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firein-thesky · 3 years

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COIN TOSS– PART III

(18+ MINORS DNI)

PART I → PART II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read on Ao3

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mentor is busy with this villain’s accomplice.

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

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

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

Tomura stops breathing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eraserhead shouts for you.

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

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

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

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

Did you–?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

“You destroyed his Quirk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow hard around the lump in your throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you’re betraying him, your mind hisses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t mean to.”

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

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

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

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

“What would your heroes think then?”

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

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

“What?” you ask, suddenly shocked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s worse because he ends up being right.

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

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

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

***

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

They offer up criminals to practice on.

It turns your stomach.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know– no, I don’t think so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare up at him, a little surprised but–

Relief sweeps through you, sweet and cool.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

Specifically, your precious mentor.

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

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

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

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

The inevitable crash and break.

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

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

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

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

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

He knows he destroys everything he touches.

But you were supposed to be different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” he demands quietly.

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

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

He knows what his name means.

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

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

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

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

You have rendered him silent.

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

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

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

You were just a kid, you know?

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

The way All For One was there for him.

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

But you save the wrong person.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s not listening, though, of course.

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

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

Tomura stumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomura sways.

You’re dropped.

You stumble away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he also knows what he needs to do.

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

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

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

“I– I don’t–”

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

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

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

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

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

“Tomura–” you sob.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” you exhale slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

Shouta, however, is not as easily convinced.

Not after so many strange occurrences with Tomura.

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

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

You saved her.

You swallow down the lump in your throat.

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

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

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

Your eyes well up with fresh tears.

“I-I told you.” you choke out.

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

Your stomach drops. Your tears fall harder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He was going to kill her.”

This stops Shouta. He goes very, very still.

“What?” he rasps softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

It is easier to be with Tomura than Shouta now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks shaken.

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

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

He swallows hard. He looks angry and hurt.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants it back. He wants it back.

***

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

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

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

“H-hello,” she trembles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

You never told him you loved him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question feels too large for you.

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

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

(That isn’t true and you know it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miss getting my ass kicked by you.

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

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

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

And mostly, you are terrified to be without them.

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

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

(Like Tomura–)

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

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

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

***

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

But Dabi mentions you to Hawks.

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

Tomura also mentions Hawks to you.

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

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

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

Surely, it looks that way.

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

You killed someone.

Your stomach squeezes tight.

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

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

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

You think running will make it look all the worse.

Besides, he’s fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know you’re in deep trouble now;

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

***

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

Your mind has not slowed since you got here.

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

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

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

Nobody ever mourns us.

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

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

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

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

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

You see a coin flip.

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

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

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

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

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

Tears catch in your lashes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Believe me, you plead, believe this.

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

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

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

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

Shouta eyes you warily.

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

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

Truth.

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

Your stomach knots up tightly.

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

But you were so horribly wrong–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you’re not lying when you say;

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

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

***

The days following are the worst between you and Shouta.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing is ever the same again.

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

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

(Tomura was right in a lot of ways.

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You will run back to your heroes.

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

But you’re crying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So that’s it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he’d sooner sacrifice the world for you.

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

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

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

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

His pause screen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But none of it happens.

And when he turns around, you are gone.

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t deserve it, after everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To him, you were.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crushes you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouta doesn’t even hear the confession.

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

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

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

The irony isn’t lost on you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

Unknown Caller.

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

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

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

You’re met with static.

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

Still nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, it’s something greater, far worse.

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

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

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

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

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

Why couldn’t it be me?

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

You were just a kid, you know?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomura turns away.

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

He enters and there is no one trailing behind him, your hands twisted into the back of his hoodie, or his sleeves. It’s quiet. Empty. He surveys it once, the bed with unmade sheets. The window that let in beams of colored light, that Ryuji would sit at.

And then he sets his hands on the wall, all ten of his fingers down, the way he used to touch you.

The wall begins to decay, cracks and crumbles beneath his hands. It spreads, and spreads, and spreads like a disease filling out the body of the apartment. Dust begins to fall like early snow.

His heart squeezes painfully, his eyes suddenly flooding with pressure, with tears he tries to keep back. His head throbs, feels like it’s going to cleave apart. His ribs ache– hurt so bad it’s like he can feel the one you took from him, the gaping part of his chest.

His Quirk flares hard and hot and fast. It burns through him, floods his veins in a way that makes him cry out, suddenly shaking, suddenly pained.

He destroys the apartment, disintegrates the tiny world he created with you that existed outside of the real one. He unpauses the game. He takes apart what the world should’ve been, when he was here, with you. He sees now that a world like this cannot exist.

The peace, the ideal, the way you had understood him. Your unending compassion. It’s rare. Not enough to save the rest of them.

So he tears it all apart, pushes at his Quirk in a way he hasn’t been able to before, nudges at its strength to test it. It flares outward, eating away at the entire space, at the furniture, at the floor. Everywhere.

He seethes, blooming, finally allowing that livid and vicious thing inside of him to burst forward. It’s explosive, wrenching out of him in the form of terrible destruction.

He’ll grow into what he was supposed to–

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

The only option he ever really had, the hand extended to him a villain’s, gentle when he’d taken it.

He destroys the boy inside him, the one that was naive and hopeful and weak. He let’s that boy inside of him fall apart, split open and leaks gore before turning to dust, too. He kills the part of him that he had only ever shared with you, in the blue-dark of night, when you were lulled to sleep with just the sound of his heart.

He swallows down his anguish and his jealousy and his bitterness, keeps it safe inside him, like All For One always said to do. He’ll nourish it, let it grow, fester inside of him until the only thing it can do is explode out of him to tear the world apart, too.

When he’s standing in the rubble of the tiny world you’d made with him, the apartment complex demolished, the people inside gone, he knows what he has to do.

And he has so much work to do in order to achieve it.

He tries to forget you, to destroy your memory, too. He will not carry the weight of you around inside him.

(But in his dreams, you sit cross-legged in front of him, serene and beautiful, like a painting he knows nothing about.

In his dreams, you ask for his hands to have, and he gives you them to hold.)

#shigaraki x reader #tomura x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki x you #tomura x you #shigaraki tomura x you #shigaraki x y/n #tomura x y/n #shigaraki tomura x y/n #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki x you #tenko shimura x reader #bnha x reader #bnha x you #shigaraki fanfiction

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ushidoux · 3 years

Text

Not Enough - Oikawa (Haikyuu) x Reader x Gojo (JJK)

Summary: Your relationship with Oikawa feels more like a curse than anything else as it comes to a close. (~4.2k words) or tl;dr gojo is mr. steal your girl

Warnings: breakup, idk Gojo is a warning, cracky angst?, pegging mention, yandere themes

A/N: Ngl I’m patting myself on the back for making a crossover fic work somewhat LOLLLL, you can roll your eyes if you want this is hella melodramatic.

(if you wanna commission more niche things, you can always dm me <3)

---

“I-I think it’s best for us to end things here, Tooru...”

Oikawa’s fingers tightened around the cell phone in his hand at the sound of your shakily delivered proposition, and further at the abrupt pregnant pause thereafter - not because he was angry, nor afraid, but out of an all-encompassing confusion.

Two things were wrong with this situation. First of all, it was late enough for you, thousands of miles away, that he was genuinely surprised that you were still awake in the first place and the fact that your voice was thick with tears was particularly upsetting, implying that you’d been up all night before you decided to call. Second, you had to be feeling unwell because you were talking pure nonsense.

He must have not heard correctly. You wanted to ‘end things’?

End what? You and him? That couldn’t possibly happen.

Moments passed, maybe even a full minute, and Oikawa stood perfectly still in spite of the uncomfortable combination of a weightless sensation in his legs and a feverish pounding in his chest as he tried to let himself understand what you were saying. Suddenly lightheaded, he realized he had been holding his breath while you remained quiet on the other end of the line. Maybe he was hoping for you to fill the silence, but he knew you wouldn’t offer anything additional; he could tell from the single soft sniffle that betrayed your sadness.

He sucked air into his lungs.

“I... don’t know what you mean,” Oikawa replied, his voice steady even if his body wasn’t.

You continued.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore. It’s really hard… and I get so lonely, and I know it’s wrong, but sometimes it hurts to see you so happy without me…”

Your voice was smaller still, enough that he strained to hear you past the rush of blood past his temples. For a moment, he considered pretending he couldn’t hear you say such unpleasant things just so that he wouldn’t have to deal with the reality unfolding in front of him in this disdainfully sunny early afternoon, while he stood in the middle of the hallway right outside of his high rise apartment.

The fact that you had finally given up on him after all this time.

In a small way, Oikawa couldn’t blame you. While he had been gone chasing his dream, the emerging star had just as quickly been running further away from you day by day. He knew this was mostly his fault: he called you less frequently and whenever you did talk, the conversations were shorter and less substantial until you and he both felt like your interactions were a simple chore, a checkbox on his never-ending to-do list.

But yet, he could and would absolutely blame you. Long distance was hard but you had promised you’d stay by his side, hadn’t you? You’d promised him, rain or shine, through drought and storm. What could possibly be the issue now?

Even if you hurt, it would only be temporary, and he could always make up for it in full or even twice-fold. In fact, he was on his way to come see you in person this very second; it would just be mere hours before his flight would depart. Coming suddenly on holiday like this was meant to be a surprise, and his suitcase beside him was filled with gifts and souvenirs for you that would, at least partially, assuage your hurt.

At least he thought. Maybe the issue stemmed deeper, starting with the very fact that you weren’t such a fan of gifts - what you really craved was loyalty and quality time - and that too, he had chosen to ignore. Because it was easier to love you the way he wanted to love you, rather than the way you wanted to be loved.

You were often indecisive anyway. Did you ever truly know what you wanted?

“___, stop being silly. I love you -”, he paused at this last declaration for emphasis, gauging your reaction, of which you gave him none, then continued, “-and I’m coming to see you before the sun sets tomorrow,” he insisted, a stern edge in his voice to further supplant the denial that was keeping him able to breathe. Strength returning to his limbs, he resumed his path to the elevators, dragging his belongings behind him.

You were silly. You missed him and you were delirious from loneliness and sleep, and that’s why ridiculous things were coming out of your mouth, that’s all it had to be, he figured. End things? What you had was something precious and irreplaceable. Nothing could be better than what you were together.

It would be you and him for life, at least to him.

Unfortunately for you, that ideal had long since perished.

Any other time, you would have paused, your breath hitching in your throat, your heart pounding as you conjured up the image of your Tooru coming to be in your arms once more, to cross the vast distance and be yours again as it should be. He’d be quick to show you that he chose you over crowded gyms full of adoring spectators, a perfect set, the rush of victory, or a pretty Instagram model.

Any other time before, but time had run out with both you and him unsuspecting, in a flash of clear blue eyes.

---

A few months earlier...

“I’m not interested.”

Your voice was flat and so was your expression. Muttering a soft ‘excuse me’, you walked past the tall young man who had taken the fact that he’d helped you reach an item on the highest shelf (despite the fact that you were still somewhat tall, you still had struggled), as an invitation to follow you around the grocery store.

The stranger had started off indiscreetly at first, and you had to admit, when you’d passed him in the aisle, you had given him a double-take, and it wasn’t just because you were wondering how he could see the food before him with a black blindfold wrapped over his eyes, so you hadn’t thought too much of it. He was admittedly handsome - at least the lower part of his face was - and his relaxed voice and posture as he reached over and handed you your box of cereal reminded you just a smidge of your Tooru.

Your Tooru wouldn’t be caught in that nondescript dark ensemble, though.

Saying “thanks” and continuing on your merry way should have been enough. But instead, this same man had immediately started walking besides you as you pushed your cart as though he knew you, making comments about your groceries.

“I’m not particularly fond of eggs, but they’re a good source of protein.”

“You seem to have a sweet tooth, just like me!”

You probably should have been concerned about this man’s mental state, but he didn’t exactly seem harmful or delusional, just weird. But you were almost done with your shopping trip, and now he was in line with you with a single bag of chips in his hand, and it occurred to you for a while that this stranger might try to follow you home.

“Do you need something, sir?” You told him in exasperation.

He furrowed his eyebrows in mild confusion, still a smidge too close behind you and raised his bag of chips. “No, I’m fine.”

“Why are you following me?” You finally said, bolder than usual in this semi-crowded grocery store. You had had enough of being polite and you’d tried very hard so far. Today had been a long day and you just wanted to cook a meal and sleep, not argue with strangers.

“Oh, I was trying to be friendly,” he replied, shrugging, as though that were normal behavior, and thus here you were, switching lanes abruptly while making it clear to him that he needed to leave you the fuck alone.

Checking out of the store with your items occurred without incident but you had to admit you were both irritated and confused about that encounter, and again, while you didn’t exactly feel malicious intent or really any sort of ‘creepiness’ from the young man, the behavior was nevertheless alarming. You surreptitiously glanced over your shoulder just to make sure he wasn’t still in sight, only to catch him walking in the other direction, whistling again with the single bag of chips in his hand, now paid for.

Again stunned, you found yourself lost in a stare for a moment, a million questions in your head.

What was he trying to accomplish? And most importantly, how could he see with that blindfold?

What did he look like without it?

Quickly realizing your questions were getting absurd, you decided that whether he was attractive or not was a completely inconsequential thought, because the fact of the matter was that he had to be clinically insane. Absolutely.

With that thought in mind, you texted a friend briefly sparing the least salient details.

Call me in about thirty minutes if I don’t call you first. I’ll fill you in later.

Just for safety’s sake, but thankfully, you didn’t think you’d ever seen him again.

You may have brought up your odd encounter to Tooru that night, if he had managed to return your call.

---

“Go to sleep, I’ll talk to you when I land tomorrow. I love you, ____.”

Before you could protest, the line cut off abruptly and you lowered your phone to your lap. Now it was no longer just your voice wavering, but your entire body trembling as you sat over the side of your bed. You lurched forward, the pit of your stomach heavy with guilt.

Your Tooru was coming to see you and for once, he was the last person you wanted to see.

---

You had left your home a little later than usual but given that you would rather die than miss your morning coffee and croissant, you still stopped by your neighborhood bakery.

Noting that the line was a little longer than expected, you queued up, humming softly to the beats of your favorite song, not registering that the man standing before you had turned slowly in your direction and was now smiling down at you.

“Fancy seeing you here again.”

Your eyes furrowed as you looked up, then almost yelped in surprise when your eyes registered the same white-haired stranger who had stunned you at the supermarket lined up just two paces before you.

What the-

Of all the coffee shops in this city, why here? The hairs on your neck stood up on end, worse when he decided to keep speaking.

“Let me buy your coffee,” he proposed, tentatively. “Only condition is that you have to drink it with me.”

Today, the strangest of strangers almost looked normal; rather than a blindfold, his eyes were hidden by a dark pair of sunglasses and his hair had been allowed to fall into a slightly windswept cut. He was also dressed less eclectically, in a loose-necked long sleeved shirt and a pair of fitted dark jeans.

Like this, you could call him fashionable. He was definitely forward, at the very least.

He was obviously flirting and normally you would have a curt prepared answer for him, but the manner in which he leaned forward, smirking with hands on his hips, again felt too familiar. Like Tooru, who had forgotten to call you back and instead sent you a quick text that promised he’d get back to you.

If he remembered.

Before you knew it, and almost embarrassed as soon as it left your mouth, you blurted out, “I… have to go to work.”

It wasn’t a lie but for some reason it came out like one. Perhaps because what you would have normally said was, “I have a boyfriend,” without giving him a second look.

He frowned nevertheless.

“That’s too bad,” he finally said, letting out a loud sigh, excessively dramatic for the situation. You stared at him, dumbfounded, and he suddenly clasped his hands together, preparing to say something else but the barista had called for the next customer.

He made a motion for you to go before him, and flustered, you obliged, giving the barista a look that implored for help in any way he could offer it. The barista knew you well enough to ring up your order before you even asked for it, but not well enough to sense that the man behind you was actively harassing you.

“I can buy my own coffee, sir,” you murmured once you saw him rummage in his pockets and pull out his wallet while the barista went off to toast your pastry.

He grinned widely.

“Call me Satoru.”

---

“A drink for you, sir?”

The flight attendant’s voice betrayed a hint of irritation under her sweet tone of voice, hinting that she had been waiting for him to answer a while, and Oikawa realized that he had been staring at his phone for a lot longer than he expected. He flashed her his classic pearly whites before nodding, but the wheels in his head were still turning.

A mere couple of hours into the first leg of his flight back to Japan, he had taken to poring over his last few conversations with you.

Conversations that, at least from his end, had become pressured, short, and at times, he had been downright dismissive.

But he loved you - you had to understand that! It was a lot to manage: being available for you but also giving 150% of himself to the game.

So what if he missed your calls but kept his Instagram up-to-date? So what if he was a little bit too cozy with his fans (and known to be so)?

There was always you, and you were supreme. He’d do anything for you.

“Wine?” The attendant offered him the higher octave in her voice making it clear that Oikawa had managed to charm her back into her retail persona.

Maybe a glass, but he’d limit his drinking. He wouldn’t want to disappoint you when you met.

---

You were shocked.

Satoru stopped a car that was meant to crush you, and you were still trying desperately to comprehend what had just transpired.

You were possibly too eager to escape that coffee shop, to get away from the young man whose presence both unsettled your stomach and made your face grown warm, that you’d hurried out into the crosswalk, somewhat complicated drink and slightly crisped pastry in hand, and right into the path of a car hurtling through a red light.

You didn’t have time to scream or rarely even time to drop your drink, but the impact of your carelessness and preoccupation, between him, being late to work, wondering why the fuck your boyfriend had yet again forgotten to text back, never came.

Instead, the car seemed to halt to a stop almost immediately before you, before him who now stood before you with lips held into a neutral expression, and one hand in his pocket. Even if time seemed to stop for a split second, the force that should have struck your body didn’t, instead hurtling around you in a terrifying gust of wind.

But you were safe.

There was a shatter of glass windows as energy redistributed and the car took the brunt of the shock, and airbags deployed, engulfing the driver who could have possibly ended your life.

When Satoru finally turned to you slowly, looking at your cowering form, you finally caught a glimpse of piercing blue. For once he wasn’t smiling, and he was suddenly much more terrifying than anything else.

As though the mask had come off.

He didn’t ask if you were okay. Instead, he asked you to control your grief.

---

You shouldn’t be able to love anyone so much that your heart breaks repeatedly.

Something about you had to be pathological - it couldn’t be normal to feel the pain of separation this acutely. It was just a long-distance relationship, even if he was just getting more famous and less available by the day.

You shouldn’t wake up wondering if you could still breathe without him.

You shouldn’t.

---

“I’m a sorcerer,” Gojo revealed as he stirred a warm caramel latte, as though he had said the most natural thing in the world.

You tilted your head over so slightly, knit eyebrows betraying your confusion.

“... Like a circus performer?”

The repetitive turn of his wrist halted almost immediately and he looked at you, the constant smug smirk immediately awash from his features.

“Do I look like I belong in the circus?!” He half-exclaimed, half-whined, as though you were the only patrons in this bustling coffee shop. Part of you was bent on saying yes, but you kept mum yet staring at his face in distress, you find yourself stifling a giggle.

Now that he’d saved your life, you felt (and probably erroneously so) obligated to at least indulge him in coffee, and your curiosity about the young man sitting before you a whole day later now waffled between morbid and genuine.

Cursed energy? Leaking from you? Sorcery?

He cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair once he realized you were more entertained by his distress than anything else, crossing his arms and raising his legs on the table. You stared at the bottom of his shoes with mild disgust but instead focused on his face.

He really was like your Tooru, the boyfriend that slipped away from your reach in your nightmares, causing you to wake in a cold sweat. You shook the thought of your head, a quick barely perceptible movement, and crossed your own arms.

“You’re sad enough that I can sense it, which despite the fact that I am obviously quite gifted, can be a bit of an issue long term.”

“Why would it be an issue to you?”

“Because grief creates spirits and spirits are a pain in my ass.”

You furrowed your eyebrows again.

“So you followed me because you thought I was sad?” It sounded far fetched enough but absolutely on brand for a weirdo like the man before you. You took a sip of your tea - you’d picked chai for this… meeting. It wasn’t a date.

He grinned, an elbow rested on the table propping up his chin as he leaned back towards you.

“No, it’s because I thought you were beautiful.” ---

For the first time in a year, Oikawa’s first step back on Japanese soil did not immediately bring him joy but anxiety.

It was odd for him to feel anxiety, this unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach, but of course it would dissipate the moment he saw you.

But first, a warm shower in his new hotel room. Then he’d go to see you.

It felt odd not to have you waiting for him, your million dollar - no, priceless - smile on your face, so he could kiss you dramatically in the midst of all watching to again reassert that you are his, and his alone.

But you were upset, and understandably so.

So he would come to you, as a good boyfriend should.

---

“I have a boyfriend,” you told him immediately and indignantly, as you got up to leave. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you I’m not interested.”

He didn’t rise as fast as you did, watching you calmly instead as you balled your fists in irritation. It’s so shameless how he flirts, you thought. He’s so bold and rude and even if he’s a ‘sorcerer’ as he claims, there’s no spell that he can cast onto you that will make you leave Oikawa for him.

Not your Tooru, whose last Instagram post features a beautiful, tan, large-breasted and bikini-clad woman you’ve never met.

“Where is he then?” Satoru said in a low voice. He didn’t necessarily mean to cut but it did anyway. A lump formed in your throat.

“Overseas.”

---

The sound of chirping crickets is surprisingly loud for this part of the city, Oikawa considered, as he made his way towards your apartment building. It was an atypically warm evening for this point in the spring and he briefly mused if that is what excited them. Maybe they were cheering for him. They sounded a lot like the crowds if he closed his eyes.

He also hoped you had room for the gifts he carried with him, the most important of which was a Cartier bracelet he would hand to you once he departed, with a solid gold T for Tooru.

If he was on the search for fame and glory, he had to spoil you too, right?

To think that you were so angry with him that you had not yet contacted him since he had landed.

He knocked on your door finally, noting the shuffling of too many feet towards the door. This was the right door. He didn’t understand. Did you have friends over?

He called, and you didn’t immediately pick up.

---

“You have to leave!” You hissed. The statement was a plea and it was a command and it was a curse.

The blue of Satoru’s eyes was less electric in the dim moonlight, now more of a cool ice. Bare naked like this and barely visible save for the cracks of the illuminated city through your blinds, he was unfairly beautiful, as though he were carved out of marble. Again like your Tooru. Like, not better.

But still, he was there when Tooru wasn’t.

But Tooru was there now, knocking on your door, having traveled thousands of miles despite the fact that you had broken up with him just yesterday.

It was too little, too late.

But you didn’t love Satoru. He was just a band-aid for the loneliness that wrung agony out of you.

Right?

“I don’t want to leave,” your makeshift lover replied, flatly.

Your glare was sharp and instant, but Satoru matched your look, less pointed but unwilling to sway.

An unstoppable force, no different from the day he’d saved your life.

But he’d caused the problem in the first place, hadn’t he? Would you have run out so carelessly if not for him?

Your voice softened as you slipped on your clothes. The fight was lost before it started.

“Please? I… I can’t do this to him.”

Only a plea was left.

Your phone started to ring and your throat felt as though it would close up.

“___?”

Before you knew it, you heard your front door open and your heart dropped into your throat.

---

“What the fuck-”

Blue eyes were cruel.

Oikawa prided himself on his height but Satoru was taller, and his smirk was wide, while Oikawa’s face was ghostlike, devoid of any appreciable expression. Stunned.

“So you’re the boyfriend?” His voice dripped with mock amusement and he patted him on the shoulder before swinging open the door wide, letting Oikawa into his own girlfriend’s apartment, only to stand face to face with you whose feet seemed glued to the floor in shock.

“I.. T-Tooru..”

“Are you fucking serious?!”

His voice came out as a cry and his tears hot and fast. You never thought you’d see him crumple so fast, for you, for anything.

Your mouth opened and closed, and your hands shook but again, you stayed planted to the same spot while Satoru, still shirtless (but at least with the decency to have worn a pair of pants before answering the door), settled himself on the couch.

Before you could open your mouth to find a word to defend yourself to your sobbing boyfriend, your visitor let out an exaggerated yelp.

“____, you really showed no mercy on my asshole, did you?” he jeered. Then covering his mouth, he made a gesture of ‘Oops.’

What could you do?

Oikawa looked like he would stop breathing any second. He wanted to fight and maybe scream, but what use was that?

You had broken up with him yesterday.

You approached slowly, attempting maybe a touch, anything that would make your mistake less grievous.

You’d only been seeing Satoru for several weeks to… you weren’t sure why, really? Tooru was the one you loved. And to see him curl up like this… someone who was normally so proud...

You were disgusted with yourself.

“Tooru-”

“You said you’d wait for me.”

It was shocking how quick he rose, broken dignity, gifts and all.

“Tooru!”

He turned to leave, while Satoru contented himself on picking the earwax from his ears. It was easier to be like this, insufferable, than to gracefully accept the idea that his object of affection loved someone else.

He’d coveted you from the day he’d met you.

“Tooru!!!”

You were running after a man who gave 150% to everything, yet again.

Everything but you.

But had he at the very least given you 100%? You weren’t sure.

Oikawa was the last person who could accept the thought of someone else. You weren’t sure if he’d call you ever again. You weren’t even sure you wanted to break up.

Cursed energy. Maybe you didn’t just leak cursed energy. Maybe you were just cursed.

Heart shattering to pieces once Oikawa was no longer within view, you made it back to your room. Satoru was there waiting, and you couldn’t see the look in his eyes, but his arms were open, and so you fell into them.

#oikawa x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #oikawa tooru x reader #commission work #crossover fic #haikyuu x reader #jjk x reader #haikyuu x jjk #mae.writing

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otomegema · 3 years

Text

title: Convergence Theory, ch. 2 pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader summary: You are a lesser family member of the Gojo clan, so far removed you don’t even carry the name, but you carry the Limitless ability and thus the potential to be a bride to the future head of the clan— a fact you patently reject at fifteen. Twelve years later you are a second grade sorcerer struggling to obtain first grade status when the object of your deepest objections offers you a deal. rating: mature tropes: fake dating/engagement, rivals to lovers, slow romance Link: Archive of Our Own

It had been a logical move to allow Gojo to take down your number, entering it into his contacts with an obscene amount of heart and wishing star emojis by the brief glance you caught over his shoulder. It looked like he was already banking on your acceptance of the deal, but when you parted, your to-go sushi in a small plastic bag, you hadn’t expected to hear from him until tomorrow evening at the latest.

Or maybe even never.

But now, back in the hotel you were being comped for while in Tokyo, you wished silently that you’d never given that man your cell phone number.

Honey

Baby

Future-pretend-love-of-my-life

Have you made a decision?

He wasn’t human. It was barely 6am, did he wake up this early for lessons every day? You groaned, nearly swatting the phone off the nightstand in the dark.

You shot back a fast reply.

-oh I’m sorry

-I’m still recovering from getting electrocuted the other day

-Some asshat led a curse to me

You rolled over, managing to get at least another decent half hour of sleep in before the phone chimed again, lighting up the darkened hotel room.

\(★ω★)/

YOUR asshat

Should you choose to accept this mission

You threw off your covers, forcing yourself up to sit against the stack of pillows behind you as you tapped out a reply.

-My pretend asshat

-Mother will be so proud

The dots of his reply began immediately.

So is that a yes?

You sighed, rolling your eyes to yourself.

-Day isn’t over -Hasn’t even started tyvm

The dots began. Stopped. Began and stopped again, this time not reappearing. You tossed your phone onto the bed and teetered up and over to the coffee maker. The pot was finishing brewing by the time your phone chimed again.

You’re so slow.

The addition of punctuation and the sudden lack of emoji seemed almost like a warning flare that Gojo’s patience was waning. But you hardly knew the man and really, what did you care? A favor for a favor was what he offered. You didn’t owe him anything.

I have other options too.

His text continued and for a moment you frowned, wondering if his intention was to have that sound like a threat. You felt heat rising in your throat— he didn’t want to play that game.

So no pressure. Genuinely.

Oh. Good. That was better. You felt the tension uncoil as fast as it had grown.

Tho I AM your only hope for advancement <3

You could have thrown the phone right through the wall. Your thumbs worked rapidly, shooting out your reply in no time.

-Ah yes, your finest quality

A quick appearance of dots.

My special grade ranking? (･ω<)☆

You smirked.

-Humility

You’re no fun.

Text me when you are done being boring.

This was probably the most you had ever spoken to Gojo, despite having seen him on and off from a distance for the better half of your life. He was hard to miss. Every event at the main house would have him and his immediate family at the forefront. No one ever stopped talking about Gojo Satoru and his accomplishments and his strength and his skill as a sorcerer.

It was nauseating, having to pretend to nod and smile like it was all some great blessing just to orbit near him. It was bad enough he read like a sun to your abilities, as if he needed to be made to think he was anymore of the center of the universe.

Your palm itched. The desire to tap back a response now, a firm denial, very strong. But not stronger than your excitement at the possibility of being a first grade sorcerer. It was everything you had wanted. Prestige, recognition, tougher missions and the pay and rewards that came with them.

You were no weakling. Sure the telemetry technique took you out of commission, but it was hardly your greatest feat. You had finally been able to manifest the cursed technique lapse, blue. Granted, it was a one off and exhausted you so fully afterwards that you nearly fainted on the spot… but your tolerance was getting better. The precision of your manipulation of your cursed energy would never be on par with Gojo, but you could, some day, maybe even manage to shoot the technique off twice.

Reversal Red was next to impossible. And Hollow Technique? Truly impossible. The Six Eyes was needed to even attempt it. Most of your practice had been devoted to perfecting your long distance teleportation skills, fine tuning your telemetry technique and working on establishing your domain. That one was easier. The Unlimited Void crushed your opponent beneath an overload of sensory information, information you could easily channel and tap into with your own unique skills as a Limitless user.

But like all things, you were only second best. And barely. It was a joke. Comparing yourself to Gojo. He was on a level you could never achieve— unless.

You grabbed your phone, hastily dialing the new number and wincing at the loud, cheerful greeting from the other line.

“Good morning, moon of my soul, tenderest heart, darling—!“

“I haven’t even said yes yet, you monster.”

“Ah! A name of my very own? Be still my trembling heart!”

“I wish to make an amendment to the agreement.”

There was a lengthy pause. You could practically hear the slow spread of that sly smile. Content as the cat who caught the canary.

He knew he was about to win.

“Let’s hear it.”

“If you are putting my name forward for first grade, that means you have someone else in mind to be the second backer and someone in mind for me to shadow on missions and train with, yeah?

“I do.” Gojo said, his tone surprisingly serious.

“Have them put my name forward instead. I want to shadow you.”

Gojo laughed, a short mirthless thing, “What makes you think I have the time?”

“You have enough time to play pretend, I’d think any fiancé would leap at the chance to be with his lovely wife-to-be and keep her safe.”

Gojo hummed.

“Why me?”

This was an oddly familiar conversation.

“Purely selfish reasons. You are the best Limitless user. I am a Limitless user. I want you to teach me.”

“You aren’t on my level.” He said, no malice in his words, just simple facts.

“Then teach me what I can handle.”

There was another pause.

“I’m not gonna go easy on you just because you’re my girl.”

The bare utterance of the endearment sent a shiver up your arms and not an entirely pleasant one either. His girl. God, how would you even begin to explain this fake engagement to your parents? Who knew the depth of your jealousy and bitterness over Gojo since you were— what? Five? Younger?

“Since I am just your ‘pretend’ girl, I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“Your funeral, babe.” Gojo said, “But I’m glad we resolved this early! Because we are having dinner. Reservations are made, I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear something pretty!”

Your words caught in your throat, stuttering across your tongue and unable to force out before the line cut off and he was gone.

You pressed the edge of your phone to your temple, already feeling a headache coming on. Something pretty? Shit.

-Something pretty? -Too vague. I have no idea what I’m supposed to wear.

A dress! Something for the evening. A Line.

V Neck def

Show off what puberty gave ya (＾〃＾)

Chiffon with ruffle lace

And grey-blue

-Why?

To match my eyes <3

-Where in the world do you expect me to find that specific dress in the next few hours

Downstairs with hotel staff I had it dropped off <3 <3 <3

-That’s creepy

(つω`｡) </3 </3

-Enough with the hearts -How much? I’ll pay you back

It is a gift <3

-How’d you even know my size

A gentleman never reveals his secrets

┐(‘～` )┌

You sighed and set aside your phone to call down to the front desk. Sure enough, a few minutes later someone brought up a large white box, tied with a grey-blue ribbon. You set the package on the small counter in your room’s kitchen and opened the lid, brushing aside soft tissue paper.

The dress was ridiculously soft, made of fine, nearly translucent layers of chiffon. It was a lovely color, the sight making you suddenly think of the feeling in the air before a thunderstorm, the smell of rain. The ribbon matched.

You looked for a price tag and found none, but folded away at the bottom of the box was a hand written receipt. You paled at the figure displayed on it.

-Gojo, I can’t possibly accept this.

Don’t be stupid. No one would believe I was serious about a woman unless I was positively spoiling her rotten. s’not like it broke the bank!

-Forget the first-grade rec

-Pay my bills

Too late! Negotiations are closed :)

-So what the hell am I doing at this dinner?

Eating Duh and being seen with yours truly easy peasy right?

You sipped your coffee, keeping the mug well away from the dress. It was certainly nicer than anything you had ever owned in— well. Ever. It was hard to argue that there were clearly going to be some additional perks to this arrangement you hadn’t previously thought of.

Plus we gotta go over some ground rules

-Thought you said negotiations were closed

-This mean we can revisit my bills?

g2g

Students need me!

Ttyl babe

The ease in which that man showered you so soon with endearments was nauseating. Had he ever even had a girlfriend before? Or just those usual moon-eyed women who fawned and petted him?

And now everyone was gonna think you were one of those girls. You drank your coffee faster, relishing in the way it burned down your throat and overpowered the bad taste in your mouth.

“First-grade… first-grade. Remember the first-grade.”

And training. You’d squeeze every possible benefit from this arrangement out that you could. Sorcerers worked in teams, but at the end of the day, it was every man and woman for themselves.

Let them think what they want when you were seen tonight. You would come out on top.

***

The day passed quickly and you found yourself standing in front of the hotel mirror, twisting back and forth to get a feel for the movement of the dress— and half practicing staying upright in the heels that had arrived not even a moment later.

They were high enough to be appealing, but low enough to keep you from falling over on your face. Gojo had texted an explanation that he figured you were out of practice in wearing anything other than sneakers and combat boots and to consider them training wheels.

You’d wanted, once again, to punch him in the face.

The kind of girl he liked was a stilettos kinda girl, you guessed, huffing to yourself as you sat down and twirled one of your ankles, stretching the muscle. Even the low heels were not entirely comfortable, but you’d manage.

Checking your makeup one last time, you picked up your own worn purse and slung it over your shoulder. Women who wore these kind of dresses and came in on the arm’s of other men and women like Gojo never had anything more than the smallest clutch— but you weren’t those women.

You made your way down to the lobby and were surprised to find a chauffeur waiting outside with a very very sleek European car of some kind. You weren’t great about those kinds of things, only noting the seats were made with soft black leather and there was even a divider built in like in a limo to give the passengers privacy.

The chauffeur ushered you into the empty car and you sat back with a sigh as silently he delivered you to the next destination. You had, in some small place, hoped Gojo would already be present.

Why he felt the need for such spectacle was beyond you, but maybe this was what was expected of a clan family son when he courted a young woman. It felt— weird. Nice, but weird. The drive was not overly long, the car coming to stop.

You knew this restaurant. Some fancy French-Japanese fusion place that charged a hundred dollars for a single plate with a broiled pear covered in wasabi or some weird shit. Already you felt your stomach churning with anxiety and encroaching regret.

This was gonna suck.

This was gonna suck so bad.

The chauffeur opened the door and you barely managed not to wobble on the pavement. Feeling stilted and exposed as other guests and couples regarded you with open curiosity and veiled judgment.

Clearly they were used to seeing the same people come and go from this restaurant and you were not one of them.

You clutched your bag tighter to your arm, hand reaching inside instinctively to find your phone and text Gojo you were out. This was over. Find someone else— when your surname was shouted from the door.

All eyes turned as if in sync to Gojo, wearing simple trousers and a white shirt tucked in. He didn’t even have a tie or a jacket, his dark glasses obscuring his eyes even as he looked right at you.

A few people tsked their disapproval, but they may as well have been ghosts for all the attention Gojo paid them. When you didn’t immediately make your way over to him, Gojo shoved his hands into his pockets and strode over to meet you.

He grinned, the lowering of his chin and the slow rise back up an obvious indicator he was sizing you up and didn’t care if you knew.

He whistled.

“Ow, ow!”

“Shut it— you know this dress could cover my rent for half a year?! And these shoes! I could buy a used car with this ensemble.”

“You even drive?”

“Not the point.”

He laughed again, loud and careless.

“Figured since you were dawdling you might need an arm to lean on.” Gojo said, offering your his elbow without removing his hands from his pockets, “Or perhaps…”

He feigned a gasp, “Are you feeling shy?”

“I’m leaving.” you deadpanned, managing half a turn before his hand was on your waist, turning you back. He took your hand, the feeling of his palm on your side still burned into your skin as he hooked your arm in his own.

You allowed it, leaning on him only a little. He looked pleased, smugly so, as he led you inside and to a table that was already set for two.

There was a wine glass sitting by your own plate. The one by Gojo’s was turned upside down and set to the side… a can of soda sitting, bright and out of place, in its spot.

“… where did you even get that.”

“Vending machine.” Gojo said simply and even kicked your chair out a little for you to take a seat. How flattering.

“Wine is for you, if you want it. Figured it might help take the edge off.”

You rolled your eyes, not bothering to wait for the server to return and simply tipping the bottle of red into your own glass.

“What about you?”

“I don’t drink.” He said, cracking the tab on his soda with a loud pop. Several eyes filtered your way, whispers behind hands and napkins as Gojo all but drained the can in one gulp.

“So— ground rules?” you said, unfolding a cloth napkin and settling it in a half folded triangle across your lap the way you saw other women doing.

“Straight in, huh? Alright. Terms.” Gojo lifted one finger, “As already discussed, you and I will be ‘courting’— dating. Whatever the fuck. I’ll take care of arranging the dates, you show up, act sufficiently smitten and in about a year give or take, we break up.”

Gojo lifted a second finger, “Two. In exchange, I have two first grade sorcerers who will back your promotion. And, as requested—“ Gojo’s voice dropped a fraction, almost grumpily, “—you’ll come with me on my missions for your first semi-grade probation.”

“Now ground rules. At any point either of us wants out, it’s done. No questions asked. But don’t think that means you get to ditch and just keep that first grade appointment. I’ll make sure you end up right back at a grade two.”

You sipped your wine, giving your mouth something to do than form some very choice words at that moment. Gojo noticed, his smile almost a snarl, but the expression quickly vanished. You had a funny feeling trying to hoodwink or swindle him would end very poorly for anyone.

“And when you develop feelings for me—“

“If.” You amended quickly, but Gojo ignored you.

“—when you develop feelings for me. You have to tell me and again, the engagement is over. You can keep your rank. No harm no foul. I can hardly blame you for falling for me.” Gojo said with a wistful sigh. You were grateful for the arrival of the first course, forcing you both to fall silent for a moment until they departed.

You had no idea what was on the plate. Some kind of salad? It was hardly a mouthful. Gojo didn’t even touch his silverware and feeling less than impressed with the cuisine, you didn’t either.

You drank your wine.

“Barring sickness or injury you are required to appear for every date I set. Including the ones where you have to meet other members of the main family.”

You frowned, but didn’t object.

“Wait— what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Is the engagement off when you develop feelings for me?” You said lightly, trying to play off your smile as wistful.

Gojo scoffed, his reaction almost enough to hurt your feelings… just a little bit.

“Non-issue. I don’t do feelings.”

“God, you sound like a fuck boy.” The words came out before you could stop yourself, the last syllable off your tongue right at the moment the server had returned to reclaim your plates. An eyebrow was raised and you hid your face down with a flustered cough.

By the time you looked back up, you got the joy of seeing Gojo staring at you from over his glasses, a broad and deeply amused grin on his face.

“Not non-issue. If I get the feelings rule you get the feelings rule. End discussion.”

Gojo shrugged, again not touching the newest course which was, to your extreme annoyance, some kind of grilled pear.

“You should slow down.” He warned in a sing song voice as you poured another glass.

“I’m not a baby— okay. So we got terms, we got ground rules. Anything else?”

“You can’t refuse my gifts.”

Your eyes narrowed sharply and he simply smiled and hummed with a shrug.

“It’s for appearances! Oh. Speaking of appearances—“ Gojo sat up, fishing something from his back pocket and sitting it on the table. You stared at the simple black box, fearing a vein might burst in your forehead at any moment.

“What is that.” You stated more than asked.

“Open it.” Gojo said, his voice light and encouraging as he nudged the box closer, “Come on, open it. Open it. You know you wanna, sweetie, light of my life, fire of my lo—“

You snatched the box up if only to stop him from finishing that sentence.

You swallowed hard, the sounds of the room fading out as you flipped open the box and found, sitting upon a small satin pillow— a… key?

You lifted it from the box, noting it even had a little custom keychain made to look like a white cat with a tiny blindfold.

“It’s to my apartment!” Gojo announced with a giddy laugh, clasping his hands together in a way that was entirely un-adult like.

“… I have my own place. Thank you.”

“In Kyoto. This is here, in Tokyo. Where you will need to stay for this all to work, remember?”

“Where will you stay?” You asked dryly, vaguely hoping his answer would be something other than what it was no doubt going to be.

“Very funny. You’ll have your own room—if you want it.”

“Why—“ your voice nearly broke and you had to take a moment to clear it, “Why uh— why wouldn’t I be wanting my own room?”

“Feelings are off limits, naturally. But if you want to take me up again on that offer from back in the day…”

The surge of cursed energy that rippled off of you was so strong Gojo nearly toppled backwards, his laugh gaining a somewhat nervous lift to it if only for just a moment.

“I’ll have my own room. My own locked room.” You bit out, feeling your face flushing hot and hating every second Gojo seemed to be enjoying your utter mortification, “Unless that is a problem.”

“Nope. Not at all. Probably for the best ultimately, I’ve been told I have a bad habit of dickmatizing folks.”

“… I’m sorry, you what.”

“Dickmatizing! Ya know. Like hypnotizing but with—“

“I got it!” You groaned, pressing your face into your hand. When did it get so damn hot in here? You snatched up your wine glass and finished off the contents, feeling even hotter.

“Is that all?”

“Unless anything comes to your mind, then yep.” Gojo finished, ignoring yet another course. You were almost tempted. The dish was some kind of meat, but the sauce drenched over it smelt sharply of something bitter and sour at the same time. You stomach recoiled at the thought and yet rumbled in protest to its growing hunger.

“So what do you think?”

“You’re disgusting?” you said flatly.

“I meant about the deal.”

You glowered openly at him. It was going to take a lot of practice to turn that deprecating expression you felt naturally pull unto your face at his sight into something loving and tender… but for first-grade ranking? For lessons on your Limitless? Fuck. Fuck you’d do it.

You poured the remainder of the bottle into your glass and polished it off in one shot.

“I accept.”

Gojo clapped his hands together, “Excellent! Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Huh?” You barely managed to get the questioning sound out before Gojo was up and out of his chair. You scrambled up, head rushing with the wine and the weirdness of this entire conversation. By the time you managed to catch up with him, he snaked out his arm and wrapped it around your waist, pulling you flush and warm against his side.

You about threw him across the room, but your attempts at a grapple were thwarted by the sudden thrumming of the familiar Neutral Limitless ability, stalling your moments to such a small speed you felt suddenly frozen.

The impulse to toss him passed and instead you let him escort you outside where the car was still waiting.

“Take us to the place, ya know the one.” Gojo said to the driver and in a surprising show of gallantry, actually held the door open for you to get in first.

“And open the back window. If she throws up, I’d rather it be on the pavement.”

You elbowed him in the chest— accidentally of course.

***

The car drive was a bit longer, taking you away from the glitz and glamor of this side of Tokyo and to what looked arguably as one of the most hole-in-the-wall noodle joints you had ever seen. The street kitchen was small, the counter open outside with a few bar stools. The smells of teriyaki and spices and cooking oils were heavy in the air and made your mouth water.

Gojo perched on one of the stools and you came to sit alongside him, watching as he ripped open a set of chopsticks and rubbed the splinters off.

He ordered quickly—yakisoba and yakitori. Along with several packages of mochi they kept behind the counter in the same kinda plastic bags you’d find at a convenience store.

Gojo had been right— you should have slowed down. The world had a light haze to it… a slight tilting. His hand on your back felt massive and overly warm as he guided you back to sitting straight.

“Eat, ya lush.” He ordered, piling noodles and chicken unto a smaller empty plate for you from his own, “C’mon.”

Gojo popped one of the mochi bags and dumped the sticky sweet confection right on top of your yakisoba. You grimaced, picking the sweet off and trying to wipe some of the sauce from it before you took a generous bite.

The food was greasy and delicious and abundant and cheap and your mouth was in heaven. Even having not used your Limitless since yesterday, every taste still felt heightened. Maybe it was the way your cursed powers tried to compensate from the wine, but everything somehow was more delicious.

You attempted to snag another piece of yakitori from Gojo’s plate, only to have your chopsticks blocked with a clack.

“Ah ah ah— hands off.”

“What’s yours is mine, right?” You chided, only to be dodged again in a movement faster than your eyes could perceive. Did he just use his Limitless to counter you? Feeling emboldened, you activated your own, the faint pulse of the energy so close together giving you the sort of deflecting feeling one experiences when holding two sides of the same magnet near together.

Repelling, shifting. Trying to shove the energy into a way that the two forces would collide rather than deflect.

You were concentrating fully. The minuscule movements invisible to even your eyes, but the feeling was there. A sort of blindsight where you didn’t need the Six Eyes to tell you what was happening— but it would have definitely helped. You flicked a glance up and lost your control, your chopsticks shooting away and nearly cracking one in two.

Gojo chuckled. It was the expression on his face that had distracted you. His eyelids were half dropped, his smile soft as he readied himself to deflect you again. Your energy was no match for his… but it matched. It was made of the same stuff. Controlled the same way. He could see, with the sharp clarity of his Six Eyes, every tiny precise movement you made with your cursed energy. A mirror of his own abilities in miniature.

He was playing with you. And all the sudden you felt as if a small knot in your chest had shaken free, the coil coming undone.

Was there anyone else on this Earth you could do such a thing with?

Feeling strange and suddenly shy, you drew your energy back in and refocused on eating from your own plate, grumbling at your loss.

A second later, Gojo’s chopsticks moved over your plate, dropping another helping of noodles in.

A small concession. A victory in it's own right, even if it had not won the yakitori.

“Sober up, will ya? But don’t eat too fast. I’m not cleaning up vomit, no way, no how.”

“You’re always so vulgar.” you murmured, speaking around a mouthful of noodles and mochi. Gojo turned and stuck his tongue out at you. A confirmation or a reprisal, you couldn’t be sure.

But regardless, it did something to you he had never managed to do before.

It made you laugh.

#gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru fanfic #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x oc #gojo satoru #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujustu kaisen #help ive fallen into gojo brain rot and cant get up

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ahkaahshi · 4 years

Text

stay here [iwaizumi hajime x reader]

pairing: iwaizumi hajime x fem reader

genre: smut (18+) and fluff

warning(s): explicit sexual content, penetrative sex, a bit of dub-con (bc of the fact that alcohol was involved), alcohol consumption, swearing, brief mentions of toxic relationships

word count: 3.5k

overview: a post break-up night at the club with your best friend ends a bit differently than you’d expected

notes: a commission for the lovely @devlovesiwa-channn! sorry this took so long bb but I hope the wait was worth it! thanks for supporting me ily ❤️

The heavy bass pulsating through the club shakes every bone in your body as you sit at the bar, head propped up by your hand and fingers tapping against the side of your face to the beat of the song playing. From where he is beside you, Iwaizumi watches you breathe out another, long sigh with furrowed eyebrows.

“Oi,” he barks, drawing your (e/c) gaze to his dark one illuminated by the bright lights flashing from the ceiling, “Quit thinking about that jerk, would ya?”

With a roll of the eyes, you retort, “You say that like it’s so easy, Hajime. I did just get my heart broken not even a week ago.”

“And you say that like I’m clueless. Don’t forget who’s spent the past—what is it now? Five?—nights over at your place, watching movies with you and making sure you get to bed at a decent time.” His words elicit an immediate feeling of guilt that wells up inside your gut and makes you avert your gaze to search for the bartender who should be finishing up your drinks any moment now.

What he’d said was entirely true, and you knew it. Ever since you’d gotten out of a relationship earlier that week, you’d been a bit of an emotional wreck. Mountains of snack wrappers and tissues had already been piled up in the trash bin placed in your room when Iwaizumi had first showed up at your apartment after hearing about the news. He’d sat with you every evening this week, huddled beneath the covers of your bed or a pile of blankets on the couch while you’d switched between directing words seething with venom towards your ex and struggling to speak through sobs. He’d made sure that you’d eaten your meals, gone to bed at a decent hour, and had done everything in his power to be the friend you’d needed.

So, to even mention that you’d just endured a heartbreak like he had no idea about the situation was nothing less than a slap in the face to him—and you knew it. However, the noticeable discomfort written on your face has Iwaizumi shaking his head as if trying to negate the harshness of his statement.

“Hey,” he tries again in as soft a voice he can use when he’s having to compete with the music blaring, “all I’m saying is that I’ve seen the hell you’ve been put through because of that asshole, so I want you to be able to take your mind off of it for a bit and enjoy this night out, okay?”

You can’t help but chuckle in a way that reflects how jaded you feel by your predicament but shoot him a small smile anyway as you respond, “No promises.”

“We’ll see about that,” he challenges, a smirk flashing across his lips when the bartender sets down two shot glasses on the metal bar top before you. As if in synchronization, the two of you reach for your drinks at the same time and clink them together in a toast. “Here’s to a good night.”

After downing your shot, squeezing your eyes shut and taking a sharp inhale at the burning sensation of the alcohol traveling down your throat, you state, “Gonna need a few more before we get started with that.” Iwaizumi nearly chokes when you raise your hand to summon the bartender for an instant refill so you can tilt your head back once more to knock another one down. “What?” you question upon noticing his wary gaze, “You said you wanted me to have fun, didn’t you?”

“I’m not hauling your ass out of here if you get wasted, (f/n).”

“Guess our definitions of fun are a bit different, then.” He clenches his jaw and grunts with indignation at your response, and you laugh heartily at his annoyance, reaching over to graze the sleeve of his floral button-up shirt with your fingers. “I’m kidding! I promise I’ll stay conscious.” Another, louder murmur of disagreement that echoes from behind his pursed lips has you rolling your eyes and placing both your hands on his muscular shoulders. “Learn how to take a joke, would ya?”

He huffs, “It’d be easier to if what you’d just said hadn’t actually happened before.”

Sighing, you move your grip from his shoulders to the hem of your skirt, holding it down as you hop off the barstool. “Well, if I have to choose between sitting here, recounting my unfortunate run-ins with alcohol or dancing to this mediocre song, I think I’m gonna head to the dance floor.” After attempting to give your friend money for the drinks that he refuses out of kindness, since your plans for the evening had been made by him to begin with, you offer, “You know where to find me,” before making your way through the throngs of clubbers to the dance floor at the other end of the venue.

Iwaizumi shakes his head as he watches your figure disappear in amongst the sea of people and turns his attention to the empty shot glass he’s taken to tracing his fingers along pensively. As much as he wants to ignore the thoughts that have a habit of returning each time he sees you fall out of love with someone else, he can’t seem to rid himself of them—of the idea that maybe, just maybe, things would be different if you were with him instead. All this time, he’d been sitting on the sidelines, forced to play spectator in the games that other men seemed to enjoy playing with your heart while knowing damn well he would treat you with the respect you deserved.

It makes him a bit angry for you, actually, the way others haven’t known what to do with your heart after you’ve given it to them. He knows better than most that you can’t help who you choose to fall in love with—since he’s felt a natural affinity towards you since the first moment he met you—yet he can’t help but hope, after each of your breakups, that you give him a chance with your heart instead. However, out of respect for you, since you haven’t given him any indications that you might return his feelings, he’s kept quiet and maintained your close friendship.

The nagging thoughts persist, and each time, he shoves them into the darkest corner of his mind so he can help you pick up the pieces of your heart after another man drops it.

But they return when he eventually ventures out to the dance floor to find you after you’d returned to the bar for another round of shots to fuel your agenda of forgetting about your ex and sauntered away once more. Navigating through the waves of gyrating bodies finally brings him within a few feet’s distance of where you stand, swaying along to the music without a care in the world.

As he watches you with the same admiration he would give the only twinkling star in a dark, nighttime sky, he wonders how your former boyfriend could’ve ever thought to treat you the way he had—with such blatant disregard for your feelings. Anyone who tried to dim your light wasn’t the one for you, and now all he wants is for you to shine brighter than you had before. Whether or not you do so for him doesn’t matter in his eyes. He just wants to see your radiance and happiness return.

Just as he’s about to approach you so he can join in on the fun, the song changes into one he knows well—because it’s your favorite. He can’t count the number of times he’s listened to you belt out the lyrics while driving or caught glimpses of you performing bits of the choreographed routine you must’ve created whenever you hear it played in a public setting, but what he sees unfold before him this time is entirely different to anything he’s witnessed before.

Even if he didn’t want to look, it’s impossible to ignore you when the thin veil of sweat over your skin makes you shine under the bright, multicolored lights in a dazzling display as you move to the beat. With the way your body’s undulating in cadence with the music, a seductive look on your face while your hands run from your torso down to your thighs, you’ve attracted more than a few hungry gazes. But his is the only one that you meet with your own, silently beckoning him over to you moments before you lift a finger to summon him in a request to join you. His feet carry him across the distance separating the two of you without a second thought.

There’s a gentle, somewhat amused smile on his face at seeing you finally letting loose, but it soon becomes much more serious when he feels your fingers clench around the fabric of his shirt. The space around you is hot and charged, and you’re barely able to tell one direction from the other with the way your head’s spinning in a pleasant buzz from the alcohol, but you know exactly what you’re doing. The heat of his body radiates onto your hands as you run them along his toned torso while singing along to the song’s lyrics, and you relish in the way his dark eyes are traveling along every inch of your skin.

When your hands reach his, you turn your back towards him and place his palms on both sides of your waist. Feeling his hold on you tighten and strong fingers pressing against your skin spurs you to grind your hips against him slowly in an attempt at testing the waters. He encourages your actions by pulling you closer to him and moving in synchronization with you. His acceptance and reciprocation of your invitation has heat pooling in your stomach and your heart fluttering in your chest.

The way your bodies as one, like they’ve been created to fit perfectly together in this moment has any restraint you would’ve normally shown evaporating completely. In your mind, you only want him. You’ve known that. You’ve known that for so long, yet you’d been out chasing down other men who’d inevitably become the sources of your heartaches. Now, you think it’s high time you finally go after who it is you’ve truly been yearning for in silence for far too long.

Once a change in the song brings an end to your fairly explicit dancing, you turn to face him again, (e/c) eyes drifting from his own down to his lips as your hands instinctively find his arms to steady yourself in amongst all the movement surrounding you. He seems to hesitate for a moment, since the two of you stand and stare at each other in silence despite the bass sending vibrations through your chests, but he eventually finds the courage to act on his desires. In an instant, his large hand is moving to cup your face and bring it closer to his so he can press a strong kiss against your lips.

A mixture of exhaustion and utter euphoria knocks the wind out of your lungs, sending soft pants tumbling out of your mouth when he finally breaks the kiss. “Hajime…” you utter, voice barely audible above the vocals bouncing off every surface of the club’s interior.

The distinct scent of alcohol taints the breath that fans across your face when he asks, “Yeah?”

“I want you. I want you so badly. Please.” The confession falls off your lips with such ease that you question why you haven’t been able to say it all this time.

A curse word escapes his mouth in a gentle whisper, and you can feel his hard-on against your body when he pulls you in for another heated kiss. “Wanna get out of here?” he wonders. Your enthusiastic nod forms a smile across his lips, and his arm is wrapping around your waist to safely guide you through the crowds so he can sort out a ride home.

What happens next all feels like a blur to you, since all you can think about the entire car ride back is having Iwaizumi’s hands all over your body the moment you get to your doorstep. It appears you’re not the only one who’s impatient, since he’s caging you against the wall in the entryway with his body moments after you’ve kicked off your shoes and locking lips with you once more. The combination of the booze and the pleasure is making your head spin, but you’re able to take his hand and pull him into the bedroom with you so your back can be against the mattress instead.

The strong, passionate nature of his sloppy, open-mouthed kisses serves as a telltale sign of how long he’s been waiting to experience such an intimate moment with you. All along, he’d thought he would want to take his time in this situation—trailing gentle kisses across every inch of your skin and making sure no part of you is left needing his tender but firm touch. However, in the heat of the moment, he’s quick to abandon any ideals of a slower pace, intent on ravishing you.

Your fingers fumble with the buttons on his shirt so you can push it off his broad shoulders as his hands work on yanking off your little clubbing outfit. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest with excitement at the new, uncharted territory you’re both delving into together. For the first time in the many years you’ve known one another, you’re seeing each other at your most vulnerable states.

A gentle moan sounds from your throat at the feeling of his fingers traveling between your legs so they can slide along the saturated fabric covering your slit. Wrapping your arms around his back and pulling him closer to you, you bring your hot bodies flush against one another so you can taste more of the alcohol lingering on his tongue. He swallows another whimper you release when his fingers shove your panties aside so they can toy with your sensitive clit. The sharp sensation of your fingernails pressing into his skin makes him grunt gently, but also sends a rush through him like a buzz of electricity.

“That feel good?” he murmurs, his deep voice prompting your walls to clamp around his thick fingers as he pushes them inside of you.

Hips bucking at his thumb stroking your pearl and legs already shaking from just how mesmerizing his touch is alone, you nod in response and breathe, “So good.” His lips return to yours for another kiss before forming a smile as they press against your jawline, neck, and collarbone, slowly making their way down towards your breasts. Feeling his tongue drag across one of your hardened nipples has you crying out softly as your hands fly to his head, fingers carding through his dark hair.

The delicacy with which he’s sucking on your pebbled bud sharply contrasts the fast, fervent motions of his fingers thrusting into your warm, wet core, edging closer and closer to your sweet spot each time.

“H-Hajime!” Your voice shudders when his name tumbles off your tongue. “Want you inside of me… please, baby.”

Hearing your voice become so needy and desperate as you beg has him groaning against your skin. “Wanna cum all over my cock, princess?” he suggests lowly, moving his head away from your breasts so he can look down at your eyes clouded with lust.

Your heart skips a beat at the name he calls you in jest being used in this situation instead, and you gaze up at him with a mixture of awe and affection burning in your chest until your mouth falls open again at his fingers kneading your sweet spot. You moan loudly in place of the words you’d meant to say, but continue once you take a breath, “Yes! Please, fill me up!”

The way you sound makes him want to do anything for you, and he withdraws his fingers from inside your core so he can unbuckle his belt and push his pants down. Your eyes widen at the sight of his large dick adorned with beads of precum, which he notices and acknowledges by rubbing soothing circles on your thighs while he rids you of your soaked underwear and spreads your legs further apart so he can slot his torso between them. “You can take me, baby; I know you can,” he reassures you in between gentle pecks to your lips.

You hum in agreement, your gaze focusing on his as he aligns his leaking cockhead with your entrance and pushes inside you slowly, stretching your walls in a way that sends currents of both pain and pleasure shooting through your body. He groans, “Oh, fuck; you feel so good,” while your pussy swallows him inch by inch until he’s fully sheathed inside your inviting warmth. He starts with a slower pace than expected given how quickly he was thrusting his fingers into you just moments earlier, rocking his hips against yours and nudging your cervix.

“Faster, Hajime, please,” you beg breathlessly, “I need you.”

A particularly hard thrust he can’t hold back at hearing your request has you mewling with both surprise and satisfaction. “I’m gonna fuck you so good,” he growls, heavy breaths falling onto your ear as he picks up his pace and intensity, filling your stomach with a familiar warmth, “Gonna be the best you’ve ever had.”

His strong hand gripping your hip, lifting you up slightly to meet the angle of his precise thrusts—despite the animalistic desire that’s overcome him—has your legs trembling where they’re wrapped around his waist. The sound of his skin smacking against yours is barely audible above your own moans mingling with his loud grunts. All you can feel is him. Every inch of his body, every ridge of each muscle beneath his hot skin, and every ragged sigh that fans over your neck. He’s all you want, and you can’t help but voice your desires over and over again in the form of his name.

“H-Hajime, I’m gonna cum!” you squeal when he starts drilling deeper inside of you, sending waves of pleasure flowing over your body with each thrust. Your toes are curling, your heart’s racing, every muscle in your body’s tensing as you dangle on the edge of your orgasm—so tantalizingly close to coming undone.

He seems to know what you need to reach the state of euphoria you’re craving, since he pulls out of you to flip you over onto your stomach. The room tilts around you ever so slightly at the sudden change in orientation, but your head drops to the comforter when he pulls your hips up towards his and slams into from behind instead. More feverish sounds of pleasure and begs of “Don’t stop!” leave your mouth unabashedly when the sensations overwhelming you slacken your jaw and create white spots in your vision.

“That’s it!” Iwaizumi hisses as your pussy spasms around him and you cry out his name in the heat of your orgasm, “Fuck, baby; you’re gonna make me cum.”

Your velvety walls clenching around his dick so affectionately and your hips thrashing against his as you ride out your high has him reaching his as well moments later, and he releases inside of you, filling you to the brim with warmth. His hands on your hips keep them in place while he finishes, and he remains inside of you a few seconds afterwards before pulling out and lying down on the bed beside you.

“Fuck…” you sigh as your chest rises and falls with deep breaths. The exasperated tone in your voice causes worry to bubble in Iwaizumi’s chest for a brief moment until you turn to regard him with a bright smile. “That was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

“Glad you feel that way too,” is his response delivered with a chuckle.

In the darkness only interrupted by pale shards of moonlight seeping in between the blinds, your hand finds his face so you can tilt it towards yours and press another, tender kiss against his lips. “I’m sorry,” you whisper even though your mouths are still connected.

“Why?” His fingers brush your hair away from your face on their way to rest at the nape of your neck.

“Because I should’ve been with you all this time and not those other losers.” There’s a short pause, bathing the room in silence save for the beating of your heart against your ribcage. “I love you, Hajime—and I have loved you—but I’ve just been running away because I’m scared of ruining things like I have with other guys.”

The warmth his lips spread over your body when they return to yours puts you at ease, as does his arm snaking around your waist to pull you closer to him.

“I love you too, (f/n),” he confesses, pecking the crown of your head, “So how about you stop running and stay here with me, hmm?”

Nestling your face against the crook of his neck and taking a deep breath, you sigh, “That’s all I want.”

masterlist ⭐︎ treat me to a coffee!

taglists (see pinned post on my blog for form)

general: @dinablossom, @newfriendjen, @devlovesiwa-channn, @ohbyunhunn, @aftcrlust, @mister-future, @kyleclxin, @kac-chowsballs, @osamusmiya, @nit-sir-hc, @arixtsukki, @shinsurou, @ichorizaki, @dominikmagnus, @yamagucji

iwaizumi: @misora-msby,@lotsoffandomrecs, @tsumue, @heyhinata, @cuddlysoftbear

#haikyuu x reader #iwaizumi hajime x reader #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi smut #haikyuu smut #haikyuu fanfiction #x reader #reader insert #tw alcohol #tw dubcon #ahkaahshi gets wild #fran writes hq!!

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yandere-daydreams · 3 years

Text

Title: Progression.

Pairing: Yandere!Best-Jeanist/Reader.

Commission for the lovely @99shadowcat99.

Word Count: 1.6k.

Synopsis: You’re sure Hakamada only has your best interests in mind. You came to him in a time of need, after all, and as a hero, it’s only natural that he’d want to see you improve. You’re sure he does, you only wish he didn’t have such a cold way of showing it.

TW: Toxic Relationships, Financial Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, and Slight Stockholm Syndrome.

It probably didn’t help that you’d been at such a low point, when Hakamada first found you.

It was something you couldn’t deny, something you didn’t try to deny, not when it had such a lasting impact on your relationship. He’d pitied you, back then, met you when you were broke and desperate and willing to do just about anything for a recommendation, a place to stay, a steady wage and all the stability he and his agency could provide, if you just managed to worm your way in. You could only be thankful he’d decided to interview you personally, despite his position. You never would’ve gotten the job, otherwise.

You’d never admitted that to him, not out loud, but that was something you liked about Hakamada - he picked up on little details, no matter how subtle. He noticed up on your willingness to work overtime, your erratic apologies whenever he called you into his office, regardless of the reason why. Your chronic lateness, your reliance on the charity of your coworkers whenever the staff went out for after-hour drinks. You’d never told him, but you never needed to. He was more than willing to help you, whether or not you let him know how much you appreciated it. He was a Hero, after all. It only made sense that he'd do whatever he could for someone in need.

The job hadn’t lasted, you weren’t really cut out for it, but Hakamada had.

Some days, you could even convince yourself he’d done it out of love.

Tonight, the task was easier than it usually was. In his penthouse, standing in front of the full-body mirror he’d had brought in and installed just for you, it was easy to fall into the idea that you were the object of his affections, the apple of his eye, someone he cared about and someone he cared about genuinely, especially when you were already dressed in clothes he’d bought, wearing the jewelry he’d been generous enough to pay for. You knew it wasn’t much, for him. Even if everything he gave you was designer, expensive enough to make your heart speed up and your throat go dry, it wouldn’t make a dent in his salary, and he seemed to like providing for you more than you liked being provided for, honestly. But, you couldn’t refuse. Hakamada had done so much for you, he was still doing so much for you. If he wanted someone to spoil, you couldn’t refuse. And, while you were on the topic…

“Are you ready, beautiful?”

You couldn’t let him know you were so reluctant, either.

You hadn’t heard him come in, but that didn’t stop you from leaning into his touch as you felt his hand cup your cheek, its twin coming to rest on your hip. He was gentle, if nothing else, his chest barely touching your back as he leaned forward, eyes scanning over your reflection, searching patiently for something to correct. You didn’t mind, submitting yourself to his scrutiny with minimal resistance. He was a perfectionist. He looked at everyone like a project, and you weren’t an exception.

Still, you tried to sound confident when you answered. Even if that meant lying through your teeth. “I think so,” You said, smoothing over your outfit one last time. “It’s a Hero’s gala, right? It’s not like anyone’s going to bother paying attention to me.”

“If you’re on my arm, they will.” He always sounded so stern. This wasn’t your first event, you’d gone plenty of times as his assistant and as his partner, but Hakamada liked to be thorough. Before, he’d dug the heel of his palm into the base of your spine, pinched your cheek whenever your attention started to drift, and even after his valet had already arrived, he’d still spend the better half of the drive searching for loose threads and stray hairs to aggressively correct. Now, to fix your posture, he was kind enough to stop at squeezing your hip, his free hand nudging gently at your shoulder. It was merciful, in comparison, but it was still difficult not to feel like a prized mutt, locked into a muzzle and dragged onto a pedestal. “Keep your back straight. You remember everything we went over, don’t you?”

Of course. He’d only spent the past three hours drilling it into you. “I do, Hakamada.”

There was a pause, just the slightest bit of hesitation. “Hakamada?”

To your credit, you caught your mistake a second after he did. “I mean, I do, Tsunagu--”

“You’re really going to address me like that in front of journalists?”

Your eyes dropped below the mirror. For whatever reason, you didn’t want to look at him, anymore. “I’m sorry, Tsun’.”

Luckily, that seemed to satisfy him. Hakamada let out a heavy sigh, and you could feel him shaking his head, more out of disappointment than genuine annoyance. The gesture was familiar, as was the anger-tinged guilt that accompanied it, but he still took his time, letting the feeling brew before he bothered to speak. Sometimes, you had to wonder if he did that on purpose, if he knew he was only making you feel worse by trying to act so forgiving. Most of the time, though, you pushed the thought out before you could dwell on it. You’d only be making things worse for yourself, if you started thinking about things like that. “I’m just trying to help,” He started, the mantra already engraved into your mind. “You’ve come so far since I first found you. All that progress shouldn’t go to waste.”

It wasn’t a question. He didn’t need you to agree. It shouldn’t, and as far as Hakamada was concerned, you didn’t get a choice in the matter. “I know. I’ve come too far to backtrack.”

“You’ve come too far to throw it away.” That was something you didn’t like, when you’d worked for him. It was all or nothing, with Hakamada. A mission was either a success or a disaster. His newest sidekick was either a prodigy or a wash-out waiting to happen. Failure wasn’t an option, not when the slightest mistake meant disrepair. “Things have gotten better for you, haven’t they? You’ve enjoyed your time with me?” It was a question, this time, but he didn’t want an answer, even if he paused as gloved fingers trailed over your side, only leaving your skin for a moment before he cupped your jaw, tilting your head back just far enough for the change to be noticeable. Just far enough to force you to look at your reflection, whether or not you wanted to. “It’d be such a shame if all of this had to come to an end just because of a few insignificant, avoidable mistakes.”

Suddenly, your throat went dry, your heart drawing a little too tight in your chest. It'd been happening more than it should, lately, considering how careful Hakamada encouraged you to be with your health. “You’re… This is going to end?”

He always seemed to enjoy it, when you said things like that. Maybe it was your tone, the softened desperation you didn’t try to hide, or maybe he took it as a confession, a sign that you cared for him, or that you cared for what he could provide, at least. You hoped it was the latter. He liked it when you were desperate, and you liked to pretend that he didn’t. “Of course not, dear,” He soothed, his disappointment suddenly gone and replaced with something more assuring, something more sentimental. As sentimental as Hakamada was capable of being, anyway. “I’d sooner lock you up completely than ever let my little muse run off. Besides...” He trailed off, a light chuckle fading into a scoff. “Even if I did lose you, I wouldn’t be able to let you go, not entirely. It wouldn’t be fitting for my partner, past or present, to go back to living in some tiny apartment, struggling to make ends meet. It’d be embarrassing, for both of us, and I don’t know if I’d be able to stand the distance.”

You didn’t say anything, but you didn’t have to. Hakamada was distracted, now, pressing a light kiss into the dip of your shoulder before he pulled away, fiddling with the cuffs of his suit. “We’re already running late. When you’re ready, come find me. I’ll be waiting.”

You didn’t turn around. You heard the door to his bedroom close, his footsteps growing more distant as the seconds ticked by, but you didn’t feel the need to watch him, you didn’t want to see him, his face, how unaffected he was by the doubts that plagued you like some ever-lasting, unshakable waking nightmare. You knew it wasn’t healthy, objectively. You shouldn’t have to wonder if your boyfriend really likes you. You shouldn’t have to practice your smile, lower your voice, contort yourself to fit his standards of perfection, your needs be damned. It wasn’t healthy, it wasn’t even pleasant, but…

He was right. You didn’t go back to the way things used to be. Starving, working yourself to the bone to make rent, letting any Pro-Hero who showed an interest turn you into something soft and toothless and malleable. It was easier to be with Hakamada. It was easier to let him have his way.

It was easier to tell yourself that you’d still be allowed to leave, if you wanted to.

With that in mind, you turned on your heel, starting in the direction he’d gone off in. You would stay. You had to stay.

You wouldn’t know how to be yourself without him, anymore.

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fenfyre · 3 years

Text

Belonging - Part VI

Part I Part V

"Oh wow, their feathers are so soft...", Eren murmured as he finally dared to pick up one of the five small chickens that had moved into the chicken coop in the backyard barely a week ago. "I really thought they'd be more ... murderous..."

"The feathers?", Marco asked with a grin, refilling the grain container they used to feed their new guests. Soon he had to scoot backwards as the first beaks came pecking.

Two of the chickens, Bertha and Ethel, were particularly insitent when it came to feeding times. Lucky for Eren the one he was holding, Martha, was way more patient. She remained in his arms, clucking quietly as she watched her friends compete for the freshest corn. Of course the tables would turn rather quickly should Jean decide to throw in the leftover lettuce. But he was not that heartless. Not when Eren was starting to actually bond here.

"Very funny. But I was right. Look at those two go!"

"They're hungry", Marco snickered, handing the empty box he had used to refill the grain reservoir over to Jean who stuffed it back into the grain barrel. At the moment they still kept the chicken feed in a barrel next to the outside pen of the coop. In the long run Eren had already planned on some sort of lockable shed for the feed as well, unless they planned to draw in mice and other animals who would like to enjoy the goods. For now though it was practical having it this close. He pressed on the lid as tightly as he could and stepped into the pen, looking around with proud satisfaction. It was more than big enough for the five hens they had gotten barely a week ago from a farmer who was friends with one of his mother's neighbours. As many people as Jean knew her contacts were still more widely spread and often times quite useful.

"My girl Martha is, too. But she has manners", Eren pouted, carefully thumbing her feathery little head. She allowed it even though Jean was not quite sure weather it was out of enjoyment or because it had not yet become too bothering.

"You want to feed her?", he asked, reaching into his jacket pocket to pluck out the slightly wilted leaves of lettuce he brought, holding it out for Eren to take. The chicken in Eren's arms immediately came to life and began pecking upwards at the greens.

His mate flinched so hard he almost dropped the chicken at the sudden struggle in his arms. But he managed to hold on with one hand, carefully reaching for the lettuce with the other.

While Eren was distracted feeding the chicken that began to rip the green leaves from between his fingers Marco stepped over and gently pulled Jean aside.

"Thank you", he murmured, low enough so Eren would not hear it over the not so gentle clucking of the chickens around their feet. "For organising ... this..." He gestured over towards the patch of the garden where they had prepared the long table for the barbecue later today. There was still a lot to do, salads to make and a grill to fire up, but the table with the many mismatched chairs collected around it was already a promise of the gathering that was about to take place.

"You really didn't have to, after everything..."

"I had to because of everything."

Confusion passed across Marco's features and Jean smirked before he added his explanation.

"I was the one who made you settle here..."

"You didn't make us..."

"But I never welcomed you the way I should have. You were on your own for so long. You deserve more than a witch and his cottage. You deserve a family to turn to. A community to feel included in. And I have plenty of both to share."

For a moment Marco did no respond. He looked at Jean, then over at the table they still had to finish preparing. When his eyes flicked back at Jean they were suspiciously misty and he swallowed.

Across the pen Eren perked up despite the feathery distraction in his arms and Jean felt a tug of worry that was not his own so he reached out for his mate before he could even say anything. Eren carefully set down the chicken and the greens before following the silent invitation.

"What's going on here?"

"Marco is just really happy about the barbecue, isn't that right?"

Jean had learned a while ago that trying to hide things from his mates, good or bad, was never a solution. Not when they physically felt his lies, even the harmless little white ones. There were times this forced honesty made things harder instead of easier for them. But not so at this moment when Marco turned to grab their mate and pull him into a hard, joyful hug.

His voice was thick with emotion as he nodded and whispered:

"We're home, baby. We're..."

With a sigh of relief Eren snuck his arms around his mate and Jean felt like a decades old weight was lifted from his shoulders as he watched them melt into each other.

"Yeah", Eren whispered back and for some reason the lone syllable made goosebumps prickle up on Jean's arms. "We're done running."

By now Jean had some sort of idea what he meant. What kind of running they had done for so many years of their lives, always having each other but nearly nothing else. And as much as they had always wanted to believe that having each other was enough, and how that had been true for them for the longest time, they were also only just beginning to understand what else there was for them to have. What had been denied to them for so long. Long enough they were just beginning to allow themselves to enjoy it.

Even though the swell of warm, almost stifling emotion spreading through Jean's chest and up into his throat was not really his own he gladly accepted and welcomed the feeling. It was one of those things they so openly, preciously shared with each other and he was grateful for each spark and throb and shiver of love and light he could feel with as well as for them.

When his two mates noticed his answering thrum and pull across their bond they wordlessly reached for him, welcoming him into their embrace. Just like Jean had welcomed them into his home and his life to forge a connection so much deeper than either of them had ever believed to be possible.

"Thank you", Eren whispered, pressing his warm face against Jean's neck while Marco breathed a kiss against his temple.

"Thank you, Jean."

Jean could hear it. But he could also feel it in the way they embraced and kissed him, in the way their bond hummed and sang. Their gratefulness and love. How much this small gesture, this simple get together with their neighbours meant to them. It meant a lot to him as well and he was glad they could appreciate his effort the way he had hoped they would.

They revelled in their shared connection for a few minutes longer, breathing and hugging and sneaking kisses from each other, before slowly, softly unravelling. Marco's eyes were reddened and Eren's cheeks sticky and Jean had to clear his throat at the sight of the soft way both of them looked at him.

"We still have a lot to do", he reminded them and Eren laughed, his fingers easily finding Jean's and intertwining with them.

"I'll help you in the kitchen", he grinned, beginning to tug Jean along towards the gate of the pen. And even though Jean knew that twinkle in his eye and could hear the telling laugh of Marco in his back, even though he had a suspicion they would not get to actually take on any of the tasks they still had in the kitchen for quite a while if he allowed Eren to accompany him now, he still did not protest. They still had all day until their guests would arrive and he was not opposed to his mates showing him their appreciation in other way as well. Not opposed at all.

The End

Commissions | Kofi | AO3 | twitter | pillowfort

#EreJeanMarco #EreJean #JeanMarco #EreMarco #Jean Kirschtein #Marco Bodt #Eren Jäger #snk #witches and werewolves au #TD Sidepiece

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my-writings-and-musings · 3 years

Text

TFA Bulkhead/Bumblebee

Bulkhead, hoping to paint Bumblebee, finds a number of unexpected hurdles in the form of a willing but very fidgety model.

Got a lovely commission that the commissioner was okay with me sharing, so here it is! I had so much fun writing this, and remember, I'm always open if you'd like a fic for yourself.

Working up courage wasn't something one had to do often when they were as big and strong as Bulkhead, but he'd needed every bit he could spare to approach Bumblebee with what he'd feared was a ridiculous request. The fact he could expect his friend to say yes had brought him little comfort, because being rejected just scared him too much. He didn't want to admit how long it had taken him to prepare…

But finally, the day had come, and he approached the little bot as one might an armed explosive.

"Uh… Bumblebee?" he spoke softly, tapping his big servos together to try and call himself down. Bumblebee was relaxing and watching something on TV, and Bulkhead was so nervous he couldn't even tell what. Primus, he was just grateful they were alone, or else this would have been impossible! Bumblebee thankfully noticed him right away, lifting his helm to look at his friend with a smile.

"What's up, Bulk?" he said in greeting, half turning back to the television before doing an actual double take back to the big bot. Concern crossed his features, and he raised a curious brow ridge before he spoke again. "You feeling okay?"

Bulkhead realized just then that his nervousness was probably showing through like a beacon, and he gulped in embarrassment, wanting nothing more than to disappear on the spot. Just his luck that things would already be going poorly… Steeling himself, he took a deep vent and put on the biggest smile he could manage. "Yeah, f-fine!" he gasped out, trying not to tremble. Wishing he'd written down what he wanted to say, he just managed to put some words together and speak, hoping he didn't look as ridiculous as he felt. "I just wanted… wanted to ask you something."

"Yeah?" Bumblebee asked, expression not changing once. Near to collapsing, Bulkhead soldiered on, wondering with every word if he'd made a huge mistake.

"Well you… you know I've been painting a lot lately, and I was wondering…" he gulped again, closing in on the final thing he'd come to ask and hoping he wasn't making a huge mistake in the process. If this worked, it might just be the happiest day of his life…

"I'm kind of tired of painting trees and flowers… could I paint… you?" he asked, not even waiting for a reply before he clarified extensively. "Paint a picture of you, I mean! Like… would you want to model for a painting? That's… what I meant…"

"Oh, model?" Bumblebee repeated, optics lighting up like a supernova as he repeated the word. Bulkhead felt relief like nothing he'd ever experienced wash over him as the question got exactly the answer he hadn't dared to hope for, enough so that he struggled to stay standing as he sighed. Bumblebee hopped upright and stretched, lean little frame already eager to get moving as he stepped beside his much larger friend. "What are we waiting for? Let's go!"

"Yeah, sure!" Bulkhead said with enthusiasm, trying his hardest not to cry a few happy tears at the turn of events. Moving as fast as he could, he followed Bee to his room, where all of his supplies were waiting for them in the unlikely event this worked out. The big bot had done everything in his power to get all the paint and brushes he would need if Bee said yes, so hopefully he did indeed have enough, or at least what he'd require to get started. He'd gotten so many shades of yellow…

When they arrived to his room, he briefly scolded himself for not fixing it up better, not that Bumblebee ever bothered to clean his own room, but he wanted to be a good host.

Pointing to the smushed couch he sometimes liked to relax on, which was also in a good spot for lighting, he tried to ensure he was calm despite his still fluttering nerves. "You can, uh, pose however you like. How about there?"

"Sure, sounds fun!" Bumblebee replied, quite enthusiastic as he hopped on over. Not minding that the furniture was beyond lumpy, he began finding a comfortable way for his frame to lay, moving his tiny self about as Bulkhead got everything ready. Trying not to blush at how happy he was, the big bot grabbed a spare canvas and his favorite cans of paint, along with a few brushes in his size. Someday he'd have to properly thank Sari for introducing him to art, and being kind enough to provide tools in his size as well. When his easel was in place, he looked up to see Numb laying himself over the couch and grinning in his usual goofy way. "Paint me like one of your French bots, Bulkhead…"

Even if he hadn't been so distracted by what he was feeling, the big bot would have had no ability to make sense of what he'd just heard. All he could manage was a one word reply of total bafflement. "...What?"

"It's a… a human quote. I don't get it either." Bumblebee mumbled in reply, likely referencing some movie he and Sari had watched together at some point. Not wanting his friend to feel awkward, Bulkhead happily helped the conversation continue, smiling as he grabbed a brush.

"Oh, well um… how about we start small? Just sketches and stuff, you know?" he offered, trying to think of the best way to proceed. It was hard to plan much of anything when he was this happy, especially because he didn't want Bee to know how he felt, in more ways than one. He had to keep going as if this was just a casual thing, and not something that really meant the world to him.

"Works for me, just don't forget to get my good side… which is all of me." Bee said proudly, striking a pose and grinning as he did so. It was a perfectly in character position, so Bulkhead got to work right away, carefully articulating his large digits to control the brush. While small mistakes were just part of the process for painting, he didn't want to make one here. This piece was going to be perfect, so every stroke had to be the same, and thus his digits had an almost vice-like grip. It didn't escape his attention how few bots got to pursue their greatest wish like he was doing now. Keeping his smile to himself, he cast his optics to Bumblebee and back to the canvas, wanting to have the perfect grasp of scale before he began. Having a friend with such particular proportions wasn't going to make this any easier.

Sticking with the core of his muse, he made a few careful strokes to get the basic gist of his friend's pose, hoping to capture both his sense of excitability and his current relaxed mood. It would be hard, but he was more than up for the challenge. This would be worth every last second of work...

"Actually, hang on, my arm looks better like this."

Bumblebee surprised him with the words and the sudden movement he made to match, his arm swinging about to rest almost opposite to its original pose. As he hadn't yet started drawing that particular spot, Bulkhead let it go, having expected a little bit of restlessness. It was also only fair that Bee liked the final result and was comfortable with the process. Getting back to work, the big bot wondered if his friend's face might be a good place to start. His horns certainly added an additional detail for him to take into consideration… Perhaps he'd ask if Bee wanted his face to be more in profile or at an angle. All he wanted was to capture the essence of the bot he was so close to.

Bumblebee coughed, optics looking about bashfully as he blushed and shifted on the couch to move his other arm. It wasn't a big move, but the small bit clearly realized it was inconvenient, and looked guilty for the move. "Need to change this too, it's not working. This look better?"

"Oh uh… yeah!" Bulkhead replied quickly, uncertain how he should respond beyond acceptance as the last thing he wanted was for this to be uncomfortable for either of them. Some small changes would need to be made to what was already on the canvas, but that was hardly a bother. Getting more paint on his brush, he tried to work a little faster as he got the bottom layer established. Not that he didn't trust Bee to keep his word, but the little bot often fidgeted without even meaning to. Sticking out his glossa in concentration, Bulkhead worked fast, using up a fair amount of paint as he got what he presumed to be the core of the piece. Next would come the much tricker details…

Or at least they would have, if he hadn't glanced up to see Bumblebee in a completely different pose and half asleep...

"Bumblebee?" he said on reflex, coughing to try and gain his friend's attention. Startling awake, the little bot looked around in surprise, seeming to have forgotten exactly where he was and what was going on. When recognition dawned on his features, embarrassment wasn't far behind. A light blush lit up his cheeks as he shrunk down on the couch.

"Scrap, sorry, wasn't thinking." he apologized, trying to remember how he had originally been posed and failing to do so. Bulkhead felt a bit of frustration stirring, but he kept it well under wraps. Just because this wasn't going according to plan, didn't mean he was going to give up.

"That's okay! Just… need a new canvas." he said, keeping his smile even if he was a little more flustered. With a little bit of white paint he could salvage the canvas and use it later for something else, plus it wasn't like Sari didn't provide him with plenty of supplies. Getting set up all over again, he looked back to Bumblebee, who was once again settled in what appeared to be his position of choice. Hoping to begin in earnest, he was careful as could be when he broached the question on his mind. "Is that the pose you want?"

"Definitely!" Bumblebee said enthusiastically, giving him hope that he'd be able to paint for real this time. Not wasting even a moment, he painted as fast as he could, glancing back and forth between the painting and his subject to make the process as smooth as possible. It was an effective strategy, as it allowed him to get the outline twice as fast. This time he wanted to fully capture his friend in the picture as he'd been trying from the start. Some part of him just knew it would be worth it, and that they'd both be thankful he put in all this effort.

Or, at least, he thought he knew...

"Actually, sorry about this, but…" Bumblebee was bashful but not especially hesitant as he moved to lay on his side, stretching as he moved into an entirely different position. The poor artist felt his spark drop at the loss of progress all over again, even as his friend tried to cheer them both up by looking as chipper as possible. "That was so much more uncomfortable than I was expecting. Go on!"

Bulkhead didn't say a word as he grabbed another canvas, and did his very best not to look as discouraged as he felt. It didn't seem like this was going to stop any time soon, as much as he wished it would, and that didn't bode well for his wish to get this done. Perhaps he'd been far too hopeful…

Still, he did everything in his power to stay positive and make the painting he'd dreamed of become a reality.

Painting faster than he ever had in his entire life, the big bot ignored the imperfections that came from moving so rapidly, setting his jaw tight as little flecks of paint spattered across the canvas. At this point, such little things hardly seemed to mind. What really mattered was getting this done. A familiar form began to take recognizable shape on the canvas, and the artist started to plan ahead for his next move from then on. Shading would come after these little details, which he'd be able to put together thanks to having a lot of his friend's appearance memorized. Hope blossomed in his spark as he finally saw Bumblebee in the picture he was painting.

Getting so close to what he wanted made seeing a repeat of what had happened before hurt more than it should have.

Catching himself, Bumblebee blushed and shrunk down on the spot, smiling bashfully in apology for his unintentional movement. It really wasn't something he was doing on purpose; he wanted to see his friend happy! Sitting still just didn't work for him. Seeing Bulkhead look hurt, however, made him feel especially bad for the mistake.

"I don't think this is a good idea." Bulkhead said with a sigh, putting yet another canvas to the side and looking quite deflated as he did so. There wasn't anything he could think to do that might change this, and he was ready to just throw in the towel. Perhaps this was just the one thing he wasn't meant to paint.

"Aw come on, why not?" Bumblebee pressed, aware of the answer but hoping there was something he could do to fix it. Staying still just wasn't in his programming, but perhaps… he could get some tape? That wasn't realistic, but he wanted to try something to make up for this. Bulkhead only sighed again.

"You won't stay still?" he said simply, frustrated but not antagonistic in his summation. It was something neither of them could change, and that left both more than a little helpless.

"I…" Bumblebee stuttered off, tapping his digits together as he saw his friend get even more sad. Unable to help getting a little defensive, he got up from the couch, throwing up his arms as the big bot cleaned up some of the mess. "Come on, Bulk! You know me! Staying still isn't my thing, and I can't force that!"

"Well yeah, but… couldn't you just stay mostly still?" Bulkhead asked, still not ready to just give up all at once. Even if he had no idea how to fix things or make it work, he wanted this painting too much to just give up, no matter how many canvases it took. All he needed was a little bit more time than he had been getting. His determination must have shown, because Bumblebee furrowed his brow ridges in consideration.

"I… I can try! I…" he faded off as the pressure weighed on him, and thankfully his friend caught that quickly. To be clear; he wanted this a lot, but he could never want anything badly enough to make Bumblebee uncomfortable. Perhaps it was best they rested a bit, to restore their patience and approach this with clearer heads. He certainly needed a minute to relax from all this frustration...

"How about a break? We've been trying for a while, maybe a bit of down time will help." he proposed, already feeling a little better at the prospect of cooling down. Bumblebee shared the sentiment straight away, visibly relaxing on the spot and letting out a tiny sigh of his own.

"Great idea Bulk! Let me just grab something…" he said happily, darting off and leaving the big bot alone with his supplies. Deciding to clean a bit to ease his mind, Bulkhead sorted the discarded canvases, hoping that he could paint over the unusable pictures with some white and reuse them. Seeing how much and how little progress he'd made at the same time made him wonder how he might improve on their next attempt. Nothing was coming to mind just yet, but that didn't mean he had lost hope. There had to be something on this planet that would motivate Bee to stay still, and by Primus he would find it!

As he was wiping up some paint that had managed to drip onto the floor, Bumblebee quite literally skidded back into the room, coming to a dead stop after running at full tilt.

"I'm back! Just wanted to grab my game!" the little bot declared happily, waving the device about as he went to sit back on the smushed couch. The game had been a gift from Sari as well; some kind of earth console that had been sized up a few times over to better fit the servos of a Cybertronian. Smiling in acknowledgement, the big bot nodded as he went back to cleaning. Digital music met his audials as his friend started up the system and began to play, reclining on the couch as he settled in for a much needed break. Bulkhead had only had middling success with the games popular on earth, owed in large part to his size, but he was at least happy his friend could have some much needed fun with them.

When the floor was finally cleaned up, he took stock of his slightly diminished inventory. There was still plenty of paint, and more than a few canvases, but if they continued at their current pace… He'd have to figure out a strategy before they tried this again, because otherwise this just wasn't going to work. Looking up at Bumblebee, he briefly considered proposing that they try this another day before his thoughts were systematically interrupted.

Laying on his back over the pile of stuffing that had once been a couch, the small mech was entirely engrossed in his digital world, optics focused only on the screen as his digits rapidly tapped away on the controls. Other than the occasional shift of his expression, he was entirely motionless. It took Bulkhead a moment to process what he was seeing. Bumblebee was so rarely still, and never for this length of time… He didn't need to think much before he was reacting the only way he could.

Moving as silently as a mech of his size was able to, he grabbed what he needed, gathering his paints around himself as he got a fresh canvas and sat down before his easel. He couldn't have asked for a better setup; the pose, the lighting, it was all perfect. It was almost too much to hope this was real. Considering how many false starts he'd had, most could probably understand why he felt that way.

Daring to take his time, the big bot made every brush stroke count, trying to think of all the reasons he liked Bee so much as he made each one. His friend was confident, energetic, brave… All those thoughts motivated him every second he worked, and the results were soon apparent. The form of Bumblebee began to take shape rather quickly, coming together far more smoothly thanks to how relaxed he was. A base layer was ready to go in what felt like only a few minutes.

Oblivious to everything, Bumblebee kept right on playing, occasionally sticking his glossa out as he did so. Bulkhead contemplated including that detail in the piece, but ultimately decided against it. This was going to be a somewhat more dignified painting than that.

When the time came to add lighting, he was almost over the moon, but he kept all the excitement to himself. Colors mixed together beautifully on his palette, forming the light and dark shades to the vibrant yellows and deep blacks that made up his friend's paint job. It was far more satisfying than painting even the most beautiful landscape he'd ever seen. Perhaps he was just a little biased on that front, but he did believe that painting things you truly cared about just brought them to life. One only had to glance at this piece to understand how much this bot meant to him.

It almost seemed like he was dreaming when each and every glance revealed Bumblebee to be sitting perfectly still, without a hint of movement beyond the minor. If this did turn out to be a dream, he'd at least be happy it was going so well. Fate had truly designed the perfect setup for them to finally get this done without any stress for either individual.

Everything came together with what felt like only a few of the most well done strokes he'd ever painted. At long last, the bot he'd wanted to paint so badly had been captured on canvas! It was so exciting he couldn't hold back an exclamation as he set his brush down theatrically.

"Done!"

"Huh?!" Bumblebee gasped, half jumping on the spot as his game nearly flew from his servos. Looking about in a daze, he put the pieces together when he saw his friend, at which point guilt crossed his features. Time had slipped away from him even more so than it had for the very busy Bulkhead. "What? I… oh, Bulk! I didn't mean to get distracted! You could have stopped me earlier, I wouldn't have minded."

Waving off the appreciated but unnecessary apology, the big bot only smiled and wiped some paint from his servos, rising from his chair to puff his chest out with pride. "That's okay, I'm already finished."

"How?" the little bot gasped in awe, checking his internal chronometer to see just how long he'd been wrapped up in his game. It had only felt like a few minutes, but this wouldn't be the first time he'd gotten lost in a video game.

"Well, you were pretty content playing your game, so…" Bulkhead allowed his friend to put the rest of the pieces together, and in no time understanding dawned on the little mech.

"Oh, I gotcha!" Bumblebee replied happily, quite relieved to have not held them up. If playing video games was what it had taken to make his friend happy, then he was quite fine with that. All he wanted was to get a look at the results, which he was certain would be incredible. "Here, let me see!"

Feeling a bit of shyness amongst his pride, Bulkhead handed over the canvas, careful to avoid the still drying paint.

"This is amazing!" Bumblebee proclaimed without hesitation, trying to be delicate even as he felt a surge of excitement upon beholding the painting. Of course he knew his friend had talent, but this was incredible! "Look at me, I look even better than usual!"

Bulkhead looked down to the floor and shuffled his pedes, doing his best to hide the blush creeping along his cheeks. "Well, I had a pretty great model."

"That's gonna sell fast, Bulkhead. No doubt about it." Bumblebee praised as he gave the painting back, confident in what he was saying. It didn't hurt that he was a good looking bot, but his friend had really done an especially good job on this one, and he was sure it would be bought up in no time. Taking the piece, the big bot smiled softly as he beheld it again. It had taken a lot of courage for him to get this, and he was quite proud of himself for that. As such, he held the painting very near and dear to his spark.

"Maybe, but… I think I'm gonna keep it, actually." he said softly, wanting to see it every day. There was a perfect place for it where he could do just that, not that he would say where that was. Bumblebee didn't mind the decision in the slightest.

However, when the little bot ducked in his friend's room later to pick up a borrowed item, he learned the true value of the painting to Bulkhead. On a wall reserved for only his most precious of works, the portrait sat high in a position of honor. Usually unable to say everything that came to mind due to overwhelming volume, Bee had been rendered speechless by the sight. Only a soft smile revealed how touched he was by the gesture.

#transformers animated #tfa #bumblebee #bulkhead #commission #my writing #my commissions #fluff

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typically-untypical · 2 years

Text

Cursed

Story Plot: Roman lost his connection with his soulmates 8 years ago because of a mistake he made. Now that he is being freed from his isolation, hopefully he can fix his mistake and become worthy of his soulmates.

Ao3 Link

Chapter 9 - Falter but not Fall

Nothing was okay.

Roman had spent the last hour staring at the books next to his bed, the journals he was supposed to be trying to translate, the tomes that might house some kind of answer for Janus’ curse. It had only been a day and Roman was already struggling to keep his focus on what mattered. Fixing his mistake was crucial, but he would be lying if he said that hoping it would connect him with his soulmates wasn’t a part of why he was doing this.

“My Storm, My Starlight, why weren’t you there?” He asked the air. “Is this a continuation of my punishment? Have I lost you forever, or is this just another stop on our journey?”

There was no answer to his question, which he expected, but he was filled with a sudden determination. He had done nothing but attempt to fix his blunder, to correct the issue he had caused. It made no sense that he would be punished for heading in the right direction. Instead, it was possible that getting to meet Breeze was its own reward, a small one, but an important one nonetheless.

“This is not the time to mope Roman, you are headed in the right direction, you just need to keep moving forward.”

He smacked himself in the face before picking up one of the journals and starting to read through it. Having gotten a full night’s rest, it was actually a lot easier to break the code and he felt a bit silly that he hadn’t noticed it in the first place.

“It’s a reflected cipher, duh.” He grabbed a mirror out of his bag and began working out the code, though he only needed to get through the first page to know this wasn’t the journal he needed to be researching. First of all, the woman who had written this had put her name, Shannon Crescera, and secondly, the table of contents was meticulously kept, including a list of commissioned spells. Roman didn’t make it to the end before putting the book to the side. He didn’t know much about magic, but he knew a good person when he saw one, even with such little information.

“Okay, good start Roman,” He told himself. He wasn’t sure if he believed it, but he needed to do something to keep himself on track, to keep himself moving forward against the frustration and pain. Maybe Remus had been right, though he would never admit that out loud, maybe he just needed to find his soulmates, figure out a way to track them down. If he did that, his dreams wouldn’t have as much of a pull on him.

The second code that he broke wasn’t helpful either, in fact, he wasn’t even sure it was a spellbook because even after breaking the code, everything it talked about was related to cooking. He might have looked for a deeper meaning but he could tell by some of the words that were used, that the book was old and not written by a mage who had been sentenced to death eight years ago.

By the time he got through the third book, his stomach was rumbling in protest and his eyes were swimming from his intense focus. This book had again been a dead end, not that he was surprised, but it did chip the hope that had been building in him just a bit. He was trying but things simply weren’t panning out.

“It’s okay,” He reminded himself. “You knew this wasn’t going to be easy. You waited for so long for this chance, don’t ruin it by being impatient.”

He gathered the three books into his arms and headed out of his room, down into the main dining area of the inn. Roman wasn’t planning on stopping but he heard the soft tones of Patton’s voice and like a siren’s call, he couldn’t resist.

“Ro! You’re awake. I hope you slept well? I was kinda expecting you to be up earlier since you got here so early yesterday, but you did have a busy day so I’m not surprised that you needed the extra shut-eye.”

“Actually, I was upstairs studying these books. None of them are what I need and that is extremely disappointing.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Well, how about I get you something to eat, and then you can go back to the library and see if they have anything else that might help.

“I don’t know, I am rather busy.” He didn’t really want to stop and eat, he wanted to keep pushing himself, to find a way to be Janus’ hero so that he could finally build a relationship with his brother-in-law.

“You aren’t thinking of skipping lunch, are you? I don’t remember you putting in a breakfast order to your room either.” The stern look on Patton’s face was enough for Roman to know he wasn’t getting out of this. He had apparently made a grave mistake by not taking care of himself properly.

“I guess not.”

“Good, the food here is Soup-erb! Always the best thing if you don’t have a lot of thyme.”

“Y’know, one of my soulmates likes puns as well,” Roman told Patton who stopped walking away.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I think they mate-r a lot to him?”

Patton laughed, even though Roman knew it wasn’t really funny. Still, the man smiled that bright smile at him, the soft dimples sinking into his face and Roman suddenly felt a lot better, because he was able to do something good for someone else, even if it was small.

[First] - [Previous] - [Next]

#Untypical Creations #Sanders Sides #Sanders Side fic #Fanfic #Roman Sanders #Janus Sanders #Remus Sanders #Patton Sanders #Logan Sanders #Virgil Sanders #Story: Cursed #Kingdom AU #Roman Angst #Virgil Angst #Hurt/Comfort #Bad parenting #LAMP #Dukeceit #sandersxchange21

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itsamejin · 4 years

Text

goodbye || part 2 (finale) || yoongi angst/fluff

Part 1

Summary: Yoongi watched silently as you exited the car and out of his life, but he can’t help but feel a sense of panic at the thought of you leaving him for good.

Warning: cursing, fighting (verbal), pining

Genre: angst

Premise: Yoongi drives off without you after a heated argument and now you’re gone.

Commission Request: @queenoftheuniverseandmyroom

Word Count: 5,354 words

—

Yoongi paces back and forth as he calls the police to file a missing persons report. Yoongi was on the street he last saw you in and he had scoured through the neighborhood to figure out where you were- even knocking down on a few doors.

He didn’t want to escalate the situation and post about you going missing on social media- that would be too risky. It would hurt his career and possibly put your life in more danger with crazy fans and flashing cameras looming the streets to get a glimpse of you. Lord knows that’s the last thing either of you need at the moment.

“Yeah I was in my car and she left after we got into an argument,” he repeats for what felt like the eleventh time. The dispatch caller kept asking him the same questions. “She was wearing a red dress and I think black heels. Oh, and she had a pearl necklace!”

The dispatcher took note of his descriptions and assured him that patrolling police officers in the area would let him know where you were. After he hung up the phone, his shaky hands brushed his hair back out of exasperation.

It was already two o’clock in the morning by now and everything in his body screamed to be in bed, but he knew he couldn’t bring himself to rest without finding you.

Yoongi had driven from the street he last saw you on and to your shared apartment, hoping that you’d somehow shown up between those short intervals of time. His palms were damp from the sweat and he sat on the hood of his car to gain composure. It just felt like the whole world was against him at that moment.

He couldn’t do much by himself, especially being an idol, and it felt like he had no control over the situation. Yoongi risked calling the cops, aware that they’d know of his identity eventually- that he was Suga from BTS.

Yoongi doesn’t know if he could handle the consequences that came with revealing he was in a relationship and what his company would do if the whole world found out that Yoongi let his girlfriend walk out on him in the middle of the night.

That wasn’t what concerned Yoongi the most, though. All he wanted to do was find you and take you home- maybe even give a proper apology. He never expected to file a missing persons report on the one person he thought would stay constant in his life. He felt his heart rate increase at the thought of you being hurt and that made him grip the hood of the car harder.

Red dress. Pearl necklace. Recently heartbroken.

A perfect description.

—

Walking barefoot on concrete, you held your black pumps in one hand and cringed at the crunching sounds underneath your toes. You were still walking. Towards what? You don’t really know.

You were sure, though, that you were closer to a downtown area when the city lights became more luminescent as you walked. The clouds in the sky were graying and a storm was ready to start. If you didn’t find shelter soon then you’d risk getting caught up in rain at a dangerous time of night.

Truthfully, you were frightened. Walking alone at night in an unfamiliar part of town would always incite some sort of paranoia, especially as a girl, but the idea of Yoongi finding you more than anything else is what frightened you the most. You knew he’d be angry with you for storming off and you weren’t ready to face him quite yet.

You winced as you felt a sharp pebble dig into your big toe and you could only walk it off to make the pain go away just a little. A hotel room seemed like the best option at that point, but you left your wallet back in the car. You sighed to yourself. This really was the worst way to make a dramatic exit from a relationship. Yoongi was probably having the time of his life back at the apartment and here you were, picking off tiny rocks from your feet.

Suddenly, you came to a halt.

Crescent Motel: You Pay After Your Stay!

A motel that would let you pay the next day. It was dingy and the beds were most likely infested with bedbugs, but it would have to do for the night. You’ll get yourself out of this rotten dress at the very least. Plus, you could just ask the front desk to call a friend in the morning.

You walk into the lobby, a cozy sort of room with a television on one side of the wall. You wondered if it even really worked.

“Can I get your name?” the receptionist asks. He was a grimy old man that smelled too much of alcohol and smoke. He kind of reminded you of Yoongi in that he never looked at you directly. His eyes were always somewhere else.

“Do you really need my name?” you ask condescendingly. The least the guy could do was make eye-contact. You’ve had a rough day as it is.

He still refuses to look up and slides the room key onto your side of the desk.

“Don’t tell me if you want to,” he grumbles. “I just need something to put down in the records.”

You scoff, taking the keys off the table, and hiking up your dress slightly to walk past him. You pause for a bit and turn back around.

“Put down Yoongi,” you say, a certain conviction in your voice. “And if a guy who looks like a celebrity comes, don’t tell him that I’m here. Got it?”

He gives you a slight glance before he goes back to filing paperwork and chewing his own spit or whatever was in that old mouth of his.

“Is that even your name?” he asks nonchalantly, quickly penning it onto his records before closing the folder. You shake your head.

“It’s my ex-boyfriend’s,” you say, slightly cringing at the sound of it. Ex.

“Thought so,” the man muttered and you can’t help but laugh. Like Yoongi indeed.

The room key had B28 etched very finely on it and so you ventured on to find the room you’d be staying in for the night. Despite your assumptions, it was actually quite a nice room- dated at most. There was a single bed with light bedding, enough to get you through the night. You shed yourself of the red dress and put on the robe provided by the motel.

Lightning struck outside and you could hear the first drops of rainfall. You sit on the bed with shaky hands, slightly startled at the sound. Almost suddenly, you feel a sense of sadness overcome you.

Yoongi was probably at home, sleeping without much thought, while you had to struggle through an hour of walking to find a place to stay. It made your blood boil, knowing that he was probably fine without you in his life.

If you were a little smarter in your decision-making than maybe Yoongi would have dropped you off somewhere closer to home or maybe you would have gotten enough time to gather your belongings from the apartment. Now you were just in an unfamiliar room, wearing an unfamiliar robe, staring at an unfamiliar wall.

—

Yoongi sits inside as the rain pours heavily on his car windows. The cops are searching through the streets and yet not a sign of you has appeared. Big Hit was informed and now the whole Gangnam Police Force was forced to keep everything under wraps to keep his situation as discreet as possible. This meant, though, that there would be no large-scale search parties and less of a chance to find you.

As the rain poured outside, Yoongi grows restless in his car. There was too much on his mind and yet not enough of his thoughts were fleshed out enough to even act on them. He needed to clear his thoughts.

Yoongi opens the door and walks out of the car, allowing the droplets of water to hit him. It served as a good distraction for the ache in his chest and pretty soon, his hair was practically soaked. He feels a tap on his shoulder.

It’s a police officer.

“Someone reported seeing a woman who matches Ms. [Y/N] at the downtown area,” he informs. “We have reason to believe that she might have taken shelter in a nearby building.”

Yoongi nods, still quite out of it. What would he even do if he actually sees you? What could he possibly say?

‘Hey, I admit I fucked up, can we go back to normal again?’ didn’t quite cut it and he knew you wanted more from him than just a simple apology. You wanted a change in the relationship, an indication that you were more than just a secret to him. He just doesn’t know where to start without completely ruining his future.

“We’ll search around that strip. For now, you should go back home,” the cop suggests. Yoongi shakes his head.

“I’ll do my own search,” he says lowly. Yoongi turns back to his car and sits in the driver’s seat, wincing at the feeling of his wet clothes on the leather seats. He takes a look at the handbag on the passenger seat and feels a lump form at his throat. You couldn’t have gone far... right?

He drove in the dead of night, water splashing across the windows of his car. It was hard to drive with such a big migraine, but the thought of you being out there stranded left him restless.

It’s not like he’ll be able to sleep without you by his side anyway.

—

You laid on the bed, listening to the droplets of water hit the roof of the motel. It was soothing in a way, to know that the world was crying just as much as you were. It felt useless to try and close your eyes and ignore the aching in your heart and so it only made sense to wallow in your own sadness.

You search for your phone, but remember that it’s not with you. You sigh to yourself, using your elbow to cover your eyes but to no avail. Just sleep and forget his existence. Sounds easier said than done, doesn’t it?

You adjust yourself on the bed and try to imagine Yoongi sleeping next to you. It’s a common practice of yours. Even when you were angry, even when you hated his guts, you could not sleep peacefully without Yoongi by your side.

He was a constant presence and when he’d be gone for tours and business trips, you were left fatigued and worn out because of your lack of sleep. It wasn’t healthy, for sure, but that’s what happens when you get into relationships. You grow dependent.

You imagine the Yoongi in front of you humming a lullaby. You imagine that he’s stroking your hair wistfully and whispering that everything will be okay. You imagine that this Yoongi would never dream of hurting you, never dream to even try.

For a second, it worked, but you were left with a deeper feeling of emptiness. That Yoongi didn’t seem to exist.

—

Yoongi finds a place, a little worn down but suitable enough to assume that you’d probably settle for it. Plus, it was the only nearby motel that would let you pay after staying- he had your handbag and phone with him after all. He walks in, soaked and worry etched all over his face. It was a strange sight indeed. A guy with dyed hair, soaked and carrying a woman’s handbag- not exactly the most ideal sight for a motel manager.

The man at the counter gives him a glare, not even bothering to hide his disdainful expression.

“Listen, kid, if you’re gonna rent a room-”

“I’m here to look for someone,” Yoongi cuts him off, a certain urgency in his voice that catches the elder man off-guard. ‘A guy who certainly looked like a celebrity,’ he thought to himself.

“Her name’s [Y/N],” Yoongi continues, “and she was wearing a red dress and had black heels on. She was probably distressed or seemed angry. Have you seen her?”

The old man just sighs, looking Yoongi dead straight in the eye.

“No,” he replies, too stern for the younger boy to truly believe.

Yoongi clenches his teeth. This run down, poor excuse of a motel was his only shot at finding you. Now, it felt like there were no other options but to wait. And he hated waiting.

Yoongi’s eyelids were growing heavy and he felt about ready to collapse from the coldness of his wet skin. This is not how he wanted to end the day off, with mild hypothermia and a broken heart.

“Then can I stay here,” Yoongi pleads, taking another step forward much to the old man’s dismay. “Just for tonight.”

He grunts in response.

“I’ll pay extra. It’s just...”

He trails off, not quite knowing how much he should reveal to a total stranger. There was still a possibility this guy would know he is, but judging from the lack of interest, Yoongi assumed it was safe to just confide in someone. Anyone.

“My girlfriend walked out on me and I need to stay in this area just in case the police find her around here,” he says in a single breath. “Then why this place?” the old man sighs. “There’s plenty of high-end hotels on this street you could stay at.”

He takes a look once more at Yoongi’s feet.

“And you’re ruining the carpet,” he grumbled.

Yoongi bites his lip, now in front of the secretarial desk. This man was pissing him off. Yoongi digs into the pocket of his jeans and takes out his wallet. He smacks a wad of cash onto it, staring at the man dead in the eye.

“Is this enough?” he asks through gritted teeth. The man scoffs and pushes the money away.

Your girlfriend isn’t here, kid. Now get lost before I call the cops on you.”

Yoongi pulls out more, his eyes now getting teary-eyed. The man stares at Yoongi’s shaking fingers. He was quite persistent, wasn't he?

“I just need a place to fucking stay,” Yoongi repeats with more of a timber in his voice. The old man stares at Yoongi directly, the first time he's met eyes with another person in a while.

“You’re the type to think money fixes everything- aren’t you?”

The man glares at him. Yoongi’s mouth opens slightly. You had said those words to him just earlier in the night. He pulls his hand back but leaves the money on the counter.

“N-no,” he says through bated breaths. “I’m not usually like this, I’m so sorry.”

Yoongi ruffles his hair and wipes a stray tear out of his eye.

“I’m just really desperate to find her,” he continues. “I’ve just been acting like a fucking dumbass for the past few hours.”

The old man sucked in a deep breath before exhaling loudly. ‘This was a pitiful sight indeed,’ he thought to himself.

“What’s your name, kid?”

Yoongi wanted to introduce himself as Suga by instinct, but he knew it probably would not have occurred to the old man who you were.

“Yoongi,” he says slowly. “Min Yoongi.”

The old man looks at his list and sure enough, the name you had given him was right there. Your ex. It wasn’t any of his business to help fix a broken couple, but it was in his best interest to get this weeping boy out of his lobby. He takes a pair of keys from under the table.

“I’m not letting you stay because all the rooms are booked,” he states throwing the keys to Yoongi who was caught off-guard. “I’ll let you take this one, but you better not bring the feds here. I’m not ready for this place to shut down again.”

Yoongi nods, slightly confused about why he would hold back giving him a room in the first place. He muttered a small thanks before bowing to the older male.

“Now get out of the lobby,” he scolded, glaring at the wet footprints Yoongi left behind.

He took a look at the keys to see the room number. B28.

—

You were ready to drift off into sleep but it seems the world has a way of wanting you to fear for your life.

You heard a jingling noise at your door, the doorknob turning as if a key was inserted. You held your breath, afraid for your life. You stood up quietly, grabbing the rather large lampshade next to your bed. ‘This motel was shady for a reason,’ you thought to yourself.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you repeat under your breath. You got ready into a tackling stance, the lampshade in hand. You took enough self-defense classes to know what you’re doing. When it swung open, the door almost hit you on the face. That didn't deter you though and so you charged at the stranger with all your might.

“Woah,” Yoongi shouts as he just missed your swing, pivoting to the side as you stumbled past him. You recognized that voice in an instant and you locked eyes with Yoongi who was noticeably soaked and carrying your handbag. It was embarrassing, how badly you missed, and he would’ve laughed if it weren’t for the context of the situation.

You stood up straight and give him a glare. Somehow, it made you angrier seeing his face, but you couldn’t quite express that anger when Yoongi brought you into his arms almost immediately. The lampshade and bag fell onto the rug with a thud and you were engulfed by his body.

“[Y/N],” he sighed into your hair, the anxiety of losing you now gone from his mind. He pulls away, examining your body.

“What are you doing here?” Yoongi says, panic laced in his voice. “I was so fucking worried something happened. You left your stuff in the car and I brought them with me just in case and-”

You push him away, annoyed with the wet droplets that now stained your robe.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you yelled. “How the hell did you get in here?”

“The old man let me in,” Yoongi swallowed. “I guess he knew that I needed to see you.” You roll your eyes. You knew that old fart couldn’t be trusted.

“Well get out,” you say frankly. “I don’t want to see you.”

Yoongi shakes his head.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m taking you back home.”

You take a step back from him.

“Yoongi,” you say, scarily slow. “Give me my bag and leave. I’m not going to say it again.”

You try to reach for the bag that was on the floor next to him, but he pulled it away.

“I thought I fucking lost you, you know that?” his voice was shaking. “I thought you’d be gone and I couldn’t do anything about it.”

Yoongi looked at you with pleading eyes and it almost made you want to comfort him. Almost.

“Well you did,” you reply sternly.

Yoongi pursed his lips.

“I’m tired [Y/N],” he admits sadly, dropping the wet bag onto the bed. “I don’t know what else to do besides apologize.”

You grit your teeth.

“Leave.”

Yoongi shakes his head and you cringe as he sits down, the bed getting wet because of him. It would’ve made you even more pissed if it weren’t for the tears spilling from your eyes.

“I thought I fucking lost you,” he sighs into his hands. You could hear a shakiness in his voice that wasn’t there before. Yoongi was always quieter in how he expressed his feelings. He isn’t the type to just cry outright.

“I thought I wouldn’t be able to apologize in the morning,” he tried to say, but you could tell he was a bit choked up, “that I fucked everything up and you’d still be missing or you’d wound up dead or something.” He grounds his face into his palms and it genuinely made you feel sorry for him. You did kind of leave without a trace.

“And its fucking raining,” he says a little more calmly, looking up at you with red eyes. “You hate when you get stuck in the rain.”

It broke your heart, the way he chuckled sadly at his own statement. For the first time ever, it felt like he was the broken one and not you.

“Yoongi,” you whisper, setting aside his wet bangs. You were calmer now. “Go home.”

He shakes his head and leans into your touch.

“I can’t sleep without you by my side,” he whispers and you swear you could hear your heart crack. You weren’t the only one to feel that way too...

You didn’t have the heart to forgive him, but you couldn’t let him go back out in the pouring rain.

“You can stay here,” you say. “I’ll find another room.”

He grabs your wrists and intertwines his hands into yours.

“Please,” he pleads. “Just stay with me. I’ll leave before you wake up.”

You wanted so desperately to say no, but it was clear now that Yoongi was just as hurt as you were. It was in the way he held your hands as if he couldn’t bear to let you go. His fingers were shaky and you could do nothing but comply.

You nod despite it all and detach yourself from him to close the door. You walk over to the closet and take out a spare robe. You hand it to him without a second glance, moving to the other side of the bed.

“Tell the police to stop searching,” you say as you lay underneath the sheets that weren’t dampened by Yoongi. “You found me.”

The words, strangely, were enough to comfort him. He called the head officer and with much difficulty, got everything to be cleared out. He’d have to suffer the consequences tomorrow, but for now, he just wanted to search for comfort in your presence.

Pretty soon he laid next to you in his new robe. You turn to face away from him, afraid of making eye-contact. You were always too forgiving when you looked him in the eyes. Yoongi didn’t make any movement to get closer, he just watched your slowing breaths and wondered to himself.

“You are good enough,” he says into the night. It came out of nowhere and it makes your heart stop momentarily.

“Earlier when you said you didn’t feel good enough to be with me,” he starts off with his voice incredibly low. “You are good enough.”

You take a deep breath to prevent yourself from being too emotional. You turn to face him, about to speak, but he beats you to it.

“I’m not going to apologize again, don’t worry,” he swallows. “I just wanted to let you know that you mean much more to me than I show.”

He closes his eyes for a second before continuing on.

“I’m bad at keeping relationships,” he says honestly, “but I want to stay with you... as long as you would let me.”

You laugh through the sadness of it all. You two were far too tired to have a screaming match with one another and it felt good to just talk rather than yell.

“Yoongi, why did you tell Hoseok you didn’t want to be with me?” you ask, no ill intent in your voice. “I want a genuine answer.”

You could feel him shuffle around in the bed out of discomfort.

“I was mad at you,” he said as nicely as he could put it. “I was frustrated that you kept asking me to reveal our relationship to the public.”

You stay still, worried about what he would say next. It would be the final blow to your already crumbled pride.

“It’s stupid to even admit it and I don’t have any real excuses, but...”

He somehow couldn’t finish his sentence.

“But what?”

He sighs and turns the other way. Now he was the one ignoring confrontation.

“I liked that we were our own little secret you know?” he starts and you feel your blood boil a little at his words, but he continued. “So much of my life is broadcasted to the world and I feel like nothing is really mine anymore. Every single moment is dedicated to my fans and whenever you ask me to let that go, it just feels like I’m losing a part of myself more and more. The part that isn’t an idol.”

You understood what he meant, but at the same time, you felt like it was oddly selfish of him.

“I don’t like being a secret, Yoongi,” you say to him. No anger in your voice, just disappointment. He clenches his fist.

“Yeah, I understand that,” he whispers back. “I’m sorry.”

You reach out a hand towards him and he shivers at your touch. You pull into him, laying your head on his shoulder blade.

“You said you wouldn’t say it anymore,” you mutter into his body.

He shrugs.

“I don’t think I’ve said it enough,” he admits, holding your hand in his. This was how he wanted to end the day off- with you by his side.

“I’m sorry too,” you say and he feels himself crumble at your words. He turns around slowly and engulfs you in his arms.

“Moments like this,” he sighs, nuzzling into your hair. “I want it to be between us.”

“It would still be you and me, no matter what,” you reply.

“I know,” he says solemnly. “But people will try to get between us and I doubt want to hurt you more than I already have.”

You nod along, but you could feel tears start to prick in your eyes.

“I just don’t want to feel like you’re hiding me from everyone,” you admit. “Being with you should be enough, but somehow it isn’t.”

He strokes your head and the two of you don’t speak any longer.

“I’m sorry.”

You find yourself unable to cry at his words. It seems like he had given up and to you, that’s what frightened you the most. You clench onto him as if he’d disappear at any moment. A few minutes ago, that’s all you would have wanted, but now it seemed like you’d die without him by your side. He eases your panic by rubbing your back and you find yourself drifting off to sleep. He stares off into the darkness of the motel room, whispering to no one in particular.

“I’ll do better.”

—

You find yourself alone the next morning, sprawled out on the bed. Your phone and bag were left on the nightstand and the lampshade went back to its proper place. He left you in the room as if he wasn’t there in the first place. You take a look at the closet and see that he laid out clothes for you from home. Tears start to fall. It was over, wasn’t it?

Last night felt like a goodbye, like a last farewell. Maybe you were asking for it in the way you shouted at him the night before, but your heart was still heavy at the thought of him leaving. You didn’t hate him, you could never hate him, but both of you said so many horrible things last night that you wonder if it could ever be taken back.

You get yourself dressed and walk down to the lobby where the wet footprints of last night no longer stained the carpet. You lock eyes with the old man and slide the keys to him. You take out your wallet, prepared to pay until he stops you.

“He covered it already.”

Your jaw drops slightly and you clutch the cash in your fingers.

“You let him into my room,” you accuse. “I told you to tell him I wasn’t here.”

He ignores your watchful gaze, arranging some stuff on his desk that was already quite pristine.

“You got the closure you wanted, didn’t you?” he grumbled.

“That’s not the point. He could’ve been a serial killer for all you know and you-”

“But he wasn’t,” the old man rolled his eyes. “He was your ex that fucking paid twice the amount you pulled out. I promise you, your safety was a passing thought to me.”

You sigh angrily, scrounging through your purse. Your phone was charged, presumably from Yoongi, and so you called a friend to get you out of this dingy motel. You’d report this crusty old man later. Surprisingly she picked up quite quickly.

“Hey-”

“[Y/N]!” she screeched through the other line. “Look at the news! Oh my fucking god, Yoongi just-”

Your hands were shaking, not paying attention to the rest of her words. Nothing bad could have happened from last night, could it? You hung up before she could screech in your ears once again.

You couldn’t type out his name on your phone fast enough from how shaky your hands were until you heard the sound of the lobby television turn on. The old man had the remote in his hand and he gave you a smirk. You turn your attention away from him and toward the screen instead.

“BigHit Entertainment confirms that BTS’s Suga is in a relationship,” the announcer states with a stern voice. “He asks for people not pry on the identity of his non-celebrity girlfriend and any malicious comments or rumors will be legally dealt with by his agency. More updates soon.”

You felt your eyes tear up, happiness swelling on your chest. You couldn’t believe it. You couldn’t believe he actually did it.

“You’re welcome, you know,” the old man said slyly. You ignore his words, slapping a rather large sum of money on the desk before rushing outside. You call him this time, happy tears streaming down your face. Yoongi didn’t even have a chance to say hello before you started talking.

“I love you,” you scream into your phone. You repeat the words so much that you could hear your own echo.

“Babe, I’m getting scolded right now,” he laughed. “I’ll talk to you later okay? No celebrations yet.”

You nod, slightly worried about his statement.

“You’re going to be okay, right?” you ask worriedly. “They’re not planning to kick you out or anything?”

He scoffs.

“And lose one of their best songwriters? Not a chance.”

You shake your head.

“Still cocky as always though,” you tease.

“I’ll be fine,” he assures. “It’s the least I could do for you.”

You purse your lips. He had to make a lot of sacrifices too.

“I love you,” he says lowly. “And I’m not gonna make you ever doubt that again.”

You close your eyes at the sound of his confession. It felt genuine like he didn’t say it just to end an argument. It felt real.

“I love you too.”

He gives a toothy grin, knowing full well that you aren’t able to see how stupidly satisfied his face is. The managers looked at him with watchful gazes and he nervously coughed, wiping the smile off of his.

“We’ll talk more about this later,” he replies, “You know, in our home.”

You smile lightly.

“Okay, see you later then,” you say, already listing all the complications that come with going public, but you’re much happier nonetheless. There’d be no more rumors of him dating other girls or random idols trying to set themselves up with him. Maybe there’d still be doubts, but in the end, you’d figure out a way to work it out. That’s how relationships are after all. “Goodbye,” he said cheerily through the receiver, trying to ignore the staff members telling him to hang up the phone. “I love you [Y/N].”

“Goodbye, Yoongi,” you giggle at his repeated confession. “I love you too.”

—

A/N: I didn’t want to end this off on a bad note but I didn’t want to end it off on a super good note either. Of course, problems will still arise in a relationship so I left it off kind of bittersweet (more sweet in this case) but yeah. Thanks again to @queenoftheuniverseandmyroom for being so amazing and so patient with this, I hope you enjoyed it. Let me know how you guys feel!! Leave me any comments, criticism, anything!

I know some of you guys wanted an angst ending but I do too many angst endings and I just feel like I wanted to switch things up you know?? Also... keep an eye out for my drabble game that I’ll post in a few days. I will accept the first ten requests ;)

PS: I don’t respond to comments on my stories because this is my side blog so if I reply back it’ll be on my main blog :((( I’ll try to figure out a way so that I can respond to you guys because I really want to be more interactive. Let me know if you guys have loopholes for this problem thank youuu

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bipercabeth · 4 years

Text

percabeth | hurt/comfort | 3k | commissioned by @mericatblackwood

a post-TLO fic in which we finally Let Percy Cry

Annabeth doesn’t know what to do with anger—her own or others’. She can take her problems to the sword fighting arena or bury her nose in blueprints for weeks, but she’ll still come away with a tight jaw. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands when they aren’t clenched into fists.

So when the tendons in Percy’s hands strain around his silverware at dinner, when his eyes are downcast and he’s closed off in that I’m-angry-but-trying-desperately-not-to-look-it way, Annabeth can only fumble over a painfully casual attempt at conversation and watch as he retreats to his cabin. He doesn’t even make an appearance at the campfire. The flames have been low in the weeks following the Battle of Manhattan, but they’re rising tonight.

The problem isn’t reading Percy; it never has been. Annabeth knows what’s hurting him and why. It’s the fixing part she struggles with.

continue on AO3

He’s been angry for the better part of a year, often because of the ambiguous impending doom of his sixteenth birthday, but not exclusively so. Annabeth caused more than her fair share of his anger, she knows. Rachel had been there to provide an escape in her place, but Annabeth supposes part of being Percy’s girlfriend means that it’s her who gets to provide solace now. Not that she didn’t before, but. There’s a deeper commitment now. He was always her person—as she was his—but it’s out in the open. She’s the first line of defense—she wants to be the first line of defense from danger, be it physical or emotional.

So Annabeth dons her Yankees cap and sneaks to Cabin 3, replaying the conversation where Percy shrugged and said he’s fine when she tried to call him out. He isn’t fine. She knows that much.

That doesn’t mean she expects to find him curled in on himself, bedsheets tangled around his middle. It shouldn’t be possible to look small in a twin bed, but he looks so small—not at all like the hero the other campers celebrate over the campfire. It’s a stark reminder that he’s only sixteen.

He lifts his head when the door opens, his eyes wide. Annabeth remembers that she’s invisible and knocks her cap off her head. She’ll pick it up later. Right now Percy’s breath stutters at the sight of her, his eyes shining like open wounds.

Annabeth can do dry anger: the cold, unfeeling rage that motivates, propels, inspires. But wet anger—the paralyzing, painful kind you cannot power through—leaves her scrambling for purchase. Annabeth is a runner. She doesn’t sit in anything.

The sheets rustle as Percy closes his eyes and takes refuge in his bed like a dog hiding his wounded paw. Despite his efforts, he cannot disguise his limp.

“Please don’t hide from us,” Annabeth pleads.

“I’m not hiding from you,” he says mildly, not lifting his head from the pillow. “I can’t hide from you.”

“But you came here.”

“I knew you would come.” Percy shrugs, casually stating as fact something Annabeth didn’t know herself until a few minutes ago.

In this moment, Annabeth envies Percy’s connection with Grover. She would kill to have a way to funnel her emotions into Percy’s brain in a way he could understand. All the love and concern she can’t articulate could exist in the world without the struggle of finding the right words.

Still, Percy specified her. Grover is out there at the campfire, probably sensing Percy’s pain like a twinge at the base of his neck, but Annabeth is the one Percy can’t hide from.

The thought propels her to the edge of his bed, sitting in the curve of mattress his torso folds around. His knees press into her right thigh as he shifts to close the space between them. Annabeth realizes with a jolt that he left this space for her to occupy.

On her other side is his face, youthful and soft in the moonlight streaming through the window. Blue light for a blue boy, swimming in blue sheets that should shelter him instead of giving him something to fist his hands in. His arms cage his chest as if his heart is trying to escape it.

Annabeth reaches for his hand, drawing it to rest between hers. If his heart is a burden, it’s not one he has to bear alone. They held the weight of the sky once. They can handle this.

For all their shared burdens, the one that weighs on Percy now is uniquely his. Annabeth is a hero, but not the hero. Shouldering “child of Athena’s final stand” for a few weeks is not the same as “hero’s soul, cursed blade shall reap” looming overhead for four years. Percy’s very existence has been dissected and politicized since the moment he was claimed, whereas Annabeth could’ve chosen a quieter, quest-free life if that’s what she wanted. She chose to pick it up. Percy’s choice was to stand under a weight that would otherwise crush him.

It occurs to Annabeth that everyone who has shouldered this burden before him is dead. The heroes whose birth was prophesied, whose death was prophesied, died fighting their battles centuries ago. There are no words for that.

Words are Percy’s strong suit, anyway. He has always known what to say to calm his friends down. Annabeth can’t recall the last time she saw someone do the same for him.

She squeezes his hand and focuses on being here, where it matters.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, knowing he doesn’t. Or rather, knowing he doesn’t want her to have to talk about it.

As expected, Percy burrows deeper into the bed. Half his face is squished in his pillow; the sole eye Annabeth can see fixes on the empty space in front of him. He gives her a noncommittal shrug she doesn’t buy. But at least he won’t lie outright.

Silence follows. It nips at Annabeth’s ankles, nagging her to move, to do something, but she decides to sit with the discomfort. The confession he’s suppressing is a palpable thing: Annabeth watches it stutter in his lungs and claw its way up his windpipe. Percy will tell her when he’s ready, and she’ll be here when he is.

“I’ve been having dreams,” he says, still not meeting Annabeth’s eye. That’s okay, though. He’s getting the words out. That’s what matters, right?

“What kind of dreams?”

Percy grimaces. “Not the useful kind. Nightmares, mostly. About the war.” He doesn’t breathe between the sentences, just grits his teeth.

“It’s over, Percy. The war is over. We can rest now,” she tries.

“They can’t.”

Dread settles over Annabeth, but she asks anyway. “Who can’t?”

“Beckendorf,” he chokes, his hand tightening in hers. “Silena, Castor, Lee, Michael—I killed him, Annabeth. I told the others where to go, and they died because of me, but I killed Michael.”

Annabeth opens her mouth to interrupt, but the names keep coming. Percy steamrolls through the tears, leaving her to watch his anger limp along until it collapses into the worn bed of sadness.

“Ethan shouldn’t have been on Olympus. I should’ve hit him harder, then he might have stayed down. And Zoe—I knew she was going to die. We found out who her dad was, and I knew and I couldn’t do anything. And Bianca wasn’t supposed to stop the automation. It was supposed to be me. She could’ve come home to Nico, and maybe then—”

“Percy…”

He shrinks with each word, looking every inch the child Annabeth found on Half-Blood Hill: bruised, tired, and crying for his mother. “My mom died because of me. I didn’t even save her—I saved the world, because that’s what I had to do. Hades let her go, but she still died.”

Annabeth gapes at him uselessly. To love Percy is to know intimately the amount of guilt and unearned blame he assigns himself, but that doesn’t make it any easier to stomach.

“You saved your mom,” she reminds him. “You saved her and the world. You shouldn’t have had to do either, but you did.”

“But I didn’t save the others.”

“No one could’ve.”

“I should’ve. When you fight the way I can, the people who die around you die because you can’t get to them fast enough. If I had just been faster, I...” He takes a shuddering breath. “Why do I get to survive when they don’t?”

A lifetime of war games and war alike, and that question is the worst thing Annabeth has ever heard. Percy is just laying there, still not meeting her eye, and she doesn’t know how to help him.

Terrified of how he’ll answer that question, Annabeth leans down to kiss him before he can. She tries to pour everything into it despite not having too much experience. Kissing Percy so far has been fun, sweet, and definitely trial and error. Nothing this desperate, this needy. She inhales him like she can steal the painful words from his lungs before he says them.

Annabeth tastes tears and pulls back, terrified that she’s done something wrong. Instead, Percy’s hand catches the back of her neck, keeping her close enough for their foreheads to touch. It’s there, inches away from his trembling lips, that Annabeth finds the words.

“You saved me,” she pants. “From the Furies on the bus, at the Lotus hotel, when Polyphemus knocked me out—” her fingers travel to his grey streak— “when we held up the sky, at Mount St. Helens, on Olympus… Too many times to count. From the first day we met, you gave me hope.” She strokes his cheek and wipes away the tears, feeling her own eyes well up. “Every day. You save me every day.”

Percy clings to her hand on his cheek and releases a deep breath, fully exhaling for the first time all night. “You save me just as often.”

“So let me do it now, yeah?”

Percy looks at her, green eyes wet and wide, and nods carefully. Annabeth sighs her relief against his forehead before pressing her lips there with an aching softness. There is more to say, but she takes a moment to just hold him. The Fates deemed her his anchor to mortality, so anchor him she will.

“You survived because you were saddled with the weight of the world at twelve years old and the gods owe you a fucking break.” She looks at the ceiling, almost daring thunder to rumble. The sky stays silent. “More campers are alive than dead after a war with impossible odds, Percy. You saved so many, but you can’t save everyone. None of them would want you to blame yourself for this. We have to honor their sacrifice—and, in some cases, their choice.”

That breaks him. The last of his anger gives way to painful sobs, the ugly kind that squeeze your lungs like a spasming fist. In this moment, he is not the wounded dog, but rather the limp itself: the awkward cadence of his breath reminiscent of limbs struggling to hold new weight.

“What do you need?” she asks. “What can I do?”

The mattress jostles as Percy scoots closer, freeing up part of the bed. “Could you stay here with me? Wake me up if it gets bad? If you have to go back to your cabin, that’s fine—”

He’s cut off by Annabeth kicking off her shoes and crawling into bed behind him. There isn’t much room on the twin mattress, but she tucks her knees into the backs of his and wraps around him, and they fit well enough. She settles quickly to avoid overthinking, glad for the excuse to be close to him.

This is entirely unfamiliar territory, as Annabeth discovers when she tries to figure out what to do with her hands. She’s never spooned someone before.

Percy senses her hesitation and laces their fingers, pulling her arm around his torso. Annabeth squeezes him tight, like maybe lining up their hearts will calm the frantic beat of his. Between that and her body protecting his Achilles spot, she’s got him.

It’s a little awkward, the silence that follows. They haven’t exactly had pillowtalk before, let alone while calming Percy during a breakdown. Annabeth doesn’t know how to hold him to make all that go away, so she clings to him as tight as she can.

“You’re like a boa constrictor,” he chuckles. It’s a wet, half-hearted laugh that tells Annabeth he still has more to say. He’s at his worst when he’s deflecting.

Still, she moves to loosen up. “Sorry.”

He tugs at her hand. “No! I mean, it’s nice. I feel… safe.” He pauses, his breath deep. “I always feel safe with you.”

Annabeth hasn’t kissed much of him apart from his lips, but she liked the comfort of kissing his forehead. She tightens her grip again and presses her lips to his shoulder, just because she can.

“Sometimes they’re about you,” Percy whispers.

Annabeth lays her cheek on his shoulder, trying to see his face. “What?”

“The nightmares. Sometimes they’re about losing you.”

“Percy, look at me.”

The tension falls from his spine as he flips around, tangling further in the mess of sheets. Annabeth smooths everything out for him before laying on her back and tugging him close. He ends up halfway on top of her: his arm around her waist, her hands in his hair, their legs a tangled mess.

She holds his face, thumbs swiping at his cheeks gently. He may be invulnerable, but he’s a fragile thing. Maybe even more so with the invulnerability.

“Tell me about them.”

“What? No. Annabeth, I’m not— I can’t talk about you d— about losing you. I can’t say those words.”

Annabeth just holds his face and his gaze. “You should. Talk about it here, safe, with me, and maybe it won’t be so bad when you fall asleep. I’ll be here the whole time.”

The tension in Percy’s body is palpable as he resists Annabeth’s coaxing. But slowly, she slips her hands to his scalp and massages him there, leeching the stress from his body as he sinks forward into her. His weight presses Annabeth into the mattress. It’s comforting, having him above her. She can feel every breath he takes, every time his heart beats in his chest.

“We’ve almost died a ton of times, but that was always together.” He swallows, and his Adam’s apple bobs against her collarbone. “But then on the bridge with Ethan, when you took the knife…”

Percy takes a shuddering breath.

“Sometimes we get you to the hotel and Will can’t help. Or I can’t find Will. Or Blackjack can’t grab you. Or—” his grip tightens around her, and his tears fall on her skin. “Sometimes you, you die right there at my feet. You jump a second earlier, and Ethan hits you in the chest, and I kill him for it. I kill everyone on the bridge. Most times it’s an accident, just the river listening to me, but sometimes… sometimes I don’t know. Both scare me.”

One of Annabeth’s hands moves to his Achilles spot of its own accord. Percy gasps into her neck, where some tears fall as well. He’d fought his way through his confession, coming from somewhere so deep inside him that the deluge of tears was unavoidable. She hopes to distract him from them now.

“You saved me on that bridge,” she reminds him, her free hand scratching lightly at the base of his neck.

“But what if I didn’t?” he breathes. He sounds so small.

“Doesn’t matter. You did. Anything else is a hypothetical.”

“But in the future—”

“Uh uh.” Annabeth’s chin taps Percy’s temple as she shakes her head. “It’s like strategy. You can think and think and think and plan your whole life out, but it’s not real. You never know what’s going to happen until your feet hit the floor. Are your feet on the floor?”

“No,” he grumbles.

“No,” she echoes. “You’re in bed. You get to rest now.”

Percy is still for countless heartbeats. Right when Annabeth thinks he might’ve fallen asleep, he props himself up on one elbow to look at her. Even in the lowlight, Annabeth can make out his puffy eyes and wet cheeks.

“You know you’re my best friend, right?” He sniffles, his nose wrinkling adorably as he does, and his eyes bore into Annabeth’s. “You’re my girlfriend too, but you’re my best friend first. Always.”

Annabeth hears that statement for what it is and grins despite the tears prickling in her own eyes. “And you’re mine. Always.”

A smile breaks out on his face like dawn at this late hour, brightening up the small space between them. Exhaustion sets in to close it, drawing Percy to settle back into Annabeth’s neck with the slow pull of gravity.

They drift off in a bed made to be slept in alone as they share a burden made for one person. Newness tinges the corners of this memory, this moment Annabeth finds herself missing before it’s gone: Percy asleep above her, finally getting the peaceful rest he deserves. Part of Annabeth wants to stay up all night to make sure he gets the most of it, to watch his back as she promised to do, but her eyelids are heavy with sleep in no time.

What sticks with Annabeth is this: Percy’s breath slow and steady against her neck, his heartbeat reliable as ever as it syncs with her own. The world is warm and safe despite all the evidence to the contrary, and that’s what makes this moment untouchable. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, here they are. Together in every way that matters.

#i hurt myself writing this i am not going to lie #if u read this on tumblr all i ask is u give it some love on ao3 bc engagement with tumblr is Trash but i try to keep commissions accessible #commissions #my percabeth #my fic #mericatblackwood

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justatiredghost · 3 years

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Everything I ever wanted Ch3 Read More AO3

Dave died in Vietnam, but then he suddenly wakes up again in some sort of science facility. He has no idea what’s going on or where Klaus is, but he’s pretty sure he’s a prisoner. (The Commission has the technology to offer Five a new body, but since the Hargreeves siblings went on the run after failing to stop the apocalypse, they’ve managed to advance that technology even further.)

Dave jolted awake, half remembered memories of pain and terror spurring him on as he scrambled off of a bed, trying to get away while he still could because he wasn’t restrained anymore. He was moving too quickly, his stiff limbs protesting, but he didn’t want to waste this chance in case it was all he was going to get.

His legs gave out almost immediately and he fell to his hands and knees, a pain in his chest knocking the air from his lungs. He clutched at the spot, gasping, trying to catch his breath as agony radiated through his body. Then he remembered the gunfire, the blood, and seeing his own lifeless body laid out in front of him.

He clawed at his shirt in his panic, pulling it down enough to see, but there was no blood, not even a scar. He gagged at the memory, but he didn’t have anything in his stomach and ended up retching painfully. Once he’d regained himself, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and, while he waited for the world to stop spinning, glanced around to get his bearings. He might as well, nobody was trying to stop him yet, after all.

The room he was in was pristine, white walls and minimal furniture that looked generic enough that they probably duplicated them for hundreds of rooms that looked exactly like this one. It reminded him of the barracks, just without bunks filling every space available. It wasn’t a home and it wasn’t a hospital, just a place to sleep at night.

There were two doors, one propped open and leading to a small bathroom, the other large and heavy-looking, like the kind meant to keep someone inside, just without the bars. There was a huge window taking up most of the wall next to the door, but the glass was dark and opaque and he couldn’t see anything through it. Maybe it was just a bad mirror.

None of this made any sense. He had no idea where he was or what could be happening. At least he wasn’t tied down and kept company by his own corpse anymore. His stomach clenched threateningly. He wondered what they’d done to him. It felt absurd to even consider, but what if he really had died? What would that make him, some sort of clone? Was he even the same person?

But then, how was that even possible? All of this was so surreal. This sort of thing didn’t happen, not in real life. And definitely not to a nobody like him. Maybe this was all some sort of hallucination induced by whatever they were using to keep him under for surgery. Or maybe he was just dead. Whatever was going on, the one thing he was sure of was that he needed to get out of there.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to stand up. The world swayed and his knees shook, but he didn’t fall this time. Using the bed and wall for support, he made his way towards the door. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be any sort of doorknob or lock. It was just a solid surface. He pushed on it, banged on it with his fist, but nothing happened.

There was a solid looking white side table next to the bed, and, with a shrug, Dave picked it up and threw it at the window-mirror-thing. He put as much weight behind it as he could, but he just felt too weak and wasn’t surprised when it bounced off ineffectively. That didn’t stop him from trying a few more times, until he collapsed to the ground again, winded, his limbs feeling shaky like he’d been marching all day and night. It didn’t seem like he was getting out of here any time soon.

“It seems like a waste of time to me, but if it makes you feel better, by all means, please continue.”

The voice startled him and he looked up in surprise to find that the glass was no longer dark and opaque. Now, he could see through to the corridor outside and an older woman watching him with some amusement, smoking a cigarette. She crossed her arms, apparently pleased by the effect her entrance had had on him. Something about her unsettled Dave. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew this woman could be incredibly dangerous.

“Where am I? What’s going on?” he asked, clambering back up onto his feet, trying not to show how wary he was of her. “And where are the others? I was on the front line; where’s the rest of my squad?”

“My, aren’t we just full of questions,” she said with a chuckle. “Lets see. Where to begin? Well, you are at the Commission headquarters. The R&D department, specifically.”

“Can I leave? Or am I a prisoner.”

“You’re not even a tiny bit curious as to what the Commission is?”

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure you’d give me an honest answer.”

“Fair enough,” the woman sighed. “We do safeguard all of space and time, but very well. Moving on; the Umbrella Academy, or, the Hargreeves siblings, a name you’re no doubt familiar with, have been causing us quite a bit of trouble lately.”

Hargreeves? As in Klaus Hargreeves? He had mentioned the Umbrella Academy before, so it was possible. Dave nearly asked in his excitement, at this hint that he might still be alive, but he bit his tongue. He still didn’t know what she wanted and he didn’t want to give anything Klaus wouldn’t want her to have. So he simply stayed quiet and hoped his expression didn’t give him away. He doubted it. He never had been very good at that sort of thing.

“We’d like to strike a bargain with them; put an end to all this nonsense. This is where you come in. Since you were obviously close to one of its members, we brought you back as a sign of good faith.”

“Brought me back?” Dave echoed, worried he knew what the answer was going to be. He just needed to hear it.

“What we’ve done here is a scientific marvel, really,” the woman said, looking pleased with herself. “Sure, we can recreate a person’s body, keeping our employees at the top of their game, that’s easy. But bringing someone back from the dead? That took a bit of creativity. But I’m proud to say it worked in the end. Hopefully our next experiment will prove just as fruitful.”

Dave could hardly listen, too stunned to pay attention. So he really had died. He absently brought a hand up to rub at his chest, where he could so vividly remember the feeling of having a ragged hole ripped into him. He tried not to think about that. He tried not to think about how the grief on Klaus’ face had been the last thing he’d seen before it all went dark.

He took a deep breath, trying to focus on the here and now, like he did on the battlefield. He could have a breakdown or something later.

“So,” he said, taking a deep breath, hoping his voice would be steady. “What you’re saying is that you want to use me as leverage to bribe the Hargreeves to stop fighting against you?”

“‘Bribe’ is such a crude way to put it,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “We’re doing them a favor. And you, too. We can all come out of this with something we want.”

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” Dave said. “I appreciate it and all, but maybe you should put me back where you found me. I won’t be part of anything that might put the Hargreeves in danger.”

“Oh, rest assured, that can definitely be arranged,” she said and her cruel smile made him certain that she would follow through with it without hesitation if the mood struck her. “We can certainly do this the hard way, too, but we’d much rather do this with your cooperation. It would be so much easier.”

Dave always had a feeling there was more going on with Klaus than he let on. He’d said some things, painting vague pictures that Dave still struggled to completely put together. It didn’t help that they’d been high for a lot of their discussions, too. But this seemed like some sort of secret government shit that Klaus had certainly never mentioned. It was all too big for Dave and he had no idea what to think. Except that he wouldn’t ever do anything that could put Klaus in danger.

“I’m sorry ma’am, but I can’t help you,” he said, steeling himself for whatever was going to happen next. He half expected the woman to pull out a gun.

“Well,” she said, adjusting her hat as if it could be anything less than perfect. “The hard way it is, then.” She turned and left, the sound of heels clicking against the floor echoing along the corridor as the window went dark again.

Dave would have slumped to the floor in relief if his legs hadn’t given out first. They were trembling from exertion just from standing there. He couldn’t remember a time he’d felt so weak. Maybe this was just what it was like, being a clone. Or maybe he needed to rebuild whatever muscle he had had. Later, though. For now, he laid back on the carpet, completely exhausted.

Dave was a lot of things, but mostly he would describe himself as a disappointment in nearly every aspect of his life; with his family, with the military, everything. But the one thing he truly felt proud of was the way he had made Klaus smile, how happy he had seemed when they were together. If that was all he managed to accomplish in life, he would still consider it a success despite all of the other failures. That was the one thing that truly mattered. And he certainly wasn’t going to jeopardize all of that by working with a group that must have done some terrible things if Klaus had decided it was worth it to join up with the Umbrella Academy again.

That was good, though, wasn’t it? His family had never seemed like the most supportive people, but maybe they could patch things up and look out for each other. That’s what Dave hoped, at least. Klaus wouldn’t be alone, and he had his whole life ahead of him. He didn’t need Dave. He’d probably already moved on from him and was getting on just fine. He was a survivor.

Honestly, Dave felt a little bad for this Commission. He wasn’t really sure why they’d chosen him, he wasn’t special enough to use as some sort of bargaining chip. But even then, he wouldn’t want Klaus making any sacrifices for him, either. He didn’t even want to put Klaus in a situation where he had to make that sort of decision. So, he decided he needed to make sure he couldn’t be used against the Hargreeves in any way. He needed to escape, or die trying. If they killed him soon, maybe Klaus would never have to know. He wouldn’t have to grieve for him all over again.

#klaus hargreeves #klave #klaus x dave #dave katz #the umbrella academy #umbrella academy #fanfic #everything i ever wanted #hello yes i am feeling desperate to post something new #for anyone still reading my fics #after so long #so here have this #sorry it's so short #anyway #this is post-season 1 #my fic

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popculturebuffet · 3 years

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The Legend of the Three Caballeros: Dope-A-Cabana Review (Commissioned by WeirdKev27)

Salduos Amigos! Since i’m covering a full series, i’d like to welcome any newcomers to the first part of the epic final stretch of THE RIDE OF THE THREE CABLLEROS! For those of you just joining us, a few months back WeirdKev27, easily my biggest supporter as the only one who comissions any reviews from me, asked if I could do a big project for him: a comission of EVERY major american apperance of those three happy chappies in matching serapes. Give i’ve ALWAYS loved the boys ever since house of mouse and had been sitting on Legend of the Three Cablleros for far too long, more on that in a minute obviously, I happily agreed. Plus the rather nice influx of cash from the comissions was very welcome. If your intrested in comissioning your own, hit me up via my direct messages. It’s 5 dolalrs an episode, though I do do discounts on orders of 3 or more, and 10 for a movie, with again discounts for orders of more than one. And yes that plug was very shamless, but again I have no other job than this. Back to the point these reviews have taken me on a wonderful journey: I got to rewatch the movie and revel in the fun songs, acid trips and super horny Donald Duck, got to both revisit one of Don Rosa’s best story and read another all time classic from the man I hadn’t before, took a trip back to the house of mouse to hear some great songs and see some great cartoons.. and some not so great ones, took a small detour to Mickey and The Roadster Racers to be baffled and annoyed though I am proud to say it was my first review back after I came down with Cornovirus and lost a week of work time. And finally I covered the town where everyone was nice, and got to see the boys have a joyous reunion with Donald and be lushly animated while.. Dewey jackassed around in a B-Plot and Webby resisted the urge to throat chop him. It’s been a long ride and you can find all of it is so far RIGHT HERE IN THIS CONVIENT LINK ! CLICK IT NOW IF YOUR CURIOUS. Point is while this was well paid for.. it’s easily one of the projects i’ve been most proud of and while i’m sad to see it winding down, i’m proud of what i’ve done so far, and I just wanted to heartily thank Kevin for the ride and for being so generious as to fund the whole damn thing. Your a good dude man.

Which brings us here, to the grand finale. The Legend of the Three Caballeros! As the boys first starring roll as a group since the movie, there was really no other way this retrospective could end, and since I have a terrible problem with procastination and really hated this series version of daisy I just kept pushing back watching the series until now. I’m not proud of it but I am happy to correct it and hope you’ll all come along with me. Before we get started I could not find much background on the show. It was directred by Matt Danner who was the character designer for the utter classic Xiaoilin Showdown and currently works on the Muppet Babies reboot, so i’m happy he’s still getting work. Otherwise I couldn’t find much. The most I could was on tv tropes, claming the series was orignally meant for Netflix.. and while I have no proof and this could easily be conjecture.. i’m inclined to belivie it. The series was apparently done long before the Ducktales reboot, to the point Frank Angrones was only vaguely aware of it and it didn’t even remotely impact the series, with Panchito and Jose only debuting in Season 2 because the original idea for bringing them in was scrapped. So while I don’t have proof.. I’m inclined to belivie it since it makes sense: Disney DID have a healthy relationship with Netflix once, setting up the MCU shows and likely being happy there.. but eventually they wanted their own corner of the sky, and likely didn’t want one of their shows bolted to the network like all their marvel shows were. The problem this created though is Disney was CLEARLY left with a show they no longer had a place for. But even with that the show was still done, they COULD have put it on the Disney Now app or just aired it on the Disney Channel. See if there was any fan intrest in season 2 or throw one into production to at least beef up the episode count. I mean the Cabs have a built in fanbase, kids would likely love it... it’s the logical choice. But this is Disney. They’ve had to be drug kicking and screaming into representation, to the point they had to be fought for the gay romance subplot in owl house to happen, try to hide that the Sparkshort “Out” is about a gay man struggling with coming out despite having you know reams of content on the service with either gay subtext or out and out gay characters, and their attempts at doing representatoin to score points in other little ways.. have been pathetic, easily missable bits in movies that could , and have been, edited out in more homophobic countries. My point is yeah i’m still sore about how they and a LOT of the animation industry have to be dragged into doing the right thing over profit, and they often make very stupid decisions for seemingly no reason. They are a good company a good chunk of the time.. but Disney has done fucked up quite a bit. This is one of those times. Instead they dumped the show on the Disney Life app in the phillipines and slowly some other countries, basically the Disney Now equilvent over there, and then just sort of forgot about it until Disney Plus launched. And given how many shows they HAVEN’T put on the streamer for again, seemingly no reason, it is a nice suprise the show finally got a release on there in the US. But before that, and proving what a massive mistake just abandoing the show was, the show did gather a massive fanbase via people uploading the episodes online. So yeah the show was treated REALLY shittily for stupid reasons, but thankfully it still has a fanbase to this day and said shabby treatment, as it always does, just encouraged fans to support it harder. So naturally i’m more than happy to give the series some spotlight as fanbase or no, it badly needs it and Disney sure as hell dosen’t want to do it. So if somebody’s gotta do it, might as well be me. This is the Legend of the Three Cablleros. We open on some narration from Xandra, Goddess of Adventure. Granted she hasn’t been identified yet, and won’t be till next episode.. buuuut it’s easier on me to not have to dance around her name so your learning it now. But Xandra narrates that long ago there were epic battles against the good and the evil and all that by epic heroes, and it’s all cumilated in the Legend of the Three Cablleros. Post title drop we’re treated to the boys, in cool looking armor and with neat weapons, fighting a purple monster man as you do in an really beautiful and epic sequence As this scene illustrates the animation for this show is GORGEOUS, a lavish update of the standard disney style with nice use of shadows. It feels almost film quality in it’s work, and it’s an utter treat to watch and opening at the end was a good call: it both ratchets up excitement and allows the first ep to have some action since this one, as part of a two part premiere, is mostly setup. It’s eyecatching, exciting and makes you want to know what the hell is going on. And since Xandra realizes MAYBE starting the story at the climax was a bad idea, she takes us back a bit.

Okay maybe not that far. No we open properly at Donald’s house, where it’s his birthday! And like the movie, it’s Friday the 13th, an excellent call back. Donald’s making his breakfast, boliling some tea and.. talking with the weird foced warped refelection in the kettle who can apparently only say “right back at you handsome, wink”. Seriously I have so many questoins and all of them are about what this guy is, why is Donald so calm about all of this, and is he still alive after Donald destroys his tea kettle later. Donaldo gets a call from Daisy, whose visting to spend the day with him and is waiting patiently int he bad part of town. I didn’t know Duckburg had a bad part of town but given Glomgold has to get his sharks and bombs somewhere, i’m not surprised. Unless he special orders them, but even then what if he needs a shark or a bomb in a hurry? He’s gotta get them somewhere and now we know where. So there’s that. So all’s going well until Donald’s asshole boss calls and forces him to come in despite Donald having the fucking day off and it presumably being on the schedule. So Donald rushes to work, and we do get some great gags but as you’d expect for Donald it goes poorly and he botches a kid’s haircut despite the mother being very rude.. and also a female version of pete. LIke.. did he remarry after the divorce from peg or is that his sister? Does that mean PJ and PIstol have a cousin I never knew about? I want answers dammit.. and picutures of spider-man. Not for any slander job I just really like spider-man.

Eh it’ll do.As i’m doing a full series this time i’m stopping to talk about the main cast as we go soooo.... Tony Anselmo is naturally Donald, even pitching in to consult the crew on Donald’s characterization here, as really what better expert is there? He’s voiced Donald since the original Ducktales and has stuck with the roll since, only taking a break for Mickey and the Roadster racers and that’s likely because between finishing up this series and the Mickey Mouse shorts, and moving on to Ducktales 2017, he likely simply didn’t have the time for it. Granted given how little he was used in the first season of the show, he probably still could’ve done it but regardless, he’s a legend. Daisy is voiced by Tress Macneile, who not only has voiced the character since House of Mouse and is easily the best voice for her, but is also one of the most storied and legendary va’s in the buisness, having been at this since the 80′s with zero signs of stopping. Just to name a few of her more notable roles, in chronological order; Gadget Hackenwrench, Babs Bunny, Agnes Skinner, Charlotte Pickles, Dot Warner (Which as of last year she’s picked up again and will do the same for Babs, just in case you thought i was exagerating on the “zero signs of stopping” thing), Pookie from Hey Arnold, Mom, Hoodsey Bishop, and Queen Oona among MANY, MANY smaller rolls. I didn’t even realize Charlotte or Hodsey were here, she’s that talented and deserves all the praise.. and way better rolls as Daisy than this one but we’ll both get to that and thankfully much like with Tony, the reboot’s giving her character some depth to work with so she gets to reallys tretch her chops. The woman turns 70 here, will likely keep going until she dies, and is wonderful and deserves more respect.

So because this is Donald, life wont’ stop punching him in the face and it turns out his house burned down, the fire people are destroying everything because their assholes, seriously they destroy both a family heirloom and a picture of his parents despite not being on fire. I’d be genuinely suprised if their general strategy wasn’t scremaing “fire, fire fire” and then going “rock rock rock” while they throw rocks on it. Super brucey bonus prize for the first person who gets that refrence and comments on it. I’ll get back to this in a second but SOMEHOW, beisdes loosing his home, all his possesions and his job... it gets even WORSE and Daisy calls, refuses to listen to him despite him having VERY valid excuses and breaks up with him. Oh and then the fire fighters gladly talk about going home to their in tact houses and partners.

So yeah let’s talk about this. This first 6 or 7 minutes.. is why I didn’t return to the show for a while. My brain has a bad habit of glomming onto certain parts of things, so it remembered the rough to sit through and not very funny first act.. and not the rest of the episode which is very good and likely more indiciative about how good the series is. Thankfully it does get better but this first act .. frames things like it’s DONALD’S fault somehow. I mean yes he did burn his house down.. but even that really isn’t his fault. He was called away suddenly, wasn’t thinking and made a mistake. Hell he proabably woudl’ve had more left if the fire department hadn’t gone crazy with the axes. His being called into work? He took the day off, and his boss was just a dick. His screwing up at the job? he was genuinely trying his best and doing his best and the client was just wholly unresonable. Donald did nothing wrong but the episode WANTS to frame him like some sort of screwup.. which he is, it’s Donald.. but not in this case. It was just a string of uncomfortable to watch bad luck that cumilates in him having nothing left. It’s not funny, it’s jsust really sad and it’s REALLY hard to tell the tone their going for as they seem to awkwardly bounce from jokes to Donald being utterly devistated and alone.

And the worst of this.. is Daisy. Daisy is EASILY the most infamous part of the show, as their portryal.. is pretty bad and apparently gets worse. We’ll see as we go but yeah.. her screaming at and breaking up with her boyfriend without listneing to his side and giving the claim we only have HER word on that he’s always screwing up, ON HIS BIRTHDAY no less, when he’s done nothing wrong, does not make a good first impression nor the fact the show seems to AGREE WITH HER. And look Donald is a trainwreck, this is true.. but the show dosen’t remotely portray him as one until AFTER this scene. As I said nothing that happened was his fault. Donald isn’t irresponsible or a screwup or dating a high schooler or anything. He isn’t Scott Pilgrim. He just has really bad luck. Again, we do see some foibles in the scenes to come.. but we don’t see any that would justify her claims, especially since she seemed perfectly happy earlier with him. Now if she’d say brought up some screwups in the first scene, and gently at that, then this would’ve worked.. but as it stands she just comes off as MASSIVELY unsymapthetic.. especially since Donald later calls her nieces over for help, which is objectively weird not gonna lie.. so she now KNOWS he had to move to a new house and his likely burned down.. yet still apparently has nothing good to say about him.

It didn’t help this rubbed me the wrong way in a very special way. As i’ve made plain before I don’t like THIS version of Daisy, the nagging, selfish, vindictive asshole who will gladly try and cheat on donald, dump him at a moments notice and you know PUNCH HIM IN THE FACE. Which just in case you think i’m exagerating...

She fucking upercutted him..and like here for something that isn’t his fault. I mean this Daisy isn’t physically beating Donald.. but that’s a VERY low bar to clear. And emotional abuse is just as bad, so there. My point is too often in the comics when written poorly, Daisy is a pretty terrible person and I REALLY didn’t want a screen adaptation of this form of Daisy. It took a WHILE to recover from not liking daisy over this version, with help from remembering house of mouse, some good barks story with her and the AMAZING Ducktales version and the suprisingly good Quack Pack version.. I did. But yeah.. this is not a good sign of things to come for the character in this show.

So yeah Donald’s heart is in the basement and his week is at an all time low when a post man shows up and gives him a letter.. well puts it in the box for a good gag but semantics. But the letter turns around as his ancestor Clinton Coot left him an inhertance for his 3Xth birthday: a house of some kind in the swanky neighboring town of New Quackmore. And i’ll also say.. it’s REALLY nice that for once, we focus on the Duck side of Donald’s legacy, or rather the coot but semantics, instead of the McDuck part. Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love the clanmcduck, always will and I love Ducktales exploration of it.. but it’s still nice to acknowledge Donald comes from two sides and while one of those may be humble farmers, they still accomplished a lot, including founding Duckburg in most continuities including presumably this one. It’s also a good way to seperate thigns from other properties including the reboot: focusing on a part of Donald’s lineage that isn’t usually touched on and making THEM just as badass as the other side.

So we get a quick montage as Donald takes a cab there and takes in the rich and fancy sights. It’s also a brilliant way to set up New Quackmore and it’s attached instutite as a fancy, upperclass place.. and thus perfectly clash it with Donald. Donald ends up getting dropped off at a big mansion.. which is not his , but belongs to the insittutes head, Baron Von Sheldgoose, played by WAYNE KNIGHT.

Hell. Yes. I freaking love Wayne Knight. In case you don’t know who the man above is, or at least don’t recognize his face, Wayne Knight is a very funny and talented actor and voice actor with a lengthy career primarily in side rolls, with the rolls that he broke out with being loveable asshole and Jerry’s enternal nemisis Newman on Seinfeld and Dennis Nedry, aka “that guy who got sprayed acid in his face by those horrifying frilled dinosaurs that will never not haunt my nightmares”. Seriously that scene fucked me up as a kid and I could not watch that part of the movie. For the most part he’s been a side character man but he has done a LOT of voice work, most notable Zurg in Buzz Lightyear of Star Command, Dojo for the aformentioned and excellent Xiaolin Showdown, and Mr. Blik for Catscratch and I wish he’d do more. He also recently voiced the penguin in Harley Quin so when I get to that you better belivie i’m looking forward to it. Point is while he may not always get the glory, and had to settle for starring in a mediocre tv land sitcom to get a steady paycheck once, the man is VERY talented, very funny and perfectly cast here.

So Donald makes himself home, finds out it’s not HIS home and gets thrown out by the snooty rich asshole’s bodyguards. As you’d expect. Donald does find HIS home, a run down cabana next door to the mansion with caution tape all over. Still Donald takes it best he can as it’s better than no home at all> What he doesn’t take well is finding out from the executor of the will that he’s not the only one inheriting the house... which is absolutley fair. The guy just had the worst day of his life, and this lady didn’t bother to put in the letter to any of them that they were sharing the house. The Sheldgoose thing was just an average Donald screw up. This is just this lady going...

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But yes we meet our boys.. and the introductions are naturally given this series is about them the best we’ve gotten so far: Jose is thrown off a bus, having ran out of fair, and having wooed all the ladies on board, and quickly charms the executor and is perfectly cordial to Donald, while Panchito parachutes out of a plane and marvels at how he went from nothing to having two new best friends, a run down shack and a sleezy lawyer! In short the two make a great first impression, helped by wonderful casting. Jose is voiced by Eric Bauza, a talented voice actor whose had WAY too many roles to list here, but two of the most notable are being the current voice of Bugs and Daffy, and his most notable role outside that recently has been playing Splinter in Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. But the guy is endlessly talented, seems really nice, and is easily one of my faviorite Jose’s so far after just one episode. He just.. gets the character perfectly and is thankfully NOT another white guy stepping into the role, so that’s nice. He easily oozes the charm and layabout nature Jose and was a natural in the role and i hope he gets to take it up again at some point. Speaking of naturals we have Jamie Camil as Panchito, who easily steps into the guys boundless energy and the sterotpical bits are swapped out for making him a cloud cuckoolander instead, which I genuinely love and fits the character perfectly. He’s best known for CW Soap Jane the Virgin, where his charcter Rodrigo just sounds like a delight, but has recently picked up a pretty good voice acting career, vocing Don Karnage in the Ducktales reboot, Globgor in Star vs the Forces of Evil and Todd’s Stepdad George in Bojack Horseman. I only hope he gets more voice work as he’s really damn great at it and it’s wonderful to get to see him in a role that’s not limited to a few episodes at best for a change.

So Donald’s less than happy about this, again it’s hard to really be that mad at him when he’s had a really, REALLY bad day and wasn’t told about this, but it’s kept to just the light level of grumpy as to not make him unlikeable. Granted after that intro it’d take a LOT to make him unsympathetic, but after their version of Daisy I really dont’ want to test this series. Our boys also find out they have a groundskeeper, ari, aka THE ARCUAN BIRD! He’s just a delight any time he pops up, doing his usual “ya ta ta ta” bit, and being adorable and hilarioius as always.. and also hilariously failing to fix the boys door. So Donald ends up just accepting he has roomates now, nothing he can do, and the three explore the house finding all sorts of cool old artifacts, feeling they’ve stumbled onto something specail. And you know what that means: YARD SALE! Seriously it feels like a bit out of Wet Hot American Summer or Stella, a series from the same creators you really should check out and that is high praise, trust me.

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I wish this series was streaming somewhere.. I mean we finally got Clone HIgh streaming Viacom, get on that. Anyways, it’s just.. fucking hilarious, and a LOT of this episode is once we walk back from the writers kicking donald in the junk and acting like it was his fault. Once Donald gets his inhertiance, the episode picks up immensley and we see the shows real charm and hilarirty fly, with jokes coming at a rapid and wonderful pace. The show really did impress me with the second half and made me utterly excited for tommrow.. or I guess today’s, look at the follow up. But we’re still in this episode and being a rich asshole, Sheldgoose isn’t happy about a yard sale, though given this series standards, we not only get some great deliveres from Knight of an outraged “A YARD SALE?!”... but a wonderful gag where Sheldgoose out to white guy it up and yell at them over this..accidently takes a wrong turn in his massive house, and turns around, not loosing how upset he is once. Meanwhile, we meet.. April, May and June. Yeah apparnetly Della isn’t dead or lost in this continuity, so the boys are MIA, and are instead replaced by Daisy’s Nieces, who I hope show up in the reboot before it ends. Especially since the show makes them WAY more tolerable than classic huey dewey and louie and instead enjoyable like Ducktales HDL. While not as indvidual as those three, the three are still idendtical outside of outfits, their voice actress Jessica DiCicco uses her consderiable talents and experince to give each one a unique voice, so while they all share a voice actress, none of them sound alike. And to round out our main cast for now, as our last members will be joining us fully next time, let’s talke about Jessica DiCicco. Jessica is a very talented and increasingly prolific voice actor and if you haven’t heard of her, and you probably have, you’ve defintely heard her voice. Starting out with Disney, hence why the probably called on her for this, she did the voices of Maggie for the Buzz on Maggie and Melina for Emperor’s New School before breaking out as Flame Princess on Adventure Time, whose both one of my faviorite characters from the show and one we’ll be digging into starting next month. And not one to rest easily she picked up a second set of iconic rolls vocing Lynn and Lucy Loud on The Loud HOuse, and funnily enough using those voices for two of the girls here. And along with Loud House she’s also currently starring in it’s Pony and is int he main cast of Close Enough as Candace. My point is she’s exceedingly talented.. as is this whole cast, as it’s a DAMN excellent cast and just further sells that this series deserves better. We’ll get into the girls more next time as they don’t do much here other than get called in by Donald for help, with what I saw of episode 2 fleshing them out more. Point is Sheldgoose offers a million dollars for the cabana and all it’s stuff and the boys are glad to sell.. they just have to find something Sheldgoose desperately wants, a mysterious golden atlas encrusted with Jewels. Our heroes head in to find it with Panchito finding it, and being very specific about it. We also get a nice call back to Ari destroying the door as Jose cleverly calls on him to destroy the lock. So our heroes open the book... and a goddess pops out and threatens to kill them all.

Final Thoughts: Dope-A-Cabana is a decent intro the series, but as i’ve said it’s heavily hampered by a weak and mean spirited first act. But once it gets going it REALLY gets going and as part 1 one of a two part pilot, it does it’s job well once it does get going: introducing our three boys and one of our antagonists well and setting up the side cast and preparing for our last to major additions Next Time: The Boys go on their first adventure, Sheldgoose finds a boss and the girls find their voice. Thanks for Reading, Goodbye, Goodbye, Goodbye.

#the legend of the three caballeros #The Three Caballeros #donald duck #Jose Carioca #panchito romero miguel junipero francisco quintero gonzalez #panchito pistoles #xandra #april duck #may duck #june duck #baron von sheldgoose #daisy duck #pete pete #disney plus #disney channel #animation #disney

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