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eirist · 3 years

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I Was Made for Lovin’ You

Disclaimer: One Piece (and its characters) belongs to Eiichiro Oda-sensei.

Reminder: I have no beta-reader. Any grammatical and spelling errors are solely mine.

Warning: OOC possible. One shot.

Rating: M (Not really explicit but mature-themed, yes)

Note: For the Day 1 of the ZoNa Days event (at @zonamievents). It’s Zoro day… what better way to celebrate it with Nami pondering about him.

I Was Made for Lovin’ You is by KISS. I had The Umbrella playlist accompany me while writing and l’m borrowing it. Enjoy!

Summary: She can’t say she’s not amused when that supposedly innocent piece of clothing article was now not-so-innocent at all.

Nami jolted slightly, waking up from her still-not-deep slumber. She blinked a few times to clear her thoughts as well as the sleep still lingering behind her eyes.

She blearily looked around her surroundings and realized she had fallen asleep on her deck chair while relaxing with Robin on the Sunny’s lawn.

She was just talking to the archaeologist earlier right?

The navigator tilted her head to her left. The deck chair beside her was empty. She must’ve have fallen asleep in between the lulls in their conversation.

With a sigh she settled back comfortably on her chair again. She was still feeling heavy-eyed and the call of sleep was still beckoning to her.

Must be because she didn’t get any proper shut-eye last night. No thanks to a certain green-haired swordsman.

Not that she is complaining. She absolutely cannot whine about Zoro lavishing her attention—physically speaking.

But it was kinda hard to explain why she seemed to be lacking sleep once, twice sometimes thrice a week. Robin and Sanji were already noticing it and were asking questions.

Was that what she and Robin were talking about earlier before she had fallen asleep?

Another sigh escape her.

She couldn’t very well tell them that a late night tryst with their swordsman was the reason.

Hell will definitely break loose.

A commotion coming from the galley grabbed her attention. She can hear Sanji’s voice rising above a cacophony of other sounds. She strained her ears to listen if he was fighting with Zoro but he was just shouting at Luffy and whoever was with the gluttonous captain, pestering the him.

The door of the boys’ quarters opened and with a loud yawn out stepped Roronoa Zoro.

Did he just woke up?

Nami frowned.

Well… she hadn’t seen him since they went their separate ways this morning. That probably meant he slept almost the whole day off!

Talk about unfair! How come he was able to get more rest than her!

Well… he hardly had any task in the ship after all.

That’s it he’s not getting any more all-nighters more than twice a week. She needs her beauty sleep after all.

He trudged across the deck, still looking half-asleep and oblivious to her and his surroundings.

She just continued watching him from her chair and her eyes zeroed in on the sash that he was still tying around his waist.

The one damn reason why she was lacking sleep today… aside from the crazy swordsman himself.

Nami pursed her lips and stifled a groan as she remembered how steamy the night before was.

She had known long ago that Zoro was a domineering man. She shared that trait with him in all honesty. That’s one of the reasons why they clash so much.

And she got to experience first-hand just how much he can be when he wants too—especially during their private sessions.

Of course, it’s not like she doesn’t put up a good fight every now and then. Like he could really boss her around as easy as that whether inside the bedroom or out (well, in this case… the crow’s nest).

But damn, whatever has gotten into him last night and prompted him to bend her over and tie her hands on the metal plate rack in the nest using that red sash of his, took their sexual relationship into another level.

And seeing it again out displayed nonchalantly out in the open… was making her hot and breathless all over again just thinking about how he had skillfully used it to make her succumb to him.

She can’t say she’s not amused at all when that supposedly innocent piece of clothing article … was now not-so-innocent at all.

Now all she can remember whenever she sees it is how it had looked—tied around her wrists, keeping her hands together as if in prayer, unable to grasp anything to steady herself as Zoro mercilessly pounded her in so many positions she had fucking lost count as her brain short-circuited from too much pleasure.

Goddamn it. That was hot! Really, really, really hot.

And she should stop thinking about it right now. Not when he’s just a few feet away from her and can sense when she’s burning for him, the unmistakable heat pooling in her middle making her rub her feet together as if that would appease it.

How did he turn from an idiotic numbskull to a rather irresistible hunk who was so damn good in sex?

It’s just one of the many wonders of the sea they were sailing.

Stealing one last glance at that sash and the man who owns it, Nami decided it’s better to stay quiet and just let him go about with his business so she’d still have time to reminisce their sexual escapade last night while it’s still fresh in her mind.

Her eye caught the sun beginning to set down the horizon. It will be evening soon and they’ve been sailing without any trouble the whole day… she’ll talk to Franky later about anchoring the ship for the night.

Fingers snapping in front of her face made Nami jerked back slightly, startled at the sudden intrusion.

She blinked at Zoro, who was looking at her amusedly as he crouched down beside her deck chair so they were eye-level.

A pout appeared at her lips just as he asked.

“What are you thinking about?”

Nami’s eyes unconsciously darted from his face to that damned sash tied around his hips.

And a grin immediately appeared on Zoro’s face.

He leaned closer to her… so close that their noses were almost touching. His grey eye flickered all over her face, studying her. It was almost as if he would kiss here right there and then, in the lawn deck of their ship, for all their crewmates to see.

“You want a repeat of last night?” He asked and his grin widened some more at her reaction.

See? There was no way she can hide from him how she absolutely enjoyed their tryst yesterday.

“Come on Nami. I’ll tie you up again and fuck you good.” He whispered lowly on her ear.

Nami felt the heat crawl from where she can feel his hot breath against her skin.

“That’s really raunchy Zoro.”

He laughed at her attempt to call him out when they both know how it definitely turns her on.

Zoro captured one of her hands in his, his thumb rubbing over the soft skin of her wrist, studying the telltale marks left by his sash from their encounter last night.

Then his face broke into a smile. A sweet, rarely seen one, for her eyes only. “Maybe next time,” he murmured as he brought her wrist to his lips for a kiss.

And just like that Nami felt her insides exploded as she stared at him.

Now he’s not just an idiotic numbskull and an irresistible hunk. He’s also an endearing lover.

Remind her again how could she be this lucky?

“Damn it Zoro,” she hissed, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him to her for a heated kiss.

“Ah.” Zoro stopped her as a playful smirk graced his lips. “Not now when there are eyes everywhere.”

And with that he left in her deck chair with her mouth hanging open in disbelief.

Damn it all to hell! Did he just…?

She hastily vacated her chair to chase after him and give him a piece of her mind and a kick or two.

Idiotic numbskull, irresistible hunk, endearing lover…

She also forgot to add that he can be a teasing ass when he wants too.

The overall combination was too appealing and too hard to resist.

Or maybe she really is a sucker for him.

Her eyes settled again at that red sash as she hurried towards him. Zoro just reached the top of the stairs and was about to head to the galley.

A mischievous smirk pulled at the corners of her lips as she reached him.

Nami immediately hooked her fingers on that piece of clothing, stopping him in his tracks, before pushing him against the galley’s wall.

She pressed herself on him as Zoro gazed down at her looking downright amused. She toyed with the sash, pulling at it slightly for emphasis.

“Let me borrow this later,” she murmured the request against his lips. Teasing. Seducing. “I’ve got a favor to return in full tonight.”

#zoro x nami #ZoNa #zonami #zonalove #zona fanfiction #zoro nami fanfiction #ZoNa Days #zona one-shots #zonamievents #zonamieventstumblr #roronoa zoro #nami

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lady-plantagenet · 4 years

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A Bygone Era - Chapter 6.

A fictional account written by me of Lady Isabel Neville’s life told through the points of view of her and those who knew her.

Points of views so far include: Anne Beauchamp Countess of Warwick, Lady Anne Neville, George Duke of Clarence, Lady Isabel Neville and Richard Neville Earl of Warwick

R&R, if you please<3

Chapter Text

15th August 1469

The Ladies of Warwick would grow tired in the coming days. Anticipation layed claim to their blood like a merciless tyrant, confounding all senses and transfiguring the muted colours of the garden into short sharp bursts of violets and reds unfolding their eyes, as their imaginations were left to run wild.

No woman was more well-versed in the practice of biding one’s time in dignity than the Countess herself. Her hands would be bound to the busy business of adorning her daughters’ sleeves. The mind would set itself upon matters of feoffee to uses . As a young girl, the needs of the heart would be met through the valiant deeds immortalised in The Grail Stories, her tired index finger tracing each engraved line for semblances of her husband’s character in De Boron’s poesies. Fodder for girlish fancies that now lay in the shallow grave of her youth, made colder with each miscarriage wrought on her person.

Her daughters trailed behind her as they left the resplendent terraces for the vaulted chambers, just as the sext sun began to claim its highest throne. The silks from their gowns flashed behind them like straggling snakes made subserviant footmen, occasionally overlapping in clashes of colour. Fresh bristol silk as red as the maiden’s hair, somber foliage patterned on crane-coloured satin for the mother and Indigo brocade dripping in richness and detail for the Duchess who would not deign it any other way.

Isabel’s boudoir at Warwick possessed an inverted ceiling, which made it a favourite backdrop for her daughters when they played at castles. It was their third place of repose for the day already, and one that would well shield their complexions from browning.

Anne was sat close to the oriel window, busily attending to the wrinkles of her labour - a baby’s smock. The green and murrey stitches, straighter than any stitches that had ever preceded them, glistened in the summer sun like cool jewels against the fire of her hair. She smiled gleefully.

Isabel, congruous to her usual character, made her pace slow and when finally appearing before them, had her hand placed visibly over her flat stomach as if two days shy of confinement. Her long dark hair shifted freely under the bare confinement of a frontlet emanating the carriage of the Virgin herself.

Anne eager to please held out to Isabel the flimsy cloth ‘Issy, tell me you like it, there you may have not noticed I added a little bear cub, can you make its likeness?’

Isabel propped her feet upon their father’s stool with a flourish before accepting the offering with delayed movement. She held it against the sun, nails critically grazing the handiwork for fault.

A daughter dark and pale with fashionable sadness in sage eyes, another with skin of honey and milk and hair like copper, full of vitality and goodness, as she. Had I not known them better I would have thought Isabel fit for mother’s old title of Gloucester and Anne, a bride for Clarence. They once seemed like the sun and moon. Annet felt a certain fondness for her new son-in-law, as much she would begrudgingly admit if held to question, but now that Isabel was free to take to him as a lawful wife, she started seeing vestiges of his hopefulness and flamboyance take root in her.

‘Daughter dear, how sure are you of your being with child?’ asked Annet ‘Only a week passes since your monthly course was due’

Isabel retrieved the smock to Anne, a brief inclination of her head conveying enough gratitude to inspire reassurance in Anne, just. The frock did little such for the Countess. ‘As to your knowledge, father and George tarried in Calais near a week after we were wed. I can assure that the nights we had as man and wife were spent most fruitfully. If a child had not been begotten already, it would defy the workings of god and nature’

Annet shot a look at Anne, who was desperately trying to trap the giggles in her throat, but with little success. ‘Isabel, you need not blaspheme and above that, being a woman wed does not entitle you to such vulgarity’.

Isabel stared back at her and redness took root over blanched features. She was once again her teenaged daughter, who would not have dreamed of retorting back to her mother.

‘What have you taken to amuse yourself with today?’ asked Annet willing a motherly warmth remedy her tongue.

Isabel produced some papers, the wax of the scarlett seal bearing two crows and a lion was unbroken.

‘Are you truly planning on reading George’s letters to us for the third time?’ Jested Anne. Annet smirked in hidden gratefulness for the opportune timings of Anne’s defiances when they rarely did arise.

‘This is new news. Fresh news. A messenger brought it some hours past. If you both determine to be this way then I see no reason to share its contents’ she said with newfound boldness.

‘Go on then Isabel’ prodded Annet patiently

‘ Dear Heart,

I write to you a jubilant husband eagerly bequeathing unto you the bestest of news. Your father and I have captured Edward and are but a day’s ride from Warwick. Edgecote Moor is proof enough that God smiles upon our work and your uncle at Olney has now given us my brother. I think it would amuse you much to see our Edward fallen into the guise of our prisoner, his hands bound and unable to wright any more mischief upon this kingdom. I have mentioned to your father that the Oubliette would do perfectly, but he thinks me jesting and will not entertain the suggestion.

I once again say that my only regret is that you were not there beside me to witness for yourself the cries of ‘A Warwick! A Clarence’ as we rode through Kent and even London, though they say the South loves Edward. As you know Sir John Conyers was slain in the melée, which may be the only regret I carry with me, having found the northerner rebel’s loyalities most touching. Withall, it is now more certain than ever that you will be Queen. Engage in your revelries as you ought to as you shall be the finest and most beloved’

Isabel pressed the letter to her chest and drew a deep breath smiling blissfully . The theatrics of the gesture ran deep and true, even Annet admitted to herself, seeing an unusual raise in her daughter’s hooded eyes. They were now the Despencer green. Annet noticed from a wandering shimmer that escaped the window, how sprightly a new wife’s eyes could be.

The reminding realisation of her daughter’s youth once more hit her with a blunt fervour. She thought that perhaps, innocence indeed trumped experience in virtue, for the latter’s lesser value never stilted the joy of the former. She remembered all too well the pangs of emotion she felt when reading her husband’s triumphant war letters in what felt like another era, however, it was never like this.

She only saw the children who a season past were sneaking bonbons from the pantry now playing at war and crowns. Unjaded and unfortified hearts are liberal in their joys which, however much they rival the shallowness of a horse trough, also have it in them to overcome the Pennines with hope alone.

‘Ah Anne, when I am Queen you shall be joined in the second to the best match in Christendom’ Annet heard Isabel say and knew better than to ask who Isabel in fact considered the foremost eligible suitor.

‘Oh truly Issy?’ Asked the hopeful child

‘Yes. Gloucester’s cowardice will be forgotten like a dandelion would readily its pappus’ Isabel passed to Anne her unguent so that she may too pride herself with soft hands, within lay crushed amethysts among a cornucopia of older herbs. ‘A French prince perhaps, now I never much liked them, however, father says it is an important country to appease. Calais claims more of your childhood than it did mine. One only need hear your French. It even surpasses mine, I daresay unsurprisingly so’

Annet raised an eyebrow at that, in surprise as much as in amusement. She did not think she would hear Isabel admit that Anne could best her in anything, while still here on earth.

‘Thank you dear sister, I am readily committed to forget Richard. Tell me, how can one brother so valiantly cross the channel in defiance of the king for love, whereas the other would not even dare ask him twice?’ Edward, the cold calculating king, denier of love, prohibitor of the happy marriage. My, what a fanciful image these two weave.

‘I would tell you if I knew Annie’ chuckled Isabel shaking her dark head in disbelief ‘Richard clearly would rather his brother than a wife he loves. If I were you I’d say “good riddance”’

Hands tightened around the stout wooden arms of the Countess’ chair while an errant foot involuntary kicked at the rushes freeing a herbal scent. ‘Truly, had cat’s brain been slipped into your porridges this morning?’ She noticed both her daughters suddenly veering their faces away from each other and towards her, startled by her exclamation.

‘Gloucester was not yet a man when Clarence first defied the king, what would you have a twelve year old do, Isabel? I know that to attempt to veto your musings would be in vain, but you are no Queen yet and as such must not alienate anyone of the house of York, not in thought nor in deed’

Isabel nodded quietly, Annet saw in her face the crestfallen expression George wore the five years past. Wide eyes sparked with dismay rather than dulled by contrition or diminished pride. ‘Yes, we have all seen the French price of loyalty. Jesus wept, you think any of this I did not know before? As you said, let me muse in peace’

Just as in St Omer, a curtain of silence swept over the room only to be availed by the Sunday tintinnabulations of the bells in St Mary’s Church. The peal of Anne’s voice added to the chorus, ‘But this letter dates three days past. Why are they not here?’

It would be like George to sacrifice clarity for flare. ‘Best read the rest’, prodded Annet

‘Very well then’, Isabel conceded

’ Beloved one, I bid you goodnight presently at Kenilworth where I tarry for a day in the dispensation of justice. Two snakes heads are to be taken off by matins tommorow, they are those of the witch’s father and brother John - married to your aunt Katherine. I believe that is explanation enough for why though I am near, you must wait a day or two to rejoice in my return -‘ the letter slipped unceremoniously through stunned fingers.

Annet was at once at her side ‘Isabel! Isabel!’, she shook her by the shoulders freeing her raven hair from its frontlet and into the pallour of her face.

‘I did not want this mother’ she whispered faintly behind a shaking fist ‘What would god think, what would-. Oh jesus, have mercy on us’

‘God smiles upon them’ Annet found herself quoting George ‘he is the almighty and the Queen’s kin would not have been put in their path if he willed it any different’. Hands were now placed about her daughter’s collar as if she were a horse caught in a storm needing to be steadied.

‘You would say the same for my grandfather of Salisbury. That god willed him lynched and cut down, rotting in the squalor of Wakefield?’ She would have drawn her hand indignantly to her chest had her mother not enclapsed her wrists into a steely grip.

Soothing her daughter, she realised, had all the wisdom of a cripple instructing a mute on how to walk. Annet briefly looked away. She, the cripple here, was unsettled rather than horrified. Yes, feeling naught for a man and his young son being strung up like poultry is unsettling.

Have I no heart, have I relived this moment too many times, just to find that everything that is to be felt, I felt, yet none the wiser for that?

‘I would not. That you do know perfectly well. Now, your father has done great good. His place in God’s kingdom is assured. Clarence is young, he has many more years to uncover the long, winding road. As for you, you have no part in this. Your soul is not tarnished, worry not for yourself- selfish practice it would be if you did’

Pale green eyes stared back into hers streaked with bronze. Anne was ever more a joy to her than Isabel, the bond was obvious. But in moments like this, her attentions covered aught but Isabel in their griefs and worries. ‘If you’d only know mother! It was George’s path that placed exclusively into my consideration. Father as well, but certainly not myself and my soul. I think of my wretched powerlessness. On how often I will find myself able to do nothing to ensure that George may walk the golden path with father when the time comes - that even before that he will be cursed here on Earth like a Henry Fitz-Empress’

The Countess stood up, the crane-coloured thistles in her skirts gathered around her like a ghostly garden against the windowed backdrop of a coming storm. ‘Oh but there is much to do. Be his wife and love him, be England’s Queen and keep its peace, bear the King a son and secure his succession. Do this and there will be no more deaths. I vow this to be true’.

‘Lo- mother, sister, the King!’ shouted Anne across the room. The warm wind from the Campion hills was in conflict with the sudden onpour, noisily banishing the raindrops to the windows in opaque watery blankets. Annet did not need to be with her husband and attendants below to know that the gravel was still hot. She could make Clarence’s likeness: the rider of the black destrier whose curls streaked golden by the sun stood on one end. Her husband’s return she saw not with the eyes but felt instinctively. Her eyes would not have demasqued the downcast man for the king had he not so towered above all the others.

‘Isabel, tidy yourself your ki -‘ no, brother by marriage. For heavens sake, what to call him? ‘ Edward is here’ she finally settled on.

Isabel was looking too, the Byzantine garnet pendant she was gifted by George as a wedding night gift, claimed what little light came from outside in its opulence. Her face showed no sign of duress and no sign of tears. Annet sighed with contentment and now relief for Isabel’s imperturbable exterior, how she would have hated a crying daughter. One to remind her every waking hour that she was no son.

A white bolt of silk was fashioned onto Isabel’s head into a chaperon and they made their way down to the great chamber for their last excursion about the castle. The three men passed the threshold and when the women curtseyed, the befudled Countess thanked chance they came at once as none of them knew for whom the deference should be intended.

Isabel was the first to rise, greeting George as a wife. A wife’s devotal duty. Surely none could gainsay her for bypassing the King .

Any neutrality was however broken when George in spite of- or rather because of- his brother’s presence drew Isabel towards him pressing his lips lingeringly against hers.

The King did not need to do more than narrow his dark eyes, and fear was struck into the walls themselves. The stalwart grey stone which saw all their childhoods and marriages unfolded, all but this giant of a man, who in them saw nothing but the betrayal that had passed against kings. No two kings were as different as Edward IV and Edward II whose Sir Gaveston was sentenced to die in this very castle. Yet fate is wrought with irony.

‘Cousin, welcome to Warwick Castle’ said The Countess who was in no mood for a confrontation regarding honorifics . ‘I have made ready your lodgings at Caesar Tower. As soon as it started to rain I bid the servants prepare a bath, if you please’

The morose nod he then gave was greater confirmation of his capture than any tied rope could have given.

As he was escorted away, she fell into her husband’s arms in a strange variation of their reunion customs. ‘Is it done?’

‘I know my clever Annet better than to ask which you did mean- the deposition or the executions’ The Earl joked, cracked lips forming a warm smile ‘Yes, the deed is done’.

Drops fell into his collar as he shook his head at George, clucking, who instead chose his plain tattered boots as his focus ‘For the love of Christ George, I know you did add that to your letter to Isabel. I told you: platitudes and naught else should be there. Have you spared any though on-‘

George met his eyes and answered with, ‘Thought on what? That news would get out and Edward would find out?’ The smirk that gathered, sat as naturally on his soft lips as a dagger in a babe’s hand.

Read the rest here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22268239/chapters/57406180

#I wrote this #wars of the roses #isabel neville #george of clarence #historical fiction #edward iv #historical accuracy #criticisms are as welcome as compliments #the white queen #richard neville #a bygone era #written by me #anne neville #anne beauchamp #margaret of york #apparently links do not show up in tags

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shih-coulda-had-it · 5 years

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Savior Complex

warnings: starts off pretty apocalyptic, so yes, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. but also a time travel fic, so...? GEN (for now), even if Izuku is age 35!

summary: So many dead, so little left to protect. One for All responds to Deku’s dream and pulls him into the past.

a credit! @thelennystorm for inspiring Nana’s Quirk and Hero name (pls message me if you would like this changed)

“You did everything right,” said the specter, All for One’s younger brother. Izuku stayed prone on the ground, feeling hollow and just… not very Plus Ultra about his situation. The world was teetering on the brink of desolation; only the most overpowered heroes had survived the first few cataclysms, and they shuttled back and forth between the remaining communes of humanity.

All for One had stopped playing games. Humanity starts anew, he had declared on every screen, every soundwave, or not at all.

Izuku had spent close to fifteen years being one of Japan’s Symbols of Peace. He was thirty-five now, and no closer to finding a successor than he was to eradicating All for One.

“I should be doing more,” he grieved.

The sickly-complexioned man tilted his head. “Didn’t you hear me? You’re doing all you can.” His voice turned remorseful. “If anything, my older brother should have been stopped long ago.”

Izuku closed his eyes. “None of you could access One for All like me. I’m the one with a shot at beating him and his regenerative Quirks, and I can’t find him.”

Izuku had met and befriended other countries’ top heroes, but One for All was unique in its stockpiling of its previous users and its unlimited potential, so no one had yet matched Izuku’s prowess. But no one offered any help either.

Japan’s problem, the United Nations had decreed, just before All for One turned his attention from his homeland to the world, Japan’s responsibility.

And that had set the policy up to the present.

He took breaks in this mindscape. His predecessors flitted in and out of awareness, talking less and less as time marched on. All for One’s younger brother’s presence broke the streak of loneliness and silent accusations.

“Midoriya,” said the man. “How badly do you want to fix this?” He gestured broadly at the mindscape, but Izuku got the gist. How badly do you want to stop All for One?

“I’d give my life,” he answered.

“When would you do it?”

The evenness of the interrogation was beginning to mess with Izuku’s mind. And then there was that choice of when, not how. He contemplated the question with all the seriousness it demanded. He used to track All for One’s history; when and who the villain had killed or taken the Quirk of, when were the most pivotal moments. He used to dream about saving those people.

Most of all, he used to dream about saving All Might’s predecessor.

Shimura Nana had not been a famous hero, but she had been well-liked among her peers. Flicker Vision, the Vanishing Hero. Able to disappear from sight for five seconds at a time—a distortion of her cells, so far as Izuku had experienced. According to all documents, her death had occurred via an unknown detonation of red and black energy in a city never rebuilt. Izuku had begged the rest of the narrative from Nana, who’d recounted what she could with a forced smile. All Might’s face, downcast and miserable, provided the dry account with all the emotions it entailed.

“I’d save Shimura-san,” Izuku finally murmured. “She came the closest to destroying all his operations at the time, and she came face to face with him. If I could go back, it’d be that fight.”

“That fight made your hero,” said the man. “That’s when All Might was forged. You’d trade one legend for one forgotten name?”

He had given thought to changing the battle of Kamino Ward, his other concrete reference point, but during All for One’s temporary imprisonment, he had gloated about recently achieving invincibility in conjunction with immortality. That necessitated an earlier change.

Izuku cracked open an eye. “All Might didn’t need a crucible,” he shot back. “He already had his ideals, and his purpose.” He bit his lip, and did a cursory check for the souls around them. No Nana or All Might tonight. “And…” he reluctantly added, because this admission would mean his decision was not wholly objective, “he loved her.”

“Like a mother.”

It stung. Mostly because the memory of Izuku’s own mother hadn’t yet scarred over yet. But no, he couldn’t think of that now, or he’d be crying the rest of his break away. He made a noise of vague agreement, just to appease the man.

He got poked in the cheek. “Hey, Midoriya.”

Izuku sighed.

“Time to go.”

The unceremonious booting from his own mindscape, Izuku thought uncharitably, was clearly an omen for this fucking mess of a fight. He evaded the fingers headed for his stomach, blindly swung out with a retaliatory kick. Shigaraki was wearing his glee proudly, and already treating this battle like a playful, if deadly, spar.

They even had something like a script by this point. Izuku had bumped into Shigaraki far too often to not develop one.

“Where’s All for One?” he demanded.

“Sensei’s busy,” sang the villain. “Too busy for the likes of you.”

They circled each other for a few seconds, and then Izuku tapped into Nana’s Quirk, then exercised Black Whip to trip the other man. He faded back into sight behind the sprawled Shigaraki. “That’s unfortunate,” he said, planting a foot right between the shoulder blades. “Because I have some plans to kill him.”

A startled giggle. “Kill? Wow, so much for being a hero!”

Izuku was too jaded by this point to let the jibe sting him. He lessened the pressure on Shigaraki’s spine in any case, only to flinch back at the handfuls of powdery dust being flung at his face.

And then he was choking on pain, because Shigaraki—always, always faster than he should be—had gotten to his feet and had slammed all five fingers to his stomach, his other hand curling in on Izuku’s collar.

Full Cowl’s protection meant that there was a delay. It meant that there was a painful delay.

“Izuku!” barked All for One’s younger brother. “Pull back your fist!”

Through the agony of skin splintering and reknitting, regenerating and decaying, Izuku obeyed. Shigaraki’s grin grew wilder at the defiant sight, and he crowed something unintelligible.

“Think of your dream!” urged the man. “Think of all who were reliant on you to protect them,” and Izuku closed his eyes and pictured the dead, his mentors and his classmates and his family; he pictured Nana’s slumped back as she recalled her final moments, and All Might’s horror at hearing what he’d left his shishou to face, “AND STRIKE WITH ALL YOUR MIGHT!”

Izuku—backed by his eight predecessors howling that same, angry pitch—screamed and punched forward.

The wind enveloped them. Then the world ripped apart.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” babbled a deep, if youthful, voice. “Is he dead? Where’d he come from?”

“Kid, pull it together,” said a more gravelly tone. It was closer to Izuku, who was fighting past the cobwebs and frantically pulling on One for All, which felt smaller than it had before he and Shigaraki—

His eyes snapped open, and although he instinctively tried to sit up, a throbbing bolt of pain encouraged him to fall back instead. “Shit—!”

“Steady,” said the presence kneeling by his shoulder. No steadying hand was offered though. “What’s your name? Do you know who attacked you?”

Blinking past the tears, Izuku reoriented himself first. In front of him, nervously bouncing from foot to foot, was a—oh. Oh, wow. It was a much younger All Might, when he wasn’t using One for All. Izuku could tell by the sunflower yellow hair and the Young Age costume.

Next to him was… his brain stalled. Gran Torino. He was tall, and broadly-muscled, but Izuku could recognize the silver hair (longer, more tousled and rakish) and hawk-like eyes, the off-white and yellow costume that clearly hadn’t changed over the decades.

“Did a—did you see anyone else?” he croaked. “Man a bit above our age. Gray hair. Mole on his lower right jaw.”

Gran Torino looked at All Might, and tilted his head expectantly.

“No,” said All Might. His expression was more than a little queasy. “No, I think—I think you might be laying in him though.”

Izuku—didn’t look down. Valiantly refused to look down. If he had a growing awareness of something seeping into his uniform, sticky and warm, then so what? His environment appeared to be a back alley. Coffee spilled all the time. So Izuku kept his mind busy studying Gran Torino. Doesn’t look like he’s grieving. Does look like he’s in a hurry. What happened to me?

“It’s not on your face,” All Might provided helpfully.

“Your name,” said Gran Torino impatiently.

“Deku,” slipped out before Izuku could filter it. He’d gone by it for too long, hearing it more than his civilian name in the recent years. “No, sorry, uh. Midoriya Izuku.”

Populations had skyrocketed in the world once Quirks were determined to be tailored in 80% of them. So names were in abundance. He wouldn’t strike any mysterious records, where they would find parallels between him and his future baby self.

Gran Torino’s head jerked, like he had heard something. He inhaled sharply, but upon catching Izuku’s eyes, let it go. He needed to jet off then.

Izuku tested his limbs. One for All was doing some miracle work, regenerating the torn muscle fibers and decayed organ tissue. He’d be ready to go any second. “If you gotta go, you gotta go,” said Izuku encouragingly. “I’ll call a friend.”

“To take you to the hospital I hope,” huffed the man.

He made a noncommittal noise. All Might shuffled his stance again, and nervously reminded his teacher of shishou. A concussive force hummed through the air, and in the distance, there were the faint shrieks of sirens, the tremors of buildings facing imminent collapse.

Okay. Izuku was in the right time. Now to just shadow along behind these two.

“You a hero?” demanded Gran Torino. He got to his feet, paused for a beat, scoffed, and offered his hand out. Izuku took it.

“Close enough,” he answered. His license had been lost and shredded a few years ago, but by then, his was a recognizable face and costume. You only had to say green in guessing games, and thoughts would immediately go to Deku. Izuku closed his eyes and pulled at One for All, and the familiar rush of Full Cowl enveloped him.

“You a vigilante?”

Izuku grimaced. “I think your intern mentioned a shishou,” he reminded Gran Torino pointedly. No need to interrogate him about the legality of his work, never mind his identity. Maybe the chaos of the times would be a boon; he could slip right into the Quirk register and Japan’s government records without a second glance.

Gran Torino clicked his tongue, clearly torn between racing for Nana and locking down an unknown, highly suspect element.

Finally, he relented. “If you’re a hero, start a perimeter and begin rescue,” he ordered. “If you’re an enemy, give me the goddamn pleasure of letting me know now, so I can beat you unconscious without wasting time.”

Izuku couldn’t resist. “And if I’m a civilian?”

Gran Torino glared. “Yeah, nice try. Jumpsuit and gear like that? Soaked in blood? You’re one or the other. Tell me now.”

A yellow-gloved hand was curling into a fist. Izuku was familiar enough with his mentor that the steady breathing was preparation for movement, and it was clear that a Gran Torino in his prime had much better lung capacity than an elder. He snapped off a smart salute. “Hero.”

“Then get,” said Gran Torino. To All Might, who was avidly watching the byplay, he snapped, “Let’s go, kid.”

Anyone else might have lost them after the first two seconds.

Midoriya Izuku, using 100% of One for All? Child’s play. He closed his eyes and centered himself, now more than aware that two people had just vanished from his Quirk, and when he opened them, green irises gleamed.

1/?

*note: in the All Might Rising OVA, All Might refers to Nana as oshishou; the ‘o-’ prefix is an indicator of respect, so far as google tells me. think ‘onee-san’ or ‘otou-san’ versus ‘nee-san’ and ‘tou-san.’

i didn’t bother translating shishou to master, like the subtitles did, mostly because... well, the English doesn’t really hold that emotional relationship you see in these mentorships (thinking of the other mentorship i’m familiar with, which is Sakura and Tsunade)

<<and then i didn’t add the prefix ‘o-’ because deep down, i’m a victim of habit, and i’ve seen shishou more than oshishou>>

#bnha #shih.txt #anyway so i've been having gran torino & shimura nana feels #and i've been on a time travel kick #anyone else have issues forming bnha civilian names #i don't have horikoshi's pun power #and using naruto names as placeholders is KILLING me #also also #is izuku aware of all might's civilian name???#maybe i should have like #a deathbed or funeral scene #wherein all might's name is revealed

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2gameprince · 7 years

Text

Jiga Boryoku/The Little Bastard’s Bumper

Yatsu Tachinowarui stood beneath a street lamp one chilly Fukuoka night alongside his close friends and business partners, Kuruna Otoko, Kurin & Kita Sentoki, as well as the mysterious Senshi. “Such is the life of an everyday criminal.” Yatsu looks up at the cold night sky and begins to take a cigarette out of his coat. Senshi lights a match and holds out his arm to light Yatsu’s cigarette. “The hardest part isn’t the fear of capture, nor the complexity of the job.” Yatsu takes a deep breath before putting the unlit cigarette back in his pocket, too bored to smoke. “The hardest part is the waiting.” Hito Hiretsuna, with the roar of a read Nissan 350Z, comes up fast and with a flawless turn parks almost instantly, just inches from where Yatsu and his buddies linger. Hito jumps out of a pre-opened sunroof with loud excitement. “Well here she is boys! Straight off the presses. You wouldn’t believe what the guys over at the docks had to do to sneak this baby past storage and inspection.” All of the men are amazed and get fixed in fits of utter euphoria. All except for Yatsu and Kurin who keep their wits about themselves. Yatsu steps forward with a level head. “And if you’d of gotten caught speeding here, this whole damn transportation job would have all been blown to hell. Think a little next time.” Hito shrugs it off as harmless fun, and Yatsu continues. “You all know the drill. I’ll take the care to the drop point. Kurin and Kita will follow me close behind on bikes while Hito and Kuruna listen in on the radio and serve as backup incase we end up getting stopped by authorities for any reason.” Hito smirks in the hopes of something going amiss, just for the sake of action. “Hito is a wild child and the abruptly titled ‘Scumbag’ of the group.” Kuruna nods silently and heads over to their black van, preparing the headsets and microphones. “Let’s roll out!” After a clean and successful car delivery job, the team collects their cut and parts ways for the night. All of them not even thinking about what their next job will entail, but content with the momentary success of tonight. The next day Yatsu and Kuruna meet up with Kurin and Kita in Ko’s Garage, located across the street from Wun’s Bar. Hito treats the gang to the sight of a new drifting vehicle he’s acquired. Pulling back the cover cloth and unveiling a black and orange beauty. The men stand before a customized Nissan Skyline before the confident Hito heads into a speech. “Fantastic ain’t it? Just picked it up today, by those guys down at the dock, of course.” Over at Wun’s Bar, a patron waiting for the doors to open, for a quick early morning pint, hears the commotion and excitement Hito is stirring up. This biker’s name, Gesu. He heads over to the garage to investigate. As he walks up to the group, Hito continues. “See that bumper? That bumper there was actually part of an old racing cart called the Little Bastard, or something like that. The guys I got it from shaped it to fit perfectly onto my drifter, here. And would you believe they did it for free?! Guess they were allergic the epic style of classic race car nostalgia piece. I bet the original owner has no idea where it ended up.” Gesu stumbles into the garage and up to Hito. He stands tall and with a stern foreshadowing in his voice. “Ain’t you ever heard of James Dean?” Hito proves his worth in words. “Nope.” Gesu proceeds. “Idiot. James Dean was an American movie star who died in a racing car accident. The name of that car, The Little Bastard.” The group responds in a dumbfounded unison. “The car was eventually dismantled and the pieces were distributed to various garages, car manufacturers and dealerships around the world.” Hito stares blankly, fixed on the fact that the bumper was property of a movie star at one point. “That was until people began noticing that every single car using a piece or component of Dean’s car would always end up getting into an accident, which in turn always resulted in the death of the driver.” Not a negative thought crosses Hito’s mind as Gesu continues talking. “After the cars using those pieces got totaled, the specific pieces used in Dean’s original car, The Little Bastard, had been dealt more damage than the car itself and became unusable. This continued as more and more pieces were destroyed, as drifter after drifter died along with them.” Gesu finishes strong. “Some folks figured this out when there was only a hand full of the Little Bastard’s original pieces still left in circulation, floating around, and…” Hito snaps out of his trance and back into his twisted, self absorbed reality. “…And I’ve got the Bastard’s bumper!” Hito jumps for joy, hearing only the jovial and ignoring the morbid. Gesu glances across the street to see the bar’s doors are now open. He silently excuses himself from the group, walks away and slowly disappears into the darkness of the bar’s interior. Yatsu, Kuruna, Hito, Kurin and Kita are all left speechless as an unwelcome presence fills the garage. A smalltime gang consisting of six teenage punks enters the garage and waltz on up to Hito. The gang’s leader, Mashio Hara, gets in Hito’s face and begins doing what he does best. That is, running his mouth. “Well, well, well, Hito Hiretsuna. playing with the packrats as usual? tell me, how’d you acquire this hunk of shit?” Hito makes a jump for Mashio, but Yatsu and Kuruna hold him back. “Temper, temper, Hito. You do see my men practically lining up outside the door, don’t you? We could torch this place to the ground and leave you for the crows, but… I tend to try and keep myself from wallowing with the weak. It taints my graces.” Hito begins to imagine an unbelievable number of centuries in which he could kill Mashio. Mashio turns his sight’s on Hito’s Nissan Skyline. “My, my, my, my, my. What a strange bumper you have there, Hito.” Hito looks up with a face so stone cold, god did a double-take. Hito responds. “Like it? Got it custom made. Cooled and hardened right from the crotch of your mother.” Hito inhales deeply. “Smell that? That’s the smell of your mom’s box on my car.” Mashio’s eyes hide a concealed outburst as he closes his eyes and turns to smirk ever so slightly. “Funny. If I wasn’t here on business I’d take you outside and drive blades so far into you, your granddaughter would feel it. But, I come bearing a challenge. Though we are rival districts, you know as well as I do that Corporate hates it when us street boys begin throwing stones at one another from across the schoolyard.” Mashio continues. “So, we are here to welcome you to a friendly little race. Your car against mine. It’d be a little display of civil equality and respect. Show the guys up at Corporate that their little street thugs can play nice and still keep a tight grip on things here in Fukuoka and Kyushu. What do you say, Hito?” Hito and the gang stand in anger before bursting out of encouraged silence. “I’ll take your car on and I’ll slam you into the fucking side streets, you jerk! Hope you like the back lights of a Nissan blasting so far in front of you, your fucking brains will fly out of your eye sockets, you jackass!” Mashio scoffs, turns and slowly calls his men to follow him out the door. “Tomorrow night, Hito. bring your game face. Come on boys. leave the filth to float in their ilk.” Hito goes into a frenzy as soon as the goons all vacate the garage. “I can’t believe that son of a bitch! Coming in here with his smug grim and grimy mug! First chance I get I’m gonna tear his bastard head off!” While Hito fumes, Kurin inquires. “A race? Tomorrow? Should we go? Could we actually win?” Yatsu ponders for a moment before speaking. “Well you heard him. Obviously Corporate doesn’t think our districts can get along, so Mashio planned to throw down this shindig to appease them. Still, it was Mashio’s idea. That’s the only part that doesn’t sit right with me.” Yatsu continues as Kuruna nods. “The last thing we need is any higher powers breathing down our necks on every job and screwing up the way we do things.” Hito responds in an instant. “Damn straight!” Yatsu finishes. “We’ll race tomorrow. Just to set Corporate’s minds at ease.” And with the light of the sun matching the blinding gleam of the moon, the gang slumbers as a window to Ko’s Garage is broken. In pours the Kyushu district’s best. Stealing pieces and taking car part, they grab the bumper of Hito’s car as they make their way out the window again. “Kill me. Just kill me.” The next morning, the gang is devastated to find Ko’s Garage broken into and Hito’s car torn to shreds. Hito turns red as the fire within his eyes grow hotter than the bluest flame. “I’m gonna kill that worm! I’m gonna drive his skull into the Earth and fossilize that ingrate!! Without the gangs fearing us, they’d of never made a name for themselves out here! Those fuckers!! I’m gonna crush each and every one of them!! No one screws with my car and lives to brag about it…” The gang lets Hito fume. “…we should of known they’d do something like this! How could I be so stupid to leave her here last night!? And they took my fucking movie star bumper!!” Kurin jumps in. “That thing was cursed, man.” As Hito refers to the car, Yatsu ponders their next corse of action, and speaking it firmly. “We have to start working on the car.” Hito responds rationally, for once. “Are you crazy?” Kita jumps in. “The race is tonight!” Yatsu takes a breath to explain. “I know we can do it. When we attend the race tonight I’ll confront Corporate maturely about the antics that Mashio and the Kyushu district are up to.” Yatsu wins over his friends with confidence and an honorable speech. Kurin and Kuruna agree as the gang gets to working on Hito’s car. Day falls to night as the gang piles into Hito’s Nissan and speeds away to the race’s meeting point. They pull up alongside Mashio a few minutes later, in his custom Mazda RX-7, sporting a black jacket and lucky rabbits foot hanging from his rearview mirror. A shit-eating grin fills Mashio's face as Hito holds back some heavy language. From where Yatsu and the gang is standing, it is clear to see the Little Bastard’s bumper resprayed and attached to the front of Mashio’s car. No words are exchanged as both men ready heir engines. Both districts stand on the sidelines as rubber begins to burn. Just before they go off, Hito calls over to Mashio. Yatsu signals to Hito for a clean race as Hito revs up his car, pulling it up close, alongside Hito starts. “You had to take the bumper didn’t you.” Mashio smugly denies raiding the garage and lets out a cocky chuckle. “No clue what you’re talking about.” Hito nods, assuming. “Figured you wouldn’t. Don’t you worry. We’ll talk about it after the race.” Mashio responds. “Sure thing, old man.” In an attempt to scare Mashio, Hito drops some speculation. “You know that bumper is cursed right?” The egotistical Mashio turns to Hito and responds before the flag is waved and both men speed off. “Come on, old man. You don’t really believe in curses, do you?” Both men shoot off and their cars seem almost in sync as they tear up the roadway. Their speed is unbelievable as they make smoke with every second they inch further and further ahead. The race ends quite quickly as both men approach their first turn and Mashio finds he has no control of the wheel. With the car execrating Mashio rams directly into a brick wall, being flown through the window shield and violently being slapped against the wall, killing him instantaneously and totaling the bumper, beyond repair. Hito halts in shock as the crowd witnesses this disaster. “Holy shit. The curse was… real?!” News of Mashio Hara’s death soon spread all across the criminal underworld, and ended in everyone forgetting about him in a matter of months.

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