing.

You hadn’t understood most of what he was saying, and you could’ve listened to him forever.

Midoriya had unlocked a desperation to understand like nothing ever had, and he was interesting, full of wonder and curiosity, kind more than anything, a bit too generous, and, moreover, actually listening to you, instead of just waiting his turn to talk or interrupting.

And when you’d expressed worry about how to keep moving forward, he’d said the most beautiful words anyone’s ever said to you: “Let me help you.”

[After, you’d had to shove all these feelings down, because he’s dating your friend. You’ve allowed yourself to—think of him like that only in the context of that night. Otherwise, your attraction towards Midoriya can’t exist.])

“Shut up,” you said, curling in on yourself, resting your chin on your knees, “You’re clever. You can figure it out.”

Midoriya spoke with a touch too much enunciation, the tendons in the back of his hand flexing as he gripped his bar of soap, wrapped in his washcloth. “I want to be sure. Tell me.”

You couldn’t look at him. “You’ve recently ended a long-term relationship with one of my best friends. I can’t date you. That’s violating girl code.”

“Uraraka was eager for the breakup,” he said evenly, “She’s ecstatic that she can finally go on public outings with Spike, her real soulmate, even if it comes after a media fallout. Uraraka holds no power over me. All I am is yours.” A droplet dripped from his bangs onto his lower lip, and his tongue darted out to lick it off. “Come here. Sit next to me. Put your legs in the water.”

You baulked. “I’m sorry?”

“You came here to bathe. I can help, if you’d like.”

“Wha—I,” you said, fumbling, spluttering, “I don’t—huh?”

“It’s okay,” said Midoriya, holding his hand out to you, “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

“No, I am not—”

“It’s okay. I’m aware you have feelings for me, so you don’t have to worry about—”

“Hold on—what, what on earth are you talking about?” Scrambling to get more than five feet away from him, you backed farther into the rock wall, jagged edges pressing into your back. “I don’t—do you seriously believe that I like you? That I’ll throw myself at you immediately once my friend’s out of the way? I can’t—I’m not gonna work like that. I don’t. I,” you said, jaw slack, “Why would you think that I’m automatically into you just because I’ve been told to be?”

“Hm,” he said lightly, somehow cockily, with a lift to his eyebrows, “I wouldn’t know.” The fucker pushed on his hands to heave his body out of the pool, water cascading down his stupidly defined chest and trim waist, and—you held up your hand to shield yourself from his dick, because you’re not giving him the satisfaction of seeming interested—but apparently, his cock’s not the focus, because he twisted himself around to sit on the edge of the water, legs dangling into it and broad back facing you, droplets trailing down between his shoulder blades and the swell of his ass.

You’re cursed with noticing things: his ass was even more aggravatingly round/firm than it was in the New Year’s shoot with Rumi even with the lower part smushed against stone, and it’s got freckles on it. Freckles only on the top part of his asscheeks, actually, as if he’s walked around naked in sunlight a good bit. Either way. You were frothing with abhorrence and frustration, brain needing to be scrubbed with a wire sponge. If you had known about this back in school, before soulmates were invoked, no one could’ve stopped you.

But since Uraraka’s been gushing about this man for almost a decade now, it made your stomach turn, quashing initial interest. You can’t just summon romantic impulses, with or without guilty feelings about wanting your friend’s boyfriend.

Steeling yourself, you said, “I don’t care that other people find you attractive. I’m not attracted to you.”

“Fascinating,” said Midoriya, and he tilted his head backwards to look at you, hair falling back from his face, “Showing my v-line usually worked on Uraraka.”

“I’m not Uraraka. You can’t expect me to fall for the same stuff as she—oh,” you said, and you slumped against the rock. “You really don’t know me. And I don’t know you.” You pressed your forehead against the wall, spreading wet grime on your skin. “I could—I could fall in love with any of my friends if the soulmate bond would let me, because I know them as individuals. Shinsou—Shinsou’s favourite character growing up was Sailor Mercury; he pets every cat he can and is horrible at making onigiri, but that doesn’t stop him from making it; he bikes and plays bass and can tie an excellent knot. Monoma’s the biggest theatre nerd I’ve ever met; he’s got an improv group that does performances at Nekozawa’s every month, and his love for Franco-Belgian comics and The Lord of the Rings is only surpassed by his obsession with gummy candy. Bakugou, that moron, plays the drums because his parents forced him into lessons, and he mountain climbs for fun; he goes to bed at 8:30 and can’t sleep with heavy blankets because he overheats in his sleep, and he’s the one who stole Kirishima’s crocs before prom and knows more about eyeliner than anyone else I know. You, though. Deku. Outside of hero work, outside of hero training, outside of what you’ve said about your heroic journey to the public, I know nothing about you. You let people know your thoughts about what you do, but you don’t let anyone know who you are. All we’ve got outside of hero work and hero admiration is that you like katsudon. I bet you don’t keep up with me, eith—”

“That’s enough.” Back towards you, Midoriya held up his hand, and after he cut you off, he used it to scratch his shoulder. Chest rising and falling, he leant back on his palms to gaze up at the waterfall surging downwards from the rockface.

His shoulders were shaking.

He’s laughing.

When Midoriya turned, he’d the same, hard glint in his eyes as when he’s in battle, when his body’s lit up in OFA lightning, sparking with every odd edge he touched, looking so, so alive. You haven’t thought he could look this way outside of a fight. Horribly entrancing, the way his eyes betray his anger while he’s still grinning to himself, shaking his head, and—and crawling the five feet towards you, dripping water, and you were pinned under his sharp glare, because otherwise—can you scoot back more? He’s so close that you might—

“I wouldn’t worry. We’ll know each other in time.” Trailing his last two fingers along your jawline, Midoriya turned your head to ensure you focused on him instead of the exit. He almost withdrew his wet-warm fingertips from the underside of your chin but thought better of it, instead lightly, barely, rubbing a water droplet into your lower lip. “Hm,” he said, running his tongue over his own, “My plans for you can wait. For now, I’ll do whatever it takes to win you over.”

Your heartrate had already spiked because of his shared body heat and that battle-ready look in his eyes, but the moment Midoriya leaned in, eyes half-lidded, your heart stopped.

(You can’t kiss him you can’t kiss him that’s your friend’s boyfriend you can’t you can’t—)

But his lips never touched yours—Midoriya diverted his lips at the last minute, and strangely, absurdly, dragged his mouth and face along your own, feeling his slight morning stubble scuff against you until he stopped by your ear, cheek pressed against yours (his fingers on your mouth dug into your lip, holding you still, despite your twitching to get away).

“Grant me permission. Please. I can be so, so good for you,” he said, hot breath striking your ear with each consonant, still pressed closely enough to feel his grin (its contrast with the fury in his voice made you lightheaded), “I can give you exactly what you need, and I give it so freely. So. Please. We may not know each other well, but I do know this: you alone own me. You alone hold me by the throat.” He nosed down the tense column of your neck, huffing through his nose when he pressed against your pulse point, and he fucking licked all the way up to your earlobe (the cold air swashing over his saliva). “If you’ll say the word,” he said, licking his bottom lip again, so close that you felt his tongue’s movement, “If you’ll let me, I’ll rip you apart. In any way you want.”

His little finger edged into your mouth and pressed down on the tip of a canine.

Shaken, you could only tug at his wrist to extract his hand, and once he’d let you remove it, you asked, “What the fuck kind of relationship did you have with Uraraka?”

Midoriya laughed again—but it’s a short, high-pitched burst, like the laughter you would’ve identified as his before. He shifted backwards to sit on his knees (don’t look at his lap; don’t look at his lap) and tilted his head with an easy smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Because I—this—” How is he the one with total confidence when he’s the one naked? “—this sort of—idea. The way you talk. This doesn’t—this doesn’t come from nowhere. I,” you said, covering your eyes with your hand, “Will you—will you allow me a moment to collect my thoughts?”

“Of course,” said Midoriya, and he—he backed away. Scooted back to the pool’s edge. Wrung out his washcloth. Gathered his things. Returned his legs to the water.

Didn’t put on any clothes.

“Okay,” you said after a minute, “I think I can—”

“Come sit by the water with me?”

“Uh,” you said, transfixed as the tendons in the back of his hands rippled as he flexed each of his fingers, “No. I’m fine where I am.”

He half-shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“Right,” you said, swallowing with effort, “I, uh. In general, not just for our situation, but generally, you have to work for a relationship. You have to put in effort. I—it sounds like you’re trying to slip into one with me while acting the same as you did with Uraraka. That’s messed up. I’m not the same as Uraraka or anyone else you could’ve dated. You can’t replace one woman in your life with another. It may just be out of habit, since you dated her for so long, but, um. Yeah. You need to treat me like—like me.”

Midoriya hummed and brought his fist to his mouth, which moved silently for a few seconds as he formed the words, but eventually, he glanced over his shoulder to speak. “Then I’ll work for it. I’ll study you until I work my way under your skin, until I’m exactly what you want.”

It’s the arrogance in his words and the safety in the distance between you that made you roll your eyes, finally tearing them from your determined gaze at his face and settling on his dick, prettily resting half-hard on his thighs, but you refused to look at it for more than a few seconds: it’s a dick one of your best friends fucked for years.

(It’s also unnerving how he’s kept saying want instead of love.)

You held up your hand to block your view of him. “I want nothing to do with you.”

***

Perched on your hip, Dango yelled and kneaded with her claws out until you woke. Bleary, you automatically raised your hand to pet her.

You’d slept in. No field work today, just a meeting later about performance evaluations for your interns. You got to have a slow morning.

Now that you were awake and gradually becoming caffeinated, the stupider the situation grew. How audacious of Midoriya to assume you’ll like the same sort of things Uraraka likes—and sure, there’s overlap, but he’s assuming instead of figuring it out with you. You’re an individual. You can’t take anyone’s place, and no one can replace you. Honestly, it should be obvious to the number-one hero that you’re the only you out there. What an idiot.

The doorbell startled Dango from your lap. Setting your tea aside, you trudged over to see who’s crazy enough to visit at 8:36 in the morning.

You opened the door on some…kid, dressed in a worn suit, holding a tablet, and asking for your hero name, and after confirming you were you, he continued. “Hello. My name is Kazama Tetsuya, and I’m a representative of Mera Yokumiru, longest-running president of the Hero Public Safety Commission. I’m here in regards to the incident concerning pro-hero Deku at 07:41 hours this morning. Your cooperation is required. Sign here, please.”

Frowning, you took the offered tablet and stylus and slouched against your door frame. “What am I signing? How come there’s no text here?”

“Hm. They said they wanted this done as quickly as possible,” said Kazama, striding past you into your flat, and, with his hands on his hips, he took a cursory look around. “Twenty sounds like it should work.”

Tiny spheres of flesh popped off of him like gravel sliding off a shovel, and each one grew to an identical clone of himself, all of them rushing around your apartment.

“What’s going on?” you asked, shoving the tablet back towards whom you hoped was the original.

The Kazama tilted his head at you, keeping his hands flat against the tablet so that you would have to keep gripping it. “Have you not heard? Deku is in the hospital. Critical condition.”

“Okay, whatever,” you said, pushing it into his chest, slipping the corner of it under his suit lapel so that it’d stay, “What does that have to do with me? What’re all of these yous doing in my apartment?”

Kazama’s eyes flickered down to the tablet, which you were supporting with a single finger, but he made no move to grab it. “We’re packing your belongings. Due to your extreme and explicit rejection of your soulmate, Deku was unable to complete a mission. It took both Dynamight and Shouto to pin him down; his thrashing and convulsing inadvertently caused immense property damage. He was unable to be communicated with. The only reason he’s in a hospital at all is because Tainted Love was summoned to sedate him.”

You glared at the Kazamas wrapping your dishware in newspaper. “So why are you packing my stuff? Stop it.”

Kazama shook his head. “Afraid we can’t. The ultimate decision of the HPSC is that you cohabitate with Deku so that he will not experience debilitating pain again. This decision is under the stipulation of Tainted Love’s quirk that dictates that soulmate bond pain will desist if the soulmates show some form of acceptance to each other. By living in the same space, you are accepting that Deku is safe to be around in a physical capacity.”

You dropped the stylus and tablet to the floor, screen cracking. “What kind of—”

“His pain will be exacerbated if you don’t,” said Kazama, bending to pick up the tablet, “He wouldn’t be able to perform his hero work. You wouldn’t deprive Japan of its number-one hero, would you?” Kazama tucked the stylus into an inner suit pocket, and he held the broken tablet lazily at his side.

They were already unmounting your art from the walls.

Swallowing, you crossed your arms. “What about me? Am I not valued as a hero? Don’t I get a choice?”

From your bedroom, you heard Dango meowing mournfully.

***

Dressed in wrinkled civvies seized before Kazamas could pack them into a box, you stormed into your hero agency, grinding your teeth, ignoring co-workers calling out to you, and mashing the elevator button to go to the ninth floor over and over again.

You bounced on the balls of your feet in the empty elevator. When was the last time you passed out? You just might, at how worked up you’ve gotten. You placed two fingers over your wrist to take your pulse.

But the lift doors opened on a wonderfully busy ninth floor—wonderful because the woman you needed was in her office. Frazzled, you shoved open the door, palm flat on the glass, and managed to say, “Are you particularly busy right now?”

Ito set her package of cheese crackers on her desk. “Not for you. I was gonna call you when I knew you were awake,” she was saying as you shut the door behind you and approached her vacant armchair, “to let you have a bit more time, but it looks like you’ve heard.”

You plopped into the armchair across from her, tapping your fingers on the chintz. “What happened?”

“I could ask you the same question,” she said, closing her laptop, “Strongest instance of soulmate rejection I’ve ever seen.”

“Another time, Ito. What’s your involvement with this? The HPSC is packing up my apartment to move in with Deku as we speak.”

Ito winced. “Ooh, that quick? It hasn’t been three hours.”

You inhaled sharply. “That quick?Don’t tell me—”

“They called me in to subdue him, and the only way I could do that was by making him breathe in my quirk again.”

Groaning, you clonked your forehead on her desk. “I don’t want an increase in romantic clichés with Deku.”

“Sorry about that,” she said, holding out her cheese crackers to you, “Nothing else was working. He even instantly burst through Shouto’s ice veil.”

Shifting your jaw, you took a cracker. “Is three hours abnormally fast for the clichés to set in?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Damn,” you said, chewing, “I’ve gotten so used to my life alone. I like it. I’m have control over my life. I love my friends; I love my work. I’ve gotten used to not needing romance to be happy, and now it’s—I don’t want it.”

‘With Deku or at all?”

“I don’t know. Probably both.”

“Well. Hate to remind you, but you can’t blame girl code entirely for not wanting him. You know how my quirk works: there had to have been a moment of genuine attraction between the two of—”

“I know; I can even pinpoint it back to the night I felt it,” you said, holding out your hand for another cracker, “I don’t know. I don’t know! They didn’t ask me before they started packing my shit up, claiming Deku’s pain was more important than my feelings. Don’t I matter, too? Why am I fodder in this quest to alleviate Deku’s pain? Am I not important?”

Ito handed the entire packet to you. “Not as important as the number one, evidently.”

“I don’t blame you, of course; we didn’t know each other back then,” you said, peeling back the plastic to expose the next cracker and accidentally letting all of them fall to the desktop, “But it’s stupid. I feel like I’m being forced into it from so many angles. The bond won’t letting me feel anything for anyone else. It’s dumb. I’m dumb. I’m tired.”

Ito frowned and steepled her fingers. “I need you to explain some of that. Soulmate bonds let you have feelings for other people. You don’t have to be in a romantic relationship with your soulmate, so long as you’re still in their life as a positive force—it’s just that pretty much every pair has ended up romantic, anyway. I’ve known of situations with soulmate pairs within a polycule, and stuff, so—interesting. This may be an aspect of your bond specifically. Have you tried really hard to like someone else?”

“I don’t even have the motivation to.”

“That could just be you, not the bond. You said you’re used to not having romance in your life.”

“I hope it’s me, then. Makes part of it of my own volition.” You scratched the back of your head, wishing you were still in bed and ignorant of the situation.  “I haven’t seen you since the news dropped yesterday, so I’d like for you to assess what I know about the bond. Deku and I share dreams.”

“Common enough,” said Ito, nodding as she opened her desk’s top drawer, “Affects three percent of people affected by my quirk.”

“But I’ve read your reports. Most of them go to a single location, like an endless beach or the same cottage in a forest, with no one else around.” You tongued a cracker part to your cheek to enunciate more clearly. “Deku and I have been sharing an entire, fantastical world, populated with mirrors of people we know in real life.”

Ito paused as she gripped a new cracker packet. “That’s…new. New to me, anyway.”

Not a good sign. “Is there any way to stop having these dreams? I’m pissed my brain has to be turned on all of the time, and I don’t wanna see Deku every night.”

Ito fiddled with the plastic. Squinted at the ingredient list. “Not sure there’s a way to stop it on this end, but I’ll look into it. Why don’t you find the dream version of me to consult her?”

“Ito, you’re brilliant,” you said, pushing on her desk to stand, “I have a nap to take.”

You’d gotten to the door before she called your name. “Just so you know. The more you hate him, the worse his pain will get. I’m not telling you to love him. I never would. But.” Her expression glazed over; some of her thick, white hair fell into her face, and she made no move to brush it away. “It was terrifying. To see the number-one hero like that. My quirk was killing him. I like hearing men scream, but not like that. I don’t—I don’t want to hear that sound ever again.”

***

When you woke up in your fantasyland, the first thing you did was pelt Midoriya with your pillow.

“You are ruining my life at the moment,” you hissed between bites of breakfast.

In the waiting room of a diviner who was using All Might’s soul crystal to locate the altar, you shoulder-checked him. “Are we gonna be forced to combine agencies, too? Or am I gonna have to leave mine to join yours?”

Midoriya rubbed his shoulder, glancing over it at the others, discussing the map. “Legally, no, but I assume we’ll collaborate more.”

“Good. That’s my agency; I built it from scratch. I don’t want any other big decisions being made for me.”

During a water break out of the Valley of Haze, you knocked over his bag, furious with an abrupt realisation. “You were writing down my quirk.”

Midoriya hesitated before he took a drink from his canteen. “I’m sorry. When?”

“At the café when we first met here. You were writing down everyone’s quirks and how their types of magic matched up with them, and I threw you off because my magic isn’t like my quirk at all.”

Midoriya puffed out his cheeks, exhaling. “That’s true. You caught me.”

At Belldrop Pass, you gasped at the same time Shinsou paid the toll. “You idiot,” you said, thumping Midoriya’s chest, “You’ve been obvious that you weren’t thinking of Uraraka romantically. You’ve been calling her Uraraka instead of Ochaco.” You dug the heels of your palms into your eyes. “I should’ve known.”

When you stopped for a late supper outside of Mellowroom, you tried to be civil (Shinsou was watching). “Deku,” you said thickly, through a dinner roll, “I think we should find Ito here. She may be able to help with—our situation.”

Midoriya laughed nervously. “Hah, really? I guess it would be worth tracking her down again.”

You choked on your bread. “Again?”

Midoriya handed your glass to you and slumped in his seat to make the conversation private from the rest of the table. “She’s the one who told me about the soul altar. She’s not a soulwalker, but she’s the only other person I know of who has soul magic. I didn’t ask after soulmates that time because I didn’t think this was a soulmate situation.”

“I am going to crazy axe murder you.”

“Go ahead.”

You refused to talk to him all the way to the final strip of coastline where you set up camp. The group had travelled for so long that it took real effort to even unlace their boots, but you couldn’t sleep despite your exhaustion. Sleeping would mean waking up in reality.

You sat on the shore, antsy as you stared out at the sea, the thin crescent moon reflecting on the water. An island only visible in the spirit realm was supposed to be out there, and on that island, the soul altar.

You were getting too fidgety and jittery; you might work yourself up into a panic attack. Brushing the sand off your trousers, you stood, but when you turned, you bumped into Midoriya.

He shot you a curt wave. “Can’t sleep?”

You bit your lip. “Don’t want to.”

“Then you don’t have to,” he said, holding out his hand, “Let’s go to the spirit realm together. We can stake out what’s on the island before we go there officially tomorrow.”

You might as well give yourself something to do instead of overthinking. Ignoring his hand, you trudged back through the dunes towards the rest of your party, all passed out in a half-hearted attempt at setting up camp. While you intended to immediately take advantage of the homing spell the diviner placed on All Might’s soul crystal, Midoriya whispered across a sleeping Touya that you at least needed to unfurl your bedroll so that your soulless body would be secure enough to leave without a guard. Midoriya upset camp structure by dragging his own bedroll next to yours, and he set the crystal’s box on it so that it’d be there for you in the spirit realm, while you rummaged about for the dregs of the last time you made your lucidity potion. You took most of the last mouthful before passing the phial to Midoriya, and yet he was waiting for you in the spirit realm by the time you crawled out of your body.

You curled your tail around your little cat legs, and Midoriya followed the movement. “You know,” he said slowly, expression unreadable behind his mask, “You don’t have to be a cat. You can just apply a couple of cat traits to your human form, or you could do something so minor as changing your eye colour.”

“I’m not gonna be a fucking catgirl,” you said, leaping from your bedroll to his to avoid dirt on your paws.

“It’ll be faster to move around if you were bipedal.”

“Open the box,” you said, swatting at it with your paw.

“Hm. Do you think we’re within the radius for the homing spell to activate? We may have to return to the shoreline. Hey, don’t try to claw it open. That’s All Might you’re handling.” Midoriya popped open the box and moved to set it between you, but you had your grabby little paw on it before it was on the ground. Midoriya hissed and rushed to touch the crystal before you evaporated.

Less than a minute later, you materialised face-down in dirt. You curled your fingers into it, rubbing grit between them until you were tactile enough to stand, and you brushed the dirt from your dress, glancing over the half-kilometre of ocean between this island and the shoreline. If you squinted, you think you could make out your camp among the dunes.

“Thank you for cooperating,” came Midoriya’s voice from behind you, crunching dead leaves as he approached, “It’ll be easier this way.”

“I didn’t choose to look human,” you said, frowning over your exposed knees in some intangibly wispy dress, patting where your pockets had been, “You look different, too.”

Midoriya allowed you a better look at how both of your outfits clung to you in wisps, like they were curls of fog that could be swept away with a single breath. His mask was torn in half—mouth still concealed, hair still covered by rabbit-ears hood, but every movement of his eyes could now be detected—and, eerily, they were fixated on you.

He plucked a leaf from his vest to flick it away. “I didn’t choose to, either. Looks like the soul altar has some opinions on us.” His hood’s rabbit ears flickered a glowing green for a fraction of a second, both of them twitching. Midoriya didn’t notice.

Instead, he stretched his arms over his head, arching his back and looking over the curvature of an enormous tree’s limbs that shielded most of the island from moonlight. “Suppose we’d better head towards that tree, yes?” he asked, coming off of a groan.

“Seems to be the centre, anyway,” you said, striding past him towards a narrowly cut path, and behind you, Midoriya laughed. You spun on your heel and crossed your arms. “What’s so funny, Deku?”

He sobered, but his eyes still glinted. “I wasn’t going to say anything, since you didn’t seem to notice the glowing blue whiskers,” he said, waving his hand in front of his face, “but you’ve really been assigned catgirl by the spirit realm, it seems. You’ve got a tail.”

“What?” You twisted to see it, but you couldn’t discern anything at all.

“Nine of them, actually,” Midoriya was saying, smile creeping into his voice again, as you stomped towards him, “I considered you might be a kitsune at first, but then I remembered that cats are supposed to have nine lives—”

You seized his infuriatingly slim waist and forced him to spin around.

“Feel free to manhandle me more, sweet—”

“There,” you said, jabbing two fingers into his back above the swell of his ass, “You’ve been assigned bunny-boy. You’ve got a tail, too.” It’d twitched when you’d poked him. “Can you not feel it?”

“Not at all,” said Midoriya, hands raised, waiting for you to manoeuvre his body more (when you noticed, you shoved him away). “So, you can’t, either? Funny.”

“I’ll kill you,” you said, turning back to the path, “I’ll really do it this time.”

“Do you think that if we die here, we’ll die in real life?” he asked as he jogged to catch up with you. “Since it is really us who come here, if in spirit or soul rather than body, then do you think we’d…”

Midoriya babbled the entire walk to the soul altar, sucking out all the fun of threatening to murder him. At the centre of an overgrown, stone dais, the trunk of the grand tree was hollowed out by erosion, worn through by a spring running through it and pooling at its base, the clearest water you’ve ever seen burbling quietly underneath a smattering of lily pads. Glowing wildflowers crept onto the platform, and the tree’s branches grew downward, creating a cramped dome around the space.

Midoriya ran his hand over the domed branches, failing to push them from their structure. “I wouldn’t know if this is the altar. I’m assuming, since the stone dais indicates that someone built this, but—call me naïve, but I was picturing an altar.”

“No, I think it is,” you said, crouching near the water, “There’s a stone lily pad. At the centre of the spring. Is it just me, or does the way the flower’s formed look like it would hold a soul crystal?”

Midoriya knelt next to you on the rim. “It’s not just you.”

You stood and edged closer to the stone lily pad. “Do you think either of us could reach it?”

Brow furrowed, Midoriya said, “I don’t think we should touch—”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Midoriya brushed a curl out of his face at the same time his rabbit ears trembled. “It’s too far out for either of us to reach securely, but I could help—”

“Give me the soul crystal.” You braced your knees on the pool’s edge, and you stretched over the water, straining your arm until you were just a few inches short of the lily pad. You wriggled your fingers in an attempt to graze it. You waited for his admonishment, but it never came. Baffled, you glanced over your shoulder.

Midoriya stared into his lap, thumbs intertwining. “I don’t think so,” he said, shifting his jaw, “You’re tired and desperate for answers. You shouldn’t let All Might be the expendable part of this. We should go back to camp and try this for real in the morning.” His wide, hard eyes locked with yours, and for some reason, it was too much, the way the spirit realm made them glow with life more than they ever did in reality. “You need to listen to—”

Losing your balance by jerking away from his glare, you fumbled for support on the stone lily pad, but you closed your fist around nothing but water and slipped. For three, aching seconds, freezing water pierced through to your soul, but Midoriya snatched you from the water before your brain could register you’d fallen in.

“You’re okay; you’re okay. Relax,” Midoriya was saying, clutching you to his chest to share his body heat, while you shivered and writhed despite his hands on your waist and your forehead (probably to keep from banging your head on the dais), “Really, sweetheart, when I tell you not to do something, it’s for your own good.”

“Don’t sta—start that with me,” you said, sputtering, “I’ll kill—”

“Wait, shh, shh, shh.” Midoriya clamped a hand over your mouth, and you were about to rip it away, but with a minute move of his hand, he directed your line of sight to what he was talking about.

The stone lily pad sank into the pool, furiously bubbling from the spot, spreading to cover the pool’s surface, the sound of rippling water growing each second.

Gasping, your hand flew to a suddenly hot spot on your lower back, and—even through your closed eyelids, you could make out the intensely blue glow, surging brighter and brighter. Midoriya pushed down on your back, keeping you between his legs but with enough space for—you could see them, this time—for your tails to splinter off and dive into the pool, heat leaving with them.

As you struggled to sit back up (Midoriya helped you up by wrapping an arm around your shoulders), wide swaths of angrily frothing bubbles surged from each tail’s entry point, each glowing in turn as you tried to catch a glimpse of the surfacing images—

***

“No, c’mon—sit all the way down,” Katsuki was saying, and you flinched when you looked down to see that he was gripping your thighs, forcing them apart, with the lower half of his face glistening in the lamplight. “There’s no way the bond won’t extend this far; it applied to your gag reflex. You won’t hurt me—and besides, I can handle you any day of the week with my hands tied behind my back.”

***

You flinched at the pop of a cork, planted in a crowd of your friends at a formal celebration and gripping an empty glass, and at your side, Neito let the champagne foam gush onto the floor, laughing as your friends applauded. You could see the moment the idea crossed his mind: he swopped the bottle to his clean hand, and, with a smug grin, he held his champagne-soaked fingers to your mouth, in front of everybody.

***

Shouto seized you from the party and onto a battlefield covered in smoke, his whole hand encircling your forearm, and after he gave you a once-over, he slid his hand down to yours, his wedding band hot from his flames.

“Don’t worry,” Shouto said, clasping your hand and easing his own to a comfortable warmth, gesturing with the other towards the bleeding scratches on his face and neck, “I can’t feel a thing.”

***

“I wish Eri and Tenko had come to the farmers’ market with us,” you found yourself saying, putting an apple back in its stall, “Then I’d have a better idea of what they might want over the holiday.”

“I wish you’d think more about what you want.” Shouta’s voice grumbled in your ear, body heat blending with yours as his hand came to rest on your waist. “I’m glad they didn’t come. Between them, our friends, and our students, I need all the time with you I can get.”

When he brought your hand to his mouth, Shouta left a glittering, pink mark behind.

***

You were still staring at the back of your hand when you were slammed into a darkened room, sinking into a mattress with tears running down your cheeks.

“I—I love you; I’ve loved you for so long,” came Hitoshi’s voice, his own tears dropping onto your neck as he kissed your pulse point, the barest edge of his fingers brushing over your bare skin, pressing lightly into the underside of your breast, “I was terrified that I’d never be allowed to look your way.” His hips shifted between your legs, one of his large hands dragging upwards along the inside of your thigh. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

***

“To get what you want, Touya,” you heard yourself saying into your phone, feeling yourself physically sitting on a kitchen stool but seeing things through Touya’s eyes, seeing his hands run down his bare chest, thumbs pricking at his boxers, “You have to tell me how pretty you look right now.”

Touya’s hands faltered, clenching into fists. “Hey, fuck you. Why don’t you come back home, then, instead of leaving me by myself? I get so worked up when you’re not—”

“Say it, baby.”

Touya slid his hand past elastic to squeeze himself, cutting off his groan with a breathy inhale, the tiny hole in his cheek whistling. “I guess I’m—”

***

You’re blinded by falling cherry blossoms. You had to blink to adjust. Tenko was at your side, dressed in a mirror of your own pink yukata, and he was yanking you off the sakura-viewing path, out of the way of the scavenger hunters rushing to find the next clue. Tenko pushed you against a tree out of sight, smile toothy and endearing in the moment before he kissed you, quiet but all-consuming and fervent.

***

Your soul thumped back into your body with enough force to knock Midoriya backwards with you, and once again, you were soaked and shivering and miserable, instead of feeling all of that warmth. It took a few moments for its dregs to drain from your chest, and then the cavity it left was simply hollow.

Midoriya had his arms around your torso and legs clenched around yours, bracing you from falling back farther on the dais, and his voice came quietly. “Is that it? Aren’t there any more?”

You tried to inhale. Your nose was stopped up. “Aren’t those enough?”

Midoriya’s grip loosened, arms falling to your waist—enough room to leave, if you had the strength. Once he pulled his mask down to rest around his neck, his voice was less muffled. “You—you still have two more left.”

Grimacing, you wiped your nose on your wispy sleeve. “What?”

From behind you came another bright blue glow, but it didn’t plunge into the water on impulse like the others had. Instead, the cattail detached itself and wove itself around your wrist playfully, nudging what might be its head at your palm. For barely a full second, you felt that warmth again, and again you felt its loss when the tail unravelled itself from your forearm and wafted towards the stone lily pad, in which it curled into a gossamer sphere and vanished.

You held your wrist to your mouth in a vain hope to trace that warmth. “I think that may have been a life in which I don’t have a soulmate. Or perhaps all of them.”

Midoriya nodded against the crown of your head, and he reached around to grasp your forearm, drawing it away from your face to examine it himself. “One of them is sticking around. I supposed we can assume what that one is.”

“Deku,” you said, as he twisted your forearm to get a better look, while you were baffled why the pool was growing blurry, “All of those people I was soulmates with, in different lifetimes—I.” You cut yourself off, plucking your wet dress away from your skin. “They were the only people we know who weren’t affected by Ito’s quirk. What if—what if I’m the reason they don’t have a soulmate? What if I’m supposed to be their soulmate, but we can’t be paired off in this timeline because of you and me, and so their lives are colourless—”

Midoriya kissed your wrist, in the same spot you had.

Ah. The pool was blurry because you’re crying. You’re so wet that you hadn’t noticed.

You turned around in his hold, fingers curling into the damp spot on his shirt. “I’ve fucked our friends over, Deku. I’ve ruined their lives. They’re gonna have to watch everyone else they know, including you and me, dawdle in this sappy fucking soulmate shit forever, and they’re always gonna feel—” You slapped a fist to your chest. “They’re gonna feel this hollowness for the rest of their lives—I just had a taste of what that soulmate warmth feels like, and even in those flashes, it made its home in my gut, and I don’t know how I’m gonna live without that now that it’s touched me.” You grabbed his shirt again, a bit too roughly, forcing his ass down a stair on the dais. “I’d chase that feeling until the end of time if I knew it was snatched from me.”

Eyes darting between your face and hands, Midoriya closed his hand around your fist and pried it away from his shirt. “You can have that warmth again with me.”

“I don’t fucking care about you right now,” you said, beating his chest and pushing him down another step, “I care about my friends, whom I love. And apparently people I didn’t even know were important to me. They’re gonna wander the earth alone, and no one should have to do that. Fuck.” You shoved him away, crawled a few steps up the dais, stooped on the edge of the water, and buried your face in your hands. “How can I fix this?”

“You don’t have to,” Midoriya was saying, splayed out as you’d left him at the bottom of the stairs (hands held up cautiously, as if he’s taming a wild animal—and you resented that). “It’s not your responsibility. It’s just another aspect of the soulmate trope quirk. No part of this is your fault.”

“Why is there only one of me,” you asked flatly, dragging your clammy palms down your cheeks.

Midoriya hissed through his teeth, the wisps of his shirt collar dissipating and reforming with the movement. “You don’t know that they’re suffering. You know they’d complain—”

“You don’t let anyone know when there’s shit going on with you.”

He paused, brow furrowing. “That’s different.”

“Please. Promoting all this bullshit about supporting each other when you keep everyone locked out—in those brief flashes, I felt closer to each and every one of them than I ever have to you.” A full-body shiver wracked through you. You toyed with the hem of your dress, but you can’t take it off; he’s right there. “Hell, I barely had ten seconds with each of them, but I know that I’d take any of them over being here with you.”

“You haven’t given me a chance.”

“Why would I, when you’ve been scarily opportunistic? I—fuck,” you said, tugging at your hair and standing to pace, “I could’ve had anything. Could’ve had everything. Could’ve been content and happy and warm, but instead I have to be here. With you, instead of any of those men who know how to love me, and I them. I’ve fucked them over.”

Midoriya took a moment. Wetted his lips. Moved to a crouch. “Please listen to me. Not one iota of this is your fault. It’s just a pattern that’s been made clear to us because of this fantastical situation we’ve found ourselves in. In our reality, when we’re awake, you have one soulmate. You have no bonds with the others. You’re not their soulmate. You’re mine. And I’m yo—”

“Oh, get over yourself,” you said, clomping down the dais and shunting your foot against his chest, pinning him to the ground (the back of your head said that he was letting you do that, since he could rip you to shreds at any shut the fuck up). “This isn’t about romance, shithead. This is about losing a primary relationship that helps them grow as human people. What if I’m the catalyst for a bunch of character development, and they don’t get that now? Use your fucking brain, Deku. I want my friends to be the best versions of themselves that they can…they…”

Your mouth clamped shut. He’d gotten that determined gleam in his eyes again, staring up at you, practically sparking slivers of that OFA lightning, and he’d snaked his hand around your ankle.

Your brain emptied when his thumb rubbed over the bone on the inside of your ankle.

“I don’t think that’s quite true.” He was suppressing it. He was. But he couldn’t entirely hide the upwards quirking of his mouth when he spoke. “How much of this petulance is because it’s me?”

Intending to huff, your stopped-up nose made you hrnk stupidly instead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, lifting your foot’s pressure from his chest.

But Midoriya tightened his grip around your ankle, trapping it against him, no matter how hard you struggled. “You don’t want to inconvenience anyone. You think that living in another timeline wouldn’t’ve upset the status quo here. Here, you appear to inconvenience many people—Uraraka and me, the people who have certain perceptions of us. The ones who aren’t your soulmate. You think you’ll even upset the balance of your friend group, because no one has dated another friend’s ex before. You don’t want this, because there’s no easy way out. It’s too much trouble.”

His hood’s rabbit ears sparked green and shuddered before fading, reminding you of all the trouble Midoriya’s been for you for the past few months. You tried to jerk your foot away, not caring if your shoe came off, but he caught the back of your knee with his other hand and yanked you down towards him. You hated how he’d perfectly set up your fall, straddling his chest without hurting either of you. Securing you to him by your knee, he’d relinquished his hold on your ankle to intertwine his fingers with yours—if he hadn’t, you’d be choking him by now.

“You don’t want to rock the boat, because it’ll be hard. Well, let me tell you something,” he said, curls splayed around his head, flat on the earth, concentrating all of that resolve and brainpower on you (as if you were someone worth watching), “Life is hard, my dear. But isn’t it worthwhile to try?”

“I can’t take this.” You blundered behind you for the velvet box clipped to his belt, and the instant you touched the soul crystal, you beamed back to your body at camp.

Gasping, you bolted upright, throat very dry, eyes adjusting to the physical realm’s moonlight—startling Shinsou, quietly puttering about to heat up some coffee while the others still slept. Over his shoulder, out over the ocean, the island was gone, and Shinsou was tilting his head, opening to mouth to ask what had happened, when Midoriya returned to his body as well.

Face red with fury and still soaked to the bone, Midoriya spat, “You can’t just run from all of—”

You scrambled away when he grabbed for you, throwing yourself over your bags and Shinsou’s as a barrier, and at the fire, you clutched Shinsou’s arm.

Midoriya remained in his hunch from when he’d tried to catch you, fist digging into the dirt. The heaviness of his shoulders rising and falling would have been more intimidating if his nose hadn’t been whistling, but you didn’t like it, the way he was looking at you, because that was the look he only ever gave villai—well. You could work with that.

Jumbled and scared and angry, you grabbed Shinsou by his kinky, medieval collar and kissed him, because if Midoriya’s going to look at you like a villain, you’d like to deserve it, especially since he doesn’t seem to want to blame you for any of this, not even that your soul’s evidently compatible with other people (and wouldn’t he want you all to himself?), and Shinsou made some sort of squeak that turned into a quiet grunt at the back of his throat before opening his mouth; you needed to push Midoriya away, because even if you let yourself like him, what if you screw up this soulmate in addition to all the others, and then what percentage of your friends will you have fucked up? Shinsou’s actually really good at this, wow, but shouldn’t Midoriya be jealous about that why is he letting this go on for so long.

Stones sinking into your gut, you broke from Shinsou, pressing your forehead to his, mouthing thank you, and giving his hair a final ruffle before pulling away entirely. Shinsou remained frozen in his campseat, but Midoriya had crossed his arms, looking out over the ocean and quite bored.

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, on your tongue, and on the roof of your mouth. He’d been so vehement, so intense, and this quiet stoicism made your breath hitch in your throat. Isn’t he—isn’t he going to say anything? Rebuke you?

When Shinsou asked something along those lines, all Midoriya did was wipe some of the dirt off of his jawline and rub it between his fingers. “She knows what she’s doing wrong.”

***

You woke up for the first time in Midoriya’s apartment, sick to your stomach, and seeing all of your worldly possessions in boxes against the wall of his guest room, creating claustrophobia, did not help. Even the sheets that fell to your waist when you sat up weren’t yours; the only stuff you’d unpacked last night was Dango’s bare requirements. Where is she, anyway? You needed to press your face into her belly fluff.

Hoping Dango damaged some of Midoriya’s tchotchkes in the night, you stumbled to the bathroom and knelt by the toilet, waiting for the nausea to pass. God, you really did kiss Shinsou to piss off Midoriya, didn’t you? Your stomach flipped at the thought of using your best friend for something like that, especially since—you winced, resting your forehead against the bathtub rim—since Shinsou might like you romantically.

Fuck, all of them might.

You doubted it, because you normally don’t have that sort of luck, but regardless, you hoped to God they didn’t. You couldn’t stand the thought of their feeling that hollowness.

Would dream Shinsou be mad at you for using him? You didn’t want him to be mad. He’s Shinsou. Checking in with the real Shinsou about it would get you out of this apartment. It’s still incredible early in the morning; you weren’t even sure the sun had risen yet, but you needed to escape. Eyeing the new toothbrush Midoriya had given you last night, you pushed yourself up, still a bit wobbly, and got ready as quietly as you could.

All your sneaking didn’t matter, though, because a shirtless Midoriya was in the kitchen when you passed through it, popping above the maximum dose of ibuprofen into his mouth, slumping over the counter, and mumbling under his breath to the sound of his electric kettle boiling. Maybe you could just slip behind him, and he wouldn’t say anyth—

“It’s good to see you up,” said Midoriya, keeping his back to you and removing his kettle from the heat (you winced, shoulders slackening now that you’ve been caught), “I figured you would stay in bed today. You went through a lot last night.”

“I have work,” you said, trying to look anywhere but his tensing biceps as he poured water over a teabag in an Ingenium mug, “I—I don’t wanna sit around and have time to think.”

“You and I could call out of work. Could unpack your things,” he said, facing you and fiddling with the string on his teabag, “Would you like some tea? I have more than just oolong.”

You started edging towards the door. “No, I’m. I’m going to work.”

Midoriya blinked. Glanced at the clock on the wall. “All right. Wear your raincoat; it’s supposed to storm around sunrise.”

Was it? “I don’t know where Kazama packed my raincoat.”

“Take mine, then. In the closet by the door.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you said, spinning on your heel towards the closet, anyway. You couldn’t get to most of your packed-away clothes, so it made sense to protect the few articles of clothing you had access to.

Midoriya followed a few paces behind, bobbing the teabag in his mug. “Don’t get angry with me for looking out for you,” he said, blinking slowly, leaning against the wall while you rooted through his hanging jackets, “Would you prefer I let you suffer? Oh, you passed it. It’s the green one.”

“How is your suffering, incidentally?” You pulled his raincoat off the hanger and shoved your arms into the sleeves. “Need another trip to the hospital?”

“Would it betray my otherwise calm exterior if I revealed that I’m barely holding it together?” He grasped your shoulder and turned you towards himself in what should have been akin to manhandling but was actually gentle. “I’ll be okay. It’s better now that you’re here,” said Midoriya, zipping up the jacket for you, holding eye contact once the zipper stopped at your throat.

What. The fuck. Is he going to keep pulling these mundane (but weirdly doing it for you) moves? “Then allow me to leave,” you said, reaching for the doorknob.

***

“Hitoshi,” you said, deeming it deep enough in your visit to mention it, “I have a hypothetical question for you.”

Shinsou unlaced his boot to make a tighter attempt. “Try me.”

“Hypothetically. Hypothetically. If—if you and I knew each other in a different universe, if we’re still the same people adapted for a different world—hypothetically. Would—” You swallowed thickly, and you took a sip from your takeaway cup, full of the bleak-in-taste but high-in-caffeine coffee perpetually available in the break room at Might Tower. “Hypothetically, if I—fuck. Okay. If I kissed you, to prove a point, to piss someone else off, to make someone else jealous—hypothetically, would that version of you be mad at me? Start to hate me?”

With a wry smile, Shinsou paused in his cleaning the inside of his mask, dabbing the interstices with an alcohol wipe. “If he’s truly anything like me,” he said, reaching over to ruffle your hair, “he’s grateful for anything you’ll give him. For any reason.”

You didn’t bother to bat away his hand like usual, and without your protestations, he returned to his mask. “You’re breaking my heart, Hitoshi.”

“That makes two of us.”

***

The train ride to Bakugou’s agency had you vibrating out of your skin. You didn’t even flash your ID at the front desk of Genius Offices; the elevator couldn’t rise fast enough to the floor with Bakugou’s office—you had to see him to test if a-fucking-nother of your friends had feelings for you, if your fears of ruining their lives were well-founded. Employees let your through because of your hero status but also because of the intensely manic energy you emitted, and the path to Bakugou’s office cleared the first step you took out of the elevator.

When you slammed open his door, the knob struck the wall, flecking off paint, and your heart stopped: yes, Bakugou was taking up as much space as he could in his swivel chair, wrists draped over the chair’s arms, legs splayed, one of them kicked up on his desk, but Midoriya stood across from him, in civvies still wet from the rain, halted mid-pace, lips still parted. You couldn’t let his presence change anything; you had to—well, you’ll have to expediate the conversation since he’s here.

Supressing panic, you strode towards Bakugou, determinedly ignored Midoriya, and straddled Bakugou’s thigh to cup his face to kiss him. Damn, Bakugou—he immediately opened his mouth, hot and consuming and a little dizzying in the way his tongue pushed into your mouth, pressing against yours—that’s enough.

You broke from Bakugou, panting. “Katsuki,” you said softly, feeling Midoriya’s gaze bore into the back of your head, “Do you have feelings for me?”

“Hahh.” Bakugou’s grip slid from your waist along the curve of your hip, fingers digging into your skin for three seconds—his eyes darting over your shoulder and back to your lips. “I, uh. Never planned on discussing them in front of Izuku. Wasn’t gonna bring them up at all, with the news two days ago that you two are soulma—”

“Oh, God.” You stumbled off of Bakugou’s lap and onto the floor, hitting your head on his desk as you threw up on his fancy carpet.

You were vaguely aware of being shuffled to the in-house infirmary and getting treated for a concussion, with employees trafficking in and out of the infirmary, and your first coherent thought, however much time later, was that it was making you nauseous how gently Midoriya cradled your hand in his when he could snap every bone in it without trying. He was talking to the doctor and Bakugou in turn in that low, firm voice, but words escaped you, only absorbing Bakugou’s subdued frustration and Midoriya’s quiet decisiveness.

You snapped back into it when Todoroki walked in—did he feel the same as Shinsou and Bakugou?—and you seized up, clutching Midoriya’s hand to your chest, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek. “I’ve ruined their lives,” you said under your breath to Midoriya, flinching when his free hand came up to stroke your back, but the gesture grounded you.

“You haven’t,” he whispered back, angling your body towards his so that your voice wouldn’t carry (in your periphery, Bakugou had the decency to thump Todoroki’s arm to pull his attention from your conversation).

“I checked with Shinsou,” you said in a rush, “and now we know Bakugou does, too. I’m so fucking scared to ask anyone else—”

“Don’t do it,” said Midoriya, squeezing your hand, “Knowing won’t make you feel any better. It’s gonna be fine. You had no control over this. No one will blame you for anything.”

“I’m scared.”

“You’ll be okay. I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you. Though, you’ve already hurt yourself a fair amount on Bakugou’s desk—you don’t have a concussion; don’t worry too much.” His middle and ring fingers traced down your spine. “But since you’ve thrown up, why don’t we go home?”

“If we go home, I’ll fall asleep,” you said, tasting blood from how much you’ve bitten your cheek, “and I can’t handle that right now. I need to just stop; I don’t wanna be here or there.”

“All right.” Midoriya nodded, tapping his thumb on the back of your palm with a squeeze to your interlaced fingers. “We’ll see what we can do. Even if you do fall asleep, I’ll make sure none of our party bothers you, if you want.”

“Yeah.” You mirrored his nod, frazzled and jumpy and not quite there, but his hand on your back kept you from dissolving into nothing.

“Listen. I’ll pick up takeaway from somewhere and meet you at home. You have a preferred place? Type of food?”

Your tongue took up too much space in your mouth. But your body needed food, even if you didn’t feel like eating. “Would it be too much trouble to stop by Saizeriya?”

“None at all. Text me your order. You go home and find Dango; pet her until I get back. She was under my bed last time I saw her.” After a moment of wavering, Midoriya pressed his lips to your hairline.

***

You did not return to Midoriya’s flat. Tucking his raincoat closer around you, you topped off your rental car’s gas tank on your way out of town, standing as far away from the dripline of the overhang but getting splashed along your jeans, anyway.

You had no goal. Just wanted distance. Driving in the rain was grounding today, for some reason, and something as horribly modern as driving and traffic laws only existed in this universe, therefore very far from your dreamland.

But you had to sleep eventually, and though dread flooded you, you pulled into a roadside station outside of Kikugawa, got a drink from a vending machine, and kept your phone off, despite the urge to doomscroll. The missed calls and text notifications would corrode your gut, and who knows what sort of tracking services Midoriya might be able to enact?

You watched raindrops race each other down the windshield until your eyes couldn’t stay open, and then you tugged the raincoat’s hood over your eyes to block out the lightning.

***

You could hear Monoma and Touya talking in the distant dunes when you woke. No sign of Shinsou or Midoriya in camp, but you could never be too careful.

You slipped into the spirit realm without anyone realising you’d been awake, and you flipped over to face the soul crystal’s box peeking out of Midoriya’s rucksack. Sitting up out of your body, you pinched your nose, reluctantly humanoid but conceding to its convenience, and took what felt like your first breath all day. Your hand passed through the soul crystal’s box at first—normal for handling a physical object in the spirit realm, so you concentrated on focusing your energy into your fingers.

You had to get to the altar. You weren’t sure how you were going to do it, but you were going to fix this. It had to be this you, not any of the others who neither knew about everyone else nor accessed soul magic. At the soul altar, you would somehow split yourself for everyone to have you—and that may destroy you in this timeline; you didn’t know—but you had to try something—fuck, only the edges of your thumbs were physically manifesting—but something very, very solid closed around your wrist and knocked away the velvet box: Midoriya’s hand.

He caught both of your hands with such speed that he was on top of you before you could register the touch of his thumb and ring finger.

(But—and this was fucking weird—Midoriya wasn’t using his body to dominate you sexually like you’d expect, through a typical move like pinning your arms down and straddling you, a knee between your legs, but instead he’s—he’s completely flattened himself to hold you down, like a weighted blanket. He brought one of your hands between your chests, over his heart, and he propped himself up very slightly by his other elbow, still restraining your hand, and you loathed how it was because he was being considerate, angling his head away from your neck so that his breath wouldn’t wash down it. The chill of the spirit realm made you almost wish he would. But he’s clever, annoyingly clever, and still so kind—he’s got you pinned without room for movement, but nothing hurt. Of course your enemy had to be the most observant and adept piece of shit you’ve ever met.)

Midoriya remained silent for two, long minutes while you stared up past green wisps of hair into the colourless, overcast sky.

“Please don’t do anything drastic to yourself.” He was close enough to hear his swallow. “You don’t need to fix anything. They chose to have romantic feelings for you. You didn’t make them do anything. This happened to you outside of your control. However they deal with their feelings is on them. Other versions of us have all managed. We’re just not at that stage of our lives yet.

“And I think you may be afraid that being with me may narrow your happiness and the happiness of others, and I—I think I’ve made that worse by allowing you glimpses of how I was with Uraraka, but we were fine; she encouraged me to let her give up that control, but you’re right. She and I talked about that. You and I haven’t, and I fall back into comfortable behaviour because it’s the only love I’ve ever known. But if you wanted something romantic between us, it would in no way consume your other relationships. If you like, we could work to foster whatever you want with—with people who are your soulmates elsewhere. No romance is worth cutting yourself off from everyone else. Whatever you want, I’ll do. I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”

You writhed underneath him, saliva building on your tongue. You didn’t have exact words for your feelings, but you should start somewhere. “I wouldn’t expect you to be anything other than yourself. Don’t change yourself for me.”

Out of your periphery, you caught his incredulous expression. “I know I will in thousands of small ways, in how much tea I brew, in how loudly I play my music, in how often I leave the lights on. It’s natural to change, and I’ll gladly do it. I’ll still be me, at the end of it. And, if I may—” He wetted his lips. “—I would venture that the same’s already happened to you. There’s a reason why this you, over any of the others, is here, right now, with me. The choices you’ve made, all the changes and tweaks to yourself that have led to your current personality, have made you perfect to be here, instead of any of the other timelines. This version of you may be too introverted to be with Bakugou or too indirect for Todoroki—I don’t know. But our souls are made for each other, for the right here and right now, and I’d like to know why. The only way I can learn is with you. If you don’t want to, that’s fine, too. But I think—I think we could be good for each other.”

You scoffed, with Midoriya lifting his head to search your face. “Come off of it, Midoriya. I’ve been nothing but hostile towards you. You can’t actually believe that.”

“I do.” He lifted himself enough to look you in the eye, taking some of his weight off of your chest (and your boobs finally weren’t smushed). “I’ve known you tangentially for years, and I’ve known you directly for almost two months now.”

“I didn’t know you were real—”

“But I was, and I was being myself the whole time. Were you?”

Where’s he going with this? “Yes.”

“The you I’ve been getting to know is funny and determined and amiable. She’s quick on her feet and eager to solve problems and cares so, so deeply for other people. And, moreover,” Midoriya said, green eyelashes dark against his skin, “she seems very protective of her heart. I understand your caution; I used to—oh, gracious.”

He released the hand at your side to rub his eye, and he removed himself from your entirely to kneel at your side. You were cold without him.

Midoriya gripped his knees, changed his mind, and went back to rubbing his eye. “Lately, I’ve been really into soft cheeses.”

Sitting up, you crossed your arms, your wispy clothes doing nothing to obstruct the chill. “I’m sorry?”

“I can hardly expect you to let me into your heart when I’ve been absent from mine. You’re right, of course, that I don’t tell people about myself,” said Midoriya, shrugging and slumping afterwards, “My whole life for so long was becoming a hero, so I admit I didn’t have many interests outside of that obsession. Now, being a gregarious but blank slate encourages people to project whatever they need to onto me so that they’ll let me help them. The detail of liking katsudon is minor enough to ground me in reality, reminds the public I’m human. I…”

Grimacing, Midoriya ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his face. “I’ve grown. I’m more than minutiae; I’m more than my actions. I’m still figuring it out myself. But learning, us, together—starts with details from both of us. So, lately, I’ve been into soft cheeses, but my favourite brie and mozzarella are only offered at this farmers’ market just outside of town that only pops up once a month. I don’t always have the date right, so I’ve made the journey only to show up to an empty market more than once. And I don’t know if you’ve been to the kitchen yet, but I usually keep a puzzle going. Right now, I’m doing this 1500-piece puzzle of a red-eyed tree frog on a leaf, and all of the green is making it particularly difficult. I’d love for you to join, and—and I’ve tried to make myself like coffee, but it’s never meshed for me. I always take my tea with sugar instead of milk, which makes me feel like I take it wrong. Don’t most people take it with milk, no sugar?”

You smiled. It’s good to hear the familiar rambling. “I can’t say I’ve thought about it much. I…” You brought your knees to your chest, hugging them and shivering. If he could try to open up, you could, too. “Something a bit similar is going on at work right now. Before all of our soulmate stuff, the biggest drama had to do with the break room coffee creamer. We ran out, and Mina asked Yaoyorozu to make some. She did, but suddenly, there was a debate about whether or not it was creepy to drink something from Yao’s body.”

Midoriya dropped his hand into his lap and managed a small smile. “I don’t think I’d drink that.”

“Yeah, and there were a lot of weird takes, comparing it to breast milk, and stuff. Ultimately, Mina didn’t have coffee at all that morning.”

“Probably for the best,” said Midoriya, glancing off towards the ocean, where the island waited in the distant fog, “I put your Saizeriya’s in the refrigerator. Have you eaten, wherever you are?”

Fidgeting, you moved to bite the inside of your cheek but stopped yourself; the skin smarted on this side of reality, too. “I’m fine. I got something from a vending machine.”

Midoriya frowned. “That’s not a meal. Where are you?”

“I’m…at a rest stop outside of Kikugawa.”

His head snapped towards you. “Kikugawa? What are you—” He winced, ducking his head. “You’re scared of me.”

“I feel better now that we’ve talked,” you said, “I—it’s complicated. My main road block is knowing that I’m tied up with some of our friends in other universes—but I think you’re right; there’s nothing I can do about it. So, I’ll get over that, eventually, hopefully, but I know it’s going to haunt me for a long time. I’ll be fine about that in time. The other road block is, uh.” You couldn’t finish. It was almost too childish to voice.

Midoriya sighed. “Do you want to arrange a meeting with Uraraka in which she gives you her blessing?”

“She already has,” you said, resting your chin on your knee, “Through text, though. Might be better if we talked face-to-face.”

“Right. It will also be beneficial for you to meet her real soulmate, Spike. The difference between how she behaved with me compared to Spike is immense. What else is in the way?”

You sucked in through your teeth. “You know how the Class A girls have a group text?”

“The one left over from Girls and Todoroki Nights?”

“Eh, no. This is a separate one without Todoroki or Shinsou; it’s only women. Okay, so, uh. Uraraka,” you said, hesitant on how to phrase it, “never directly said anything about the, uh, nature of your relationship—never said anything about whatever imbalanced power dynamic you had going on. But she would talk about, like.” God, you can’t look at him. You squared your jaw and said hastily, “She would tell us about your dick and how well you fucked her and sometimes when you would do hot or cute things in bed; like we all found out about how you came in your pants the first time you fingered her, and how your cock is really leaky and you have special fabric underwear to absorb it, and how you eat pussy like you’re making out with it, and—”

(And again, Midoriya surprised you, because instead of turning bright red and sputtering something about not needing to hear any more, he pinched his lower lip, tongue tapping the point of a canine, and said—)

“Do you believe any of it?”

You halted mid-sentence, mouth still shaped like your next word. You closed it before it could dry out. “I do, now.”

“I see. I should’ve expected she’d share details about our sex life; she’s into exhibitionism, and sharing details in a group text is nowhere nearly as exhibitionist as the punishments she wanted me to enact,” he said, as if he weren’t dragging both himself and your friend under, “I’m sorry for my earlier behaviour, especially at the waterfall. You’re right that I was letting myself continue a habit. I should’ve asked what you wanted. Do you…” He pressed his fist to his mouth and looked away, jaw clamped shut to prevent talking aloud.

If you said it out loud, you made it real. You’ve already done your best to squash it down, but—you guessed—Midoriya deserved fair play. “Some of what you did was attractive, but since we hadn’t talked about it, I was scared. I still am, because—well, we’re going to work out the other lives stuff together—but I’m still feeling scared and guilty because you’re my friend’s ex. I know this is only an issue because I’m too trapped in my own head, and I am by no means slut-shaming, or anything, but—I don’t know. I’m scared that every time I touch you that I’ll be comparing myself to Uraraka and if she—did it better, or something. It’s a worry because I know her extremely well, not because there’s been someone with you before me. I know this is ridiculous—”

“All the more reason for you to leave your own mark on me,” Midoriya said, and he removed his cape to wrap it around your trembling shoulders, fixing the clasp around your neck. “Noticed you were cold,” he said with a quick smile, “But if, in any way, it unnerves you that someone you know has touched me, shouldn’t you replace them with your own? How much time should I set aside?”

“What?” You pulled the cape more closely around you, twisting its surprisingly heavy fabric to cover your lap. “Are you—what happened to the Midoriya I knew in school?”

“I’m still him. Every bit.” He toyed with the corner edge of the cape, rubbing it between his fingers. “Listen. If you detach you and me from the situation, from the relationships with our friends, from any context whatsoever, what would you want? Would you want anything from me? Would you want me?”

When he flipped the cape’s corner into your lap and removed his hand, you were tempted to grab hold of it. “I could,” you said, fingers instead curling into the fabric, “It’ll take a while to walk out of my conflicted headspace, but I could.”

Midoriya heaved an enormous sigh, tension visibly leaving his body. “Thank goodness. I fear I’m already too into you to back away. I would if you wanted me to, of course, but—”

(You missed part of the rambling for the huh? What the hell was the number-one hero doing, pining after you? What had you ever done to get his attention?

Two months wasn’t a long time. Possible, of course, but unlikely. Was…was he attracted to you before the soulmate situation occurred?)

“—only hope that you’ll forgive me for my bad behaviour; I should’ve talked to you from the start. I guess I was scared, too,” Midoriya was saying when you snapped back into it, “May I—may I assume we’ll spend more time together? Get to know each other?”

“You may,” you said, and all of the past months of dreaming and running around and avoiding vulnerability weighed down on your back, pressing down to flatten and crush—so, you rolled your shoulders back. Sat up straight. Bit your lip as you looked him directly in the eye and said, “Midoriya, you have permission to seduce me.”

Midoriya opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, brow furrowed. “Are you sure about that?”

“So long as you’re clever about it,” you said, moving to sit on your knees, mirroring him, “So long as you seduce me on an intellectual and moral level before you—you can’t rely solely on your enormous hands and big, ol’ wet eyes. I challenge you to ease me into a romantic relationship from friendship. I want you to make me feel soooooo comfortable. I want you to surprise me.”

You heard the OFA static, rather than saw it. A quiet crackle that faded as he clenched his jaw.

“But otherwise, I want you to do it in ways that you like. Not necessarily what you’re used to.” You were grinning, fascinated by the heady way he was staring at you, unable to tear his eyes away from yours. “I wanna see what you like. I’ll tell you if I’m not into something.”

A few seconds passed before Midoriya answered. “I’m into a lot of things,” he said slowly.

“Yeah? I wanna see what you can give me.”

Twin bolts of lightning snapped and popped around his body, bright and blinding as if they were in the sky, and they sizzled out in an instant when he opened his mouth. “You seem to like to argue. To push back a little. Am I wrong?”

You shook your head, watching the tiny ripples of static electricity weave like snakes around his arms and down to his fingers, tips of your own hair starting to frizz.

“Right. What’s our safeword?”

You cast your thoughts around, and they settled on your seedling fortune from Alderside’s festival. Well. While no one can control your fortune, you’ll make it your own. “Lotus. As in the flower.”

With a slow blink that shot heat to your lower stomach, Midoriya swallowed, his Adam’s apple dipping. “Right,” he said, voice rasping, “I’ll get on it.”

“I look forward to it,” you said, smiling, feeling excited about the soulmate situation for the first time since you breathed in that dust, “In the meantime, why don’t you tell me more about your soft cheeses?”

***

Midoriya was gone by the time you got back to the apartment, and since you didn’t go on patrol until evening, you spent the time unpacking your things. Since yesterday, he’s stuck post-it notes on drawers and cabinets to label their contents, easing the process.

Infuriatingly, you found Dango sleeping on his bed, as if it had been her space her entire life. You crawled onto the bed next to her, holding out your hand for her to sniff.

While she walked in circles before curling in a ball next to you, you glanced over his jam-packed bookshelves and bulletin boards (plural, with a few pieces of yarn connecting tacks across boards) and settled on his bedside table, where, in front of a framed, blood-splattered, All Might trading card sat an empty mug, still smelling of sweetened oolong tea. Cute. You got out your phone to snap a quick picture of Dango and then opened your texts.

YOU

hey midoriya

YOU

i know another thing we can work on

MIDORIYA 👉👈🌱

I remember. We’ll work out a way to be completely unconscious instead of visiting our dreamland

YOU

not that one. adding another task

YOU

learn how to make frappes. and then how to make them in fantasy setting

YOU

all versions of shinsou deserve a big fuck-off drink

MIDORIYA 👉👈🌱

Most likely unnecessary to re-create the process exactly. Don’t you think we could adapt part of your tea ceremony magic for coffee?

YOU

y’know. i hadn’t considered.

***

When your eyes finally focused, Midoriya’s face had the closest thing to fear you’ve ever seen on him, tapping your cheeks to get you to stay conscious, and when you violently shuddered and coughed up seawater, relief passed over him.

It’s cold. It’s so fucking cold; with no explanation, an ice storm swept over the coastline as your party was packing up camp, and with the chilling winds and grey overcast came the fiery fury of a dragon forced to fly south. Tucking away his knitting needles, Monoma had been in the middle of proposing the storm might be a spell to drive the dragon out of a settlement when the writhing, fervent thing had spotted your camp and had dived towards you.

The dragon’s wings beat the frigid winds down on you, your clothes still damp from your trips into the spirit realm, shocking you so hard that you only caught flashes of its wreckage: you didn’t know how Monoma, Touya, and Shinsou vanished one by one into thin air with each swipe of its tail, but its front claws closed around you as it leapt into the sky again, flying out over the ocean, where it dropped you into slushing water almost half a kilometre out.

And Midoriya—he must have swum out to retrieve you, dripping and panting over you on the shore as he turned back towards the remnants of camp, and you, tired and freezing enough to let him move you into a water-eroded cave farther down the beach as the wind picked up, could hardly feel guilty for not helping him build a fire for how hard your head spun.

“If we’re separated from the group, unknown how to recover them, then—if we continue the plan to return to the Gauntlet, we might run into them eventually,” he was muttering as he threw logs on the fire, “Town’s three kilometres away, but I don’t think we’re in any condition to travel. Once she warms up—” Midoriya scrambled towards you, curled up and shivering on a thrown-together pallet on the other side of the fire, and he patted your cheek again. “Hey, hey, please, don’t fall asleep yet. I know you’re tired. It’s gonna be fine. But stay with me for a few more minutes, please?”

“I’m fi—fine,” you said, tongue numb enough to trip up your words.

Midoriya grimaced. “No, you’re not. Forgive me,” he said, prodding you to sit up and slipping your soaked shirt over your head, and he rested your forehead on his shoulder before setting to work unlacing your corset.

“What, f—fuck,” you said, unable to do much else besides continue to shiver, “This mah—must by a spe—special kind of cold.”

“Considering it’s most likely magic-induced, I wouldn’t doubt it,” said Midoriya, deft fingers already halfway done with the ties, “This is the third night in a row you’ve gotten cold and wet, so I’m afraid this may be the final straw to your getting hypothermia.”

“Hah—how come you’re not too affected by it?”

“I used to be. When I first started dreaming, I woke up in the northern lands. This body has since gotten used to this level of cold. I spent a full month helping one of the towns with a burrowing dragon. Tends to be a problem up there.”

“Resourcefu—ful bitch,” you said, taking deeper, sloppier breaths now that he removed your corset, the chill spreading across your chest. You wrapped an arm over your boobs once he lay you down (your undershirt still covered them, but it was nearly transparent with dampness), yelping at his first tug to take off your trousers.

“Relax. I’m not trying anything. The quickest way we’ll get you warm is if we share skin-to-skin contact,” said Midoriya, and he sat back on his heels. “Why don’t you take off your pants yourself, then? I’ll hang them by the fire.”

Nodding, you fumbled with numb fingers to unfasten your pants, and it was only after a few minutes of struggling to get the wet-clingy things off that you realised he’d stripped down to his smallclothes, too concentrated on hanging drenched clothes above the fire to be abashed at his nakedness. You tossed your pants towards him and ducked under a blanket, where your undershirt kept you icy, regardless.

“I’m thinking that after we check you into an inn in town, I’ll come back to comb over the beach to see if I can scavenge anything related to the dragon itself or to the rest of our party. If I find something, we could take it to the same diviner who tracked the soul altar through All Might’s crystal, and we’d be able to reunite through—ah.” Midoriya was cut off by another piece of wet clothing slung at him, and he peeled it away from his face, scrunching when he noted how you tucked the blanket more closely around you. “But I suppose that’s a conversation for later,” he said, nervously chuckling (dimples and creases in his cheeks highlighted in the flickering light) and draping your undershirt over the flames.

Though hazy, you appreciated how Midoriya tried to delay it, how he busied himself with securing the cavemouth, scooting your pallet closer to face the fire, and hooking Monoma’s banged-up kettle nearby, before lifting your blankets (you hissed at the swash of cold air down your bare back) and crawling in behind you.

Immediately, he’s got his mouth against the crown of your head, each hard plane and muscle ridge down his fire-touched chest pressed against your skin. He’s being so respectful in how his hips cradled your own, sharing the warmth without touching, so when one of his large hands grazed your waist, you took it, sliding your hand down to his to guide his arm fully around you and closing them in a fist underneath your boobs.

“Be—better,” you said, firelight still bright through closed eyelids, “Thank you.”

Midoriya huffed into your hair. “You’re surprisingly accepting of this.”

You hunched in towards the fire slightly (you swore your tits were going to freeze off). “We both took the sa—same safety courses. I know this is the logical course of action.”

“You sound like Aizawa-sensei,” said Midoriya, humming.

“Remember wh—when he taught gave that lecture? Brought in Kayama-sen—sensei to discuss human anatomy. Said that we’d probably never run into something like this.”

“Mm, I suspect it’s a contributing factor that I breathed in a second dose of Tainted Love’s quirk.” Midoriya nudged the back of your head for you to lift it, and he slid his folded arm underneath you to use as a pillow. “Wouldn’t you say the cliches extend to the dreams, based on this?”

“Fantastic,” you said, a full-bodied shiver sweeping through you, prompting a cough.

“No, no, you’re okay; you’re fine,” said Midoriya, rubbing over the goosebumps on your upper arm, “Once you’re warm enough, we’ll head into town. Wasn’t there a restaurant Monoma wanted to try? Do you want to go there?”

“I just wanna bathe and get in a real bed,” you said with a whimper, tugging the blankets up to your chin, “I don’t want to be siiiiiiick. We won’t be able to start tracking the others until I’m well.”

“We’ve been travelling with purpose for a while. It might be good to have a break, and you needn’t worry,” said Midoriya, replacing his arm around your waist, this time laying his hand flat on your stomach, right atop your diaphragm, keeping track of how hard you breathed, “I’ll take care of you.”

You sniffled, licking your dry lips. “Oh, fuck off.”

You flinched as the fire crackled, and Midoriya shushed you again and curled himself around you, edging a careful knee between your legs and drawing you close enough for your hips to touch. Scoffing, you realised there’d been a reason he’d kept a distance.

“Sorry! Sorry,” he said hastily, backing his hips a little, “I was—I just got to thinking about your back, and how soft it is, and then you mentioned wanting a bath, and you said it with the most glorious little whine to your voice—”

“You’re the reason they make dress codes so strict,” you said, shooting a glare over your shoulder.

“I think the tea’s boiling,” said Midoriya, and when he crawled out of the blankets, you made a pathetic noise at the back of your throat (the corner of his mouth twitched). But he was behind you again in a couple of minutes, arm curving over you to set your cream-coloured enamel mug in front of you on the pallet.

Once you’d drunk most of it, not tasting it but enjoying its heat, eyes growing heavier by the second, Midoriya spoke. “All right. I feel a lot better knowing your insides are warming up, too. You don’t have to try to stay awake anymore.”

You paused, waiting for a sneeze to come, but it died before you could. “But barely half of the night has passed. I’ll wake up back home and not be able to go back to sleep, because I’m woozy here.”

“Then stay awake. Feel free to rummage about the apartment, unpack, or anything. Watch a movie. We’ll get to work on finding a way to sleep dreamlessly soon.”

You set your mug aside, sapped of the strength to hold it up. “Should I wake you?”

“I don’t think so,” said Midoriya, rubbing your arm again before wrapping his over you, shifting his knee between your legs, “I need to take care of you here. Do you mind if—hm. It’d be difficult to move you and the supplies the three kilometres into town. I really think we should get you to town as soon as possible, though. Would you object to my moving you in your sleep, or would you prefer we stay here until tomorrow?”

“I don’t—don’t fucking care,” you said through a yawn, “I was just thinking. This dream shit seems more aligned with our real lives’ circadian rhythms, and stuff. Do you think if I suddenly woke up in the middle of the night here that I’d, like, faint in real life? It might happen, since we’re going to sleep during the day.”

“I’ve considered that,” said Midoriya, setting his cup next to yours with a clink on the stone floor, “and I don’t have any answers. S’pose we’ll find out.”

***

The next few months of your life were spent learning how to live under the soulmate bond. You’d unpacked completely, your belongings mixing with his and finding their homes in his flat. Gotten used to routines and grocery preferences. Still struggling to remember where he kept his measuring cups.

Midoriya claimed the soulmate pain had gone away, but sometimes, you caught him just standing there, clutching his shirt over his heart, expression strained but focused on nothing at all. He’d always brighten when he noticed you watching.

(One night, you’d stayed up later than Midoriya because you’d had a bit of a fight; he’d had Mirio, Nejire, and Amajiki over without telling you first, and you’d needed the quiet and space to work on a complicated collab proposal—and it kept you up during most of the night. He’d gone to bed angry, and you’d fumed over your laptop, when some sort of tinny whine broke the silence of the apartment. You’d taken off your headphones to check, and the sound kept coming.

You’d cracked open the door to Midoriya’s bedroom, where he’d been restlessly tossed in his sleep, bedsheets twisted around his waist and falling onto the floor, muscles strained even then, face screwed up, creases between his eyebrows—whining, wincing, clenching teeth together. It’s a sound you didn’t want to hear again. You’d gotten closer, wincing yourself as you watched sweat beading down his cheek, only to slide off onto his wet pillowcase. His shirt was soaked through, and he’d gone all pale.

You’d almost wished he were having a sex dream, because then you wouldn’t have to feel sorry for him. But no, God, this was happening because you were mad at him, because you’d fought, rejecting him somehow, and for such a tiny, little thing.

You’d pressed the back of your hand to his forehead to check his temperature, and Midoriya immediately stilled, breathing returning to normal.

If he’d noticed, he hadn’t said anything the following morning.

[And you? You weren’t experiencing any soulmate pain at all.])

Dango had grown to like Midoriya immensely, which baffled you until you’d discovered how much scrambled egg he gave her every morning as her cat tax—she took it out of his hand with such delicacy.

Right now, she lay on your lap while you scrolled through your phone on the couch. You’d made yourself a lurker account to follow people thirsting after Midoriya to see how other people were attracted to him—what made him appealing to them and how they talked about it. With his involvement with Uraraka’s miniseries picking up, on top of his already exhaustive schedule, you were seeing less and less of him in reality and had to rely on your dreams to spend time with him, so you visited these people’s accounts also as a way to check in on his public self.

[image description: a dishevelled Pro-Hero Deku, covered in soot from an explosion from fellow Pro-Hero Dynamight, lands a kick into the jaw of an 80-meter snake controlled by villain Viper. His boot sinks into its flesh in the moment before the force of the kick makes the snake burst. His hero costume is torn so that he has neither sleeves nor his hood. One of his gloves is missing, and his hair is wilder and curlier than usual.]

chargenut: uuuuhhhhhhhhhhhh hi!!!!!

sakuraraka: i wanna play with his hair i wanna tackle him to the ground

momo-closet: *fumbles for inhaler* very normal abt this. need him carnally need every man who can stomp something to death with a single move. Also please look at his ASS and how ROUND it is. desperately need to smack it but my hand would bounce off into the stratosphere

alienkawa: my womb ouch

dickuprint: god his curls are SO fuckgn sexy here. his current undercut and styled hair must be a strategic move by his PR team to nerf his perfect fucking looks bc otherwise he’d be too pretty for anyone to get anything done. undercut also sexy tho

nonbinarysalmon: he………………………

Neither you nor he had found a way to sleep without dreams yet. Well—actually, you’ve both discovered that if you get hit hard enough that you pass out, then you won’t dream, but you can’t rely on giving yourself a concussion every once in a while.

You’ve consulted Ito about it, purely for the soulmate basis. She’s never known dream-sharing soulmates to not share their dreams or go to the same place. After Ito, you moved onto sleep specialists and a few medications, but nothing worked—though you got managed to procure some fancy sleep aids for Aizawa out of it.

You and Midoriya would have to figure out this one yourselves, if it were even possible.

[image description: a gifset of Pro-Hero Deku on Pro-Hero Uwabami’s talk show. In the first gif, Deku blinks in mild shock at Uwabami’s insult towards Pro-Hero Shouto. In the second gif, Deku starts to laugh softly, tongue running over his lower lip, as anger visibly shines in his eyes.]

purprevbabey: incredible how fast my legs spread when he gets mad like that

dickuprint: okay but like. you can SEE how much control he has. how he’s got the power in the situation. and he knows he could rip her to shreds for that comment but he’s reigning it in. godddddddddddddddddd men who laugh when they’re pissed pls get mad at meeeee

oldfashionedkitten: You just know he can Detroit Smash on my Full Cowl until I Shoot Style.

sakuraraka: oh what a piece of work is man 👅

midori-world: SLUT

dailydeku: what crime must I commit to get him to look at me like that??? can you IMAGINE being on the receiving end of that look and not being completely drenched. considering arson. perhaps public nudity. his bedroom is public right

You and Midoriya had spent ages tracking the dragon, and you’d found it burrowing underneath yet another village trying to attack it. After halting the townspeople’s weapons, you and Midoriya had crept into its burrow, inelegant in the haste it was dug, and discovered the dragon thrashing and rolling around in the dirt.

You’d started your tea ceremony to bind the dragon to the space, and the dragon had stopped convulsing to stare at the floating teaware and conjured table. It’d seemed to understand what Midoriya said to it, and when it shuddered, you’d noted, it was all in effort to get something off its tail: a slightly luminescent, red band that, now that you were close enough, was clearly not part of the dragon’s amber scales. It had been tagged.

You’d offered to remove it, and the dragon had shifted its attention to you entirely, thumping its tail in front of your tea table. It had gotten frustrated while you and Midoriya discussed the tag’s perfect, unbroken seal, and to your horror, the dragon seethed and erupt into flames, out of whose ashes crawled a very naked Bakugou. You’d already been overwhelmed by his tits and scarred muscles to the sounds of Midoriya’s babbling on shapeshifters when Bakugou climbed onto your tea table and thrust his ass towards your face—you’d scrambled backwards out of shock. But he’d settled into a kneel, hissing over his shoulder at you, while you’d noted the tag had been sealed as a patch on the small of his back, which, so long as you wore down the holding spell, could be removed.

Bakugou had been incapable of human speech himself but nodded and grunted as you and Midoriya chipped away at the tag’s seal, and once you’d peeled it off, the underside of the patch revealed its owner: Todoroki Natsuo, who had enchanted the tag to teleport any significant source of magic back to the Todoroki castle. Midoriya had fortified this, saying that northern dragons were often used to collect kneilanth root and butter knappe, which grew too deeply underground for humans to safely dig for them.

And so, Bakugou had come with you all the way to rescue your friends from Todoroki castle, from which you’d been banned all those years ago for bad poetry.

(Bakugou had been doing quite well as a human, actually. Language was still an issue, mostly because his human mouth had to adjust to vocalising the sounds, and he tended to dislike the feeling of fabric against his skin. But he liked watching your magic and eating meat with the bones removed, and he enjoyed listening to stories. This Bakugou was charmingly, openly affectionate in his own gruff way, hovering near your side when outsiders crossed your path, taking tea towels for his nest/bedroll, and plopping your hand in his hair once camp was set up in the evening.

You tried not to think about what it could mean for your reality’s Bakugou.)

Foiled in your infiltration to Todoroki castle, you’d been captured and separated, and you and Midoriya were eating breakfast in his apartment to discuss your next move.

“I’m on the east side of the castle’s dungeon, in one of the cells on the first floor underground,” you said, setting your drawing of the castle layout (to the best of your memory) aside to sort through the puzzle’s edge pieces, “My other life’s memories tell me that I visited briefly before, because Shinsou’s family works in and out of there. I haven’t seen any of the Shinsous, though. I’ve only been handled by strangers. Where are you?”

“I must not be in a dungeon, then. There’s a window letting in sunlight, so I must not be underground.” Midoriya pinched his lower lip and frowned at two, similarly coloured puzzle pieces. “But they’ve tied me up. You’ll have to find something to cut the rope with, if you break out first.”

“Interesting,” you said, and you reached for your mug, “They didn’t bother to restrain me. They must not think I’m a threat, but you must look it.”

“Do you need a refill? I was about to get more,” said Midoriya, standing, his hand outstretched as he leant over the table, tossing his own empty mug to himself.

You squinted into your mug, the dregs of yet another failed, homemade frappe at the bottom. “I think I’m coffee-ed out for the day. Just water, please?”

“Right. If you’ll allow me a moment,” said Midoriya, holding both mugs in one hand (your brain short-circuited for a moment. Large. Large hands) as he crossed to the refrigerator. “But it’s the Todorokis’ castle. We know at least Endeavor and Natsuo are there because of Bakugou’s tag, and even if they are present, I don’t know Fuyumi or their mother well enough to rely on them. And Shouto isn’t there to help us.”

“I doubt the crown prince would help out his former jester,” you said, latching two pieces together, “and I doubt we could find Shouto if the whole kingdom hasn’t found him after searching for a year.”

“Is that a challenge?” His smile was audible over the gentle slosh of liquid. “Then that should be our next quest after we find the rest of our party.”

“Done. We’ll find Shouto next.” You accepted your mug once Midoriya tapped the back of your shoulder with it, and he plopped into his seat across from you with a heavy sigh. Your eyes glazed over a little when a frustrated Midoriya pulled reading glasses out of his breast pocket and slid them on. “Oh,” you said, taken aback.

He shot you a grin before bending back over the puzzle, hair flopping onto his forehead. “Don’t let it slip that the number-one hero needs peepers, all right?”

“Peepers,” you said, clasping a hand over your heart, “Who are you?”

Midoriya clicked his tongue and tried to fit another piece.

Shaking your head, you continued. “I think the move here is to appeal to the guards who’ve handled me so far, to try to see if I can talk to any of Shinsou’s family to get out. If not,” you said, taking a deep breath, “I can try soulwalking. The dungeons are charmed to stop magic, but I don’t know if they’d account for soul magic, since it’s so rare. I can try getting a key that way.”

“Key,” said Midoriya, holding up a finger and then a second, “And knife.”

“Yeah. You’re tied up. You’re tied…up,” you said, propping your chin on your fist, “Gracious. Has anyone ever managed to tie you up before?”

His eyes flickered over to you, glinting. “Not in any way I didn’t intend.”

“I—hm,” you said, having to look away and plucking at your shirt to cool yourself down, “I meant. I meant if you’d ever been—captured. For work. But I guess that sort of thing doesn’t happen to you, does it?” But if he wanted to take it that direction, you’ll play. “Tied up how? You uncomfortable?”

Midoriya smiled more with his eyes than his mouth, though he kept them on the puzzle. “It’s not my first time on my knees,” he said, fitting another piece together, “but I’ll admit the stone is making them ache.”

Fuck, how is anyone supposed to maintain a conversation with this man? “I hope they gagged you with how clever that mouth is,” you said on impulse, smoothing down the front of your shirt and frowning once you’d realised what you’d said.

“With a bit,” he said, drawing a line across his lips, “They confiscated my shirt when they checked my skin for runes and bound my arms behind my back, looping the ropes here—” Midoriya pulled up his sleeve to trace his finger on his upper arm over the rising swell of his bicep. “Here—” He did the same below the muscle, flexing it as he kept his gaze on the puzzle. “And here.” He straightened his posture to drag his finger diagonally over his collarbone, all the way up to where his neck met his shoulder.

You’re going to kill him. You’re going to pluck out each of his tendons to weave them into a basket. You’re going to bite down as hard as you can into that bicep until you can spit it out.

“Yeah, sure, man,” you said eventually, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms, “Don’t expect me to walk into your dungeon, pussy out, or anything, even if you’re already kneeling. If you could concentrate, please. We need to come up with something before tonight.”

Nodding, Midoriya covered his yawn and stood, stretching his arms above his head with a quiet groan (and you…noted the sliver of hard stomach when his shirt rose). “I’ll take my chances,” he said, rolling his broad shoulders back, taking a moment to hold his elbow for the extra strain. “I know you’ll be able to pull it off, whatever we decide, and I’ll do more thinking during work today. I need to head out. I’m behind on the last performance evaluations for this round of interns, and I’m supposed to be taking them all out for interim evals today.”

“Good fucking luck.” You corralled the loose puzzle pieces into one corner of the kitchen table as Midoriya put mugs in the dishwasher.

“Thanks.” He tossed in a soap pod. “What time will you be home today?”

“Uh, give me a sec,” you said, thinking and moving to put things back in the refrigerator, “I…oof, late. Late. I stay super late today, because I’m covering for Jirou. She has a gig tonight. Yeah, I have my lunch break around fucking 3:30, and then I work until two in the morning.”

Midoriya winced, nose wrinkling. “Let me meet you for lunch, then. I’ll see if I can swing by after that, too, to bring you something then.”

“Oh. You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. I want to,” said Midoriya, and for barely a full second, he shot you the most devastatingly sincere smile you’ve ever seen in your life: boyish and endearing and a bit like distilled sunshine, all of his earnest devotion concentrated and aimed at you before simply switching it off as he looked away and removed his glasses, seemingly unaware of how very frantically your heart was banging about in your chest.

Once he was out the door, you grabbed your phone to scroll through the Midoriya thirst accounts, desperate for validation that someone else was thinking of him in that way.

[video description: a Deku fancam set to MARINA’s “Primadonna.” Clips from interviews, paparazzi, photo shoots, and social media flash in time to the beat, mostly focusing on the way a smiling Deku often rubs his lower lip with his index and middle fingers while he thinks.]

blueberrybakugou: fist me. who said that

chargenut: I just want. If I could just. Like for five minutes. Just.

igneousbastard: Every Deku picture is mind-bogglingly vogue. He’s the ultimate do I wanna be him or fuck him. Keep it coming king 👑 👑 👑

sakuraraka: he just looks like he’d be so nice to hold hands with. well that and to **** **** * *** ******** *** **** ** ******* ********* but i digress

kirishimashairdye: bites him bites him bites him bites him grabs his beautiful face and kisses it all over tweaks his nipples unzips his pants and pulls out his c—* GUNSHOTS *

kurapikas-ballandchain: whatever u say babygirl 💖

mmmmmidoriya: god i am so jealous of his soulmate. gets to shove her head between his thighs every day

dickuprint: @mmmmmidoriya you’ve seen who it is, right??? i am manifesting they make out in public so that we can see what deku does with his tongue then 👀 guess i’ll have to live vicariously through her for the rest of my LIFE.

mmmmmidoriya: @dickuprint i wish i had been hit by that quirk bc having a soulmate would fix me and every problem that ever existed

You lay back on the couch, holding your phone above your head and feeling unbearably fond of these unhinged people you’ve never met. Almost a shame that no one in your life could talk to you about Midoriya that way—except, perhaps, Uraraka, and she’s moved on. Still. Somehow it was comforting that all of these people, even though they’d never been the direct victim of a Midoriya smile, could feel so strongly for him. Their vehemence was infectious, and for the first time in three years, an invitation to adore Midoriya bloomed in your chest. So, you allowed yourself to open up your old feelings for him and made your first post.

assortedsoftcheeses: have we considered how sexy midoriya would be in reading glasses???? willing to commission fanart btw.

***

Silhouetted by the hallway light, Midoriya rapped his knuckles on your doorframe. “May I come in?”

“God, fuck,” you said, wiping at your nose, “Sure.”

House slippers scuffing on carpet, Midoriya approached cautiously while you smeared your tears over your face with your blanket, and he knelt by your bedside, looking up at you. He didn’t ask what was wrong. Simply waited. Put his hand next to yours, should you want it.

“I’m so fucked up about Shinsou in particular. He’s my best fucking friend and has always, always been there for me. Always a source of comfort.” You sat up in bed, adjusting the straps of your tank top. “I feel guilty for not being able to love him like he deserves. I do love him, y’know? But I can’t—I don’t have any impulse to love him romantically. He’s just—very important to me. I don’t want him out of my life because of our soulmate bond.”

Midoriya’s pinkie nudged yours. “He doesn’t have to be. So, let’s make time for you to spend with him.”

You balked, taken aback. “You’d be okay with that? You wouldn’t get jealous?”

Midoriya smiled gently, creases in his face lit by lamplight. “Sweetheart, I can’t get jealous of Shinsou; he’s your best friend. And, moreover, he’s probably still closer to you than I. You’re allowed to have space away from me, y’know?” He inched his hand underneath yours, his fingers curling upwards into yours, and he traced circles into your palm with a light graze of his middle finger—and that light touch shot a spark through you, more sensitive to his calloused skin than your weighted blanket or your too-soft pillow or Dango’s heat coming through the comforter from where she loafed on your feet. “In fact,” he continued, as if he hadn’t casually skyrocketed you from this plane of reality and back, “I’ve been considering a a project that Shinsou and you may fit perfectly into.”

And so Midoriya, Shinsou, and you coordinated your schedules to all head over to U.A., to the Aizawa hall, down to room 310, all the way at the end. Midoriya raised his hand to knock as you shot a nervous glance at Shinsou.

(Shinsou and you had a very specific dynamic when you hung out together, but adding Midoriya enhanced it in a way you couldn’t articulate. Nothing Shinsou normally did was sacrificed, but there was just something in how now there was someone to stand so closely to you that you felt his body heat, to explain in gratuitous detail his bulky camera equipment for the later birdwatching, to tease you to repeat your compliments towards him because he wanted you to admit it—it was different, yes, than just hanging out with Shinsou, whom you never had to try to impress, but something made you incredibly aware of Midoriya’s stupid, unstyled hair that was curlier than usual and his gesturing with an old, bulky, silver watch that he claimed was his father’s—something that added a safe sliver of excitement.)

“It’s unlocked,” called a voice that only had traces of his old rasp, and in you stepped to Shimura Tenko’s living space: summer-warm and cluttered in a purposeful way, with the wide windows propped open so that the white curtains wafted with the breeze, a mirror with fan mail from hero work taped to its glass, a skateboard mounted to the wall, a strategically planned gaming desk, and his red shoes next to Touya’s boots and Eri’s sandals by the door.

Midoriya absentmindedly helped you take off your jacket to hang it on the coatrack while you toed off your shoes, and you were smiling: Tenko and Eri sat across from each other on the couch, both sketching an angle of a still life scene (of a reflective water bottle, an overflowing bowl of shining stones, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle figure, and a morning glory picked from the dorm flower bed) on a tiny table dragged to the middle of the rug. Todoroki Touya was sprawled out on Tenko’s bed, head dangling off the side and squinting as he read volume seven of something called GINSENG TEA X LUSTFUL BALLSACK.

“Hey, Izuku,” said Tenko, glancing one final time at the still life and his drawing before closing his sketchbook to stand. “You’re late.”

(God. It still shook you, whenever you thought about it, that the man who had been Shigaraki Tomura was doing well now, getting to act his age, getting to do hero work, getting to settle into comfort. Midoriya apparently visited him at least once a week and had gotten to know him well, and Shinsou had spent brief spurts of time with him when they both needed to be with Aizawa. Good for Tenko, of course, but you didn’t know how to talk to him. How do you talk to someone who changed the trajectory of the entire world?

But Midoriya brought you out of your head, because he was showing the same level of comfort with Tenko as he had outside with you and Shinsou, in how he warmly greeted these people and felt at home in this space. That brought down your nervousness to the same level as when you meet a friend’s friend for the first time.

[And a voice in the back of your head said that you didn’t need to try to get them to like you, because of course Tenko and Touya would like you. You’re their soulmate in another timeline.])

“Traffic was bad. It’s good to see you,” Midoriya replied, hand sliding to the small of your back, grounding you, even though the touch was unfamiliar. “Tenko, Touya—you know Shinsou, but I don’t believe you’ve met my soulmate yet?” Masterful how he’s calming you down and showing that he’s got everything under control in the same gesture. Competent bastard.

Midoriya nudged you towards Tenko as you exchanged names—unnecessary, really, since both of you knew who the other was—and waves of sorrow, pity, and affection washed over you as you looked him over: tired, with better posture, his hair swept out of his face—just some guy—and you fought the urge to hug him. And bolstered by Midoriya’s calming touch on your lower back, you instead did something Tenko might appreciate more: you held out your hand.

Something strange visibly passed through Tenko, his red eyes lighting the fuck up, and he clasped your hand, shaking it. “You’re bold.” You could’ve sworn he was suppressing a smile as he glanced from you to Midoriya. “Hope you stick around.”

“Deku,” said Eri from the couch, titling her head backwards over its arm to speak towards you, “Tell Tenko he should come to my watercolour class with me.”

“He can do what he wants,” said Midoriya, as Shinsou stepped aside to enquire Touya after the manga he was reading. “What’s so special about this class?”

“Oh, come on, Deku. It’d only be one time,” Eri said as Midoriya ruffled her hair, careful of her long, curving horn, “Tenko’s been saying how hard it is to draw reflective surfaces, and there’s gonna be a whole class session on them!”

Tenko shook his head. “I can’t paint.”

“You did that great painting with coffee of a boat that one time,” said Eri, tapping her pencil against her sketchbook.

“I couldn’t drink the coffee; I had to do something with it,” said Tenko, “I wasn’t trying to paint for real.” He sighed, shoulders heaving, and he turned back to you. “You want tea, or something? A snack?”

A few minutes later, the five of you sat together on the rug (Eri went downstairs), clutching mugs of decaf orange tea with a plate of grocery-store-bakery shortbread in the middle, and you began to plan what sort of Dungeons and Dragons game you all wanted to play.

“I may have some ideas for adventures in a fantasy setting,” said Midoriya with a completely straight face. You scoffed and rolled your eyes, and you were about to thump his chest when his arm came to rest behind you on the couch cushions; you found yourself swallowing at the acute awareness of the heat his defined bicep transferred to the back of your head.

(Weird. Usually, Shinsou was the person in a group hangout that you’d pay attention to the most, because you’d catch each other’s eye to make jokes, but somehow—somehow—you hated that you had to keep depending on that word—somehow, you wanted to pay the most attention to Midoriya, because you didn’t know what he’ll do next.)

Throughout all of the ideas for a homebrew campaign, the goosebumps on the back of your neck never settled. Midoriya doesn’t even have his undivided attention on you; he’s just talking to friends with enthusiasm and those expressive hands, silver watch clinking, and it’s exciting just to watch him. When he’s not looking at you, it’s like you can see him better—how he’s a good leader, a good friend, and a good, good man.

(And then, that tiny, evil voice in your mind whispered that it’s because when Midoriya looks at you, he looks with so much want that it’s blinding. That when he looks at you, his light blocks out everything else.)

***

You’ve had enough of the ocean. Enough of the heat. Sweating, you pulled the wide brim of your sunhat down over your face and once again moved your folding chair farther into the shade, its chair legs scuffing the deck. No one is going to persuade you to do any heavy lifting today; you’d melt.

Monoma felt the same, after getting a terrible sunburn, so he kept to whatever shadows the ship could offer, and he was likely below deck, reading his little detective novels—hopefully in silence, since Shinsou had announced he’d be taking a nap about an hour ago. You’d join them, but for some reason, seeing the water itself distracted you from the frequency at which the boat rocked and kept your stomach from turning.

So, you kept to the main deck, which allowed you to watch all of Endeavor’s—sorry, King Todoroki’s crewmen as they kept the ship running. Always strange, but you supposed that whom you knew as pro hero Burnin’ made for a fine ship captain. You respected how she didn’t defer to any of your party, especially Touya, even though she and the crew were yours to use for the mission to find Shouto.

Funny how only a month ago you’d been an enemy of the king, and now he’s sent some of his most trusted personnel with you with his blessing. Your attempt to break out of the dungeons had failed—well, you had successfully escaped, but once you’d located Midoriya, you’d run into a few problems: he’d been tied up in an infuriatingly sexy way, just as he’d described, and they’d since removed his trousers as well as his shirt. Cutting him free had taken time, since you’d only been able to commandeer a dull blade, and to slice the knots on either side of his neck, you’d had to press your boobs near Midoriya’s face. He’d wasted so much time apologising for his subsequent erection that the guards had caught up with you.

It had gone down, at least, by the time they’d dragged you to Touya’s childhood sitting room, still as luxurious and well-kept as when he’d first left, where the rest of your friends had been at a tea party, arguing over what little cheesecake was the best. A cup of tea had been shoved into your hands, and across the table, you’d caught Touya’s mocking gesture of putting his pinkie up while he’d sipped at his own tea.

The Todorokis had been pleased to see Touya again and had welcomed him and the rest of your party into the castle eagerly (you say the Todorokis: you mean Rei, Fuyumi, and Natsuo who opened the castle to you. Enji, it’d turned out, had more or less become a king in name only during an illness that confined him to his bedroom, leaving the actual governing of the kingdom to Rei. Apparently, Enji had seemed glad when he’d heard Touya had returned, but he'd merely turned over in bed to continue to read after nodding at the news). You and Midoriya had been issued a pardon once Touya had informed his family that you were his friends, and for almost a month, you’d camped out in the castle and explored the town. Thrilling, really, to rest in a place with clean beds and keen to provide multiple changes of clothes. Everyone had gotten to request what was for dinner a couple of times, which was lovely—adorable, really, the way Touya sighed happily into a bowl of soba made the same way as when he’d been eight years old.

But Touya had claimed he couldn’t take the familial doting forever—though you figured it might be pressure to take the crown soon—and he’d took your idea for an easy way out of the castle: why doesn’t your party go search for Shouto?

And thus the ship from Endeavor’s navy, staffed with his combat personnel who hadn’t had much to do in peacetime. You were off towards a partially mapped archipelago from which rumours of a mage who could wield both fire and ice came.

Heavy footsteps clonking down the stairs to the quarterdeck shattered your concentration on the deep, azure waves, and you’d hardly turned to look before Bakugou plopped directly onto the deck next to you, crossing his legs and leaning against your chair.

Bakugou reached for your hand and dropped it onto his head. “Scratch.”

You laughed through your nose. “Fine,” you said, curling your fingers into his hair for the first time that day—oof, his spikes were more pliant because he’d been sweating so hard. “What’s got you so worked up?”

Pouting, Bakugou huffed, and you offered a drink from your canteen to encourage him to speak. “Couldn’t beat Izuku and Touya to the crow’s nest,” he said after taking a swig, raising his head towards your touch, “Bein’ up that high when I’m not in dragon form—I don’t like it. Makes my head hurt.”

Now that you tilted the brim of your hat backwards, you could make out two figures skibbling around the rigging towards the top of the tallest of the ship’s three masts. You can’t discern who’s who, but one of them swipes at the other, who barks a laugh, and it’s good to see the both of them playing. They deserve it.

“I’m sorry that’s happening to you, Bakugou,” you said, swearing that he let out a sort of purr when you scratched near the base of his neck, “Would it help to be a dragon again? Fly behind us for a while? I can ask the captain.”

Bakugou shook his head, and then he strained his neck to rest his chin on your thigh. “I shouldn’t shift into a dragon until we’re near land. Shifting back into human form would leave us with the fiery, dragon carcass, and I don’t wanna burn down the ship with it.”

“That would put a damper on our journey,” you said, “I haven’t considered: do all shapeshifters physically leave their magical bodies behind when they turn back into a human? What do you normally do with your…”

You narrowed your eyes at the crow’s nest at someone’s shout. It’s too bright out today, under this perfectly clear, blue sky, and you’re blinded when you look their way. You held up a hand to shield your gaze from the sun as a cacophony of voices resounded across deck, able to make out before you did that one of them was falling from the nest, caught in a snapped section of rigging. In the moment Bakugou leapt to his feet and helped you up, a strident, clean crack made your stomach drop.

Both of you raced over to the small crowd of crewmen already lowering a grimacing Midoriya to the deck, hanging by the ankle caught in the rigging, and he winced, inhaling sharply, at the first touch from the medic.

“I’m fine,” said Midoriya, maintaining a shaky smile and holding up a hand to you, which you grasped once you dropped to your knees.

“No, you’re—you’re bleeding out, you asshole,” you said, gripping his hand harder than you needed to, “Drop the All Might grin.”

“I’m har—hardly bleeding out,” he said, but he relaxed into a closed-mouth smile as the medic cleaned the deep cut with her water magic, with Bakugou hounding her with questions on her method the entire time.

“What happened?” You scooted out of the way of the crewman who’d fetched a medical kit. “I thought you and Touya were—”

“We were being reckless. I misstepped and sliced my leg on an errant nail, and I fell due to surprise and got caught in the rigging. It’s not Touya’s fault,” said Midoriya, raising his voice just as Touya reached the bottom of the mast, looking less agitated once he heard.

Touya stepped out of the way of the pooling blood, and after the medic confirmed with him what’d happened, she said, “Midoriya, your ankle is broken. Looks like it was snapped by the ropes. The cut doesn’t reach the bone, but it’s deep. It’s gonna need to be wrapped as tightly as possible over this splint so that this flap of skin doesn’t fall off and stop the bleeding. I can do a temp one, but we’re gonna have to dock somewhere to get some—”

“I think I can do that,” you said, realising it as you spoke, “With my binding ceremony, I should be able to bind his injury as tightly as it needs to be. Monoma could transfigure the bandages into something more permanent.”

The medic only took a second to hesitate before enlisting Bakugou to help carry Midoriya below deck. You ran ahead to grab your tea whisk, and you were already kneeling on the floor of Midoriya’s bunk when they brought him inside. Bakugou’s mouth twitched at all of the blood seeping out of the gauze on Midoriya’s leg, but the medic yanked him by the elbow back above deck to sterilise the area.

Midoriya panted from the blood loss, eyes fluttering as you began your ceremony. “I don’t know how long I can stay upright. I—hahh, is it hot in here to you?”

Miniature tea plants pushed through the top layers of skin on your forearm, growing to maturity at a rapid pace. “A little,” you said, glancing at his steadily moistening forehead, the first bead of sweat dripping down the curve of his cheekbone.

His breathing grew heavier as your magic sun-dried tealeaves and steamed them. Grimacing, Midoriya said, “Forgive me for this,” and started unlacing the front of his shirt.

Oh, his shirt is coming off? You tried to seem very interested in magically kneading, oxidising, and drying tealeaves, but Midoriya noticed how distracted you were, raised a brow, and, with an incredulous smirk, lifted his shirt to flash you his fucking nipple, perked up from the fabric rubbing against it.

“Oh, you like that, don’tcha?” Midoriya asked, not that he needed to: your teakettle boiled over so quickly because it matched the heat rising to your face. Grinning to himself, he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it near his bag.

You channelled the centre of your binding magic into the bandages, taking in how much blood was seeping through the previous ones, how it might affect Midoriya for months if this doesn’t work out.

I hope this helps.

Commanding your magic to bind tightly around Midoriya’s wound, you redirected residuals automatically trickling into the teakettle back to the bandages. Midoriya must put a lot of trust in you, considering you’ve never used your magic in this exact way, but since it’s still a binding ceremony, the credits might just transfer.

“No need to be so nervous,” Midoriya was saying, slumping into the bed now that his shirt’s off, as if his tits weren’t just out there, “You’re still on guard with me. I’m waiting for you to be comfortable.”

“Y’know, the best way to stop residuals going into the tea is to have no tea to go into,” you said, ignoring him and pouring him a cup, which you shoved his way, “Drink up.”

While you prepared your own tea, Midoriya swallowed his like it was a shot, and he even screwed up his face and thumped his chest like it’d been alcohol. “Gracious,” he said, peeling his eyes open, “That does not go gently into the night.”

“Excuse me?” you asked, magic faltering slightly before renewing the channel binding his wounds. You took a sip from your teacup, but it was the same tea as always, so you were taken aback when he returned his empty teacup, smelling like bitter, medicinal residuals.

“Pour another cup for me,” said Midoriya, and both of you followed the arc of liquid into Midoriya’s teacup, resembling standard green tea. When he lifted it to his lips, he shook his head. “It’s the same medicine as before, but how?” His eyes lightened, corners of his mouth twitching upwards. “You poured yourself a normal cup of tea in between.”

“I think,” you said, in a small voice, staring into your own teacup and wondering at what more your magic was capable of, “I don’t know. I didn’t do anything differently. Aside from the bandages, but, y’know.”

“Hm,” said Midoriya, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, fingers curling into his wet bangs, “Would you mind getting my notebook out of my bag for me?”

“I shouldn’t move until the ceremony’s over,” you said, nodding towards the slowly-twining bandages, almost to his ankle.

“Right,” said Midoriya, tongue flicking over his lower lip, eyes shining, “I can wait. But the liquid in the teakettle physically changed materials, if in taste, rather than appearance, temperature, and texture, and it changed back for when you needed to drink it. Do you think there’s a subconscious element to your magic that adjusts itself for the person receiving the magic? Because it wasn’t even purposeful, because you’re trying to put all of your magic on my wound, but if it still manifested in the tea—”

(And as your gaze drifts upwards to Bakugou’s bunk, blankets draped over the side into Midoriya’s space, it hits you, the overall, cultural, social reason why it hasn’t been easy trying to love Midoriya, affecting not just you but nearly everyone who meets him: loving Midoriya is like loving the sun.

Because no one needs to think about loving the sun. It’s obvious how it’s the most important star in the sky, how it’s built into our everyday lives.

And so you don’t notice it until it’s paired with something else, that highlights, by contrast, the beauty of the sun. Put it with the moon in eclipse or the tilt of the Earth, and it’s suddenly an interesting thing to talk about, like how some people only discuss Midoriya in conjunction with Todoroki, or how his personality balances Bakugou’s, or how he expresses romance and sexuality in how he treats Uraraka. Talking about Midoriya by himself isn’t very interesting to a lot of people, because he seems to be the default good, and for some people, good is boring. Bringing in someone different downplays his apparent blandness.

You’re guilty of it. You’ve been musing over how he adds to the hangouts with Shinsou, how he works the room during DND sessions, how he’s part of a romantic unit only with Uraraka. How he fits into hero society. You haven’t been fair to Midoriya. You’ve never looked at him as just Izuku.)

“—then it comes down to desire, I figure, that changes it,” Midoriya was saying, and after taking a breath, he gestured towards his ankle. “Looks like the binding’s done.”

Breaking you from your thoughts, the strain of magic came to a halt as the final bandage looped closely around Midoriya’s ankle, sealing it. “Yeah,” you said, moving from your kneeling position to examine your work, “What was that about desire?”

“You wanted to heal me, yes? That desire probably drove elements in your ceremony to change, I’m guessing.”

His bandages were perfectly set, perfectly holding pressure. “I did wish really hard.” I hope this helps rattled in your head. “Feel any pain?”

“None at all. You did well. We can add this to your arsenal, I suppose—and you don’t have to get me my notebook,” said Midoriya, beaming up at you as you stood, the tea ceremony equipment evaporating. He caught your hand before you could leave, his touch delicate as he guided the palm of your hand to his lips. “I’ll remember,” he said, bright eyes holding you in place, “since it’s you.”

That settled it. You were going to chase the sun.

***

When the ship reached the archipelago, it didn’t take long to realise that it was protected by an invisible dome. As a dragon, Bakugou found a crevice near the top that he could slink through, so so long as Bakugou could carry it on his back, it could get to the islands.

In your first flight, Midoriya held you closely from behind, and he covered your eyes with his hand when you grew too nervous, claiming that your flustered expression was bad for his heart.

You found Shouto on the east side of the island, long-haired and tanned while net-fishing among stone columns that held up houses before a hurricane destroyed them.

“Hm,” Shouto was saying, coaxed into sitting around a freezing fire lit by Touya, using Monoma’s cast-iron spit to stab through his fish, “If I’m using my fire and ice magic enough for my father to track me, then perhaps I should learn another discipline.”

“God, no,” said Touya, giving a dismissive wave, “We were just told to find you, not bring you back. And we didn’t promise to say where you were, either.”

“You’re allowed to use your magic, regardless,” Midoriya said, “It’s your magic, not his.”

“Good,” said Shouto, nodding, “My companions do not wish to participate in society. I would prefer to stay with them.”

“How many of them are there?” Midoriya set his crutch against the rock he was sitting on and instead leaned more against you. “Your friends, I mean.”

You met them soon enough at dinner: Aizawa Shouta, who had crafted the dome around the archipelago (his magic could create the perfect conditions to sleep, including the cancellation of others’ obnoxious magic), and Shimura Tenko, who had to be pried away from the dragon body Bakugou had crawled out of (Tenko’s magic allowed him to talk to animals and know what is in their heart of hearts. He emphasised that this was vital, since cats lie to you).

You couldn’t force anything into your stomach for how sick you felt, and eventually you set your fork down to tap the back of Midoriya’s free hand, which he flipped over for you to hold, lacing your fingers together. At your morose silence, Midoriya made an excuse to the group about needing his leg rebound, and, leaning on both you and his crutch, he led you away from the fire on the shore and towards Shouto’s hut.

Shutting the bamboo door behind you, you helped ease Midoriya into a chair before pinching the bridge of your nose and speaking in an unsteady voice. “That’s everyone. All of my soulmates in one place. I don’t fucking get why they’ve kept popping up. Presumably we have everyone we know mirrored here, so why do they have to be the ones we spend time with?” you asked, beginning to pace in the tiny room.

Midoriya leant his crutch against the table, settling into his seat with stiffness, bamboo creaking under his weight. “Do you want to leave? Separate from the group?”

“No, I—” You sucked in through your teeth. “I hate that I have a sort of fucked-up harem. It doesn’t serve any purpose other than to fill me with guilt. I don’t know how to handle it, and I don’t want to handle it. I know that leaving everybody would also fill me with a different kind of guilt, so I know leaving isn’t the solution, but I still don’t know. I don’t know where to go or what to do or if I should tell them at all. These versions of our friends, anyway,” you said, running both hands backwards through your hair, “God, it’s too complicated. It’s too much to focus on that there’s no focus. I—” You spun on your heel to face him and had to cut yourself off: Midoriya was taking great pains to slide out of his chair, to kneel at the end of your path.

“No, what’re you—? Let me help you back up,” you said, rushing back towards him, but he refused your help.

Midoriya offered his hand upwards to you. “Isn’t it a relief, then,” he said, watching your fingertips graze his before sliding down into his palm, “that you know where you come home to?” His fingers curled into yours. “I can’t speak for everyone, of course, and I wouldn’t want to, so allow me to be selfish: I’m here. I plan to stay,” said Midoriya, so softly it was hard to hear him over the night wind, “I want you. No one coming into our lives is going to change that. You say there’s no focus, but you’ve been my sole focus for almost a year now. I can’t imagine I was satisfied with anything else. And I will admit, my dear, that it makes me burn with jealousy that you spend so much time looking away from me, even in well-intentioned worry. I want all of you.”

Squeezing your hand in his, Midoriya brought the fabric of your skirt to his mouth to kiss it, keeping eye contact. “Please. Please. All I am is yours. My heart is yours; these hands are yours; this cock is yours. All of me is yours. All you have to do is ask for it, and if you’re always looking away from me, you won’t. Please look at me. Please let me help you.” He dropped your skirt, his fingers grazing your hip as he shifted his weight off of his injured leg, and he held your hip to steady himself, never tearing his gaze away from you.

The number-one hero’s bulky figure was on his knees in front of you despite his bad leg, squeezing your hand like he’ll never let you go and pressing his face to the front of your dress.

“Tell me you’ll let me in. Tell me I’m the only one,” said Midoriya, nuzzling the spot where your thigh met your hip, “Tell me that only I’m allowed to keep you warm.”

The sun was once thought to be the centre of the universe. It’s time he became the centre of yours.

“Tell me that I’m not alone in this. That you can’t wait any longer,” he said, bright eyes watering without overflowing, and you looked directly into the sun.

soulmate trope taglist: @bakugouspsycho, @pansexualproblemchild, @doonaandpjs, @sunsetevergreen, @the-coffee-is-on-fire, @liberace2, @ladymidnight77, @nonomesupposedto, @gooooomz, @kissmebakugou, @pachiibatt, @celestair, @tiredkittykat, @cheshireshiya, @90s-belladonna, @infjsnightmare @eunchaeluvr

[widebrimmedhatsblog]

ONYX STORM SPOILERS (for your readers)

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If you feel like it, will you expand on how you think they are still involved romantically in the end of onyx storm? Like I get that they are married but that seems to more to secure Violet’s future without him. It doesn’t seem to be because he has any hopes of any kind of future for the two of them together. Romantically or otherwise. He doesn’t want her to look for him. Aren’t they as broken up as they can be at this point? I’d love to hear your thoughts (and love another/different perspective because these thoughts I’m currently having are honestly making me feel ill).

Also thank you for your contributions to the fandom!! Honestly I think fanfic is the only thing that’s gonna get me through this. Hope we get an upsurge of riorgail fluff from everyone 🙏🏼

I have never felt like doing anything more, anon!!! I get what you're saying, and I think that's the way Rebecca/Red Tower WANT us to see it, because they want us to be anxious about where it's going so that we buy the next book. However, I refuse to subscribe to that! Here's why:

(I wrote an actual essay, so it's below the cut:)

"Together romantically" My answer to the other ask was me visiting the Xaden Liarson school of verbal gymnastics so that I didn't spoil the ending for that anon. However, judging by Xaden's behavior throughout ALL of Onyx Storm (and frankly, books 1 and 2 as well) he wouldn't marry her just to dip overall. Like, even not being meta here, he wouldn't do that. He's selfish when it comes to her, for one thing, and he says this repeatedly. For another, he CLEARLY wants to marry her just to marry her. I don't want to get sucked in to another re-read (and someone else asked for my thoughts on the ending in general, so I'll reply to that ask once I'm done with my second re-read in the next few days with more page numbers and quotes and things) but in the scene with his mother, Xaden's reaction seems to illustrate that marriage is NOT a tool for him like it was for his father. He wants to marry Violet because he loves her. Now, obviously the shotgun (crossbow?) wedding was ALSO a move to protect her and solidify her place without him as you said, but with how he talked about marriage throughout the book, and how he talked about HER, he's not marrying her just to dip. He's just not! It means something to him, as she does, and he's not going to forsake that.

Violet Violet isn't letting him marry her just to dip either. Her thoughts throughout the entire book are that she isn't scared of him and she isn't running, and she isn't letting him run from her, either. The way the scene is set up with Sgaeyl, we see:

(Sgaeyl) glances over her shoulder. "And you think she'll help?" "She loves me." "Tairn does not, and you haven't looked in the mirror yet. The red veins branching from your eyes look like her lightning." "She'll help." It comes out with a hell of a lot more certainty than I feel. "She promised."

I am slightly worried about pronoun fuckery in this bit, but we know Violet loves him more than anything, and this portion of Xaden's chapter makes it clear Violet has to agree to whatever the plan is (murdering dragons, stealing eggs, etc) and that Tairn does as well. I think Tairn would actually support them breaking up, to a certain degree, and whatever the plan is, Sgaeyl does NOT think Tairn will be down.

And then, for more confirmation:

"We will ask," Sgaeyl finally says, flexing her claws in the rocky soil "And her decision will determine our fate."

They need Violet on board for whatever they're doing. Violet isn't going to be on board with him dumping her post wedding. I know some of these lines can point in other directions, but I don't think they do, for the reasons I'll go on to spell out below!

3. Memories I know some people were confused about what, precisely, Imogen made Violet forget, and it seems like she's missing 12 hours (which, insane signet growth, Im). I could not get over Violet forgetting her wedding. Hours after I finished the book, I was like, oh my God. She can't remember her wedding, and I burst into tears. Repeatedly. At length. Which is insane, because these books NEVER make me cry. All this to say, (again, given Xaden's tone specifically surrounding marriage) they aren't going to take having her forget their wedding lightly. They just aren't. She has to forget everything in those twelve hours, because she helps Xaden concoct/finalize whatever the hell he's planning on doing (I'll probably share what I think he's planning on doing in my response to the ask I mentioned above, but the gist of it for now is that mans is going on a quest of his own), but Violet ASKS Imogen to make her forget. In the marriage aspect, Xaden's protecting Violet, but in forgetting, Violet's protecting Xaden. This is why I say romantically together as well. I think the love is more important than anything else. I think the point of this book was to make it clear they'd both do absolutely anything for the other, and the ending is a culmination of that. I know some people suggested that they have her forget so that she can't be interrogated and used against him, and I think that's definitely true (although I think making her duchess also protects her from this, but Violet has always doubted her own ability to lie). Personally, my gut instinct interpretation was that deal she made with Ridoc that she'd let Ridoc kill him if Xaden took being venin too far (which, side note, do we all just forget about them being interconnected when it suits us??? He can't die because then Violet will die. We've been over this. I digress). Clearly everyone seems to think his little "display" at the end of the book is "too far." I don't know if he killed anyone important in that scene (again, I actually thought Bodhi dies? At first? And THAT was why she had to marry Xaden to secure the duchy while he was gone? but Red Tower seems to be very in tune to fandom priorities, and with how many people love Bodhi, killing him off page would certainly be a choice) but he's still at least an Asim, if not a Sage (given the veins, I'm 99% sure he's a Sage, but again, we don't get anything concrete in that ending. side eye, Red Tower. side eye.) and therefore everyone thinks he betrayed them, and he needs to get out of there before everyone else kills him! By forgetting, Violet is saving his life. That's romantically together to me.

4. Quest! Xaden doesn't leave Violet to pull an Edward and frolic around Europe for a few months or whatever it is. He has a plan. This what he shows Sgaeyl, I believe, and what Vi and Tairn have to agree on. It involves stealing the dragon eggs, killing the elders and/or the other dragons (save me third re-read of this damn scene, save me) and getting the hell out. @maethologies told me privately that the very act of going on the Quest means Xaden has hope for a "cure", just like Violet said he still had hope if he was trying to get Brennan to mend him. I think this is the Second Krovlan Uprising tie in: trade the dragon eggs (side note: why are there 7? did Andarna steal an egg and bring it back ????) and get allies against the venin (and eventually Navarre) (and perhaps do other cure-related tasks, idk). I also personally think Xaden's going to find more answers for Violet about her connection with Dunne. A huge theme of this book was that (explicitly) Xaden and Andarna don't know who they are, but Violet doesn't really know either. She spends book 3 helping them, and in book 4, I think they help her. Basically, he returns to the isles for quest part 2! Also, I think bringing 3 riders with him is a clear sign he's not just dipping. I'm hoping my second re-read helps me finalize who the hell he brought with him besides Garrick, but if they go to the isles like I'm thinking, my moneys on Dain or Aaric for the language translation (both of whom love Violet). I have a variety of other quest nonsense to share in the other ask, but the gist of it is that he is moving with a purpose! And his purpose is Violet! Because he's in love with her!

5. Meta This is where I get a LITTLE messy. I don't know if everyone reading this saw my 2024 reading wrap up, but I have read the vast majority of RY's catalog, and I consider myself to be very familiar with the themes she likes to write, and the situations she likes to return to, over and over again. A HUGE focus for her is the war in Afghanistan. She's been obsessed with that for ten years, which makes complete sense given who she is and her lived experiences. If you happen to not be super familiar with Rebecca as a person, her husband was in the military for a very long time, and her primary sub-genre is military romance. I don't know if this carries over internationally, but in the United States, marrying your partner early on in your military career is incredibly common, because it protects them in the event of your death and while you're deployed. I was really upset about him marrying her and then immediately leaving at first, but when I thought about it, it makes complete sense for who Rebecca is and what she's gone through. I'm not trying to accuse her of self inserting or anything like that, but she clearly likes to write situations that are important to her (as do I! As do we all!) and so it makes sense to me that she'd call upon something like this for X and V. It does NOT make sense to me that she'd call upon something she went through with her husband she's still married to and then make it a break up. Will it cause tension? Obviously! But to quote Mr. Riorson himself, they're past the break up stage. (Rebecca does some silly things with foreshadowing in her books, and sometimes she says things like this to prove them wrong, and other times, she says things like this prove them right. I really think this is a "prove them right" scenario, but I'm basing that off vibes, frankly, and my knowledge of her body of work. My Rebeccca-dar, if you will.)

6. Xaden Liarson I see your point about the note, and maybe I'm deranged, but I do actually just think he's lying. I don't think he's stupid enough to think she won't come looking for him at this point. He knows her too well for that. I think the "don't come looking for me" or whatever it is is a cover up for everyone else who thinks he betrayed Tyrrendor. Also, it slows her down! I am certain she'll look for him eventually (peep her broken compass from the god of luck, anyone?), but the note + the memory wiping make it so she can't immediately go looking for him. I think that's the point of it, not that she never looks for him again.

To conclude this literal essay, I think they're still together romantically because of Riorgail's most up-to-date characterization on their own and dynamic together, as well as who Rebecca is as a writer. I actually could probably write another essay on this, and I probably will in the other ask, but if there's anything else, let me know!! I need to bleed this book out of me so I can be normal again. But even if they are "broken up", it doesn't matter long term. The five book series WILL end with them together. That's how romantasy works. Xaden isn't dying. Violet isn't dying. Everyone else is fair game, but those two are fine, LOL.

Also, you are SO welcome for fic, always. I am not a fluff girly, unfortunately. I don't really write it in general, but we'll see if I get possessed. I do have a girl dad Xaden fic in the works (in which I have to re-work their wedding....) and I have some new smut ideas I want to write sometime soon! I think that will scratch the itch for me, anyway! As I've mentioned throughout this post, my hangover cure of choice has been to dive right back into Onyx Storm again, and I honestly think that was the best idea for me. I didn't do that after Iron Flame because I thought it was somehow "bad" to do so, and then I just longed for these characters for months. But, you do you! I wanted to make a masterpost of my hangover cure recs, but we'll see if I ever get to it. If you've read this far I am personally giving you a virtual gold star.

[xclowniex]

So there is a post going around with a realy suspicious map, and OP of the post has me blocked so here is a link to their post since I cannot reblog it.

Okay so, I looked into this as from my own experience the map looked suspicious.

The orignal post of the map has been deleted. You can find the deleted post on reddit about it here.

I managed to find a repost of the map on tumblr, which had linked to the deleted reddit post, and you can find the repost of the orignal map here. Now onto debunking OP's claim of the map.

The title of the map is not solely about the west bank, it is about full john oliver episodes being unavailable in countries. Not just the west bank episode, all full episodes.

When I try to watch the video, i get the below error from youtube

Yep your eyes do see correctly. It is the uploader who made it unavailable. This means that either John Oliver himself, his production team or HBO who has the rights to his show, decided to make his content not available to be viewed in certain countries.

A comment on the reddit post which I think people should read is

"The title of this post makes many people think OP means ‘countries that have banned this’. Instead, this is just ‘countries where a network pays for the broadcast rights for this show’. The highlighted countries are ones where the show is most popular. The blank countries are where it’s not popular, so they give it away for free to try to drum up support"

Aka this is not purposeful censorship by (((zionists)) like tumblr op is trying to frame it. Its not keeping what happens in the west bank a secret. It is a decision made by someone in charge of the show, to make as much money as possible. Which still sucks! But, it sucks for different reasons than what tumblr OP is alluding to.

3. Tumblr OP is being antisemitic. Whilst it is definately written in a more subtle way, it is still invoking the whole "jews control the media" trope. A well known antisemitic trope is still antisemitic even if "jew" is replaced with "zionist". This is because whilst not every use of "zionist" is a proxy word of jew, it happens more than you think, to the point where meta (instagram and facebook) updated their hate speech policy to puroposefully include "zionist when its being used as proxy (aka dogwhistle) for jew is now hate speech on our platform". Meta still allows it to be used when talking about zionism as a political ideology, and have only banned the use of it as a proxy for jew.

OP of this post has already blocked me (only found out when i saw this post), so I wanna thank @coffeeconcentrate for reblogging this and not having me blocked so I can actually have a chance at reaching even a small group of people to make them aware of this so they don't fall for this poorly made post.

[flamingpudding]

Ghost Kitten

A/N: I got fascinated with the idea of Danny being Selina's son and then during work this sort of idea formed in my head.

Danny wasn't supposed to know yet. Jack had it all prepared for when Danny would get to learn about this. But this, this was not how Danny was supposed to learn about his origins yet. Jack Fenton wasn't sure how to react, so he ended up possible reacting in the worst way possible if he judged it by the way his sweet little boy was looking at them.

Jack tried to remember where it went wrong. Jazz had come to them, told them Danny wanted to have an important talk. That it was so important that she needed both of them to focus on him seriously. It had worried Maddie and him at first and when they sat down on the couch facing their children they weren't sure what to expect. But then his boy told him about the accident he had in the lap, about how things changed even asking them if they ever noticed how Danny's behaviours changed.

Jack had to admit then, that he hadn't really noticed and it made his mouth taste like dirt. He didn't like where this was going. He saw how his children exchanged a glance and then his sweet boy told them the truth and Jack could feel the horror overtaking his entire mind. The accident had changed Danny even worse.

He couldn't help but remember a term he had last heard long ago before his collage years even. Meta Human. His son had become a Meta human with ghost based powers and had kept it a secret from them for so long. Jack didn't know how to react then and still didn't know now. All he could think about were the horrors he had put his sweet little son through. All the times he had offhandedly said he would tear him apart molecule by molecule. In how much fear did his son have to live until he gathered enough courage to tell them, most likely only because Jazz was there to support him?

Jack didn't want to imagine it anymore. All he wanted was to hug his little boy and tell him that everything would be okay but before he could do anything. Maddie, his until then wonderful, wife told them something in return they had an agreement over when to tell them.

"You're adopted. You are not my child."

Until then Jack had always thought Maddie loved Danny just as much as he did but as he locked at his wife and saw the steely coldness flickering in them with distress. He wasn't so sure anymore. Torn between being angry at Maddie for the first time after so long and wanting to comfort his boy, Jack could do nothing but sat frozen as his beloved family broke apart before his eyes.

Suddenly Maddie and Jazz got into a headed argument, Danny was starting to draw into himself, making himself smaller watching his mother and sister fight. Until Maddie stormed out fo the room. Jazzie gave him a challenging look but Jack didn't know what to say so instead, what he had planned to tell his son when he turned 18 he was going to tell him now.

"Danny you know how we have barely any contact with family from my side? There is a reason behind it. But the important part here is that the only one I do keep sort of contact with is my fourth cousin and even that is nothing more than a couple messages ever few months."

"And what does that have to do with Danny?" Jazz pressed on while his little boy finally got the courage to look up at him.

"Dann-no, I need for you to now that no matter what you are or what I am going to tell you, you are my little boy, my son." Jack did everything he could to stare reassuringly at his boy and smiled once he saw him smile just a little too, he was most likely relieved that he was taking the news better than his mother.

"About 16 year ago, my fourth cousin contacted me out of the blue, till then we had only exchanged a couple of words and theories and projects. But that time was different. She was panicked, unsure and distressed. I don't know the specifics, all she told me was that she had gotten pregnant with a child from a fling who she wasn't sure wanted a relationship with or not and that she couldn't take care of a child in a city as dangerous as where she lived."

Understanding dawned on his daughter's face and Jack smiled fondly, Jazzie-pants had always been a smart cookie. "She didn't want to put the baby into her system, nor let a stranger take care of it. So she asked me and the moment I saw the little baby the first time. I knew he would be my son no matter what or how long she would want for me to take care of him."

Danny blinked wide eyed at Jack as finally his boy also understood what he was telling him. "Technically you are my fifth cousin, but I would prefer for you to stay my son for as long as you want."

He left his children after telling Danny the truth of his origin. Jack new he would love his son no matter what he was or his reaction towards the truth of his origins. Still he hoped this would not tear his family apart and that it would only take a day or two for Maddie to cool off for things to go back to an adjusted normal. Jack mused that he would have to diele back on the ghost ripping comments, he wouldn't want for his little boy to live in fear in their own house.

That what he thought until he saw his wife stewing in their bedroom, muttering about theories and how their boy wasn't their boy. He knew his wife, and dearly loved her. But it was because he knew her that he did the next thing he felt like regretting the next moment.

Danny is no longer safe with us. - J

He didn't get an answer from his cousin and the next morning he knew why. He did expect for her to want to remove Danny from their care, but he did not expect her to visit him with barely any time delay the next day.

All he could do was to stare and watch as Selina appeared on his doorstep with a man that was glaring at him and Jack might have only seen in magazines before, asking if she could meet her boy and how much he had already told Danny about his birth. And when he saw his baby boy's reaction to the two he wanted to do nothing more than hug and cuddle his little boy but once again, he got beaten to it by his fourth cousin.

His poor boy looked so unsure when Selina hugged him that Jack really wanted to take him away again, but he had no other choice, if he wanted to ensure his boy's safety.

[actual-changeling]

Welcome back to Alex's unhinged meta corner - although today it is less unhinged and more of a watertight analysis.

What I am about to present you is something most people have probably already noticed, but it has been three months and I still lose my mind while going through the final fifteen frame by frame (which is a normal thing normal people like us do, right? right).

You literally cannot convince me my following meta is wrong, and the only person whose criticism I will accept on this post is Michael Sheen and Michael Sheen ONLY. If you're not Michael Sheen (hi Michael Sheen who probably has a secret tumblr account) then your guess is as good as mine, though again, I think mine is solid.

So.

We all love and hate Aziraphale's "I forgive you", but what I find even more painful is the fact that before that he almost said "I love you". Then he stops himself and changes it, and the amount of micro-expressions on his face as he makes that decision is my current cause of death.

Here's the clip as evidence #1, and while it can definitely support itself, let's dive into the pain a little more, shall we?

One important thing I noticed is that Aziraphale doesn't look at Crowley while he stutters his way through his initial reaction. He blinks up at him for a few frames before averting his eyes again and only holds eye contact after the almost-confession (from here on referred to as IL-).

This is Aziraphale holding eye contact with Crowley (left) vs. him looking away (right):

The frame on the left is from the I forgive you (IFY) part of the scene, the other one from right before IL-. If we go through the above clip little by little we will find that he avoids Crowley's face the entire time and his gaze slips further and further down, which I interpret as him overthinking/trying to come up with something to respond to this entire situation.

He is overwhelmed and surprised, caught between his two main desires: Crowley and being a Good Angel.

Combing through the frames, we can actually nail down exactly when Aziraphale first makes eye contact before the IL- and when he stops. Keep the above comparison in mind! The angle is slightly different because his chin is lower and he straightens up throughout the scene.

So! This is where he starts looking at Crowley:

And this is where he stops:

Hard to see? Let's zoom in on his eyes (numbers are the file names):

Now, you might ask me "Alex, this is all fine, although a bit insane, but why is any of this important?"

Because, fellow tumblr user and good omens enthusiast, I think that looking at Crowley is what changes his mind about what to say.

He doesn't look at him -> about to confess his feelings.

He looks at him -> says the absolutely worst possible thing.

Partly to hurt him because they're both lashing out at each other during this argument, but he looks at Crowley, looks at the person that just kissed him, that told him they could have been an us, that wants him and has always wanted him, screw everyone else.

He looks at Crowley and he wants to say l love you but then what? Once he says those words, he can't leave. He just can't.

We have to remember that they have existed within a complicated dance, a game that they have been playing for centuries without ever telling each other what that game actually is, what the rules are - because they couldn't. It was based entirely on trust and knowing the other person well enough to play it safe.

Crowley just flipped the playing board. Nothing is the way it should be, he is refusing to do their dance, refusing to play. He is looking at him and daring him to stop trying to put the pieces back on the board. The only thing neither of them has done yet is actually say I love you out loud.

Saying those words would mean stepping away from the playing board and acknowledging the room they have been playing in. It would mean saying fuck you to heaven, yes, but it would also force Aziraphale to finally define himself outside of the role he has been playing for both Crowley and heaven, and he isn't ready for that yet.

Additionally, there is the fear and/or knowledge (depending on what else the Metatron might have said or done that we did not see) that heaven will retaliate against him and Crowley if he disobeys them now, and he does not want to risk that either.

All that is what, in my opinion, happens in his head when he averts his eyes and interrupts himself. I do kinda what to make a whole different post about his facial expressions leading up to the IFY, so I will end this one with one more bit of pain.

Ready?

Firstly, the face he makes when he makes his decision.

Look at the tight line of his lips, the pain etched into his face, the pure pain in his eyes.

This is the face of someone who knows exactly how badly he is going to hurt Crowley and himself. This is an apology, an I'm sorry for what I'm about to do, this hurts me as much as it hurts you. I'm sorry but I have to.

And then he winces afterwards. I don't know about you, but this is exactly the kind of face I make when I'm emotionally torturing myself with my own thoughts. For the final blow, please look at the picture very, very closely, especially the last frame, because Aziraphale isn't just sorry and he isn't just in pain.

Aziraphale is scared because he knows* that he might lose Crowley over this. He knows that saying I forgive you is (almost) unforgivable. He KNOWS.

He does it anyway because he will lose Crowley either way but he'd rather have him alive and hating him than dead.

With that I am concluding today's unhinged meta corner, thank you for your attention and you're welcome for the pain.

Also: If you want to call me a 'tin hatter' or insane or otherwise make fun of me - this is very much a girl, what were YOU doing at the devil's sacrament moment because you read my meta post all the way to the end. <3

-

*authors note: what Aziraphale thinks he knows and what is actually real is not the same thing but that's a different post

[ladykailitha]

Icarus Part 16

Hello! This story is back and will be for at least the next two weeks. After that I will be taking a two week break in posting so that I can have a good backlog again. Moving and vacation absolutely destroyed the nearly 20 chapters I had waiting in the wings. I went from 18 to 8 and while I am up above 10, it's not much above 10 (as of right now? 11).

I have four stories going on right now and the goal is to get at least four chapters each so I can have 16 in my backlog. So from Aug 18th, to the 31st, I won't be posting any chapters from any of my stories. I will still post ideas, meta, headcanon et al, but no story updates.

Anyway back to your regularly scheduled metal band Steve!

In this we find out what happened to Barb and why it drove a rift between Steve and Nancy, more about how the bands formed, and Vickie gets a feel for her new clients.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15

~

Steve spent the night with Eddie after that horrible day he had. Once everyone had gone home and it was just Steve and Eddie, Steve curled up on Eddie’s chest and held on for dear life.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Eddie cooed, running his fingers through Steve’s hair, gently scratching his scalp. “When I suggested her I didn’t realize she still held a grudge against you after all these years.”

He let out a long shuddering breath. “Our breakup was entirely her fault. When Barb used my party to runaway with her boyfriend, a boyfriend no one even knew she had by the way, Nancy was so sure that she had been trafficked. That Will just wasn’t kidnapped, but there was a ring of child abductors taking anyone they could get their hands on.”

“As if that’s how that works,” Eddie said rolling his eyes.

“Right?” Steve huffed. “Anyway, she went on this one woman crusade to bring Barb Holland home. Even after Will Byers was kidnapped by a guy who thought he was his son. I tried to be supportive because Barb just up and leaving was scary for everyone. She was making me put out fliers and dragging me to dinners with Barb’s parents. They even hired a private investigator to find her. Had to sell their house to cover it all.”

“So what happened?”

“Finally the PI found her,” Steve murmured, “living in Florida on some beach somewhere, having the time of her life, not even caring about her family and friend thinking she was dead. But by the time they found her she was eighteen and they couldn’t do anything about it.”

Eddie winced and pulled Steve even closer. “What about the guy? How old was he?”

“Twenty-five.”

Eddie’s eyes went wide. “Come again? Couldn’t they have gotten him for kidnapping and statutory rape?”

“They couldn’t prove he was the guy she had run off with and for all they knew they got together after she turned eighteen,” Steve explained, picking at the blanket absently.

“I guess I’m just not seeing how this was any of your fault,” Eddie admitted dryly. “It sounds like it was Barb’s fault.”

Steve let out another sigh. “It was my fault because I took Nancy’s attention away from her friend when she needed her the most and Jonathan knew what it was like, not knowing when a loved one was ever going to come home. That he was sensitive and caring. That he wouldn’t beg for one night of being a teenager and go to some Halloween party.”

“Ouch,” Eddie said with grimace. This was sounding worse and worse for Nancy. He couldn’t believe he had ever trusted her.

“She was already cheating on me before the party,” Steve said, finally looking up into Eddie’s eyes.

Eddie pulled him onto his lap and kissed the top of his head. “I’m sorry, babe.”

“Do you want to know what her excuse was?” Steve said with a scoff. “It was because I was just phoning it in and that I really didn’t care about her, about Barb, that I was just some self-centered jerk. As if that absolves her cheating.”

“You’ve never just phoned anything in in your life, sweetheart,” Eddie said fiercely. “You are always one hundred percent passionate about everything you do. Even crappy jobs like Scoops Ahoy and the coffee shop.”

Steve looked up at Eddie with a soft smile. “Those were the two best jobs I’ve ever had, because if I hadn’t done them, I wouldn’t have been able to do this one.”

“How’s that, honey?” Eddie asked after giving him a kiss on the temple.

“The first one is where I met Robin and the second is where I met Simon, Shane, and Spence.”

Eddie threw back his head and laughed. “That’s definitely one way to pick up friends.”

“Well, we all can’t have the good fortune to have met in middle school and never break up ever,” Steve snarked.

“Wait until I tell you that Gareth isn’t our first drummer and we used to have a different bassist, too.”

Steve shot up and looked Eddie in the eye. “You’re joking, right?”

“Nope,” he said shaking his head. “Our first bassist was Doug Teague and our first drummer was a girl named Ronnie Eckers. Ronnie’s parents forced her stop the band after the middle school talent show when I threw up the devil’s horns and they thought it was a gang sign.” Steve chuckled. “And Dougie, Dougie wasn’t made for fame and fortune. He wanted a simple life with a white picket fence and 2.5 children. He sent Brian a message when we put out our first single saying that it was Brian’s addition to the band that was the reason we made it big. Brian printed it out and has it taped to the inside of his bass case.”

“Holy shit,” Steve whispered. “I never knew. I thought you guys were like The Struts or whatever and never changed band members ever.”

Eddie smiled. “I’m glad you think we have that kind of chemistry, but no. It’s been a bit trial and error before we got this far.”

Steve snuggled back into Eddie’s chest and he wrapped his arms around his waist. “I hope we never have to swap someone out,” he murmured. “Otherwise we’re going to have to hunt down someone with the same initial as the rest of us and probably even snipe the leaving member for good measure.”

Eddie burst out laughing. “That would make for some very interesting entertainment, that’s for sure.” He suddenly straightened up. “Wait. Is that why all your onstage personas begin with an A? Because your real names all begin with an S?”

He looked down at Steve, who was trying not to laugh. “Oh my god! It is! That is fucking hilarious! And no one has ever put two and two together?”

“Nope!”

Eddie just shook his head. “I think it’s classism. The reason they haven’t put two and two together. Why would two rich pretty boys fallen on hard times form a band with two blue collar boys? They just can’t fathom the idea that people from all walks of life can be friends.”

“Simon and my families still can’t understand how we can hang out with you and Robin and the rest of our friends,” Steve agreed. “But I fear that our friends might be playing into it too. That Stupid Steve and Flighty Robin who have always had low paying jobs couldn’t possibly be an international rockstar and his fashion plate manager.”

Eddie sighed. He wanted to refute that, but just last week Steve had gotten a call from Dustin who had spent most of the call berating Steve for not having any ambition. And even some of the nicer kids had expressed concerns that their friends didn’t want to be more than peons at some fancy record label.

Never mind that Steve said he loved his job and being able to work along side his friends was the dream. Steve explained it as doing what he loved no matter how much it paid him, but they couldn’t see that.

“I’m sorry, babe,” Eddie cooed. “Let’s get a shower and then go to bed. It’s been a long day for everyone and we need the rest.”

Steve nodded and got up to pad over to the en suite bathroom. Eddie followed close behind. They merely showered, taking care of each other and then got slowly ready for bed.

Eddie slipped under the covers first and then held out his arms out for Steve. Steve wordlessly went willingly into his boyfriend’s arms, knowing that Eddie would be there for him come morning.

They snuggled under the covers and slipped silently into the warm embrace of slumber.

~

Vickie was working out great and had set up a meeting with Steve and Eddie to go over their relationship status.

“I understand you won’t be able to go public with your relationship for awhile is that correct?” she asked once they got settled into her office, her choosing not to do the meeting in public.

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “I have a history of bad relationships and Steve can’t be out as Abbadon which would make sense public wise.”

Steve nodded.

“Would you want Abbadon and Eddie to come out as a couple at some point?” Vickie asked, shifting the papers on her desk.

Eddie and Steve shared a glance. But Steve shook his head.

“I want Eddie and Steve to be the couple that everyone knows about,” he muttered. “It’s completely selfish of me but I want to look at publications, tabloids, sound bites and all that other shit and know it’s not me they see with Eddie, but Abbadon. The much cooler one.”

Vickie nodded. “But you two were friends before the fame and during, right?”

“Yeah, we were friends in high school,” Eddie agreed, his knee beginning to bounce. “We somehow stayed friends through the first couple of years I was out in LA for that first record. And then Steve and Robin moved out to Pasadena. Which I thought was because our young friend Dustin got into school out there–”

“But it was because he got his own record contract?” Vickie supplied.

Steve nodded and rested his hand on Eddie’s knee to calm him. “Yeah. It was a great excuse, our friend’s mom has always been over protective due to a disease he has. I don’t know if people are expecting us to move out to Boston when he graduates and goes to MIT, but that was never the plan.”

“I think Steve was saying that as long as they are masked,” Eddie put his hand over Steve’s on his knee, “that he didn’t want to come out as a couple.”

Vickie leaned her elbows on her desk and clasped her hands together. “I see here that you and Shane are having your personas Abbadon and Astraeus are coming out as bisexual and gay respectively, is that correct?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, rubbing his thumb over Eddie’s hand, for his comfort or Eddie’s, he wasn’t sure. “That’s another reason for wanting to wait on coming out as a couple.”

“You’re worried about the fallout?” she probed gently. Steve nodded. “That’s fine. That’s what I’m here for. For the first twenty four hours after you’ve gone live on your coming out, I will keep track of all your phones so that you aren’t reacting to a gut punch right out of the gate.”

“But Celeste and Eddie will still have their phones?” Steve asked, rearing his head back in confusion.

Vickie cocked her head to the side. “Robin will need her phone, but I can’t take Eddie’s. Not unless he wants me to.”

Eddie grinned and stretched out, putting his hands behind his head. “I can’t promise I’ll be good, but I know how far to take things now.”

Vickie nodded. She had expected that to be his answer. And if she was honest even to herself, she wanted Eddie standing up for Abbadon. Because Eddie had already handled his coming out and would be seen as a powerful ally.

“Even if you aren’t publicly friends,” she said, “Eddie defending Abbadon is publicity money just can’t buy.”

They talked for a little while longer until they finally wrapped it all up. As they walked out of Vickie’s office to Eddie’s Jag, he got a phone call.

“‘Ello?” he greeted. “Hey Dr. Owens.”

He stopped and held up a finger to Steve as he listened. “That’s great news.”

He listened again. “Yeah, of course. Um...” he paused. “It’s not like I doubt you or anything, but after last time...”

Eddie rounded his shoulders as he repeated, “Uh-huh. Of course,” over and over.

Steve reached out and took his free hand in his. He gave it a comforting squeeze and Eddie’s shoulders got a little less rounded, now that Steve was holding him.

“Yeah, talk to you soon,” Eddie said. “Bye.” He turned to Steve. “How soon are you guys going be finished with your album?”

Steve blinked at him for a moment before he tilted his head to the side. “About a month or so, why?”

A slow small grin spread out over his features. “I think that will be perfect, actually.”

Steve just blinked at him in confusion.

“Gareth is being let out of rehab at the end of the month,” Eddie said gleefully. “So we can finally go on tour!”

Steve grabbed his arms and started squealing. Eddie jumped up and down with him.

It was finally happening. They were going on tour.

~

Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25

Tag List: CLOSED MAXIMUM REACHED!

1- @mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @val-from-lawrence

3- @goodolefashionedloverboi @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog @irregular-child @blondie1006

4- @yikes-a-bee @bookworm0690 @anne-bennett-cosplayer @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten

5- @genderless-spoon @y4r3luv @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt

6- @disrespectedgoatman @eyehartart @dawners @thespaceantwhowrites @tinyplanet95

7- @iamthehybrid @croatoan-like-its-hot @papergrenade @cryptid-system @counting-dollars-counting-stars

8- @ravenfrog @w1ll0wtr33 @child-of-cthulhu @kultiras @dreamercec

9- @machete-inventory-manager @useless-nb-bisexual @stripey82 @dotdot-wierdlife @kal-ology

10- @sadisticaltarts @urkadop @chameleonhair @clockworkballerina @garden-of-gay

[youryurigoddess]

The biggest Easter egg yet

I’ve been meaning to address this for a while now, but @camdenleisurepirates gave me the final push after reading my piece on Gabriel’s cross. Huge thanks for that morsel of motivation, my ADHD brain loves you.

This is going to be yet another long read, although not as extensive as my bookshop statues meta. Still, better get yourself some hot chocolate or another drink of your choice and make sure you’re comfortable!

Now, remember the X-Ray interview with Peter Anderson on Easter Eggs in the opening animation he created for the second season? Forget red herrings, apparently our fandom has a literal red phone box! I’m convinced that this whole scene is a one big — the biggest, actually — Easter Egg, and I’ll explain why step-by-step.

The red phone box Crowley used to warn Aziraphale about the Antichrist and the following Armageddon in S1, the exact one where he left change for an emergency call, seems important enough in terms of the future S3 plot, but there’s so much more going on in this frame. Not only the lift.

The angels

At the very start of this sequence we can see a fragment of an elaborate bridge guarded by cherubs sitting on two columns, maybe globes, leading to a distant structure built over a literal mountain of trash — all elements of the S1 and S2 openings which were consciously picked out by the animators and put together in a very ominous pile.

Ready for some scavenging?

In the Gabriel’s cross meta, I already mentioned the importance of Ponte Sant’Angelo in relation to the ex-Archangel’s statue. Now it’s time to widen our perspective and focus on the full picture — quite literally. Apparently the bridge from the opening sequence has ten statues of angels, exactly as the Italian historical monument.

First things first though: the two big cherubs guarding the entry to the bridge might seem familiar to some of you. While they’re obviously not copies of the same statue, a very similar pair of brass cherubs is placed in Aziraphale’s bookshop to symbolize Aziraphale and Crowley. And looking at the screenshot above and the way they sleep or sulk with their backs turned on each other, they are most certainly not talking. The addition of more than one set of eyes is a lovely reference to biblically accurate angel memes though.

If we assume the traditional left-right positioning of the characters, Aziraphale is on the left and Crowley is on the right. Directly behind Aziraphale we can see a ship named “Good Traits”, but in reverse — kinda sorta confirmed by the animator Peter Anderson to be connected to the concept of the seven deadly sins on Twitter. Same that was mentioned recently by Neil in one of his asks.

The presence of Gabriel — a renegade Archangel wielding a broken cross — on the right, Crowley’s side, seems to match this theory. It could also support one of the possible interpretations of the very last bookshop shot in the S2 finale.

Out of all ten statues, Angel Carrying the Cross by Ercole Ferrata is considered inferior to the others on the bridge in that it appears to be a two-dimensional relief sculpture rather than an unbounded three-dimensional artwork, which seems to match Gabriel’s first impression as a character.

The inscription on the statue reads, “Dominion rests on his shoulders" — that is the weight of the cross that Christ was forced to carry through Jerusalem before being crucified. Even though Gabriel’s burden partially disappeared, the whole bridge and its environment is covered with crosses. It’s clear that we’re looking at a direct parallel of Via Crucis, the Way of Sorrows.

Towering over the Italian bridge, at the very top of Castel Sant’Angelo, is a statue of Archangel Michael, seen as the golden angel on the top left part of the trash pile. Aziraphale’s side, perhaps as his assistant, perhaps a rival? Legends of the Jews mention Michael as the chief of a band of angels who questioned God's decision to create man on Earth. The entire band of angels, except for Michael, was condemned to Fall — which could explain why they have such a good access to the Grapevine That Obviously Doesn’t Exist. And whatever’s going on between Michael and Dagon, perhaps.

In Roman Catholic teachings, Michael has four main roles or offices. Their first role is the leader of the Army of God and the leader of Heaven's forces in the final triumph over the powers of Hell. Viewed as the angelic model for the virtues of the spiritual warrior, their conflict with evil taken as the battle within. The second and third roles of Michael deal with death. Their second role is that of an angel of death, carrying the souls of Christians to Heaven. Michael descends at the hour of death and gives each soul the chance to redeem itself before passing; thus throwing the devil and his minions into consternation. In their third role, Michael weights souls on perfectly balanced scales they are often depicted with as their attribute. In their fourth role, Michael appears as the guardian of the Church. Might be the reason why they’re the closest to the building on top of the mountain.

It looks like Michael lost their sword though, just like Gabriel lost a part of the cross he was supposed to carry. The sword in question was supposed to be used to slay the dragon — Satan, the Adversary — according to John of Patmos and his Book of Revelations.

Speak of the devil: interestingly, there are two copies of an anonymous variation of the Angel of Light statue appearing twice on both sides of the bridge. Both the title as well as the statue itself seem like obvious references to one (former) angel literally called the Lightbringer, Lucifer. Perhaps one of them is representing his son, the Antichrist, instead, with the both of them helping out the Ineffables on two opposing — or perhaps only parallel — sides of the bridge?

The light carried by Lucifer appears to be green, a color used in the series as a visual representation of Hell, but on the intertextual level might also serve as a reference to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic novel The Great Gatsby and the green light at the end of the Daisy’s dock symbolizing the undying love, desperation, and longing for an unattainable dream. In the story, the color represents the limitations of power and money. Not surprisingly, the novel appears on Jim’s bookshelf and is part of the Good Omens book club — a list of personal recommendations from Neil Gaiman and Douglas Mackinnon for the fans to catch up on before the next series.

Last but not least, the possible connection to Libertas as the inspiration for the Statue of Liberty, shown multiple times in S2 as a foreshadowing of our character’s trip to America in S3. The related quote of Patrick Henry “Give me liberty or give me death” becomes even more relevant if we consider how the motto of the French Revolution was sometimes written as Liberté, égalité, fraternité ou la mort (“Liberty, equality, fraternity or death”). A lesson surely learnt by a certain angel back in 1793, when he was held prisoner for the last time before being forcefully taken Upstairs in the Final Fifteen.

The bridge and the castle

Okay, these are the basic observations. Now a brief historical overview and we will reach the fun bit in a jiffy.

Have you ever wondered about the meaning of this whole complex? It wasn’t always angelic, but named after a Roman noble dynasty. The Aelian bridge was built by the Emperor Hadrian in 134 AD to span River Tiber from the city center to his mausoleum. With time, the remains of more emperors were put to rest in there, until it was plundered and destroyed in a war. Then the remaining structure was transformed into a military fortress and a castle serving as the papal residence in times of war.

The Papal State also used Sant'Angelo as a prison; the Renaissance philosopher Giordano Bruno was imprisoned there for six years. Executions of the inmates were performed in the small inner courtyard, but they weren’t the only deaths in the area. On the other side of the bridge, in the adjoining Piazza del Ponte, under the watchful eyes of the stone likenesses of two saints, the public executions were held, and the heads of the criminals were brought onto the bridge and exposed to public view there.

As a prison, the former mausoleum is also the setting for the third act of Giacomo Puccini's 1900 opera Tosca. Long story short, the eponymous heroine convinces her lover to feign death so that they can flee together. Unfortunately, they are betrayed and the firing squad shoots at him with real bullets instead of blanks. Tosca believes in the quality of his acting performance rather than the truth, and when the realization hits her, she leaps to her death from the Castel’s ramparts.

After Nero’s bridge was destroyed, the travelers were forced to cross this bridge as the only direct route to the Vatican and St Peter’s Basilica, earning it the nickname “the bridge of Saint Peter”. That’s why in the 16th century Pope Clement VII erected statues of Saints Peter and Paul at the ends of the bridge, guarding it as they are supposed to protect the entry to Heaven.

In 1688 the bridge was embellished with ten angel statues, five on each side of the bridge, carrying Arma Christi, the Instruments of the Passion. The Good Omens characters represented by those statues in the opening sequence might be other instruments of Christ’s suffering as parts of the system that needs to be overthrown or replaced.

One angel appears particularly important in the context of both the bridge and the Second Coming — Saint Michael the Archangel.

Legend holds that the Archangel Michael appeared atop Hadrian’s mausoleum, sheathing their sword as a sign of the end of the plague of 590, thus lending the castle its present name. A less charitable yet more apt elaboration of the legend, given the militant disposition of this particular Archangel, was heard by the 15th-century traveler who saw an angel statue on the castle roof. He recounts that during a prolonged season of the plague, Pope Gregory I heard that the populace, even Christians, had begun revering a pagan idol at the church of Santa Agata in Suburra. A vision urged the Pope to lead a procession to the church. Upon arriving, the idol miraculously fell apart with a clap of thunder. Returning to St Peter's by the Aelian Bridge, the Pope had another vision of an angel atop the castle, wiping the blood from his sword on his mantle, and then sheathing it. While the Pope interpreted this as a sign that God was appeased, this did not prevent Gregory from destroying more sites of pagan worship in Rome. In honor of the vision and Michael, the bridge was renamed in their name.

What if the procession from the opening sequence was meant to imitate the procession led by the Pope from the legend? What if Aziraphale, now officially a Supreme Archangel, Commander of the Heavenly Host, is the one actually leading it, with Crowley finally at his side as his partner and second in command, just like it was proposed by him in the Final Fifteen?*

What if by some reason, maybe personal ambition, maybe just a tragic coincidence or situational necessity, there really was an impostor in Heaven, and Metatron — the so called Voice of God who seemingly doesn’t speak up for Herself since Job’s test — has been playing a winged version of the Wizard of Oz all along?

It would make just the perfect sense if not for one tiny detail. The procession we see on the bridge is actually led by Crowley, which doesn’t fit the parallel at all — unless it’s actually a proof of an ongoing body swap, as the mismatched names of the actors could also suggest?

The mountain of trash and the bookshop

The symbolic mountain of trash we can see Aziraphale and Crowley climb is a reference in itself. To an actual mount called Zion, believed to be the place where Yahweh, the God of Israel, dwells (Isaiah 8:18; Psalm 74:2), the place where God is king (Isaiah 24:23) and where God has installed king David on his throne (Psalm 2:6).

In a literal sense, it’s a hill in Jerusalem, although the sources refer to three different locations in different contexts — although for the purpose of this meta the Upper Eastern Hill (Temple Mount) makes the most sense. Its highest part became the site of Solomon's Temple. The same King Solomon the rituals in Freemasonry refer to. Masonic buildings, where lodges and their members meet, are sometimes called "temples" specifically as an allegoric reference to King Solomon's Temple, not actual places of worship. And Aziraphale’s bookshop is built around Solomon’s Magic Circle.

In a metaphysical sense, and especially in the context of the Christian New Testament, it is also believed to be a part of Heaven — the heavenly Jerusalem, God's Holy, eternal city. Christians are said to have “(…) come to Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, to an innumerable company of angels, to the general assembly and church of the firstborn who are registered in heaven” (Hebrews 12:22-23 cf. Revelation 14:1). Just like the procession were following in the opening sequence.

There’s been some speculation whether the lift on top of the mountain could symbolize Aziraphale’s bookshop, or, more specifically, the oculus in its centre. If you look closely at the enhanced screenshot, you can see that the dome isn’t made of glass and that it looks like a tower (a church’s bell tower, perhaps) more than a whole building.

And there is an actual doorway in there — not like the modern lift doors — opening up towards the source of that white, heavenly light. And what kind of enlightenment can you usually find up in the skies or heavens?

We’re welcomed to crack open the doors to the Heavenly Sanctuary — the Most Holy place, Sanctum Sanctorum, the Holy of Holies — to undraw the final curtain and finally stand eye to eye with God. Who knows, maybe even ask some questions or listen to some answers.

Or, at the very least, to meet one of Her forms known as Jesus Christ. Because that’s precisely where he serves as our (humanity’s) Mediator and the Holy Priest after his Ascension to Heaven. The structure at the top reminds of some temple architecture seen in Antiquity and Christianity.

The Catholic Church considers the Church tabernacle or its location (traditionally at the rear of the sanctuary) as the symbolic equivalent of the Holy of Holies, due to the storage of consecrated hosts in that vessel and their meaning as the Body of Christ. Tabernacle is commonly marked with a red light turned on and off depending on His presence or lack if it.

Looks like He’s already in the area, one way or another, keeping eye on some things.

Are we following a procession of believers happy to embrace their one and true Savior? Or are they actually protesters on their way to dethrone the authority and the system?

Guess we will have to wait and see.