I just had this wicked vivid fucking dream and I am not drinking before bed ever again.
“Hand ‘em over,” Dabi says, holding his hand out. The purple scars barricade his skin, and his eyes are flat as he gives you a once over. No, he’s not looking at you; he’s looking through you, as though you’re a minor inconvenience to him that he has to deal with.
That day, as soon as you say that, you lose your toes.
"Where, where are my toes?" You plead. "What do I have to do to get them back?"
"Close your eyes," Dabi says.
You don't trust him. He took your toes, and who knows what else he could take. But you want your toes back, and you don't have much of a choice. Against your better judgment, you do.
His fingers brush over your face. "Now open them."
It isn't his fingers against your face. It is your own toes. You scream and ran away.
Dabi snickers as he watches you run. The overhanging clouds follow you as you run, and he can't help the grin that strings up his lips. He turns around, feeling the now toes he has for fingers, against his cheek. They're kind of callous, he realizes, but he doesn't mind it, not when his own fingers used to be scratchy and sandpapery. He decides. He quite likes your toes.
That night, you couldn't sleep. All you felt was the absence of your toes. You never appreciated them when they were attached to you, and now that they were gone, you missed them terribly. You decided that in revenge, you would steal Dabi's toes. You were not a victim. You were a hurricane, and you would dish out karma.
Walking is hard. You find out the hard way. The pressure on your foot when you walk spreads differently, now, and you can't help but think your feet are like stubs, like wrinkly potatoes.
The thought of your missing toes curl around your mind, and you draw up a plan--wrist flicking as you map it out with a pencil on notebook paper. Your friends call you, sometimes. But that's just mindless noise now. The texts dropping like bombs on your phone are a nuisance. What were you supposed to do? Tell them? They couldn't know. You wouldn't paint that weak picture of yourself. You can’t paint that weak picture of yourself.
So, instead, you settle for raking your eyes over the paper again, scratched with ink, and grab your phone. Dialing on the keypad, you tap your foot as the phone rings. He's gonna be pissed that you're calling. You can feel the irritation flaring in his voice already, but he's one spot closer to helping you get back your toes.
"You?" he says, voice riddled with cracks. Just like his face.
Shigaraki Tomura will help you get your toes.
"What?" Shigaraki blurts.
"Shigaraki Toemura. You're going to help me get my toes back.”
"You are with Dabi, right? Can you see him?" Your voice is desperate. You have to find Dabi, have to get your toes back. You would not be humiliated in this way.
"I-uh, I don't," Shigaraki says. His voice sounds uncertain for once. You instantly know that he’s lying.
You narrow your eyes. "Send me a picture of Dabi."
"You really don't-"
"Send me. A picture. Of Dabi." You demand.
A second later, a picture pops up on your phone. Dabi’s sitting on one of the bar stools, staring right at the camera. It's like he knows it was you. And he was sucking on your toes.
That fucker. He knows. He knows what he's doing, and he insists on dangling it right in front of you with a smirk on his face.
Your fingers pound the screen again, waiting for Shigaraki to pick up again. The dials ring by.
"What." Shigaraki sounds like he's biting his words.
"Tell me your address." He snorts, and you're not sure if it's out of pity, out of ridiculousness, or maybe it's some kind of screwed up cocktail that you're about to down.
"Then lend me your toes."
"Lend me your toes." Your voice is steel. "Did you forget what happened last time you pissed me off?"
A sharp intake of breath on the other end. "You'll give them back? And then we're even, I did your favour."
"Yes." You say. "Of course I'll give them back. You think I want your crusty ass toes?"
Shigaraki sighs. "Fine then. Fine. I need to take Dabi down a notch too."
"Then it's settled." You hang up. Not a moment later, Shigaraki sends another picture. Dabi has wrapped the toes in bacon, and is sucking on it slowly with a look of pure ecstasy on his face.
Your blood boil. Those toes are yours. How dare he. How dare he steal your toes, suck on them, and then wrap bacon all around it. He’s going to pay.
The day of reckoning is today. It has to be today.
Busses are crowded, as per usual, and you suppose the one upside to not having toes is the fact that no one steps on them. Your hand coils around the lukewarm pole in the bus, and you keep your lunch down with sheer power alone as the bus whirls in and out of traffic.
There’s a shrill scrape—probably the bus skimming against another car—but your eyes are hard-pressed on that bus door for when it finally opens.
Sparks of sunlight stream through the windows when the bus comes to a screeching halt. The passengers rock back and forth, almost nosediving to the front of the bus, with their suitcases falling and sliding to the floor as they try to grab everything important to them. You, however, are cemented in place. Firm.
A gulp drops down your throat like a rock in a mineshaft.
Today, you remind yourself, it’s gotta be today.
The warehouse is all things warehouse: isolated, vacant, and rainbow graffiti splaying the walls. Wind nips at your neck, and you’re not sure if you feel a stare burning itself in the back of your head.
A ragtag team of villains stands before you (well, a blonde girl is perched on an oil drum, but the point still stands). The single light in the warehouse swings back and forth, fizzling in and out, and their eyes are immediately on you. You don’t miss how their hands fly to their weapons or how their bodies stiffen.
All except him. Except for Dabi.
He grins. “Well, well, look who showed up.”
You look at Dabi in the eyes and scoff. He has no idea what was coming for him.
Shigaraki’s next to him, holding a bag. He was shifting on his feet. He caught your eyes and you nodded.
He dumps the bag upside down. Toes scatter to the ground.
"Toes, to me!" You command. "Form Toetron!"
Dabi's jaw drops. "You-you're."
You flip hair out of your face. "Yes, Dabi. I am the Toe Stealer, the Defender of the Toeverse. You stole the wrong toes, motherfucker."
"Please." He takes a deep breath, as if it physically pains him to say the words. "Please forgive me."
You snicker. "Too late."
On the ground, the toes connect to form the shape of a starfish. It starts cartwheeling towards Dabi.
The crusty toes stick together like they’re bound by the universe’s strongest glue, a slapping sound resonating as the toes smack together, and the ashy dirt previously on the toes (courtesy of Tomura) is washed away immediately. Toetron is alive. It spins like a Pokémon before flying to you.
You leap on Toetron, feeling the fleshy flesh welcome you. The next decisions come naturally, as though they’re hardwired in your system, as though you’ve been synched with Toetron for centuries—life partners. When you pull on Toetron’s levers, white beams are fired; they destroy gray tiles, making endless chasms.
The ground quakes beneath Toetron as you barrel to Dabi. The warehouse shakes, but you don’t notice it, not with your toes still on Dabi’s hand. Raw shock veiling his face isn’t enough. It isn’t enough. It’s never enough. Not when he stole your toes and wore them as trophies, an unforgivable sin.
Hot lava spews out from the floor, its molten orange arms crawling up like tendrils. Again, you don’t notice, and you don’t notice your stomach flipping, not used to the whirlwind of G-forces as you nosedive toward Dabi.
Screams and yelps and storms of swears erupt from the other villains, but they don’t matter. Not when you’re within seconds of reclaiming your toes.
Three. You barrel closer and feel a shield of wind around you. Two. The look in his blue eyes. One.
Your hand reaches out, and your fingers brush against your stolen toes. The texture is just the way you remember it—calloused, but it’s you, it’s you. It’s yours. They’re yours.
When you go to snatch the toes, Dabi freezes, and the toes fall into the chasms of lava.
The tears clogging your eyes are immediate while you watch your toes fall, devoured by hungry lava. Not even Toetron could help you.
“WWWWWHHHHHHHHHYYYYYYYYYYYYY!” you scream, the sounds tearing themselves from your throat.
Everyone looks on in horror.
If you can’t have your toes, no one can have toes.
It’s been five years since your the demise of your toes. You’ve become supreme leader of the Toeverse. No one is safe.
You have become a legend. The mothers now scare their children with you. “If you don't behave, the Toe Stealer, the Defender of the Toeverse, will steal your toes. If you seem something lurking in the closet of naughty children, it's Toetron. It's lurking.”
“You better watch out
You better not cry
You better be good
I’m telling you why.
Otherwise the Toe Stealer
Will steal all of your toes.”
Note from the PR’s (OOC): This was a masterfully crafted shitpost written by @bluesimba and @snowoverforest. Thank you for your contribution to the fandom.
42 notes · View notes
Once upon a time, there was a great man named Hawks, a man who valiantly carries his agency on his shoulders and takes his employees under his great big red wings (which are great, btw). One Monday morning, Hawks walks into his building to see his PR representatives unfortunately deprived of sleep. A tragedy. Ivan is chewing paper, Bunny is struggling to keep her claws from the coffee machine, and Simba is shitposting out of habit like a zombie.
So, the legend himself, Hawks—kind, caring, compassionate Hawks—decides to rescue his precious staff whose faces are covered by the mountains of paperwork (thanks, Tanaka from accounting).
Hawks puts his hands on his hips and surveys room trashed by stray paper. He whistles, and it sounds like a harp an angel plays. “Man, Tanaka really crunched the wrong numbers here,” he says. The dashing young hero moves to release his reps from guweh;guhegfq;u4;8oyt2882579826583yfhi--
(Enough of these lies, Hawks!)
The truth of what happened, as narrated by PR rep Bunny:
The Winged Headass: Hawks stumbled into his overworked PR Team's office an hour later than agreed with a half-melted frappe in one hand and a suspiciously large bouquet of flowers in the other, soot-stained face as guilty as ever.
"Guys," he called out hesitantly, "how much trouble am I going to be in if I started a new fried chicken meme? Hypothetically, of course."
Rep Simba, the only reason Hawks hasn't been banned from Twitter in 240 characters or less, raised her head from the keyboard. "Hypothetically," she drawled, "I'm going to personally see to it that you're banned from every KFC in a fifty mile radius for the next month."
"Hypothetically, I'm going to take two weeks off, paid and let you handle this yourself." Rep Ivan, dead tired to the point of delirium in the form of chewing up complaint forms- many, many complaint forms- didn't even bother to open her eyes.
Rep Bunny, currently breaking an astounding all time record of two days without caffeine, yet somehow still twitching, fixed Hawks with a glare. "Hypothetically," she said, "I'm going to wreck your shit."
Hawks cleared his throat awkwardly, like the awkward dumbass he is, and gently set the bouquet between the three overworked saints and his southern-fried dumbassery. "Well, then I didn't start a new meme about fried chicken being a euphemism for sex."
Rep Bunny didn't bother to look at the horror on sweet, pure Rep Simba's face as her laptop started pinging with notifications. She nailed him in the head with a chipped Ryuuku mug.
20 notes · View notes