#some of this was written while feverish lol

[francesderwent]

Lucy Carlyle grows up surrounded by people who are already dead.

Jacobs and Lucy’s mother are both dead in one way: fear. Jacobs is afraid of ghosts, the enemy that he can’t see and can’t fight. He covers up his fear with drink and he places others in the line of fire, and the more he does this, the more the losses he does suffer are unable to touch him. He offers Lucy a job because another boy just died; this is lucky: she can have his uniform. The boy who died is left nameless; his possessions are passed on without any sentimentality, his whole existence is just an open slot to be filled with another nameless child who will, more than likely, ultimately meet the same fate. When Lucy feels that everyone is in danger, Jacobs doesn’t pull them out, because their peril doesn’t have the power to move him anymore. When he’s listening to the children scream and die, he does nothing, because his fear for his own skin outweighs anything that could happen to anyone else. He shows no remorse. He lived, and that is all that matters to him.

Mrs. Carlyle’s fear is less obvious, but just as much a driving force. The only thing she is shown to care about is the pursuit of wealth, which is all about security—the idea that no matter what happens you’ll be able to fix it because you will have the money for it, that you’ll never be caught unprepared or left helpless because you have the means to take care of yourself. But like Jacobs, it’s clear that the more she nurtured this fear and tried to protect herself in this one way, the more she became blind to what she was already losing. She so desperately wants the false security of money for her family that she sells her daughter—sells her into an apprenticeship that is the very opposite of secure, that all but guarantees her death at a tragically young age. What is the use of money if her daughter dies? But when Lucy tells her she doesn’t want to be an agent because she’s afraid, her mother cannot have compassion. She has allowed her own fear to consume her so much that she sends her thirteen-year-old daughter to face death without blinking. Only her own fear is real and important. When Lucy is the only survivor of her team, Mrs. Carlyle doesn’t wake up. She cannot be grateful her daughter survived, because she killed the part of herself that would be capable of feeling that loss in her quest to never be afraid.

In both cases, their fear makes them set out to make themselves invulnerable. They cannot let themselves be affected by anything outside them, because that way lies loss and hurt and danger. There are two other groups that appear to us in this way, unable to be affected by anything outside them: ghosts, and the ghost-locked. The ghosts cannot hear Lucy when she tries to make contact with them; they’re trapped in a loop of their own fears and anger, unable to break out, unable to be invited out. This is why the only option is to hold them at bay with iron. All they can do is hurt you—all they can do is trap you in your own deadened state, lost to every external sensation. Norrie meets this fate. She is swallowed up by the ghost-like world of the dead adults that surround them, and she can never feel the touch of anyone else ever again.

Lucy walks away from this world, and straight into Portland Row.

Lockwood obviously has issues around vulnerability. But actually, he is not dead in this way. He does care for George and Lucy. We see that constantly on display, and it’s not a front. Lockwood’s weary gratitude when he’s just been interrogated by DEPRAC and asks George to make dinner, promises to love him forever—that’s real. Lockwood’s panic when Lucy is channeling Annabel—there’s no selfishness or self-protection in that, that’s him worried about her, concerned about her safety. He’s openly desperate when he thinks Lucy is leaving the company; he rushes in with no dignity at all when George is cornered by Barnes and Kipps’ team. Clearly, Lockwood is not afraid to let other people have an effect on him—from the moment Lucy walks in the door he’s letting her write her name on his heart. He literally welcomes George and Lucy into his home.

But the thing is, precisely because he cares about them, he is afraid of losing them—afraid of losing them because he has already suffered loss and knows exactly how devastating it is. But instead of reacting like the deadened adults, instead of refusing to let himself be affected by others, he tries to shield them from being affected by him. He gets close to them; he doesn’t let them get close to him. He doesn’t use them as tools so as to protect himself from feeling their eventual loss; he sees them in all their glory as full human persons and loves them as such. But he won’t appear as fully human to them, in an attempt to protect them from feeling his loss. He tries to be larger than life, he keeps his plans to himself until they’ve already worked, he’s literally always wearing a costume. He is vulnerable to them, lets them into his heart—but he hides his vulnerabilities from them, hides the things that would give them the context to understand him and love him back on equal footing. He lets them into his home, but he doesn’t let them into the room on the landing. He’s not dead, but he’s not whole.

Jacobs and Mrs. Carlyle try to protect themselves at the expense of everything else, even those they should love; Lockwood tries to protect those he loves, even at the expense of himself—even at the expense of his own life. He interposes himself between Lucy and George and danger. He cares about their fate so much that he makes it his own. He doesn’t want to be a person, a friend who can be cherished and lost. He wants to stand between the people he loves and death, running faster than them so he crosses the finish line before them, so they never have to. When Winkman tells him, “I’ll kill her last, so you don’t have to watch,” that is, in a way, what Lockwood’s goal is. He’s horrified and heartbroken by it, but that is what succeeding looks like, according to the way he arranges his life. This is why the DEPRAC agent’s death absolutely breaks Lockwood’s composure, undoes him so thoroughly. Lockwood’s job, his whole purpose is to jump on the grenade. He cannot let anyone else do it. He cannot let anyone take responsibility for him, he cannot let anyone value his life above their own, or the pressure of their sacrifice falls on him like a weight too heavy to carry. When the agent dies for him, Lockwood cannot be larger than life “Anthony Lockwood of Lockwood & Co” anymore, the image starts to choke him. He can’t pull himself back together until Lucy asks him to, until he remembers that she still needs him, that there is still someone for him to save.

He can accept his own death, but he cannot fathom someone else’s. Everybody knows that everybody dies—especially Lockwood. He’s accepted that incontrovertible fact that everyone else is running from. The only part that he’s still running from is the meaninglessness—his family’s deaths were senseless to him and so he’s running headlong toward death in action, because if he has to die, he’s going to do it for a purpose. “There’s ghosts and there’s us, and it’s kill or be killed,” he tells George, and he means it. Those are the terms Lockwood has set for his life and death.

And so, Lockwood appears as a walking memento mori, a reminder of death—not to himself, he needs no reminder, but to everyone else who would rather avoid that reality. Barnes, Flo, Kipps—these are the people who call out his recklessness. They do care about him, to different extents, but they have all also deadened themselves somewhat. Barnes has seen too many agents die, and there’s only so much he can do to protect the ones under his supervision. Flo ran from the ties of society and set up on her own where she wouldn’t have anyone else to lose. Kipps wants to believe that Lockwood & Co are ridiculous amateurs, that the prestige and orderliness of his world at Fittes make him superior to all the agents who lose their lives in the line of duty. They aredeader than Lockwood, because they have not faced the truth of the world the way he has, have not let themselves feel it. He’s a spectre of everything they’re trying to avoid—but because his invulnerability goes the opposite direction, he doesn’t appear dead himself the way Jacobs and Mrs Carlyle obviously do. He’s outwardly fearless of everything that terrifies them, and so he appears alive, even as they’re wondering how he hasn’t died yet.

And here’s the kicker: it’s not completely off base that he seems alive. What makes people dead is fear—and Lockwood has the capacity to be courageous. Chesterton has a salient quote in Orthodoxy: “Courage is almost a contradiction in terms. It means a strong desire to live taking the form of a readiness to die….He must not merely cling to life, for then he will be a coward, and will not escape. He must not merely wait for death, for then he will be a suicide, and will not escape. He must seek his life in a spirit of furious indifference to it; he must desire life like water and yet drink death like wine.” The show isn’t an arc of Lockwood learning not to risk himself, learning to fear for his life and become a coward—it’s an arc of learning true courage, which requires that he value his life enough to only risk himself for things that are really worth it.

This is what only Lucy can see and understand, and this is what she means when she asks Lockwood to be the right amount of reckless—she understands that they have to take risks, that they can’t let themselves become deader than dead in their endless pursuit of self-preservation. But she doesn’t see Anthony Lockwood the walking reminder of death, or Lockwood of Lockwood & Co, the competent and fearless leader. Despite everything Lockwood does to hide from her, she sees him as a person, and a person worth protecting. Facing the Hope House ghost without any iron chains wasn’t worth it—if they lost the job they could have gotten another one. Infiltrating the Winkmans’ shop and then the auction wasn’t worth it—it wasn’t their job alone to retrieve the bone glass, the bet with Kipps was stupid. But if Lockwood had died in that last battle in the cemetery, holding back Winkman and his thugs so Lucy could save George from the bone glass, it would have been a noble sacrifice. He and Lucy agree: if there’s anything worth dying for, it’s George. With her to hold him back, Lockwood has learned not to chase after death in the line of duty—but rather, to chase after loving sacrifice.

By the logic of fairytales (and Christianity), because this time he is really laying down his life for a beloved friend and not throwing it away for an excuse, he doesn’t lose his life, doesn’t become more deadened. He really gains his life. He falls into the grave, and the friends he fell for are there to catch him and bring him back up to the surface. He gets to see the sunshine again, as if for the first time.

Before, his sacrifice couldn’t really be sacrifice, because the two ways that he tried to protect Lucy and George were incompatible. Because he tried to hide himself from them, it was impossible for his placing himself in danger for them to be understood as an act of love. It couldn’t be a gift of self, because he was doing everything possible to ensure that there was no one who knew him well enough to receive it—he was trying to make a gift of that which he had intentionally hollowed out.

But once he chooses real sacrifice, the logic of self-gift is not the logic of death, and so it can guide the whole of his life, not just the dramatic last stand. Lockwood finds himself capable of making a gift of himself: he can let himself be seen. He can place his heart in their hands. He can finally let them into the room on the landing.

Spoilers for books 3 through 5 follow below the cut.

Obviously Lockwood doesn’t get as powerful a callout from Lucy in the first couple books as he does in the show, but I think we do see a more drawn-out version of the same arc play out over the whole series. Lockwood’s recklessness becomes less and less a general disregard for his life; that is why Lucy leaves at the end of book three, because the times he’s come closest to dying were about saving her. At the beginning of the book he nearly breaks his head at the top of the steps diving to save her, and at the end of the book he is nearly torn apart by the poltergeist because he is trying to make sure she gets out. Lucy leaves to save Lockwood, to keep him from making those sacrifice plays—but (this is important) he’s worse without her. Even on page, when he fights the giant’s ghost unarmed, when he infiltrates Winkman’s to get the skull, when he stays behind in Rotwell’s to find out the truth, it’s all with the understanding that Lucy is essentially lost to him. This is a Lockwood who doesn’t have her to die for. What it proves is this: she can’t convince him to value his life by removing herself from the equation. When he doesn’t have someone to care about, a reason to give his life, he falls back on throwing it away. All she can do, she realizes, is be near him, cherish him the way he wants to cherish her: show him that he is as worthy of being sacrificed for as she is. She follows him in Rotwell’s, walks through the iron circle into the other side with him. She goes after Marissa in the final battle, so he doesn’t have to. She stays with him when he tells her to leave.

He's not dead. He’s very alive, precisely because he has not let death isolate and paralyze him, because he has something he loves enough to die for it. But the flip side of that is: in the eucatastrophic moment where Lucy and Lockwood are thrown clear of the explosion, spared the death they have learned not to fear by the one person who feared death more than any of them, Lockwood finds himself in possession of his life. Not from grasping after it with fearful hands, and not from trading it for the life of someone he couldn’t bear to lose. Just given it. And because he has something he loves enough to die for it, when he doesn’t die, he can live for it, too.

[sitp-recs]

top 10 drarry fics by the sheer force of the feels they gave you? not necessarily good feels! things you remember primarily because they hit hard in some way.

obviously, i'd also love to hear exactly how/why they hit hard if you're up for sharing that!

Oh that’s such a wonderful ask, thank you! I’m sorry for the late reply, the 10 fics came easily bc whenever I see those titles I get immediately transported back to where I was and what I felt reading them for the first time. But putting into words what exactly makes them heartkick-y for me was a bit more challengeging. It’s usually a “when you feel it you know it” kind of thing (and quite literally too, as sometimes it manifests as an actual physical reaction!) but more often than not the fic just clicks for me and there’s no rationale behind it. As Clarice Lispector said: “I suppose that understanding myself is not a question of intelligence but of feeling. It either touches you, or it doesn't."

Anyhoo, I tried my best to keep this short and sweet but since I’ve written individual recs for almost all these fics, I thought I’d include them too :) thanks again, this was super fun! And I’d love to read about your picks as well 👀

An Emerald In The Sky by corvuscrowned | my rec

it doesn’t get more romantic than star-crossed lovers doomed by time travel!!!! (see also: my thoughts on The Eighth Tale by lettered). this is my brand of melancholy, something about the constant yearning, the beauty of stolen moments in liminal space, the unfairness of it all… ugh

Far From the Tree by aideomai | my rec

fft has altered my brain chemistry and ruined me forever with its tender devastation, I had such a visceral reaction to it - to the point of feeling dizzy and feverish. a simple time travel concept (this is my kryptonite istg) but the epic storytelling! the gratification! the bittersweet ending! rereading it would kill me but what a way to go

Forgive Those Who Trespass by Lomonaaeren

easily one of the most haunting and terrifying fics I’ve ever read, one jumpscare after the other but so creative and well-written I was too busy collecting my jaw from the floor to talk myself out of it lol

Little Compton Street by writcraft | my rec

as a queer woman, this one feels extremely personal and is very dear to my heart. I’ll never forget the emotions I felt learning about queer history and finding a sense of peace and belonging. lcs feels like coming home 🏳️‍🌈

Little Red Courgette by blamebrampton

this was my first bb fic and their sense of humor just blew my mind. I was so impressed by the smooth world building, by their wit and clever political commentary. I just couldn’t stop laughing. the dialogue is so good it makes me wanna weep, I can’t explain how much joy and comfort this fic gave me

Merlin Works in Mysterious Ways by lordhellebore

full disclosure: my reading experience was shaped by the fact that I didn’t realize the tagged disability would be major and permanent 🤡 by the time I noticed I was so emotionally invested I couldn’t stop. one of the most painful reads I’ve ever endured, worth it tho

Running on Air by eleventy7 | my rec

introspective fics are my jam and this one was just what I needed while working through some shit at a turning point in my life. so I guess it was more about finding the right fic at the right time, and I’m hit by mixed feelings of catharsis and nostalgia every time I revisit roa.

Still Life (orphaned) | my rec

my definition of a perfect shortfic. gorgeous prose, flawless execution, the “nothing is happening but everything is changing” vibes I live for, one of the best Harry pov I’ve ever read and an ending that always makes me gasp in awe. few authors can write complex emotions so effortlessly as seefin, absolute masterclass

Super Rich Kids by trishjames | my rec

criminally underrated, this story broke my heart but also gave me such a THRILL. I usually avoid substance abuse in fic but something about Draco’s spiral journey felt so raw it kept me at the edge of my seat. devastating but also a surprisingly funny and exciting thriller. the range!!!

The Long Fall by tackytiger | my rec

as someone who’s never been into kid fic and family dynamics, this was a punch on the solar plexus and rearranged my whole view about this trope. I was deeply moved by Harry’s longing for a family of his own and despite not having or wanting kids, this still felt really cathartic and changed me in a way I can’t quite explain.

[rivalriotrenegade]

Nikto x Reader

@oleworldblues Saw your post saying there needs to be more Nikto content and I got you! So hope you like this, it's not the best but it's what I got!

Side Note: Nikto has a form of D.I.D and often refers to himself as “we” which is why it’s written like that in the story.

About: Nikto x GN reader. This one was written in about 20 minutes and edited in 5 so it’s kind of sloppy, but still sweet. Not my best work lol. The story is just you calling him pretty. Also the use of “Andre” which is going to be his actual name in the story. 

Warnings: CHEEEEEEEESY to the MAX! Also some slightly toxic behaviors. Nikto went through a lot and hurt people hurt people, but basically he tries to use his height to ever so slightly intimidate reader for like .05 seconds. Also descriptions of kissing? Is that a warning? 

Summary: Nikto does not think he’s beautiful, if anything he thinks he’s the exact opposite. It had taken well over a year of dating before he was comfortable enough to show you his face. After seeing him maskless for the first time you began to call him “My pretty boy” He hated it at first. Honestly he thinks you’re trying to be cruel. After a while of bottling it up he finally explodes. 

It was about 10:30 at night and you're just starting to make some late night spaghetti. You knew he had a rough few weeks with KorTac and thought it’d be nice for him to have a home cooked meal. You had just put the hamburger into the sauce and realized you needed something to stir it with. “Hey pretty boy, can you pass me the spatula?” You ask.

You're caught off guard when Nikto, who had been quiet most of the night, suddenly explodes. “Don’t call me that! I am not pretty!” He snarls. You cock your head to the side not sure where all this anger is coming from. “But I think you’re pretty. Are you telling me that my opinion is wrong?” You question. 

“You’re lying! You’re lying! Do NOT lie to us!” He hisses, stepping into your space caging you between him and the counter, purposely looming over you, trying to make you back down. His eyes are wide, wild. He’s looking at you like he doesn’t know you. Your own eyes soften. It’s not the first time something like this has happened. “Oh Andre.” You say slowly reaching up to cup his face. Nikto flinches back slightly before letting you touch him. You gently caress his face. “I’m not lying. Have I ever lied to you?” You ask.

Nikto hesitates for a moment taking deep breaths trying to ground himself before whispering out a hoarse “no.” He pauses before continuing his voice cracking, “But I can’t be pretty.” You cradle his face in your hands and carefully pull him down so you’re almost eye to eye. “But you are.” You say. “You are the most beautiful person I know. You have gone through some horrible things and you survived. To me these scars are proof of how strong you really are. There a reminder that you came back alive, so how could I think that they'd be anything less than beautiful?”

Nikto stares at you, his eyes unreadable. He stares at you until it’s just bordering in to the territory of being uncomfortable and then before you even know what was happening, he’s kissing you. Usually his kisses are rough and dominating, but this one is desperate. He’s kissing you like this is the last time he’ll ever see you. His hands grip at your hips, fingers digging into your flesh, determined to keep you there. 

He sucks on your bottom lip and when you part them he shoves his tongue into your mouth. He’d never admit it, but you swear you hear him whine against you. His movements are frantic, feverish. Like any space between the two of you needs to be all but eradicated. When he pulls back your both left breathless and panting.

He then pulls you into his arms and buries his face in your neck. “I love you.” He breaths. You smile, rubbing his back up and down to sooth him. “And I love you too, my pretty boy.” 

(You swear you feel him cling to you a little tighter)

[anony-man]

A little (lol) Texaid drabble written for a good friend in celebration of her and her partner’s wedding anniversary. Hope you enjoy, @siberat!

Given both their respective places in the world, it seemed unnatural to have spent almost an entire day doing what most would consider normal activities. Usually, when First Aid got the chance to sneak off and spend a little one-on-one with Vortex, their time was occupied with quick, feverish touches behind thin, closed doors and wary glances cast around the room once they’d both settled in for some sleepy snuggles. Today, however, things were different—much different.

The start of the weekend hadn’t exactly been abnormal, at least. A private ping from the Combaticon coincided almost immediately with the end of his shift, and First Aid was far from surprised to find that Vortex had requested he come over for the night… and the morning. What had surprised him was that when they woke up the next day, Vortex seemed far more affectionate and doting than he usually did, but without an apparent reason.

Sure, First Aid thought, Vortex tended to go through phases of being affectionate and obsessive then distant and cold, but something seemed different this time around. He tried his very best to determine just what the reason could be, but Vortex’s vague behavior didn’t help much. His uncharacteristic suggestions of pleasant, domestic plans to spend the day and strangely tender shows of affection were also rather confusing, but as the hours passed, First Aid eventually just decided to roll with it. He was enjoying himself, after all.

The day had been a pleasant one, though First Aid was a little surprised at the things Vortex had suggested they do together. A walk through one of Cybertron’s prettier cities had come to a rather sudden halt after Vortex announced they had an appointment booked for a full-body wax job and tune-up. It was a little strange, First Aid had thought at the time, but stepping through the shop’s doors and smelling the soothing scents of high-quality waxes and other earth-inspired fragrances had instantly put his wandering mind to rest. One hour-long session later, and First Aid was feeling more refreshed than he had felt in years.

Following the appointment had been a trip to one of First Aid’s favorite restaurants, which was a bit of a surprise to him. As far as he knew, Vortex never cared much for the dishes inspired by earth culture and human fuel, but First Aid had been overjoyed to get the chance to sit down and indulge in some of his favorite foods and sweets, all while Vortex sat across the table from him, sipping at a glass of engex and smiling every time First Aid gushed over the addictive flavors of his meal’s next course.

Now, having finished their walk through the town, a visit to the wax shop, and a rather delicious dinner, they were sitting outside, a comfortable silence filling the air between them. Vortex’s seemingly well-organized and long-planned adventures for the day had landed them out on a park bench in the center of one of Cybertron’s prettier cities, their comfortable seat overlooking a span of galaxies beyond the atmosphere.

First Aid, for his part, was a little unsure about being ntimate in such a public setting, but Vortex hadn’t hesitated to stretch an arm over the back of the bench in a successful maneuver to pull First Aid’s frame flush against his own. After a moment of stiff silence and a small tilt of his helm to catch a glimpse of the arm that had so comfortably rested over his shoulders, First Aid gave in, allowing his frame to melt into Vortex’s side. The act earned a satisfied sound from Vortex, and First Aid couldn’t suppress the smile that split his face as Vortex leaned in and placed a quick kiss to the top of his helm.

The overly soft affection was strange and out of character for him, most certainly, but First Aid found himself enjoying it far too much to question Vortex’s motives.

“Been a good day, yeah?” Vortex eventually said, breaking the silence First Aid had just grown accustomed to.

“Yeah,” he quickly agreed. “Yeah, it has been... but what’s with all the fancy outings? I mean, usually we just crash at your place and call it good. Did you plan on doing such extravagant stuff, or—“

“Oh my god,” Vortex said, cutting him off with a dramatic sigh. “You really don’t remember?”

The once comfortable mood suddenly felt rather sour, and though he couldn’t hear any actual resentment in Vortex’s tone, First Aid still pulled away. A glimpse of Vortex’s expression told him the Combaticon was less upset and more amused, however, despite what his tone might have suggested. Of course, this only confused him further, and if Vortex wasn’t going to give him the context he was looking for, First Aid supposed he’d just have to figure it out for himself.

“Remember what?” He asked, sounding nearly as exasperated as Vortex pretended to feel. When the Decepticon refused to stop pouting over the loss of physical contact, First Aid huffed and settled back against his side. “Is it supposed to be a holiday or something? Because… I don’t know, I’m pretty sure I’d remember if something important was happening today.”

Vortex shifted against his side, struggling to find another position nearly as comfortable as the one he’d first settled into. The silence seemed to be his way of avoiding the question entirely, so First Aid pressed a little more.

“Hey,” he said, pulling back once more. “I’m serious, ‘Tex. What is it? What did I forgot?”

Sheepish wasn’t a word First Aid would have ever imagined using to describe Vortex, but the way he sat there, plating flared and faceplates flushed as he scratched at his neck made him rethink the decision. First Aid was almost afraid he’d have to keep pushing for an explanation when Vortex finally spoke up.

“It’s really not a big deal,” he said, his frame lifting in a full-bodied shrug that somehow encompassed all of his obvious discomfort at once. “I just… I dunno, thought it might be fun to try out one of those stupid human things you seem to like so much.”

“And that would be…?” First Aid said, leaning in.

“You know,” Vortex shrugged again. When First Aid didn’t respond, apparently not knowing, he huffed and said, “relationships and stuff. Like, when two humans are together for a while or whatever, they sort of… I dunno, celebrate it or something.”

It took a moment for First Aid’s mind to process the implications, but when it finally struck him, he was almost surprised to realize how much time had passed since he and Vortex had started… well, fraternizing. He couldn’t quite remember the exact date, but he was fairly certain Vortex’s calculations were right, and that they had unofficially been “together” for close to a year at that point.

It was a complicated thing to think about, but the look of uncertainty that had molded itself to Vortex’s expression distracted First Aid from the process. He gave his unofficial (or official, now that… now that they were celebrating) partner a warm smile and cooed, reaching up to cup Vortex’s face in his servos.

“You know,” he teased, leaning in close until their forehelms touched, “for a Decepticon, you tend to be awfully romantic.”

“Hope that ain’t a problem,” Vortex whispered back, his voice soft against First Aid’s cheek.

“Not at all,” First Aid whispered right back. “Not in the slightest.”

Apparently that was all the assurance Vortex needed, as the next thing First Aid knew, he was being touched right back. Vortex was on him in and instant, frame blocking the world from his sight as he crawled up into First Aid’s lap and slunk a servo around to hold his helm in place. It was unnerving, a little threatening, almost scary—however, it was also romantic, in Vortex’s sweet, sinister way.

When Vortex’s fingers slipped under his chin and lifted his helm, First Aid obliged, meeting him halfway for a quick, gentle kiss.

“Happy unofficial anniversary?” First Aid asked with a giggle, reaching up to intertwine his fingers with Vortex’s.

“Yeah,” Vortex said, already eyeing First Aid up again as he readied himself for another kiss. He leaned back in, slower this time, and between the gentle kisses they shared and the soft, assuring squeezes of each other’s servos, he added, “something like that.”

[daniel-profeta]

top 10 songs of all time?

Changes everyday, but in no particular order some of my more consistent favorites are:

The front bottoms - Twin Sized Mattress

Car Seat headrest - Kimochi Warui *so many options here, but to pick one from this band...*

Tool - Lateralus

The Mountain Goats - Best Ever Death Metal Band Out of Denton

Phoebe Bridgers - I Know the End

Elliott Smith - King's Crossing

AJJ - People II The Reckoning

At this point I started to think harder about the songs that have meant the most to me throughout my life and as I've gotten older. For example, I like a lot of Bright Eyes songs more than First day, but that song has had way more impact on me. I play it all the time, the lyrics are permanently imprinted in my mind, and to me it's one of the most beautiful and vulnerable love songs ever written. With that in mind more and more "important" songs started coming to mind.

8. Alex G - Forever 9. Bright Eyes - First Day of My Life 10. Johnny Hobo - New Mexico Song

Now I have ten, that was easy.

Except...

I remembered that one Demarco song that makes me cry everytime I hear it. Got to include that. How many times have I listened to the Glow pt 2 during the summer? How could I leave off something from Porcupine Tree, the band that I once considered my favorite band of all time? So I kept going, through names and bands that I collect like emotional trophies, not wanting to leave anything out. They all mean so much, it's honestly pathetic. I used to hyperfixate on things like Zelda and Star Wars, then I found this shit and my brain chemistry has been altered ever since.

11. Mac Demarco - Moonlight on the River 12. Mitski - Texas Reznikoff 13. The Microphones - I Want the Wind to Blow 14. Pigeon Pit - Nights like These 15. Radiohead - Exit Music 16. The Crane Wives - Never Love an Anchor

Funny how quickly a song can feel like home. That Crane Wives song technically shouldn't even be here, I only heard it for the first time a few weeks ago. Yet maybe listening to it 30 times since qualifies it for consideration. Phoebe Bridgers has a lyric in one of her songs about wishing she had written something instead of the original artist, but she can't cause they said it first. So instead she'll learn their song and sing until the feverish inspired feeling fades away in a voyeuristic catharsis.

I think about that line constantly. Also quickly want to mention here that I'm more of an album guy. I try to listen to full records to try an experience the full piece of art the creator made. So while no song off The Downward Spiral is on my list of favorite songs, that was and is one of the most impactful albums to me as a teenager.

17. Porcupine Tree - Arriving Somewhere but not Here 18. XTC - Dear God 19. Wilco _ I am trying to break your heart 20. NIN - Burn 21. Lucy Dacus - Night Shift 22. Haley Heynderickx - Oom Sha La La 23. Swans - New Mind

Swans was hard, because there were a few songs that meant a lot to me. But ultimately there wasn't one more visceral or frankly more evil sounding than New Mind. Love the themes, love the singing style, love the backing yells, love the industrial outro, love the faint organ, love everything about that damn song.

The list kept getting longer, and for each song I was writing a paragraph to explain my choice lol. After the first like 15 I decided to stop doing that for the sake of your eyes and for risk of sounding redundant. But a major thing I love about some of these songs are how inspirational they are. Twin Sized Mattress, Denton Metal Band, Story of an Artist, they all paint a picture of the type of person I want to be. The type of art I will always support. The thing I hope to one day inspire in other people.

When you punish a person for dreaming their dream don't expect them to thank or forgive you. The best ever death metal band out of Denton, will in time both outpace and outlive you.

Those words could honestly save someone's life, it's crazy.

24. A Perfect Circle - Three Libras 25. Deftones - Rosemary 26. Frank Ocean - Ivy 27. November Suite - The Tower 28. Daniel Johnston - Story of an Artist 29. Sloppy Jane - Jesus and Your Living Room Floor 30. Big Thief - Not 31. Tyler the Creator - Boredom 32. Duster - The Landing 33. The Velvet Underground - Sunday Morning 34. The Voidz - Human Sadness 35 - 108. System of a Down - (every song) 109. Death Grips - Beware

Okay, threw these and now dozens more names are crowding my brain, and this incredibly pretentious post must come to an end. Long story short, I only have one song left to share, but each of these song has a very personal connection to me. Certain ones (like that tool song) actually changed the way I look at the world and helped me through dark periods of my life.

Many of them inspire me, some of them are just beautiful in a broken and real sorta way, and all of them feel human. The art represents something bigger than itself and the ambition knows no bounds. These songs changed my world for the better, and if you read this you are now obligated to listen to all of them.

I could ramble about music till the end of time:)

finally 110. 100 Gecs - Money Machine

[nyehilismwriting]

Just curious, but were Sentinel and Project Hadea both intended to be IFs from the start? Or were they novels that you eventually adapted to IF format? I also recall you mentioning you had a high fantasy piece in the works - will you ever share that on here? 👀 (Sorry for the barrage of questions!! Honest to God not trying to be invasive, just feeling incredibly inquisitive during this dry spell ;~;)

sentinel was kind of a patchwork of a couple of different projects that weren't originally IFs, but then I realised would lend themselves well to the format.

hadea was absolutely conceived as an IF from the beginning (the killing rohan choice was baked in as one of the very first core concepts, before any of the characters really even had names or personalities) and I don't think would work as a novel, since the variation is a bit too entrenched. I think it would be doing a disservice to the story to make it a linear novel (which sounds pretentious but yknow), and i have sort of considered which route i would make Canon if I were to do that and not come up with an answer lol.

the novel is.....she's in developmental limbo atm, I wrote her in like 2019 and never redrafted her and there's some things I would like to change and edit but I never do... she was the first thing I wrote after probably about 10 years of not writing anything, ever, and was written in a single feverish month so i'm sure you can imagine there's. Things To Fix. but i put it down for a long time and while i occasionally pick it up again and do some little touches there is a perfectionistic part of me that thinks I'm a much better writer now and it would be better to just rewrite it from scratch, which is a big undertaking and something I don't have the time or energy for, so now it just kind of sits in my documents for me to open, sigh wistfully at, and close again.

[shiftylinguini]

Three Things Fic roundup thingo!

"Recommend us 3 of YOUR fics: 1 that is “most popular” and 2 that are “hidden gems.” Then tag some folks."

Tagged by: 

@writcraft (read here) 

@moonflower-rose (read here!) 

(thanks, possums!!!). 

1. Most popular fic: would be Embers (Drarry, Explicit, 40k), my strange progeny. I wrote this in a feverish state of knowing exactly what I wanted it to be, and how I wanted it to go, and in a fit of the stars aligning I was happy with it at the end. The response blew me away when it posted, and I’ve wondered what made it so popular, other than it having a blend of things people were particularly craving in Drarry at the time. My favourite scene is definitely the wisteria kiss. One day I will commission art of this, I thinkkk. I also pine for the days when I could write a 40k fic lol.

2. HIDDEN GEMS: This is infinitely harder than the most popular, as that was just a matter of looking at my stats lol, but hidden gems is a bit trickier. I think my picks are: 

 - Almond Blossom: (Jeddy, Explicit, 4k) This was a hell of a good time to write, and for that it is a gem. Fucking about with AOB dynamics is my old faithful and this was written to clear out the cobwebs, make someone I adore smile (Hi, Rosiee), and be shamelessly horned up, and happily, she did just that! 

- Darling, Don’t Think Twice: (Harry/Teddy, Explicit, 18k) I have a story. While writing this, ‘darling, don’t think twice’ was always the working title, based on the lyrics to a song I’m obsessed with: Fine Young Cannibals by Wolf Parade. When finished with my fuck-away-your-abandoment-issues-clap-your-hands opus, pleased with myself as I was, I belatedly googled the lyrics and they are not what I’ve been hearing since like 2013 lmfao. Anyway, it’s a real banger of a song and maybe the real hidden gems were the lyrics we misheard along the way. Also, I still really like this fic. 

TAGGING some people, who probably have already done this so no pressure (I know it’s a full on time of year for some and spare energy can be hard to come by) @firethesound @gracerene @dictacontrion @sweet-s0rr0w @missroserose @nv-md @candybarrnerd @crushcandles 

[samuelroukin]

content warning: way too much Me lore

well i followed you since the ofmd stuff(rip) but somehow didn't know you wrote. then i got off tumblr for a little bit before s2 of ofmd to avoid spoilers for that (which feels funny if you compare it to my cod experience, since im watching it knowing A Lot).

hopped back onto tumblr a couple weeks ago to look at american psycho stuff (im doing better now, thanks for asking), while you were posting limerence.

and then i saw you talking about limerence. and while i am not into cod i absolutely am into porn. and friends with benefits. and mutual pining. and irrumatio. and glove😳. and happy sappy endings. and whatever the hell ghost and soap where doing in that briefing room before price walked in on them (still not over that. dont think ill ever be). it was basically a cocktail of all my favorites

and then it was written with your writing (which i have already written many many paragraphs of borderline worship about, and will continue to do so for as long as you'll have me. pretty much all the feverish lowercase adoration in the last couple weeks was me, if you're wondering)

then baby duck imprinting happened(we're still not addressing that issue)

thats pretty much the whole story ig. it's a mess, but so is the rest of me, so 🤷‍♂️

rip!! i barely wrote for ofmd tbf, and i didn't post about it much because it was Not good lol (finally orphaned those)

also thank u for reminding me i need to write some actual for real glove stuff bc i keep putting hints of it in without ever fully committing lmao

i still can't believe anyone actually likes my writing, let alone enough to be THIS nice to me lsjklsjkdhs but i really appreciate it 🙏🙏🙏

also i will feed you more peas. maybe some lettuce too

lmao please it's fascinating to hear the Process don't feel bad for sharing!

[kushami-hime]

CW: Stifles galore, some messy stifles, sneezing (duh), D/eku squad being precious, I/ida cold denial, feverish I/ida, fighting/combat noises, loud coughing (be prepared it might spook ya).

It’s a quiet day at the agency, so some of the young heroes decide to spar and keep their skills sharp. As D/eku faces off against his companion T/enya I/ida, he and O/chaco notice that the speedy hero isn’t exactly firing on all cylinders.

Holy shit guys, it’s here, Im in fear, and my joint pain is moderate to severe >:D For the anon who ask for this like a year ago, I’m so sorry it took so long, what with mental health issues, planning vacations and trips, plus this god awful factory job sucking the life outta me...But it’s HERE. I DID IT. I’m glad with how it came out and I hope I wrote I/ida as best as I could, I’m still in denial about how much I love this absolute square. Shout out to @onetrickponi for being O/chaco’s voice in this one, love ya fren!

Next up, Telephone! A requested wav with a script written by the magnificent Poni which already has the sneezes recorded. Just gotta do Todo’s lines and it’ll be ready for editing! Its about my bed time so I’ll see you guys around and poke in to see the feedback while I’m in bed lol, Love ya Snzblr!

MINORS DNI! NON KINK BLOGS DO NOT REBLOG!

[stellartales]

zhongli ▪︎ sunlit

pairing: zhongli x traveler!(f)reader

genre/theme(s): sick traveller, (sort of)domestic!zhongli, hanfu-wearing zhongli, shallowly fluffy, zhongli being amaaaazing, just me simping over zhongli in hanfu, long-ass scenario oops

disclaimer: this fic inspired by an art done by @mtdk13 on twitter; take a look at the wonderful fanart here.

summary: on a rainy day in liyue harbor, zhongli found her soaked to the bones, struggling to move along the nearly emptied streets with a feverish forehead; all just to submit a commissioned item. — | m.list

a/n: this is written with a headcanon for zhongli that sprung up in my head while I'm playing around with my house in the serenitea teapot, designed with zhongli in my thoughts. then when I happen to come across this fanart above on pinterest after that, the zhongli's domestic headcanon i was playing around with was complete!

tbh, I'm writing this just to simp over the idea of Zhongli donning on a hanfu. Wrote a whole scenario just for me to write him wearing one HAHAHAH *nosebleeds* i hope you wouldn't mind the relatively long scenario below LOL

Please do me a favor and reblog this! Thank you❤❤❤

She felt a breath of relief leave her lungs as soon as a familiar arched gate peeked into view.

From atop the hill where one would usually be greeted by a majestic view of the city, Liyue Harbor was a mere silhouette even in the heavy rain.

What she always remembers of Liyue Harbor she so often steps into was always filled with sunshine and blessed with a clear blue sky above if it was in the day, and a glowing city under an endless dark sky full of stars if it was night.

However, when it did rain, as she had learned now, it certainly rained hard.

The heavens were merciless in its downpour on the earth. The raindrops splashed almost icy cold onto her were harsh and soaked through the already dripping cloak she picked up from an abandoned campsite the moment it poured.

She lifted her head as her legs slowed before the main gate.

Bright and sunny Liyue Harbor looked dull and gloomy under the gray, thick storm clouds which were too stubborn to let a hint of the sun in.

Sweeping past the gate guards and over the arched bridge, the usually vibrant, bustling market she was greeted upon crossing the bridge was uncharacteristically quiet.

Most roadside stalls had covers draped over them and their owners nowhere to be seen, most probably seeking shelter somewhere. Only those who had a roof over their head stayed put.

Sidestepping a passerby and his umbrella, she silently envied him as she made her way to the long flight of stairs leading up to Feiyun Slope.

Deep puddles on the concrete pavement scattered erratically under her hasty steps; her eagerness to end her mission shown in her speed.

The soles of her shoes slapped against the wet path as she fought to maintain her stride.

The effect of doing one commission after the other was starting to show; fatigue seemed to resonate in every fiber of her muscles.

Heavy breaths leaving her were shaky and stuttered as she heaved herself up to the top of the stairs.

The dull ache in her body lingering in every step she took grew.

Hurrying down the Feiyun boulevard lined by towering shophouses, a cacophony of pitter-patters greeted her as she moved around the few milling along the street with their umbrellas; resolve fuelling her pace until...

A strange distortion spinning her head made her stagger to a stop.

She tried to blink away the odd waver in her vision, bringing a hand up to her eyes, convinced it was due to the rain. A shiver followed as the chill she did not notice in her haste sent goosebumps crawling across her skin.

For some reason, her body burned at the same time.

Her eyes squinted under the relentless rain as she raised her head to glare at the waves of grey, menacing clouds swathing over the city.

Then again, came another wave of distortion—

Her knees buckled under her before she could catch herself.

—it happened too fast.

Bewildered eyes stared at the ground beneath her, blinking and squeezing shut as vertigo rendered her unable to lift herself.

The echoing pain ringing across her palms of her hands she had used to cushion her fall was nothing compared to the uncomfortable stir in her head, blending into the background just like the cold rain beating down on her back.

A soft groan fell from her lips, just as a man crossed the boulevard in her direction, his loafers' heels clicking lightly against the wet concrete.

The wise glint in his golden eyes usually tensed and piercing was soft with concern as he approached her, maneuvering around curious onlookers.

Shaky breaths shuddered out of her as she tried to climb back onto her feet.

She rose, grimacing at the ache following her movement. Her scraped knees trembled with effort, only to buckle again—

But was caught in time before she hit the ground the second time.

Her eyelashes fluttered weakly as she looked down at the hand on her waist.

What just...

As black dots danced in her vision, she lifted her gaze in a dazed-like trance. Her cheeks were flushed red and her breathing was harsh as her half-lidded gaze was met by the shade of an umbrella — under it was a pair of warm, kind eyes.

In her waning vision, worry and tenderness seemed to be dripping from them like golden honey.

A startled exhale left her. Who...

She tried to push the stranger away but to no avail; the hand she laid splayed across his chest had no strength.

The stranger seemed to understand.

"Be at ease, you're safe now..."

Whispering against the windows, the paper screens on their tall frames fluttered to the gentle morning breeze, and through that one opened window — carrying the lingering scent of the rain from the day before.

Lazy sunlight spilling into the room cast on the polished wooden floor a faint shadow of the man sitting by the opened window.

Elbow propped casually on the wooden railing framing the width of the wall from the outside, the wide, black sleeve of his hanfu slipped back and down the length of his forearm as the steaming teacup in his hand was raised to his lips for another sip.

His absent gaze idly returned to the swaying leaves of the bamboo trees in the garden as he lowered the teacup once again.

His thoughts were filled with many things but most did not hold on long enough for him to think about.

All except one thing...or to be more precise, one person — right there, across the room.

Gone were the quick heaves and falls of her chest, along with the harsh, shallow breaths expelled.

However her forehead was feverishly warm, even till morning — the skin between his brows pinched in a small frown.

Perhaps, he should get Madam Ping to take a look at her again.

Madam Ping was very insistent about getting him to turn in for the night yesterday which he eventually gave in to during the wee hours.

When he was Rex Lapis, the lack of sleep meant nothing, but as Zhongli, it meant slightly more to his body. He, afterall, did choose to experience the world from the perspective of a mortal.

Another sip of tea slipped down his throat as he fiddled with the thought of getting Madam Ping to come by again, the furrow between his brows deepening.

However, rustles of the sheets from the bed across the room scattered his thoughts before he could decide.

Zhongli turned his eyes back to the shadowy confines of the room.

Tears spilled over from her closed eyes, streaking down her cheeks and to the bamboo pillow below her head.

Choked sobs broke through her lips.

"...No please, don't leave!" A hand shot up, grabbing desperately at nothing but the air.

Another sob brought about another wave of tears running down her cheeks.

"No, Aether—!"

A gasp rushed through her lips as she shot up from the bed with wide eyes, the same hand extended before her.

She blinked. Blinked. And blinked.

Then, her heart sank.

This dream again.

The hand she held hovering before her reached up to wipe the tears from her eyes and fell back onto the duvet on her lap.

The loose, white sleeve slipping down her forearm when she did that drew her gaze to the white cross-collar robe on her.

Her fingers running over the soft fabric paused.

—the rain.

Her eyes widened as a memory reminded her.

That hand on her waist.

"Be at ease, you're safe now..." And that voice...sounded so familiar.

Who was that?

She tried to pin down an answer, unaware of the tall figure approaching her from the window across the room.

...Only until the back of his hand touched her forehead.

She flinched with a sharp gasp, head instantly jerking up.

Calm golden eyes met her bewildered gaze in the brief silence.

She blinked. "Zhongli?"

It was Zhongli who, for some reason, did not look like... the usual Zhongli.

"Glad to see that you're awake." A smile played on his lips.

—his hand moved away from her forehead.

Something seemed different about him, but why?

Her eyes wandered down from his face on their own.

Broad shoulders lined by a black cloak that his typical fitting suit somehow failed to highlight, his hair hung loose behind his shoulders; some trailed down in tendrils to his chest.

There was something intricately captivating about the Zhongli standing here, in a loose, flowing robe of black and gold which somehow accentuated his handsomeness.

Much like how she had imagined the Geo Archon to look like before they met; an alluring embodiment of power and charisma.

Her eyes stopped at where his chest peeked out from under his inner cross-collar robe, only to realize what she was doing—

Oh shit, did she just...

She hastily brought her eyes back up to his face, feeling the heat of her embarrassment flustering at her cheeks; silently hoping he didn't think much about her weird long stare on him.

The ghost of a smile she thought she saw told her that he did.

But maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her because Zhongli made no other indications that he did.

His robe rustled softly to his movement as he lowered himself to one knee, his eyes leveled with hers.

"How are you feeling?" Zhongli asked almost in a whisper, his voice low and gentle.

—the subtly powerful tint wasn't there.

Or even in the way his eyes stared into hers. Tender, almost.

And she didn't know what to make of it. Not sure if she was reading too much into what she saw.

"I'm...I'm fine." Her eyes fell away for a second before rising to meet his again. "Head feels a little...strange though."

The odd weightlessness in her head brought her back to her first question.

So that voice...

It was Zhongli's.

"Alright, you should get more rest."

Movement from the sides of her eyes made her turn to watch him stand.

There was even elegance in the way he smoothly rose from the floor.

"...I'll get Madam Ping to come over."

She watched him turn his back, with a thank you lingering on her tongue.

"Wait, Zhongli—" Her hand flew out, fingers gripping onto his black cloak.

The former archon paused, glancing over his shoulders in concern. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. It's just..." Her gaze on him was bright. Almost dazzling.

In a way that reminded him of how the morning sunlight glitters across a ripple in the water.

Gratitude bloomed a radiant smile on her face, showing even in her eyes.

"...Thank you."

—published on 20.05.2021

[philonob]

Hello, sorry if you've answered this question before, but what advice would you give to a absolute beginner learning to draw fantasy character illustration art? (Also do you draw while high? Since that is the only way I know how I can experience new methods of thought openly without judgement.)

No it's completely fine! I haven't been asked about this per say. My own TL;DR tip would be just look at references and study real life animals and creatures and adjust that knowledge and understanding accordingly. Also I don't draw while high as I don't even smoke lmao- but on the other hand I can't focus on drawing either if I'm drunk so I guess the equivalent of that that I tend to do is like.. staying up too late and drawing at 5am lmao but that's not really something I can really recommend. But if you are an insomniac like me ig you can use tha awake time on something else than just spinning around in bed :') Rest I'll be putting under a read more as this is more writing than I anticipated lol

Fantasy characters/monsters have been something I've more or less drawn my whole life so far, but I'd say gathering a personal inspiration gallery/pinterest board or whatever helps a lot already at least when it comes to concepts and ideas for character creating and illustration in general. It can be basically whatever, other designs you already like, colors, patterns, shapes, general feeling, animals, people, makeup, you name it! Same goes with exploring the medias and character designs you already consume and like personally to get started, for example for me those being games like Monster Hunter and Final Fantasy (xiv). Mayhaps pick up the designs you especially like. What do you want to include of them into your own art?

Is there a spesific theme that you like? What kind of art are you wanting to make spesifically? Do you want to make it borderline realistic or more stylized? Is your focus on the anatomy, colors, light or for example in composition? Are you wanting to draw more humanoid or animalistic creatures? Are you focusing on the character design itself or purely the illustration but just focusing on fantasy creatures?

I guess that is more of the those are some points that help out on where to aim yourself/own goals from there on. When I personally do fantasy characters/illustrations I personally have been focusing especially as of late on the anatomy and how to make them *work* relatively realistically, where looking at and studying on real life animals from skin to bones will help.

There are some books like "Fundamentals of Creature Design" from 3dtotal Publishing written by many different character design artists, "Science of Creature Design : Understanding Animal Anatomy" written and illustrated by Terryl Whitlatch are good books when it comes to applying knowledge of anatomy of real life creatures into something fictional and not existing. I've found that to be helpful for me as understanding things like how the bones actually work, how the muscles are attached in with different kind of animals, how the body parts themselves are structured. James Gunrey's "Imaginative Realism" is also a good guide for such but it is much broader with the concepts of imaginitive realism as it also touches subjects such as environment, architecture, fictional cultures, clothing, wehicles, etc. Relating to imaginative reality also paleo art is good when it comes to this topic as all the reconstructions and art pieces that we have are more or less all based on our knowledge of real animals and anatomy. And some artistic freedoms but you get the drill.

Uh,, that was a mouthful and most likely overwhelming and all over the place as my feverish brain can barely think straight but those are bits and pieces of what I'd recommend to study and look up. If nothing else the general studies and the inspiration boards are something I especially recommend :') I hope this helped even a little bit!

[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.)

[junhuiste]

twice twice baby (preview)

pairing: jake x gn reader x sunghoon

word count: 2200

tags/warnings: fluff, slight angst, college!au, hockey player!jake, ice skater!sunghoon, sports med assistant!reader, slowburn, mutual pining, cursing, slightly suggestive scenes

a/n: this is just a preview of the bigger piece i plan to publish much later, so it pretty much only has jake, sorry hoonists! also gonna address it here while we’re at it, but i wanna apologize to everyone who sent requests in! i have them all plotted, most drafted and written, but i didn’t realize when i moved back home how busy i would be with work, summer classes, and looking for an apartment! i will have them published before the end of summer though! this piece is coming out before only because i wrote it well before finals week lol

taglist: please let me know if you wanna be part of the taglist!

Being in a parallelogram (or was it a dodecagon? A triangle? whatever) with the two notorious ‘Ice Hotties’ at your college, Jake Sim, the captain of the hockey team, and Park Sunghoon, the world class figure skater, is easy. Geometry isn’t that complicated...right?

As you entered into the arena, a cold blast of air struck, prompting you to jump slightly in your tracks, cursing that it was men’s hockey season and not basketball anymore. Albeit arms shivering, knees wobbling, and barely being able to make any strides at all, you weren’t distraught and to some extent trembling because of the ice rink or the ice packs inside the pouch seemingly glued to your waist, or hell, even the unnecessary air conditioner giving its all. Really, did they need to keep that fucking thing on when it was already polar-arctic-adjacent inside the arena? Probably to keep the rink from oozing into water and having Atlantis actually come to fruition...whatever, fuck the cold!

“Y/N, let’s get on it. We’re a bit late.” The head athletic trainer indicated, speed-walking a little too quickly for your liking, but what were you to do when your chest was heaving upon arrival at the ice center? Suck it up? Collapse and crawl into a ball?

Nodding, even though she was practically scurrying and leaving your curtailing ass in the dust, you heightened your pace despite the fact that your legs were about to give out at any second. Weren’t cold spaces supposed to make a solid more rigid, not turn your legs to jelly?

The both of you finally reached the area where the players were situated to greet the head and assistant hockey coaches.

“This is Y/N,” your trainer (whom insisted you just skip the formalities and call her Mina) motioned to you, slightly yet noticeably panting, “a first year, but they’ve done men’s basketball, women’s soccer and some gymnastics last semester. They know their stuff!”

“Wouldn’t doubt it.” The head coach reaches out to grip your hand firmly.

“Pleasure to meet y—“ once more today you jump, this time not shaken by the frozen tundra or by the vehemently boisterous buzzer, though it was much more thundering than the buzzer at the basketball court for some reason, but by the announcers cheering, “first year, number three, co-Captain, Jake Sim!”

And the crowd? They didn’t just go wild, no, they were literally cacophonous, the ground beneath and the arena stands rumbling, practically rivaling the San Andreas fault. Craning your neck to look around the oval shaped space and just how many students from your school, clad in university regalia, were present to see guys battle it out with plastic sticks on frozen water, even that, the entire scene wasn’t what had your heart nearly palpitating out of your chest.

First year, number three, co-Captain, Jake Sim. Now that was enough to warrant a blood pressure monitor...and possibly a defibrillator.

Almost giving yourself whiplash from turning around too quickly, it was hard not to gape at the boy coasting across the ice, waving at the all too excited crowd. And even through his helmet and from across the rink, you could make out his dark, glimmering irises, like how the sun’s edges would peak through from behind during an eclipse. It was kind of charmingly sickening actually, that someone could be as radiant as he was, under all the bulky gear, even despite the temperature. It wasn’t convenient actually that it had to be men’s hockey this time, that you, as the athletic trainer’s sports medicine intern had to attend the games for. Yeah, it was for credits. Sure, it was for intern experience...but what was the point if you only expected to make a fool out of yourself trying to tend to Jake and his teammates’ possible injuries?

It wasn’t fair, actually, that you were hopelessly in like with Jake Sim and that he didn’t even know your name when you were in the same physics class. To be fair though, it was a class of about 400, an infamous weeder course that crushed the poor souls of innocent underclassmen, so to have him direct any sort of attention your way, even a mere glimpse, would be laughable. That was what happened when you sat in the back, though.

Of course it just had to be Jake Sim that completely bewitched you, and he didn’t have to twirl any fingers or fixate any potions to have you just so damn spellbound. All he had to do was show up to freshman orientation with that stupid inviting grin of his, and that dumb glint in his eye that no one else seemed to possess. No, of course he just had to show up and be almost too cordial to everyone in your orientation group, even though all the other students, including you, could not give a single damn about the campus tour. And yes, of course, he just had to have the masses absolutely enamored with him, both upper and underclassmen alike.

Consider all of that, with Jake’s insane schedule, not that you knew anything specific, just that he had games on Tuesdays and Thursdays, coupled with daily practices, but you were only privy to that information because Mina always gave you the athletic teams’ agendas for the month. So yes, trying to garner any attention from Jake was like floating right smack in the middle of the Pacific, sending some sort of signal through a marine radio, and getting no response back. Not a hint that anyone was coming. No helicopters whirring above, no boats sent out ashore. What would he want to do with the first-aid kid, the person that sat in the back, the person that was paying attention to something else at the moment, and not the fact that they had to observe players carefully for potential injuries?

Well, sorry to Jake’s teammates and Mina, but you just couldn’t pry your eyes off of number three. How he skated in such an agile manner while simultaneously defending assertively was certainly an image now seared into your mind. The way he commanded the court was just so—“You paying attention? Are you okay today?” Mina snapped you out of your nonsensical trance.

“Yeah, yeah of course! Always on my toes like you said...” your eyes told a different story, and deceived you at that.

“And there’s number three, Sim, with the first goal!”

Jake skated backwards to high five his teammates and to prepare to defend, and it was definitely a sight to see him so animated, feeling right where he should be in his domain.

“Ah, I see. Number three is it? I heard he’s a beast on the ice,” Mina nudged and winked slyly at you, “anyway, pay attention ‘cause if your little ice boy gets hurt you know we gotta move quickly.”

It was already enough to have your friends taunt you about your silly adolescent infatuation with Jake, now to have your mentor in on it too? Mina was right though, you were here to wrap ankles and tend to bruised hips, not ogle at the team captain.

“Gotcha. On my toes!” you winked back at her, semi-ready to do your job. If you could predict injuries before they even happened during the basketball and soccer games you should be more than capable of caring for the hockey players. Whipping your head around to finally and legitimately focus on the members, you really wished you hadn’t.

There he was, number three, adept and dodging the defensive players, with the puck sliding in tandem with his stick. Then, it happened all too quickly, in a tenth of a second, too much for everyone spectating to comprehend.

BAM.

Suddenly, Jake was on his back after he and the opposing player too combatively collided into each other. You blinked once and now he was supine on ice, clutching a leg to his chest. His teammates and the referees hastily surrounded him, but you could not watch anymore, you had to do what you were here for.

Running past both the coaches, lamenting what the hells and go go go! at Mina, you dashed to the edge of the rink, about to enter and slip on the ice, but stopped yourself, because you didn’t have skates on. Fuck. Mina and you always ran to the scene of the injury, and you’d only dealt with hardwood floors and grass fields, but never ice. There was no reason for you to just stand around though, as Jake was being lifted by the referees. As much as you wanted to glue your eyes to the catastrophe, you sprinted to the locker room to fetch the cooler.

“Everyone, move!” You shouted at the towering players standing in your way. Setting the cooler on the floor, you directed some of them to assemble a few of the chairs they were sitting on for a makeshift cot for Jake to rest his leg on. Nervously yet rapidly, you dug into your backpack for a splint, pre-wrap, and medical tape.

When you stood back up, Jake and the referees were at the rink’s entrance, with Mina extending her arms to steady him once he transitioned from ice to linoleum. And through all this he maintained the same tender-hearted curve on his face, beaming at Mina and thanking the referees.

One of Jake’s coaches and Mina propped Jake around their shoulders as he hopped on one foot to your nearby station. Assisting them in getting Jake to sit down, you were shaking slightly out of feverishness and hormones, even though it was the perfect temperature for snowfall, but forming a resistance to doing that was almost impossible.

Christ, you weren’t like this when Taehyun tore his ligament last semester at the basketball semi-finals, or when Yuna sprained her toe out on the field, yet it was due to that certain someone that you just could not find it within you to operate as you usually did. It was imperative that you got out of your own head; Jake was merely another athlete you had to tend to and someone you, quite frankly, had to get over, like now.

Once Jake was seated with his right leg propped up on the opposite chair, he took his helmet off and handed it to his coach standing guard next to him.

“Mina, you guys got this?” The coach hesitantly asked your trainer.

“Absolutely nothing to worry about, Coach Kim! We’ve seen worse than this; we’re good, right Y/N?”

You gave Coach Kim a measly thumbs up and he rushed to get back to the rest of the team to continue with the game, deliberating who would substitute in now that their best player was on the sidelines.

While Mina undid Jake’s skates and kneepads, you assessed him before you could get started, asking him what kind of pain he had in his leg, how much it hurt on a scale of 1-10, and if he could wiggle his toes.

Sharp and kind of aching, I think. 8.5-ish, actually maybe just 8. Toes wiggling.

“Um, okay. Good that your toes are still intact, which means you’re gonna be okay, but is there any other part of your body that hurts?” You tried not to sound like a complete buffoon, trying to enunciate your words properly like you did with several other injured athletes; Jake shouldn’t have been any different. He was, though.

“Yeah, I feel like there’s a bruise on the right side of my body somewhere,” he said, motioning to his abdomen.

“Okay...I’m gonna take your shoulder pads off and you have to take your jersey off so we can ice it, is that cool with you?” Your brain was bouncing off the walls at the mention of “take” and “off”. Come on, this wasn’t fucking NASA, although it might as well have been, as he was a universe and a half to you (in a melodramatic way of sorts).

“Yeah, yeah—for sure. Thanks.” Jake flashed an acknowledging smile, to which your cheeks heated up at. There was an injured boy in front of you—no time for shits and giggles and teenage elation.

As you aided Jake in removing his shoulder pads and jersey, he winced a bit, while trying to hide it at the same time. 

“Are you good? I’ll get some ice on that soon, I promise.” You gradually eased into your ‘medic’ mode, trying to expel as much of your nerves as humanly possible.

“Yeah I’m okay, just hurts a bit. Thanks again,” he could not stop giving you that demure yet brazen demeanor, and to be around a smiling Jake meant a tense you, regardless if your subconscious plan to initiate Nerves Exodus was kind of working.

When Mina stood up, all finished with undoing his skates and knee pads, she asked Jake to repeat what he stated about his pain earlier to you back to her. Before walking to where the coaches and other players were, she chaffed at you, with a mischievous lilt to her words, “you can handle it from here right? The star player’s in your hands.”

Audibly, you ‘mhmmed’ her, and when you were out of Jake’s sight, rolled your eyes, making sure she noticed that. You were glad though, that Mina was your trainer and not some old, stern fart like she had when she interned in your same position; it made for much more “effective” mentoring and communication, especially because she left you alone with the athletes, so you were able to think of what to do next for yourself, and if there were ever any mistakes—which there were none of to date—she would help you work through them.

Holy shit, Mina left. It was just you and Jake.

[thebigqueer]

Can you do an au where Percy dies in Tartarus and Nico is absolutely devastated and Will helps him accept that he's dead?(fluff+ angst? Idrk) Sorry if it's a lot and you can't do it. Love your writing btw, you're really talented💕

"Plant Your Roots and Grow" - Solangelo - One-Shot

Summary: (basically the ask lol) written for the free day for @solangeloweek !!

Notes: I started falling asleep while editing this so if it sounds bad... sorry lol. Also I'm not sure if this is exactly what you wanted, anon, but I hope you like it nonetheless!

Word Count: 1980

Read on AO3

Nico gazes out into the water, trying his best to ground himself with the sound of the lake. White sand prickles underneath his feet and hands, and a wave of cool ease falls over him, but that doesn’t stop the anxiety that trickles down his back any time he closes his eyes to blink.

All he can see is Percy’s ghostly face, screaming as his life drains from his very body.

Nico wasn’t there when Percy died in Tartarus. He knows he couldn’t even have saved him, but that doesn’t mean that he feels any better. Any time he thinks about the late demigod, grief seizes Nico’s heart like a vice. He could have done something.

When Nico came back to camp, his guilt relaxed a little. He took time to himself and prepared to take on the biggest challenge he’d ever had to take - to spend time for himself. And for a while, it worked. His mind wandered into a temporary bliss. He learned to love, to care, to be himself again.

But then the dreams started coming. Memories of Percy dying, screams of terror, the scent of hot, sour air. Terror gripped Nico at night; fear crawled down his throat and stripped him of his dignity. He could barely find the will to get up in the morning. All that he could even think about was Percy, Percy, Percy.

It’s been months, but still Nico can’t let go of him. He can’t accept his death.

The son of Hades sighs as a brush of wind strokes his face. The blue sky above blends into a pink hue, and with a sudden chill, Nico realizes that evening is approaching soon.

He doesn’t want it to be dark already. He’s not ready to face the shadows.

Nico pulls his knees to his chest and bows his head, curling himself into a ball. His body shudders as a deep, shaky breath releases from his chest, and his fingers twitch and shiver as another gust of wind blows past. Tears press against Nico’s throat and prickle in his eyes, but he tries his best not to let them fall.

He can’t fall apart. Not right now.

A soft crunching sound rumbles behind him, and in surprise, Nico twists around to meet his intruder. A golden human emerges onto the beach, gleaming like bronze under the orange sun. Nico blinks as he tries to outline the figure, but when he realizes who it is, a warm, soothing warmth overcomes his system.

“Will,” he whispers over the lapping water. “What are you doing here?”

The gleaming human points his blue gaze to Nico’s dark eyes, and for a second, Nico almost swears the world around him stops spinning. It’s only him and Will, drifting in the silence, absorbing each other’s presence.

Then Will settles down next to Nico, his arm brushing against the son of Hades’ as he does so, and he offers a shrug. “I thought maybe you’d want company.” His eyebrows arch in concern. “How are you? Are the dreams getting worse?”

Nico sighs and scrubs his hands over his face in exasperation. “Yeah,” he mutters. “It’s like… like he’s calling for me now. Like he’s asking me to come save him.”

Will winces. “What does Dionysus say about this? Does he think your dreams are… real?”

Nico turns his gaze back to the waters, eyes reflecting the sorrowful blue of the lake. “He thinks it’s definitely something that means something. Whether they’re real or not… I’m not really sure.”

“Do you think that maybe it’s Percy who’s calling you down to Tartarus?”

Nico shrugs and bites his lip, trying his best to force the tears back down. “I- I don’t know. I don’t think so. I felt his life force slip away. I don’t think he’s the one calling for me.”

Will nods solemnly, turning his own gaze out to the sea. Together, the boys stare off into the distance, allowing the chirping of birds to crack the air and letting the soft breeze of the lake whisper against their skin. Will’s hand snakes through the sand and touches Nico’s gently. After a second of hesitance, Nico allows Will to hold onto him.

“Nico,” Will murmurs, “do you think it’s possible that Percy’s showing up in your dreams because… you haven’t let go yet?”

Something hot and painful slices Nico through his core. His hands turn to ice, and his heartbeat quickens its pace. Nico’s body hums with some kind of excitement, some kind of giddiness as Will’s words trickle over him.

“I…” Nico sighs desperately, considering how to answer. “Maybe. I guess.” He groans. “I don’t know, Will! I just… I don’t know anymore.”

And, suddenly, it’s as if someone’s dropped a bomb over Nico’s feelings. His emotions burst from the dam he’s built up; his body shakes with each sob that racks through it. Tears trail over his cheeks like shimmering cracks and slip through his fingers, and he’s leaking all over, pouring his sadness and grief out into the world. His fingers tangle into his dark hair and brush against his feverish forehead, and his ears turn red and hot as each sob cracks into the open air.

“I’m losing control,” he murmurs through the tears. “I don’t know what I want from me. Why am I still thinking about him? I saw him die when I was on the Argo II. I’ve already accepted that I liked him. I’m supposed to move on, but I’m not. Why can’t I just grow from this? Why is he tying me to my past?”

Will watches Nico with apprehension, considering how to act. He’s better with physical wounds than anything; emotional pain isn’t something he can take care of. But nevertheless, his heart aches at the sight of his boyfriend so broken and deprived of his dignity.

He’s cracking.

After another beat of hesitation, Will shifts closer. His body pusles next to Nico’s, and as his arm touches the other boy’s elbow, Nico looks up. His obsidian eyes are lined with the red hue of grief, and crystal tears tear through his cheeks.

Will’s own lip trembles at the sight of Nico. He pushes his hand closer into the son of Hades’, filling any holes or gaps between them. He wants to offer Nico any warmth that he can, to give him any semblance of comfort he can muster.

“I don’t know what it’s like to be you, Nico,” he says nervously, watching his boyfriend’s expression. “But… I know it can be hard to deal with things that have hurt you. Especially when that thing is the death of a friend.” A shaky sigh slips through Will’s lips, and he turns his gaze to the waters ahead, hoping to find solace in the rhythm of the blue ripples. “When I lost Michael and Lee… I lost myself, too. I felt like two important pieces of my identity had just… left. I broke apart. I didn’t know who I was. I kept holding on to the idea of them, hoping that if I just kept them in my heart, they’d never truly have to leave.” Will sighs again as a pang of grief strikes his heart at the thought of his deceased brothers. “I kept them because I didn’t want to lose them. I thought if I let go of them… then I’d permanently recognize that they weren’t a part of my family anymore, and I never wanted to do that.”

Nico stares at Will, his eyes glassy with tears. “How did you move on?”

“I just… I took some time for myself. I decided that instead of trying to hold on, maybe it was time to finally confront my grief for what it truly was. I talked to Dionysus, I talked to my siblings, I talked to friends.” Will pauses, considering how to continue. “I think my biggest issue was that I was afraid letting them go meant I was going to pretend they never existed. But really, it just meant I wasn’t going to tie myself to them anymore. I wasn’t going to align my entire grief and personality and actions on people who were dead. It didn’t mean I was going to forget their entire existence and move on - it just meant I was going to detach myself from making all my decisions about them.”

Nico allows Will’s words to pour into his ears and drown over his heart. He turns his gaze to their interlocked fingers, and at the sight of Will’s tan skin mixed with Nico’s own olive tone, his chest blooms with a soft, comfortable warmth.

He’s not alone.

Nico takes a deep breath, waiting for the right words to fill into his mouth. “I… I had a lot of trouble with accepting Bianca’s death,” he whispers, rubbing his finger over Will’s thumb. “I kept holding on to the thought of her. I went as far as to try to bring her back to life. I guess for me it was… I was scared I was going to lose an important part of my past. I was going to lose another person who was incredibly important to me, who had been with me through everything. I was scared of that.” He sighs. “With Percy, I just don’t want to accept that he’s gone. He’s one of the best heroes of our century. Letting him go means… means he isn’t truly here anymore.” He shakes his head as another wave of tears overwhelms his chest. “I don’t want him to not be here anymore. He was such an important piece of demigod history. He’s made an impact on so many lives.”

Will’s eyebrows arch in concern once more. He slips his hand out of Nico’s and stretches an arm out tentatively, asking silent permission to hold his boyfriend. Nico stares at the tan skin of Will's arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, he lets himself indulge into the comfort of the blond’s warmth. Will falls over Nico’s shoulder, and the latter leans into the blond’s side, allowing himself to submerge under the weight of his grief.

Will’s fingers linger over Nico’s shoulder, brushing against his skin softly in an attempt to comfort him. “I know it’s hard, especially knowing your history together,” he murmurs. “It can be really difficult to let go of someone who you’ve had such a strong emotional connection to.” Will shifts his gaze to face Nico’s head-on. Sincerity bleeds into the rim of his eyes. “But you’re not going to immediately get over it. It takes a lot of time and healing. You’re not going to wake up one day and decide you’re okay. Everyone feels and heals a little differently, and that’s okay.” A soft, encouraging smile lingers over his lips. “But you’ve got me, and Dionysus, and your other friends. You don’t need to be alone in this, Nico. Not anymore.”

Nico nods, but his gaze seems faraway, reaching for something in the past. Though he’s solid and real in Will’s embrace, his soul is dissolving internally, bleeding out into the world around him and leaving him as a hollow shell.

He’s not quite existing in this moment.

Nevertheless, he accepts Will’s words. As worthless as they feel to him right now, he knows Will’s advice is helpful - he’s trying his best, and he’s right, too. Nico needs time to forgive and move on. He just needs time to grow.

He sighs and brushes a few tears from his face. Leaning his head against Will’s shoulder, he whispers, “Thanks, Will. That… means a lot.”

The water around them continues lapping and overwhelming the white border of sand in front of them. Another breeze flits by, and birds continue chirping. The world goes on moving and growing around them.

Maybe it’s time for Nico to plant his roots and grow, too.

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Something Held | Feeding Habits Update #8

Hi all!

Not me not realizing it’s been 3 months since I posted a Feeding Habits update hahahahahaha. Today let’s chat chapter nine, SOMETHING HELD. This also marks the last chapter in Harrison’s POV so prepare to say goodbye to this icon!  TW: body horror, mental illness, trauma

Just a reminder: This is my original work and plagiarism of any form will not be tolerated.

Scene outline, excerpts & a little reflection on making difficult decisions that my not particularly benefit the book but benefit you as the writer under the cut because this update is GIGANTIC.

General taglist (please ask to be added or removed):

@if-one-of-us-falls, @qatarcookie, @chloeswords, @alicewestwater, @laughtracksonata, @shylawrites, @ev–writes, @jaydewritesfiction, @jennawritesstories @eowynandfaramir, @august-iswriting​, @aetherwrites​

Scene Breakdown

Scene A:

It has been two weeks since Lonan found Harrison at his shared apartment with Suzanna and things are getting strange. Lonan and Suz are getting closer, Harrison is getting more distant and slowly losing it. One morning, Harrison wakes hearing Lonan and Suz’s laughter, and crawls to the kitchen to investigate. When he reaches them, Suz is evening out Lonan’s hacked haircut and they’re both sobbing.

Scene B:

Shortly after this bizarre encounter, Suzanna steps out of the apartment for a breather because her son is sort of terrifying her! So Lonan and Harrison double-team to clean up Lonan’s hair shavings. Harrison begins eating the hair while Lonan stares and they have a conversation about the state of their friendship.

Scene Ba:

This scene is gross and confusing! More hair is ingested. My god.

Scene Bb:

After the above ordeal, both boys rinse off because they’ve been rolling?? around?? in??? hair?? but also?? things don’t stop being a little gross

Scene C:

An air of calm finally settles over the apartment. Lonan brews earl grey tea for him and Harrison to share and Harrison asks if he abandoned Lonan in the final chapter of Moth Work. Lonan doesn’t really answer this question so Harrison continues on his confused, but finally lucid (one-sided) conversation, admitting he understands he burdens his mother, who still has not returned. They circle back to the question of abandonment and Lonan answers Harrison the way he wants to be answered (yes), and this is a moment of freeing, where he feels some sort of responsibility in this irresponsible new life he’s led in NYC. They sort of agree to be friends again.

Scene D:

The boys head into the city to find Suzanna, heading to a bakery near the Hudson River. Lonan drives in his used car, a strange experience since Harrison has not seen him drive in years. Taking the opportunity, he searches through the car and finds a map in the glove compartment. The map is erratically scribbled over and it takes him to moment to realize this is Lonan’s map and the first indication that Lonan, who he has assumed is this stable, perfect person, is not as unscathed as he seems.

The boys pass the waterfront and Lonan nearly crashes the car into an oncoming truck. Harrison regains control of the vehicle tucking them into a side street. Shaken, Lonan apologizes for the mess he’s created both physically from his nosebleed and between Harrison and his mother, which gets Harrison a little antsy because he doesn’t like the suggestion that he’s going to leave. Lonan clarifies, stating he won’t if that’s what Harrison wants.

Scene E:

Later, everyone is back at home and Harrison wakes up to a Lonan-less bed. He gets up to investigate the strange dripping coming from the bathroom and opens the door to find Lonan precariously teetering over a sink filled with water. Harrison, concerned, moves him away and tries to ask why Lonan is presumably going underwater, but doesn’t push. They both stand on opposite sides of the bathroom until the sun rises.

My process:

Honestly, writing this chapter was a huge up and down. The first half of it came much easier to me, but the rest was a literal hellfire to get through. I think I was incredibly fatigued with writing in Harrison’s POV as I’d been writing it since June (I finished this chapter in either December or January). This book has been a pain in the ass to write despite me liking what it is, and I really think it being the only place I’ve physically “gone” since the pandemic makes it even harder to write. I felt claustrophobic in Harrison’s POV since I’ve been writing it for half a year, and in a lil ~breakdown~ my beautiful sister reminded me of something she’d previously told me, “it's not about what works, it's about what you want”.

Let’s chat about this for a sec! I think I was watching a Harmony Nice video on her “hard-to-swallow” self-care, and she basically outline (I’m paraphrasing here) that it’s critical we care for ourselves in ways that might not necessarily be easy to do. Honestly, leaving Harrison’s POV is one of those hard-to-swallow self-care things I literally had to do because my mental health was not happy with me! Y’all know my boys are very close to me, and I’m not picking favourites but Lonan is 2500 times easier for me to write with at the moment. I think Harrison’s situation and how he deals with it is much too similar to mine but in a way that is difficult to place (Lonan and I are unfortunately similar but in a way that is easier for me to understand about myself!). From the beginning of writing his POV I’ve been in Struggleville, but kept pushing through hoping the next chapter would be “the one”. Not to burst my own bubble but there is no such thing in the state of mind I was in! I was pushing myself to find something that doesn’t exist because my brain was really not equipped to do what I needed it to do. I really, really did not want to quit on Harrison’s POV, but I had to, not because I don’t like him (he’s my baby) but because I needed a moment to myself. I felt way too seen in ways I don’t really know how to address in myself, so writing him was horribly frustrating at all times (my fault, not his).

My characters really do live in my head rent-free lol. They live in there! They take up space! They take up energy! They take up concentration, and resources I need for myself! Empathy is so integral to my process, that I give a little part of myself in everything I write. This is a blessing because I really get to dig my heels into the mind of another person, but a curse because I’m not a machine (and sometimes I forget that). It is a lot of emotional energy and labour to give everything you have to fictional people. I don’t think an artist needs to be tortured to create good art (this is not it!) but I never truly practiced this well? In my attempt to be empathetic, I was torturing myself a little bit, not going to lie!

So to combat this, I decided I needed a change. Hence, this chapter is imperfect and probably needs some stuff added to it, and while I’ve only written little of Lonan’s second POV, I’m feeling a lot better! It’s nice to get “outside” in a different place lmao this is so sad (pandemic writing things).

Excerpts:

I wrote the beginning of this in a livestream I hosted on my YouTube channel! There’s also a shoutout here to my dragon tree Lisa <3 miss u boo

Two weeks go by. Lonan sleeps on the couch. Harrison wakes up at dawn—no earlier, no later. Suzanna buys a plant: a Madagascar dragon tree she names Lisa. June grows into the collar. Lonan plays sudoku in the newspaper. Harrison learns to bake focaccia, gluten-free, whole wheat. Suzanna learns to palm read, tells Lonan he’s experienced great betrayal (they stop the reading immediately; Lonan goes back to the newspapers). Harrison begins burning incense at sunrise—frankincense. The dragon tree nearly dies (Lonan saves it). It rains every weekday that contains the letter T. Lonan shifts stacks of soggy newspapers onto the breakfast table, answers crosswords with the help of Suzanna (four across, nine letters, Something held). Harrison burns a baguette. Suzanna buys a hanging basket of pothos. The power goes out for two days and the icebox floods the kitchen tile (Lonan mops it with old newspapers, the ink running like jellyfish). June barks for the first time. Harrison eats a bundle of dried bay leaves. Suzanna waters the plants with rainwater, icewater, wrung into a coffee tin. Harrison leaves the stove on while sautéing shallots (he eats them whole). Lonan wakes up feverish and fills out four newspaper crosswords, then falls asleep on the coffee table. Suzanna moulds panna cotta in coffee mugs and shares the batch with Lonan when they won’t tip out. Lonan teaches her how to propagate the pothos and soon they have twenty empty cans of cuttings poking from the windowsills. They rearrange the furniture, the couch facing the kitchen instead of the TV, the dining table right outside the bathroom, then put it all back the next day. They birdwatch from the tiny window with binoculars and a magnifying glass. They sort coupons. Whittle soaps. Watch Norwegian films without the subtitles. Discuss cliff diving. Make matching anklets (blue beads, elastic string, the plastic clacking how Harrison knows they’re coming). All of this they do as Harrison lies on his bed for two weeks, counting the corners of his ceiling and trying to determine a way to multiply them telepathically.

This is the very next paragraph!

At first he assumes they’re laughing. The sun nearly rising between other high rises, blotting his room with dawn. This is not a surprise. They are probably making pancakes out of buckwheat and discussing the hilarity of whole grains. They are probably laughing at store-bought cherry preserves. Too sour. Their cheeks puckered. But then the laughs get louder, and the sun rises higher and it’s not laughing at all, but gasping.

Here’s Harrison crawling!! is this straight out of the exorcist probably!

Harrison’s instinct is to crawl. As if his smallness against the ground will stop anyone from hearing him, even before he unlocks his door. On hands and knees he shuffles from his bed to his doorframe, edges the door open with his shoulder. On hands and knees he hikes through the hallway, the gasping getting louder, shuffling until he sees them. Lonan sitting on one of the kitchen stools, a grocery bag wound around his throat. Suzanna clacking scissors in two hands so their blades ping in the sun. Her fingers loped around his hair, knuckle-deep, the blades snipping, the gasps growing, them both sobbing, the hair falling, the sun stalking, their bodies rocking. Harrison takes it in from his crawl. Experiences it all on his knees.

So this excerpt seems really you know, normal:

They clean up the hair. Harrison with the dustpan, Lonan with the broom. Harrison still kneels. Lonan still cries. The only thing that has changed since crawling into the kitchen is that Suzanna is taking a walk around the apartment complex. She needs air. Room. If she cries long enough, a cigarette. So Lonan sweeps. Harrison collects. This repeats.

The kitchen smells of nutmeg. Freshly grated from a whole club over espresso, Harrison imagines. He smells this as he tracks Lonan with the dustpan, hovering its open belly for clippings of hair. And Lonan is so compliant, brushes cuttings of himself onto the plastic surface so Harrison can trash it. As Harrison looks on from his knees, Lonan diffuses in sunlight, the window illuminating only his edges. A body so familiar Harrison knows exactly where it flares with light or absorbs it. A body with skin like mulberry silk. A body he could recreate in charcoal with his eyes closed. His archangel translucent and luminescing.

Skip this excerpt if you don’t want to read about Harrison eating hair!! i’m sorry!

Harrison picks a bundle of fallen hair from the dustpan. It’s airy from being recently shampooed, smells faintly of pear, maybe even ginger. This hair, touched by a woman, or a few women, and cut by one, or a few, in different contexts. Eliza’s hands deveining the roots, and then Suzanna’s, trying to fix them. So Harrison eats it. That bundle like a toothpicked cube of cheese. He puts it in his mouth and swallows.

Lonan watches like he’s unconcerned. He watches this feral animal—Harrison must be something feral, starved of something and ravaged by that hunger. Chewing mouthfuls of hair like that will quell of him of what is missing, if there even is anything missing, something unidentifiable in this bland circuit of New York City, this time-loop of sonhood, this fresh start a dousing of flatness. As Harrison eats, he understands he consumes that something like it’s holy communion, reuniting with that something by absorbing it. And still, that hunger moves him, from finishing the dustpan of hair, and closer to Lonan.

“Do you think I’m a bad friend?” Harrison asks, wringing the corner of his lips clean from loose hairs. From this perspective, Harrison on his knees collecting hair, Lonan’s eyes look bluer. Maybe their saturation has nothing to do with the angle, but Harrison feels this is true; his eyes are so crystalline, they are temptingly edible. Like two plump blueberries. Or a matching set of clear glass marbles. Harrison swallows. He repeats, “Do you think I’m a bad friend?”

Lonan swallows, adjusts his grip on the broom. “We’d have to be friends for me to answer that.”

“Aren’t we?”

And here’s the rest of this scene!

“You’re my mother’s friend,” Harrison says. “She trusts you.” He crawls closer to Lonan. “You’ve got secrets. Rituals. Tell me her favourite finger-food and who she wants to marry.”

“I don’t know your mother that well.”

Harrison wraps a handle around Lonan’s ankle. A muscle there jumps like a dolphin breaching the water. He’s memorized this plane of skin, could rebuild it from single grains of sand while blindfolded. He furls his hands across its surface, unfurls.

“You garden with her,” Harrison says. “You share a plate for dessert.”

“She’s kind to me.”

“You cook her breakfast.” Harrison tugs on Lonan’s ankle, knowing it won’t raze him, knowing he’ll come down anyway. “You know the exact temperature she drinks her coffee down to the last digit.”

“I’m trying to be hospitable.”

“You’re trying to be a son.”

Lonan kneels. Crouching so they’re huddled over each other, so it’s nearly impossible to distinguish one body from the other, which one sinks, which one rises.

“My mother’s only got one son to live with,” Harrison says, his voice thin from a clogged throat. He reaches for Lonan’s scalp, scrapes a line down the centre, now an even plane of cropped hair. “And it isn’t me.”

“You’re unstable,” Lonan says, burrowing his face either into a cabinet or Harrison’s shoulder—neither can tell. “You won’t let yourself have friends.”

Farther, toward the tile they go, a pile of hair scattering. “My mother wants me to forgive you by replacing me with you.”

“She’s grieving,” Lonan says.

Harrison loses his hands. He doesn’t know where they disappear to, if he touches skin or tile. “I haven’t died,” he says. Skin or tile. Skin or tile.

Here’s an excerpt from scene C ft. this memoir bit from the time I was shocked that this university I visited had real FANCY teabags:

Lonan brews tea. Earl grey, from a tin. Harrison doesn’t know why he expects it to come from a bag. An individual paper sachet, or if he’s lucky, one of those fancy ones woven from nylon. But it’s from a tin. Two teaspoons into the bottom of a single mug they pass back and forth, wordless at the kitchen table. Strung in the bathroom, Harrison’s t-shirt hang-dries, nearly figure-like, an unfilled phantom. He tugs a throw around his shoulders and stares at his hands. Each crest of cuticle. Each bulb of knuckle. Each maze of fingerprints.

He is material. This is fact. Not just outlines. He’s got skin that goes pinkish when pinched, a pulse that juts from his wrist, two eyes that burn at the scent of lavender, ten fingers. But as he holds his hands up, studying them in the faint moonlight, it is difficult to believe his tangibility. In the city, he has lived as a haze. Fogging over grocery stores, eateries, nondescript. Fresh start has always implied an air of zest, a zing that should have fueled him to plant roots in this restart. But Harrison is rotten, aphid infected, overwatered, underwatered, then not watered at all. He flexes his fingers. He pops the joints. He tries to press his pinkie to the back of his hand. But none of this brings him back to himself. His hands continue feeling like someone else’s. His body invisibly marred in some way he can’t reverse, disconnected in retaliation.

Harrison reflecting on his relationship with his mother:

Suzanna has never left him alone this long, and to her detriment. He imagines her now, living the life she always should’ve lived, the life she lived before he crosscut his way to her most important thing. She’s probably at a salon, having her hair twirled with a round brush, making dinner reservations at some place always too expensive for two (extra points if it has a French name, more if she has to wait a half hour before getting a table). When she talks to her stylist, she doesn’t mention a son, but plans to travel up the west coast, all the way into Canada if she’s feeling adventurous. She’ll buy crime novels she’ll never read at duty-free, reapply a lipstick that cost her a paycheck in the reflection of a hand-dryer. After the salon, she’ll meet a woman at a wine bar, converse about children, and still not mention a son. Suzanna’s singleness will be a celebration.

The boys finally trucing it out <3

When Harrison finally opens his eyes, Lonan is staring at him. His eyes two reels of the Pacific. They cycle in blue. So much of him has changed, and yet he is still the same. Beyond the haircut, Lonan isn’t that much different. He can’t be much different. But as Harrison searches, splaying his palm on the wet table, he knows this is untrue. Lonan is hollower than he was last summer. A little more haunted. They have this in common, then.

“Can we be friends?” Harrison asks. With his pinkie, he finds himself writing against the damp table just as he did Lonan’s scalp not too long ago. Lonan’s gaze follows each loop of each letter, Harrison’s steady left hand.

Lonan is consumed studying what Harrison has written, where each letter connects in near-cursive scrawl. After a moment, he nods, once, twice, and then reverts to staring at the table’s new inscription. On its surface are two words: something held.

The boys in the car like old times <3

Lonan drives. This is strange because Harrison has not seen Lonan drive a car in over a year. Usually, Harrison takes the wheel, but tonight he guides them through the city, in search of Suzanna. His car is clean. This isn’t unexpected. A cherry-coloured hatchback that rattles whenever he makes a left turn. It smells vaguely of cotton air-freshener and the undercurrent of cigarettes.

“You still smoke?” Harrison pokes at the plastic nob for the radio, and it crackles to life. Synth and electric guitar pulse in 4/4 time.

“I bought it used.”

They’ve agreed to get to know one another while they search for Suzanna. Another restart, some attempt at an honest hour. As Lonan changes lanes, Harrison pokes open the car’s glove compartment. A tin of nicotine gum falls on the mat. A hot pink feather pokes from underneath the driver’s manual. Harrison hauls out both, runs the feather along the gum tin, then the back of his hand, and then Lonan’s cheek. When that rouses nothing, he unlocks the tin and removes a slit of gum. Right as he’s about to pop it in his mouth, Lonan says, “I wouldn’t eat that.”

“Why?” Harrison asks. “Did you lace it?”

“Like I said, I bought the car used.”

Harrison puts the gum back, and then the feather. He sticks his hand farther into the glove compartment, feels around until he drags out a map of the state, bilgy and half torn. He unfolds it, careful to avoid the rips, and flattens it against the dashboard. Almost immediately, it wilts against the cold, faded from time in the sun. It’s been marked up. Half with pencil, half with a red ballpoint pen. After a few minutes, Harrison understands the previous owner’s route. Or at least he does at first. Following the red pen arrows, they started at Long Island, then reached Manhattan. Then a much longer arrow takes him from Manhattan to Geneva, and then Buffalo. And then the red pen circles, once, twice, three times, four times, and what is in the centre doesn’t even have a city name. What it does say is HELP, in all-caps, each letter then melting into an illegible scrawl. Harrison sees bits of words: Luke, woe, hands, clay, guard, stray, each wobbly and disappearing into the other, becoming cities of their own, destroying others. He tries to understand the route, but the farther he pours over the map, recircling each line with his finger, the more lost he gets in the ink.

“Is this your map?” Harrison asks. There is no proof that it is. Even the handwriting is all wrong. Ragged. Confused. Desperate. Not like Lonan’s careful, hesitant print.

“Like I said, I bought the car used.”

“But is it your map?” Harrison asks again. Gently, he creases the paper and then slots it back into the glove compartment. Outside, they pass three convenience stores in a row, a flock of couples emerging from a bowling alley, tipsy and cradling leftover deep dish pizzas and mozzarella sticks. They pass two more convenience stores before Lonan finally answers.

“I was confused,” he says.

“This is more than confused,” Harrison says. “It’s disturbed.”

“I’m not disturbed.”

“But something is wrong with you.”

Lonan slows at a crosswalk. A group of teenaged girls whisk by in glitter and lip gloss.

“Yes,” he says.

This is Harrison trying to stop Lonan’s nosebleed after their bizarre swerve which I think is kind of <3 tendy <3

Harrison reaches for him. One hand on the back of his neck, and the other reared toward the red stream. His touch is tactful, so faint his fingerprints wouldn’t even be left behind, but still, the dabbing with his jacket’s hem is enough to redirect the blood’s flow from Lonan’s upper lip to the cuff of leather. The radio is still on, garbled like an unmassing of crepe paper lanterns.

This is the final excerpt for this update that takes us to the very end of the chapter! Harrison has just found Lonan supposedly head-first in the sink and though he asks at first why he is doing that, takes an alternate approach as the chapter closes:

Harrison gets up, his knees popping like gnawed bubble gum. He decides he will handle Lonan at a distance, if he chooses to handle him at all. Like a timid pet owner trying to tame their suddenly-rabid yorkie. Like a friend not trying to tip the full glass. To let its contents film at its surface, but never spill.

Somewhere in the apartment, Suzanna probably listens to them. If Harrison didn’t know her better, he’d imagine her pressed neatly against the door, waiting to hear the shuffle of their bodies or the tang of an argument. Instead, he imagines her at the kitchen table, gripping a glass of water for so long, half of it evaporates.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Harrison says, stepping back until his spine hits the counter’s lip. He curls his fingers under the granite. Looks toward the window, now a faint periwinkle. Lonan heaves. His fingers caging his face, an animal restrained. They stand there until the sun rises.

So that’s it for this gigantic update! I have like four short stories to update you on so I hope to be back soon!

—Rachel

[modestytreehouse]

Writing tag game

I was tagged by @lokkanel and @anaisanais-stuff, thank you so much <3

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

45 works

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

381 821

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

We can take the long way home

He actually doesn’t feel good at all; he’s feverish, and when he tries to turn around there’s a searing pain just below his ribs, like his skin is on fire, or like there’s a big scratch-wound there. He winces, tries to remember if he took a fall yesterday, but he can’t, he’s too dizzy.

When he gently puts his hand on the right side of his stomach, the skin is burning hot and feels rugged underneath his fingertips, and when he lifts the cover to look he sees a dark patch there, about the size of his palm.

He freezes, has to close his eyes for a moment.

Surely, it can’t be, not this soon?

But when he looks again, he’s sure.

He’s gotten a mark. He’s only been eighteen for about a month, haven’t even had the time to start worrying about it yet.

Yearning for more than a blue day

He really should leave while Isak is still asleep and spare him the awkwardness of waking up beside Even. Spare himself the shame when Isak recognizes him.

Expiration date

In the midst if the December stress, Isak has to make use of the gift card Eskild gave him for Christmas last year. A gift card for a freaking massage.

Refinement

“Do you want me to stop?” but no, he doesn’t get to stop, not now, not ever.

It's Isak's birthday.

Innocent when you dream (co-written with @irazor)

Everyone has fantasies like these, Isak supposes. Turn-ons they don’t necessarily tell their partners about, or think about other than on certain occasions.

So it’s not like Even has to know about this particular secret of his. Plus, Isak’s not even sure he’d want to try it out for real.

No. Things are fine the way they are. Really.

Until, one day, an off-hand comment of Even’s sets Isak’s brain into overdrive – and suddenly, he can’t stop thinking about it.

Or: 5 times Isak was awake, and 1 time he wasn’t.

4. Do you respond to comments?

Yes.

5. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

I can’t do angsty endings with Isak and Even, it’s impossible!

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

All my endings are happy. Or happy endings, lol.

7. Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

Nope!

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

No.

9. Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I mostly write smut. Passionate, lots of feelings, lots of jizz.

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I’ve translated some of my Swedish fics myself!

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes, once with Amethystus and several with @irazor

13. What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

I’ve got so many wips in my docs I can’t possibly finish all of them, haha. But I’ve got no published, unfinished wips!

14. What are your writing strengths?

Uhm, porn with feelings, maybe?

15. What are your writing weaknesses?

I mostly write in my second language, so words other than say, move, or look are always a challenge lol. And also to expand scenes, to dwell on details, to let the characters take their time.

16. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I don’t know, I think I’ve thrown in a stray Norwegian word here and there I think but whole conversations - that might throw the readers off course?

17. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

SKAM is my first and only fandom.

18. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

I’m both very proud and fond of the series Vinter, vår, sommar, höst that I’ve co-written with @irazor. I really love our Isak and Even in those stories, and their journey together.

I tag @irazor (whom I’ve already tagged several times in my answers, haha) @hakkepippern @eirabach @ashotofjac and @fille-lioncelle - if you’re up for it! <3