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word-wytch · 5 months

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Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 16

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 16/? 9k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ Frustrated by inconclusive endings, Eddie takes a seat behind the wheel.

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

✏︎ Chapter CW: general angst, paternal angst, drug mention

Thursday, December 12th 1985

Before the first morning bell, Eddie gave Judy at reception his best impression of Wayne over the phone. He wasn’t totally lying, he was in fact, quite sick. Sick of all the taunting looks from meathead jocks. Sick of the way Ms. O’Donnell cleared her throat every five minutes. Sick of waking up so goddamn early. Sick of wasting his time. So after hanging up the phone, he stuffed a few essentials in his backpack and made for the door.

Like clockwork, Wayne always came home at around 8:10 AM, and though it would be far from the first time he’d skipped school, Eddie would rather not have to explain himself. Besides, he could use a change of scenery. There was no denying winter anymore, the ice he scraped off his windshield made sure to remind him. On a typical hooky day he would drive down to Lover’s Lake and toss open the rear doors, catch a breeze, light a joint, sit back and take in the ripples on the water and the rustling leaves. But that had all frozen over, so unless he intended to burn through his whole tank of gas, he would need to get creative.

That was how he found himself at Benny’s at 7:58 on a Thursday morning, setting up camp in a booth at the back of the restaurant. He ordered his usual — bacon, scrambled eggs, and a stack of pancakes in addition to white toast. Tossing his fourth emptied sugar packet beside the leaning tower of creamers, he sat back in the sticky, padded seat and took his first deep breath all morning.

The diner was bustling lowly, a handful of regulars perched on silver, spinning stools at the bar. From the frosted window leeching cool air beside him, he watched the funeral procession of headlights down Washington under a mournful sky. Just another day for the upright citizens of Hawkins, Indiana. From his cozy booth, Eddie sipped the top off his very full mug and smiled to himself.

Sprawling his belongings around the piping hot plates, he popped on his headphones, cracked open his monster manual, and got to work. The first hour flew by like his pencil across the graph paper. Between the bacon bits that had leapt from hand to page, a formidable lineup of foes was taking shape. Bottom line; the boys were in for a world of hurt tomorrow. He did his best to resign the grease to the flimsy napkins, but by the time he was finished, syrup tacked the gargoyle and gorgon pages together.

“Anything else I can grab for ya besides the check?” Sheri—according to her name tag—asked with a tired lean as she reached to clear his plates.

Eddie glanced down sheepishly at his freshly topped off mug. “I uh, think I might be staying for lunch.”

Sheri forced a hot pink smile, catching the fork with her decorated finger when it threatened to slide off the plate. “Y’ want me to get a room set up for you too?” she joked with a wink of her spidery lashes. “Just teasin’ sweetie. You just flag me down when you’re ready.”

Switching out his tapes, Eddie shut the cassette player and stared out the window as the men at the bar tossed their napkins and fished out their wallets. Snow was falling in lazy clumps, clinging to his windshield. Somewhere behind the overcast clouds, the sun was rising steadily. It was dismal, a fitting backdrop for the opening track of Black Sabbath’s Heaven and Hell. Of all the seasons, winter belonged to metal. Like it was made for cruising down a quiet, snow-covered street in the middle of nowhere. Made for drowning out Bing Crosby crooning from the speaker in the corner above him. Tinsel glittered on the small tree perched on a cloud of fake snow beside the cash register. Ornaments on swags swayed to the thump of footsteps passing. Eddie sighed and stared into the changing street lights.

Glancing at his watch he figured you were probably wrapping up the film with second period, knitting your brow and drawing your pen across the papers you were grading. He wondered what you’d think when the bell rang for fourth and you found his seat empty. Would you think he was upset with you? There was a small part of him that hoped so, and another part that hoped you would understand. After all, he was giving you the space you asked for, was he not?

Like a siren, your story—tucked between his notebook and the magazines he’d exhausted twice cover to cover—called to him. Cracking open the plastic spine, he dove headfirst into the typewritten pages.

For the whole narrow path into Rower’s End, Cybelle had sat in the front of the caravan, breathing the briny air unhindered by a barrier. Lazarus admired the brilliant fullness of her smile as she watched the seagulls soar overhead, under the clouds she had only ever seen from above. The sunlight had graced them then, beaming down in golden rays, glinting on the distant waves as they approached the sleepy seaside town.

Eddie could feel the corners of his mouth tug as Lazarus regaled Cybelle with a story of a time when he’d accidentally taken a crab home with him after spending a day at the beach, followed by an explanation of what a crab was. Cybelle seemed delighted with the prospect of seeing one, even more-so when he told her how he’d discovered the little hitchhiker when it pinched his rear in bed that night. Eddie noticed the way Cybelle leaned closer whenever Lazarus told stories, the way her hand came to shield her bare face with a giggle when he mentioned his rear. The way her delicate, copper fingers lingered over the soft skin of his forearm when she checked beneath his bandage. The wound was healing nicely — no sign of infection and not a thorn in sight. She warned that it might scar, but Lazarus did not appear concerned—rather the opposite actually—as if a strange part of him was pleased with the idea of having something to remember her by.

As they dipped over the final hill toward Rower’s End, Lazarus told her another story. A dream, rather, of a little cottage in Shantiglade with a full sized bed, and a garden, and a goose egg omelette big enough for two. A dream that would likely never come to pass. Cybelle seemed equally enchanted by it. Sitting back against the boxy, wooden seat of the caravan, she breathed in the salty air and imagined how good it would feel to do so every day. To experience the feeling of sand between her toes, of the ocean at her ankles, of propping her elbow against their shared kitchen table and gracing Lazarus with a naked smile before trying whatever an omelette was. It was good like this too — bumping along under a clear blue sky as Turnip plodded down the scarcely trodded path, watching the wind caress the wild grass and Lazarus’ even wilder curls, hearing his tales and his laughter.

Around the time he would be slumping into his desk in the back of your classroom, the bell dinged over the door of the restaurant. Eddie cranked the volume on his headset to drown out the chatter of a family of four clambering into the booth in front of him. The little boy had brought a pair of plastic drumsticks with him, beating a rhythm on the steel-rimmed table much to the annoyance of his little sister, who was clutching her book the way Eddie was yours. Dipping his few remaining fries into the smear of ketchup, he wondered why they weren’t in school on a Thursday afternoon. As he focused back on the type-written letters, he figured he should be the last to judge.

Eddie felt for Lazarus, he really did. The way he looked at Cybelle as she emerged from the cave, cradling the ghostfern like a pale, translucent child. The scene was as beautiful as it was somber — waves lapping at the rocky shoreline as the setting sun cast its deep orange hues on both of them. The rocks—slick with algae—had Cybelle stumbling, but Lazarus was quick to offer his arm. She accepted without hesitance, clutching the plant like a bouquet as her deep earthen fingers braced the pale angles of his. He lead her down the cascading stone as if it were a chapel aisle, slow and steady until they reached the flat edge of the water. There—in the golden remains of the day—seagulls dipped and soared over the glittering ocean, clasped hands swayed in the lapping wind, and for a moment, they had everything they came for.

After what seemed like both a small eternity and an aching second, it was Cybelle who broke away, tracing the ridges of his fingers as hers fell, stating out loud what both of them knew — that night was coming soon.

The journey back to Torgaard proved easier than the journey out, at least in terms of natural foes. No fenfinks or villainous vines, but the sky seemed to hang much lower. Dark, stormy clouds loomed overhead, casting its pale grey light over the moss curtains outside of Fenwood, over the verdant forests that shuddered in the gusting wind. There was a tension, a dread looming on the horizon that grew with each passing day. Even Eddie could sense it — the way Cybelle stared out into the swath of shifting green like she was attempting to soak up enough for the rest of her life. The way that Lazarus’ jokes were swallowed the creaking of the caravan. How nights that were once spent laughing over a roaring fire were now spent silently watching its crackling embers.

One day—just a few outside of Torgaard—the sky came crashing down. It sobbed in sheets, heavy enough to soak through Cybelle’s coat, to find the tear in her tent and make a lake of it. Lazarus ushered her inside the wagon, offered her a shirt that fit like a dress, offered to sleep on the floor. Assessing the size of the bed, and then the hard, narrow walking path, it was Cybelle who insisted they share it. She was small enough, or at least that was what she rationalized out loud. Lazarus did not argue. Her logic—unlike her tent—was water-tight. And so she climbed in between the soft linen sheets, tucked herself under the weight of the down blanket, and rested her damp, weary head on a pillow that smelled just like him.

Eddie glanced sheepishly around the restaurant, shielding the binder with his arm as Lazarus climbed in beside her. He hinged on each type-written word, lingering over the ones that stirred a fuzzy feeling. Written with careful attention to the way Lazarus’ chest rose and fell, how stiff their bodies were in hyper-awareness of the nearness to each other. How solid his shoulder felt under Cybelle’s cheek when the corner of pillow no longer sufficed. Slowly, they relaxed into the feeling. Not enough to sleep, but enough for Lazarus to free the arm that she was crushing. Enough to wrap it around her shoulder, to relish in the feeling of her cold nose in the warm crook of his neck.

It was good like this. Better when her fingers draped across the landscape of his pecks, felt his chest rise and fall like waves. Best when they awoke in the morning to the sun steaming in through the small, stained glass window above them. When their giggles shook the wagon. When their eyes met, closer than they’d ever been before. There, in the dim cocoon far outside the turning world, the smile that she had hidden for so long finally grew brave enough to capture his. And by the time they reached the towering stone walls of Torgaard, there was nothing more to hide from one another.

Eddie flipped the page to find only a black, plastic pocket. He rubbed it with his fingers to make sure it wasn’t sticking to another. When it failed to separate, he sat back and fumed. That was it. There was no more. No ending, no closure.

Sheri leaned against the top of the booth seat opposite him, hand on her hip, shifting between her dirty white sneakers with a tired sigh. “Listen sweetie, I’ve got ten minutes left of my shift. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, but I’ve gotta cash you out before I leave.”

Eddie glanced at his watch, almost 2:00. “Yeah—yeah, no problem. Sorry for the trouble.”

“’S no trouble, just the way it goes around here. Hope you enjoyed your stay,” she said with a wink as she dropped the check.

After six hours and two meals, Eddie had gotten his fill of watching the world turn through an old, frosted window. His head was spinning enough on its own. With a frustrated huff he peeled his graph paper and manual away from the sticky table before shoving them into his backpack. Slugging it over his shoulder, he grabbed the grease-stained check and made his way to the register. That was when he noticed it — the lonely, half-eaten omelette on the bar.

“Alright that’ll be ten seventy-five,” chimed Sheri.

Tinsel glittered on the tree. Red, metallic bulbs swayed in the echo of his footsteps. Judy Garland caroled on about a merry little Christmas and he wondered if your characters would ever enjoy anything over their shared kitchen table or if that dream would be abandoned for their duties as well.

“Sir?”

Snapping out of his trance, he fished for his wallet and palmed her a twenty. “Keep the change,” he muttered before turning toward the door with a hoist of his backpack.

Her jaw hung open. “Oh my word, are you serious?” she called to his back, but the bell above the door was the only answer she received.

______

Main Street Vinyls was a ghost town on a Thursday afternoon, and Eddie preferred it that way. Aside from Jerry at the counter, it was just him and his noisy thoughts, accompanied by the slow plod of his own heavy boots as they weeped against the carpet. At least in this store he could escape the onslaught of Christmas tunes. Jerry—old hippie that he was—at least had some sense. Sometimes even sense enough to play some halfway decent rock music, but today Eddie would settle for Neil Young over the jingle bell garbage blasting through every speaker in Hawkins.

Glancing down the rows of plastic cassette spines, Eddie perused the M section as he kicked himself for giving away almost ten dollars. There was an album by a new band he’d only read about in magazines called Megadeth. Turning the tape over in his hands, he examined the cover. Everything about it spoke to him — the skull with its mouth chained shut surrounded by knives and candles, the title — Killing Is My Business. Flipping it over to the back, the phrase continued in haunted red letters …and Business Is Good!

The change he gave away in a fit of blind stupidity would have easily afforded it and left him with some to spare. With a bitter sigh, he shoved the tape back in its slot, knowing for a fact that the cash register at Benny’s had eaten the last bill he had in his wallet. Padding slowly down the aisle, he began his calculations.

He had a few regular deals lined up this weekend but would need to dig into his “savings” in the bottom of an old tobacco tin and pay Rick a visit before any of that happened. He might make eighty bucks if he was lucky. Maybe eighty more over the course of the week between the deals at school. Nobody wanted to spend too much time outside this time of year, so the park bench location was always iffy depending on how bad it was. He would resort to other classic meetup spots, like under the bleachers or the back of his van.

If he networked enough he might have some left over after helping Wayne with the bills. Scanning past the Tina Turner and T-Rex tapes, he wondered how much Wayne suspected about his little business. Surely he had to have some suspicion. Gig money, odd jobs, and oil changes for neighbors couldn’t possibly afford the kind of gear he had, or the ink in his skin, or the cash he contributed monthly. Wayne was sharp, and though he was no saint himself, he shuddered to think what he would say if he discovered his nephew was straying down the same path his brother took.

Peering back over his shoulder, he eyed the Megadeth tapes again—only three in stock—lined up like gifts wrapped in cellophane. They were such tiny things. Small enough to hide beneath his palm, to slide into the pocket of his coat with room to spare. Glancing up at the angled surveillance mirror in the corner of the store, he saw Jerry at the counter, humming obliviously as he stuck price tags on a fresh shipment of tapes. Over the tall shelf that separated them, he expected to meet his own eyes, but instead saw another man. A man he hadn’t seen in quite a while.

Eddie remembered finding a G chord for the first time; how big the fretboard felt in his small hand, how awkwardly his fingers had to stretch, how a larger set of hands had helped him find it. He earned a broad smile when the chord rang out, one he would search for again and again with every strum.

Sometimes in the late evenings as he crept past Wayne with a lunchbox full of drugs while he was watching reruns of Bonanza on the couch, Eddie would tell himself that at least he wasn’t stealing cars, or drinking himself half to death, or rotting behind county bars. At least he was still in school, something Warren Munson couldn’t say even at sixteen. At least Eddie could say he was trying.

With a bitter shake of his head, he continued down the aisle, leaving the tapes behind for the record bins that lined the walls. Mindlessly he walked his fingers over the cardboard spines, glazing past titles he’d seen a dozen times. Nothing new. Nothing different. Few things ever were in Hawkins. Every day he’d wake up and slog himself to a different type of prison, sit in a classroom for eight hours and actively feel his brain rotting. He would crumple up his failed tests and shove them in his backpack, endure the stares from kids whose parents cared enough to give them a ride to school, day after day. And every day he would come home and see the twinge of pride on Wayne’s face for the fact that he’d gone at all.

There were a few perks to sticking around, like running his club, and saving lost sheep, and seeing his friends everyday. Like having a swath of potential customers all in one place. It was safe and familiar, like a cage. His little business might be dangerous and criminal but at least it could afford him one thing he valued even more than ink or gear — freedom. Time, for another thing. Flexibility. It sure as hell beat making three dollars an hour flipping burgers or having to answer to some corporate boot-licker telling him what to do. Eddie huffed sharply, wondering what you would think if you knew. You, with your tightly buttoned blouses and endless patience. You, the very last person he wanted to disappoint.

The last look he’d seen on you destroyed him when he thought about it; the pain in your eyes and bitter line your pretty lips became. You were just about the only reason he had left to show up to class anymore, and now that was getting in the way of the one thing that actually had potential in his eyes. Way more potential than a stupid piece of paper that says, congratulations, you’re a real member of society and not a complete disappointment.

You had asked him a question back when you’d first made the arrangement to help him, one that rattled around in his brain ever since. Why did he want to graduate? If his memory served him, he’d given a relatively bullshit answer: to prove all the assholes in this god-forsaken purgatory wrong. It still held a fair amount of truth, but when he glanced up at the surveillance mirror again and saw himself this time, the real answer was abundantly clear. But was proving a point worth the risk of losing you?

The smell of cardboard and cellophane kissed his face as air puffed between each record falling forward. Each a different picture, some repeats of the same. Rock gods wielding wicked weapons, bathed in holy stage lights somewhere in New York or Los Angeles probably. Somewhere important. Sometimes at the Hideout he would close his eyes and imagine he was on one of those stages, but when he would open them as the last note rung out, it was always the same — just Bill and Drunk Sam, maybe a couple of bikers perched at the bar with their backs to him. Empty stools and sticky tables. A weak applause.

Eddie stepped back from the record bin with a heavy sigh and glanced at his watch. He’d killed about thirty minutes in this store, which meant he had at least twenty more before he could return home without triggering Wayne’s suspicious questions. The walls were starting to close in around him — posters like windows into a world far out of reach. Every million dollar strum reverberating through the speakers like a mocking reminder. With a half-hearted wave to Jerry stocking shelves, he left the store. Empty handed.

The drive down Randolph was always dismal, especially in the bleak winter light. Storefronts with yellowing signs that hadn’t changed in twenty years selling mattresses and televisions. A gas station with a rusted awning, dusted with snow. Architecturally speaking, the church was about the most interesting building, but only because it was brick and made up of more than just four flimsy walls. Even that was being generous though. The most exciting thing to happen to Hawkins since the housing development over by Factory Lane thirty years ago was the shopping mall that opened this past summer. Thrilling.

No matter where he drove within a fifty mile radius, it was all the same — a tomb where dreams went to die.

Gripping the steering wheel, he watched the car in front of him make grooves in the dirty slush, hypnotized by the spray off the sides of the tires. It wasn’t until he saw the high school approaching in his peripherals that he even looked up. It always felt good to be on the other side, especially when he wasn’t supposed to be. He could almost see you in there; brushing the chalk off your hands, shifting between your tired feet as you glanced at the clock, gazing out the window with a longing he’d seen in his own reflection — caught sometimes at night in his drivers seat window as he cruised the highway, dreaming of where it could take him.

As the squat fortress faded in his rearview mirror, he pictured you five years from now. Ten. Twenty. Wasting away in front of that chalkboard. Rattling on about stories written by dead people while your own collected dust inside a closet. While your talent withered like the dead, crumpled leaves under the snow; buried and forgotten.

With a hard right onto Prospect, he set out on the final stretch towards home. Sometimes he liked to imagine what might happen if he just kept going, just drove into the sunset and only stopped for gas. He had a vague idea from the movies and the maps that swayed in the wake of Ms. O’Donnell’s lumbering footsteps. Sometimes in the height of his boredom he would lose himself in them, imagine he was at a diner in the desert on his way to a gig with an actual sound system. Because somewhere out there—beyond the flat horizon—there were mountains, and canyons, and cities where names couldn’t follow.

______

“How does it end?” Eddie asked you on Friday between the fourth and fifth period bells. You glanced up from the stack of papers on your desk, cocking your head with narrowing eyes. “Your story,” he clarified.

“Oh.” Blinking, you sat back to ponder. “You know, I don’t think I ever fully decided. Cybelle is in a difficult position. The whole reason she set out on this adventure was to save her brother. I imagine she would want to fulfill her quest, but if she returned to Myrne, it may be difficult to leave again. Plus, she may receive some sort of punishment for leaving in the first place. I had written the laws to be quite strict, if I recall. And then if she chose not to return, her mother would lose two children. No matter what, she loses.”

Eddie furrowed his brow, shifting between his boots with a pained sigh. “I would hardly call a life with Lazarus losing. She seems happy with him.”

“Right, well, of course that would be ideal, but…” you tsked, “it’s complicated, and honestly that’s partially why I abandoned it. I really wrote myself into a corner. Well, that and student teaching started to eat up my time. Then it was finals, and moving, and then after that I met…” you trailed off with a bitter shake of your head. “Anyway, I guess life got in the way. It has a way of doing that, I’ve noticed.”

Eddie looked at you, really looked. You, in your cable knit sweater with pen on your hand and sandbags under your eyes, casting them down over your work with the same amount of hope he’d seen from players rolling threes with even fewer hit points to spare. He racked his brain for something he could offer—a dramatic death speech or a new character sheet—but you weren’t playing and he wasn’t prepared. Any words of comfort forming on the tip of his tongue were swallowed by the ringing bell, and he exited your classroom feeling the same as when he entered; unsatisfied.

______

It was starting to close in around you — the colored lights and ornaments, the mall Santas and fake green swags draping from shop windows. It was the first Christmas you’d truly spent in Hawkins since you graduated college, outside of day trips for visits. Surprisingly little had changed, the main thing being the fact that there even was a mall for Santa to post up in. Duplication must have been one of his many powers because he was still at Sears too, at least he was on Saturday when you dragged yourself out of the oppressive quiet of your apartment and into the bustling chaos.

You had no idea what to get your relatives for Christmas. You never really did, but this year it seemed insurmountable. This year you had no one to bounce ideas off of, and the constant mental chatter left little to no room for inspiration. As you scanned the shelves of cookware and appliquéd dish towels with snow men and reindeers, nothing really seemed to jump out at you.

What did jump out at you—or rather, jumped out at his sister—was a little boy across the aisle hiding in a circular rack of women’s bath robes. Pressing apart the terrycloth like curtains, he would retreat into his makeshift cave to the complete oblivion of his mother, who seemed more preoccupied with the price tags on a set of lingerie than with the whereabouts of her children.

A fantasy tugged at the corners of your mind, more sinfully indulgent than the one you had in class last week involving your desk and Eddie’s tongue. This time the set was the same as the scene before you, only the little boy had a mess of dark curls and Eddie was diving in after him. Not to scold him, but to play. You could almost see those fraying knee holes widening from contact with the carpet. Almost hear the giggles and the shushes and the click of his rings against the metal pole in the center of the rack for balance. You could almost turn around and see them popping out at you, feel the laughter ripple up through your very full belly and into the corners of your eyes as you feigned surprise to both of their delight. You could almost feel the glares from the other shoppers, the regular people eager to get on with their Saturday in peace, same as any other. It wouldn’t matter though, not in your little world.

The real mother in the real world did eventually turn around, grabbing the boy by the wrist and demanding he stay by the cart. Turning a dish towel over in your palms, you lowered your eyes to the machine-embroidered stitching of a corn cob pipe and a button nose as the fantasy disintegrated. You left the store shortly after, your cart just as empty as when you’d arrived.

On Monday it was hard to look him in the eyes. It was easier to meet Diane’s. At least this week you could hold a conversation without crumbling like Ms. Click’s half-eaten fruitcake up for grabs in the teachers lounge. But the coffee was bitter on your tongue, like a lie you were telling yourself.

In accordance with your wishes, there had been no rap of knuckles on your door frame after school, no screeching of chair legs dragged across the tile, only the dull thud of folders sliding into your bag, the surprising click of a magnet under the flap.

On Wednesday you left behind footprints in the parking lot before it had even half cleared, only to be swallowed by the emptiness of your apartment. You filled the space with what you could manage — an early dinner, and an early bedtime. Sleep seemed to be the only thing that quelled the battering ram thoughts, the scales tipping back and forth so much it made you queasy. You would lie there and dream of swirling smoke and plush lips, of arthritic fingers punching numbers on an office phone as you sat and accepted your fate. You would toss and turn, back and forth until your sheets became a tangle, and when you faced the mirror Thursday morning you barely recognized the person staring back.

When the final bell rang on Friday, the hallways cleared out like someone had yelled fire. A mass exodus of students and staff, flowing into the parking lot like a tidal wave outside your classroom window. You watched them as snow fell in clumps, as bright colored backpacks disappeared into the back of sedans, as cars peeled out like a parade into the street.

Assessing the paper mountain range framing your desk, you made an educated guess at how you would be spending your two week break. In hindsight, it might have helped to make the due date for the senior creative writing project last Friday instead, but deep down you knew you would have hardly made a dent by now.

When Ms. Click popped her head in to wish you a merry Christmas on her way down the hall, she seemed surprised to find your hand still moving across paper, not swaddled in mittens like hers. You brushed it off with something casual, the type of thing any regular person would say before the holidays. That it was too much to take home. That getting work finished now would leave more time with your family. You omitted the more personal details like how empty your apartment felt and the small, naked tree your mother brought over last weekend. This seemed to placate her, and with a cheery wave she left you in the silence of your classroom with only the ruffling of paper for company.

It was eery how quiet it was, but it afforded you a small hill of graded papers in the last hour, double what you would typically accomplish in front of the television. Thumbing through what remained of that stack, you counted each staple. Five, six, seven… you stopped when a certain name jumped out in MLA format.

Eddie Munson American Literature — 4th Period 20 December 1985

No title.

Papers fluttered to the desk as they fell from your hands, leaving only his. You held it gingerly between your fingers, as if it was alive. As if it could feel you, or rather, you could feel him through every type-written letter, through the thumb-sized grease stain in the top righthand corner. You could almost hear him too, shifting into a deep, dramatic narration.

Mount Myrne loomed on the horizon like a dark omen. Towering over the bustling docks of Torgaard, it disappeared beneath the ominous clouds with a formidable presence. Merchants scattered about, hauling their wares in heavy crates and barrels onto the many zeppelins.

This was where Lazarus first met Cybelle. In his mind’s eye he could almost see her stumbling about in her clean silk boots and glimmering gold coat. But her appearance today told a different tale. Her boots were caked with mud, her coat was splattered with muck and tattered by claws, her mask hung crooked on her face. Those large eyes that once glimmered with hope and wonder now stared off into the distance with oppressive sadness at the looming mountain.

This was where he was supposed to leave her. This was what they had agreed upon many moons ago. Cybelle just stood there, shifting back and forth between her tired feet as she dug her thumbs under the straps of her heavy knapsack that now held the rare and precious ghostfern. She finally had what she came for. Any moment now she would be moving those muddy boots toward the docks and use what little coin she had to barter a one-way trip back home.

That was the plan anyway..

Cybelle was frozen though. Fearfully, woefully, bitterly, she gazed upon her gold gleaming home in the sky with a sadness that was only dwarfed by Lazarus looking down at her. He looked at her beautiful face like it was the last time he was ever going to get the chance to. He memorized it in his mind as he shuffled his own dirty boots against the cobblestone. He didn’t have eyes for anything else. Not the zeppelins, nor the merchants, nor the mountain. Only her. After a moment that felt like an eon, Cybelle took a step forward.

“Wait.” said Lazarus. Cybelle turned around with surprise but also a hint of relief. “You don’t have to do this.”

Cybelle looked up at him with a mournful frown. “Of course I do, my brother will die if I stay here.”

Lazarus shook his head bitterly. “No, he will die if the ghostfern stays here.” he said.

Cybelle sighed as she looked out across the docks, “But how is it going to get there if I do not deliver it? No one is allowed within the city walls if they are not from Myrne.”

Lazarus furrowed his brow as he watched the merchants at work, hauling their wares aboard the large, formidable aircrafts. Suddenly he had an idea. “There are docks in Myrne, correct? And Myrnish merchants who take goods into the city?”

The gears were starting to turn in Cybelle’s head. “Yes, there are.”

“Well then, can we send the plant with like, a note or something? Some instructions and directions for the merchant to take where it needs to go?”

Cybelle thought for a moment. “I do know a few of the merchants by name. Arturo and I grew up together. He was my neighbor for a long time. He would know where it needs to go, and my mother would know what to do with it.” The brightness in Cybelle’s eyes dimmed suddenly as she had another thought. “But… I would never seen them again. My family.”

“Never say never, Cybelle.” Lazarus said. “Do you know that for a fact?”

Cybelle frowned heavily, “The laws in Myrne are very strict.”

“What if in the letter you told your family to meet you on the docks some other time? Perhaps in another moon or two once your brother has recovered?” Lazarus offered.

Cybelle sighed bitterly, “Only merchants are allowed on the docks. It is strictly prohibited. I was only able to come here because I snuck inside a crate. It was a miracle that they didn’t notice me.”

Lazarus kicked a stray pebble and huffed. There was a long pause before he spoke again. “I cannot tell you what to do, Cybelle. Only you can make that choice. But what I can do, really the only thing I can do, is tell you how I feel.”

All of a sudden there was a knot in his stomach. Because if he was going to say anything he knew that this would be his last chance..

“All my life I’ve dreamed about that cottage by the sea with the garden, and the bed, and the omlet. When I saw that pendant you were wearing I knew that it would be my only shot at ever getting what I wanted. Magic tricks are….. not exactly lucrative. And actually, if I’m going to be totally honest here, I figure you should know the truth about me. The whole truth.” Lazarus sighed, swallowing the bile creeping up his throat at the mention of the truth. He was going to be honest though. Maybe for once in his whole life. “This is difficult for me to say, but I owe it to you if nothing else. I’m a thief, Cybelle.”

Lazarus winced at his own words and Cybelle’s fallen expression, but he bravely continued..

“I confess that for a moment when I first saw you I thought about stealing that pendant, but once I heard your story and saw so much of my own I simply couldn’t. There is a goodness in you that I admire, how selfless and pure your cause is. Over the course of the last few moons I have had the privilege of spending with you, I have come to discover how beautiful the woman beneath the mask truly is. How kind, and curious, and patient you are. I have been all over this land. Traveled far and wide, through forests and over mountains. I have swam in lakes and oceans and gazed out over countless valleys. But never has the world looked quite so hopeful than when I saw it through your eyes. It made me believe that if you could see the beauty there, if you could see the goodness in me, then perhaps I can as well.”

It was startling — the tear that leapt over your lash line. Violently enough to hit the page, to blur the Os in goodness.

“If you choose to stay I promise you that I will never steal another coin or pocket watch. It may leave me poor for the rest of my days but if they’re spent with you, then I would be the richest man of all. It is all that I can offer you. My honesty, and a promise that I will show you more beaches, more mountains, more of the world than you could ever imagine. And since I intend to keep my promise, here is my honesty: I love you. Regardless of what you decide.”

With a trembling hand, you turned the page only to discover there was nothing on the back. Sitting back in your seat with a ragged sigh, you stared out into your empty classroom. Your nose stung, fluorescents flaring in your tear-blurred vision. Separating the pages with your thumb, you flipped back and read it again. The last paragraph. The last two sentences. Those three type-written words. Over and over, wedging in the cracks of your armor as your sniffles echoed off the tile.

The sun was dipping below the treeline, flooding the near-empty parking lot with a wash of somber pink. The snowfall had ceased, settled into the footprints and tire tracks. Glancing up at the clock and back down at the papers, you tried to imagine lifting another, scanning over sentences and writing in the margins like you hadn’t been completely upended by the one that trembled in your grasp. You couldn’t.

Tears dripped down your cheeks as you donned your coat, as you shuffled overstuffed folders into your satchel and slung its weight over your shoulder. You swiped at them with your scratchy wool sleeve, flicking off the lights and shutting the door.

The soft pink had cooled to twilight blue when your boots met the blanket of snow, leaving tracks in the clean, fresh powder. Your breath trailed behind you in heavy clouds. It was quiet here too, barely a scattering of cars in the parking lot. Not even the wind disturbed the limbs of the orderly saplings between the curb and sidewalk, dusted with a glittering powder.

Your hands found your keys, and the key found the hole, and soon you were sliding into your frigid leather seat, tossing the weight of your satchel on the passenger’s side with a dejected thump. You sat there a moment with only your breath for company before flicking your wrist at the ignition.

Nothing.

Stomping on the break, you lurched forward with conviction this time, as if you could convince it you were serious. All it awarded you was a weak, persistent click. It’s fine, you told yourself through gritted teeth as you lunged again, snapping your wrist with a startling anger, like the seal had been cracked on a two liter pop bottle that had rolled around in the trunk for a week and a half. Still, nothing but a pathetic click. A split second thought crossed your mind—that the ferocity of your stomp might actually damage the car—but the logic was quickly snuffed out by your rage. The hard plastic key bit into your numb fingers. Over and over — stomping, twisting, cursing. Cursing yourself most of all for being stupid enough to let this continue for months. You were paying for it now.

The tears were already waiting, primed behind your eyeballs, hardly dried on your cheeks when you left out the back door. They spilled over again, cooling as they dripped past your lashes, down the slope of your nose. One more time, you begged. Just one more time and I’ll be good, I swear. But the white Chevy Nova sat unmoved, offering only a vacant whine where there should have been a roar. You tossed back in your seat and huffed, chest heaving, filling the cramped space with the furious steam of your breath.

Snowflakes glittered in the floodlights, shining like flares through the blur of your tears. It might have been beautiful on any other evening — one where the engine was warm, and your mind was clear, and your heart didn’t sink like a pit in your chest. It was hard to notice anything outside your bitter sobs, most especially the shadow that appeared in the window beside you. The rap of rings on the glass had you jumping, whipping your head to face the set of eyes you’d been avoiding most of all.

“Need some help?” Eddie offered, bracing his knees in a crouch, eyes brimming with concern.

Your stomach twisted with relief, then embarrassment, then a million other things rolled into one, sick knot. Wiping the evidence from your cheeks with a futile swipe of your sleeve, you cranked down the window with your left hand. You must have looked like an absolute basket case, jerking your arm in tight circles as the barrier lowered with the urgency of a tortoise. When where was enough space for him, Eddie braced against the top of your door and ducked his head inside.

“Hey.” The warm sigh of his greeting kissed your cheek, thawing the sting of the cold.

“Hey,” you mimicked, sounding just about as stable as you felt when it came out. “W-what are you doing here so late?”

“Hellfire,” he stated simply. “You know, I could ask you the same question.”

Despite how true it was, it still felt pathetic when the answer left your lips. “Just… trying not to take so much work home with me.” You said it as casually as you could muster, but your voice betrayed you. Your cheeks were still cooling from the remnants of your tears, framing the heat from your dripping nose.

Eddie suddenly looked very serious, splintering your armor with his softness. “You ok?”

You gestured dejectedly at nothing, offering a hollow laugh. “No.”

Eddie filled the cabin with his sigh, eyes narrowing like he wanted to lunge through the window. Instead he just thumbed at the rubber and tipped his head closer, creaking your chest plate with the weight of his gaze. “You know, I could hear you clear across the parking lot,” he joked softly. “The car—I mean. Mostly. You leave your lights on or something?”

You shook your head. “It’s been doing this for months, ever since it started getting cold. I should have taken it to get checked out, but it usually starts after a couple tries.”

“Sounds like it might be the battery, or maybe the starter. I won’t know unless I try and jump it. I’ll swing around—if—if that’s ok.”

The wind ushered a curl toward his lips, and you clenched your hand to subdue it. “Yeah, it’s ok,” you sighed. “Thank you.”

With a nod, Eddie ducked out of the window and pivoted swiftly on his heels. From your side view mirror, you watched him make tracks in the blue snow with his heavy boots, hands shoved in his pockets as he glanced left and right, the ghost of his breath trailing closely behind. The seat creaked as you sat back and blinked like the cursor on a computer monitor; processing. One glance in your rearview mirror told you how disheveled you looked. Even in the twilight there was no masking the puffiness around your eyes, the mascara bleeding toward your cheeks. You swiped at them again, this time with a napkin from your glove box.

With a yank of the frigid handle, Eddie slid across the plaid and pleather padding into the drivers seat of his van. He froze for a second, glancing in his rearview mirror toward your small white sedan. Butterflies tore through his stomach, churning like a tornado as he flicked the ignition. Out of all his ridiculous fantasies, he hadn’t entertained this one. Not exactly anyway. One where you were the damsel in distress. One where he got to be the hero.

The parking lot was vacant enough to drive across the lines. Ploughing through the naked patches where cars had spent the afternoon, he rumbled up beside you. Your stomach did a summersault when he stepped out, plodding around to the front of your car with jumper cables slung under his arm.

“Can you pop the hood for me?” he asked.

The summersault rippled south through your abdomen. Reaching down under the console, your fingers found the leaver and obeyed. You felt kind of useless, just sitting there while he propped the hood onto the stand, shielding him from vision. Before you could form another thought, your hand was moving on its own, finding the plastic leaver of your door and opening it to the cold evening air.

Eddie gave a shy look from behind his curtain of curls before stepping back with a nod. “Well, good news, there’s no monsters,” he joked.

A smile cracked across your face, so genuine it almost felt foreign. You tucked your hands into your pockets, stepping closer to assess the engine like you knew what you were looking at. Your aura prickled with proximity, like his heat could thaw you even from where you stood. Eddie’s glance was soft and quick before procuring a small flashlight from his inner coat pocket. He held it in his teeth, flipping up the red and black plastic covers on the battery terminals.

“I have hands too, you know,” you said with a smirk.

With a playful side-eye, he clamped the appropriate cables onto the terminals. Removing the silver torch from his mouth, he made room for his retort. “Mmhm, best keep ‘em warm. It’s uh, kinda chilly out.”

You shook your head as a laugh escaped your nostrils in a plume. Sauntering over to his van like a dark knight, Eddie leaned in the door to pop his own hood. Your boots made tentative tracks in the snow, drawn like a magnet as he hoisted the metal. From the light pinched in his teeth you could see the expanse of the massive engine, the shadow of his furrowed brow as he unscrewed plastic knobs. What you saw more than anything though—like a filter laid over the scene—were three type-written letters. The hands that typed them fumbled with the cables, squeezed around the thick, jaw-like clamps. When they bit right where he wanted, they released; tendons flexing, knuckles pinking from the freezing air. Reflexively, he wiped them on the chest of his black hoodie peeking out from his open coat.

It might have just been the cold, but even in the twilight—in the absence of the flashlight he was tucking into his pocket—you could have sworn his cheeks flushed when he caught you staring. “Alright, um, go ahead and start your car. I’ll do the same.”

Following the tether that joined the two vehicles, you did as he told you. Nothing came of it though, just more incessant clicking. Exasperated, you tossed back in your seat before slumping out of the car once more.

“Shit, it must be the starter. Probably cracked, that’s my guess anyway by the sound of it,” Eddie explained as he stepped around to face your engine again. Clicking his flashlight, he peered into the compartment. “See, if you follow the positive terminal line all the way down, that’s where the starter will be. Only problem is it’s tricky to get to without a lift.”

You followed his grease-stained finger down the dirt-dusted tangle of tubes, drawing nearer under the subtle guise of interest in your engine. You stopped just inches from his solid leather frame, close enough to brush him with your elbow. “You seem to know your way around a car.”

He huffed, shaking his head as he muttered. “Wish I didn’t.” But before you could comment, he was shutting the hood. “I’m sorry, but I think we’re gonna have to call a tow truck.”

Your defeated sigh rose toward the clouds as you glanced at the squat school building. The lights were off. Judy’s car was absent from the lot, as were all but a handful, including the two of yours. Glancing at your watch under the floodlights, the big hand tipped past the golden dot where a five should be.

Eddie stepped closer, filling the gap with a heavy exhale before meeting your eyes. “You know I could, um—” he scratched the back of his neck, words evaporating quicker than his breath. What could he do? What could he really do about any of this? For most of his life he’d been a leaf on the wind, scuttling across the pavement toward the gutter, struggling to steer himself away. But you were stranded, and if there was anything he was good for, it was a ride. “I could—I could take you back to your place. If you’re ok with that, I mean. We could—fuck—I mean you could call from there a-and I could—”

There were chinks in your armor, cracking with each bumbling word. You looked at him, really looked. Eddie Munson, with grease-stained hands and eyes that pierced like arrows in their pleading. Straight through to the softest part of you, the place between your ribs that cries I want. And oh, how desperately you wanted. Wanted to soothe his worried lips in yours again, to feel his pounding chest again, to be thawed by his heat again. But you just stood there, frozen.

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his open coat, he shifted on the balls of his feet as he searched for more words in the snow. “Look, I know you said you wanted space, a-and it probably seems like—shit.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, releasing with a sharp sigh. “I just want to help you. Will you just let me help you? Please?”

Your chest plate clattered to the concrete, gauntlets falling in a heap beside your greaves. There was no white flag to wave. No sword to relinquish, or shield to discard. Your surrender was nothing but a soft “okay,” barely heard above the howling wind.

______

A/N: After over a year and 100k words, the smut chapter is finally upon us! Thank you for coming with me on this very long journey and sticking it out. I have no idea how long this next one is going to take me to write, but I can promise you that when it’s finished you will experience every moment in exquisite, delicious, poetic detail.

You might have noticed that I’ve pulled a few small details like character names and places from Flight of Icarus, but I will not be retconning any of Eddie’s backstory.

Also random, tumblr decided to make that one paragraph bold once I changed it to chat font with no ability to unbold it, but that wasn't intended. It kind of worked though so I'm not mad.

Taglist: @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @raccoonboywrites @storiesbyrhi @trashmouth-richie @keeponquinning @munson-blurbs @blueywrites @alottanothing @bebe07011 @idkidknemore @alizztor @godcreatoreli @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @mrsjellymunson @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @dollalicia @lma1986 @catherinnn @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @big-ope-vibes @barbiedragon @ladylilylost @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @chaoticgood-munson @hanahkatexo @eddiemunsonsbedroom @beep-beep-sherlock @averagemisfit03 @vintagehellfire @haylaansmi @sllooney @lunaladybug734 @callingmrsbarnes @ajkamins

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson older reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x teacher!reader #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson angst #don't stand so close to me #dssctm

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quinnylouhughesx43 · 7 days

Text

Peter

based off of Taylor Swift’s song from The Tortured Poets Department

warning: a bit sad, longing for ex-lover, use of y/n

Ethan Edwards x fem!Reader

summary: Ethan and reader childhood friends —> lovers —> break up —> reader heartbreakingly waiting for his return.

author’s note: the photos are intended to tell the story them growing up. the last last picture are two quotes from the book “better than the movies” by Lynn Painter. (can be found on Amazon, books a million, barnes & noble, etc. links were too long to post)

Ethan and (y/n)’s older childhood friends always joked the two would fall in love one day. It was always a big laugh between the two of you because what business do 8 year olds have thinking about love?

In a blink of an eye you’re dancing at your end of the year eighth grade formal together, your heart has never reacted the way it was at that specific moment. Confused and a bit scared you kept your head staring at the floor while your hands were firmly placed on Ethan’s shoulders. His hands placed awkwardly on your waist. He cleared throat and paused both of your movements. “Hey (y/n)? Can I do something and you promise you not get mad if you don’t like it? We can just forget about it after if it’s weird.” His words were rushed and hands shaking. Your eyes connected with his, a slight nod yes to confirm you were okay with whatever it was he was asking for. As if the world moved in slow motion and no one else was in the school’s lobby, where the formal was happening but the two of you, Ethan ducked his head down just the few inches he needed to in order to give a quick kiss.

The first kiss for both of you.

Awkward, yet not weird for either of you. The beginning of what turned into a long beautiful journey. Until it wasn’t beautiful.

꧁꧂

“(Y/N) I am so tired of this repetitive argument. It happens over and over. I got accepted to Michigan and I got a scholarship for hockey. Their program is notorious for building up their athletes and getting them drafted. Drafted! You’ve known since we were kids that the NHL is what I wanted for myself.” Ethan tried to keep himself composed until he couldn’t. His desire, compassion, and dedication to chasing his dream often overshadowed his love and dedication to you. His childish mannerisms peaking through. “I just want to know where I fit into this plan? This future of yours.” You tried to keep your voice strong and unwavering but just like each time before the lump in your throat prevented you from even being able to breathe properly.

He sat down on the edge of your bed. Quiet minutes passed before he finally spoke again. “Maybe there isn’t an us in the future..” His words are so quiet you aren’t sure if you heard him correctly. “E?” You whimpered. Tears streaming one after the other. He didn’t look at you right away. Knowing if he did his resolve would shatter.

Taking a deep breath, starting over. Looking at you after a couple minutes had passed by and leaning over to wipe your cheeks dry. “I know this is going to be hard to hear. It’s killing me to even say it. It killed me to even think about it recently. I’m going to be gone for a long time for school. I won’t be returning home. My parents will be coming there over the holidays. It will be easier with training. I can’t ask you to sit here while you’re going to school yourself and be tied to me. Especially when we will never see each other. Neither of us have the money for traveling to and from. I’ve been so physically sick thinking about leaving you. We’ve only argued since I decided but honey this is what’s best for me and my dreams. I’m sorry I’m being so selfish but I can’t pass this up. If I stay here I take a chance at never having an opportunity at the NHL at least I know I’ll have an opportunity there.” Your tears stopped at some point. Sadness turned to numbness. Lost to the words he was saying.

“(Y/N/N). I can go and grow up while I’m gone. Get drafted. Or not. Then I’ll come find you if you’re still single. . We can live our dreams then. I just can’t ask you to sit here and be miserably alone.” Pressing a quick kiss to your forehead he left your house. That was the last thing he said to you in person. You didn’t see him again before he left. He tried but you declined. Not wanting to hurt anymore than you already were.

꧁꧂

You just watched Ethan’s NHL debut with the New Jersey Devil two weeks ago. Pride swelled in your heart for him but heartbreak also overtook you. He never came back for you. You’re both 24 now, he could’ve come back after college since he was drafted pre-degree but he never did. Since ‘goodbye for now’ turned into ‘goodbye’ you sat down at your desk and started writing him a letter. You were going to mail it to his mom’s house. She can mail it to him.

Dear Ethan,

I hoped you'd return with your feet on the ground, tell me all that you'd learned because love is never lost when perspective is earned and you said you would come and get me, but we were only 17. My shelf life on the fantasies has expired. Please forgive me, Ethan, I really tried to hold on to the days you were mine. But the young girl turned into a woman who sits by her window has turned out the light.

You said you were going to grow up and you were going to come find me. Promises that were oceans deep, but never to keep.

Sincerely,

(Y/N)

Little did you know he was back in town at his parents’ house and received the letter himself. He was there to see you. He was back for you now that he was settled and could care for you both properly. But he was too late. You had shut the door on him. You stopped supporting him quietly. Stopped following the scores of the games and watching. . Ethan played the rest of the season terribly, not having his number fan, supporter there. It didn’t matter if he knew or not that she was always cheering him on. It just solidified for him, he no longer had his rock. His reason for being. That he fucked up all those years ago. That he no longer had a reason for what he thought was his dream. His dream was really your dreams. He wanted the future you wanted with him and now he will never have it all because of his selfishness back at 17.

#ethan edwards #umich hockey #umich fic #umich imagine #y/n #ethan edwards x reader #ethan edwards x y/n #Ethan Edwards fic #Ethan Edwards blurb #hockey fic #hockey blurb #cay writes #cays masterlist #nhl #new writers on tumblr #new jersey devils #nj devils #nj devils fic #hockey

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niningtori · 4 months

Text

see me | chapter one: distance

summary: after another failed relationship, you're ready to give up once and for all. your best friend's little brother, beomgyu, has other plans.

genre: angst, angst with a happy ending, romance, fluff

word count: 3k-ish idk

your eyes watered as the bitter taste of vodka seared the back of your throat, settling uncomfortably in a pool of heat churning in your stomach.

"slow down! you're gonna make yourself sick," your best friend, jia, chastises.

"let her have her fun," beomgyu, her little brother, quietly interjects before you can even finish flushing down the alcoholic aftertaste with your chaser. "she's going through a lot right now."

you nod half-heartedly while sloppily sliding your elbows onto the table, smushing your tear-stained face into your hands and sighing. jia winces at the action before relenting.

"fine. let loose tonight, but this is the last time you're getting this drunk over a piece of shit guy." maybe if she were anyone else you'd resent the harshness of her words, but even in your drunken state you register the softness in her tone.

"wait here, i'll get you some water," and with that she rises and reveals her plain outfit, sticking out like a sore thumb in the strobe neon lights of the flashy bar you're in. you're not looking any better, both of you having come here after having a seemingly normal saturday of running your respective errands and nothing more. that is, until you ended up a few blocks away from your boyfriend of 9 months' apartment and decided to pop in, only to find him absolutely drilling into his girl best friend. the one he claimed you had "nothing to worry about" because "she was just a childhood friend" and you were always so "irrationally jealous" to the point of "borderline paranoia." needless to say, you called jia while booking it to your car. which led you to where you are now: severely underdressed with makeup smudged and eyes swollen.

"are you okay?" beomgyu asks tentatively. you know he knows the answer and he's just trying to comfort you, so your gaze redirects to him and he shifts somewhat uncomfortably under your surveying eye. you and jia may look underdressed, but he certainly doesn't. he blends right in with his band tee and distressed jeans. sitting alone with him probably makes you look even more ridiculous, and though you shouldn't care, you can't help but imagine what others were most likely thinking when they saw you wiping your snot in between shots.

"i'm not," you mumble, and he relaxes a bit now that you're talking again. "i'm sorry, beomie. i'm sorry you got stuck with," you gesture to yourself, "this." and you really were. jia had been with him when you called and once he heard what happened, he insisted on tagging along and scrapping whatever plans he had for the rest of the night.

"do you want to talk about it?" he asks softly. "you don't have to if you don't want to, but i think it would make you feel better."

to that, you smile. despite the age difference, you two had grown quite close in the 8 years you had been friends with jia. In fact, in college it had become a tradition for you to accompany her to her family's once she found out you wouldn't be going home for your first thanksgiving break.

there was nothing worth going to your own home for, you had told her, so she demanded you come to her place instead. as stubborn as she was, you eventually relented after she promised her family was actually excited to meet her dorm mate and new best friend. there you met her parents and beomgyu, and from then on they had accepted you into their family so warmly it had become a given that you would always stay there for any time away from school. that is, until you met your first boyfriend. but you were hellbent on ignoring that part.

"i don't think there's that much to talk about," you sigh. he raises his eyebrows, so you continue. "i thought that maybe there was something going on between him and his best friend, but he convinced me that i was just being controlling. i felt really guilty about it so i dropped it, but i guess i shouldn't have. i just feel so fucking stupid," you choke out.

"it's not your fault. he manipulated you, of course you would want to trust him after he guilted you like that," he says while pushing your hair behind your ear as fresh tears rolled down your face. had you been sober, you might have questioned the intimacy of this, but at present all you could do was revel in it. your phone buzzes again and you immediately reject the call. he had called at least a dozen times and left twice as many text messages. at your rejection, he sends another one, and you read it aloud — more for your own comprehension than beomgyu's —missing the way his stare darkens for just a second.

"baby can we please just talk? i'm so so so sorry it was a mistake. i feel like shit for hurting you. please can you just answer so we can fix this? i love you." you dig your head in your hands before meeting beomgyu's gaze.

"are you gonna answer him?" he asks.

"i don't know, beomie. i just — i kind of feel like at this point i might have to just accept it."

"what do you mean you just have to accept it?" if he's trying to hide his disgust, he doesn't do it well.

"what i mean is that maybe there's a reason 3 out of my 4 boyfriends have cheated on me. maybe it's me? i dunno," you sigh, "i think i might just have to accept the fact that he cheated and forgive him."

"that's bullshit," beomgyu bites out. "you don't deserve any of this shit. not every guy is gonna treat you like that." you smile sadly at his insistence. what he's saying is so sweet, but you're sincerely beginning to think maybe you're cursed to have an unfaithful boyfriend.

"i really think it's just not in the cards for me. is there something so bad about me that this keeps happening to me? actually, don't answer that. i don't think i want to know."

"i'm serious," he insists. "no guy in his right mind would treat you like that."

you want to smile at that, but you physically can't.

"that's easy for you to say, beomie, but you don't exactly treat girls the nicest, either." he balks at this.

"that... that's because i—"

"here. drink this, now." jia cuts in, back with some water. you don't take note of beomgyu's crestfallen appearance.

"thanks jiji," you say with a smile.

"anything for you," she replies.

beomgyu still looks like he's trying to fish words out from the bottom of a barrel, but you leave him be. you're still thinking about your ex's texts and what they mean. he said it's his first, and only, time fucking her, but the betrayal is unbearable. you'd think that after this happened with the third boyfriend in a row, you'd be used to it, but it still feels as fresh as the first time. and this one seems to hurt even more because you really thought this one was going somewhere. he had hinted at moving in together and you were so, so ready to take the next step. so much for that, you guess.

he was 14 when he first met you. his sister had told him her new roommate was tagging along and warned him not to be too awkward around her — a pointless warning, really. at 14 he was still a stuttering mess in front of girls his age, let alone someone 4 years his senior, but he promised he'd do his best nonetheless. when his mother told him to be ready because you two were nearly there his palms were already sweating, but when you walked in, face tired from the long drive but eyes remaining bright, his mind went into full panic-mode and his throat went dry. "hi, beomgyu. it's nice to meet you," you said with the softest of smiles and his heart stuttered with every syllable.

your first night at the choi's was fun; jia's family was determined to make you feel welcome and you spent most of the night laughing and learning more about your new friend. after dinner, mr. choi busted out the boardgames and when you saw just how seriously they all took it, you realized where jia got her competitiveness from. she made a particularly callous move in monopoly, earning complaints from her parents and you had to stifle a giggle as the previously silent beomgyu pouted with a "jiaaaa, how could you do this to me?!?" he quickly came out of his shell after that, and needless to say, you were a little shocked at just how loud the boy could be.

as much fun as you had, you were a little emotionally fatigued after such an eventful night. you had never known families could get along as well as jia's did, and in between smiles and questions about yourself, you couldn't stop your heart from aching just a little. how nice would it be if you had a home like this to come back to? how did it feel to have a family who was truly interested in how you're feeling?

as everyone headed to bed, jia noticed your uneasiness and asked if you wanted to talk about it, but you declined. you could tell she was tired and you didn't want to worry her. in a rare moment of vulnerability, she thanked you for coming and told you her parents were so happy you were friends. you smiled as you watched her fall asleep, making sure her breathing was heavy and slow before tiptoeing out of her room, closing the door, and heading out to the back porch.

the stars looked so much brighter here, you noticed. your hometown was pretty big, so the pollution made it impossible to enjoy the sky like this. you wondered what things were like back home. you had been alone with these thoughts for 15 minutes or so before you heard shuffling from inside the house. when you heard the backdoor open you began to say "I'll be back inside in like 2 min—" before you turned and saw beomgyu there, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. his limbs were awkward and gangly but his slightly rounded face and doe eyes made him absolutely adorable to you.

"oh, hi. is everything okay?" you asked slightly worriedly as he stood frozen, mouth agape.

"i-i... you're cold outside?"

you couldn't stop your giggling that time. "i'm sorry, what was that?" you said between laughs. he blushed and you felt a little guilty.

"i'm- it's cold outside. you're probably freezing. wait here," he said before scrambling back inside. he returned with a blanket and your heart warmed.

"take this. it's freezing and that jacket you're wearing isn't enough. look, your nose is red!" he said worriedly.

"wow beomie," you teased, using his family's nickname for him. "i had no idea you were this thoughtful." and just like your nose, his face flushed a deep red.

"hey, I'm just kidding," you softened. "do you want me to head back inside so you can hang out here?" his eyes widened again and you began to fidget to leave your spot on the porch steps.

"n-no. you can stay here, i'll just go back inside."

"you don't have to do that. why don't you just hang out with me for a bit?" there it was. your breezy attitude that left him stumped. you had been so laidback and charming through every interaction with his family, and with himself even, as painfully awkward as he was. but as unbothered as you seemed, he could see the anxiety in your expressions when you thought no one was looking. a shaky breath here, a bitten fingernail there. you hid it from the others masterfully, but his eyes had been trained on you from the moment you stepped into his house, and even you couldn't avoid the occasional slip up. he desperately wanted to comfort you,

"uh, i-if you're okay with me being with you —i mean like being out here while you are also here — then i'll sit too." he knew you had to have noticed his anxiety, but you made no mention of it and instead smiled and patted the open space next to you.

"so. what brings you out here?" you asked.

"i, uh, like to come out here a lot when i can't sleep. it helps me clear my head, i guess." you nodded and didn't ask any more questions, for which he was thankful. he didn't want to have to lie instead of explaining that you were the focal point of his mind back then, and he wanted to come out there to calm himself down.

"it's nice out here. i can see why you come out so often."

"what about you?" he asked tentatively.

"me? i guess i'm just like you. i'm trying to," you paused to find the words "clear my head and recenter right now."

"oh. why?" you locked eyes with him and noticed that his eyes twinkle even more than usual under the starry sky. he didn't balk at the sudden eye contact, just looked at you earnestly as if he was afraid of missing a single word. to both of your surprise, you actually answered, delving into some of the details of your home life. nothing major, but still personal enough to matter. he nodded when appropriate and asked a question every now and then. after your little venting session, you looked at him and gave him the brightest smile yet.

"thanks beomie, you're a great listener and i really like talking to you. i hope i get to do it more often." i really like talking to you. i really like talking to you. you really like talking to him. you wanted to talk to him again. in fact, you hoped you did. his heart skipped a beat and he gulped in a way he only hoped to god was discreet.

"any time, i swear," and he meant it.

you had just turned 20 when you met him. doyoon was everything you could have ever wanted (or needed) from a man at any point in time, let alone at 20 years old. he was a TA for one of your lectures and from the moment he accidentally spilled his coffee on his laptop when he tried to ask you out, you were smitten. he was 1 year your senior, set to graduate that academic year, but who can stop love once it starts?

beomgyu was 16 when he felt like the world was crashing down around him. he pinched his arm (just to make sure he wasn't hallucinating) and asked jia not once, but twice to repeat herself. still, the words remained the same: "she won't be coming home for thanksgiving because she'll be with her boyfriend."

his stomach ached and his complexion turned pallid. jia watched him with worry. "beomie, are you okay?"

"so she's staying at his family's?" he ignored her question so pointedly that she somewhat doubted if she ever asked it in the first place. "isn't that too fast? and what about us?" about me? if you met him in august, that meant you had only been dating for 3 months. meanwhile, you had known him for 2 whole years!

"i mean, in my opinion, yeah. but there's nothing i can do about it besides support her and hope for the best," she mused. "he actually seems like a nice enough guy," she added off-handedly. if only she knew how her words decimated him. she spread the unfortunate (for him) news to her parents and while slightly disappointed that you wouldn't be joining, they were happy you seemed to be in a healthy relationship.

that evening, he happened to hear a call between you and his sister through the shared wall between their rooms. he didn't happen to press his ear on it, that part was completely intentional.

"did you tell everyone that i'm sorry i couldn't be there this year? i miss them all," and he could hear how much you meant it.

"yeah, they were battering me with questions about doyoon. you'd better be prepared for an onslaught of questions next time you come home." you snorted and whined in response but he can almost see the upturn of your lips at the choi's house being referred to as "home", even through a wall and a phone. "how's doyoon's family?"

"they're so so nice," you sigh contentedly. "i was afraid it might be awkward since our relationship is so new, but they've been nothing but kind and inclusive." beomgyu can't help but feel indignant at the idea that a family could be more welcoming to you than his.

"i'm glad they're treating you well, i was afraid i was gonna have to come rescue you myself. how's doyoon?"

"i've got a really good feeling about him, jia. he's just so... mature? and experienced? " with that, beomgyu's heart sunk to his feet.

"first of all, ew. i don't need to know that," jia teased. beomgyu decided he didn't need to know that either, so he moved away from the wall dejectedly. if he had continued to listen he'd have heard you feverishly denying that you were implying anything sexual, but he already felt like he was being punished for eavesdropping. he knew he was too young for you at present, but in 2 years he'd be 18 and it wouldn't matter anymore. somewhere in the back of his mind he had hoped you would wait for him, unconsciously or not. you could be each other's first everything.

that dream is dashed after 2 whole years of pining, but he'd remember your words for the rest of his life. if you wanted a guy who's mature, he'd be more mature. if you wanted a guy with more experience, he'd get more experience. all you ever have to do is ask once, and maybe not even that much.

"just tell her you like her, man," yeonjun says with a sigh.

"he doesn't like her, he loves her," taehyun cuts in.

"well, tell her you love her then!"

"i can't do that," beomgyu argues defensively. "she still sees me as a 14 year old kid."

"that's tough," kai nods.

"then put it down on her and stop complaining," yeonjun says with a roll of his eyes.

"don't be gross," beomgyu says, smacking the back of his head.

"i'm not! i'm serious."

"he has a point, gyu," taehyun chimes in.

"oh god, not you too," beomgyu groans.

"we're just saying she wouldn't think of you as a kid anymore if you would just act like a man and not a lovesick puppy," yeonjun reasons.

"yeah man, you don't act like this with any other girl. just be normal," taehyun says.

"she's not just any other girl to him, she's the girl," soobin argues out of seemingly nowhere and beomgyu blushes. he's not wrong, though. if he cared less about you, it'd be easier to get with you.

he always said he'd wait until you were single to make a move, but you were with doyoon for three whole years. then joonwoo for 6 months. then seoyun for 8 months. then donghyun for 9 months. at 26, you're nothing short of a serial monogamist, and he was always just on the precipice of gathering his courage to ask you out when you enter another relationship.

jia said you were coping with your breakup with doyoon in your own sick little way, but that didn't really make beomgyu feel any better. to him, that just meant you were still stuck on the man he felt so inferior to. but after seeing how fucked up you were after your last relationship, he was just about done with waiting for you to look at him.

#niningtori #see me #beomgyu #choi beomgyu #txt beomgyu #txt #txt fanfic #beomgyu fanfic #beomgyu x reader #choi beomgyu x reader #tomorrow x together #txt angst #best friend's brother au #this is my first post #i'm sorry if i'm doing something wrong idk how to work tumblr LOL #help me #also #i'm on mobile soooo that should explain everything

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scary-grace · 6 months

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Love Like Ghosts (Chapter 10) -- a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

You knew the empty house in a quiet neighborhood was too good to be true, but you were so desperate to get out of your tiny apartment that you didn't care, and now you find yourself sharing space with something inhuman and immensely powerful. As you struggle to coexist with a ghost whose intentions you're unsure of, you find yourself drawn unwillingly into the upside world of spirits and conjurers, and becoming part of a neighborhood whose existence depends on your house staying exactly as it is, forever. But ghosts can change, just like people can. And as your feelings and your ghost's become more complex and intertwined, everything else begins to crumble. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13

Chapter 10

There’s something wrong with your house, but you knew that when you bought it. As summer ends and the neighborhood kids go back to school, it begins to feel like there’s something wrong with the neighborhood, too. Keigo and the others haven’t found Dabi’s conjurer yet, and with school back in session and two of the former ghosts in the neighborhood going to and from the same place five days a week, the likelihood that the conjurer will find the neighborhood before he’s found and killed feels higher than it should be. You’re worried about that, distantly. If Garaki comes here, it won’t be you he’s after.

You and Aizawa are monitoring any mention or recurrence of any of the aliases Tomura’s conjurer has gone by, but there’s no sign of him. It also seems to have been a long time since he summoned and bound a ghost. You got sick of running messages back and forth between Aizawa and Mr. Yagi, so you finally introduced them, and through a mix of Aizawa’s contacts, Mr. Yagi’s contacts, and former and current ghosts Hizashi knows, you were able to determine that nobody’s created a new haunt in at least a decade. “I don’t understand,” you said. “Did it go out of style or something?”

“It became too dangerous, most likely.” Aizawa turned to his copy of the map and began marking through former haunts, until the entire map was marked in red. “All of these were destroyed by Mr. Yagi and his master. Any conjurer summoning a ghost in this country over the past hundred years was taking a significant risk. Why would they do that when they could just leave?”

“Would they just leave?” You looked to Mr. Yagi.

“It’s possible,” Mr. Yagi allowed. “My master and I did our job well. Even if we missed one.”

“There was nothing to miss. In spite of his overall unpleasantness, Tomura has yet to truly harm anyone,” Aizawa said. Mr. Yagi glanced meaningfully at you. “That doesn’t count.”

You weren’t pleased with the characterization, but it wasn’t worth disputing. Regardless of what anyone in the neighborhood thinks about your relationship with Tomura, they’re at least pleased that it makes him easier to deal with and marginally more interested in helping the neighborhood defend itself. Tomura, meanwhile, notices less and less of what’s going on outside the property line. Most of his focus – all of his focus, really – is on you.

As far as you can tell, he stays incorporeal most of the day, conserving energy so he can materialize fully once you’re home. What happens when you’re home varies. Sometimes he follows you, marking your every move, asking questions about everything nothing, questions that lead and questions whose answers you can’t imagine he cares about. Sometimes he tries to help you with whatever you’re doing, because the sooner you’re done with it, the sooner you can focus all your attention on him. And sometimes he’s not interested in waiting for anything at all. Sometimes he follows you up to your room and pounces on you before you’re even finished changing out of your work clothes.

Today is one of those days, and Tomura’s gotten strategic. You wore a dress to work, with tights underneath because you’re paranoid about clothing malfunctions, and he doesn’t grab you until after you’ve taken them off. Then he pulls you away from your closet, pushes you down on the bed, and pushes your legs apart. This, or things like this, have happened enough that you can sort of keep your wits about you. “Tomura, the door –”

It shuts, keeping Phantom out. The two of you learned that lesson the hard way. Tomura pushed you down in the middle of the bed, but now he pulls you to the end of it, until your legs are dangling over the edge. They’re unsupported for only a second before he props them on his shoulders. It’s embarrassing that you’re so slow on the uptake, but when you figure it out, you sit partway up in shock, staring as Tomura grins up at you from between your legs. “What are you doing?” you ask weakly.

“What does it look like?” Tomura looks way too pleased with himself in the split second before his head disappears under your dress.

He’ll stop if you tell him to. Sometimes you do, and he always complains, but he never refuses. Your head is spinning, and you make one last effort to slow things down. “I can’t reach you from up here.”

His voice is muffled. “Wait your turn,” he says, and a moment later you feel an almost-experimental lap of his tongue against your clit. “I had to wait all day.”

The idea of a human man waiting all day for you to come home so he can throw you on the bed and eat you out is absolutely ridiculous. But Tomura’s a ghost, not a human. You’re not even sure where he got the idea of eating somebody out in the first place. “Have you –” you stutter as he licks again, slower and with more pressure than before. “Have you been watching porn?”

“What’s porn?” Tomura sounds thoroughly uninterested, which is a good thing for you. You don’t want to explain – well, at the moment you’re not good for explaining much of anything. Tomura’s hair tickles against the insides of your thighs, and his hands press eagerly into your hips. Your stomach lurches. “Stop moving. Why are you trying to –”

“The marks.” Your heart is hammering, your body torn between the impulse to lie back and spread your legs wider and the impulse to get up and run. “People will see them. They’ll see them and they’ll know –”

“I don’t care if people know.”

“I do. My friends – my boss –” It gets worse the longer you think about it. “I don’t want them to know what we do.”

Part of you wonders if you’re being ridiculous. You’re an adult, and if you were with a human boyfriend, everyone would assume you were having sex with him. Then again, if you were having sex with a human, you wouldn’t wind up with ghost handprints on your hips that your boss is going to see through your clothes. And Tomura’s not your boyfriend. “I only leave marks when I want to,” Tomura says. He emerges from under your dress, his hair messy and his mouth wet. “You have enough already. Nobody’s going to get confused.”

“So you won’t leave them here?” you ask, and Tomura shakes his head. “Oh. Um, thanks.”

He disappears under your dress again, and you lie back on the bed. The impulse to spread your legs wider is still there, and when Tomura runs his tongue over the length of your entrance before closing his lips around your clit, you give in without a fight. The house is alive around you, humming with electricity and creaking slightly in the early-autumn wind. It’s quiet in your room other than your own harsh, unsteady breathing and the increasingly obscene sounds emanating from under your skirt.

Tomura’s never done this before, so he doesn’t have any bad habits, and based on the direction his explorations take, he’s well on his way to developing good ones. Your entire body feels like it’s being tied in knots, knots that get tighter with every swipe of his tongue. You’re trying not to move, to arch your back or buck your hips. You’re worried that if he has to try too hard to hold you down, he’ll forget about his promise not to leave marks. But in your efforts to stay still, you completely forget about staying quiet.

At first it’s just quiet, desperate sounds leaving your mouth – little gasps, split up here and there with moans when he sucks on your clit or gives your entrance a long, slow lick that makes you wish for something, anything inside you. You could ask Tomura to finger you, and the thought sits fully formed on the tip of your tongue, only to disintegrate when he pushes your legs a little further apart and licks inside of you. The rush of heat that sweeps through you is almost overwhelming. “Tomura –”

“What?” He stops, which was absolutely not what you wanted to happen. You unclench one hand from the blankets on the bed to hit yourself in the forehead. “Am I doing it wrong or something?”

“N-no,” you stammer. You’ve gone from having to convince Tomura that his technique could use some work to having him ask on his own, which is really great for any time except now. “I just, um – no. You’re good. Really good. That’s why I said your name.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you say, wondering why his voice sounds like that. “I don’t want you to stop. Tomura, please don’t –”

You break off in a gasp. Tomura was never the most methodical about this, but he’s thrown himself back into it with an absurd amount of enthusiasm. You feel like you might pass out. It’s hard to think, but you don’t want him to stop again, so you talk, struggling to breathe. “You’re so good at this,” you manage to say. “You’re doing so well. I don’t want you to stop. Tomura, please – ah –”

His grip on your hips tightens. You think you hear him whine. But his lips close around your clit again, teasing you with his tongue, and you lose the ability to focus on anything else. Unclenching your hands from the sheets feels impossible, so you bite your lip instead, managing to restrict the sounds you make as you come to a few desperate moans. In the past you’ve had to tell Tomura to stop or push him away to avoid getting overstimulated, but this time he lets you go in a hurry, emerging from under your dress and scrambling up onto the bed. His mouth and chin are wet and there’s an almost frantic look in his eyes.

“Tomura,” you say, puzzled and breathless. “Are you okay?”

“Tell me again.” Tomura’s mouth presses against yours, and you taste yourself on his lips. He speaks without pulling away. “I did it right. Tell me –”

Now you get it. “You were perfect,” you say, and Tomura presses himself against you, grinding against your thigh. “You did such a good job. You made me feel so good, Tomura. Nobody’s ever made me feel like you do.”

It’s not empty flattery, as much as you might wish it was. You sit up, rolling Tomura from his side to his back and undoing his pants. His cock springs free, and like always, you’re surprised at how big he is – but the few seconds you take to stare is too long for Tomura to wait. His hips thrust uselessly upwards, seeking your hands, and you oblige in a hurry, stroking idly while you look him over. His face is red, the color extending down his neck and beneath his shirt, and his blue-grey hair is glued to his neck and forehead with sweat. He has longer eyelashes than you thought he did. His eyes are dilated to the point where you’re shocked he can see. You’re sure you look like a mess right now. There’s no way you look anything close to this.

“You’re pretty,” you say without thinking. Tomura’s mouth falls open and a moan escapes him. His hips jerk frantically against your hands as you continue to stroke his cock, as you slide one hand between his legs to fondle him. “You’re so pretty, Tomura. And you make such pretty sounds, too. Listening to you the first time you touched yourself turned me on so bad. I kept imagining what you must have looked like – all sweaty and desperate and so, so pretty –”

Dirty talk never used to be your thing, and this barely counts, but the effect it has on Tomura is mesmerizing. He’s squirming on the bed, worse than you were by a long shot, his hands grasping the sheets or yanking at his shirt. You see his hand rise to scratch at his neck and you stop fondling him to pull it away. “You look even better than I imagined,” you say, holding his hand even as his grip tightens almost to the point of pain. “You look so pretty like this. And the way you sound – there’s nobody in the world who sounds as pretty as you do. You did so well for me just now. Are you close?”

The sound he makes in response is somewhere between a gasp and a sob, and you think, like you always do, that the two of you need to work out how to come at the same time. Touching him invariably winds you up again, and he’s too impatient to let you touch him first. “You’re so good, Tomura,” you say. You can feel the tension in his body increasing, the movements of his hips growing sharp and uneven, and you drag his hand to your mouth, speaking through his fingers. “You’re perfect.”

You usually try to contain the mess he makes with your mouth, but you’re slow this time, too busy watching him fight to hold onto his physical form in the face of an orgasm. Most of his cum winds up on your dress, although some of it ends up on your face. You can live with that, so long as you don’t have to change the sheets on the bed,

You wipe your face with your sleeve and lick your lips, working off a vague sense that it would be rude to wipe your mouth. Guys who want you to swallow get offended by stuff like that. “What does it taste like?” Tomura asks in that raspy, breathless voice that always winds you up.

“It doesn’t taste like anything.” You’re almost eternally grateful for that.

“What do you taste like?”

You cringe a little bit. “Not everything tastes like something else.”

There’s a pattern to things now. Tomura usually dematerializes for a while after the two of you are done, and you do whatever you need to do – showering, to start with – until he comes back. Then you negotiate about the rest of the night, Tomura wanting more, you reminding him that there aren’t unlimited supplies of life-force and doing more today imperils his chances for tomorrow. Most of the time you win. If the pattern is followed, he should be dematerializing right around now. You get up.

Or try to. Tomura grabs you and pulls you back. “Where are you going?”

“The same place I always go.” You try to peel yourself out of his arms, but it doesn’t work. “What? You’re not going to let me go?”

“No. You won’t let me go with you.”

“You don’t need to clean up,” you remind him. “You’ll be fine as soon as you dematerialize and come back.”

“I don’t want to.” One of Tomura’s legs hooks over your hip to hold you in place, another one of those weird things he does that reminds you he’s got no idea how straight guys are supposed to behave. “Don’t leave.”

You don’t want to deal with this right now. You need time alone after you and Tomura hook up to get your head screwed on straight, to remind yourself that this is insane and not normal, to keep it all in perspective. But your track record for getting away from Tomura when he wants to hold onto you is not good, and he’s never acted like this before. You let him pull you back onto the bed. At first he curls himself around you, almost like the two of you are spooning, but then he changes his mind, pushing and pulling at you until you realize that he’s after a complete switch in positions. “If you wanted to be the little spoon, you could just ask.”

“What’s the little spoon?”

“The person in the position you are right now.” You adjust your arm around his waist and press against him from behind. “This is called spooning.”

“Why?”

“Because it looks the way spoons look if you line them up properly in the drawer instead of just throwing them in.” You’re guilty of the latter, but in your defense, you’re usually in a hurry. Tomura makes a skeptical sound. “I’ll show you later.”

He’s cold, but you’re still overheated, and holding him like this helps you cool down. It would help you settle your mind if you weren’t still confused about why this is happening. You could ask Tomura, but when it comes to talking about how he feels, he’s a typical guy. It’s about the only thing about him that’s typical. Tomura doesn’t know what he’s supposed to want, and you have a feeling that he wouldn’t care even if he knew. He wants the things he wants, and while he’s not great at communicating them, you usually figure out where he’s going with it eventually.

It’s quiet for a while, and Tomura’s the one to break the silence. “Did you mean what you said?”

You don’t pretend you don’t understand what he means. “I meant it,” you say. You’re not an expert in praise kinks, but you’re pretty sure it doesn’t work if the praise is false. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.”

Something odd happens to Tomura then – he shivers, or his embodied form fails for a moment, and you instinctively tighten your grip on him. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re pretty, too,” Tomura says instead of answering. “Don’t leave.”

“I’m not leaving,” you say. You need to shower, but you can shower later. You adjust your arms around Tomura again and close your eyes.

You don’t mean to fall asleep, but you were up late last night and early this morning, and this afternoon’s hookup wore you out more than expected. You don’t sleep for long, but Tomura’s gone when you wake up. You’re curled up around the space where he used to be. You wonder how long it was before he left, and why it’s okay for him to leave you when you’re not supposed to leave him. You hate how lonely it makes you feel.

But you shake it off, like you do any time you start feeling that way about a ghost that can’t understand human feelings, and proceed with the rest of the night. And the rest of the night goes exactly like it usually does. You shower, start the laundry, start making dinner – and Tomura shadows you, angling for a second hookup. He’s getting strategic about that, too.

“You like it when I use my mouth,” he says. “Better than my fingers.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” You focus on the food you’re trying to cook, reminding yourself firmly that you’re hungry, not horny. You turn the question around on him. “Which do you prefer? Handjobs or blowjobs?”

“Handjobs,” Tomura says without hesitating. You blink. “You still use your mouth a little bit. And you can talk.”

“The talking really does it for you,” you muse, even though winding Tomura up is the last thing you should be doing if you want to eat dinner any time soon. “Interesting.”

“It’s not interesting. I like your voice.”

That’s not what you expected him to say. You set down your knife so you won’t amputate your fingers and focus on him. He’s looking away, scowling. “You talked to me. I couldn’t figure out how to talk back at first, so I listened. I like your voice.”

“I like yours, too,” you say. Then you think about drowning yourself in the sink and ask a question before Tomura can get too smug about it. “How soon did you talk to me after you figured it out?”

“As soon as I figured it out.” Tomura won’t look at you. “I messed it up the first time and you ran away.”

“You got angry. I didn’t know what you’d do.”

“I wasn’t going to hurt you. Or Phantom.” Phantom’s been poking around by Tomura’s feet, pretending she’s not hoping he’ll drop some food. Sure enough, he steals a piece of the carrot you just sliced and drops it on the floor for her. “I helped you before. You knew that.”

“I didn’t know what you’d do when you got angry.” You don’t want to have this conversation again. “I still don’t know.”

“But you’re not scared of me.”

“I’m not scared of you.” You startle as Tomura’s arms loop around your waist, as his chin notches over your shoulder. “You figured out how to talk just so you could talk to me?”

“I needed to learn anyway,” Tomura says. There’s a pause. “Yeah, I did. So what?”

“Nothing,” you say. Tomura thinks you’re pretty. Tomura taught himself how to materialize and talk so he could talk to you. It’s a good thing he can’t see your face right now. You’re finding it hard not to smile.

Your phone rings from the living room, and you go to investigate it. It’s Aizawa, so you pick up. “What?”

“One of the unbound ghosts has gone missing,” Aizawa says. “When was the last time you ran the search for Garaki?”

“Last week,” you say. You run the search every week. “Do you want me to run it again tomorrow?”

“Tonight,” Aizawa says. “I’m coming with you.”

“No,” you protest. “I can’t go in after hours. Mr. Yagi –”

“Call him and ask.” Aizawa hangs up the phone.

“Asshole,” you mutter, and you go ahead and call Mr. Yagi. He picks up on the second ring. “Sir, Aizawa’s worried about something and he wants me to check the database again tonight.”

“Of course,” Mr. Yagi says at once. You grit your teeth. “Update me on what you find, if you find anything. Izuku’s working on generating a map for all the conjurers on the list.”

“And Aizawa wants to come with me,” you add. “That’s not policy, is it?”

“Technically, the database is public record,” Mr. Yagi reminds you. “Just make sure no one spots you.”

“Yes, sir,” you say. You hope he can’t tell that you were hoping he’d say no.

Tomura follows you as you change into your street clothes, clearly unhappy. “Where are you going?”

“Back to the office. I won’t be long.” You stick your head out the front door and realize that it’s gotten colder since the sun went down. You find a hoodie and pull it on. “Aizawa’s just being paranoid.”

“He’s outside,” Tomura says. You don’t question how he knows that. “You didn’t eat yet.”

“I’ll eat when I get back,” you say. You lift your bracelets out of the bowl where you keep your keys and slide them on, then tuck your keys into your pocket before turning to Tomura. He’s either pouting or sulking. “Don’t do that. I’ll be home soon.”

Tomura’s frown deepens and he dematerializes, which annoys you. It’s not like you wanted this to happen. “I was going to give you a kiss goodbye, but since you’re going to be like this –”

“I’m not.” Tomura materializes again, right in front of you, and pushes you back against the wall for a kiss. You feel an odd tingling where his hands touch you and get the sneaking suspicion that he’s marking you again, but it’s only on your shoulders, and it’s not like Aizawa will be able to see it. Tomura draws away. “Go.”

You leave, your head spinning a little bit, and find Aizawa standing just outside the fence. There’s a suspicious-looking bag slung over his shoulder. “We’re not breaking in,” you say.

Aizawa ignores you. He gets into the passenger seat of your car as soon as you unlock it, and the two of you drive out of your neighborhood in complete silence. You’re not pleased with this, and the bad vibes Aizawa’s giving off prove that Tomura’s moods aren’t the only ones that can affect other people. You don’t speak until you’re halfway there. “So what’s up with this ghost who went missing?”

“They haunted an apartment building that came down fifteen years ago. They’ve stayed in the vicinity of their old haunt,” Aizawa says. “We sent Keigo and the others to speak to them, to see if they’d seen or heard anything. There was no sign of them anywhere in the city.”

“Which means – what?” you ask. Aizawa doesn’t answer, and it pisses you off. “They could have just left.”

“A ghost like that doesn’t just leave.”

“Maybe they decided to,” you argue. “Or they could have embodied themselves. There are a lot of things that could have happened that aren’t ‘they got snatched by a conjurer’. Can ghosts even be killed?”

Mr. Yagi said they could, but he also didn’t tell you how. “They can,” Aizawa says shortly. “If they clash with a being of greater power – another ghost, or a conjurer – their spirit can be blasted apart and scattered. Each shred retains some small piece of consciousness, but there are so many that there’s no way to piece them back together.”

“Conjurers can do that?”

“They threaten it when binding unwilling ghosts,” Aizawa says. “Eri and Magne both report receiving that threat, although it’s doubtful that Chisaki could have carried it out, given how easily Hizashi defeated him.”

You never appreciate a reminder of how strong Hizashi is. It makes it harder not to be scared of him. “The worst a conjurer can do to a human is kill them,” Aizawa continues. “The worst that can be done to a ghost condemns them to eternal torment. Most ghosts are hesitant to confront a conjurer, and the fear remains even once they’re embodied permanently. We were surprised that Tomura was able to convince Atsuhiro.”

You were surprised, too. But you’ve got something else on your mind. “So it’s just a power game. They clash and the strongest one wins,” you clarify, and Aizawa nods. “What if they’re equally powerful?”

“Then it comes down to a test of will,” Aizawa says. “The stronger-willed of the two will win, and in ghost-conjurer conflicts, the conjurer is the stronger one.”

“Why?”

“They’re human,” Aizawa says simply. “Humans don’t want to die.”

It’s quiet again in the car. You make the turn into the courthouse parking lot and choose a spot that’s hard to see on the security cameras. Aizawa speaks again as you’re turning off the engine. “If you’re worried about Tomura, don’t. There’s no conjurer on the planet stupid enough to cross your property line.”

“I’m not worried about Tomura,” you say. You’re lying. “What’s in the bag?”

Aizawa unzips it, revealing – “A gun?” you squeak. “There are metal detectors. You can’t bring that in!”

“The metal detectors are on the way into the courthouse, not the public defenders’ office.” Aizawa zips up the bag again. “Conjurers are still human. It takes a lot of ghostly power to stop a bullet.”

You were already unhappy about this whole thing. Now it’s worse. You pull up your hood and get out of the car. “Just keep it hidden. Mr. Yagi told us not to be seen.”

The two of you sneak across the parking lot, keeping to the shadows. If anybody spots you, you look suspicious as hell. You unlock the door to the office, lock it again behind Aizawa and yourself, and sneak through the halls until you reach your cubicle. “I’m just running the Garaki search again,” you warn. “Then I’m out.”

“Fine.” Aizawa leans against the wall behind you, scanning the office.

He’s acting like he thinks someone’s in here, hunting the two of you. It’s making you uneasy. You ignore it as best you can and focus on the search, cross-referencing both identities and coming up with the same points of connection as always. Then, because you got dragged out here and you might as well be thorough, you focus on the city Aizawa’s worried about and run a library search for public records-adjacent documents – the kind of things that are publicly available, but aren’t considered national government property. When you run the wider search, something pops up that didn’t before; a business license, for a clinic in the same city. You draw Aizawa’s attention to it and he pulls out his phone to search. Meanwhile, you keep looking. You find a record of property taxes on the location of the clinic, paid by check. There’s a scan of the checks attached, with the same name over and over again – Garaki Kyudai.

Aizawa swears. “He’s not listed as one of the staff – he’s listed as the clinic’s founder. It’s been there for decades. Long enough to have summoned that ghost.”

“Why would he kill his own ghost? I thought they avoided killing conduits.” There’s a newspaper article, a recent one. You try to open it, hit a paywall, and start looking for a way around it. “Have you heard from Keigo and the others since they said they couldn’t find the ghost?”

“No.” When you glance back at Aizawa, he’s got his phone to his ear.

You get around the paywall and start reading. The article’s about the sale of historic old house in the city, one that’s been in the same family – the Ujiko family, fuck – for over a hundred years. It went on the market last week, by order of the last descendent of the Ujiko family, and – “Aizawa, I’ve got a picture of him!”

“Print it,” Aizawa orders. You do, in color, and meanwhile, whoever Aizawa’s trying to call picks up the phone. “Keigo, where are you?”

You can hear Keigo loud and clear, even though he’s not on speaker. “We’re on our way home. Can you give us a ride back from the station? It was supposed to be Jin’s mom’s turn, but it got kind of late.”

Aizawa glances at you. “Sure, but somebody has to sit in the back,” you say. You hop up to retrieve the article from the printer and come back. “Ask him if there was any sign of ghostly power in the city. Specifically in the neighborhoods. Um –”

You scan the article, pass the name to Aizawa, and wait. “No,” Atsuhiro says into the phone. “We found nothing, not even traces. Why do you ask?”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll meet you at the train station.” Aizawa hangs up the phone and turns to you. “Garaki was there, now he isn’t, and a ghost is gone. We need to figure out where he went.”

“I’ll see if there’s a forwarding address.” You find the name of the realtor involved with selling the house, pick up your work phone, and make a call. It’s after hours, but a realtor selling a house this fancy might pick up.

Aizawa is tapping his foot, clearly impatient, while the phone rings twice, then picks up. You leap into the conversation first. “Hello, this is –” you check the article for the reporter’s name and borrow it as an alias. “I made an error in the article I wrote about the house and misquoted the doctor. Would you happen to know where I could get ahold of him to correct it?”

Realtors are a lot more gullible than you thought they were. You find a pen but not a piece of paper and end up scribbling the address on the back of your hand. It doesn’t look familiar, which is a good thing. “It’s not here.”

“We need to keep it that way. He’ll have to be lured even further away.” Aizawa slides the printed-out article into his bag. “For now, we need to retrieve the others.”

The two of you sneak back out to your car. You drive to the train station, sticking to the speed limit like your life depends on it, while Aizawa peruses the newspaper article for more details. “Garaki is older than we thought. At least old enough to have summoned Tomura – but he would have summoned Tomura before Dabi. It doesn’t make sense unless he lost a significant amount of power in the interim, which wouldn’t have happened if he was using Tomura as a conduit.”

“I don’t think it was him,” you say.

“The evidence is more compelling the other way,” Aizawa agrees, “but we can’t rule anything out.”

“If we can’t rule anything out, then we need to think about whether he’s Hizashi’s conjurer,” you say. You see Aizawa’s shoulders stiffen. “If he’s two hundred and fifty years old, he’s old enough to have summoned Hizashi, too – and since Hizashi wanted to escape the world between, he wouldn’t have had to try too hard.”

“Hizashi said no.”

“Hizashi said he doesn’t remember,” you correct. “If Garaki was his conjurer, too –”

“It’s immaterial.” Aizawa cuts you off. “If Garaki finds us, we’re all in danger. We’re almost to the train station, and we don’t have any solid conclusions. We shouldn’t tell the others until we’re sure.”

You don’t like this secret-keeping thing. “But you’re going to tell Hizashi.”

“And you plan to tell Tomura,” Aizawa retorts. You would if Tomura cared about this at all. “What happens in our respective households stays there. But there’s no reason to throw the entire neighborhood into a panic with news that Dabi’s conjurer is on the move.”

“Fine,” you say. “But we can’t sit on this for long. Two days and we’ll tell everyone what we know. Whatever we know.”

“Fine,” Aizawa says. He’s silent for the rest of the drive, until you pull into the train station parking lot and he sandbags you with this: “Keigo and I would be grateful if you encouraged Tomura to keep a lid on his – feelings. Dabi has next to no self-control, and Hizashi’s self-control, while impressive, is not up to this task. Some restraint on his part, or yours, would be appreciated.”

It takes you a second to interpret that one, and once you do, your face goes up in flames. Tomura’s apparently so horny that he’s making the two other non-asexual ghosts horny enough that their partners are asking you for help. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I, um – I’ll see what I can do.”

Aizawa leans his seat back and closes his eyes. “Good.”

The silence in the car after that is extremely awkward, and you’re grateful when Jin, Keigo, Spinner, and Atsuhiro all pile into the car. Rather than one person sitting in the back, all four of them squeeze into the backseat, with Keigo sprawled out across the other three’s laps. Spinner wants to tell you about the day’s events, Atsuhiro wants to sleep, and Jin wants to go to McDonald’s. Jin is the loudest one. You pull into the drive-through.

As much as you’re tempted by the fast food, you have food at home, and you’ve sort of lost your appetite. Fear over the threat of the conjurers, discomfort at the idea of withholding information from the rest of the neighborhood, and the sheer cringe of being told to make your ghost less horny will do that to you. It’s a relief to drop everyone off at their respective houses, Aizawa in particular, and pull into your own driveway.

The first thing you notice when you open the front door is the smell. It smells like food cooking, and it doesn’t smell burnt. Did Tomura let somebody else in the house to cook something? He must have, and the evidence gets stronger when you hear footsteps through house towards you. But when you look up, there’s no one there except Tomura, and Phantom trotting at his side. “Take your bracelets off. You’re supposed to take them off when you get to the neighborhood.”

You know that. You just forgot, because you were busy trying to convince Jin to let you stop the car before he got out. You slide them off your wrists and drop them into the bowl with your keys. “Did you let someone in the house?”

“Why would I let somebody in the house?” Tomura looks annoyed that you’d even consider it. “You had to leave before you were done cooking, so I finished it.”

“You – what?” You’ve heard terrible things about ghost cooking from everybody whose ghost gave it a shot. Even the embodied ones aren’t very good at it. “How?”

“I’ve seen you make it. I did what you do.” Tomura catches your wrist, fingers closing around the same spot where the bracelet was and pulling you along. “Come on.”

You were making soup before you left. It’s kind of hard to mess up soup, but then again, you’ve heard stories from Shinsou about Hizashi managing to mess up instant noodles. The kitchen looks sort of like a bomb went off in it, but none of the ingredients scattered around look wrong for the soup you usually make. When you peer into the pot on the stove, nothing strikes you as immediately wrong. “Are you going to try it?” Tomura asks impatiently. You pick up a spoon and dip it in. “Well?”

Your ghost can cook. Somehow you got the only ghost in the neighborhood that can cook – or at least the only ghost who can copy what their human did exactly enough that there’s little difference in taste. You retrieve a bowl and a ladle and fill it up, then switch off the burner and put a lid on the pot to trap the heat in. Tomura follows you as you head for the kitchen table. “I did it right,” he says. You nod. Your mouth is too full to talk. “I know how to make other things, too.”

You’re not sure you trust him with anything more complicated yet, or maybe at all. “Maybe we can work on it together. It’s probably boring for you to just stand there and watch me.”

“Watching you isn’t boring.”

That’s not what you were expecting him to say. “Oh.”

It’s quiet for a little while. Phantom comes to nap at your feet and you keep eating your soup, thanking your lucky stars that you skipped the fast food tonight. “I wish I could taste things,” Tomura says out of nowhere. You eat another spoonful of soup, burning your tongue in favor of displaying your shock. “I’d be better at it if I could.”

“Not necessarily. I can taste things and the things I cook still aren’t very good sometimes.” You’ve heard Aizawa theorize that the fact that former ghosts have tastebuds is what gets them into trouble with cooking – they judge taste by the strength of the flavor, and they can’t distinguish between flavors that are good and flavors that are bad. You focus on Tomura. “This is really good, though. Thank you.”

Tomura looks pleased with himself. “I know.”

You eat a second helping of the soup and put the rest away for lunch tomorrow, and then, even though it’s later than usual, you decide you want to watch something before you go to bed. It’s less that you want to watch something and more that you want to hang out with Tomura a little longer, but there’s no way you’re telling him that. The two of you settle onto your usual couch cushions, and Phantom hops up into her spot on the middle one, getting comfortable. You pass the remote off to Tomura. “I don’t care what we see. You pick.”

Tomura gives you a skeptical look. “You hate what I pick.”

You hated it when you thought it was giving him ideas. There’s no point now that it turns out he can get ideas all on his own. “Not tonight I don’t.”

Tomura’s always a bit like a kid in a candy store when he gets ahold of the remote. You watch the light flicker across his face as he scrolls through show after show and finally settles on the last thing you were expecting him to choose. “You don’t want to watch that,” you say.

“It says it’s a disaster movie. I like those.”

He does. One time you made the mistake of watching Twister and then had to spend the rest of the night explaining how tornadoes work – and then showing him videos on YouTube when he realized you didn’t know what you were talking about. “This isn’t that kind of disaster movie.”

“The ship sinks, doesn’t it?” Tomura doesn’t wait for your answer before he presses play on Titanic.

The two of you get through the opening of the movie in the usual fashion. Tomura keeps asking you questions, missing part of the movie while you answer, and then asking more questions about what he missed. It takes him a little bit to grasp the framing device. Ghosts don’t have the same sense of time as people do, and you have to explain why the same character is being played by two different actors a few times before he gets it. And then he’s confused, confused to the point where he makes you pause the movie. “Why is this happening? When is the ship going to sink?”

“We can fast-forward to that part,” you say, probably a little too eagerly. “Do you want to do that?”

“I want to know why this is happening.” Tomura gestures at the screen. “Do you know? Or is this like the tornadoes again?”

He’s never going to let you forget about that. You sigh. “All this stuff is happening because the filmmakers want the people watching the movie to care about the characters. To understand what they want and want it, too.”

“Why?”

“So it matters to you when the ship sinks with all these people on it.”

“How many people are on it?”

“Uh – around two thousand.”

“Two thousand?” Tomura looks floored, probably because he’s never seen a group of people larger than forty or fifty. “How many of them die?”

You probably know a little too much about this shipwreck for comfort. You were kind of a weird kid. “About fifteen hundred of them. Give or take a few.”

“How do they die?”

You should have known Tomura was going to fixate on the body count. “Let’s just fast-forward to that part.”

You’ve been fast-forwarding for about two seconds when Tomura stops you. “Go back.”

“Why?” you ask. Tomura gives you that dumbest-person-ever look. You hate that look. “Why do you want to watch all the boring stuff?”

“To see if they can make me care about it.” Tomura settles back onto his couch cushion, looking smug. “I bet they can’t.”

Now you get it. He’s decided it’s a game and he wants to win. You rewind back, resigning yourself to a whole lot of explaining over the next hour and a half.

But you don’t have to explain quite as much as you thought you were going to. Some of the things you thought Tomura would fixate on are nonevents, because he was summoned and bound to the house in the same era as Titanic sank. He’s not confused by the lack of phones or the weirdly elaborate clothes – when you look at the clothes he materializes in, the shirt and pants are similar in style to what some of the characters wear in the movie. After extracting some assurances from you that the movie’s going to go into lots of detail about how the ship sinks, Tomura starts asking other questions, usually about the characters. And sometimes he doesn’t have questions. He has opinions.

“That one is stupid. I don’t like him,” he says of one character. You ask him why. “She’s scared of him. I can tell. He gets in her space when she doesn’t want him to and he grabs her and pulls her around. You had to tell me that stuff, but he’s a human. He should know already.”

“He does know,” you say. “He wants her to be scared of him.”

Tomura looks like the thought’s never crossed his mind, which is ridiculous, given that he’s a ghost who was summoned specifically to haunt and terrorize people. “Aren’t they supposed to get married?”

“Yeah.” You unpause the movie and up the volume. The last thing you want is for Tomura to start asking questions about marriage.

You were worried Tomura was going to have a bunch of questions about the love story, but he keeps mostly quiet on that front, which is a relief for you. He also doesn’t spend a bunch of time talking about how stupid it is, which is less of a relief. Most of his annoyance is focused on the characters for caring about the diamond necklace that keeps getting passed around, because it’s a rock and it’s stupid that humans care about rocks that much. The only question he asks about the love story serves as yet another reminder that ghosts don’t understand humans very well. “Why do they treat that one that way?”

“Because he’s poor and they’re not,” you say. “They think you should marry your own kind.”

“They’re both humans. That’s the same kind,” Tomura says. “Humans are humans. It’s stupid.”

“Humans divide ourselves up by all kinds of stupid things,” you say. When you think about it, it’s a really long, really pointless list. “We kill each other over a lot of that stuff, too. Or we have in the past. People say this stuff is old-fashioned, but a lot of them still feel this way. They don’t say it like that, though. They’d say those two don’t have enough in common. Their life experiences are too different. That kind of thing.”

“Humans are stupid,” Tomura says. He looks weirdly unnerved. “The ship had better sink soon.”

The scene changes and you breathe a sigh of relief. “Yep. Right now.”

The disaster portion of the movie clearly lives up to Tomura’s expectations. He shuts up for the most part, focused on the screen. You have to admit that the movie does a good job of laying things out: Ship sinking, ship sinking fast, not enough lifeboats, water too cold, et cetera. You don’t have to explain anything at all. You’ve seen this one enough times that you don’t feel guilty zoning out, but you don’t realize you’ve fallen asleep until Tomura starts shaking your shoulder. “Why are they staying behind?”

You squint at the screen. “Women and children first.”

“Why?”

“I don’t really know,” you say. The rationale behind that was never clear to you, and if you can’t figure it out, there’s no way you’re going to try to explain it to Tomura. You don’t want a repeat of the tornado thing. “This is basically the only shipwreck in history where they did that, though. On most wrecks men took all the boats and the women and children drowned.”

“You’re a woman.”

“Yep.” You remember imagining how you’d escape from Titanic as a kid, then running the same thought experiment as an adult and realizing that you probably wouldn’t. “Anyway, I don’t know why they did it like that instead of the other way.”

“It’s stupid,” Tomura says. You flop over the arm of the couch and decide to forget about it.

You must be really tired, because you fall back asleep in spite of the noise from the movie. The next thing you wake up to is Phantom crawling onto your lap – or Phantom, still mostly asleep, being dropped onto your lap by Tomura. At first you’re confused, but then you feel the cushions shift as Tomura settles into the spot Phantom was in before. He’s moving quietly, trying not to wake you up, but you wake up anyway. “What –”

“Nothing. Shut up.”

You roll your eyes, and catch a glimpse of the screen in the process. The ship’s vanished. “The good part’s done. Want me to turn it off?”

“No,” Tomura says. Phantom makes herself comfortable in your lap. “Go back to sleep.”

He’s acting strangely. You pretend to go back to sleep, keeping your breathing even and your eyes mostly shut, alternating between watching the screen and watching Tomura on the cushion next to you. He’s still focused in spite of the fact that the ship’s already sunk. He usually gets focused at some point when he’s watching a movie, but this time, his expression’s different than the usual interest. He looks unhappy, but if he’s unhappy, why wouldn’t he let you turn it off? Why is he studying the screen like his existence depends on the outcome of this barely-a-disaster move? You let him think you’re asleep through most of the wrap-up, and take your time waking up when he starts shaking your shoulder again. “What does this mean?”

It’s the last scene. “Her ditching the necklace?”

“No. This stuff. Why is she on the boat again? It sank. And she’s not old anymore either. This doesn’t make any sense.”

“Oh,” you say. Suddenly you understand why he’s confused. “I guess it wouldn’t make sense to you. Ghosts don’t die.”

Aizawa told you they do, but he also called it eternal torment, not death, so you’re going to go ahead and assume that dead for ghosts and dead for humans are two separate concepts. Tomura looks pissed. “She’s dead?”

“She’s a hundred and one. Humans aren’t supposed to live that long.” You were faking sleep too convincingly, and now you’re actually tired. You smother a yawn. “This part – she’s dead. She died in her sleep. This is her meeting everybody again in the afterlife.”

“Is that what happens?”

You’re way too tired for this. “We don’t know. People don’t,” you say. You have a feeling ghosts might, but if Tomura knew, he wouldn’t be asking this question. “Some people think it’s like falling asleep. You’re just gone, forever. Other people think it’s like in the movie – when you die, you see everybody you love who died before you, and you’re all together forever. But like I said, we don’t know. And I don’t think about it too much. It’s probably the sleep thing, anyway. The other way would be too nice.”

You’re rambling. “Does that make any sense?”

Tomura dematerializes. That makes twice in one night. “Okay. Good talk.”

You switch off the movie before the theme song can really kick in and weigh your options. You could boot Phantom off your lap and head upstairs for the night, or you could twist around and fall asleep on the couch. You choose door number two, stopping just long enough to pull your phone out of your pocket and set an alarm. You got a text from Aizawa about two seconds ago, too: When I asked you to address the situation, I didn’t mean to do it like this.

You don’t know what ‘like this’ means, and you’re too tired to care. You set your phone screen-down on the coffee table and go to sleep.

#lovhalloweenhorror #shigaraki tomura x reader #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #reader insert #x reader #shigaraki tomura #ghost story #loser nerd ghost boyfriend

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final-girl96 · 1 year

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My Boyfriend's Back Chapter Three

Wednesday 10:30 PM

September 25, 1996

I was in my room reading when I heard something out on the roof. I set my book down and walked over to my window. I peaked my head out and saw Billy walking across to get to Sidney’s room. “What’cha doin, Romeo?” He jumped a little, spinning around to look at me with wide eyes. “Fuck. yn, what’re you doing here?” he asked. I raised my eyebrows at him. “Well, you see I live here and this is my room. It would have been easier for you to just climb up onto the roof from the other side.”

He looked a little awkward just standing there. “So you going to tell me why you decided to climb into my sister’s bedroom window?” I asked. He looked hesitant to tell me anything. I rolled my eyes, “I'm not going to tell my dad if that’s what you’re worried about.” He relaxed a little after I said that. "I was at home watching TV and I got bored. Thought I'd take a drive and come see Sid." I hummed, "well, have fun. If you were hoping to get laid you know that won't happen." He glared at me and I smiled, closing my window and curtains.

Only a few seconds later I heard Sidney let out a small scream and then dad was knocking on her door. I was so entertained by all this that I had to know what her excuse would be. I walked out into the hall and across the landing. "Yeah, Sid, what's going on in there?" I asked, smirking at her. "Nothing. I didn't scream," she said. "I swear I heard a scream," dad said and she shook her head. He gave her a look but let it go.

"Okay, well, I'm going to bed. I have an early flight in the morning. Remember–" before he could continue we spoke at the same time. "You're staying at the Hilton beside the airport." He nodded his head, "and if you need anything just call me. I've left money for you if you need it. Good night, I love you." He kissed Sidney's forehead then walked over to me and did the same. He walked back down stairs to the guest room, well now his bedroom. I walked over to Sidney before she closed the door. "Romeo, should really be more discreet when trying to sneak in through your window." I winked and walked back to my room.

When I walked back into my room Stu was sitting on my bed. "How the fuck did you get in here?" I asked, quickly closing and locking my door. "You gotta lock your window, babe. Now come here." I rolled my eyes but went over to him.

Thursday 8:00 PM

September 26, 1996

When we got to school the next day there were news vans and new reporters covering the lawn. "What the hell is going on?" I whispered to Sidney. I had taken the bus since Stu called and said he wouldn't be able to pick me up. We looked around and my eyes stopped on one person in particular. Gale fucking Weathers. She decided to take advantage of our mother's death. She took Cotton Weary's side and then wrote a fucking book.

"Did you guys hear?" Sidney and I both jumped. "Jesus, Tatum," I said, putting a hand over my heart. "What's going on?" Sideny asked. "Casey Becker and Steve Orth were murdered last night." We looked at her with wide eyes. "What?!" I shouted. "And not just killed. We're talking splatter movie killed--split open end to end," she said. I felt fucking sick ti my stomach. "Casey Becker? She sits next to me in English," Sid said.

"Not anymore. Her parents found her hanging from a tree. Her insides on the outside," Tatum said. I looked at her and she cringed. "Shit, sorry, yn. I know you guys were friends." I nodded my head, "yeah, kind of I guess. Do they know who did it?" I asked. We walked up the steps to go inside the school. "Fucking clueless–they're interrogating the entire school. Teachers, students , Btaff, janitors."

"They think it's school-related?" Sidney asked as we stopped before going inside. "They don't know. Dewey said this is the worse crime they've ever seen. Even worse than…" Tatum stopped talking. We knew what she was going to say. This was the worst crime they've seen since our mother's murder. "Well, it's bad." We walked into the building after that and headed to class.

Everyone was being called to the office to be questioned by Sheriff Burke. Sidney and I were called at the same time and it was awkward to say the least. After we were allowed to leave we went to one more class before meeting everyone at the fountain. "Hello, beautiful," Stu said, kissing my cheek when I sat between his legs. "What kind of questions did they ask you, guys?" Tatum asked. "They asked if we knew Casey," Sidney told her. "Yeah, they asked when the last time was when I saw her. I told them when she came into the video store around like eight-thirty."

"Yeah. They asked me that too," she said. "Hey, they ask if you like to hunt?" Stu asked Billy. His arms were wrapped around me holding me to him. "Yeah, they did. They ask you?" Billy asked and Stu nodded. "Hunt? Why would they ask you if you like to hunt?" Tatum asked, confused. She popped a grape into her mouth looking between Billy and Stu. She was sitting on the other side of me and Stu right beside Randy. "Cause their bodies were gutted," Randy said.

"Thank you, Randy," Billy said, sitting up more to look at him. "They didn't ask me if I like to hunt,' Tatum pouted a little. "That's 'cause there's no way a girl could've killed 'em," Stu said. I turned my head to look at him. "That is so sexist," I told him. "Yeah, the killer could easily be female. Basic Instinct?" Tatum said, rolling her eyes. "That was an ice pick. Not exactly the same thing," Randy said, popping something into his mouth.

"Yeah, Casey and Steve were completely hollowed out. And the fact is, It takes a man to do something like that," Stu shrugged. "Or a man's mentality," I said. He smirked at me and gave me a quick peck on the lips. "How do you... gut someone?" I looked over at Sidney. Her head was looking down at her lap as she played with a loose string. I reached over and grabbed her hand and she squeezed it back. "You take a knife, and you slit 'em from groin to sternum." We looked at Stu in shock and disgust.

"Hey. It's called tact, you fuck-rag," Billy said. "Hey, Stu, didn't you used to date Casey?" Sidney asked. Fucking low blow, Sid. Sru scoffed out a laugh, tightening his hold on me. "Yeah, for like two seconds," he said. "Before she dumped him for Steve," Randy said. "I thought you dumped her for me?" I asked. I mean sure me and Casey were friends but we weren't that close. Besides she was never really into Stu in the first place. "I did. He's full of shit," Stu said, looking at Randy.

"And are the police aware that you dated the victim?" Randy asked, smirking. "Hey, what are you saying? That I killed her?" Stu asked. There was no way Stu could do that. Why would he? It's not like he had a grudge or anything. And I just can't see him killing a person. "It would certainly improve your high school 'Q', " Randy said. "Stu was with me last night, okay?" I said. Stu kissed my neck, a smile spread across his face. "Yeah, I was."

"Ooh?" Randy says, eyebrows raised. "Was that before or after he sliced and diced?" He asked, leaning over Tatum a little as he stood. "Fuck you, nutcase. Where were you last night?" Tatum asked. Randy sat back down and shrugged, "Working, thank you. And yn was there too," he said. "At the video store? I thought they fired your sorry ass." I chuckled, "They did. Twice," I said. "I didn't kill anybody," Stu said and I kissed his cheek. "Nobody said you did."

Stu looked over at Billy and smiled, "Thanks, buddy." Yeah there was definitely no way Stu could kill someone. Billy only on the other hand…well i could see him doing something like that with that pent up anger he has. "Besides, it takes a man to do something like that," Randy said, trying to mock Stu. "I'm gonna gut your ass in a second, kid," Stu told him. "Tell me something—" Randy stood up. "Did you really put her liver in the mailbox? 'Cause I heard they found her liver in the mailbox next to her spleen and her pancreas."

"Randy, you goon-fuck. I'm trying to eat here," Tatum said, throwing a grape at him. "She's getting mad, all right? You better liver alone," Stu said. I rolled my eyes and watched Sidney get up. She kissed Billy and then walked away. "Sid, wait up!" Tatum grabbed her stuff and ran after her. "Liver alone! Li— Ow!" Billy punched Stu in the arm. "Liver. Liver. It was a joke."

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maccreadysbaby · 7 months

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how do I write a character with emetophobia?

Writing Characters with Emetophobia!

from your neighborhood emetophobia haver, aka me!

TW for emetophobia things under the cut (emetophobia is a fear of vomit or vomiting)

so you want your character to have some quirky fear, and the fear of puking is what you landed on! I’m here to tell you what it’s like to have severe emetophobia and what that entails for my life. all of these struggles and symptoms are personal and doesn’t apply to everyone with emetophobia. it is a very individual phobia, this is just how my body and mind reacts

Living with Emetophobia ↴

this post has no real structure, it’s more or less just things that have happened to me. i’ve had this phobia since my inception, so here’s a list of things your characters with emetophobia might do.

Avoiding foods or actions that (probably won’t, but could) trigger sickness: I was terrified to eat anything that contained dairy because — one singular time — I heard that milk makes you throw up if you have a fever and I swore it off from the time I was 8 until I was about 12. I was literally nine years old reading labels in the store for dairy and violently throwing it back on the shelves if it contained it. Not to mention my mother was lactose intolerant (Which I’m not) but seeing her fall at the hands of dairy didn’t make me feel any better about it. During this phase I only ate about three things and you literally couldn’t get me to eat anything else to the point where I was nearly anorexic. Once my friend told me she coughed so hard she threw up and I didn’t let myself cough when I was sick for a long time after. I also ran away from anyone who coughed near me. (I was such a psycho.) Now I will eat most foods given to me, but if something repeatedly offends my stomach, I usually just stop. I’m not so dramatic about it anymore lol. (I am much healthier now, too.)

Literally running away from sick people: I will never forget one time, my brother got sick. I wasn’t even in the same room as him. My mom yelled “maccreadysbaby, can you bring me some wipes?” I did. And as soon as I saw what happened I threw them at her, ran across the house, hid behind the couch, covered my ears and started crying. Another time, my mom informed me that my brother had thrown up while I was not home for a few days, and I avoided him like the plague. Literally like I would die if I touched him. My parents stopped telling me if my siblings got sick while I was away after that. When I was in gradeschool, a classmate got sick on a Tuesday and I was fine for the rest of the week. Then I puked on Saturday. For years afterwards, if I was ever around a sick person, I’d always count four days and if I didn’t throw up on day four, finally relax. (Again, I was such a psycho.) This instinct is still here as an adult. For example, my sister just recently thought she was gonna get carsick (while I was in the back with her) and let me tell you I was so squished up to my door I couldn’t breathe. I still sort of do the day counting thing if I’m completely honest, but I’m not so terrified and incessant about it.

Thinking that they’re sick all the time: This was a terribly big thing for me. For a span of 5ish years, at the same time I swore off dairy, I basically categorized myself as gonna throw up all of the time, even when I was perfectly freaking fine. I woke up, assumed I would puke that day, because why wouldn’t I, and triggered my anxiety. Which would actually trigger stomachaches and stuff. I would sit on the stairs and beg and cry until my parents let me stay home from school, and we almost had to go to court for the amount of school I was missing because I pulled this crap every day. This phase of my life only ended when my mom took me to the doctor (while I was literally fine) and made him tell me I was just anxious and not actually going to puke. (As you can see, I was a very fun child to raise.) I don’t behave this way anymore, but if my stomach does hurt for some reason, I immediately spiral into oh SHITE not HAPPENING territory.

Have debilitating anxiety: This is one of the things on this list that still happens to me regularly. If my stomach hurts in any capacity (even on my period) I am immediately thrusted into I’m gonna freaking puke mode. I get really cold, start sweating, start trembling (like, shake the whole couch trembling) and just sit there while my anxiety eats my brain. I can’t move because some part of me thinks moving an inch is going to make me puke. No matter how much I tell myself you’re fine, you’re not going to puke, this happens to you every day and you haven’t thrown up since you were twelve, you’re being so dramatic, it doesn’t stop. I just have to sit there and wallow in my pain and anxiety until my stomach stops hurting. Then I laugh at myself for being stupid and move on, even though I routinely worry about it coming back throughout the day. If it does I rinse and repeat. If I do puke (which I fortunately haven’t done since I was twelve) I can confidently say there’d be a lot of crying and minimal screaming about how I’m gonna die.

Here’s a recent (as of literally this morning) emetophobic thought pattern for you to analyze, to help you understand what your characters minds might be doing when they’re freaking out:

I received a text that my cousin, who I saw last night, was throwing up. I was still asleep but I woke up and checked my phone anyways. This was my exact thought process.

oh SHITE I was around him, wasn’t I? Well, I guess not a lot, he spoke to me a few times and I was near him at the campfire, but I maybe not enough to make me sick. But you know who was around him? My freaking sister. And if she gets sick there’s no hope for me. oh my GOD does my stomach hurt right now? I think it does. Wait, shut up, maccreadysbaby, you’re being stupid. Think about something else and go back to sleep. Why are you SHAKING stop being so pathetic. Your stomach totally hurts right now. You have plans today maccreadysbaby you can NOT get sick you can NOT be the reason your plans are canceled. I’m totally going to throw up today as life’s way of spiting me. Shut up and go to sleep, you weren’t even around him. But I WAS we ALL were, sitting across the table doesn’t count as being far away. Maybe he just got carsick or has acid reflux or something. Today is Saturday so if I make it to Wednesday I should be fine. But what if I ACTUALLY throw up I don’t even want to think about it oh my God what if I do? Okay, you’re fine, shut up and go back to sleep.

I went back to sleep (eventually) and woke up twice more to go through that entire process again before my alarm went off. It’s basically that on repeat every time I hear of a sick person or my stomach hurts. Fun times 😬👍.

#life #writing help #writing angst #original writing #creative writing #writers #writing #writerscommunity #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing tips

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space-girlllll · 1 year

Text

So I was originally meant to post this on on another post with a bunch of AUs and headcanons but it got a bit long so I’ll post it earlier than I was meant to @salaapaoo:

Kim rok soo had always been kind of the older brother to the kids in the orphanage:

When krs first got to the orphanage he I'm not sure the canon age but my head always goes 8 or 13 yrs old so he wasn’t that big yet but still older than a lot of them.

I read a head-canon somewhere (I cannot for the life of me remember where, but this is where I got the idea is this technically theirs help) where he took care of the younger kids there.

Just bcs of the angst potential of this, every kid he takes care of or begins to care for leaves immediately, they get adopted quickly or they’re parents come back for them, some even ended up dead. So once the orphanage workers/helpers realized this strange system, they began to dump most of the children in his care. The workers/helpers who worked at the orphanage often stole or embezzled the funds they had. Kim rok soo had to look for food and get money by himself and taking care of the kids at the same time. There would be days in which where he would starve himself for the children, they were too young they shouldn’t have to suffer the way he did. There were even times he couldn’t find any food, he would clutch the children in a close hug as they cried from hunger and pain.

Fluff time! Maybe he would come to school for them in place of PTCs (Parent Teacher Conference) taught some of them to read and write, played games with them, help them when they get sick. When they have nightmares they often run to Kim rok soo, he was there safe place, he would maybe hug them and stroke their hair, sometimes even singing them to sleep (not me using this as an excuse for an i bet on losing dogs songfic).

After the workers left the children to him, he quickly learned how to organize food for the children, tie or even cut their hair, maybe he helps them with homework in-between his own working and they all have some set time for home work and school things, and as time flies by he soon is the oldest kid there and there is no one to help him out.

As he has to leave the orphanage eventually, he left them money, that he had worked hard for himself, that he’d spent hours tolling on work to give them, so they wouldn’t be left with nothing, so they'd remember he cared. Before he left he turned to the eldest of them, she was 15 and left in charge by Kim rok soo, the caretakers wouldn’t change even after he left and he trusted her, his little sister, after quickly going through his checklist on the things he’d left behind for them, to make sure they’d be safe and happy, even with him gone, he gives her a soft smile “Don’t forget you are still a child yourself, play around and cause trouble, children should be children.” before hugging her tightly and finishing his goodbyes not being able to hear her saying “What about you Oppa?”

Maybe he meets the girl again, during the apocalypse when she joins team 1 under Team leader Lee soo hyuk’s lead as a grade 1 ability swordsman. The two stay close, despite the time that had past Kim rok soo couldn’t help but still treat her the same way he did when she was a child he had been one too, taking care of her, making sure she was alright and not overworking, she even became close with Cjs and Lsh as Krs slowly befriended them. She teased krs often and complained along with cjs and lsh about his bad habits of sacrificing himself (like all younger siblings do such as myself).

They were all happy, they really were, till the massacre incident finally came and blew his entire world away, his brothers, his sister, his friends and family, the team that was his entire life, was gone and he was left with nothing but the broken pieces of his life, memories, and dreams of what could’ve been. Memories of playing with small giddy children, memories of older siblings being there for him and helping him, all disappearing as fast as the life was sucked out his family.

After the transmigration, there would be times when he looked at Lilly and saw her. The younger sister that he cared for and raised. He sees her in Lilly's brown hair, their shared sword style, and sometimes he would even slip up and call lily by her name. After a few times, Lilly finally asks "Oraeboni, who is (name)?" He freezes as the records of her death rewind in his mind. He can't stop it. Lilly resembles her too much, so he distances himself, hoping that it would lessen the pain. Lilly and (name) look like they could've been sisters... Almost like twins with how Lilly looks almost exactly like the little girl he raised. It hurts too much... He can't be there.

During the end of part 1 when GoD told Cale about Sui, he tells him a bit more than that. He tells him about someone else who reincarnated in the world-- in Roan. His little sister had been reincarnated as Lilly Henituse, the little sister of the original owner of this body. The God of Death then explains that he couldn't return her memories to her. Despite all of the things that Cale had changed and accomplished, GoD still couldn't return Lilly’s memories from her previous lifeto her.

When he sees her again, he's just devastated and pulls her close, holding her tightly as he slowly rubs the back of her head like how he always had in their previous lives. Meanwhile, the others are just confused because he usually has a sad look in his eyes whenever he would look at her before quickly averting his eyes. They're happy to see the two of them getting along though. LIlly is confused at first, but the hug felt so warm and strangely familiar. She's sure that she's felt it before, but the thought is quickly replaced with feelings of content from being hugged by her oraeboni

#lout of the count’s family #trash of the count's family #totcf #lotcf #lcf #tcf #kim rok soo #krs!cale #lilly henituse #lily henituse #tcf lily #god of death #GoD #angst #fan's ramblings!

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jackiequick · 9 months

Text

A Lost Boy With An Unfinished Story — Marvel OC

— Kendall G. Brown

Small warning: Mentions about abandonment & living alone, verbal abuse, street life, feeling alone and trying to pick themselves up

Full Name: Kendall Ryan G. Brown Rogers

Nicknames: Ken, Kenny, Kendork, Lost Boy, Hockey head, The Unfortunate, Orphan and etc.

Age: 8-20

Birthday: August 4th

Status: Single

Power: None. But he’s skilled in boxing and great with a weapon like his batons

His biological parents were kind people, a baker and a race car giver. His race car loving father died by a attention seeking accident during a race. His mother grew sick but stayed strong and loving towards him. Always telling him to be brave and kind towards others.

Later on at the age of 8 after his mother died in her sleep, he was tossed in the foster system without a single say. To him and everyone there in that area he was a simple orphan, a unfortunate soul.

Kendall felt abandoned and lost, having to fight and prove himself in that place just to be taken care of. Growing a bit cold and slowly became rougher around the edges. That hurts that most if he get a family until the parents had their own kid, so they sent him back.

And the other kids in the foster home weren’t the nicest either. Always bullying him and just treating him unfairly. However some had worst paths than he had and others were fresh out of the gate being tossed in there. Still it hurts!

———-

Kendall had his moments at Foster houses were he was treated nicely, the adults would treat him with kindness and respect. Being brought to schools, picking up on sports like playing baseball or soccer with the foster parents and get dinners. Sometimes he had to move from one state to another where he would live there for a few months to a year then sent back.

He remembers always trying to break up a fight to be heard at the age of 10. He doesn’t like bullies that much, so he always tried to break up a fight or two when possible. See if they can settle down.

—> Once he was staying a foster with two younger kids, they were watching cartoons when the father came home rather late. Everything seemed fine. Until he went to the bathroom, hearing muffled tears and shouting from the hallway. The two adults for arguing about a topic in the kitchen, clear stupidity from both parents, it was getting louder and more annoying by the minute.

Kendall remembers he ran in yelling, “Hey! She saved your hand from being cut with the knife, you should thank you..”

The foster father, Shawn, looked down at the kid, “Stay out of this, kid! It’s not your place to be here. The adults are talking.”

“But she was just doing the right thing and your y-yelling at her!”

“Go on! Get out of here!”

Marian, his wife, looked at the boy looking pissed off as well and said, “Kendall leave! He doesn’t care, rather have his finger cut off.”

“WOMEN I SWEAR TO GOD!”

“Well it’s true! You do this every single time, your pissed off about the simple thing.”

“I was fine! I knew what i was doing.”

“Yeah right! Kendall you shouldn’t have gotten into this mess..dumb kid.”

Kendall frowned, “I was just trying to stop the fight…”

The boy walked away, making sure to check on Wendy and Max beforehand, then went to take a shower. To say, he got a mouthful in the morning was a understatement, he was told to his face by Shawn that if he try that shit again he’s sleeping somewhere else. Even saying that the only reason this he was there was cause he was the only kid in the orphanage that looked good to take home, since he seemed nice. But Shawn said, “I guess i was wrong..”

He was dropped back into the system once again, in and out of households. Nothing actual stable for him. Other kids would keep up the bullying and Kendall kept up the act of staying strong. Wanting to live by his mother’s words, always be brave and try to have a kid heart.

It kept him going, keeping his head up. Hoping that he would end up somewhere better. He’s been hit, punched in the face, tossed to the side like crap, annoyed to the brim until he wanted to cry but didn’t. It was a sign of weakness from what he heard.

He has seen kids taken home and lived happily ever after. But not him. And of course you know, everyone wants a kid nice to take home until they reach the certain age of 14 or higher.

So in result Kendall grew up on the run during his teen years, bouncing in and out of foster homes and trying to live a normal lifetime if possible. He went to schools, joined sports center to play hockey and basketball, sneak into gyms for boxing to help with his growing anger and etc.

———

—-> He remembers when he just on the edge of 15, sneaking away from the housing unit he played in to go to the store. Hoping to grab some snacks, thankfully he had some money to get Pop Tarts, water bottles and a bag of chips.

While he was in the Pop Tarts aisle, he spotted a boy with raven hair, his eyes were brown as dark chocolate and wearing some baggy hoodie underneath a jean jacket. They locked eyes, as he stayed with a gentle smirk as he walked away.

Kendall rolled his eyes, grabbing the box of Pop Tarts realizing they raised the prices from the last store he’s been to. But he wanted the sweet treat, so he stuffed it into his jacket walking away until a security guard stopped him.

But before he can say anything, the kids from eariler showed up with a cart smiling, “Hey dude! I’ve been looking all over for you.” The raven hair kid gave him a signal to just go with it.

Kendall handed him with the box smiling, “Sorry i got lost looking at the cereals.”

The security guard questioned, “You two boys are on your own?”

The raven hair one spoke, “My dad’s waiting outside, told us to grab a few things while on a phone call.”

“Okay. Pay for those.”

The guard walked away. Kendall thanked him as the boy rolled his eyes chuckling, “The whole stuff thing never works.”

“I don’t tend to steal.” He replied whispering with a shrug.

The two talked a bit, keeping up the cover until they walked outside. Kendall brought most of the stuff he wanted, expected for the Pop Tarts, trading it for a bag of gummy worms instead. Less pricey in his opinion. The raven hair kid looked over his shoulder and told him to run across the street hiding from the cars.

Once they found themselves in a alley, they panted and huffed loudly knowing they were in the clear.

The blonde let out a light chuckled, “I’m Ken, by the way.”

“Ken? Like the toy?” He joked chuckling.

“Yeah, sure, let’s go with that.”

“I’m Maxwell or Diego depending on who you ask. Thanks for the help.”

“No problem.”

Both boys walked until they found a empty place underneath a bridge. Sitting down Kendall handed him the extra bag of chips he brought earlier and asked, “How long?”

“How long, what?” Diego asked opening the bag of Doritos.

“How long have you at this?”

“A year i guess? You?”

“Less than five.”

“Less than five?! And how did you-? You acted like a rookie back there?”

“Like I said I try not to steal and always have money in my pocket i got from foster parents.”

“Huh? Resourceful. I respect it. You’re not a half bad for a rookie.”

“Thanks? Just trying to make small talk, i get it.”

“Just take a stupid compliment!”

“Uh..um, not my style, sorry.”

“It’s cool.”

The two boys kept meeting up on and off again for a few short weeks, sneaking out to have a quick bite or something. It’s going good, it felt nice having a friend that wasn’t just a teammate during class.

Both kids even had a small hang out space they would go to. It was small old fashioned spring break house, that wasn’t being used since it was Summertime. Kendall felt that he could be a bit open with him, and just hang out with the kid. It was nice until one late night, they were caught red handed.

The two were hanging out together at the house when a car showed up, with the man breaking into the house holding a flashlight. He looked pissed, Kendall didn’t reconcile him at all as he went running around searching a place out.

He found a window that was open, ready to pull Diego out with him until he heard a voice. The man spoken with such a worried and painfully pissed off tone, it made Kendall shiver at the sight.

“Maxwell Diego? God! Son, come on let’s go!” Said the man, holding up the flashlight.

Diego looked between the man and the blonde who looked shocked, letting go of his arms.

“Diego who is he?” Kendall asked, pointing at the man already getting his jacket, knowing the answer to the question. He has a family.

The man spoke up, “I’m his father! Who the hell are you kid?”

“He’s my friend, dad!” Diego yelled out, facing both of them, “I’m sorry dude..”

“No! Don’t worry, we weren’t friends..you have a family? You lied to my face.” Kendall yelled back, feeling betrayed.

“I didn’t mean to! I wanted to stay with you and we are friends, Ken. I don’t want to go home—Dad can he come with us?”

His father looked at the blonde in annoyance and dishonesty, a hint of discomfort on his face. The man simply said, “No. I don’t want a street rat hanging out with my son. He’s probably a criminal.”

“He’s not dad!” Diego tried to protest, but his father wasn’t having it dragged both kids out of the house and calling the cops

Kendall left with betrayal in his heart, stuffed into a cop car and bought back into the system.

————

Over the years, Kendall felt himself growing a bit colder and finding it hard to imagine a good life for himself with a family. Actual friends, because after Diego he kept trying to friends but they never stayed. Drifting away like a leaf in the fall.

At 16, he found himself in a home. A decently nice family that took him with their 3 kids, with him being one of the oldest of the bunch. It was a good situation to say the least, having extra time for school and practice during sports he liked.

He met a girl or two. A good one thing, she became his girlfriend for a while, Lily Diaz.

But Lily’s parents disapprove of the boy after finding out about him, calling him a street rat and orphan. A Lost Boy With An Unfinished Story.

In their eyes, their daughter was dating a unwanted criminal, going as far as to tell it to Kendall’s foster parents when they met.

Lily’s father outright said, “No disrespect but, you brought a criminal into your home. Endangered your children, my daughter shouldn’t be such a boy like him.”

“Our children?” Said his foster mother, Rachel with a questioning tone looking at her child for a moment.

“Yeah. He’s a unwanted child, who know what he has done beforehand! Probably stole from stores, gets into fights behind your back and sells your children stuff online.”

“Sir! I invited you into our home with a kindness and respect. And you have the audacity to speak that way about our children?”

“He’s not your child! He was someone else’s before he was brought into your home. I’m sorry but your son won’t be dating my daughter anymore.”

And they were gone. Not without Lily giving Kendall a small kiss on the cheek, apologizing to the foster parents for her father’s behavior.

————————

It wasn’t supposed to be like that. He was hoping that night would go well but it didn’t. Kendall blamed himself, he always did no matter what happened. Rachel and her husband, David, tried to reassure him that he’s a good kid.

But Kendall couldn’t ever let that guilt trip go, knowing he would be let go at some point.

Lily’s father wasn’t ALL wrong, he did get into fights school every once in a while behind his parents backs. It was mainly fights in the hallways, in parks and the occasional defending a young kid in class from being picked on.

Sometimes dressing up in all black like a noir character in a film.

Challenging up the bullies in the park and returning what doesn’t belong to them or taking it for himself, ending up with a bruise or black eye forming sooner than later.

His foster father jokingly coined, “You sound like a mini young Avenger, kid. Always trying to do the right thing.”

He half smiled sheepishly, he knew of The Avengers from hearing about everything they did during 2012. He heard teens his age, talking about Hulk, Iron Man, Captain America and the rest of them. Some even mentioning SHIELD agents being always on the lookout for people of different kinds of paths.

Kendall didn’t think he deserves to be careful with his actions, the guilt eating him slowly and the boring things he was left to do. He knew the time would come for him to be thrown back into a household or whatever, so he decided to leave. He wasn’t ready for that heartache again, not just yet.

—-

At almost 17, he was still forced to stayed within the first system. He didn’t care about it this time, just staying there just for he didn’t have to get in trouble with the police.

Be kind. Be brave. Those words stayed consistently on his mind, keeping up the act of a kid, honest kid with a shining grin and good moral. Because he believes he is one, but that guilt and temper always making him feel wrong about it.

He would help out the others kids and teens at the house at some point. Being honest with them, reading stories, renting out films for them if possible and stay up late to make sure they slept fine. Some called him Chat Noir, Captain, Peter Pan since he was the a big kid at times and so much more nicknames.

He watched a lot of those kids be giving a lovely home and smiled at them, hoping it goes well. But other times there were kids who didn’t end up that way. Like this one teenager Katherine who he found crying one night in bed stressed and tired, as he hugged her.

She was telling him how she believed that she will never be loved, be able to make mistakes like other girls her age and basically have her own life. Kendall has known Katherine since she was 16 and she’s will be 18 in two years. Just a little older than him. He tried cheering her up.

“It's not exactly what you might think it is..” She replied, chuckling softly once her tears stopped.

He sighed, “It never is. People are going to tell you who you are your whole life. You just gotta punch back and say, "No, this is who I am." You want people to look at you differently? Make them. You want to change things you are going to have to go out there and change them yourself because there are no Fairy Godmothers in this world…”

“Ouch..Ken, those are kinda harsh words..”

“I know. And it’s different between us, because your girl and I’m a boy. But i feel like it’s true..but you will always be loved, Kat.”

“By who..?”

“Me. Your my friend and i love you for too much to see you cry.”

She hugged him tightly mumbling a few words as he hugged her back, staying in that bedroom all night with her. Making a promise to himself to keep in contact with her even if they’re miles away, a weekly text messages or even a month email.

——

Eventually she moved on, leaving for some kind of community college life. It made him smile, seeing her happy from all the pictures and messages she sent him. Meanwhile he was 17 years old, finally decided he was going towards a job and lifestyle outside of the four walls of that building. Taking a small job working after hours at the school and picking up teammates equipment at the skating rink. He found it good.

One afternoon he heading to a black and white dressed party at school, he wearing all black suit with a matching mask as he found a few Juniors running around the corner chasing, a kid down the block as he stumbled back onto the street, being trampled.

“HEY!” He yelled groaning loudly and then muttered, “It not my business…it’s not my business..”

Kendall kept on with his night at the party, enjoying himself the best he could, until the same Juniors from outside rushing yards from the gymnasium to the back of the school, near a few buildings. Seeing a Sophomore racing outwards just as fast, looking like he also in the wrong holding a backpack.

He let it out, knowing it wasn’t his business and deciding to not leave the date who he dancing with, knowing it will end up being right either way. He hoped.

However, inside that Sophomore’s back was stole SHIELD scrap metal he was repurposing it into items such as phone cases or wrist watches and selling them behind school grounds. Before they knew the dance was shut down, as students ran. School staff, officers and plenty of others to hold everyone off to be questioned.

He groaned, not wanting to be apart of this even though he saw what might’ve happened. But he really didn’t want to be interrogated or anything for that matter, so he kept quiet hoping he would go unnoticed.

But little did he know that same night, after returning back to the car he borrowed to possibly head ‘home’, he would be found by caught holding up water bottle in hand dropping it at the sight of car lights hovering behind him…

“Officer, i was just heading out…” He mumbled to himself, fumbling for his car keys he from the removed the door.

“You know when we meant to question the students, we meant everyone, kid..” Said the voice of a man, that made his body shiver.

It didn’t sound like a cop. Kendall looked over his shoulder to see the chest plate.

It was SHIELD…

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Clothes reference >>