#praying that all of those new guys are easier lol

[autismswagsummit]

Looking for images for our headliners has reminded me how immensely frustrating wiki crawling is. Apparently, the render I've been using for Donatello this whole time was actually a screenshot from the movie, cropped and edited like it was a normal fullbody render, of which I cannot find the specific image on any of the various ROTTMNT wikis. I don't have the image downloaded anymore either, I don't know when I would've deleted it but it's gone now. I'm going to focus on the others for now, I'll get back to him. Eventually.

[bombsonboard]

the day after yesterday: chapter three

Summary: Time travel is volatile, dangerous, playing god. And then sometimes  it drops you in just the right place at the perfect time. It’s a matter of perspective. You decide.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (no Y/N)

Word Count: 4.4k

Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Read it on AO3

A/N: So my scheduled post didnt work! But i’m still uploading this on Wednesday, just a little later than planned lol. Hope you’ve all had a good week and sorry for the lil bit late chaper!

You stood outside ‘Stillman’s Gymnasium’ feeling grateful it was a warm summer’s day and you didn’t have to brave the New York cold without a jacket. Bucky said he’d meet you here, he cleaned the gym after hours in exchange for weekly boxing lessons, promising it would be all theirs so you could work on your escape in peace. 

Turns out, jumping the turnstile to get on the subway was a hell of a lot easier in the 1940s, it just took avoiding every man with a conductor hat, which the crowds made easy, and you made it to midtown. 

All alone, you let yourself take a breath. Yes, you were stuck in the wrong time, but with the hope of getting home, it was quite an astonishing thing. This place wouldn’t even be here in twenty years, bulldozed for apartments. Having the privilege to be here was something you could hardly fathom but you tried to let yourself enjoy it, at least for the time being.

It was too easy to imagine yourself having a life here, who could be waiting for? Maybe a good girl friend, or maybe some guy was picking you up to go and see a movie, one of those old ones that are only on at Christmas or Sunday afternoons. Your dress would be a bit cleaner, your hair pinned out of your face and you would see him approaching in the distance.

In your mind he had a kind smile on his face, a few roses, not too many and he would walk up to you and say:

“Steve is gonna kill me when he finds out I took his nice sketch paper, this better be worth it.” 

You blinked out of your fantasy to see the roses had flattened into a stack of paper and the kind smile you dreamed of was replaced by Bucky’s blank frown. He looked at you curiously.

“What?” He brushed his hair back with his free hand.

“Nothing” You felt caught out.

He shrugged, slowly growing used to your strange looks, and pulled a bunch of keys from out of his trouser pocket and slid them into the door. Unlocking it and pushing the door open with a clunk.

“After you.”

The smell of sweat and floor polish hit you like a wave as you stepped inside and Bucky locked the door behind the two of you. On the bare brick walls hung dozens of pictures of men in boxing gloves, raising their arms in victory. Along the surprisingly clean wooden floor punching bags were lined up, the rich brown leather cracked and beaten from excessive use and just waiting patiently to be used again. 

The great big boxing ring was the main event, a square stage of battered cream, held together by rows of red rope. You wondered if it was red on purpose. 

You pictured one of the boxing matches happening right there in front of you, the crowd of screaming men, praying for their bet to come clean and bracing for the final take down. The champion raising his godly fists, shirtless, shining and soaking in the sounds of his glory.

So, this is what Bucky wanted to be before the army? You tried to see him there, posing for one of the pictures on the wall with his grin plastered to his face. Though, maybe thinking of him shirtless and sweaty really wasn’t the most efficient thing you could be doing at the time.

“So…” Bucky comes to stand next to you, and offers you the paper

You take it with a quiet thank you.

“Do you have a-”

He hands you a pencil.

You swallow, turn around and begin to lay out the pieces of ‘borrowed’ sketch paper out on the glossy brown wood.. 

“There’s a desk in the office, y’know” Bucky points out, watching you crouch to the floor.

“That’s okay, I’m fine here.” 

He looks at you, confused and waiting for any kind of explanation you would offer.

“I’m gonna need…quite a bit of space.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows, accepting that’s all he was getting, and goes to lean against the wall.

You start your chicken scratches, numbers in the tiniest handwriting you could manage, but the nagging sensation of his presence there itches at you incessantly. You lift your head and notice he’s just standing there, watching you. 

“Don’t you have cleaning to do?” It came out a little more spiteful than you intended.

“Looks pretty spotless to me” He kept his eyes trained on you, not bothering to look around at all.

“Okay, so you don’t need to be here then?” You didn’t mind the company really, but why did it have to be him? It was better for you both if he just left you alone.

“I’m responsible for this place, how do I know you won’t mess it up?” Bucky narrowed his eyes at you.

“Christ, I don’t need a chaperone.” 

“I’m sure you don’t, spitfire” He scoffs “but I'm not leaving, so…” He gestures for you to get back to your work “Go on.”

Rolling your eyes with maximum effort you go back to work and start to lose yourself in the math. Spread out on the floor with your ass in the air probably wasn’t the most ladylike position but who cared, Bucky didn’t seem to make a comment.

You willed yourself to stop wondering about him for just a moment so you could focus on the task at hand. If you were going to figure out the coordinates to put into the GPS, you needed a start point. It was 1943, that you knew but, the specific date was what you really wanted. There wasn’t anything that showed you today’s date in your immediate vicinity, so your eyes wandered and landed, unfortunately, on Bucky, who had his feet propped up on the front desk, head stuck in a newspaper. 

"Is that today’s?” You ask from the floor.

“Yu-huh” He mumbles from his wall of news.

Of course he had the thing you were looking for. 

“...What’s the date on it?”

He folds over one corner so you could be victim to his blank stare. “You don’t know what day it is?”

You stare back. 

“11th June.” He supersedes.

“Thank you.” 

He flips his corner back up and you go back to your work silently.

“11th June 1943.” You mumble quietly as the numbers take over your head again.

Hour One

The silence didn’t last half as long as you hoped it would.

“So, how long does something like this normally take?” Bucky wonders after a while, as if you launched yourself into the wrong time all the time, you felt yourself getting offended until you remembered he had absolutely no idea. 

Scribbling down the total days you needed to travel you hid your face from Bucky.

“A while.” You hoped he didn’t hear the small crack in your voice. 

“Great. Maybe it’s enough time for me to figure out why you’re so weird.” He chuckled lightly.

Bucky Barnes, ladies man.

“Oh you’ll figure it out…in 29,209 days” You mumble under your breath, you didn’t mean for him to hear, but when you’re the only two people in a room, it’s hard to keep secrets.

Bucky shakes his head in amusement, ignorant of just how truthful you had just been, but he was quiet for a little while longer after that.

Hour Three

Eventually grew restless of the front desk and sauntered over to the back office. You wondered who might usually be found in there, some short and stubby gym manager, dark hair slicked back with wiry eyebrows that look so much like caterpillars they might crawl off his face. A cigar permanently between his lips. 

You cracked a smile at the image until you heard exactly what Bucky was doing in there. The crackle of a gramophone interrupts your thoughts and the smile falls from your face. You had no complaints about forties music, really, but you were convinced he was doing this on purpose, taunting you with warbling jazz.

With a frustrated grumble you threw down your pencil, abandoned your work and stalked over to the back office. He was there, leaning back on a chair with his arms crossed, eyes closed and absorbing the music echoing around the room. 

Sure, he looked peaceful, but there were bigger stakes here than Bucky Barnes enjoying a record. 

You rapped on the door forcefully but he didn’t jump to attention like you wanted.

Bucky slowly opens his eyes and looks up expectedly.

“Could you…turn it down?” You mimicked turning down a volume knob, and he looked at you blankly.

“Please.” It pained you to add.

“Turn it down?” He mimics your action, eyebrows furrowing. “And what’s that?”

“The music” You impatiently pointed it out and walked over to the small gramophone, singing pleasantly in the corner. It would be a relic any other day but right now it was just annoying you.

Shoot, no volume control you realized, it seemed people were just happy to hear music here, nevermind the volume. A little joy in a somewhat bleak time in history. 

You needed your peace though, one way or another.

“Could you just turn it off?” You turned to leave.

“If this is gonna take long, I’d like to have something to entertain myself.”

You stopped, breathing in and out to stop yourself from killing him before his inevitable death date.

“You don’t even have to be here” You crossed your arms across your chest.

He smiled at your irritation “Tell you what, I’ll give you a chance.”

While you were occupied with how he just had the audacity to patronize you, Bucky stood from the chair and took the trash can from the corner and placed it at the other end of the office from you.

“What are you doing?” You watched him closely.

He walked back over to you with a self- satisfied smile, taking his time as he stopped just inches from you, the tips of his shoes touching yours just about.

“Bucky?” You felt your heartbeat palpate, your chest go tight.

He wordlessly leaned past you to grab an old coffee mug full of pencils that sat on the desk behind you. Bucky pulled away to stand next to you and embarrassment fizzed in your stomach. Bucky smelt like leather and his mothers cooking.

“First one to get three pencils in a row in the trash can wins. If you win, I’ll turn it off and I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

You found that hard to believe and it must’ve shown on your face.

“...mostly,” He added. “But if I win, the music stays and you can’t say a thing about it.”

“Seriously?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, swee- spitfire.”

He looked at you with his blue as a cloudy sky eyes as you sized him up. It seemed fair and you were always one for a good bet, but the way he looked at you made you feel like he knew something you don’t. Figuring that look out would have you spinning for days.

“Do you need me to move it a bit closer?” He suggested condescendingly.

“Fine.” You grumbled.

“Ladies first.” He held the mug out to you and you grabbed three pencils with a roll of your eyes.

It had to be easy right? You didn’t have the worst hand eye coordination in the world but it wasn’t one of your most notable qualities. The only thing you had going for you was a desire for Bucky Barnes to keep quiet, and you were about to find out how good of a motivator that was.

You toss the first pencil and it lands in the trash can with a happy little clang. The second pencil was subject to pressure and bounced on the edge before landing safely inside, you celebrated inwardly, trying to hide how invested you were in a game of throwing pencils, but you were so close to victory, sweet victory.

One final pencil in your hand, you looked to Bucky “Any final words?” you ask smugly.

“I’m good.”  He stared straight ahead.

The last pencil is in the air and you swear you’ve never felt this tense in your life. Maybe apart from the time you landed in the 20th century by accident. Taunting you, it bounced off the edge like the second but this time it was the wrong way. You watched in disbelief as it clattered to the floor.

“Shit.” You muttered and tried to hide how actually sad you were to miss your final throw.

“I’d offer condolences but you were a little cocky at the end.” Bucky plucked three pencils from the pot.

He effortlessly tossed his pencils in without a second thought, one, two, three, in quick succession, giving you no time to think of a plan to sabotage him at all.

Bucky looked at you with a smile “I believe congratulations are in order.”

“Best of three?” You grasped at any chance he might give you.

Bucky just laughed. In your face. You let out a combination of a grumble and a sigh and stomped out of the office.

He had won, the music stayed.

Hour Five 

“C’mon you should take a break.”

Bucky had stayed mostly in the office, humming to his music. You had migrated to the boxing ring to lay out your findings. He had been leaning against the door, keeping his eye on you for the last five minutes.

“Can’t take a break.” You didn’t look up.

“You’ve been scribbling for like ten hours” He groans.

“I’m not scribbling” You retort, but looking down at the paper ‘scribbles’ was definitely an accurate word, not that he needed to know that.

“What are you doing then?”  

“I’m working out- ugh, stop it!” You needed to be more on the ball with his incessant questions.

“It’s for your own good”  You told him as sternly as you could manage.

“Yes Ma'am” He grins cheekily.

He moved from the doorway, you cursed yourself for having half your attention on him again.

“I don’t think you’ve ever taken a break in your life, you’re so…tightly wound.”

You had half a mind to tell him why you were really ‘tightly wound’ right there and then. But then the fatal implications and so on…blah blah blah. 

“I take breaks.”

“Hard to believe, you ever been to the movies? Or a dance, maybe?” His analyzing eyes felt like they could see right through you.

“Sure, I’ve been to dances.” You brushed him off and continued writing. Maybe they weren’t the dances he would be familiar with but you had been to some. They just played the Black Eyed Peas, not Vera Lynn.

“Really? Because you haven’t recognised a single song I've put on.”

Oh. He had you there. 

“Maybe I just like different music.”

“Who doesn’t like Dick Haymes?” 

You put your head back down, ignoring his teasing and diving back into work, and hopefully convincing him that you just weren’t interested in extracurriculars. 

“Don’t worry, Spitfire, I’ll get you dancing.”

Hour Eleven 

He had run out of records a couple hours ago and was now entertaining himself by standing by the entrance and using some spare paper to fashion a paper airplane and seeing how far he could throw it.

The boxing ring was covered in a blanket of math now, you sat cross legged in the center, surrounded by stretches of equations, statistics, and graphs, traveling along y axis and x axis, finding each coordinate you would need. You had worked this long before but after a day of exerting yourself physically, the strain was weighing heavily on your brain. 

You close your eyes for just a second but a rude and painful awakening comes from a sharp poke in the side of your head. 

“Sorry!” Bucky calls from across the room.

You sigh and stand, rubbing the side of your head “It’s fine, I needed to wake up anyways”

You were in the land before energy drinks, your go to when the numbers become squiggles in your eyes. 

“There somewhere that sells coffee around here?” You grumble.

“Um” Bucky points to the window and you see nothing but black.

How had you missed the sun going down? 

“Nevermind.” You ran a hand over your face, eyelids growing heavier by the second, but you knew you couldn't afford to sleep, not now.

But your brain was too exhausted to make sense of the final coordinates you needed and there was no point in half-assing this and ending up in the wrong time again. You had read in some study that regular breaks actually proved to help total productivity, as hard as it was for you to believe, you weren’t opposed to a little experimenting.

Tip toeing carefully over your working, you sat on the side of the boxing ring, waiting for productivity to strike.

Bucky abandoned his paper airplane to sit next to you. The air felt heavy around you and all you could feel was the incomprehensible weight on your shoulders. You had no idea what Bucky thought, you had hardly been nice to him. But the way he was looking at you made you think he just wanted to lighten your load, just a little bit.

“So, how's it going?” He asked after a minute.

“It’s…getting there.” You fiddled with your hands “Maybe.”

“You really are weird, y‘know?”

He was smiling at you, like he had just paid you a sweet as sugar compliment.

“Thanks, Bucky.” You gave your sarcastic gratitude.

With a sudden burst of energy, he practically waltzes to the back office, you watch with amused curiosity, and when he appears again, he’s carrying the gramophone with both hands, a record under his arm.

He places it happily on the corner of the ring, lifting the red rope, he slides under and stands in the boxing ring. What was he doing now?

“C’mon.” He tilted his head at you with a smile.

Waiting for you, you supposed.

“What?”

Bucky began to pile up you papers covering the space and you flew into a panic, if he messed them all up you’d have to spend another hour putting them back in the correct order so they made sense, you hadn’t thought to number your pages because you thought he wouldn’t be stupid enough to touch them. You thought wrong.

“Bucky!” You shrieked with wide eyes.

He looked at you, calmly “I’m keeping them in order.” 

His habit of reading your mind was getting pretty annoying. You follow his lead and shuffle under the ropes out of curiosity. With your math tower tucked safely to the side out of harm's way, you faced him with a confused look. 

“You needed to wake up, right?” 

“Are we going to box? Because I don’t think I'm up for that right now.” 

“No, no” He takes the record out of its sleeve with a flourish and places it on the gramophone, setting the needle down, humming with excitement.

An upbeat song begins to play, filling the hall with hearty trumpets and jiving double bass. It almost felt like they were in the room somewhere, hiding under the boxing ring with their instruments. 

You stood a meter away from Bucky, no closer and no farther. He held out his hand, you looked around you as if there was any one else he could offer it to. 

“What are you doing?” You ask, you could barely hear yourself above the music reverberating around the walls.

“Dancing.” He said it like it was obvious.

You didn’t think you get stage fright in the absence of an audience but Bucky had a funny way of making you nervous. For the third time, you were stuck gawking at his open palm. The vibrations of the music sent waves through the boxing ring, an invisible hand urging you closer to him.

“I don’t think that’s, maybe not-” You splutter.

You tried to think of the ripples in time this could cause but all you could really focus on was how much you wanted to feel his hand in yours again.

“Spitfire.”

When would you ever get the chance again? Never, that’s the answer. Sure, time might crumble before you but he looked so happy standing there, and he didn’t have many of those moments left.

“I swear every time you look at my hand it’s like you’ve seen a ghost.”

That’s what he had in store. Becoming the most infamous ghost story history had ever heard. You made peace with the universe in a surprisingly short amount of time and decided Bucky Barnes needed this more than anything else in this world.

“You gonna keep on staring at my hand or are you gonna take it?”

You take a few tentative steps towards him and slide your right hand into his left. He directs your other hand to rest on his shoulder and he slips his hand behind you. He tucked you closer to his chest with a shy smile and a gentle pull, you gazed up at him with bright eyes, a smile hiding in the corners of your mouth just waiting to blossom.

The next ten minutes, Bucky spends teaching you how to swing dance after coming to the conclusion you had never danced with anyone in your life.

“I have!” You insist after you step on his toe for the seventeenth time.

“Do they still have feet?” He asks in fake concern. 

“Ha Ha.” You poorly cover your genuine laughter, but you couldn’t hide the smile that had crept up on you anymore.  

Dancing with Bucky was a whirlwind in the most literal sense, you spun like a pinwheel in and out of his arms. You spent half the time spiraling into danger and he would be there to catch you as if there was no risk at all. 

When he kept you close, you could just about hear him counting to the music under his breath. It was an endless night of numbers for you, but you were convinced you had never been as dizzy as this before, dipping in and out and twisting up and down but you knew he wouldn’t let you fall. There was something transporting about it, bringing truth to your daydreams.

Dancing with him felt more like time travel, than well, actual time travel. 

You were glad he wasn’t enhanced yet, or he would hear your heartbeat picking up speed. For a moment he was all you could think about, and you finally had no complaints. 

Until you saw your papers topple and scatter on the floor, the jolting of the enthusiastic swing dance lesson had your precious work falling all over the floor. 

Quickly, it all got too much, heat rushed through you and the music was thumping in your head. He was too close to you, chests stuck together that should never have touched in the first place, Hands glued to his, you were trapped in his time and you were losing yourself by the second. If you didn’t let go now, who knows what you could cause. 

“Stop, stop!” You pulled away, ripped your hand from his, stumbling back and catching yourself on the ropes. 

“You alright?” Bucky spoke cautiously behind you.

“Yeah, yes I’m okay, I just-”

You swallowed down the bile rising from your stomach, and turned to see him standing there with concern in his eyes. Damn him. Damn him for helping you.

“I need to get this done.” You hurried to pick up your work and put it back into the correct order, scared to even look at him again.

“Okay.” He sighed quietly.

Hour Fifteen

Bucky had fallen asleep sometime ago.

The sun had come up again, the cloudless sky left the blinding beams of sunlight to burst through the windows.

His gentle snoring was the only sound as you held your breath,staring at the coordinates. Double checked, triple checked. All you had to do now was put them into the GPS and go.

But something was keeping you here, just for a few moments more. If it had anything to do with the man sleeping a couple meters away, you weren’t sure. All you could do was keep your eyes on the key to your exit.

“You worked through the night?” 

Okay, so he wasn’t asleep anymore.

You could disappear right there in front of his eyes and leave him questioning everything for the rest of his life, even though you thought it would be a little funny and maybe he deserved it, it was just too risky. 

“Done it before” You shrugged.

“Well my sleep was great, surprisingly sound” He began to walk over “Oh, and if my Ma asks where I was all night, do me a solid and say the recruitment center, something about long queues i don’t know.”

Hang on.

“You haven’t enlisted yet?” 

“No?” 

“Haven’t been to the recruitment center at all?”

“Been a bit busy” He chuckles

“Well you should go, go do it now”

“What?”

You thought he had gone by now.

“I’ll do it later, suppose” He shrugs

You looked at the coordinates. You could go home. But you couldn’t. Bucky hadn’t enlisted. And if he doesn’t join the army then, then Steve probably wouldn’t either and Captain America wouldn’t exist and maybe we didn’t win the war, maybe we lost all of the wars, the battle of new york, the battle of the earth.

Him not becoming a sergeant . you couldn’t begin to think of the implications.

Was it all your fault? 

“Been thinking about it a lot and I know my dad did and all that, but…I don't know”

You had currently beaten your record for amount of shits in a twenty four hour span ten times over.

Getting home, All of this means absolutely nothing if Bucky doesn’t go to war. 

He needed to enlist, he had too, you were to blame for this, and you were damn right gonna fix it.

You had to make him join the army, no matter the cost.

Maybe you could afford a couple more days here, you supposed.

“You figure out all your math?” Bucky asks. 

You turned to him and stood.

“Not quite.”

Tag-list: @emily-roberts @enchantedbarnes @marygoddessofmischief @nickangel13 @elxvrr @pixiesbored @skittle479 @sweetwritingfanficfriend @curlycarley​ @acceptedbyace​ (bold means I couldn’t tag you)

[faggotmox]

"it's not abt if bry won or lost against swerve. it was about how he did it." See, from Eddie's perspective, this makes sense because Bryan's current character arc started with the match against him.

But it doesn't make sense from Mox's POV because he wouldn't have said he prayed Bryan would lose.

So my theory is that Eddie isn't the one behind Mox (probably no one is) but he does support what Mox is doing. It will be up to Mox and his actions if Eddie ends up joining him or not (mostly anything related to The Elite).

I know you're kind of joking, but I do think you're onto something. The thing Mox, Claudio, Eddie, PAC, and even Yuta have in common regarding Bryan is that they have a lot of things to reproach him because his ego has hurt some of them, and has offended some of them, and has gotten most of them in needless fights. Marina is the only one without that connection, but she doesn't need one to support Mox.

see the reason i think mox said he prayed bryan lost is bc then they could force him to retire. but now he has the belt, he has a reason to hold on, to not get his surgery & to not go home. i think mox wanted bryan to loose as a friend bc itd be the easiest way to put him out to pasture.

(if eddie is the king) mox as the sword, the implement of the king, then itd make sense that mox prayed for bryan to loose. mox said he didn't enjoy doing what he did, didn't want to hurt bry but he had to for the greater good or for bry's own good. if mox was expected to strike down bry then itd make sense.

granted it very much probably isn't eddie. they could be serving literally anyone else, or serving a concept (i.e. wrestling, or violence). but to me it seems like pac, marina, claudio, & mox all got some sort of wake up call. pac missing his stop in london, marina never is booked, claudio lost to bry in the cup, & mox lost his iwgp title. those are the places these characters started diverting from. eddie understands what each one is going through bc its happened to him. eddie stroking that motivation, pushing the idea that aew is loosing its passion for wrestling & at the top of that is bryan danielson. cutting out the biggest issue (bryan being kinda poser shitty good guy) & the rest will follow. they can cut the fat from aew, push those who need it to achieve what they are meant to (just like eddie).

PLUS PLUS PLUS

eddie dropped an update today that he's finally in just a brace. which means he's still very very much not cleared nor should he be, but it does mean he can be mobile now. the injury is more stable, so if he wanted to (& i mean if eddie genuinely wanted to do this story) he would have a much much easier time going to shows now. im not saying he should or anything bc he deserve non working time to recover, but if he misses it & wants to be there this is a good capacity for that. giving eddie a manager type role over new bcc (lol knights of blackpool combat club).

also to your point abt marina not really being affected by bry's ego/actions/bullshit. who do you think has been picking up the slack training mox since brys not invested anymore? its marina. if marina had been training mox for his iwgp defense instead of bry (which i believe that's bry trained mox for that match) then maybe mox would have won.

[janeblr]

body hcs that nobody asked for, I’m just articulating them so it’s easier for me to visualize my silly little scenarios

vanya: biiiig guy. 6’5 of well insulated muscle. thick thighssssssss tree trunk arms tits and belly. High cheekbones and the quintessential big ass nose. Used to keep his hair really neat but now it’s kind of shaggy because he’s too cheap to go to a barber and just cuts it himself. Dirty blonde. AUGHmy big man 💗💗💗

al: college quarterback after three years in a frat. Lean, strong, but a little soft around the edges. Ass is 10/10. Tan skin with freckles, still a bit of a baby face. Bottle blonde to fit in with his European family lol. His hair is a little floppy but with some gel it sits nice. He has a poppy tattooed on his inner wrist!

Gil: saddest most pathetic frail little man. Literally looks like he’s dying because he is! Silvery hair is kind of thin and lifeless these days, there’s not much warmth in his cheeks, and he’s constantly covered in bruises from falling or whacking himself into things by accident. Crooked nose from fighting so much. He’s too shaky to shave himself and Erzsi is the only person he trusts to pt a razor to his throat so if she’s not around he gets kind of scruffy. And fine I’ll say it he was in a Camp and has a tattoo to show for it.

Erzsi: r/fit lady… does CrossFit and jogs like 10 miles a day. Killer muscle definition and abs of steel. A bit lacking in the boob department but nobody’s perfect and Gil has always been an ass man so it’s okay. Gorgeous dark brown hair and a prominent nose. Sculpted cheekbones and thinner lips. All in all a pretty angular appearance that’s still distinctly feminine.

Katya: STRONG GIRL! FARM! She’s a lot of woman…. Yes she is tall. Yes she is strong. Yes she is fat. Hourglass figure with body for dayssssss. Her face is pretty round but she’s still got those high cheekbones and rosebud lips. Prominent nose but not like Ivan’s. She has nipple piercings! Her hair is a pretty silvery blonde and she keeps it short so she can just put it back with a bandana.

Mattie: Big guy. Think hockey player in hibernation. Im so tired of people twinkifying Matthew and I will not stand for it!!! Also a bottle blonde but more vigilant about his roots than Alfred. Also tan skin but not as warm as his brother. The wavy hair was a gift from his papa but his curl pattern has been fried by bleach over the last few decades. Blessed and cursed by hockey player ass

Ber: built for endurance! Strong and stocky, like he could chop up firewood like a breeze AND keep you warm at night. Second tallest nord!c. Not glaring but squinting 24/7 because he needs new glasses but he’s too cheap to buy them lol. Stick straight straw blonde hair that he can’t do much with besides brush back and pray it stays. Little rainbow tattoo behind his left ear. Keeps a neat beard in the winter.

Ti: hurhfhfjdkjfkdjfj plump. Like there’s no other way to put it the guy is just fat. Still very strong but you wouldn’t know it looking at him. Built like a moomintroll. Very proud of how he looks except that he’s got a round face and can’t grow a beard which makes him look like less of a threat like no motherfucker I’ll kill you!! Pretty blonde hair that can do this nice swoopy thing to stay out of his face. Tits >>>

Mads: triangle man!!! Broad shoulders, defined muscle, taper down into a small waist. Strong arms and legs. Freckles aaaaall over that really pop out when he gets some sun. Strawberry blonde hair that sticks straight up so he’s learned to embrace it. Nose is crooked from being punched in the face a few too many times. Sharp defined jaw so he doesn’t like to hide it with facial hair.

Lu: *deep breath* CHUBBY LUKAS SUPREMACY!!! Stop Kate Mossifying my boy he takes Thorazine and it made him fat. He’s on the indoorsy side so although he does exercise some he’s not as muscular as Mads, Ber, or Ti. Platinum blonde hair he straightens and pins back because otherwise the waves are just too much. He would have defined cheekbones and jaw if his face wasn’t chubby lol. Thin lips and a thin, sharp nose.

Eirí: scrawny lil kid. The shortest nord!c. Not much substance to him at all so he dresses in somewhat baggy clothes to make him look bigger. Silvery blonde hair that he straightens like his brother. Occasional issues with acne and miserable volcanic pimples so he’s got some ice pick scarring. Same sharp nose and thin lips as his brother.

Feliks: Skinny queen, fairly toned but generally model-type thin. Soft blonde hair around his shoulders. Prominent nose and thin lips. Scarred up a lot over the last millennia.

Vi: Also scrawny, but you can tell that he used to be strong.

Sorry ladies the klonopin is hitting hard I can’t finish the post

[aimfor-theheart]

COIN TOSS– PART III

(18+ MINORS DNI)

PART I → PART II

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

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

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

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

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

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

↳ A playlist I made for this fic, if you're interested!

A/N: here is your final part to this series! again, thank you @randomrosewrites for beta-ing this!! and thank you guys so so much for your support and comments, they mean so so much to me!! i had a lot of trouble with this last part, there was a lot of scenes i cut out and alternative endings before i settled on what is there now and i'm not even fully happy with it still lol. i have a lot of Thoughts about this, so feel free to reach out if you want to know more or just chat!! i hope you guys enjoy this!!

Read on Ao3

***

Shouta apologizes to you soon after. You sheepishly get out your own apology, even though you’d planned on holding a grudge a little while longer.

Still, Shouta confides that he also had his doubts and worries as a young hero and that he shouldn’t have dismissed yours. He talks in a soft, low voice for you, sits beside you on the edge of the couch.

You hate it because it’s easier to be at odds with Shouta lately, easier for your conscience. He put distance between the two of you, but you forced it apart further– if only to keep him in the dark. Maybe if only to spare yourself all the lying, all the pretending you’d have to do.

He says, “You know, you can always come to me. Whenever you need me.”

You have to swallow hard around the lump in your throat.

“I’ll always be here for you, despite everything.” he promises gently, trying to catch your eyes. Your gaze ducks away, out of his line of site.

Still, you hug him, tuck your face into his shoulder so he can’t see the guilt written across your face. Your secrets will constrict around you if you’re not careful. You know Truth is tricky and likes to reveal itself with Time’s help.

Once more, you become acutely aware of the clock ticking away on your relationship with Tomura.

But this time, you also realize how much trouble you could get in. You realize that you’re endangering Shouta now, too. You swallow hard, try to keep all of that down inside of you, but you feel nauseous suddenly. Bloated with guilt.

You wonder if you would’ve confessed to him then, if you would’ve spilled your guts the way you’d wanted to, if it would’ve saved you the heartache of it all.

Instead, you’d just clung to him, little fingers twisting in the back of his shirt, praying that you’d never need to make good on his promise. Praying you’d never need to test how far he’d go for you.

(It’s far– you’ll realize, further than it ever should’ve been. And you’re all the worse for it.)

***

Tomura thinks one of the troubles with heroes is their willingness to sacrifice anything for their greater good. He doesn’t think there’s anything noble in it, there’s nothing glorious or good in leaving their friend behind because they think it will save more. Nothing honorable in facing down a threat you know you can’t win against alone. What good is their world if they’re willing to sacrifice all that’s good to them in the process?

Everytime he watches you patrol, go up against other villains, maybe yakuza members, throw yourself in harm’s way needlessly, he realizes the Hero Commission uses heroes’ bodies as collateral damage. You are nothing to them. Even to other heroes; your sacrifice is expected. He knows it isn’t wanted, per se, but it isn’t surprising.

It doesn’t help that you have a streak of recklessness in you. You are quick to danger, just as quick to flash teeth and stand your ground, to fight mercilessly.

You struggle against large, powerhouse types. He watches you nearly get crushed or strangled some nights. Your Quirk doesn’t do much for you when your opponent has strength and weight to defeat you with a singular blow.

Your mentor is often pulling you out of danger with his capture weapon, yanking you away from a massive swinging arm or a curled fist about to smash you into the ground. But if it came down to you or the greater good, he knows what your mentor and your heroes would pick.

He thinks it’s strangely unfair, for you to give them your loyalty over him. He’s more loyal to you, isn’t he? There is very, very little he wouldn’t destroy for you. They would sooner let you be destroyed for the sake of their world.

Destroying the hero society that is so careless with you now feels, in part, like his gift to you. Freedom from the world that only cared about you when they realized you could be useful–

There is a night you become not just useful to your heroes but imperative.

It starts with your sacrifice, just as you were trained to do. You shove a civilian out of the way of a villain’s Quirk– it’s something with tusks and teeth that jut out from his body, sharp and ready to gut you.

Your mentor is busy with this villain’s accomplice.

Tomura watches when he shouldn’t. He was supposed to meet with Kurogiri, but he knows you patrol in this area and when there’d been commotion, he couldn’t help but watch from the shadows.

He watches one of those tusks jut towards you, your hand reaching out in hopes of disengaging the Quirk. But it’s a physical Quirk, not something like Dabi’s fire or his disintegration. And he doesn’t know if this Quirk disengages with it’s user or if it’s just his body.

Tomura feels his heart drop, the trapdoor given way to all icy fear as he watches one of those tusks pierce into your stomach.

Tomura stops breathing.

You grab hold of it, a scream getting caught behind your clenched teeth. Your fingers are tight, near frantic as you press into them– hope with everything in you, in him, that his Quirk disengages with yours.

Your broken off scream is wretched from your struggling body when another tusk rushes to crash into your shoulder.

You’re the only thing between the civilians behind you and this villain.

Your other hand reaches for the tusk at your shoulder, digging fingers and nails into it desperately.

Your eyes are bright and feverish with the hot pink of your Quirk.

Tomura stutters towards you, before the villain let’s out a pained groan. Your teeth are bared, blood bubbling up in your mouth, but you’re still standing, vicious and undeterred.

The tusks begin to crack where you grip them, splintering apart–

A sudden fission of light through those crevices, same fire pink as your eyes, arcs throughout the villain. A flare of it that makes the villain almost see-through, the lines of his bones burned by light, an x-ray flash, as if you’d struck him with lightning for a moment.

Eraserhead shouts for you.

When the flare dies, there is a scream of pain and it’s not yours.

The tusks shatter, splinter apart into gleaming bone that flies through the air.

You’re left standing, blood oozing from your stomach, your shoulder, but still standing, your eyes crackling and too bright.

The villain, tuskless, crumples at your feet, smoking. A normal, Quirkless looking man.

Did you–?

“What happened?” he hears the distant voice of your mentor, laced with worry, whose already reaching to staunch blood, blood that seeps so dark out of you. Tomura’s stomach rolls, twists suddenly, but you’re still standing. You’re okay– you’re okay–

“I-I don’t know.” you manage, but you sway into your mentor’s arms and Tomura has to look away, jaw clenched tight, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat.

He hears, “I need an ambulance– there’s a hero and villain down–”

But he’s already turning away, his mind churning, trying to keep the nauseousness from overcoming him. He feels suddenly furious, that it can’t be him at your side, that he has to watch, pushed to the outskirts. His fingers rush to scratch at his neck, his throat, desperate for relief from the pressure that has built in his chest.

He will try to call you– later, much later– the only time you’ll answer him. He is certain you will be okay with your healers and–

He thinks of the flare of light, the breaking of those tusks, the sudden heap of that man on the ground. If Tomura is correct about what you’d done, about what your Quirk actually is, the heroes won’t let you die now.

No, now you’re imperative. Now you’re trapped.

And the destruction of hero society will be his gift to you, an end to all the strings in place, the hands holding you both back.

***

“You destroyed his Quirk.”

“W-what?” you manage to get out, wobbly. You’re bandaged up, your torso and shoulder wrapped in fresh gauze after Recovery Girl healed the worst of your wounds. You’d been sleeping, hooked up to an IV to aid you in recovering. “That’s not possible, my Quirk only cancels–”

The doctor that has entered to give you this news shakes his head, “No, we’ve done scans, tests, the works on this guy. His Quirk is gone from his DNA. No trace of it.”

Shouta, who's sitting beside your hospital bed, speaks up, “Is it possible that it will eventually return?”

“I suppose, but we think it’s unlikely. It’s gone from him. There’s nothing left. She destroyed it cleanly. It’s like it was never there at all.” The doctor answers.

“I don’t understand–” you manage to get out, your head beginning to swim, giving a painful throb at your temples.

“It seems your Quirk isn’t so simple as cancelling out another’s. It’s likely that subduing other’s Quirks was just the surface of yours.”

“Is the man okay otherwise?” Shouta asks now, fidgeting in his seat when he senses your sudden distress. He leans towards your bed more and you have the sudden urge to latch onto him and not let go.

“Physically, yes. He’s fine.” the doctor answers, “However, mentally...he’s inconsolable at the moment. As you know, Quirks are incredibly– well, they’re a part of who we are, aren’t they?”

You swallow hard around the lump in your throat.

You think Shouta says something else, finishes speaking to the doctor for you. The moment the door clicks shut, the tears that you stubbornly had been holding back rush forward.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” you get out on just a hissed breath. “I-I didn’t know I could.”

Shouta shushes you gently, “It’s okay, this happens. Sometimes people don’t know the full extent of their Quirk.”

“I destroyed his Quirk, it’s not okay!” you respond, guilt thickening inside of you, dragging you down heavy, clogging your throat and chest. “I didn’t mean to do that– what if I do it again?”

“You were under distress,” he soothes, reaching out to brush a tear away from your cheek, “Really, you were fighting for your life.” And when he says it, something gets caught in his throat. Something hitches in yours, too.

His eyes rove over your face slowly, taking you in carefully, as if he hasn’t been by your side the entire time. As if it wasn’t him in the ambulance, or him kneeling beside your bed when Recovery Girl put you back together.

“I should’ve been there. It shouldn’t have happened.” Shouta admits, the confession filling the small space between you two.

You take him in now, too, tired and worried, his face finally displaying the fear and care he has for you. It softens out his features, turns his eyes gentle and dark.

You realize suddenly that you miss him. You miss quiet nights on his couch as he graded papers. You miss his clothes and his cats and the tenderness that blossomed in all your silent spaces to fill you both out.

You wonder if he misses you as bad as you’re realizing you miss him.

You think of him cooking for one again, eating alone, and it does something horrible to your heart– mangles it, twists it up horribly.

It’s made all the worse because you’re lying to him. And here he is, at your bedside.

“S’okay, Shouta,” you get out, reaching up to touch his cheek with a trembling hand. He leans into the touch, letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment. He savors your touch in a way that he hasn’t ever allowed himself to before.

But after a moment, he shakes his head fractionally, and he murmurs “I’m supposed to protect you.”

You don’t know why, but your bottom lip wobbles. Big, fat tears well up in your eyes, burn hot and put pressure on your already foggy head. You feel like you’re unraveling, your chest all swollen and tender, too, aching horribly.

You can’t decide if it’s because you’re lying and disobeying him so badly or because no one has ever bothered to say something like that to you, let alone mean it.

And you’re betraying him, your mind hisses.

When he notices, his face falls, his thumb moving to try and brush away your tears. “Don’t cry,” he hushes, “I’m sorry, don’t cry.”

You lean into his large and warm palm at your cheek, let him cradle and coddle you.

“I-I’m sorry–” you barely manage to choke out, for reasons far beyond him.

“No,” he coos, “No, sweetheart, don’t apologize.”

You choke on a sob and he grows more worried, leans over you more, brings his other hand up to stroke at your hairline, too.

He says your name softly, trying to soothe you, “Why are you crying, huh? What are you apologizing for?”

You shake your head, more tears loosening, your small fingers twisting themselves in the shoulders of his shirt. You think you’ll drown in all this guilt, it’ll fill your lungs with pressure, choke you out slowly as you struggle and thrash.

But for now, all you get out is a warbled, slurred, “Please don’t hate me–”

Shouta moves then, shifts to sit beside you on the bed. He’s painfully careful with you as he slides strong and sturdy arms beneath you, lifts you slightly into his lap, mindful of your IV, and cradles you to him.

You bury your face into his chest and try to hold back another sob as he murmurs, “Why would I hate you? I could never hate you.”

He strokes your hair, he hushes your cries, rocking you gently. Rocking you until you can stop crying, until you’re exhausted and aching and tender.

“I’ll help you with your Quirk,” he promises gently, holding you tight to him, “We’ll be okay, huh?” he murmurs, and it just forces another cry out of you, swallowed up by his chest that he cradles you to, “We’ll be okay, sweetheart.”

It’s the we’ll in that sentence that makes you squeeze him tighter. You wonder how willing he’d be to use it if he knew where you were every other night, who you filled your time with.

If he knew who called you late that night, when you’re alone in your room, aching and sore and alone. If he knew who you answered to, your voice hushed in the inky darkness;

“Tomura,” you exhale his name through the receiver.

“I saw what happened,” he answers instead, “I saw what happened today.”

You can feel the sudden jump of your heart, your nerves wringing themselves tight. “Oh,” you respond lamely.

To your surprise, Tomura rasps, “Are you okay?”

You don’t know why, but you cradle the phone to your cheek tighter, your eyes slipping shut for a moment.

“Yeah, I’m alright. Sore and tired, but I’m okay.”

“Good,” he responds, his voice softer than it usually is, just a breath when he asks, “What happened? What’d you do to him?”

You’re silent for a long moment. You can’t decide if you should tell him or not. You think of Shouta earlier and his voice like a hearth and the tender way he holds you, you think of his we’ll be okay.

But you can hear Tomura’s soft breath on the other line. You can see Ryuji in the patch of sun that splays out against the corner of the couch in the evenings. You think of him curled tight around you, like you’re the last good thing left on earth.

“I destroyed his Quirk,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “With mine.”

“That’s new,” Tomura almost hums, but it nearly seems like he was expecting the answer.

“I didn’t mean to.”

A quiet snort from him, “What are you trying to prove to me?” he asks, “I’m not your heroes. I won’t look at you differently whether you intended to or not.”

The thought strikes like an arrow between the ribs, sharp, sudden. It stings, when you realize it’s truth. How hard have you tried to prove yourself to Shouta? How hard are you trying to prove your goodness to yourself?

“You could’ve killed him,” Tomura says, “And I wouldn’t think differently.”

You wince for some reason when he says that, “Don’t–”

“What would your heroes think then?”

“Tomura–” you snap, voice gaining some bite, a warning.

But for some reason he presses, “How badly does the Hero Commission want you now? With a Quirk like that?”

“What?” you ask, suddenly shocked.

“Don’t be naive,” Tomura says and there’s an edge to his voice. He sucks in a breath, “That’s a big Quirk. Destroying someone else’s? You don’t think they’ll be interested in that?”

You feel the pressure of tears work their way through your head, your throat. Your fingers clutch so hard at the phone that your knuckles are turning white and before you can think, you hiss out, “And how interested are you now?”

“As interested as I was before.” he returns, sharp and quick, and then with a vitriol he hasn’t directed at you in months, he says, “Don’t compare me to them.”

You bare your teeth, tears stinging sharp at your eyes, prepared to fight back when he hisses, “Mark my words, they won’t let you go now.”

“Stop it,” you spit, “You don’t know anything–”

And he laughs at that, caustic, harsh, a grating sound. Villainous. It slithers through the phone, down your spine. Your stomach twists. You hate this– your head is throbbing. You don’t want to fight. You want to stop crying, God, you wish you could just stop crying–

“I’ll be here when you realize it.” he says and there is too much heat behind his voice, simmering and venomous. You can feel the end of this conversation, the bitter goodbye in his words.

Your bottom lip trembles, and for some foolish, lovesick reason, you gasp, “Wait– don’t hang up–”

But you hear the click of the other line and he’s fallen away from you, leaving you with an empty, static silence that buzzes around in your head. In your heart.

You throw your phone across the room. You hear it clatter somewhere in the darkness. You turn to press your face into your pillow and let out a sudden, childish scream. It tears at your throat, before tapering off into this pathetic little sob.

It’s worse because he ends up being right.

And it’s ironic because it’s another string tethering you to him, the ability to destroy something with a touch.

It’s like some part of him knew all along, or maybe some part of you.

You scream into your pillow again, louder, kicking at your covers before it breaks off into a bitter cry.

***

The Hero Commission is very interested in the new discovery of your Quirk. They run tests and scans on you, over and over again, trying to find something interesting. They want you to practice with it, but there’s no way for you to practice without potentially destroying other people’s Quirks.

They offer up criminals to practice on.

It turns your stomach.

“I don’t want to do this,” you tell Shouta one night after another long series of poking and prodding at you by white coats from the Hero Commission.

Shouta is silent for a moment, “No one is making you.”

“But they want me to. It’s expected of me.” you tell him.

“They want to make sure you can control it,” Shouta answers, “And the only way to do that is practice, unfortunately.”

Or do they just want to be sure they can control me? The question bubbles up unbridled inside of you. It sounds suspiciously like Tomura’s voice.

You frown, “I can control it. I don’t go around destroying Quirks with every touch. I just mute Quirks still.”

“Under distress, too? Can you summon it completely calmly? Or stop it in an instant?” Shouta asks.

“I don’t know– no, I don’t think so.”

“Then you can’t fully control it.��� he answers, which makes you ball your hands into fists.

“It doesn’t feel right taking people’s Quirks– practice or not. And it’s controlled enough.” you respond, gaining a sudden edge to your voice.

“Then don’t do it.” Shouta responds, almost impassively.

You try not to grow upset or so frustrated that you say something you might regret. You swallow tightly. “Will you be disappointed? If I don’t?”

Shouta tilts his head and in the quietness you fear he will be, but he eventually answers, “No. You’re right; you have it controlled enough that it doesn’t hinder your day-to-day life.”

You let go of a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Besides, if you’re under that amount of distress again, it probably flares for a good reason. It’ll probably save you if you ever need it again.” Shouta then says, “And if what they want you to do doesn’t feel right to you, then you shouldn’t do it.”

You stare up at him, a little surprised but–

Relief sweeps through you, sweet and cool.

“I trust your instincts,” Shouta says, the curl of his lips small but promising, as he reaches out to nudge your chin with his knuckle.

The guilt blindsides you later, so hard that it makes you lock yourself in your bathroom and keep a sob trapped behind the palm of your hands.

But for now, you smile up at him, the curve of your smirk playful, something he hasn’t seen from you in what feels like forever that you give to him again freely.

“Can I get that one in writing?” you ask and his answering laugh strikes you so suddenly it almost makes you dizzy and it’s like hearing the notes to one of your favorite songs that you hadn’t heard in a long time.

Like you couldn’t ever imagine forgetting it, now that you’ve heard it again.

***

Tomura wonders what it will take to make you leave your heroes.

Specifically, your precious mentor.

When he sees you again, you look like you did before nearly bleeding out in front of him and destroying the Quirk of another. It’s almost as if it never happened at all, almost like your argument never happened at all, either. In this little apartment where the rest of the world doesn’t exist, just you and him and sometimes Ryuji.

Except when he lifts your shirt there is a twisted, ugly scar from where they patched you up. Another at your shoulder. He doesn’t kiss it or run his fingers over it gently, he doesn’t make any sort of comment. He just thumbs at your waist and glares at it, wishes he could make it disappear like the villain who gave it to you.

(Not because he finds it ugly or unacceptable, only that it is now a permanent reminder of what he’d seen. Only that it reminds him that you are not guaranteed to him, not in life nor in loyalty).

You’re a little hesitant with him now. You feel more fragile to him now, too, like you’re holding something back, waiting for everything to finally fall.

The inevitable crash and break.

Tomura is gentler with you– he knows he needs to play his cards right now. It’s crucial. Something is building, even for the League of Villains. There’s more on the horizons.

And despite everything, he wants you there, when the sun is bloody and falling on a dismembered, new world.

He thinks he shouldn’t have pushed you now, when you’re so delicate, barely stitched together. But he had– he’d started another argument. He’d tried to convince you of the heroes’ lack of care for you, their greediness upon discovering the depth of your Quirk.

You throw it back in his face; isn’t that what All For One does to him? Isn’t that what he does for the League of Villains? Aren’t they all just pawns for him? Is that what he wants of you?

He seethes, digging into the skin of his neck desperately. You don’t stop him. He can feel the facade of this little apartment beginning to crumble, fall away into dust and he–

He knows he destroys everything he touches.

But you were supposed to be different.

(You are, his mind hisses, you are, you are, and that’s the worst part of it all).

You storm out that night. You leave him, no doubt to return to your precious mentor.

He thinks about destroying the entire apartment complex. He could now– he knows what’s coming. He won’t be staying here any longer. He has plans, so many plans.

You come back to him a week later, though. You’re bound to him in some way, returning again and again when you know you shouldn’t.

The make-up part is nice, with him buried so deep inside you that he’s trying to turn your stomach. Make you sick with him, the way he is with you. Your gasping moans, with the arch of your body far too pretty for hands like his.

And still, you lay on his chest afterwards, you let him run his fingers over the planes of your shoulders, the line of your pretty neck. He drags his knuckles against your soft skin, enamored with the feeling, with the way you soothe the haunting, sunken part of him. His Quirk submits to yours easily, dimmed inside of him. Maybe he should be frightened of your new potential.

But you’ve never been frightened of him, so he’s not of you, either.

You’re very bold, though, he thinks, for you to say, “Your parents were cruel.” After the argument you both had last time.

He tenses beneath you, grits his teeth. He’d thought you’d both learned your lesson, getting too personal in a place as sacred as here.

“You don’t know anything,” he says and it’s just a breath. Surprisingly toothless. He’d said it to you last time, in your argument. You’d said it to him before that. It feels almost ironic now.

You shake your head against his chest, your nose nudging into him, lips soft against his skin. You remain calm. “I know your name is Tomura. They were very cruel to give you that name.”

You say this as if it’s a fact, something as simple as the sky being blue. But it’s dark out now and the stars are dull, the moon just a scythe in the sky, caught in the window’s glare.

“What?” he demands quietly.

At least you have the guts to tilt your head up to find his eyes now. You look up at him through dark lashes.

“Your name–” you say again, gentle, “It means ‘to mourn.’ I don’t know why anyone would give their child such a sad name.”

He knows what his name means.

But this takes him by surprise, for some reason. Only because it’s not the name his parents gave him. You don’t know that, though. You don’t know anything about him, technically. He has the urge to tell you suddenly, that’s not my name.

He doesn’t, though. He stays silent. It’s his name now. And he likes the way you say it, the syllabus softened by whatever it is you feel for him.

(He won’t give it a name, he’s realizing now that names can be very powerful.)

Your fingers are gentle on him, rubbing strange patterns against a scar near his collar bone.

You have rendered him silent.

And eventually, as you begin to drift off to sleep, you murmur, “You were just a kid, you know?”

He doesn’t really know what you’re getting at, only that it does something strange to the tempo of his heart. He swallows hard, tries to keep his fingers gentle on you. Your breathing has slowed, the rise and fall of your back measured and even, but his has gotten tight.

He squeezes you against him, glaring at nothing, at darkness.

You were just a kid, you know?

It’s this part of you, the one that sees the human in him, that makes him think maybe you will be at his side until the bitter end of it all. Your compassion, the sympathy you have for the child he was, for the person he somehow became. Your unending ability to understand the worst of people.

He doesn’t dwell on the child he was, just has buried it in the cemetery of his chest– a part of him that only you have been able to reach through Quirk, through something too massive to name. You’ve soothed it, put it to rest like the dead, lit your incense in the spaces of his heart. Said your prayers along the notches of his ribs. Tried to appease that restless spirit that possesses him.

He doesn’t know why, but he starts to shake. He can hardly breathe.

And in the dark, when he thinks you’re asleep, and his secrets will be lost to your dreams, he admits for the first time in years what has always trembled inside him. He speaks the tragedy that has made a home of his body, the mourning that he was given name to;

“I wanted to be a hero– when I was a kid.”

***

Tomura thinks, for a moment, when you’re splattered in blood, that this will be your great turning point.

Your fall, the tearing and burning of your wings from your holy back. It will hurt, but he will be there on the ground with you, a hand extended to guide you. He will be there to cradle you into his chest, to hold you close when your world falls apart.

The way All For One was there for him.

The beginning of the end starts with you being a hero.

But you save the wrong person.

Toga’s been following him around as she does every so often, dogging in his shadow, skipping along beside him. You’ve become accustomed to her, too. She likes having you around. Something about not being the only girl. You’re kind to her in the same way he thinks you probably wanted kindness at her age.

The sky is mottled purple, bruised as the day sets into night. The sun looks like an open wound, violent and red.

When he thinks about it, he figures he should’ve been more careful, but then there’s a petty villain Tomura knows vaguely, someone they’ve clashed with before, who he’s pretty sure Dabi and Toga pissed off. He spots Toga first. Your back is turned to him.

“Uh oh,” Toga says, peering over your shoulder.

Tomura grabs your wrist, “Hide,” he hisses, and when you try to peer over your shoulder at what Toga is looking at, he forces you back around so the villain doesn’t see your face.

He doesn’t know why he saves you like that. Only that he doesn’t want you to get in trouble, doesn’t want you taken from him like that. He is not an idiot; if the villain recognizes you, if it somehow got around that you were seen with two of the most notorious villains, the Hero Commission would eat you alive.

And here’s the part that really gets him. You listen to him. You trust him.

You dart away, swift and fast like a fox, disappearing into the shadows the way you were trained to.

“Hey!” the villain shouts and he’s large, Tomura remembers now.

Stupid, too, he thinks, as he barrels towards them.

The glint of Toga’s knife in the sun makes him pause.

Better to not engage, Tomura thinks, not yet, not now. Too much on the horizon for something foolish to happen tonight. The apartment isn’t far from here. He hopes you’ll retreat there. He just needs to get Toga away safely now.

“Oh, I’ve missed fighting!” she sings.

“No,” Tomura rasps, “Don’t engage. We need to go, too.”

She whines a long and drawn out, “Why?” just as the hulking mass of a person swings at her. She ducks away easily, quickly.

However, then his Quirk bursts to life and it’s far worse than what Tomura had hoped for. He doubles in size, his arms in particular growing longer, and fill out with what seems to be rushing water.

“Dammit, Toga,” he hisses, shoving her out of the way as the villain blasts a large cannon of water at her.

Tomura takes the hit hard, black coloring his vision when he hits the ground.

In truth, he thinks he is out for at least a full minute, because when he’s come to, you’re shouting at the villain. You’re tugging desperately at his massive shoulder, clawing and screaming. You’ve canceled his Quirk, but he’s still too big, even without it.

Toga is pinned beneath that arm, choking and spluttering, drenched. It actually looks like she’s choking on water. She can’t even scream, too garbled, too water-logged. She looks like a doll, she looks horribly small. Her face is turning a deep shade of red as she struggles for breath. Her little hands claw at his wrist, too.

Tomura tries to stand, his vision swimming, swaying so bad that for a minute everything goes sideways.

Fuck, he curses, just as he watches you get tossed away by that villain’s other hand like you’re nothing. His Quirk suddenly ripples back to life and he blasts Toga with another bout of water, plastering her to the gravel, the onslaught of it unending.

You’re up in an instant, throwing yourself onto his neck, trying to wrench him off. His Quirk disengages again, and Toga heaves and gasps for breath, coughing up large amounts of water.

“You’re going to kill her!” Tomura finally can catch onto what you’re saying, what you’re desperately screaming. His ears ring.

You get thrown off again. More water. Toga is being blasted so hard that she can’t even choke or struggle.

Tomura thinks you’re trying to rationalize with them, you’re trying to explain you’re a hero. And to disengage. Stop, please stop, please stop–

He’s not listening, though, of course.

And he’s too big. You tried knocking him out, tried putting him to sleep with the grip of your elbow. You’re trying everything, even to crush his Quirk beneath yours. Tomura catches the flutters of pink, your inability to summon your destruction when you need it.

It wouldn’t matter anyways, not with how big he is. You struggle against powerhouses.

Tomura stumbles.

But you’ve always been gritty and sharp and determined, if nothing else. You have always fought so desperately for your life, never mind law or honor or glory.

He thinks he catches the glint of your knife, the desperate threat to let her go, leave her alone!

The villain grabs you with a massive hand around the throat, lifts you clear off the ground.

Toga has gone slack against the pavement in a puddle of water, face colored a strange shade of red and blue. A little like the way the sky blurs before his eyes.

You kick and thrash, a horrible growl wretched from your throat. You don’t think, just lash out.

And then there is blood. So much blood. It’s all over Toga now, seeping into the water– did she cut him? She managed to cut his throat? Because that’s where the blood is pouring out of–

Tomura sways.

You’re dropped.

You stumble away.

Your blade– the one you used to threaten him with, is bloody.

“Fuck!” you shout, raw and so sudden that it jars him a little. He forces himself over to the scene. So much blood. His stomach rolls.

He looks at you, your shell-shocked face. You’re looking at the knife, at the blood. At Toga, who's still not moving.

He goes to her first, tries to shake her a little, fingers held away from her shoulders carefully. For a moment, she doesn’t respond, limp and lifeless and something inside of him threatens to overwhelm him. No, no–

Her eyes flutter, though, and she wheezes for a breath, suddenly turning over to vomit up far too much water.

“I-Is she-?” your voice, so small and lost, cuts through his thoughts.

He looks at you again, blood splattered and terror caught in your eyes. Pale and slack faced and half-mad. You look like a ghost, standing there in the aftermath, in your gruesomeness.

“She’s fine,” he says, just as she wretches up more water, “You saved her.”

Toga falls limp again. He checks frantically for a pulse at her wrist with two careful fingers. Still there. She needs a doctor, though. He stands to face you.

You make a noise, high pitched, trembling. You cover your mouth to keep it in, it’s something like a sob, an animalistic noise.

“I didn’t mean to– I didn’t, I didn’t– she was just–” you’re trying to get out, almost doubled over now.

Tomura doesn’t bother to check if you killed the villain. He knows the dead when he sees it. And he won’t lie to you now, he won’t soften this blow or shield you from it.

But he also knows what he needs to do.

You keel over, about to scream more and– no, that won’t do you any good.

He grabs for you, hauls you back up and you’re shaking so hard that he fears you’re going to split apart. You’re about to lose it.

“Listen to me,” Tomura hisses and you choke on a cry. He shakes you a little, tries to force you to look at him and not the body behind him. Your eyes, feverish pink, meet the wildfire of his, “Listen to me.”

“I– I don’t–”

“Sshh,” Tomura hisses, palm going to your cheek, a little too rough, forcing you to look at only him. “Sshh, listen.”

You try to swallow and he continues, “You’re going to call reinforcements. You’re going to tell them there’s a villain down.”

“W-what?! I’m going to– they’re going to–”

He shakes you again, harder, your teeth click together with the force of it. He needs you to understand this– needs you to hear this if he wants to keep you safe and out of jail.

“Tell them I decayed him. And before that, tell them Toga cut him, and it splattered onto you. Say you heard commotion and like the good hero you are, you ran to help.”

“Tomura–” you sob.

“Do you understand me?” he snaps instead, grabbing you harder, his fingers curling against your cheek to press desperately into you. “Answer me!”

“Yes–” you gasp, wide-eyed and terrified. “Yes!”

“Good,” he hushes, wiping blood from your cheek, “Good. You saved her,” he tells you, “You saved her, do you understand?”

You nod, jerky, and he continues, hand petting your cheek, messily pushing your hair from your face, “You did everything right.”

Your breathing is still labored, but you’re quieting with the praise. When he thinks you can handle it, he breathes, “Now, are you ready? I’m going to decay him and the knife, then I’m going to leave with Toga. You’re going to call for help.”

You glance at the villain, lying lifeless, in his own pool of blood and Tomura ducks his head to force you to look at him. “Okay?” he asks, “Answer me.”

“Okay,” you exhale slowly.

“Good,” he murmurs, “Good. Now give me the knife.”

You press it, trembling, into his hands. It’s slick with blood. He forces himself to stay calm for you.

He steps away, let’s go of you. The knife turns to dust.

“Look away,” he commands then, his voice a rasp.

And you– you listen to him. You trust him. You turn away. He sets his hands on the villain. And just like that, his body breaks down, gore at first, until it is nothing but dust. It blows away easily.

And then he goes to Toga and he lifts her carefully. She’s like a ragdoll in his arms, soaked and cold. He’s certain to keep his hands away from her, fingers lifted away, but she lolls into his chest.

When you turn around, Tomura says, “Thank you for saving her.” And he means it.

You swallow hard. You look to where the villain was. He’s gone now.

“Now call your heroes, just like I said.”

You nod, eyes filling up with tears. That’s fine. They’ll have more sympathy for you, for what you’ve witnessed. They’ll believe you more. Your mentor will protect you, with those tears in your eyes.

Tomura’s eyes burn crimson as you pull out your phone, “Do what I said and you’ll be okay.”

And you do, just like that. You lift the phone to your ear. That semblance of calm that he had coaxed you into shatters the moment someone picks up on the other end.

Your voice goes high, near hysterical, “T-There’s a villain down–”

He turns away from you as you stutter and cry into the phone about what happened. You give them the lie he told you to feed them. You make Tomura out to be the villain, you make yourself out to be innocent. He holds Toga close to him.

He tries not to smile, a dizzy slip of a thing, as you do exactly as he told you to– as you lie and lie and lie through your teeth.

Toga stirs in his arms. Police sirens are heard in the distance. An ambulance for a pile of dust. The sun sets, darkness blanketing the world, shielding it from the light.

And as he stalks away, with Toga alive and in his arms, he thinks maybe he’ll make a villain of you yet.

***

The police believe you. It’s hard not to, when there is so little evidence otherwise. Tomura destroyed it all for you. It’s hard not to believe you, when you’re crying and terrified, as you should be for witnessing the death of another person at the hands of Himiko Toga and Shigaraki Tomura.

Shouta, however, is not as easily convinced.

Not after so many strange occurrences with Tomura.

When he brings you back to his apartment, when the door is shut tight, and you still stand in bloodied clothes with your teeth chattering, Shouta eyes you warily.

You want to shower, burn yourself beneath the spray of water, like you could wash away what you’d done. You squeeze your eyes shut.

You saved her.

You swallow down the lump in your throat.

“What really happened?” Shouta asks, almost tentatively, standing in the middle of his living room.

You turn and you don’t– you don’t know how you should react. Should you be offended that he’d doubt you? React in outrage after all that’s happened? Should you act confused? Play dumb?

You can’t stomach any of it. Not when someone’s dead at your hands. But someone is alive because of them, too.

Your eyes well up with fresh tears.

“I-I told you.” you choke out.

Shouta’s jaw ticks. He draws in a slow breath, “Something isn’t adding up. You have had more contact with Shigaraki Tomura than anyone has been able to have.”

Your stomach drops. Your tears fall harder.

“What’s going on?” he asks and the distance between you two feels massive. It feels continental in the small space of his living room. He seems suspicious.

The lie comes out on a sob, “I–I think he’s been stalking me.”

“What?” Shouta asks and any uncertainty he has in you evaporates as he watches your face crumple.

You let your guilt overwhelm you into choking on another cry, cover your mouth as if you could catch it in the palm of your hand. Shouta doesn’t know the truth of it, so he believes it.

He crosses that distance like it’s nothing now. He stands tall in front of you, reaches to try and brush tears away from your cheek.

“I don’t know–” you gasp, filling out your lie, “I think he's interested in me because of my Quirk. Because he can’t– I can’t decay, when he touches me.”

Shouta tips your face up towards his but you can’t look him in the eyes, let your eyes squeeze shut when he asks, “Why wouldn’t you tell me that?”

“I don’t know–” you choke out, “I wasn’t sure.”

“Did something else happen?” Shouta prods gently and you grit your teeth to keep back another sob. More tears cut tracks down your face, right into Shouta’s waiting, gentle hands.

There is a long moment where you think of giving everything up. You think of telling Shouta everything, if only to lift the weight that has settled onto your chest. Surely, it will crush through your sternum, surely your heart will burst with it’s pressure.

“It’s my fault,” you whisper, “It’s my fault he’s dead.”

“No,” Shouta says then, gentle but firm, shaking his head, “I know it may feel like it–”

“He was going to kill her.”

This stops Shouta. He goes very, very still.

“What?” he rasps softly.

“He was drowning her– he wouldn’t stop. I tried to get him to stop and he started choking me–and she saved me by–” It’s a fabrication to save yourself. That’s not how it went! Your mind screeches, that’s not how it went– you saved her by killing–

Toga was turning blue, she didn’t help you. She didn’t save you. She was drowning. She didn’t kill him. You did.

“You saved Toga Himiko, a notorious villain, one of the most wanted–”

“He was killing her!” you hiss, “She was turning blue–”

“She’s a powerful villain, too, you should’ve tried–”

Something inside of you fractures, bursts apart the way glass does when thrown against a wall. You think there are a million, shining pieces of you now lying on the floor.

“She’s Shinsou’s age!” you snap, hoping one of your shards cuts him, suddenly half-furious through all your tears. “She’s Shinsou’s age, do you know that?!”

You break now, wrenching away from Shouta’s touch and rushing to double over the sink to dry heave again, body squeezing painfully. You threw up everything in your stomach already at the scene, when recounting the story to the police, to Shouta. You claw at your stomach, trying to stop it, to keep it all down inside of you. You curl your fingers into the divots of your ribs, try to force them to give you air, but they won’t– betrayers that they are, they squeeze and squeeze until there’s nothing of you left.

Your knees buckle, head spinning when you turn away from the sink and crumple into a heap on the floor,“She’s just a kid,” you wail desperately, “That’s all I saw when I tried– when I–”

Your head bows forward, body folded in on itself, forehead digging into the ground as you cry, “I didn’t mean for him to die, I didn’t mean it– I didn’t, I swear I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

Shouta moves again finally, drops to his knees down beside you. He cradles your skull in his large hand, pushes your head into the crook of his neck to hold you, “It’s alright,” he breathes, curling his other arm tight around you, “It’s not your fault,” he hushes, “It’s not your fault.” You sob hard into his chest, fingernails digging into him, clawing at his biceps, “Sshh, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

And he holds you, buries you in the bulk of him, like he always has when you need him. Your constant, the love you never once deserved. Especially not now. Especially not here, with blood stained on your clothes, sunk to the floor with nothing but the anchor of your guilt.

He strokes your hairline, gentle, cooing softly to try and calm you.

He murmurs, his voice so deep and soft and earnest, “You’re a good hero.” When you make a strangled noise against him, he presses on, “You are. You’re compassionate. You see everyone’s humanity and that’s a good thing.”

He hushes more of your cries, fingers gentle in your hair, and you try not to throw up again when he tells you;

“You’re a good hero, I promise. I promise.”

The beginning of the end starts with you being a hero for a villain.

***

The next time you see Tomura, he questions you about what happened, if you pulled it off. You tell him you managed it, somehow. You don’t tell him anything else. You don’t tell him you haven’t been sleeping, that you can hardly keep food down. You don’t tell him that you take too many showers, trying to wash away the phantom blood.

You remember when it was Tomura’s blood on you, so long ago. A beginning that now seems so hazy. You hadn’t minded blood, then. You had never been particularly squeamish but now–

Now it could make you sick on your best days, downright hysterical on your worst.

Your guilt tears chunks out of you, bites down and shakes the meaty, soft parts of you until you’re all torn up.

It is easier to be with Tomura than Shouta now.

We have more in common, you think, and it makes you want to laugh, empty and wobbly.

You look in mirrors and hardly recognize yourself, wonder if this is really your body. If this is really your life, or if it’s someone else’s. Maybe you are possessed, maybe that explains how you got here.

You don’t tell him any of this. You stay silent.

And that’s okay because Tomura seems strangely quiet after that, pulling you to lay on his chest. He doesn’t let you put the TV on. You can tell he needs to think. You let your eyes drift close as he runs his fingers through your hair with a surprising amount of gentleness, compared to his usual petting.

But eventually he says, so soft that you fear you almost imagined it, “A yakuza head visited the League recently.”

Your eyes flutter open and in your surprise, you sit up a little, looking down at him. “Tomura–” you start, almost a warning.

He knows he isn’t supposed to talk like this here, in this little slice of another world.

But he continues anyways, his voice just a rough scratch, “He killed Magne.” And then, “And Compress no longer has an arm.”

Now you really pull away to look at him. You can feel your eyes widen out, your shock, then the stomach-turning sadness. His face is unreadable, but his jaw is tight. His eyes are simmering, so red, even in the low light like this.

“It was a set up.” he hisses, “I failed them.”

He doesn’t cry, but you can feel the slightest tremble in his body.

You hurt for him, you realize, your heart falling into the pit of your stomach. Those are two of his closest, some of his inner circle.

He looks shaken.

He looks young, with the weight of his world on his shoulders, with the crown of thorns placed on his head. Heir to a monstrous throne. All For One’s successor, boy prince to inherit an underground empire.

You just see him, though, just Tomura who's twenty, who likes sour candy and video games.

He swallows hard. He looks angry and hurt.

“Nobody mourns us,” he says eventually, looking away from you, somewhere in the darkness of the apartment.

Except you, you want to say, with a name like Tomura.

You lurch forward, throwing your arms around his neck, hugging him tight to you. “I’m sorry,” you tell him, soft, the way Shouta speaks to you, “I’m sorry.”

And then you think, I’d mourn you, and you squeeze him tighter, I’d mourn you, oh God, I’d mourn you–

He doesn’t hug you back, but you can feel the shaky breath he exhales, and the way his fingers tighten in the fabric of your shirt.

***

Tomura thinks it should be you, at his side, when he takes Overhaul’s arm. You are everything Overhaul wants. Your Quirk is what he has tried to bottle.

Tomura thinks you could’ve been useful, to switch off his Quirk, to destroy it in an incredible twist of irony. It would’ve been the ultimate power move, to have you at his side by the end of all of this.

But you’re not there, no, not with him.

You’re with your heroes, Toga had told him.

It shouldn’t, but it feels like a betrayal. It stings hard and sharp inside of him, like a livid bee that jabs at his heart.

He seethes about it. Hadn’t he done everything right with you? He’d played this game slow, knew that the rewards would be worth it.

You’re still walking away from him, though. You’re still not his.

And you’ve still got one of his ribs, left a gaping wound inside of him.

He wants it back. He wants it back.

***

Eri looks up at you with watery, red eyes when you first introduce yourself to her. You crouch to be on her level. She has silver hair. She’s timid, wobbly bottom lip and flushed cheeks.

You almost start crying, looking at her now. You wonder if this is what Tomura was like as a child– small and terrified of his Quirk, round red eyes pleading with the world. All you see in her is every other forgotten child.

“Hi, Eri,” you hush, half for her, half because you’re scared your voice might break.

“H-hello,” she trembles.

You try to keep your smile in place, but it’s a weak, sad thing.

Still, you say, “I’d like to be your friend, if you’ll have me.” And you extend your hand to her, palm up and offering. “I have a Quirk like Mr. Aizawa’s.” you tell her gently, “If you touch me while using your Quirk, it’ll stop.”

She brightens at this, not smiling but, surprised, “Really?” she asks, just a breath.

You nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat, “Really.”

She takes your hand then, eager, tightening with her small fingers, despite her Quirk still being off.

Then she looks up into your face and offers you a tentative smile. Small, just the corner of her lips lifting up.

“I’d like to be your friend, too.” she murmurs bashfully and you close your hand around hers. It’s small, almost fragile. She’s all bandaged up, arms wrapped in gauze.

You look at Eri and her red eyes and silver hair and see a coin toss, see it up in the air, spinning and spinning, catching in the light. A twist of fate like the flip of a coin.

But you think you could call it now, with her hand in yours, and the heroes that hover protectively around her.

***

There is a morning shared in blush light that isn’t the ending but feels like it could be one. In truth, you’d prefer to remember this as the ending, more of a whimper and less of a bang. The night before had been one of your better ones, too– you’d only woken once with a nightmare. Tomura had already been awake and he’d soothed you with a careful hand that drew patterns across the bare skin of your back.

That night, that morning, was gentle in the wake of all that violence, love taken root, finally bursting through your veins to make a mess of your insides.

Dawn is too mellow a place for the two of you.

(You have come to the conclusion that Tomura looks best in dusk, saturated, sharp and rich in color. Bold and vivid. You didn’t know it, but he thought the same of you.)

You never told him you loved him.

You think about that a lot, wonder if it would’ve made a difference in anything. You wonder who was the last person to tell him that, if anyone at all.

He’s still half hoping that you’ll follow him, but you think he knows he’s losing you. You are not content in fuming misery, cannot stomach to leave the mentor that has loved and cared for you with such perseverance and softness. You cannot stomach to turn away from the boy with violet hair, or now the girl that reminds you of him.

You wish you could keep him, too, despite it all, but all you see in the future with him is rubble.

In the least, you’ve always had a sense of preservations, survivor that you are, scavenger that you are. You know when to move on, can’t linger too much longer now or you won’t live through it.

You sleep better with Tomura, though, and that’s the cruel part. You wake with less nightmares. You sleep more soundly, wound up in him, so tight that you two might just grow together. Palm to palm, your Quirk quieting his, lulled and softened.

And that morning, you wake slowly, twisting around fitfully with the warmth that has blossomed gently inside of you.

Consciousness creeps to you, fighting against the pull of sleep, being coaxed awake by the fluttering of your heart, the slow roll in your core.

Your eyes lift, heavy with sleep, finally awake. You blink blearily before a sudden, sleep soft cry escapes past your lips.

You glance down the line of your body to find Tomura nestled between your legs, tongue tracing messy patterns into where you’re most sensitive. Your stomach swoops sweetly, flares into a spark of heat.

The light is soft on him. He cracks a ruby eye open to gaze at you, to open his mouth so you can watch the flash of glistening pink as his tongue laves against you slowly.

“About time you woke up,” he gets out, voice still morning-rough, a little grating. His fingers squeeze your thigh, pulling you apart further to be at his mercy, spread open all for him.

“Tomura–” you gasp, your hands finding their way into his hair, fingers gentle and weak with sleep.

He sets his mouth to you, sucks on the bundle of nerves in a way that makes you keen, almost arching away from him. He fixes his eyes on your face, watches as your expression twists up.

You can see the way his hips are twitching into the mattress. Sometimes you think he does this more for himself than you, takes pleasure in rendering you down to your most basic, most desperate.

Pleasure coils warm, simmers on the inside of you. Your fingers flex, tighten in his hair until he groans against you. When he pulls away for another moment to admire you, his lips are spit slick, a string of translucent spit and slick bridging between the two of you.

It makes you flush darkly, makes you throw your head back and whimper.

He takes you apart with the savagery and viciousness that he has always carried. Dawn spills over the bed sheets in rays of peach and honeysuckle, lovely for the impending destruction. You shatter like glass, pretty and ringing beneath his hands.

And then he’s flipping you onto your stomach, letting you claw at your pillow as he sinks deep inside of you. He hisses when he fucks into the crux of your sweet, supple thighs. Your hair is messy with sleep. He presses his chest to your back, presses you into the mattress.

You fist at your pillow, whining at the burn and stretch, and you can feel the sickle cut of his smile against the arch of your shoulder blades. He leaves sloppy kisses, scattering them, sucking at your skin until he has claimed and marked and branded you.

He nudges his nose against your cheek until you tilt your head back to his, to rub back affectionately, nudge into him like a cat. He hums in satisfaction, in pleasure, the sound of it rumbling against your back.

You feel like he’s trying to savor this. He doesn’t pull your hair, or speed up his hips. No, he waits until you arch your back for him, until you’re near begging.

He likes you weakened, maybe delirious, maybe like he’s giving you a dose of your own medicine. He’s trying to make you as addicted as he is, but there’s no need.

No need when he covers your hand with his, slots his fingers between yours. All five of them, squeezing at your hand.

“You were made for me,” he gets out, giving you a rougher thrust, his eyes flashing to your hands, “See?” he groans, fingers digging into your wrist, your knuckles, “Made for me.”

You moan, too, all wobbly and pitched, with all the pressure, with the squeeze of his hand. With the stretch of him inside where you’re vulnerable and soft and slick.

He drags everything out that morning, fucks you both into oversensitivity, until you’re both shuddering and gasping. He breaks you down, until there are tears streaming down your face, until he’s gripping you so tightly that he’ll leave a bruise in the shape of his hand.

He fits his hand against your throat at one point and your eyes roll into the back of your head. You end where you began, with the violet petal bruise of his fingertips into your skin.

You linger in bed with him that morning, letting him pet and stroke and touch you. You stay gentle, even when he gets rough.

You make cheap, bad coffee for the both of you.

You feel twenty something with a boy and his tiny apartment. A cat chirps at the window and you’re smiling when you let him in. The breeze is cool. You don’t put on clothes because you feel like an adult, with a lover.

You feel normal for a fraction of a moment after everything that’s happened.

You feel sated and tender and saddened. Your chest fills with aching as you watch Tomura drift in and out of sleep in the sunbeams.

You were made for me, he’d said and you reach out to brush a strand of hair from his face. You were made for me.

You swallow around the lump in your throat, the one that feels like needle pricks and the hard truth. You don’t have the heart to tell him that he may need you, but you don’t need him.

You want him, though, your fingers trailing down the lines of his face, you want him so badly that it hurts. Your fingers travel over the hitch of his scars, his body as familiar as a home.

You want him, but you don’t need him, you try to tell yourself in this moment. You want him, but you don’t need him. You will survive this.

Still, it’s going to hurt. You’re bracing for impact, can feel the free fall rush up to the ground, can feel your stomach swimming up where your heart is.

You’ll survive it, you think, breathing hard, trying to keep back your tears as you look at him. But it’s going to hurt, it might tear out something very precious inside of you.

You’d rather he just break your arm again. At the thought of it, you try not to choke on the bitter, furious laugh that splits from your aching ribs.

***

You get to know Eri, try to spend more time with her and Shouta and Shinsou like you’re trying to fix something you broke. The pieces aren’t quite matching up right, though. It can’t be fixed, not really, not fully.

You can’t close your eyes without seeing that villain in a pool of their own blood. Or Toga’s face made blue. Sometimes in these dreams, it’s Shinsou who is drowning. Sometimes the villain in blood is Shouta. Tomura is always the one who saves you.

You can’t look at yourself anymore. You can’t stomach to. Your lies explode out of you when you catch a glance of yourself, haggard and exhausted and beaten down.

Shouta takes you to a hospital after your fist collides with the mirror in your bathroom. Glass shatters into hundreds of reflections of your warped and terrible image. They’re not as pretty, when the sun isn’t setting in a warehouse with a boy that you think you love.

Your hand bleeds the way that man’s necks did–

Your world spins as you lean over the bowl of the toilet to throw up your lunch. You’d made it with Eri earlier, before Shouta had gotten home from class.

Shouta finds you on the floor, sitting in all that glass, with your hand clutched tightly to your chest. He must’ve heard the commotion next door.

“What happened?” he asks, voice flooding with concern. He doesn’t hesitate to step carefully over the glass to you.

The question feels too large for you.

I did something horrible, you think, that’s what happened.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter weakly, lifting your chin from its place on your chest. “I didn’t mean to.”

(That isn’t true and you know it.

(But you’re always trying to prove you’re good. Especially now. Especially to Shouta– trying to prove you’re worthy of his love.

You suddenly crave Tomura. You didn’t have to prove anything to him.)

Shouta lifts you carefully, cradles you to his body to carry you out to his car to bring you to the hospital. He treats you like you’re fragile, made of glass yourself. “What’s going on with you?” Shouta murmurs gently, but there's almost a plea in it, concern that is so transparent it hurts, “You’re scaring me– I’m worried about you.” he confesses, almost desperate, “You know you can talk to me, don’t you?”

The laugh that sputters out of you is hollow, a grating noise that gets choked off. Shouta looks at you warily, uncertain and fearful.

The hospital keeps you for three days. Eri asks Shouta about you, apparently. She misses you. Shinsou helps her decorate a card for you.

Get well soon! Is written in her poor handwriting with far too many colors, and in Shinsou’s messy scrawl at the bottom;

Miss getting my ass kicked by you.

The doctors tell Shouta you’re struggling with a lot of survivor’s guilt and you have to fight back another absurd, off-kilter laugh.

Part of you thinks you’d be better off with Tomura at this point (your coin uncertain, hanging suspended in the air), if only to relieve you of this guilt, when Shouta tends to you and cares for you and loves you so steadfastly that it makes you feel rotten and horrible and monstrous. He has no idea who he’s loving. And you don’t deserve any of it–

But you think of Eri and the way she clings to your sleeves. And how you and Shinsou share granola bars during training.

And mostly, you are terrified to be without them.

None of it’s the same, though, and you think it’ll eat away at you until you’re nothing at all but the empty lies you kept feeding them.

You want to be better, you realize, when Eri draws you in pictures, holding her hand. You want to be better, you realize, for kids like you, like her–

(Like Tomura–)

So you decide one night, with your hand still bandaged, with Eri sleeping peacefully on the couch in the crux of your arms, and Shouta at the opposite end of the couch, that you will stay with them. The easy thing to do would be to leave, to not look back. But you have always been nothing if not determined, if not a fighter.

You will become who they want you to be, who they believe you to be, even if it tears you apart from the inside out.

Which means giving up Tomura, which feels like giving up a rib.

***

You had hoped you’d be able to slip away from Tomura and leave your secrets in a rundown apartment in a part of the city you grew up in. You had hoped that you could get away unscathed, without Shouta ever knowing more.

But Dabi mentions you to Hawks.

Offhand. Something about another traitor hero. Something about Shigaraki’s bitch.

Tomura also mentions Hawks to you.

And here is your trouble, what you were hoping to avoid by never allowing him to speak about his plans; you now know that the Number Two Pro-Hero is a traitor. However, the only reason you know that, is because of your secret relationship with the leader of the League of Villains that you have been slowly, painstakingly trying to sever yourself from.

(It doesn’t help that he’s latched on tighter–)

So, if you go to Shouta to warn him that the Number Two Pro-Hero is a traitor, you have to also conveniently come forward with your own truth. And what if he thinks you’re a traitor, too?

Surely, it looks that way.

Truthfully, you might as well be– you killed someone.

You killed someone.

Your stomach squeezes tight.

You think of Shouta and Shinsou and Eri and the loss of their love, when you’ve been trying to earn it back.

You don’t get much time to mull this over, though, because while walking back to your own apartment at U.A., a shadowy span of wings fall over your form.

Your heart falls into the pits of you, the drop of it sharp, horrible.

You think running will make it look all the worse.

Besides, he’s fast.

You can’t decide how this will go. Maybe he’ll only want to speak with you, traitor to traitor. But then you will be confronted with the undeniable truth that you now need to share with Shouta, with the Hero Commission, for the sake of people’s safety. You will have to come clean. Maybe it will be worse. Maybe he’s not after you at all, but just in your neck of the woods because–

All other thoughts are cut short when he lands in front of you.

You try to think of a proper reaction. Should you be expecting him? On guard? Should you act surprised?

His wings flare and you realize quickly how massive they are. They throw you into their towering shadow, make you feel like a mouse.

His eyes glint when he pushes up his visor, the gold of them sharp, his pupils a pinprick. The eyes of a predator.

You try not to cower. You stand your ground, lift your lips a little like you might bare teeth in warning, your hackles raising. Backed into the corner, you feel half wild, too.

But Hawks beats you to any form of a greeting, his smile a menacing twist of his lips, like he’s trying to be pleasant but he wants you to see all of those sharp, white teeth of his. You think he doesn’t look like much of a hero in this darkness, with the way his wings look thorny and maroon. His voice is barbed wire, the drawl of it stinging.

You know you’re in deep trouble now;

“You and I need to have a little talk.”

***

You are kept in a steel room that the Hero Commission tells you is not a holding cell, but you definitely think is a holding cell.

Your mind has not slowed since you got here.

You scramble for a story to tell– for lies to sew.

Hawks is not a traitor. Not to the heroes’ at least. He is a traitor to the villains and you know, logically, that this is for the greater good, but something about it bothers you. Villains aren’t people to the Hero Commission. You feel strangely protective of Tomura’s league of outcasts, even if you know you shouldn’t.

But they’re young, with feelings and thoughts and lives and pasts.

Nobody ever mourns us.

No, they don’t, you think, trying to keep away bitter tears from springing to your eyes. They don’t bother trying to see the big picture, they don’t bother to try and figure out why villains are on the rise.

They can’t stomach the idea that maybe their precious hero system has given birth to their villains.

Or maybe they can and they just don’t care.

They need heroes for their charts and money and power, don’t they? So they need villains. A never ending cycle, forever going around on this carousel. You’re dizzy with it, you’re sick of it, caught up in it’s riptide.

You don’t look at Tomura Shigaraki and see the most dangerous, wanted criminal in the country. You see a twenty-year-old pawn, a chip in a bigger game. You see someone as starving and desperate as you were.

You see a coin flip.

(You see the person you fell in love with–)

Shouta enters silently and the moment you see him, you have to try to keep from bursting into tears. Your lip wobbles.

He approaches slowly, cooly, but when he gets near you, his eyes are livid and searching your face, like maybe he could finally find the lies you’d kept buried so deep inside of you. They’ve finally blossomed, you think, all of them sprouting from your body, creeping through your lungs and up your throat to choke you out.

“Tell me the truth finally.” Shouta says, sharp and icy. He speaks like he’s speaking to a criminal, “Now.”

You suck in a shaky breath, try not to flinch when he leans across the metal table and snarls, “And if you are a traitor, at least have the decency to tell me now, before they come in here and interrogate both of us.”

Tears catch in your lashes.

Through the throbbing of your head, you realize you have jeopardized Shouta in the way you never wanted.

“I’m not a traitor.” you get out, voice quiet but firm, barely above a whisper.

“No?” Shouta clips and you can see it now, the hurt in his eyes. He feels betrayed, deeply so, and you can’t even blame him. “Hawks says differently. Says you’ve been working with Shigaraki.”

You rub furiously at your cheek to try and keep the tears from falling, shaking your head quickly, “No–”

“Then what happened?” he snaps and through the blur of your own tears, you catch the way his own eyes glisten.

“I didn’t tell you everything, when I said I thought Shigaraki was stalking me.” you say, having readied this lie the moment that Hawks brought you to the Hero Commission’s doors. You give them the story they want to hear of you, not the one where you fell in love, but the one where you jeopardize yourself for them. You are careful to peer up at him through damp lashes, “I–I got close to him, because he let me, because he was interested in me.”

Shouta goes very, very still. All you can see is his chest rising and falling, quick, as he slowly begins to walk the path you’re leading him down.

“And I thought he might tell me his plans, I thought that I could help–”

“No,” Shouta says in disbelief as it all begins to connect, leaning away from you in shock, “Please tell me you didn’t–”

You lurch towards him slightly, naturally, your hands coming up to the table like you’re reaching for him. “I wanted to prove I could do this–” you choke out, voice breaking, “I wanted to prove I could do undercover work like you wanted– like they wanted!”

“What were you thinking?” he hisses in return.

“You never would’ve let me do this!” you snap, almost plead with him, and it must strike true because he looks away from you momentarily, “I-I saw an opening so I tried to take it– I was perfect for it. Shigaraki was interested in me. I used to be a thief. I would’ve fit in.”

The moment you say it, you realize how true it rings. It startles you, maybe, with how close you were. Almost, but didn’t, your coin doing an extra rotation in air. And why didn’t you? Why not be with Tomura now? Why not be where you fit in most? Where hero society wanted and expected you to be?

“I’m not a traitor,” you cry, tears tracking down your cheeks freely now– you think you’re trying to convince yourself as much as Shouta now, “I promise I’m not a traitor– I couldn’t do that to you. O-or Shinsou. Or Eri–”

And there is your reason. The truth to disguise your lies. You look at him, across from you, his face almost unreadable, with his furrowed brows and tense jaw. His eyes shine, though, gleam with unshed tears as he listens to you. The man who gave you everything, who has cared for you since the moment he found you– perhaps the sole reason your coin has flipped in their favor. All because he did more than what was asked of him, because maybe he just saw someone starving, too, like the way you did with Tomura.

Believe me, you plead, believe this.

There is a long stretch of silence after that, where all you can get in is hiccuping breaths.

Finally, Shouta asks, “Did you find anything out about him? Or the League of Villains?”

You exhale hard with relief, your shoulders finally falling. You collapse somewhat, exhausted, folding in on yourself.

You hang your head, then shake it slowly, “No,” you sniffle, wipe at your drippy nose, “He didn’t tell me anything. He didn’t trust me.”

Shouta eyes you warily.

“So that’s why you encountered him so much. That’s why you were there with Toga Himiko when–” Shouta cuts himself off when he sees your wince, the shuddering of your features at the mention of that incident. But he finally put all of the pieces together. All the pieces you’ve given him, at least.

You nod, stray tears falling quick, dripping off your chin, “I’m sorry for lying,” you get out, “I hated it— I hated lying to you.”

Truth.

Shouta throws you a hard look, “You shouldn’t have. It was dangerous and irresponsible. And now look at what you’ve done–”

Your stomach knots up tightly.

“I thought I could handle it.” You breathe and there is another truth, sprinkled throughout your lies.

But you were so horribly wrong–

Shouta is about to open his mouth again, but the door swings open and a man in a suit enters slowly. His gaze is cool as it falls on you and Shouta. You know this isn’t the end of your conversation with him, you know he wants to know more. But now, he focuses on the higher up that encourages him to sit, too.

He says, because Shouta has been such an upstanding hero and teacher, they are allowing him the courtesy of explaining everything now.

And then you watch as Shouta opens his mouth and lies and lies and lies for you.

He tells them that it was his idea to allow you to get close to Shigaraki. He knew, every step of the way. He tells them he bypassed speaking with a committee at the Hero Commission’s because it would’ve taken too much time. He says that they needed to act quickly and accordingly.

He takes the brunt of it, saves you from far more trouble. He’s a trusted hero. You’re an ex-thief in the eyes of the Hero Commission with a too-big Quirk. They won’t believe you and truthfully, if they did more digging, if they pried more, there is a chance that the truth might leak out of you, open like a wound.

Shouta protects you, the way he always has. You don’t deserve it and you can feel your heart tearing itself to shreds.

You know you can’t go back to Tomura, not after all this.

You watch Shouta lie for you, speak for you, get you out of the grave you have dug yourself. For the second time in your life, Shouta saves you. You try to hold back more tears, you try to hold back from throwing yourself onto him, clinging to him.

And finally, they ask, “Did you learn anything, then? About Shigaraki Tomura?”

He likes sour candy. He has trouble sleeping. He drinks too many energy drinks. There is a scar at the corner of his lip. He has a beauty mark on his chin. He is desperate and starved of love. He let’s a kitten sleep in the sunlight of his apartment. He tries to take care of the League to the best of his ability– he cares about them more than he will admit. He is not heartless. His hands are often cold but seeking, longing for what he can’t have.

Your eyes well up with tears but you take a slow, steadying breath. They don’t want those pieces of him, the human, messy ones. No, they want to know how evil he is, how diabolical his next plan is going to be. But you don’t know any of that, just that he holds you as if he never wants to let you go when you fall asleep at night.

So you’re not lying when you say;

“I don’t know anything about Shigaraki Tomura.”

Only that he wanted to be a hero– when he was a kid.

***

The days following are the worst between you and Shouta.

He doesn’t trust you anymore. You can’t fight him. You have nothing to say, which is perhaps worse than if you tried to fight with him.

There’s no defending you, especially if Shouta even knew half of the truth. He barely speaks with you some days.

He wedges the distance between you two wide, forces it apart further.

He does not comfort you, he does not hold you when you cry this time. He’s not there with soothing, hushed words or the gentle touch of his hand to your cheek.

A piece of his trust is broken, now so severely that it’s just a jagged edge, something you don’t think can ever be soothed.

(And you’re right, in some way– there’s a deep shift in your relationship with him, changed and scarred. It never returns to what you once had, when your life was very simple and all you knew was him.)

He doesn’t ever say, I forgive you. I will trust you again, in time.

But he eventually will make dinner for you again and you will sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder at his table with a respectable, lonesome distance between his heart and yours.

Nothing is ever the same again.

You think about running– from Shouta, from Tomura, from all of it. It would be the easiest option, where you never have to look either in the face again.

But the Hero Commission looks at Eri the same way they looked at you when they discovered you could destroy Quirks and you can’t stomach the idea of leaving her to them.

(Tomura was right in a lot of ways.

And when there’s a war on the horizon and the Hero Commission seeks to use you as a weapon, you will think of him again.

I’ll teach you, if that’s what you want, he’d said to you once. And he did.

You hate the system, the endless cycle, Prometheus chained to his rock, the need of villains to have heroes, the creation of heroes to make villains. The endless bodies, the using and discarding of real, human lives for a greater good. You wish you could destroy it.

But there is more than only destruction, too. What good is rubble and ruin and death?)

You stay so you can do what you can, so you can protect a child with red eyes, with silver hair, and a Quirk too big for their own body.

And you think maybe if you stay with her, it makes up for leaving Tomura.

***

You go to Tomura one last time, walk the distance to his apartment with your hands shoved into your pockets. It’s a familiar walk now. The pavement is wet from rain. It’s cold out. You don’t know what you’re going to tell him. You wonder how he’ll react– for a moment, you’re fearful. Will he lash out? For a moment you wonder if he’ll try to kill you.

But you know, deep down, he wouldn’t. Won’t.

And you won’t pretend you’re scared of him now. You won’t play the innocent hero, not in front of him.

The moment Tomura sees you, he knows something has changed. You are too expressive and now you look at him with a sense of foreboding. With a sadness that he feels uncomfortable gazing at.

You tell him, “I got in trouble with the Hero Commission.”

For a moment, he lets his hope grow and stretch inside of him. Maybe this is finally your turning point, your fall from grace that he will catch you on. But no, your lip wobbles and your eyes dart away.

“I can’t see you anymore,” you whisper.

At first, he wants to snap at you, hiss out something cruel between his bared teeth. Maybe if you had done this a few years ago, a few months ago, he would lash out, try to tear into his neck or you or the world. He thinks about hurting you, slamming you against a wall or–

The thought is unfortunately repulsive to him. He doesn’t want to hurt you, not like that.

His anger and resentment wells inside of him, swarms his chest viciously. He wants to argue, to point out every way your heroes have failed you. The world feels so absurdly unfair suddenly, to give him you– you who quiets his Quirk and touches him gently and winds your arms around him in the way he likes so much– only to then take you away, too. You who destroys with a touch, too. Who is perfect at his side.

But for all his work and care and strategy, he can’t get you to stay.

You will run back to your heroes.

You don’t need him, he realizes now. But you have his rib, tucked away inside of you. He wants to dig into you, pry it out, rip it from your body and take it back for himself.

But you’re crying.

And you’re pretty in the dark, like you’ve always been. This time, though, you’re not looking for a fight, there is no viciousness in you now. Maybe you’re too tired to fight.

So instead of erupting, instead of lashing out, Tomura steels himself. He’ll play the longer game, then. You don’t want to go, but you will. You’ll go back to your heroes and they will disappoint you. As they always do, at some point, eventually.

You will come back to him again, he tells himself.

And he will be forgiving, the way All For One has been with him. He sees it now; you, needing his hand, needing him to take you back. He will welcome you back into his arms, as if you hadn’t even left, and you will know then that you were right to leave.

He gazes at you, red eyes smoldering, “Then don’t.” he rasps and he’s trying to remain dispassionate, but his voice has a trembling note in it, the hidden fear underneath the harsh coolness.

Your eyes flicker back to him, your lips parting in surprise. You wipe at your eyes.

“So that’s it?”

And this makes him angry, the sharp tug of it like a dog at the end of it’s leash. He lurches forward threateningly, like he might hurt you.

(You don’t flinch. And he stops himself before he gets too close.)

“What?” he snaps, “Did you want me to beg for you to stay?”

He wants to, he realizes, he wants to howl and scream and tear apart everything in sight. He wants to say don’t go, don’t go, don’t slip from me, too.

He wants to bargain with you– what is it he can’t give you that they can?

Your heroes only love you because they don’t know you, they don’t know what you’ve done. Your heroes only love you as far as truth and justice go. A hero would sacrifice you for the greater good and you would agree with them, even if you were shaking and crying, even if you burned with all that liveliness.

But he’d sooner sacrifice the world for you.

You have his rib, he wants to scream, of course he wants to beg.

You shake your head, though, more tears falling free, “No,” you say, voice surprisingly strong, “No, I never made you beg.”

The truth of it burrows beneath his skin. He knows. The itch squirms beneath his skin. His hand reaches up, digs into the crook of his neck to scratch at it.

It’s Dabi’s voice in his head that says something about getting too distracted with this braindead hero. He has bigger plans than hiding in an abandoned apartment with you. More to do. You were nothing but a side quest.

His pause screen.

Besides, what’s there to be upset about? You’ll come back.

He won’t even punish you for leaving, he promises. He promises.

“Then that’s it.” Tomura tells you, a bitter curl to his lips.

There’s no goodbye, just the breeze between the two of you, the empty space that he always hated. The nothingness between that he always sought to destroy.

Eventually, he just turns away from you. He can’t stomach looking at you any longer. He can feel your eyes pressing into his retreating form– he imagines you rushing for him, crashing into his back to throw your arms around his middle. You can’t do it, you’ll cry, burying your face between his shoulder blades. And he’ll freeze, but eventually he’ll wrap his arms around yours and bow his head with the strength of your feelings for him.

Or he imagines later, when it’s the end of the world, and you emerge from the rubble to reach for him. It’ll be like his dreams, when the sky is falling, and you only want to hold his hand in yours.

He imagines you shouting to him, changing your mind, saying his name like it’s a song to sing, not mourning bells, not a curse or an affliction.

But none of it happens.

And when he turns around, you are gone.

You leave his life as viciously as you entered it, suddenly there, all furious and beautiful, and now gone, like a lightning strike, like a lifetime.

***

You tell yourself you’re going to be fine, but you spend random days weeping over a villain. You spend long nights awake, missing him, replaying it all in your mind. You cover all your mirrors. You try to be different. You wish you could say you regret ever getting involved with him, but it would be one more lie. You wish for the time before the worst of it, the strange honeymoon you never should’ve had.

You wish you’d remembered to slow down, to savor it all a little more. You try to remember what your first kiss was like and the shade of his eyes through the evening light of an abandoned warehouse.

You try to remember when you didn’t feel so heavy, so corrosive and lost.

It doesn’t help that you’re suspended from heroing; a choice made by both the Hero Commission and Shouta. There’s nothing for you to do some evenings.

Shouta lets you train with him and Shinsou still. Shinsou tries to cheer you up, though he doesn’t know what’s wrong with you. Still, it hurts because he’s trying. It hurts because he cares so much, even about you.

You don’t deserve it, after everything.

You take care of Eri more, too, now that she is nearly in Shouta’s care. You babysit her while he’s away. You grow close with her, fiercely protective of the young girl, careful to keep the Hero Commission at a distance from her. She settles in your lap on the couch in Shouta’s apartment most evenings, watching TV and movies, while he grades papers at the opposite end.

Sometimes she falls asleep tucked into your side. You stroke her silver hair and try to bite back tears.

She catches you, sometimes, perceptive as she is, and asks very gently, “Why are you sad?” even if a tear hasn’t slipped free yet.

And you always shake your head, trying to dispel the thought of Tomura and the parents that gave him such a tragic name as a child. You force a smile for her and you tell her something silly to distract her, “I’m not,” you promise, “I just think there’s an onion nearby.”

She wrinkles her nose at this, “No, there isn’t!” but she’s easily distracted with tickles or the promise of painting her nails or having a tea party with Shouta.

Miraculously, your relationship with Shouta begins to heal, despite your betrayal. You think he can tell something worse happened to you during your time with Tomura, you think he can tell that you’re hurting, so he ends up gentler with you. He doesn’t trust you, though, keeps you on a tight leash. He looks at you some days like he isn’t quite sure he knows you.

Nothing is the same. Part of you wants to regret it. The part of you that loves Tomura can’t stomach the idea of regretting it. Someone is dead because of you. Someone is alive because of you, too.

But Shouta doesn’t ask and you don’t tell, can’t seem to speak the words.

You can’t even say, I fell in love, can’t speak the truth because it is so horrible.

And you know what everyone would ask; who could love the likes of him?

Me, you think, vehement and grief-stricken, me, you think defiantly. Why couldn’t you? He was a child once–

Shouta lets you burrow into his chest, wraps his arms around you. He sways with you in the kitchen until you can keep back your tears, until your heart has slowed to the tempo of his. He kisses the top of your head.

And it’s Shouta who is with you, when you return from training, and open the door to your apartment to reveal a scruffy, mangy looking grey kitten that wasn’t there when you left.

Ryuji chirps happily at you, rushing to the open door.

For a moment, you’re so shocked that all you can do is stand, startled, as he rubs himself against your legs.

“Don’t tell me you found another stray–” Shouta starts, but all you get out is a small, choked noise.

And here is the impact from the fall, you think, looking at that little cat that is excitedly winding itself around your legs. You can feel the shattering of your heart, like he’d lobbed it against the wall. You wonder if it catches light the same way glass does, all stained with color and broken into shards.

You drop to the floor with the weight of it all, with the clean splitting of your heart.

The moment Ryuji climbs into your lap, a sob finally ruptures out of you.

Shouta is fast, coming down beside you, you think he’s asking what’s wrong, why you’re crying, but you’ve already gathered the kitten into your arms, cradling him to your chest as the tears come quick and furious down your cheeks.

You think maybe you should be more concerned as to how he got Ryuji here, in U.A. dorms, you should be worried about security and safety but all you’re thinking about is that little apartment that you hid from the world with him in.

No, all you’re thinking about is the way light fell through the lone window to turn him hazy and soft in your memory. You’re thinking about how he never denied you affection, so long as you gave it tenfold in turn. The drawl of his voice. The pressing of his fingers into your skin like you were a miracle.

To him, you were.

Another sob spills out of you, from somewhere deep inside you.

What a lonely life, to only be able to touch one person in certainty. You wonder who will be the next person that will lay their hands gently on a body that has known too much pain. You wonder if you will be the last person to do it.

The thought hurts, opens up a part of you that is tender and shaking and desperately furious.

When Shouta can’t figure out what’s wrong with you or why you’re crying, he gives up, and sits on the floor with you. He gathers you into his lap so your back is pressed to his chest, pushing your head beneath his chin, Ryuji still cradled in your arms.

You cry harder when Shouta tries to comfort you, when he hushes softly, so sweetly, only because you don’t think there’s anyone to comfort Tomura like this.

You think of Tomura alone, even without Ryuji and it just–

Crushes you.

You squeeze the kitten tighter to your chest as you cry and cry and cry. You let Shouta hold you against him, but there’s no comfort in the aching hollowness that is growing in the pit of your chest.

You want to scream at the world that tossed the coin.

But all that comes out is a garbled, misery struck, cry.

You never told him you loved him, never gave word to what consumed you. And you realize, sitting on the floor with a kitten in your arms, that you won’t ever be able to tell him now.

It will live and die inside of you, never spoken into existence.

And even though it’s too late and Tomura Shigaraki is readying for a battle with a giant without you at his side, you still whisper the words you never got to speak into the top of Ryuji’s head.

Your lips barely move with it, the quietest, most desperate, “I love you– I loved you.” that escapes you with a trembling breath.

Shouta doesn’t even hear the confession.

Ryuji nudges your cheek with his, though, purring softly, keeping your secret safe.

And in the least, you are able to twist into Shouta’s arms and bury your face in his chest to cry as hard as you need. There’s no distance between the two of you now, like you always wanted.

Always here when you need him, even now, when it’s not him you want.

The irony isn’t lost on you.

You mumble incoherent apologies into his shoulder, try to hide in him, like he might be able to shield you from all the hurt and ache of your first love. He doesn’t ask, but he tells you very gently, his voice like the hearth of your home, “If you ever want to talk, I’ll always be there for you.”

You keep Ryuji, clean him up, fit him with a new collar, a new life. Shouta helps you care for him.

Eri adores the kitten, hugging him to her smiling face every time she sees him. Thankfully Ryuji is even-tempered, eager for affection. Almost desperate for it.

Ryuji is like proof of another world, proof that it all happened.

Sometimes you rub between his ears and ask, “Do you miss it, too?” but all he does is peer at you inquisitively, eyes large and fixed on you.

You sleep with him, though, let the kitten curl up in your lonesome arms, hold tight to him the way you used to hold tight to Tomura.

***

In the middle of the night, your phone wakes you with its insistent chime and buzzing. You blink awake sleepily, slowly and blindly paw for your phone.

You turn the screen towards you and squint at the bright light, making out the word that flashes on it;

Unknown Caller.

You grimace, rubbing at your eyes. You debate putting your phone down, letting it ring and go to voicemail. Why should you answer for an unknown caller in the middle of the night?

And yet, something in you squirms, urges you to pick up. You have no idea who it might be— maybe someone needs your help. Is it possible it’s Shouta? Shinsou? What if it’s—

You answer finally, groggy voice slurring out, “Hello?”

You’re met with static.

“Hello?” you say again, voice hushed with sleep.

Still nothing.

Tomura sits on the other side, with the phone pressed desperately to his ear. He holds everything inside of him, barely allows himself to breathe on the other end.

He doesn’t know why he’s done this, only that he is on his way to proving himself with the League and he wishes you were still at his side.

He swallows, hears you call again, “Hello? Anyone there?”

He tightens his four-finger grip on the phone, squeezing his eyes shut at the sound of your voice, sleepy and soft in his ear, wrapping around the jagged parts of his heart.

He exhales and you must hear it because you say, “Is someone there?”

He bites back an answer, feels his lip tremble slightly.

He hears you huff, indignant little thing that you are and his lips pull into a shaky, painful smile. “I’m going to hang up now,” you say, all prickly, the way you’d get if he woke you too soon.

He used to soothe you with lips and teeth and tongue, run diligent fingers over you until you were sighing and arching into his touch. Until all your hard, vicious edges softened with the flattening of his palm on your body.

And for some reason you try, one last time into coaxing him to answer, “C’mon,” you say, almost like you know, “Nothing?”

Nothing, he wants to echo, but doesn’t.

His heart pounds an uneasy rhythm, a haunted tempo. He feels himself shaking again.

“Okay,” you exhale, slow, like you’re giving him a chance to stop you, “Goodbye.”

A beat passes, before he feels his heart lurch painfully in the hollow place of his chest at the thought of not hearing your voice again like this, so near. He doesn’t want you to go, wants to listen to you until it coaxes him to sleep.

“Wait– don’t hang up–“ Tomura hisses into the phone at the last moment, unable to decide if he wants you to hear him or not.

He gets his answer in the buzzing silence, long and drawn out, that fills his head. His heart.

And he sits there with his phone still in hand and his heart still on the line.

***

Tomura shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be watching you from afar, in the park that he thought you’d looked like a painting in. You’re beautiful.

But what does someone like him know about beauty, anyways?

The fireburst leaves are nearly gone, barely clinging to lone and stark branches. They claw up into the sky now, but the sun is shining. It’s mid-morning. You’re in the park with your mentor, with the violet haired boy he’d seen you with before, and the little girl with silver hair. The one that was in Overhaul’s care, with the devastating Quirk.

She tugs excitedly at your sleeve now and you give her your undivided attention, your face lighting up with whatever it is she tells you.

You scoop her into your arms and her echoing giggle is like wind chimes, melodic and childish and care-free.

You look happy, he thinks, with your mentor’s hand on the small of your back, looking down at you and the girl fondly. The violet-haired boy says something that makes the girl laugh, it makes you smile as you watch her.

You look back at your mentor with a look that Tomura has come to know; one that begs of attention and approval and affection. He can see the desperate glint to your eyes, hungry for his love.

He swallows around the sharp bitterness he feels. Jealousy floods him in a way he has never fully known. But it’s more than just jealousy for you and your attention, for the way you’re looking at your mentor.

No, it’s something greater, far worse.

He’s jealous of your mentor, with the easy way he gets to touch and look at you out in public. But he’s also jealous of you and your life.

He doesn’t realize it at first, but he’s begun to shake.

Because you were saved– isn’t that it? You were saved. And he wasn’t.

Maybe he’s jealous of the boy with you, too, with the possibility of his life so much brighter already. He has more of a chance than Tomura ever had.

Or maybe it’s the girl in your arms, with eyes like his, who he is most jealous of now. He has never allowed himself to ask;

Why couldn’t it be me?

But now he does and he can feel the pit in his chest grow with a livid sort of despair. Grief for a life never lived. Didn’t he deserve to be saved, too? Like the girl in your arms? Like you? Didn’t he deserve a life like this, too? What’s the difference? He wants to demand it, what’s the difference?

You were just a kid, you know?

His fingers dig into his neck. There is no one to stop him from breaking skin, for drawing blood on his own body. His chest festers, angry, like a blister. His stomach turns, his body trembling harder, like he’s a child, like he’s going to shake apart.

He looks at your smiling face, the curve of your lips, and wants you so bad it hurts. He wonders if you ever dreamt of him as a hero, the way he dreams of you as a villain. He wonders why it feels so unfair suddenly, the turning of your lives, the coming together and falling apart.

He shudders, feels the sudden lump in his throat. He tried not to mourn you, when you left him. He told himself that there was nothing to mourn; either you would be back or you weren’t worth it. He feels the pressure of tears now, though, much to his frustration. He feels his lungs burn for breath as he watches you hand the little girl off to your mentor, who props her onto his hip easily.

He watches you throw your head back and laugh, the sound of it distant, but he catches it, the outskirts of it. He used to feel that laugh against his throat, against his lips.

But now he watches you live a life he apparently never deserved.

His bottom lip trembles, a furious scowl marring his face.

He could scream or shout at a world that wouldn’t listen. The fact of it all, the helplessness of it all, burns beneath his skin like wildfire, like acid.

Tomura takes one last look at you; the expressive glimmer of your eyes, the flash of your teeth. He lingers on you, commits you to memory as if he could ever forget you. Maybe someday he will. Maybe he won’t have to, if you come back to him.

But he won’t wait on it, in an apartment that still has traces of you in it’s corners and crevices. No, he has more to do, bigger than him. Bigger than you.

Even if the horrible tempo of his heart begs differently, even if the shaking in his shoulders is an indication otherwise.

One last look of you– you’re talking, saying something with your hands. The little girl laughs again, her red eyes crinkling up happily.

Tomura turns away.

He walks a familiar path to the apartment, the wind tries to slice through his jacket, kicks up leaves and litter in shadowed alleyways.

He enters and there is no one trailing behind him, your hands twisted into the back of his hoodie, or his sleeves. It’s quiet. Empty. He surveys it once, the bed with unmade sheets. The window that let in beams of colored light, that Ryuji would sit at.

And then he sets his hands on the wall, all ten of his fingers down, the way he used to touch you.

The wall begins to decay, cracks and crumbles beneath his hands. It spreads, and spreads, and spreads like a disease filling out the body of the apartment. Dust begins to fall like early snow.

His heart squeezes painfully, his eyes suddenly flooding with pressure, with tears he tries to keep back. His head throbs, feels like it’s going to cleave apart. His ribs ache– hurt so bad it’s like he can feel the one you took from him, the gaping part of his chest.

His Quirk flares hard and hot and fast. It burns through him, floods his veins in a way that makes him cry out, suddenly shaking, suddenly pained.

He destroys the apartment, disintegrates the tiny world he created with you that existed outside of the real one. He unpauses the game. He takes apart what the world should’ve been, when he was here, with you. He sees now that a world like this cannot exist.

The peace, the ideal, the way you had understood him. Your unending compassion. It’s rare. Not enough to save the rest of them.

So he tears it all apart, pushes at his Quirk in a way he hasn’t been able to before, nudges at its strength to test it. It flares outward, eating away at the entire space, at the furniture, at the floor. Everywhere.

He seethes, blooming, finally allowing that livid and vicious thing inside of him to burst forward. It’s explosive, wrenching out of him in the form of terrible destruction.

He’ll grow into what he was supposed to–

I wanted to be a hero– when I was a kid.

The only option he ever really had, the hand extended to him a villain’s, gentle when he’d taken it.

He destroys the boy inside him, the one that was naive and hopeful and weak. He let’s that boy inside of him fall apart, split open and leaks gore before turning to dust, too. He kills the part of him that he had only ever shared with you, in the blue-dark of night, when you were lulled to sleep with just the sound of his heart.

He swallows down his anguish and his jealousy and his bitterness, keeps it safe inside him, like All For One always said to do. He’ll nourish it, let it grow, fester inside of him until the only thing it can do is explode out of him to tear the world apart, too.

When he’s standing in the rubble of the tiny world you’d made with him, the apartment complex demolished, the people inside gone, he knows what he has to do.

And he has so much work to do in order to achieve it.

He tries to forget you, to destroy your memory, too. He will not carry the weight of you around inside him.

(But in his dreams, you sit cross-legged in front of him, serene and beautiful, like a painting he knows nothing about.

In his dreams, you ask for his hands to have, and he gives you them to hold.)

[marimopeace]

there's a limit on how much you can be an isekai intellectual...

a bunch of analyses have been popping up before me all day so i wanted to throw my hat into the ring. all love to ppl who are exercising their creative minds + ppl like geoff here who just talk about these things because of fan interest but i feel like there reaches a point where exploring the "types" of isekai is pointless? i've seen ppl list out the different types of villainess revenge isekai or fantasy mmorpg isekai but eh why fit them all into separate boxes like that?

i think it's easier to think of isekai as a "type" (genre) of itself with only two categories: 1) a focus on isekai (lit. another world) 2) tensei (lit. to be reborn). this allows for a variety of applications and thus tropes that ppl see so many trends of!

with isekai - in another world

you see everything from:

pure fantasy (inuyasha, digimon wait maybe not the best example but in my childhood mind i count digimon as pure fantasy, fushigi yugi)

mmorpg inspired fantasy/adventure (.hack//legend of twilight, sao ugh, log horizon, overlord (LOVE OVERLORD!)

otome game-esque worlds >>> this is where it gets complicated with "villainess routes" since i admit there are multiple villainess tropes but this is why it's nice to not think of this as a "sub-type/genre" bc it frees you from those complications! (the saint's magic power is omnipotent, the white cat's revenge as plotted from the dragon king's lap soso cute!, the savior's book cafe in another world, i'm a villainous daughter so i'm going to keep the last boss wait i can't remember if she's reborn in this one lmaooo see this is why rules make everything hard)

with tensei storylines - being reincarnated/reborn in another world as *insert character/role*

you see...

the same tropes!!

pure fantasy (a returner's magic should be special, reminiscence adonis, the lady and the beast, light and shadow, i can't think of a manga off the top of my head for this ah)

mmorpg inspired fantasy/adventure (so i'm a spider so what i stan kumoko so hard, her majesty's swarm, can't name another off the top of my head ah i hate lists shorter than two things...)

self-insert based games/novels (fiance's observation log of a self-proclaimed villainess, who made me a princess, death is the only ending for the villainess, the villainess wants to marry a commoner, honestly games vs novels are different applications but i'm not in the headspace to try to remember a bunch of both lol)

*insert line break to give random ppl a break from scrolling but tl; dr just enjoy things for what they are no need to micro analyze*

similar variations occur in both genres (if ppl want to be super technical i guess i'm arguing that isekai itself is a massive genre that has the "another world" subgenre and "reincarnation" subgenre tl; dr) so i think it's honestly a huge pain to try to separate all these trends into so many different types of stories. for me personally it's easier to not get overwhelmed by this gigantic umbrella of "isekai" that spans light novels, manhwa, manga, and mobile games by just stripping each story down into its trademark tropes (aka character archetypes, story structures) and slapping "oh this is a person going to a world that's not ours" and "this person gets reborn as blank in another world". none of this "omg this power fantasy is such a this kind of isekai moment" or "there are 14 different types of villainess revenge stories and this series fits into this" bc AH labels! limitations! circle-jerks via ppl trying to compartmentalize everything and sound smart for leaving a comment on story analysis instead of ooh-ahhing over a character's face! dividing things into light novel manga vs manga vs korean manhwa ft. female characters!

the last bit is mainly why i feel frustrated by ppl's insistence to group everything?

the video linked at the beginning of the post (honestly good video essay, i enjoyed it, i just kept thinking in my head the whole time "marimo these are tropes do not take the genre talk literally") has a baby comment thread talking about "korean isekai manhwas" as a genre featuring nothing but reincarnated villainess' and i can't.

like i cannot acknowledge that as a genre of any sort. the energy i felt reading through some of those insights takes me back to 2012 when all yt americans discovered k-pop and deemed all korean music k-pop from then on! (ppl still do this now, yes you are seen and don't talk to me pls i don't like you. k-pop is korean pop music and nothing less and nothing more. take a few seconds and try to parse apart aspects of korean culture instead of slamming everything into a monolithic label that has the letter k and a hyphen.) it feels so odd to see a bunch of young ppl on ig and tiktok acknowledge korean media that happens to be in the form of a webtoon as "oh stories all about young girls becoming villains in stories they made/played" bc it feels so reductive u.u

(positionality disclaimer that i'm praying isn't actually necessary: i am a 3rd-generation korean of japanese descent do not fite me i am exhausted irl of ppl asking for validation/verification bc massive shove off.)

breaking news! korean manhwa...is just as multifaceted as japanese manga...bc how can comics as an art-form not have multiple genres...huh such a shocker?!?! same likely applies to media in other parts of the world like chinese manhwa and french comics--not my place to explain either of those i just know those industries exist bc of wakfu and donghua shows by Tencent.

at the end of the day it's not like analyzing any kind of isekai is wrong--absolutely not!! i think it can be super fun to think about how isekai elements complicate a story (MCs trying to go back home, ppl from the og world, reincarnation plot-twists) or maybe even bash a series for including some kind of other world element when they could have just written a super fun fantasy.

insert marimo's brief ramble that hey you can get sick of truck-kun's hitting disillusioned guys who happen to be super duper smart or girls who happen to be master chefs/craftsmen but transporting a fully-grown being into a fantasy setting is the ultimate cheat code for making mundane modern technology seem cool and overpowered, and being reincarnated as a fully grown person in a world with a pre-made story/game set-up completely bypasses the need for an author to slowly flesh out world-building in a natural progression so isekai is actually a really smart writing tool it's just that there are some series where the author didn't use it well at all and it's cheesy or clearly isekai was misused as a vehicle for character/story development and it was pointless *DEEP BREATH OUT*

in this essay i will argue...lol i am such a culture studies major!! if i were an english major i would be talking all about writing but here i am having a side-tangent about world-building via someone being reborn wow i love this for me (don't get me started on when an author has someone reincarnate as a baby and the story is mostly them having warm fluffy moments with their family--typically father figures--and getting lots of powers i could and would and probably will rant about east asian toxicity)

but anyway am i crazy????? like yes for being passionate about the technical use of a word like genre (i am a scorpio rising let me be fussy pls) but i don't think it's a lot to ask for ppl to not unironically see "villainess revenge isekai" as the definition of korean manhwa.

idk as someone who resonates with why japanese isekai is so popular domestically + why a lot of korean manhwa feat. the same tropes (it's not for great reasons lads it's actually depressing tbh) i'm just starting to feel kind of pained by the generalization and need to separate "cute japanese girl in an otome game"/"japanese boy finds a harem in another world" from "korean girl dies and comes back as a villainess" bc they are just! applications to the same story device!!

recommendations for any who makes it this far down below <3

// also gladly recommend any of the examples i've listed in the above rant as i've read/watched all of them and adore them v much! //

save me princess

super refreshing fantasy manhwa ft. a princess and her ex-boyfriend having to save the world!

the beginning after the end

an AMERICAN web novel turned into a comic (but see it being not korean/japanese doesn't really matter when you just consider isekai as a genre...isn't it nice to not overthink it?) ft. a super-powerful wizard king reincarnated into another world and starting from scratch--gives mushoku tensei vibes but huge twists!

the reason why raeliana ended up at the duke's mansion

love love LOVE this story--read the title and you'll learn how this girl reincarnated as the character raeliana in a book gets married to a duke!

trash of the count's family

such a good novel!! a guy gets reborn as a lazy oaf and he takes the hero of the story under his wing...plot twists come up later on!

this time i will definitely be happy!

v good and refreshing for a shorter series! she's been reborn 3 times and remembers every time the hero's stabbed her in the back, and now she just wants to break up with him!

silver diamond

older manga but v good adventure w intrigue! a boy who loves plants get sucked into a desert world with demonic lizards and a mysterious bodyguard by his side. shonen-ai not BL but wonderful vibes nonetheless + great side characters!

the princess imprints a traitor

adore everything in this from the world (not in that way this society makes me so angry) to the machinations at play and the dynamic between the fl and ml

[wastelandlovingscenarios]

Romanced!companions react to their precious fem!sole survivor getting slapped or strikes by an npc right in front of them? Can we categorize this; who would be the violent/threatening/just angry group? >:^0

omg, i’m pretty sure none of them would be remotely calm if that happened... but damn imagine the outcome of that poor npc. they lived a good life. this was a short request while i work on like 7 other ones, LOL.

thank you for requesting and please enjoy!

the next request i’m posting is gonna be a react that turned out a little longer than i expected so buckle up. 🤠

-

Danse:

violent/threatening

danse would for sure fall under the violent criteria of this situation. he already has one foot in the door once someone dares to go too close to sole, but hit her? that’s a totally different story for another day. that person better be praying to some god out there to give them mercy cause danse knows he won’t. the minute he hears that slap on soles face, it will trigger him to attack without a word. and to answer the question; does danse need a gun to do the job? absolutely not. those muscles are not just for show after all. no matter how many people hold him back, he will always fight his way through the crowd of people and beat the living fuck out of the person, even if they’re begging for him to stop. he won’t even realize the damage he’s done until after and won’t regret it either way, knowing that it was well deserved on their case. now if it was a situation where it was shoving or showing signs of starting a fight with his beloved, he’d step right in front of them and stare them down angrily with the biggest scowl ever. in some cases, that’s more than enough to scare most people off towards the other direction but in a few, he’s forced to threaten them. “i advise you step away unless you desire for this situation to escalate into something that involves solely you and i.” no one will ever be a threat to sole on his watch and he will make sure that nothing will stop him from protecting her.

Deacon:

threatening mixed with violence (depending the intensity of the situation)

deacons nice. he’s really laid back in most situations and is more than willing to let things go if he feels like it’s not worth the trouble. following that, deacons nice to a certain point and if you cross that point? consider yourself on his hitlist for the rest of your life. the intensity of the situation will determine how he’ll react towards it. if the person were to do as simple as shove sole, he’d keep an eye on them and say something within the lines of, “woah, woah, take it easy.” now if it was something like a slap or a punch, he wouldn’t even let it happen, not while he’s around. deacon would have fast enough reflexes to catch their wrist and he’d grip it enough to leave a mark, a displeased expression on his face. he’d even go as far as making jokes with an evil smile, such as, “oops my hand slipped,” or “oh you dropped this,” and proceed to deck the person as hard as he can with his free hand, not caring whether or not he knocks them unconscious. after that incident, he’d constantly terrorize the poor individual, often pulling pranks on them without any breaks. sometimes, he’d even go near them and speak in a happy tone while patting their back in a manner where it seemed a little too friendly.

Maccready:

threatening

mac is aware he’s not muscular nor is he made for fighting, which is why he sticks with guns during most situations. hes a lanky man and gets intimidated a little easier than most people, knowing that many of them could take him down with something as simple as a punch. it’s easier to say he’s more confident with a gun in his hand in these instances. despite his weaknesses, he would not hesitate to step up, knowing that hes unable to control his anger. he’d immediately point the gun at the persons temple and cock it just for intimidation purposes, but knows that he’s more than willing to pull the trigger if he needs to. it benefits him and the commonwealth more than damages it, seeing that this world needs one less asshole living it in, so who is he to care if this person dies or not? he’d slowly press it harder against the persons head, angrily speaking, “back away now.” if the person does so, he’ll gladly let them walk away without an injury and instead tend to sole. he wouldn’t let them go without some snarky comment like, “yeah keep walking and please let the door hit you on the way out.” if they refuse to move away from sole though, he’d gladly take the butt of his gun and smack it against their temple within seconds, completely ignoring the persons body knocked out on the floor. mac would get sole up and out of there as soon as he can, complaining under his breath about how much of that guy was an asshole and how he shouldve shot him.

Hancock:

violent group

consider one thing; that this person who fucked over his lover is beyond dead in his eyes. no one touches his sunshine, and if they dared to? theyll be wishing they hadn’t. hancock can quickly become someone’s friend, but the same can be said if it were an enemy. if he’s willing to stab someone for getting even a little too chummy and touchy with sole, imagine what he’d do if they dared to inflict pain on them. depending on where they are, like a bar for instance, he’d grab a glass bottle and crack it on the guys head, pushing him down on the floor without another word. using his shotgun, he’d make sure he’d put a few bullets through his body before he decides he’s completely satisfied with the new makeover he’s given them. now if he was in a more violent mood and was definitely not having it, he’d want to have their blood on his hands and wouldn’t care if it stained his clothes or not. he wants to send the message to everyone watching that if anyone dares to fucking cross his line, they’re gonna learn it the hard way and he will make it very known how the outcome of the situation will be. for example, he has a knife and what better way to use it than to stab the fuck out of someone for pissing him off? in some cases (depending on the severity of the situation), he’ll shank them in a place where he knows it’ll hurt the most and leave them there to suffer so they’ll get the idea that if they fuck with the people he treasures, they have another thing coming.

Nick Valentine:

mix of threatening and just angry.

honestly, nick is very civil about most cases and he won’t get violent unless absolutely necessary. he will definitely be beyond angry and give the person so much fucking shit for their actions. nick almost never yells but in this case, he’d yell so loud, it would fill up the silence of the room. nick also uses a lot of profanities when doing so, unable to maintain his professional attitude and his usual cool. “now what the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” he’d even go as far as shoving them back, keeping a distance between sole and the person who deemed themselves as a threat to her presence. he’d try to minimize the possibility of violence arising, knowing that both him and sole are not as replaceable as they seem. he’d sneer at the person who striked sole, talking in the most irritated tone possible, “if i wasn’t here controlling her anger, you would’ve been dead on the pavement just a few minutes back, pal. consider yourself lucky that you were spared.” regardless if the person continued talking or not, nick would casually take soles hand and pull her away from the scene as he let out a remark loud enough for them to hear; “we don’t have time for the likes of you anyway, so take your trouble elsewhere.” nick has like zero shame when it comes to back talking or insulting someone he’s not fond of, so you best believe he won’t shut up until you both are out of sight.

Preston:

honestly, just angry.

preston will avoid violence at all costs, considering he doesn’t favor the idea and as much as he hates seeing sole get hurt, he doesn’t want to risk starting another issue. sole has a reputation amongst the commonwealth and the last thing he wants is to taint it or fuck it up, so he lets sole decide whether or not violence should be pursued. also considering that she has more than enough on her plate, he doesn’t want to add on to the list of problems she already has. so unless this guy is literally on the verge of gravely injuring his other half, he won’t do much besides step in front of sole to protect her from any further hits. he’d rather take the hits than to let someone as important as her take them firsthand. he wouldn’t forgive himself if such a thing happened. even if sole did most of the work in the end, he’d still send them the dirtiest look he’s ever given anyone and his hand would already be on the trigger of his laser musket, ready to fire at the guy anytime just in case. before officially leaving the person to do their own thing and bidding them goodbye, he’d get a little up close and personal, talking in the most threatening tone possible (even if he’s not the greatest at it); “once you mess with the general, you mess with the minutemen. i’d suggest you choose your battles a little better next time around.”

Sturges:

just angry

we all know by now sturges is a huge pacifist and will refuse to resort to violence unless he has no absolute choice but to do so. sturges is a very kind man and just like deacon, he’s willing to let most cases go but he respects sole too much to let violent situations like this slide. even if he’s very afraid to get into a violent situation head on, he’ll try to keep it as calm as possible, not wanting to escalate the situation more. being the considerate lover he is, he will ask sole to stay back and keep away from the person as much as possible as he tries to handle the situation himself. even if sturges doesn’t show it, he does get very angry in these instances and will not allow it to happen regardless of the reason. he’ll probably talk to the person with a firm tone and an irate expression but do nothing further than that unless the individual wants blood spilled, which in this case, sole is brought back into the situation. knowing sturges, he’d probably tell the person something like, “hey buddy, i really don’t appreciate what ya just did to my girl. ya need to quit it cause it ain’t right.” or, “if we got a problem, you can always just come to me instead of strikin’ that beautiful lady of mine. i’m willin’ to fix it with ya and if not, then i’m willin’ to take the hit.. though i’m sure my girl wouldn’ appreciate such a motive.” he knew she really wouldn’t. sole would shoot them down before he could let out a soft, “told ya so.”

Gage:

the ceo of violent

even if the raider life consists of injuries, blood, dirty work, and violence, he will never allow sole to get hurt under his watch. even if he tells her to toughen up and get used to it, he truly wants to protect her from the world and anything that could run as a potential hazard. that being said, he doesn’t care who the fuck strikes sole- it could be a man, woman, the highest and most royal person in the planet and it’d still have the same result in the end. gage wouldn’t even give them a chance to explain themselves and would simply let out a small, “oh fuck no, you ain’t.” and shoot them down himself before sole could give him an order. he would take the situation into his own hands with or without soles persmission, knowing that they crossed gages line of comfort. if he’s not satisfied with that or feels as if that’s too much of an easy way out, he’ll shoot their leg and come closer to them to step on their chest to block any chance of escaping. “wanna act tough, huh? show me how tough ya are, why dontcha? be my guest and apologize to the overboss. i’ll let her decide if it’s good enough to let ya go.” if sole were to deny every apology, he’d continue to shoot them limb by limb until he decides to put them down completely. now if sole decides their apology is more than enough, he’ll willfully let them go but let her decide their fate on whether they should be put down or not. in the end, if he had his way with that bastard, they wouldn’t be seeing the light for a long while.

[whenimgoodandready]

There’s that saying where “You’re stuck with your family, but you can choose your friends”. May sound harsh, but if you’re fams full of upperclass snobs who’s noses are so stuck up that they’ll obviously drown when it rains, then I’m sorry and I pray the best for you, but at least you have the freedom to seek out better people in your social circle. Our new friend learned the same thing. Let’s see how that went:

*Sole Crusher-The newest character just dropped in Paris, France from New York and her names Zoe (pronounced as Zoey) Lee! She’s the white sheep of the Bourgeois family. The only angel amongst the horned she-devils Chloe and Audrey. However, she hides her halo just to appease her maternal family and feel like she belongs so as not to disappoint them and it almost shines through, but the poor thing has to shove it back in and be forced to walk all over those who are deemed “beneath” her. Like Marinette! Whom she recently befriended. Marinette tries to figure out if Zoe is genuinely nice or is as spoiled rotten as Chloe cuz she learned not to judge someone quickly based on their connection to her (“Origins Part 2:Stoneheart”).

The only person she can confine in about her family dilemma, is the only non-blood related member, Andre Bourgeois. He understands her sticky situation and tries his best to help by saying the “best” thing she can do is just “bury it”. Bury what you have (and who you are) and just be a doormat like he is. Otherwise the people you love will hate you forever, think you’re incompetent and threaten to leave to another country where you’ll never see them again (“Malediktator”). Poor guy had to give up his dreams of being a filmmaker to go into politics to please his family. Ah! So it was him who made that movie starring Emilie! (“Gorizilla”). Not the best advice to give, but we’ll give the guy props for trying what he failed to do w/ that biological b*tch.

That bad advice unfortunately came back to bite him in the a** when Zoe sadly follows it and it gets her akumokized as Sole Crusher. A golden villainess encrusted w/ diamonds, spiky horns that Loki would approve of and killer shoes that literally kill and grows bigger the more people she crushes. She looks a lot like Audrey when she was akumatized as Style Queen! Zoe may not act like her fam, but her inner demons sure show that they are in fact related when their villain forms take the same form. Marinette tried to break her out of this by reminding her of how she’s (Zoe’s) a good person and that she doesn’t need to live up to her families expectations to feel accepted. It would’ve worked had Shadow Motherf**ker not intervened. Damn! Worked w/ Christmaster, but he was a child, so it was easier.

At long last, we finally meet Zoe! That’s Bomb #7! Funny, in the beginning, we assumed her name was Amber. Lol! I already explained my (and my friends) thoughts about her in my post https://whenimgoodandready.tumblr.com/post/646703444357513216/guys-i-think-i-just-came-to-a-suspicious-theory and the correct guess was she is in fact Chloe’s half-sister from her mothers side. I was skeptical on that cuz God knows when the miraculous staff are telling the truth or just f**king w/ us, so I had my options open. In this case, Zoe was the “secret sibling” that was rumored about when Season 4 was in production. Soooooo basically, when Audrey left Chloe when she was just a toddler (implied by “Despair Bear”), Audrey went to New York and had an affair which resulted in Zoe and the funny thing is everyone is “cool” w/ that!?……….Yeah! They are! Seriously, no one and I mean no one questioned this! I mean, Andre wasn’t upset that Audrey was unfaithful in their marriage (cuz he’s henpecked), Audrey wasn’t ashamed and even Chloe tolerated Zoe (at first), so as long as she behaved like royalty and treated others like sh*t! Hell! Not even the kids at school talked about it when Chloe announced Zoe as her half-sister! Is this the kind of message we want the younger audience to see? That “it’s okay if a parent cheats”!? I don’t think so!😡. If this show were to have that original darker and edgier theme it had planned, then we’d get something more of a realistic reaction and problem solving solution to all this. In the end, Zoe chose to be her sweet old self and befriend Marinette and her classmates much to Chloe’s chagrin. Lesson here is to just be yourself and never give-in to peer pressure. I’ve seen many fans point out how Zoe is just a “what-we-could’ve-had” nice version of Chloe (as she lampshaded herself) due to the fandoms disappointment at Chloe’s failed redemption arc that was promised. It looked as if Astruc was trying to apologize for that by giving us a “redeemed replacement” of it thinking it’ll make up for it, but it was a no sell :P. Chloe is worse than before from what we’ve seen in this ep, pushing others in her way towards Sole Crusher just to save her own a** and demanding Zoe be sent back to New York for not being a “real” Bourgeois, and from what I’ve been spoiled this season, it’s gonna get even more worse! I’ll explain more about Chloe’s failed redemption arc and Zoe’s involvement in this in the next review which again focuses on the both of ‘em.

[korissideblog]

Ok! ONE more actor AU post, then I’ll start switching Aito’s quirk <3

(if you have any recommendations for that btw, send an ask lol)

[work in progress!!]

[We need to get this out for next week’s issue. Ichiro’s working on the visuals, you guys make the transcript look nice.]

[yes sir.]

[Aye boss!]

[You got it]

Hello! I’m Kiyoshi Ono, joined here today by none other than Shishio Ramos! Actor in the new series Kimi no Hīrō Akademia!

Hi! [awe! This kid is so sweet] [He’s barely said anything yet] [hush!]

Hi there Ramos! Could you tell us what this new series is going to be about, and who you’re playing?

Oh yeah! Totally! Well- pretty much it’s a highschool for super powered kids, where[nice][Nice!][?][look at the word count!][juveniles]they each can show off their special abilities and train to become pro heroes! Pro being taken literally there- they’re training to become professional heroes! It’s a really fun thing. Ah- and my character is Aito Takao! Takao’s a silly sort of character- kinda like a villain but she’s on the hero’s side in the end. She’s comic relief for when things get too heavy- mostly because she doesn’t care about what’s making everyone else all bummed out [laughter] yeah- she’s a really narcissistic character- but she’s funny so it’s ok.

Yes, my daughter read the manga that inspired Kimi no Hīrō Akademia, and she says that you guys are making a lot of changes- specifically to Takao?

Oh- yeah [laughter] we’re making a couple changes. Takao’s gonna have the same personality and stuff- don’t worry fans- but… you know, we’ll be adjusting a couple things to make Takao an easier role for me to play. He’ll be going by she/him pronouns for one-

She/Him pronouns?

-yeah! Takao’s gonna be genderfluid! For those who don’t know, there’s a ton of different ways to be genderfluid, but the way that I’m gonna portray Takao as- you know, the way I am- pretty much he’s gonna be kinda a little mix of boy and girl? Ah- it’s kinda hard to explain without getting into a lot of different topics, but- pretty much what the audience has to know is that you could refer to Takao with both he/him and she/her pronouns, and his uniform is gonna be both slacks and a skirt! [Ahhh! I just adore Ramos <333] [he’s just explaining gender presentation?][I KNOW!!!]

Alright, good to know! Anything else you think the fans would like to know about changes?

Yes actually! So- in the manga, both Takao’s parents are like, super dead [laughter] but! The writers thought it would be more fun to [nice] [juvenile][JUVENILE!!!] keep Takao’s mother alive, and be kinda ambiguous with his dad. I won’t go too much into it- but I think new and returning fans of the series are really gonna like it!

Perfect! Now, let’s talk more about you

Oh boy-

[laughter] Don’t worry Ramos- I just wanna learn a bit more about behind the scenes stuff. You’re just coming off Good Morning Nakamuras!, how would you describe the transition between Hanta Kobayashi and Aito Takao?

oh lord- [laughter] yeah yeah- there’s a lot of difference between the two. You can see it really prominently in the writing. Good Morning Nakamuras! was a family sitcom, so it was a lot of ‘someone says something’ ‘someone else says something’ ‘Hanta says something either funny or dumb’ and then a laugh track. Sometimes someone else would come after Hanta to carry the joke, but usually it was just that. [awe… I’m gonna miss Good Morning Nakamuras!] [same here, it was my mom’s favorite!] But with Takao, it’s a much faster pace. It’s just ‘someone says something’ and then immediately ‘Takao says something funny or dumb’ and then immediately back to ‘someone else says something’ and then ‘Takao says something funny or dumb.’ I-I don’t know if I’m explaining it well- it’s just that Takao talks all the time and always has something new or witty to say. He’s just a chatter box without a filter and- that’s kinda fun to do- I always get the final word and it’s always gonna get a laugh, you know? [have you guys seen the trailer yet?] [no, but my niece has! She’s really excited to see the premiere!!] [i have. it looks weird, but my brother is excited for it. his favorite is the blonde one i think]

There’s also the problem with the stunts, you know? Like- the worst of it on Nakamuras! was just the parts where I had to jump the fence, and even then it was just every couple of episodes. On KNHA I have to do all these cool fighting moves- and not to mention how deranged Takao is just… naturally [laughter] he’s just a very energetic guy with a fondness for climbing things- and people! Like you have no clue how tall someone is until your boss points at them and is like “hey, go climb them.” And you have to do it! The pro tip I’m gonna give people-climbers: it’s all in the legs [laughter] you just have to get your legs around them and pray that you don’t look as stupid as you feel. God- the worst part is when you’re climbing someone who's the same height as you! Hiroharu’s actor is about my height, and I have to climb him all the damn time. It feels like you’re gonna crush them, you know? Like you just have to be as light as possible and hope and pray that they can support you. And- and I know that he can, you know? Like me and him have the same personal trainer, and Kyo-San doesn’t do “easy” [laughter] I know that he can hold me, there’s just always that fear you know?

Oh definitely- and speaking of Hiroharu’s actor, we know you’re on the lower end of the age spectrum, do you think that affects how you all work together?

Oh no, definitely not! Yeah I’m younger than a lot of my coworkers, but not by much- 19, 20 in June. I mean I’m glad that I’m so young! Like I said- Hiroharu’s actor is about my height, and I’m like 173, and… you know… Hiroharu’s actor is over 21 I think- he sometimes offers to get drinks with us, so he’s definitely 21 and up- and I hear people stop growing after 18…

What? [laughter] What are your tying to say?

Oh my god wait- wait you can’t leave that in! I work with that guy! I can’t call him short in an interview before the show actually starts- ohh no! Oh god!

The average man’s height is 175!

Oh- ah I’m sure- I’m sure that-that’s true- oh my god-

I’m 174!

Oh my god we can’t leave this in! [laughter] oh my god- I’m sorry I just- I come from a tall family so sometimes I forget that- that you know people- oh my god we have to cut this out [laughter] [make sure to remove this bit] [awe! But it’s funny!!] [we’ll literally be sued if we don’t] [you two are no fun :(]

But yeah, age doesn’t really get in the way of things. We’re all good friends on set- especially Hoshizawa’s actor! Him and Shimoda-san are really cool guys, I love hanging out with them!

Shimoda-san? As in Kosuke Shimoda?

Yes! Shimoda-san plays Ikuto Maekawa, and since our characters are such great friends, I’d like to think we are as well! He’s a real fun guy, and I’m excited to work with such a huge talent- everyone- everyone there is so talented and I’m so lucky to be there.

Ah, speaking of talent. While a large portion of the cast is hidden, we have seen some familiar faces in the trailer. We’ve also seen some familiar faces on social media…

Oh my god-

[laughter] you never publicly addressed it, Ramos! Do you want to talk about your fight with Bryce Aoki?

Oh lord… [laughter] everyone’s so dramatic- so it wasn’t a fight- it’s just- ok so we had a little scene together where I would push him out of frame, but he wanted to still be seen and I was fine with that. Choreography is very important to me, so we had a passionate discussion-

Passionate discussion that ended with Aoki getting a black eye?

That- [laughter] that was an accident! I was- so we were practicing by the makeup desks- bad decision I know, but- stop looking at me like that! [laughter] It was just- we’re standing like we would in the scene, and I go to shove him- and- and I’m aiming for his head but- but maybe I accidentally hit his eye - and he absolutely wipes out, like this kid’s on the ground and I’m like “holy sh*t I just punched a kid” you know? [laughter] [she’s like, barely a year older than him…] but! Bryce is a sweetheart, and luckily he’s alright-

He got a black eye! He posted about it!

Oh he! He’s just a bit dramatic! He’s an actor though, it’s our jobs to be a bit looney [laughter]

Alright then, it seems we've run out of time for tonight. Anything you want to say?

Yes! I want to wish everyone a lovely evening! Thank you for the support! -And make sure to watch Kimi No Hīrō Akademia when it comes out this summer!

[buglife]

You guys know I love bugs.

But why?

Tw: I talk about an abusive past and how bugs helped me because it's early in the morning and I had nightmares and I just wanted to say this. Feel free to ignore!

All my life I've really loved bugs. I grew up in the country in a little trailer with no central heating or ac. We had a wood stove to keep warm and I lived on 85 acres of ancient woodland. So yeah, it was full of bugs! One of my earliest memories was being in bed and seeing a praying mantis come down from a hole in the ceiling. She hung out with me for a while and caught a fly that was bothering me so that was pretty awesome.

I also remember watching Pirates of the Dark Water and looking next to me to see a bigass wolf spider watching tv too. Groovy.

Now my brother and father are incredibly awful people. I won't go into details but they were horrible. And one thing that always struck me as being funny, was that they were scared of bugs. ESPECIALLY millipedes! So sometimes to protect myself, I would go out in the woods and find a couple cherry foot millipedes and hold them so that they would think twice about coming after me. Them and snakes. I would just hold wild snakes and they wouldn't come near me, but millipedes were easier to find.

So yeah, big tough guys who had no trouble beating and abusing a little girl, being absolutely terrified of one of the most harmless order of bugs in the world. I found that kinda funny.

Everytime I wanted to talk about bugs, I was told to shut the hell up because nobody cared about what I had to say, because I was stupid and girls should be seen and not heard. So I stayed quiet for years.

I saw myself in bugs, to be honest. They were hated and misunderstood, which is how my 'family' treated me. I was too young to understand why I wasn't loved. I didn't understand why I was treated like an awful burden to the family. I felt like a spider, or a millipede. They try so, so hard to be what they are and to help the world but are subject to the vicious cruelty of those bigger and stronger than themselves. People have no problem torturing them just because they were small and helpless. I was small and helpless too.

Nobody advocated for me when I was small and helpless. Nobody showed me mercy. I was on the same level as a bug, ignored at best and harmed at worse. At least bugs didn't hurt me. I could pick up a brown recluse and have it not bite me because it only bites when afraid. I may not have a venomous bite, but I was tenacious and eventually, I escaped that life and now live where I am now.

So now I can have my bugs, bugs that my father used to threaten to kill at any given moment. I remember him telling me that if I ever got a pet bug, he would come over to my house just to kill them. Well, he can certainly try, I have pepper gel. And that will go right into his eyes if he tries something. I have my bugs, and I'm no longer afraid of him. I'm free to do what I always wanted to do, free to care for things that have no voice to help themselves. I will make sure that all my bugs are loved and have the best lives possible. They make me happy. They give me so much joy. I feel honored and privilaged to be able to take a tarantula sling, the size of my pinkie nail, and care for them enough to grow up fully. The fact I can share my life with such wonderful and unique creatures is amazing.

I am so much happier and healthier now. I have since cut my 'family' out of my life going on seven years ago. I am healing. I have a loving girlfriend who loves bugs, probably not as much as me, but she got me rubber ducky isopods as a gift. She knows I don't care about jewelry or anything like that, but a gift of bugs? Perfect.

I actually planned to be an entomologist when I grew up, but I couldn't get the math grades to get the degree. So I went for fine arts instead lol.

So that's why I love bugs, and why I flip my shit at people casually hurting bugs for no reason but to get a power trip from it. I've learned that people who are willing to do that are willing to hurt people too.

Also I'm okay now. I have therapy and medication and a new found family who loves me very much and allows me to talk about bugs as much as I want to :3

[grifftrolls]

With various old buds returning their fan trolls, guess I will too then XD

For those who don’t know when I started using this blog properly, it was a homestuck blog (yeh yeah cringy cringe boo hiss etc etc) due to stuff I don’t wanna go into right now I had to do other things and that was when I focused more on pokemon. Though now I have a slight burn out regarding pokemon, so doing anything but pokemon things is the better thing for me to do right now. Plus my pokemon content has its own blog (as barebones as it is still)

Of course with me moving that to its own blog and a few other things, means I will have to do something else with this blog, and I decided to do a mix of original and fandom content (at least ones that haven’t grown as massive as my pokemon verse did lol)

And that included my fantrolls (and maybe the two characters I had) however I am gonna shrink down the roster significantly, I just had TOO many trolls. That does not mean they will be deleted, it will be much easier for me to rebuild a new story with a smaller cast and work the rest in slowly. Another issue I have is that my pc died, while I have some stuff backed up it’s not everything. So I’ll have to go hunt who’s art I still got and who’s I’m missing. Then pray the artist is still active and still has the files for me if I can find who the artist is at all. (Tumblrs search function is absolute ass after all) but fantroll homies do let me know if there’s a relationship you wanna preserve (quad, familial, friendship etc) so I can keep it in mind!

But yeah, I hope you guys wont mind the shift and you came for specific content that has its own blog now, please have a lil patience I will set the blogs up proper and I’ll do the blog roll

That was all for now folks!

[seasonsofeverlark]

Family Prayer

Author: @mega-aulover​

Prompt: Buttercup and Diwali are not things that go together. So even though Katniss dosen't like him much, she and Peeta try to make things easier for Buttercup on that day. [submitted by @everlurked​]

Rating: Fluffy G

Author’s Note: This is a story about Diwali and wouldn’t have been possible without @cadsingh77​ who spent weeks allowing me to ask all sorts of questions about Diwali and what it means to her. I patterned it on her descriptions. She read it, as well, to make sure there were no cultural faux pas. I apologize if there is anything amiss. Also, I’m remiss if I do not mention @norbertsmom​ who at the eleventh hour betaed this story. She’s my rock my bestie, and I would be nothing without her.

__________

Peeta glanced at his suit in the closet. His hands shook. 

In a few hours he was going to meet the family of the love of his life. 

He looked at the phone in his hands. He was lying in bed researching everything Diwali. His girlfriend Katniss had gone over the topic. She explained that just as sunset happens an elaborate puja, a prayer ceremony is done in a temple to begin the holiday. But to most Trinidadians or Trinis, as she called herself, like her family, they said little personal prayers in front of Laxmi, Saraswati and Ganesh and then they would light the diyas, little clay lamps, that they were going to placed in all of the rooms of the house. 

Katniss made it all sound so simple. Diwali was a celebration of light. A victory over darkness. A day to wear new clothing, beautiful jewelry, sing, dance, pray, and light diyas. Katniss said any other guests would arrive after the prayers and they would have a ton of food and everyone would eat and hang out, kids would light sparklers, and there would be singing and dancing too. 

Curious, Peeta watched every Bollywood movie on Netflix. Movies, however, never really explained everything. He put the phone down. He had to  be honest with himself; Katniss’ assurances aside, he was a fish out of water no matter what he did. He was going to meet the most important people in Katniss’s life, her family.

In contrast, his parents were Dan and Cindy from Port Jefferson, Long Island. They owned a bakery near the ferry. They were dull people, they were like the parents of Ian Miller from My Big Fat Greek Wedding. But a lot colder and more dysfunctional, dressed in tans and beiges. Peeta constantly questioned why they would own a bakery that matched the color of bland. They never veered from the menu. Never introduced a new seasonal baked good. Peeta was stuck in that rut until he met Katniss and his entire world changed and color was introduced into his life.

Katniss was the electric jolt that kickstarted his dull heart to life. 

The first time he tasted roti, the buttery tasting flat bread he literally cried. 

From the pictures that Katniss shared of her family, he could tell they were a riot of awesomeness. 

Katniss and her parents hailed from Trinidad and Tobago. Her family moved to Long Island from Germany. Her father was an engineer and physicist. He worked at the superconductor in Germany and then came to Long Island so that he could work on a project at Brookhaven National Laboratory. Her mother worked at Stony Brook University. She ran the nursing department. 

Peeta and Katniss both attended Stony Brook University. He was on his way to a yoga class and she was in her Pink boxing class. From the glass covered room Peeta watched her hit the punching bag like Joe Fraser, and he was a goner. Peeta had a thing for strong women. His first middle school girlfriend bossed him and made him carry her books to and from class and he was a sucker for her, but she broke his heart. She told him she was only using him to get to his older brother Ryan. Peeta battled so much darkness in his life and what he needed was to chase the darkness away and to let the light into his heart. But he couldn’t deny he liked strong women. 

There was something about a strong alpha woman who knew how to get things done, unlike his mother who was passive aggressive, and banged the pots in the kitchen and slammed refrigerator doors. 

He sighed as he worried about tomorrow. He googled Diwali’s greetings and butchered the language as he tried to speak in Hindi. 

Peeta sighed heavily.

Katniss’s mother invited him over the phone. She wanted him to come over before the prayers began. It was an honor because he was Katniss’ boyfriend, someone she chose despite her father trying to get her to date the son of a friend of his. Katniss put her figurative foot down and claimed she was dating Peeta. Her father didn’t want to meet him, but he knew of him. 

So the pressure was on to be perfect. He didn’t want to say or do the wrong thing, especially in front of her family. His hands shook, this was important. He wanted to make a good impression on Katniss’ family, even if her father didn’t like him or the idea of him. Peeta wanted them to like him because, truth be told, his own family didn’t like him. 

Peeta loved his family, but ever since he was little, he knew he didn’t fit into the landscape of his family. He was labeled as the emotional one. He was too irreverent for them. Peeta liked color. He loved to paint. He enjoyed the change in seasons where his family loved one season, summer, because they generated the most money then. 

His family liked one or two flavors. Peeta loved all flavors, spicy ones, bold ones, subtle ones. They hated that he was always pushing to change the menu at the bakery. His childhood room was always the one his parents never showed off, because as a teen he painted the walls of his room every shade of orange. Peeta knew they sighed in relief when he decided to stay in the dorms at Stony Brook. His football scholarship allowed him to have that opportunity. He trained hard, studied hard, and loved hard. 

“Katniss,” her name escaped his lips like fervent prayer and a wish. He loved her, was consumed by her, and he was so overly happy that she invited him to meet her family for Diwali. And now he had so much pent up energy he couldn’t sleep. 

His teammates made fun of him, because he got a goofy lopsided I-got-my-hippopotamus-at-Christmas type grin, whenever Peeta thought of Katniss. He closed his eyes picturing her olive skin, thick straight dark hair braided into a rope, small pert nose, and silvery eyes that were breathtaking. Though it wasn’t her physical parts that made him fall in love. It was the woman who lay beneath the surface.

What made him sit up and take notice of Katniss after he saw her box, and he was out of the yoga room, was that there was a blonde girl at the gym working out. There were these idiots guys making fun of her, calling that poor girl fat, just because she was full figured. Katniss walked straight up to the guys and gave them a scowl full of fire and brimstone, called the girl hot and told her that if she were gay she’d do her in an instant. Then she told the guys that they could jackknife themselves off the roof of the building. Peeta had never seen anything sexier in his life. Katniss was full of fire and she was resplendent more so than the sun. 

His phone buzzed drawing him away from his memories as the message came in.

KATNISS: Why are you still up?

Peeta grinned, his phone betrayed him. In some phones a little dot showed up next to the person when they were on their phone. Katniss must have noticed. 

PEETA: Stalk much.

KATNISS: LOL

Peeta could see those three little dots moving as she wrote a reply. 

For the most part Katniss wasn’t a talker. Unless she was passionate about the topic and then she was a chatterbox.

KATNISS: FUNNY. Seriously, tomorrow is going to be a long day. You need to sleep.

PEETA: Because tomorrow I am going to meet your family.

Peeta could see her rolling her eyes even through the phone.

KATNISS: You don’t have to be nervous. 

PEETA: If you tell me all I have to do is be myself, I swear I am going to come dressed as Buddy the Elf.

KATNISS: Dork.

PEETA: Yes, but I’m your dork.

KATNISS: They’re going to love you.

Peeta sighed. 

PEETA: This is important. I want to make a good impression. Your family is important to you and given that my family…

Peeta sighed. He’d brought Katniss to the bakery to meet his family because they didn’t have time for him. His father was pleasant. His mother, however, spoke loudly and slowly as if Katniss didn’t speak English. Katniss spoke various languages and was extremely intelligent. Her mother wanted her to be a doctor, but Katniss had a passion for the environment. Her major was environmental studies, with a minor in geology. She was brilliant and he felt like the dumb jock.

KATNISS: Your family is fine, well except for Ryan. Someone needs to examine him.

Peeta chuckled. His brother Rye stared at Katniss as if she was Christmas, Easter, and summer vacation all rolled up into one. He then proceeded to flirt with Katniss, by using every campy movie line known to mankind. In typical Rye fashion because he’d done it before to their other brother Lyle. Unfortunately in that instance the girl in question dumped Lyle to go out with Rye. 

He sighed. That was his dysfunctional family. Family gatherings were uncomfortable events. They weren’t exactly nice to one another.

PEETA: I have no excuse for my brother.

Peeta decided to follow his text with a self deprecating joke. A truth, his family thought him the odd one in the family. 

PEETA: But Ryan isn’t the bad apple. I’m not sure you know this, but I am the black sheep of the family.

KATNISS: You mean the sexy one.

A grin spread on his face at her compliment. 

Katniss’ family was conservative, and by extent, so was Katniss. He respected her boundaries and her values.  Family was everything to her and he loved her because of it, Katniss would lay her life on the line for her family. 

PEETA: Have I told you today how much I love you.

KATNISS: No, but I do love to hear you say it.

Peeta pressed the little microphone and recorded his voice, which sounded rougher to his ears than normal.

PEETA: (a voice email) I love you Katniss. I love your mind. I love your kindness. I love how you always talk about your sister Prim. I love the way you adore your dad. I love the way you look up to your mother. I think you are the most beautiful soul. And I am nervous because if you are wonderful, then your family has to be just as great.

He meant every word. 

They’d been dating for the last few months, but they’d been friends for two years. They weren’t easy years because of their schedules in school and the fact that her father had a mild heart attack right after they met. Peeta put himself in the friend zone because that’s what Katniss needed. He didn’t want her to feel pressure to feel romantic toward him when her dad, the most important man in her life, was ill. 

In the end, the bonds of friendship grew to a love so sweet and pure, that it shined out of her silver eyes. The first time she realized the love she held for him was more than friendship left him breathless, like stepping into a world filled with brilliant colors, light and joy. 

KATNISS: (a voice email) I love you too.

Her voice was breathy and filled with her heartfelt emotion.

Peeta couldn’t help but sigh contentedly.

KATNISS: Now as for tomorrow, don’t worry. When they see what a great guy you are, they will love you.

Peeta sighed.

KATNISS: NOW GO TO SLEEP, MELLARK!

PEETA:  Yes ma’am.

He grinned and would have followed her directions, but instead he stood from his bed and went into his suite kitchen. He needed to bake. It was the only thing he knew that would calm him down. He decided to make chocolate using the vegetarian items he purchased in the store. Come the morning he would make the Laddoos he planned to bring with him. In Hindi they were called Laddu but in Trinidad they were known as Laddoo.

Making the chocolate eased his nerves, so he actually got some sleep. In the morning, he showered and set to work on making the Laddoos. By three o’clock he was done, and all he had to do was wrap up the presents. Taking a red ribbon, he tied each box the way he’d done so many times at the bakery. 

His suitemates were gone. No doubt causing trouble somewhere on campus, which gave Peeta the time he needed to get ready. He took out his new suit. Even though Katniss told him he could wear a nice pair of slacks and shirt, Peeta bought a suit that was on sale for the special occasion. 

Taking a deep breath he took the small presents he had for her family. They weren’t necessary, but he wanted to make a good impression. He gathered up the Laddoos, the chocolate, the flowers - marigolds he sourced at the local home depot, and the paintings he made of her family made from the memory of the pictures she’d shown him. 

He drove, heading to the Everdeen home in Mount Sinai. The cottage-like house looked like something out of a movie or TV show: warm, inviting, like a real home, one filled with love, and not pretend.

As he walked up, he could hear laughter, genuine laughter, followed by singing and joy. Running a hand through his blond wavy locks he took a deep breath. “Okay Mellark, just be yourself,” he whispered, as he stood in front of the door.  

He raised his hand to knock on the door and his breath caught at the man standing there looking more like a navy seal instead of a physicist. This was Katniss’ dad. His chrome eyes were hard and they took him apart, much the way a defensive end could read a play and pick it apart while holding their defense line.  

“Happy Diwali.” Peeta tried to say confidently but his voice cracked. He could feel himself sweating.

Her father raised an eyebrow. “You are Peeta Mellark.”

Peeta nodded.

“Rahul!” A statuesque woman with blonde hair and pale blue eyes swatted Katniss’ father’s arm. He watched her sneak around him, dressed in a traditional red sari with gold thread. “Please behave.” Mrs. Everdeen quietly gave her husband a look. Her golden bangles clinked as she placed her hand dramatically on her hip. Peeta was glad Katniss had gone over the different fashions. He studied each one because he would do anything for Katniss. 

Peeta watched as her father’s hard analytical eyes softened the moment he beheld Katniss’ mother. Peeta could see how Katniss’ parents were a unit of one. They were in love and either one would fight the shadows and all of the evil in the world for their other half.  “Anjali.”

“I am Katniss’ mother, this is her father,” her pale eyes sparkled. “Please come in, we were waiting for your arrival. Come in,” she ushered him.

The home was two stories, to the left a halfway with rooms, to the right a living room, dining area, and a den to the far back. The house was decorated with warm rich colors, but everything was tied around the family, as pictures dotted the walls. There were lights everywhere hanging from the walls, the clay diya’s sat on the mantel.  Peeta stood in front of a picture of Katniss on her father’s shoulders, her twin braids flowing, her eyes crinkled in pure happiness. 

“Ohhhh you’re cute,” a younger, but deeper voice than Katniss’ said with impish mischief. 

Primrose took after Katniss’ mother, with the flaxen hair and the pale blue eyes.  Katniss explained that her mother was of British descent, while her father’s family, although sporting a European name, was from India. His great-grandparents came to Trinidad, fell in love with the island and stayed. 

Her mother walked away from her very wealthy family back in Trinidad to marry Katniss’ father. It was a little like they were the original Romeo and Julliet. 

His parents got together because his dad knocked up his mom.

“Primrose!” Mrs. Everdeen admonished. 

“What,” Prim said. Her pale blue eyes were inquisitive as she walked around him. The way Katniss talked about her sister, Peeta had expected a little kid, but Prim was as tall as he was. Her loose  pajama-like trousers that narrowed at her ankles, called shalwar, swooshed around as she made her round. Her red kameez, a flowing tunic with intricate gold patterns reminded Peeta of the pattern Mrs. Everdeen wore on her sari.

Prim was everything Katniss was not. She was a bold bright bubbly girl, who at this moment was making sure he was the real deal and not some mindless jerk. He stood, letting her because it was important that her family liked him. He wanted to be accepted. He felt his face flame up under the scrutiny. 

“I understand why my boring sister is constantly sighing.”

Peeta grinned, then he said, “Oh these are for you.” He gave them the presents. The flowers, the chocolate, and the sweetened chickpea Laddoos he made by hand for them.

“Oh these are fragrant, where did you purchase them?”

“He made them.” The soft voice that came behind him made his heart rate triple.

Peeta turned around and there stood Katniss wearing an emerald green lenghas. She had explained what it looked like, but at this moment, his brain that was always filled with words was momentarily empty, vanquished by her beauty. He swallowed, mouth slightly ajar. His eyes darted from the perfection of her face with those silvery eyes that captivated him, and the peek of dark hair that was hidden by the sari. 

Katniss held a shiny brass plate, she called a Tarrier, but in Hindi it was known as a Thali, containing coconut, almonds, and other sweets. Katniss told him the plate belonged to her great-grandmother Veronica. When her mother married her father, her great-grandmother gave it to her insisting it should go to her first born. He swore for a second he could see a miniature Katniss with his eyes staring up at him and holding the Tarrier. 

“He made them?” Primrose asked, Peeta could hear the intense curiosity in her sister’s voice. 

“His family are bakers, and Peeta is an amazing cook.”

“Really,” her father said, and his voice, the way he said that one word snapped Peeta out of his hazy fog. 

“Ah,” he nervously said. “I made her cheese buns,” Peeta felt the heat rising from his neck and caused those red splotches that his brothers made fun of. 

“Cheese buns,” her father repeated. 

“When you were in the hospital, daddy,” her eyes did not hide the pain of recalling those days. “Peeta noticed I wasn’t eating and cajoled me into eating cheese buns,” Katniss words were so soft. “He was the friend I leaned on for support when…” her voice trailed.

Peeta watched her father’s face take a look of adoring tenderness at his eldest, and when his eyes turned to Peeta they weren’t as frosty as they had been. 

“He even took me to temple to pray,” Katniss whispered.

“In Selden?” 

“Yes, daddy,” Katniss quietly said.

“Rahul,” Katniss’ mother chided. She cupped his cheeks, “Such a nice young man. Did you make the chocolate as well?” 

Peeta nodded, his eyes went back to her father. He couldn’t mess this up. 

Her mother smiled serenely, then her eyes lit with happiness as if she made a startling connection. “Oh! Pundit Sharma was right; they were destined in the stars.”

“Star crossed lovers just like you and mom,” Prim said. 

Her father cut his eyes away. 

“Oh my, these chocolates….” Prim moaned. 

“Primrose!” Her mother admonished. 

“What, he said they were for us,” Prim shrugged, plopping a chocolate in her mouth. “I’d say he’s golden. So what does a cheese bun taste like?” 

“Primrose, really, must you think only of your stomach?” Katniss shook her head. 

“Girls,” their father said in a stern tone of voice. “It’s near sunset. Upstairs with the lot of you. I swear corralling a dozen baby ducks would be easier.” 

The women headed upstairs. Peeta wasn’t sure, but her father swept a hand for him to follow him upstairs.

Peeta wasn’t sure what he was expecting, hopefully like something out of Khabi Kushi Khabi Gham. They had a small altar where he watched all of the women present the offerings and began to bow their heads. He stood behind quietly observing, but when Katniss began to pray it was like a song and her words that he didn’t understand wrapped around his heart and his lashes fluttered closed and a single tear fell down his face. Song after song her voice combined with that of her father, her mother and sister caused him to realize just how much he wanted to be part of this family, to be loved and accepted. 

He too prayed for a family to want him, to be needed. 

Peeta was so wrapped up in the moment when it was over he opened his eyes to find her mother standing before him with trembling lips, and watery blue eyes.

“Bend down son,” her father said with warmth in his voice. “She’s going to honor you by putting the sindoor on your forehead.” He pointed to his forehead, though his eyes had completely lost the frost. They were filled with admiration and the same warmth he had in his voice. Her father looked at Katniss and nodded as if giving her his blessings. 

Unsure if what he had just seen was real, his eyes went to Katniss,  but Prim said, “Go ahead Peeta, my father has just fallen for you too.” Her voice squeaked with that enthusiasm only a teenager could have. She wiped the tears from her face as well. 

Peeta bent down slightly. Mrs. Everdeen’s hand slipped to the Tarrier and with her ring finger she pressed it into the red dust Katniss’ father called sindoor.

The press of her finger was light. “When my daughter marries you. You will sprinkle this sindor over the part in her hair to symbolize her marriage to you.”

Peeta’s eyes flew to her father who nodded. “Welcome to the family son.” He clasped his back and said. “Now let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

Peeta couldn’t help but grin. He gazed at Katniss who came to him, her smile shy. He was going to follow them, but katniss put her hand on his, then stepped up and placed a small peck on his cheek. Then winked sassily. “I told you they would love you.” 

And like that, his prayers were answered; he now had a family. 

Years later, when he stood in the same position watching his little girl singing the puja, holding the brass tarrier, alongside Katniss. Just as in that memory from years ago he listened to Katniss voice blend with their daughter. Their voices blended in with his father-in-law Rahul, Primrose and her soon to be fiancé. Peeta was grateful that his prayers were answered, the darkness was swept away and light filled his soul.  And he was granted the family he always wanted.

[madmadmilk]

One After The One PART 2 | Tom Holland x Reader

Tinder BIO | soft TEASER | PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | >>

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Summary: If a fool knows they’re a fool, are they really a fool? (The answer is yes.) You weigh the pros and cons of meeting T, Blurry Boy, Tom-Holland-Imposter, but curiosity tips the scales.

Warnings: Cursing, Suspicion, some Hard to Swallow Pills, and a million blurry pics

Word Count: 6K grains of sand in your boots

-

“... What?”

You throat ran dry, and you’d be lying if several things didn’t just suddenly click in your mind. The pictures, or lack of pictures. “T.” His bio. It makes all makes total sense, and then it totally doesn’t.

 None of that it made it any easier to believe the words coming out of her mouth.

“I… I think he’s using pictures of Tom Holland,” your friend exhales, repeating herself slowly.

…

This can’t be happening. You feel your brows furrow and face fall–– unsure of what to say or how to feel.

Tom Holland on Tinder? 

No fucking way.

“... Who..? How..?” you reach up to scratch your eyebrow, hoping to stir up something to deflect her suggestions.

“You know, Spider-Man? We just watched him in that movie?” Liza starts slowly, then pretends to shoot webs, nearly bumping into her drink. “Thwip-thwip, yeah?”

You begin frown and shake your head, you wave away her hands.

“Yeah, uhm, yeah I know who he is. But there’s no way that’s––“

She gives you a knowing and cautious looking, tilting her head towards you in question. Her lower lip juts out and she pulls out her phone. You can assume she’s looking up pictures of the actor, and soon enough she has some glamour shot of him in a maroon suit.

He had glasses on. The same ones in that goddamn picture he had sent the other day.

That’s not...

You hold your phone search through your chats, scrolling past conversations and laughs, looking for that one picture. Your heads rest together as you swipe up slowly to show her the picture of him that he had sent… the one with the glasses.

There’s no way––

 But you don’t say anything, solely waiting for her confirmation or denial.

“Friendly neighborhood romantic…” Liza mutters softly as she holds both phones closer to herself. “Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man…”

You take it from her and zoom in; sure enough, all those details fall into place.

Fuck.

You blink, comparing the smiles. They look identical.

But?

But Tom Holland is a A-list actor, smiley, pretty, bright and out of reach. You can’t even entertain the idea of meeting a ~celebrity~ through a shitty fucking dating app–– a hook-up one at that. It just doesn’t happen.

And the thought of him wanting to spend time with you?

“No… that’s not right,” you finally manage to say. “Uhm. It can’t be Tom.”

Upon saying that out loud, you catch yourself. You find yourself believing that it could have been him. So, it’s hard to say which part you were denying.

Liza does the critical thinking for you.

“I’m sorry, babe. This guy is lying to you.”

Liza looks at you with her big brown eyes, and you can see a little bit of pity. She nods slowly and turns away, leaving you with two phones in your hands and doubt in your heart. 

“He’s using Tom Holland’s pictures, he’s not telling you the truth, and he’s not… offering you anything else about himself. You know?”

What?

You had gotten so comfortable with the idea of him, of “T.” Of “Blurry Boy,” his own person... and not with the reality of who he could be and what he’s doing to you.

The reality that he’s still really fucking suspicious, a stranger whose life and intentions you don’t actually know.

He’s definitely not Tom Holland, regretfully, and he’s probably not like any of the pictures he’s posted–– blurry, edited, whatever. And the conversations? Maybe it’s all a persona.

You don’t know a single thing about him.

Oh…

It stings more than you thought it would, even when you knew this was already a shaky start.

Liza watches you press your tongue to the side of your cheek, processing this with no argument or fight left. She feels bad having told you outright, but you both know that it’s what you would have wanted. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

She hugs your shoulders, as you slide her phone back towards her.

You let her hold you as you try to let the shame and shock pass.

Your phone pings softly on the table.

You read the message as it glows on your screen. You scoff as soon as you check it, because who else could it be?

BB: I bet you forgot to watch the episode lol

No.

You forgot you shouldn’t trust him.

-

…

BB: ?

BB: Hello?

BB: Hey, sorry idk if you’re busy or something right now. Just wondering how you were

BB: 👀

BB: Sorry, did I do something to make you mad?

Yes–– no. Yeah, kinda.

You pull down your phone screen, musing over the fact that more messages might appear. He’s sent something new every few hours since your talk with Liza earlier that day.

God, you’re glad you don’t have your read receipts on.

You spend some time lazing around in bed, hair up and out of your face, your pants crumpled and kicked on the floor nearby. You suck in your cheeks as you pick up your phone.

You’ve been cycling through social media all day–– not looking at anything in particular, but definitely avoiding texts from You Know Who.

You know what the messages say, you know that he’s wondering where you are and what you’re doing, but how do you face him after your fatal revelation with Liza? How do you recover? Well, you start by sorting out your buzzing thoughts….

First, you feel fucking embarrassed. There’s a burning, nauseous heat on your face, all because you didn’t realize those pictures were SO obviously fake, and that you were kinda into Whoever He Is.

Second, you feel righteous anger, for being dragged around even though he promised. Ha ha ha. He’s one hundred percent a stranger on the internet, alright. And you’re a fool for letting yourself get strung along.

But him using pictures of a well-known, well-loved, heavily-adored celebrity?? Isn’t that, like, really fucking bold? Embarrassing even?

(Almost as embarrassing as you not noticing this, but you don’t let yourself dwell on that part for too long)

The angel on your shoulder reasons that, “maybe he’s still the same person underneath this facade–– he just looks nothing like what he has posted. You could still like him no matter what he looked like, right?”

While the devil swoops in with some hard facts, laughing in pity, “A guy or person who conceals themselves with lies is not worth keeping at all.”

And in this case, you have to agree with that flaming hot truth. You’re ready to fold those fleeting feelings, shove them in a box, and kick ‘em to the curb along with that inner monologue–– but as you said in the very beginning… if you knew you were being fooled from the start, are you really getting hurt?

The goblin of curiosity pulls at your sleeve and offers this funny sentiment, “Knowing this and talking to him should be fine if you establish the fact that you know that ‘this’ isn’t real.”

And that’s where you are now, staring at your phone, at the multitude of double, triple, quadruple texts that have accumulated through the day. You exhale, and draft up a frail response.

You: hey, sorry. I was busy

His answer comes almost too soon even while you were approaching the later hours of a long day.

BB: Hey!, no, no it’s okay. Sorry if i freaked out, I was just worried

You: what, you missed me?

BB: something like that. You’re definitely the best reason I’m checking my phone nowadays, besides work

You: how sweet

BB: actually, I took your advice. I turned on Do Not Disturb at like 9. It feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders

You: that’s great!

BB: well, I know there’s going to be a shit ton to read in the morning, and I’m still stressed about that. But I guess I’ll get used to it. Gotta save time for myself! 😤🙏(praying emoji)

You: definitely

…

BB: hey, are you okay? You seem distant

You: yeah, no. I’m fine. Just a little tired

…

BB: haha, you’re obviously not. Are you still out? Or back home now?

You: I’m back home, but it’s been a long day

BB: oh, okay! You should head to bed then. Talk to you later?

You: yeah, I guess I should

BB: good night! Sleep tight 😊 (blush smile emoji)

You: good night

-

The next day goes by with a few more one-sided text exchanges. “Blurry Boy” was really single-handedly carrying each of those conversations–– and while they’re interesting and you’re still replying, you find it hard to bring yourself to believe any of it. It has no real weight anymore, to your life or in application.

You can’t stop thinking about the fact that he’s LYING to you. Straight to your fucking face.

You watch the conversations in the third person and are almost impressed with the lengths that he goes to keep up with the same story. No loss of momentum, the perfect amount of enthusiasm.

But by now, he must suspect something. The way he asks leading questions in an effort to get you to speak more. 

Unfortunately for him, you can’t help but be cold in response.

What you don’t realize, is that you want him to ask you what was wrong, one more time. You don’t realize that you want an opportunity to be mad. You want him to give you the chance to be. 

So, stop being so fucking nice, blurry boy.

Because you’re not fucking nice at all.

You ignore him for the evening, going out to run some errands so that your hands were actually busy. You silenced your phone as you wound down again for the night, only sparing it a glance at the last second.

There are a few messages waiting for you.

BB: hey, are we okay?

You: we?

BB: yeah, sorry if i’m jumping to conclusions but I’ve felt a little special here. If not, I get it. I’d just like to know

You: you’re definitely something

BB: what’s wrong?

You take a sharp inhale, tucking your hair behind your ears, and sitting up in bed to fully type out your feelings. Your opportunity to be angry is HERE, you can go off and spit words and fight–– 

You: you’re lying to me, right to my face. It was fine at first, but I still can’t wrap my head around why you’re doing this to me. It feels like we’re playing pretend and just ignoring the fact that there is NO TRUST here at all. I don’t know WHO you are and you haven’t given me any idea of who you could be! You’re using fake pictures and a fake name, and while it’s been fun… there’s nothing here. There’s nowhere “we” could go from here. If you want to continue, I’m going to need SOMETHING from you, if you expect anything from me

You drop your phone in your lap with a satisfying thump. You turn away, stretching and rolling your shoulders back in triumph.

Take that, “T.”

You shut your eyes as you imagine this mystery dude opening his phone to read out an arrow you’re shooting straight at this heart. (And it’s not the good kind). You can’t ignore that it hurts your own feelings it’s a little, not in a way that’s personal but…it’s hollowing. You didn’t know him personally, no, not at all, but a shade of it must have been real. There’s a real person in there, somewhere.

You see the message sit alone, untouched. There’s no bouncing dots like usual, no rapid silly response or praise or affection. And that’s annoying. And that’s annoying that that’s annoying.

But you got the last word in, so, what else can you ask for.

You nudge your phone further away, trying not to expect more. Siting in silence for a beat, pinching your cheeks. God, you hate this self-absorbed, attention-seeking behavior–– but you can’t help it.

You let out an exasperated whine, shaking your body to let go of the lingering vibes. You pick up your phone and snuggle back down into bed, ready to sleep after some idle scrolling. 

You’re ready to not have to worry about this thrilling 5-day experience, sure to be embarrassed about it later but… maybe you can make a story out of it. Though, that would only come after a long wink and the accompaniment of alcohol. God, you don’t even want to think about how Liza has probably already told K… Ugh!

PING!

You scramble as you hear the shrill bell tone. Your phone is bouncing in your hands as you half sit-up again. 

A message. 

You want to ignore it–– but who are you kidding.

BB: can i call you?

…

You stare at it. 

Is this an olive branch? Is he reaching out to you to show you that he really wants this? That he cares enough to finally share a fucking piece of himself?

Regardless, the call can only prove that he’s not the guy in the pictures. It’ll only show you that he’s just a guy. If that.

You rake your mind to remember what Tom Holland’s speaking voice sounded like, and immediately kick yourself for even thinking it could actually fucking be him. There’s just no fucking way. 

But let’s see how far off this guy is.

You: only for a second.

Your heart thuds unevenly as you prepare yourself–– only you have no idea what to expect. There’s nothing to go off of.

And within the minute that you sent your message, your phone rings. A blank contact comes up, “Blurry Boy” in white letters. You listen to the shrill ringtone, only picking up before it ends.

“Hey.”

There it is, his voice for the first time. It’s sleepy and thick, croaky even. He doesn’t sound like the squeaky and lively Tom Holland you knew from the silver screen. Though, it’s a stretch to even compare the two at all.

“Hey,” you speak demurely. Cool, calm, collected. And you wait. You want him to bring it up himself.

“What, not excited about our first call?”

Your face warms at his straightforwardness–– briefly crumbling under the pressure. Over text you could easily sort yourself out, but here…. you couldn’t hesitate.

“Well, I’m just glad you don’t sound like a 16 year-old boy.”

He laughs breezily, slightly muffled through the phone.

“Hahaha, I told you. I’m 23.”

“Mhm, well the way your voice cracked there really proves it.”

“Hey, come on now.” He laughs again, and you can hear rustling sheets and the faint chatter of music.

His laugh is quite pleasant, raspy and boyish. Familiar even. You want to imagine that he’s wooed by your maturity and confidence, by the way that a lull settles. But it’s more likely that he’s gathering his thoughts, or collecting his courage.

“This…. doesn’t prove anything,” you start slowly. You purse your lips, nervous ticks coming alive even through the phone.

For the moment, you feel shy, but shove it when you remember that he’s lying.

“I still don’t know who you are––“

“I know. I know, and I’m sorry–– I can’t tell you yet, but I trust you.”

“Yeah, you’ve said something like that before.”

”Uhm, yeah–– I… I wanted to call you to show you that I’m real and I care about you.... and I wanted to hear your voice too.”

There was sincerity there, but you don’t let yourself fall for it.

“But how long will it be before I get to see your real face? –– Without meeting you in a dark alley all alone.”

“Hm?”

“My friends are convinced that … you’re lying to me. In more ways that one. With the profile, with the pictures, the name.”

“Oh–– you told you friends–– uhm... Do you think I’m lying?”

“Maybe not all of it, but It’s a big world out there. And–– I don’t know.”

“But seeing my face would clear it up for you?”

He breathes deeply, and you can hear him clear his throat. The sheets rustle again.

“It’d be a start.”

“Mhm.”

“Make or break it, actually,” you manage to chuckle, offering him that relief. You wonder if physical attraction would be a big factor— like obviously, it would be something but…. you’ve come to know him as a person. So, do you care?

(The answer is yes, you do care, but poetically, you could enjoy his company just like this.)

BUT he is lying; if it’s not about one thing, it’s the other.

“It would definitely make me feeling a little bit better. To know that you’re not a monster under the bed, or some creep–– arguable but still.”

“I told you, I’m hot. You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he laughs with a bit of edge, treading the line.

You laugh too, tension easing. He seems like an easygoing guy, willing to be the butt of a joke with confidence.

“That has a totally different effect, hearing you say that out loud. It’s still weird.”

“Well, what do you think I look like? Based off–– based off what you have.”

“Well, I hardly have anything so…. I don’t know. I want to say ‘tall, dark, and handsome,’ but I’m pretty sure you have… fair skin, brown hair and… nice shoulders? That’s all I got.”

“You’re 3 for 3 so far.”

“You’re just saying that.”

Pause.

“Sorry it’s taking so long.”

“Yeah, you’re weird.”

You’ve already flipped the a million possibilities of who he could be. Nothing would even surprise you anymore. But listening to his soothing voice has calmed you like the way his words always have. The conversation flows over you, and you slide deep into your bed.

You pull the covers up over your shoulders, swimming in your thoughts. It shouldn’t be that hard to reveal himself, should it? You’re both investing time into this–– reckless and blind as it may be. You would need to know eventually. You’re not being unreasonable.

Right?

“If…. If I show you my face, properly, will you keep it a secret?” There’s an anxious tone in his light voice. Every syllable ended with uncertainty, as if he didn’t believe what he was saying.

“If you want…? Why?”

“I just… you just need to. Please?”

“Yeah, uhm, I can do that.”

“Thank you,” and there he lets out an airy sigh of relief. You hear rustling again, as if he fell back on the bed. Ha?

You laugh in excitement at his small promise, you rub your eye with your knuckle as you tease,

“What, are you a celebrity or something?”

…

“How did you know?”

“Hahaha, shut uppp, T. I’m joking–– I just want to match a proper face to the person I’m talking to,” your laugh trails off. You swallow softly, “I have your voice now, so… help me piece it together now, please?”

He stays silent, making you second guess the sincerity that you just showed him. Before you can take it back he starts slow and quiet,

“If I do tell you who I am, would you go on a date with me?”

Your heart squeezes, and your clench your toes. This should be no surprise or celebration, to be honest, this is the point of it all. To find love, or at least the next lay.

“Well, that depends if you’re my type,” coy, coy, play it coy.

“I’m everybody’s type.” His voice rolls, deep, rough, ringing in your ears.

You blink, your cheek lifting in a half pointed smile. You return his tone,

“Ok, well, then I dare you. Show me.”

“I will. Are you free on Friday–– Tomorrow?”

“Already setting up a date? You’re getting waaaay ahead of yourself, dude.”

Pause.

“But yeah, sure, I might be free tomorrow.”

“Great,” he laughs at your switching moods. You feel that heat on your face again, shutting your eyes tight, and he offers a bit more, 

“Meet me by the beach? 9 PM?”

You scoff softly, he’s pushing it. It’s a public space, kind of not. It’ll be cool, breezy, dark… secluded.

But you could easily let someone know where you’re gonna be, and when to expect you back. Fair enough?

“Hmmm, send me a picture of yourself and I’ll let you know if I can make it.”

“Huh?”

“Think of it as insurance. Or a sneak peak,” you laugh softly, turning your cheek to rub you nose against your pillow.

He lets out a long, dry chuckle, taking a deep breath. You can hear him settle and stretch himself out too, “First thing in the morning. And text me back.”

“Sure!”

“Then... I’ll leave you to it. Good night, Y/N. So lovely speaking to you.” His voice is so heavy and warm, so close to your ear.

You’re almost disappointed that he cut the conversation short. A dark cloud of doubt looms over; maybe he needs time to fabricate a believable photo, maybe he’s nervous, maybe he’s getting cold feet.

You stumble on on what to say as you snap yourself back–– the worrying could be saved for tomorrow. For now, you’ll both savor this short, sweet moment. 

���Likewise. Good night, Blurry Boy.” 

You hear him exhale softly, and pull the phone away from your ear. You look at it in your hands, feeling your lips purse. Your face is flushed hot, and your stomach flips in anticipation.

Tomorrow.

-

“No FUCKING way,”

You open your phone first thing in the morning and... low and behold… he actually fucking sent you a picture of Tom Holland. Like he really had the guts to fucking do it. 

Come on, Blurry Boy.

This is not real. No way, no way, no fucking WAY.

You heart falls at the thought of losing this ~friendship~ or whatever it is. You put time into this and now its… kind of falling apart at the seams.

You hold your squished cheeks and spin on your heel, wondering if you should show it to Liza or Ry–– to share the incredulous feelings but… You remember The Promise.

It’s not that… big of a deal, especially since this scenario is fake as fuck, but you’d feel guilty. (damn.)

And also ashamed.

You straight up got fucking catfished.

Like he really had you in the snares.

There’s no way that he’s Tom Holland, and even if he “was” there’s no way that Tom would be in your city. And even though he’s a fucking liar–– keeping this a secret for another day or two… wouldn’t hurt anyone.

God.

You fall back onto your couch, legs hanging over the edge as you stare at the picture. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, wondering what to say…

The words come quick.

You: what the fuck, are you joking?

Come on, he had to be pulling your leg. Or expecting you to reply like that. You dont’ know what to think, especially when it takes him an hour or two to reply. Uncharacteristic of him.

BB: I’m really not

You: dude. Shut up. You’re not Tom Holland

BB: I am. And I can prove it. Come see me tonight, please

You have to scoff, nearly throwing your phone across the room. UHM, this has sirens and red flags written all over it. Akskdfdjhfad, like??? There aren’t even words to describe this frustration and obvious deceit.

You: Uhm, no no no. Call me right now

You were more than peeved now, honestly. He promised you honesty and some vulnerability, and this is just fucking stupid.

BB: I’m sorry, I really can’t. I’m out for work right now. Meetings all day. But I PROMISE you that I’m not lying.

Ok, funny. That’s exactly what a liar would say.

You don’t bother replying back, not sure what to even say besides, “Fuck you.” But you figure that silence might be more of a sting than any words you could conjure up.

How many tricks would you fall for? This is stupid, this isn’t fair. There’s nothing to redeem here, it’s over.

He can’t just drop a tremendous bombshell, and act like it’s real??

Who the fuck does he think he is?

There’s no way he’s fucking Spider-Man, dude.

There’s just no fucking way.

-

FRIDAY NIGHT, AROUND 6 PM

BB: So… what do you think? Will I see you later? 🤞 (fingers crossed emoji)

You: I can’t believe you’re still messaging me and making jokes. This is cruel, dude

BB: I know it seems crazy, but I’m not lying. I can explain everything! But in person would be the easiest way. I’m still running around the city, but meet me at 9

You: bullshit

BB: My name is Tom Holland. I’m taking a break in this city, and I’m looking for someone to spend time with. But I HAVE to lie low. And trust you and I want to see you and I want to spend time with you

You: You know this is fucking insanity right ?? I can’t trust you. 

BB: I know, I’m sorry. But I’ll answer anything you want if you come see me

You: i don’t know

BB: well, will i see you later tonight?

…

BB: let me know if you can make it. I’ll be there regardless but…

…

BB: Hope you see you there, Y/N.

You put your phone down squinting. You’re down for taking risks and meeting new people and trying new things–– but this whole thing is just wrong. This is too unreal to even entertain. No matter how many times you say it… It won’t sink in.

He says he can’t call, he can’t send anymore pictures, he can’t facetime–– what’s with the grand reveal and security clearance? 

He’s probably gonna eat your fucking face off, that’s why.

You look back at your feet, covered in fuzzy socks. Would you even get out of this blanket burrito to meet A Guy?

(Much less, a guy who definitely wants to wear your skin.)

It’s after classes and work and your social life, you don’t have anything planned for today. Your friends are off on dates with one another doing god knows what, and you’re at home comfy in your holey sweatpants with nothing but the warmth of your laptop and chatter of a TV show you haven’t been paying attention to.

Sigh.

There’s nothing to lose–– you chant over and over. Sometimes, that mentality is what gets you to move forward and try new things. Or gets you into trouble.

Haha.

We all know you’re going to get off your ass and go, but not before checking in with a few people. ‘Cos, you’re not entirely stupid.

“Time for a Tea Party,” you mumble to yourself. You resign to text the more rational of your friends, Liza and Ry. 

Liza has the perfect amount of encouragement and honesty, while Ryan has the best common sense and gives expert.

Sorry, K, you’re too protective and sorry, Sam, you’re way to fucking chaotic.

GC: TEA PARTY

Liza: Ur actually going to MEET HIM??? 😱

Ry: you said you weren’t going to get into trouble

You: is he trouble?? Is this bad??

Ry: YES. he could be anyone. Do you even know what he looks like?

You: … not really. He hasn’t told me much about anything. But, this is like a chance to find out?

Liza: oh my god you should go. Just go and get it over with

Ry: I don’t know… this doesn’t sound like a great idea.

Liza: i guess, one of us could come with Y/N?

You: nah, I’ll be fine alone

Ry: you sure? We could hang out somewhere in the back or something

You: no, it’s okay. I’ll just let you now when I go and drop my location with you

Liza: Phew! This is going to be SO messy. I love it. Can’t wait to hear back from you.

Liza: If we hear back from you 👀 (side eye emoji)

You: Ha ha, this is my actual life you know??

Ry: you only live once

Liza: And pls live long enough to tell your friends what happens

You: so supportive

Liza: love you! Wear your cute undies just in case!

Ry: bring pepper spray

You: Got it

You’re thrown into a frenzy. It’s like 7:45 PM now, and you haven’t showered yet, you haven’t decided what you’re going to wear or how you’re going to get there–– and more importantly, you haven’t fucking texted him back yet. 

And he hasn’t sent you anything else.

Oh, the mind games.

The way he’s making himself sad and vulnerable, but mysterious and coy.

While you get to choose to be the sucker, or the loser.

Lose, lose with great odds.

You turn on the shower, stepping into the warm steam to clear your mind.

It was made after all, you were going to meet him.

-

Yeah, you were going. But you still haven’t said anything. 

You don’t want him to know–– so you could totally just walk the other way if you see something that you don’t like. 

I mean, he knew what you looked like though. Hell, he even compared you to his ex-girlfriend, so… might as well keep the upper-hand and peer from the shadows first.

Or give yourself a head start to run away.

Though, running through sand would definitely be a big fucking obstacle.

You reach the end of the beach, standing atop beaten wooden stairs. The breeze stings your cheek, and it’s a lot colder than you thought it would be.

You’re wearing some dark high-waisted jeans and a simple pair of slip-on sneakers. You didn’t exactly know what “this” was, a date or a revelation or a sacrifice, so, naturally, you didn’t know what to wear.

Haha.

You hug yourself, your thin white billowy top fluttering lightly in the wind. Your fingers clutch at the flowery-embroidered designs on the sleeves, looking a lot like a pure maiden in distress. (Cos you sure as hell are.) You wore light makeup, and your hair was still a bit damp. The salty air was turning it coarse and wavy–– no complaints about that.

You paired this all with the bravest face you could muster

T, Blurry Boy, Tom Holland Imposter dropped this location with you, and figures that it’s on a secluded section of the beach.

You follow well-trodden paths, softly listening to music as you make your way. One earbud in. You should be thinking about a million things right now, but your mind is totally blank.

No expectations, nothing to go off of. 

As you near your destination, you look out at the water. The ocean is dark and looming; you can hear her soft waves crash over your soft music. The moon casts a silvery glow, and you can’t see colors anymore. Just white, gray, and black. Shining and still. 

It feels calm, like you’re watching a silent movie. Like you’re alone.

Only you’re not.

You see “him.”

A lone shape kicking sand with hands in their pockets. Their hood was up and back facing you. 

Great.

You hang back in the distance, weighing your options. You could still leave–– fear fully settling in after you see an actual person where they said they would be. He seems… harmless enough, like a regular guy and–– ah, fuck.

He turns around.

You see him, seeing you.

He pauses, then leans forward to get a better look.

You freeze too, holding your breath.

There’s nowhere left to duck and hide. It’s just you and some piles of fucking sand.

And him.

Oh, god.

The figure raises their hand, fucking waving. Then they start moving towards you, picking their feet up high to trek over the sand.

Fucking hell, you could turn away now but you don’t. You let out a shrill, grating laugh and square up to meet him halfway.

Their shape isn’t getting any clearer–– especially now that they’re facing away from the moon. His face is shadowed and hard to see, but you get close enough to see him.

I––

“Hey!” he excited calls out, catching the shine of his smile…. And…. you’re speechless.

Jaw to the floor, eyes as wide as dinner plates, speechless.

He keeps talking, smiling with his eyes crinkled as he gets very very close to you. You could smell his musky cologne, mixed with ocean spray, and disbelief. His voice is low and coated with tired happiness,

“Oh my god, I’m so glad you came.”

His voice breaks at the end, broken in more ways that you can understand at this moment. You’re just so confused––??

He can’t stop grinning, eyebrows sloping downward as he lets out an airy sigh of relief. He looks up towards the sky for a moment, moonlight catching on his cheeks and nose. Glimmering.

Wait, wait, wait––

When he comes back, he does another thing you can barely wrap you head around–– he hugs you.

He reaches forward, giving you ample time to turn away (but you don’t), and hugs over your shoulders. You felt a human weight on you, the side of his hoodie smushing against your face. 

And… you slowly hug back around his waist. Your left hand awkwardly pats his back as he mumbles,

“Sorry, this is too much. Sorry, God. Thank you.” 

He doesn’t make any motion of moving away despite his words. You can feel his warmth, and slightly desperation in the embrace; something that feels a lot more intimate than you were prepared for.

“Thank you.”

“It… It’s okay,” you murmur back, doused in shock. And shock is better than terror, right?

You pull away, squinting your eyes and making a face. His hands fall off your shoulders, and quickly shove themselves into his pockets. He gives you a moment. A well needed moment. When you open yourself back up, your brain is able to process a few more things.

He’s standing there in some dark denim jeans, clad in converses, which seems like a horrible decision for the beach, a dark green hoodie pulled up over his head, another horrible decision when you’re meeting someone for the first time on a dark beach, and a denim jacket, enviable. His face is softened and friendly, lips pointed in a gracious smile, while his dark eyes twinkle even in the shade.

He senses your uncertainty as you eyes fan over his face. Your jaw was still hanging open too. He pulls his hood down, ruffling soft brown hair in an inadvertent dramatic reveal. Nice.

He scratches behind his ear, still wearing a gleeful expression,

“So… what do you think?”

What do you think???? What do you think about this situation?? His hair??? The entire man in front of you???

Or the fucking fact that he was who he SAID he was???

I can’t believe this is–– this is––

All manners and social cues and sense exit the building as you stammer brainlessly,

“You’re! You’re–– You’re Tom––”

He nods, confidently, you note. And tilts his head, locks falling over,

“I am.”

“You are.” You breath out, maybe smiling now, you’re not sure. You can’t exactly feel your face anymore. 

Your head tilts in the same direction as his, your hair falling over your collar. His eyes follow those fallen strands, before locking back with yours,

“I’m Tom Holland. ‘I told you so,’ and it’s nice to formally meet you.”

Tom Holland.

The brunette bites his lip before smiling neatly as he gets close to your again. No personal space with this guy. He sticks a hand out for you to shake.

You’re looking from the outside in as you take his hand, bobbing softly. You’re trained on the sight of his thumb holding the side of your hand, rubbing softly.

You find your way back to his face.

Exactly like the movies.

The wind blows and he turns to the side, showing you the sharp cut of his jaw, and his eye-shut-tight expression.

Better, actually.

“H… Hey, Tom. Nice to meet you too,” you finally fumble. You shake your head slightly, trying to regain that calm, collected, confidence you practiced so hard on the way here. You want to say more, but you can’t fathom what would come next, 

“Uhm, sorry, I’m… still processing.”

Tom nods, bobbing his whole body, as he takes a step forward. His smile points devilishly, way too easily. His eyebrows twitch before settling, as he lowers his head, hitting you with some sultry jaw-clenching and puppy dog eyes.

“Take your time.”

You laugh, tonguing your cheek. He does too, and you share a starry stare.

The waves crash in the distance, a white noise you were glad to have. A welcome distraction from your loudly beating heart. Something to close the gap of silence––

Only Tom couldn’t handle the lapse of quiet, after all, he gets paid $$$ by the minute. He starts conversationally, knowing exactly how to stir up your already swirling emotions.

Light, teasing, reeling you in, the brilliant boy flashes you a toothy grin and spares not a single ounce of chill,

“So… am I your type?”

Holy fucking fuck shit god damn.

You just got catfished by Tom Holland.

-

A/N: WELL, reader has been caught in the net. What do you think, is “Tom Holland” /our/ type? Adfasjdl, the whole concept of this is so funny lol. Can u imagine seeing the man you saw movies screens… waiting for you in person??? Unfathomable. Anyway, sorry the past two chapters have just been build up,, there’s gonna be a lot of mushy stuff coming up soon. Thanks for your patience!

It’s really hard to find time to write, but yeah taking smaller chunks like this makes it easier for me. Expect updates every 1-2 weeks, usually around Sat-Mon nights. Thanks so much for keeping up!

And you know what to do, please like and comment and reblog! It keeps me going :)

All my love,

Madmadmilk 🥰

** i do NOT keep up with a taglist. track #one after the one to keep up with the updates, or check out my masterlist! thanks!

[wendibird]

SPN 15X16 Observations

Alrighty folks! This week, both my TV AND internet were working! (Helped that this past week a repairperson came out and checked things out and turned out our cable box needed to be replaced because the one they’d given us was defective or something.) So, good part of that was that I was able to watch it on my actual TV! Bad news is, that meant I was left trying to take notes on my phone, which isn’t as easy for me as it is on my computer which my keyboard. But ah well. Here are my episode notes and post-watching break-down of what I thought about it. 

- getting "IT" vibes

- "IT" vibes still there

- Nyooooooom

- DEAN! YOU DIDN'T TELL HIM YOU BASTARD!!!

(FLASHBACK) - Dang Dean.... "this is our life" Even then he was trying to make Sam accept it. - Poor Sammy - That's a big gun for a little kid...

- Poor (other) kid!

(Commercial thoughts) So this is the second time this season that Cas had a conversation with Dean and then left and Dean lied to Sam about it. So Sam's in the dark still.

First time I think Dean just didn't want to admit his part in Cas leaving. This time, I have a feeling he doesn't want Sam to know what Cas (probably) said about Jack. Maybe thinks Sam will try to stop the plan. And Dean wants it to happen? Because at least this time it's not them making the sacrifice? *salty*

- Dean's pretty quick to call it. (That it's not their kind of thing.)

- Ring??

- He brought the ring back

- That woke her up

- NOW he (Dean) believes her...

(Commercial) Dean is closing down connections between him and the people he usually connects with. Like, it's harder to hold onto those. Like, he's willing to let Jack go (I think) And he was ready to write off Caitlin's brother.

Also tied up with his slef image. He thought he'd taken care of it back then. She prayed on his sense of duty and shame of failure.

Interesting that the knife wasn't really there.

Could it have killed him anyway?

- "We used to keep a lot of secrets from each other."

- I still hate how Dean gets lumped up as "Sam and Dean" as if his POV is the only one important. (Reference to what Billy told Jack to get him to agree. It was pitched as if his sacrifice to take out Chuck is the only way to earn both their forgiveness. But that's only true for Dean. Not Sam.)

- Dean knows Sam isn't going to like it. That's why he hasn't told him yet.

- BABA YAGA!!! (Wonder if there'll be any references to her hut on chicken legs.)

- *LOL* Poor bong girl.

- So, hallucinating or teleportation? (Apparently hallucination)

- Sammy to the rescue?

- Well, he got to help....

(Commercial) (Still disappointed that there was no mention of her hut on chicken legs or the fact that she rode around on a mortar and pestle. She felt more like an SPN interpretation of IT.)

- "You tell the truth more because you know that lies don't make anything better." (Is that an anvil I hear falling in the distance?) 

- Okay. That (Dean fessing-up to Sam) predictably went horribly, but I'm glad it did. I'm glad Sam had a freaking voice. And an opinion. And wouldn't let Dean talk him around. Because he's right. It was shitty to hide it from him. And the plan is shitty. He knows what it's like to be the guy who has to die to save the world. And he's right to have ethical questions.

- "You wouldn't have handled it." (Or however it was phrased is Dean's internal justification for why he's right and Sam isn't. And why it was okay to hide it from him.)

(Post-episode thoughts)

(And again, apologies if these aren't exactly coherent.)

I liked the Weechester parts. Gotta admit, it took me a bit to warm up to the new actors, but I think that's mostly because we had Colin Ford for a good long run, and Dylan Everett for a decent amount of time too. I kind of got used to them. But these two did a good job.

I felt the writing for their parts might have had a few continuity issues. This was supposed to be in 1993 right? (Have only watched through it once so far.) So Sam would have been 10-ish (depending on the time of year) and Dean would have been 14. (Probably safe to assume this wasn't intended to be early January.) And it took place sometime after the flashbacks from "Just My Imagination" but before "After School Special" or "Bad Boys" So I found it a bit odd that Sam already is being shown as not wanting to hunt. (When in "Just My Imagination" he wanted to join his Dad and Dean on the hunt. And in After School Special he was definitely not about hunting but he hadn't seemed to considered that he even had the option to try for anything else. So I found it odd that they had a 10-year-old already looking at books about going to college. I feel like maybe if this had taken place a few years later maybe that would have made more sense? Ah well, I still enjoyed it overall.

Now, about the MOTW, I was all giddy when they revealed it was the Baba Yaga. (When I was in band in college, we played a musical piece from "Pictures at an Exhibition" titled "The Hut of the Baba Yaga". And I hadn't heard of it before that so I did some research on it and found out it was basically the Russian folklore version of the Boogy Man. She lived in a hut that walked around on fowls' leggs, and she rode around on a mortar and pestle, and she was greatly feared. So, they got the "greatly feared" part right. But.... (just did some double-checking on the episode) OKAY! So, I take it back. They didn't make a HUGE deal of it, but the motel where it all happened was called the "Rooster's Sunrise". So yey! They did have a nod to the Hut on Fowl's Legs thing! And it's not anything close to a hut, but it does have wooden siding on the upper part of it. (Like, not painted wood, but wooden-wood. *LOL*) Still though, overall I was getting more of an "IT" vibe from it. (At least the old IT, with Tim Curry. I haven't seen the new one.)

I did think they did an overall good job with the creepiness factor. But in the end, it didn't feel like she had much of a personality. She was just kind of there to move the plot where it needed to go.

To me, I felt like most of the emotional weight of the episode was on the secret Dean was keeping from Sam. And you could tell that it was eating at him. But at the same time, he didn't want to go there. Because he knew Sam would react badly.

Before I get to that though, I want to touch on something I mentioned up in my notes, after the conversation Billy and Dean had. She said that she'd gotten Jack to agree to the plan by saying that the only way to earn their forgiveness was by dying to end Chuck's threat. (I know, in this episode she specifically said Dean. But in the last episode, when Jack was telling Cas about it, he'd said Sam and Dean. So either he's merged them together in his head, or Billy did when pitching it, or she just left an open implication and he took it.) Either way, there's still that idea floating around out there that Sam and Dean are a matched-set, and that what one wants, the other wants too. Despite the fact that that's not how it plays out. And despite the fact that Sam has pretty openly shown Jack that he's forgiven him, and cares about him, and that Jack doesn't need to "earn" his affection. So why is Dean the only one who matters here?

Maybe it's the writers lumping them both together when convenient? But the fight between Sam and Dean at the end of this episode shows that they're not on the same page as far as Jack is concerned, so the writers DO know. Does Billy see them as a single unit? Or is it the opposite? Has she been coming to Dean with her plans and talks because it's easier for her to manipulate him? Because Sam's the one who stops to ask things like "Does Amara deserve to die? Does Jack deserve to die? Is there another way to do this? (Should I maybe NOT lock myself into a coffin and then yeet myself into the ocean?)" She was pretty firm to Dean about "getting his house in order" because she wants the plan to go smoothly. Is that because she knows Sam could/would find a way to stop it if he's not on-board? I mean, old Death was very aware of how persistent Sam could be if he put his mind to something.

Anyway, forgive my ramblings. Most of my questions don't have answers yet, but sometimes it helps to get them actually written out.

As for the fight between the brothers at the end, I'm actually glad it happened. I get where Dean is coming from. He's focused on the goal (getting out from under Chuck's control) and especially since he and Sam aren't the sacrificial lambs this time around, he's willing to let Jack do what he needs to do in order to get the job done. Especially since Jack seems to be willing.

(Though I do have issues with the fact that Jack is willing because he thinks it's the ONLY way he can earn forgiveness. But, that is yet another parallel to Sam from S5, who not only knew and accepted that he was the only one who could stop Lucifer, but that it was all apparently his fault and he needed to atone. When in fact, he was just one of MANY who'd had a hand in the Apocalypse happening. And I'd say most of the blame for it fell on the angels and demons. Both Winchesters broke seals without knowing it. Sam thought he was outright preventing a seal from being broken. But regardless... I wonder if Sam sees this too, at least from the perspective of "I know what this feels like, and it sucks, and Jack doesn't deserve this, and there HAS to be some other way!" I guess my point is, emotional manipulation can be considered a form of coersion. Letting Jack believe that this is the only way to be forgiven, holding that forgiveness over his head... how much "free will" is actually going on here if that's why he's willing to go through with it?)

Sorry, tangents. I tend to live in them. *LOL* So yeah, while I don't agree with Dean's mindset, I do get why he feels the way he does. And I'm just glad that Sam wasn't written as "a little upset but willing to let it go." Down to his bones he knows this is wrong. And he let Dean know. And I'm also glad that he's asking the questions he's been asking. It's not a weakness as Dean kind of implied. (With the whole "you can't get the job done.") Sam isn't being wishy-washy. He just cares about what's right. Chuck or no Chuck, it still matters to him. And getting what you want "by any means"... well, he's been down that road himself. He knows how that can end. And plus, he cares about Jack. Like, genuinely cares about him, as a person. Not just what he can do for them. Not because he's powerful. But for who he is.

Also, I don't know if it was intentional, or just the way it came off to me, but I feel like... well, for a lot of this season to be honest, Dean's view of what and who is "vitally important" has severely shrunk down. To like, himself and Sam. I'm not saying he'll tell everyone to go hang. But I feel like maybe as a reaction to finding out how much of their lives were "set-up" he kind of withdrew emotionally. He's more willing to let go of other people they care about. The connections he forms don't feel as strong as they used to even a season or two ago. Like, in "The Gamblers", he felt a little sorry for the other people trapped there, but he was willing to get what they needed and get out of there. Sam was the one who insisted on trying to free them too.

And speaking of Sam, at the end of last season I felt like one of the reasons why he went along with Dean's plan (to lock Jack up) despite how he CLEARLY didn't like it, and everything about it felt wrong, was that at that point in time he severely doubted his own judgement. Because by that point, so many of his decisions which had been made with good intentions and with the best information he'd had at the time wound up blowing-up in his face. (i.e. Training the AU refugees into Hunters to help them with Dean/Michael and then after with just Hunting in general only to have most of them slaughtered by Michael. And him trying to give Nick a chance because he knew what it was like to be branded as evil for things that had been done to you. And he knew what it was like to be a vessel for Lucifer. And then when Nick went off the rails and they caught him that first time, they handed him over to Donna, because he was a human so they thought they'd let human justice deal with him. And then he escaped and hurt Donatello and was trying to free Lucifer, and Sam almost beat him to death but then stopped, because he didn't want to kill him in what he felt was cold blood. (Though I'd argue self-defense would've been valid.) After which Nick hit him repeatedly in the head with a rock and almost DID free Lucifer, which Jack stopped, but that lead to Mary's death and, and, and, the list goes on. So by the time they figured out (somewhat, I don't think they ever got the full story) what happened to Mary, I think Sam was feeling like he couldn't trust his own judgement, and so he let Dean lead. And that... didn't go well.

So I'm glad that he is starting to question again. He'd started to with Mrs. Butters but then everything seemed fine, but as they found out, he should have heeded his instincts and researched her more. And now this. At the end of last season when the idea of Jack dying/being killed came up he said he wasn't okay with it, and he did run to try to stop Dean, but I feel like there's more assertiveness behind it now. He's not saying "Please don't do this!" he's saying "This is NOT okay! I'm NOT going to accept this! No!"

So, in conclusion: Overall I liked the episode, though for me anyway, most of the emotional weight came from the secret Dean was keeping and then what happened when he finally told Sam. I did however like some of the little moments, like young!Dean's line about "We made a pretty good team." and it's callback to the Pilot episode.

I'm sorry this got a bit rambly. Again.

[trouvelle]

I love all your Heizuha contents!!!! Oneshots, drabbles, etc (memes too lol). And your ANGST FICS???? I'M DESTROYED. Just curious, if you are accepting requests, can you write happy shinran and heizuha oneshot? I need something to heal from your angsty AUs 😢😢😢😢💦💦

Hi hello thank you so much 🥺 AH YES HEIZUHA I’m HEART-EYES FOREVER 😍!! My hot-blooded Kendo boi and his Aikido (and Karuta) queen ugh they make me feel so soft. Wait—don’t be destroyed pls omg I have a shinran oneshot first for you right here! And yes it actually is a happy one. Although I gotta say I’m probably even worse at doing happy sappy fluff. But still, I hope you like this! ❤️❤️

Fandom: Detective Conan/DCMK Pairing: Shinichi/Ran Rating: G Genre/Tags: Romance, Fluff Summary: Ran hates being apart from Shinichi. All she wants is to feel his warmth next to her. 

•

Ran is happy to be with Shinichi, even if it means not being physically together and having to survive long distance.

Now she would be lying if she says it doesn’t bother her in the slightest. After they got together and she finds out that Shinichi still has to leave for his ongoing case, her initial thought is that it wouldn’t bother her. She’s grown so used to it by now. It’s not like he’s never coming back, because he always does. After all, they just started dating, and maybe this way they’ll still be in their honeymoon stage for years to come.

They have been doing alright with frequent calls and texts sent to each other. Although she is slightly upset that they can’t physically go out on any dates, hearing Shinichi’s voice always makes everything worth it. She knows she’s going to forget all this as soon as she sees him again.

She does expect Shinichi to be as sad and lonely as she is, but she never asks about it. She doesn’t want him to think that she’s already turning clingy after only a few months into their relationship. And because she is an understanding girlfriend, she never tells him how she feels about it. She has been saying “I love you” more often though, now that she’s more comfortable saying it, which he always happily returned. She never once doubts Shinichi either—he gives her zero reasons to. Besides, they have short meet ups every now and then, and those feel like they are enough for her.

There are certain things that leaves her feeling an extra amount of longing. When she sees couples out and about in the streets, or strolling around the park, or fooling around in the hallway of their school, it breaks her heart a little. She wants Shinichi by her side, to be able to cuddle into his warmth. She wants to walk next to him and hold his hand, to go to the movies and check out cute restaurants.

“I miss you,” Ran mumbles into her mic, only one side of her earphones on. She is lying on her bed, on a call with her boyfriend who is still away, on yet another case. She has to cherish all their calls together because time is all she can afford.

She traces her finger on her phone’s screen, outlining his name that’s currently displayed, yearning to touch him. She can't help but feel disappointed when all she can feel is how hot her phone is. She should probably get a new phone soon. 

“I miss you too. More than words can describe,” Shinichi replies guiltily, sad that Ran is so troubled. He has been trying to ease her pain by sneaking away to call her more often these days. He sees the longing in her eyes, always wondering what he can do for her. He hates it, hates seeing Ran’s face contort into sadness and what seems like disappointment. It never gets any easier. 

If only she knows that they are actually together literally every single day.

“Anyway, how is your day?” Shinichi asked, trying to change the subject to distract her. 

Ran huffs. “Conan-kun left on a weekend camping trip with his class. I’m worried about his safety. They’re elementary students, they’re not supposed to go camping in the mountains yet!”

Shinichi smiles fondly. Yep, he’s definitely on his camping trip all right.

“Also, it is kind of lonely here when he’s not around.” Lonelier, she adds to herself.

“You have nothing to worry about, I’m sure he’ll be okay,” Shinichi reassures, grinning.

“I suppose it’s true. Conan-kun does know how to take care of himself. What are you doing, anyway? Do you have to go soon? Can we switch to video call?” The hope in her voice is unmistakable. He purposely ignores Ran’s questions while wrecking his brain for a believable excuse to not switch to video call. But it is too late, she has already pressed the button that requested for him to accept the call.

Uh oh.

Shinichi curses silently. As soon as their cameras are on, he raises his phone up close to his face, careful to leave the streetlights out of view. “Hi!,” he says, hoping she wouldn’t detect the nervousness in his voice. Ran squints at the blurry screen. She can’t see much, but it is enough to make her whole evening better.

“You know what, Shinichi? It’s okay, you’re probably busy and tired, I understand! Have a good night or morning, wherever you are, okay?” Ran yawns, turning to lie on the other side as she reaches out to switch off her table lamp. “I’m already getting ready for bed anyway. Please stay safe out there. I love you.” 

“NO!” Shinichi yells, before realizing how loud and unnecessary it is. He stops to look around, praying that no one around him is affected by the noise he is making. Ran is decently surprised. “Shinichi, what’s wrong?”

“I, uh, I’m staking out a criminal’s possible hideout. It’s really boring here because nothing is happening so far and it’s probably deserted. Keep me me while I wait?” Shinichi asks sheepishly, belatedly realizing how dumb of an excuse he just gave. Is it even believable in the slightest? “I’m just walking around the place now,” He adds as he quickened his pace. 

Ran yawns but he can see her nodding her head in the dark. “Don’t you have to be aware of your surroundings, though? What if the bad guys creep up on you?”

“You’re right,” he says half-heartedly, not really paying attention to what she’s saying anymore. He’s trying to climb up the stairs as fast as his feet can take him. He is so close.

Ran mumbles something sleepily in return. How she wishes for body heat, but she only had her blanket to make up for the warmth. She closes her eyes, unaware that the line has gone silent. After a few more beats of silence, she hears the front door being unlocked. She sits up, suddenly alert and forgetting about her call with Shinichi. It is definitely not her father, since she can hear his snores very audibly from his room. Is it Conan, coming back from his camping trip a few days early? But—it’s literally the middle of the night, so if it actually is Conan, he has some explaining to do. She tip-toes to the door just to get ready in case it is an actual robber.

As the door unlocks and the intruder enters, Ran’s eyes widen and her hand flails around for the switch to turn one of the lights one as she recognizes the familiar silhouette. It can't be.

“Surprise.” Shinichi is standing there, smiling widely at the sight of his dumbfounded girlfriend.

Ran stares at the boy in front of her for a good while before reaching out for him in a frenzy. “You’re kidding,” she chokes out, wrapping her arms tightly around him, afraid he will be gone again as soon as she let go. 

“I’ve missed you too,” Shinichi sighs, hugging Ran back just as tight. They stand like that, hugging at the door silently, choosing to ignore the fact that her father can very well walk out of his room at any given moment. Shinichi pulls away, frowning, when he realizes that she is crying.

“Hey, don’t cry.” He whispers softly, bending his knees to look at Ran who has her head down. She shakes her head, opting to bury her face in his chest instead. Shinichi run his hands up and down her back, gently kissing the top of her head. “Don’t cry, I’m here.”

Ran looks up, a few droplets of tears streaming down her face. “That’s exactly why I’m crying! You’re back now, for.. God knows how long, and then you’re gonna have to leave me again. Probably in a few hours, or in the morning if we’re lucky,” she cries, sniffling. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Shinichi remains quiet as Ran cries her heart out in silence. Then, he very gently lifts her up, carrying her to the bedroom and setting her down on the bed. “Actually, I have a few days to spend with you.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re right. And I’m not gonna lie to you, I will have to leave again, but not until Monday. So.. I’m yours for the whole weekend.” Shinichi says, hoping for her acceptance, despite how little he is offering her right now.

“The whole weekend?” Her smile is back on her face at this point. Sounds like she will just have to make the most out of this weekend, then. It’s a good thing she doesn’t have anything yet planned. She wipes the tears off of her face. She can’t waste their time together by crying like this. “Oh Shinichi, there are so many places that I wanted to go with you to!”

“We can go anywhere you want,” says Shinichi. That already sounds perfect to him. Truth be told, any moments spent with Ran were perfect. The Where and What weren’t all that important. Like right now. Even in the dim light, he can see how bright she’s smiling. God, all he wanted to do is stare at her and admire her beauty, amongst everything else.

He hates lying to Ran, although it is done to protect her, to shield her. He will have to lie to her some more, but this time, he does not want to make any more promises he can't keep. “It will all be over soon, I promise. I’ll come home for good.” You’re my home, he wants to say.

She has missed him so much—she missed his voice, his scent, his warmth, his presence. She crawls towards him, unable to hide the overwhelming sense of hope that arises after his declaration. “Really?”

“Really.” Ran can feel the tears welling up again. This time, out of happiness. “It hurts so much to not be able to be by your side.”

“I’m here,” murmurs Shinichi quietly as he reaches out to wipe some of her fallen tears away with the pad of his thumb. “... and I’m always watching.” he adds quietly, wrapping an arm around her as he hugs her to sleep.

Ran nods in silence. She has so many things to tell him, but she is content with just enjoying his warmth and presence beside her for now. Truly, nothing can compare to the homey feeling and the familiarity of being next to Shinichi. She lets him hold her to sleep, his voice a lullaby that carries her out of consciousness.

“I’m always with you,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss her forehead, “There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

[dhwty-writes]

Chapter 16 - A Sister’s Solace

*comes running in panting with scattered notes everywhere* Hi guys, I made it on time! Last chapter before this term hits me with full force, lol First and foremost I have to thank @spiffingtea for that, who kindly agreed to continue betaing this fic (go chech out her writing, there's one witcher fic and I love it). Second of all, thanks for all your comments! That ending caused quite an uproar, huh? For all those of you wondering how Jaskier will react, here's the answer:

Summary: Jaskier has a hangover and wakes up to unexpected news concerning the relationship status of his witcher. Strangely, this isn't the worst thing to transpire that miserable day.

Read on AO3

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"And you're certain, Jakub?"

"Quite, my lord," the servant answered with a guarded expression. "The witcher hasn't returned to his chambers tonight."

"Fine," Jaskier said and took a moment to close his eyes and take a deep breath, leaning heavily against the wall. He felt nauseous all of the sudden, and not because of the overindulgence in alcohol from the previous night.

"Are you alright, my lord?" Jakub asked, obviously very unimpressed with the sudden fainting spell his master was experiencing. His servants held seldom any pity for him when they knew him to be the cause for his self-inflicted suffering. 

"Just fine," he lied. No, he was angry, and he was hurt, and he wanted to blame someone for it but couldn't. Because there was absolutely no reason for him to feel the familiar burn of jealousy in his chest.

He had never asked Geralt to keep his hands to himself, with the exception of his sisters. Besides, it was a completely unreasonable thing to do. He had his needs, after all. Jaskier should be used to it by now. Slowly, he straightened himself. "And, ah- whose bed did you say it was, that he managed to charm his way into?"

"Marin, my lord. Though I believe it was our esteemed Captain of the Guard that did the charming."

Jaskier grimaced. 'Fucking great.' The only upside to this was that with Marin at least he could be certain that his Captain would refuse if he was averse to the attention. Which, somehow, only made it worse.

"They're the talk of the castle," Jakub kept reporting as he handed him his sword belt, "and the bets have already been settled-"

"Jakub?" Jaskier interrupted him.

"Yes, my lord?"

"Please drop the topic."

"Certainly, my lord. Is there anything else?"

"You tell me. What obligations do I have to try and avoid today?" 

"Nothing but the breakfast with your family, my lord. The staff will begin the preparations for your departure to Goldfurt. And on the far end of the town, one of the tenant’s roofs caved in."

"See it repaired, if you'd be so good. Oh, and also check on the construction progress, if you will? I don't feel in the mood for riding today."

He didn't feel in the mood for anything today, to be fair. With his truly spectacular hangover it was a miracle that he had dragged himself out of bed at all. The news Jakub had just dutifully delivered, made the urge to crawl back inside nearly irresistible.

After sixteen years on the path he had experience in walking a headache off, at least. Geralt never took pity on him when he had indulged the liquors a bit too much and neither did his station. 'Your fault if you get drunk,' he remembered Geralt's gravelly voice and winced. This wasn't going to get any easier.

He could hear the clattering of cutlery already when he stepped out of the stairwell into the hallway. 'Great,' he thought, 'now I have to suffer Janina's judgemental glances as well.' As if the smell of food, chatter of three children, and a freshly broken heart weren't enough to stomach before noon after a bender.

A servant hurried to get the door for him. Immediately his senses were assaulted by a plethora of smells and sights and sounds, so many it was nearly overwhelming. Jaskier suppressed a quiet groan. He nodded along with the greetings as he contemplated the viability of at least ordering the curtains shut, so he wouldn't have to deal with sunlight, too.

Before his pondering could be considered even slightly conclusive, he was victim to a different kind of assault. "Uncle Julian!" Daria exclaimed and leapt from her seat. She barrelled into him at full force, nearly knocking them both over.

He regained his precarious balance and heard two simultaneous gasps from the table, rapidly followed by an appalled: "Lady Daria!"

"Good morning, dear," he said and forced himself to smile. "I take you had a good night's rest?"

She nodded eagerly and he would have loved to continue their conversation. Alas, his attention was diverted by the sound of a chair scraping over his parquet and the resolute click of bootheels. "I am so sorry, your Lordship," Miss Nina, the nettlesome nursemaid, said and curtsied as she tried to pry her charge away from him. "Rest assured that such misbehaviour will neither be tolerated nor repeated."

"Fear not, madam," he said calmly and petted Daria's hair, not missing how she stuck out her tongue, "for I assure you that not only do I tolerate this 'misbehaviour', I encourage it even."

She opened her mouth as if she wanted to protest before remembering who she was talking to and quickly returning to the table — which was decidedly lacking some of his guests, now that he thought about it. Janina and Józefa were present, as were Ciri and Julek, and he noticed with delight that Justyna's old chair had been placed at her rightful place. It was empty, though, as was Geralt's. 

He wrinkled his nose, about to comment on it, when Janina got the drop on him, clicking her tongue in disapproval. "She's ten years old, my lord," she said in that soft condescending voice of hers that betrayed her insincerity, "it does not befit a lady to succumb to emotional whims in public."

"Precisely, Lady Goldfurt," he teased her, "ten years in which I did not have the chance to spoil the children who share my blood and name rotten." He shot a quick glance to Ciri, who was too engrossed in the excited ramblings of little Julek to notice. "And though it does not befit a lord either, you cannot stop me from succumbing to them."

She huffed but he caught the fond smile on her face, nevertheless. 'You can't hide from me, Janina,' he thought triumphantly.

"It appears we are missing a few of our guests. Pray tell, dear one, where's your mother?" he asked as he messed up Julek's hair while walking to his own chair.

The boy flinched at his touch and just stared at him. He was evidently angry at him for interrupting his conversation.

'Curious,' he thought, but he hadn't enough time to consider it further, because Daria started talking loudly again: "She's ill. She said she wouldn't get up all day, which is a sin, Miss Nina told me so, and that a lady mustn't indulge in laziness. But if mother's a lady, and if she's lazy today, does that mean I can be, too?"

Jaskier regarded Miss Nina with a quizzical gaze, wondering why on earth Justyna had hired such a dour and stern woman. Coming off her own experiences with nursemaids, tutors, and governesses, he would have thought her inclined to a more lenient hand. 

“Uncle Julian?” his niece demanded his attention again.

"Well, I suppose you could be," he answered slowly as servants filled his plate with food he wouldn't eat, "but I assure you, your mother won't be lazy the whole day." Talking to children was as worse a minefield as any politician.

“But mother said-” she protested, and he quickly raised his hand to interrupt her.

“No, she won’t,'” he said exasperated, much too tired to deal with this whirlwind. “I'll see to it personally.” If he had to be out of bed, Justyna had to suffer with him. It hadn't been him who had cracked open that fourth bottle of wine, after all. "Also, if you're lazy you won't be able to train your swordsmanship. I was under the impression you were looking forward to them."

She gasped and nodded eagerly. "I am, I am."

"Good. Then eat up, dear one. You shall start with them today."

Józefa cleared her throat and speared a piece of bacon onto her fork. "If her teacher has the grace to show up," she remarked with a secretive smile, and plopped the food into her mouth.

He furrowed his brow and decided to try the food after all. That way at least he could blame the bile in his mouth on something else than his sore ego. ‘Not that I have any reason to feel like this,’ he reminded himself.

He had almost gotten through a slice of bread when the doors burst open and Geralt stumbled in, still closing the uppermost buttons of the crumpled doublet he'd worn the day before. Silence fell over the room as all eyes turned to him. He looked up from what he was doing and froze. Jaskier imagined he even winced when he saw him, wearing saffron yellow and not even blinking as he raised his chin a little. "My lord," Geralt broke the silence.

Jaskier took his time before he answered, his eyes still raking over his rather dishevelled appearance. Hair unkempt, sleeves uncuffed and the breeches haphazardly tucked into his boots, Geralt was the very image of what he'd liked to jokingly, affectionately even, call 'harlotry'. Fuck, there was even a line of fading love bites disappearing into his collar.  

"Witcher,” he answered icily.

This time he did flinch, Jaskier was sure of it. The Viscount didn't care for it, nor did he for the sheepish look on his witcher’s face when he answered: "Please forgive my tardiness. It won't happen again."

“Don’t promise me something you cannot keep,” he whispered, just loud enough for Geralt to hear. He gave himself time to see the witcher tense up before he sighed exaggeratedly. "I fear you must be forgiven. After all, I can hardly fault you for a sin I have committed myself. Now. Shall we eat?"

Geralt stared at him unblinkingly and Jaskier could see the cogs turning in his head. His eyes flickered away from him to Janina and the empty seat next to her that was rather obviously not his. If the nursemaid and two children on its right were not enough of an indicator, the lilies of the valley that decorated it certainly were. His own chair had been transferred to the other side of Józefa and he moved slowly towards it, all muscles tensed. Only when he sat down and began eating in silence, the conversation started up again.

Jaskier tried to stomach at least a bit of the food - he knew it would help him - and drank an entire pitcher of water during breakfast while he entertained all three of his young guests with tales from his youth; pointedly leaving out any details of the particularly vicious pranks in hopes that would help circumvent a repetition.

The whole time he could feel Geralt’s stare burning on his skin, tracking the reflections of the velvet with his every movement as if he tried to scorch the offending garments off his skin. He made a point to ignore him. The shock of the revelation that the witcher liked the bright tones of his clothes still sat deep in his bones, and he wasn't quite ready to process the implications of that confession, yet. Besides, the very same day the witcher had gone and slept with Marin.

Janina was the first to leave, claiming that Jakub had asked her to oversee the repairs of the tenant’s roof. And while she certainly wouldn’t be of any help, the peasants delighted in seeing their lords’ and ladies’ faces from time to time. He was only too glad to let her relieve him of that responsibility. 

The children were herded off next, Miss Nina insisting they should change out of their finery for Sir Geralt to teach them. Only Józefa remained, stubbornly trying to incite a conversation with Jaskier, who kept glaring at Geralt just as intently as the witcher. He needed all of his concentration to dodge his gaze.

“-don’t you think, Julek?”

“Hm,” he answered.

"Oh, I see.” She smiled and pushed her chair back. “Good day to you, then, brother."

With that she was gone, leaving him alone with his witcher. The silence stretched on and on and on, as they both stared at each other while trying to pretend not to. He wondered how long it would take this time for Geralt to crack. It had become a fun little game in the past few weeks, seeing how long he could tease the witcher with silence before he just couldn’t take it anymore. He was determined to find out how far he could take it for Geralt to admit he missed his chatter. If only it hadn’t left such a bitter taste in his mouth just now. 

The door cracked open and Marta peeked her head through. She paled as she saw them sitting there. “Oh, Melitele have mercy,” he could hear her say faintly. “Please forgive me.” 

The door clicked shut again and the interruption was finally enough for Jaskier to rise to speak; "You know, you could at least have gotten changed, witcher. This is no way to greet polite company."

Geralt shot him a look of pure contempt, but said nothing at all. Jaskier wished he would, for he could imagine a plethora of barbed comments he would've gotten as an answer so very long ago. With his never-ending string of dalliances, he had heard hundreds of them. 

"Maybe I should be offended,” he said coolly, “that after welcoming you in my home and offering you my protection, you disrespect my sister and her children in such a way.” 

His gaze flickered pointedly to Justyna’s untouched plate. “Maybe you should be, Lord Lettenhove.”

The words stung worse than any punch he’d taken, and it was all he could do not to physically recoil from it. ‘Fuck’, he thought and bit down hard on his lip. ‘Janina might think me our father, but I can’t.’ He averted his gaze. “I am not.”

“Are you sure, my lord? You seem awfully prickly this morning.”

‘Don’t test me, Geralt.’ “I am sure.” He wet his lips, weighing his next words carefully: “I know how much you detest mingling with company. So, I gather you’ll thank me that your absence will be excused from any further informal gatherings in my home."

"Hm," Geralt answered.

"Won’t you?"

"Thank you, my lord," he said. For some strange reason he sounded as if it was no favour at all. 

With a heavy sigh he stood.  "If you'll excuse me now? I've got a sister to tend to,” he said and fled the scene as quickly as possible without running. He could barely keep his balance as it was, he didn’t need an accelerated velocity to further his malaise.

He crossed over the courtyard and slipped into the West Wing, dodging a flock of servants darting from the kitchen. When he opened the door to peek inside, he was glad to find it empty. A curtain lecture from Ana was the last thing he needed. 

Jaskier moved inside, collecting a tray as he went. He filled it with a hearty breakfast that made his own stomach churn, complete with a pitcher of water and a bottle of fine herb liquor he knew Justyna would appreciate. Or at least thank him later for. However, when he reached into the cupboard left of the fireplace. “Fuck.” It was empty.

He sighed and opened the next one. ‘There’s no way in hell she’s got none,’ he thought as he began his scavenger hunt for Ana’s magical powder that cured even the worst of hangovers. However, rifling through the cabinets as quiet as possible was a challenging endeavour on a good day. And today was not a good day. 

He whipped around when he heard someone clear their throat behind him, wincing from more than just the pain. His head cook stood in the doorway, hands on her hips with a large wooden spoon, tapping her feet impatiently. "Ana, a wonderful morning, isn't it?"

"It is, though not for seein’ you, y’little rascal," she said with a grim expression. He tried his most innocent smile and she sighed. “Y’know, Master Julek, I noticed a lot o’ my powder went missin’ the last few weeks. You wouldn’t know where it went, would ya?”

“I fear I do,” he confessed.

She snorted, not very impressed and stirred the pot that was hanging over the fire. “It’s not that I like to see you suffer,” she said and turned to him with a soft look on her face. “But I’m worried for you, m’lord.”

“Oh, Ana…”

“Stronger men than you’ve drowned their lives in a bottle, lad. Don’ do that to us.” She shook her head stubbornly. "Now, what did I tell you about my kitchen, Master Julian?"

"That I am neither to enter it," he said sheepishly, "nor to touch anything with my dirty mits."

"Out with you, then. I have work to do," she huffed and pushed past him, and he hurried to catch up with her.

"Oh, I would love that, but alas, I fear that is simply without the realm of possibilities for me. You see, it is not me I come searching your panacea for, but my beloved sister - who is in a rather grave condition, and I plan on alleviating her from her ailment. I only need-"

"Take it." She rolled her eyes affectionately and thrust a soft leather pouch into his hands. “Take care of her, then. And of yourself, too, m’lord.”

He beamed. "Right! Thank you so much, Ana, I'll be on my way now." He looked over his shoulder to check for the last time that no-one was around and pecked her on the cheek. "Thank you."

She laughed and shook her head fondly. "Off ya go, lad. Don't come back soon."

"I won't, I won't," he promised and picked up his tray. He was about to try push the door open with his hip like he had seen the servants do, when Ana’s shriek stopped him. “Don’ you dare, m’lord, you’ll break all of the fine tableware you’re carryin’,” she chided and got the door for him. “Foolish lad, thinkin’ he’s got talents he’s got no business havin’- Marta, go with his lordship and help him with the food for the gods’ sake!” 

Truth be told, he was glad to get rid of his paraphernalia. That way he could at least be sure all of his offerings would actually arrive unscathed. Marta was able to open the doors with her hip, although, he noticed even more impressed, she didn’t even need to, for she could balance the tray in one hand alone. He felt a bit stupid, actually, that she held the door to the North Wing open for him instead of the other way around. 

Upon his return to Lettenhove, he had been quite surprised to find out that the oldest part of the castle had transferred its occupancy to his sisters since he had last lived here. It was also the ugliest, if anyone asked him; that whole eleventh century charm did nothing for him. In his youth, it had been Uncle Albert and his family, as well as a few other lesser cousins who had claimed it, as it was tradition.

In the past, there had been three families safekeeping Lettenhove for the Counts of Hangfelt, each of the wings the seats of these lesser houses. Minus the West Wing, of course, that had always housed the kitchens and servants. But in the aftermath of great-great-grandpapa  slaying the heir of Dergetten and thus elevating the Pankratzes to nobility, he had also made sure to tie the other two houses to his by marriage and sooner rather than later, the three families had become one.

The North Tower had at least been able to retain its usage by the noble family, as home to the younger Pankratz siblings and their households once they married and reached maturity. The South Wing hadn’t been quite as lucky, as it now served as a guest wing.

‘And the East Wing is just lonely, home to none but Lord and Lady and heir.’ It always had been, as long as he could remember. But he had been terrified of Grandpa Julian as much as of his father himself. He wondered if it was something within the building that made the Lords Lettenhove so sullen and bitter. He hoped not. 

Marta deposited the tray on a table next to Justyna’s door and knocked diligently. No answer followed.

“Go back to your work,” he told her quietly, “I’ll take it from here.” He knocked again, once she was away. Nothing still. "Good morning!"

All he heard was a muffled groan and took it as an invitation to step inside, careful in first opening the door, then picking up the tray and walking through. "How are you feeling on this crisp winter's morn?" he asked, far more enthusiastic than he felt as he put it down on her nightstand.  Seeing Justyna huddled under her covers, her hair a mess and looking rather pale did wonders for his own hangover. There was even a little spring in his step when he crossed over the room to close the door again. 

"I am dying," she moaned and buried her face deeper into her pillow. "Have you come to deliver the coup de grâce?"

"Something like that," he said with a smirk and poured two glasses of the liquor. "I come bearing more alcohol."

She raised her head and made a disgusted grimace, her face wrinkled by the impression of the embroidered coverlet she hadn’t managed to take off. "You are trying to kill me."

"I assure you; I am not. Drink up. You know it'll help."

"Ughh," she said and struggled to get into a sitting position. "Cheers..." They both knocked the glass back and grimaced.

"Eugh, I hate it…” He shuddered. “Now that that's done, I brought a real cure." He took the pouch Ana had given him and deposited a good portion of it into the pitcher.

"Is that Ana’s?” He nodded and chugged one cup immediately. She sighed and accepted hers. “You're an angel."

"Don't thank me yet.” He patted her hair gently. “For although I am your saviour, I also plan to drag you out of bed. Your daughter and son start their training today, you should be present.”

“Ughh…” She flopped back against the pillows. “You’re a cruel man, Lord Lettenhove.”

“Runs in the family,” he said with a hefty pat on her shoulder as he stood up. “I’ll send a bath up. Feel free to join me on the balustrade whenever you feel like it. Just don’t take too long.”

He didn’t go down to the courtyard immediately, for he knew his legs would grow numb if he truly intended to wait for Justyna there. Instead he tried to kill time in his study, reading a bit, drafting a letter, trying not to think about Gera-

Midday was rapidly approaching when he couldn’t take it anymore and abandoned his hiding place to go watch the training in the courtyard. As much as it made his stomach churn, he couldn’t lecture Geralt about respect if he didn’t display any either. 

Maybe it would even help him to see children enjoying the lessons. While Julek didn’t seem quite as enthusiastic as the two girls he shared the courtyard with, Ciri and Daria seemed to have a great time, although Jaskier couldn’t fathom why. But they were laughing and running around and while Geralt wasn’t always gentle when berating them, he didn’t seem cruel either. Exhausted, definitely, but that was on him, and he didn’t use his students as an outlet. That was all that counted in Jaskier’s book. 

Maybe half an hour into his silent watch, Janina returned from her trip into the village. He nodded to her when she passed below, hand on his sword and stone-faced. It didn’t take much longer for Justyna to finally join him.

"You look just like him," she announced her presence and passed behind him to get to his left side.

"Don't say that."

She laughed quietly and leaned onto the railing to peer at her children below. They were just taking a break and Ciri and Daria seemed to play a game that involved slapping each other’s hands. "I see you still suffer from selective blindness when it comes to the truth, brother."

"It’s more of a perpetual nausea evoked by the memories of Lord Lettenhove."

"You and me both, dearest... You and me both..."

He glanced towards her. “You look better than anticipated.”

She chortled and played with a loose strand of hair that had slipped from her hairnet. “Is that how you acquired your legendary reputation as a heartthrob, brother? My heart would break, too, if such a gorgeous man would approach me with such a horrendous compliment. ‘You look better than anticipated…’”

“Stop flattering yourself, you menace,” he grinned. “You’re thirty-three years old, forgive me if my expectations towards your appearance aren’t too high after four bottles of wine and half of my best liquor.”

“Four? Now that explains quite a lot…” She groaned. “Are we getting old, Jaskier? Gracious gods, we are, aren’t we?”

“Soon we’ll be shrivelled as a raisin and we’ll be suffering like this after four sips of wine and not four bottles,” he lamented.

“Look who’s talking,” another voice said, accompanied by the clicking of a lock. “What am I supposed to say if you two are complaining already?” 

"Janina.” He couldn’t say he wasn’t surprised. “To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Curiosity, if you like." She took her place at his other side, her rigid posture a twisted reflection of Justyna leisurely leaning on the railing. "Worry, if you must know."

He sighed. "We've been here before."

"We have," she agreed, and her expression darkened even more when they heard a sharp call from below as Geralt announced the end of the break. 

"I see nothing much has changed..."

"This is not about our difference of opinions, Julian. But these two are not your children, nor are they orphans."

"They are my children," Justyna chimed in, "and I requested it."

She jerked her head around to their younger sister. "And what will their father say when he sees them training with a witcher?"

"Luckily, their father is not Lord Lettenhove. So, within these walls, he will say nothing at all," Justyna quipped. "Please, Janina, do us both a favour and use the eyes the gods have endowed you with. Does he seem unreasonable? Unjust? Cruel?"

"I couldn't tell," she answered calmly, "I am not the one who was trained in sword fighting."

Jaskier could feel two sets of piercing blue eyes resting on him. "He isn't," he said quietly. In comparison to his old teachers, Geralt was almost coddling his three students; he was almost gentle, even, as gentle as one could be, teaching weaponry. It wouldn't spare them the bruises and sore muscles that came with it, but no scars children wouldn't recover from. "He's a good teacher. Lord Kerton is welcome to try to stop the lessons once he decides to give up the comfort of your husband’s home, but I won't have any of that. Neither of him nor of you."

"Don't be glum, Jaskier,” Justyna tried to soothe. “You know old dogs don't learn new tricks."

"I'm neither old nor a dog, thank you very much. And besides, I like the girl well enough."

He bit back a retort about how he had just complained about her own age. "The girl, but not the witcher."

"Don't be ridiculous, of course not the witcher."

Justyna sighed and turned to face them. "Come on, Janka, it's been twenty-four years since mother died. Don't you think you should let that particular ghost rest in peace?"

"How could she," Janina said calmly, "when she lies next to father?"

"Truer words..." Jaskier muttered.

"I'd drink to that," Justyna added, "if I wasn’t convinced it’d be my death."

"Not here," Jaskier groaned, "you'd be interred in the crypt."

They all shared a grimace of disgust. "Gods have mercy on us," Justyna prayed.

"And may they grant us all a death far away from this land,” Janina added.

Jaskier couldn't help but laugh. Before he could stop himself, he pulled them close. "It feels good to have you home with me."

Justyna put her head on his shoulder and nodded, but Janina drew away quickly. "Don't overstep, little brother. I still dislike you something fierce."

"Oh, no, that feeling is definitely mutual," he said hastily.

"We're family," Justyna said, as if that explained everything. And somehow, it did. He hadn’t had a say in who were his sisters, and while he had been able to choose another family on the Path, loving either was not a choice. They didn’t bear much resemblance, he mused as he watched Geralt help Daria to her feet; besides that, he loved them just as much, just as fervently, just as unapologetically.

‘Only that I can’t seem to get rid of them.’ But then again, he didn’t want to either. He had missed Geralt terribly and though he wouldn’t admit it under torture, he had missed his sisters, too. Even Janina. ‘If I like it or not, they are the people who made me who I am today.’ 

Janina slapped lightly him on the arm. "You're a horrible little brother," she accused him, and he briefly reconsidered his feelings for her. "You dipped my braids into ink and washed my silks with horsepiss. And you," she turned to Justyna and raised an accusatory finger, "slipped me a laxative when I was about to confess my feelings to my first love! And that’s not even the worst of it."

“Now that’s not fair,” the accused answered with a sly smile, “dear Julian gave you the biscuits.”

"Ohh, I remember. I did!" Jaskier grinned. "It was that dreadful young bard father brought here one winter. What was his name again?"

"Gods, I don't even recall." Janina laughed, too. "But he always wore those horrible red boots."

"Who, the one with the mistuned lyre?” Their younger sister furrowed her brow. “Wasn't he called Ian or something?"

Janina gasped. “You’re right! Ian the Ingenious Poet, he called himself.” She made a disgusted grimace. “Come to think of it, I had a horrible taste at fourteen years."

Justyna sighed overly dramatic. "We tried to tell you, dearest sister, but you just wouldn't listen to reason. He was a horrible lyrist besides."

"He was. You ripped him a new one at age twelve.” She turned to Jaskier and poked her finger into his chest. “Another reason why I despise you."

"Oh, come on,” he taunted. “You're not an exemplary sister either. I seem to remember at least one time when you stole the sweets from the kitchen and told Ana it had been me."

"Right!” Justyna jumped to his defence. “Or that you told every maid in the whole castle I was your bastard sister by an incubus and that I’d suck their souls from their bodies with a simple kiss!"

Jaskier and Janina looked at each other and burst out laughing. "Actually," he piped up, "I helped her with that. I was the one who told Marin, and he told his mother. It was a breeze after that."

"What?!" she shrieked. "Julian Alfred Pankratz, you horrible, horrible man! How could you? I expected that kind of betrayal from her, but you?! My beloved brother?"

He shrugged. "All's fair in love and war."

She huffed and crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Well, in that case, let me tell you - that it was me who got Józefa to puke onto your first lute."

He gasped. "You didn't! That little menace, if I get her in my grasp..." Both of his sisters doubled over laughing and he joined them with no delay. A strange sight, surely, that earned them curious glances from the servants and garrison gathered in the courtyard alike. And Geralt, too, although he did his best to pretend, he wasn't staring. "Shhh, shhh," Jaskier hissed, "Marta's down there. She'd have a stroke if she saw you laughing, Janka.”

“Right, right,” his sister did his best to sober up. There was still the odd giggle escaping her lips when he looked around searchingly. 

“Speaking of Józefa, where is the runt of our litter?"

Janina sighed and rolled her eyes. "Still working on her tapestry, I believe."

"Great gods," Justyna muttered, "does she ever do anything else? Every winter the same old song. You'd thought she ought to be faster by now."

"She's also writing the odd letter or two, I believe. And reading quite a lot."

"Reading?" she asked surprised and turned to Jaskier. "Since when is she interested in books?"

He raised his hands in defence. "Don't ask me. I wouldn't know. What is she reading about?"

"Flowers, I believe,” Janina answered with a frown. “And poems."

"Maybe she's in love," Justyna suggested.

Jaskier shuddered. "I don't even want to think of that possibility. My baby sister, in love..."

Janina snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. You'd already fucked yourself halfway across the continent when you were her age."

He gasped indignantly. "Janina, such language-"

"Also," she interrupted him, "she begged me to ask your leave to visit a friend for a few weeks after the banquet in Goldfurt. She promised to return before the solstice, though."

"Well, she can bloody well ask me herself," he scoffed. "Poems..."

"A few of yours, I believe. Quite a lot of others as well. I have heard the name Valdo Marx more than once."

He groaned loudly. "Dear gods..."

Justyna grinned widely and extended her hand. "Oh, she's definitely in love. Fifty crowns say she's visiting that mysterious lover."

Janina snorted and shook her hand. "You're on. I say, she's too shy for that. Julek?"

"A hundred crowns says it's a girl," he said after a moment of hesitation.

Janina raised her eyebrows and Justyna snorted. "Sure, why not? Janina, you collect the bids?"

"Who else would?" she said and turned around. "I'll go check with the garrison."

"Geralt!" a shout rang over the courtyard and made them all stop in their tracks. Marin just left the guard room and sauntered over to the witcher. They kissed for everyone to see, shoving and swatting at each other, and laughing. Loudly. It made Jaskier’s head hurt.

"On second thought," Justyna said, "maybe do it later."

Jaskier frowned deeply and turned away. 'Now that isn't fair,' he thought. He had long resigned himself to the knowledge that his feelings for Geralt would never be reciprocated. But seeing him with the first man he'd ever fallen in love with? That was a special kind of cruelty.

Janina clicked her tongue in disapproval and shook her head. He was thinking of a witty reply, but before he could come up with anything, Justyna said with a heavy sigh: "What is it now?"

"I can't believe that your witcher really bedded the Captain of the Guard," Janina chided. "It is neither right nor proper."

"Oh, please spare us your bigotry," he replied icily. "Geralt can bed whoever he likes."

"Sure," she drawled, "which is why you're so snippy about it. Besides," she crossed her arms, "he is mocking you. And you know it."

He huffed a breath and shook his head. "I don't want to believe he is."

"Unfortunately, your wishes matter not in these affairs. It is what it is, and that is mockery."

He bit down on his lip, almost hard enough to draw blood, had there not been the comforting weight of Justyna's hand on his shoulder. "Go collect the bets," she said gently. "The depths of our sibling love are quite exhausted for today."

"Thank the gods," she responded. "I thought I wouldn't be able to shake you at all anymore." With that she disappeared inside.

"Jaskier," Justyna began, but he shook his head.

"Not now, please." Thankfully her attention was diverted by the sound of rapid footsteps on the stairs and the recurring image of an energetic ten-year-old girl slamming into him. “Jaskier!” Ciri cried and hugged him tight. “Did you watch me? Did you see?”

“I did, madam,” he answered dutifully. “You seemed to enjoy yourself a lot.”

“Thank you, Jaskier,” she said and beamed at him. 

“He speaks true, if I dare say so myself,” Justyna chimed in. You’ll best your master before you know it.” 

Her smile grew even wider at that. ‘She’s learning to trust people again,’ he noticed with relief as they conversed almost easily. A bright spot on her head caught his attention. ‘And we need to re-dye her hair.’

“As much as I'd love for this conversation to carry on,” he cut them off, “I fear I have some business to attend to." He hadn't, but she didn't need to know.

"What business?" Ciri asked eagerly and he cursed silently. He should have known he wouldn't be able to shake her that easily.

"Financial matters, dear," he lied, "it's terribly boring."

That still didn't manage to deter her. "Can I come with you?"

"Not now, cublet. You need a bath first." 'And I need to get rid of that hangover.' "Tomorrow you may, if you're still interested. I think I've got a letter or two you might want to help me answer."

"You're the best," she said and her eyes gleamed. After a short moment of hesitation, she added, half a breath, half a whisper: "Uncle Jaskier."

'Oh,' he thought as tears welled up in his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, you won't be able to convince me like that. Run along, child, I believe your cousins are waiting."

‘Waiting’ was a nice term for ‘being herded inside by Miss Nina’; still, she ran to catch up to them. “Wait for me! I want to go to the tunnels, too!”

"Try not to damage my castle too much!" he shouted after them. "Borys, see that they don't." He turned around to Justyna, who was smiling smugly. "Really? Did you have to tell them about the Tomb?" It had been their favourite hideout as kids and now she was apparently sharing their secret with just about any child she could find. 

"You're grooming her as your heir," she said in lieu of an answer. "Oh, Damian will be furious when he sees this."

Jaskier chuckled lowly. "Don't be ridiculous, Konwalia, I'm doing no such thing."

"Of course, you are! Father wouldn't even let you touch his letters until you were thirteen and everyone knew you'd be Lord Lettenhove after his death." He frowned deeply, considering her words and she laughed loudly. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me you hadn't noticed."

He hadn't, truth be told. But he guessed it was true to some point. "Hm," he answered.

"But what will your fiancée say?"

"She doesn't have to know about it," he said. "Yet."

"Don't you think she deserves the truth? Don't you think your sister does? Who is Fiona really?"

He huffed and smiled at her. "I'm afraid I can't tell you."

"What, don't you trust me?" A smile danced around Justyna’s lips. It was dangerous and poisonous, just like anything else about her.

"No," he answered earnestly. "No, I don't."

Justyna laughed loudly and patted his cheek affectionately. "Smart lad. I wouldn't trust myself either. But don't think you can keep it a secret forever. There are more people than you'd like who know that Cousin Daniela died in her cradle."

He nodded slowly. 'Fuck,' he thought. "Do you trust me?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Right... I'll tell you. Eventually. Just know that right now I can't."

"And you still expect me to protect her?"

"Never.” She might be family and he might trust her with his own life, but Ciri? ‘Two people and a dead horse.’ “But I do expect that no harm comes to her from you. She is protected by the castle peace, as is Geralt."

Justyna’s eyes flared. "What do you take me for? A monster?"

"I take you for a Baroness who dabbles in politics."

"Same difference,” she said with a smirk and Jaskier was inclined to agree. "I wouldn't have hurt them regardless, just so you know. " She turned back to the door. "Not children. Not people you love.” 

He chewed on his lip nervously. What on earth was he supposed to answer to that? 

She took the decision from him when she said: “Come, Julek. I want to visit father's grave now."

"I have business!" he tried to fend her off.

"'I have business'," she mocked him. "Who are you trying to kid? You dragged me out of bed, so now be useful at least. As useful as you can be given your current state."

She linked arms with him and began dragging him down the stairs, out of the gates where Geralt had vanished with Marin, and towards the graveyard. "So... That witcher of yours."

Jaskier sighed. "That witcher of mine indeed."

"After your songs and yesterday's tales I have to admit I am quite surprised to find him in another's arms."

"After my songs and yesterday's tales you should know that is precisely where you should expect to find him."

 “Oh, Jaskier…”

“No,” he said sharply, “don’t you ‘Oh, Jaskier’ me. I am not here for you to pity me.”

"I will do it nonetheless,” she said so quietly he suspected he wasn’t supposed to hear, before they came to a halt before the large stone monolith beneath which Lord and Lady Lettenhove had found their final resting place. Justyna untangled her arms from his and stepped forward, trampling over earth and flowers alike, to trace the engraved letters of their names. "I have to admit," she sighed, "I do feel sorry for this, mother."

"Sorry for what- Justyna!" Before he could even finish his sentence, she had gathered her skirts and crouched down. "Are you- what are you doing?!"

She closed her eyes and hummed contently; the satisfied sound accompanied by a distinct pattering that told him exactly what she was doing.

"Gods great and small, save us all," he murmured and turned his back to her. The defiling of the grave was bad enough, but he didn't have to stand witness to it.

"Ahh," she said after a while and came to stand beside him once more, smoothing out her skirts, "much better."

"Did you really have to do that?" he asked and winced.

"Julian."

"Justyna."

"I really had to do that," she said earnestly.

He huffed what might have been a laugh. "Alright then."

"Actually, I wanted to do this before even coming up to the keep, as the first act of greeting my home after fifteen years of absence. But then I thought Daria and Julian didn't need to know how terrible of a person their grandfather really was."

He couldn't help but gape, trying to process all of that. Strangely, "You haven't come home since your marriage?" was the first thing that came to his mind when he was done.

"No. You haven’t come home since going off to Oxenfurt either."

"I did last year," he tried to defend himself although he knew it was to no avail. There was a reason why he had avoided the topic until now. “Why-?”

She scoffed. "I had no interest in seeing the man who called himself our father. Not since he sold me to the highest bidder."

"Justyna, I understand your anger. But that's how things are done."

"So, you would do the same?” She whipped around to him. “You'd sell your Fiona for a dowry?"

"No!” Jaskier wanted to say something, to tell her that she wasn’t his, but not even that he could do with the nauseating memory of Count Hangfelt making his offer. “Of course not!"

She straightened herself and set her jaw. "So, you understand the inhumanity of it."

Jaskier threw up his hands. "He did it to all of us!"

"No, Julian, he didn't. Because you are here, unbound and unmarried, as is dear darling Józefa, the angel." She scoffed. "As is Jolanta in Novigrad. Only Janina and I were forced to spread our legs for men we despise and who have no qualms showing us their displeasure with their wives in turn.

"And why? Because we didn't manage to seduce a rich merchant or witcher to whisk us away. Because we had nowhere left to run but the traditions that are supposed to protect us.” She shook her head disbelievingly. “We always played by the rules, always obeyed, and what did we get in return? We were crushed by them, just like our foremothers. "

"I- I am sorry," he stammered. "I don't know what to tell you."

"Then better say nothing at all. Mutism is a blessing for the blind."

There were tears glistening on her face now, so he reached out for her. "Justyna-"

"No, don't touch me!" She batted his hand away. "You know what the worst part of this is? That I don't have any choice but to sell my own daughter as well."

"What do you mean? Your dowry-"

"My dowry! Pray tell me, where is it? All those precious jewels you see are nothing more than glass. Just... shut up, Jaskier. My dowry is long lost in whorehouses and gambling dens, squandered by my husband."

He set his jaw. "I won't let anything happen to Daria. I've got money. I can protect her."

"You can't and you damn well know it. Daria is a Kerton, just like I am. Damian can do whatever he likes with us. He ensured that when he wasted my money. And I'm going to kill him for it."

He couldn’t help his jaw dropping open. "I- He- He's your husband, Justyna,” he stammered once he had gathered himself. “Family. You can't kill him."

She scoffed and cast her eyes skyward in disbelief. "You don't understand."

"No. Maybe I don't."

Her gaze was as icy as the freezing air around them. “You don’t even try to.” With a blink of the eye she was gone, stalking back towards the castle towering above them, and abandoning Jaskier amidst their ghosts.