pairing + wc: parental erasermic + reader, midoriya izuku x reader in future chapters just not in prologue; 3.7k
specific tw: discussions of human trafficking + child abuse by villains, mention of foster system, mentions of death, mentions of chronic pain, collapsing buildings. see masterpost for genre + general tw.
notes: i’m rlly happy to be re-releasing this w gender neutral reader + some minor tweaks to the style! <3 pls enjoy!
your chamber is cold, dimly lit, and soundproofed. there’s very little for you to draw energy from, but there’s no worry of you getting too cold – the faint lights, far above, are enough for you to generate heat using your quirk. just not enough for you to get out, and just enough to make you strain as you force your quirk to keep running.
sensei stops outside your chamber – you can feel the buzz of electricity in his cells, and you press your tiny hand to the wall, trying to figure out exactly where he is on the other side of the one-way mirror. the warmth of your hand drags against its cold surface, a blur of barely-there fingerprints, the lines of your palm smeared with the motion.
you stop when sensei is directly in front of you. the buzzing in his cells sings to you. you press closer to the mirror. there’s another pocket of electricity, but it feels odd, shifting; sensei is probably talking to that man with purple fog over his face. but you’ll never be able to hear them, not with the way your chamber is insulated, so you walk back to your bed, in the back corner of the room.
it’s starting to get warmer in the chamber, so training will be soon. you’re only allowed large quantities of energy when they know you’re going to use them up.
but hours pass, and the chamber is too hot, your whole body buzzing as the energy tries to jump out from under your skin. maybe it’s a new training exercise, a new way to push the limits of how much energy you can absorb. either way, you have to keep drawing it in, or it’ll get too hot.
you fall asleep and wake up sweating, skin crackling, and the air smells humid and warm and full of ozone. it’s hard to breathe, it’s so heavy – your lungs keep trying to hold it in, extract every last drop of energy from it. you have to force yourself to exhale, hard, like sensei taught you.
there’s light cracking through your skin, but you register it only faintly, too focused on grappling with the twisting, writhing mass of energy and trying to force it to stay in the center of your body.
but it’s not staying still – every time you push down on a wave of energy trying to escape in one direction, it just pulses out in the other. maybe, if you just let a little bit of it go, you’ll be able to hold on to the rest of it?
you hold your arm out, intent on discharging a small sound wave – but the cracks on your arm, the light energy seeping out of them in wisps, it scares you, and suddenly that ball of energy is tumbling out of control.
the wave of kinetic energy ripples out of you and slams into the walls of your chamber – they splinter with a deafeningly loud sound, folding and tearing like wet paper into the chambers next to yours, and the one-way mirror shatters into millions of tiny shards. but it doesn’t stop there – the entire building is shaking, and you can hear the other mirrors shattering and see the other walls crumbling throughout the warehouse. and then the ceiling comes down on top of you.
–
shota gets the call at six in the morning. or rather, he gets the call, but hizashi picks it up, because there’s no way in hell that anything is waking him from the dead of sleep on his day off.
except hizashi, who just shakes him awake and hands him the phone, saying, “it’s for you, babe. something about an explosion.”
“eraserhead speaking.” he wants to complain, but he knows it’s not the operator’s fault, and he knows there’s a reason they called him in on his day off.
“we need you to suppress some kind of explosion quirk in the warehouse district. there’s a collapsed, sorry, still collapsing building, and some fire and electricity issues. the fire department is dealing with the parts of the building that are burning, but there are people trapped inside, and the heat signatures indicate that one of them – a child, judging by size – is causing uncontrollable explosions, which are making it difficult to get anyone out. cementoss is currently stabilizing the building.”
“i’ll be there as fast as i can.” he can’t find it in himself to complain anymore.
as shota swings himself across the city on his capture weapon, rapidly approaching the warehouse district, he can see a plume of smoke billowing against the orange of the sunrise. he stops on top of a building and uses a nearby lamppost to lower himself to the ground.
the collapsed warehouse is smoking, and steam is rising off of it in the early morning light, but it is thankfully no longer on fire. cementoss is fusing cement slabs together in an effort to keep it from caving in further, and infrared hero, aptly named infra (hizashi calls her “heat seeker”) is intently watching the building. shota approaches her for debriefing.
“it was hard to see, earlier, with all of the fire interfering, and it’s blurry because of the heat retention of the concrete, but there are at least twenty people inside, half or more of which are children. there’s someone close to the center of the structure who is periodically letting out bursts of heat, and who we assume is also producing some kind of kinetic shockwave.”
“and cementoss has constructed a pathway so i can extract the person without disturbing the rubble and crushing other victims?”
“yes–” infra starts, and is abruptly cut off when the building rumbles, the ground shuddering along with it, the pavement near its base fracturing. “yes,” she pauses, eyes narrowing, “but you might want to wait while cementoss deals with whatever might’ve come loose just now.” she hands him an earpiece so she can direct him to the source of the explosions.
shota stands there, watching the wood and cement and metal smoke and steam, until cementoss gives him the go ahead.
he picks his way through the rubble, listening carefully to infra’s directions. sirens wail in the background, and broken glass crunches under his feet, but he can hear children crying through all of it. shota moves faster, pulls his goggles over his eyes.
infra tells him to stop and look down and to the right. all there is is a pile of debris, and it makes his heart leap into his throat. he starts digging through the chunks of cement, using his capture weapon to pull away particularly heavy or sharp pieces and to keep any large ones from falling. he has to work quickly, or risk getting hit by whatever quirk is hiding under there.
it only takes a few seconds, and then he’s looking down at a child – maybe seven years old, a little kid, curled up in a ball with their arms around their knees. there’s fissures in their skin with light pouring out of them, ashes in their hair. their eyes are glowing a terrifying, brilliant white – shota activates his quirk, hair floating up, and all the light evaporates from that tiny little body, they just look like a normal, scared kid.
it hits him that they really should’ve sent someone who was better with children. maybe gang orca. well, he might as well bite the bullet.
“i’m eraserhead. what’s your name?”
“[surname].” the kid looks up at him, face blank except for a slight frown. “what did you do to me? where did it go?”
shota offers his hand, and they take it, standing up. “where did what go?”
shota doesn’t have an answer.
he leads them out of the rubble, and thank god for the fact that they’re following – he really does not want to deal with a kicking, screaming kid in the middle of an unstable structure. the sunlight glints off of warped rebar, sharp and threatening. he tugs the kid slightly behind him.
“the energy. your hair went up and it went away.”
he has no fucking idea. “you’re right, it went away.” sometimes, telling kids that they’re right is the fastest way to get them to be quiet. surprisingly, it works.
they follow silently, gripping his hand with their tiny, slightly chubby fingers, until they finally get out of the rubble maze. now that the exploding kid is out, it’s safe to extract the other victims.
he crouches down in front of them, still holding their hand. “i’m going to leave you with the medical team, okay? they’re gonna check you over and take you to the hospital, if needed. i have to go get the other people out of there.”
except when shota stands up and tries to move away, they aren’t letting go. he tries stepping away again. it doesn’t work. it’s not just that they’re not letting go, it’s that he can’t break their grip – which is ridiculous, they’re a child, and their hand doesn’t even encompass his, meaning there’s a point where it should, in theory, be easy to break their hold.
theory isn’t holding up.
“you need to let go, or else i can’t get the other people out.” maybe he can guilt them into letting go? thankfully the other heroes on the scene are already digging through the rubble for the other victims.
they shake their head furiously, making some of the ash in their hair fly off. “no, sensei said i have to stay here. i can’t leave.”
shota resists the urge to drag a hand down his face. he really wishes tsukauchi was already here. “this is a school?”
“yes.” they nod solemnly.
“but this is the warehouse district.”
they stare at him. he tries breaking their grip again. they squeeze his hand tighter, and shota hears one of his joints crack.
“you can tell the police about the school and sensei when they get here, but you need to let go. i have to do my job. besides, your sensei is still in there, and i need to go rescue them.”
they cock their head, but loosen their grip a tiny bit. “no, sensei isn’t here. he left with the man who makes purple mist doorways. i think all the teachers left. i felt it, when they disappeared.”
felt it? grip strength? explosions? he can think about whatever the hell is going on with this child’s dangerous, wack ass quirk later. “okay, but the other students are still in there.”
“no,” they scrunch their eyes shut, grip tightening. “i can’t feel them. except amanatsu-chan. no one else is there.”
shota has a horrifying thought about heat signatures and dead bodies. he motions infra and one of cementoss’ sidekicks over.
“where is amanatsu-chan?” he asks, making eye contact with the sidekick, who is paying very close attention to the kid.
“she’s right next to where i was. in the room to the right, ‘cause she’s a month older than me.”
he turns his back to the kid and looks at infra. “that is the only person we need to rescue right now. everyone else is probably dead, according to them.”
infra looks toward the building, scanning. “the heat was probably trapped by the collapsed structure, and the fire made it difficult to see, but now that some of the rubble has been moved and the fire has been put out… there is only one heat signature that could possibly belong to someone who is alive. everything else… not even hypothermic bodies get that low.”
the sidekick rushes off with infra to guide them.
shota drags the kid along with him to the ambulance, which is now useless, with the exception of the two kids, and sits with them while the medical team looks them over. they still won’t let go of his hand, but he could break their hold now, if he needed to. if he wanted to.
he doesn’t.
—
they get the kid to the hospital, only with shota riding in the ambulance next to them, but they’re fine, and so is the other kid – a little girl. the only reason they decide to take the two kids to the hospital in the first place is because there’s nowhere else to take them, and they really, really need to see a quirk specialist. the other kid had some kind of odd, controlling speech effect, and he cannot, for the life of him, figure the first kid’s quirk out.
he leaves them with the quirk specialist, whom both kids use the sensei honorific for – they do that for every nurse and other adult, too – and goes back home to sleep. it’s almost the afternoon, but he doesn’t care. it’s his day off, damn it.
—
fuck that quirk specialist. he and hizashi are going to have to help the kid manage their quirk, according to his medical advice. thankfully, cementoss and tiger are more suited to the second kid.
he picks the problem child up from the train station in civilian clothes, hizashi next to him, cap pulled down to hide his face, hair half-down and not in that ridiculous cockatoo style. the kid’s brand new foster parents give them their phone numbers.
hizashi smiles at the kid and takes their hand, obviously completely forgetting that he’s not dressed as present mic. he does that around kids. “what’s your name, little listener?”
“[surname].” they turn to shota and blink accusingly, like he was supposed to tell hizashi.
“your first name, though?” hizashi prods, and shota laughs quietly through his nose.
“six.”
he stops laughing.
hizashi laughs awkwardly, his complete opposite, and definitely trying to smooth the situation over. “well, do you want to be called something different?”
their eyebrows furrow, and they reach for shota’s hand; he lets them. fine, they can hold both of their hands, dammit.
“is that allowed?”
hizashi gives him a look, one that means what the fuck. “yeah, yeah that’s allowed.”
“i think [first name] would be fine then.” they nod, like it’s an important decision.
“okay, [first name] it is, then. can i call you [first name]-chan, little listener?” hizashi says, starting to walk in the direction of their home. honestly, shota forgot that people use that honorific for children. he tries to avoid them in rescue missions; they’re uncomfortable around him, find him unnerving.
[first name] nods again. “mhm.”
“great! you can call me yamada-sen–” shota activates his quirk to tell him to shut up without actually telling him to shut up in front of the kid.
“no sensei honorific,” he mutters, thinking of the warehouse.
“you can call me yamada. that’s aizawa, kay?”
they nod again.
great, he’s training a child.
—
turns out they don’t need much training. the email from the quirk specialist explained that they could absorb energy and then manipulate its form, but it did not explain the frankly worrying level of precision they had.
they’re standing in the park, across the street from their hero-specialized apartment complex.
“i’m going to scream, kay? and you’re going to try to absorb it, and then we’ll see what you can do.” hizashi is still holding the kid’s hand, fifteen minutes after they’ve gotten back from the train station. shota is starting to worry that he’s getting attached. who is he kidding – of course hizashi is attached.
“aizawa will shut your quirk off if it’s too scary.”
they nod, already frowning in concentration. hizashi steps back and screams “HELLO!” at the lowest level possible. it still makes the grass ripple and the leaves on the trees shimmer. the kid just giggles, unphased, eyes glowing, and the grass and trees behind them are completely still, undisturbed. their control is disturbingly tight.
“again!” they shriek, relaying every bit of hizashi’s volume, and shota has a sickening thought about the types of bonding activities this kid had in that warehouse. training is playtime, to them.
all the pieces fall into place; the blacked out, confidential police reports, the inability to locate biological parents, the overpowered quirk, the ridiculous level of control for a child, sensei, the other children, the number six. quirk trafficking. all for one. collecting successors. his stomach turns.
he jerks back to the present as hizashi laughs and complies, yelling “HELLO!” again. shota can see the worry and caution seeping into his stance, though. they’ve been together long enough that he knows they’re both having the same thought, because hizashi isn’t stupid, and he’s seen every ugly little thing the world has to offer.
this time the kid doesn’t yell back, just holds out their hand. “wanna see what i can do?”
shota gets ready to activate his quirk, and hizashi nods.
their hand bursts into flame. shota’s hair flies up on reflex, a familiar burn in his eyes. the fire goes out, and a blast of light spirals off of their skin and dissipates into the air.
they all try several times more. [name] sends electricity crackling across their arms, drills a hole in the ground with a push of kinetic energy, makes their whole body glow with light, lifts a rock that no child should be able to lift. not once do they seem scared, not once do they hurt hizashi or break anything they don’t mean to.
they don’t need help managing their quirk. they need an outlet. (they need parents).
—
the years pass quickly; he and hizashi get teaching positions at UA, he expels and re-enrolls hundreds of students, works the streets at night. hizashi runs his radio show and works as a daylight hero and teaches english. they train [first name] every weekend, until the kid occupies the spare room at their house and the cats almost like them better than shota. [name] stays with their foster family during the week, and hizashi says he misses them, and shota wishes he could say different. (he doesn’t).
they watch the way they avoid going to their teachers when they need help, avoid going to their parents, and only ever come to them, shota and hizashi. shota thinks they have issues with trust, hizashi says they have issues with authority. shota worries about what that means they see their mentors as – authority figures they can trust. (it doesn’t worry him at all).
they crush exams and don’t talk to other kids, and hizashi and shota only know this because hizashi tries to make dinner table conversation about the kid’s classes and friends, and [name]’s answers are noncommittal, “i’m near the top of the class, okay?” and “i don’t really have any.” they proudly tell them that they punched someone in the face for bullying another kid. they ricochet wildly from sullen and silent to laughing obnoxiously loud. hizashi worries for their social development, shota tells him that they can’t go to parent teacher conferences, because they’re not the damn kid’s parents. (they are. [name]’s foster parents don’t go.)
they get sick after training some days, staying an extra day instead of traveling by train, just lying in bed while their quirk makes their whole body hurt,because it was cultivated for power, not for compatibility with the human body. hizashi calls their parents, who call the school, and he makes them tea with honey and lemon. shota sits in their room with them and the cats. the next day, after they leave, hizashi will say, “it’s just the weekends, but it feels like we’re raising them,” and shota will say, “we’re not.” (they are).
he teaches them how to use a capture weapon after they beg for months. they’re terrible at it. they keep trying. they get better, and they like heroes in black costumes and they listen to english music, and they want to be just like them, and they’re loud and sharp and sarcastic and competitive and sometimes quiet and kind, and it doesn’t make him cry into hizashi’s shoulder at night, it doesn’t. they don’t have a kid. they don’t. (they do).
—
they want to take the UA entrance exam, and shota wants to throw himself in front of a bus. he tells hizashi as much.
“shota, you can’t just expect them to be a civilian. they want to be a hero.” he’s doing his hair, yelling from the bathroom so shota can hear him from where he’s laying in bed, wondering how much longer he can stay there until he has to get up and go teach the brats.
“it’s dangerous, and they’re a kid, hizashi. kids always want to be heroes, it doesn’t mean they have to be.”
“first of all, they’re almost an adult, UA is a college. and even if you still think of them as a little kid, they have training, two mentors, and a burning desire to save the entire world. good luck stopping them. and it’s not like we haven’t been encouraging them for their entire life by giving them said training!”
“but it’s dangerous!” he sits up and slaps the quilt.
he hears hizashi sigh and sees him stick his head back into the bedroom. “they’re in too deep to stop unless they suddenly hate heroes. plus, we literally teach kids how to be heroes. you literally are a hero. you have no room to talk. none.”
“but those kids are–”
“less well-trained? not our kid?” hizashi raises an eyebrow as he cuts him off.
shota shuts his eyes and lays back down. “fuck.” he wants to go back to sleep. “they’re not our kid,” he adds, as an afterthought. it makes his stomach twist.
“sure,” says hizashi, and goes back to doing his hair.
—
“kid,” you hear aizawa say, and you look up from your homework. it’s a saturday.
“yeah?” he’s standing in the doorway, holding a flat, white box, like the kind fancy clothes come in.
aizawa shuffles in and sits on your bed. he pats the space next to him, “sit.”
you set down your pen and sit next to him, cross legged, in your pajamas, eyeing the box. he puts it on your lap and you lift the lid off; inside is a pile of black fabric, one long, thin strip, with threads of metal glinting in it.
“you’ll need it for the exam,” he says, and stands to leave.
you clutch the cool, heavy fabric to your chest, knowing it’s the ticket to your dream, your chance to prove yourself. “thank you.” thank you for believing in me.
“don’t mention it.” of course, kid.
reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!! ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭* main taglist here,series taglisthere. back to gt&h masterpost.
I thought this idea up more than a year ago when I was still unsure about the fate of my Warden, and after listening/crying to Lemony Snicket’s The Beatrice Letters, I kinda had to merge the two together. It was also a good practice study for Alistair’s face even though it took a year+ for me to actually finish the whole thing.
this is the most aggressive i’ve ever seen him get and i for one am positively LIVING for this kind of cold wrath
Is your back not aching from bending to punch so fucking low?
go off king
[ID: A quote-retweet. The original tweet is by Graham Linehan (@Glinner) and reads: “People who parrot meaningless meme speak like ‘Trans rights are human rights’ (who says they aren’t? No-one) while ignoring the abuse received by woman who speak against speak out against gender ideology… you have no use. You are li…”
Hozier (@Hozier) replies: “You won’t drag me into your weird, obsessive little culture war, mate. I wrote a message in solidarity of a group who’s life expectancy ranges in the 30’s solely due to murder and suicide (is it any wonder). Is your back not *aching* from bending to punch so fucking low.” End ID]
[Text transcript: The colored text reads: “Is your back not aching from bending to punch so fucking low.” End transcript]
What’s great is when the supplement contains a “proprietary blend” of ingredients and you CAN’T confirm what’s in it. Love that.
I saw a patient in a mental health setting who was taking a “mood enhancing” supplement that just listed “proprietary herbal blend” as the ingredient. They developed serotonin syndrome because one of the herbs in the “proprietary blend” was (almost certainly) St. John’s Wort. Which can interact very badly with meds for depression.
99% of supplements are snake oil garbage, and taking them can prove detrimental to your health.
Yeah I hate when I see a commercial and it’s like “it’s not a drug, just natural ingredients” like, um, got some news about where drugs come from. They don’t just come out of thin air, they are often refined natural ingredients.
Only supplement I take is melatonin and I list in my medications just like it’s another drug, because it is. And if you want to take a supplement, talk to a doctor. Find out first if it will help and is safe.
If there’s no ingredients list AND it doesn’t have the amount of each herb in it written on it…………don’t take it because you won’t even be able to look up what’s in it or how it could be affecting you.
The supplement market is so fucking unregulated.
My SIL is an ICU nurse. Lots of school, decades of work, and she decided to give me a bag of herbal tea “from the fantastic natural medicine shop” and didn’t bother reading the ingredients. The sales lady just said it’s great for treating anxiety.
It contained St. John’s Wort, and over half of the other ingredients do not play well with my meds and they fuck with epilepsy. I told her as much and she returned the stuff without much fuss. She knew what meds intake and my disabilities, and just went with “it’s all natural and therefore superior.” It’s no exaggeration when I say that shit would’ve killed me.
The only supplements I will use are what my dr(s) suggest, and right now that’s just more Vitamin B (helps ease the tremors in my hands).
Also, please list what other drugs you use, like marijuana, CBD, THC, etc and write the doses with them. I use edibles for pain and sleep, they’re gummies with a precise dosage. It’s on the med list I carry in my purse. Every nurse who does my intake has this look of relief when I hand it to them because no guessing game.
Herbs aren’t magic, they’re *medicine.*
So don’t treat them like magic. Treat them like the pharmaceuticals they are. That means thinking about things like dosage and drug interactions.
The agony and exhaustion in my liver specialist’s face when I told him I am on supplements.
The sheer relief when I told him they were given to me by a real doctor with a real md who is my fatigue disorder specialist and are reliably sourced things like vitamin d and coenzymeQ10 and not “dottera”.
Ingesting essential oils leads to organ damage and eventually possible death kids
[Image description: A screenshot of a Facebook post by モラスキー 沙羅. It has a photo of a light skinned person with short brown hair, wearing black glasses and blue scrubs. They look annoyed. The text of the post reads as follows: Posting this publicly on my wall per request:
So I’ve been on clinical rotations at a hospital for the last 7 weeks. Part of my daily responsibilities as a pharmacy student is to do med histories for admits: anyone admitted to the hospital overnight or directly during my shift needs to have their current med list confirmed/updated, and we need to know when they last took each med (this is especially important for patients who are about to receive certain drugs/undergo certain procedures).
So far, I’ve had at least 1 patient a week who uses MLM products. They almost always have a bunch of plant extracts in them, which means we have no way of knowing what they might interact with on their current med list or any agents we may use in the hospital. That is, not unless we take a bunch of time to look up every f (blacked out) ingredient. And those f (blacked out) will (caps) always (end caps) use a less common name for each plant wherever possible, to make it harder to look up (and to make it sound more sciency).
Example: lady excitedly started babbling about these 3 drinks that she takes every day when I asked about herbal supplements. One of the drinks contained ginseng, which can cause diuretic resistence and severe body edema. Guess what some of the patient’s problems were. Yup, severe edema that wasn’t responding very well to the IV diuretics we were giving her. Don’t get me started on the atrocious amount of caffeine and stimulants and how those were impacting her blood pressure and heart rate.
Thankfully, I informed the care team, who adjusted her therapy. (Caps) But (end caps), the only reason that happened was because, as a student, my job during my unpaid rotations is to (caps) learn (end caps). So I was able to spend 30+ minutes looking to every f (blacked out) herbal/plant extract in these 3 MLM drinks, summarize how they would impact her current meds, and what hospital meds we may want to avoid. Actual practicing pharmacists in this hospital usually don’t have that kind of time to do a deep dive, so it would normally be missed unless it happened to fall in their lap during a rare lull.
So there we have it. Yet another example of MLMs being harmful garbage. Pictured: the expression I want to make every time a patient starts gushing about this super great supplement/shake/drink they’re taking that inevitably turns out to be part of why they’re in the f (blacked out) hospital. End description].
Plain text: What’s great is when the supplement contains a “proprietary blend” of ingredients and you (caps) can’t end caps) confirm what’s in it. Love that.
(Bold) If there’s no ingredients list (caps) and (end caps) it doesn’t have the amount of each herb in it written on it (long ellipsis) don’t take it (end bold) because you won’t even be able to look up what’s in it or how it could be affecting you.
San Juan mayor wears shirt saying “HELP US WE ARE DYING”
How to help Puerto Rico (details on where to send money, how to donate supplies, and how to volunteer). Consider also bookmarking this link - even if you can’t afford to donate now (or even if you can!), it’s important to remember that Puerto Rico will be in need for months and even years to come.
Dr. Carmel Harrington, the lead researcher for the study, was one of these parents. Her son unexpectedly and suddenly died as an infant 29 years ago. In an interview with the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC), Harrington explained what she was told about the cause of her child’s death.
“Nobody could tell me. They just said it’s a tragedy. But it was a tragedy that didn’t sit well with my scientific brain.”
Since then, she’s worked to find the cause of SIDS, both for herself and for the medical community as a whole. She went on to explain why this discovery is so important for parents whose babies suffered from SIDS.
"These families can now live with the knowledge that this was not their fault,” she said.
I know it’s a sad moment because we find out who killed Ichigo’s mom, but Grand Fisher is such a dumb name. He sounds like a small town fishing champ going through a midlife crisis
Ableists like furiousgoldfish amaze me because there is no winning. If we talk about our symptoms, we’re just admitting how abusive and evil we are. If we don’ttalk about our symptoms, we’re lying so we can better deceive and abuse people. The only way someone like them will “accept” us is if we’re dead.
According to people like this, there is no recovery for people with NPD. There is no support, there is no place where you can safely discuss your symptoms; if you develop NPD after a traumatic childhood, you’re a monster, should be kept from being able to reproduce, and are destined to do nothing but abuse until you die.
No offense or anything, but I don’t think it’s usthat sound abusive…
Volga has a terrifying nightmare of his past sins coming to haunt him, but thankfully Princess Zelda is there to comfort him when he wakes and recounts his horror.
—
Fire. All Volga could see was fire. This would have been routine for him, had he not heard the screams of help from tormented innocent people. He quickly went into Dragon Form and flew to where he had heard the screams of the innocents, only to find they had been ReDeads! Even still, they each looked unique; he saw knights, villagers, nobles, maids, even ReDead children! The entire horde of them turned to Volga as he turned human, shambling towards him. He had drawn his spear, but it turned into a giant snake in his hands; winding around his body and rendering him completely immobile. Volga struggled and strained as the ReDeads shambled ever closer to him, but one by one they took their turns dogpiling him and dragging him beneath the ground.
When Volga had been dragged below, all the fire he was was replaced with a blank, empty, dark void. He looked around, when he heard a woman’s voice. “Do you think they’ve forgotten what you’ve done?”
“No…I know they haven’t…” Volga looked apprehensive.
The voice cackled. “Yet you’ve gone on so long without paying the price of your sins. You’ve torn apart so many families, so many lives, so many…lovers.”
Volga’s eyes widened. “Don’t you dare! Leave Zelda alone!”
A spotlight shone a distance away, revealing a bloody figure laying on the ground. Volga ran over, seeing his worst fear laying before him. Zelda was dead.
Volga woke with a scream, breathing fire as he nearly went into his Dragon Form right then and there. Had his room not been completely fireproofed, it would have been utterly reduced to ash.
Footsteps pounded outside his bedroom, and the door flew open to reveal an alarmed Princess Zelda. “Volga!” She moved closer to him, more able to see his tear-stained face.
Volga looked up, seeing Zelda. “Zelda…you’re alive…” he sobbed, pulling her into his arms.
Zelda laid her head on Volga’s shoulder. “Of course I am…it was a dream, nothing more. I’ll always be here, Volga.” she crooned, leaning up to kiss his jaw. “Did you want to talk about it?”
Volga nodded, taking a deep breath before telling Zelda of his nightmare. Zelda listened intently, soothingly rubbing his cheek and wiping his tears away. When he was done, Zelda leaned up to kiss him. “Volga…your sins are behind you. And you work tirelessly to atone for them. You are no longer a dragon knight of darkness, you are the dragon knight I’ve fallen so deeply in love with.”
Volga looked more calm, smiling at his beloved. “Zelda…I love you.”
a/n: i got yelled at for this one on wattpad, lmao. sorry!
Harry hits the ground with your body in his arms. His grip on you doesn’t loosen even a little. The cheers of your fellow students slowly die down.
Suddenly, a girl screams, deafeningly loud. Celebrations turn to whispered voices of worry, confusion, and shock.
“What’s going on?”
“A student has died.”
“What happened?”
“Is that- is that Y/N?”
Dumbledore rushes over to Harry’s side. He attempts to pull him away from your still-warm skinned body.
“No! No!” Harry screams, refusing to let go.
Dumbledore stops trying and, instead, kneels by Harry’s side.
“S/he asked me to bring her/his body back! I couldn’t leave her/him. Not there. S-S/he died for me. If it wasn’t for Y/N, I-”
Dumbledore strokes a hand over Harry’s hair, attempting to soothe his pain. “It’s alright, Harry. I understand. S/he’s home. You both are.”
“Y/N..” Harry continues to cry as friends and teachers gather around the harrowing scene.
Dumbledore gently closes your eyes, one hand still resting on your shoulder afterward. And several minutes later, Harry is finally coaxed away from your lifeless form. But not before he kisses your cheek, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Th-thank you. I’ll never forget.”
-
Taglist: (lmk if you wanna be tagged in future harry potter ficlets) @jiaraendgame
