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phantomrose96 · 4 years

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Origin of a Non-Hero

Pro Hero Deku is not that tall of a man… In a simple white t-shirt and khakis, he’s not imposing at all. His 14 year old son, though much scrawnier in frame, is only an inch or two shorter than him.

Pro Hero Deku is not a cruel man. To the contrary, he cares too much, about all things at all times, about everyone and everything he can save if only it could come within his reach. The family counselor knows this. The counselor is surprised that, of all the world’s burdens Deku carries, it would be his family that slipped through his grasp.

Pro Hero Deku’s arms are gnarled and scarred, endlessly broken and re-broken in his youth from trying too much, and caring too much, and fighting too much for the sake of others. So why do they seem so awkward, so unpracticed, so unused to being wrapped in a hug around his son? Why was this boy the last thing for Pro Hero Deku’s arms to reach?

The counselor asks. The raw hurt of the session starts anew.

(This fic is long, heed the Read More)

...

11 people shared the same rigid wooden bench as Shikinori Midoriya. From the glances he stole, all 11 of them were handcuffed. An equal number of armed guards stood at the ready, crowding a waiting area meant to accommodate no more than 10 people. Shoulders rubbed shoulders. Sweat trickled from necks and hairlines. Dampness clung to skin and scales and fur and whatever other quirk-manifested coverings the 11 handcuffed men, and 11 guards, and Shiki bore.

A puttering fan spun in the corner, sad and wheezing and ineffective against the body heat of so many. Shiki kind of resented the fan for all the nothing it was accomplishing.

He leaned his weight into the sturdy bench arm to his left, opting to crush his guts into the furniture rather than lean on the man beside him, who was more knotted muscle and snake tattoos than he was man. Shiki looked again and concluded the man may even be more snake than man. Two sharp fangs stuck out from his mouth and tented his upper lip. His unmarked skin shimmered, a rippling repeated pattern of flesh-covered scales. His tongue shot out and licked the air, forked. Slit-pupiled eyes made momentary, awkward eye-contact with Shiki, and Shiki quickly pretended to be staring elsewhere.

The man seemed familiar. Some villain from some news headline. But Shiki couldn’t place a name, so he didn’t bother thinking about it more. He stared ahead, eyes drifting out of focus, hot. Uncomfortable and hot. Damp and stick-to-his-clothes-sweaty. Just…hot. Unnecessarily so. Maybe he shouldn’t be here. Maybe it wasn’t worth it. Maybe he’d been impulsive, and foolish, and should leave before he gets in any deeper.

The door beside Shiki creaked open. A wizened man with tiny, deep-set, watery eyes motioned him in. Shiki all but jumped to his feet. He tugged at the spots of his shirt that clung sweaty to his back, and he followed. The temperature dropped at least 20 degrees once he crossed the threshold into this new room. The door clicked shut behind Shiki. He startled, and felt a ripple of disquiet shiver down his spine, but Shiki chose not to dwell on it. He was more drawn to investigating the new room, which, he quickly discovered, came with its own kind of sensory-terrible-silence.

The waiting room had been terribly silent – chatterless and buffed with the sounds of breathing, wheezing, throat-clearing, shifting, shuffling, and the tinkering tangle of chains. This time it was an ambient buzz that blanketed the new room, thick and oppressive and syncopated, like a fly trapped in a jar. Shiki traced it to the fluorescent lights overhead. Under their pallor, the watery-eyed man looked half like death. He sat, and motioned for Shiki to sit too in the wooden chair directly across. A table separated them. On Shiki’s side, there was a set of iron cuffs drilled into the table-top, the sort where, if Shiki threaded his arms forward, he could be bolt-locked in place.

Shiki did not acknowledge the cuffs, and neither did the watery-eyed man. They made eye contact, and Shiki instantly understood: this man did not care about him. This man did not care about any of the other people in that waiting room. What gave it away was unclear – maybe the stiffness in his jaw, or the piercing deadness to his horrible ice-blue eyes, or the sterile too-large lab coat crumpling the man’s figure, or maybe none of that. Maybe it was pure human intuition, an instinct honed for survival, that one feels when encountering another human so bereft of empathy that it sticks along every individual neck-hair.

“Sit,” the man said. His tone was sharp, as though he’d been forced to repeat himself. That was somewhat true. He’d already motioned for Shiki to sit. Shiki had been too distracted by the cuffs on the table to comply. He was still distracted now, but he sat this time.

“I’m Dr. Matsuyama,” the man like death continued. He pulled a loose clipboard from the shelf just beneath his side of the table, and he dragged a slightly-trembling hand from his pocket, gray and liver-spotted, trailing an uncapped pen. His eyes became more like pits in this light, but Shiki could see a blue in them that was definitely inhuman. Which wasn’t saying much, since most of the population walked around in definitely inhuman ways. It was quirk-related, no doubt, but endlessly eerie to stare at.

There came a shuffle from the shadows, a shift in the back-left corner of the room that startled Shiki. He looked, and now locked eyes with a man dressed to the nines in an ill-fitting suit. The man pulled at his own lapel, straightening it, as though reading Shiki’s mind about the ill-fitting suit detail.

“Don’t mind Dr. Himura,” Matsuyama continued. “He’s leading the study, so he is observing. I’m conducting this session.” Matsuyama set pen to paper. “What is your name?”

“Shikinori Midoriya,” Shiki answered. “I go by Shiki, among friends.”

“Is there a reason for that?” Matsuyama’s voice had a papery tremble to it, like air whistling through the slit of a barely-cracked window. Listening to it was uncomfortable. Shiki could feel it like a shortness of breath in his own throat.

“Just preference.”

Matsuyama wrote something down.

“How old are you?”

“22.”

“Your quirk?”

“Gravity nullification.” Shiki raised his hands up, palms spread toward Matsuyama. “I can negate the gravity of anything I touch with my fingers, palms, or pads of my toes. Basically any part of my body that has this ridged skin.” He wiggled his wide-spread fingers. The weird fluorescent lighting threw the ridges into stark contrast, valleys of blackness ribbing his fingers, engulfed like Matsuyama’s eyes. “The quirk works on any sized object, but the time limit is shorter for bigger objects.”

Matsuyama let the silence linger as he wrote. His writings filled several lines this time, as Shiki had little else to do than watch the trail of the pen.

“Is your quirk patrilineal, matrilineal, or both?”

“Matrilineal.”

“How does it influence or impede your daily life?”

“It doesn’t much, really. I don’t need it. I don’t really use it. It’s forgettable.”

“What are the negatives to living with your quirk?”

Shiki shrugged. “None much, really, since I don’t use it.”

“Then what brings you here?”

“I mean, just that. I don’t need it. Does it have to be deeper than that?”

Matsuyama wrote. And he wrote for longer than before. Silence draped them again, and it amplified the buzzing from the lights. It was hot again, Shiki realized with agitation. His seat placed him right below the lights, a veritable stage light, targeting him to bake. His neck prickled with sweat. Buzzing. Like a fly in the jar. Fly in a jar, fly in a jar, that flies against the walls each which way and can’t get out, because there is no out, because the jar is sealed, and being unyielding to gravity is no help when the walls close on every side.

“…here?”

“Huh?” There’d been a question. Shiki had zoned out for--

“Did anyone offer you money to come here?”

“Not beyond the 1,500 yen per day,” Shiki responded, collecting himself. “You know, that you guys offered, that 1,500 yen, to cover transport and lunch. But nothing else. No.”

“Did anyone blackmail you to come here?”

“No.”

“Are there any extenuating circumstances to explain why you’re here?”

“None.”

Matsuyama stopped writing. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of Shiki’s neck, lost somewhere between his shoulder blades. He shifted, and rolled his shoulders a little, and edged his hands away from the wrist restraints on the table.

“Do you have any thoughts of self-harm?”

“No.”

“A history of violence?”

“No.”

“Do you consider yourself to be a danger to yourself or others?”

“No.”

“Any history of drug abuse?”

“No.”

“Alcoholism?”

“No.”

“Anxiety or depression?”

Shiki faltered. “I saw a therapist for a bit, a while ago, back when I was a teenager. But it wasn’t anything, like, extreme. You know? Just, stuff.”

“And how do you define ‘stuff’?”

“It—he was a family therapist. My parents are divorced so like, you know, I was a kid – well, a teenager – but that’s still a kid. I mean we saw the therapist when I was a teenager, but my parents divorced when I was 10 before I was a teenager so – the therapist – he was just for, you know, typical stuff. Typical divorced kid stuff.”

Matsuyama wrote, and wrote more, and at length, Shiki said nothing.

“How’s your relationship with your mother?”

“Fine.”

“How does she feel about your participation in this?”

“I dunno, really. I mentioned it to her like once but like, a while ago, before I decided on whether I wanted to do it but like… I dunno. That shouldn’t matter, right? I’m an adult.”

“How’s your relationship with your father?”

“You know, fine.”

“And how does he feel about your participation in this?”

“Like I said, does it matter?” Shiki pressed. He leaned forward, because he could feel his shirt sticking again in back. Under his arms, too. He was grateful for the dark color of his clothing, since Shiki knew from a glance to frumpy Himura that the harsh lighting was unforgiving on sweat stains.

“Is he against it?”

“He doesn’t know about it. Like, he’s busy. And I’m an adult. And it’s not like it’s his quirk or anything since I inherited it from my mom, and it’s my body so I think I should be the one who gets the final say in whether I do this or not don’t you think so?”

Matsuyama left the challenge unmet. It rung through the room around them and petered out to silence. Just an echo left dancing in Shiki’s head. Matsuyama wrote. He only wrote, and Shiki’s heart beat in his own ears.

“My job is to make sure you are of sound mind… uncoerced… unhindered by any self-destructive motivations...” Matsuyama’s pen did not break pace while he spoke, like an automaton. Like a puppet. Endlessly forward, unholy eyes shuffling along line by line. “The Quirk Ethics Board is strict. Dr. Himura has spent the better part of five years at odds with them to get this study off the ground. Be grateful to him, and be patient with me.” And his horrible eyes flickered up, pinning Shiki to the spot. “I can disqualify you, if I think you’re lying to me. So please, some patience, and some cooperation.”

Shiki’s whole body flushed with a shiver, and he realized that perhaps Himura was not the man he should be suspecting of a mind reading quirk.

He leaned back in his spotlight chair, and took a few deep breaths, and wondered how heated his cheeks were. Embarrassment always spiked a blush in them, and Shiki was ashamed to have let his composure slip.

“Your father… wouldn’t you like to tell him, first? There’s no reversing this. We encourage everyone who comes through this room to inform all family, all loved-ones first.”

“No. I don’t want to tell him. Because I know it’ll make him cry. And if I lose my nerve, and back out, I’ll probably never have this opportunity again. I need this decision to be my own.”

Shiki averted his eyes, away from Matsuyama, glancing left and finding himself staring back. A mirror spanned the length of the left wall. A few feet worth of cinderblock stretched from the floor-up, and the ceiling-down, meeting at a mirror that lobbed Shiki’s own reflection back at him. Freckles and green eyes and tousled chestnut hair and cheeks heated with shame and embarrassment.

A one-way mirror. Shiki wondered if there was anyone standing on the other side of it, watching, judging.

The silence lingered, heavier, denser somehow. It took Shiki a few moments to process what had changed.

The scratch of Matsuyama’s pen had vanished. He was not writing. He was staring, instead, at Shiki. Plain to see in the mirror. Waiting for Shiki to face him again. Reluctantly, Shiki looked.

“Your father… is a busy man, you said. He must be very very busy… Shikinori Midoriya.” Matsuyama shuffled his papers into place, and set the clipboard down on the interrogation desk. “If your name, and your appearance, and the leagues and leagues of advertisements, and news headlines, and television specials I see every day paint an accurate picture of who, I suspect, your father is.”

Shiki breathed out, jaw clenched, feeling that familiar dread settle in. He heard a noise from Himura, like a tiny pip, a single note of recognition that Shiki had become well attuned to: that sound of someone putting the dots together, the look in their eyes as they roved over Shiki’s face, as though suddenly giddy to understand his freckles and green eyes and curly hair.

“Midoriya?” Himura leaned forward, pushing himself off the back wall and shuffling a bit forward. His eyes were wide and probing, mutedly eager. “Oh I see – yeah – I see it – you look just like him – but – pardon my interruption, son, but – why would you ever consider participating – here in my study – why I can’t dream of – I don’t think I could be responsible for -“

“Don’t,” Shiki shot back. He braced his back against the chair once more, letting the wave of dread pass. “Don’t… Don’t finish what you’re going to say.”

“The boy is right, Himura,” Matsuyama said, and he did not look at his colleague. “This is my interview. And you are only here to observe. You are out of line.”

“R-right,” Himura breathed, flushing red, yet still clearly riding out his confusion, his giddiness. He pulled a small kerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the sweat along his receding hairline. “My apologies, M-Mr. Midoriya.”

“Just call me Shiki…”

“Yes, Shiki, we should get back on track,” Matsuyama proceeded. He picked his clipboard up once more and flipped another page. Shiki tried counting the number of sheets that wrapped spiral-like over top. More than he had realized – 10 or maybe 12 pages thick, at this point. Matsuyama’s pen tip tapped to paper once more. “I want to be clear: you are entitled to have your own reason for following through with this. But you may not hide it from me and expect to participate. I am the deciding factor here. Do not lie.”

With that, Shiki felt the last of the vigor in his spine drain away. He slumped forward some, and avoided eye contact with Matsuyama, and Himura, and his own reflection in the mirror which he resented so strongly at this very moment.

“So tell me, boy,” Matsuyama paused to pull in a rattling breath, “why do you want us to erase your quirk?”

“It’s complicated,” Shiki muttered.

“I’m quite good at complicated,” Matsuyama countered.

“It’s… My dad… You figured it out already, right? Izuku Midoriya… He’s the #1 Hero.” The words felt plastic, leaving Shiki’s throat. Artificial. Manufactured. A thing repeated en-masse by television hosts and podcasts and commercials and fan events and—

Shiki breathed.

“He wasn’t always. …Well, duh, I guess, of course… That sounds obvious to say but I mean it as – as in that – back when I was born, Dad was the #361 Hero. At least in the one ranking suite that stretched all the way to the top 500 heroes. Most ranking organizations only did top-250 at best. And the National Rankings only do top-75. He was a still a sidekick then. So was my mom. She didn’t even appear in the top 500. And I think being pregnant with me, and me being born, and taking care of me – I think that set her back even more.”

Shiki leaned forward, elbows set to the table, eyes boring deep into the scratched and stained wood. There were deeper gouges near the sharp corners of the arm restraints.

“When I was old enough to start remembering things is around when I got my quirk, because most of my oldest memories are of my mom playing gravity games with me in our apartment. She’d make my toys float and I’d make them float too and she’d bop them, like with her head, bop them all around and I thought that was the funniest thing. I used to think everyone could cancel gravity because that was so much of my world, just me and my mom.”

Ochaco Midoriya was just barely 23, and her hair had grown long enough to wear in a bun every day. Her off-the-shoulder white shirt spelled out URAVITY in bubble letters across the front. A short release. Only 100 shirts sold, half of them to friends and family. Her son Shiki lay on the carpet, small pudgy hands grabbing at fistfuls of air above him, reaching for her, his footy-jammied feet kicking. His fingers were ridged. He’d have her quirk someday. She pulled out the stuffed frog from behind her back (FROPPY logo emblazoned on the tummy) and papped it gently forward. Into the air. Where it hung and spun, lazily adrift. Shiki let out a shriek of joy. Ochaco smiled, and cupped Shiki’s hands in hers, and kissed them.

“My dad… um… he was out most of the day, almost the whole day, on weekdays at least, when I was young. And I was proud of him for that especially when I got old enough to understand what heroes and villains were because like, that was my dad, out there every single day putting in more effort than anyone else, you know? It never even seemed that weird, to like, that I didn’t have him around. I had Mom, and Dad was a hero.”

The little leaguers were all 5 or 6 years old, adorned in fluorescent pinnies and tiny little soccer cleats. They ran the way little kids run – with too much force in every stilted step, no grace, all fierce concentration, feet slamming heavy into grass and balled fists swinging. The ball came above their knees, and they kicked by running into it full-force.

Tatsuya bodied the ball into the opposing goal, and he was met with a chorus of applause from his mother and father on the sidelines. It was the first time Shikinori Midoriya noticed – Tatsuya had a dad. He looked, and saw so many dads. And it was strange. Weren’t they heroes? Weren’t they busy?

Ochaco stood alone. She waved a big wide sweeping wave when she noticed Shiki looking. She whistled for him. The ball knocked into Shiki. He forgot to wave back.

“I remember… Most of my memories of him, from when I was little, were on weekends. But not always, I mean not all weekends. He patrolled through weekends too. But if we got a weekend off, then we’d do some activity with him. Me, Mom, all of us together. It was my favorite. But weekdays, I never saw him. He left before I woke up and came home after I was in bed. I stayed up sometimes, in secret, to listen for him at the door. But a lot of nights I fell asleep first, or some nights he never even came home. I actually, I think I started to see him more on television, from news reporters, than I did in person…”

A head-to-toe child’s onesie which was a flannel plushy mock-up of Pro Hero Deku’s uniform. Shiki wore it, bunny ears and all, sitting in his mother’s lap in front of the television. Ochaco sat with her back against the couch, on the floor. The sun had set around them. The news had trickled on to its fourth recap of Deku’s apartment arson rescue.

~”A civilian recording that is SURE to capture a nation’s heart! As Pro Hero Deku emerges from the blazing building with three tenants, mother father and child, slung across his back – look – there! Oh what a winning smile that boy’s got, hasn’t he? Saving people with a smile! It makes me nostalgic for the age of All Might, to our viewers old enough to remember the Symbol of Peace before his retirement. Maybe Deku is someone who can spark that hope back into the new generation, what do you think, folks?”~

“15 more minutes, Shikinori, then it’s time for bed,” Ochaco told Shiki, bouncing him on her leg.

“But I wanna stay up for Dad! I wanna tell him we watched him on the news!” Shiki pointed a stubby finger to the freeze-frame of his father on the television, all tousled hair and sweat, bearing the weight of three others on his back, a veritable Atlas, smiling. Smiling smiling. Shiki gave the same smile as his dad, beaming at his mom.

“You’ll see him tomorrow; you can tell him then.”

The smile dropped from Shiki’s face. He looked forward to the television again. “I’m not gonna see him tomorrow. Tomorrow’s Tuesday and I don’t ever see Dad on Tuesday.”

~”I hear we’ve got an interview with a civilian who was on-site during the disaster. We’re cutting to him now!”~

“…30 more minutes, okay then, Honey?” Ochaco said. “We’ll wait up 30 more minutes for Dad.”

Shiki’s hand twitched. His eyes were locked on the shackles, and slowly, experimentally, he rested his wrists in the cuffs. Could the table hold him down with his quirk?

“And by the time I was 7, he broke into the top-100 heroes. Within another three years, he was top-50. Newspapers called it mind-blowing to see someone like that jump the ranks so quickly. He blew past Ground Zero and Ice Razer, who you know are like, #2 and #3 now. It was crazy. Like, he got way more attention for how quickly he was jumping than for his actual rank. The papers said he was working inhuman hours. That even heroes with time quirks and clone quirks couldn’t be as everywhere as he was… I have clippings saved. Or I did. I might have gotten rid of them when Mom and Dad divorced.”

Shiki clinked his wrists against the shackles, metal wrist watch ringing hollow against the cuffs.

“Which is, that was something I found out on my 10th birthday. They didn’t mean for me to know but I was staying up past my bed time to play the new Hero Smash game they got me – the one Dad was finally in -- and I heard them arguing just a bit too loud about something, and them arguing was kinda common at that point, so I paused the game to listen and… yeah… divorce… It was, you know, a pretty tame divorce, I think. Like, I can’t really complain about it, compared to some of the stuff other kids go through. Cuz Mom and Dad still acted friendly and tried to settle things on good terms but, you know, it showed. I’d go into Mom’s room and hold her, some nights, when I heard her crying. And she’d sob and say ‘I still love him’ and I never knew what to say back, but, I’m –that’s, anyway. Anyway.”

Ochaco Midoriya, 32 years old. She kept the last name. It would be easier, in terms of legal hassle, and it would be easier on her son, who she had full custody of.

Her empty bed had been the norm for years, now. Deku had gotten into the habit of working through the nights, stealing naps on his cot at the agency. But now it was the cold reminder, the knowledge, that he wasn’t ever coming back to this bed that stole Ochaco’s breath and made it short. Made her heart squeeze. Forced noises past her lips that she tried to keep in.

“Mom?” Shiki’s eyes, wide with concern, at the side of her bed. He held his hands together, ridged fingers, ridged palms, the little fingers she used to kiss.

He reached a hand out, and patted her shoulder, tip toes, leaning over the bed. He should be crying too.

Shiki pulled his hands back, rubbing at his wrists. His cheeks were flushed, embarrassment creeping through his system as his own words echoed back at him. Those things he’d rarely told anyone. “Am I… is this too much detail? I can dial it back. It’s just, um, I feel like the context is important for you to like… know why I’m—not write me off as—”

“This is fine, continue. If you say anything unnecessary, I can simply not write it down,” Matsuyama waved his free hand dismissively. The pen in his other hand danced, still, across the page.

Shiki cleared his throat. “Anyway, I lived with Mom after that. And when I was a little older she told me more about it and basically just. ‘He loves All Might more than he loves me,’ she said. Not the person, but the… idea. Like the concept of All Might. It’s who my Dad was so driven to be since the very beginning and… My mom couldn’t take being secondary anymore… And I realized then that, I was part of that too. I didn’t need saving, so I came second. My mom put her hero career on hold to raise me but he, um, he just couldn’t do that. Who he was as a person was so, unfixably tangled up in becoming that All Might in his mind that, he couldn’t sacrifice that. Not for me. Not for my mom.

“And when they finally divorced, and he moved out and into this just… terrible tiny unfurnished apartment, which I only saw twice – two years apart – and both times it looked the same. Nothing in there. Almost like no one was really living there. A futon and a closet and a rice cooker in the corner and boxes and All Might merch on the wall.”

Shiki was 11, sitting on a packed cardboard box against the red-brick wall of his dad’s apartment. Still-packed boxes lined most of the walls, like a misshapen and dull lego construction. Red brick, brown cardboard, All Might smiling from every wall. It was an apartment unlived-in, and that aspect was nearly unfathomable to Shiki. His dad had been moved out for over four months.

“Pretty great, huh?” Deku said, gloved finger pointing to the wall of All Mights. Deku’s smile was bright, his excitement genuine. “The one on the far left was a limited release from 50 years ago. One of my super-fans tracked it down for me and mailed it. Can you believe it?”

Shiki nodded. All the posters looked the same to him.

“But um, after the divorce is when he really skyrocketed. Everything before was child’s play. I was… dizzy. I was 11, and starting middle school, and had just lost my dad only to have him be everywhere but… not my dad. Not there for me. But everywhere, on billboards, in newspapers, on television. Kids at school would hear my last name and they’d ask ‘Midoriya – Like Izuku Midoriya? Like Deku?!’ and I’d have to just say yeah while they applauded or like, even smacked me on the back sometimes like I had any choice in that, and would ask questions about him that, I couldn’t answer, cuz he wasn’t my dad anymore. His fans in my class knew things about him that I didn’t. Sometimes little things like favorite color but sometimes big things, whole things from his childhood that I never heard about. They’d ask me things about him and that’s when I realized I didn’t know my dad at all.”

Shiki glanced up, and saw Himura look away in embarrassment.

“He’d been kidnapped, as a kid, had saved Ground Zero twice, took down a murderer with Ice Razer and Ingenium, had his mentor die during a rescue mission. I had to hear these things from people I didn’t know. And I felt just, selfish, every time I learned something new. Especially the things that happened after I was born. Because how do you sit and hear someone tell you a story about the time your dad saved their grandma from a collapsed bridge and just… how can you justify feeling resentful about that? How selfish do you have to be to think, ‘he should have been spending that night at home with me and my mom, and not saving your grandma.’ I hated it. I started to hate hearing about him.”

His hands were shaking now, slightly, Shiki realized. His breathing too came in too fast and too raspy. He set his wrists back in the open restraints, and breathed out.

“And just… by the time I was 12, Dad made Top 20. And then when I was 13, he was Top 10. …And I think at that point he really, truly didn’t feel like my dad anymore. Because he was just, some God to the world. Someone people fawned over by the millions and, just, that was better, actually. Because I could really just act like he wasn’t my dad, had nothing to do with me. Maybe I was at peace with that. I could do the 20-minute phone calls once a week and be courteous with him and answer questions about school and just, move on…”

Shiki walked the same street every day to school, the same route with the same turns, the same backpack slung over one shoulder. But the scenery changed. New advertisements. New billboards. New screens projecting, dancing, twirling, screening, screaming. Deku brand hand cream. Deku brand baby clothes. Deku brand clutch purses. Headlines with stills of Pro Hero Deku printed on the front page. Upcoming: interview with Pro Hero Deku! Everywhere. Growing like mushrooms. The likeness almost like the one in Shiki’s mirror every morning. The likeness of a man quickly fading from memory, quickly replaced by advertisements and stills over flesh and blood. Shiki felt eyes on him, every day, from people who saw the resemblance. Or maybe not. Maybe he imagined it. Maybe no one was looking at him at all.

The wrist restraints were cold.

“And I started to see Mom less and less, around that time. I was old enough to take care of myself mostly so she, she took up patrolling again. Started rising the ranks quickly too… Mostly because the tabloids loved her, and circulated her name as much as they could, as the ex-wife of Deku… They said horrible things that I—still I—even thinking about them just. Vile horrible things about her and Dad, and why Dad left her, and why she left Dad, and ‘Deku fans’ piling on her calling her trash and filth and whore and, insulted her for keeping his last name until, eventually, she did change it back and… I stopped reading those but… that’s how hero work works. Whatever gets your name out there, and gets you recognized, so that your rescues get camera time and screen time and … She at least got to make her own name, once she got recognized. Her own rescue efforts spoke for themselves. Saved over 75 people from the rubble of a collapsed building and, s-she broke top-100 that same year. I wanted to be happy for her. I wanted to… but the house was so empty.”

13 year old Shiki unlocked the front door. He flicked the lights, and they blazed through the pitch blackness beyond the foyer. There was a sterile cleanliness inside, the subtle sting of lemon in the back of his throat. Between his mom’s new notoriety and his dad’s hefty child support, they could afford a personal cleaner now. Twice a week. She must have come. The apartment was spotless.

Shiki turned on the television and rooted through the cabinet and emerged with a box of cereal. He didn’t bother with a bowl. He sat on the couch instead, scrolling his phone with one hand, grabbing fistfuls of cereal with the other. The news mentioned ‘Uravity’ and Shiki turned it up. He listened to the reporters until they spiraled into her failed marriage with Pro Hero Deku, and Shiki listened no further.

He focused on his phone instead, cereal crunching. Most of the forums he followed were Uravity forums. He paused on a particular cross-posting, shared by someone irate over the click-bait bottom-feeding publications that drew readership with manufactured drama. Shiki read the headline. ~”‘She took our son!’ Pro Hero Deku sobs in a raw tell-all about the woman who broke his heart and tore apart his family to launch her own career.”~

There was a boy pictured in the article. The boy wasn’t even Shiki.

“I was 13 still, and we were moving from the apartment into a nice house, because Mom’s salary and Dad’s child support were now more than enough for a proper place. A nice place. And I did most of the house cleaning and packing myself since Mom was now so so busy… And I found, in the attic, my old box of toys, the gravity ball toys the—the ones where—me and Mom used to bop them back and forth and I… think I just… I threw them away. And the old newspaper clippings I kept about Dad. Threw them all away. Never made it to the new house. I hated them. I hated them.”

Shiki pressed his back against the attic wall, suddenly short of breath, static suddenly in his legs and rippling down his spine. He slid down, slowly, streaking the layer of dust along the wall, just like his hands had streaked away the dust on the boxes, gray lint filling the ridges on his finger tips. He stared at the layer of yellowed newsprint, the top article boasting ~”No Longer Just A Side-Kick? ‘Deku’ Makes His Agency Debut!”~

It filled him with revulsion, with a choking hurt in the ways that modern news headlines didn’t. He had forgotten the feeling associated with these old headlines. That old forgotten excitement of knowing that news outlets had come to acknowledge his dad’s existence.

Not his dad anymore. Not his. Izuku Midoriya lived in newsprint now. The media owned him, had stolen him slowly. A superhuman. A god. Not a husband. Not a father. Not Shiki’s.

“He called on the phone once a week. Just once a week, to talk about nothing. Until I was 14, that is. Once I turned 14, suddenly Dad was eager to be on the phone with me. And he’d act like he was interested in talking to me about normal stuff, but it always came back to U.A. Always U.A. Asking if I wanted to. Asking if I’d thought about it. Asking if I had any questions that he or Mom could answer about the school.”

Shiki’s voice caught.

“…Still… still makes me angry. And he just didn’t realize. I realized he had no idea. At all. Whatsoever. That what he’d done was… might have been wrong. I realized and it blew my mind. That nothing he did was ever, ever malicious. He was, is, thought he was a good person. Working so hard to save everyone. Absolute strangers. As many, as much, as endlessly eternally as he could. And he… thought I idolized that. That I looked at him and Mom and wanted to… do them proud and follow in their footsteps. And I saw him through… his own eyes I guess… and he was the world’s hero and the next All Might and the rising Symbol of Peace and he didn’t think he’d abandoned me, or Mom, he thought he’d just left us to catch up… I think he talked my mom back into heroing. Because they stayed friends, or ‘friends’, whatever you call two people who get along great so long as they ignore all the hurt between them. And… he… wanted me to enroll in U.A… THAT… was when I finally snapped at him, and we got family counseling.”

Silently, Matsuyama set his pen down, and he slid across the table a box of tissues Shiki had not noticed him take out. And Shiki took one, shocked to pad it against the stream of tears he hadn’t noticed rolling down his cheek. He stole one more glance into the mirror, ashamed of the puffy-eyed and blotchy-cheeked reflection. His dad’s freckles. His mom’s chestnut hair. He was designed piece-meal from them. No part his own. No part himself. The buzzing, overhead. Fly in the jar. Uncaring of gravity. Eternally confined to the jar’s unseeable walls.

“I saw Dad in person, for the first time in 2 years, when we went to that counselor.” Shiki let out a strained laugh. “I had literally… misremembered things about him. I had remembered him being taller but, the media just loved to prop him up at certain angles that made him taller. In street clothes, in person, he almost didn’t look like Pro Hero Deku. …And even smaller, when he cried. Because he did cry, during counseling, like honestly cried. And he apologized. I’d never – I didn’t think I would ever get an apology from him. Or like I couldn’t ask for one, didn’t deserve one, because that would be selfish. But he owned up to it… Dad cared. Dad was sorry. Dad had no idea I was this hurt. Dad thought I idolized heroes too and that he was making me proud. And I thought it would work. I thought we would finally fix this all.”

The counselor asks. The raw hurt of the session starts anew.

“I was finally able to tell him just, how invisible I felt to him. How selfish it made me feel. He listened. He cared. He stopped shilling for U.A. I went into a normal high school, one without a hero track. And the first weekend of the school year, Mom, me, and him went to an aquarium, and dinner at a fancy restaurant, and a play in the evening. I don’t like plays but, I liked that play. A lot.”

Shiki crumpled the used tissue in his hand, and then hid it beneath the table. It was wet and tainted and felt unclean in his hand, but there was no garbage can in sight, and he had nothing else he could do with it.

“And that was when Dad slipped a rank, that next month. From #7 to #8. It shouldn’t have mattered so much but, it did. He’d never fallen rank before… No actually, even worse, he’d never even stayed the same rank from one ranking release to the next. He was always climbing. For almost 20 straight years, always climbing, and this was the first time, the very first time he… Dad didn’t mention it. I didn’t mention it. But in my mind I’ve always blamed this as the like, as the turning point, toward turning back down. In reality I don’t know that for sure. Maybe our whole family was just, always destined to slip back on old habits, right from the start. It’s not like he or Mom ever went back on any promises or anything. But more like… Dad slowly stopped proposing weekend activities, and so did Mom. Until it was just me putting in that effort, and I couldn’t be the cause of him falling rank anymore. I couldn’t be the bad guy.”

Shikinori Midoriya’s blood ran cold. Red. The name, the arrow, downward-pointing, -1. Red. Red where there had only ever been green. “#8” in red, which bore no value and no merit beyond the unsightly embarrassment of being below #7.

There were sharks in the water.

Shiki knew it would be only hours until the most predatory, the most inflammatory think-piece writers pounced. Until hero forums buckled under every single anonymous layperson’s expert opinion on where, and how, and why Deku had stumbled. Was his rescue count down? Was his collateral coefficient up? Were merch sales dropping? Had his new figurine bombed? Had a hostage died? Had he yelled at a reporter? Was it the joint rescue with his money-grubbing ex-wife? His incident resolution was abnormally low two Saturdays back. Why? Where had he been? What was he thinking?

Shiki read the theories. He told himself to stop, but the scroll loaded endlessly. Some fans honed in on that weekend – the aquarium trip – fascinated by the dip in resolved incidents, circling like vultures, pecking, tearing, probing. They found an Instagram post from a fan spotting Deku in the crowd of the hammerhead exhibit, and the link got passed around like an electric current.

Had this happened a month ago, a year ago, Shiki might have just watched it unfold disaffected. Shiki’s chest ached now. He hurt for the man his mind had reconciled as his father, for the man who mimicked the guppies and pressed against the glass in the aquatic tunnel, cheeks puffed and scarred hands flapping by his ears. Shiki ached for the genuine laughter from his mother, who still loved this man and his guppy imitation. He ached for the reminder of what his family was, and what it wasn’t, and what it was punished for even trying to be.

“His agency and Mom’s started collaborating a lot. They were good together. Like really good. The two of them together, I saw a new story almost every week. Maybe I was even a little jealous but… it wasn’t something I wanted to be a part of, anyway. So I was fine with that. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t – and don’t – want to be a hero.

“I just kind of… tried to figure myself out as a person, by myself, during high school. I kept a low profile. Joined a math club. Only really talked to a few people most days. Had like, two people I sort of saw as friends. I started going by my mom’s name, Uraraka. Never told people who my parents were. And I think that was for the best, because I was still in school – I was 17 – when Dad claimed the #1 spot. …and I swear I would have had to transfer schools if my classmates knew I was Deku’s kid.”

“Front Page” did not begin to describe the explosion, the eruption, the maelstrom of obsession that gripped an entire nation’s heart and soul when Pro Hero Deku unseated the previous #1. The new report came just days after Deku performed his 10,000th recorded civilian rescue. In honor, dedicated fans had gone and compiled every drop of video coverage that ever graced Deku’s career. It was chronological, starting with grainy film 20 years’ outdated of a still-scrawny U.A. sidekick pulling a man out of rubble, and progressed like a time-lapse from there. A rescue counter sat super-imposed on the bottom-right, documenting the rescues as Deku grew taller, broader, more confident, more practiced, faster and stronger and beaming – always beaming – with a smile to instill hope in an entire nation. The whole montage was two hours in length, and it skyrocketed to the #1 trending.

A half-dozen other videos followed in its wake: a clip of Deku shaking hands with the President who pinned a simple, proper, dignified medal to the front of his costume. A shaking, trembling, sobbing hug with the skeletal and spindly public figure of Toshinori Yagi – previously known as All Might – who teared up along with Deku on stage. Chants of “Symbol”. Chants of “Peace”. Chants, louder than all others, of “Deku”.

Everywhere. Everywhere. Replaying. Tagged. Suggested. Trending. Featured. A kiss with Uravity, tender and subtle and full of passion. A handshake with Shota Aizawa, his first teacher, his long-time peer. Endless interviews with rescued victims. Tear-jerkers. A man named Kota recalling how Deku, at 15, saved him from a certain violent death. A woman named Eri detailing how Deku had taken her in his arms and rescued her from the depths of Hell.

Thousands others followed. Spine-tingling recounts from voices, with breath and warmth and life, who wouldn’t be alive without Deku. They heaped their praises on a man so endlessly driven, forward forward forward, that he could save 10,000 people, and 10,000 more, and everyone, and everything he could touch.

Shiki skipped school the whole next week. Hardly anyone noticed.

“So I got away. Far away. I figured out college all by myself, and got accepted to my top choice 1,000 kilometers away from Tokyo, and it was perfect for me, because maybe then I could figure myself out for a bit, away from everything. Mom asked me to reconsider when I finally saw her in person four days after I’d accepted. She’d been on a sting mission for two straight weeks. They saved fifty people. It earned her her spot as the #15 Hero. My dad had saved twice as many people in that time. Not that I heard it from him. I heard it on the news. I didn’t speak to him again until after I graduated.”

Shiki breathed. “College… was good. It was far away enough that I stopped being afraid of people recognizing me at a glance. I made real friends. I had real relationships. Got to know my professors. Took up tutoring and loved it. I… did things on the weekends, like with friends, went places, saw things, I was happy. Genuinely happy. All these things I never realized I was missing as a kid because I never realized I could have an identity outside of being just… Deku’s reject son. I stopped fearing that and started to be me. I traveled during school breaks. Took some pottery classes. Just… breathed.” Shiki’s hands fidgeted. “At least… until I graduated. And I realized there was a whole cliff I was standing over that I was just avoiding. I didn’t have a job lined up. I tried. For absolute certain. I lost count around the 75 application mark. Nothing. My college friends moved away. My funds were drying up. …I moved back home.”

One duffle bag, slung across his right shoulder, was all Shikinori Midoriya brought home with him. This big house from his teenage years was empty. Endless untouched rooms. Pristine duvets across the beds in all 5 bedrooms, including master. Empty dressers. Empty drawers. Not so much as fingerprints on the front doorknob. Only his mom lived here now, and Shiki fought with the blooming certainty he felt in his gut that she spent almost no time here at all.

Uravity was now the #7 hero. Her merch sales were particularly popular with girls ages 5-12. The money she raked it was enough to put her parents up permanently in a beach house in Hawaii. Money would likely never be a worry for her for as long as she lived. She likely never sold this home because it simply wasn’t worth the hassle.

Shiki set his bag down in his old room, bigger and cleaner and newer and nicer than his college apartment, and so much more a cage than it had ever been before.

Fly in a jar.

“Moving home was… a rough choice. I thought a lot, before that, about just asking Mom and Dad for money. They could definitely afford it. But I couldn’t… be that again, the reject son, some unwanted parasite, pilfering money. I just needed enough stability to get back into the job hunt and get back on my feet. I told Mom that much. I didn’t tell Dad. Didn’t even tell him I’d moved back home but, he found out from Mom. He wanted to see me. Wanted to talk to me. I’d ignored all his calls in college… I decided to bite the bullet and just, go into his office and see him. Let him lay eyes on his failure son. Get it over with. I told him about college, and about my job hunt, and just needing enough time to get back on my feet. And you know what he said?”

Matsuyama glanced up. His pen still trailed. “What did he say?”

“’I could use another accountant at the agency, even a receptionist, if you don’t want to deal with crunching numbers. Given some time and training… I could even use another side kick.’” Shiki looked up, locking eyes with Matsuyama, and blinked away the tears blurring his vision. “Math… was my best subject in school. I want… to be a math teacher. I’ve been sending out a hundred applications for teaching positions. Dad doesn’t know that. Dad… is still living in this world where everything is heroes. And of course he is! He’s lived there his whole life! He never left it! And he’s still waiting for me to join. Waiting for me to change my mind. Like time is the only factor. That world stole my parents and he… and he still thinks that, things can be fine, he can get his way. He thinks, I’ll do what my mom did, and play catch up to him. That I’ll come into my own. That I’ll join him in his hero world. Him and Mom both. That I would want anything to do with heroes. He won’t believe otherwise.”

Shiki struck an open palm against his chest. “Well he’s not getting that. He’s NOT getting this quirk! Not now! Not ever! I’m GETTING RID OF IT. I want to be part of Dr. Himura’s Quirk-Erasure study because, until I’m fully stripped of my Quirk, my Dad and my Mom won’t get it. I know – all those guys out in the waiting room? I know they’re all villains. Probably this whole study is villains, yeah?! They’re all people who’ve been offered reduced sentences if they willingly give up their quirk in this study. Maybe you have a few normal people with dangerous quirks who want to be rid of it but me. My quirk. I stand out, I know, I get it. Because gravity control is cool. And it’s harmless. So why would I want to get rid of it, permanently? This is why. Because everything I’ve spouted off, it, all that probably sounds like some villain-origin-story, yeah?? ‘My hero father never loved me so now he will pay.’ No. No heroes and no villains I’m sick of all of them. This ends here. This ends with me! No more heroes, no more villains. No more POWERS in the Midoriya blood line! This is a non-origin story. This is the origin of me! This is the start of me taking back what heroes took from me!”

Shiki’s breath caught in his throat. He felt the tears wetting his cheeks and knew he had no power to stop them this time, not with the mangled tightness in his chest, not with the hurt bubbling long-repressed to the surface. So he wiped hastily at his eyes, and he stared down at the desk below him.

“I’ve thought this through. I know what I want. I’m not being coerced. I’m of a sound mind and body. I just… want a normal, happy, powerless life. I want to be normal. And I need this final leap, to prove to my family once and for all they can’t have me. I need this control. I need this trump card. I need this final, unchangeable, irreversible option to make them get it. That they can accept me quirkless… or they can not accept me at all.” Shiki lowered himself, and set his eyes to his lap. “Please… Please, I’m begging you.”

Matsuyama let the pen clink to the table. Shiki could not get an accurate count, but at least 40 pages had been flipped over the clipboard’s spiraled top. Matsuyama unfurled these pages, and steadied their alignment, and tucked the board beneath his arm. His chair scraped back with an unholy shriek, and he stood.

“Thank you. We will let you know in due time about your candidacy in the study.”

Matsuyama motioned for the door.

“Wait…” Shiki swallowed. His mouth had gone dry. His ears were ringing slightly. “Can’t you tell me now?”

“The decisions have not been made. How can I tell you now?”

“What about just me then? Y-yes or no?”

“You will be informed in due time.”

“When? How soon?”

Matsuyama motioned again.

“Yes or no? Please. Can you let me be part of this or not?”

“The next patient is coming in, Shiki. See yourself out.”

…

Inko Midoriya’s apartment was small, and it was stayed, and it was comfortable. Her son had offered her time and time again to move her into a nicer place, but she always declined. This apartment was where she’d raised her family. These walls had memories. This was her home.

It felt almost like a memory, just now. Out of the corner of Inko’s eye, seeing the young man with curly hair and green eyes seated at her kitchen table was achingly familiar, the ghost of family dinners with her son.

10 minutes had passed since Inko pulled the rack of cookies from the oven, a warm miasma of buttery sweetness, and laid them out to cool. She grabbed one now, quick touches, experimentally, until the heat didn’t quite burn her fingers, and placed it on a plate. She did the same with a second cookie, and carried them like a server to the table where she took the seat opposite Shiki. He watched her, and accepted the cookie with a quiet ‘thank you’, and merely stared at it. He let the warmth wash across his face.

“I’m happy to have you back around Tokyo, you know,” Inko said quietly. She looked down at her own cookie, smiling slightly, and picked it up. “Happy to have someone to bake for.”

“I’m happy to see you too, Grandma. It’s been a while.” Shiki bit into his cookie. It was warm, and soft, and achingly comforting. Shiki wasn’t used to the taste of homecooked anything. It squeezed something in his ribcage, made him hurt in a gentle way. “It’s delicious,” he whispered, and raised the heel of his palm to wipe the wetness there.

“You can… you know you can stay with me, Shiki. I’d be happy. I want you to. I know it’s not as big a place as Ochaco’s home, but, Izuku’s old room is still here. There’s still… You could still…”

Shiki shook his head. “If I stay with you, it’ll be so much harder to leave. I’m still job hunting. No guarantees I’ll end up anywhere near here.”

The silence spread between them. The warmth of Shiki’s cookie wafted away, sapping off, like steam curling from a lake.

“…You don’t want to end up living around here, do you, Shiki?”

“Not if I can help it,” Shiki answered.

Inko turned in her chair, and motioned her hand toward the rest of the cookies cooling on the rack. Quirk activated, she pulled them each closer, and let them each fall onto the empty plate that sat between her and Shiki. Still gooey, they seemed to melt into each other, taking form of those beneath them. Inko nudged the plate closer to Shiki, encouraging him to take another.

He did. He bit the cookie. Warm.

“…I’m sorry, Shiki, about the study. I know you had your heart set on it.”

Shiki shrugged. “Matsuyama said there weren’t enough slots. He said he needed to prioritize better candidates. People who would really benefit from losing their quirk.”

Silence, again.

“It wouldn’t have changed things, you know. If it makes you feel any better, Shiki. You having a quirk was never the problem."

Shiki paused mid-bite. The lump in his throat made it too hard to swallow.

“How do you deal with it, Grandma? You’ve been dealing with it so much longer, right? Because I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”

Inko gave him a small smile that didn’t quite touch her eyes. “You’re right, but… I don’t think I have a good answer for you, Shiki. It’s lonely here. I miss him. I’m afraid for him. But maybe I’m just, maybe I’ve just gotten used to it. It’s been like this ever since he enrolled in U.A. Since he was little. It was what made him happy. I’m his mother, and I’m supposed to set aside my own feelings for my child.” Inko nudged the cookies toward Shiki again. “But you, that burden should never have been on you. Especially not as a child. I’m sorry, Shiki, I’m so sorry.”

“So he’s… always been like this, is what you’re saying, yeah? It wasn’t—it’s not just me he doesn’t want—”

“No. Not you. Definitely not you, Shiki,” Inko insisted. “It’s who he is. Who he’s always been. …Who he’ll always be, I think. Even when he was 3 or 4 years old, so small he fit in my lap… He’s… so incredibly kind, and so incredibly driven, and it’s a combination that breaks a mother’s heart. Because it meant he was always sacrificing himself for others in danger. Doing what All Might would do. But All Might doesn’t have a family; he doesn’t have children. I wonder, sometimes, who All Might left behind, to become who he was. If that’s who we are.”

Shiki put his cookie down. His hands curled in, and he looked at them, ridged fingertips, ridged palms, obligated to use them heroically or not at all. Marks he never asked for.

“But why did he have to be All Might? Why him? Why us? Ice Razer and Creati have a daughter. They dote on her. They love her so much it’s embarrassing. I’ve met her, once, at a reunion thing that Mom and Dad had. And I was angry at her. How much she smiled. How you can just see how proud Ice Razer is, in his eyes, every time he looks at her. Ice Razer was on track to be the #1 hero, ahead of Dad, and he’s said publicly that he no longer cares about his ranking if it means being there for his family, because his dad never was. Dad didn’t… Dad never… He was putting in 120 hour weeks, at the time Ice Razer’s daughter was born, when I was sitting home waiting up for him, because old news headlines estimated that All Might put in 119 hour weeks in his prime, and Dad had to be that. Ice Razer visits his mother! When was the last time Dad came to see you, Grandma?”

Inko Midoriya responded with only a sad smile. “It’s been a while.”

“Ground Zero and Red Riot. Their adopted son, I’ve met him too. You wouldn’t think Ground Zero of all people would be any kind of good father but… he is… apparently… And that’s… fuck, you know what? That’s all I want to be. A good dad. That’s all! I want to teach math, and I want to fall in love with a girl, and marry her, and I want to be there. Just be there. For my kid. I want to spend every weekend with my family. I want to be around for every dinner. I want to help with homework. And I want no one – no villains and no heroes – to ever know my name. Is that too much, Grandma? Is it selfish of me to want that… and to want Mom and Dad to still love me too?”

Shiki’s voice cracked. He hadn’t meant for it to. He hadn’t meant for his composure to slip, or for those final words to come out. He hadn’t meant to open up that hollow ache in his chest, where that fear sat deep and rotten.

His next words were wet. “Is it too selfish of me to just want them to be proud of me?”

“Oh, oh Shiki…” Inko shoved her chair back. Hands extended, she rounded the table, and she wrapped her arms around Shiki. Kind hands, kind like Shiki was not used to. His vision blurred, and he pulled a hand up to wrap around Inko’s arm, and he leaned into her.

“I told him, Grandma…” he muttered, voice still wet. “…I told Dad that I got accepted to Matsuyama’s study. I told him I already went through with it.”

“What?”

Shiki shook his head. “I know it was wrong. I just… I hoped. I don’t know. I just wanted him, maybe, for once… I don’t know…”

“What did he say?”

Shiki shrugged, his movement muted under Inko’s hug. “I don’t know. I hung up. I just hung up.”

…

The beach air was cold, and it was briny. Wind curled off the lapping waves, spritzing All Might’s face with a spray of ocean water that was not wholly unpleasant. It reminded him of a time long-since passed.

The sound of footsteps met his ears. He did not turn, not immediately. All Might breathed in the ocean air a little longer.

“How… how have you been?” The voice – the man beside him – asked.

“Oh, you know. Same old same old. I’ve got this pesky ache in my knee that’s catching up to me. Recovery Girl recommends I start doing some swimming exercises. I’ve been considering it. It might suit these old bones.”

“Oh! I know a few gyms nearby with pool facilities. I-I can get you into them, you know, for free. I’m sure I could—”

All Might held a hand up. “What, do you think I don’t still have connections of my own, Young Midoriya?”

“S-sorry.”

All Might turned properly now, catching sight of Izuku Midoriya, a man so accomplished in the public eye looking familiarly helpless at his side. This beach held memories. Izuku was hardly recognizable from the first day All Might had brought him here for training, and in other ways, he looked exactly the same.

“You called me here to talk about Shikinori, right?” All Might continued. He stared back out at the sea, dark and getting darker. The sun has set 10 minutes prior. “You said he lost his quirk.”

Izuku remained quiet.

“He… had it taken away. He chose to do it, he said.”

“Why?”

Again, silence settled between them. All Might looked back, scanning Izuku’s face, taking in a look mangled with confusion and concern, unsettled and helpless. Not the beaming face on television. Not the endless smile to instill fear in the hearts of villains.

“…I think it was because of me,” Izuku finally answered.

Waves, lapping to shore. All Might found himself watching them again. “A quirkless life is not so bad. These past 30 years have been peaceful for me.”

Static settled in the air around them. Rolling ocean. Gentle wind.

All Might let out a small sigh. “What advice are you looking for, from me, Young Midoriya?”

“I… need to know if this is okay with you. If my plan is okay with you,” Izuku answered.

“As your concerned mentor, I’ve found I don’t like most of your plans,” All Might answered. “What is your plan?”

“Shikinori lost his quirk because of me… I wasn’t there for him. I wasn’t… I wasn’t a good father to him, I think. I was waiting for him to come to me but. I messed up. I need to go to him now. I can think of only one way I have to make it up to him.” Izuku looked up. Conflict pulled at his pained expression, and his fist curled. “Maybe, if I give him One for All, I can fix this.”

Another spritz of ocean spray hit the shore. All Might could feel the salt crystalizing on his face.

“I was right. I don’t like your plan.” All Might turned, and took a step toward Izuku, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “No. That’s my answer. No, I do not approve.”

Izuku seemed to buckle, just a little. He curled one hand in and rested it on All Might’s, still on his shoulder. The shadows of nightfall hid his eyes, but not his mouth, pained and strained at the corners. “Then what can I do to fix this?”

“Why do you think that giving Shikinori One for All would fix this in the first place? Do you really believe that his quirk is the root of the problem? Do you?”

Izuku’s hand trailed down. He shook his head, slowly. The words that came out were pained. “Ochaco and I… are back together again. We’re making this work. We’re… we’re putting the pieces of our family back together. We just need Shikinori. I just want him back with us…”

“…I told you this 20 years ago, Young Midoriya, and I’ll tell you it again. And it will hurt worse now to hear it, because you didn’t follow my advice the first time--”

“I thought I could do both.”

“—You cannot be the Symbol of Peace and have a family. There aren’t enough hours in a lifetime. …I left people behind—”

“I know.”

“—people I cared about. People who cared about me. I hurt them, and I knew I hurt them—”

“I know.”

“And that was my choice. I made that decision. Because protecting the peace of the whole world… that was more important to me than the people I hurt. I carry the burden of that decision every day. …I told you, 20 years ago, that you had to make that decision too.”

“I know, I just thought maybe, with both Ochaco and me—”

“And you did. You did make that decision. You’re the Symbol of Peace, and I’m proud of you for that, …and you’ll have to carry that same burden, too, of that decision you made.”

Izuku’s hand was curled around All Might’s sleeve now. He was smaller now than the man who first arrived at the beach, and so, so much smaller than the Symbol of Peace lauded in headlines across the nation. His shoulders trembled. Tears dripped down the curvature of his nose, lost to the briny sand below.

All Might continued. “This is one piece of advice I can give you… Stop saddling Shiki with that same burden… Don’t give him that weight to bear. Don’t trap him in the world of heroes. Let him go.”

Izuku pulled in a shuddering breath, and he steadied his shoulders.

“…I failed him, didn’t I, All Might…?”

Another lap of waves at the shore, forging eternally onward. There was an ache in All Might’s knees, a rattle to his old bones, a pain that never ceased throbbing in his side. He wondered how long ago it had been, exactly, since he first made this decision himself. How many pulls of the tide since he last saw his mother. How many moons since the earth had reclaimed her. How many breaths of wind had passed since the very last time she thought of him.

He wondered, not for the first time, if it had been selfish of him to trade her, and everyone else away for the protection of all the people he’d never known or loved.

All Might reached down, and he pulled Izuku into a hug. Come daylight, Izuku would have to smile again, on every television and every billboard and every broadcast and every rescue. For now, All Might figured, it was fine to let him cry.

“…Yes. I’m sorry. I’m to blame for this too. I pulled you down this path. But… yes. You failed him.”

All Might ran a hand over Izuku’s hair as his cries grew louder. All Might wondered if Izuku had ever held Shiki like this. He wouldn’t know. All Might wasn’t a father. All Might had no son. Whether that was selfish or selfless, he still did not know.

The wind picked up to a howl, and it swept into shore, and it drowned Izuku’s cries beneath it.

By tomorrow, Izuku would be smiling on the news.

By tomorrow, Shiki would be on a train to an interview far north in Akita.

By tomorrow, Inko would be alone again.

#boku no hero academia #bnha #my hero academia #mha #bnha fanfiction #long post #so ive been writing this fic since OCTOBER #its transcended all emotional relation to me and now simply IS #(i remember years ago the Read More function broke on mobile and i hope thats NOT the case now)#if so: my sincere apologies

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mor-beck-more-problems · 3 years

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Secrets & Fury || Morgan & Blanche Feat. Agnes Bachman

TIMING: Current

LOCATION: Bachman House Ruins

PARTIES: @harlowhaunted & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Morgan and Blanche make contact with the past. The truth is not meant to soothe.

CONTENT: brief mentions of suicide

The only thing left of what had once been the Bachman House was a few outer support beams and a wall, sticking out of the ground in a way that wouldn’t have been possible unless the ground swallowed the house whole. Which, in fairness, it did. Blanche remembered Morgan, Cassie, and herself throwing themselves out of the home and into the adjacent garden as the ground trembled and swallowed the cursed house… Blanche had never asked Morgan where the house went. Was the house still lingering below the soil or had it disappeared somewhere else entirely? Blanche stared at the dirt, grimacing at the patches of weeds that had feebly tried to break through to no avail, and decided that she would ask ahat at different time. There were no spirits here, not this time. The cool chill that ran up Blanche’s spine from time to time was the cold December air… And the dark, leafless trees that loomed around the area as if they were watching her. As Blanche painstakingly drew the circle in the dirt, she couldn’t help but feel as if she was doing this in front of an audience. Like this was a final test to see if it was worth it -- if she was worth it.

The silver, jeweled barrette kept her blonde hair out of her face, and every once in a while, she would reach up to run her fingers along the smooth, teal gemstones encrusted on the trinket. It made her feel better. Blanche remembered what Jasmine said about Focal Points, and even if it was false, at least it gave her peace of mind. At least it brought her closer to the one she missed most of all. Even that made her feel more powerful than before.

This was what she was doing when Morgan arrived. Blanche glanced at her, her hand falling back to her side as she gave her a strained smile. “Hey,” she said softly, and she grabbed her pink lighter from her pocket. Time to light the candles. “You can put it in the middle of the circle. What you brought of Agnes’, I mean.”

Morgan had tried to come early. She hadn’t been to the old Bachman house for even a drive-by hello since it had tried to collapse with her, Blanche, and Cassie in it. She couldn’t see the place as a benign victim of circumstance after having to face off against Hannah Bachman, hearing the ways she mimicked her own mother in her brand of cruelty. Pulling alongside the street now made her feel as though the wood and nails had been as complicit as Constance in the horrible things that had happened here. What she had expected to find, to get used to, she wasn’t sure. All she knew now was that Blanche had beaten her to the punch and settled into a circle inside the ruins. That’s what happened when you got too anxiously punctual people together, she guessed. “Fancy seeing you here,” she said wryly. “Our appointment isn’t for another ten minutes, Blanche.” She reached into her bag and took out the arm bone she had stolen from Agnes’ grave, wrapped in fabric. Deirdre had been able to identify her with just a touch: thick dark hair like Morgan’s, large eyes that were brown instead of blue, and an anguished look as she laid down in a rickety bed and worked a pillow around half her face, a pistol in her hand. She had been crying, Deirdre said. Morgan couldn’t think of any other way she might have gone, not with what she’d been made to live with. “Genuine, banshee-identified great great grandma Agnes,” she said softly. Agnes’ family title sounded strange, knowing that she had died only a few years older than Morgan. They felt more like equals now, women who had been ground up and bent into the wrong shape, who were tired, who just needed to catch a break for once. Morgan sat down just outside the circle, careful not to disrupt any of the markings. “You um...when you bring them here, you don’t have to see how they died, right Blanche? I mean, she’ll look…” Like there’s a massive exit wound on the side of her skull. “How she did when it happened. But that’s not something you have to carry, is it?” Morgan asked.

“I’m nothing if not efficient,” Blanche replied. The grin on her face didn’t quite reach her eyes, though she was pleased to see that Morgan looked alright. Blanche had been here for forty-five minutes already, but she wasn't’ about to tell Morgan that - she sought out the flattest part of the ruins and spent an absurdly long time drawing the circle. She looked sharply at Morgan, the question burning in her throat. How did great, great Grandma Agnes die? Not that it mattered, because she would do the seance no matter what, but she couldn’t help but think of the bullet wound inside Sammy’s skull and Winn’s chest, and how Bea’s head never sat quite right on her shoulders… But Blanche shook her head. “I’ve seen some pretty gruesome deaths,” she said. Blanche didn’t know Agnes, so she hoped her appearance wouldn’t stay burned into her memory like her friends. There was some part of her that knew this wasn’t true, she remembered spirits maimed in all sorts of ways… But as Blanche finished lighting her candles, she stood, brushing the dirt off her jeans. “She’ll look how she chooses too,” Blanche said, “If she’s been around since she died… Then she’ll probably have learned to change her appearance by now. But if she hasn’t or she doesn’t want too…” Blanche reached to fiddle with the hair clip in her hair again, chewing on her lip in thought. “That’s her choice. It won’t prevent us from doing what we’re here to do.” She examined her circle for the upteenth time, looking for imperfections. She could find none. With a small breath, she looked back to Morgan. “Are you ready, Morgan?” She waited for Morgan to nod, before going to settle into the dirt.

Blanche took a few deep breaths, glancing over at Morgan to really make sure she was ready, before she began reciting the sanskrit. The power Blanche felt flowing through her and the circle was almost on par with the deep seeded resentment in her soul. It was strange and exciting and somehow different than when they had been in her apartment. It was a mistake, Blanche decided, to not have come here the first time. Wind howled around them, the flickering of the candles erratic but never going out as it circled them. She was clear headed, drawing her energy from the back of her mind - rather, the back of her head, she supposed, where her great grandmother’s clip lay. She focused on that as she opened the portal of communication, the chilling wind whining in protest as she pushed forward. It was tiring, but slowly, a woman flickered into sight. Slowly, her transparent form grew stronger, and Blanche could make out her features and the frumpy old clothes she wore. With a push forward, Blanche ended the opening of the ritual.

“Are you Agnes Bachman?” Blanche asked, glanced at Morgan for confirmation before anything else.

Morgan kept her eyes trained on the center of the circle, like letting her hair blow the wrong way might turn everything around for the worse. She heard the wind in her ears, saw the small candle flames surge on their wicks. Doubt gnawed in her stomach, she’s not coming, she’s not here and she’s not coming and I’m never gonna know what really happened. Shit, was she awful for trying to reach out with her will and pull her toward them? For wanting her to be stuck here all this time, just to have someone she could talk to? Morgan didn’t have time to find an answer inside herself. A silhouette formed in a circle, then a face.

“Oh, shit…”

Agnes Bachman didn’t have a hole in her head. Her wavy hair hung just below her jaw, styled in waves Morgan had seen in fashion panels from the 1910’s. She had loose housecoat, or maybe it was just a regular day coat that had been retired after getting too big and patchy, hung heavy on her frame. (Morgan couldn’t figure out how that worked, the woman before her didn’t have a body, so how could anything be loose or tight or anything in between? And yet just from looking at her, Morgan could imagine the pointy ends of her joints and the ridges on her stomach from going hungry on and off for years.) She had a bemused half smile, one that was way past surprise, and a face that looked hauntingly like the one Cece had pulled out of the magic trunk. “It’s you,” Morgan whispered. “This whole time, I’ve been looking at… Agnes.”

“Is there someone else I would be?” Agnes asked. She had a high, tired kind of voice, not unlike the wind that had swelled around them only a minute ago. It was a reedy voice, torn up from too many cigarettes. Smoking was unladylike in Agnes’ time, but maybe she’d stolen her husband’s cigarettes, or bummed some off people with more money. Maybe after a certain point she had decided not to care. She looked around, taking in what was left of the house, the hole in its core, the stars above and the jagged, splintered ruins reaching through it like so many broken fingers. “I remember this place.” She scoffed, smirking. “It feels a shame I’m not more surprised to see it in pieces. You’re supposed to bond with the place you grow up. It’s how you maintain your ties with the earth.” She turned back to them, gesturing self consciously around her temples. “Is anyone gonna tell me what this party’s about...?” The smile she gave each of them was thin, like she was afraid something bad was going to happen. How often had she been blamed or yelled at for Constance’s mess? “One of you has to know something, if you’re pulling me cross-country to my old house.”

“Y-yes. I mean...we...uh…” Morgan fumbled for words and gaped at Blanche, silently asking for help.

Awestruck by her success, Blanche stared at Agnes in a sort of wonder. The wind grew calm around them, still lightly tugging at loose hairs and flame to let them know it was still there. She had done it. She pulled Agnes Bachman back here. Blanche gaped right back at Morgan, suddenly speechless herself. All coherent thoughts flew out of her head and suddenly she forgot how to speak any language whatsoever.

“Wha-” Blanche stuttered, and then realized she was the one supposed to be running this ‘party’. She almost leapt to her feet, but stayed rooted to the spot so she wouldn’t jostle the circle. “Agnes,” Blanche tried again. “My name is Blanche Harlow. I’m a local medium in White Crest. This is Morgan Beck, she’s your great, great Granddaughter. I’ve… We, rather… We’ve contacted you because we want to ask you about the past, specifically relating to Constance Cunningham.” Her words were formal, but they were at least confident.

“Is it alright if we ask you a few questions?”

Agnes hadn’t stopped looking at Morgan since she’d appeared. Morgan straightened her shoulders under her gaze and angled her head this way and that, trying to find the angle that would give her the most ‘respectable impressive descendant’ look, not that she knew what that was. Agnes smirked at Blanche’s fumbling and Morgan noticed an array of little smile wrinkles that gave her some comfort. She must have been happy, or something like it, for a little while.

“I should tell you,” Agnes said, leaning in with a conspiratorial look, “I told my kids not to settle down, so they maybe wouldn’t have any of their own. But I’m not surprised they didn’t listen to me. Kids never do, so don’t get any ideas.” She squinted taking in more of Morgan. “But that’s not going to be a problem for you, is it, sweetie?”

“No,” Morgan whispered. “I mean, I have a...I haven’t really discussed it with my girlfriend, we’re gonna wait fifty, maybe a hundred years first. That’s the kind of family planning you get with a zombie and a banshee!” She laughed, shrill and pained. Was this how you were supposed to talk to your grandmother? Did it matter when she only looked five years older than you? “I died. Because of the family curse. Seven months and change, so I’m still adjusting. But it’s fine! I mean, it’s not, but it will be.” She gripped her wool skirt, fighting the urge to crawl closer to Agnes.

“Girlfriend, you say? I’ve seen things get better for some girls like that in the last hundred years. I should’ve figured it ran in the family. Mama was right about something after all.” The smirk she gave was bitter, scratching an old scab on her heart, and if Morgan hadn’t already heard about Hannah Bachman’s dismay from Leah, she would’ve seen the cut her response had left in Agnes’ face. “Your death, sweetie, does that mean the magic doesn’t touch you anymore? Whatever you and your girl do, are you safe from it?”

Morgan nodded, eyes beginning to well. “Yeah, we are. The curse didn’t follow me after. We’re good. It’s just uh…” She looked sidelong at Blanche. “It’s Constance? She’s here and she is…” Evil. Cruel. A walking nightmare. “Really, really determined to make up for what her curse can’t do anymore. And I...we were wondering...if you could tell us what really happened. I read Lucrecia’s diary, but I want the truth from you. And before you say anything, I don’t blame you. I don’t know where it started in the family, but I know you didn’t deserve to carry this like it was all your fault, and I don’t blame you for what she did.”

Agnes straightened up. “I can’t talk about Constance,” she said flatly. “And the person who started that story was me, because it was true.” She turned to Blanche. “Can you put me back somewhere? It doesn’t have to be home, I don’t much like my new grave. But somewhere else, please.”

Blanche thanked every God that may or may not have existed that she had excellent memory recall. She backed off of Agnes, ready to do what she, as a private investigator trainee, did best: listened. The true extent of the Bachman curse had been made apparent to her when Morgan died violently in the middle of town and became a zombie, but Constance never put into thought that there could be life after death… Funnily enough, Blanche hadn’t put that much thought into it either, before she met Remmy. Blanche rested her hands in her lap, leaning forward on her knees as she concentrated on keeping the line of connection open.

“You can’t talk about Constance? Or you won’t talk about Constance?” Perhaps Blanche’s voice was a little sharper than it needed to be, but she wasn’t here to pull punches. She was here for the truth. After the truth was known… Well, then she could deal with Agnes. Agnes, from what she felt, would need to move on. But one ghost problem at a time. This seance wasn’t for Agnes, it was for Morgan. And, to an extent, though Morgan could never find this out, it was for Constance too. Constance deserved closure and peace - the last thing Blanche wanted for her was to Cordelia or Lauren Langley.

Blanche leaned back, her head tilting to the side slightly as she examined the ghost. “Don’t you want to make sure the right one is known?” Maybe she didn’t, though. Blanche pressed her lips together for a moment. “I won’t be sending you anywhere,” she said, “Until we get some answers. And I’ll have you know… I’m very persistent.”

“Is there much of a difference as far as you’re concerned?” Agnes asked. Her squinting gaze turned on Blanche, running up and down to appraise her. Morgan’s mother had a similar look when she was trying to worm out of a conversation she didn’t want to have, but Morgan didn’t get the sense that Agnes was looking for points of weakness or ways to hurt Blanche. It looked more like she was working a puzzle. “If people think badly of me, it’s because I got the ball rolling. I don’t have any right to be sore about any tall tales that have gotten rolled into the truth.” She looked at Morgan again, smiling in a sad way that made the zombie’s heart lurch. “You should blame me. And I am sorry, I will always be sorry, for my part in your death. Even if it means you get to wait a hundred years to have a family with a woman you love--” she paused, staring off somewhere Morgan couldn’t follow. “It shouldn’t cost you what it has. Death is too high a price, especially after what you must have suffered. It’s not much of a life to begin with.”

“Don’t say that,” Morgan whispered. “I know you’re...yes, I was miserable and I didn’t get to do anything I set out to, but you didn’t cast the spell. You didn’t take one falling out and turn it into a hundred plus years of--”

“No.” Agnes’ voice turned to rock while somehow never rising above her quiet. “No, Morgan. I’m not going to discuss it in those terms. Or at all.” Agnes looked over at Blanche, checking to see if her point had been effectively made, but Agnes had never gone up against Blanche ‘I do what I want’ Harlow. She withered under the young woman’s look and pursed her lips as her position sank in.

“Listen,” Morgan said gently. “I’m going to get her back for what she did to you, to all of us. However hurtful, however awful or complicated, it didn’t merrit what she did for retribution. I’m going to make sure she…” Morgan winced, not wanting to throw her position in Blanche’s face. Of all her friends, she had been the most honest, and the most kind, about her position. “I’m going to make us even.”

Agnes’ face dropped with horror. “You what? You can’t. Sweetie, whatever you’re up to, you can’t do that to her. You have no idea what she--It was my idea to run away! I made her take all the risks. Crafting the glamours that would make us look older, hiding the money I’d stolen in her tree, hiding travel clothes, securing our transport. My mother watched me at all times, I was afraid we wouldn’t stand a chance if I slipped away somewhere I couldn’t explain. I was selfish and I was scared and I made her do everything for me, and then I--” She looked helplessly at Blanche again, her wish transparent in her eyes: please, please. “I let her fall for me too,” she said. “We were caught, the morning we were set to leave. Constance told the truth and I--I didn’t. She had given a story and I knew we were sunk and I wouldn’t see the light of day for weeks unless I did something different. I--”

Agnes’ reedy voice seemed to snap. Her silent appeals to Blanche were going nowhere; the medium only stared her down harder than before. And every, “hey,” and “you don’t have to be afraid,” that Morgan gave only seemed to make her more desperate.

“I said she was kidnapping me. That she’d hurt me.” Agnes said at last. “We had stolen pistols from the Logan’s house to protect ourselves. I told my mother to check her reticule, where I’d told her to put them and she thought it was proof. I didn’t know they were going to tell everyone or turn her into a pariah. I thought she would be run out of town, dropped on the nearest cart, never to return. I had no illusion of being forgiven, but gods help me, I did not know my mother would leave her with nothing and make her live like some poor animal. When I realized, it was too late.” Agnes clenched her airy fists, fighting the impulse to cry. “I would like to go back now. Send me back now and have done with it.”

Morgan tried to reach for her, forgetting everything except how badly she wanted to know the woman in front of her. “No, you can stay, Agnes. It doesn’t matter what happened before—”

“Now. I want to be gone now. Please. I will not answer anything else. I won’t.”

Anger was an emotion Blanche was used to, and the more Agnes said, the more angry she got. Fury and disgust twisted into her stone faced expression as she sat there, her arms crossed as Morgan and Agnes conversed. Finally, with a wail, Agnes turned to her, begging to be set free. “Coward,” Blanche said unkindly. “You’re a coward.” Blanche pushed herself up to her knees, as if she was going to move to stand. She didn’t, however, because her energy was being spent in keeping the connection open. Still, Blanche’s eyes flashed angrily.

“I’m not naive enough to say Constance is blameless. Constance is to blame for a lot of things -- Morgan’s death and the subsequent death of others in her path for revenge - but you…” Blanche shook her head, “You chose wrong and you lied. You lied to save yourself and threw the one you loved under the bus.” Blanche scoffed in disgust. Never before had she felt such anger towards another ghost. The closest that came was Lauren Langley, but even that held a different sort of anger than the rage that bubbled in the pit of her stomach now. If she could, she’d throw a fist in Agnes’ face.

“You are not to blame for Constance’s actions,” Blanche said, folding her arms over her chest. “She is able to make her own decisions and do what she will but… You are to blame for hurting her. You are to blame for lying. You are to blame for the misery that was thrust upon her as punishment for a crime she did not commit. You lied because you were a coward. And that -” Blanche jabbed a finger at Agnes. “- Is what you should feel remorse for. That is what you need to reflect on. And then you’ll be able to move on.” While Constance was on a warpath for vengeance that would end up destroying her. It was hard not to blame Agnes for everything.

With a sweep of her hand, the wind howled around them, growing louder as Blanche recited the end of the ritual that would close the communication with Agnes. She didn’t want to hear what Agnes had to say, even as her pain stricken face was seared into Blanche’s mind even as she disappeared from the circle. The wind quieted and the candles surrounding them extinguished. The ritual was over. Blanche slumped back into the dirt, exhausted, but too angry to give in to sleep.

“All of this…” Blanche said, sneering at the place Agnes once stood. “Because of a cruel lie…”

Morgan flinched at Blanche’s words as if they had cracked against her skin. She called out her name, trying to interrupt, “That can’t be the whole story, there has to be something else…” But Blanche’s fury had found its target, and though Morgan couldn’t fathom why, she understood that it would not let go. “Don’t be cruel. Blanche, please!” But please only got Blanche to say the words that would send Agnes back to wherever she had been before. Morgan grasped at the air as Agnes vanished, her face shut and clenched with shame. Something in the air lifted, like heat diffusing a cold room. Morgan continued to stare into the circle. There had to be something else. Maybe Hannah Bachman was the real culprit, for making her daughter so afraid that she wanted to run away in the first place. Maybe Agnes had sensed something unstable, even dangerous in Constance and took her change to back out rather than run away with someone who was willing to sign off on the misery of generations of people. There had to be something, because if Morgan’s family had been right about Agnes, then how was she supposed to split her vengeance between them? Who was she destroying Constance for besides herself if Agnes had tried so hard to beg her not to? Morgan’s gaze dropped from the air where Agnes had just sat and down to her own hands: discolored around the nails because she was between meals, protected by gold cuff bracelets on her wrist, so no one would see the bite that made her what she was. Ruth Beck hadn’t cared a wit that she was going to be avenged, Morgan wasn’t even sure if she believed it. Morgan’s father had lost his last tie to the earth when he saw her happy with Deirdre. Deirdre herself insisted the choice was hers to determine. And now the memory of Agnes’ horrified face stood frozen in Morgan’s memory. Was it still fair, and still enough, if this was for her satisfaction and hers alone?

“She was just…” Young? Stars above, could Morgan really say that without it getting thrown back in her face two seconds later? “She was scared. She didn’t know what was going to happen and we don’t know why she really…” Threw someone she supposedly loved under the bus. If Hannah was so dangerous, enough to run away from, why wouldn’t Anges have figured out that Constance was going to suffer without her protection? Wouldn’t that have been obvious? Was her ignorance to the consequences just another lie too? Morgan shivered, frowning into the ground. She was long used to disappointment, but she hadn’t thought that meeting Agnes would leave her more confused than when she’d started. “I don’t know,” Morgan sighed. Nothing she put together in her mind fit the way she wanted it to. “Whatever, why-ever she really did anything, she paid for it with her life and a hundred years of being hated.” Slowly, she lifted her gaze to Blanche, scrutinizing her expression. She had seemed more invested in Morgan’s family drama than she had before. Morgan had taken great care to keep her out of it as much as possible. “What was that all about, just a minute ago?” She asked gently. “I’ve never seen you like that with a ghost before. Is everything okay…?”

She was just - Blanche almost snarled the word ‘young’ right back at Morgan. Constance was just as young. She was nineteen. Blanche could remember, back in high school, where her only long term boyfriend broke up with her and how devastated she had been. If that situation had been anything like Agnes’, which it hadn’t, and Logan had wronged her in some type of way, Blanche would have wanted to curse him and his entire family too. The thought was snide, and filled with anger. She realized, with a start, that she was two seconds away from defending Constance’s honor, and that wasn’t right either. Constance had done wrong, Blanche reminded herself, her palms suddenly sweaty. She hadn’t meant to, mostly, of course. Maxine had been an unfortunate accident, and the incident with Nell… Blanche wanted to believe that she really didn’t know that Nell had been in the car until it was too late. And Morgan had said intentions matter. Blanche wanted to believe that, and she wanted Constance to give up this calling of vengeance on Morgan’s family because at the end of the day, Morgan hadn’t done anything wrong. Morgan hadn’t done this to Constance. Agnes, she thought the name with disgust, started this.

But that didn’t make Morgan’s target goal right either. She had the cold reminder that Morgan’s end goal was to torture and erase Constance from existence. The thought of her being in pain made Blanche… Well, it made her sick to her stomach. Constance didn’t deserve that. She needed to be at peace while she was still able. At least, then, she would be happy. She would be able to move past what Agnes had done, and it wouldn’t have to lock her into a toxic storm of resentment and fury. At Morgan’s question, though, Blanche’s palms frew more sweaty, and she wiped them on her jeans. “I wasn’t wrong,” Blanche mumbled to her shoes, shaking her head. She refused to look at Morgan, instead turning to start gathering her things in her back. Her face had flushed, but it had been a little pink already from the anger she burst out with during the seance and from the exhaustion the clung to her. “In order to move on, Agnes needs to come to term with her choices she made while she was living. She can’t do anything to change them, not now,” Blanche’s lip curled in disgust as she carefully stuck the candles in her bag, straightening to sling it over her shoulder. She went to the magic circle she had so carefully carved into the dirt with a sharp stick and some chalk and destroyed it. While Blanche hadn’t listened to Granny’s teachings, she did remember that Granny said to never leave a circle unattended, just in case. Finally, she reached up and pulled the jeweled, silver hairpin from her hair, letting her blonde hair tumble down. Carefully, she put that in a separate pocket of her backpack. Her shoulders slumped tiredly and looked at Morgan, “I’ll talk to her again soon,” Blanche said, decidingly. “I’ll call upon her again and speak her more closely, once… this is all over.”

Silence froze and bristled around them; Morgan held her tongue. Blanche’s ire was hot and sharp as a needle fresh out of the fire. She didn’t have to say a word for Morgan to know she was angry at her too. For Constance. For being “unfair.” Maybe if she wasn’t the one crushed over her whole life and promptly murdered, Morgan could understand these good for nothing principles, or whatever strange projection was going on from Blanche’s angle. She’d confounded people on moral questions before. Only the stars above knew how many passes she gave Deirdre, and that was just for starters.

“No,” Morgan admitted quietly. “But I never said you were. That wasn’t my point.” The point was that Agnes’ mistake should have only destroyed two people, at most. Tragic, but contained. Constance had driven Agnes to the kind of misery that made her want to end her life. And then proceeded to do the same to every other Bachman descendant, those who weren’t horribly killed by her meddling out right. It was unbalanced to the point of grotesque. What pity, what understanding was there left when Constance’s last stand was with someone she’d never met, except to try and destroy? At least Morgan was taking a stand for her own family.

“If there’s another way to get Agnes to White Crest, some way she can be around without a circle, I’ll look after her so you don’t have to keep your hotel for ghosts open longer than you already have to. She’s my family, I should at least try to help her. I want to.” And she wanted to understand why Agnes was so opposed to her finishing this ugly game Constance had turned their lives into. Seeing Ruth’s total apathy at the news had been one thing, but Agnes’ horrified face sat heavy and sick in Morgan’s stomach. She shouldered her bag and dusted herself off, looking down at Blanche with guarded concern. “I still don’t know why you’re so determined to help me, but thank you, Blanche.” She reached out a hand to pull her up. “You need anything right now?” She asked quietly. The differences between them felt as strong as the similarities in this moment, certainly nothing that could be solved with a trip to a diner or a few twenties stuffed into Blanche’s bag. But Morgan was tired of losing people, and she had a sick, prickly feeling in her stomach, almost like guilt, and she was desperate to be rid of it.

It was a strange fury that had settled in Blanche’s stomach, and she didn’t understand it. Blanche knew Morgan held different opinions on the whole subject and that their end goals were different, so she wasn’t understanding why she was so upset at Morgan’s insistence that Constance was the only one in the wrong here. It wasn’t fair - none of this was fair. Perhaps Constance had been right in that the Bachmans - that Agnes Bachman and whatever that thing Cassie, Morgan, and Blanche had confronted in the house so many months ago - were the evil ones. Whatever that meant made Blanche’s head spin because she also knew that no matter what, killing Morgan was inexcusable. How was it possible to care so much for a ghost that did something so horrible to a friend? And was she so determined to help Morgan, or was she determined to help Constance? Couldn’t there be a way for her to help both? Why was the answer one or the other? Blanche was sick of having to choose and she was sick of having to ask herself hard questions and she was sick of having to think.

Not for the first time, Blanche felt that fuzzy, static feeling in her head.

“You could summon her, or she could travel herself,” Blanche finally said, her tone devoid of any true emotion. “What I just did isn’t anything other than opening a line of communication. If I don’t close the line, she could get stuck in the circle. That’s why, even after you dissipated wrong Agnes, I had to close the ritual. But it’s not a permanent means of keeping them here.” She swallowed, wrapping her arms around herself as she shook her head. Blanche was quiet a moment as she hoisted her bag over her shoulder, and looked at Morgan. There were words on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t quite find them. Confusion and anger melded together, and Blanche realized that it might be better to not say anything at all. “I don’t need anything, no.” Blanche said. “I’m going to go home though, I’m… I’m tired.” It wasn’t a lie, she realized. She was exhausted, and Blanche wondered if she hadn’t overdone it. There was supposed to be a balance so she didn’t feel like complete shit afterwards. But as she turned on her heel, giving a quiet goodbye to Morgan as she trudged back to her jeep, she started to think that maybe the energy she spent on the seance wasn’t the only reason why she didn’t feel well.

#wr blanche #wr chatzy #wr blanche chatzy #suicide tw #secrets and fury #wickedswriting

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nurseofren · 4 years

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Keeping Your Promise - Chapter 16 (NSFW)

Read on AO3

Read chapter fifteen (NSFW)

Title: Wake-up Call

Words: 4500

Summary: Who knew men's underwear could be so erotic?

ST Rambles: Y'all. We are getting closer and closer to the good stuff, my friends. Not that there hasn't been good stuff already, but the really good, messy, plot-heavy stuff. When I was just reading through this chapter I started to get very excited about the future of this fic. I hope I can deliver on this, I really do.

[Masterlist]

Sleepy eyes peered around the mirror, examining the savaging which took new residence over your skin. All shapes and shades of dusk covered your prominences; one purpled puddle spanning your elbow, another three parallel over your side – one etching over your hip, another dripping over the curve of your rib cage, and the final fringing atop your deltoid in a russet starburst. A suggestion of a hand print fixed itself over your opposite shoulder, the bruise more vivid where your Commander’s fingers had bitten into the muscle. The grisly sight continued below your waist, both your knees inked in injury, one blotch creeping upwards in memoriam of the joint’s protrusions crashing against the floor. For once your neck remained free of the ghosted grip of Kylo Ren, the only evidence of him blending together in a patchy trail along your artery.

The tips of your fingers traced down the perforated contusions starting at the hinge of your jaw, drawing down the curve of your pulse, and ending at the proximal end of your clavicle; a violet twilight splayed beneath your touch, the memory of its fruition warming the tops of your cheeks. The reflection gave light to the faint lines which racked together over your wrists, the sight prompting the mindless rolling of the joint to test its range of motion. To any unsuspecting onlooker you appeared a survivor of a gruesome tale, one that indicated a battle with some ferocious creature; in a way, you thought, that wasn’t completely false.

Every welt lingering over your skin, visible or not – the torment which your core had endured aching with each suggestion of movement – belonged completely to Kylo Ren. Last night he’d painted his own pain over your body, the ache of his anger obvious with even the slightest pressure over the affected areas. Though you knew this, knew that these marks were premeditated, you distantly regarded the comfort the echoed pain offered; while the night had been birthed in egregious wrath, its end offered a breath-stealing contrast.

In the full light of Kylo Ren’s bathroom, you brought your hands together before you, the mirror falling out of focus as they turned over and brushed over each other’s knuckles and tendons. The soft skin was painted with vestiges in the valleys between each knuckle, the sight reminding you of the intimacy which had created them, the irony of how a moment of such beauty could manifest in such an injurious manner lighting a spark at your spine. The frozen air of his quarters nipped at your bare skin, reminding you what had prompted you from the warm, yet vacated, covers: the search for clothing.

Waking up had been disorienting, jolting you past the haze of morning and into the acknowledgment of the unfamiliar environment. It felt hollow waking up alone, like you were on some separate plane of reality without Kylo’s presence in his own bed. Out of habit, you’d gone to search for the time on your wrist, only remembering the timepiece’s absence when its red-shining face didn’t blind you in the shadows of early light, artificial in its existence, which framed the ceiling.

It had been too chaotic to get a good look at the Starkiller quarters last night, but as the frozen floor bit at your toes in your walk through the unfamiliar space, you noticed how mundane the provisions were. Everything lacked in comparison to the Finalizer, noting how the smaller rooms and shorter walls created a false sense of hominess; there was barely a kitchen, no dining table, and a hint at a sitting area – all of which blended together in various shades of similar blacks, greys, and whites. It felt uncomfortable to think that the Commander of the First Order lived in such normalcy and necessity when he wasn’t killing innocents or training to do so.

A pile sat at the countertop’s center, your uniform obvious at the top, the red embroidery prominent even in darkness. After a short search, you flicked on a light and padded towards it, crossing your arms as your breath shuddered through the cold air. It was a curious sight, your uniform folded into a frumpy square as your bra poked out from beneath the collar and your watch sat parallel above the red threading. Confused alarms sounded in your head, the fact that Kylo Ren had spent time collecting your belongings and compiling them into a neat pile making you doubt your consciousness, momentarily stopping to see if you had only been imagining the past few minutes.

Something else stole your attention, bringing your eyes away from the stack and up towards a rectangle of paper. It was folded in half, its torn edges and faded print indicating it had come from some scrapped document he no longer needed. Reaching for it, you found something underneath, a soft piece of unfamiliar black fabric. Then, when you lifted it, something slipped out from its confines, a black plastic rectangle glinting beneath the overhead light; its familiar design quickly indicating that of your Finalizer room key. Squinting in effort and inquiry, you read the hand-penned note, skin igniting as your leaned into the icy counter and half-admired the pointed scrawl of your first name at the top left-hand corner.

I’ve arranged for your residence’s security to be updated and reprogrammed to this key. Return there unless otherwise indicated.

You’ll also need these, as yours are tucked into the fasteners of my uniform.

Thanks for the keepsake, officer,

K.R.

With a hesitant curiosity, you took the folded fabric and unfolded each of its creases. It was a pair of his briefs, the sight eliciting a heartbeat between your legs. An astonished gasp fell from your lips, your face burning with exhilaration at the thought of your panties – unwashed and nearly three days old – stowed at his hip, their presence only known to him and you. As you imagined the frail stitching hanging loosely at his waistband, your thighs clamped together, the shifted bones of your pelvis crying out in protest at the sudden plead for satiety. He took your panties as a prize, spoils from last night’s conquest. Such a sick, unapologetic, hot bastard, you thought, your face split in an unintentional grin.

Taking his donation in stride, you pulled the article over your legs, surprised to find the elastic resting easily at your hips. The material was stretchy, an excess amount of give indicating, though they could fit, they were intended for legs much larger than your own. The hem rested four inches below the apex of your thighs, your hands smoothing over the front, your thumb catching on the open flap which rested along the line of your inner right leg. The light sensation, sending tiny continuous vibrations over your mound, built on the prominent pulse beating at your entrance.

Kylo’s face, nonsensically beautiful, passed through your memory, your teeth pulling your lip between them as you thought of how his tongue felt over yours, how his breath ignited body-enrapturing sparks at your ear. A gasp caught in your throat, your thighs pressing together in need, your head bowing down into the counter while you filed through the endless thoughts you’d cataloged from previous encounters. Congratulations. A sharp throb came from your core, your hands grappling onto the countertop’s edge at the memory of graduation.

“Stars.” The plead led into a moan, your throat thickening with need as your body ached for what it couldn’t have.

Closing your eyes and pushing a long breath from your lungs, your fingers dipped into the briefs’ opening, the knowledge that they were his frenzying you further, your skin reveling in the feel of the smooth fabric gliding over the back of your hand. The tips of your index and middle fingers trailed parallel down your slit, mind drifting to how Kylo’s could frame your sex in their length as they drifted closer towards your entrance, the thought seething a whine through your teeth. His modulated voice percolated in your ears, the way his breath falls out in proximity eliciting another merciless pulse, your abdomen tightening to absorb the ramifications.

Parting your folds, your fingers dipped into your slit, collecting the fluid which fled from your core. Just the thought of Kylo Ren – the way his abdomen ripples with every calculated step, the way his hair shifts in rhythm with his thrusts, the way it feels to have his full weight consume your body and alter your breathing – had worked diligently to ruin the fresh garment, your center preparing for a fullness it couldn’t currently achieve. Taking the pad of your middle finger, you pressed against the buzzing flesh of your clit, winding a wide, deep circle around it. A muffled cry fought to unlock your teeth, your head falling back at the taunting.

Are you a good girl? The melody of his past words crept over your skin, your leg crossing behind the other as you remembered his lips kissing the tops of his gifted stockings; a hum buzzed in your head, your fingers leading down to your entrance so your thumb could take residence over your clit. Hunching down lower, your head pressing down onto the smooth countertop as you took a wider stance, you pushed two fingers past your entrance, a shuddered whimper leaving your now parted lips. Your walls were throbbing, your pulse rising with each new reminiscent thought of your master.

The pad of your thumb wound a tighter, fuller path around the engorged flesh beneath, your fingers pumping into your core, your mind wandering through time while pressure heightened within you. A fast thought, a wondering instead of a memory, passed through, imagining how Kylo would react seeing you like this, setting eyes on you while you stood in his kitchen, wearing only his briefs while you bucked into your hand as thoughts of him cascaded from your mind to his. Would he be angry, furious that you could build your own release without him? Or would he watch you, his hidden eyes gawking as he felt your every intention before it came to be, attuned to the way your body sang at the memory of his voice, of his eyes, of his frame?

“Fucking hell,” you gasped, the heel of your hand grinding into the rapturous nerves as your digits hooked into your core, fluid streaming past your knuckles as your body promised an impending release.

With each second and every flex of your hand you crawled towards climax, thinking of Kylo Ren’s cock as it throbbed in need, beads of precum dripping from the slit as it twitched in his hands, readying to fill you with each torturous inch of its pulsating length. Breath stuck in your throat, your pulse pounding in your skull as your mouth hung open, salivating at the thought of him painting your face with thick, hot ropes of his cum, moaning as you remembered how the liquid collected over your nose and slowly dripped within reach of your hunting tongue.

“Oh, Kylo,” you whined, drool dripping onto the floor within your spread stance, remembering how badly you’d wanted his cock, dowsed in his own blood, to completely destroy your cunt, to stretch you until you tore, to have your own blood combine with his as he rocked into you, relentless even in your pain.

Your walls peaked, your body stalling and unfurling into a nebula of pleasure, hearing the phantom cries of your master echo into the false reality as your free hand strained against the countertop, your lungs trembling with quick breaths. Taking in your accomplishment, you leaned down onto the marble, your hand leaving his briefs and hugging onto the chilled stone, gulping as you slowly left the hazed state of contentment.

“Thanks for the wake-up call, Commander.” Not that he could hear you, you felt it was now a fair trade, your panties for his briefs, acknowledging the notion had done a nice job at kick starting your day.

Reaching over towards the pile, you brushed over the watch’s screen, finding it to be a quarter before seven. Although you knew you hadn’t been to the stormtrooper hub in what seemed like a lifetime, you could make it there for shift change if you left from here in five minutes. Reluctantly, wanting to stay here and hide from life’s responsibilities, you pushed off from the counter and grappled your uniform over your head, not bothering to toil with the buttons. Without looking down, you slipped your shoes on and fastened the watch around your wrist; with a quick finger-brush through your hair and a swish of water from the sink, you stowed the keycard into the front pocket of your uniform and activated the door, keeping your head low and face hidden as you made your way into the open hallways.

In an effort to multitask, you pulled your phone out, finding an email waiting on its home screen. The subject line read CONFIDENTIAL: Trial proceedings. In your hobbled stride, the notification dropped your heart. Had it really been less than twenty-four hours since meeting with Hux? He’d informed you of the email, that it would come later in the day, but you’d been so tossed up in the world of Kylo Ren that you’d forgotten to worry about it, forgotten that life wasn’t simple anymore. Even as you skulked away from your Commander’s quarters after not just fucking him, but sleeping with him, this email was what brought you back to reality, your shoulders falling as to remind you of the burdens they’d set down for the night.

Swiping across the screen, you opened the contents, being half-mindful of your surroundings as you trekked towards Starkiller’s general med bay. The scrollbar indicated the lengthiness of the correspondence, your pulse quickening thinking about how serious this all was. This was the beginning of the end, or at least the beginning of trying to prevent the end. It was difficult not to place blame, accepting that it was both a risk and a necessity to take the blood, but also knowing full well that none of this would be happening if Kylo Ren hadn’t taken you from the valuable clinical experience you would have obtained had you been allowed the time to learn in a professional setting. Inwardly you knew you did the right thing, but knowing the entire Board of Physicians was against your cause made it impossible not to feel guilty.

Continuing towards your destination, you delved into the email, first reading the sender information of the Board in all caps – their institutional name, address, contact information, and correspondence code – and then seeing your own information, stomach churning at the sight, head dizzying simultaneously.

Concerning the defendant,

This is an official summons to appear before the Board of Physicians to be tried for the accusation made of first-degree larceny based on multiple eyewitness accounts, a detailed variance report provided by an on-staff provider, and physical evidence surrounding this case collected during the time between the incident’s occurrence and determined trial date. The defendant is required to be notified via word of mouth and either physical or electronic correspondence; once these requirements have been met, construction of the case can and will be expedited.

The defendant will appear directly before the Board, bypassing the selection of a jury as to keep in pace with this time sensitive matter. For clarity’s sake it is reinforced that the defendant is being tried on the matter of her execution, as her license will be promptly revoked upon the formal announcement of the Board’s judgement. As the defendant has been informed, she will be placed under surveillance in an effort to provide adequate evidence regarding not only her practice as a nurse and provider, but as a functioning member of the First Order. During this time of surveillance the defendant should go about her daily life as she normally would to provide the most accurate idea of her character. In addition to technological monitoring, the character review will be centered around personal accounts of those who have worked with the defendant and superior reviews; these documents will be collected directly by the offices of the Board of Physicians and are to be collected no later than the morning of the defendant’s initial hearing.

The initial hearing will provide the defendant the opportunity to be introduced to the current elected members of the Board of Physicians. There shall be no questions asked verbally during this time as the defendant will be provided a list of official inquiries following her appearance. In the time between the initial hearing and the official trial – which shall be no less than five days and no more than seven – the defendant will be allotted adequate time to prepare for her questioning; during this same period, the defendant will choose a representative. Let it be known that the defendant is limited to the representatives provided for and selected by the Board of Physicians. Though it is ill-advised, the defendant also has the choice of representing herself.

Once the defendant has prepared her answers and chosen her representative, the official trial will promptly begin at O-eight hundred the following morning. The trial will follow all legal policies and proceedings as established by the First Order in exception of a selected jury. In the absence of a jury, the defendant will plead directly to the Board of Physicians; the Board has gone through training and certification to disallow bias, emotional or otherwise, to affect their judgments, barring the defendant from skewing their final decision. There will be three testimonies in accordance to the case – one from Officer Talia Harper, another from General Armitage Hux, and a final to be chosen by the defendant to speak in her favor.

The deciding members of the Board will be allotted seven days to construct their judgments and rationales. As there are five members of the Board, there will be no possibility of a tie. A majority of three will decide if the defendant is to be executed. Once the final judgement has been ratified, one chosen representative will formally announce the decision before the Board and the defendant. As disclosed earlier, upon the judgement’s announcement, the defendant’s license will be permanently revoked and she will be barred from practicing medicine under the First Order. Should the judgment entail the defendant’s execution, she will spend an additional seven days on Cantonica; during this time, the defendant will be allowed the facilities and liberties to get her affairs in order.

The trial will be conducted in the city of Canto Bight, six weeks from the initial send date of this correspondence. The defendant will need to arrange for travel and plan to arrive two days prior to the morning of her initial hearing. Standard necessities will be provided to the defendant during her time on Canto Bight; in addition, the defendant will also be assigned a security detail who will report to General Hux at the end of each day. During the defendant’s time away from her Master, Commander Ren, he will be assigned a new provider in her absence; this new provider will be selected from the pool of individuals who were screened for the position earlier this year.

Let it be known that this correspondence does not require a return from the recipient as she cannot refuse an audience with the Board of Physicians without forfeiting her case. Should the defendant be absent at her initial hearing, it would result in a call for her capture followed by an immediate scheduling of her execution.

On a final note, the Board of Physicians has deemed it necessary to put emphasis on this case, meaning all legal proceedings – the initial hearing, the official trial, the formal sentencing, and the potential execution – are to be televised and allowed for public viewing. The defendant should be prepared to go before upwards of two hundred people.

Direct any questions to the return address at the top of this official correspondence.

Respectfully,

Karmen Zag, Esq.

Head of Communications,

The Board of Physicians

The glutton of air which your lungs sucked in pointed out the fact that you hadn’t taken a full breath since you began reading the document. As you’d been reading, your head down and your eyes focused on the bright white screen, the world had fallen away, your journey towards the stormtrooper hub nearly complete. It was five minutes to seven, time evading you in the wake of all the new overwhelming information.

Six weeks didn’t seem like a long enough time for life to change so drastically. Then again, though, it had only been a little over two months since graduation and look how different life looked from then. Standing so far out yet to close to the trial, it felt impossible to win; and how could you win? What’s the prize at this point? Even if the Board rules against your execution, what life could you return to? All the schooling you’d put yourself through, every hour of studying and practicing, just, gone; if you had known it would be so ephemeral and pointless, maybe you’d have spent less time in the library, enjoyed your youth more than you did.

When you turned the corner, you collided into something solid, your body tripping backwards as you took in the familiar sight of your masked master, mind quickly thinking about your hidden belongings tucked beneath the layers of clothing they rested behind. Taking another step back, you regarded General Hux at his right arm, face resting in its usual repugnance.

“Oh, uh, I’m so sorry Commander Ren, I was just on my way to the stormtrooper hub,” you said, shifting your hair so it hid the superficial injury.

“I trust you’ve read over the email detailing your trial, officer?” Each syllable was annunciated, Hux’s voice clear and loud, a sense of unmistakable pride seeping from the question.

“Yes, actually. That’s what had me so distracted from my surroundings.”

“Hm. I’ll see you in six weeks, I suppose.” He took a step forward, away from your Commander. “I’ll notify you when the documents have been cataloged and filed.” With a too-long glare, he tromped past you, his steps growing quieter in his distance.

Looking back up at Kylo’s visor, you went to speak, but he beat you to it. “I trust you’ve had a productive morning.” There was something seductive about his tone, like it was laced with intentional double entendre.

Looking over your shoulder, you scanned the room for onlookers and cameras, finding nothing within earshot before looking back to him. “You could say that.” An unintentional throb came from between your legs, your mind trying and failing at not recounting your earlier self-satisfaction.

“I assume you found my note.”

“Yeah. Yes. Thank you for the… resources. They are both very much appreciated.” It felt funny being so formal with him in public, like a game of pretend.

“Oh, you’re welcome, by the way.”

Had you not just thanked him for the security – both technological and textile? “What… am I missing something?”

Kylo stepped forward, his arm grazing over yours as his head turned down towards your ear. “For the wake-up call, of course.”

Your mouth fell open, a gasp coming from your stunned lungs. “How did you – but you were nowhere near me.”

“I found you last night without that glorified compass on your wrist, didn’t I?” Two fingers pressed into the curve of your hip, goosebumps prickling your skin in fast waves.

Turning your head so your nose almost met his sleeved bicep, you cleared your throat. “So, what? You can hear me now?”

“Not in the literal sense, no. But, you were particularly obvious in your pursuits this morning. You were easy to sense above everyone else.”

You said nothing, still astonished that he grew more attuned to your presence with every encounter. He brushed past you, his fingers pulling at your uniform until they left completely. “Have a nice day, officer.”

His boots echoed behind you in his stride, leaving you hanging like it was nothing to him. Standing there a moment longer, you realized it was past seven, now. Shift change had already begun, and you were once again going to be late due to Kylo Ren’s distractions. Nearly running through the halls, you made it to the nurses’ station five minutes late, seeing the small huddles of night and day nurses around the patients’ doors, listening to their whispers related to client care. A few faces were twisted in confused disbelief, your face hot under their scrutiny.

Walking to the nurse manager’s office, you leaned into the room as you lightly knocked at her door, alerting her to spin in her chair to face you, her own expression following suit with the others’. “Uh, hi. I don’t know if you remember me, but-,”

“You can’t be here,” the woman said, her words fast and jarring.

“I’m sorry, have I done something wrong?”

“Here—” she patted her desk until she gripped the document of her intent “—this should explain it.”

The paper was fresh, warming your hands when she passed it to you. On the front it had a photocopy of your ID, your unbeknownst face looking back at you in black and white next to your licensure information. Looking at the bottom of the document, you found a short blip of information, reading:

By signing this document, you hereby enforce the temporary disbarment of the above indicated physician from practicing medicine not related to his or her own assigned master.

Once more you looked further down the document, seeing the same pointed script from earlier scrawled across a printed line, next to it finding General Hux’s name in its own full, sweeping signature. Was this a joke? He really let you embarrass yourself in coming here instead of telling you in the halls? And, just, why? Why was he insistent in finding new ways to drive you insane? There was no logical reason for him to ban you from practice.

Without noticing, your teeth had clenched together, your fingers gripping too roughly into the thin document, staining your thumb in the fresh ink as it contorted within your grasp. The nurse manager was looking at you with a forced smile, silently saying you had no more business being here.

“Feel free to keep that,” she said, pointing to the crumpled copy.

Shaking with anger, you fought to contain yourself. “Yep.”

With that, you skulked out of the infirmary, not bothering to look up at the knowing faces of the coworkers you never got the chance to befriend. Would there ever come a day where you weren’t humiliated in your professional life? No. That was a pointless question to ask. Whatever career you currently had was about to end, and now you couldn’t even attempt to make up for it. As you whipped down the halls, fast, seething sounds left you, curses for Kylo Ren and General Hux distorted in a frenzied talk.

As if to piss you off further, your phone buzzed at your hip, hand tearing it from your uniform like the object had any say in the matter. The screen was free of emails, but your stride still stopped abruptly, your anger quickly replaced with a sense of ill-defined fear. Staring back at you was a message from Mason, only offering a single question with no context; three words that could mean anything:

Can we talk?

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x you #kylo ren #smut #ao3 #st kyp

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calamity-bean · 5 years

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Aziraphale/Crowley Fic Recs

AKA “There is SO much Good Omens fic nowadays, with more being added at SUCH an incredible rate, that I keep forgetting to bookmark things and thus completely lose track of what I’ve read and what I liked and which ones to watch for updates and which ones I might want to read again and etc etc. So, for the sake of my own sanity, I have made A List.”

And I thought, hey, might as well share.

I’ve divided this list into WIPs and Complete Works, but otherwise, it’s a jumble: canon-verse and AUs, short and long, ranging in rating from G to E and incorporating various tropes and headcanons. I tend to gravitate toward happy endings, so there’s probably nothing too dark or soul-crushing, but as always, buyer beware, pay attention to tags and content warnings and your own personal tastes. Works are listed in chronological order of first publishing, simply as a neutral and objective way to list them, and more will be added intermittently as I read new ones or rediscover ones I forgot.

Hope this helps someone find some good reading and directs more attention to some well-deserving work!

-- WIPs --

On Espionage and Prophecy (or How to Accidentally, but Wholly, Fall in Love With a Soho Bookseller) by RockSaltAndRoll (June 15, 2019)

1941 is the London Blitz and the year that MI5 really comes into its own with the now infamous ‘double cross’ system. The service keep tabs on suspects, root out enemy agents and try to turn them into doubles.

Anthony J Crowley is fucking great at this job. He can be sneaky, underhanded and damn ruthless but also charming and kind. It’s what makes him good at turning.

Aziraphale is just a regular Soho bookseller who loves his shop and books and good food and wine when he’s approached by a woman claiming to be MI5, wanting to recruit him for espionage. The poor man is too trusting and gets the shock of his life when he’s approached by a charming but dangerous-looking man also claiming to be MI5.

Crowley recruits Aziraphale to double cross a double crosser and Aziraphale takes to espionage like a duck to water.

Danger, hijinks, and sex ensue.

Show Me a Great Plan by WriteDreamLie (June 17, 2019)

A.J. Crowley is an eccentric "business man." A.Z. Fell is a bookseller who refuses to sell any books.

After Fell (unwillingly) helps Crowley out of a sticky situation, the two become oddly fixed on each other. And their relationship could just be the thing that saves them both.

icing on the cake by Etheostoma (June 18, 2019)

Between the black attire, swaying hips, slouching pose, and affected “devil-may-care” attitude that actually belied an incredibly sensitive nature, A.J. Crowley was a walking puzzle—and one that Aziraphale, when he allowed his thoughts free rein, wanted desperately to solve.

That being said, at the end of the day Crowley was also technically his employer, and therefore even the thought of anything more was decidedly not a Good Idea.

Vita Nova by AMidnightDreary (June 18, 2019)

“Angel, bloody hell. Hi. You doing okay? Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

It was quiet for a few seconds.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said then, still polite, but a bit perplexed. “Who is this?”

Crowley, upon finding that Aziraphale does not remember him, is very much Not Okay with the changes Adam made after the Apocalypse That Wasn't. He can't do anything but try and make the best out of it, though. (Which is a lot easier than it should be.)

Sparse Clutter by ItsClydeBitches (June 26, 2019)

A fic bingo collection featuring twenty-five, one word prompts. Whole thing is probably best described as "Ineffable husbands stupidity with a hefty dose of gen world building," but I'll chuck brief summaries below as I update!

Strange Pilgrims: Being the Account of a lost Angel, the Journeys of a Demon, the meaning of Free Will, of the Unravelling of a Prophecy, and of Being Unravelled by it in Turn by sousverre (June 26, 2019)

"Aziraphale going missing" would be quite enough drama for Crowley to be getting on with, thanks very much - even without a prophecy that seems to be implying the significance of Feelings, and especially with every gargoyle in London trying to reunite them.

But when he does find the angel, Aziraphale has lost his memory, his wings, and insists that he is happily married to some kind of investment banker.

Right. So the first step is to fix all that, somehow, and then - and then - and then everything can go back to normal, like it was before, which is all Crowley wants.

Right.

How do we fix this?

Put Out The Fire by Aleakim (June 27, 2019)

Aziraphale finds himself in a very awkward position as some sort of spell makes everyone merely glancing in his direction instantly fall deeply and desperately in love with him.

Absolutely everyone.

Well, apart from Crowley, that is.

And while both angel and demon search for a solution to this fairly unique problem, Crowley can’t help wondering whether Aziraphale might finally figure out some things he kept hidden for so very long.

Ink Blots and Forget-Me-Nots by gutsandglitter (July 3, 2019)

Ninth Circle Ink was hardly more than a stone’s throw from the flower shop; Aziraphale knew from past experience that it took less than thirty seconds to go from door to door (forty-five if you had to wait for a car to pass). It had been a perfect arrangement in the beginning, when they were just starting out.

aka the flower shop/tattoo parlor (human) exes AU that nobody asked for!

You Can Have Your Cake by eragon19 (July 4, 2019)

Aziraphale has been working as Anathema's assistant at her wedding planning service for near on a year now. He thinks he's seen it all, from meddling parents to nervous brides, and in one case an ex with a penchant for arson.

What he isn't prepared for is a reluctant groom with a liking for black leather and a smile that has Aziraphale's mind going to places it most certainly shouldn't. Especially since the man is getting married, no matter how awful his fiance is...

To the Stars by StarRose (July 9, 2019)

The happy ending Titanic!Au no one ever writes but everyone always imagines in every possible fandom. Aziraphale is being forcibly sent to America to be forcibly married to Gabriel. Crowley is going to forcibly screw that up.

A Matter of Convenience by ylc (July 15, 2019)

There comes a time when even the most fervent enemies must call a truce and what better way to cement such truce than a marriage? And if the involved parties happen to be the most troublesome members of the ruling families… well, that’s all for the best, isn’t it?

Barriers, and the Breaking Thereof by Cardinal_Daughter (July 16, 2019)

Ezra Fell has long been comfortable in his loneliness. He’s content to simply run the Soho Public Library and otherwise keep to himself. However, when a handsome stranger bursts in one evening with a baby, frantic and in need of help, Ezra finds those carefully constructed barriers he’s long maintained begin to crack.

Perhaps it’s time to let them fall.

Series of one-shots focusing on the lives and developing relationship between Ezra Fell and Anthony J. & Adam Crowley. Human AU.

Lavender, Chamomile, and a Rather Permanent Arrangement by southdownsraph (July 17, 2019)

Crowley owns the flower shop across the street from A. Z. Fell's tattoo shop, and can't help but be intrigued by the slightly eccentric, yet incredibly friendly tattoo artist. When Crowley does finally pluck up the courage to talk to him beyond the occasional pleasantries, he kicks off the beginning of a friendship that could so easily drift into something else entirely.

Pride and Prejudice and Angels by SanSanFanFan (July 20, 2019)

Hampshire, England, 1809

Miss Crowley's plans for a small temptation near the South Coast go awry as she realises that Aziraphale is not only a guest of a neighbouring landed gentlelady but also suffering under some kind of malady.

Match-making! Balls! Fainting! Happily Ever Afters???

Celestial Bodies by LieutenantLiv (August 3, 2019)

The year is 1923. Aziraphale's friends at the gentlemen's club invite him for a weekend away in Devon. He asks Crowley to join. It gets very silly and very messy very quickly.

That's just how things were in the roaring twenties.

Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrative Approach by Nnm (August 9, 2019)

As soon as Aubrey Thyme, psychotherapist, had opened her office door and seen her new client, Anthony J. Crowley, sitting in her waiting area, she was observing and assessing him. At first glance, she paid attention to the following:

--His clothing was expensive and stylish; --He wore very strange but noticeable cologne; --His relationship to the seat he occupied could only, very loosely, be described as “sitting;” --He looked angry; --He was wearing sunglasses.

What Aubrey Thyme, a professional, thought, upon first seeing her new client was: you’re going to be a fun one, aren’t you?

-- Complete Works --

Anthophilia by FortinbrasFTW (July 7, 2014)

Anthony J. Crowley's life seems like it's finally falling into place: his floral shop has begun to gain an undercurrent of appreciation in the design elite of London, and he might have even finally found a boyfriend who looks just right lounging on his Tenreiro sofa. Things seem almost perfect, until one day the empty shop across the street is leased to frumpy fellow Oxford alumni, who doesn't seem to remember Crowley nearly as well as he remembers him, which really shouldn't bother him as much as it does - it was ten years ago after all, and it wasn't even that good of a kiss.

The Rose Thief and the Priest by ImprobableDreams900 (January 8, 2018)

When horticulturist A. J. Crowley sees a rare breed of rose in a churchyard, he decides he won't stop until he can get a cutting—even if he has to go through the church's stuffy priest to do so.

Running in the Shadows (Damn Your Love, Damn Your Lies) by soft_october (May 10, 2019)

"In plain terms, Mr. A. Fell was a man of impeccable conduct and unusual habits, and in a similar manner to many of whom bore the first two traits, he must also take up the third: dire loneliness. Yet it had not always been thus. Indeed, there once was a time when it seemed as if he should never know solitude or want of suitable company for the rest of his days, but the circumstances by which Aziraphale might have unwound the knot that now bound up his heart had long since dragged themselves, mortally wounded, to die in the shades of regret. Their ghosts hung in his past, growing in consequence with the singular passing of each year until they eclipsed even the death of those who had the foremost hand in their making, and had the effect of separating the sequence of his days of into a gentle, blooming Before, whose painful beauty made the egregious scars of the After that much more appalling."

What Aziraphale does not know is that, from across the ocean, Mr. Anthony J. Crowley is returning to England with his newly aquired wealth, wanting nothing more than to rebuild his life after a terrible shock and, perhaps, discover why he had been abandoned by his fiancé ten long years ago.

You Might Think I’m Crazy (All I Want is You) by soft_october (March 29, 2019)

'“Look I understand, you’ve got to check up on the new occupants, make sure I’m a proper ‘fit’ for the neighborhood or whatever euphemism you’re going to use this time, 'the greater good,' I saw the film, I get it. But I peeked in at the place next door the agent mentioned and if you aren’t bothering him I really don't think you should be-”

“I’m your neighbor,” Aziraphale interrupted. “I own that place next door?”

“Oh.”'

Since the next shop over closed down, Aziraphale's had a peaceful few months, barring those unpleasant interactions with the men in cheap suits who keep trying to persuade him to sell his shop. But now a (handsome) new owner has taken up residence beside him and, horror of horrors, he wants to open up a coffee shop.

A Home at the Beginning of the World by stereobone (June 6, 2019)

"Oh," Aziraphale says. "I think Crowley might have moved in with me."

creatures of circumstance by attheborder (June 10, 2019)

Anthony J. Crowley, Jr. is the prodigal son of CrowleyCorp, the UK’s most powerful, dangerous, and controversial technology company.

A one-night stand with a mysterious man who calls himself Aziraphale tips his hopeless life upside-down into a dangerous obsession.

And somewhere else entirely, a girl-shaped creature is presiding over the back room of a bookshop in Soho, where an angel and a demon lay unconscious on the floor…

Bending Space and Time by Draco_sollicitus (June 11, 2019)

Crowley could never have envisioned a miracle quite like making an angel smile.

And when that angel is Aziraphale, well, he'll do whatever he can to experience that miracle again, and again, and again.

(Crowley spends the twentieth century bringing books to Aziraphale in an effort to make his angel smile a little more)

the words of the prophet are written on the subway walls by volantium (June 11, 2019)

Aziraphale and Crowley do the twenty-first century. (Or, Aziraphale and Crowley, dorks in love, post-Apocalypse).

a picnic plan for you and me by theapplepielifestyle (June 12, 2019)

“It’s angel food cake,” he said. He waited. When Aziraphale did nothing but nod politely: “It’s funny, see, ‘cause-”

“No, no, I get it.” Aziraphale nodded again. “Very funny.”

“Oh, shut up, it is-”

“May I ask what brought this on?”

Crowley paused. “Can’t a guy just want to try baking?”

(Or, Crowley makes Aziraphale food after the world doesn't end. It has absolutely nothing to do with how much he wants to make Aziraphale smile.)

with urgency but not with haste by Sanwall (June 13, 2019)

Aziraphale moves to the South Downs and gets bees, and Crowley gets into one of his moods.

The Play’s The Thing by volunteerfd (June 16, 2019)

“Who was at the very first rehearsal, hmm? Who read over Shakespeare’s shoulder as he put ink to parchment? If anything, I know Hamlet just as intimately as I know you.” Aziraphale picked up his teacup again and looked at Crowley over the rim of it. “Maybe even more.”

Crowley was tempted to ask if he’d fucked Hamlet.

****

Aziraphale is cast as the lead in a community theatre production of Hamlet, a lifelong dream of his and a lifelong night terror of Crowley's. But, as the hapless Crowley helps him run lines, it becomes a mystery why anyone would let Aziraphale on stage. Tears are shed, skulls are crushed, monologues are butchered, and through it all, Crowley remains supportive. After all, the show must go on--even if it is the fifty billionth production of stupid, overrated Hamlet.

Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy by 13thDoctor, JHarkness (June 17, 2019)

5 times Aziraphale and Crowley were mistaken for a couple, and the 1 time they weren’t.

A Regular Rip van Winkle by aurilly (June 20, 2019)

After almost an entire century spent asleep, Crowley wakes in 1888 to find the world more changed than he thought possible. His first order of business is to find his angel.

Also concerning the origin of the Baroque gavotte (spoilers: Aziraphale was feeling thirsty).

A bookshop is not a business by anactoriatalksback (June 22, 2019)

In which Aziraphale has no intention of selling books to anyone at all, let alone this infuriatingly persistent customer. No matter how nice his cheekbones are...

like a prayer for which no words exist by lipsstainedbloodred (June 23, 2019)

“What do you want, angel?” Crowley asks before Aziraphale is even properly in the room.

“Hullo my dear,” Aziraphale sounds cheery but also awfully worried, “I hadn’t seen you since - well, since-” Since they’d swapped bodies back; since Crowley had turned tail and ran from St. James’s Park like the Devil himself had been on his heels.

(in which Crowley and Aziraphale do not dine at the Ritz after that nasty business with Heaven and Hell, and Crowley has an existential crisis instead)

far too much in love to see by imperiousheiress (June 25, 2019)

“Hello, can I help you with anything in particular?” Aziraphale asks. And then, he freezes.

Inexplicably, impossibly, it’s the same man who had entered the shop the last time they’d been open. He’s sure of it. The man who he’d felt a rather insistent urge to garrote.

(Or, one of Aziraphale’s regular customers takes a little too much interest in Crowley, and Aziraphale feels somewhat unfamiliarly unpleasant about all of it.)

The Holiest by merle_p (June 26, 2019)

So when Aziraphale hears, through the grapevine, that an exorcism is supposed to happen on New Year’s Eve in Major Gruber’s flat, he knows that despite his general distaste for exorcisms, this is where he is going to be, on the slim chance that the demon Major Gruber and his spiritist friends have found is the same one Aziraphale appears to have lost.

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers by Gefionne (June 26, 2019)

Because they can’t see each other more than once every few decades, Aziraphale suggests that he and Crowley write to each other to pass the time apart. As quills for their letters, they exchange wing feathers: a gesture of great intimacy that Crowley is convinced only he perceives the depth of. But time will tell that it’s not just him who sees it that way.

Night and Day by Gigi_Sinclair (June 27, 2019)

Five times Aziraphale and Crowley encountered queer historical figures who know more about them than they do, and one time they actually have a clue.

Needed a break, gone to France x by sleepymccoy (June 28, 2019)

A week or so after the nopocalypse Aziraphale takes a holiday that, unfortunately, sends Crowley into a bit of a tailspin about where they're at

In Holy Matrimony by Myracuulous (June 29, 2019)

From the private journal of Alisha Jones, wedding planner, concerning the nuptials of Anthony J Crowley and Aziraphale and the planning process thereof, containing an account of chosen decor, guest list construction, and the holy war against the Antichrist that nearly ruined six months of professional organization and a very nice dinner.

Acts of Service by seekwill (July 2, 2019)

After receiving direct instruction from God, village reverend Aziraphale leaves his countryside congregation to serve the underserved and in-need at an urban church in London, a transition made all the more complicated by the mysterious and handsome Crowley, who always seems to appear when Aziraphale least expects him.

greatest hits by attheborder (July 2, 2019)

“But my dear, I just can’t believe you never told me that you had joined a musical group. I would have come out to support you— at your gigs!”

“First of all, never say ‘gigs’ again. Second of all, not my fault you never noticed when I showed up to dinner with a great big guitar case slung over my shoulder.”

(Aziraphale accidentally discovers Crowley’s secret: he was in a band in the 90s. And he wrote a whole album of love songs…)

Nanny Knows Best by DictionaryWrites (July 5, 2019)

Being a nanny, that should be simple. Simple. Easy as pie.

Crowley wished that were true.

human childcare for the occult (and ethereal) by suzukiblu (July 10, 2019)

The Dowlings miraculously need a nanny and a gardener at the same time, and Aziraphale suggests they flip for it. Crowley takes one moment to picture Aziraphale nannying anyone and calls dibs. It’s not that Aziraphale’s terrible with humans, he’s just, well. Terrible with humans. Truly, truly terrible.

He doesn’t want to deal with Aziraphale getting metaphorically guillotined or kicking up security’s paranoia, basically. A gardener can be a little odd, and no one will notice or care. Except Warlock, perhaps, as the only other person with any real reason to spend much time out on the lawn, but Warlock’s the one they want noticing so that’ll be fine, Crowley’s sure.

Even if it does make him cringe a little, leaving Aziraphale in charge of the plants.

keep me close by Iselmyr (July 17, 2019)

Aziraphale was expecting to see a talented but otherwise ordinary performance of Les Misérables with a genderswapped cast. Aziraphale was not expecting who came onstage.

Crowley was expecting an ordinary second night show, because Aziraphale always goes to opening nights, and Crowley never performs on them.

Except, this once, Aziraphale missed the opening, and came to the second night. Everything else snowballed from there.

lit in the darkness by ToEdenandBackAgain (July 17, 2019)

Aziraphale returns to Crowley's flat for the night after Armageddon. After all, it's hardly the first time they've shared sleeping arrangements. Or: Times throughout history Crowley and Aziraphale have shared a bed.

Reflect What You Are by Owenjones (July 17, 2019)

It's a year after the almost-apocalypse. Aziraphale makes Crowley go see a therapist.

“Have you been having any issues in particular?”

“Issues? Such as?”

“You tell me.” She could tell he had something on the tip of his tongue.

Crowley sat for a second, then blurted out, “He thinks I’ve been sleeping too much. He’s worried.”

An Answer to Prayer by Jupiter_Ash (July 20, 2019)

Prayers can be answered in a multitude of different ways. When it came to a certain cottage in the South Downs though, no one had expected it to be answered by the squealing wheels of a classic Bentley and Queen's Princes of the Universe.

All Karen wanted to do was sell a house.

The Ineffable Temptations of Oysters by gimpy_terry (July 20, 2019)

Wherein Aziraphale sometimes invites Crowley to dine on oysters with him and Crowley definitely takes him up on that offer.

did you open up your heart there? by weatheredlaw (July 21, 2019)

or were you quiet and afraid? — Aziraphale and Crowley meet over and over and over again. Aziraphale doesn't know what Crowley is, or why their souls can't seem to be parted, but he is a creature of love, and he's not going to argue with that.

A Machine for Living In by pineapplesquid (August 6, 2019)

All Crowley wants is to see the inside of the bookshop so that he can get this design for the building next door done so the clients will be happy and his bosses will stop yelling. What A.Z. Fell wants, apparently, is for Crowley and the project that’s he’s working on to disappear. Permanently.

One of these might be more attainable than the other.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #fic recs #op #also PLEASE let me know if any of the titles link to the wrong fics #i was doing a lot of rapid copying & pasting #and also if you have any others to rec... feel free to add or let me know!

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anamurielveron · 4 years

Text

Snow

A Short Story

Right when the meteorologists predicted it, the media went crazy. It was the headline of every news station and the front page of every newspaper. Some were excited that a new and extraordinary thing is finally happening to spice up their otherwise humble and boring lives. Some were skeptical and did not believe that such a thing would actually occur. Some were fearful and repentant, claiming that this was yet another sign of the end of the world.

However, one person in particular found this incredible phenomenon truly irritating…

Manuel did not care much for technology, but one aspect of it that he was truly thankful for was the ability to order things online and get them delivered directly to his house. Today, the delivery man brought him a new garden trowel. His current one was rusty after years of use and the handle was starting to bend.

“Sign here, please,” the boy, quite a few years younger than Manuel, said. The boy handed him a pen and clipboard, “The snow’s coming soon, huh? It’s so crazy. I can’t believe it’s actually happening. They say it might even hit this area in a couple weeks!”

“Mhm...” Manuel deadpanned, furrowing his gray eyebrows. After validating that he did, in fact, receive his package, he handed the forms back to the boy, grabbed the box, and hastily shut the front door.

Walking into his dim living room, where only the early morning light shone through the windows, Manuel set the parcel down on the coffee table. He sat on the couch where his dog, Dobo, was lying asleep. He noticed that the dark-furred little puppy was shivering, so he, who felt pretty chilly himself, stood to take a blanket from the lone bedroom upstairs. Once his animal friend was snuggled into the plush fabric, his attention returned to his recently purchased merchandise. Smiling, he began to open the box.

Manuel liked to do his gardening early in the day before too many people had come outside. The sun was shining bright and the smell of the morning air was energizing, but it was even colder outside than it was inside.

In his somewhat spacious backyard, everything he grew bore produce. He had fruit trees that grew papayas, mangoes, calamansi, and saba. He grew plants that yielded string beans, kalabasa, pechay, onions, tomatoes, and lots of other fruits, vegetables, and herbs. The only plant that didn’t flourish in the garden was the rose bush that Manuel had much trouble growing in the tropical climate of Bulacan, but he was persistent in trying to keep the foreign plant alive. It was exciting to use the new trowel, although Manuel felt sad having to throw away the old one.

Today he was transferring the herbs from their mug-sized pots into bigger ones. They were outgrowing their containers and the roots needed more room. Of course, it won’t matter if this absurd snow business is just going to freeze them up anyway.

By the time Manuel finished re-potting the basil, Dobo had woken up. The small beagle was already scampering around the backyard, swiftly avoiding running over any of the plants. He skidded to a stop and sniffed the droopy rose bush.

“Yeah, I know…” Manuel, now cleaning up the too-small pots, sighed, “Still doing terrible, those ones.”

Dobo plainly barked at him.

Manuel knew the little ball of energy was yearning for a walk, so the gray-haired man took off the dirty latex gloves he’d been using and put his new trowel away in the tiny shed in the corner of the backyard. He went into the kitchen to wash his hands then took Dobo’s leash from its assigned hook on the coat hanger beside the front door.

“Dobo!” Manuel called from the living room. The puppy instantly burst through the dog door that opened from the kitchen to the backyard.

With his leash attached, Dobo dragged his human companion out the door into the cold, quiet streets of San Rafael. It may have seemed that he was walking around willy-nilly, sniffing random things on the sidewalk, but Dobo knew exactly where he was going.

Aling Rosa was the lovely lady who ran the local sari-sari store. Whatever Manuel couldn’t grow in his garden, he’d buy from Aling Rosa. Of course, unlike all the younglings, Manuel simply called her Rosa, as he was about the same age as her if not older.

“Dobo!” The cheerful woman waved through the counter as a familiar-looking dog pulled his familiar-looking human towards her storefront.

The dog yapped happily at her.

“Hello, Manuel. What’ll it be today?”

Ahem “G-good morning, Rosa,” Manuel said quietly, not making eye contact. He lifted up Dobo and sat him onto the counter; he knew Rosa loved to pet him.

“Aw, what a sweetheart,” Rosa cooed as she lightly scratched the little dog’s head.

“Just some soy sauce, p-please.”

Rosa turned to the shelf behind her to reach for the condiment. Manuel could see her still dark hair that was twisted into a little bun near the nape of her neck. It had only a few strands of white. She was wearing a red dress today, the kind that most older women wear. Loose, long, and frumpy. (Rosa wasn’t very fashionable.) Manuel found it delightful anyway.

“Here you are,” Rosa smiled, handing him a small bottle.

“Oh, right, yes.” Manuel snapped out of it, “Thank you,” carefully, he counted out some money to place on the counter.

“Yes, yes. You’re welcome. By the way, you’ve heard about the snow haven’t you?” Rosa started as she placed the bill and coins in her cashbox, “You do still get the news in that hermit hole of yours, right?”

“Ahaha…” he strained a laugh, “Yes, I-I do. I’ve heard. You could feel it getting colder already. I-I’m not too happy about it, to tell you the truth… It-it’ll ruin my garden.”

“Oh, you shush,” Rosa swatted at him, “That garden of yours is all you fuss over. Snow sounds wonderful! I’ve never seen real snow before. I can’t wait. In fact, I’ve bought myself a thick new coat, just in case it gets really cold. The children are going to love it, don’t you think?”

“Oh, uh yes. I- I suppose they will.”

“Yes, and it’ll be a nice change. It’s about time something happened in this sleepy, old town. It’ll be exciting.”

Manuel sighed, “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

He didn’t really think she was right. Not that he was actually going to say it to her though.

In the following days, the whole province – the whole region, really – got colder and colder. Dobo started to feel less energetic. He and Manuel had been using more and more layers of blankets. Air-conditioning and even electric fans became obsolete. Layers of clothing people had to wear were multiplying. In the news, the government had been advising people on how to stay warm. Experts were assuring the public that it would not last long but it’s been predicted that lots of people were going to get sick; pneumonia, hypothermia. It’d become a real predicament.

But there was something Manuel was more concerned about. The leaves of his plants were slowly drooping. Some had been turned white or tinted red and yellow. The fruits were shriveling up. It was a nightmare.

Manuel had been stressing out about trying to keep his plants alive. He’d looked up solutions online, but it was no use. He hadn’t prepared early enough and most of the smaller plants had already withered down. Some of the plants and most of the trees were still holding up though, which is good. Of course, this is still just the cold. The snow hadn’t even fallen yet.

When it did, Manuel harvested what he could and resorted to stress-cooking. He’d made quite a few dishes already. Certainly too much food for just him and his dog. Today, he was making Adobo. As he was frying the chicken, Manuel looked at the window above the kitchen sink. He would’ve looked through it and seen his garden, but he was trying to keep the house warm. (He was already wearing full-length pants and a jacket over his sweater. Filipino houses aren’t insulated for this kind of cold.) Manuel imagined the white snow he’d seen earlier. It wasn’t much, and it wasn’t even all snow. Some of it was just cold, sludge-y water. A tear streamed down his cheek. He wiped it away before it fell into the hot oil.

Manuel prefers to cook his own food. He didn’t like going out to restaurants. Over time, he’d gotten quite good at it. At least, the food tasted good to him. Dobo seemed to like his food as well. (Dobo was probably the most well-fed dog in town.) Other than the two of them, no one else had really tasted Manuel’s cooking.

At least no one else who was still alive. When he was a teenager, Manuel would cook for his father, learning from his mother’s recipes, yellowing index cards filled with lists of ingredients and steps. His dad seemed to like Manuel’s food too.

Of course his parents were both dead now. Dead of old age. Manuel was old enough to have grandchildren of his own. He doesn’t, of course.

Manuel was starting to mix the sauce for the adobo when the doorbell rang. His heart sunk. He turned off the stove and was on his way to the door when it rang again. And again. By the time he got there, the door must’ve rung 5 times.

When he opened the door, the cold air immediately burst into the house.

“Manuel!” greeted Rosa, “Where’s Dobo?” She was wrapped in her new coat and a scarf around her neck.

You could see the long, colorful, flower-patterned socks underneath her boots. Behind her, there were piles of snow scattered around the streets. White dots landing wherever they pleased. The ground was cold and wet.

Manuel noticed that Rosa was smiling. He didn’t understand why. There was nothing to smile about.

“He’s uhm…” Manuel was surprised. Rosa never visits him. He didn’t even know she knew where he lived. “He’s upstairs. He’s not used to the cold.”

“None of us are! Tell him to get down here.” Rosa was rubbing her arms, trying to keep warm, “And let me in, will you?”

“R-right! Of course.” Manuel moved to let Rosa in, “Come in, come in.”

Once Rosa was inside, he quickly shut the cold air out. “Wh-what brings you here? Can I, can I get you anything? Would you like some, uhm, coffee?”

“Yes, that’d be nice. Thank you, Manuel.” Keeping her coat on, she made her way to the stairs, “Do you mind if I go up to see Dobo?”

“Hm? Uhm, n-no… I suppose not. Go ahead.” Rosa hadn’t answered his question about why she was here. Probably because he asked her another question after that, which is what she did answer. Stupid. He wasn’t going to ask again though. He made his way to the kitchen and heated up some water. Rosa still hadn’t come down yet, so he continued to cook the adobo, placing the chicken into the sauce. He was glad he had already been cooking so much food. He had a guest now. He took out two packets of Nescafe from a cabinet and two mugs.

“Milk and sugar for me, please!” Rosa shouted as she was making her way down the stairs, carrying Dobo who was bundled up in a thick blanket.

Manuel complied and added a spoonful of powdered milk and sugar to one of the mugs. He heated up some rice and began to set the table in the dining room. As he did, he chuckled to himself. He and Rosa were going to have lunch together. Not that it was a date or anything. He still didn’t know why she was here.

He peeked through the doorway to the living room. Rosa was playing with Dobo, who was suddenly a lot livelier than he’d been in the last few days. He was also wearing a green crocheted sweater.

“Do you like it?” Rosa said, “I made it myself. It’s a little loose, but I wanted to make sure he’d fit in it.”

Manuel didn’t really know what to think. Rosa was thoughtful for making it. It wasn’t bad and Dobo didn’t seem to mind it, “It’s nice. Thank you. Uhm, I finished making the coffee. Would you uhm... also like to have lunch? I made adobo…”

“Oh yes, please! I haven’t eaten yet. That’s so nice of you.”

Once they were all sat down at the small dining table and Dobo had his food bowl filled with adobo (no rice), Rosa and Manuel ate quietly. Occasionally, smiling at each other.

And in the forgotten garden, in the dark green leaves of the bush in the corner, the roses were blanketed in white snow and were blooming in the cold.

#anamurielveron #fiction #prose #writing #literature #filipino literature #snow #bulacan #philippines #speculative fiction #romance #short story #tagalog #filipino

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sassasquashedgrapes · 7 years

Text

Another Story: A Glee x Kissed by the Baddest Bidder Cross-over

It’s me again! Your friendly neighborhood, Squashed Grape.

It’s been a while since I got into the fanfic (or any literal stuff) and decided to do some fan service today. This is an old post but a goodie. You see, I’ve been a fan of Glee during the early days and was also a huge Otome player (lol. the closest to player I’ll ever be). And made this fanfic cross-over of sorts inspired from the Voltage Inc story, Kissed by the Baddest Bidder. Actually I *might* have switched the names a bit and the plot line is from the intro except for a few tweaks. Anyway, I just wanna lay it all down there so nobody starts yelling bloody murder.

After all, wasn’t 50 Shades like some fan service to Twilight, so haters can just move along now, Nothing to see.

So without much further ado, a short story cross-over for y’all!!

By the way, be prepared for a series of long fanfics of Glee coming at your way. This is only just the beginning of the Hargreave brothers.

click below

Another Story: Kissed By The Baddest Bidder/Glee Fanfic.

I’ve always been a huge fan of the otome game and the delicious notion of having someone used up for bidding, using the Glee characters seemed absolutely too good to resist. How could I? So shall we? Elian “Ian” Hargreave – Eisuke Ichinomiya Mike Chang – Soryu Oh, the cool mobster Noah Puckerman – Mitsunari Baba, the philandering theif Kurt Hummel – Ota Kisaki , the artist. Lol I know, Ota doesn’t swing that way but I always pegged Ota as a closet anyway. Cooper Anderson – Mamuro Kishi, the lazy detective and of course: Lucy Quinn Fabray – MC

Quinn Fabray is different in this storyline. I made a parallel universe of sorts, changing a bit of her past to make her come to her present future. So instead of moving to McKinley High, Lucy Q. Fabray’s father, Russel, dies of a heart attack and thus her mother remarries another man who worked as a hotel concierge manager in one of the most prestigious hotels in New York, the fictional hotel/casino Wyndham, (loosely based on the Waldorf Astoria) which is owned by then the family of Elian Hargreave’s grandfather who eventually takes over the hotel after graduating from high school. Quinn has grown up in the hotel, pretty much understanding and loving every detail and aspect of it, treating it as if it were her own family since she pretty much lead a lonely life in New York, being a small town girl from Ohio who turned out to grow into a beautiful young woman. This storyline is inspired by the Otome route of Eisuke Ichinomiya, whom I think was the best storyline for someone like her. I’m way too biased that I don’t think I want to share Soryu Oh with her, hahaha. Fast forward to the present, Quinn just graduated from Yale, but is now working he as a chambermaid in the hotel to earn extra cash at the same time pay for her college loans while she looks for a job.

Prologue: As I feel a trickle of sweat behind my back while being in the middle of the spotlight, I start to wonder as I stare into the crowd facing me “how on earth did I ever come to this?”

12 hours earlier

“Good morning,” I greet cheerfully as I swing open the door in locker room of the female changing hall as if I’ve done so many times over. I’m working during the summer as a maid at a hotel owned by the Hargreave Group, which is a large company that owns banks, trading companies, locally and overseas.

“Good morning, Lucy,” greets Marley, one of the maids who also works part-time in the hotel. I know for a fact that she looks old enough to still be in highschool, but I’ve never bothered to pry into matters like gossip. As long as they keep to their business, I keep to mine. But despite it, I feel like I could confide in her because she seems so open and nice.

“The VIP convention starts today. I am super excited,” Marley grins as she mentions one of the annual big events the hotel/casino throws.

“I’ll bet you’d be way too busy to get excited since you’ll be working at the casino floor,” I grin back thinking how exhausted I’m going to be once this convention is over. I’ve been living in the Wyndham since I was 15 after my dad died and my mother remarried. I’d come to love it as if it were my own family and was familiar with its daily routine until 4 years ago when it underwent a massive renovation into becoming the first hotel/casino in New York. It had been quite a scandal at first, with government officials opposing the idea of bringing “Las Vegas” to the metropolis, but the whole issue died down after a while and for the last two years, the Wyndham, became New York’s first legal casino and hotel.

“Don’t you wish you could work at the IVC?” Marley was referring to the International VIP Convention, one of the newly annual conventions frequented by Hollywood A-list stars, World leaders, socialites and big time businessmen who gathered once a year to play at the casinos and have a go into dabbling in a world of glamour

“Yeah, that would be great.” I agreed quietly.

“Well, that’s the goal of everyone who works here.” Marley sighed as she hunkered on the bench and rested her elbow on her knee as she propped her head on her hand. “I’ve been dreaming about it ever since I saw it on TV. Seeing movie stars, top athletes, and other super famous people all over the world gathered here in this party. I even heard Perez Hilton was so pissed that he didn’t get an invite.” She pursed her lips conspiratorially.

“You know, when I applied for this job a few months ago, I didn’t think I was going to be hired that I thought I was dreaming when I actually did.” Marley grinned happily. I smiled feeling how infectious her mood was, she was so upbeat by the whole thing, I didn’t want to look like a kill joy so I agreed.

“Oh my god.” She stopped suddenly as if she had thought of something of real importance. “What if some rich, famous guy falls in love with me at first sight?” I hope he knows you’re barely 18, I mentally think and almost utter it out loud but I stop myself and….

“Haha, keep dreaming.” I just say instead.

Whew, that was close. Our VIP guests are important, but I also value working for our regular guests, too. I had just graduated in a Marketing degree at Yale, but with the recession, jobs were scarcely handed and I didn’t feel the need to dabble in doing freebies as an Intern in a big corporation, when I could be earning much more doing it here in Wyndham. It really isn’t so bad. I really didn’t care that much about image anyway since moving to New York. Somehow the anonymity of it all had liberated me from the confines of the shallowness that I had experienced living in Lima, Ohio that I didn’t give a damn anymore.

I thought about the IVC, the International VIP Convention, Wyndham’s largest annual event is today and the international publicity with the media hanging around the area was totally insane. Unlike Marley, I had actually dreaded this more because I knew things were busier and a lot more tense than usual. My step-father, Charlie was one of the managers of the hotel and was in charge of the VIP guests lounge and had direct connections to the owner, Mr. Elian Hargreave. I heard a lot about the new owner, how accomplished he was despite his young age. He was featured in Forbes magazine as the most successful businessman under 40 years of age (rumors had it that he couldn’t be more than 30 years old.) He reminded me of a true-to-life Bruce Wayne, ridiculously handsome in a dark, mysterious way and was always surrounded by beautiful women. I knew my sister, Fran was crushing on him big time that she even begged Charlie for an introduction, but to no avail.

As we left the locker room and head to the hotel lobby, where a crowd of reporters and onlookers gathered, people whom I’ve only seen on TV or on a movie screen started appearing, strutting as if they were meant to walk down the red carpet and enter the magnificent lobby as if it were from a Hollywood movie scene.

“Oh. My God.” Marley’s mouth literally hung wide open. “Look who just got out of that limo.”

I crane my neck and look around thinking that she just saw the famous TV actress who was in a popular teen show. What was her name again? Elena Davenport? She was famous for being in this TV show about a love triangle between a vampire and a cyborg. It was insane how people were shouting her name as if it were part of her entourage. She looked stunning with her black hair and her golden skin that had obviously seen the tropics recently. She was then accompanied by an equally handsome young man who stood well over six feet tall and had a shock of black brown hair.

“That guy’s always on the VIP list. They call him the King,” Marley whispers as if we’re in church.

“I thought that was Elvis,” I quipped chuckling at her disgruntled look. I knew what she meant. I wasn’t one to get caught up in celebrity gossip, but that King she was referring to was no other than the owner of the Wyndham, Mr. Hargreave. He gallantly bowed offering his arm to Elena who gave him a dazzling smile as she took his arm. Hanging on the other side of his arm was also someone famous. I heard she was the new Broadway superstar and her name was Rachel Berry. Behind him was another famous model who often graced those ads in Vogue and a famous British reality show actress.

All the women around him are famous, I think dully as I look down in my frumpy uniform. For some odd feeling I felt a pang of something that I couldn’t understand wash over me. Before I had time to even think about it, Marley again interrupted my thoughts by whispering again on my ear.

“He’s been living in the penthouse suite for a while now.” “Of course he does, he owns the hotel.”

“But it costs tens and thousands of dollars to stay there for the night.” Marley argued.

“Maybe it’s a lot more convenient to keep tabs of work here than living on Park Avenue or at the East Side.” I shrugged watching as Mr. Hargreave pays no attention to the huge crowd and walks straight ahead.

I realize that I can’t take my eyes off him. I’ve heard the how the female hotel staff would gush about how hot he was, but seeing him in the flesh just took my breath away.

“Aaaah!!! Over here, Elian!!!” one of the women from the mass crowd screams holding a phone camera hoping to get a picture of him.

Suddenly, a group of women, thinking about doing the same thing start running towards him and bump into me and I feel myself being pushed right into the crowd and on to the red carpet.

SMACK!

I feel like I just hit a wall and close my eyes bracing myself for the pain to follow after the impact. Instead I feel a band of steel arms hold me close, as if to steady me from the madness. I then pry my eyes open and find myself staring into a pair of steel gray blue eyes that were placed like jewels on a handsome chiseled face.

Mr. Hargreave!!

“Aah, I- I’m so sorry,” I stammered, feeling the rush of blood flow straight at my face and into my brain as I continue to look at him, almost mesmerized yet horrified by what had just transpired. I still feel his arms around me and I could just tell that this multibillionaire really does work out because he’s practically hugging me right now.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a haughty voice belonging to the new Broadway ingénue pipes up beside Mr. Hargreave. She sounds almost disgusted by the sight of me. I can see from the corner of my peripheral vision that Elena Davenport was smirking as if amused by what was happening. God, I didn’t think she was such a bitch until now.

But instead of voicing that sentiment out, I knew I had a job at stake and right now it was totally hanging in the balance. I had just publicly humiliated myself in front of the owner of the hotel and his guests and was drawing unnecessary attention right now and it was more than I could honestly bear. I swallow and gather myself before bitchy Quinn Fabray comes out and try to mutter an apology again but am cut short by a curt, masculine and surprisingly sexy voice.

“Get out of the way,” Mr. Hargreave says as he suddenly pulls away from me, and pushes me not quite gently aside.

“What?” I mutter in disbelief as I lose my balance and fall flat on my butt to the ground.

Owwwww..

I look at slight disdain at the man who apparently was also my boss, but his muscular, tapered back was the only thing that could see that look on my face as I watch walk further away. He brushes off his suit as if he had just encountered a speck of dust and before I thought he had finally dismissed me, turns his head and shoots me a glare and then suddenly disappears into the casino hall.

I suddenly realize with a shock that I still had that look of displeasure on my face and grimaced as I rubbed my lower back, trying yet again to stead myself as the crowd disappeared into where Mr. Hargreave and his entourage were headed. Marley quickly comes rushing over to my side.

“Are you okay, Luce?” She asks me, totally concerned as she called me by my nickname. I haven’t been called Lucy for a while, I had been using Quinn since I had come to New York, but somehow there was a comfort in still being known as Lucy while here in the confines of the Wyndham.

“Yeah, my butt and my pride are fine,” I say.

“Oh my God. Mr. Hargreave caught you in his arms. I am so totally jealous! Did he smell nice? Was he really as buff underneath that suit as they say?” Marley was acting like a puppy dog fawning over that jerk.

“I don’t know, I don’t even r-remember,” I lied because I had just mentally scratched Elian Hargreave off as a completely cold, aloof, unfeeling human being. The nerve of that man! He didn’t even bother to defend me while I, one of his staff members, was berated by that Broadway bitch Berry.

Hmm. That had a nice ring to it. I feel tons better knowing that the girl could have used a plastic surgeon as good as the one who did my nose.

Come to think of it, Elian Hargreave was actually pretty frightening. I’ve seen how New Yorkers glare sometimes, but that cold look was totally at subzero levels worthy of the Artic.

I smooth out my clothes and hear the click clack of high heels behind me.

“Just what were you thinking, making a fool out of yourself?” a cold, voice tinged with an Italian accent snapped me back to reality. “And in front of such important guests and even the owner of this hotel?”

“Miss Thelma, “ I say coolly plastering a smile at one of the hotel managers. Thelma Caparano has been on my ass since the day I started working at the Wyndham when she found out I graduated with honors on my Marketing degree from Yale. Perhaps it was that and because I’m Charlie’s kid that she thinks I deserve to be more ill-treated than a worn-out mule from a third world country. She stands imposingly before me, all dressed up in her expertly tailored uniform as she clacked impatiently on her Prada heels waiting for me to answer her.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. It was an accident…”

“You are at fault for not paying attention to what’s going on around you,” she clucked her tongue at me, looking at me disapprovingly under those heavy glasses that framed her would-have-been pretty-if-she-wasn’t-such-a-bitch face. She was probably a few years older than me, but the harshness of her demeanor just made her look like petulant and almost bratty for a woman in her mid-thirties.

“Aren’t you in charge of the regular guests, Fabray?” She asks with a smirk on her face.

Oh boy, she does enjoy torturing me.

“You have no business even being here in the lobby. Not unless you get promoted to handling the VIP guests. But you won’t get that chance, would you? Not even if you begged your stepfather.” She laughed as if she had just thought of that joke and it was funny.

Ugh. I am totally so close to slapping her but instead I reply setting my gaze downcast hoping that she won’t see me seething as I meekly reply “Yes, Miss Thelma.”

“Well, since you’re here,” she motions to one of her hotel assistants who was following her like a dog who hands over a box as she shoves it towards me. “Go to every floor and drop off these announcement letters while you’re at it. These are for the guests who wish to avail of the spa promo package we are having in honor of the IVC.”

“Okay,” I say since arguing about doing a herculean task is going to go nowhere anyway since this angry vampire is out for my blood. She’s always been a bully and since I would never dared complain of this to Charlie even though I could have, I decide I might as well just shut up and deal with it. I turn and nod to Marley, saying my goodbyes and head towards the elevators.

As I walk by, I see a man, about my age arguing with a young woman about something in front of the elevator. The woman is wearing a dress that looks like something from the recent Fashion Week runway as she throws a mask at the man at the same time spewing a litany of curses in fluent French.

“Connard!! Baise toi!” she screamed as the man looked back in her as if in shock. “You lying, cheating scum! I never want to see you again.” With that, she gave him a resonant slap in the face for added effect before she walked out of the hotel.

This is awkward. I turn my attention instead to the mask that looked as if it were something one wore to a masquerade ball. I suddenly got an image of 50 shades of Grey and find myself staring at the mask lying on the floor. I was about to pick it up when the man who was slapped earlier moves quicker than I could and in a blink of an eye was brushing it off as if were the only precious thing that mattered to him.

Wow, his hands were fast like those of a magician. I turn to look at him and realize that he wasn’t bad looking either. He was of above average height and was muscularly built, but a bit thicker than Mr. Hargreave. He also had dark hair and had the most dazzling pair of emerald green eyes I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t tell what his hair was like underneath that Fedora hat that just made him look like the epitome of 1920’s gangster cool in a modern way.

Fedora Hat sighs dramatically. “Great, now I don’t have a date.” He says as if talking to himself then realizes I’m watching him. When our eyes meet, I quickly look away self-consciously because I didn’t want him to know that I had been caught staring at him. I try to act cool despite the awkward tension but know that he saw me witness the whole thing.

“You saw that, didn’t you?” He smirks, as if reading my mind.

“Yeah. I-I’m really sorry.” I backed away slowly as if avoiding being pounced by some agitated animal.

“Aw, come on. Don’t run away,” Fedora Hat laughs as he gently takes my arm as he leads me towards the elevator, completely ignoring the fact that I’m in the hotel maid’s uniform with a box of undelivered fliers on the other arm. “I’ll explain everything when we get there.”

“S-Sir?”

Before I know it, the man ignores my protests and continues to guide me, half-dragging me into the elevator with him. We’re alone in the elevator and to be honest, this is the first time I’ve been to the basement area. I’m surprised that the basment’s elevator looks just as elegant as the regular floor elevators. It sort of reminded me of going into a secret lair of some evil villain but at the same time being cooped inside a glass bird cage of sorts. I tried to avert my attention to the man beside me and look instead at the buttons of the elevator as the blinking lights affirmed our descent to the unknown.

“Whew! I’m lucky I found you,” Fedora Hat grins at me, still holding onto my arm having no intention of letting me go. His grip isn’t painful nor in any way gentle, but it’s firm enough to hold me into place. As if wanting to distract me from thinking of it, he adds “coz there’s no way I could go to the party without a beautiful woman on my arm. That would be a total buzzkill.”

Buzzkill? Who says that sort of thing these days?

“Party? You mean, the IVC?”

“The One and Only. Isn’t it obvious how I’m dressed?” He opens one free arm to show his expensive Italian cut suit. Definitely Armani now that I got a closer look. And definitely custom made as it fits him perfectly.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that you—“

“Hahaha. I’m kidding, babe. Man, you’re kinda uptight for a pretty thing. Were you raised in some Christian Bible thumping school or something?”

“Uh, that’s because I work at this hotel,” I say slowly almost as if trying to hint that I’m still in my maid’s uniform, completely ignoring the fact that he’s actually right about me being Christian. “So technically, I can’t go with you to the party as your date, sir.”

“What are you talking about? The reason why that woman earlier left was so you could be my date, Lucy.” He smiles in the most seductive, sexiest way possible as he finally noticed the name plate on my uniform.

Whoa, this one’s pretty dangerous. And a hopeless flirt as well. I try not to show my fear when grabs my chin and lifts it up to meet his face as he peers down, bringing it closer to mine. I can feel his breath grazing against me as he looks into my eyes.

“Definitely my type. Angel blonde hair, mesmerizing green eyes, and luscious lips…” he trails on softly as I sort of feel his face coming closer. He moves way to fast and I try to squirm away, backing off thinking now I understood perfectly why he got dumped in the first place.

DING! Saved by the bell of the basement floor. The elevator arrives at a full stop at the ballroom and Fedora Hat quickly backs off and casually straightens himself as if nothing of importance was about to take place. He could even care less whether he kissed me or not. Jeez.

“Let’s rock and roll, Princess.” He announces and gives off a broad smile as if putting on a game face. And contrary to his calm demeanor, he drags me out into the ballroom before I can protest as I’m lead into the glamorous ballroom that reminded me from a scene of a Hollywood movie.

I gaped in awestruck fascination, marveling how I could have possibly missed out the new renovations at the Wyndham. The renovations had still managed to maintain some of the old architecture, paying detail to preserving its original Art Deco state, but added with contemporary minimalist design, it’s mixture was astounding and beyond words. I had no means of any background in architecture, but this was like walking into the Hall of Fame on architectural immortality. I was shocked that everyone present were almost nonchalant of the genius behind the design and how lavishly decorated the ballroom was to the point that even the catering was handled in the most A-list of ways. I turn my attention to the gorgeous Swarovski crystals that were adorning the chandeliers that were hanging from the high ceiling.

The entire floor was jam-packed with the rich and famous that I wasn’t even sure if I was hallucinating because it was too much sensory overload to be true. I turn my head and notice Cristian Renaldi, the famous World cup soccer player from Spain to my right. And that’s the famous Hollywood actress, Julie Moore. And even the former President of the United States is over there? I feel like Alice in Wonderland being wrapped around the surrealness of it all being around these celebrities that it takes me a moment to get back to earth and finally notice that Fedora Hat who had dragged me here in the first place was gone.

Huh? Where’d he go?

Suddenly, I hear a womanly voice from behind me.

“Hey, do you have any champagne?” I turn around and am surprised that it wasn’t a woman, but a young man with an angelic face whose skin was as flawless as fine bone china. He had soft, brown hair and bright blue eyes. He looked so familiar because his face was on the cover of this month’s issue of People Magazine being tagged as one of the 25the most beautiful People of the World of this year.

“K-Kurt Hummel!!!” I gasp, recognizing the mega hyphenate National artist/ Pulitizer prize winning Children’s Novelist/ Socialite.

“Oh, you know who I am.” He smiles brightly, happy to have been recognized in a sea of famous faces. “Thanks!”

“I-I’m sorry, I’ll look for the champagne now.” I mumble apolitically frantically looking for a bottle of Dom Perignon and Mr. Hummel chuckles behind me, as if thoroughly amused.

“You sure you work here, Alice?”

“P-Pardon?”

“You remind me of Alice in Wonderland when she fell down the rabbit hole and stumbled into the Mad Hatter’s party.” He moves away from me and reaches over the table behind me and lifts a bottle of Moet et Chandon and pours himself a glass. He then thrusts his newly refilled glass towards me nudging me to take a drink.

“Here. You could use one more than me,” he grins. I was about to protest but there was something harsh in his eyes telling me not to defy him as I emptied my glass.

“T-Thanks,” I was about to take the bottle and refill his glass for him when he shakes his head and takes the glass from my hands and pours himself another.

“Now, go on to doing whatever it was and I hope you get back home safely, Alice,” was all he says as he raises his champagne glass, giving me a wink of good luck for whatever it was I was about to partake. He leaves with a wave.

He definitely was spot on about what I was feeling right at that moment.

I should definitely get out of here before I cause any more trouble.

But before I do, another man stops me from my tracks. He’s over fifty, overweight, and perhaps a bit slightly drunk as he grins at me and grabs my hand. Ugh, he also seems really sleazy. “Aren’t you a pretty one?” He slurs and I inwardly flinch from the smell of alcohol and sweat coming from him. “You wanna come with me and give me room service? I’ll make it worth your while and give you a big tip afterwards.

Ewww. His head is shaped like an egg and his pock-marked face is flushed as he looks me up and down.

“I’m sorry, sir but we don’t offer that kind of service here.” I answer politely, knowing that we had been trained beforehand on how to deal with rude perverts like this guest.

He completely ignores me and starts going on how rich he is and how much is net worth is.

To be honest, it wasn’t really much.

He then slips his arm around my waist and is about to pull me towards him when…

“This party just got really trashy.” A familiar masculine voice announced icily. I turn my head towards my savoir and realize that it’s Mr. Hargreave. He ignores my gasp of surprise and scowls at the sleaze holding me.

“I’d rather appreciate it, sir, if you kept your attention from the hotel staff and settle instead for the bevy of beauties surrounding you,” Elian Hargreave grinned sardonically nodding his head towards a group of runway models who flirtly waved back. And just when I thought he couldn’t intimidate the sleazebag, he looked at me as if I were a piece of trash marring the ambience and added cruelly. “Besides, you could totally do better than THAT. This one’s hardly a raving beauty.”

“I-I’m really sorry, Mr. Hargreave, sir! Pardon me!!!” Sleazebag bows apologetically quickly letting go of me as if he had been burned and kept his distance from me like I was infected with Ebola or something. He furiously wipes away his sweat and runs off.

“T-Thank you, Mr. Hargreave,” I say, totally ignoring the pain that he had brushed me off as a ugly and unattractive. But then again, men like him are probably used to just dating models that even ingénues were all blasé for him.

“Let’s go, Elian,” one of the pretty models whom he nodded to a while back approached him and casually hooked her arm around his, totally ignoring me.

“I can’t stand people who don’t know their place,” another one of those long legged giraffes piped in hooking her arm around his other free one as if she were about to die in a desert and he was her oasis.

As if he didn’t even acknowledge my existence and hadn’t even heard me, he turned his back as if nothing had ever happened a few minutes ago before being led away by the Amazonian Brazilian bimbos. He starts walking still surrounded by women and I’m completely overwhelmed as I watch him walk away. I suddenly notice a purple handkerchief on the floor behind him. I remember this being a part of his suit and realize that he dropped it.

Almost without thinking, I picked it up and started going after him.

“Uhm, sir! Excuse me, I think you dropped this—“ I try to chase after Mr. Hargreave but he gets lost in the crowd and I can’t seem to find him.

Oh, wait! There he is!!

I make my way through the crowd and follow him as he makes an exit to the far end of the ballroom.

A long, deserted hallway stretches out behind the door that Mr. Hargreave enters.

“Wait. Where did he go?”

There are several doors on either side of the hallway and I didn’t catch up with him in time to even know which doors did he enter. However, I hear voices coming from the far end. But somehow, as I strain to hear from the distance I get the feeling the conversation wasn’t even in English. I shake my head, thinking that I really have to return this handkerchief back to Mr. Hargreave, I strengthen my resolve and make my way towards the door where the voices were coming from. I note the door is slightly ajar, which explains why I could hear them. I peek through the gap and see several briefcases lying on a table surrounded with guns and large sums of money being packed by three Asian looking men dressed in all black discussing where to put the money in perfect Cantonese and before I could see more, I feel a large hand grab me by the shoulder and roughly pulls me away, swinging me around and forces me up against a wall…

Fear and surprise of being caught seeing something I shouldn’t have take over that I feel like I just might have suffered my first heart attack.

But unfortunately, that doesn’t happen.

Instead, my heart starts pounding again in fear as I’m facing a tall, Asian man of slim, yet muscular build with broad shoulders and powerful muscles who is now glaring at me and asks in in slightly cold, yet scarily threatening voice. His hair is slicked back and even though I know he’s actually quite good looking, I’m paralyzed with fear to hardly even notice.

“What are you doing here?” He demands as he pins me against the wall as his sharp eyes look at me.

Oh dear, God.

It happened so suddenly my body starts to tremble as I start to realize that maybe he is one of those gun men and those men aren’t just hotel guests. But Mafia? Triad?

What on earth should I do?

I breathe and swallow but it’s way too hard to even do so. Instead I focus on his face and answer.

“I-I- w-w-ork h-he---“ He completely ignores me and says instead, “you’ve got give seconds to walk away, disappear and forget everything you just saw. Got it? Otherwise, I’d hate to think what would happen to you after.” He also said it in a way that sounded like he was talking to a five-year old. A not very bright one at that too.

I nod wordlessly over and over, desperate to get away and he immediately lets me go. I run so fast my legs get tangled up with each other at first and don’t even think of where I’m headed. I just run to the point of exhaustion and find myself at the basement storage room. I close the door behind me and try to catch my breath, relieved with the fact that I have just barely escaped with my life as I offer a silent prayer and make the sign of the cross in complete gratitude that the scary Asian Mafia guy just let me go.

I ruminate over the thought of how it was possible for the Triad, one of the notorious Asian Mafias could be tied up to an event like the IVC? Were those guys even part of the Triad? Maybe they weren’t even mafia.

Get a hold of yourself, Fabray. Keep it together. I have just realized right at this moment I had actually lost the box of flyers I was holding earlier. I wasn’t sure if I had lost somewhere from that struggle between me and Fedora Hat, or that Mad Hatter encounter with Kurt Hummel, or even with the Middle Aged Sleazebag . I try again to get my body to function properly as I compose myself thinking over again where I had last left it and realized that it was on the table where I had been with Mr. Hummel.

Just as I swing the door open, I hear a loud crashing THUD.

The door I just swung had collided into something and I could hear a group of men scream “Watch out!!!”

I see two mean-looking men peeking at the other end of the door looking helplessly as the box they were carrying drops to the ground.

“Shit! That was the Winged Victorian Angel!”

Oh no. I remember from the news that this 300 year old museum artifact was meant to be raffled off as the grand prize at the IVC. It had been shipped all the way from the Louvre in Paris as a gift from the newly elected French President to the United States. The proceeds of the IVC’s funding and the raffle were meant to help the victims of Typhoon Haiyan somewhere in the Philippines.

I quickly open the crate box and find the statue was broken in half and my heart just drops to my stomach in nameless shock.

I am way too shocked to even mutter an apology. Not only did I just destroy what might have been a National Treasure, millions of homeless Filipino children were going to starve and suffer.

“Hey, this was a very important piece that was going to be auctioned off.” The slim mean-looking guy barks at me, ignoring my shocked state. Did he just say auctioned? Didn’t he mean it was going to be raffled?

“How are you gonna pay for this?” Asks the Fat Meanie beside him.

“Uh…..Sorry?”

“You think an apology is gonna cut it? You owe us, bitch!”

The men reach out to me and….

……………..

And I find myself being auctioned off. The host of the eveing had just announce d that the next bid was me, a healthy fit young Caucasian American.

Is this even legal? I think as I swallow in fear hearing the bids knock from $2 million to higher. I got put up in place of that Winged Victory Angel.

The mere fact that someone just started the bid off at $2 million was unreal.

I could barely make through the crowd as everyone was wearing masks similar to the masquerade mask Fedora Hat had with him when his date dumped him. But somehow I felt with a sinking dread that the person who placed the initial bid was the Middle Aged Creep from before. Oh crap, is he really going to buy me? I definitely do NOT want that at all.

“$2 million, going once……going twice……”

I heard the announcer say that I’d be a slave, or a toy, or……God knows. This is horrible. I try to shake myself off this nightmare, but I know what I’m going through right now was just as real as everything that partook 12 hours ago.

Oh God, how did I get to this? I fall to my knees, hang my head in shame as I feel the tears well in my eyes start to overflow.

I start praying hoping that Charlie, or my Mom or Fran could find me before it’s too late…..

Just then….

The auction hall suddenly buzzes with commotion as the announcer stops from closing the deal.

“Seat number 100 with a bid for $20 million cash.”

The crowd is drawn into complete silence.

I peer through the gates to look for 100, but whoever was bidding was not in the crowd. All I could do was stare up at the sum of the winning bid, completely dumbfounded as a bell sounds, calling the auction to a close.

“Sold to Seat Number 100 for $20 million. Thank you!!”

Someone bought me for twenty million US dollars?

My cage is carried over to the edge of the stage. As I get off, I’m greeted by two masked men. They weren’t the mean jerks from earlier but something about them looks vaguely familiar. One of them looked to be wearing a Fedora Hat.

Fedora Hat bought me? Before I even get the chance to ask, Fedora Hat in the mask grabs my arm and says” This way….”

Wait, what the heck am I being so nervous for? At least it’s Fedora Hat who bought me and not that Middle Aged Creep. But where are they going to take me now?

And who bought me?

I feel totally numb from this crazy situation that I don’t even notice that I’m brought up into the penthouse.

I gasp in marvel looking at my surroundings, knowing that out of all the hotel employees, only Charlie and a few other managers were ever allowed to come up here.

Wait, speaking of Charlie, does he even know about those weird auctions happening at the basement?

“We brought her, boss.” Fedora Hat announces to the man in the immaculate tux seated on one of the elegant sofas. Like Fedora Hat and the other man, he was also wearing a mask, but something about him looked made me sense that I’ve also encountered this man before. Even the other man seated beside him also with a shock of black hair was also wearing a mask also seemed vaguely familiar.

“Wait. You’re----“

“We bought you,” Mr. Hargreave says indifferently, removing his mask as if he didn’t even hear what I was about to say. The other man beside him followed suit.

“Guess we did end up seeing each other again,” the Asian Mafia guy remarks in the same casual, yet cold tone.

“You know this woman, Mike?” Hargreave raises his eyebrow almost as if in disbelief.

“You can say that.” He shrugs, not really giving a toss.

“Wait. You bought me? In that auction” I stammer, trying to still make sense of it all.

“He means WE won you, Alice.” Kurt Hummel corrects as I turn around in disbelief as he removes his mask as well.

“For $20 million, Princess. The boss must have it bad.” Fedora Hat grins as he casually throws his mask and lays it on the next empty sofa.

“M-Mr. Hummel?” I squeak, not sure if I was asking if Fedora Hat was referring him as ‘the boss’ or if I was just asking a reaffirmation that I knew at least another familiar but friendly face.

“Pffft!!! She doesn’t even know you’re name, Puck.” Kurt laughs.

“That because I didn’t have the time to tell her,” the man named Puck crosses his arms as if he were a pouting kid who wasn’t included in a game of tag.

“Isn’t this some form of human trafficking? I shouldn’t have even been up for that stupid auction in the first place.”

“Hey, anything and everything’s for sale at that auction.” Puck grins matter-of-factly, completely oblivious to the fact that I had stated it being against my own free will.

“Absolutely,” Kurt agrees. “You can buy almost anything there. Like stolen art, government secrets, and even hire a hitman!”

“That was last year, wasn’t it?” Puck asked as I noticed that he and Kurt were the only chatty ones in the group while the other two men watched silently.

“Anyway, this was the first time anyone was sold off in the manner of fashion you had earlier,” Kurt says tilting his head as if trying to understand what was really going on. “You must have done something really bad to put yourself up there, huh?”

“Well…….I accidentally broke the Winged Victory Angel….” My voice trails off and I realized that something wasn’t right here. Wait a minute, weren’t they just talking about selling black market things in a legal casino that by the way just happens to be in a highly publicized area? Was this even legal at all? “Who in the world would approve of these things? Do the police even know?”

“Well, to answer question number one. I did approve of it.” Mr. Hargreave says as if bored by this whole conversation.

“What?”

“If it’s worth anything, it’s here.” Hargreave scoffs and laughs coldly.

“Reckless as always,” Mike shakes his head. “This woman isn’t even worth anything.”

“Think about it for a moment,” Hargreave looks at me up and down as he folds his arms looking at me as if he were the predator toying with his prey. “Won’t it be fun coming up with ways to use her?”

“What gives you the right to decide that?” I ask exasperated.

“Who gave you permission to speak?” Hargreave asks coldly, merely raising an eyebrow.

“Huh?”

“Not another word unless I. SAY. SO.” Hargreave says, savoring the last three words, enunciating them slowly as if threatening me to not disobey him.

“If you’ve got a problem, we could always send you back to be auctioned off.” Mike sneers as if finding this even more amusing.

These guys are so scary. I’d rather die first than be sold off again.

I shake my head looking at both men, pleading them that I won’t disobey.

“Come on Boss……Mike……You two should be nice to the girls,” Puck quips, trying to lighten the mood, but honestly it fell a bit flat. Not that I’d feel better either way.

“We need to figure out who gets to keep her,” Kurt says, as if now he’s the one who was bored by the whole turn of the conversation. Though he acts as if he wants everything finalized, I get the feeling that he’s not entirely happy with the idea of having me for a slave. In fact, he looks rather…….reluctant. I’ve heard rumors that Mr. Hummel was gay, but I didn’t think now would have been the best times to actually confirm that. So instead I ask the second question that’s been nagging me.

“What do you mean, who gets to keep me? Didn’t you all buy me?”

“Yes, that’s true. But that’s really not your concern now.” Puck says. “If I were you, I’d choose me. I’m the only good guy here, so you can rest easy.”

“Says the world-famous thief and con-artist,” Elian Hargreave snorts derisively.

“Now, now Elian, you’re just trying to make Puck look bad.” Kurt says as if coming to his friends defense. “You’ve already got tons of groupies, why don’t you just play with one of them and let the rest of us have our fun?”

And to think I thought Kurt Hummel was safe because I assumed he was gay.

Guess again, batman.

“Mike Chang’s the one who could have his pick,” Hargreave threw a smirk towards the cool Asian mobster guy’s direction. “Women would do anything to be the lover of a Hong Kong mobster.”

So he really was part of the Mafia.

Who ARE these people? I’m speechless but I try to pull myself together and try to shake some last-minute common sense in them.

“Human trafficking IS illegal, you know. I’m going to report this to the police and I don’t care who you are.”

“You see a cop anywhere?” Elian Hargreave throws his head as if calling out to no one in particular. I follow his gaze and see a worn-out looking man standing by the window smoking a cigarette. He looks to be the older of the bunch, probably around 35 in age. Rather good-looking, in fact he sort of reminds me of that guy who plays a thief on TV except that he looks disheveled and hasn’t shaved in a week.

“Damn it, don’t just blow my cover like that,” he groans as if he didn’t even want to be a part of this conversation.

“Better now than later, right Detective Cooper?” Kurt giggles as if enjoying himself.

“Shut up, Hummel.”

“Oh, don’t be so mean. Just because I’m dating your brother doesn’t mean you have to be so rude.”

“Wait, you’re a cop?” I ask incredulously, ignoring the fact that Kurt Hummel just confirmed he was openly gay.

“Yup.” Apparently, the Detective spoke the fewest words possible.

I seriously CAN NOT believe that even the police are in on this.

“Well, it looks like we’re not going to reach a decision any time soon.” Kurt announces, really emphasizing on the obvious.

“Well Boss, at times like these….” Puck begins but Elian Hargreave cuts him off immediately.

“Right. I don’t want to waste anymore time.” Hargreave nods and stands up with Mike Chang following suit. All the men except for the Detective stand up and saunter over to me with Mr. Hargreave standing in the center of the group with his arms crossed looking down at me with cold eyes.

“Make a decision,” he says. “I’ll let you choose who buys you.”

---END---

Elian Hargreave. Be ready to hear more of another Hargreave, Elian was just the prototype of my OC in the next series of fanfics.

#glee #glee fanfiction #quinn fabray #voltage otome #otome guys #kissed by the baddest bidder #kbtbb #kbtbb eisuke #kbtbb soryu #kbtbb baba #mike chang #kurt hummel #noah puckerman #kbtbb ota

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