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dumpsiteforfics · 3 years

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Yearning - Excerpts From a lonely heart : [ Chapter 2]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Spencer Reid

Rating: Mature

Genre: Angst and fluff

Trigger warnings: mentions of death, suicide, A/B/O, Drugs, Kidnapping, spoilers to criminal minds season 1 to season 6. Also, will include mpreg, at the end.

This is my a/b/o universe for Heid. As the name suggests, lots of yearning and angst followed by a fluff and smut eventually. First chapter might be slower but things will pick up soon. I don’t want to make the story longer, but we will see!!

Also, please check trigger warnings and also let me know if you would like me to add more warnings!

English is my third language so expect grammatical mistakes and typos, I don’t have a beta sorry. Also I hope you will give it some love!! I’m looking forward to the feedback.

AO3 links : Chapter 1 Chapter 2

More about this au: Click here

It was different, this numbness that his mind slipped into… Spencer was used to having his mind always full of swirling thoughts about everything, obscure facts and constant statistics. But now, it was just silent, at least until he was so far gone that he started reliving the memories he had buried deep in his mind. The memories of his father leaving, of trying to do everything to keep his father from leaving them, memories of witnessing how his mother's beautiful mind broke down into pieces every day as the disease gripped her completely.

When he came back into consciousness, Charles was already there rough handling him. Spencer watched as he suddenly switched on a camera that wasn't there before. And as he said how other heathens are watching, it was a miracle that his mind grasped the words for a clue that was. His team was watching. And he needed to give them a clue about his whereabouts, which he had no idea how to give. He was unconscious throughout the ride and afterwards also he hadn't found any chance of knowing about the location where he was kept. Just then he realised the carcass Tobias had brought in when he came earlier. And he prayed to every god listening that his team would realise his clue and check the reports of poaching if any. It was a long shot of course but his team was brilliant, they will understand.

He was suddenly pulled up by his collar, face to face with Charles and he shuddered with disgust and fear. His heartbeats sped up as he heard Charles asking him to choose one to die. How was he supposed to do that? He had chosen this job because he wanted to save people, protect them from evil. But he knew Charles wouldn't take no for an answer, he thought for a moment and tried to attempt avoiding choosing to kill someone though, and thankfully Charles didn't mind. And then he was shutting off the camera and making way to kill the one he thought was a sinner. Spencer had never felt this helpless, not even when his mother was in her scariest episodes, but that's all he was feeling as he watched the couple get butchered in front of his eyes as he tried to free his hands from the chair he was tied to. He was never going to be the same again, after all of this.

***†***

As soon as they saw Reid on that screen, they realised instantly that he was beaten, his lips were cracked, one of his feet was without a sock, and his face just looked haggard. Aaron could feel the rage burning inside both of his alphas, especially Morgan and he himself wasn't any better. He could see how broken his agent looked. He couldn't help feeling a small burst of pride as Reid already profiled the unsub to realise he was a sadist in a psychotic break and his mannerisms proved to Aaron that he had already deduced he was kidnapped by a one unsub with three personalities.

When he was told to choose one to die, Aaron's heart broke. He knew as an Omega just how difficult it was, how against Reid's every instinct of nurturing and protection that decision went. He could see how disgusted Reid looked to be told to choose. Aaron is never going to forget the devastation he could see in Reid's eyes as he struggled to reply, but then Tobias pulled him up by his collar and the devastation was replaced by a pure fear. And Aaron's hands clenched into a fist without him knowing, he wanted to break every single finger of Tobias for touching his agent, for laying hands on an Omega, for beating him up and for scaring him.

Reid though was strong, even through the fear he tried to find a way to not war against his instincts at the same choosing not to anger the unsub by downright denying his order. He chose one to save.

Aaron couldn't take his eyes off of the screen, trying to get as much as he can of the place, and trying to profile Reid to see if he can get any clues of his whereabouts. Just as Gideon called the woman to get her to shut her laptop and in turn making sure she wasn't being stalked anymore, the feed turned off. And Aaron's heart stopped. This was their only connection to Reid, the only way they could see their agent was still alive. And as much as he hated it, they had no other option but to wait for a 911 call from the next murder site. And as Morgan left the room, slamming his fist in the door, Aaron couldn't even think about correcting Morgan and telling him to get his shit together, because if he wasn't in front of the team right now he would've done the same. He wanted to break something, most likely he would love to get his hands on Tobias and watch him ripped to pieces by his own hands. And as terrifying and confusing as that feeling was, he couldn't make himself to care about it this time. His instincts were not at all thinking about right or wrong, they just wanted to protect their omega and this was the first time Aaron was in agreement with his instincts.

***†***

Spencer opened his eyes as he felt the same terrified mind closer to him and he saw Tobias making his way towards him with another dose of the drug. He desperately tried to convince him to tell about the location where they were right now, but Tobias didn't listen and soon enough Spencer was slipping inside a hazy numbness and onslaught of old memories.

Probably hours later or days, Spencer couldn't even keep a track at this point he was awoken by Charles voice. Apparently someone had marked the video as virus and it decreased the number of people viewing the latest murder he had posted online. That must be Garcia, Spencer thought. Why weren't they coming to save him though? He had already given them a clue. Why wasn't anyone here to save him from this? Spencer wasn't even sure how long he can hold on now. The drugs were messing up his mind and even though the escape felt good he knew he was developing a dependency on it.

Just then Charles got up from the chair and Spencer braced himself for the abuse he knew wasn't going to be just verbal this time. As Charles screamed about his team and how they were all planning this against his agenda, he suddenly stopped and Spencer realised with a dread that Charles was looking at the track marks on his elbow. And then he was attacked with slaps and kicks as Charles repeatedly told him how pathetic he was and how much he had sinned. Spencer, already was tired from the trauma, from constant emotional load, the fear of being kidnapped and stranded with the sickest of minds and now being beaten without any break in between. Soon enough Spencer fell down from the chair, and started feeling breathless, it was getting difficult to breath or even think coherently. And as he slipped into darkness all he thought was, I'm going to die, alone and drugged.

***†***

Aaron wasn't in the room with Garcia and Gideon when Charles killed Reid. He was in the other room, going through the diaries again to see if they could find a clue. And suddenly he was hit with this dreadful feeling that something was wrong, and then deep sadness slipped inside his mind and he was running towards the room where Tobias had his computer setup. And what he saw there took his breath away. Gideon and Garcia were huddled close as she kept on crying, he sobs were breaking his heart but then his eyes moved over the screen and he realised what was wrong.

Reid. Lifeless on the floor.

Aaron tried to see closer for any signs of his chest moving, but he didn't move. He was gone. He could still remember the day Reid joined the team. Fresh from the academy, eager to protect and use his mind to save the people. He was so young. Just 26 years old and already had so much knowledge, so much empathy. He was so brilliant and so kind to everyone. Aaron remembered how Spencer single-handedly won over everyone's heart and proved his worth through the cases they worked. And such a young, precious life was taken down by a vicious unsub as the team couldn't do anything to save him. Their omega trusted them to save him and as a pack they failed to protect his life. What about his family? Or his Alpha? Did he even get a chance to meet his mate? Aaron shuddered with the intensity of grief he felt in his heart, his alpha screaming at him for failing his pack and without even realising a few tears escaped from his eyes.

He closed his eyes as all he could think about was, We failed him.

***†***

Taglist: @ssa-sarahsunshine @brillianthijinx @thaddeusly

Please let me know if you would like to be added/removed! ❤️ Please leave a feedback! ❤️❤️

#heid #hotchreid #tw a/b/o #tw: kidnapping #tw: mention of death #he doesn't die though but yeah #tw: drugs #tw: violence #tw: mention of murder #Ray's fics

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ohprettyweeper · 3 years

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Reposted from my old blog. Prompts are bolded; translations from Google Translate.

Part Two | Dream a Little Dream

Quinn Walsh shot up in bed, sweating and trying to catch her breath. The nightmares came often but this one had been filled with so much blood and carnage, it shook her to the core.

Throwing the blankets back, she threw her legs to the side of the bed and went for a glass of water and the pills that would erase the nightmare from her memories for the rest of the night. Looking out the window over the kitchen sink, she caught her reflection; even in the dim echo of her appearance, Quinn could see that the lack of sleep was catching up with her.

She didn’t want to relive the nightmare entirely, and had already taken her sleeping pill, but she decided to do what her therapist had suggested and jot down the major points of the nightmare before going back to bed. As Quinn wrote, she remembered more and more, until a desk calendar in the background of her dream screamed out the date from her memories.

“My birthday,” she sighed, shoving the journal away and running a hand through the sweaty strands of her thick, strawberry blonde hair.

This had been going on for close to eight years now and, try as she might to quell the thirst, nothing Quinn had done could sate the monster within her; that creature still showed her ugly, murderous face once every season.

She tried for another hour to fall back asleep but to no avail. As the sun peeked over the horizon and shed light on New Dema, Quinn threw back the covers again and began to prepare for her day.

When he woke up on that stone slab, the sanctuary was empty. His blood had been collected and cleaned from the floor, and not even one Bishop stood by to guide him into this new life.

He sat up slow, trying to manage the rushing sensation in his brain. He blinked a few times, adjusting to the clearer vision that let him see every minute detail in his surroundings. The age of the temple became all the more clear with dust and cracks and crevices now apparent.

The rushing sensation subsided, so he stepped onto the ground, feeling more stable than he remembered feeling before — physically, anyway. With his newfound balance, he stepped away from the altar and took some tentative steps toward the door. The door opened, and a familiar face stood on the steps.

“What happened to me?” he asked his friend when they both stood on the steps outside of the temple.

His friend didn’t hesitate or hold back. “The Bishops smeared you, killed you, then changed you.”

It all made sense now. The clear vision, the stable balance. The overwhelming sense of being.

“I’m a Heathen.” He said it out loud, as though he had never spoken the word before.

Josh nodded. “Yeah, Tyler. You’re a Heathen. C’mon, I’ll help you move your stuff to where the rest of us stay.”

Faylinn was more than pleased with how her novel was coming along. She worked on it day and night, took a personal day from work and kept at it into the next morning. Ildri had come and gone but Faylinn hardly noticed.

Sometime after lunch, she decided it was time to take a break. She fixed herself a light salad, then settled on the couch. She stared out the bay window, willing the view of Old Dema to continue feeding her ideas and words and pages.

When she woke, she was in Old Dema. Her hands were tied behind her back and she was blindfolded. Horse hooves sounded against concrete ground around her; they weren’t galloping but walking at an easy pace. Faylinn wanted to stop and take the blindfold off, get her bearings, but a hand gripping her arm kept her moving forward.

A door creaked open, and Faylinn was led through it. The hand holding her arm seated her on a hard bench, then removed the blindfold. She saw nine figures walking in a line toward the front of what appeared to be some kind of temple. They were wearing red, hooded capes, and their faces were painted white and black underneath thin veils of some mesh-like material.

The Bishops, Faylinn thought to herself.

She looked around the temple to see eight others sitting on the wooden benches, at various places within the temple room. All of the others looked as confused and scared as Faylinn felt.

The Bishops assembled in a semi-circle at the altar; for half of a second, silence reigned and time stood still. Then, the timeless men moved in unison, chanting words Faylinn did not understand.

Tse spohady, yaki vy budget trymaty. (These are the memories you will keep.)

The phrase was repeated eight times before the Bishops once again formed a line down the aisle that separated the two sections of benches. Each Bishop approached the human he had brought here until the Bishop was within arm’s reach of Old Dema’s new citizen.

Cold fear gripped every fiber of Faylinn’s being. Her nerves fired off, telling her to run or scream or do something. But the stare of the Bishop’s eyes into hers held her in place, willing her to stay put. His hands reached out to her, relaxed but purposeful. The Bishop placed one hand on either side of her neck; Faylinn stopped breathing. His thick fingers pulled black lines over her skin, and the fear began to slip away.

Josh woke with a start. The most real dream he had experienced in quite some time; a memory of the Bishops doling out that first smearing and so easily convincing him of everything they wanted him to believe, of the day he had been brought to Old Dema. He had not experienced this memory before, even when he tried.

But instead of himself sitting there on that bench, it was a woman. He did not know her, but the moment the dream brought her image into his mind, he wanted to know her. How had she appeared in his dream? If anyone ever came to him while he slept, it was the inhabitants of Old Dema, Bishops included.

He threw his legs over the one-person cot that served as his bed, set his elbows on his knees, and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. He worried that this may be some strange side effect of the serum, and for fear of what the Bishops would do with him if that were the case, Josh decided then and there to keep this dream to himself.

Ildri read over the words on the screen while Faylinn paced nervously behind her. This was some of the best work of her cousin’s Ildri had read, but Faylinn was treading dangerous ground with this novel.

“It’s amazing, Fay. Really.”

Faylinn clapped her hands excitedly and dropped to the couch. “You really think so?”

“It is. The smearing, the way they come for people in the middle of the night … it’s like you’ve seen it before.”

“I have,” Faylinn sighed. “I dreamed about it this afternoon. When I woke up, I put it into words. I feel so good about this, Ildri. I’ve been waiting for months for the perfect idea for my novel and now I’ve found it and it’s flowing so easily, it’s almost effortless.”

Ildri stood from the desk chair and waited a few seconds before delivering her next statement. She didn’t want to hurt Faylinn, but her cousin’s safety was important to her.

“I don’t think you should keep writing it.”

Faylinn’s happy expression fell to a confused frown. “What? But I thought …”

“It’s amazing work, but you’re playing with fire writing about Old Dema. The Bishops — they have weird ways about knowing about these things. We know the basics about the old ways so that we can avoid being taken, but you’re revealing details here that, true or not, were never meant to be revealed.”

“Oh please,” Faylinn said, rolling her eyes.

“Faylinn,” Ildri said sternly, “No good can come from this.”

“Maybe from your perspective. But for me, this is my big break. I know it is. I’m sorry that you can’t see it. You’ve got to stop living in the past — we all do — or the Bishops will control us forever and the purpose of New Dema won’t be realized. We’ve been outside of the wall for centuries but here we are, still governing our lives but what they do. Not me, not anymore.”

Ildri watched her cousin storm away to her part of the apartment, leaving Ildri at the computer, trying to figure out how she was going to make Faylinn understand the hazards in publishing a book of this nature.

As she meandered to the opposite part of the apartment, the part that was hers and only hers, Ildri thought over this conundrum. There was only so much about her job that she could share; her position as an assistant for New Dema’s highest government officials kept her in the know more than most but also kept her in high confidence.

Without a solution to convince Faylinn of the importance of not continuing on and publishing her novel, Ildri got up to begin cooking dinner for the both of them, instead focusing on apologizing for perhaps making Faylinn feel Ildri did not support her.

#twenty one pilots #fanfiction #the last bandito #dema inspired #repost

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kuvvydraws · 4 years

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I'm not sure if you've answered this question already, but I'm honestly very curious- why do you write fanfiction? I certainly enjoy it as much as you and have written a few things of my own, but I know it can be quite a personal topic for many writers. If it's too personal for you, don't feel any pressure to answer, but it's always interesting to see the writer's perspective outside of the story they've written :). I hope you understand what I'm trying to say-

Hey!

I actually enjoy the words and the rush your brain gets when they join without effort to create a reality.

Now, let me break that down XD

I've always had a book in my hands as far as my memory goes. My dad used to read to me when I was very little and from the second I could do it on my own, that was the best thing ever (yes, that means when I was punished for doing some shit, my books were taken away and I had to sneak them into my schoolbag and read in class like a heathen).

Not only I enjoyed books but I always found myself wanting to partake in the stories, and my brain was always running with the words and the scenes. (I discovered during my teenage years that brains have different ways to process thoughts and mine did it in words, so writing just sort of came naturally to me at that point in my life).

I discovered ffnet when I was 12, I think, but I had tried my hand at original works (that is, about five or six starts of different novels that never saw the light) and some "fanfiction" (about Nightmare Before Christmas because I had a big ass crush on Jack and I unassumingly created my first xReader ever) without knowing what the hell I was doing.

I just knew I wanted to write stuff and I did as much.

The thing is, I introduced one of my friends, who also loved to read and write, to ffnet, and we started writing together. The first thing we wrote was a Sesshomaru x OC fic, the second one was a Sasori x OC fic, and we dipped out toes into some Kuroshitsuji x OC...... all of them handwritten stories we promised we would type in a computer eventually (we didn't, they were horrible [I still have the notebooks we used for each of them and they are cringey as fuck]).

But we wrote for ourselves and we were happy like that.

So we were rampant and wild and having the best time. Back then I still wrote in Spanish (because I hardly knew any English and I didn't care for it), and I remember mixing Spain's Spanish with the ones from South America because obviously the percentage of writers in ffnet who used a different "dialect" Spanish was huge if you compare a single, tiny country with a whole continent.

At the same time I wrote with my friend, I wrote for myself. Naruto, Kuroshitsuji, Bleach, Hetalia.... And I met so many people, nice people, who loved my works (they were random fics, all of them x OC because I didn't know x Reader ones were a thing -they weren't at that time, and x Reader are harder to write in Spanish because all the words and pronouns are gendered one way or another-) and I got so much enjoyment from sharing them.

The thing about books I love the most is the fact that you can convey so many emotions with a few symbols, and you can create worlds out of ink and you can change views and inspire others. So, if none of my dumbass teenage novels were to roam the word, I still could share, in a free, open and fast way, my words with others.

Again, I was going to write them with or without posting them because I found -and still find- great pleasure when a scene creates itself in your brain and all you have to do to make it real is to write it down. (Sometimes my brain still does this and even when I'm daydreaming, my imagination is "written, described and dialogued" as if someone was reading a novel out loud. It makes writing so much easier).

And then I got hate.

I somehow had managed to miss all of the fandom drama that's so toxic in the internet because I didn't bother to interact with anyone in the fandoms beyond the reviews they left in my fics, and ffnet has a -sort of- specific search engine to help you find whatever you want, so I could never willingly find the "problematic stuff" because I was literally not trying to find it.

The hate comment I got was anonymous and very specific about everything that was wrong in a particular fic I had just updated -from plot and characterization to grammar and continuity-, and later on I discovered it came from a couple of authors who shared an account and who I admired greatly for their works. Turns out they were out for blood and hating on every fic that had updated that week and that had any members of their OTP shipped with some other character. (It was a Hetalia fanfic, I was writing SpUK and they were pro FrUk, if anyone is interested).

I was contacted by some other authors asking about this because they had gone through the very same thing -same specific hate, same hate comment- and I remember not giving a fuck.

I was 16 when I got the hate, writing for fun and trying to find a way to go through my shitty highschool days without falling into the black out of depression that haunted me. I remember not wanting to write anything anymore, leaving a fic I was very invested in writing to gather dust and rot in the forgotten folders of my computer because every time I tried to get on with it and progress, it felt wrong.

That thing I said about words just happening? It stopped. My brain was silent as a grave and trying to get my words out became painful. I remember struggling to even write regular project for my school.

I kept reading, of course -it was my only comfort and I really, really didn't want to give up on it-, but I abandoned the fandoms I enjoyed so much before. My new focus became the sci-fi, and I remember being hooked on Predator. Imagine my joy when I discovered there were thousands of works from that fandom! I was extasic.

Problem? They were written in English.

I didn't know shit about English besides being a language I was supposed to handle in school, memorize the unreasonably spelt words that were pronounced illogically regarding the fucking spelling and the stupid ass irregular verbs.

But I learnt English because I wanted a hot piece of alien ass XD

Back to the topic of fanfics, I still roamed ffnet, keeping 15 tabs open and reading until 5 am... But now there was a world of possiblities in front of me because of course everyone on this goddamn Earth writes in English.

So, for the next years I did that, and my words didn't come. It was fine, tho, because I had so many new things to read.

It wasn't until fall of 2018 that I dabbed into the idea of maybe considering to perhaps give writing a try again????? I was neck deep into Undertale -still am, I'm a shameless skeleton fucker and there's no cure for that shit- and its many AU's and somehow I had managed to avoid fandom wars again, so my brain started toying with words... The same way it worked with novels: I got myself into the fics other people wrote (this is so much easier to do with x Reader fics, and I'm so happy about that and the massive boom they had just when Undertale came out, you can't even understand it).

So I kept doing my shit and daydreaming about skeletons and ribs and ecto-stuff for a very long time. It was kinda reassuring and nice to see other writers projecting on their x Readers so much because that's what I had done before.

And then Good Omens happened.

As I've said before, I actually discovered Gomens back in 2012 and it is, to the date, the worst translation to Spanish I've seen in my entire life to this date. And, despite it, I fell in love with it.

Now, barely in 2019, my dad gets Amazon Prime and the first thing he fucking sees is the font of Gomens on the screen. I had fangirled hard about Gomens in book version, so much and so annoyingly that I wouldn't leave my dad alone until he gave it a chance. It's the only book my father hasn't finished because the translation is that bad. He hates it.

Yet.

The particular font they use for the show is the same from the book's title. My dad of course recognized it immediately and knew I would want in on the news.

I confess I watched Gomens the show at least seven times before giving it a break because I liked it so much and the novel was so fucking good and it's honest to God the best adaptation I've ever seen to the screen. It's so good I'm fucking sure I was crying actual tears after watching it for the first time because my dreams and all the feelings that book had given me over the years and the many re-reads were "true" and so well done and it reached deep into my heart.

And then, for the first time in six years, my words came back.

Another thing Good Omens has given me, I have to say.

I don't know if I can stress this enough, but just imagine spending six years of radio silence, sending longing stares to the void and hoping to see something yours returning back, something you've lost and you're not sure you're getting back, something you think you don't need or want but that would be nice to have again. If only. You can live without that something, and no one but you cares about it, and it's not that big of a deal and-

Then you see a spark in the dark.

My words came back.

They weren't in Spanish, and it was hard to manage them at first, only being able to listen to them in short bursts over long periods of time.

But they were my words and they were back.

Writing is still hard, and I have a lot of work to do to improve my skills, to get them not only back but to refine them because I'm not writing in my native language and all I know is what I've learnt from other authors and their knowledge. I project a lot on my projects -I don't intend to stop because it's such a relief, the biggest scape from reality I get by doing so; it helps me deal with my problems, it gives me a break and a way to take a breath when I can't keep going...

Fanfics are where I can say what I want to say to the world in the most honest way, and that allows me to be me, and to express myself and indulge in the fantasies I dream about without having to force myself to think of them over and over and over. I can just sit back and enjoy content I know I like without being judged for it.

I can fucking make that content, too.

Writing feels like home, even if sometimes I still struggle, if I can't find my words or the expression is not quite like that in English, or if I can't find the words or if I'm suffering a block... because there's nothing scarier and more free than a blank page ready to be written.

#this is long as fuck #sorry for the trip because damn that's some heavy backstory i just puked #i still have my ffnet account but its been years since I've used it #only for predator and hp content i have to say #i have over 600 bookmarks there but who cares #kuvvytalks about some personal crap

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terrifying-testicles · 5 years

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Sugar Daddy!Bakugou x Reader Ch. 2

All right you heathens, it’s here! I want you all to know that pretty much all of this gets written in my free time at my internship lol. I was asked to tag someone in future updates, so if you want to be tagged in the future just lemme know!

The outfits mentioned in the fic appear in this order: 1 2 3

Words: 5.8k

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Bakugou stares at his laptop screen, a deep frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. It had been a week since his friends had suggested being a sugar daddy. Sero and Kaminari had been making jokes at his expense any chance they got. Between missions and patrols, texting him horribly lewd memes. The last time it had happened, Kaminari had been two floors below Bakugou. He was awfully surprised when the ash blond barged in on him training, strolled straight over to Kaminari’s gym bag, grabbed his phone and looked him dead in the eyes as he blew it apart. Mouth agape, Kaminari was speechless as he watched Bakugou saunter out smugly. Kirishima had the decency to only bring it up when they were hanging out outside of work, and was serious about it. Sometimes he threw a joke around, but he chose his words wisely. Bakugou grumbles as he drags his hands down his face. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been curious about what it would be like to be a sugar daddy. He scoured forums and read accounts from daddies and babies alike, as well as suggestions. The more he considered it, the more he was into the idea. The only problem now was that Bakugou had no clue what to do about his profile. He’d compared different websites used for arrangements, and once he chose one, he went to sign up but…he was unsure. Grey catches his eye, Bakugou turning his head to find dark orange eyes staring back at him. He sighs through his nose and scoots his computer further down his lap. The cat’s eyes light up and he leaps up, settling against Bakugou’s chest. The hero brings his right hand up to scratch between his ears. “Katsuuuuki!” A shrill voice rings out, followed immediately by the slamming of his door. Bakugou groans loudly. Footsteps echo through his apartment before pink fills the doorway to his bedroom. Mina leans against the door frame, hands on either side, reminding Bakugou of a pin-up girl. “How’s my favorite blasty boy?” she asks, grin full of pearly teeth. “Who the fuck gave you a key?” Mina laughs and strolls towards the bed, reaching out to pet his cat. “Senshi, actually.”

The cat purrs loudly in response. That stupid cat adored Mina, always preferring her over any company if she was present. He wouldn’t put it past the ashy feline if the damn thing wasn’t such an idiot most of the time. Mina looks over to the laptop on Bakugou’s knees and gasps loudly. “Is that a sugar daddy site!?” she shrieks. Bakugou sputters and reaches to slam the screen closed but Mina is already snatching it up and jumping over him to land on the bed with a subdued bounce. Senshi leaps off of Bakugou, the Chartreux settling into Mina’s side, purring not unlike that of a boat. Bakugou scoffs at the traitor. “Give that back, freak!” He reaches for his computer but Mina slaps his hand harshly. “I would if this were a joke and it wasn’t you.” The pinkette fixes Bakugou with a sly look. “So, have you made an account, yet?” Bakugou narrows his eyes. “…no.” Mina squeals. “Good! I can help you, then!” “No way!” Bakugou tries once again to take his laptop and is, yet again, smacked away. “Oh, come on,” she whines. “There’s no way you could make a profile that doesn’t come off as scary or too vague.” “Shut up, just give it back.” “No!” Mina brings her legs under her in a crisscross and turns her back to the blond. Senshi yowls in complaint. “I won’t question your decisions, because let’s face it Katsu, you’re hot as fuck and you’re letting it go to waste! I just want you to be successful in your sugar daddy endeavors.” Bakugou had pressed himself against her back, reaching around to grab the laptop, but stops his struggle as Mina finishes talking. He frowns, staring at the Log In or Sign Up page, mulling over her words. Prideful as he is, Bakugou has to admit she’s not wrong. He’s not the most charming person, and he’s not the best at talking about himself in a way that isn’t pure bravado or defensiveness. Mina, on the other hand, is stupidly charismatic and knows her friends to a terrifying degree. Bakugou growls. “Fine, you can help me, but nothing gets posted unless I say so.” Mina whoops and gets to work signing him up. “Hot stuff?” Bakugou asks incredulously. “I’m not going to make you Lord Explosion.” She quips without taking her eyes away from the screen. He just huffs and settles his chin against her shoulder. “I’m guessing you don’t want others to know you’re a pro hero, right?” Mina feels him nod. “Hmm…” Bakugou glances at her, whose brows are drawn in a determined fashion, lips pursed. After a moment she grins and begins typing away, Bakugou barely able to keep up with her wild key strokes. “Hey, don’t make me sound too cocky.” he snaps. Mina rolls her eyes and deletes a few words before rewriting it. “How’s that, then?” Bakugou gives a scrutinizing look, but Mina knows it’s only for show. When he finally nods, Mina tosses the laptop to the side, earning a surprised sound from the man behind her. “Now we need a picture,” she pulls out her phone. “Normally, I’d say only a partial face pic, but it might be easier to recognize you as a hero that way. Plus, you’ve got a killer profile and it’d be a disservice to every prospective baby to hide it.” Bakugou wants to protest, but Mina’s flattery gets her surprisingly far with him at times. This is one of them, so he just puffs out a tired sigh and gestures for her to continue. “To the balcony!”

It’s well past dark when Bakugou finally manages to usher his friend out. Living in the same building as her proved to be a test of his patience on many occasions. Since he got her out, he’s been busying himself with browsing through profiles of women in his area. He’s not sure how to approach anyone on here and suddenly wishes he hadn’t kicked Mina out. Some babies play up the innocence, reminding him of actual adolescent girls, so Bakugou avidly avoids those profiles. Some express their sex appeal loudly, which is definitely not what he’s looking for. He’s getting ready to throw the damn laptop when a familiar face catches his eye. Bakugou clicks on ‘AngelEnergi’ and blanches at the picture. [h/c] ringlets cascading delicately over [s/c] shoulders and exposed collarbone, framing [e/c] eyes and pouty lips. A beautiful sigh, but all Bakugou can see is the mocking face of the woman who took his job into her hands. Bakugou can’t believe his luck, jaw clenching at the embarrassing memory. Her face had been haunting him all week, anger at her actions flaring up at full force and— And what? What could he do? Bakugou isn’t the kind of person to turn her in for unlawful quirk use when she still saved someone. He wasn’t going to message her just to bitch her out, either. In all honesty, he’d been intrigued by her. Loathe as he was to admit it, whatever drove her to act as if a pro hero, while irritating, was still attractive. Not everyone is made to be a hero, but she stepped up, despite the risk she faced. It’s an admirable trait. Bakugou takes a breath to level himself. He scrolls down and looks at her full profile. ‘You can call me Angel, though I may not always be one ;) I’m 23 and work all day in a lab, so from time to time I’d like a little luxury on the side. I’m great conversation and don’t mind being pure arm candy. I’m sweet enough~ My arrangements are preferred to be nonsexual. If you’d like to work something out, just give me a time and place for dinner – has to be somewhere public! – and I will let you know if I’m interested. My available times are below.’ Bakugou glances over the times before opening up her photo album. Beside her profile picture, there’s one of her in a blue, form-fitting evening gown, and another of her in a lingerie set from only the neck down. Bakugou flushes at the last one, quickly clicking out of it. Sure, she’d put the picture up willingly, but he wasn’t one to ogle unless they were face to face. That thought sends the hero into a full force blush that extends down his neck and across the tip of his ears. Senshi pads across the couch and nestles himself against Bakugou’s thigh. Said man scratches the cat’s head with a long sigh. “What do you think?” He glances down at his furry companion, who gives a full-body purr. Bakugou snorts. “Of course you do.”

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You open the bathroom door, steam pouring out into her living room. You step out, towel around your chest and are wrapping another around your hair to set atop your head. You smile at the dog lying on his back in the armchair, snoring loudly. You start to head for your room when your phone dings. Curious, you cross to the coffee table and wake up your phone. The screen lights up with two notifications. You swipe away the game alert, but your thumb hovers over the alert from the dating site. ‘HotStuffZero has sent you a message.’ You raise your eyebrows. It’s been a bit since anyone has messaged you, so you’re somewhat surprised by the late-night contact. You tap the notification and unlock your phone. The message just says, “Friday @ 6” and a link. When you check it, you see it’s an upscale restaurant only a twenty minute train ride from where you live. You tap on the profile and can’t help the way you smile at the handsome face before you. His profile picture is of the man’s side profile, looking out at a presumed skyline, if the cityscape backdrop is anything to go by. His pale blond hair is wild, but his face is stern, all angles. You can’t help but admire the cut of his jaw for a moment. It’s the only picture on his profile so you move on to his bio. ’24, Taurus, feisty. Looking for someone to spoil with gifts and take to events. If you’re seeking out fancy dinner dates, extravagant galas, and no-limit shopping sprees, then let me know. No expectations.’ He’s young, you think. You had yet to meet a sugar daddy on here younger than mid-thirties. It was a pleasant surprise, though the last bit confused you. No expectations? Of me or of him? Either way, you could handle whatever came your way. You returned to your messages and shot off a quick “See you there” before locking your phone and throwing it atop the coffee table. This should be fun.

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Bakugou really wasn’t a fan of upscale restaurants like this. Sure, he could afford it, had more than enough money to enjoy bougie spots and high-end meals, but he surely didn’t have the patience for the pompous pricks sat around him. They’d pay him no mind until he opened his mouth, then suddenly everyone within earshot was aghast, but would listen intently as if filling up their gossip arsenal. An ideal date for him would be set at home where he could cook a meal far better than some high-strung chef. Yet, all that he hates about these upscale places are exactly why he’s here, right? To show that he could afford something to ostentatious, that he was more than capable of spoiling his potential baby with absolute ease. Bakugou frowns, realizing he still doesn’t know her name. He can ask once she shows up, but he hates not knowing more about her beforehand. He likes having eh ball in his court, with every advantage he can manage. He made it here half an hour before their set time, with a seat near the back of the restaurant to give him a perfect view of the door and most of the establishment. He already has a wine picked out, waiting until she gets here to order it. Hell, he even knows that they’ve met before, while as far as she is aware he’s nothing but a stranger. Checking his phone, he sighs. Still fifteen minutes before they’d agreed to meet. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so early. His nerves are high, leg bouncing so badly the table has started a light tremor. It’s just a date, not even with a potential partner, but someone who doesn’t even have to like him, so long as the money is good. Bakugou’s stomach goes sour with that thought.

You shuffle up to the restaurant, anxiety nestled between ribs. The exterior is extravagant, taupe sponged brick and burgundy awnings sprouting forth above arched, stained windows. The doors are a dark oak with bronze in-lays that swirl along the edges. One heavy door is propped open, giving way to an even fancier entrance, the host dressed in a deep red dress, looking all the part of someone who belonged here. So much as you craved a luxurious lifestyle, it was still a foreign concept to you. You hadn’t even made it inside but you already felt like you stood out. You were happy to lounge at home in sweats and a tank top, though pants were optional if you had nothing to do that day. You walk in and take deep breaths through your nose and you approach the host stand. The woman glances up and gives a wide smile. “How may I help you, ma’am?” her tone is sugary, and you’re certain she’s actually genuine, your nerves settling somewhat. “Um, I’m meeting someone.” “Name?” the woman asks, opening up the black leather book on the stand. You bark out a laugh, shifting your weight between feet, and clear your throat. “Actually, I don’t know his name.” The host glances up at you, raising a brow. You bite your lip for a second. You almost make an excuse before wondering why the fuck you care what some host you’ll only meet once draws conclusions about from your dilemma. “He’s blond, spiky hair, very handsome,” you trail off, unsure the hostess would have any cue who you were talking about. “Ah,” the woman leans to the side, glancing around the slatted wall behind her to look across the dining room. She points to the back. “He should be right back there.” You smile and thank the hostess before making your way between tables. You spot him, drinking from a glass of water. He’s wearing a maroon button down, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbow and the top two buttons open. The table cloth hides the rest of him but you’re sure he’s sporting nice shoes; he seems the type. He sets down his glass and suddenly vermilion stares back at you. Heat washes over you in a wave, a shy smile pulling at your lips. When you make it to the table he goes to stand, but you hold up a hand to stop him. “It’s fine.” You pull out the chair and sit, taking a deep breath. “I realized I probably should have asked your name.” you laugh. The man across from you curses under his breath. “Bakugou.” You smile “[L/N].” Bakugou clears his throat. “Uh, you look nice.” You were wearing a silver gown, off the shoulder, a quartz studded belt encircling your waist, the rest of the dress cascading in squared off bunches. Bakugou had caught a glimpse of strappy shoes and a toned thigh peeking through the slit in your dress. He was definitely not prepared to be left breathless by this woman. When they met, you were casual and he wanted nothing more than to tear you a new one. Now, you’re elegant and your smile is mesmerizing. Bakugou doesn’t know what to do about it. “So, um,” your voice brings him back. You had one hand on your glass, fingers tracing the condensation. You look nervous, so different from the defiant fire to your eyes from the previous week, and Bakugou is torn between hating it and loving that it’s probably because of him. “I’m not the kind of baby that asks for money up front, just so you know. I don’t want an allowance or anything like that.” “Right to business, huh?” Bakugou leans forward on his elbows, hands clasped in front of his mouth. You shift in your seat at the intensity of his gaze. You laugh curtly. “Yeah, I just like to get all of that out of the way so it’s less awkward when we get to know each other. I hate having it nag at me the whole time.” You take a sip of your water and glance around the restaurant. You don’t understand why you feel so nervous. Maybe because he’s the youngest sugar daddy you’ve met. Maybe it’s the heavy weight of those piercing eyes. Maybe it’s how unbelievably hot he is. Or is it D, all of the above? You think “So, what are you wanting, then?” You blink at him. “Oh, well. I guess I’m just looking to be pampered.” “Why—” “Good evening,” Both of you look at the server. Bakugou curls his lip, irked by the interruption. You greet him kindly before they are asked what they want. Bakugou orders the bottle of wine he’s been waiting for and turns to his date. “Know what you want?” he asks. You blush and quickly snatch the menu up. “No, I’m sorry.” He’s somewhat satisfied by your flustered state. “No worries. I shall return in a moment with your drinks.” The server leaves as quickly as he appeared. You chuckle nervously. “I should’ve checked first, sorry.” “Stop apologizing.” He snaps. He hadn’t meant for it to come out, but it’s become a reflex at this point after years spent shaking Kirishima out of his self-deprecating mindset. You look surprised for a moment, until a sly smile quirks the corner of your mouth. You are suddenly made aware that your date may be less reserved than you originally thought. “You were saying?” you prompt. Bakugou furrows his brows a moment before remembering what you’re referring to. “I was gonna ask why you don’t just date someone instead.” You purse your lips. He’s definitely bold, not holding his tongue for the sake of being polite. You appreciate it. “Well, I spend a lot of time at work and don’t really want to invest myself in looking for someone and settling down. I can’t risk being held back for a partner, no matter how much my mother hounds me for it.” Bakugou can’t help the smirk that makes its way to his expression. He’s quite similar in his reservations. “What about you?” she asks, eyes trained on the menu as she searches for something that sounds good. “I don’t have time to fuck around when I’m working to be the best.” He notices her quick glance up at the curse word, but she otherwise seems unbothered. “Interesting,” she murmurs, loud enough for him to hear. You are smirking, still reading the menu, not giving any explanation for what you mean. The server steps up to the table, wine bottle in hand. He pours you each a glass and sets the bottle on the table, taking your orders and scurrying off again. You drink from your glass while staring at Bakugou. He quirks a brow at you, one hand fiddling with his silverware while the other lays, palm flat to the table. “What?” You set your glass down but keep fingers wrapped around the stem, stare unwavering. “Have…you seem familiar.” Bakugou grins in an almost feral way. Your eyes narrow. You know that smile from somewhere, teeth bared in a subtly dangerous way. Wild hair and piercing red eyes… You open your mouth to speak, but Bakugou beats you to it. “I feel like I should be offended,” he leans in, smirk widening, and you tense. “After showing me up, playing hero,” At that your [e/c] eyes go wide. “you’d think you’d remember me.” You bush your chair back. “I’m sorry, I just– listen, I—” you start to stand, panic overtaking you, until fingers wrap tightly around your wrist. You heart stops for a second, meeting his stern glare. “Hold the fuck on. I’m not here to get you in trouble, idiot.” Bakugou wants to smack himself. He’s not trying to scare you off but he’d doing a damn good job of it. You hesitate. Slowly, you sit back in your seat, arm still held in a vice grip. “You’re…not? Even though I used my quirk in public like that?” He sighs and lets go of her wrist, leaning back in his chair. “No,” he takes a large drink of his wine before continuing. “When I realized it was you I was tempted, but…” Bakugou purses his lips, unsure of how to continue. “I don’t know. I wanted to see what kind of person pulls that kind of shit. I guess.” You eye him. He seems almost skittish, shoulders tensed up and holy shit you can see the muscles rippling under the button up. “I…so you’re Ground Zero?” her voice is barely above a whisper and Bakugou is thankful for the discretion. He nods. You nod in return, thinking. “I couldn’t help it. I just reacted, I guess.” Bakugou leans forward, prompting you to continue. “I always wanted to be a hero. My quirk is perfect for it, too.” You give a strained smile. “Energy manipulation and absorption. My hair acts as a conductor for me to draw in energy. Electric, kinetic, even drawing it from people if we touch skin-to-skin.” You wiggle your fingers around for emphasis. “I can take it and put that energy into my movements. As long as I move around I can channel it. Put extra power behind punches and jumps. Problem is, overuse leads to nosebleeds, migraines, and most importantly seizures.” You let out a heavy sigh through your nose, scooting your chair closer to the table and leaning forward. You keep your eyes off of Bakugou’s face, not keen on seeing how he reacts. “I had a pretty bad seizure when I was 14 and the doctor said if I pushed it I would be more prone to having them with future quirk use. So, being a hero was no longer an option. I mean, who wants a pro to go down in a fight due to a seizure? Too much risk.” Your voice trails off and you bite your lip. You glance up at Bakugou. His brow is pinched, a hard frown in place. “I didn’t mean to make it awkward—" “Shut up.” Your jaw clacks shut, eyes wide. Bakugou turns his head away with a huff. “It’s fine.” He flicks his eyes to match yours, one hand clenching and unclenching on the table. Bakugou wasn’t expecting that response. He’s only spoken with you for less than twenty minutes but he’s starting to understand that the woman seated across from him will not be anything he expects. It excites him. “What do you do instead?” he asks to change the subject. You light up almost immediately, smile spreading and bunching up your cheeks. Cute, he thinks. “I work in a lab! I’m the supervisor for my lab, actually. It’s a University funded lab, and my team works on experiments and studies related to physics with a little bit of kinesiology thrown in. Since my quirk has a lot to do with kinetic energy, I love conducting studies around it. We share somewhat with a team of chemists, but we generally get along.” Bakugou listens intently as you gush about your work and the seemingly crazy group you work with. Your food arrives and the two fall into a relative quiet as you eat. Bakugou is surprisingly comfortable with the lull in conversation. He’s used to Kirishima, who talks while stuffing his face, which usually turns into a lecture from the ash blond. On to pof that, his ex would get so caught up in talking that she’d let her food get cold. Bakugou finishes off his wine to drown the memory. You are mostly done with your meal when you prop your head in one hand and watch Bakugou. When his gaze lifts to yours, you smile softly. “What made you want to be a hero?” you ask with genuine curiosity behind bright [e/c]. Bakugou could give you an honest answer. He could tell you how he grew up being a big fan of All Might, became inspired by the number one hero to work hard and be even greater. If he were honest, he’d tell you that he still looks up to the former hero and has a faint desire to prove himself to his old teacher. But honesty is vulnerability, and Bakugou may as well have censored the entire concept of vulnerability from his mind entirely. Instead, he gives you a cocky smile and says, “With a quirk like mine, I knew I had to be the best.” You arch a brow, lips pressing together in a thin line. You hum noncommittally and Bakugou can tell you think his answer is bullshit. So used to his friends, he expects to be called out without mercy. For the third time that night you completely throw him for a loop. “Well, you’ve certainly made your way up there. Probably one of the best pros climbing the charts right now.” You know that he knows it’s purely said to sate him, but you bit back a smile when he visibly puffs up, a haughty demeanor taking root that’s near impossible to miss. “I’m not sure I ever imagined that the great Ground Zero would ever seek a sugar baby, much less of me.” You are pouring yourself another glass of wine as you say this. You lift the glass to your lips and lift your eyes to meet his. You’re startled by the sharp gaze that greets you. “If this is gonna happen then there’s gonna be rules,” he starts, tone eerily even. “First rule: don’t fucking sell yourself short. I’m the best and only accept the best, so quit shitting on yourself. I don’t wanna hear that self-deprecating bullshit.” All you can do is nod, throat tight. “Second,” Bakugou lounges back in his chair, not unlike a King who knows the power he holds over his court. You grip your glass tight, eye wide and attentive. He feels something warm swell in his chest at your undivided attention, warmth spindling up behind his sternum and into the dip where his throat meets collarbone. “I don’t want anyone to know I’m a sugar daddy. I don’t care what people think of me, but my PR agent would have my head if rumors like that went around. In public, we’re together, but no one needs details.” “You’re a private person, I take it?” your voice is quiet as you sip at the wine. “If I want someone to know my business, they will. My fans and the press don’t need to know shit about me outside of when I’m kickin’ ass.” He punctuates the sentiment with a deep scowl. You nod, smiling softly. “I agree. I’m not the kind of person to share my life with the world, only what I want them to see of me.” Bakugou grunts. “There’s gonna be events I take you to, public shit with press and all those fucking vultures. They’ll probably ask you about ‘us’ but you don’t gotta answer anything.” He narrows his eyes. “And if you do, watch what you say.” You chuckle. “You don’t need to worry.” Your smile widens, teeth on display and a playful glint in your eyes. “Do I get to call you any pet names?” “Not if you want to keep your tongue.” At that, you bust out in laughter. Patrons seated around you shoot glares your way, though neither seem to care. When you settle down, you tell him, “Noted. Anything else?” Bakugou flexes his jaw in thought. “Not right now but I’ll tell you if I think of anything.” The two fall into another comfortable silence as Bakugou finishes his meal. You observe the people around you, the way they hold an air of superiority about them despite no effort on their part, elegance second nature to them. You had worried that your date would leave you feeling inadequate, making you hyper aware of the role you were playing that felt so unfamiliar. Yet here you were with your favorite hero, feeling free to be as much yourself as the situation allowed. Hell, more so, even. The server comes by to leave the check and take their plates. Bakugou glances over the ticket, then reaches into his back pocket to retrieve his wallet. You expect a credit card, like the dates before him, but instead he pulls out large bills and tosses them onto the table. He stands and quickly moves to pull out your chair. He even goes so far as to offer his arm. You take it with a bashful smile. Once outside, you take a deep breath of the city air. This side of town was quieter, less pollution and traffic. Bakugou pulls away and faces you. “I’ll call you a cab.” “Oh no, I can take the train.” He shoots you a look that says ‘Excuse me?’ so you shut your mouth and look to your feet. The hero takes out his phone and taps away before putting it back in his pocket. “Are you telling me you took a fucking train to get here? In that?” Bakugou gives you a once over, jealously flaring inside his chest at the thought of others eyes you up like this. He’s unsure why he feels so strongly about it, but he’s long past the days of shoving his emotions into a box and wishes he just knew how to make the ugly feeling fuck right off. “Uh, yeah? I don’t have a car.” You shrug. A growl bubbles up from Bakugou’s throat and he takes a step closer to you. You straighten, face now mere inches from his, those vermilion orbs pinning you in place. “From now on, when we meet, I’ll pick you up.” You can only nod, voice gone under his gaze. He nods, stepping out of your space. You take a deep breath now that you feel you are able. “There’s a stupid gala in a week and a half. I’ll give you details later.” Bakugou holds out his hand and for a moment you stare at it, confused. He clears his throat. “I need your phone, dumbass.” You jolt with an “oh!” before pulling it from your purse and handing it to him. “It’s some fundraiser my agency and a couple others are throwing. I don’t remember what for, but heroes and other celebrities are gonna be there.” He hands you back the phone. “Be sure to dress nice. This is your debut.” As he says the last bit, he pulls a wad of cash from his wallet and holds it out to you. You balk, taking a moment to stare before your fingers timidly curl around the paper. “Buy something that’s solid. Even Mina is ditching print.” You have no idea who that is but just nod your head in understanding. He keeps making you feel like words are impossible to conjure. No one has ever made you so speechless. A car pulls up to the curb and Bakugou has the door open and is ushering you in before you even realize. From your seat, you blink up at your date owlishly. He leans on the car door, dim fairy lights casting a warm glow behind him. “And one last thing,” Bakugou leans in, forehead almost pressed to the car’s cool metal lip. His voice drops to a level only you can hear, a purr edging his words. “I better be the only you call Daddy. Got that?” You feel pins and needles prodding your cheeks and numbing your fingers. You nod dumbly. He shakes his head, arching a brow in expectation. Swallowing, you shift in your seat. “Yes, Daddy,” you whisper shyly. He rewards you with a wide smirk, teeth peeking out behind pink lips, and leans back, hand gripping the door and fuck you can’t stop gawking at those biceps. Bakugou feels pride at the way you eye his arms, and maybe he flexes a little just to show off. “Night, baby.” With that, the door slams shut and the car pulls away from the restaurant. You raise your voice enough to tell the driver your address, then return to the daze the hero had left you in. It takes a few long minutes before you are able to pull it together. You flip through the cash he gave you, eyes growing to saucers when you see he gave you a whole ¥50,000. You couldn’t believe he’d give you so much, and for a dress! You stuff it into your purse and pull out your phone, staring at the new contact. You huff at it, Bakugou having put his name, just plain and boring, and edit the contact, changing the name to Daddy followed by an explosion emoji. You pull up a new conversation and shoot off a text to ensure he has your number. The whole way home you grin like a maniac, a light buzzing resonating through your entire being. You’re in a daze as you climb up the 4 flights of stairs to your apartment, humming something random as you unlock your door, only grounding when Rōrupan barrels into you and sends you right on your ass. You place both hands on either side of the dog’s face, scratching intently and sighing dreamily. “It seems things are turning out pretty good for me, Rōru.” The rest of your night is a haze of excitement humming in your veins.

Bakugou makes it home, thoughts stuck on the woman he spent his evening with. When he walks through the door Senshi immediately appears at his feet, rubbing himself across Bakugou’s leg, purring loudly like he has a car engine for a heart. The blond picks him up and scratches under his chin while wandering around the loft aimlessly. He’s left with a light feeling, energy swimming through his body and he doesn’t understand it. All of this from one date? Bakugou scoffs as he sets Senshi on the bed. “You should have seen how gorgeous she was,” he mutters to the cat. He removes his shirt, receiving a chirp in response from his companion. “You’d like her…but I guess you’re a whore for anyone who will give you attention, huh?” Senshi rolls onto his back, wiggling and mewing, as if to say, “Why don’t you give me attention?” Bakugou rolls his eyes affectionately, then continues to get ready for bed. And if he dreams of carding his fingers through [h/c] hair and kissing soft skin, that’s only between him and his cat.

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@sessi03

#my writing #bnha #bnha x reader #my hero academia #my hero academia x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugouxreader #guys i was starting this chapter and then had an epiphany #during a nap i realized that i was going to turn what was intended to be a couple chapters at most #into a fucking slowburn #i hope you bitches are PREPARED #cause i'm not #but it literally keeps me awake at night thinking about where this shit's gonna go #i have basic ideas for the main shit but the rest i'm just like #whatever lets see what happens ig

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galivantingg · 5 years

Text

Behind Those Eyes

Chapter 7

A few months later and things had settled. Pluto and Met were working seamlessly together, and the others were well on their way to earning their place here. Ang and Mazus had worked out the few kinks they had at the beginning; Ang can be a bit too much to handle sometimes and Mazus had to be around him a lot. Oracle was being extremely cryptic towards Phoenix, which means he has seen nothing further than them partnering together. Today was one of those days, like the calm before the storm. I relished in it, wanting to see some action. I had been busy with school lately, and the Director had made me Second Respondent when he caught me with my notes coming back from a patrol.

"Hey Chameleon," I heard from behind me. I tuned to see Starbright and Starlight standing behind me.

"Hey guys," I said, frowning at their weird expressions. "What's up?"

Starbright stepped forward. "Light and I were wondering if you could train with us? We wanted to go up against a similar body type to Heathen, especially after last week."

Last week Bright and Light were the first respondents to Heathen, one of the villains who has been a thorn in our side. He had a tendency to evade capture, which made all of us extremely annoyed. He'd pop up, switch people from their religion to his, which was himself, then manage to escape.

He annoyed me.

I smiled. "Of course, the better everyone works together the more likely we'll be able to finally capture him. Lemme just get Waya to give me Heathen's powers for an hour or two; I'll meet you in the training room."

They nodded and headed off, and I turned to walk towards Waya's room. Hopefully he'd be in there. I knocked on the door, and a minute later it swung open, revealing my older friend.

"I need you to give me Heathen's powers for a couple hours," His face dropped. He hated doing this, since when he tried it a few years ago and it didn't exactly go to plan. He only does it in certain conditions, and for certain people. Me being one of those people.

"Cammie why," he asked standing aside so I could walk into his room.

"Starbright and Starlight want to go against Heathen again, they came the closest last week and they want to see if they can come close again." He groaned, and I knew I had won. I grinned.

"Ditto," he whispered, touching the centre of my forehead. I got tingles all over, way less than the lightning, and I felt a shift. My own powers had a similar feel, except now my body was changing without me asking it to. My hands and feet got bigger, and legs and arms stretched out. I felt something new, something different inside of me. It was like my powers were being squished down, and enveloped by something else. The something else, I discovered, was Heathen's power. It was strange, like I would tell exactly what faith Waya believed in just by looking at him.

He regarded me with cautious eyes. "You're a Wiccan," I stated. I hadn't known this before, but now that I think about it, it makes sense. There was something else there, in my powers. It wasn't as if I could just tell what his faith is, it was like I was in his head and could change his thinking. Suddenly I felt sick. Heathen needed to be locked up. This type of power shouldn't be allowed to roam free.

"Okay, I don't need to tell you not to use these powers foolishly, judging by your face." Waya said, less cautious after my expression of disgust. "Try not to touch anybody you might instead get their powers. Your body has all of his muscle memory, so you'll be able to fight like him. It's okay if someone touches you, and if you use your body to block attacks, but be very cautious. Keep Heathen in your mind, everything about him."

I nodded, and bounced up and down on my toes a little. I smiled at him and walked out of his room, turning back when he called my name.

"And remember, whatever damage you take, he'll take."

I left his room, heading towards the Pit. The Pit, I'm so glad you were wondering, is an actual pit. It is. It's located in the training room, or floor, and is the best place for sparring. I had also named the Pit. As I was walking, the alarm went off. I raced to the Briefing room and burst in, spotting Geronimo sitting in front of the board.

"Who is it?" I asked, leaning over her shoulder to see. She glanced at me and did a double take, practically leaping from her seat and taking up a defensive position. Ah, right. I'm not me, I'm Heathen.

"How did you get from the Coliseum to here so fast?" She asked, glaring at me.

I rolled my eyes. "It's Cammie, Mo." Her shoulders relaxed at the sound of my nickname for her.

"It's Heathen, actually," she said, pulling the chair underneath her and turning back to the computer. "He just popped up in Met and Pluto's area. They're on their way to engaging, and asked for backup." I turned from the board and sprouted wings from my back, shaking them a bit.

"I'm heading over, tell the others." Geronimo nodded and turned to the door, where other members of the Agency were spilling through. I pushed my way out of the doorway and set off, trying to get there as quickly as possible. I took the entrance closest to me, a doorway behind the fridge, and shot off into the sky. I climbed higher and higher, spotting the Coliseum to my right. I took off, pumping my wings and streamlining my body as much as possible, entering a dive.

I pulled up short of where my coworkers were, watching for a moment Met and Pluto tag teaming Heathen. It was something special watching them. They moved together so gracefully, winding around each other and covering each other's back. I shook my head, and landed beside Met.

"The others are coming, but for now it's just me. Houdini should be here with Waya shortly." As I said this we heard a sucking noise not far off and spotted Houdini and Waya ducking behind a car. Pluto made a run for where Met and I were, but Heathen spotted him. He picked up something from beside him which was probably sharp and heavy, and lobbed it at Pluto. In a panic, I reached out a pulled Pluto towards me, sparing him whatever nasty toy Heathen has brought along.

As soon as I touched Pluto I felt my body tingle, and Waya's words came back to me in a rush. Well damn. Pluto looked at me in shock, and I tried to gather the words for an explanation. "Waya, word of command," I said. He nodded mutely, apparently understanding why he was staring at a carbon copy of himself. Down to the powers. Wait a second, down to the powers. I lifted up my hands and imagined something cold gathering there, and these small patches of snow showed up. "Huh," I said, staring at the pure white snow. "Well I've got to admit, this is pretty cool."

With that, we stood, and charged at Heathen, taking him by surprise. Met blasted him in the middle, Pluto and I taking a side. I'll admit I may have gotten a bit carried away with this new power. I could faintly head Waya yelling my name behind me, but I was too focused on the ice coming out of my hands, radiating off of my body. Freezing Met.

Wait, back up. Freezing Met? His skin turned a pale blue tint, and Pluto could only stare in horror as Met's body slowly started to become covered in ice. He yelled, and suddenly this massive blast of heat rolled off him, straight towards me. I raised my hands up instinctively to protect my face, and I could feel the blisters form. My skin burning. It was not fun. Not fun at all.

I screamed out in pain, and I dimly heard someone else scream. Then I passed out.

. . .

I woke up in my bed. My hands were heavily bandaged and my throat was dry. Legion was sitting in a chair next to my bed, his head in his hands, his shoulders rising and falling steadily with each breath. "Hey," I rasped out, drawing his attention.

"Cammie I swear to God you never get to use Ditto again." Waya spoke up from the corner. I looked up at my ceiling, swallowing roughly.

"Yeah that's probably fair," Legion got up and grabbed my water, helping my drink it. "Thanks Kev," I smiled at him. I pushed myself into a sitting position and looked between the two. "How's Pluto?"

Legion looked down, and Waya answered me. "Geronimo patched you two up as much as she could, but Pluto isn't as lucky as you. He needs his hands for his powers, and they aren't working as well anymore. We're not sure if he can reliably use his powers any more."

I looked down. This was my fault. I shouldn't have charged in as Pluto, wielding powers I didn't know how to use. "What about Heathen, tell me we at least got him?"

"Yeah, but his left side is thawing out," Legion muttered.

Also my fault. I hurt two people, even if one is a villain, I still feel guilty. I stood up, pushing my covers back. "I'm going to see Pluto," I announced. It wasn't a question. I needed to talk with him, find out how he's holding up, let him know how sorry I am. I needed to fix this. I stood up and walked out of my room, unravelling the bandages as I went. I took a deep breath in and felt the warmth spread from my core up my torso down my arms and into my hands. The skin healed over, and I flexed my hands, checking that they still worked.

I walked to the other hall, and stopped a few steps from Pluto's room. His door was open. "Hey," I said softly, standing in the doorway. He glanced up at me and immediately dropped his head back into his hands. "Can I come in?" He nodded slightly and I sat near him on his bed. I gathered myself, trying to find the right words. "Those hands aren't looking too good, can I see them?" He moved his hands closer to me but still kept his head down.

I took hold of them gently, then took a deep breath before pushing my magic- because that's the only word I know can describe it- into his hands. The warmth flowed from my core into his hands, leaving the faint feeling of spring humming through my veins. At this he looked up. For a few minutes all he could do is stare at his burned hands slowly repairing the damaged cells.

"How-" he started, slightly choking on his words. "How are you doing that? I thought only Geronimo could heal?"

"Did you know that shape shifting didn't run in my family?" I asked instead, trying my hardest not to let my emotions consume me.

He nodded his head and mumbled a yes, not really paying attention, before snapping his head up to stare at me. "Wait what?"

I hummed. "Yeah, my family gift is healing. I didn't become a shapeshifter until a few years ago." More like a decade, but he doesn't need to know that.

"Wait wait wait, back up." He said shaking his head. "You said didn't. What do you mean by that?"

"Have you heard the rumours about the Director and I?" I asked, avoiding eye contact. I was still holding his hands. The magic continuously flowed through me to him, smoothing over rough skin, turning it from that gruesome pink to its natural light brown colour.

He frowned. "Yeah Met has said your arguments are legendary. But he never told me why you guys can't get along."

"That's because he's the reason I'm a shapeshifter and my whole family is dead." He stared at me, unable to find a response to that bombshell. I took that as an invitation to continue talking. "Before all of this, I had a family. I had a mom and a dad and a little sister and brother. We lived in the city. We had a good life, we were happy. I used to sit out on the roof, wrapped up in my mom's favourite clothes and blanket, just staring at the stars. One night a storm blew in, looking like it was searching for something. It was moving way too fast, and stopped near me. Then the lightning came."

"It was the worst pain I have ever felt. My house caught on fire and the roof collapsed. I was trapped under wood and brick, my body convulsing and smoke filling my lungs." I almost succumbed to the memory, I could almost taste to smoke. "The last thing I remember before passing out was my family's dying screams." I sighed and sat up straighter, finally letting go of Pluto's hands. "I woke up months later with tubes covering my body, blind and alone and in pain. The only thing that saved me was my healing."

I was silent for a while, remembering blackness, then light, light so bright I didn't know I was blind. Then everything went dark again. I remembered pain, slowly waking me up, covering every inch of skin all the way down to my bones.

"What does this have to do with the Director?" Pluto asked, his voice slightly raw. I glanced up at him, and noticed the horror on his face. I looked away, knowing that I would soon cry.

"Years later when he and his Scientist found me, they explained that the lightning was one of their experiments. That made it so much worse," my voice shook. "I came to the Agency, but I made it clear that he owed me four life debts; he can't make me do anything at all. He may be the Director, but I am in charge of him."

"What were your sibling's names," he asked quietly, leaning his shoulder against mine. He was a physical person too, just like me, just like my brother and sister.

I smiled softly, tears pricking my eyes. "Demeter and-" I paused, my voice wavering. "Demeter and Hades," I finished. I could no longer hold back my tears. They drip silently down my face, blurring my vision.

"That's why you made that expression when I chose my name," he realised. I thought I had hidden it, but it was no use. My family had a tradition of naming their children after Greek gods, and even their Roman version brought tears to my eyes. They were so young when they died. So so young. It wasn't fair.

"I was filled with so much anger, so much hate," I managed to choke out. Pluto lifted his arm and wrapped it around my back. "I took it out on the Director, within reason, and it made me clam up around everyone in the Agency. I was just enraged, all the time, until I woke up this morning." I looked at him through watery eyes. "Jacob I am so sorry that I acted recklessly, I knew you would get hurt and I didn't stop to think about it. I just knew that there was someone I could take my anger out on."

He nodded, rubbing my back comfortingly. "It's fine, Cammie, I understand. And you healed me. Just please, don't act so recklessly again. We all love you and want the best for you, we don't want to lose you." My face crumpled at that, and I buried my head in his shoulder sobbing. He hugged me tight, and we stayed like that until I calmed down, taking deep ragged breaths.

"So how do you know my name," he demanded. Uh oh.

#writeblr #new writeblr #story #superhero #powers #super powers #writeblogging #writers on tumblr

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ohprettyweeper-moved · 5 years

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The Last Bandito

Part Two: Dream a Little Dream

Masterlist

Chapter Summary: Quinn, Faylinn, and Josh all have dreams that affect them. Tyler adjusts to his new life, and Ildri encourages her cousin not to continue with her novel. Warnings: Mentions of smearing and brainwashing, mentions of murder. Word Count: 1550 A/N: This series was borne of this picture; it started small and the idea just grew from there. It’s way outside of my usual fic box, so I am crossing my fingers that everyone who reads it can enjoy it. @adversaryproject, thank you for always having my back, and for believing that I could do something like this and do it justice. I hope I live up to your hopes! Oh - the bolded bits are for prompts from a board I have on Pinterest specifically for this series.

Quinn Walsh shot up in bed, sweating and trying to catch her breath. The nightmares came often, but this one had been filled with so much blood and gore, it shook her to the bone.

Throwing the blankets back, she threw her legs to the side and went for a glass of water and the pills that would erase the nightmare from her memories for the rest of the night. Looking out the window over the kitchen sink, she caught her reflection; even in the dim echo of her appearance, Quinn could see that the lack of sleep was catching up with her.

Although she didn’t want to re-live the nightmare, and had already taken her sleeping pill, she decided to do what her therapist had suggested and jot down the major points of the nightmare before going back to bed. As Quinn wrote, she remembered more and more, until a desk calendar in the background of her dream screamed out the date from her memories.

“My birthday,” she sighed, shoving the journal away and running a hand through the sweaty strands of her thick, strawberry blonde hair.

She tried for another hour to fall back asleep, but it was to no avail. As the sun peeked over the horizon and shed light on New Dema, Quinn threw back the covers and began to prepare for her day.

When he woke up on that stone slab, the sanctuary was empty. His blood had been collected and cleaned from the floor, and not even one Bishop stood by to guide him into this new life.

The rushing sensation subsided, so he stepped onto the ground, feeling more stable, than he remembered feeling before — physically, anyway. With his newfound balance, he stepped away from the altar and took some tentative steps toward the door. The door opened, and a familiar face stood on the steps.

“What happened to me?” he asked his friend when they both stood on the steps outside of the temple.

His friend didn’t hesitate or hold back. “The Bishops smeared you, killed you, then changed you.”

It all made sense now. The clear vision, the stable balance. The overwhelming sense of being.

“I’m a Heathen.” He said it out loud, as though he had never spoken the word before.

Josh nodded. “Yeah, Tyler. You’re a Heathen. C’mon, I’ll help you move your stuff to where the rest of us stay.”

Faylinn was more than pleased with how her novel was coming along. She worked on it day and night, took a personal day from work and kept at it into the next day. Ildri had come and gone but Faylinn hardly noticed.

When she woke, she was in Old Dema. Her hands were tied behind her back and she was blindfolded. Horse hooves hit the concrete ground around here; they weren’t galloping but walking at an easy pace. Faylinn wanted to stop and take the blindfold off, get her bearings, but a hand gripping her arm kept her moving forward.

A door creaked open, and Faylinn was led through it. The hand holding her arm seated her on a hard bench, then removed the blindfold. She saw now nine figures walking in a line toward the front of what appeared to be some kind of temple. They were wearing red, hooded capes, and their faces were painted white and black underneath thin veils of some mesh-like material.

The Bishops, Faylinn thought to herself.

She looked around the temple to see eight others sitting on the wooden benches, just as she was. All of them looked as confused and scared as Faylinn felt.

The Bishops assembled in a semi-circle at the altar; for half of a second, silence reigned and time stood still. Then, the timeless men moved in unison, chanting words Faylinn did not understand.

Tse spohady, yaki vy budget trymaty.

The phrase was repeated nine times before the Bishops once again formed a line down the aisle that separated the two sections of benches. Each Bishop approached the human he had brought here until the Bishop was within arm’s reach of Old Dema’s new citizen.

Josh woke with a start. The most real dream he had experienced in quiet some time, a memory of the day he had been brought to Old Dema. Of the Bishops doling out that first smearing and so easily convincing him of everything they wanted him to believe. He had not experienced this memory before, even when he tried.

“It’s amazing, Fay. Really.”

Faylinn clapped her hands excitedly and dropped to the couch. “You really think so?”

“It is. The smearing, the way the come for people in the middle of the night … it’s like you’ve seen it before.”

Ildri stood from the desk chair and waited a few seconds before delivering her next statement. She didn’t want to hurt Faylinn, but her cousin’s safety was important to her.

“I don’t think you should keep writing it.”

Faylinn’s happy expression fell. “What? But I thought …”

“It’s amazing work, but you’re playing with fire, writing about Old Dema. The Bishops — they have weird ways about knowing about these things. We know the basics about the old ways so that we can avoid being taken, but you’re revealing details here that, true or not, were never meant to be revealed.”

“Oh please,” Faylinn said, rolling her eyes.

“Faylinn,” Ildri said sternly, “No good can come from this.”

“Maybe from your perspective. But for me, this is my big break. I know it is. I’m sorry that you can’t see it. You’ve got to stop living in the past — we all do — or the Bishops will control us forever, and the purpose of New Dema won’t be realized. We’ve been outside of the wall for centuries, but here we are, still governing our lives but what they do. Not me, not anymore.”

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othercat2 · 6 years

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Fic: Build a Life From Scratch 4/?

Subjective Reality vs Objective Reality

You can’t quite settle after the talk you had with that particular Demoness. (Or the dream for that matter, or your conversation with Highblood.) You lie down on your pile and stare up at nothing, listening to Demoness breathe. Bits of the dream you had live behind your eyes; when you close them, you can still see the spiny-armored monster looming over you. (Red eyes above you and a shining sickle cutting you open. Black armored hands reaching deep inside you.) You can’t sleep, and your thoughts are going around in circles. Because we have the same empty place, moron.

Lil Cal possesses a subjective reality. You don’t remember a time when you didn’t have him. There hasn’t been a time when he wasn’t there to keep you company. Lil Cal’s personality is something you created. You know his likes and dislikes. You’ve had long conversations about all kind of shit with him. He is your visible invisible friend, and you have never been alone or lonely, because he has always been there. But his reality is only subjective. The objective reality is that a) Lil Cal is a puppet you’ve had since you were an infant. b) You have been playing an elaborate game of make believe since early childhood.

“Lil Cal sure as hell ain’t my ‘master’,” you whisper at the darkness above your head.

“We had the same master,” the memory of the Demoness’ voice says back.

The Demoness’ “master” was some kind of game breaking demon. She had been used to create the circumstances of the demon’s creation. (This also happened to be the circumstances that created the circumstances that led to your player’s session.) There had been others who had been under the Demon’s direct control. You can’t really imagine your own personal Drop Dead Fred as what, Darth Vader? Sauron? Who the fuck even knows.

The “demon” was in your session, fucking things up, and apparently, having already fucked things up. The demon was in her session, fucking things up and having already fucked things up. (Demoness doesn’t have all of the details. Mostly things about her session, and where your session and hers intersect, things that seem more and more alarming, the more you think about it.) Lil Cal couldn’t be the demon, and couldn’t be your “master,” (the son of a bitch hasn’t been born yet, to quote an old cowpoke) he was a fucking puppet.

There is an empty space in your head. There is no one to mentally poke at. You ask a silent question and you don’t get an answer. The closest thing you got to a response was the weird, reflexive, “Lil Cal is awesome,” that had filled your head at the thought that Lil Cal might not be on the up and up. That he might be what fucked the game up. (That you might be what fucked the game up.)

You think about your kid. You think about getting him ready for the game. The game you knew was coming, the game you were waiting for. The kid needed to learn how to survive on his own. The kid needed to learn how to fight. You had to toughen him up, get him ready for the game so he could win.

(So he could be a hero.)

If the demon was using you to fuck things up, wouldn’t you have fucked your kid up?

You think about your kid. You think about getting him ready for the game. The kid had needed to learn how to survive on his own. The kid needed to learn how to fight. You had to toughen him up, get him ready for the game so he could win.

(So he could be a alpha male hero.)

Sleep sneaks up on you, and the internal argument continues mostly as a flickering series of uneasy dreams. Memories of previous foster homes mix with DJing, and Pam teaching you how to sew. Turns into you laughing as you sketch out the designs for your first smuppet, imagining Pam’s scandalized reaction if she knew what purpose you were turning her lessons to. This turns into you standing on the roof of the apartment watching a green-black wall of clouds approach over the endless waves. Seagulls hover in the blasting wind, their screams filling your ears.

Then you’re arguing, over the sound of a baby crying. The baby’s in the crib, you’re trying to sew. “Failure to thrive is a thing you know,” a voice from beside the crib says.

“I fed him and changed his diaper. He’s a Player, they can’t not survive,” you say.

“Well you certainly proved that,” the other person, who is also you, says sarcastically. “Christ on a crutch.” The sound of crying shifts position.

You turn and see yourself picking the baby up, awkwardly patting his back in an attempt to soothe. “Put him back,” you say. “He has to learn to stop crying on his own.”

“Fuck that,” the other you says. He’s younger, hair in green and blue spikes. (Very retro punk, Pam had not been impressed.) He’s fucking cuddling the baby, and this annoys the fuck out of you. “It’s okay kiddo,” he says. “Big bro’s got you. Please don’t be coming down with something; that would suck ass.”

“He’s not coming down with anything.”

“Except failure to thrive because Big Bro’s a fucking sociopath,” younger you croons to the baby. Little bro is settling down, though he’s still sniffling.

“Oh fuck you. We need to get him ready for the game. Do you want him to die? Lil Cal says we got to get him used to being on his own.”

“He’s not even one yet,” younger you says. “Do you want him to end up like a kid who was raised in a fucking closet, and never even learned how to talk?”

“That can’t happen, he’s a Player.”

“Do you want to find out it can?” Younger you asks. “There’s got to be more than one way to fuck the game up. Why not a Player who can’t use a fucking computer because he never developed the right parts of his goddamn brain?”

“That can’t happen. He’s here, he’s a Player. The absolute minimum of socialization and language development is really, really low. If we left him alone with nothing but a computer, potable water, ramen noodles and a stack of Game Bro magazines, he’d teach himself English and be making friends with the other Players.”

“Yeah, but did it occur to you that maybe the absolute minimum is too low?” younger you asks.

“He needs to be strong. Lil Cal says things get fucked up if he’s too weak for the game. He has to be an alpha male; we need to make him a hero.”

When you wake up, Highblood’s not around. Demoness is making breakfast, the paste thing with slivers of smoked fish in it. “Evening,” she says, and sits down to eat.

“What’s on the agenda for today?” you ask, making yourself a bowl.

“Not much,” Demoness says. “Garden’s cleared and planted, store room’s clean, maybe just go flying.”

You both eat mostly in silence after that. You want to ask her what she knows about you. Why she took you in. The words don’t want to put themselves into order though, so you keep your mouth shut. After the both of you eat, she washes dishes and you head outside.

It’s just after sunset, and the moon hasn’t risen yet. The spring evening is full of the sounds of insects and amphibians. It’s pretty cold, and it feels like it’s going to get a little colder. You listen to wind in the leaves, and watch the stars get brighter. You can pick out the North Star, and your eyes try and fail to pick out constellations that aren’t actually there because this isn’t Earth.

Demoness comes back from dumping the dishwater, steps up beside you. “Pretty night,” she says.

You nod.

“Want to come with?” she asks you.

“You’re the one with telekinesis, hon,” you say immediately. “Not all of us are so gifted.”

“Afraid I might drop you, if I carried you?” she asks with a thin little smile that shows her fangs.

“Nah,” you say. “Go ahead, babe, sweep me off my feet.”

You half expect to end up in a bridal carry, but she never touches you. Instead, you both drift upward, surrounded by faint flickers of dark red. You get the pit of the stomach “elevator feeling” as you ascend above the trees and into the sky.

Demoness gives you a challenging look. “We can go faster,” she suggests.

The look sends all kinds of chills through you. You swallow. No way in hell you’re going to back down from that look. “Sure.”

“Faster,” is maybe fifty, sixty miles an hour. You are flying through the sky in a way that makes you want to hold your arms out like a goddamn airplane. She dives a couple times, spins you both around. She’s laughing, and your face in hurting because you’re smiling so hard, your heart pounding in your ears. This is one hell of a roller coaster ride, and you tell Demoness as much. Then you have to explain what a “roller coaster” is.

You’re up there for a few hours, watching the moon rise and the stars shine, then she lets you both down. You stumble a little when you get back into contact with the ground. It feels like you’re still moving, even though you’re just standing. Demoness laughs at you. “Fun?” she asks you.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“You have a big smile,” she says.

“My stoic rep’s fucked all to hell,” you say, and try to get it under control. You feel a weird little twitch of apprehension that she might say that you have a nice smile, or worse, you should smile more often, but she doesn’t.

“I will tell no one,” Demoness says. “Not even stupid highblood.”

“Thanks for that,” you say. “Where is he, anyway?”

“Wanted to do devotions,” she says, and grins wickedly. “Didn’t want to do it around my scoffing heathen ass.”

“I think I might find it hard to take too, so I’m chill with that.”

The night’s quiet. You help her make dinner, and you both eat. Your head is full of questions you don’t know how to ask. “I’m kind of curious about some things,” you tell her midway through the meal. It was the best you could come up with, after dozens of rephrases.

“What about?” she asks.

“I have no idea where to begin,” you say. “You seem to know a lot of what’s going on, and I’m kind of curious about what you’re up to.”

“I know some,” she says. “Don’t have to be up to anything.”

You aren’t sure you believe that. “Another Demoness said some things to me last night,” you say. “She said I was under the influence of her ‘master,’ basically.”

“That bother you?” Demoness asks.

“If I thought it was possible, yeah, it would.”

“How do you know it’s not?” Demoness asks.

“Well, for one, Lil Cal’s a puppet,” you say. “Everything about him is something I made up.”

“How do you know I’m talking about the puppet?” Demoness asks.

“Lil Cal’s awesome,” you say automatically. “Fuck,” you say a few seconds later. The other Demoness never out and out said a word about Lil Cal. Just that you had an empty space in your head. Just that you were being influenced by her master. She never said anything about Lil Cal being her master. “What the fuck.”

She smiles at you, all teeth. “Some part of you knows. I want to talk to that other part.” She reaches out and pats your cheek. “Maybe he’s not as dumb.”

You push her hand away. “Knows what?”

“It’s a calling card? A juju. He can see people through it, maybe influence them. The puppet shows up in both troll and human sessions.”

“And he influenced me, at least according to you.”

“And you,” Demoness says with a grin. “A much less stupid part.”

“I have no idea of what to think about that,” you say. You feel sick, and also tired. In the back of your head, you can hear, Lil Cal’s awesome. Lil Cal’s awesome. Lil Cal’s awesome. “I don’t--he’s a puppet.” You had been playing the longest game of make-believe, but who was getting played?

She pats your cheek again, and again, you push her hand away. She laughs at you. “I almost feel pale, from the look on your face.” She laughs again when you immediately take a breath and still your expression.

“Wouldn’t you be two timing then?” you ask.

“I said almost,” she says. “You’re cute, and maybe I’d pacify you if you were being a fucking moron, but Highblood can pacify me, and is even more of a fucking mess. The fucking clown is marinated in stupid fucking bullshit, and I’m gonna pull him out and scrub him clean.”

“That sure sounds romantic,” you say. “Where I come from wanting to go and change someone is a pretty good sign you never loved them for who they are.” This line is mostly said for purely ironic reasons.

Demoness takes it straight though. “You pity someone pale, you want to make them not angry, not hurting themselves, however they’re doing that. You want to help them not fuck up however they’re fucking up, or how life is fucking them up. And they do the same for you, or they should. So yeah, that’s fucking changing them, but they’re changing you too, so I don’t see how that’s bad, if you don’t manage to fuck that up somehow.”

A response that detailed needs an answer that is not “eh, I’m fucking with you.” Mostly because you suspect if you said that, Demoness would punch you in the face. “Okay, the acknowledgement that abuse happens makes me think your approach to romance takes real world bullshit into account. Still don’t see how cuddling and talking about your problems is romantic though.”

“Maybe humans don’t have pity, or maybe you’re too hard to feel anything as soft as pity,” Demoness says, looking amused.

You are uncomfortably reminded of Highblood’s comments earlier. You divert the conversation to other things, and she lets you. She talks about the kiln she wants to build. There isn’t a lot you can help her with. The few times you’ve worked with clay, it was Sculpey. You both eventually go to bed.

Highblood doesn’t turn up the next evening. He doesn’t turn up later in the evening. Demoness gets increasingly worried, and some of the worry rubs off. “Do his ‘devotions’ take this long, usually?” you ask her.

Demoness frowns. “Some of them do,” she says. “Weeks, sometimes.” She sounds skeptical that he’d be gone so long though. “If he doesn’t show up tomorrow, I’ll go look for him,” she says.

About an hour later, another Demoness rushes into the house. She’s out of breath, and her eyes are tinging orange, which you’re sure is a bad sign. “It’s Disciple,” she says, which startles “your” Demoness, who goes for her wands. The other Demoness rattles off what sounds like a serious of coordinates. She also shoves a bundle into your arms. “Here, take this.”

“It’s dangerous to go alone,” you mutter immediately, and unwrap what turns out to be a flat squared off club edged with sharp flint points. This thing is not brand sparkling new. It’s been used, and you kind of have an idea of how. It’s a sword, kind of, as much as a club.

“Go!” The other Demoness says, and somehow both you and Demoness are rushing out the door.

You start out running, but then you’re both flying, jinking tightly between the trees. “Who the hell is Disciple?” you ask.

“Someone who has reason to avenge herself,” Demoness says. “On Highblood. Maybe me. Can’t let either of them get killed.”

You hear the fighting, before you see it. There’s lots of shouting and crashing around. Your ears buzz, not quite understanding all of what they’re yelling at each other. Highblood’s mocking her, a tall troll with blunted triangle horns dressed in some huge cat skin and not much else. This is all being what your… means to you…? Not as tall as Highblood is, maybe a little taller than Demoness.

She’s screaming something back, calling him a butcher and a murderer. They are both pretty clawed up. Catskin’s blood is a weird dark green. Catskin lunges for Highblood’s throat, climbing him like a tree. Highblood bellows, and tries to peel her off. It doesn’t go so well, they both go crashing to the ground.

Demoness hauls them apart and knocks them away from each other. “You, Disciple,” she snaps, and rushes over to her boyfriend.

You flashstep over to Catskin, who has already rolled to her feet. She’s brought up short by your appearance. “Stand aside,” she growls at you. Her eyes are bright red and dark green.

“Yeah, no,” you say. Interestingly enough, instead of knocking you flat, she tries to go around you. You are much faster than her, and whack her with the flat side of the club-sword thing. She punches at you, which you block, again with the flat side.

Behind you, you can hear some crashing around, and Highblood demanding Demoness let him at the dirtblood heretic bitch. You don’t hear what she says in reply, but the direction of Highblood’s ranting ascends into the air.

Catskin screeches bloody murder, and manages to knock you off your feet, lunging at the retreating Demoness. The club-sword goes flying. Then of course, she whirls on you. “Why?” she screams. “Why protect him? Why serve that monster?”

You scramble to your feet and manage to re-arm yourself. “What the fuck are you on?” you ask. “I don’t serve anyone.”

“Why did you help him get away?” She asks, stalking toward you. She’s threatening, but you also get the feeling she doesn’t want to hurt you. (But she might if she thinks she has to.)

“I don’t think he got away, so much as got dragged off the playground screaming,” you say. “Leaving me with the crazy catgirl, thanks Demoness.”

Catskin’s eyes have cooled down from red to orange. She is still looking mightily pissed. “Demoness.”

“Uh yeah, I think you’d call her the Handmaid of Death?” you ask. “They’re moirails.”

She says something, and your ears buzz, not picking up what she said. A flat out denial is what you got from it, and something else. Something about monsters and another denial.

“Yeah I’ve spent a few weeks watching them cuddle each other and talk each other down from nightmares, so fuck if I know what else to call it,” you say.

“They are responsible for the deaths of millions,” Catskin says. “Yet you defended them.”

“I didn’t exactly know about that, when they took me in,” you say. “Uh, I knew Highblood was a nasty horrifying creep within a minute of meeting him though.”

“But you know now,” Catskin says.

“Sort of. They have nightmares and shit, and Highblood’s some kind of creepy ass racist who grew up in a creepy ass cult. Demoness seems to be trying to fix that, so,” you shrug.

“You forgive them?” Catskin asks, and her tone is a little weird.

“I don’t know what all they’ve done that needs forgiving,” you say. “I’m pretty sure that’s probably above my paygrade. They aren’t currently doing fucking horrible things and they seem pretty fucked up about said fucking horrible things and don’t have plans to do future horrible things from what I’ve seen. That’s going to have to be enough, since they’re letting me stay at their place.”

“You feel indebted to them?”

You shrug. “Demoness, maybe. She seems pretty invested in keeping everyone alive, and I can appreciate that.”

“If she keeps you alive, it’s only to kill you later,” Catskin growls.

“I think that’s pretty much over,” you say. “She was being forced to do shit like that. If she’s the Handmaiden of Death, who do you think she’s serving, right?”

“I hate him,” she says. “I hate that I hate him.” There’s a kind of buzz on the word “hate” like it means more than what you’re understanding. “I died old, and awoke young. I’ve been wandering for eights of seasons, I was happy, if lonely. Then I saw him, and all I could hear was my friends and family screaming.”

You have no idea of what to do or say. You don’t handle other people’s feelings well. You don’t handle your own feelings well, come down to it. “Can you at least fake being sad, you little shit?” That was the problem, you couldn’t fake being sad. Or you weren’t sad at the right things. “Demoness is probably not going to let you kill him,” you say. “But I’m also pretty sure she doesn’t want you to end up dead either.”

Catskin snorts at this, and looks skeptical. Her sclera have faded back to yellow, there’s just a few threads of the orange left. “I’ll let you go in peace,” she says. “You’ve given me things to think on.” She turns her back, and walks away from you.

You feel an odd sort of tension drain out of you when she leaves. You end up sitting down on a log for a while before heading back to the house.

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#homestuck #build a life #writing #fan fic #bro strider #the handmaiden #the grand highblood #a new friend

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