#white desperately trying to get him into showmanship

[grinchwrapsupreme]

Episode of The Venture Bros where Dean is going to be on a jeopardy style quiz show so Pete and Billy decide to train him

[foldingfittedsheets]

The dog I think of as My Dog was picked up from the shelter when I was about 16 and he was six months old. He was a cattle dog mix, which at the time was really uncommon in our area.

We were only getting a dog because my mom was worried about home invaders which was a bit insane as we were out in the country and we’d left our German Shepherd down in Arizona with my dad for complicated reasons.

I turned the corner and saw him. Instant connection. He was curled up dozing, all blue and white freckles with red ears and feeties. His clipboard said “SLY” in huge red letters. I called it softly and he opened his eyes, ears perking. He roused to sleepily amble toward me, lick my fingers, then go lay back down.

My mom joined me in dismay, seeing the love dripping off of me. She hadn’t wanted a puppy but it was clear which dog we were going home with.

Sly was a monstrous puppy. Fans of cattle dogs will be unsurprised to learn he was exceedingly clever, mischievous and Bored a Lot. It turned out his name hadn’t been Sly. It was Billy. But I think we all know why a huge red warning had been applied to his kennel. We named him Sly anyway.

My mom doesn’t remember threatening in earnest to bring him back but it happened. Sly loved to chew. He had no interest in fetch or most toys but he adored chewing. I lost headphones, backpack straps, and pillows to his voracious teething. We tried to dissuade him. He just learned to chew when we weren’t looking. Then one day, clever but not smart, he set his teeth to a plugged in cord and electrocuted himself. He was fine, just really startled!

Thus ended the chewing, forever.

He wouldn’t even pick up toys. He was fully convinced having things in his mouth was only a matter of time before they turned on him. He’d run after a ball at dog parks, grab it in the euphoria of the chase, then immediately spit it out.

He was still a lot of dog and my moms rumblings about his poor behavior led me to join 4H with him. My friend Lia was in with her spaniels so I had an in. We did twice weekly training in obedience and showmanship.

That was it. Sly transformed into the best dog. From a bored unmanageable puppy he became a partner, ready to work on whatever we needed to work on. He learned buckets of commands, eager to please. Sit, down, wait, stand, front, back up, shake, roll, heel. The only thing we could never convince him to do was speak. His bark was reserved for Danger.

We went to compete in the county fair together, entering obedience trials and dog show portions.

The instructions are clearly stated before obedience testing. A dog must stay sitting for two minutes when told to stay, and three minutes for laying down. If our dog broke we were not supposed to speak to reissue commands, simply wait quietly.

It was us in a line with five other dogs. He passed the sitting part just fine. The down one was longer and a wretched golden retriever broke. But then his trainer pulled out a ball and started trying to redirect him with it. The other dogs watched with interest but stayed down. Sly started up. He desperately wanted to herd the golden back into place.

With elbows off the ground he froze, realizing his mistake. His head whipped to me. In silence, I swept my arm down in the nonverbal command for down. He dropped obediently and watched me fixedly for the rest of the time. I think he could feel my disappointment.

We failed.

But the judge came up to us afterward as I was petting him and said, “I was so impressed your dog knows nonverbal commands, and that other dog was so distracting! Let’s retest with the next batch.”

I was thrilled and Sly was steadfast, staring unblinkly at me for the full three minutes with utter determination. He won blue ribbons in obedience and got later best in breed since there was no other cattle dogs.

[quirkthieves]

He watches annoyance and embarrassment blot across Kaminari's cheeks in red. He watches, eyes round, unusually focused. He watches, with his pupils drawn into thin white slits, taught like the tightrope Kaminari didn't know he was walking on. The rest of his face is nothing, gives nothing, belies nothing, and that nothingness says everything; a pure and condensed type of anger, a dying star, coiled and ready to strike, which shows in the strain of two fists clenched at his sides, shaking slightly.

That sharp hatred is held at Kaminari's throat for a moment (oh, if looks could kill!), and then Monoma breathes deeply, releasing the tension from his shoulders with an exhale and putting on his best smile. He languidly closes the gap between them, and gives Kaminari a friendly pat on the shoulder.

"Well done. That was quite bold, for someone like you." his friendly smile never wavers. "After all, you know how common electricity quirks are, don't you? Dime a dozen. It must be nice, to have that kind of job security. Tradesman jobs can be pretty cushy." His grip tightens, but not enough to be painful. After all, he wasn't here to start a fight; he was here to finish one.

"I can't say I'm envious, though. After all, once we graduate, you'll have a lot of competition. And let's be honest with ourselves; you aren't the best electricity user out there. Not the worst, certainly, but the drawback of your quirk and your already lacking wits leave a lot to be desired. You're going to find yourself awash in a sea of electricity quirks, destined forever to hit midrank on the hero charts. I commend your networking ability-- you certainly have the personality of a potential star, but riding Bakugo's coattails will only last so long, especially when you don't even have the spine to get him to remember your name." He doesn't let Kaminari get a word in edgewise, continuing ahead.

"That's what it is. Your personality is offset by your garish tastes, which exist because you already know you have to compete for attention. The only thing that's worked so far is making a complete fool of yourself, so you've deluded yourself into thinking that you can turn people laughing at you into laughing with you. It's desperate. You have no self respect, no spine, and the bit's going to get old. But you know that. You've given up on yourself already, but you just won't admit it. I won't say you aren't impressive now. That wouldn't be true! But you're impressive for a highschooler, and you won't be a highschooler forever. I think you'll hit, say, 22, and you'll realize your career was washed up before it even really started." this was only superficially like his constant provocations; but in reality, they couldn't be more different. These words were meant to cut, and they were meant to cut deep. No real showmanship or theatrics to it; the sword wasn't one that was meant to fold when stuck in the box.

"I'm sure you think of me as a nobody, and that's true. But I think you have it even worse-- you're a somebody, but the somebody you are is doomed to live out your life drowning in mediocrity, never miserable but never really happy, reminiscing about when you had famous friends and bragging about your biggest catch to whoever will listen, just so you can feel cool." He steps back a little, and brings his face close to Kaminari's, smile gone and brows raised once more into that terrible, patronizing look of disdain.

"I'll give you credit for the audacity. But don't ever assume again that you and I are rivals of any sort. I'm not competing with you-- you just happen to be one of the many little tools Bakugo uses, and you really ought to be more grateful that's the case. Trying to make things personal with me isn't a level little tools like you are able to handle."

@4heroes from here.

Monoma regards Kaminari with a cool look of disdain, mouth resting in a small frown. It was quite a far fry from his usual antagonism-- the buzzing, energized, manic laughter and provocation; this was nothing but frigid, and his almost-placid expression did nothing to give away the boiling rage under his skin-- at least not to those who didn't know him.

A quiet Monoma was not a good thing.

"I know you posture yourself as far more clever than you are, but this is just embarrassing." He looks at his nails, and then back at Kaminari, expression unchanged.

"Do you think that was witty? Did you win? Should we call Jirou? I'm sure she'd be surprised." His voice remains calm, but the contempt is palpable.

"I think you seem to be mistaken about the nature of our interactions. I humor you and your class. I play the back-and-forth out of a certain level of tolerance. Even now, I am telling you this to give you a chance to remember where we stand in this world and rectify what I'm sure was just a blunder on your part."

"Apologize, and keep my brother's name out of your mouth, and this can be water under the bridge."

[plush-rabbit]

Mr. Compress Courting Headcanons

A/N: Court is such a cute word and !!! 

Atsuhiro has had his fair share of romantic partners. He’s charming, a bit eccentric, but charming. He’s caring and handsome, thoughtful and always going the extra step to produce a bouquet of flowers from seemingly nowhere. It’s little things that make him so sought after. Due to his role as a villain, he hasn’t had the chance to go out and actually date someone properly, but then he sets his eyes on you and he’s smitten.

He’s been nervous plenty of times but has always masked it with his showmanship, always swallowing the nerves with a simple bow and his expression hidden behind his mask. He’ll trip over his words around you, a slight hint of stutter behind your words that makes you giggle in a sweet way and he’s choking up, an awkward smile that doesn’t seem to be familiar to him. But, despite his nerves, he’s smart. He knows what to say to get you to reveal more about yourself. He learns your favorite color and as if by magic, that color begins to pop more into your life.

Courting with him is this gentle thing. He can be a bit of a flirt, smile a bit too much that the creases around his eyes start to deepen, keep his attention on you and lean close unknowingly, and it’s all kept and given towards you. He’ll smile and chuckle at any joke you say, smile encouraging as you laugh at your own joke. If you laugh at a joke of his, pride swells deep in his chest and it’s released at the next heist, always showing off, ever the showman that he truly is.

He has moments where he can be romantic. While butterflies may cause his stomach to tighten and his face to flush, he won’t let that stop him from making his attraction to you known. A gloved hand will linger on your elbow, slowly trailing down until it meets your wrist, watching how your expression becomes flustered as he interlocks his hands with yours. He’s talking and talking, listening to some story as his free hand waves around, chin tilted upwards to give him a sense of confidence while he feels your gaze on him.

He’s physical, always touching you in some sense with either his palm on your back, hand in yours or shoulders touching as he sits close to you. He can sit quietly, read a book or have you slump towards him as you both watch a show and he will never remove a hand from you, always keeping you close to him. He likes touch, he likes the feeling of knowing that you are close to him, always willing to keep his touch on you and relaxing into his body. He gets to have this sense of a protector role. 

As the middle ground of courting continues, he will start to bring you your favorite things. Things will start to appear in your vicinity- a book you’ve been thinking as of late, a manga that you haven’t had the chance to get yet, a candle that smells familiar- it’s all different things that as time goes on, start to become cutely wrapped. While the villain has a flair for the more pleasing to the eye look, there’s only so much time that he has before the night becomes old and the day starts to give birth. 

He would rather give you something when he can’t see your expression. Always thriving off of expressions, yours seem to be the one that he can’t handle. He knows when people fake a smile, when the enthusiasm is forced and he doesn’t want to risk that when you see your gift. He tries so hard to pick something out for you, a bottom lip bit until raw as he tries to think about what you would like now. He’ll sneak in into your room, place the wrapped box down by your mirror. He’ll walk out, trying to control his breathing and the next day, he’ll avoid eye contact with you only allowing a smile to pass when you gush about the present he left you.

He can’t take you out on dates for specific reasons but he will try to set something romantic up that isn’t just a movie in the room. He’s a fairly decent cook and will prepare something, read the instructions and measure the spices before adding them in, tapping nervously on the counter as he watches the food starting to simmer, a rich scent of garlic and butter wafting in the room. It’s date nights where he cooks for you, pulling out your chair and looking eagerly at you to see if you enjoyed the meal. 

Always a gentleman, he is still a villain who hides his face. Not insecure in the slightest, it’s grown to be a comfort item, something that he will keep close on him, the black cloth curving around his handsome features only to be hidden by a white mask decorated with varying lines. He is a villain who hides his face, who lets his prosthetic rise above him as he hears the soft clicks of the metal. A true show of courtship from him to you, is letting you roam his body. He’ll keep his gaze leveled, his chest still as your fingers begin to tickle at the jagged scar that curves onto his shoulders, will wet his lips with his tongue when your fingers graze at the bottom of his balaclava, his body pricking with bumps as his heart pounds against his chest, rattling ribs and making him unable to breath. He’ll let you touch him and will breathe when you let go, pulling away to stop yourself from looking under the secretive man to only hold the man who leans close to you.

Having Atsuhiro court you is something that happens so quickly and takes time to actually let him trust you. He will hold your hand and kiss your knuckles, let his smile stretch against your skin when you call him name. He’ll laugh and hook his arm with yours in a desperate attempt to keep you beside him. He’ll encourage your interests and bring you gifts that he will fret over until he’s dropping it off. It’s letting him have you touch something he’s kept so close to him. It’s a type of courting where he’ll feign having the power, only to show you that you’re the one who holds everything in your hands.

[copias-thrall]

I really liked the Papa III x F! S/o where the s/o was a typical shy and cute introvert, but this huge dork with those closer to her. Would it be alright if I requested the same with our dear Papa Copia (god I’m so happy to call him papa now :) )

Of course, nonny! Let’s get some sweet Papa IV up in here.

(Reference Prompt here. 😊)

Copia notices you because of your quiet nature. There are lots of Siblings that are vying for his attention and favors…and then there you are: sitting quietly during mass and reading the hymn book.

(He doesn’t have to know that you’ve been reading the same page the whole time while you admire him from out of the corner of your eyes.)

Every time he looks out, all he sees is your quiet dignity, and it speaks to him on such a personal level. While he’s grown to enjoy and embrace the showmanship of the Ghost project, he’s not a natural extrovert. So, when he sees you existing in your subdued state, he can’t help but yearn to be right there with you.

He sees you reading your book in the quad on a nice day, and he immediately pictures himself with his head in your lap as you read to him. When he spies you daydreaming in the library, he imagines what it would be like to play footsie with you under the table. As he comes across you sweeping the halls with your headphones on, he pictures giving you a homemade mixtape to listen to while you work.

Really, he wants to worm his way into the rich inner life he knows you must have.

He never does anything about it, though—in his mind you’ve been perfectly clear about your indifference to him. And he’d rather not stammer through an invitation that you’re only going to reject.

The mess hall is always a sticking point for Copia. He loves the attention—he does; it amuses him to watch the Siblings fight over who acquires his meal and who gets sits next to him. He’s still a man with an ego, and he likes it to be stroked.

But.

Some days, the whole scene just gives him a headache. On days just after an important sermon, or when he’s just back from tour, or when he’s spent the morning on a stack of paper Imperator has given him, “ASAP now, please, Papa”—it’s simply too much for him to have to be On for his admirers.

On those days, he has his Ghouls create a distraction (and Dew is always more than happy to set a fire) so that he can get in and get out with no one noticing. Then, he tries to find a quiet, out of the way place to eat his food in peace.

And that’s how he encounters you cavorting about with your friends.

You're out on the grounds because it's a fine spring day, and he can't believe that his this reserved, demure Sister is running about and chasing her fellow sister with a worm! You're laughing—not a coy titter, but a full belly laugh after you make a ribald joke about Imperator and a Brother!

Copia gapes.

You have a secret side that only your intimates know about? Well! It’s a circle he desperately wants to be a part of! (Even if he’s contractually not allowed to jest about the Seestor.) 

He imagines your laugh ringing out in his quarters as you let his babies crawl all over you (someone who doesn’t mind worms surely wouldn’t mind rats, yes?), and how you'd make him laugh with your uncouth humor. He can almost taste the domesticity.

But…he decides to stay out of sight—he doesn't want to ruin the party (which he’s sadly come to realize that, as Papa, he does quite often just by virtue of his presence)—and that’s when he realizes he actually has a hope.

You’re lying back in the grass, watching the clouds roll by, and you say,

“Hey, that one looks like a rat,” to which your friend responds, “That’s just cuz you have Popia on the brain.”

“I do not!”

“You think he’s gOrGeOUs, you want to KisS him, you want hUG him,” he singsongs.

“Shut it!” you screech as your face flushes and you throw a balled up napkin at him. 

He blocks it easily, and you lie back down with a huff.

“Whatever. He doesn’t even know I’m alive.”

Embarrassingly, the conversation shifts to how you’ve done it to yourself and if you’d just look at Copia instead of doing your best impression of a church mouse, that would be a good start.

Your face burns the whole time. I mean, having his intense focus just on you? 

You shudder. 

Surely you’d combust.

Copia bites his fist.

He could…? Have you??

***

Perhaps any of the other Papas would have been on you like white on rice…but research has always been more Copia’s thing.

Which means he spends the next few weeks slinking about like a bad spy (seriously—he might as well have on Groucho Marx glasses) trying to figure out what all your favs and interests are. 

And the Siblings are beginning to talk about it.

“He was behind a column, and I thought he was a statue,” hisses one. “He moved, and it scared the crap out of me!”

“I saw him petting the potted plants in the west corridor like a weirdo,” whispers another. “I hope Primo doesn’t hear about it!”

“I went into the broom closet to get cleaning supplies, and when I pulled the light on, he was just…standing there!” laughs someone else. “I was too surprised to be startled. He just coughed and excused himself!”

The only weird thing to you is that you seem to be the only Sibling who hasn’t witnessed Copia being adorable odd.

You often sit by that pillar to read when it’s chilly outside, and that area in the west corridor is where you sweep. Heaven!—that broom closet is next to the wash station you use! How haven’t you seen him even once?

Dew thinks this is great fun. He’s been suggesting even more ridiculous schemes (that Swiss and he giggle about back in the Ghoul dorms) for Copia to “overhear” you and your party—which Copia is taking down in earnest.

Aether thinks Copia’s being a dumbass and guesses he and the girls will have to fix this mess. Cirrus thinks Copia just needs to learn the hard way (“He’s taking advice from Dew—how does he not know better?!”), but Cumulus agrees. The two of them coral Copia into the practice space where they firmly, but gently, tell him to stop pussyfooting around and just kiss the girl already!

Copia stutters out a series of awkward rat noises before simply nodding.

“I have been procrastinating, eh?”

“You can do it, Boss.”

“Who’s the best Papa!”

Copia straightens his posture. “I am.”

***

You’re staring out the window in the classroom—woolgathering instead of dusting—when you hear a quiet throat clear behind you. You nearly jump out of your skin and hurriedly turn to make your excuses.

What you’re expecting is Sister Imperator on one of her shadow runs—but what you see is a one (1) Papa in his casual blacks (that still seem vacuum-sealed onto him) looking at you with eyes full of mirth.

It’s with great effort that you yank your eyes from his thighs up to his face.

“Oh! Your Dark Excellency, sir! I-I-I…” you stutter before composing yourself. “If you need the room…?”

A smirk turns up one side of his lips as his white eye twinkles at you.

“It is you I wish to be seeing.”

You toss the duster to the side and smooth down your habit.

“M-me?”

“Sí.”

Did you do something wrong??

You worry nervously at the sides of your habit.

“I—” Copia starts, then suddenly looks unsure. He runs his hands over his head, smoothing his thick hair back into place.

He starts again, his speech clipped and formal.

“Would you do me the honor, Sister, of joining me for dinner?”

 “I—dinner?” Like a staff dinner? Or...?

Copia blinks at you.

“I am asking you on a date.”

You blink right back.

Just you and him? Alone… 

His face turns into lines of apprehension.

“Mi scusi—perhaps I am mistaken.”

He starts to back away, and you finally find your voice.

“Wait!”

When he stops, you gulp and take a deep breath.

“I would like that, Your Dark Excellency.”

A look of relief smooths his worried expression right before he smiles at you.

“Ah…‘Papa’ is fine, Sister.”

He takes his leave of you, closing the door behind him.

You manage to hold yourself together for another moment before you let out a loud whoop and jump up and down (and unbeknownst to you, Copia is standing just outside the door, beaming).

***

Dinner went over smashingly (literally—between the nervous energy of two of you, a plate, a goblet, and a wine bottle all ended up in pieces). Copia was the perfect mix between awkward rat man and smooth Papa, and you felt comfortable enough to engage easily in conversation with him. 

You’d been a little trepidatious about after dinner (Copia certainly had not absented himself from the pleasures afforded to a Papa), but the only thing you’d done in his quarters was to meet his rats.

He’d walked you back to your room, then asked if he could kiss you. It was just a press of his lips to yours as he’d cupped your cheek, but it had felt like a promise.

The two of you end up making a perfect couple, actually. Copia, of course, respects your quiet demeanor, but it’s more than that—he understands it. The only time he singles you out is when you need to be his date to a clergy function or Abbey party—and he always gives you forewarnings for those!

On the flipside, you and he have the high capacity to be total dorks. The two of you feed off each other's humor, often being the only two in the room cracking up as you wheeze half-uttered statements at each other while the rest of the gathered looks on with pained expressions.

But neither of you care. 

You finally have your Papa, and he’s made all of his imaginings with you a reality. 

[transbibennyweir]

dialoge 18 with evil!benny?

“Do you trust me?” / “No.” / “You’re smarter than you look.”

Despite never mentioning it to anyone, Ethan had become a little on edge about another attack of evil doppelgangers. Maybe it was a long shot of it happening again, but you never be too careful in a town like this. It had been more than comforting when Benny emailed him a spell that would come in use just in case something went wrong again and evil Benny popped up one way or another. 

But, Ethan knew that he would look at his friend’s face and think he could do no wrong. Maybe that’s why he didn’t notice the shift in Benny’s behavior immediately.

“Dude, this stone is our ticket to never having to go to class again!” Benny exclaimed excitedly. He held up a shiny gem that was roughly smaller than the size of his palm, it was an inky black with speckles of red. It didn’t look very promising but Ethan would try anything once. 

“And exactly how is it going to do that?”

“Simple, my dear friend.” Benny started with mock seriousness. “A drop of blood and it’ll create an exact double of you. I do a little spell here and there and in no time they’ll be more than happy to take our place in Mr. Hikers fourth period Algebra class.” Benny added in quite a few hand gestures for showmanship, ending with an arm around Ethan’s shoulders.

Ethan stared at him slack jawed, entirely bewildered that Benny could even think something like this would be a good idea. 

“What? Dude, no! No way. We are not doing this again!” Ethan shrugged off the arm around him to stand up and paced around his bedroom, listing every reason why they should totally not make copies of themselves. “Last time, your clone was evil and then was that time Stern pretended to be you and he was evil. Not a good track record with doubles. Plus, there’s no telling if they’ll actually listen and no way of knowing if you’ll mess up and do the spell wrong.”

“And there’s no way of telling if I can do it right either unless we try it out. Come on, E.” Benny pleaded. “You hate that class! And imagine what we could do with all that powe-err free time, I mean! Think of the amount of video games we could play!” It wasn’t a very convincing argument and Ethan wasn’t going to budge on it.

“No, Ben. There’s no way I’m doing that.” Ethan folded his arms. “Just go to class like everyone else. Not everything needs a short cut.”

“Ugh, that’s where you’re wrong, dude. Everything's better with short cuts.” Benny groaned before grabbing Ethan’s arm and pulled him back onto the bed with a small ‘oomf’ as he laid half on top of Benny. He felt a little embarrassed by the fact he was nearly sitting on his friend’s lap, arms wrapped around his lower stomach. Ethan looked up and caught the way Benny tried to hide a soft smile. A small part of him hoped one of them would lean in and….

“It’s a drop of blood. It’s not like you’re going to miss it. Won’t even hurt.” 

Right. Of course, well that sure took him out of the moment. Still, Ethan’s face was warm, his nose and cheeks slightly pink. Benny was almost the same. They seem to try to ignore it.

“Why can’t you just try it on yourself first?” Ethan sat up, frankly getting fed up with the topic. He wasn’t going to change his mind. Benny stayed silent for a moment longer than he should have, seemingly thinking of a good enough answer. “Well?”

“It’s… Easier to try out a new spell on someone else. I don’t want to get my intentions confused and I can,” Benny gulped not wanting to finish and looked away, red faced. “I can focus on you a lot easier.”

“Real cute, Benny. But I’m still not going to do it.” Ethan felt a twist in his stomach and went to stand back up, but got pulled right back down when Benny gripped his wrist. “Come on, B. Let go.” He tugged but the hold on his wrist seemed to tighten, it hurt badly and Ethan winced from the pressure. 

“Why can’t we at least try?” 

“Why are you pushing so hard for this?” Ethan shot back, he yanked his hand away from the aggressive hold nearly falling over from the sudden force. He searched Benny’s face, confused. Benny was acting off but why.  There wasn’t immediately any sign but he knew something had to be wrong. “What’s up with you today?”

“Wha- Nothing. Dude, I just think this would be a total waste to not try it out. I promise it’ll be fine.” Benny stood up, his voice sounded too forceful. Ethan’s eyes darted around, a quick glance to the side of Benny’s head gave Ethan the answer he was looking for. A toothpick placed behind his ear caught his eye. Of course, Benny was still Benny no matter how evil and that meant he’d be too forgetful to bother with fixing small details, but lucky for Ethan it was a dead give away. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Ethan stepped back slightly, slowly and carefully trying to grab his phone from his back pocket without Benny noticing. “Okay, Ben. I believe you mean that. I just think…. It’s still a bad idea.” He tried to buy himself time to get the email with the spell sound file in it, working it behind his back. Once again he was thankful the real Benny had a plan for this.

Last time Evil Benny never really tried to hurt him, if anything he wanted Ethan to join him out of his own free will before going to make an evil copy after being rejected. Maybe he was trying to make another copy here. At least it was good to know Benny was still Benny and he would never try to hurt Ethan out right.

“I know what I’m doing.” He said a little desperate now.

Almost got it. “Okay. If I do this you’ll chill out?” Just play along a little longer. 

“Yes-yeah.” He cleared his throat. “So, do you trust me?” Ben asked with a wide grin, the jet black gem in hand ready to use. There was a moment of pause, his heart pounding hard in his chest as he tried to hurriedly find what he was looking for secretly. Although if he didn’t find it in the next second he would be caught. Come on, come on, com-

“No.” Ethan answered once he thought he had the sound file he needed.

Benny’s face went dark but his grin stayed in place, becoming unsettling. “You���re smarter than you look.” 

Benny lunged at Ethan to tackle him to the ground, a spell on the edge of being casted at the same time. Before he could get any words in Ethan faced the phone towards the evil double, the voice recording of the spell going off and shooting a white blast of light that knocked Evil Benny off his feet, he fell to the ground with a groan.

“And you’re not as smart as you think.” Ethan said coolly. A second passed and he began to freak out a little. “Wait. Shit. If he’s here then where’s the real Benny?” 

Quickly he went over to check on Evil Benny on the floor, the spell had knocked him out cold, but for how long? If he couldn’t find the real Benny soon then it’s going be a way bigger problem. Without a second thought Ethan ran out the room and called Benny on the phone only to get hit by a voicemail, he made his way to Benny’s house next door. 

Ethan wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or not that the front door was still slightly open, Grandma Weir was gone for the weekend, but there wasn’t any sign of Benny. 

“Ben? Benny!” He called out a few times with no answer. The seer was starting to grow anxious with worry. He ran through the house, the bedroom was a mess more than usual but still no Benny. “Benny! Ben-”

‘Bang!’ Bang!’

A banging sound came from under the living room rug. “Benny?” Ethan walked slowly towards the noise, unsure if his friend was trapped there or if it was some kind of creature locked away for good reason. The sound continued louder and quicker, Ethan was going to have to take his chances on this one and pulled the rug off the floor to reveal a trap door. 

Of course, a weird old house like this one would have a trap door. He pried it open, the weight of the wood heavier than any amount he tried to lift before, granted that wasn’t much, but he was still able to flip it open and almost immediately Benny came hurrying out. 

In his rushed attempt to get out, Benny fell on top of Ethan, limbs getting mangled together as they fell backwards onto the hardwood floor. Ethan groaned in pain, Benny’s arm on either side of his face to keep any more weight from squishing him. 

“Ethan!” Benny hugged his friend, nearly giving him whiplash. “I’m really sorry. I know it was a dumb idea and I should’ve told you everything myself and I totally get if you’re mad at me but,” Benny pulled away from the hug. “How did you defeat evil me?”

“I didn’t,” Ethan replied dizzy and flushed. “He’s knocked out in my room from that spell you gave me.”

“Oh. Right… okay that’s an easy fix. Uh, he didn’t tell you anything weird?” Benny asked, his cheeks growing pink. Ethan didn’t totally understand what he meant by it or why he seemed so embarrassed but shook his head no. “Okay. Good.”

“Why? What did you want to tell me?” 

“Nothing important. It can wait until after I fix this mess.” Benny stood up and helped Ethan to his feet. “And I do know how to fix this. Trust me, I learned from last time.”

Ethan smiled at him. “Yeah, Benny. I trust you.”

[sohotthateveryonedied]

Living is Harder

Read here on AO3!

Summary:

Tim drops the knife like it’s white-hot. Oh, god. Oh, god.

Tim did this. He was...he didn’t mean it. He didn’t. He would never. But the man was on top of him and Tim couldn’t breathe, and...he didn’t mean it.

Tim is walking home from Steph’s house, his light-up Sketchers the only things illuminating his path through the Gotham night. He stayed out later than he planned, utterly captivated in the Among Us tournament he and Steph were playing against their Titan friends all the way in San Francisco. (And Tim would have gotten away with the murders too, if it weren’t for that meddling Bart Allen who stared Tim down every time he killed a player, watching it happen but never reporting until Tim finally cracked from the shame and called an emergency meeting on himself.)

Tim rode in Steph’s car on the way to her house, but forgot that it would mean he’d be without a ride home. Steph offered to drive him back to the manor, that she doesn’t mind losing a measly hour of sleep, but Tim insisted he didn’t mind walking. Besides, it’s not like it was a lie. Sure, it’s Gotham, which means Tim can see drug deals going down on street corners and the occasional drunkard puking into a trash can, but Tim feels at peace here.

It brings him back to his early days of climbing fire escapes, tailing Batman and Robin under the cloak of night in the hopes to get just one more photo for his collection. It was a simpler time with fewer psychotic clowns—back then it was just the one, and all he did was tell shitty jokes and occasionally tie Robin up over a swimming pool filled with Jokerized sharks. Nowadays it’s all grotesque murders and creepy masks made of human skin. Where’s the showmanship? Where’s the pizzazz? Disgusting. Deplorable. Lazy beyond all reason. Tim is insulted by the lack of artistic ability in these new Jokers, and you may quote him on that. Regardless, Tim takes comfort in knowing that if something did go wrong, Cass is patrolling somewhere a good five blocks ahead. Maybe he can track her down and pick them up some corn dogs. He’s currently in the Red Hood’s territory, but whether Jason is around at the moment is a gamble at best. His schedule is harder to tamp down than a solid answer on Ted Cruz: Zodiac Killer. Jason might not even be in Gotham right now; he could be in space for all anyone knows. Sometimes Tim feels like Jason is more of a feral cat than a brother, which isn’t too far off, really. Tim happens upon an empty beer can on the sidewalk in front of a boarded-up store that he’s fairly certain used to be an adult film shop. Good ol’ Gotham City. He stoops down to pick up the crinkled can like the good samaritan he is and drops it into a trash can at the mouth of a nearby alley. He wipes his hands on his jeans, designer style be damned. That’s when Tim is grabbed from behind, a hand reaching up to cover his mouth and muffle his shout. He’s pulled into the alley and pushed up against a wall, the bricks digging into his back and knocking the breath from his lungs. Shit, shit, shit. How could he have been taken by surprise so easily? It’s hard to make out his attacker in the shadowed alley, the only discernible features being dark eyes and bared yellow teeth—never a good sign. Tim’s hands are pinned together above him in a strong grip, practically wrenching his shoulders from the sockets. He tries to scream, but the man’s disgusting hand presses harder against his mouth. Tim freezes when he feels the poke of a knife at his throat, digging into the skin just below his Adam’s apple. “Make a sound and I’ll gut you,” his attacker says, his voice a low rumble. The stench of cigarettes and alcohol assaults Tim’s sinuses and makes his stomach roll. He’s going to have to be careful about this. Robin could get out of this hold in five different ways with varying degrees of injury to the opponent, but a civilian couldn’t. Even if the only witness is a low-life scumbag, he shouldn’t run the risk. Better to wait until he’s at the point of no return to bust out the Robin moves. Instead, Tim goes for the oldest trick in the book and knees the man in the crotch, hard. It has the desired effect and the grip on Tim’s wrists slackens, the man dropping him with a grunt. Tim ducks out of range and makes a run for it. If he can just get to the street, he should be home free. Even in Gotham City, there are always witnesses to help out a poor, defenseless teenager under attack. Tim almost makes it to the sidewalk when he’s grabbed by the hair, crying out as he’s thrown violently to the ground. Then there’s weight on top of him, pinning his shoulders to the dirty ground under his back. Tim fights, kicking out and delivering purposeful hits under the guise of a panicked struggle. “You little shit,” the man spits. He’s still got a hold on Tim’s hair, which he uses to slam Tim’s head against the pavement so hard that Tim goes blind for a good ten seconds, his head spinning. The back of his scalp feels wet, and he hates to think about what bacteria must be lurking on the ground beneath him. The knife clatters somewhere to Tim’s side and he’s almost relieved until a hand wraps around his throat, cutting off his next breath. Instinct plunges him into panic, choking on the lack of air and scrambling to get a hold on his attacker. Scratching, kicking, desperately trying to loosen the grip crushing his windpipe. “You didn’t have to make this so difficult,” the man tells him. His body presses down on Tim’s smaller form, keeps him trapped against the unforgiving asphalt, and this is it. This is the point of no return he’s been waiting for, but now Tim is here and he can’t do anything about it. Not even Robin could get out of this without a weapon, and Tim has none. He’s powerless. The creep releases Tim’s hair with a whisper of, “Don’t move.” Before he can do anything more with his newly freed hand, though, Tim’s body is thrown into action faster than he can comprehend moving at all. The world goes hazy, time itself turning to molasses. Absently Tim feels muscles flex, sees shapes move in front of his eyes, but someone else might as well be controlling Tim’s body while he’s locked in the backseat, missing the entire ride. One minute Tim is on his back with the creep on top of him, and after a chunk of time that Tim can’t remember participating in, he’s standing against the alley wall with something clutched in his hand. Tim blinks back the fog, but it lingers. He looks down and studies the way his fingers clasp the handle of the knife. That can’t be right. He wasn’t holding a knife before. Tim comes back to his body in increments, a stop-motion reel. First there’s a stinging ache on the back of his head, blood soaking into the back of his shirt and plastering his hair against his neck. His gaze slips from the glinting knife to the blood that covers his hands, warm and sticky. Then he catches a shape on the ground in front of him and Tim’s breath catches in his throat. The man from before is on the ground now, his eyes closed and blood spreading from a stab wound directly over his sternum. Tim drops the knife like it’s white-hot. Oh, god. Oh, god. Tim did this. He was...he didn’t mean it. He didn’t. He would never. But the man was on top of him and Tim couldn’t breathe, and...he didn’t mean it. Tim staggers back until his back hits the cold brick wall, his pulse pounding in his ears so loud the entire city must hear it. He just stabbed a person. He just killed a person. The one rule he’s supposed to follow, the one thing he promised never to do, and he just did it. Without even a second’s hesitation. He took a life. What is Bruce going to say when he finds out? Tim’s legs are made of jello, wobbling in warning until they give out entirely and he slides to the ground, knees pulled in close to his chest. His hands are still covered in blood. A dead man’s blood. He should...he should do something. He should act. First-aid, stop the bleeding, do whatever it takes to help in case there’s a chance. Tim doesn’t move. He doesn’t even try. His limbs have been replaced with rubber, his brain with slush. He just killed a man. In the back of his mind he knows he can’t go home, not like this. Not covered in another man’s blood. Even if he tried, Tim isn’t sure he’d make it two steps without collapsing into a puddle of whatever emotion is making him feel as though he’s rotting from the inside out. His family lives by a code, would sooner die themselves than take a life. Bats don’t kill. Tim doesn’t kill. Tim killed. His fingers shake as they take out his cell phone on autopilot, and the screen is cracked at the corner from when he was slammed into the ground. That’s going to cost money to fix. Tim gets blood on the screen, smudging over his contact list and warping the names. He finds the one he’s looking for and puts the phone to his ear. A ring. Two rings. A click. “This had better be important,” Jason says. Tim swallows. “Um. I—um.” He can’t take his eyes off of the body, lying there still as a corpse. Because it is a corpse. “My...head isn’t working. It’s—something is wrong. With me.” “Are you high or something? Because if you are, I’ll fucking kill you.” That does it. What little resolve Tim held on to cracks in one clean split and a sob bursts through. He covers his mouth with his elbow, choking on gasps. “Jay, I—it was an accident. I swear to god, I didn’t mean to. He was...it wasn’t...I didn’t mean to.” There’s a creak on the other end, maybe Jason sitting up in his chair. Or maybe he just sat down. Maybe he closed a door. Too many things in the world are creaky. “What the hell are you talking about? What happened?” “He’ll kick me out. He’s gonna take Robin away from me.” Something slams—definitely a door. “Kid, tell me where you are.” “I don’t know. It was—” His brain isn’t working. For the first time in his life, logic and reason escape him and Tim’s mind pushes into overdrive, drags him deeper and deeper into oblivion. Bruce is going to find out. He’s going to find out and he’s going to hate Tim for the rest of his life. Bruce doesn't like murderers. “Goddamn it. Tim, listen to me. Can you do that?” It takes a moment, but Tim manages to get out an affirming noise. “I’m going to track your phone and come get you. Don’t move, got it? Stay right where you are. I’ll be there soon.” Jason hangs up, leaving Tim alone again. He drops his phone back on the concrete, uncaring of potential breaks. It’s already been cracked. “He’s going to kick me out,” Tim repeats to the empty alleyway. ------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim is cold by the time Jason arrives. Or maybe he’s been cold this entire time. It’s hard to tell. “Fuck,” Jason swears as he takes in the scene before him. The body on the pavement. Tim, huddled against the alley wall, his eyes glazed over as he stares at the body like a horror movie he can’t turn off. Jason isn’t wearing his helmet, just a domino mask. He takes it off when he kneels in front of Tim, makes Tim meet his eyes. “Hey, kid. You with me?” “I killed him.” The words taste acrid on Tim’s tongue, sour. “Don’t worry about that now. Are you hurt anywhere?” Tim doesn’t answer. The back of his head stung before, but the pain is muffled now. Everything is muffled. “I killed him, Jay. I’m a murderer. Bruce is...I’m not supposed to kill. Robins don’t kill. They don’t.” His chest is tight, getting tighter by the minute until it feels like every breath is being sucked in through a tiny straw. “Tim, breathe,” Jason tells him. He puts his hand on Tim’s shoulder, and that helps a little. Gives him something to latch onto. “You’re in shock. Try putting your head between your knees.” Tim does, stares down at the dirty pavement between his sneakers. His eyes linger on an old fast food receipt. It has droplets of blood on it. “I don’t know what happened, I really don’t. He was—it was an accident. He was on top of me and he had a knife and then he was choking me and...I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe, so I just—I just moved. And now he’s dead. I killed him. What am I going to do?” “It was self-defense,” Jason says, as if the answer could really be so simple. “If you hadn’t acted, he would have hurt you. Maybe even killed you. You did the right thing.” “No, it’s—” Tim picks his head up, digs his nails into his knees to keep himself above the fog. “No. I took a life. I’m guilty. I can’t—there’s no coming back from that. There isn’t.” How can he live with himself after this? Does he even deserve to? “What, so you would rather be dead than have to tell Bruce you took a life? Seriously?” “Yes.” There’s no hesitation, not even a pause to let the words soak in. Jason sighs, and Tim is too far gone to decipher what it means. He squeezes Tim’s shoulder once and stands, goes over to the body still lying on the ground. (As if a dead man would go anywhere.) Jason crouches down and takes off one of his gloves, presses two fingers over the man’s neck. After a moment or two, he lets out a breath. “He’s still alive.” Tim’s breath hitches. “Really? Are you sure?” “Pulse is thready, but he’s not dead.” All of the air leaves Tim’s lungs in one huge whoosh, making him lightheaded. “Oh my god. That’s…” That’s good, right? It’s a good thing. It should be a good thing. “Yup. That’s one hell of a relief.” Jason straightens up from his crouch. He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a gun, and fires it into the man’s head. “Jason!” It happens so fast that Tim doesn’t even have the capacity to think about the blood and brain matter splattered over Jason’s clothes, Tim’s shoes, the cracks in the alley’s pavement. “How could you—” “What? It’s not like he was going to walk it off or anything.” “We just—” Tim’s stomach churns. It feels like he’s going to be sick. “We just killed a man.” “No, I killed a man.” Jason holsters his gun, then kicks the body in the side for good measure. “You, however, are off the hook.” “What are you talking about? I stabbed him.” The knife is around here somewhere. That’s evidence. Proof of what happened tonight, what Tim did. What Jason finished. “And I shot him in the head. One of those is worse than the other.” “But I—” “No,” Jason snaps. He lowers himself to look Tim in the eyes. “You didn’t. Kill. Anyone. Got it? I killed him. Your slate is still clean.” “There’s a body. Evidence. I still did this.” Jason grabs the bloody knife and tucks it into his jacket. “No, the Red Hood did this. He cornered the guy in an alley, stabbed him, then shot him in the face. That’s what happened.” Tim shakes his head. “You can’t. You can’t take the fall for me.” “I’m not. I’m the one who killed him, right? I’m just taking responsibility for my own actions, which nobody is going to look twice at because this is the third one this week.” Jason takes Tim by the arm, pulling him upright and keeping him steady when he wobbles. “What about Bruce?” “We’ll tell him the truth. That you got attacked by some creep, I killed his slimy ass like he deserved, and then I let you crash at my place for the night to make sure you were safe. That’s it. Understand?” Tim isn’t sure if he does or not. He’s too numb to attempt puzzling it out, but he does know one thing he can say. “Thanks, Jason.” “Don’t mention it. Just try not to puke on me until we get to my place and I’ll call us even.”

[sylvermidnight]

Rusame’s Rival Waltz

I never intended this to be this long but I couldn’t stand splitting it into parts. So here’s a rusame one shot based on their relationship over time, and a waltz. Lovers to enemies to lovers.

1811 St. Petersburg Russia~

His hand grips his glass just a little too tightly. If he had not been wearing gloves one may have seen that his knuckles had gone as white as his face. Alfred F. Jones had never felt so out of place in all his life and he’d been in some odd situations. Parties like this just weren’t...His scene. They never had been despite how desperately Arthur had tried.

But with his first official ambassador having arrived in Russia two years prior, he didn’t have much of a choice. John Quincy Adams had managed to meet the Russian personification before him and that was just the slightest bit disrespectful. So here he stood, against the wall dressed in finery he felt much too uncomfortable in, swaying slightly to the sound of the music. He had to admit the Winter Palace was...More than he’d expected, almost intimidatingly so. As was his elusive host. He’d only met the man once for the customary greetings. He still didn’t have the man’s human name and he knew he was unlikely to get it. Despite how long and hard he’d fought he still wasn’t exactly an equal. Not yet.

Over the din of music and conversation he hears someone call his name, he takes a drink. He’d recognize that voice anywhere waking or sleeping. The British Empire had located him at last.

“America- Don’t ignore me boy I’m speaking to you!” His glass hits the table, almost shattering. He would have to remember to mind his strength, he’d been growing a lot lately. But something about his ex-caretaker’s presence burned him up inside. Angered him beyond reason. But just as he opens his mouth to speak, to give some snippy fiery remark, he feels a gentle arm wrap around his waist from behind and he’s pulled forward out into the center of the room.

The dance floor. Once the world stops spinning and confusion leaves him he understands that’s where he is and that someone had pulled him there. Which means- He looks up to discover his surprise partner and his heart stutters. Russia looks down at him with the strangest warmest smile. He’s amused clearly and something in Alfred feels offended yet intrigued. It’s so far from the belittling laughter and smiles of the others. His eyes despite being cold in color and nature appear warm in that moment.

“I assumed you could use the assistance.” The man clarifies placing his hand against his waist to lead him in a waltz. Alfred struggles here, used to leading, not being led. He nearly trips over his own feet but regains himself in enough time not to make a fool of them both. 

“I could have handled him. It’s just Britain. Nothing I haven’t experienced before.” He didn’t want to appear weak. Not in front of the man he wanted as his ally. Not in front of someone he was admittedly eager to impress. 

“That’s true, but I doubt you would have wanted to. With all kindness he can be quite a pain.” Before Alfred had time to think of a response he was being led in a spin and eventually an actual twirl and then all hope of furthering that conversation came to an end. He even began to enjoy himself just a little bit, and that was a first. He’d never really liked dancing before, he was clumsy and awkward. But this felt right...Perhaps even natural. And even though he knows he shouldn’t, that in their world it would be seen as disrespectful, he looked up and he smiled.

Perhaps that’s what did them both in. That smile, the gentle hand against Alfred’s waist tightening just so slightly. The way Russia’s eyes showed a pure form of awe and surprise, and the way Alfred’s shown with stars. When the smile was returned something was sealed between them. A mischievous look passed Russia’s eyes and though it doesn’t break the moment he decides now would be an excellent time to dip his partner just to feel his grip on him tighten in surprise. Seeing if he could shock that daring bravery right out of this little upstart of a nation. But he doesn’t, and when Alfred comes back up his grin has widened even further, assuring that yes, they were both quite entranced.

The night progresses in this fashion. Eventually the dance dissolves into something with a little more showmanship. Something Alfred claims is popular at his home, adding more dips and spins than perhaps either of them could keep up with. But with breathless laughter and warm smiles shared neither of them cared. It came to an end all too quickly, one of Alfred’s men coming to gently inform him they must leave that very night. The moment stirred but did not break as the young nation looked up at his host. A quiet confirmation. They would see each other again. They would experience yet again this purest form of happiness and they would vow to know each other better. They simply must.

And so before Alfred could slip away Russia pressed him close to his chest one last time to finish their dance. “Ivan Braginsky,” he says in the softest of tones. For Alfred’s ears only. “I thought you would be curious.”

A human name was a high honor. One of trust and respect. To have earned it in one night was not a small accomplishment. But Alfred simply smiles coyly and slips from his grasp. “Write to me. Then I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

And he leaves Ivan there, with the image of stars and a million questions.

1955 Geneva Switzerland~

What was the point of all this? He didn’t even know. His head is pounding, his drink just isn’t strong enough. He needs to get out of here and find something stronger. Perhaps snag one of his allies on the way out to go with him. He didn’t really like hitting the bars alone; it made him feel pathetic. Alfred’s eyes scan the party lain out before him. It wasn’t anything special really. It didn’t hold a candle to anything they had held back in the day, but Switzerland had tried his best.

He had heard that Eisenhower and Khrushchev were going to attempt a civil meeting and he’d taken it upon himself to try and put this together as a celebration. Of what though? It wasn’t as if things were going to get better. Alfred had even insisted upon this to Eisenhower’s face. But the man didn’t listen. When had they stopped respecting him? And when had he pulled his flask from his pocket? And-

An all too familiar touch on his arm. Not gentle but forceful and pulling. He drops the flask but the metallic clang is hidden by the sound of the music and so are his cries of protest. Once steady on his feet he looks up into Ivan’s bright violet eyes. He’s probably drunk. But it doesn’t matter. So is Alfred. He sets his face into a grimace and once again tries to pull away again but Ivan is unrelenting in his silent insistence of a waltz. So Alfred goes along to get along. For now.

“What are you doing Braginsky you’re going to make a scene!” He hissed as the other twirls him around with the practiced ease of a lover. To distract him surely.

“What does it look like Jones? Is it a crime to wish a dance from you these days? Once upon a time I needn’t even ask.” That was true. But that was thin and this is now and America could not be seen being pulled around the dance floor by Russia which is why Alfred pulled away to swap their roles. If only for a moment.

“You know damn well why. I don’t even want to look at you let alone dance with you. You might spread something just by breathing on me.” He says aggressively dipping the man in his arms. He was lucky he was strong or that would have toppled them both. But he was older now and better on his feet. Or so he thought until Ivan came up and brought him into a lift that landed him distracted and once again being led.

“We both know that’s not true Солнце(1). If it was you wouldn’t be here now. You have the strength to walk away, and I the decency to if you truly asked it of me.” Alfred hated to admit he was right. Something in him felt alive again from the simplest contact. The rush of the music and the familiarity of the dance. And Ivan...He had missed him but he would never admit that to himself or anyone else.

And that’s why he decided he wasn’t going to make this easy on the other. Even without leading he pulled the Russian into dips and twirls. Thrusting all his weight and trust into the other. If Alfred fell they both would and in this state he was willing to risk his own reputation to bring him down too. Because he couldn’t stand this, this feeling. Like his heart was being torn from his chest. Like that first dance all those years ago soft and sweet but now forbidden and that longing turned him into some unrecognizable thing. Something he was so certain Ivan couldn’t love, and he was sure that’s why he had left. To bigger and better things leaving him behind.

The heat in their steps was obvious. But love also. It was clearly a battle, anyone looking could see that. But there was love there as well. Neither let the other fall and they blended together with well thought out practice and prediction. Neither actually hurt each other physically but they knew what they were during. Pouring accelerant on an open flame. Awakening and denying old feelings they knew had to be kept locked away and tearing them apart in the process. Funny. No one really realized this sort of destruction. No one really realized the state they were in. 

With a final dip the dance comes to an end and they stay there a moment catching their breath. Or perhaps reveling in this last moment in each other’s arms. Alfred closes his eyes and he can imagine a place centuries ago now. Warm and safe where the world wasn’t out to get him and love was a reality and not a fantasy. It was nice but it wasn’t real. So when he straightens his eyes are cold and though Ivan can still see the stars they seem so far away now. He worries he cannot reach them.

“Nice try Braginsky. But we both know this changes nothing.” His voice is cold but his heart strains. He will not leave for the bar. He will head to his hotel room alone and he will try to forget using any means he can find.

And Ivan just smiles “Not yet Милый(2). But perhaps soon. If we are truly lucky.”

Alfred walks away and he does not look back. If he looked back he would shatter and he feared he’d never be able to pick up the pieces again.

-----------------

1- Sunshine

2- Darling

[spiralledcupid]

Shigaraki Week Day 7: Games / Free Prompt / Movies

Mild warning for vague references to child abuse just in case that gets u !! If u enjoyed ‘The One with the Pomeranian’ i wrote a few months ago,,, this is 4 u

“We still need to give the dog a name.” says Shigaraki, one week after his official adoption.

He’s lay on his stomach, absently mashing buttons as Dabi flicks at his hair and the dog snuffles around the floor. He should be paying attention to the battle he’s in, but it’s not even a boss and, frankly, he’s had enough of his dog’s stupid name.

And it’s his dog. He should get to name it.

“The dog has a name,” Dabi says, “He’s called Pussy Destroyer. It’s a reflection on his favourite hobby.”

“It’s inappropriate.”

Dabi grins the grin that means he’s going to do something especially dickish, “What’s so inappropriate about chasing cats? All dogs do it, Mophead.”

Shigaraki glowers and, in his distraction, hits the wrong button. His character swings when he should have blocked, and promptly gets punted across the screen.

“Bad luck.” Dabi hums, as if it’s not all his fault. Irritably, Shigaraki shakes Dabi’s hand from his hair, and instantly wishes he hadn’t. He thought letting Dabi into his life would make him miss him less; instead, there’s just a lot more to miss.

Shigaraki throws the controller away from him as the game over screen appears, “The name is inappropriate.”

“But…” Dabi’s voice trails off, and his mouth becomes an ‘O’ of fake surprise, “Get your mind out of the gutter, creep.”

Shigaraki grabs a pillow and lunges at Dabi, knocking both of them onto the hard, dirty floor. Shigaraki hits wildly until Dabi grabs his wrists and his cheeks are red and the dry skin on his face hurts because he’s smiling.

Shigaraki runs his fingers through the dog’s fur, pinkie finger lifted well out of the way. The rest of the League is gathered around him in a loose semi-circle, more casual than they would be in a real meeting. Twice has pushed up his mask so it rests above his nose as he lights a cigarette, while Toga pointedly coughs in his direction. Spinner’s not wearing his stupid Stain cosplay, but he is wearing a hoodie that looks like something he stole secondhand.

Then again, Shigaraki can’t talk; due to a sudden shortage of clean shirts- which has nothing to do with the laundry pile they’ve been using as the dog’s bed- he’s in one of Dabi’s frayed white tops, and revealing a lot more cleavage than he’s strictly comfortable with.

There’s part of Shigaraki that wishes this was an official meeting, so he wouldn’t feel so out of place. All of them meeting up out of their villain ensembles feels a bit wrong, like they’re all friends.

Maybe they are.

He hasn’t really got the ‘friends’ thing figured out yet.

Before things can start to feel more uncomfortable, Shigaraki clears his throat. The group quickly falls into a somewhat fidgety silence.

“I’ve gathered you all here,” He says, feeling oddly like a vicar, “to discuss this.”

He holds out the dog.

“He needs a name.”

The fidgeting abruptly stops.

“But he has a name,” Magne says finally, breaking the confused silence, “Right?”

Shigaraki rolls his eyes, “His name is gross.”

“Pussy Destroyer-“ Kurogiri visibly shudders, “-is a great name.” Dabi insists, taking the dog from Shigaraki’s careful grip.

“But it’s hard to use in public. I hate it!” Twice says, voice muffled by his cigarette. Toga’s coughs increase in volume.

“We should call it-“

“I’m not calling my fucking dog Stain.” Shigaraki hisses, and Spinner snaps his mouth shut.

Again, they fall into silence as Dabi scratches the dog behind the ears. It pants happily as Dabi smirks.

Shigaraki grits his teeth. “No one?”

“They’re all just too shy to admit they love Pussy Destroyer’s name.”

“It sucks! It’s great!”

Shigaraki groans.

 “Hey, Mophead.”

Shigaraki glances back over his shoulder, scratching the dry skin on his elbow. Dabi’s still in bed, propped up on one elbow as he watches Shigaraki get dressed. There’s a look in his eye that says he’s planning something, a look that fills Shigaraki with a mix of fear and excitement. As they all know from experience, Dabi’s plans either work perfectly, or end with him almost getting murdered by a humanoid rabbit. There’s never an inbetween; just success or disaster.

“You’re bulking up a little there.” Dabi continues, dragging Shigaraki from his thoughts with a look that inspires shivers. Shigaraki loves and hates the way Dabi looks at him, scanning over him with intense blue eyes until Shigaraki feels a little vulnerable and a little loved.

“Shut up.”

“Make me,” Dabi pauses to scratch his head. His roots are growing in, “Carry me to breakfast.”

“No.”

“C’mon,” And Shigaraki can practically hear his smile, God dammit, “Bet you can’t.”

“Shut up.” He pauses, “How much?”

“Animal Crossing on Switch.”

“Not enough.”

Shigaraki pulls on a hoodie before glancing back at Dabi. He stretches, long and languid and fluid, and Shigaraki has to tear his eyes away before he embarrasses himself again and again and again.

Unfortunately, Dabi catches him looking. His smile spreads so wide it tugs at his stitches, and Shigaraki doesn’t even have a second to prepare before-

“Baby,” He drawls, and Shigaraki’s hand leaps to his neck before he even registers it, “Carry me. I could be getting sick again.”

“Then you’ll just give it me.” Shigaraki says, desperately trying to forget Dabi calling him baby.

“Babe.”

“Stop it.”

The affection is making his shoulders curl higher and higher, and there’s a lump in Shigaraki’s throat that won’t go away even when he swallows again and again, and he knows Dabi will be wearing that stupid mocking smirk he wears when everything’s a joke to him. And Shigaraki, in that moment, hates him so so much.

There’s some kind of twisting in his stomach.

“Too fast, huh?”

Shigaraki almost jumps out of his skin.

Dabi’s somehow moved closer without Shigaraki even noticing. His hand is hovering over Shigaraki’s, purple palm shaking. Shigaraki can feel the internal conflict, to take or not to take, because it’s one he’s found himself tangled in more times than he can count since he let Dabi near. And sometimes he can stand it and it’s all he wants and other times he- they- just can’t.

It’s an odd limbo they’re almost constantly in. To touch or to not, and is this too much, and why do we want this when it hurts every time we try to compliment or touch for a few seconds that never feel like enough. But those few seconds burn at Shigaraki’s torn-up skin.

So they hover for a few more minutes as their breathing syncs, and Shigaraki wants to know if Dabi’s heartbeat has synced with his as well.

Then Dabi pulls himself out of bed, staggering slightly on too-thin legs.

Shigaraki waits until he gets dressed, leaves the room, before flipping his DS open. He keeps the volume down low, so he can hear the comforting breaths of the dog, so he doesn’t entirely lose himself in the game.

No matter how inviting that may be.

 They retreat after that.  

It’s almost like before they were dating, in a way: careful touches, lingering glances, wishes neither of them are sure enough to act on. Because, for all of Dabi’s cocky showmanship, he’s as much of a wreck as Shigaraki is. It doesn’t take a genius to see it.

Two wrecks sink faster, after all.

And this is why Sensei never let him close to people, Shigaraki realises at 2am the next morning, as he lies sleepless in bed. The curtains are open, showing the stars and illuminating Dabi as he sleeps with wheezy huffs. Although Shigaraki knows that during the night he’ll edge closer and closer, they’ve been starting off far away recently, the way Shigaraki would prefer to sleep if it were literally anyone else. But he’ll still wake up with Dabi’s arm around his waist, or his face in his hair; but he won’t have the time to enjoy it before he has to pull away. Just in case. On Shigaraki’s other side, the dog nuzzles into Shigaraki’s hair, a comforting gesture it probably doesn’t even understand.

But, back to the point at hand, this is why Sensei never let him close to people.

Because it just reminds Shigaraki of his own weakness, that whatever he touches he hurts, even when he’s not using his quirk. There’s nothing he can’t destroy, even the things he loves. And now he’s thrown himself straight into the thing Sensei disapproved of most, and his stomach feels like it’s being ripped apart.

Sensei was right, just like he was always right.

Shigaraki takes another glance at Dabi, shifting slowly away. He can’t move much, because there’s a dog in his hair, and does loving the dog count as a weakness and-

Dabi yawns, so wide his stitches look like the might rip his skin. “You think so loud.” He says, voice sleep-and-smoke rough.

Shigaraki doesn’t know how to answer, so he doesn’t.

“Just- just chill out. Whatever you’re thinking. We can deal with it in the morning.”

“Right.”

Dabi throws a sleep heavy arm over Shigaraki, moving a little closer, so Shigaraki can feel the heat coming from his body, “Go to sleep.”

For what it’s worth, Shigaraki really tries.

 He wakes up moody.

The rest of them probably don’t realise there’s anything different, but Shigaraki does. It’s like a headache, but less physical and more just there, digging its way out of his skull. It’s always like this when he sleeps bad, and, on top of it, he’s got the mental fight over whether to follow Sensei’s teachings or what he wants. And he just can’t decide.

The horror movie playing in front of him isn’t helping much.

As a bunch of kid-shaped pixels dive out of the way of a killer clown, the dog crawls onto Shigaraki’s lap, as if it can sense his mental turmoil. Instinctively, Shigaraki buries his hand in its toffee fur.

“Tomu-Chan! Maybe we should call the dog Freddie?”

“No.”

Toga pouts, hugging a plushie to her stomach. She walked the dog today and ended up coming back with the toy, though Shigaraki doesn’t want to know how. As far as he knows, she doesn’t have a job, and he sure as hell doesn’t pay her.

But raising theft means he has to lecture her on getting caught (again) and he’s no Kurogiri. So instead, he let her put on whatever horror movie she had tucked in her cardigan, so he can avoid talking to her entirely.

Unfortunately, he was extremely wrong when he assumed a movie would shut Toga up.

“I thought you liked slashers.” She pouts, and Shigaraki deliberately misunderstands her.

“This isn’t a slasher. It’s supernatural.”

Toga jogs his arm slightly, until Shigaraki rips it from her grasp, “But the name! Freddie’s from-“

“I know.”

As if he hasn’t been watching these films since he was nine.

“Maybe you could call him Jason then? Or Michael? Ooo, or-“

“I’m not naming my dog after a slasher.”

Finally, Toga falls into a pouty silence. She hugs her acquired plushie, mumbling something Shigaraki doesn’t hear, what with all the television’s screaming. The dog nuzzles into Shigaraki’s hand, huffing hot air onto the fingers Shigaraki bends away from its vulnerable body.

He doesn’t even bother to watch the screen anymore.

Eventually, finally, the movie ends, and they let the menu music loop again and again as Shigaraki drags his fingers through the dogs fur and Toga watches the screen, eyes vacant. For once in her life, she’s not smiling.

And Shigaraki always dismissed the idea of emotional energies as stupid, but now he’s not so sure. Because Toga’s sat still for once in her life, looking as if she just got injected with every shitty thought spinning around Shigaraki’s head. Her amber eyes, always bright, look dim as they reflect the menu sequence back to the TV and something drops in Shigaraki’s stomach.

Is this what guilt feels like?

And this is why he shouldn’t be as near to the League as he is, because it’s just like Sensei always knew, he destroys-

“I’m tired, Tomu-chan,” Toga yawns wide, as if to emphasis her point, flashing sharp white teeth, “I can’t sleep properly anymore.”

“Why?” Shigaraki asks after a pregnant pause, because he feels like Toga’s expectant eyes on him. But if he’s making her miserable, why is she talking to him?

Toga rubs over her eyes, and it’s only then that Shigaraki realised how bloodshot they are, how she’s somehow got eyebags without him even noticing, “The heroes. The world hasn’t got any easier, Tomu-chan. And I don’t like living alone.”

They pause again, and Shigaraki glances down at the dog, panting happily in his lap. He rakes his fingers through its fur one last time.

“Here,” Carefully, he lifts the dog and dumps it in her lap, “He’ll keep you safe.”

Toga squeals, smile flicking back on inhumanely quick as her hand sinks into the dog’s fur, “Really? You’re the best, Tomu-chan!”

He glances away as she fusses over the dog, fingers itching to get at his neck. Sure, letting Toga sleep again is good (good for the League, he means, he’s only doing it for the good of the League) but what’s he meant to do? He’s gotten used to the dog being close at night, so what will he do without it? It’s enough to make him want to scratch again, even though he really knows he shouldn’t but it itches so bad, one little scratch can’t-

“Here!”

Something soft and round hits Shigaraki in the chest. He looks down, and picks up Toga’s new pink plushie with four shaking fingers.

“So you can sleep at night too!”

And she’s got her smile back.

 “You did something nice.” Dabi says later that night. They’re eating takeout on Shigaraki’s bed, straight from the cardboard containers, with the TV on low and the curtains thrown open so they can see the stars. They’re so bright, out here in the countryside.

And neither of them have seen the stars in such a long time.

“It was for the League.” Shigaraki snaps, leaving out the fact that Toga’s only 15 and she shouldn’t be living alone in the first place. Leaving out the fact she’s got no parents to speak of, no one who seems to remotely care that their daughter or granddaughter or niece has been missing for months. Leaving out the fact that no one seems to care a 15-year-old girl is wanted for questioning on suspicion of being part of the League of Villains.

He doesn’t need to say it, because Dabi’s the one who brought it up in the first place. And, sometimes when Shigaraki thinks about Toga, all he can think about is a dirty brick alley and people walking past as if they haven’t even seen him.  

“Just hope she’s looking after our son right.” Dabi says.

“I told her.” In fact, Shigaraki had sent several paragraphs on feeding and walking and making sure everything’s okay, just to get a string of emojis and a “fine, mr misery” in response. But, as happily as she bleeds out boys, Shigaraki knows Toga would prefer to throw out every knife in her collection rather than hurt the dog. Which is something he clings to, the way he’s still clinging to the plushie she gave him.

A stuffed toy.

It’s more comforting than Shigaraki would have thought.

“You ever gonna let go of that?”

Shigaraki flinches slightly, “No. I like it.”

“You’ve never had one before, have you?”

And, as much as Shigaraki hates how easily Dabi reads him, he’s so glad he doesn’t have to say it. Even if he still hates the badly disguised pity in Dabi’s voice.

“I have Father.”

Dabi snorts, moving closer. He trails his fingers, feather light, along the visible veins that run through Shigaraki’s hands, and Shigaraki pushes closer. He’s in the mood for closeness tonight, even though he doesn’t know why.

             Omake

“I know what we’re naming the dog.” Magne announces at their next meeting. She’s grinning from ear to ear, and Shigaraki is instantly suspicious. From her lap, the dog barks, jumping down to run over to Shigaraki.

“We’re calling it ‘Happy Birthday’.”

Shigaraki glances up from the dog’s ears just in time to see Mr. Compress reveal boxes, one after the other. He feels his ears turn red, “How in hell did you- Kurogiri.”

Kurogiri shrugs, and Shigaraki swears he can see a smile, “They asked, and I was more than happy to answer.”

“I thought we agreed on Happy Birthday, Creep.” Dabi complains, lightly kicking a box towards Shigaraki. He’s grinning even so.  

“I thought we agreed on Stain behind his back.” Spinner mutters mutinously.

 Later that night, Shigaraki’s lying in a pile of plushies, Dabi toying with the hem of his top. And all he can think is-

“We’re not actually naming the dog Happy Birthday.”

Dabi rolls his eyes, “No. He’s still Pussy Destroyer, because the name is great and he won’t respond to anything else. I trained him too well.”

And, even though the- Pussy Destroyer is with Toga, wherever she lives, Shigaraki swears he hears a distant bark.

[comicgeekscomicgeek]

Their Hero Academia: Chapter 13

Raw and unedited (especially until I get Chapters 14-16 written to upload along with it), but I finished the 1st draft tonight and I’m pretty happy with how it turned out. Especially with switching to some new protagonists. Chapters 0-12 can be found here:

Their Hero Academia – Chapter 13: Takuma Sero Makes a Show of It

If there was one thing Takuma Sero liked about living in the dorms, it was the sense of privacy. Sure, there were fifteen other people living in the dorms, three others on his floor, but compared to his home, that was nothing.  Between his parents, his three younger brothers, and baby sister, there was always somebody trying to butt into whatever he was doing.  At least on his floor, all he had was his best bro Kenta Sato. Daisuke Shoji simply kept his head down and Takiyo Aoyama had made it clear early on he had no interest in “whatever nonsense you two are getting up to.”

As if trying to become the next internet sensations was nonsense.

Which reminded him… he really ought to check their hit counter.  With Kirishima-Bakugo out of the cafeteria yesterday, he’d actually been free to host a new round of “Will Sato Eat It?” without fear of being exploded or having her tear his arms off.  He was actually pretty certain she wouldn’t do the last part.  Their parents had been friends for decades and he was on reasonably good terms with her most of the time.  But yesterday had been pretty impressive as far as the game went. Kenta had eaten a soup bowl, a baseball, a rock, and a tire that someone had somehow managed to get into the cafeteria.

Kenta’s dad had broken it up after that, with a threat to report their antics to Aizawa if they kept doing it.  And Kenta had gotten a talking to from his dad later on about irresponsible Quirk use and making a spectacle of himself.   At least the elder Sato had learned the futility of trying to rat them out to Takuma’s parents.  His mom was one of the most Instagram-famous Pro-Heroes in the business.  She actively encouraged his aspirations.  His dad was just vaguely puzzled by the whole thing and just let his mom take the lead.

Checking the video upload, he found that the hit counter was already in the thousands.  Wisely, he opted not to look at the comments.   It was like his mom always said, “Never read the comments.”   Sure, you got a validation high from some of it, but there were way too many trolls and mudslingers to make it worth it.

Takuma broke into a grin. “Yeah, we’re gonna be famous. Just you see.  Heroes and entertainment sensations.”

He checked the time and found he still had nearly an hour before class.  Plenty of time to finish getting ready.  There was also the matter of homework he hadn’t quite completed, but he could probably copy the answers from somebody, at least enough to squeak by. Math was going to be the death of him. He understood numbers well enough, but once you started getting letters involved with numbers, his brain just refused to track any of it.  It had nearly sunk his entrance exam score, but he’d managed to just barely pass that. A good practical exam score had done wonders for making up the difference.

Twenty minutes later, he was out of his room and ready to go.  He did not have the world’s most developed fashion sense (much to the regret of Kimiko Ojiro, his other best friend, who had declared him “the worst gay best friend ever”), but he had an entertainer’s sense for showmanship in his appearance.  He spotted Kenta coming out of his room and gave him a double finger guns.

“Sixty-five hundred hits in less than twenty-four hours, my man!”

“All right!” Kenta said, giving him a fist bump.  “That’s twice as many as the last video!”   He let out a burp and clutched his stomach.

“You okay, man?” Takuma asked.

Kenta shook his head and burped again.  “Heartburn and indigestion.  Dad says just because I can get anything doesn’t mean I should.”  He grinned, thick lips pulling back to reveal his perfectly white teeth.  “But I say it’s a small price to pay for being famous.”

“More famous in your case,” Takuma told him.  Kenta was already a good bit famous from all the times he appeared in pictures and his stories on his father’s “Food and Family” blog. According to his mom, it was crazy popular with single moms.

Kenta waved it off. “That’s really Dad’s thing.  This is ours!”

Takuma was about to begin discussions of the plans for their next video when he was distracted by the sight of Daisuke Shoji walking back to his rooms, clearly having come from the showers.  The six-armed boy was only wearing a towel wrapped around his waist, his silver hair still damp, and a small about of moisture still visible on the muscles of his arms and abs.  He nodded politely to Takuma and Kenta on his way back to his room.  Takuma kept watching until Shoji’s door closed.

His trace was broken by Kenta giving him a small shove.  “You okay there, bud?  Kind of went away for a little while?”

He sighed.  “Why are the hot ones always straight?”

Kenta gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.  “Hey, there’s lots of other guys at U.A.  You’ll find somebody.  Or you could always try online dating?”

Takuma made a face. “I’m not that desperate.”

Anything further was interrupted by his and Kenta’s phones buzzing.  Both checked and he saw they had identical texts from the school’s emergency alert system.

Homeroom has been cancelled.  All first-year students should report to the Gran Torino Memorial Auditorium at 0800.

Kenta gave him a curious look.

“Don’t look at me, man,” he said quickly.  “I haven’t broken any rules that would cause a grade level assembly.”

“This school year,” Kenta said.  “I still can’t believe the time you…”

“Don’t remind me.  I’m still barely out of being grounded for that.”

“I think that was the first time I ever actually saw your parents punish you.”

“Oh, would you look at the time, we should really be getting to the Auditorium!”

***

“Any idea what this is about, Takuma?” Kimiko asked. He assumed she was looking at him, but honestly, even after having known her all his life, it was hard to tell.

He shook his head. “Beats the heck out of me.”

All around, the other seats in the Auditorium were filling up with the first year students.  There were the three Heroics classes, three General Ed classes, three Support classes, and three Business and Management classes.   Sixteen students each in the Heroics, twenty in each of the others, for one hundred eight students total left the auditorium about half full.  

Down on the stage, he could see the majority of the teaching staff.  There were the three Heroics Homeroom teachers, Aizawa, Super Ball, and Battle Fist.  There was Power Loader, the aging director of the Support courses.  Word around campus was that he was considering retirement after experiencing the Iida Twins.  And there was FireFox, their math teacher; Hawkeye, their English teacher; Figure Sk8, the dark-haired daughter of the Twins and Izumi’s uncle and aunt, who taught their Science classes; Palette, the paint-themed Art History teacher; and Hopper, Tokoyami’s uncle and their Literature teacher.  There Hound Dog, the school counselor, Vice-Principal Midnight, and even Kenta’s dad.   He also spotted Doctor Izumi sitting with her husband, Kota, the Rescue Hero and Rescue Instructor called Water Spout (or, at his mom embarrassingly always referred to him, “the first man to see me naked”) There was also All Might, and several teachers he didn’t know, who he presumed taught some of the classes taken by the other courses.  Whatever this was about, they were taking it very seriously.

And slowly approaching the podium, leaning heavily on his cane, was Principal Nezu.  Takuma wasn’t sure if he was a rat or a bear or possibly some kind of creature from Australia (or was it Austria?  Whichever one had the kangaroos.  Those were real, right?), but he understood that the old animal was crazy smart.  He’d guided U.A. through some of its roughest years and managed to still come out on top.

“I am sorry to interrupt your usual class schedule,” Nezu began.  “I know your studies are of great importance to you all.  But after the events of the last few days, both here at our school and elsewhere, we have been made aware of events which you all deserve to know.  The Center for Quirk Research is expected to make a statement later this morning, but we thought it might be best if comes from us.”

He took in a breath and continued.  “The CQR has discovered, working in conjunction with several Pro-Heroes, the existence of a virus which causes the victim to lose control of their Quirk.  It appears the Quirk is… man made.”

Any side conversations that had been going on were immediately silenced.

Nezu went on.  “After an as yet unknown incubation period, it causes a power-flare up during which time the user’s Quirk will activate out of their control.  This lack of control appears to last an indefinite amount of time, but appears to be a onetime flare up.  Unfortunately, even as the number of cases are growing, information is scarce.  There appear to be no obvious early symptoms and we are unsure how the virus is being transmitted. At this time, it appears that only Emitter and Transformation type Quirks are effected.”

A ripple went through the crowd as the full impact of the Principal’s statement took effect. Anything that could do that is dangerous indeed.  From the time they were young, they’d always been taught about the importance of controlling their Quirks.  And now something could just take that away…

“That’s…   that’s not good,” Takuma said.  Absently, he rubbed the patches on his right hand where his Acid Tape came from.  His Quirk was technically a Mutation type, since he had slightly different physical structures to allow for it.  But his mom was an Emitter type, so were many of his friends.  So were a lot of people out there in the world.  And there were lots of people out there with really powerful Quirks.   What if somebody like Ground Zero or Deku caught this thing?

“We’re… we’re okay,” he heard Kimiko say.  “Not… not like I can get more invisible.”

“Hey,” Kenta said, “it’s gonna be okay.  People’re smart.  They’ll get this figured out.”  Kenta’s dad was an Emitter type too, he recalled, even if Kenta’s own Quirk was a very minor Mutant type.

Nezu continued, “We are able to run tests for the virus and will be doing screening following this assembly.  However, as there are no tell-tale symptoms prior to manifestation, we urge you to talk to your teachers or Doctor Izumi should you have any concerns.  We will be doing everything we can to protect you, which includes providing you as with much of your usual structure as possible. Classes, including Heroics courses, will continue as normal.  Rest assured, everyone is doing everything they can to get to the bottom of this. But at this point, cases are isolated and sporadic.  We advise caution, but there is no need to panic.”

Takuma made it a point to never take life seriously.  But for once, that didn’t seem like such a good idea.

***

“You heard what the Principal said,” Aizawa said, after they had returned to the classroom.  “The moment you feel anything out of the ordinary or even suspect that something might be wrong, I expect you to tell me or another teacher.  Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mister Aizawa,” the class said, nearly as one.

“Good,” Aizawa said. “Now, we are going to proceed as normally as possible.  Which means we have a little bit of business to settle.  Choose a class representative.  I don’t care how.”   He zipped himself into his sleeping bag and disappeared behind his desk.

“Well,” Midoriya said, “I think we should probably vote on it?”

“I vote Toshi!” Shota Shinso cried out.

“Toshi,” Asuka Tokoyami agreed.

“I’ve got to go with Midoriya too,” Isamu Haimawari said.

“Toshi has my vote as well,” Izumi Todoroki added.

“Guys… Shouldn’t this be a secret ballot?” Midoriya asked quickly.

“Too late now,” Takuma said. “Besides, I think we all know you’re gonna win it.”

As much as he loved the spotlight, he loathed responsibility.  Better Midoriya than him any day.  Besides, it would take away from his own pursuits.  And Midoriya really was good at taking charge and helping people who needed it.  Guy wanted to help the whole world, even more than the average Hero-in-Training.

“Personally, I think moi would be best,” Takiyo Aoyama said.

“Oh, give it up, Frenchie,” Mika Mineta told him.  “Midoriya’s definitely the best shot at this.”

“I fear I must agree with the rest,” Akaya Koda told Aoyama.  She really seemed to be one of the few people who could stand the arrogant blond for more than a few minutes.  She must have had the patience of a saint.

“Going with Midoriya here too,” Kenta said.

“Yep, me too,” Chihiro Kaminari added.  “And Tokoyami for vice-rep while we’re at it.”

“I like those ideas!” Kimiko said.  “Both of them!”

“Makes sense to me,” Shoji said.

“This is highly against protocol,” Tensei Iida said.  “But I cannot argue with the consensus either.”

“My younger brother is correct,” Sora Iida said.  “I agree with the conclusions drawn.”

“You really must stop using that qualifier!  I am only younger by three minutes!”

“It is scientifically accurate!  Do you dispute this?”

“It is needlessly semantic, and yet I cannot argue with the precision!”

“If I agree, will it shut them up?” Katsumi Kirishima-Bakugo asked.

Motion was carried. Midoriya and Tokoyami were their class reps.

Takuma belatedly realized that probably gave them some kind of power of his and Kenta’s antics, but that was their problem, not his.  Besides, it was worth it to see Aoyama pout.

***

“Hua-whah!” Even though Takuma had practiced swinging from building to building by using his Acid Tape many times with his dad, doing it always made him feel like his stomach was going to flop out of his mouth.  It didn’t help that his Quirk was more complicated than his dad’s.   The elder Sero only had to think about shooting out his Tape until it hit something.  Takuma’s Acid Tape meant that he had to be continually concentrating both on dispensing more tape and on maintaining the properties.  Since he could make it anything from slick to sticky to acidic, that meant he had to do a lot more concentrating.  And doing that while ten stories up made it all the more problematic.

Even if it was supposed to be a simple Heroics exercise in cityscape navigation.  All they had to do was make it from one end of the faux-cityscape as quickly as they could.  For quite a few, like Kimiko, Kenta, or Koda, there wasn’t much more they could do than run as fast as they could.  Others were doing a much more impressive job.  Midoriya was bouncing with leaps that were easily carrying him, the Iida Twins were blasting through the air, and Haimawari was zipping through the streets. And somehow, Kirishima-Bakugo had gotten herself up on the rooftops and was parkouring herself through the course.

Takuma let himself go flying through the air for a moment, before shooting out another strand of Acid Tape.  It stuck to the fire escape and as he began to swing, he could feel something go wrong. With a sickening sound of tearing metal, the piece of the fire escape he had snagged with his tape snapped and broke, sending him falling!

He shot out another strand of Acid Tape, trying to save himself, but instead of snagging a lower portion of the fire escape, it melted right through it.  He’d made it too acidic!  He was gonna die!  He was never gonna reach a million followers!  Involuntarily, he felt his eyes close.

And just as suddenly, powerful arms caught him and he was rising.  So he was dead then, and the angels were carrying him away.  Good-bye world, he only regretted that he not let more of you gaze upon his awesomeness…

“Are you all right, Sero?” a voice asked.  “I was afraid I would not be able to match your falling speed without causing you injury, but I believe I was able to calculate something close enough…”

An angel who apparently sounded just like Tensei Iida.  He chanced opening his eyes and the first thing he saw was himself, reflected in the chest plate of Iida’s costume.  Looking up, he saw a silver helmet.  Definitely Iida.  Which meant he wasn’t dead?  He was alive! He could still get that million followers!

“Sero?” Iida repeated. “Are you all right?”  He slowly started reducing power in his jets, letting them drift downward.

Oh, right.  He needed to answer his rescuing angel’s questions. “Oh, ah, yeah, I’m fine,” he said, finding himself stumbling over his words.  “You really saved my ass, there, Iida.  Thanks.”

“Of course,” Iida said. “As your friend and classmate, not to mention as an aspiring Hero, it is my duty.”

“Well, right now, you’re my hero, Iida.”

Inwardly, he groaned. Was he really saying something that stupid?   Apparently, he was.  At least Kimiko and Kenta weren’t there to hear it.  They’d never let him hear the end of it.

***

The Iida Twins could be found in the Common Room, pouring over blueprints.  Usually, the Twins spent whatever free time they had in the Support Workshop, but according to Sora, Power Loader had kicked them out under out under threat of unspecified punishment, all because they had “accidentally used too much power and caused a few small explosions and fires.”  So the two had returned to the dorms instead to work on what they could.

Takuma, Kenta, and Kimiko peered from around the corner at them.

“This is a really dumb idea,” Takuma said.  “And I know all about dumb ideas.”

“If you were doing this for me,” Kenta said, “you’d be making your “good idea” face.  The one that always means it’s something that’s going to get us in trouble.”

“Besides,” Kimiko said, “this is for romance!  We’ve got to! You’re cute, he’s hot, you’re pink, he’s got pink hair, I’m gonna call you Pinky-Squared!”

“We don’t even know if he likes guys!  He could be into girls!  Or machines! I’m gonna make a fool of myself!”

Kimiko slapped him upside the head.  “That’s loser talk!”

“You want us to film it?” Kenta asked.  “You’re good in front of a camera.”

Takuma went a paler shade of pink.  “…No. Definitely not.  I do not need this preserved for posterity if it all goes south.”

“Look, this is the most romantic thing to happen since school started,” Kimiko told him.  “So you are not chickening out now!  Kenta and I are going to get Sora out of the room and you are going to ask Tensei out! Do you understand!?”

How someone whose face he couldn’t see could have such an intense glare, he didn’t know, but her tone suggested that there was no arguing with her.

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s do this!”

***

I can’t do this!

With Sora out of the room (he was so stressed he literally could not remember what excuse Kenta and Kimiko had used to get her out of there and he had seen it literally seconds ago), Takuma was free to make his move.  His smooth move.  His ever so smooth move.  He was the king of smooth.

He was not smooth.

As casually as he could, he approached the table where Tensei was still working.  “Oh, ah, hey, Iida,” he said.   “Ah, thanks again for saving me like that.  Pretty sure I was on my way to being a pile of pink goo.”

“The fall was not nearly enough to reduce you to goo,” Iida said, looking up from his blueprints.  “But it would have been very messy all the same. I am happy I was able to prevent that.”

He rubbed the back of his head.  “Yeah, well, either way, I appreciate it.”   He frowned, trying to think of how best to proceed.  “So, uh, what are you working on?”

A very crazed (and very attractive) grin spread its way across Tensei’s face.  “Modifications to Sora’s and my Hero costumes.  After training yesterday, we came up with several potential ideas to improve performance and work with our Quirks, such as a more adjustable wing system and potential storage for emergency supplies of apple and grape juice.”

“And that exploded?”

“Oh, no,” Iida said.  “That was the idea for a capture-weapon to add as an additional support item.  We may have made the propulsion element a little too strong.  Power Loader apparently believed that we would benefit from some time away.  But I do not see how we can improve our designs to their fullest without practical, hands on work.  And we cannot do that if we are banned from the workshop for a week.”

“That sucks, man,” Takuma agreed.  It’d be like someone telling him he couldn’t upload stuff to the ‘net.  A guy had to have a passion, after all.  “But, ah, I guess that means you’re gonna have some free time?”

Iida frowned.  “Unfortunately, yes.  There is only so much we can do without the space to put theory into practice.”

Okay, it was now or never.   He could be brave!  He had this!

…He didn’t have this!

He had this!

He didn’t have this!

He had this!

“So, um…,” he said, “if you’re gonna have the free time…  maybe you’dlikespendingsomeofitwithmesomewhere?”

Iida blinked.  “I… don’t think I caught that, Sero.”

He took a deep breath. “I was thinking, if you were gonna have free time anyway… maybe you’d want to spend some of it with me? Somewhere?  Like a date?”

Iida’s eyes widened in surprise and for once, it looked like he was at a loss for words.  “I… I would like that very much, Sero.”

He had this!

[joestories]

The Silent Magician

November 1, 1961

Dear Aleister,

If, perchance, someone offers you the opportunity to perform a very special show for the leader of a small, troubled country on the other side of the planet—even if said leader has asked for you by name—politely decline. I’ve gotten myself deep into something. And I’ve broken all three of my cardinal rules.

Everyone is dead, Aleister.

It looks bad, seeing it typed on the page like that. But that’s the truth of the matter.

I want to get this all down while the events are fresh in my mind, but also because I worry, dear friend, that if somehow I fail to make it out alive, this might the only way to recount what’s happened. I might as well start with what I’ve been concealing from you.

It was no lie when I said I’d be traveling to Europe to perform a special show. What I left out is that the people paying for this show weren’t the best sort of people.

I received the letter near the end of summer. Apparently, I was still a celebrity in the world’s farthest crevices. They were so far away that they couldn’t smell the stink of desperation that had attached to me after I’d performed one too many bar mitzvahs. And even the bar mitzvah circuit was drying up.

This leader (or dictator, as I would learn), Konstigt, had grown up watching my old routines on smuggled filmstrips. He still loved me all these years later. And he was willing to pay handsomely for the pleasure of having me perform for him in his palace.

I had grown weary of magic, but perhaps this was what I needed. One last show. Go out with a bang.

I wrote back immediately and the following day I received a visit from a pair of rats from the CIA. Apparently it’s a big deal for them when there’s communication between the country of ██████████████ and a person stateside. They paid me a visit to learn whether I was a spy or an imbecile.

They had my return letter, which had been intercepted. They read it back it me and I was immediately embarrassed by how effusive I had been. They said I sounded like a desperate, sad old man and they were right.

Cooperate, they said, and the charges would disappear. What charges? They couldn’t say, but cooperation seemed simple, not a large deviation from my original plan. I would meet with them at a tavern in town each night and tell them everything I had learned about Konstigt. I would be doing my country a service. They would offer me protection and if everything worked out, I would be rewarded handsomely.

A month later, I found myself in a succession of smaller and smaller planes until I arrived at a small village at the foot of an old castle spire; this was the palace at which I would perform. I was shuttled through the village in what appeared to be a taxi cab. Perched in the back window was a tiny figurine of a serpent. I pocketed it.

Milton called the serpent the subtlest beast in the field. But there was nothing subtle about this country’s obsession with serpents. Quickly, let me recall at least ten instances in which serpents factored into my time spent here:

A magnificent stained glass window in the cathedral.

A sign hanging in front of the tavern where I would rendezvous with my CIA contacts.

The tattoo on Mila’s wrist.

A mural in the lobby of the hotel I stayed at.

On a coin I received as change at the aforementioned tavern.

A wooden toy that I observed a child in the village playing with.

A huge parade float that was operated by at least three people

Engraved on the barrel of a pistol held by a dead man.

An actual snake, which slithered over my foot as I made my way to a secret rendezvous

The figurine. The one I had stolen. It will reappear later.

And of course, barely anyone in this serpent-obsessed country speaks English. The only English I hear is American music on the radio. Where is their music?

The taxi deposits me and my luggage in a hotel lobby. It is eerily quiet. I seem to be the only guest. A concierge silently escorts me to my room. It overlooks a courtyard and features a painting in which a woman on a beach stares at a shark in the ocean.

I open my suitcase and am displeased to learn that it has been ransacked by some sort of brutish security detail. The contents smell vaguely of cheap cigarettes.

My trick gun had been seized. I’m not surprised by this, it looks realistic, even though it can’t actually fire a bullet. I will need to find a replacement before the show.

Of the four decks of playing cards in my suitcase, I am missing four cards. The queen of hearts from each deck. A strangely superstitious people, this bunch.

My clothes have been rifled through. My cape looks to have been trampled by schoolchildren. My poor hat, which is in no way magical, seemed as if it had been run over by a steamroller.

The rubes left my most magical items unmolested. The puzzle cube is untouched. I am able to locate my invisible dagger after feeling around for it inside the lining. Of course they had no idea it was there.

The concierge reappears and leads me back to the lobby where a uniformed military man is waiting for me. He leads me inside the castle walls and through corridors until I am in a tall wood paneled room adorned with paintings of crying women. From the far end of the room, I am approached by a tall man with grey hair and a grey beard. He wears a white, military-style coat. He is smiling.

The first English spoken to me the day I arrived was by the dictator himself. Konstigt says, “I am so happy you could make it.”

He is flanked by two serious looking men. He introduces them. On his left, wearing a black uniform is Pavel, his chief of police. On his right, in a pale green uniform adorned with hundreds of medals is Vlad, the commander of the military.

He asks about my flights. He asks what I think of his country. I smile. I am genial. This man is a fan.

“If you need anything, I will provide it.”

“I’m going to need a coffin, for the final part of my act. I couldn’t bring one with me.”

“Of course. One will be delivered to you tonight. What else?”

“They took my gun,“ I said.

"Ah, well you’re going to need that for your famous bullet catching trick, aren’t you?” He knows my act well.

Pavel says something. I think he’s asking what I said. Konstigt replies in their gibberish language.

This is where it all started to go wrong. I’m about to break the first of my three rules: never explain a trick, even under penalty of death. I always thought that last part was an exaggeration.

Pavel draws his gun. It’s polished silver and ivory. Every surface reflecting light. I’m squinting as it directs sunlight into my eyes. The gun is pointed at me. He says something. Konstigt laughs as he translates: "Pavel wants to see this famous bullet catching trick!”

Panic sets in immediately. The bullet trick is an illusion. I am sputtering, talking fast, trying to explain that. The gun isn’t real. The bullet is transferred to the mouth with sleight of hand. When you strip away the showmanship, it really is quite a simple trick. Konstigt looks disappointed, but he waves at Pavel and the gun is lowered. Even though it is no longer an imminent threat, the gun continues to reflect light at me, daring me not to look at it. I notice a serpent engraved on its barrel.

“You talk too much,” says Konstigt. And in that moment, I make a promise to myself to talk less, starting right now. They can’t understand me anyway. My vacation will be one of profound silence.

I am whisked back to my hotel. I try to relax and rehearse my act, but it’s no use.

It gets dark. At the predetermined time, I wander into the village and find the tavern. The CIA goons are easy to spot. They look as out of place as I do. We settle into a booth in a dark corner. “Can you draw us a layout of the palace?”

“And a good evening to you too, gentlemen.” A notepad is placed in front of me.

I had been escorted around so quickly that I couldn’t remember it with any clarity, but I am embarrassed to admit this, so I make an attempt. I draw the outline of the entry hall, with the two smaller halls coming off of it. My drawing resembles a diagram of the female reproductive system. I slide the notepad back to the goons. “I’m sorry, this is all I remember.”

They want to know if I have any idea where they’re keeping the diamonds.

“Diamonds?”

“Don’t play dumb with us, we know you know about the diamonds. That’s why you’re really here.“

But I’m not playing dumb. "I’m here to perform my act.”

“You want us to believe you came all the way here and put yourself in serious danger to perform? Are you an idiot?”

The other one chimes in. “Listen, if someone asks you if so-and-so is the reason you’re really here, the answer is always yes. That’s the first thing they teach you at the academy.”

I wander back to the hotel in a daze. When I open the door to my room, there’s a loaded revolver on the nightstand and a pine box coffin propped against the wall.

*

Aleister, have I told you the story of how I decided to become a magician? I’m certain I have, but it bears repeating.

You might know of the vanishing of Orius in 1899. He was a genius performer, but he was not well known. This story takes place on the night of his final performance. He told his audience that he was going to perform an illusion that could be performed only once by any human, and for this reason he had saved it for his last show.

He was going to turn completely invisible.

But the only way for this to work was for everyone who was not pure of spirit to turn around. This was in Bavaria in 1899, so I don’t need to tell you that this meant everyone in the audience.

And so, with the entire audience facing away, he narrated as he vanished each part of his body. His legs, his arms, his torso, and finally his head. Now, as the legend goes, there was a one young child in the audience, and this child thought himself to be pure of spirit. So when Orius had been reduced to a disembodied voice, this child turned to look. And he was the only one to see that Orius was invisible. He cried out in shock, “He’s truly vanished!”

The audience had been transfixed, but this shout caused them all to abruptly turn to the stage. The spell had been broken, and Orius was immediately made visible again. There was thunderous applause, even though no one in the audience had witnessed this trick. Only the boy had seen it. But that boy had seen something truly magical.

I was the boy.

*

My spirits had improved for day two.

I took in a hearty breakfast, of which the predominant ingredients were boiled cabbage and sausage. The populace seems to sustain itself on boiled cabbage and sausage. The streets stink of it. A dedicated vegetarian like yourself would starve here.

I set about the town collecting the odds and ends that I will need for my show. I am still far from understanding the language, but I have noticed that the locals have bestowed some sort of sobriquet on me in their ugly goat tongue. It sounds like plo-nee-ba-ka. I suspect it to mean something like outsider or interloper. And I was one, wasn’t I? I made a mental note to ask a trusted source for a translation, should I find someone to trust.

In the meantime, I had developed a set of hand gestures for communication. And I started to figure ways that I might incorporate them incorporate into my act.

The townsfolk were full of energy. I was swept up in a parade that deposited me in the what I judged to be the most blighted part of town. And yet, I was not robbed, I was simply subjected to more singing. They have folk songs they sing here, as you would expect, but I was surprised to hear them interspersed with American music which they had written new lyrics for. The crowd performed a version of I Want to Hold Your Hand and I can’t imagine their version was a direct translation. The intonation was too violent. If I was to guess, the hand in this song had been torn from the wrist of an enemy.

I stumbled upon a group of children who had gathered for a show. I joined them. The show was performed with a strange collection of puppets and toys. The plot, as I could gather, was that a benevolent stranger arrives from space. The stranger befriends a mountain princess, and she then betrays him to win her country’s freedom. The only evidence of the identity of the performer is a visible tattoo on a wrist. It is, of course, a serpent.

At the conclusion of the show, one of the children tugs at my sleeve. I look down and he presents me with a note. I examine it: a clock face reading 11, and an image that I recognized as the stained glass window of town’s cathedral. It was a serpent wrapped around an inverted cross. I suppose it would be bad manners to ignore such a finely crafted secret invitation. I put it in my pocket. How would I occupy the next five hours?

I decided to wander back to the palace. I had intended to survey the theater in which I would be performing. This is a very important step before any performance. And I should admit, I had been indulging in drink. All the townsfolk were. Would you reject a beer stein from a smiling man that just a minute before was singing violent love songs?

I was permitted entry to the palace by the guards, but they were not able to direct me to the theater. They did not appear to speak English. I got lost and wandered from room to room hoping to bump into a human who might understand me.

I finally crossed paths with a soldier, but when I got his attention, he seemed very nervous. I used my hand gestures on him, they had no effect. My presence seemed to have spooked him, and he exited the room in a hurry.

I followed him out of the room and through another chamber. When you’re lost in the wilderness, you follow a river. When you’re lost in a palace, you follow a man. Eventually, he would lead me to other people, and perhaps one of them would speak English.

I was horribly, horribly right.

I followed the spooked soldier around a corner and bumped into him. He had frozen in place. Pavel was before us. And this man’s behavior seemed to trigger something in Pavel.

“Mr. Pavel, I am very happy to have happened upon someone who speaks my native tongue. Might I trouble you for directions?”

I was ignored.

Pavel started speaking in a low, accusatory voice. The soldier stuttered a reply. Pavel unholstered his magnificent shiny pistol. The soldier attempted to speak, but Pavel motioned for him to stop. He pointed at the soldier’s groin with his gun.

The soldier, with much hesitation, started to turn the pockets of his trousers inside out. A few handfuls of dirty, unremarkable looking rocks spilled on the floor.

Pavel laughed. “Diamante!” he shouted. Just my luck that this should happen to be the first easily understood word in this guttural swamp language.

Pavel continued to laugh. And the soldier uncomfortably started to laugh too. And so I started to laugh.

Pavel stopped laughing, lifted his gun to the soldier’s head, and fired. The soldier dropped dead on the ground. Pavel resumed laughing. I did not.

I watched a blood stain grow larger on the dark crimson floor. I recalled that most of the floors in the palace were this color. A utilitarian consideration? Easy to conceal bloodstains when all your floors are already the color of blood. What kind of monsters run this country?

I thought of the CIA men laughing at my naivety the prior night. They were right. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into.

Pavel seemed to remember that I was present in the room, and now he addressed me. “Yes, magic man. Have you got any tricks for me?”

“I… I’m afraid not.”

He studied me. “Do you often travel with thieves, then?”

Aleister, you know that if I was to be honest, the answer to this is yes, but this was certainly not the right thing to say in my present situation. But he didn’t bother waiting for an answer. He waved his pistol in my direction.

“Why don’t you let me see what you have in your pockets, magic man?”

A magician and a thief have a thing in common: They both always know the exact contents of every one of their pockets at any given time. Left front pocket: mysterious note. Right front pocket: pilfered serpent figurine.

I was a fool for not destroying the note as soon as I had read it. Old age has made me soft. But there’s always a way out. You know the adage? One can escape from anything. It sounds better in Latin. I have escaped from locked rooms, arguments with shopkeepers, moving vehicles, and marriage proposals. I will escape from this.

Misdirection is the greatest ally of both the thief and the magician. The note, I had inferred, should not be revealed. The serpent figurine I was less certain about. But no one trusts a man with empty pockets.

And so I did have a trick for Pavel after all. I reached into my pockets and turned them out quickly. With my left hand, I palmed the note. With my right hand, I revealed the serpent. As my right hand extended forward, my left hand slipped the note into my sleeve. And then both hands are palm up. The deception is so simple that you would never know anything was out of the ordinary.

Pavel looked at the serpent figurine. He smiled. “Now, how can I help you?”

I was delivered to the theater, but I was feeling scatter-brained, owing to the fellow whose brains I had seen scattered moments before.

*

In the evening, I once again met with the CIA goons at the allotted time. They were overjoyed by the evidence of diamonds. That I had witnessed an execution didn’t seem to have any effect on them.

One of them gets a serious look on his face. He wants to know if I could use my magic to teleport the diamonds from their location into a suitcase that could then be whisked away. I tell him this is impossible. He wanted to know if this was because I didn’t know exactly where the diamonds were being kept? I told him I am an entertainer. I’m not actually capable of magical acts. He seemed very disappointed in me.

“Do you mean to say that nothing you do is magic? Everything is just an ordinary trick. Something that anyone could learn?“

"I suppose that might be the most pessimistic way to describe what I do.”

They briefed me on the plan for my show tomorrow. They told me that when the performance has ended, if there’s an opportunity to distract Konstigt or any of his men, I should keep them distracted for as long as possible. They told me they would be watching me and they would appear at the first sign of trouble.

The hour was nearing 11. We parted ways and I walked quickly across town. Hoping to avoid detection by Konstigt’s men, should there be any out looking for me, I stuck to the shadows. The only trouble I encountered was in an alleyway a block from the cathedral. In the darkness, a serpent slithered over my foot. I leapt back in shock, but contained my surprise. The snakes, I told myself, worked for no one.

I pushed past the heavy door to the cathedral. A few men in monk’s robes were seated around the altar playing a card game. Another monk emerged from the shadows and lead me down a narrow side passage into some sort of catacomb.

The monk’s hood was pulled back and this monk was revealed to be a beautiful woman.

“My name is Mila. Fate has brought us together.”

I was so charmed that I agreed! Yes, fate had brought us together.

She was familiar with my routine, and had worked as the assistant to local magician whose current whereabouts were unknown (he was a drunk). She wanted to be my assistant. She was quite insistent that she be my assistant. She had been performing since she was a child. I knew I was naive to accept her offer, but I also knew my act would be much better with an assistant.

I noticed that one of her hands was still sheathed in a hand puppet from her performance earlier. This one was a donkey.

“You may join me, but the donkey must stay,” I said, thinking I was being quite clever.

She looked crestfallen. “My hand… it was mangled in a thresher accident when I was just a small child. I keep the puppets to cover my mutilation.”

I was embarrassed, and recanted my previous declaration. She would be my assistant, puppet included. She was overjoyed.

Aleister, you know my act. Two of my illusions are certainly better with an assistant:

Cranks at Work

The Ghost Talks

And then there’s three that I had planned to leave out entirely, as they are impossible without an assistant:

The Doctor’s Secret

Fancy Baggage

A Most Immoral Lady

If this was to be my last show, why not go out with a bang? With Mila’s help, I would be able to perform all of them. Was this greed, or pride, or both?

I was breaking the second of my cardinal rules: When someone offers to help, be suspicious of their motives.

I told her we must meet to rehearse tomorrow morning. She agreed. Then she got a serious look on her face, and I had utterly no idea what she was thinking, though it didn’t seem to be of a romantic nature. She came close to me. In a low voice, she said, “You’re here for it too, aren’t you?”

It? I remembered the advice of my CIA friends. The answer is always yes. So I said, “Yes.” She seemed very relieved. “Good,” she said, “I will speak no more of it.”

I bid her goodnight, and she raised her hand (the unmutilated one) for me to kiss it. This is when I noticed the distinctive serpent tattoo on her wrist.

As we were parting, I remembered something. “The people have been calling me a name… plo-nee-ba-ka, I think. What does that mean?“

She thought about it. "The hollow one. Or invisible one. Or silent. There’s not an exact word in English.”

The Silent Magician. I like the sound of that.

*

I want to amend my story of the Vanishing of Orius in 1899. Aleister, I am going to tell you something that I have never told a soul, and I want this knowledge to die with you.

I did not witness an act of magic.

Yes, the audience, they all turned their backs. Yes, I was the boy. Orius narrated his disappearance, and when I turned back to face the stage, what I saw was a sad old man. An old magician performing his final show, totally corporeal on the stage. Not a hint of transparency. He wasn’t magical, he was a liar, or perhaps, more charitably, a trickster. And suddenly a very young child, me, held his fate in my tiny hands.

And I chose to carry the lie. I didn’t know why I said what I did at the time. But I know now that I wanted to live in a world where magic was possible.

That’s the problem with magic. The keepers of magic are the ones who know it’s a big charade.

You can’t unsee the man.

There is no magic.

We know definitively, and yet we have to keep telling the lie.

*

The rehearsal was a success. The room, as I’d demanded, was empty except for myself and Mila. She had gotten some looks for her puppet (today it was a wasp), but the story of her mutilated hand elicited sympathy (or at least deference) from the guards.

They asked how I wanted to be introduced. I told them to call me The Silent Magician. Plo-nee-ba-ka.

The rest of the day was a blur. All I cared about was the show.

I watched nervously from behind the curtains as the audience was filled in. It was a mix of townsfolk and military men. Konstigt was seated front and center with Pavel to his side. Vlad was conspicuously absent.

I’m not going to bother describing my act. You’ve seen it a dozen times. Of course, I had to remove the double entendres, those only work with spoken language. Some of them I tried to relate with hand gestures, but they were single entendres at best. But it didn’t matter, there was a real excitement in the air. I had an eager audience, and my set was performed without a hitch. It was brilliant.

The standing ovation carried on for an embarrassingly long amount of time, I am certain this was due to the fact that Konstigt continued to stand and applaud and so everyone else felt the need to follow suit.

Perhaps this also means the audience was less enraptured with my performance, and was merely performing for Konstigt? Well, that’s possible, but let’s not dwell on that. Trust me, I know a great show. This was a great show.

The curtain was dropped and I stood frozen in place. It was done. I had done my act, and I had done it silently, and I had still wowed them. It was a wonderful feeling. It was something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Seconds later, Konstigt had appeared backstage with Pavel in tow. He stood to my left, clasping my shoulder, with Pavel in front of me. And then there was a noise from backstage and Vlad appeared.

Vlad was apologetic about missing the show. Pavel’s expression soured. I was a look that I’d seen before. He issued a command in his goat language and Vlad laughed. But Pavel wasn’t laughing. I recognized the command. He was asking Vlad to turn out his pockets.

When Vlad did not comply, Pavel drew his pistol and pointed it at him. Vlad, in response, drew his own weapon, a large revolver. Konstigt now had a very grave expression. Pavel and Vlad stood on opposite sides of me, I was positioned perfectly to catch their crossfire. I slowly started to back away, but the pine box coffin was still on the stage from my final trick and it blocked my path.

Aleister, would you agree that this seems like the best time for my buddies from the CIA to show themselves? To rush to the rescue?

They thought so too, rushing the stage from opposite ends, and when they saw the guns, they positioned themselves so one of them was behind Pavel and the other was behind Vlad. Much to my chagrin, their guns were pointed at the midsection of each man (and those midsections were aimed at me), which meant there was now the possibility of four bullets hitting me.

Konstigt had taken his hand from my shoulder. He had a furious look on his face, as if he had just understood I had been working against him this whole time. Had I, though? If you could look into my heart with a microscope, I think you would see that I just wanted to perform. That was my motive. I was pure of spirit, at least in this one regard!

Konstigt was unholstering his weapon when the cover of the coffin flung open next to me.

From it emerged Mila. With a theatrical flourish, she unsheathed her hand previously hidden by a puppet, to reveal a perfectly lovely hand holding a perfectly lovely gun. Did you see that one coming, Aleister? You were always sharper than I was. Mila yelled something in that cursed troll language, which if I had to guess, I would think might be “The revolution has started, and your time is now at an end.”

She was pointing the gun at Konstigt, who at this point has his own gun drawn and pointed back at her, which also means that both of them are pointed at me as well and I’m now in for six bullets when the guns go off.

I’ve enclosed a diagram if you’re having trouble visualizing my predicament.

[enclosed image missing]

Everyone was shouting in their terrible tongue, and I couldn’t say anything. They were yelling at each other, they were yelling at me. I was trapped. I was a fool. At least I had one last good show.

And in my last moments on earth, I thought about Orius. Not his act, but what he said. Everyone gets one chance to vanish. It’s a thing you can do only once and never again. If that were the case, I had never used mine. This would be the time to use it, if ever there was one. I pressed my eyes shut.

I don’t need to tell you the ways of the magician. We weave magic out of what we have to work with. We don’t witness miracles, but we can tell others we did.

A miracle happened. I turned invisible. I had my eyes shut, so I couldn’t see myself turn invisible, but I felt it. And it must have startled my gun wielding stage-mates because there was a sudden, terrible cacophony and the air was alive with bullets, And then six thumps as six bodies fell.

I opened my eyes. First I saw the blood. My brilliant white cape was specked with it. I dropped it to the floor and noticed a half dozen new perforations. I felt myself up and down. Where was I hit? Where did I feel pain? But I didn’t feel pain. I hadn’t been hit.

I was the only one who hadn’t.

They were all dead and crumpled on the floor.

Konstigt had a bullet between the eyes. Pavel and Vlad had felled the CIA men (whose names, shamefully, I am realizing I never bothered to remember). Or perhaps they felled each other? The four of them wore shocked, lifeless expressions. Pavel’s hand still gripped his beloved engraved pistol.

And Mila, poor Mila. Just as dead as the others. She’d fallen back into the coffin, her two perfect hands draped over her lap. She would have looked like she was sleeping if you could ignore the chunks of her brain that were splattered across stage left.

In a daze, I stumbled my way past the curtains and into the orchestra section, and I started to become aware of the commotion as my senses come back. Bodies of soldiers and townsfolk were sprinkled throughout the aisle. Some of the townsfolk had donned animal masks. A fox and a rabbit were trying to decapitate a fallen soldier with makeshift knife. There was blood everywhere. Or there wasn’t. It’s hard to tell when the floors are the color of blood.

I shuffle past numerous scenes of agony and violence. I’m not wearing a military uniform or a police uniform or an animal mask, so it’s as if I’m invisible.

The streets are in chaos. I mind my business and make my way back to the hotel. Where will I go next?

It’s when I start to consider how I might bribe my way out of this mess that I realize that I’ve broken my third cardinal rule: Always get the money first.

My room seemed undisturbed. I went to my suitcase seeking my invisible dagger. When I’m in a dangerous situation, it always calms me to hold it, even though I’ve never had to use it.

It has been sitting on the table next to me while I type this out. I am ready to brandish it if necessary. The last time I peeked outside, there was black smoke rising from the palace and the commotion seemed to have died down a bit. Even revolutionaries need to sleep.

When the sun is up, I’ll figure out what’s next. First, I’m going to try to post this letter. If you’re reading this, then at least something went right.

I’m not sure if I’m a hero, a villain, or just an invisible person. I will know soon.

With the best regards I can muster given the circumstances, One can escape from anything, Your friend always,

The Silent Magician LL

[n3rdlif343va]

Chasing Gold Zine Promo Ficlet No. 6

The sixth ficlet in my promos for my piece in the @yoichasinggoldzine! (read on Ao3: Let the Games Begin )

This is an AU where Yuuri and Victor are retired Olympic athletes, who now coach Paralympic athletes. You can follow the series on Ao3 here

Ficlet 1, Ficlet 2, Ficlet 3 , Ficlet 4, Ficlet 5 on Tumblr

Absolutely Incredible Art of Minami and Yuri by @bichiiart can be found here!!!!

Pre-orders are now OPEN but only until March 9th! Please head to the blog to place your orders!!

What Yuri knew more than anything else was that he didn’t want to be standing in the tunnel surrounded by other athletes wearing outfits matching his own red and white getup. The entire group was buzzing with an electric energy, posing for selfies and shouting to friends from the surrounding countries. They were excited, loud with the shared emotions and ready for their grand entrance.

The tunnel was practically shaking with the vibration of the cheers of the crowd in the stands, making Yuri peer around nervously. Taking a deep breath, he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Take it all in,” Victor’s voice floated back to him and Yuri scowled, automatically fighting against his coach’s advice. He clenched his jaw, feeling the anxiety building in his chest and making him heave a heavy breath. “There is no other feeling like it, walking into the opening ceremony, the whole world cheering for you. It doesn’t matter what games you are in, this is your time. So take a deep breath and let yourself enjoy it.”

Yuri wanted to desperately push his coach out of his mind. Victor had insisted that Yuri experience this, the absolute thrilling terror of putting himself on display for nothing more than showmanship. Victor had made claims about the importance of this ceremony, claiming it to be a sign of unity between people from all countries, who were coming together to proof their strength to the world. For Yuri, it was the living, breathing version of a nightmare.

“Russia!”

His country’s name boomed from the megaphone of the stern looking woman standing atop a high platform at the stadium entrance. Around him, his teammates began to cheer, some of them crying openly as they began their walk onto the open field.

The ground beneath Yuri’s feet shook as the crowd cheered. Noise swelled around him like an attacking beast, weaving together the sounds of exuberant music, happy shouts from the people immediately around him and the uproarious thunder of the crowd which towered above them. His heart trembled with the power of it, his hands shaking against his thighs as his eyes opened wide trying to process all of the stimuli at once.

Lights circled into the sky, representing the rings which symbolized the unity they were there to celebrate. To his left drummers dropped their mallets in a grueling beat and Yuri could feel his heart trying to sync with the rhythm. Camera flashes and the large lenses of the media were thrust toward him, encouraging him to smile and wave as the world welcomed them to its greatest athletic display.

Yuri didn’t know he was crying until a small tissue box was pressed into his hand. Eyes trailing from the unexpected gift to its presenter, Yuri felt his breath stutter. Appearing calmly next to him was none other than Otabek Altin, Kazakhstan’s master archer who was born deaf and partially blind. Otabek’s talent was legendary and Yuri continued to gape at him as Otabek offered him a small smile, placing a brief hand on Yuri’s shoulder and squeezing.

“Thank you!” Yuri shouted, mentally kicking himself realizing too late the mistake he made. He went to raise his hands, attempting to remember the little sign language he had learned out of boredom, when Otabek suddenly grabbed his chin and nodded at his lips. “Thank you,” Yuri said, slowing down his words and feeling himself shake as Otabek watched his mouth move.

Otabek nodded his head, the smile growing slightly bigger as he signed what Yuri assumed was an acceptance of Yuri’s gratitude. They fell in step, side-by-side, continuing their journey around the field.

“HOLY SHIT!” Minami screamed, using the English profanity solely because he knew it and it felt like the only appropriate way to convey his awe at the sights in front of him.

The seats holding cheering audience members extended into the sky, leaving Minami dizzy as he tried to see to the very top. Every one of them was on their feet, clapping, stomping, and screaming as each country was introduced. In the middle of the parading ring of athletes, the musicians and dancers were bringing life to this portion of the ceremony, lighting the entire stadium with the reflections from their sequined outfits. Minami watched as the colors from the flashing lights bounced off of the dancers, creating a prism of color which danced through the air in time with the banging of the drums. The stadium felt like a living being and Minami was happy to have been swallowed into the depths of its belly.

Minami didn’t resist the chance to pose with everyone who threw an arm over his shoulders and dragged him into a selfie. He smiled until his cheeks began to ache, dancing with the ecstasy of his own elation. His heart hammered in his chest, the steady beat drilling into his ears and muting the roaring sounds of the stadium.

This moment was everything he had ever imagined it would be and so much more.

Following the rest of Japan’s athletes, Minami leaned toward the closest camera, proudly waving his flags into the lens. They lined up in their blocks, waiting together to listen the speeches which would officially open the games.

He should have soaked up every word being said, but Minami couldn’t focus. The gasp rippled through the crowd, starting on the field and moving in a wave through the spectators as the torch entered the stadium. Minami felt the tears instantly spring to his eyes, emotions expanding within him and leaving him struggling for a true breath. He burned every second into his memory, lifting his own phone to record from his standing place. Tears blurred his vision as the fire exploded in the ceremonial bowl.

The stadium erupted. Yuri clenched his fists, fighting the urge to cover his ears to guard against the overwhelming sound. Next to him, a single tear trailed down Otabek’s cheek. Feeling his own tears beginning to dampen his cheeks again, Yuri wiped a hand over his face. He would never tell Victor he was right but, standing there with a field full of athletes who were fighting battles as great as or greater than his own, Yuri knew that Victor was absolutely right. Stifling a sob, Yuri bit down on the inside of his cheek.

Before he could fully process everything happening, they were being encouraged back toward the tunnels. Music continued to provide the rhythm of their walk, carrying Yuri forward in his blind haze of emotion. Lost in his own head, his defenses were numbed keeping him from detecting the person running up on him from behind.

Minami had spotted Yuri’s grumpy head of blond hair and couldn’t resist the urge to razz his rival. Throwing his body forward, Minami tackled Yuri, pulling him backwards and holding up his phone. “Smile, Plisetsky!” Minami yelled, making his own smile obnoxiously bright as he snapped the picture.

“Get off of me!” Yuri pushed Minami from his body, stumbling slightly with a growl.

“Just you watch, Plisetsky,” Minami called, “by the time we are on the podium, I’m going to get you to like me!” Laughing, Minami fell back in with his own group.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Yuri resumed his patented scowl, determined not to let Minami chip anymore holes into his carefully crafted emotional walls.

[you-can-call-me-verge]

Delivery (Lonely Chapter 2)

I was asked anonymously to continue my first fic, here, Lonely. I'm a people pleaser and I am so flattered by anyone's who's supported me turning this into my first chaptered fic. 

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: Ash was a great idea, but how do we get them to be more than an idea? 

Warnings: My terrible OC that I can't believe anybody wants to know more about (seriously thank y'all so much) 

It was dinner time, a few nights after Roman had presented Thomas with his imaginary friend. Nobody was saying anything, but they were all slowly giving up hope that the idea would work. As Logan had said a few days earlier, in theory Ash should've shown up soon after Thomas knew about them. And yet, there was no sign of them. Everyone was handling Thomas's growing loneliness differently. Virgil was shutting himself away from everyone, Patton on the other hand was feeling more clingy. Roman was sulking and Logan was trying desperately to explain why there was no sign of Ash.

"I have a theory!" Logan blurted out in the middle of the otherwise silent meal.

"It's hopeless, Logan. Give up." Virgil replied. He didn't sound cruel, more defeated than anything else.

"This one makes sense, I promise."

"Logan-"

"I think maybe because we're sides and Ash is not, maybe we take up different parts of the mindscape!"

"Logan?"

We're facets of Thomas's personality and Ash is an idea, doesn't it make sense that we'd be-"

"Logan!" Patton was yelling now, not trying to scare Logan, but to quiet him down. Logan looked behind him.

"Hello?"

It was like Roman's drawing had come to life. There Ash was, standing, real. Their chin length hair was dyed royal blue (oh Roman, never could resist royalty) over a slightly sloppy bleach job. They wore a red flannel which hung off their thin frame. Their face was round and a little rosy, with freckles and acne scars dotting their olive skin. They seemed to be a little shorter than Thomas, and they pushed back their bangs so they were off their face.

"I'm Ash. I'd like to meet all of you, but first I'd just like to know… where I am?" They spoke quietly and politely, looking like a deer in the headlights.

Patton immediately stepped in to answer the question and comfort them. "Hiya kiddo! Okay, this could be just a little difficult to grasp, so take your time, alright? You're in Thomas's mindscape. We're all parts of his personality, or as he's come to call them, 'sides.' I'm Patton, Thomas's morality. That's Virgil, Thomas's Anxiety. Logan is Thomas's logic, and that's-"

Roman was shellshocked. He stared unabashedly at Ash, but snapped out of it when it was his turn to be introduced, he cut Patton off, saying "I'm Prince Roman! Or just Roman- It's so amazing to meet you! I can't- I can't believe you're real! You're- you! I'm sorry, i'm definitely coming off as weird, it's just that I created you! I wrote you down and drew you and you're real- like Pinocchio!" Roman was going a mile a minute. "I thought it didn't work! I thought maybe I was too inconsistent or your character just didn't work but I was so wrong! I was so wrong-" He stopped when he felt Virgil's hand on his shoulder.

"You're overwhelming them," Virgil said simply.

"Right- of course. I created your personality, I should've realized you were shy, and an introduction like that would be too much. Are you okay?"

Ash was still standing, eyes wide and posture stiff. They tried to come off amiable and chill as they told the sides, "I'm fine, I guess. I'm just frazzled.” They paused, considering, before continuing, “It's like- one second I didn't exist and then the next I did, but like I still have a childhood, and like a life before now? It's really weird. And now I'm here with you, and I barely know all of your names or who you are, and you all look kinda the same, no offense, and it's just really weird."

"That's understandable. But I must say, when Virgil and Roman came into existence, they acted much different than you." Logan was thinking out loud. "You're handling this much better than they did. Of course, I can't speak for Patton, he was here before me. They were both very scared, and as I remember, I was terrified. I took days trying to figure out what was going on. You, however, seem to be comparatively fine."

Ash considered for a moment. "I was scared, but you all seem very nice. I can't quite say I’m feeling entirely unguarded just yet, but you seem… trustworthy. Not that I have a choice. The fog is kinda lifting, too."

Virgil stepped in, deciding to try being welcoming. "Well then, welcome to the club, Ash."

It had been about three days since Ash came into existence. Everything was going well. They got along great with just about everyone. They helped Patton with cooking, although they weren't very good at it. They did know what tasted good. They took time to draw with Roman (Roman regrets making them better at art than he is, but he would never admit that.) When they hung out with Virgil they seemed more resistant to the effects of his room. Additionally, they seemed to help calm him down a little. Logan enjoyed deep philosophical talks with them, seeming to be enthralled with the new point of view on life they had as a person, as opposed to a side.

However, Thomas had not yet called them up yet. The sides agreed that it was weird that he hadn't even tried to communicate with them or with Ash. Meanwhile, Thomas was growing lonelier and lonelier.

But three days of silence went by before he called up each of the sides by name, with no mention of Ash. After they'd all said hello to Thomas, he told them why he'd gathered them.

"Roman, I'm sorry but I don't think the imaginary friend thing is working."

The sides exchanged a panicked look.

"W-what do you mean?" Roman asked, face powder-white.

"I've been concentrating so hard for a week now, and nothing has changed. Ash still feels like a concept. I'm sorry, I just-"

"Oh! I know why it isn't working!" Patton said to him excitedly. "They already came into existence!" He called out, "Ash! Come on up here!"

Suddenly, Ash appeared in Patton's space. "Woah, what was that? Where am I?" They looked around excitedly. "Hey guys! You must be Thomas, I'm Ash." They walked over to his space and stuck out their hand for a handshake.

Thomas, eyes wide, shook Ash's hand. Words seemed to be lost on him as he looked at Ash. Patton noticed and asked playfully, "Cat got your tongue, kiddo?"

That effectively broke the ice, as Thomas said to them, "You're so cool! Oh my god- I love your hair! You look just like Roman's drawing too- you're so cool, oh my goodness... How did you get from Patton's space to mine? How long have you been real? Have you been making friends? Oh my gosh!"

Ash was evidently made hesitant from Thomas's reaction, but met it with nervous enthusiasm, saying "Thank you about my hair! Um- I guess I do look like Roman's drawing, and going from space to space just sorta happens, sorry for the lack of an answer... It's been about three days now, and yeah! All of these guys are super sweet and they've really been making me feel at home, too."

"That's so great! You guys, why didn't you tell me?"

"We kinda thought that you knew already," Virgil responded.

"Aw man, if I knew already I would've called you guys up!" He put his arm around Ash, who smiled and looked at him as he spoke. "Well gee, Ash, I'm just so glad to have you here with us. How've you been? What've you been doing?"

"I've just been with all of these guys. We've been doing our own thing, I guess."

"I've found they have a particularly interesting personality." The other sides could tell Logan was about to ramble. "I've rather enjoyed my philosophical talks and debates with them, and I do believe that if you consult them on issues in the same way you do with us, you'll get interesting and new perspectives."

"Logan says that I'm more reserved, but more belligerent than you." Ash interjected.

"Precisely. They come off as very shy but as they come out of their shell, I think they could help you get over your desire to be hospitable and to stand up for yourself."

"They're really fun, too!" Patton smiled. "They've been helping me out with cooking a lot. You really do like to try new things, huh?"

"Oh yeah, I've always wanted to cook! Well, I've only been real for three days-” they started to address Thomas, “but before then… I don't know how to explain it, I’m sorry."

Roman cut them off, smiling warmly. "I understand what you mean. I wrote your entire self, including your desire to cook." He laughed. "Virgil?"

"They're pretty cool, I guess." Virgil mumbled, clearly trying to keep up his aloof persona while still complimenting his new friend. Everyone was able to see through the mask, even Thomas could tell that Ash and Virgil were going to be close friends.

"Well, as long as I have all of you here with me, I may as well ask for your advice. I'm not filming today for a couple reasons, mostly I don't want to promise too much to our viewers with this dilemma. I've been thinking about making another song, but I'm afraid of the negative feedback I might get. I want to upload a song, but it feels too risky for me."

"Don't do it. It's too much effort, and everyone will hate it anyway."

"Now Virgil, we talked about being such a negative Nancy all the time."

"It's my job, Patton. Plus, it doesn't mean I'm not right."

"You should do it! Let your showmanship flourish, people will love it!"

"Roman could be right. Plus, I'm sure if you just engaged with those who are hateful towards you you'd uncover the underlying reason for it."

"Logan, while I'm so proud that you're agreeing with Princey and supporting Thomas, I can't say talking to the hateful people is the best idea."

“Why, Patton? I’m sure-”

"I still think it'll just be a huge failure."

"Virgil, it's highly unlikely that we won't get any positive reactions at all. Plus, Roman can help a lot with the writing and production of the song. Perhaps we should get some fresh eyes. Ash?"

Ash looked at Logan, surprised that he asked their opinion. "Oh. Well, I think, I guess... I guess we should just do what makes us happy! If anybody decides they don't like it, then it's not your problem or your fault. You can never please everybody, and even though Logan is right that there's an underlying reason for their hate, maybe it's better to do something for yourselves and to forget about other people for once."

"But our success is dependent on the opinions of other people!" Roman said as Virgil nodded along. "How are we supposed to just ignore it?"

"I can help when the time comes. Plus, your success really isn't entirely dependent on other people. One video that is poorly reviewed isn't going to make you come crashing down. Also, everybody loved your first song, and so many other people have been requesting a second. I think the pros outweigh the cons."

Logan was fascinated. "This is incredible! We wouldn't have come up with something like this on our own without you. At least, certainly not this fast. Roman, this is incredible. By creating them, you've created a way for us to see issues from a separate perspective." He adjusted his glasses, staring intently at Ash.

"That's... a little weird." They said, squirming under Logan's gaze.

"What is, sport?" Patton asked them.

"I don't know, being referred to as something that was created. I know that to you I'm only three days old, but to me... I've had an entire life and everything. I don't know, it's just weirdly... existential, I guess."

"Hmm. Well we wouldn't want to send you into some sort of existential crisis," Logan speculated.

"No kidding. Those suck, please come to me if you ever have one." Virgil added.

"I think it's better that we try to think of you as the person I created you as, rather than a concept." Roman supplied.

"Anything to keep you safe, champ," Patton said warmly.

After a brief, happy, silence, Thomas clapped his hands. "Alright! Ash, it's been so great getting to know you, and I can't wait to learn even more. I want to thank you for the feedback on the song." He went in and hugged Ash, who smiled and hugged him back.

"Same to you, man. I can't wait to see you again." They said, and sunk out with the rest of the sides.

[funkzpiel]

Little Blue Riding Newt

Based off of this gorgeous, adorable piece of art by @mamin-the-troll and once the little doodles started coming, I just couldn’t resist writing it. So here it is, Little Blue Riding Newt, the smartest whatever-year-old that ever existed because I don’t know how to fucking write children. Please forgive that quirk.

Additionally, this is now evolving into a full story...so I guess more will be coming soon. XD HOW DID THIS HAPPEN? HOW DID THIS EVOLVE INTO A CHAPTERED THING, I DO NOT KNOW. 

Newt was going to visit the nice old man in the woods! The man with the kind blue eyes and the long white beard and the big bushy brows that was always so kind to him. Newt had met him in the market once when he had been looking at books about scary beasts.

“That’s quite a dark tale for a lad so young,” the old man had said, but there had been a twinkle in his eyes – joyous and curious and kind – that made Newt feel encouraged rather than admonished.

Newt looked at the cover of the book again. Two dark red eyes stared back at him from within the depths of the forest on the cover, and at its center, a little girl in a red cloak. He frowned.

“But he has to eat too, doesn’t he?” Newt asked quite innocently.

The old man blinked, surprised.

“Well, yes, but—“

“It’s a mean story,” Newt said firmly. “If she had just shared her picnic with him, she would have been fine.”

The old man laughed, a soft and whimsical thing.

“You think so?”

“Yeah!”

“Maybe,” the man said as he suddenly reached to hand the vendor money, then bent down to clasp his large hands over Newt’s, tightening the boy’s hold on the book. “Keep it. Write a better one, one day – when you’re older. A book to protect people and creatures. One to help people understand these creatures rather than fear them, hmm? We could all use a little more understanding in the world.”

Newt felt a fire grow in his chest – a passion he had always felt suddenly stoked into a blaze. His eyes glittered merrily in his little face.

“You think I can?!”

“I do,” the man said. “In fact, I think maybe you’re the only one who can.”

He ruffled Newt’s hair and stood. The little boy watched as he returned to his carriage, a strange looking bird just barely visible within. Newt switched from tip toe to tip toe to try and see, but couldn’t quite tell what it was. He only stopped when the man leaned out the window of his carriage.

“It was nice meeting you, Mister…”

“Scamander! Newt Scamander!” Newt replied cheerfully, book clutched tight to his chest.

“Newt,” the man smiled. “It was a pleasure. Do take care. Come visit some time, if you’d like to keep pursuing this goal, young man!”

Newt started to run next to the carriage.

“But where do I find you?”

“In the woods, dear boy,” the man smiled. “Where else?”

And then the carriage was gone, and Newt watched it go. He blinked.

What a peculiar old man. He didn’t even tell Newt his name…

And that’s how Newt found himself walking through the woods, tucked tight into his sky blue coat and his little basket of sandwiches plus some fruit for the fairies, if he found any, and some bacon for the beasts, if they needed a snack. He was whistling a merry tune, taking his time jumping in puddles along the path and taking in the huge, vast world around him.

After the man left, he was afraid he’d never find him – the woods were so expansive, after all – but the next day he had found a little bird pecking on his window sill. The moment he opened it, it had flown into his room and unraveled from enchanted parchment into rather ordinary paper in Newt’s hands. And Newt giggled all the while, in awe of the gorgeous showmanship.

It was a map; at its center was a drawing of a little cabin and just scrawled just beside it:

Should you ever need a friendly ear, you can find me here.

A. Dumbledore

The map was very easy to follow, which was good because Theseus would never agree to take him into the woods. None of the townsfolk would, in fact. Newt was the only one enamored with the forest and the life it contained. The only one who thought it beautiful or precious – or so he thought. But now there was this old man, this Dumbledore! Someone who understood!

Newt felt a new bounce to his step as he skipped along, more eager than ever to visit the home of the first person to have ever encouraged his love of all creatures, fanged or otherwise.

He was halfway there according to the map when he heard it, a whimper. Soft and high and keening. Newt went still in the middle of the path, eyes huge and searching as he looked for the source of the sound.

“Hello?” Newt asked, his voice baby soft and worried. “Are you okay?”

The whimpering ceased immediately.

“N-no, no, it’s okay!” Newt said, taking a step forward and speaking to the world at large. “I want to help!”

A growl, soft and angry.

Newt blinked. But he was trying to help! Maybe the creature didn’t understand. Maybe it was just too used to people hurting it. He frowned, just a little, and went first to the edge of one side of the path, then the other. And then he spotted it – a massive black wolf lying at the base of a grand tree. Even laying down Newt could tell the creature was huge; as large as a small horse at least. And it was so close! He’d never been this close to anything wilder than a bunny before. It was…

It was breathtaking. Regal even in injury.

Newt felt pinned beneath those eyes; not because he was afraid, but because he was in awe. They weren’t red at all! Huge, amber jewels within a midnight black face, cool and calculating and watching. Cautious, Newt decided. Hurting. Maybe afraid.

There was blood on the bark near the roots, and even more of it in the grass and the leaves. Something angry and big and metal around his right hind leg, teeth deep in flesh. A Muggle’s hunting trap. Newt gasped and his basket fell with a thud as he covered his mouth with his little hands – eyes watering at the horrible sight. And all the while, the wolf watched him, tail wagging agitatedly as though it were waiting for something.

Newt took a step forward, hands outstretched, and suddenly the growling grew far fiercer. He stopped stock still in his tracks as the wolf attempted to get to its feet to properly intimidate him, only to fall back to the ground with a huff, exhausted from fighting the trap.

The angry rumbling, however, did not stop.

It was scared and it was hurting and it was all grumbly because it couldn’t get away, couldn’t protect itself; and Newt felt horrible. Hated that someone likely from his town had laid the trap. His lower lip quivered, upset because he just wanted to help, why didn’t the creature understand? But forced the feeling down and lowered himself to the path, made himself small – non threatening – unaware that he was doing precisely the right thing. Just following instincts. Small things didn’t scare him. Maybe if he were smaller, the creature wouldn’t mind him so much. He kept his gaze on the creature’s massive paws.

The growling lessened, but the angry thwapping of its tail did not stop.

“I can take that trap off,” Newt said softly as he took a step forward, hands out to prove they were empty. “I have snacks, too, if you’re hungry.”

The growling stopped. He looked up in time to see a strange expression on the creature’s face – head tilted and eyes narrowed. Its tail had stopped its restless beating.

“I can help,” Newt said, voice trembling. He so desperately wished to help. He so desperately wanted to prove the townsfolk wrong. To show them that the little girl in the book was just a little girl in a book. That they could live peacefully with these creatures, if they only bothered to try.

He stopped a foot away.

“Will you let me?” Newt whispered softly, pleading. “Please?”

He remained still as the creature watched him. Patient until finally, the huge wolf nodded at him once, slowly.

Newt was off in an instant, too young to have the patience to hold back his excitement. He didn’t catch how it made the great wolf’s hackles rise, but despite the suddenness of his actions, the wolf remained still.

“It’s a bear trap,” Newt said as he took in the huge maw of steel embedded in the soft fur and flesh of the wolf’s leg. He had gone hunting with his father once. He had been taught how to remove the things, should he ever accidentally step on one. All it took was downward pressure on the flat levers on either side of the massive spring-fueled jaws to open it.

He tried first with his hands, uncaring of how it muddied his pants to be down on his knees as he was. It budged a little, but he was so small and his arms weren’t as strong as metal and springs and cruelty. He bit his lip and stood, determined.

“I’ll get you out!” Newt said, exchanging a promise with the wolf through teary blue eyes before putting a foot on either side of the trap and placing his full weight on the levers. He wasn’t terribly heavy, but it was enough. He felt the trap slowly open beneath him – more and more and more until finally the wolf was able to yank itself free.

And not a second later, it shot to its feet and put some distance between them. Now that it was standing, Newt felt the smallest trill of fear in his chest. Frozen beneath those eyes until finally - a voice.

‘Why did you help me, human?’

Newt’s hands rushed to his mouth to cover his excited grin. It could talk! It was no mere wolf, it was a magical creature! What kind, he wondered! A Werewolf? A Dire Wolf? A Skinwalker or shape shifter of some kind? So many possibilities!

“What are you?” Newt babbled excitedly.

‘Answer my question first, man pup!’

“How are you talking to me?” Newt asked, overwhelmed, and took a step forward to better study the huge beast. “Your lips aren’t moving!”

‘Stay where you are—‘ The creature said, but Newt could hear in its tone that it was losing its firmness, confused by the boy. It took a step back then showed its fangs.

“Is it magic?” Newt asked, boyish and eyes glittering. “I can do magic too! Just a little, though. I’m not old enough, mother tells me.”

He pouted, and the wolf made a strange face. Bewildered.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ the wolf said, ‘It’s dangerous. I’m dangerous. You should go.’

Newt blinked.

“But so far the only thing that’s hurt anybody was that trap,” Newt said, pointing at the offending item with a fierce little scowl. Then, softly, “Is that why you don’t want to talk to me? Because I’m a human? Because humans did that to you?”

His lip quivered. The wolf took a step back, at a loss. What was wrong with this tiny man pup? Why was it shaking like that and…was it leaking from its face?

“I promise I’m not a mean human!” Newt burst out suddenly, teary eyed and red faced and pleading. “Please be my friend! I’ll give you as much bacon as you want!”

The wolf blinked, then let out a huge, huffing snort. Exasperated.

“I’m sorry someone from my village hurt you,” Newt whimpered, then ran the beautiful blue sleeve of his coat over his face and sniffled. “I just want to be your friend.”

‘You said you have bacon?’

Newt peeked up at the wolf from over the blue of his sleeve and nodded.

With a soft whimper, the wolf delicately lowered itself to the ground. Then, when Newt did not move, it tipped its head to the basket a few feet away and said, ‘well?’

“Oh! Yes, of course!” Newt sprung into action with a small smile and by the time he came back, the wolf could see the child was smiling broadly – excited to help. To eat lunch with him.

“Here you go,” he said as he threw a large slab of bacon at the wolf’s feet, raw and fat and juicy. Despite the regal look of the creature, its stomach growled embarrassingly and Newt couldn’t help but giggle when the wolf merely widened its eyes at the noise, surprised by the strength of it.

“My name is Newt!” Newt said as he pulled out his sandwich, humming all the while. “I want to write a book about magical creatures!”

‘Is that so?’ the wolf asked, more occupied with his meat than with what the child was actually saying.

“Yup!”

‘How wonderful,’ he said dryly.

“Isn’t it?! I’m going to name it ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’!”

The wolf stilled. So a book on how to find them, where best to kill them. He should have known, should have expected it. But the boy had such big eyes; had helped him. A growl threatened to emerge from his throat, angry at being deceived, only to die when he caught sight of the little boy – smiling as he gently pulled the crusts from his sandwich.

“It’s going to show everyone how great creatures are,” Newt babbled happily, unaware of the wolf’s intense gaze. “And then we’ll all be friends!”

The wolf felt something pang painfully in its chest.

‘It won’t make a difference,’ the wolf said coldly. Newt looked up at it from over his sandwich and smiled, a blob of peanut butter on his cheek.

The wolf snorted. Maybe he’d eat the child. That would show him.

“Doesn’t hurt to try,” Newt said cheerfully.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

The wolf stood before the man pup could entrance him anymore. He had been down this road before. He knew what lie at its destination. Axes and pitchforks and flames.

Newt blinked at him.

“Are you going? But I have more bacon!” Newt exclaimed.

The wolf didn’t bother answering him; just started to limp off. Newt hastily threw his sandwich in the basket and followed it.

“Wait! Don’t go! You’re still hurt!”

‘I’m fine.’

“No, you’re not!” Newt said, and stomped one foot on the ground. “You’re so stubborn!”

The wolf whirled on him.

‘I’m the stubborn one?!’

“Yes, you are!” Newt pouted, arms crossed.

The wolf looked at him for a long moment, then turned to walk away again, frustrated.

‘Don’t follow me, man pup,’ he said.

“My name is Newt! And don’t make me follow you!”

The wolf stopped. The child couldn’t follow him deeper in the woods. It wasn’t safe where he was going. The creatures there were hungry, desperate things and it would be dark soon. It turned to regard the child. He was so small, how could a creature as vicious as humans create spawn so small and innocent looking? The wolf felt dread pulling on its heart. It couldn’t leave the boy here. It couldn’t let him follow it any longer. That only left one option.

The wolf sighed.

‘What do you want from me, Newt? I have no gift to give you for your…services.’ Unwarranted though they might be.

Newt blinked, then made a show of thinking.

“I’m going to visit a friend,” Newt said, face lighting up suddenly. “He also likes creatures! I saw one in his carriage! I bet he could help you get better!”

‘I’m fine,’ the wolf said again, but Newt didn’t listen.

“And that way, I won’t be following you anymore! Once I know your leg will get better, I’ll stop bothering you, I promise!”

The wolf stilled.

‘You promise?’ It asked skeptically. Did the child really think it was that easy to gain its trust?

“Yup! Cross my heart and everything!” And then he did this odd little gesture on his chest. “Okay?”

‘Where is this place you’re going?’

“It’s real close! I’m almost there!”

‘And it’s safe there?’

“I promise no one will hurt you!” Newt said quite seriously and the wolf rolled its eyes. Did the child not know where he was? How dangerous it was for him, a small man pup, to be out here? After the boy had taken the time to help it, the wolf now owed him a debt. The wolf cursed the laws of the Fae that ruled the forest.

‘Let’s go, then,’ the wolf said, limping up to stand beside the boy. ‘And see this friend of yours.’

“You’ll love him!” The boy babbled as he wound his small chubby fingers into the great wolf’s fur and began to walk beside it, slow to accommodate its limp. “He’s great.”

‘How long have you known this friend, then?’

“A whole day!” Newt exclaimed brightly, excited.

The wolf felt its heart sink.

Oh this precious man pup was going to die. He could feel it.

Best not to get too attached.

“You know, you never told me your name. Do you have a name, Mr. Wolf?” Newt asked, eyes bright and curious as they looked up at it.

The wolf grumbled.

‘You’ll never see me again after this, man pup. Why bother?’

Newt pouted.

“I thought we were gonna be friends!”

The wolf sighed. It was going to be a long walk.