#like it hurts it lingers and haunts you but ya know

[deityofhearts]

It’s just like, I know I have the capacity to be happy and be loved but I don’t feel loved and as long as I don’t feel loved I can’t be happy

[taizi]

gently in the cold dark earth

scum villain's self saving system word count: 2k canon divergent / no system au; sy transmigrates into an empty npc role; gray lotus binghe loves his shixiong more than life and he's ready to make it everyone's problem

title borrowed from work song by hozier

read on ao3

x

The first thing Luo Binghe does when he escapes the Abyss is return to Cang Qiong Mountain. 

With Xin Mo secured to his back, the way could be instant if he so chose—the journey of a thousand miles reduced to a single step—but he unsheathes the elegant jian at his hip instead.

Yong Liang sings sweetly for him, the snow white blade still shining and untainted even after years of helping Luo Binghe carve his way through hell. It has never once failed him, soulbound to the one person still on this earth who has never failed him. 

“Take it,” his shixiong insisted, low and urgent. The Abyss was behind them, an even deadlier threat was ahead, and Without A Cure clogging his meridians made Luo Binghe the best choice to wield the only unshattered spirit sword they had between them. “Binghe, take it.”

He pressed until Luo Binghe’s grip curled tight around the hilt, not hesitating to put his soul in Luo Binghe’s hands even with the rosy glow of an unsealed demon mark shining on his face. 

Luo Binghe flies at a pace best described as dangerously reckless, hardly smelling the fragrant spring air or feeling the sun on his face. His robes are a disgrace, his hair a tangled, matted mess, and it occurs to him that he could stop somewhere and clean himself up, make himself presentable, but it’s a brief, fleeting thought. 

Shen Yuan would be furious to find out that Luo Binghe wasted even a single second returning to his side. 

——

He passes through the ancient wards effortlessly, feeling them fall away from him like water. It’s a simple thing to tamp down on his demonic qi, to disguise the parts of him that those so-called righteous cultivators would scorn. He ghosts through the familiar grounds as eagerly as a starving animal bolting down a fresh game trail, but one by one, all of their familiar haunts come up empty, without even a lingering trace of Shen Yuan’s spiritual energy left behind.   

The head disciple’s room is dusted and undisturbed, as if its occupant might walk through the door at any moment, but the lack of clutter and the empty book shelf makes it very clear to Luo Binghe what the truth must be.

If Shen Yuan returned to the peak after the Conference, he didn’t stay. 

All at once, images crowd the front of his mind—his shixiong grieving, pulling away, turning his back on those responsible for his heartache. 

Yue Qingyuan, always only a step behind wherever his precious Xiu Ya sword went, promised that no one wanted to hurt them. They only wanted to help.

He looked so solemn and righteous that Shen Yuan reluctantly allowed himself to be convinced. Luo Binghe, who had gone to the man for help after a bloody whipping when he was a child, only to be given a walnut cake and turned away at the door, knew better. 

He wasn’t surprised when Shen Yuan was wrenched away from him, and shizun sent him staggering off the cliff with a spiritual dagger buried to the hilt in his chest, all of it happening within a matter of seconds—but it still hurt. 

Shen Yuan’s scream followed him all the way down. 

I’m alive, Luo Binghe thinks, with no one there to tell it to. I came back to you. Let me come back to you. 

——

Including time spent in the abyss, it’s three years before they meet again. 

Luo Binghe’s revenge is his second priority at best, but he is nothing if not efficient and knows how to kill two birds with the same stone. Huan Hua affords him ample resources and opportunities to scour the world for his missing shixiong while playing the role of earnest and diligent new disciple. He snatches up each mission that comes along as though  eager to prove his worth to the sect that so graciously took him in, but he takes every excuse to wander, to search, to make conversation with vendors and innkeepers and passing strangers. 

Have you seen my heart? It lives outside of me in the form of a beautiful young man and tends to wander. Very contrary, likes to fuss over people, could argue the stripes off a lushu just for fun. You’d know it if you met it. You’d never forget. 

The days blur together, meaningless and gray, but he doesn’t stop looking. Shen Yuan still exists somewhere in this world, because otherwise Luo Binghe wouldn’t. It’s the only thing that makes sense. The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about. 

And then, finally—an afternoon in Jinlan City, when Luo Binghe arrives in a throng of incompetent gold-clad Huan Hua disciples, to investigate a plague of all things—

He’s there. 

In dark, neutral colors and plain clothes, a traveling cloak with its hood resting down around his shoulders, as if his beauty could possibly be lessened by cheap, shapeless fabrics rather than effortlessly enhanced. His hair falls from its half-tail in glorious waves—he never did have the patience for anything elaborate, only wearing braids when one of his sticky shidimei cajoled and convinced him. Traveling alone, who could he possibly have to roll his eyes at and complain about and sit patiently still for?

A pale green ribbon is all that decorates his hair. Luo Binghe recognizes it instantly. 

“You should spend your allowance on yourself, Binghe,” Shen Yuan scolded him, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. 

“But I did,” Luo Binghe protested, widening his eyes and clasping his hands earnestly, the way he knew worked best. “I wanted it! And now that I have it, I want to give it to you.”

Shen Yuan was too clever by half to be truly fooled by the innocent act, but he always folded like paper anyway. He spoiled all of his shidimei but Luo Binghe most of all. Anyone on Qing Jing Peak would be hard-pressed to think of a single example of Shen Yuan telling Luo Binghe ‘no.’ 

Sure enough, after a second spent visibly wrestling with himself, he blurted, “Oh, fine! Hand it over.” 

He wore it every day since. He’s wearing it now. The wind catches the ends of it, sending it streaming behind him like the tails of a paradise flycatcher. Lovely. 

For a brief moment, Luo Binghe is frozen where he stands, finally faced with the very thing that he’s been missing for years, that he’s been living a miserable half-life without. 

And then he remembers himself and lurches forward. His voice is a tangle in his throat but he manages to choke out, “Shixiong!”

A strike of lightning couldn’t have jolted Shen Yuan into more perfect stillness. He stops mid-step, every inch of him as good as carved from precious jade. He doesn’t turn his head, and the sliver of his face visible from where Luo Binghe stands is very pale. 

Luo Binghe wonders suddenly if this has happened to him before—if Shen Yuan has heard a voice on the road or in the market that was almost familiar, that was almost the one he was hoping for, only to be disappointed when he turned to follow it and found a stranger. 

Luo Binghe shortens the distance between them with a few anxious steps and tries again. 

“Shixiong.”

The older boy whirls around abruptly, as if to get it over with. He’s bracing himself, but Luo Binghe barely has a second to absorb Shen Yuan’s painful-looking anticipation before it bleeds out of his face in favor of something else entirely. 

He looks like the earth has fallen out from beneath his feet, like he hardly dares to believe his eyes. Zheng Yang gleams golden at Shen Yuan’s hip, reforged and whole again.

“Binghe?”  

“It’s me,” Luo Binghe says softly. 

There’s a tableau he’s afraid to break, as if they’re in a delicate dreamscape and a move too sudden or loud might dissolve it. He wants to say I’ve missed you the way lungs miss air, immediately and needfully, I haven’t breathed at all since we’ve been apart. He wants to say you’re my light in the dark, I can only stand in front of you now because I love you too much to ever truly leave you. 

Instead, he tells his dearest friend, “This one made you wait. But your Binghe is here.”

Shen Yuan sprints the rest of the way to meet him, almost before he’s even finished talking, and they collide in a solid embrace that knocks the air from them both. 

His arms wind around Luo Binghe’s waist like steel bands, fingers digging into the back of his robes, precious face pressed into the crook of his neck and shoulder. Luo Binghe doesn’t hesitate to gather him up close, holding him as tightly and securely as he knows how, burying his nose in his shixiong’s hair and breathing in the familiar, beloved smell of him.  

Shen Yuan is a few inches shorter than he remembers. All the better to tuck him beneath Luo Binghe’s chin, to cover and surround him so completely that not even the heavens above can get a decent eyeful. 

He wants to grab and bite and pin Shen Yuan beneath him and never let go. His jaw aches with wanting it. 

“I’ve been looking for you,” Luo Binghe says, eyes wet. “I went home first.” Unsaid goes the obvious but you weren’t there. 

“How could I stay?” Shen Yuan bites out, managing to sound all at once strangled and bewildered and—charmingly—offended. He shakes his head without lifting it, an aggressive nuzzle against Binghe’s shoulder. “After what they did to you, I’d rather die than represent their stupid sect another minute.”

“Step away from it, Shen Yuan,” shizun said coldly. “I’ll put that beast back where it belongs.”

“No,” shixiong said in a voice that was smaller than usual, one that shook. He was frightened, clearly overwhelmed, but he didn’t budge from where he was plastered in front of Luo Binghe like a breathing shield. 

“Now.” 

“No, shizun.”

“Shizhi,” Yue Qingyuan said gently, offering his hand. “Come here. It will be alright.”

Shen Yuan said, “No. You can’t hurt Binghe. He’s not bad just because of who his parents are. He’s as good as he was yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. He’s hardworking and loyal and a sweetheart to anybody who gives him half a chance. He’s so good.”

Liu Qingge was behind the sect leader, sword drawn. Shen Qingqiu was quickly losing what little patience he had, face twisted into a sneer, dark eyes stabbing hatefully at Luo Binghe from over his head disciple’s shoulder. There were more figures rapidly drawing closer, the other peak lords following the flare of Yue Qingyuan’s qi. The standoff was becoming more and more untenable, and Shen Yuan was too smart not to see that, shrinking back against Luo Binghe as much as he could without crowding him closer to the edge. 

“You can’t hurt him,” he said again, the closest Luo Binghe had ever heard him come to tears, “he’s my shidi.”

Luo Binghe is unsurprised by his shixiong’s loyalty, because it’s already been proven to him over and over. It’s unremarkable at this point, which is an absolutely remarkable thing in itself. It makes him feel warm with gratitude and affection and ownership. 

Shen Yuan is clever and quick on his feet and always three steps ahead, more knowledgeable about flora and fauna than anyone else Binghe has ever known combined, and probably a force to be reckoned with as a rogue cultivator, where the only rules of conduct he has to adhere to are his own. 

But Luo Binghe hates to think of him on the road alone, without the little martial siblings who follow him like ducklings, without his Binghe there to make sure he remembers to eat all his meals and comb out his hair before bed. He’s a creature of comfort, made for airy rooms with too many cushions and an abundance of sweets and books to read. 

Luo Binghe has fantasized more than once about building a home for Shen Yuan to lounge prettily in. It was, in fact, his favorite flavor of daydream since he was about thirteen. 

If Shen Yuan wants to rogue cultivate, then that’s what they’ll do. But Luo Binghe thinks, if he constructs a palace that’s as comfortable as it is grand, and fills it with trashy romance novels and obscure beasts and his own hand-made meals, he can convince his friend to live in it with him.

Shen Yuan needs to be taken care of. Luo Binghe needs to be the one taking care of him. They’re together now and they’ll never be apart again and those needs can both be met. 

That possessive, proprietary feeling coils dark and deep inside him, undulating lazily like a serpent who’s fed enough for days, reminding him over and over what he already knows:

Mine. 

[celtic-crossbow]

Series Masterlist

Chapter 2

Chapter Warnings: Violence (Man on woman), just really horrible treatment of reader, allusions to sexual assault

You weren’t even sure what was happening. First, you had reached for the man’s arm— stupid, stupid, stupid, you knew better— and then you were on the ground. It didn’t hurt but it was startling. You kept your head down, moving slowly. Maybe Todd hadn’t seen. The stranger’s boot fell into your line of sight, just before Todd’s shiny loafers. 

Shit. 

Todd’s grip on your bicep was bruising. It would definitely leave marks, would have even before he yanked you up so hard that your head snapped back. 

“What have I told you about touching the customers without asking?”

Your mouth moved without sound, surely making you look like a fish out of water. You really didn’t know how to answer. You knew better! Stupid!

“Hey, man, she—”

You should have expected the strike. You deserved it, really. It was the one thing that had been beaten into you over and over. Not all clients reacted as strongly as this one had, though. They would yell at you, call you names. Sometimes they’d call over Todd or even Big Jazz himself. None before had ever physically thrown you. Yet, from the stricken expression he wore, he had the nerve to feel bad about it. 

You knew better than to argue. Talking back only made things worse. You had seen worse too many times before they had managed to break you. You didn’t make a sound when Jazz wrapped your hair around his fist to force you to your feet. 

Through the small gap between your fingers, you saw the stranger leaving but he seemed reluctant; a haunted look in his eyes that you knew well. 

“Hey!”

You lowered your hands but only slightly. Jazz and Todd would only make it hurt more if you were caught looking at the client you drove out. 

“How much for her?” 

What?!

You staggered out behind the two men and fell against the building’s exterior to shield your eyes from light you had not seen in— wait, how long had you been there? 

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“Ya saw what they was doin’ to ‘er, same as I did!”

“It wasn’t our problem!”

“It don’t hafta be our problem now! She’s free!”

Free? You weren’t free. You had been sold. Auctioned off like livestock. A new boss, a new set of rules to follow. Never free. 

“Maybe she can give us a ride then, Daryl, because otherwise we have a long walk ahead of us!”

“Man, just get the bags outta the car!”

When the men grew quiet, you slowly slid your hands down your face, blinking a few times to let your eyes adjust. The sun was so bright, so warm on your skin. You’d forgotten what that felt like. Your clothing—or lack thereof— only allowed for more warmth to seep in, stealing the chill from your bones. You inhaled deeply. You didn’t even mind the stench of death that seemed to linger in the air; it did little to overwhelm nature’s scent. The sky, the trees, the birds; it was as if you were seeing it all for the first time. 

“Ya alright?”

You gasped, standing as straight as you could, but wobbled on your silver heels. You hoped your makeup was still okay. You hadn’t cried but the slap from Todd had probably made a mess of your eye. Hopefully, you’d be at least close to what he had wanted. If he tried to sell you back, Jazz would—

“S’your name?” The man asked, his southern drawl thick but not unattractive. Even the layer of dirt on his skin had some sort of appeal. In fact, without ogling, there didn’t seem to be anything about him that was unattractive. Except maybe the permanent scowl he seemed to wear. He’d had it inside as well, save for when Todd had hit you and the moment just before he’d started the transaction. You’d never forget that look. Still, even now, there was a kindness in his pretty blue eyes that betrayed him. 

You jumped when he snapped his fingers just in front of your nose. Shit. Five minutes in and he’d already have to punish you. You quickly lowered your eyes. 

“Y/N, Sir.” You answered meekly. Never speak louder than Sir.

He merely grunted in reply, his friend approaching with a backpack outstretched. Maybe he hadn’t noticed you staring, though you found that hard to believe. You looked up from under your lashes and watched him sift through the pack to produce a half-empty bottle of water and a granola bar. He held both out to you, arching an eyebrow when you stared at the offering quizzically. 

“It’s, um—it’s not lights out, Sir.”

“Name’s Daryl. This s’Rick. And what the hell s’that mean?”

“Sir?”

“Daryl. Lights out. Whaddaya mean s’not lights out?” He looked as confused as you felt. 

“I only, uh, eat at lights out. Sometimes in the, uh—-sometimes in the morning if I did good the night before.”

“Th’fuck?” He sounded genuinely outraged. Maybe he meant to only feed you once. Maybe Jazz had actually been kind in his own way after all. “Y’ain’t gotta worry ‘bout all that anymore.” He offered the food again, pushing it closer. 

“Sir?”

“Daryl. Take it.” 

With trembling hands, you accepted the items and held them close, not daring to open either until he had explicitly given his permission. “Thank you.” You whispered. 

“Ain’t nothin’.” Daryl shouldered the bag, and pointed toward his left. “Nothin’ much down that way ‘less ya got people ya might be lookin’ for. I’d say North’s ya best bet.”

“Sir?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, the other man— Rick— snickering behind him. “Daryl—y’know, don’t even matter. See ya, Y/N.”

“Good luck.” Rick gave you a curt nod before both turned and began walking the very direction Daryl had just said was a waste of time. 

That really threw you for a loop. Was this some sort of test of your loyalty? Your obedience? Heels click-clacking against the pavement, you caught up and fell in behind them, keeping a respectable distance. Your throat burned and your stomach growled, but he hadn’t told you to partake of the food and water. Maybe he would once he saw how good you could be. 

You watched him glance over his shoulder before sharing a look with Rick. He stopped and turned to face you. “Wha’re ya doin’?”

“Was that not enough space?” You asked sincerely. The man stared at you with the most bewildered expression. “Too much?”

“Nah, why ya followin’ us?” Daryl looked angry now, stepping the slightest bit closer to cast a frightening shadow over your smaller form. 

“Be-because you own me, Sir.”

His eyebrows shot up toward his hairline as he floundered for a moment before settling back into the stoicism you assumed was his natural state. “Y’ain’t property. That place s’fucked up. Ya can go wherever ya want now.” You stared at him, wide eyes blinking slowly. He didn’t say anything else before turning and starting away from you again. 

“Sir?”

He stopped, shoulders tensing. “S’Daryl.”

“I, um—I don’t have anywhere to go.” Your voice was so small that you thought you might have to repeat yourself. Still, both men turned toward you yet again. “I—don’t remember how to be anything else.”

They shared another look before Daryl rolled his eyes and nearly stomped back over to where you still stood. “How many walkers ya killed?”

“Daryl.”

He held a hand up to silence Rick, actually looking a bit shocked when the other man shook his head and crossed his arms but said nothing else. 

“How many?”

“None.” You answered just as quietly as before. 

“Wonderful.” That was dripping with sarcasm. “How many people?”

You met his eyes again, suddenly terrified to answer. He was obviously irritated but that kindness was still there. You just didn’t feel like you should— or even could— lie to him. 

“One.”

“Why?”

You took a deep breath and stood a little straighter, feeling your face heat up when his eyes dropped to your almost completely exposed breasts before snapping back just as quickly, like he didn’t mean for it to happen. 

“One of Bigg Jazz’s men. He—he, um, needed to make sure I could do what they wanted. So he—” You trailed off, hoping he could fill in the rest. “I fought back. Killed him. That’s why I was treated differently from the other girls. He was Todd’s brother.”

His expression remained the same. It frightened you just how unreadable he seemed to be. He turned to Rick, apparently communicating his question without the need for words. The other man shook his head and put his hands on his hips, reminding you of your father. 

“Don’t look at me. I wasn’t the one to start this.”

Daryl promptly raised his middle finger and dropped it before giving you his attention. After a few uncomfortable moments, he sighed. “What the hell m’I doin’? Alright, fine. But eat that so ya don’ keel over an’ take those off.” He was pointing at your heels. “Make too much racket.” He spun and walked toward Rick. 

You nodded, just barely succeeded in containing your enthusiasm. You dared not smile. “Thank you. I’ll be real good. You won’t regret it, Sir.”

He froze mid-step, but didn’t turn. Shaking his head, he continued forward while you managed to remove your shoes and take a bite of the granola bar at the same time. 

Ahead of you, Rick watched as Daryl passed him by, smirking as he fell in step beside him. “She’d better keep up if we’re going to cover any ground before making camp.” He paused, lips twitching in an effort at self control. “Sir.”

“Shuddup.”

[meowzfordayz]

when the war is over; will our ghosts dance together, or will we ourselves dance hand in hand

Tomioka Giyuu x Reader

Word Count: ~700

CW: canonical violence, death content, depression, implied self harm, PTSD, traumatic references

Emergency Request Fulfilled: I am, I’m just feeling tired my work is so draining emotionally, mentally, physically and I know I’m burnt out because I’m just apathetic. (...) I want someone to take care of me; like I took care of the people I used to know. I feel like I’m spent and I have nothing left to give. It’s so hard for me to make friends again because I don’t even know what to say. I don’t know how to carry on a conversation anymore, if it’s because I’m scared or what or if I’m tired and I know things are going to end soon. (...) I want to let out the frustrations on me instead of someone else… I’d rather be hurt instead.

I hope this makes sense..? I am feeling like this again and I’m just tired ya know. You can pair it with any character you like, it’s all free reign for you. A comfort angst I suppose.

He knows how you feel

Recognizes the glimmer of defeat

In your soft gaze, so intent on pressing into his chest

Defeat has an odd shine to it

A sense of finality, of strength, at the end of a

Sea of doubt, longing, emptiness accepted in place of

Warmth

Sometimes, he wishes he could ask you

“How are you feeling?”

Oftentimes, he’s afraid your reply will be

“Fine. And you?”

How is he supposed to answer such deflected pain?

How can he reveal his own lonesome while trying to fill yours?

Perhaps this is why they say

You must love yourself before loving

Others

You must look out for yourself before looking out to

The One

Recovery is a fickle creature

As numbing as it is freeing

As quiet as it is difficult to ignore

Screaming in one’s head day in, day out

Etched into one’s skin, the drag of a blade

The shiver of a downpour

Puddles of blood seeping into moistened ground

Why does rain so frequently shed itself on the battlefield?

But he can tell

The lingering taste of war, of death

Is not your sole accompaniment

You are similar, but not the same

Walking a pace a step faster than his, sunken in a different weight of anxiety

Of dread

As he is

He wants, craves, a connection with you

Fixing, helping, someone else

But how?

And what?

And why?

He’s never thought of himself as a savior

A victim, more like it

And is it truly so grand, so honorable, of him

To desire a caress with heroism for the sake of healing

Of selfishness

And not necessarily out of curiosity, compassion, for your haunted tremors

He still remembers the one time you came to him

Well, really, he was the only soul around

“Tomioka-san. How do you tolerate it?”

And he had frowned, unable to meet your shaken stare, blue eyes glazed from an evening of ash and maroon, sunrise an unwilling accomplice in fulfilling his duties

“I don’t,” he’d deadpanned, turning from your telltale scars, so similar

So different

From his

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

He wonders, too

Of course he does

Wonders what he would do if he ever caught you

Caught you in your act of hatred and denial

Physical rendition of the song that’s been on repeat in his head

Wonders if the lyrics are identical

Underlining his every thought, just as they overline your wrists

He likes to imagine he would comfort you

Would be able to tug you into his arm, cool and solid, unfaltering and steady

But he thinks, in fact, that he’d be angry

Upset

Disappointed

Arm crossed, tight, unwelcoming, as his demons fraternize with yours

Lips pursed in desperation

Come here, I promise I won’t hurt you

Stuck beneath loathing

“Do you miss them?” you murmur, village sprawling out below the damp, thatched roof

Stars twinkling, teasing, dancing among the slivers of cloud above

“I do,” Giyuu confesses, inhibitions low, fingers cold with grief, “I’m grateful for this new world, but I fear my existence ceased along with the old one.”

“Tomioka-san,” you smile faintly, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“We barely know each other,” he mutters

“And are we to blame?” you chuckle, the sound brittle and forced, “It’s always been safer for us.”

To not get attached

“I wish I knew how to live.”

Me too you almost admit, head drooping with fatigue, elbows propped on your knees, legs hugged to your sternum

“I wish I knew how to live for myself,” he clarifies Everyone that mattered is gone

Sleep claims your response, limbs gradually relaxing, the rough fabric of his haori tucked around your shoulders before he leaves

“How about this…”

You glance at him, hesitant

Hopeful

“I’ll care for you. You’ll care for me.”

“You don’t already?” you tease gently, giggling when his eyes widen with alarm

“I-”

“I’m teasing, Tomioka-san,” you quickly assure him, “I appreciate your company.”

“I would like to walk beside you.”

He is shy

Sweet

A realization that

This is what could have been

“Okay,” you nod slowly, “But my pace isn’t consistent.”

“That’s alright,” he shrugs, “As long as we keep walking.”

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Can you do something with the devil and and an angel that ends up being a customer to the bar at the casino bc the job they have in heaven is stressful? Just imagine how awkward that would be at first lol-

"Oh hello, angel! What can I-”

“Ohhh haha, I get--*hic*--it! Cuz you’re a literal angel!”

“What’s an angel like you doin’ here? Couldn’t resist the temptation, eh?”

“Ethan, Rummy..don’t be rude.” Ginette lightly scolded her fellow bartenders, before turning back to you with an apologetic smile. “Sorry ‘bout that. What’ll it be today, sweetie?”

You just sighed, keeping your wings tucked against your sides as you gazed at the menu for a brief moment. It wasn’t often that you came down to the casino’s bar, but today you especially needed a break from your heavenly duties. Just a small one. Nobody upstairs would even know you stopped in.

"I’ll have the-”

“Well I’ll be damned! An angel in the Devil’s Casino?!!”

Hearing the laughter of a certain devilish king, you looked to see the Devil himself stepping up to the counter, intrigued by your presence.

Most customers would quiver at the sight of him--or easily fall for his deals and promises. But you weren’t deceived by his tricks, nor were you about to jump up and reprimand him for anything. Instead you just politely smiled. “Yep. Is..there a problem?”

He blinked several times, huffing. “Why--no. I...I welcome the residents of all kinds. But..I mean...you’re an angel in a casino.”

“And..?”

“And a casino is, ya know, a place that runs off of temptation and sin? A place that goes against everything the big man upstairs taught you??!” His eye twitched.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” You waved him off, turning back to Ginette as you ordered your drink. Even still you could sense the Devil’s yellow gaze lingering on you, so you looked at him again. “Before you ask, I have no interest in gambling.”

“That doesn’t matter! I thought your job was to lead poor souls away from this place. Is there some sort of protest going on?”

“This isn’t exactly a “protest”. And for your information, we angels get different jobs every day.”

“Oh? So what was today’s “job” that was so unbearable that it drove you here, of all places?” Propping his trident against the counter, Devil leaned closer to you with interest.

After getting your drink, you took a sip and sighed in content, savoring the taste. Then you put the glass back down before explaining your assignment to him.

“I had to help the ghosts haunting the second mausoleum find peace. They keep freaking out Grim and he refuses to sleep because of all the noises he hears at night.” You took a slightly bigger swig. “Stupid pink spirits..they just wanna make a mess out of alllll the artifacts. My wings can parry slap them to get their attention, and even then they’re stubborn little fellas. If I don’t meet a certain quota I get in trouble with my superiors. As if I’m the one who put them there...!”

The demon king only stared as you rambled on and on, finally understanding your reasons. He thought that heaven was all about angels frolicking in the clouds, helping souls enter the pearly gates, and blessing children’s dreams...but it turns out it’s a tough job even for you.

So much so it tempted you to come here for a break.

As soon as you finished your rant, a devious grin appeared on his face. “So you say those pesky ghosts won’t leave? Must be such a burden for-”

“No.”

The grin quickly fell. “....you didn’t even let me-”

“I know what you're plotting. I'm immune to your temptations, Lucifer. Your flattery and petulance won’t get you anywhere with me.”

Growling, a bit of fire flashed in his eyes, though he composed himself and collected his trident and a random drink left on the table. “Fine. It was worth a shot...I'll leave you be. Do enjoy your stay here. You’re welcomed back anytime.” He chuckled before finally leaving you alone.

Ginette was only half-listening to the conversation as she cleaned a glass, but she took pity on you for putting up with him. “Nice one. Ya know very few folks get mouthy with the Devil an’ live to tell the tale.”

“Guess I’m lucky then.” You smiled lightly and pushed your nearly-empty glass towards her. “When you get the chance, I’ll have another round."

Yep.

This casino was your sweet retreat.

[mcytshippystuff]

(/rp, not irl!) OKAY SO! What i think about q!Phil, q!Missa, and q!Forever's relationships in the QSMP;

In my head, q!Philza and q!Missa started out as just co-parents when they were assigned each other to take care of Chayanne. Then they became more like, platonic husbands but I wouldn't say queerplatonic? Like, they felt getting married was just easier but didn't really have the relationship or level of commitment/care a Queerplatonic or romantic relationship would have. Then they started caring for each other, spending time together and having fun, and entered a weird in-between state of tbh they could go either way ya know?

Then Missa started catching feelings. He didn't mean to, honest! But just, the way Phil would worry and cared for him and their son, the time they spent together, how could he not fall for the Death touched Angel? But he wasn't ever sure how to broach it, sometimes he felt as if Phil felt the same but other times it was obvious Phil didn't so it was just a mess, and he wasn't willing to ruin what they had.

(More about Phil's feelings and Forever's part in all this under the cut, its long sorry not sorry lol)

Meanwhile Phil is both Oblivious and very in denial about any feelings, or people trying to point out there may be feelings at all. I'm unsure if id stick q!Phil on the Ace Spectrum or romance just isn't a priority (or if he's just resistant to the idea of it for whatever reason), but either way he cant fathom the idea that people have actual feelings for him, nor that he might have them himself, so he doesn't really look too deep on his feelings and often brushes them away if he's presented with the idea that it may be real.

So what if being with Missa feels like they were the only people in the world? If the way Missa takes care of their son gives Phil light fuzzy feelings in his chest? If having to say goodbye for who knows how long felt like a hole was punched in his chest, and when he came back Phil suddenly felt like the weight of the world was lifted? He cares about his friend, his platonic husband, that's it! Its def not anything romantic pssh that would be ridiculous...

Meanwhile q!Forever, oh poor Forever.

Admittedly in the beginning it was mostly a joke. The resemblance to Brunim, while at first glance, may be strong but to Forever they didn't look alike at all once you got close, in all the small ways that mattered most really. It was funny to tease and poke and get attached to the lookalike but then oh, oh how it stopped being a joke. (Forever refuses to think about there's a good reason why him and Brunim are apart, for both their own sakes)

And maybe, just maybe, for a while it was becuase how much Forever missed Brunim that he got attached to q!Phil, that he started to feel feelings for the man, but if you look close you can see those feelings started to become real, he honestly and genuinely started to fall for Philza. No more mirror images to chase, no, now Phil felt like standing in the heavy rain, every drop stinging but it was so so cleansing, healing, refreshing. Every time Forever got him to laugh felt like a personal victory he'd ride the high of for days, and every sharp, hurtful word was taken with a forced laugh or fake smile and it would linger and haunt his mind.

Forever tried, he really did, but it felt like nothing he could say or do would convince Phil of his real feelings, often slipping up or saying the wrong things and it was Forever's own damn fault, nobody to blame but himself. And maybe he didn't handle this all the best, maybe got to obsessive or said things that went to far but to be honest Forever didn't really know love any other way and was trying to unlearn the worst parts of himself the best he could. It didn't help Forever is really prone to self-destructive behavior when things are going good. And he tried to leave it be, he promises he tried to give up, to let go but the blond Angel had rooted himself, utterly and entirely into Forever's heart and he couldn't bring himself to cut his love for Phil out.

And q!Phil? Well, it was complicated becuase he did genuinely like the man. Forever was funny and for the most part the "crush", if he could call it that, was amusing at best and just annoying at worst times, and even if Forever was annoying or often went too far, Phil knew there was a good man there. He saw it when Forever gave it a rest and they'd have conversations that would last forever. He saw it when Forever would make him laugh until he couldn't breathe or when Forever took care of the eggs as fiercely as Philza did and when the man cried becuase he was so upset at even the idea of loosing any of the kids, and every lose hurt personally. And though he didn't often think to hard on it, sometimes when the other blond would smile or laugh, Phil felt like he was being shone on by the sun, warm, bright, burning, piercing, overwhelming. The quiet moments when Forever would drop all pretenses and masks and just let himself be, in happy, soft, or sad moments made Phi's chest sing.

But Philza couldn't ignore how the fact he was just a stand in hurt in ways Phil wasn't able to explain and to be honest didn't understand why it bothered him so much, it was never a big deal until it suddenly was. Every time Forever assumed something about him or didn't bother to figure out just was another stab in the heart and Phil just got so angry at the fact that Forever tried to say otherwise, but ultimately his affection wasn't real, and he didn't like being played with. Sure he didn't think Forever was doing it maliciously but he just wanted Forever to just stop! Stop how it hurt, how confused it made Phil. He just wanted it to stop being so confusing, to stop questioning these feelings buried deep within his chest. Plus even if wasn't so complicated, some part of him recognizes he also cares deeply about Missa and since they're married, even if its just platonically, its a commitment Phil is committed too so it feels like a betrayal.

Someone tell this man about the wonders of Polyamory!

Meanwhile Forever and Missa are mostly cautious but also a bit hostile towards each other at first, becuase that's competition in their eyes, a threat of their loves, but in the end they chill becuase they realize its neither of their choices and also the other isnt... bad per say. Maybe they even have a understanding becuase they recognize they both love and care for Phil. Maybe they even come to like and even care about the other in the future, who knows.

So, tldr;

Phil has feelings for both Missa and Forever, some more complicated then others, but he both refuses to admit it to even himself or even fathom he could like someone, let alone two people, and his view on Forever still only liking him becuase of his ex made it a lot more complicated becuase he feels hurt. But he has two hands, that's important to remember!

Missa is very in love with Philza but is both too hesitant to say anything, lest he ruin their relationship they have now, and becuase he's been away so much. He really didn't like Forever, both becuase of the "he just likes me becuase I look like his ex" becuase it clearly hurt phil, but he chilled a bit when he realized Forever wasn't a bad person, just complicated and did really love and care for Phil as well, and being hostile towards each other just made Phil more upset. Now they're cool, if not a bit sure about each other, and maybe even come to like or care for each other too later but who knows.

Forever originally liked Philza becuase he looked like Brunim as a joke, and maybe even some of his infatuation started becuase of it too, but he really did come to see Philza as his own person and come to care and even fall in love with Phil for real. However Forever recognizes he's messed up a lot and often still does, but he's trying so hard to both be better and give Philza space but he cant stop loving Phil no matter how hard he tries. Same as above for him and Missa, its complicated but Forever has chilled and is trying hard to work on his jealousy issues. He thinks Missa isnt that bad and might even come to like or care for each other too later but who knows.

Later on, once they all work out their issues and Phil both stops being a oblivious fuck and realizes that Forever really does honestly and truly love him for him, they end up in a polyamory. Its Philza dating them both but maybe end game has Missa and Forever dating too idk lol.

[apollosgiftofprophecy]

6, 7, 10

WOW THAT WAS FAST

6. What is your darkest fear about writing?

whew getting right to it, huh?

hmm...i guess there's always a sense of imposter syndrome, you know? like i've had people tell me "you're such a great writer!" and "i can totally see you publishing one day!", from family, friends, and teachers. i was even voted "most likely to write a book" for my sophomore year yearbook.

and yet. there is always that lingering sense of what if i'm not that good? What if nobody likes it?

believe me - i know the saying "write what makes YOU happy" and i stand by that! but there is also going to be that itty-bitty feeling of hurt if somebody doesn't like it (and tells you it. which is very rude btw don't do that.)

I guess it stems down to the fact that while I like writing for myself, I also like that positive encouragement from the readers.

which does happen a lot XD i'm flooded with comments the next morning after i post a fic and i rarely - if ever - see a rude/criticizing one. Screams? Oh yes. I savor those screams. But I haven't read a criticizing one on any of my ToA fics (BT? A fair few. Lolling usually got there first though and deescalated the situation much quicker than I would have.)

7. What is your deepest joy about writing?

MAKING MY READERS SUFFER!

...jk. but also not haha <3

I really like piecing together all these myths and getting a coherent plotline out from them. Also, absolutely love writing Apollo he's the best <3

also, the enjoyment of the readers are always great too. there's bonding to be done in the comment sections of fics, and i love to ramble about the fic process XD

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

absolutely.

there's been many things that have occupied brain-space. But Trials of Apollo has taken the cake.

I tried to write fanfiction for PJO in middle school. dropped it after a couple fics. deleted them too because i was very cringed out by them XD

attempted a PJO/HP crossover. trashed that too.

tried just HP. nothing ever came of it.

Warrior cats i made a cracky Time-Travel AU but also Lolling and I smacked out heads together and made Burning Thistles (still in progress btw - 170 chapters in) but it didn't exactly...haunt me, ya know? I love BT, and I really should get to the next chap soon, but it wasn't quite haunting me.

Star Wars infected me during Quarantine and I pumped out like. 30 fics in Whumptober plus a few others, but then steam kinda died out.

Until...ToA.

It haunts me. No other series has done this. It occupied my thoughts. My actions. My homework. My music. Everything I see, do, or think has some thread of ToA in it.

As for my own writing...heh. anything Copollo. they have permanent headspace and i have no intent of giving them the boot anytime soon.

Also...my Hunger Games AU is very very juicy. i can't wait until it's all done so i can finally share it! about 10 chapters left <3

and well. ^ i think it's pretty obvious what I think haunting means lol

it never leaves your thoughts

[niffala]

Xanax & Things That go Bump in the Night (Pt. 2)

Warnings: a little angsty, a little sexy

A/N: Takes place fall of ‘86. No stealing, no reposts, no translations, no feeding to AIs. Comments, reblogs and likes are always welcome and appreciated. 

Chapter 1 Series Masterlist  Main Masterlist   

Chapter 2

Steve gaped at the haunting figure with wide startled eyes. Unsure of what he should do, or if this was even really happening.

In a blur, a pale hand reached out to close his mouth. Easily sliding past Steve, the other man strutted through the small apartment. Checking out his new surroundings before turning back to the transfixed brunette.

"What's wrong, Harrington? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Brows drawn together, Steve slowly shut the door, "No. I um…" His head whipped around in alarm, "WAIT, AM I?"

Eddie threw his arms out in front of him, wiggling his fingers as he moved closer, “Whoo-oo-oo-oo…” Once nose to nose, he captured Steve’s hand in his own, resting the other on his waist. He began swaying to a tune only he could hear. “What's the verdict, am I alive?”

“But, but I saw your body, you were dead. You died!” 

Eddie shrugged, “Temporarily. Woke up to a whole new me.” He slid his hand to Steve's back, pulling him tighter. Enjoying the feel of the man's body heat. 

“How are you here?” Steve whispered, his gaze shifting to their interlocked fingers. He could definitely feel the pressure of the other hand, and the chill. He doesn’t think his brain could make that up.

“Got pretty lonely down there with only screeching beasts and a veiny psychopath to keep me company. Guy’s like the love child of Darth Vader and Freddy Kruger,” Eddie shudders. “The weather also left a lot to be desired. I desperately needed a change of scenery and someone to talk to, so I flew out to find you, big boy.”

Steve’s face scrunched up as a thought occurred to him. “You’re what's been following me! Why did you wait so long to say something? I thought the worst.”

“I had to be sure I was in control.” The darker haired man let the weight of his words linger for a moment. “I called out to you several times, but you ignored me. Hurt my lil feelings.”

Steve pulled out of Eddie's embrace, heading for the telephone. "I have to tell the others."

He caught Steve's hand before he could pick up the receiver. "Not tonight. Let's keep it just you and me for now. What do ya say?" 

Eddie could hear the startled man's heartbeat thumping wildly in his chest. Unable to help himself, he buried his nose into Steve's neck, inhaling deeply.

Steve nervously backed away, scratching his cheek. Once again questioning his own sanity.

"You've never been scared of me before Harrington, don't start now."

"I- I'm not. This is just…" he swallowed. "A lot. It's a lot." Steve took a few more steps into the kitchen, opening cupboards and the fridge. He intended to offer a snack or beverage, but admitted the choices were limited to poptarts and tap water.

Eddie chuckled at the attempt at being a good host. "Sorry, that shit isn't in my approved diet anymore."

"Then what is?"

The pale guest smiled, showing off his prominent fangs. "Thought it was obvious; special liquid diet."

Steve's face fell, "Are you here to kill me?"

"Never. I wouldn't hurt you. I just missed you is all. Hoping you missed me too."

"Ya, I- I- I did. You made quite the impression on me. With your," he gestured to all of Eddie. "And your," he made another gesture Eddie couldn't interpret. "And just being you."

"Wow, Harrington, now I know how you got that King Steve playboy rep. With these eloquently honeyed words coming out of that pretty mouth, who could resist your charm." Eddie moves in again, placing both hands on the former jock's chest.

Steve blushes. Eddie has always been intense, unapologetically in your face, but this was different. The air around him was different, alluring, pulling him in. 

"Lucky for you, I have no intention of resisting you." Eddie paused, waiting for him to make the next move. 

The ticking of the wall clock and Steve's breathing were amplified in the quiet room. A pair of trembling arms wrapped around Eddie. Followed by lips nearing his own.

Suddenly, car lights shone through the window, reflecting off Eddie's eyes. Vickie was dropping Robin at home. 

Before his roommate could open the door, the man in his arms seemingly disappeared. Leaving Steve to wonder if it was all in his head.

Chapter 3 (coming soon)

[azurelyy]

Aside from narusaku, what other ships do you like a lot ? It could be canon or even non canon ones

Hi there, Nonnie! Thank you very much for the ask!

So, I have answered a similar question here, but I am not sure if you mean Naruto specific ships or not?

To be perfectly honest with you, the only two SHIPS I have from Naruto are NaruSaku and ShikaIno. I LIKE other ships, but I don't SHIP them - ya feel me? I feel like, when I ship something, that means that I am thinking about them constantly every day. They haunt all over my what ifs, they linger within song lyrics and books I read... And I don't FEEL all those things with every pair I like in Naruto except for those two.

That being said, since your question specified ships I like a lot, then it wouldn't be a complete answer without going into detail on a few other, non-Naruto ships that are some of my OTPs. 💗

Zutara (Zuko x Katara - Avatar):

They are my all-time, number one OTP - forever and always. I will be a 70-year-old Zutara shipper, discussing the discourse and trajectory of their relationship. I will never, ever stop thinking about these two. They are seriously the couple that made be believe in parallel universes - because there is simply NO FUCKING WAY that they wrote all that development into the show for it to not go anywhere - there's definitely a universe adjacent to ours where Zutara is canon and I don't care what the stipulation of living in that universe might be, I want to go there lol.

Clerith (Cloud x Aerith - FF7):

I think you guys will see a trend in that I don't actually prefer friends to lovers as much as people might assume considering I ship NaruSaku lol. ANYWAYS, these two are fucking phenomenal and hurt me in the best ways. I think about them constantly. I rewatch videos I've made about them, rewatch videos others have made about them. I read fanfiction and consume posts about them like my life depends on it. The remake definitely reinvigorated my love for them and I think it added some much needed development that I LOVE but that also FUCKING HURTS MY SOUL. "I'm coming for you." THAT IS ALL. 😭😭😭

Dramione (Draco x Hermione - Harry Potter):

It's not a complete list of ships I like a lot without including the OG ship, one of the first I can remember having. Say whatever the fuck you want - I will sink with them. There is undeniable sexual tension here, and if "She who must not be named" had given Draco similar development to what Zuko had (he was SO CLOSE, just needed a few extra bits and bobs here and there)... I MEAAAAANNNNN... I think that's all I have to say! It also really hurts me knowing Emma Watson had a crush on Tom Felton... like ndfbsjdhfnksjd. They also had chemistry on-screen which didn't help my obsession with the pair... The punch scene? Iconic as fuck lmao.

Honorable Mentions (Ships I also love and could write whole dissertations about:

Spuffy (Spike x Buffy - Buffy)

Roy x Riza (FMA Brotherhood)

Harmony (Harry x Hermione - HP)

MiroSan (Miroku x Sango - InuYahsa)

InuKago (InuYasha x Kagome - InuYasha)

Delena (Damon x Elena - Vampire Diaries)

Klaroline (Caroline x Klaus - Vampire Diaries)

[dreamqueenkala]

SPELLBOUND

|•|•|•|•|•|•|•|

Chapter 2

(Previous Chapter)

9:32 AM

Saturday, October 25, 2025

County Road 32, Upstate New York, USA

Anxiety

Made up in my head need a remedy~

How should I accept what I used to see?

Trying to forget when you used to be~

The radio, dipped to a low volume but loud enough to vibrate the stereo, continued to play Madison’s personal playlist, her phone bluetoothed to the console. The bass was boosted slightly, Ryan’s calloused fingers tapping the steering wheel as he drove down the narrow old-backwood road. Madison’s window was down, her signature vape once again poised between her thin lips, long lashes shadowing the light freckles on her cheeks as her eyes remained closed. Smoke billowed from her nose with every exhale, trailing out the open window and into the wind.

Trees flew them by in the early morning light, their destination thankfully only a couple of hours away. Sparing her a glance, Ryan turned the radio down slightly, the vibrations in the matte black 1964 Ford Fairlane numbed down to a lulled hum. His fingers slid back to the steering wheel, lips parted as he spoke in that deep voice of his.

“You keep inhaling like that, you’re gonna blow through the oil.” He warned the ginger, watching from the corner of his eye as she reluctantly set the object in her lap, exhaling a plume of grey.

“I know. It’s the anxiety, dude. It’s been 4 years, Ryan.”

He pursed his lips and curled his fingers a bit tighter, his knuckles a few shades lighter than the rest of his skin from the tight grip. “I know. You’ve just gotta breathe, Maddie. Don’t panic, alright? We’re a day early, so we have to time to just…chill.”

She rolled her head back against her headrest and let her green eyes wander, tracing the worn lines in the fabric of the car roof. Her fingers twitched in her lap, index on her left hand circling the button of her vape. It had been a long drive and an early morning, but the two were wide awake. Their anxiety’s, despite the pep talks between the two, had yet to qualm, lingering behind every thought.

“I know…It’s just weird, ya know?” She huffed, tongue wetting her lower lip as her voice cracked.

Ryan spared her another glance, his brows furrowed but his expression soft. “You can tell me, Maddie.”

Glancing his direction, green met brown in an unsteady, anxious battle, pupils flickering in her eyes. Deciding that she could trust him, the girl relented, her body relaxing slightly.

“It’s just….it’s been 4 years.”

“You’ve mentioned that a few times.”

She scoffed, arms folded over her chest. “It’s like—What are we supposed to do, ya know? I mean, it’s Emma, of course she’d be out there, ya know, uh, trying to keep us all together, but…” Her exhale was heavy, eyes downcast as she fingered the black crystal dangling from her silver-laced choker. “We’ve changed, yeah? So have they, right? So…”

Ryan, slowly nodding along to her words, let his shoulders slump slightly when he replied. “…you’re worried things won’t workout after everything that’s happened.”

Madison gnawed at her lower lip and nodded once, fingers tracing the divots and edges of her pocket-sized stress-reliever whilst she avoided his eyes. “Yeah. I just don’t want…want to hurt anyone, again.” The emphasis applied to the end of her sentence made them both tense up. Though Ryan was the only one to witness what truly went down in the Hackett’s house that summer, Madison had been different from those that had turned. She was haunted by more than just the transformation, Ryan had learned, and for that, her feelings were justified.

“I get it. Hey, you’ve got me, yeah? And even if things don’t work out—which, I’m sure they will, by the way. No one can live without our fabulous selves for too long—“ The redhead snorted softly at that, his words similar to something Dylan had said to her once before. “We can always leave whenever. Emma’s agreed, no hard feelings, alright?”

Madison shared a small smile with the male, her shoulders relaxed and her body slumped slightly from the released tension. “Yeah. Thanks, Ryan.” He nodded at her, mirroring her smile as he turned his gaze back to the road.

Ryan attempted to reassure Madison before their arrival.

The rest of the trip was comfortably silent, disturbed only by the dull radio playing and the wind blowing outside the car. Madison’s worries had been temporarily put to ease, and Ryan was reassured of her current mental state. So far, the trip was off to an okay start. Ryan could only hope Madison would truly be okay this weekend. His lips pursed at the thought.

10:24 AM

Saturday, October 25, 2025

Mountebank Senior Estate, Upstate New York, USA

Ryan and Madison pulled into the long driveway to Emma’s grandparents estate, slowly coming to a stop. The engine revved for a moment as the two took their time to really settle into the realization of where they were. They shared a nervous glance before the male turned the key, slipping out of the car opposite of the ginger. As Madison collected their bags from the backseat, and Ryan dove into the trunk to grab their suitcases, the front door to the cottage opened.

“Maddie! Ryan! Hiiiiii!” A familiar voice called, drawing the duo’s attention. The blonde, standing in all her 5’5 glory with cobalt eyes ablaze with mischief and her lips pulled into a playful grin, stood at the top of the porch steps, her right hand raised to wave at them. “It’s so good to see you two! Oh. Em. Gee. I need details, you guys.”

Madison, thoroughly off put by the blondes preppy demeanor, gave Ryan a wide eyed expression displaying her discomfort. Despite his own discomfort, he knew he could handle Emma. Madison, however, could barely tolerate her own coworkers without falling to her knees and screaming bloody murder. The male stepped forward, placing Madison’s smaller suitcase by her side as he took Emma’s attention.

“Um, maybe you could…let us get situated first? Sleeps still, uh…off the table.” Emma’s expression fell slightly, sympathy in her eyes, and she smiled awkwardly. Clearing her throat, she took Madison’s suitcase, the ginger nodding politely.

“Of course. Follow me, you two.”

Ryan distracted Emma from Madison’s discomfort, enabling the blonde to assess the situation better.

The blonde led the duo up the porch steps and into the cottage. The exterior was a soft sage color, accented with cocoa wood flooring and dark oak roofing. The inside was accented the same way, except the walls were a soft crème and the ceiling and floor were white plaster and carpet accordingly. The living room had a brick fireplace that was currently empty and unlit, a flat screen TV mounted above it on the mantle. There were two lounges, one loveseat and two beanbags situated around the room, the first three clad in the same mustard yellow fabric whilst the bean bags were a soft and fuzzy black fabric. The kitchen was adjacent to the living room, with grey tiled walls and stone flooring, the countertops white marble and the cabinets dark oak.

Up the stairs, there were four rooms—three bedrooms and one bathroom. Two bedrooms remained downstairs along with another bathroom. Emma led Ryan and Madison to one of the first floor bedrooms, a room with dark blue walls and grey carpet, one king-size bed in the center. The ginger and the ravenette shared a glance and a raised brow before shrugging, setting their bags down by the end of the bed without complaint. Emma was pleasantly surprised by this action, quirking a brow in response, but otherwise kept tight lipped about it.

“So, this is your guys’ room. Jacob and Dylan are probably going to room across from you. Um, Abi and Nick should be rooming together, so should Max and Laura—“ Madison flinched at the mention of her sibling, subtly moving closer to Ryan in order to hide from the topic. The male allowed her to do so, setting a hand on her bicep lightly. “—and Kaitlyn should be rooming with me! So, yeah. Jacob and Dylan are supposed to be arriving today, too, just fyi.” Emma tossed up a peace sign before leaving the room, her hunched shoulders indicating her discomfort. As the door clicked shut, Madison turned her gaze up to meet Ryan’s, her breathing shaky.

“Holy shit—Ryan, this is so hard, and it’s just Emma! I-I—“ Ryan drew her into a warm embrace, cradling her head against his chest and caressing her hair softly.

“It’ll be okay. Just breathe. We’ve got time, yeah? Relax.” Madison’s shaky breathes were muffled by the male’s black band shirt, his leather jacket shielding her face from view.

“Cuddle? You’re warm…” Ryan chuckled at her muffled request, shuffling his weight to kick off his shoes. Guiding her to the bed he sat down, the ginger quickly climbing in beside him and burying her face in his chest as he lay on his back.

“So…” After a long silence, the girl spoke up, Ryan’s eyes still closed. Her black-painted fingernails traced the band label on his shirt, her green eyes half-lidded. Ryan grunted to acknowledge her voice, one hand on her back and the other beneath his head. “Dylan’s coming.”

“So is Jacob.” He replied slowly, brows furrowing ever so slightly.

“I bet he missed you.”

“He probably missed you, too, Maddie.”

“Yeah, but like…” She tugged at her lower lip lightly, splaying her fingers over his chest and pulling her torso up to prop on her other elbow. His eyes fluttered open to look at her, blinking owlishly. “He liked you, Ryan. Not me.”

His eyes searched hers, noting the dip in her brow and the way her lips creased slightly at the edges—sorrow, shame, guilt. All emotions she expressed consistently when it came to Dylan or Max in conversation. His hand on her back moved to brush her hair from her face, thumb caressing her cheek.

“You don’t know that, Maddie.” Ryan mumbled, watching her nuzzle into his palm gently. “He liked you, too. I promise.”

Relaxing into his embrace, she yawned softly, fingers curled against the fabric of his shirt as her eyelids fluttered. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you when they get here.” She nodded at his words, rolling over slightly so he could move if he chose to, her hand grasping his that rested beside her.

Ryan’s attempt to reassure Madison was successful, allowing her to rest peacefully for the first time in days.

Ryan stayed near Madison for about an hour, if only to ensure she slept properly this time. When she didn’t stir and her breathing remained calm for awhile, he decided she was safe. Standing carefully from the soft mattress, Ryan slipped his shoes back on and made his way to the door, phone in his pocket and a single earbud in his ear. Glancing back once at his roommate and friend, he left.

Wandering the hallway at the back of the cottage, the animator decided that Emma’s grandparents place was smaller and cozier than he’d originally assumed. Granted, the place was considered an estate, though that was likely due to the land size itself and not the house. Emma’s family obviously came from the more…’privileged’ side of life, though they weren’t insanely rich, either.

Wandering to the opposite end of the hall he’d originally come from, Ryan made his way to the back door. It was glass like the front door, but this one was a slider. Peering past the curtains strung in front of the sliding door, Ryan took note of the sand a few dozen yards away, outlined with gravel, a stone path and a deep intricate pool in the center of it all. Tall palm trees hovered over the area, shading certain sections while allowing other spots to remain in the sun—a sun which was currently hiding behind grey clouds. There were a few pool chairs and an in-ground fire pit on the other stone end of the area, shaded by a small cabana roof.

Releasing the curtain, Ryan turned away from the glass door and moved down the hall again. The first door on his left nearest the back door was the bathroom—simple with white checkered tiles, pale turquoise walls, white counter and sink, and a shower but no tub. The door across from it was a supply closet, small with basic house cleaning tools, extra toilet paper, paper towels, first aid, etc. The second door on the left was the bedroom he and Madison had claimed. Peeking back into the door, Ryan’s posture relaxed, finding his roommate was still comfortable in the bed, curled around the pillow he’d laid on previously with a peaceful expression on her face.

Moving away, he glanced at the closed door of the other room—the other bedroom—before shrugging. It’s just a bedroom, right? No big deal. Ryan felt kind of guilty for snooping a bit. This was Emma’s privacy, her grandparents privacy, he was invading. However, remembering the events that occurred 4 years ago, he felt he was justified in his paranoia.

Ryan found himself in the living room, eying the mantle between the TV and the fireplace. A copious amount of candles and photo frames rested atop the wood, all consisting of an older couple and a certain blonde. One in particular, framed with a mahogany wood rather than the normal Sandy color, caught the boys eye. He reached up and grasped it gently, eying the photo. The same older couple from the photos around it sat in the picture, a much tinier version of the blonde he’d grown to know at the Quarry sat atop the man’s shoulders.

His hair was salt and pepper grey, eyes a brilliant cobalt. Wrinkles lined his forehead and cheeks, an ever-permanent grin on his face. The woman beside him wore a similar smile that reached her eyes just as high, dimples in her softer skin and her eyes a stormy grey color. Her hair was a bleached out blonde, lighter to Emma’s but whitened with age. The blonde resting on the man’s shoulder had a chubby baby face and wide eyes full of excitement, though her smile wasn’t near as wide as the couples’. A small white and grey shitzu rested under the woman’s right arm, tongue handing from its fluff-shrouded mouth. Ryan flipped the photo and looked at the date scrawled on the back alongside a name in cursive.

03/05/07

P. & D. Mountebank

Ryan furrowed his brows and pursed his lips, setting the frame back on the mantle. Beside it, a small bear charm sat, and he ran his fingers over it idly before moving away. Emma finally stepped down from the second floor and Ryan turned to face her, hands in his leather jacket pockets. She smiled and fixed her plain white t-shirt, the hem having bunched on her hips as she jumped down the steps two at a time, a fabric bundle under her right arm and the left fist on her hip.

“Sorry! Had to change the sheets in one of the guest bedrooms. My granddad’s dog pissed on it, ugh.” She explained, gesturing to the bundle of grey sheets in her arm, a darkened stain in the center of the bundle furthest from her body. Ryan nodded slowly, shifting his weight before moving to sit down on one of the lounges.

“So, um, Jacob called me a few minutes ago. They’re, like, 10 minutes away.” She added on, disappearing into a small room beneath the staircase—the laundry room, no doubt.

“How early did they leave?”

“About as early as you guys did, maybe earlier. Jacob picked up Dylan from the airport last night.” Ryan hummed at that, fumbling with his phone in his pocket. Retrieving the object, he glanced down at his contacts list, thumb once again hovering over the first name under the ‘L’ section.

Emma padded back into the room, the soft hum of the washer indicative of her successful venture. “You’re still avoiding contacting him, aren’t you?” He shrugged, his music playing dully in his right ear as he listened to her with his left. Folding her arms over her chest, she sat beside him on the lounge, their legs maybe half a person’s width apart. “None of them know you guys are here, you know. I didn’t tell anyone.”

“Thank you. I-It’s for Maddie, I just…” Emma smiled awkwardly and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I understand. I can tell she’s taken everything a lot harder than most of us.” The blonde hummed in a soft, sympathetic tone. “If you or Mads need anything at all, you let me know, okay? I mean that.”

Ryan’s distraction was effective, causing Emma to reassess and properly acknowledge the decline in Madison’s mental state.

Ryan released a soft breathe with a short nod, accepting her gesture. “Thanks. I just want her to be okay, there’s so much you guys don’t know…” Emma’s brows furrowed when he cut himself off, her lips parting to reply. Before she could, the sound of a car horn honking outside drew their attention, the two turning to peer through the open window.

“I guess they’re here. Wanna go get Mads for me?” Ryan was already on his feet before the blonde had finished her sentence, a soft laugh leaving her as she moved to the front door and he moved towards the bedroom. Ryan slipped inside silently, perching on the edge of the bed. His left hand moved to brush the stray ginger locks from Madison’s face, her soft exhale bringing a smile to his thin lips. She stirred slightly and blinked her green eyes lazily, rolling onto her back to see him properly.

“Morning, sleeping beauty. Feel better?”

She grinned at the playful nickname, stretching her arms above her head. “Mhm. Much.” She sat up, tilting her head as they both caught the sound of voices in the living room. Her eyes widened with realization and she bit her lip, her toes curling in her socks. Reaching over, Ryan grasped her hand, guiding her to stand.

“You’ve got this, yeah?” Gazing into each other’s eyes for a bit longer than necessary, the ginger finally nodded, expression determined. Keeping his hold on her hand, their fingers entwined, the duo slightly more calm as they move into the living room. A familiar brunette and ravenette were standing with Emma by the door, their suitcases discarded to the side temporarily. Dark coal eyes noticed them first, widening as a grin split across the jock’s face.

“Holy shit!” Jacob laughed, smile as bright as the twinkle in his eyes. “Ryan! Madison! What’s up, guys?” At their names, cocoa eyes whipped to gaze at them, his lips parted with shock whilst those eyes became glossy with tears.

“Ryan?”

The duo shared a glance before smiling in their own awkward way.

“Hey Dylan.”

“Hey Jacob.”

They spoke in unison, the latter greeted by the shorter female whilst the former was greeted by the animator. Emma’s gaze met Madison’s, the Ginger’s eyes flickering a familiar shade that had the blondes brows rising and lips parting, but it was gone in a flash. It made Emma nervous, her brain reworking and flashing back to what Ryan had said before.

“There’s so much you guys don’t know.”

A shiver wracked her spine, the blonde swallowing thickly as her eyes narrowed warily on the quiet girl. After all…

…No one could forget that particular shade of yellow.

[featherburnt]

➟ TIL THE HURT IS GONE: BLOODFEATHER

Title: Reeducation 2 Part #: 16 Pairing: Hawks x m!OC Word Count: 23,101  Tags: Blood, canon-typical violence, injury, anxiety/panic, manipulation, referenced past abuse, referenced/implied sexual abuse, referenced/implied human experimentation, language, emotional turmoil, etc.

Summary: For three years, the hero Hellhound has been hunting, infiltrating groups of villains and probing for information in his search for one named Sonata, the former hero Prisma. A U.A. graduate, he should know better. He should be protecting civilians, hunting down villains when ordered, but his heart lingers on the pains of old memories, the hot desire for retribution burning in his chest. On one fateful night, when the enemy is locked in his sights, a man with vermillion wings snuffs the flames seated in his palms, using his words to burrow under his skin like a fowl little bug. What will he do then? Will he continue his hunt, or will boiling blood finally cool?

Improvise, adapt, overcome. You are not at fault, but the role you must play requires you to act; You must not drown, you must not sink into the depths or allow venom mixed with honey to sway you. You must not recoil, you must not hide. In the face of adversity, you must gather your strength and rise to meet it, lest you be washed away by the encroaching waves; Rise, on your feet. Don't let them rob you of your courage, your will to fight.

Bloodfeather Chapter Masterlist

As always, minors do not interact.

    The battle continues…but is it much of a battle anymore?

     Tarot’s voice was a haunting echo belying unfettered aggression and malcontent, like nails dragging along the surface of a chalkboard, leaving nothing more than the promise of torturous agony, emotional and physical, in their wake. Murderous intent permeated the air, a foul smog hanging thickly in the atmosphere, and Saryn knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had to get away, that his efforts had been for naught, that he’d been so foolish as to believe he may have won the battle when there was still a war to be fought. Every word, however few, set an astronomical weight upon him and he realized, quickly, he was running out of time. His life hung in the balance, teetering on the edge, because if Tarot truly wanted to, he could take it without issue - and then it all really would have been for nothing. 

     Saryn couldn’t even begin to hide his terror, his breaths catching in his throat, but his feet would forsake his waking thought, dragging through viscous, filthy water to carry him in the opposite direction, to flee. Fear-inspired adrenaline coursed through his veins, pumping power into his muscles to spite the newfound thickness to the water, but he gained little traction, and tendrils of water snaked around his ankles, tightening around his calves, and, slowly, he began to sink.

     All the while, he kept his wide-eyed stare fixed on Tarot, watching as he lifted his head and cocked it to the side, mussed, shock-orange hair slipping out of the way to reveal nothing but bloodlust whirling inside icy pools. A grin peeled across Tarot’s face, twisted and mad, splitting his features apart into broken layers. 

     Saryn begged the water to give way, flames exploding from his palms in spouts of brilliant blue-violet in a wild attempt to force it all to evaporate; He didn’t even care that he’d burned himself in the process, ignoring the white-hot pain scorching across his shins and calves. It didn’t matter when he was staring down the human representation of a gun barrel. It didn’t matter when Tarot wordlessly made clear he was going to slaughter him where he stood.

     "Ya know, it's funny, amai-inu; Ya had more bite back then…when you were just an intern," Tarot exclaimed, his expression unchanging despite the shift in his tone.

     Saryn didn’t have time to ruminate on that, struggling to free himself from the steadily climbing tendrils - to no avail. He abandoned the fire at his fingertips, frantically swiping at solid water, pulling, yanking, pushing, clawing– Panic set in once more and he couldn’t breathe, wheezing, his heart hammering away at his rib cage as if trying to escape on its own, and he grunted and whimpered and wheezed some more, desperation beating on his nerves like a drum.

      I have to–! I can’t–! Not again!

     "Buuuut, it was still too easy to get ya to bow your head and do what I wanted, though. All I had to do was hit ya, or tell ya something ya wanted to hear and ya'd do it. Either one worked, didn’t matter. Ya’d fold like a house o’ cards!" Tarot continued, sick amusement ringing in his ears as if a silver bell, loud and unwelcome, unforgiving and cruel; And as he spoke, memory after memory began to pile up again, all at once, assailing him with distractions that stalled his panicked movements.

     He choked on what he could remember, tight knots in his throat and vicious, painful bruising littering his skin; There was so much, and it ached and burned and foiled him even now, no matter how strong his will had become, no matter how stubbornly he fought to keep his head above water. He sank further into the depths, tentacular spouts inching over his naked hips and dragging him down, as the sudden, jarring abuse he suffered reared its ugly head once more. So many threats, so many fists in his gut, so many hands on his throat, so many moments he’d been forced to endure endless yelling, hurled insults, allowing himself to be degraded by a man he’d thought was trustworthy and kind, and the delusions, the obsessively defended privacy about it all– He could still feel the cracked ribs, the fractures in his fingers, the rope burns around his wrists, and the duct tape being torn from his mouth. He could still feel the muzzles, the whips, the blood dripping from his ears, and the hours spent on the brink of total dehydration when Tarot was having a little too much fun– He could still feel the boot imprints on his cheeks, the twisted positions he’d put him in, and the fissures– He could still hear the laughter, Tarot’s biting taunts about his mother, over and over and over and–

     But he couldn’t… He couldn’t give in again. He had to keep fighting. He had to get away, put as much distance as he could between them and think of a solution, think of a way to topple his abuser. But it was hard, and his half-second pause cost him so much more than he’d initially thought.

     Watery tendrils curled around his arms in spite of their flailing and fastened them to his sides, preventing any further struggle. 

     "Y’know, sometimes, I didn't even have to do that. I'd raise my hand and ya'd flinch away, like a scared little boy. I'd wager if I did this–" Tarot raised his hand, a lone whip of water rising out of the sea beneath them in tandem, thick and pointed at its tip. Saryn’s eyes widened even further and he tried, pathetically, to push himself out of its projected trajectory, but it didn’t make a damn bit of difference…and Tarot could only laugh at his failure. "Ha! That's what I thought."

     Saryn's chest tightened, and he couldn’t be sure if it was the increasing pressure caused by Tarot’s water or the vast and unfathomable ache in his heart. Every inch of his body was wracked with pain, plagued by pressure and the loss of movement and the constant threat to his life, and he wished and wished this would end. But what could he do, now, with his body restrained in every sense of the word, tied down by watery ropes and submerged at the ankle?

      I’m out of options… he thought bitterly, panic subsiding if only to give way to hopelessness. 

     His eyes finally pulled themselves free of Tarot’s hideous form before dropping to the filth below, his head following in suit. Water whorled and rippled as its current roiled under the surface, bits of metal and chips of paint caught in its sway, and all the while he stared, he thought, going through what he could do to free himself and coming up woefully empty-handed. No matter how he sliced it, this was a sure victory for Tarot; He was outmatched and overpowered, showing his hand too early with his namesake ultimate move, and to suffer a fate as an abuser’s victim once more was to be his prize. Any pride in finally landing a few blows to Tarot’s skull drained away, replaced, easily, by a quickly failing will to fight. His stubbornness would not aid him, nor would the strength he’d once placed in his will to survive, and while it may be stupid to give up now, it didn’t seem like he’d had any choice. Tarot often played with his toys, disorienting them and robbing them of their security, and he was just as relentless as any villain would be… 

     What hope was there?

     "You were sooooo innocent… Just some heartbroken, lonely little kid who would never shut up about his mommy. Child's play, gettin’ ya to play along.” Tarot sighed heavily, an airy and exasperated exhale, but it carried no true emotional weight, only thinly failed disdain and disappointment. He clicked his tongue and snapped his fingers, the whip he’d had ready launching forward and burrowing into Saryn’s shoulder. "Hey, Kaede, pay attention."

     Saryn didn’t give him the dignity of his full and obvious attention, his gaze never once meeting Tarot’s no matter how much pain he was in now, no matter the blood splattering across the water’s surface and oozing out of him. If he was going to be beaten and left a bloody, broken heap on the brink of death with water in his lungs and all the scars to show for it, then, surely, he could defy him until the end…

     Tarot stepped closer, footfalls sounding like nothing more than droplets into a small pool, and as he drew near, he dropped to his knees, a hand so gently cupping Saryn's jaw, thumb wiping away a smear of blood and water. He forcefully lifted his head and, still, he didn’t look at him, burgundy glaring pitifully into the dirty water.

     "Speaking of bite… Do you remember that day in August?" His voice dramatically shifted in tone, now a soft, almost sensual lilt as his grip tightened around his jaw.

     August…?

     Then, without warning, he jerked Saryn’s head upward, shaking him repeatedly, over and over again, until, finally, he dared to look his way. His voice dropped in pitch and the tonal changes were doing nothing to prevent a sense of whiplash; With a palpable darkness and vileness unending, he commanded, "Answer me."

     Saryn reluctantly clenched and seethed through his teeth, "What day?"

     "Aww, forgotten already… Just how many gaps do you have in your memory? Did you really force yourself to forget everything?" He spoke to him as if he were a child, as if anything and everything would soon need to be explained to him in babying tones and simple terms only a child could understand. It was infuriating, belittling, and probably the point… Tarot reached another hand toward him and he winced, flinching away and at once being forced back into place, that same hand playing with a lock of his hair, deliberate and condescending.

     "If I could've forgotten you completely, I would've," Saryn spat, “I wish I’d never known you at all–”

     "You'd forget your first love, all those nights I held you while you cried?" Tarot’s grin shrank but refused to fade, instead ladening with feigned offense and a peculiar gentleness he knew to be immediately suspicious of. "You'd forget the one who showed you the truth, who showed you just how guilty your precious Nogitsune really is?"

     He couldn’t fall for it, couldn’t give himself to the simpering plea for amicability. Not now. Not again!

     "Shut your mouth, Senkei! You're nothing to me–"

     "Oh? Am I now? But, if it weren't for me, you'd have never known where to look for information about your mother. You'd have never discovered Nogitsune's blindspots or his contact list. You'd have never learned of what really happened to the twins or your mother, or how it was alllllllll Nogitsune's fault. You'd have allowed yourself to become the weak and worthless shitstain your classmates wanted you to be and Nagasaki would've never seen the breadth of your competency. Without me, you'd still be crying for mommy, whimpering like a kicked puppy in your bed–" Tarot laughed like a mad man directly in his face and for what seemed like a lifetime, cackling and chortling, shaking his body to his horrid, rotten core. Then, in the same fashion as before, he sobered with ease. Chillingly. Saryn could only watch, sickened by how often and how quickly his demeanor could change, even now; Was he really and truly just a skilled manipulator, or was he out of his fucking mind? "Oh, you never did learn the easy way. You were always too trusting, too hard on yourself, so naive and so, so hurt. Yet, you were much more competent, eager to prove yourself as a hero. So by-the-book! It was almost too easy to exploit you."

     The hand that played with his hair soon abandoned it, fingertips insultingly tapping the very tip of his nose, then lowered to drag all over his collar bone, continuing on their achingly slow path downward betwixt streams and tendrils of water, hovering over taut muscle and open wounds. He recoiled into what tiny shreds of space he still might’ve had, Tarot’s fingers leaving naught but lingering pain in their disturbing trails; He hated this, loathed how even a pinprick’s worth of contact left him sick to his stomach, detested how deeply he felt his fingers as they explored and teased and touched and groped at flesh he so eagerly tore apart time and time again. He bit his tongue, clenched his teeth, and the expression he bore betrayed him in full, features contorting into a disgusted, defensive snarl.

     Tarot always played with his toys, and he didn’t much care for any code of ethics nor did he adhere to one. Whatever happened to slake his sadistic thirst, he would do it with glee and unmasked enthusiasm, no matter how foul, inappropriate, overkill, or boundary-breaking it was. He was a hero in name only and a villain in truth, a man who only ever did things according to his own whims, and the Commission was all but too happy to unleash him upon dissenters, defecters, heroes, and villains alike. He’d torture and kill them all without mercy, and he didn’t even need to be told to do it. Many didn’t know this about him and few cared enough to do their due diligence, every one of them content to remain blissfully ignorant; As far as they knew, he was the vaguely idiotic Prediction Hero, but, in truth, he was a beast out of its cage with an appetite for blood and misery too great to be properly sated. He didn’t care for matters of the flesh by any means, but he used it often as a tool to further degrade the will and minds of his targets, and these particular set of circumstances were no exception. Saryn was not special just because they had a history and, in fact, it was because of their history that made him virtually identical to anyone else Tarot has ever come across. If given the chance, he’d rob him of more than just his life, but his dignity, state of mind, and his body as well.

     It was obvious, now, as he touched him, dragging his fingers further and further down through his tendrils of water, hovering just above his belly button, where body hair ought to be but was so frequently singed off. He’d dip lower, rub tiny circles with the curve of his nails above his groin, and Saryn shuddered visibly, a hiss escaping from between tightly clenched teeth - and there was nothing he could do about it.

     "I think a thank you is in order, for all I've done to help you my sweet, little dog," Tarot crooned, enunciating the latter half of his proclamation, self-satisfaction clear in his words. He laid his palm flat, fingers splitting to accommodate the protrusion of flaccid flesh, the hand so tightly wound around Saryn’s jaw releasing with backhanded force if only to curl beneath his own chin in a blatant show of amused superiority.

      You’re disgusting!

     Saryn tried to pull away, bucking his hips backward in an attempt to kick and flail his legs, and when it became ever more apparent that he gained no purchase, he took to airing his grievances, to fighting back verbally. For as little hope as he had that he would earn his freedom, he wouldn’t allow himself to go down without a rebellion. "You didn't do fuck all to help me! I don't owe you anything! Nothing, nothing at all! You assaulted me every time I broke your imaginary, bullshit rules–"

     "Now, now, is that any way to thank someone who helped you?” 

     Before Saryn could even think of a retort, a tendril of water suddenly and quickly rose out of the one that kept him restrained and shot into his mouth, silencing him, forcing its way down his throat and upward through his nasal passage, painfully exploring every nook, curve, and cranny. It spread all throughout, cutting off his air supply, smothering his breaths– He thrashed in the tendrils’ grasps, struggling to move his head backward and hold his breath long enough for Tarot to lose interest in face and nose fucking him with dirty, disgusting water into submission. Again, to no avail. Tears began to well up in his eyes but not from his hopelessness and deteriorating strength of will, rather from how invasive and uncomfortable and painful the water was, filling his nasal passage and throat with all manners of contaminants. It was torturous, and he couldn’t breathe, but it wasn’t to be the end - not yet. Before too much longer, the water vacated entirely, quickly retreating, leaving behind a trail of filth and angling itself to strike once more.

     “Let's try this again, shall we?" Tarot innocently pipped.

     Saryn sputtered and coughed violently, spitting out the minute chips of paint and metal and whatever else that clung to the walls of his mouth, desperately trying to recover. His nostrils flared and burned, and blood dribbled down over his upper lip.

     "Where's that thank you, amai-inu? Aren't you grateful I showed you the way, put all the pieces in place for you and gave you an opportunity to grow, to learn, to take what was rightfully yours? You're nothing without people like me. Just a lost, purposeless little boy afraid of his own shadow who couldn't use his quirk to its full potential, so poor a judge of character, so hurt and so empty, drifting along in the wake of mommy dearest's death.” He heaved a heavy, thoughtful sigh, still playing at unwilling flesh. “You needed to be reminded of the rawness of your pain, of what was taken from you, of the qualities you lacked, of all your faults, because then and only then would you have done anything for yourself! I gave you what you needed, fed your rage, your pain, your sadness, and you took it and became one of Nagasaki’s most beloved heroes - but look at you now. Look at what you've done with what I've given you. My influence, my position in your life, elevated you to such great heights, pushed you to become more than what you were, and you forgot. Tsk. Aww, I think a thank you and an apology would be best… I might forgive you. I might relent. I might take back my promise to bend and break you."

     Saryn’s head lolled forward, hanging limply as he heaved and heaved, gasping for air, his body still wracked with the pain of lack of oxygen and every injury he’d accrued since this bullshit mock battle began, his thoughts curdling with every venomous word piercing his eardrums. If he never met Tarot, if he never fell for his charms, if he never allowed himself to fall prey to him, would it have made any difference…? Tarot claimed, in the same way Nogitsune often did, to be responsible for his temporary rise to popularity in herodom and the strength he had to meet every challenge he faced on his own. He claimed to have guided him through everything when his heart was heavy and grief was all he had, to have shown him where to look and what to find when his mentor and dearest friend was lying to him, but how could he when he was beating him day in and day out? When he took his fragile, boyish heart in his hands and ripped it apart? When he pounded on his spine with his boots and nearly drowned him over and over again, nearly strangled the life out of him, cut him open, and raped him? His heart ached, unsteadily beating in his chest, and Tarot's fingers peeled away from his flaccid length to ease along his jaw, gently tilting his head upward. He didn’t say a word.

     Because, even now, no matter how desperately he wanted to believe he’d done it all on his own, he couldn’t be sure.

     "C'mon, puppy dog. Thank me. Apologize. I'll be gentle."

     Saryn choked out a raspy, broken, and defeated, "...Never."

     Tarot sighed indignantly, but a twisted grin would peel across his face. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. Wrong answer!"

     At once, the tendrils of water keeping him restrained released him and just as he lost his balance and began to stumble and fall, Tarot smacked him across the face with enough force to launch him backward into the swell of a small wave. He was reeling, disoriented and seeing little more than spots and specks of color, and the wave itself seemed to almost be tenderly cradling him, holding him gently in place as his mind swam and his body felt the brunt of all the pain. With everything considered, it was a drop in the bucket, that slap, and as he tried and tried to stand, the wave nearly instantly eclipsed him, swallowing him whole and dragging him deep into the depths of Tarot’s Waterworld. 

     Hawks watched with wild, scrutinizing eyes, his pupils sharply narrowed, golden shades rife with a sort of shock and disgust he couldn’t be sure he’d ever experienced before now. He couldn't think of anything less than the worst possible case scenario, having seen the breadth of what all Tarot was willing to do in order to keep Hellhound as manageable for himself as possible, sliding his smarmy hands all over his bleeding body and spouting deliberately painful nonsense, nonsense only Hellhound would be able to understand. The fear and despair Tarot dumped into him was perpetual, a constant attempt at filling his head with confusion, dismay, and leaving only room for him to fail - explicitly - because he knew; He knew what buttons to press, what words to say even if they were wrong, to cripple Hellhound’s will to keep fighting, and it’d never been more abundantly clear since the mock battle began that he believed him to be inferior, an insignificant creature to be tamed by any means necessary. He backed Hellhound into one corner after another, effortlessly recovering from the blows landed to his head as if he’d not been touched at all, and the mere tone of his voice was enough on its own, but he paired it with the use of blatant sexual manipulation. It wasn’t enough for him to simply threaten Hellhound with the darkness of his words; He was determined to shake him in every way imaginable, pinpointing each and every existing weakness he’d already known was there, still there. It would’ve taken intimate familiarity to exploit such weaknesses effectively, and it was here and now he wielded that familiarity with prejudice. 

     Tarot’s actions made it clear their relationship was more than just a falsified romance, an inherently abusive trade between predator and prey, where he took what he wanted when he wanted it and Hellhound had been so wounded by the loss of his mother, he was little more than putty in his hands. He fell victim to whatever affection Tarot showed him and he used it against him time and time again, taking advantage of his relative purity, and this battle was the culmination of that, of their time spent together even though it was years ago. It was masterful and chilling, but worse, still, was the split between Tarot’s fingers and the groping of Hellhound’s genitals, how comfortable he felt employing such tactics in full view of the Director and two other heroes– 

     Was that the point…? He mentioned them directly earlier, going so far as to force Hellhound to look up at the observation deck, intentionally drawing attention to the on-lookers, but why? Hellhound wasn’t the type to care much about whether or not he was seen in the midst of battle, because that was different from his day-to-day vulnerabilities, the parts of him he actively tried to hide. What came to mind for him was mitigating collateral damage and swiftly defeating his opponent; Paying attention to the eyes that might be on him wasn’t a true or appropriate point of focus, so he didn’t treat it like one, instead keeping his head only on what was happening right in front of him. While it was helpful under normal circumstances, it wasn’t enough against Tarot, and his ability to adapt was suffering greatly because of his history with him. 

     And, now, as a result, he was drowning in a whirlpool of blood and murky water, held captive by a current too fast and expansive for him to avoid.

     Hawks stared at the scene laid out before him, momentarily setting aside his observations in favor of considering the Director’s prior revelation of Tarot’s quirk. If what she’d said had been at all true, he was gravely concerned with the secrecy surrounding Tarot and the long-term ramifications of that choice to make it so. Lying to society and other arms of the government was a dangerous game to play, but it’d proven wildly useful for as long as Tarot had been a hero. As far as Hawks had been able to find out on his own, he was a nobody in greater hero society as planned, only popping up here and there where his presence had proven advantageous for both himself and the Commission as a whole. That’s where the rumors were spread and summarily squashed, with only few surviving among those once employed at the Foxfire Agency, where Hellhound had once been of great influence and an object of respect and revelry. If what Tarot had implied when he was spitting garbage at him had any truth to it, then he was investigating Nogitsune’s relative incompetence and fanning the flames behind closed doors, daring Hellhound to go off like a loose and perpetually loaded cannon. It took time, but he succeeded in that endeavor, the lingering remnants of his abuse subconsciously urging him to pay more attention to Nogitsune’s behaviors, whereabouts, and unearth his secrets. Even if there were some things he didn’t have the heart to look into, all it took was confirmation, and before too much longer, he disappeared and was presumed dead by society at large in the blink of an eye, ready and willing to murder his mother’s killer, throw his life away, and abandon all those he cared about.

     But his quirk being a matching opposing force to Hellhound’s made sense where nothing else possibly could, and it was sickening to think it could be used this way, unethically and with no shortage of torturous brutality. He could think ten seconds ahead without that being an actual, physical ability and he took some concessions if only to lull Hellhound into that false sense of security and break him down the moment the opportunity presented itself. 

     Hawks may have appeared calm on the surface, but inside, as he stood and watched Tarot violate and attempt to drown Hellhound, he felt nothing but righteous indignation, the frustration he thought he’d dialed back morphing into something he couldn’t rightly understand, amorphous and overwhelming. It wasn’t based on simple principle, but something deeper, something attached, and he couldn’t help it, try as he might to live up to his personal vow not to bow to mere sentiment. He couldn’t smother the flames burning away at the edges of his heart like kindling, digging his fingers into his palms as Hellhound sank deeper into the water, every facet of the situation piling on top of the next and mercilessly weighing him down. He wanted to act on his impulses, leave the Director’s side and put an end to the mock battle himself, make use of his Fierce Wings and rush to Hellhound’s defense; Perspective wasn’t helping, it was actively making things worse, and if this didn’t end soon, he feared Hellhound wouldn’t recover. What they were putting him through was too much, from reliving his traumas in his head to his efforts being for nothing, and to constantly falling into the verbal traps Tarot laid out for him and expecting him to do it on his own as if he wasn’t at so severe a disadvantage it now seemed impossible.

     He watched, biting his tongue, going through the events up to the current moment in an attempt to make sense of it. As Hellhound sank, disappearing into the endless murk and mire, Tarot released a handful of waterspouts to put out any remaining fires still burning, the combined smoke and steam causing old alarms to begin blaring and red lights to flash in the observation deck. By the looks of it, this particular area in the building hadn’t gone updated or used in some time, meaning its initial garish appearance was real. It wasn’t just a trite illusion, or maybe it was both, and the fact it’d taken him this long to put any more of the pieces together only added fuel to the fire.

     Casting a sidelong glance at the Director standing beside him, he caught an unusual glint in her eye. She was enjoying this, pleased with the progress Hellhound wasn’t making. 

      It isn’t fair that you’re doing this to him. It’s like you expect him to fail. No, you want him to.

     But how many more times was he going to have that same thought before Hellhound was left broken in a pool of his own blood?

     “What’s the real reason you’re putting him through this?” he said flatly, glaring at her from the corner of his eye, scrutinizing the tweaks in her expression, the crow’s feet by her eyes, that nearly imperceptible grin–

     This seemed a sobering enough question for her as she returned his gaze briefly, her lips pulling downward into a frown.

     “Do you know anything about the American military, how they train their men to be soldiers? They funnel their recruits into rigorous training exercises and insult them every step of the way, screaming in their faces about all the various things they could do to the people they hold dear, steadily chipping away at what triggers them to react with emotion. They don’t have any use for soldiers who can’t follow orders or think critically in high-stress situations, so they use every tool at their disposal to break their recruits down, thereby reducing the number of problems they could face when in the line of fire.” She spoke coldly, derisively, as if she’d felt little else but malice toward the States and their government, but Hawks suspected there was more to it than plain distaste. “What we’re doing with Hellhound is similar, if heavy-handed, and, in truth, it’s not just the United States who employ this method. Every government, terrorist cell, militia, villain group, or community does this, though with some differences in severity, but the main goal is always the same. A strong military acts as a deterrent when outside forces are swarming like starved animals, ready to strike at the slightest hint of weakness.”

     That left a bitter taste in his mouth.

     “We need power, but what we need most is for that power to be tempered, checked, and balanced. As he is now, do you really think Hellhound would be able to stand against a villain like, say, All For One and succeed? He fumbled and dropped the ball when he faced Prisma just the other night, because his emotions got in the way. He acted recklessly against Bat Wing and nearly killed them both, the damage done to the block besides, and while it is commendable he was able to see to Bat Wing’s arrest, had it gone any differently, we wouldn’t have him now.” She let out a tight-lipped sigh, a slight furrow to her brow. “He’s not special, however. We’ve done this with many heroes, including yourself, though admittedly not quite as quickly or as harshly.”

     He thought he understood, at first, when he was given his mission, and again when he spoke with the Director the first time a few days ago. But there was something else, unraveling every sure thought he’d had, as if the Director knew something was coming, something that would bring Japan to its knees. They didn’t just need Hellhound because he was strong; They needed him because his strength posed a risk they could utilize to their benefit, but why? What did she know? What did she anticipate was going to happen?

     It was unnerving, the bits and pieces he would learn when he could get her to repeat herself.

     “What’s coming that would necessitate–”

     Suddenly, Hawks cocked his head over his shoulder as the loud thudding of harried footsteps rustled his feathers, crimson vanes vibrating in alarm. Skin slapped against tile and fabric swayed and swished with every movement, and before Nogitsune could even burst through the door, he already knew it was him. 

     Panting and furious, he could see the malice and sheer distress clear in his sharp, mossy eyes, and his haori was mussed and filthy, his arm hanging limply at his side while the other clung to the open door, claw-like fingernails piercing the metal. He looked feral and wild, halfway to rabid, baring his fangs like a panicked dog cornered in a dead-end alley, silver hair sticking up in all directions, brows forming a sharp curtain over his eyes, his lips pulled into a vile snarl. He was panting, too, seething with rage and fear, but for everything he knew, there was much more he didn’t, and the rest he couldn’t rightly understand. He had a part to play in what was happening now, even if his intentions were just in the beginning…

     But, for a long, seemingly endless stretch of time, Hawks sympathized with him, even if he now knew that things weren’t quite so simple.

     "Do you have any idea what you're doing?!" Nogitsune shouted, anger ringing as clear as any bell in his voice, even above the quick pulse of the alarms.

     "Wonderful. Now there’s two–" the Director tried, immediately cut off by the Kitsune Hero.

     "Enough! Tarot will kill him, or is your head so far up your own ass you can't see it, you insufferable hag? Do you really think he’ll just let him live because you have anything to say about it? Tarot doesn’t care about you or the Commission! He only cares about himself and his own whims - and you gave him free reign over the one that got away!"

     Hawks silently balked at Nogitsune, astonished, anxious, and bothered by every word flying from his mouth, and while he knew and understood that Tarot was a brutal man, surely he knew what the purpose of the battle was? He even said so himself, outlining it clearly in a needlessly theatrical flair before the battle had ever begun, and surely he’d spoken with the Director before. He had to have known more, more than Hawks, the truth, that there was something just beyond the horizon that would soon begin to loom over them all. If he could trust what the Director had implied mere moments before Nogitsune burst into the observation deck, then– But he had to think about this objectively; He had to withdraw what few shreds of emotional stake he’d had in this and think about it as if he himself was the Director. Something was coming, be it a hunch or raw fact, and if they expected to weather the storm, then Hellhound and all heroes like him must conquer and go beyond their personal baggage or they’ll all fail, and what that meant could snuff any flame no matter how hot it burned.

     The fight taking place below was a decidedly personal battle between Hellhound and Tarot by this point, extenuating circumstances notwithstanding, and, win or lose, he was the only one who could fight it. Unethical as it was, there was perhaps another reason why the Director chose Tarot specifically for this mock battle; She claimed it was a test, but clearly– If Hellhound couldn’t put aside his emotional baggage for the sake of living on, following his orders, it was assumed he would stop short in every future battle. And if every future battle was as recklessly fought like this one, if he couldn’t ignore and abandon his own emotional attachments to his targets, if he couldn’t keep his guard up and adapt quickly to the tides of battle no matter the circumstances– Some small, naive part of Hawks desperately hoped the Commission was doing this in an actual, true effort to help Hellhound resolve his issues with Tarot, that the Director was thinking about both the smaller and larger pictures in the long-run. But her methods were deplorable and foul, standing to potentially worsen Hellhound's mental and physical health overall - unless, by some miracle, he won. 

     "If Tarot is willing to kill Hellhound, then this shouldn't be allowed to continue. You wanted to use him to your advantage, to keep him out of the hands of any villain that might wish to destroy society as we know it, yet you're actively playing games with his life before you can even begin to make use of him," Nogitsune continued after a long pause, the hand clawing at the door balling into a tight fist. His voice was lower, pleading even, and he seemed perched on the precipice of despair, teetering in either direction about to fall into vicious anger and sorrow alike. “You have to stop this. Please, I’m begging you!”

     But even if that might be the case, even if what the Director was trying to accomplish could speed things along, she was willing to allow him to suffer irreparable harm. She had too much faith in what little restraint Tarot possessed and Hellhound was far too affected by him to think critically about his moves. Everything was far more complicated and messier than it appeared to be, and even the appearance proved a contrived disaster as it was.

     The Director sighed, no doubt frustrated by Nogitsune’s outbursts. "Don't be foolish. Hellhound will not die here. Tarot is a punishing opponent, this is true, but even he knows what's at stake if he takes any liberties. If you truly are Hellhound's friend, as you so proudly claim, you would do well to have more faith in him."

     "Director, with all due respect–" Hawks attempted to interject, surprised by her almost encouraging remark.

     "And you, Hawks: I've had enough of your meddling. If you are to continue this charade, pretending to be a trustworthy ally to Hellhound, then you will do as you're told. Pathetic bleeding hearts, the both of you. There's more at stake than any one hero--"

     "No, screw this! If Saryn dies from this, his blood will be on your hands!" Nogitsune snapped, the door squealing on its hinges as he pounded his fist into its surface, once more baring his fangs.

     "You forfeited your right to defy what's laid out before you now years ago, Faux! It's your fault he's suffering now, between your traitorous lies and your cowardice! You let your emotions cloud your judgement and let loose a serial killer; You allowed many of our own to be senselessly murdered in their own homes; And you allowed not one, not two, but several young men to throw their lives away because of your own incompetence! How many times must you be reminded of that before you get it through your head? How many times must I repeat myself until you accept responsibility for your disgrace?"

     "Director, ma'am–" Hawks tried again, seeking only to take control of the situation and calm things down before anymore could be said, but he was cut off a second time.

     "No, I've had enough of your petulant whining! Stand down, be silent, and pay attention to the task at hand. I will have no further outbursts from either of you!"

     Hawks reluctantly surrendered, still trying to make sense of what all was happening both behind the scenes and right in front of him - with Hellhound and Tarot, and Nogitsune and the Director. There was still so much he didn’t know, and more he couldn’t quite understand; Too many details were obscured or merely implied, and while there was a fair amount left out in the open, he couldn’t shake the confusion and uncertainty plaguing him now.

     Nogitsune silently fumed to himself, stepping into the room with heavy feet and dropping his arm to his side, the door slowly shutting behind him on its own with an indelicate, metallic slam. "You will regret doing this to him, 'cause when the chips are down, he'll never side with you, hag."

     "We have no need for his personal opinion to be in line with our plans, Nogitsune. Leveraging Prisma's death is not the only way to ensure his loyalty, nor is taking advantage of his lack of emotional maturity. Although he is a bumbling idiot with a chip on his shoulder, he is a hero at heart, and if what you say is true, then he'll do anything to keep safe what he values most. Surely you understand that better than anyone." The Director turned away from Nogitsune, her hands clasping behind her back.

     Hawks thought to himself about many things in that moment, recounting his lack of childhood and the care the Commission treated him with; What lied at the very core of his ideals was his motivation to reshape their current society without such need for an institution as the Commission and its barbaric methods so expertly kept out of the public eye. They took something different from him than what they were now taking from Hellhound, and it would be a mistake and grave misunderstanding of the circumstances to attribute his stability, popularity, and success to them alone; They took a small child from his mother and forced him through an unending series of trials, draining away his sense of identity and robbing him of his freedom without restraint, so that he might be perfectly optimized to suit their purposes, and he complied - for the most part. What else could he do when they held his mother over his head, and his livelihood, the well-being of others? But all the while, he fostered the will to bring the system to its knees, so that people like him, people like Nogitsune and Hellhound, wouldn’t ever be taken for granted and molded into a weapon with which they could crush the citizenry again, so that society could know and understand the truth and move beyond it. What the Director had said was chilling if measured, matter-of-fact and detached; She believed it all a necessary evil and, so, it was. Abusing child after child, man after man, was necessary because she willed it to be, but all it was really useful for was instilling fear in each person she got her hands on and corroding the meaning of hero. And all the while she'd break children, budding heroes, and pros into easily managed drones, she could’ve been helping people on a fundamental level, yet she seemingly outright refused to. What paltry aid she offered had been only enough to maintain the status quo, to piece together the image of an industry built on heroism and good will, but so many had been left behind and forgotten. It shouldn’t be a surprise that the crime rate was escalating, or that heroes were too lazy or too afraid in the grand scheme of it all to stand by their oaths, and that was without taking All Might’s position as the Symbol of Peace into consideration.

     She had too much power; The Commission had too much power, and they were all to suffer for it unless and until someone did something about it. Hawks’ subversion and bending of the rules had sufficed for a time, slowly and steadily building toward his ultimate goal, and yet, in the moment, he found himself struggling to stay true to his efforts. Still, even if he couldn’t think of anything short of rushing in to save the day, he could encourage the Director to repeat herself once more, for Nogitsune’s sake at the very least, especially considering it’s not entirely his fault this was happening to Hellhound. He may have been culpable to a certain degree, given the choices he’d made over the last five years and especially in the last few days, but even he deserved an explanation alongside his portion of the blame.

     "But that isn't the point of this fight with Tarot, is it?" he said, finally getting a word in, urging her to at least try making the same point with Nogitsune as she did with him.

     "It's a matter of preventing any more mishaps in the future. He cannot fight or complete his work effectively if he cannot think clearly, or if he allows his past to remain a burden. He's erratic and naive, reckless and hard headed to an exponential degree when confronted by an opponent that means something to him. He may be Nogitsune's replacement, but he is not Nogitsune; His emotional reactivity can be amended - if he can triumph over the pains of his past."

      There it is… Hopefully, Nogitsune will be satisfied with that. It’s a little annoying that this all continues to repeat, that she continues to repeat herself, but…

     "But this is– This is too much. Tarot will–" Nogitsune spluttered hopelessly, his hand clapping to his face in frustration, fingers mussing the fringes of his hair and nearly completely concealing his eyes.

     "What makes you so certain Tarot will kill him? That he's treating him as the threat he is and fighting him as an equal? Or is your affection for the simpleminded mutt clouding your–" the Director said flatly, her words belying indifference and indignation as she gazed coldly into the watery expanse below.

      She’s messing with him now. They can’t keep going at it like this–

     "Don't talk about him that way!" Nogitsune retorted, his voice aggressively growing in volume as his hand shot away from his face and mossy flame flickered and crackled to life in the seat of his palm.

     The Director didn’t react.

     "Nogitsune, calm down! Letting your temper flare isn't going to make this any easier - not for you, and not for Hellhound." Hawks quickly glanced at the flame before looking Nogitsune in the eye, his own hands waving about in front of him to emphasize the need for calmness and discretion. But his expression softened despite that, and even though he was trying to ease the tension between them, a large part of him agreed with the Kitsune Hero. In the great mess of his thoughts and the circumstances they were in, he agreed. "Snuff 'em out. You're no good to him like this, and he's no good to anyone if he can't engage an opponent with a clear head. I know this is difficult for you, but you have to calm down, Nogitsune–"

     "Shut up, Hawks! What would you know? What would you know about anything? How can you stand here and defend this?!" Nogitsune howled, his flames expanding and growing larger by the second. 

     Hawks pursed his lips into a thin line, looking at Nogitsune with a carefully hidden glimmer of understanding. He didn’t like or agree with their circumstances either. In fact, he hated them, but if he let his personal feelings interfere too much, there’s no telling what would happen to Hellhound as a punishment. Things were bad enough, and, aside from that, the Director made a valid point, one he suspected she had, and if Nogitsune couldn’t also keep his emotions in check, then things would only get worse for everyone involved - and they were slated to already. But Hellhound accepted this of his own accord, he consented knowing how hard this was going to be no matter what those difficulties ended up being. They were just going to have to sit tight and have faith he could pull through, or suffer the consequences far in advance.

     But, still… I have to de-escalate.

     "You’re right,” he started, doing his best to appeal to Nogitsune’s emotions, adopting a gentler, more understanding tone. “I don’t know Hellhound - at all - by comparison, but if I’ve learned anything in the few days I’ve had beside him, it’s that you were right about him. He took on two powerful villains back-to-back and he survived despite their intent to kill him, despite everything that’s going on in his head. Hellhound, above all else, is a survivor and a hero, but you have to let him be.” He was trying, desperate to calm the other hero down. “He can do this. You said yourself you know he can, even though the odds are stacked against him.”

     Nogitsune seemed to take in and digest his words, but there was still a frenzied look about him. If anything, he was almost angrier, but this anger wasn’t born of fury but sadness, raw and aching like an open wound. His eyes were clouded, misty with everything he felt, but, slowly, his flame began to die.

     “What good is faith when your world is crumbling around you and you can’t do fuck all about it? What good is faith when your best friend is on the chopping block no matter what you try to do to save him? What good is faith when the people you love and fight so hard to protect are dead or dying or imprisoned because of you? Tell me, Hawks; What good is faith when it’s my fault Saryn’s drowning?” he muttered pitifully, his combined anger and misery ringing like a dull midwinter’s bell. 

      I know this is hard. I know it seems hopeless, and maybe it really is, but, Nogitsune, you can’t give up either. Because, if you do, then won’t Hellhound do the same…? Even though he’s angry with you, you’re all he has left, and if you fall apart and make the wrong choice, he will lose you and then he really will have nothing else but his guilt and suffering, and he’ll have to go through this anyway.

     And, then, he realized the irony of what he’d said to Nogitsune; Talking him down with the same words the Director used on me…

     “Nogitsune, you can’t–”

     “While this is all very touching, this is neither the time nor the place for any more theatrics. Hellhound will not be killed so easily, but whether or not he succeeds is up to him. All we can do, all we must do, is observe.”

     The watery vortex whirled all around Saryn, its current sweeping over his body like hundreds of writhing snakes as it dragged him further and further down, invading his mouth, nose, and lungs to further limit his ability to breathe. For what seemed like a lifetime, he panicked and fought against the rush of filthy water, thrashing, flailing his arms and legs, voicelessly screaming in the abyss in vain attempts to try and fight off the water rolling over his body. He twisted, clawed, and struggled again and again, failing at every turn to find purchase. Every part of him burned with desperation and terror, and he was choking, swallowing too much water, seconds away from the inevitable truth that he was drowning. The water was moving too fast and with too much force for him to resist, and no matter how much he ached, no matter how much of his blood was swept away by the current, no matter how close he was to the end, he continued to try; He kept fighting.

     He ran through the possibilities, the actions he could take, the malleability of his quirk, and what first came to mind was Damnation, to use its extreme heat to quickly evaporate as much of the water as he could or turn it all into steam - but it was a gamble at best. There was no telling if Tarot could control the temperature of his water or mediate the effects of outside forces, and if he should fail in his gambit, he could end up like a frog in a pot, boiling himself alive. 

     At least I’d die of my own accord, then…  

     A series of other, more complicated and strenuous ideas came to him in those precious, short moments, but as he struggled and fought against the turbulent current enveloping him, the only one that made perfect sense to him was to lure Tarot into a false sense of security, to use his own battle tactics against him. It was his only true option; Tarot knew his tells and was smart enough to be suspicious of any target in any circumstance, so a fake-out, waiting until he was tired of holding him under water to strike, was just as foolish if not more so. If he was to successfully trick him, it would take far more effort, strength, and time than he had, and could potentially result in an outcome even worse than he wanted to believe could culminate. If the two ideas could be combined, somehow, then he might stand a chance.

     He hated himself, hated the Commission, for allowing himself to be painted into a corner and forced to put every aspect of his quirk on display, to live up to the monstrous and destructive nature of it– But he had to take the risk or Tarot would remain an undefeated evil of his past, another living, breathing reminder that no matter how much strength he possessed, he was still too weak to reclaim his agency and survive, to protect and serve in spite of the cost to himself. What kind of hero could he be if he could not claim victory over his adversaries, if he could not protect even himself?

      I…I have to try. 

     Warring with himself all the while, water continued to flood his mouth and nose without reprieve or mercy, and every inch of his body burned with fatigue and the aching throb of his heart. He couldn’t keep up the fight, couldn’t keep thrusting his fists and kicking his feet in every direction in vain, so he sank, the rays of unfeeling red lights fading as darkness obscured all. But, he noticed, air bubbles escaping him, choking, that the temperature of the water was helping to maintain his own by keeping it significantly lower than when dry. If this side effect of Tarot’s quirk was unintentional or even overlooked, then he might be able to build up and store heat at a tolerable or even maximized level before the opportunity to release it came. 

     It’s my only option.

     He stifled his fear and uncertainty and with what little strength he could muster, running on pure adrenaline alone, he coaxed what heat he could absorb into the very pit of his stomach, feeling it move through the network of his nervous and circulatory systems and pressurize, fold over and compound over and over again. He didn’t care if it’d come from the still-hot debris at the bottom of the small sea Tarot had created, or if it came from the natural electricity created in the various neural pathways of his brain, or if it came from the air or pipes in the H-VAC or plumbing systems throughout this section of the building– So long as he could collect, store, and pressurize it into the explosive terror he needed it to be, he could rise from steaming, boiling puddles in the end, and that was all that mattered. Still, his blood continuously oozed out of him into the murky vortex, his throat and nasal passages mangled by miniscule shards of metal, glass, and all else contaminating it, and, still, he was quickly running out of time. If Tarot didn’t let up soon, if he couldn’t rely on the chance that he might relent if only to bark more bullshit at him–

     Before he could expand upon the heat already building within him, the water began to shift wildly, as if thousands of eels had been caught in a net, slimy and floundering as tentacular tendrils took shape and amassed. They slithered all over his body, tightly coiling around him and pinning his arms to his sides and his legs together, rushing him to the surface. He shut his eyes, temporarily blinded, and just before he reached his breaking point and the dull alarms sounded in his ears, he was yanked free of the unceasing abyss, the chill of the air cooling slick skin, held high in the air above water’s surface. His fluid restraints squeeze him hard, crushing every desperate gasp for air, and he sputtered and coughed and vomited water until he was spent, hanging limply in Tarot’s roiling web.

     His plan remained nestled at the forefront of his mind despite the pain he suffered, the trembling and shaking of his body, and the raw agony in his lungs with each shuddered breath, but as it stood, he couldn’t bear to move nor could he bring himself to look at Tarot as he stepped toward him, his footfalls like droplets on the water. He could barely hear him drawing nearer anyway, the smoke alarms blaring sharply in his ears, but he hoped beyond hope that with Tarot suddenly pulling him out of the water and restraining him, he would have the opportunity to attack.

     For now, he wouldn’t try to struggle any more, instead gasping and shivering, but, most of all, he would bide his time. Once he was free, he wouldn’t be able to move as quickly or smoothly as he did before and he would have to be careful.

     “It’s cute that you’re trying to come up with ideas to counteract my quirk, but it’s even cuter that you’re coming up empty-handed,” Tarot said, his tone riddled with amused condescension. “You’re like a baby, just learning how to walk.”

     Saryn kept his gaze downcast, watching with idle frustration and curiosity as the water levels slowly began to drop, the diligent lapping of small waves steadily smoothing into an almost serene reflection of the truth. He saw himself, soaked to the bone and bleeding incessantly from the stab wounds in his thigh and shoulder, his mouth, nose, and ears, some of it still clinging to his hair in half-coagulated rivulets, but so, too, did he see Tarot and the vile contortion that could hardly be called a grin peeling across his face, sinister and foul. Whatever he was planning, whatever he was thinking, it couldn’t have been good, and with what Saryn had experienced with him before, the memories still hanging over him like a caustic fog, he suspected this fight was only going to get worse the longer he waited.

     When Tarot halted his steps, he winced, uncertain of what was to come, and, involuntarily, he broke his stubborn stare into the water, glancing up at him, his lashes fluttering in spite of the drops still clinging to them. 

     A big mistake.

     The hard water tendrils restraining and holding him so high in the air all at once lost their shape, falling below to the steadily shrinking sea of water, and with them did he plummet. In a blurry torrent, a myriad of colors and shapes smeared and malformed, and only too quickly did he crash into the water’s surface, head slamming into the once unmoving mirror while the rest of his body twisted and crumpled. The pain wracking his body amplified once more and though he tried to push himself up onto his hands and knees, he failed to gain purchase, slipping and ultimately collapsing in a heap of mangled limbs. Saryn was tired, idly building on his stores of thermal energy with every shred of strength he still had, and he was suspicious. For as much pain as he was in, in hindsight, it was as if Tarot had willingly created an opening for him by dropping him– But why ? Was he testing him again, goading him into making his move now just so he could stop him short and throttle him all over again? 

     “Oopsie, sorry, babe.” Tarot pauses, his hand clapping over his mouth in mock embarrassment and apology.

     Saryn didn’t dare to make an attempt now, forcing himself to be patient and wait for just the right moment, but before the thought could fully cross his mind once more, the tendrils swiftly rose up from the water’s surface and grabbed hold of him again, keeping him pinned down with even more strength than before. He turned his head to the side in an effort to keep any of the water from entering his mouth or nose for the hundredth time, his worn, bloodshot eyes honing in on Tarot’s blurred head of orange hair.

     Either he was giving him ample opportunities to attack, pausing in between every action he took with a threatening flourish, or he was prolonging the inevitable in a bid to amuse himself with the wax and wane of Saryn’s will to fight.

     He felt… empty, carven hollow and spread wide, walled in by pins and mahogany frames to be put on display, and maybe he was, under Tarot’s intense scrutiny. He could feel his gaze raking over him with prejudice, as if he was sizing up a captured specimen. Tarot never looked at other people like people, stripping them of their humanity– It filled him with an unending dread, pooling and churning violently in his gut. 

     “Actually, on second thought, no. I’m not.”

     Saryn flinched.

     Tarot threw his head back and maniacal laughter soon echoed throughout the steaming, flooded training area, each echo seemingly louder than the ones that came before, the wild cackling of a hyena bouncing off the dilapidated walls caging them in. But as he laughed and laughed, the water around Saryn rippled and the tendrils restraining him shuddered, bubbles gurgling in their sway, before they coiled around him tighter and dragged him across the surface. It was hard like glass, scraping against his face and bumping harshly against his cheekbone, an agonizing soreness rattling through his skull. 

     Suddenly, the tendrils launched him into the air and before he could even begin to comprehend what was happening, the full weight of his body was summarily slammed into the water’s surface over and over again. He didn’t have time to react, didn’t have the wherewithal to groan, cry, or gasp; He wouldn’t have been able to even if he could. He couldn’t register the sheer volume of the pain he felt, overwhelmed by the steady fracturing of his ribs and the consistent pummeling of his skull, but he knew - oh, he knew - that no matter how easily Tarot could break him, no matter how easily his ribs cracked and splintered, no matter how easily invaded by spots and smears of traumatic color his vision was, he had to keep himself from losing consciousness, had to keep himself from screaming. 

     As the tendrils raise him high in the air once more, his bleary gaze, nearly rolling back, blink down at the red-tinted tinted surface below, hazily watching as the remaining water shifts and vacates to reveal slick, filthy tile. Already, he knew what was going to happen, and he watched as he bobbed in the air like an offshore buoy, as the grimy tiles got closer, further, closer, and further repeatedly. He knew what Tarot intended to do, dancing around it, teasing the inevitability of dropping or throwing him to the ground and the injuries that would no doubt follow. 

     But he had to keep waiting, keep drawing in heat from all around him and pressurizing it in the deepest corners of his body, keep clenching his teeth and drowning his pain in harsh, seething breaths until the moment came. He braced himself for impact, weakly tensing webs of muscle and silently begging for Devil Dog to insulate his–

     And, then, in no time flat, the watery tendrils reared back, pulling him along, and threw him to the ground. He slid, bounced, rolled, and skidded across the wet tile, his arms and legs buckling, twisting, and catching on still-hot debris, blood splattering in all directions. Tiles shattered and cracked from the force, and he wasn’t sure if the sickening, rhythmic pop he heard had been a bone snapping or the tiles themselves, but the pain had become too much, an incredible numbing sensation washing over him as his nerves fizzled and fried. 

     Eventually, he came to a stop, rolling into the sharp embrace of jagged pipes and bent rebar, chunks of cement and chipped tile. He wheezed and sputtered, blood filling his mouth and oozing free from the corners– He coughed, body rocking back and forth, and the agony seeping into his rib cage made it clear to him then that the pop he’d heard had been more than just one of his ribs splintering in his chest. He tried like hell to recover, to mitigate his desperate heaving for air, his diaphragm pushing against his lungs, blood exploding out of him like a fountain–

      I can’t… I can’t breathe– It hurts–

     Choking on yet more of his own blood, he lifted his head with great effort, searching through the darkness and steady pulse of red light for Tarot, but his vision was still blurred and he couldn’t make anything out but wisps and spots of varying color. Everything was either too far away for his eyes to define or the trauma to his head had simply been too much, but he could still hear through the loud ringing and blaring alarms in his ears, and so he would have to depend on his other senses in order to locate the Foresight Hero. He couldn’t allow himself to focus on the pain, couldn’t allow himself to give in to the enormity of it, or the flippant bloodlust Tarot gave off, but his strength was diminished, dwarfed by the circumstances and every injury riddling his body. Several of his ribs were broken, his throat and nasal passages ripped and torn by tiny specks of glass, dirt, and metal, his thighs and shoulders cut through like a hot knife would butter, and he didn’t doubt that he’d a number of hairline fractures throughout the entirety of his skeletal frame. It was a miracle he survived at all, propped up by steel and cement, but he had to soldier on, had to ignore every bit of it or the worst was certain to follow.

     He listened to his surroundings, abandoning his need for visual confirmation, and all he could hear was the steady dribbling of water, droplets pitter-pattering to the floor, and the cruising draw of a wave upon a polluted shore. His head lolled forward and he leaned into his uninjured arm, which had been hooked around a curved length of rebar jutting out of the expanse of cement he’d been flung into. Tarot’s laughter had long since died down, but he couldn’t even hear his breaths above the babbling wave, let alone all the other noises pounding on his eardrums. If he had to guess, Tarot would be riding the wave, making his way over to him as quickly, quietly, and seamlessly as possible, and he would approach without ceremony, touch, grope, and molest every bit of exposed, bleeding flesh he could get his hands on.

     That’s what he thought, anyway, what he expected. If knowing Tarot at all had any perks, this would be the only one.

     So, Saryn stoked the flames crackling inside him, visualizing a gauge in his mind representing an eighty-percent fill to capacity, forcing himself to continue biding his time in a bid to strike with his hottest flame, his strongest of blows.

     And then he felt those hands again, thumb wiping away at the constant flow of blood from his swollen lips.

     “Y’know, amai-inu,” Tarot began, his breaths fanning against Saryn’s cheek, “it’s a real shame you don’t remember anything. This would’ve been so much more interesting if you did.” 

     He didn’t look up at him, instead choosing to shut his sightless eyes, but Tarot was intent on making things even worse than they already were, making things harder, roughly grabbing a fistful of his hair at the root and tearing him free of the steel and cement supporting him.

      Stop this–

     Just as quickly did Tarot release Saryn’s hair and his momentum carried him a few clumsy meters forward, but his weight was off-kilter and his limbs were like jelly, and he couldn’t catch himself as he fell face-first into the tiles. In one smooth movement, his face smacked against the tile and a rubber sole collided with the back of his head, heel digging into the base of skull. 

     “Oh, how silly of me.” Tarot taunted maliciously, his voice a whisper above the alarm and violent ringing in his ears, and all the while he applied more pressure to twist of his heel, dragging Saryn’s face back and forth. His nose bent and buckled in the grout and he swore it was just shy of breaking, too. “There’s plenty I could do to keep this interesting. I could break your heart all over again, remind you of all your scars; I could crush you under my boot right here and now; Or I can simply kill you. What do you think, babe? Want me to make it stop?”

     “F-fuck you,” Saryn hissed pitifully, words broken and stuttered, the tile beneath him now misted with blood.

     “Hmm… Fuck me, or fuck me? You’ll have to clarify, amai-inu, or else someone might get the wrong idea.” Tarot’s sing-song voice grated on Saryn’s nerves; He was sick of hearing it.  

     And worse, still, were the fleeting images of vermillion plumes and piercing gold that’d immediately come to mind.

     He, against his better judgment, painstakingly attempted to push himself up, his muscles sore and arms shaking, too weak to support his weight now. Allowing himself to take more punishment just so he could properly fool that monster into believing his spirit had been completely broken, so he could unleash the flames burning within, was beginning to overstay its welcome as a plan. There was only so much he could take, and regardless of how mangled and ripped apart he was, he couldn’t bear to take any more. 

     “Tsk, bummer. Always so… uncooperative,” Tarot sighed dramatically, but the disappointment in his voice wasn’t real, and Saryn would choose to ignore him for the moment.

     His fingers slipped on the watery tiles, but, still, he tried, knees scraping against pebbled cement and tile alike in an effort to get him back on his feet. But in his attempt, he reminded himself of his goal, the reason he was quietly siphoning heat from all around him and distilling it into what he hoped would be a continuous devastating blast. He had to defeat Tarot, no matter the cost, if he was ever to see the light of day when the dust cleared and the blood spilling out of him caught the light. He had to, not just for the Director, not just so he could progress and escape these circumstances, but also for himself, to prove to himself that his fears and his pains could be conquered and forgotten. It didn’t have to be done the right way; It simply had to be done at all, or he would fall prey to the same overwhelming and unforgiving guilt, anger, and hatred he’d been feeling all this time. It would consume him, tear him limb from limb from the inside out, corrode and eat away at what little of him he could claim was still good–

     He clawed at the grout between the tiles ahead of him, defying the boot sole digging into his head, breaths heaving, so much of him hurting beyond hurt. He almost felt numb again, his senses overloaded and his mind in shambles, focus hanging on by a thread too stubborn to fray. 

      I have to… I have to keep fighting. I can’t– I won’t let him win over me. I won’t be his victim. He can hurt me now. He can break me into a thousand pieces, but I won’t let him do this to anyone else–

     The boot grinding into his skull suddenly vacated and he saw an opportunity to push himself harder, to crawl further away in spite of his body screaming at him to stop. Immediately, he lifted his head, eyes fluttering open to see what was right in front of him, black and crimson staining his vision. He couldn’t measure the distance between himself nor anything else ahead, but he refused to let it deter him, continuing to pathetically scramble forward, sliding and slipping as he went. He had to keep going, had to keep trying–

     But, without so much as a warning, he was struck once more. Tarot’s foot crashed into the side of his already pounding skull, his head snapping around, arms buckling underneath him. Before he could crumble into the bloodied tiles beneath him, he was yanked back up to his feet by a fistful of his hair, pulled every which way like a ragdoll. He was on the verge of vomiting, or going into shock, or simply losing the last miniscule shreds of his will to keep going. Tarot wasn’t gentle in his handling of him, deliberately loosening and strengthening his hold on him, shaking him, dragging him further back into the unending darkness surrounding them, and he spun him around, his legs wobbly and so, so close to collapsing. The low, plain sloshing of a wave caught in his ringing ears. His feet stumbled and scraped against the tile. He couldn’t see anything. All he felt was cold air on his skin, blood dripping from open wounds, water streaming down his spine, and Tarot’s uneven breaths on his nape.

     With blood and iron in his mouth, he realized the orange-haired bastard was beginning to tire from the continued use of his quirk. 

     In a rough, unpolished movement, Saryn was thrust forward, his head fully submerged in a rushing upward current of the water he’d heard babble to life mere seconds ago, the wild, thrashing stream crashing against his face repeatedly as if a vortex at constant directional odds with itself, pummeling him and racing down his throat and nasal passages. Tarot held his head in place underwater for nearly a full minute and it wasn’t long before he began to struggle and choke on it once more, but in the seconds before unconsciousness could claim him, his head was ultimately yanked free of the water. He sputtered and coughed, water and blood splattering across the tile.

     He didn’t look up at Tarot, not even when he jerked his head backward - again. “Mmm, that’s right… I can’t kill you. Buuuuut that’s okay - I have a better idea: Why don’t I let you in on a little secret, mm? I can afford to give you a little gift, to celebrate our reunion.” 

     Snide, smug condescension leaked into Tarot’s voice and it was vile, enough to make Saryn’s stomach churn and roil as if the pain and heat coalescing in his gut weren’t fucking enough– His arms were heavy as he reached, weakly, for Tarot’s wrist and hand so he might free himself from his grip, but all he could stand to think of was burning it clean off. 

      If he could just touch him–

     Tarot leaned in close to Saryn’s waterlogged ear and whispered, “Nogitsune didn’t just lie to you about Prisma– He lied to you about your mother as well.”

     Saryn froze, his blood running cold as a violent chill shot down his spine and malicious cackling filled the room.

     “I suppose he couldn’t talk about anything, what with it all being, d’aww, classified - your mother’s research, who her allies really were, and why he was ever involved at all.”

     He couldn’t trust a word out of Tarot’s mouth, but there was a tiny, aching, broken piece of himself that wanted to know what he knew, what he heard, what he’d dug up, because there were still so many unknowns, so many questions that were never answered. It was a childish part of him still clinging desperately to the memory of what he’d lost, and, oh, how easily it could be swayed by a deliberately manipulative comment. And like a fool, he remained rigid, caught in a torrent of immutable horror and overwhelming confusion, his mouth going dry, throat scratchy and bruised.

     Tarot chuckled to himself, giving Saryn’s head a rough shake.

     “Aww, you want to know soooo bad. It’s all right, s’all right… I’ll tell you, baby,” he purred, his nose brushing through bloodied burgundy, mocking him with every word. He was preying on Saryn’s vulnerabilities and he was helpless to stop him. “That clever Miss Ivaniuk. Always abusing the system, lying to her own son, betraying all of hero society– Oh, amai-inu! Your mother had access to a wealth of information that she gleefully bartered away for criminal DNA and funding, because she knew no one would notice if a government researcher dipped into an archive here and there. No one would notice if a scientist did her job. She was smart, getting in good with the Commission, effortlessly covering her ass at every turn. She played allllll these games, even immigrated, renounced her Ukrainian citizenship, offered her services to the government and the Commission, and even adopted a child. But it was alllllll bullshit, y'know? A smokescreen, a lie."

     “Th-that’s not– No–” Saryn sputtered defensively, hopelessly, so small and–

     “Oh, but it is true, amai-inu. You’d know that if you really cared about her. You’d know that if you’d listened, so you’ll be good and listen to me now, won’t you? Don’t you want to know, after all this time?” 

     He kept still, his heart hammering away at his rib cage with reckless abandon.

     "You see, Kaede, Yana's only concern was with genetic mutations, the great aberrations that are the strange and unmitigated transformations in human DNA we call quirks. It was only scientific curiosity at first, but the more she learned and tried to understand, the more she wanted to cultivate them, splice them together to create newer and stronger ones - to artificially speed-up the timeline in human evolution - and she fell in with alllllll the wrong people who wanted to do - tangentially - the same…fucking…thing.” Fingernails forcefully dug into Saryn’s scalp and dragged through the knots in his hair, scraping and digging and peeling away scabs he didn’t know he’d had. “She ran countless experiments on any shitstain the Commission threw at her. She even bent the knee to the likes of Prisma and All For One in her little search for knowledge, anything that would bring her closer to achieving Quirk Singularity, and she sold her findings and finished products to the highest bidder, be they hero or villain, funding her research, keeping a roof over your pretty, little head and food in your belly.” Tarot enunciated his words with several harsh jabs to the bleeding rim of the gaping hole in Saryn’s shoulder, teasing at frayed nerves and torn thew, and it took everything in him not to scream in pain. “If you'd ever bothered to look into what all Nogitsune had compiled on her lunacy, the whole reason he was monitoring her in the first place, you'd have seen the blood on her hands - and that she'd even experimented on you, that you were her pet project, what would serve as the pinnacle of her life’s work. Do you remember the blood under your fingernails, the odd little scabs in stranger places, dry mouth, migraines, the rapid growth of your quirk and simultaneous loss of control over it before she died? Do you remember waking in the middle of the night to find her still so hard at work, toiling away over sample this and sample that, and how she’d explain it all away with a coIlection of empty promises and the tranquilizers she told you were melatonin? Do you remember finding yourself on the kitchen floor with no memory of how dinner the night before had gone or why, oh why, your body constantly felt like it was on fire? I know you do, amai-inu. She flooded your body with her own brand of experimental quirk enhancement drugs for eight long years, long enough for it to become an inherent part of your genetic makeup, for it all to deposit right here,” he continued, his fingers scraping back and forth before painfully settling right at the middle of his forehead, “in the various cortices of your addled little brain. She hooked you up to IV drips, dosed your food and water– It's bound to the very core of your DNA and every synapse of your brain to the point I'm certain you produce it now."

     The grip he had on Saryn's hair tightened immeasurably and his lips curled into a fiendish smile against the shell of his ear, delighted by his inability to act even when the best possible opportunity to do so had nearly fallen directly into his lap. He couldn’t believe it, couldn't tell the truth apart from the lies, and he wanted to be angry, wanted to cast aside his uncertainty and rush to his mother’s defense, but he couldn’t bear to speak, pinned down and trapped under the weight of rosy memories. Some of what Tarot had said had made sense. There were days he’d find himself in different rooms in the house with dirt and dried blood underneath his fingernails, everything around him in exactly the same place as he left it but still hazy, foggy, and unseen all the same. There were nights he couldn’t remember at all, mornings full of groggy fumbling, headaches, and nausea, but she was always there to help him get back on his feet with a worried but encouraging smile on her face, offering him a glass of water and medicine and–

     Saryn’s eyes blew wide, globs of blood and saliva dribbling down his chin. 

      Was she… Was she really–

     He thought about the day he was adopted, how quickly the adoption process had gone through, all the people dressed in proper suits, flashing lights, medical tape, needles, tubes, machines– But she’d assured him it was merely a thorough check-up the government required her to perform, for welfare’s sake. He didn’t know what that meant at the time, but she never did anything untoward to him; She drew blood and ran x-rays, speaking to him with gentle lilts and soothing tones, patting his head and holding his hand to encourage and ground him when he couldn’t make sense of his changing world and the ache in his heart. She gave him her complete support when he needed it most, when no one else would dream of giving a problem child the time of fucking day - and she did right up until she died. For every mistake she made, no matter how imperfect she was, she devoted herself to motherhood, dressing him in fresh, clean clothes and sending him off to school with homemade meals she spent hours making, putting in the time and effort it took to learn who he was, what he wanted, what he dreamed of, what frightened him, what made him smile, what inspired him– She was there, picking up the broken pieces of his childish heart one by one and carefully gluing them back together again, nurturing his desire to become a man worthy of the title of hero. She worked tirelessly to keep their home and afford him the opportunities to progress toward his goal, giving him space when he needed it and cradling his head in her hands when he couldn’t stand to defy his past. She loved him.

     But did she really, if his water so often tasted like chemicals and his blood had been smeared across his bedsheets? Did she really love him if she was drugging and experimenting on him every night he slept under the same roof, ate the same food, drank from the same tap? But how could he doubt her now when she was all he had, when she was the only person who saw him for the frightened child he was and rescued him from a childhood that would otherwise have been spent in isolation and mental and emotional degradation? How could he question the love she had for him when she’d proven its strength every day on little blue sticky-notes in his lunchbox, when she’d set her work aside just so she could spend some time with him watching television and gawking at all the top heroes showing off on-screen? She took care of him and met him where he needed her, no matter how poorly he reacted to perceived transgressions–

     She loved him. She loved him, right? 

     Tarot’s disgusting voice grated on his eardrums like nails on a chalkboard, viciously reminding him of his current circumstances, and he wanted to vomit.

     "You can't trust anyone, Kaede, because they all see you as an object, a tool. It's all you are and all you'll ever be, and it's not even your fault. How tragic," Tarot crooned. "The gaps in your memory are caused by, mmm, well, a few things, but the most egregious aren't even resultant from physical or emotional trauma. No, no! Its fluid pressure buildup in your amygdala, hippocampus, frontal lobe, your cerebellum, mental degradation, headaches, lack of control over your quirk; Side effects of prolonged use of the quirk enhancers, you see. Oh, and you never once thought to question it, did you? I guess so much was going on in that head of yours - or maybe you trusted Yana with all your stupid, foolish little heart - you wouldn’t have known your mother was pumping you full of drugs morning, noon, and night."

     A sudden and powerful jerk to his hair brought Saryn up to his feet and he was pulled backward, the pain he felt compounding as the numbness faded, forced to teeter off-balance on the tips of his toes. His arms had long since begun to flail in vain attempts to keep himself upright, but every move ripped at his scalp and his toes continuously slipped and slid on the tiles beneath him. Involuntary tears rimmed his eyes and the seething rage that’d once filled him roared to life, scorching his gut and gullet with all the destructive force of a forest fire, all his thoughts fixed on the painful sensations webbing across his scalp and the malicious call to questioning the only person in all the world who loved him, truly. 

     This was all a fucking ruse, just a means of messing with his head and poisoning the well to prevent him from fighting, to break his spirit and conquer him in full display before the Director, Hawks, and Nogitsune. If he allowed himself to believe it, to fall victim to Tarot yet again, then he could only call himself a faithless failure, guilty of betraying his mother and her memory - and the few who had any faith in him. 

     He knew Yana for who and what she was, and she was his mother for all the time he had her in his life; That was all he needed for himself. She raised him as if he were of her own flesh and blood, and no amount of sleazy falsehoods, sickening half-truths, and outright disrespectful, manipulative embellishments would change that. Besides, there wasn’t a snowball's chance in hell she'd have ever done anything like that to him or anyone else. She followed every code of ethics required for her to become a researcher, tending the guidelines to the letter, and swore an oath, but above all, she never once felt her work had been worth violating the autonomy or health of other people - or worth dying for. He knew that - He knew it, as if it’d always been and would always be the plain, simple truth.

     Flame flickered, crackled, and sung deep within Saryn, and despite how tattered, injured, vulnerable, nearly powerless, and naked he was, it now seemed an almost trivial thing to have so much power roiling beneath his skin like eels in a bucket. It singed the tips of his fingers, sparks like needles and knives in his throat, and he was so, so hot, sweat dripping down and betwixt the contours of his enfeebled body as blazing heat burned away at his insides. 

     He was ready.

     "There’s something so… funny about that, amai-inu,” Tarot hummed, snickering to himself. “Any love you thought your precious mommy had for you was a blatant lie, a falsehood spun to fool you into trusting her implicitly, but she kept you like a lab rat, crushing up pill-form sedatives and putting them in your drinks so she could poison you while you slept– Or, perhaps she was risking your health, your life, for the truth behind your quirk– Ah, but you were too blind, too stupid to notice." He laughed and it almost sounded hysterical, and as he laughed, he yanked Saryn to and fro before kicking his wobbly legs out from under him. Searing pain fried the nerves at his scalp as he scrambled to get to his feet again, hanging by his hair in Tarot’s grip, a harsh, raspy grunt escaping him in place of an agonized yelp– "The promise of comfort and family led you into yet another bloody battlefield fraught with cruelty and despair, and you never learned the difference between it and normal life. It's why you let me do whatever I wanted to you, why you tolerated Nogitsune's lies, why you still cling to the rose-tinted image of your mother, why you've surrendered to the Commission."

     Mercifully, he was permitted to stand on the flats of his feet, but it wasn’t long before an arm slithered tightly around his waist, Tarot’s pointed chin easing onto his shoulder with a dreary sigh. He released his hair, fingernails unfurling from his skin, and the offending hand drifted down his side, hovering over wide open gashes and teasing the flesh, but they delved lower and lower until they reached the frayed, mangled ends of the scar spidering over his hip. The resounding lurch of Saryn’s stomach left him to wince and recoil severely in his grasp and it was then, too, that he caught sight of a slender tendril of water spiraling out of the sloshing wave ahead. He already knew what would come next, and–

     "It's a depressing outcome - such a pity, really! - but I suppose it's only natural that you'd turn out this way…”

     With a wet thunk, the lone tendril darted toward him and sunk into the meat of his thigh, and his eyes followed it, blown wide with shock and terror as it churned blood and muscle alike. His nerves burned hotly, sizzling once in contact with the endless drilling of the water - and the bile rose again, sweltering in his throat. 

     “Forgetful…” 

     He was dangerously close to an involuntary release, his senses overwhelmed and defeated by Tarot’s repeated torturous antics, and as he fought to keep himself under control, to maintain the flame roaring inside him, more and more tendrils pierced his flesh. 

     “Slow…”

     His heartbeat became more erratic than ever before, slamming against his rib cage in its feral effort to break free, and the pain flooding his body now should have put him into shock or cardiac arrest. So much of his own blood washed over the tile, piddling uselessly to the floor, and it became clear to him that he was out of time. No matter how much pain he was in, no matter how much blood he’d lost, no matter how dire his circumstances, he had to act. He had to move, let loose his hellish flame upon the demon violating him now, lest he forever and always be a gutless victim and a fool…

     ”Weak… Raised by the dregs of society only to become a tool ."

      Now… I have to do it now!

     "You… " Saryn spat, his voice hoarse and garbled, a pathetic croak filtered through the blare of the fire alarm. “You won’t… poison the memory of my mother with your bullshit… You won’t t-take what little I have of her from me– You-you won’t have me groveling at your feet, begging you f-for mercy… I-I am not your victim, and you will never have power over me again!”

     “You said this allllll before, baby, and what did you–”

     Before Tarot could finish his sentence, Saryn let out a shaky, broken breath.

      Damnation…!

     And he loosened his grip, sweat beading down his forehead and evaporating alongside the tendril buried in his thigh as heat bubbled to the surface. A single heatwave emanated off of him, what one would feel just before a bomb blast - a warning. But he refused to give Tarot any more leeway to flee, clamping his aching hands around his wrist and arm to keep him anchored to his body. In one fell swoop, he released every bit of heat he’d collected and stored within himself, flame exploding out of him in brilliant fountains of blinding blue-violet, mirroring the bomb he chose to visualize in his application of Damnation. The vicious blaze rapidly grew, expanding and contorting as its tongue lapped at tile and rubble, flesh and bone, until the pair were consumed by light and ash.

     “Saryn, no–” Tarot shouted, his words dying in his throat as smoke and flame engulfed them both . The initial shockwave sent him flying, slipping right through Saryn’s fingers, blood and blistered skin smattering across the tile, and it quickly evaporated any remaining water, causing extensive damage to the flooring, walls, ceiling, and cracking the glass windows of the observation deck above. But he couldn’t stop there - he wouldn’t. It wasn’t enough and would never be enough, not while Tarot still–  Saryn narrowed his eyes, heat stinging them relentlessly. 

     He activated Devil Dog, threads of thew rushing to the wounds in his thigh to stop the bleeding, spreading over the rest of his body to protect him from any more damage from the flames. He lurched forward, struggling to keep himself on his feet and conscious, memories of his mother flashing in his mind, but he never stopped, swiftly turning on his heel to face Tarot’s recovering form. 

     "I-I’m not anyone’s fucking toy!" 

     A low, threatening growl - louder than the roaring flames surrounding and cutting between them - screamed through the room, and he bolted through the blue-violet firestorm after Tarot, rushing him before he could properly climb to his feet. A mere hair’s breadth away, he turned on his heel once more, pumping all his strength into his leg, and landed a bone-shattering roundhouse to Tarot’s chest. Using his momentum to his advantage, he leaned forward and grabbed the orange-haired bastard to keep him from being blown away, and launched his fist into his jaw as the last threads of Devil Dog capped his knuckles.

     Each strike was followed by another, then another, and no matter how many times Tarot attempted to gather or make use of his stored waters, his efforts were for naught, fizzling and turning to steam the moment they so much as touched Saryn’s flames. Burgundy met reeling ice without the natural pause of apprehension nor concern, anger and adrenaline coursing through Saryn’s veins free and unbridled, and all he could see was confusion and surprise scrawled across Tarot’s marred face - the absence of fear. He would never be motivated by it, the horror behind the threat of death, and such was fine; Uncertainty and lack of control were enough. 

     "Nothing you say matters. Nothing you do matters. Nothing– Nothing, Tarot! Nothing!" he howled as fire began to burn in the seat of his palm, crackling with focused agitation, and it soon swallowed his hand entirely. In closing his fist, he thrust forward, a volley of arrow-shaped flames releasing the second his knuckles made contact with Tarot’s maw once more. Like homing missiles, they found their target, relentlessly pummeling him in all the same ways his filthy water whips did Saryn - only, Tarot caught fire. 

      You will walk away feeling everything I have felt, everything you put me through. 

     Tarot’s unhinged screeching filled his ears, and he ignored them, briefly recalling something he’d told Hawks about whether or not he could fly. It was a difficult trick to make use of and even harder to maintain for any serviceable length of time, but– He rushed forward into Tarot, throwing an arm around his waist in tandem with an explosive expulsion of flame from his feet, leaping into the air with the bastard in tow, fully intending to carry him high above the ground and drop him - to use all his same tricks against him. As heavy as he was, Saryn endured, breaking through the blue-violet field of flame and shining like a blazing star above it all, unbothered by Tarot’s clawing and flailing, undeterred by his screams. He held him in place for a time, letting him fight, letting him believe he could stand against him now, that he could overpower and torture him again. 

     Without warning, he dropped him, and for what seemed like an eternity, he beat the bloody shit out of Tarot, repeatedly trading blows and forcibly stitching the wounds on his heart and mind closed with each one.

     Trains of loose silk and cotton ease across a pristine floor darkened by the shadow of nightfall, small, delicate feet maneuvering the path set before them. The room is gloomy and vast on its face, uninterrupted by what would normally be contained in any other average warehouse, but there were many who lingered in the inky blackness, idly minding the woman who passed them with her head held high and an unreadable glint in her narrow blue eyes. She walked with purpose and determination, with control and status, as if she herself ruled over the silently shifting villains so diligently awaiting their orders, framed in black and what few rays of precious silver that dared to cut through the windows above. Dressed in a monochromatic kimono fitted with woven red spider lilies, she seemed an ever changing puzzle piece, filling in the gaps as she sashayed through the comparatively larger crowd, but she never truly fit in among them - and not for any other reason than because she appeared too soft, unspoiled by the dangers of villainy or the consequences of crossing hero society. She was but a flower whose petals were smooth and unharmed by natural wear, blooming in sparse moonlight and the gazes of all those who thirsted for chaos unbridled and causal upheaval, twisting and turning in accordance with the moon’s orbital position. 

     And such was fine, that the peons should see her this way, for a punishment swifter and more punishing than the justice any hero could dole out awaited them should they step out of line and voice it. But it wasn’t the persistent threat of necrotic death that kept their mouths wired shut; It was the dissolution of their memories, the evaporation of their sense of self, to be drained of their personhood and reshaped into the tools they were recruited to be. It was her power they feared, in truth, for she was just as ruthless in the applications of her quirk as her master, just as formidable and just as cruel. With every hero they lured into their den of starving lions, she proved herself an untouchable fiend, pressing her fingers to their temples and forcibly removing all traces of themselves once she’d turned their minds upside-down in pursuit of information, only to replace their memories with images and ideas specially crafted to brainwash them into switching sides. She bolstered their numbers, stole a wealth of classified information, and even blackmailed heroes and law enforcement in a bid to preserve and protect the stability of the Organization, to live up to her master’s ideals and honor the oath she swore to him all those years ago. She more than earned her standing, and she maintained it with diligence and love, rewarded only by the progress the Organization made and the few affections she would receive from her master.

     She was untouchable, no matter their complaints nor the crusades they so sorely wished to wage - a sorely needed asset on the precipice of war.

     Of course, a casual stroke of her ego was neither here nor there, in the grand scheme of it all.

     In the gloom, she spied the outline of a wide-set steel door, streams of artificial light barely managing to escape through the cracks between it and its frame, and off to the side stood a large, muscular man faintly illuminated by the light. She could hardly make him out, but she knew precisely who he was without having to, catching mere glimpses of the constantly shifting plates of bone hovering all over his body. His hair was shaggy and pale lavender in color, juxtaposing the hard toughness of his armored appearance, and the blue of his eyes gleamed coldly, emptily, as if he saw through everything yet saw nothing. She could hear the plates grind and grate against each other as they moved, only settling into place once she made her approach, dragging her kimono along. Oh so gently, she reached out to the man and placed her hand on his forearm, her lips peeling into a sweet smile that never touched her eyes.

      He was Jawbone, and he was neither hero nor villain; Just a stout-hearted man whose family-centered values were easy to exploit. Every choice he made, every bone he’d broken, every man he’d killed had been for the sake of those he loved unconditionally, resigning himself to the inevitability of the consequences to such a principle. He gave himself to the Organization’s cause without a second thought long ago, if only to keep himself tethered to his dearest sister, a heavy ball and chain in his own right. His love ended where desperate overprotectiveness and needless self-sacrifice began, and it wasn’t an uncommon thing that the two should overlap nor that he should be found guarding her or her master, perpetually hardening and sharpening the bone plates that replaced his skin, now. The bone played the same role, however stronger, and had been proven an excellent tool in a number of applications; Though he may have been thoroughly exploited, trapped in circumstances he was too steadfast in his values to escape, he’d served her and her master quite well, as if it’d been his purpose. And she was grateful, enough to remove her hand from his form and greet him properly.

     “Brother,” she crooned quietly, a sweet whisper cutting through the silence.

     His brighter, emptier gaze met hers for the briefest of moments, but he did not smile nor otherwise behave as if he’d seen anyone at all. It wasn’t bitterness in the way he returned her greeting, but concentration and focus, unwavering and impenetrable. He had to keep watch over the shuffling, too-quiet rabble, after all.

     “Utako.” His voice was deceptively low and deep, an ocean of sound contained within the three syllables of her name, full of wisdom and experience she could only hope to one day emulate in turn.

     “I trust he’s in there,” she said, raising a lone finger and pointing it directly at the steel door ahead of her.

     He wordlessly dipped his head, keeping his eyes on the likely impatient scores of villains crowding the room behind her. Then, gruffly, “Hasn’t come out since you left this morning.”

     “Perhaps the tidings I bring might ease his burden.” Her finger joined the others in pressing the tips into her palm and her arm fell to her side, her stare fixating on the door. “Step aside, Jawbone. I’ve much to discuss with the Master.” 

     “What’s happened?” He never asked out of curiosity, rather duty instead. He had to know every detail, be aware of any developments in any situation, just so he might be fully prepared for the future. He was good that way, and Utako wasn’t sure if she admired her brother for it or despised him; Must he try so hard? Must he bore himself with the bits and pieces that didn’t directly or even tangentially involve him? Regardless, he stepped out of the way, allowing her the space to move on, and, quite, she did.

     Without another word, bare feet lightly tapped against the smooth cement beneath and she pried the door open with minimal effort, and once it was open, squealing on its hinges, what’d been revealed was a cold, white-painted room and a head of russet hair. Fluorescent light brightened even the darkest of shadows to the point there may not have been any shadows left, every knick-knack, pile of haphazardly discarded Commission and government personnel files, viles of quirk inhibitors or enhancers, gun, knife, laptop, textbook, machine, or otherwise seamlessly blending into the background, guiding any intruder’s gaze to vermillion silk, sly green eyes, beauty marks, smooth hair– Lean muscle rippled underneath Prisma’s yukata and the crooked, vile grin easing across his face spoke to a superficially warm welcome; He expected both her and the news she’d come armed with, slim, masculine fingers idly tapping on the surface of the small table in the center of the room. He was caged in by a loveseat and a desk spanning the length of the room, an unopened bottle of painkillers neatly set beside a plain black case and a glass of water on the table in front of him. Even if he’d been dosing all day, awaiting her return, his posture had been straight and his shoulders were angled backward, but even so, he seemed relaxed, calm– And he’d been looking at her, darkly.

     She bit her lip, gnawing on plump flesh as a sudden pang of uncertainty pricked at her nerves like pin needles.

     “Must you treat him so harshly, Kioku Nusumi?” Prisma crooned, flashing his teeth as the door behind her screamed on its hinges, slamming shut. The noise alone made her blood run cold, but she faithfully maintained her composure, leaning forward in a subservient bow. “You know he’s only a man, that he’s only here to keep his sweet, beautiful little sister safe from harm. You should treat him better, my dear, lest he becomes resentful toward you.”

     “He will not betray me, nor our Organization, Master,” she answered confidently, standing upright and gingerly approaching the table, kneeling down beside Prisma. “Jawbone is much too principled and virtuous to betray us.”

     “Yet you treat him like an object. I wonder, is it only a matter of time before he bites the hand that feeds him? Before he betrays even himself to exact revenge on the sweet girl who lured him into the underbelly, who tricked him into plotting to bring ruin to hero society? I commend you for your cruelty, or perhaps I should be admonishing you for your naivete - sweet girl.” Prisma snidely chuckled to himself, his arm propped up on the table where the other emphatically took hold of the ball of her chin. “Trusting anyone as you do your brother is foolish; Anyone can be used as a cudgel with which to bludgeon you when you least expect it, dear.”

     Utako was used to this, the backhanded comments; It was merely his way of speaking, little reminders of how to behave sprinkled into each sentence. He only wanted what was best for her and their constituents, for the future they were fighting to build in the wake of their call for total chaos and uninterrupted destruction - for freedom to be taken by force and to the strong go the spoils. His mind kept focused on the big picture and all the tiny details included, consistently paying attention to any and all things that might put a wrench in their plans - and she loved him for it. 

     In truth, she hung on his every word no matter how sarcastic, snide, unkind, and foul they were, drinking in the attention he gave her, basking in the darkness of his scrutinizing stare. He was an unstoppable force in a world that no longer celebrated its visionaries and revolutionaries, casting aside those who sought tangible change in favor of a mindless status quo, where the strong were muzzled by a select few whose power came only from those who feared them. Fear was valuable in its abundance, so long as the ones who held the leash knew when and how hard to pull - and he always knew. He ruled over even her through fear, though it was love that anchored her, aided in her weathering his tumultuous, violent storm. It might’ve helped that he was handsome, as if chiseled from stone and carved into a statuesque monument to human evolution, features unmarred by the desiccation of the world, and his will to see it all burn to ashes in his hands was nothing short of impressive. He didn’t want to be admired, loved, or respected; All he wanted was to set fire to the rot festering within society and begin anew, to lay waste to every government undermining the strength of its citizens and unshackle the people. He wanted to take the world in his hands and wipe it clean of the sin of subjugation, of quirkless peons and all those who lacked the power to claim freedom for themselves. On the surface, it was an archetypal cliche, but there was more to it and only Prisma knew the depth and breadth of his ideology; Utako could only follow.

     She was well aware of the implications of such beliefs, but she’d insist that she’d been prepared to sacrifice her life for the sake of his cause, willingly, gladly, and without a second thought. It was her cause, too, to challenge the decided rule of enfeebled cowards while so many suffered and perished in the streets without acknowledgement nor recompense. So many women and children, so many who only ever wanted a little piece of the pie, so many who simply wanted to live. This was likely where she and Prisma differed; In her heart, she sympathized with everyone left behind by their society and desperately wanted, in her own ways, to rescue them from the meaninglessness of their lives beneath the boot of repression and unceasing surveillance, sham trials, lies, government cover ups, collateral, death, and plenty more. But she believed in Prisma’s methods and followed them to the letter for herself, because they got results. If one is to make any tangible change in the world, one must be willing to make difficult choices and sacrifice idealism and public image; It was important that she adopt some level of moderation, lest she crumble to entropic overthought or the full weight of her emotions. 

     Prisma was not a patient man, nor was he a bleeding heart; He cared not for the masses nor their troubles, but, as he’d told her before, he was willing to share the fruits of his labor, provided others take up his mantle and join him in earnest. Only the strong could ever truly be free, and he would provide the opportunity to reach out and take that freedom, all the while taking direct action on his own. Despite his lack of emotional attachment to most other people and even his goal, he was a gifted leader. Dastardly, cruel, and horrible as any other with far-reaching strength, but gifted, and she respected him, loved him, and vowed to follow him into the fires of hell.

     She leaned into the thumb rolling over her chin, a smile easing across her face.

     “Yes, Master,” she purred smoothly, tucking a lock of lavender hair behind her ear. 

     “Good girl.” Prisma released her, then summarily looped his arm around her shoulders and pulled, guiding her closer and closer until she was safely nestled against him, half-splayed across his lap. “Now, won’t you tell me how your day went today?”

     She looked up at him, a youthful glimmer in her eye, likening herself to a twitterpated child.

     “I met with Tarot. As expected, Hellhound has been conscripted by the Commission and is slated to become an Enforcer at Nogitsune’s expense; It seems Nogitsune traded his life for Hellhound’s and he is now running on borrowed time. Within the next few months, he will be executed if he fails to hunt you and kill you himself. Moreover, the Commission is planning to have Hellhound do the same with every member of our Organization, though I was not able to discover who is next after Biānfú-yì’s arrest, but they’re targeting each head. That much is clear.” She placed her hands on Prisma’s chest, relaxing into the warmth emanating from him as she spoke; She’d little concern for their fates. “Hellhound will be stationed at Hawks’ agency in Fukuoka until he succeeds in killing each of us - or, rather, if he can - and the apartment he’s been set up with is located there as well, just outside of Canal City.”

     Prisma smiled, deliciously vile as always. “I see everything is going according to plan.”

     She nodded curtly. “There is more, however, Master.”

     “Oh? Do tell.”

     “Biānfú-yì is currently on his way to a holding facility in Musutafu, but will be transferred to Tartarus shortly after; Neither the Commission nor the authorities are pursuing a proper legal trial. Provided Hellhound is preoccupied with an appropriate distraction, I believe we’ll be able to retrieve our friend. Tarot gave me a thumb drive containing schedules, guard rotations, architectural blueprints, passcodes, and much more, thus making it a possible course of action. Of course, I also met with Hellhound’s public relations specialist before his press release.” She paused, a fiendish grin of her own splitting her alabaster features before continuing, “and I’ll say only that she is an easy toy to play with.”

     He tipped his head back and let out a hearty laugh, his hand dropping from her shoulders if only to ghost over the small of her back. She felt heat rush to her cheeks and she held onto his maple- and olive-colored yukata, listening to the pleasant vibrations of laughter in his chest. The moment did not last.

     “How wonderful it is that the Director is just as sloppy as she always was,” he said bitterly, sobering. “With Hellhound under the constant surveillance of both the Commission and ourselves, we will know what he’s doing and who he’s targeting at all times - and who the Commission is targeting in kind, even those who are unrelated to our Organization. All we need to do is be in the right place at the right time, and it will be child’s play to thwart their efforts. How fortuitous, their thoughtlessness! And all the while, they’re putting their new recruit through unfathomable challenges for the sake of strengthening him, ironing the wrinkles in his rebellious personality until he’s nothing more than a mindless killing machine– I doubt he’ll fall by the wayside like Lady Nagant without momentous interference; He’s too soft-hearted, too idealistic to fall for the lies of so foul a beast as All For One or myself. He will champion his petty, childish ideals and foolishly believe every word he’s told - I’d wager he already has. Heroes are easy to exploit. Idiotic, worthless machinations of society as they are. Ah, but, my dear, that’s where you will prove yourself invaluable to me once more…” 

     Suddenly, clamped his hand around her jaw, thumb and forefinger painfully forcing her cheeks to press against her teeth, and pulled her closer yet. His gaze bore down on her, a madly invigorated look in his eye, and though she scrambled to keep herself stable in his lap, ignoring the annoying twinge of pain in her mouth, she found herself a mite frightened. But this, too, was a reassuring feeling, that he should touch her at all and hint at her value to him, that he should look at her with even a faint glimmer of himself in his eyes. Such a high honor was so rarely bestowed upon anyone.

     “Your quirk will very easily sway Hellhound, and neither drastic effort nor brute force need be applied. All we must do is lure him in. I can think of no one better than you to handle him for now,” Prisma continued, his voice steadily growing quieter, more threatening with each passing syllable, but he almost seemed detached now, as if lost in thought at the same time. The moment ended as quickly as it’d come and his grip on her face slackened, his thumb easing over her skin. “He will come for you and when he does, you will show him the tragedies of your life, and he will fall victim to the pity and kinship he’ll feel for you. That will be your moment to strike.”

     “As you wish, Master. It will be done.”

     Utako relaxed in his arms, adjusting her position so she might sit atop him comfortably, quietly reveling in the hushed baritone of his voice and the sour foulness of his scent. She would carry out his orders no matter the cost, of course, but she could indulge herself for a time, turning her head and pressing her lips to the tips of his fingers. 

     For as dastardly a villain as Prisma was, she would not have lived up to this point had he not intervened so many years ago, freeing her from a lifetime of shackled subservience to her decaying family. Though her role as an interrogator and negotiator remained unchanged, she was not kept in a gilded cage, hidden away, nor starved and beaten until she complied with any demands, as she had so often been before; He offered her freedom and growth in exchange for her employ, plucking her from her pit of despair and blessing her with hope. How could she deny him, a devil among men? 

     He drew his hand away from her face and idly reached for the small black case on the table, carefully flipping the top open and fingering two capsule pills into his palm. 

     “When you leave, send Jawbone and two others of your choosing to see me,” he said plainly, setting the case down and motioning for her to open her mouth. She complied, knowing he would set one of the capsules on her tongue, and she would swallow the black market quirk enhancer dryly. Prisma smiled. “We still need to rescue our little friend, now, don’t we? We’ll loosen the leash for your brother, give him some room to breathe– Remind him that he’s not your plaything. I trust he will handle recovering Bat Wing appropriately and with utmost haste, so you must choose the other two carefully. Make sure they compliment his quirk.”

     He swallowed down his own capsule - with water - and she watched the ball in his throat lurch and bob, absently wondering just how many of those pills he’d taken so far and if he got some sort of high from them. There would always be an effervescent creep of numbness and temporary jolt of power, but it tended to fade quickly and wasn’t so much a high as it was… comparable to the sensation of an extremely caffeinated energy drink. She glanced at his fingers, then to his eyes, watching his lashes flutter and piercing emerald roll–

     “And when I return?” she asked softly, slowly wrapping her arms around him, fingertips hovering over the ends of his russet hair before carding through the strands, desperate for just a smidgeon more of intimacy. There weren’t enough words in Japanese or English to express how she hungered for his attention, craved his affection, his malice, joy, hatred, love… She wanted and wanted and wanted, pressing herself flush against him, obeying his every command, thanking him for the opportunity– She wanted to be more than a trusted ally he sometimes catered to, more than a non-committal bed warmer. She wanted to be his and for him to be hers, in all things. Straddling him, she thought bitterly to herself; Was she underperforming in some way? Could she not satisfy him, be it in carnal entanglements or in pursuit of their goal? Was she not beautiful, strong, loyal, dedicated enough? What more could she do? 

     He held her, then, in a deceptively tender embrace, his expression smoothing out serenely, and while she was grateful for the change, it did not touch his eyes. He tipped his head back and smiled brightly, flashing his teeth before leaning in and brushing his lips against her own. So delightful a surprise was not unlike a tranquilizing medication, tingles of nervous energy bolting down her spine, and the mixing of saliva and the clashing of teeth brought even her most persistent thoughts to heel. 

      “I will reward you handsomely.”

     Hawks didn’t wait for Hellhound to collapse before he abandoned the observation deck, making a mad dash through the filthy winding hallways and bursting through every steel door in his path until he’d arrived on the field, quickly shrugging out of his jacket the second his gaze was met with Hellhound’s crumpled form now haphazardly draped over piles of ashen, wet debris. His feet hardly touched the ground, concern and urgency guiding his steps, and as he approached, his heart pounding in his chest, he couldn’t help but notice Hellhound’s eyes were empty, as if every light was on but not a single person was home, like he was looking at everything around him but never actually seeing anything. His body involuntarily trembled and shook, his nerves no doubt damaged by what he’d put his own body through and what Tarot had done to him both mentally and physically. 

     One arm was hooked over a piece of rebar jutting out from the rubble he’d been slumped against while the other laid limply in his lap, his wrist twisted so his blistered hand faced upward, sopping wet flesh nearly sloughing off, and his legs had been tightly pushed together by the cement and broken tiles framing them, and his spine had been twisted to the side; He couldn’t properly sit upright, his head lolling forward, but it seemed he still had some energy left, despite his resounding lack of response to any sound, movement, or Hawks’ presence. In the end, he refused to tear his eyes away from the defeated Tarot, haunted by the possibility he may yet rise once more and bring him to further harm. He didn’t move, flinch, recoil, nor speak when Hawks drew himself nearer, and it was in these precious few moments he was made aware of the fullest extent of the damage caused by the mock battle et al. Lacerations in varying sizes and shapes littered his body and sickly crimson oozed freely from each one, steadily spilling and dripping onto the foul tiles and broken cement, steel, and ash all around him, but such gashes were not without their companions as severe, nearly black bruises in the shape of coils and singular impacts had begun to form betwixt and between them all. Every breath was a harsh and agonized sputter, the flame he’d expelled prior having certainly burned away at his lungs and throat, effectively cooking him from the inside out. Yet, despite all the damage done, nothing appeared to be broken at first glance.

     Hawks cursed himself for finding some semblance of comfort in that, but it swiftly evaporated once he realized that, between all of Hellhounds’ fresh injuries, there had been an unending litany of nasty scarring. Jagged, twisted, and spidering pale tissue spread over nearly every inch of his naked body, large patches of raised, fibrous tissue extending from his extremities to his collar or upper forearm– The burns spanning the length of his throat mirrored a vicious tear, as if his windpipe had been ripped out and forced to heal haphazardly and without intervention, and the further his eyes traveled, the more they widened in muted horror. At Hellhound’s hip, what appeared to be a human bite mark began a series of web-like scarring, old and discolored as they were, each overlapping, darkening, twisting, and reaching further and further away from their epicenter, down his thigh and up toward his ribs. Though these scars were older, they were nonetheless a disturbing sight to behold, a terrible shred of the truth in Nogitsune’s notes - and, perhaps selfishly, he hated that.

     It was the first time Hawks had ever seen the breadth of Hellhound’s experience in combat, his recklessness and tenacity, and while he’d expected at least some of Nogitsune’s notes to have been honest, he never once anticipated that his notes would be an understatement . The hows and whys, he knew; Each scar had been caused by an injury incurred from the abuse he suffered as a child or in his work, before he was ever given his hero license, and after having seen them all for himself, Hawks was both impressed and despaired that he’d endured such pain for the sake of his ideals, his guilt.

     He looked so pitiful and broken, an abyssal hollow of himself in the wide, pulsing emptiness of the training field, locked firmly in place by sheer will - or was it terror, fear?

      You said you’d never be his victim again. Are you afraid you didn’t succeed…?

      Hawks glanced in Tarot’s direction, unconscious and limp amid shattered concrete and tile, clothing torn and blood pooling all around him. Judging by the dramatic angular bend in his right arm, it was broken, and if such had been true there, then there was no doubt more - likely his ribs, fingers, femurs, or even his jaw. No doubt, his nose had been broken, too, and though he’d been cradled by stone, tile, and steel in a similar fashion to Hellhound, it was clear he’d suffered greatly in his defeat. A number of questions made the rounds in his head, but he’d not the time to indulge a single one of them, returning his attention to his tentative friend who could only glare through bruised and bloodshot eyes at a man that would not get back up again. 

     Hawks found himself at a loss, uncertain as to where to begin and how, knowing full well that  there was nothing he could say or do that would remedy Hellhound’s circumstances or soothe his pain. Far too much had happened in too short a time, paving the way for permanent injuries be they mental or physical, and for the future to muddy further; The Director ought to be satisfied with Hellhound’s demonstrable efforts, but she would subject him to much that would test his limits and demand he adapt, change in order to best fit her purposes, which was the only thing that was absolute. How he responded to it, how he coped with having a collar, leash, and muzzle strapped to him, had insofar been centered on a tearful though stubborn desire to atone for his failures, and the Commission and the Director all were eager to take advantage of that. It’d only been a mere handful of days since this all began, but how much longer could this really go on…? 

     Hesitantly, Hawks drew himself from his thoughts and slowly dropped to a crouch beside Hellhound, carefully draping his jacket over his beaten and bloodied form. Mustering every bit of friendliness and sensitivity he could, he chuckled softly, awkwardly even, “We’ve… got to stop meeting like this.”

     Hellhound didn’t say a word, or even look his way, remaining eerily still barring his trembling.

      We’re back to this… 

     Vermillion plumes suddenly shuddered, feathers disturbed by intermittent, hurried soundwaves, and all too quickly was he able to decipher them, understanding them to be bare feet slapping against tile and desperate panting, steel doors slamming open and closed– In the next moment, his suspicions were proven true as Nogitsune came barreling through the same door he’d bolted through prior, and even in the dark could he see the sharp creases of emotion on his face. Distress was clear in his expression, and there was something else lurking beneath the surface as Nogitsune shouldered past Hawks and promptly dropped to his knees in an attempt to survey any damage for himself, all the while frantically simpering and squealing about the blood and bruising, lecturing Hellhound over his recklessness and reminding him he didn’t have to fight Tarot at all. He apologized emphatically, lectured even more so, and started the process all over again, but without much warning, he reached for the Inugami Hero, feverishly offering to help him get to the internal medical facilities in the building. Just as he was about to make contact with Hellhound, a resounding smack echoed in the wide, empty room.

     “...Don’t…touch me…!” The warning came as a low, seething, agonized and embittered growl, but it was strangely disappointed and final all the same. Truthfully, there was a mix of things colliding altogether, but it’d all distilled into the raw, unwavering emotion Hellhound felt, where Nogitsune would remain in part the subject of his frenzied ire. 

     “Saryn, please, I– Please, let me help you–” Nogitsune begged.

     But he refused to even look at him, his head of wine-red still bowed, and he, from that moment forward, never addressed him again. Hawks noticed the glistening of tears thinly rimming his lash line, silently, thoughtfully, watching them swell and swell yet never overflowing. Hellhound’s spirit wasn’t entirely broken, if he was fighting to conceal them, to prevent himself from succumbing to the pressure that’d been piled on top of him or the overwhelming and torturous nature of his current circumstances. 

     And it was made all the worse by Nogitsune’s desperate pleading, that while Hellhound should have a friend and he should be a dangerous, foolish liar who wished with all his being that things were different, that none of the tragedies they’d shared in memory had ever come to pass, that he had not felt himself guilty. Nogitsune wished he’d not been the pen used to sign Hellhound’s conscription notice, that the Commission nor the Director had ever taken interest in him, but he was, and he’d done nothing to help in changing that. But was it not an act of love that he should ensure Hellhound’s survival at the cost of his own life, unnecessary and cruel an action as it may have been? Neither man had been the type to willfully live on their knees nor allow themselves to be chained, but here they both were, and without recompense they were to go on in servitude until death claimed either. Hawks was conflicted, able to understand both perspectives yet still finding it difficult to figure out what to do next, how to help either one when everything seemed stone-set despite their ambiguities, but he promised, swore, that he would to whatever meaningful capacity he could manage. 

      Don’t try; Do. 

     Right now, it doesn’t matter that Nogitsune is desperate to redeem himself in some way, or that Hellhound is clinging to his stoicism in order to make up for every other thing he’s feeling and thinking. We don’t have time for this. Hellhound needs medical attention.

     Hawks squared his shoulders and half-heartedly cleared his throat yet making the need for urgency known.

     “I’ll get him to the infirmary, Nogitsune,” he said gently, doing his best to soothe the tension bleeding into the atmosphere. Being sensitive to either hero’s state of mind would yield better results than anything else. “It was a hard battle fought, but he earned his victory and rest; I know you’re worried about him - that you care deeply, but swarming him and frantically hovering over him won’t help him now. Ya gotta give him some room to breathe, with all things considered…”

     “Look at him, Hawks...” Nogitsune hissed, but it wasn’t out of anger, rather a culmination of his frustration and guilt. He didn’t have to look at Hellhound a second time to catch his meaning, knowing full well the state he was in, but he conceded anyway, his gaze ghosting over every bruise, cut, slash, rip, tear– It was sickening, but it proved Hellhound was ready to and capable of enduring much. To call him strong after the mock battle with Tarot, his former abuser and rapist, would be both a woeful understatement and a grave insult; He never should’ve had to be, for this.

     Still, prostrating over it was useless.

     “He’s in bad shape… and I can only imagine how complicated his feelings must be on the matter. I doubt he wants to be pored over, scrutinized, or comforted by anyone, much less you or I.”

     Hellhound narrowed his bloodshot eyes at that.

     “Don’t worry, Nogitsune,” Hawks continued, putting forth a greater effort to further smooth things down, his hand temporarily settling on the Kitsune Hero’s shoulder, silk ruffling beneath his fingers. He gave it a light squeeze. Once again, he was tired of having to repeat himself. “He’ll be all right after he’s had some time to rest and recover.”

      You told me to watch and, well, I did. The power Hellhound wields is incredible in its own right and it’s nothing short of a miracle he’s still even conscious. He could’ve gotten himself killed or otherwise irreparably harmed– But… I suppose there’s something to be said for heroes who pour all of themselves into the hardship they face, and he does exactly that to an absurd degree. Had this been a battle in the field, there’s a possibility he’d have failed, but it wasn't and he didn't. He claimed he’d never fall to Tarot again and he had the will to see it through to the end. That commitment will be invaluable in the near and distant future, but, for now, he deserves his rest and even if the rest of us aren’t afforded the opportunity ourselves, I have to make sure that at least one person is. 

      Things will change and I’ll keep working to change them; I want us all to have the chance to take it easy, for us to live in a world where heroes have time to kill - for people like Hellhound, Nogitsune, or myself, to find peace. The suffering’s gotta stop.

      Nogitsune kept silent, crumbling in the gloom, but teetered backward out of the way. 

     Hawks briefly pursed his lips as he dropped to his knees in a crouch; He was careful not to get too close to Hellhound, gaze sweeping over his half-covered form, but he made it clear he would help him without question or bother. Disheveled, severely injured, he knew his thoughts were dark and tumultuous, and he didn’t want to make things worse, but if they didn’t stop his bleeding soon, they would have worse problems than the Director or the consequences of Nogitsune’s mistakes. 

     Hellhound’s thigh caught his eye, the blood oozing from the wounds soaking into the hem of his jacket, and his first thought was to tie it off; He still had most of what was in his first aid kit, save the nitrile gloves, and he could improvise with a spool of capture tape with little issue. Problem was, Hellhound, despite his general lack of response, had shown he might be defensive, so he would have to be more careful without sacrificing comfortability. He glanced up at him, plainly aware his gaze went unreturned, and quietly languished over the twisted shadows of swollen bruises, scrapes, cuts, burns, and burst blood vessels. Shameful, that he should be yet another victim, no matter how enduring his spirit, no matter how persistent his efforts to fight against that fate. 

     But there was hope, wasn’t there? In the end. However diminished he was then, surely he would one day cast aside his fear and doubt and succeed in freeing himself of his past - and the Commission, too–

     “I’m sorry this happened to you, Hellhound,” Hawks began, keeping his tone even and steady yet soft, tender - exactly how he wished someone would’ve done for him. “But you did it. Had me on the edge of my seat the whole time and things looked a little bleak there for a sec, but- You really pulled through, in the end.” He bit his lip then, mostly for effect, as urgency flooded his bloodstream once more. Hellhound had reacted poorly to Nogitsune reaching out to him, so he thought it best to ask permission to touch him at all, and he had to keep encouraging things along. 

     “Can I…” he fumbled, words that mostly came easy to him now falling flat and dry. He ignored it. “May I touch you?”

     Hellhound didn’t respond, but that was a response in itself, a silent and passive resignation where Nogitsune would stand and watch while his own emotions ran on high. But such as it was.

     He waited a moment, to be courteous, but ultimately rose to his feet with purpose and slowly reached for Hellhound’s arm, which had been hooked around some rubble and rebar. With utmost patience, he took his time in removing it from the debris, adjusting his movements as needed when Hellhound would wince or let out a muted hiss. His skin was hot, nearly burning through his costume’s gloves, and wide chunks of it had been reduced to charred and bloodied masses where the rest would bubble and slough off, barely hanging on by a thread. Hawks let loose a handful of feathers in an effort to stabilize the arm as he pulled it free, easing it over Hellhound’s midsection to rest. He applied as much care as he could when it came time to move his legs, and all the while he looked into hazy burgundy that had softened since moments before, curling his fingers beneath the backs of his knees and guiding them out from between jagged blocks of cement. His hands nearly slipped on the blood still spilling out of Hellhound, but he persisted, adjusting his position before leaning over him and sliding his arm around his shoulders and the other under his legs, lifting him out of his agonizing chair.

     Again, he looked to him for a gauge on his comfort and pain levels, but his eyes were shut and his head had fallen backward. For him to fall unconscious now was not surprising, but Hawks could not quell the anxiety tearing through his gut, and he would swiftly carry him away, hastening his steps with the constant, panicked beating of his wings. 

      I’ve got you, pup.

[nonbinaryeddiekaspbrak]

ek playlist sentence starters part three

info: sentence starters from my eddie kaspbrak play list; part one part two :

sick crowd - teddy hyde

"i'm unstable, i'm a mess"

"it's a game where we pretend i never crossed the line"

"a perfect compromise"

this town is running with a sick crowd"

"this town is begging for a dismount"

"she's a victim, she's a threat"

"i'm addicted, i'm obsessed with making you complete"

"nothing can hold me back except a lack of sleep"

"i've been stuck in my ways"

daft pretty boys - bad suns

"she's a sunrise dressed like dusk"

"she's getting into something"

"he's a moth drawn to a flame"

"he's going in, he's going all or nothing"

"they look so pretty from afar"

"the gates of heaven are open now"

"my one true love has just waltzed right out"

"there's one thing about me that you should know"

"i can't help from speaking my mind"

"there's a dangerous kind of cool about you"

"you look so pretty from afar"

"you waste your time on daft pretty boys"

"all the time in the world for chasing pretty girls"

"why you look so fucking perfect on the outside?"

"got no time to wast on another pretty face"

sorry not sorry - demi lovato

"payback is a bad bitch"

"i'm out here looking like revenge"

"i know how bad it must hurt to see me like this"

"you're out here looking like regret"

"it'd be nice of me to take it easy on ya'"

"baby, i'm sorry"

"i'm not sorry"

"being so bad got me feeling so good"

"feeling inspired 'cause the tables have turned"

"i'm on fire and i know that it burns"

"fineness is the way to kill"

"tell me how it feel, bet it's such a bitter pill"

"i know you thought you had bigger better things"

"bet right now this stings"

"the grass is greener under me"

mean it - lauv and lany

"small talk, no conversation"

"that look makes me impatient"

"i can't tell what you're thinking"

"please, tell me what you're thinking"

"last night, we were more than fine"

"just tell me if you changed your mind"

"i'm all in"

"i'm calling, no answer"

"would you text me when you feel like?"

"don't kiss me right now"

"don't tell me that you need me"

"don't show up at my house"

"don't run me 'round and 'round"

"don't build me up just to let me down"

"don't mess with my head"

"just leave it if you don't mean it"

"you know you got me in the palm of your hand"

"you only let me hold you when he can't"

"let's never leave the house"

"let's stay in bed while all our friends go out"

"you've been staring at me with a heart of doubt"

pope alexander - crywank

"my brain would never let me forget you"

"it's not like you're lingering"

"it's more like you're haunting"

"at times, it feels like i'm pushed against the wall"

"why don't you ask any questions?

"do you really not care now?

"i try to make myself not care"

"at night you are still there"

"you might be a chapter in my life, but you're still the star of my dreams"

"i see the ones i love suck up"

"i see the boundaries of politeness"

"i see my fist getting clenched as i aim for my bed"

"i spend the night beating the shit out of my mattress"

runaway kids - harbour

"where we're from you know i hate this town"

"one by one, i'm gonna burn these buildings down"

"let's head for the sun and we'll avoid this drought"

"there ain't no looking back now"

"life's too short to take it slow"

"we go where we wanna go"

"where we've gone it all just feels the same"

"i found that sun, wouldn't you know now i miss the rain"

"we're the runaway kids"

"let's escape, we'll get there some day"

"i don't stay anywhere for too long"

"we've got roots but sinking in is our problem"

[scarlettriot]

Breaking Point - Damsel in Distress

Pairing: Hockey Player Eijiro Kirishima x F!Reader

Warnings: Minors DNI, Swearing, mentions of penis

Contains: As the pairing suggests, Kiri is a hockey player, reader is also plus size, Kiri gets hard.

Summary: A series of unforeseen events lead you and Kiri to share a bed in the cute little inn after the game.

Word Count: 4,795

A/N: Part SIX in the Breaking Point Series! It's been a minute so I have a few reminders for ya; Reader's assigned nickname from Bakugo is Squeaks. There is also some text convo in here, Reader is Purple and Mina is Pink. Friendly reminder this is a quirkless AU.

Other Parts:

Breaking Point - Part One - Locked Out Breaking Point - Part Two - Intimacy Breaking Point - Part Three - On Ice Breaking Point - Part Four - Stitches Breaking Point - Part Five - Just Platonic

Tags: @sleepynaya, @kenmakai, @ace-of-books, @swirrley, @mistyfoxson @weebaboobs @silverhairsimp - Thank you 💋

Winning at an away game never felt quite right. The cheers for your team were always drowned out by the jeers from the other. Even the few loyal, ecstatic fans that greeted the guys when they came off the ice couldn’t really make up for the looks of disappointment on the home team's faces.

This was why all celebrations were reserved for when you got back home. One’s where everyone could share in the excitement, go out to the club that had become a regular haunt, or have a bit of a party in someone’s dorm.

So, for now, all that was left to do tonight was find some food, take showers, and rest.

Everyone trickled back to the inn, a few couples breaking off to grab a bite to eat out and others wanted to head for showers right away. You followed the latter group, not so much for the shower but you were interested to see what kind of homemade dinner the inn had waiting.

You sat in the back of Eijiro’s jeep again with Izuku beside you and Katsuki in front of him, listening as the three chattered on about the game and a particularly good play Katsuki and Tetsu had managed to pull off. And before you knew it, you were pulling up to the inn again, Hanta’s car with Mina and Denki in it too, followed shortly after.

You’d gone to your room with the intention of looking at the small menu that had been provided after changing into comfortable shorts but before you had the chance you’d gotten momentarily distracted by the sight of yourself in the mirror. Still wearing Eijiro’s sweater, it looked like your legs were bare underneath like you were practically wearing a dress, but damn was it cozy. Kept you warm all through the game and you could easily take it off and walk it down to his room right now but… one night with it couldn’t hurt.

Grabbing the menu off the desk, you sat on the foot of one of the beds, surprised at all the different options they had available. You’d been looking at the side options when muffled voices, a door slamming shut, and then a sizable thud made you crawl from the bed and poke your head outside the room to find Eijiro on the ground, head hung low.

“Man… I just wanted to shower first.” He mumbled, not even noticing anyone in the hall with him.

“Eijiro?” The redhead lifted his gaze up from the floor to meet yours. He even still had his bag beside him, hair a sweaty mess, the braid a lost cause, “What happened?”

“Toshi surprised Denks, and they’re, well who are we kidding, they’re fucking, which means, I’ve been kicked out for the foreseeable future.”

You walked over to him, standing between his widespread legs. “Is this what woulda happened if I hadn’t been outside my apartment that night you had bleach on your head?”

His eyes ran up the length of you, but he didn’t linger long enough for you to comment. “Does this mean you’ve come to save me once again?”

Sighing, you held out your hands to him, wiggling your fingers for him to take. “C’mon my damsel in distress. You know I’ll always rescue you.” He genuinely looked as if you just told him he won the lottery.

“What’s wrong?” He asked when he picked up his bag and noticed you jiggling your door handle. “Wait… please tell me you didn’t.”

“Yeah, I don’t have my key…” You admitted sheepishly, “I didn’t know the doors automatically locked.”

He has a bit of a pout on his lip. “You’re supposed to be my knight in shining hockey sweater, who’s gonna save us now?”

“I’ll still save ya.” You patted his chest, not really wanting to go down to the front desk looking like you weren’t wearing pants but you didn’t see another way out of this. “I’ll be right back.”

Eijiro let his bag fall to the floor again, leaning against your door waiting for you to come back when another door opened. “You two are the cutest couple,” Mina smirked with Hanta peaking right over her shoulder and Eijiro’s face grew red.

“We’re not a couple! Stop sayin’ that!”

“My knight in shining hockey sweater,” Hanta mocked, pretending to faint in Mina’s arms.

“I’m gonna throw my game socks at the both of you, I swear! And they’re bad, like, really bad!”

Both of them laughed like idiots, closing the door to their room.

“Are you hungry!” You yelled through the bathroom door, hoping Eijiro would hear you over the water.

“I’m always hungry!”

Right, dumb question.

“We’ve only got like ten minutes to call in an order to the kitchens, if we don’t, we’re gonna have to run out for food.”

“‘M lazy. I don’t wanna go out again!”

“Want me to read you the menu?”

“Yes! Just open the door so we can stop yelling!”

You hesitated for a moment, hand lingering over the knob of the door. He was obviously going to be well hidden behind a shower curtain. And, he was the one who told you to come in anyways. You sucked in a deep breath and pushed open the door.

Steam had covered the window and mirror, Eijiro’s dirty clothes laid in a pile behind the door, his clean ones waiting for him on the sink's edge. “So, what’s on the menu?” He asked.

Skipping over the vegetarian options that you knew would be of little interest to him, “Right. There’s an angus cheeseburger, shepherd's pie, beef stew, chicken…” You glanced up from the paper in hand and could see his silhouette perfectly. Arms moving up to his hair, watching as his head tipped back into the stream of water…

“Chicken?”

“Huh?”

He snickered, his head still with soap clinging to it popping up over the curtain, standing at his full height. “You just said ‘chicken’, chicken what?”

“Oh, it’s chicken paprikash. Sorry.” You murmured.

Eijiro ducked back into the shower. “If I didn’t know better, it sounded kinda like something had you distracted.”

“Me? No, no, I’m just trying to figure out what I want. That’s all.” That was bullshit. You knew what you wanted before you found him in the hallway but he didn’t pick on you any further, instead, he listened to you read off the lists of sides to pick from and then settled on a dish.

You could see him brace his hands against the wall of the shower, head forward with wet hair curtaining it. He let the hot water crash over his back and you could only imagine how sore he had to be after these games, the aches, and pains, not to mention the times he took on injuries. The warmth of the water had to feel heavenly.

“Still here?” His hand pushed the hair back out of his eyes and you knew he couldn’t see you through the curtain but damn it felt like he was staring right at you.

“Sorry, did you want a drink with it? It comes with one.”

“Tea, if they have it. Green or something sweet.”

“You got it.” And you turned to leave before you wasted the rest of your night watching him like a little creep.

By the time he was finished, you had the order placed and were curled up on your bed, the book you were currently reading open and your nose buried in it.

“We’ve gotta run down and pick it up but they said it should be ready in,” You looked at the alarm clock, “About fifteen minutes.”

He unceremoniously flopped down on the bed you hadn’t claimed, flat on his back, arms splayed wide. “Perfect, fifteen minute cat nap for me. Wake me up when we gotta go get it?” He turned his head towards you with a quirky grin but you agreed, returning to your book, eyes only glancing at him in the moments you flipped between pages.

And when the time came, you shook his knee and he woke right up. Dutifully following you out the door and groaning when he saw the little do not disturb sign hanging off the doorknob of his shared room.

���We can check again after dinner, they should be done by then.”

Eijiro nodded and you continued down to the dining room where you gave a man your room number and two large trays of food we brought out. If it tasted even half as good as it smelled, you were gonna be a happy woman.

You both sat on the spare bed, munching at the delicious food, picking off each other’s plates, and talking about whatever came to mind. Eijiro was happy to finish off the last little bit of your meal and then he saw the box on the edge of your tray, unopened, “What’s that.”

“Dessert.”

“I didn’t get dessert…”

“Don’t you pout,” you laughed at him and handed him over the box, “I had a feeling I’d be too full for it anyways. I just want a bite, okay?”

He was quick to open it, a slow smile taking over his face, “This is my favorite.”

“I know, that’s why I got it.” You didn’t tell him it was extra because he’d insist on paying you back which was ridiculous.

“You’re too good to me.” He gathered a bit of the treat for you, “C’mere.” Leaving you to lean over the trays and take the spoonful. You hadn’t even swallowed yet, didn’t have time to pull away when his thumb brushed against your chin, whipping off a bit that had fallen off the spoon and popped it directly in his mouth with a grin that made your heart jump.

You had to shake the feeling quickly. “Want me to go check on the room for you while you eat that?”

“That’d be great, thanks!”

You were already sliding off the bed though, walking to the door trying to calm down your racing heart.

The placard was still dangling off the door handle. “Sorry, looks like they're still goin’ at it.” His head drooped forward, taking another spoonful, finishing off the dessert.

When he brought his head back up you could actually see how tired he really was, the drive, then the game, all he probably wanted to do was get to sleep.

“Why don’t you just take my spare bed? That way you don’t have to wait until gods know when for them to be done.”

His eyes went a little wide. “You really wouldn’t mind?”

“Of course not.” He was your friend after all, one that you had started to really care for, and you couldn’t just leave him with no place to sleep for the night.

“I’d totally be fine crashing in my jeep for the night.”

“Eijiro, that’s ridiculous. The temperatures dropping and you don’t even have the roof on!”

He rubbed the back of his neck, “Right, I forgot about that...”

“Right. So, just take that bed and problem solved.”

His face was so damn sincere, “Thank you.”

After running down to the front desk a second time, in need of purchasing Eijiro a spare toothbrush since his was in the other room, you delivered it through the bathroom door and then promptly burrowed your way back into bed with your book while he completed his nightly routine.

He fished his laptop out of his bag along with a pair of headphones. “Thought I’d watch something before going to bed. It helps me shut my brain off, ya know? I can use my headphones if you wanna keep reading but I thought I’d at least offer in case you wanted to watch it with me.”

Sleep wasn’t beckoning you yet and you and Eijiro did always have the same taste in shows. “Sure, what are we watchin’?”

He threw back the covers and sat on his bed with the laptop on his knee and from memory rattled off the choices he said you could pick from, movies and TV shows he already had downloaded. After minor deliberation, you agreed on a show that he loaded up once the blankets were over him and he positioned the laptop at the edge of his bed. “Can you see alright?”

You really couldn’t, the distance between the two beds was just far enough that the screen was too small and, it seemed that even though you told Eijiro it was fine, he knew that it wasn’t.

“You could, well, you could just come over here and we could put it between us.” He suggested and you had to take a second.

The number of times you shared a sofa with Eijiro to watch TV was in the hundreds by now, laying in a bed to do the same thing was perfectly fine! You were both adults! Friends! It shouldn’t be a big deal laying on the same bed with your friend to watch a show with. So, you crawled out from under the blankets of your bed and scooted into the space he provided beside him.

He set the laptop up in the small space left between you two and pressed play. “This better?”

“Yeah, it is, thanks.”

Laying on your side with your hands tucked underneath your pillow. Only ten minutes had passed when your feet felt the chill of the crisp sheets. The last thing you wanted was to bother him but you couldn’t help but subtly rub them together to try and get some warmth back into your toes.

“Cold?”

Instantly, you stop moving. “A little. Just my feet though. I refuse to wear socks in bed. It’s so wrong.”

He lifted the laptop and rested it on his leg instead, moving his arm to invite you closer. “C’mere then. You always say I’m like a space heater when we hug. This way I can put it to good use.”

You laid in the crook of his arm, instantly feeling his body heat that he constantly generates, and felt his shin press against your feet and Eijiro laughed, “You weren’t kiddin’, they’re like little ice cubes.”

Something about his easy smile and the way he didn’t jerk away from your toes, had you feeling completely calm. Your shoulders had relaxed, you curled into his side, every notation of this being something you shouldn’t do was long gone.

You’d been so entirely at peace that you hadn’t even realized Eijiro had fallen asleep and it wasn’t long after that you had followed him.

Hours later, the moon still gracing the sky, sunlight hours away, you’d stirred in your sleep. Winking your eyes open and squinting at a bleary bright light, just at the edge of the bed wondering what it could be… Shit!

Acting quickly, you lunged over Eijiro’s sleeping body and caught the corner of the laptop that had teetered to the edge of the bed. You quietly shut it and placed it safely on the nightstand for him to put away tomorrow morning since it was obvious he wasn’t going to be doing it anytime soon with how he was snoring.

Carefully you started to move away from the sleeping giant, having every intention of going back to your own bed when he grumbled in his sleep and you froze, giving two large arms time to wrap you up and held you against his chest. Effectively stuck.

You stayed still in his grasp, heart hammering against your ribs. Innocently falling asleep together, that was one thing but, this felt very intimate. His arms low on your back, the way he moved his legs and tangled them up with yours, it felt too close, too real. You’d been considering ways to escape when you heard his snore taper off to a hum and one of his hands started softly rubbing your back.

His voice was slurred with sleep, “Don’t go, ‘mm, I like this.”

“Eijiro?” You whispered, lifting your head up to look at him because there was no possible way he could be awake and have said that, right?

Even in the dark of the room, you could make out Eijiro’s features. His red hair was a wild mess across the pillow and falling in front of his closed eyes and his lips were just slightly agape. By all accounts, he still looked fast asleep.

It was when you tried moving again that he gave a pouty little whine and it made you give in. “Alright, fine,” you shushed him, “‘M not going anywhere.”

Looking up at his face again, you could see his lips arc up into the smallest grin; proud of his victory, even in his slumber.

Your head settled against his chest, body laying atop his, legs coiled around each other.

One final thought fluttered across your mind before you fell asleep again, it was the steady drumming of Eijiro’s heart and the way it beat at the same rate as your own and how much you loved the sound.

Eijiro was woken up by the trill of his phone, vibrating so damn much it nearly wiggled its way off the nightstand but he managed to catch it at the last second. He looked down to find you still snuggled into his chest, one hand clinging to his shirt and the other, well, he could just feel it behind his shoulder.

“Sorry ‘bout this.” He grumbled into the top of your head and with his free hand tried to cover your ear.

“WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU!” Was Katsuki’s greeting the moment he accepted the call.

“Morning, man.”

“Morning, man,” Katsuki mocked, “Don’t you morning man, me! Dunce face said you never went back to your room last night and now you’re not at fuckin’ breakfast. Where are you?”

Before Eijiro could answer him, you let out the most adorable noise he’d ever heard. Just a yawn as your head seemed to turn to try to get away from the conversation.

“Who the fuck was that- wait…” Eijiro’s heart started to race, “Squeaks isn’t here either. Hah, finally grew a pair, huh?”

“Bakugo- no- you’ve got the wrong-“

“‘Bout damn time, now put your clothes back on and get down here. I wanna get headed back soon.”

The line went dead before he had a chance to clarify a damn thing.

He’d worry about it in a couple minutes, right now you were soft and warm and he was going to savor every moment of this you let him have. He might not have known when the hell you got in his arms like this but he couldn’t have been happier about it.

“Good morning to you.” He mumbled when your head shift back, now that Katsuki wasn’t yelling anymore.

“Why does he gotta be so mad so early?”

“Because he needs more coffee.” He chuckles, but then you’re pushing yourself up, about to say something else only to abruptly stop and oh fuck did he know why.

What he didn’t know was why he hadn’t realized it sooner. He’d been too comfortable. Too relaxed but now there was heat rising up his neck and he knew it was flooding his cheeks too. There was no way to avoid it, no way you hadn’t felt it, fucking hell, it was pressed right up against your stomach!

He took in a deep breath and faced the situation head on. “So, yeah, that’s my dick, and if we could just not talk about this that’d be great, thanks!” And, he gave you exactly no time to say a single thing before lifting you off him and setting you down on the bed so he could quickly roll out of the blankets and make a break for the bathroom.

You sat on the bed where he left you, mildly dumbfounded over what just happened, and for a whole minute, just one thought occupied your entire mind; how’s it that big!

There was no possible way you could keep this entirely to yourself. You sprung for your phone and triple checked you were on Mina’s chat:

You: Were you just not gonna warn me that Kirishima has a MASSIVE cock!?!?

Mina: He does!? REALLY!

You were in the middle of responding when a flurry of messages came through and it looked like Eijiro wasn’t the only one who needed to correct someone about last night.

Mina: Wait a sec Mina: How do you know he has a massive cock? Mina: OH MY GODS!!!! Mina: YOU GUYS FINALLY FUCKED!

You: No

Mina: Just platonic… BULLSHIT!

You: Mina, seriously, we didn’t.

Mina: Then how do you know! Did you, like, walk in on him in the shower? Because that would have been a good time to hop on that apparently massive cock.

You: We cuddled. Morning wood happened.

Mina: You cuddled this morning and he got hard?

You: Technically we slept together. He woke up with it.

Mina: If you slept together why are you now surprised by the size of his dick?

It wasn’t even nine in the morning and you were getting a headache. Pinching the bridge of your nose. You heard the faucet turn meaning he’d be out in a second.

You: We DID NOT fuck. But yeah, big, big dick.

Mina: I want details ASAP! Like, did you actually see it? Big as in length or width? OR BOTH? You’re so damn lucky…

Her text went on but you shoved your phone away when Eijiro walked back into the room and though you tried your hardest, your eyes instantly went to his groin for a second, the faintest outline now visible in his dark sweats now that his erection had time to go down.

By the time your eyes had trailed up to his face, Eijiro had been turning for his bag but, not quick enough. He caught you staring, that was obvious, just as obvious as you seeing his still pink cheeks and the smirk he was wearing.

“So,” he changed the subject, “Sleep well?”

“Better than I have in a while actually.”

“I know what you mean.” There was a lightness to his voice. Despite the awkwardness that just happened he looked completely sincere, even a little bashful with his hand on the back of his neck admitting, “I’d do it again.”

“Yeah? Me too.”

You hurried off to the bathroom with a change of clothes while he packed away his laptop and other belongings he’d had about the room. Brushing your teeth and washing your face, then sliding into jeans and a fresh t-shirt. Your hoodie was still on the hook at the back of the door, a reminder to give Eijiro his sweater back.

He had everything packed by the time you came out, everything besides that crisp white jersey, draped over the arm of the chair where you left it the night before.

“Left it out on purpose.” He told you when you went to hand it back, “Check the weather.”

“Holy shit! It’s dropped like twenty degrees since yesterday!”

“Wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to pile in someone else’s car, but, if you still wanna ride in the jeep you’re definitely gonna want this. It’s gonna get real- oof- Well, hey there, what’s the for?”

You didn’t know why that exact moment felt like the best to throw your arms around his torso but you did it anyway. You didn’t know what made him care, or why he kept smiling those little grins that had just one corner of his mouth tugging up but it made you feel so completely content that you couldn’t physically help holding onto him for just a second, well, maybe a minute.

“Just because.” It was the easier answer rather than trying to explain to him all the feelings that were running around your head. And he seemed happy to accept it.

His arms wrapped around you, hugging you close, and he kept hugging you until you broke away upon hearing his stomach growl. “C’mon, before Katsuki calls again.”

You tugged the sweater on, slung your bag over your shoulder, and walked out of the room together. Breakfast consisted of a bar with a plethora of different options, enough for you and Eijiro to happy eat your fill even if you were running late. Breakfast also consisted of each of you having to convince Katuski and Mina respectively that you two did not fuck.

“I’m so disappointed in you,” She grumbled and pushed a piece of sausage back and forth when the guys went to go get drink refills, “You two were literally in bed with each other, cuddling, and you didn’t just go for it!”

There wasn’t enough time to explain to Mina why just going for it seemed like such a horrible idea. But, your eyes followed the pair of friends over to the juice bar, watching as Eijiro smiled and fielded the conversation away from Katsuki’s gruff attitude with two pretty girls wearing your universities colors. Loyal fans who traveled all the way to see them play.

“Don’t you even start comparing!” Your eyes went back to Mina whose arms were folded over her chest.

“What do you mean!”

“I see where you’re looking and I’m telling you not to fucking do it! You’re so much better than any of the little ice bunnies that follow the boys around. Stop comparing yourself to them. I know it’s hard but, just remember,” She wiggled her eyebrows, “you got him in bed last night, not them.”

“Mina!”

“I’m just saying!”

She didn’t have time to say anything else before Katsuki came back to the table and Eijiro shortly after.

Afterward, everyone was gathered in the lobby with their various bags, going through the check out process and talking over plans for the rest of the day.

Katsuki wanted to throw in another evening practice once everyone was back on campus but he was easily outvoted.

“We won,” Denki reminded him, “And that means we celebrate! I believe it is Mirio’s turn to host,” The older blonde cheerfully smiled, “So, dear captain, we will not be practicing tonight. We will be dancing our butts off celebrating another victory!”

Mirio slung his arm over Denki’s shoulders. “Tamaki and I are gonna stop and get supplies on the way home. Should have the place ready by seven. We won’t keep you out too late.”

Katsuki still complained but he did it quietly.

Izuku was the last of the group to check out, everyone else already heading out to the parking lot and waving goodbyes. You stood in the cool, dreary air by the jeep while you waited on the others, thankful for the hockey sweater you pulled on again, waiting for the others, and were mildly surprised when only Eijiro jogged over.

“Izuku and Katsuki are catching a ride back with Hanta since,” He gestured to the lack of roof, “and Denks is going with Hitoshi… I really won’t blame you if you wanna go with Suka or someone.”

You knew he wouldn’t but you also would feel terrible about him driving all the way back alone. So, you chucked your bag into the backseat and climbed up into the passengers. “Ready when you are!”

He wasted no time blasting the heat the second he got inside. Handing you the AUX cord and telling you to play whatever you liked. The day might have been cold but you barely even realized it, too busy singing and laughing to give a damn.

About an hour into the drive though, you got a text alert and turned the music down for Eijiro to also hear, “Izuku’s plotting.”

“Bet Katsuki’s gonna love that. What’s going on?”

“He really liked that inn and he checked to see if there was a chance we could stay there again when we play them in January.” You explained, “Not only do they have the room, but they’re also holding a party that Friday night. Apparently, they hold one every Friday in January but this one is a masquerade. He’s wondering if anyone else would wanna go to it. Mina’s already agreed.”

“Tell him I do too!” You were a little surprised by his eagerness. “I love parties! And I’ve never been to a masquerade! All the cool masks and stuff! I think it sounds fun. Do you?”

“Yeah, I’ll tell him it’s a yes from the both of us then!”

What you didn’t share with Eijiro were the texts that came in immediately after.

Mina: Of course, Y/N answers for the both of them. Mina: Are you guys gonna actually go together? Mina: As a couple!

“What?” Eijiro asked when you sighed.

“Just Mina being Mina.”

And Eijiro just nodded along, knowing exactly what you meant.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Bound Blood (Cassandra Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 3

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T+ for language and violence Warnings: Choking (kinda) Summary: Local feral human makes a friend, tries to sleep next to local mean vampire, then gets a taste of their own medicine Previous Chapters: 1: Sharing Is (Not) Caring; 2: Bloodbath, Baby!

3: Haunt Me Dearly

What a lovely crimson mess I’ve made, you think, watching as the last of the bloody water drained from the bathtub. There were still several splashes of red along the sides, where you had leaned on or otherwise touched. Frowning, you considered whether or not to clean up after yourself. Surely it wouldn’t be one of your captors doing the cleaning? In that case, you think, I don’t want to make any enemies out of the servants. First you had to finish binding your wounds. Wouldn’t want to risk getting them dirty so soon after washing them, after all. Except you weren’t even sure that you could properly wrap them on your own, considering the positioning of your injuries.

“Ah, fucking hell…” You muttered, scowling a little. Then you remembered that Cassandra had sent a maid to wait outside the bathroom for you. Maybe they could help? Nodding to yourself, you threw on your new undergarments and pair of trousers, deciding to save the shoes for later. Once you were ‘decent’, you slowly opened the door, peeking out from behind it. Before long you were making eye contact with an unfamiliar woman, who looked very confused. “Any chance you could help me bandage my shoulder? I can’t do it without help, and something tells me Cassandra’s not going to lend me a hand.” With that said, you gave her a friendly smile, hoping to make up for the awkwardness of the situation.

“Of course! It is my honor to serve a guest of my Lady,” the maid- servant, maybe- said, giving a short curtsy. Admittedly you’re a little confused by her response. Still, you gladly welcome her assistance, moving back into the bathroom to grab the gauze. Although you intend to do as much as you can on your own, the woman is quick to take over completely. “Please, allow me,” she continued, carefully beginning to wrap your wounds.

“Are all the workers here so polite? I can’t imagine anyone actually enjoys working here, all things considered,” you mused, squinting at the middle distance. At that, the servant tenses up, clearly not expecting you to speak ill of her employers. Well, she had called you a guest. “Don’t be surprised, friend. Less than an hour ago I was fit to be consumed by ‘your Lady Cassandra’. Only reason I’m not dead right now is because of a stupid blood bond,” you explained, tone dripping with irritation. This time the servant doesn’t flinch at all, instead nodding slowly, taking a moment to let your words sink in. During this pause, you decide to introduce yourself, just in case the two of you might see each other frequently.

“I… see. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, no matter the circumstances of your presence here. You can call me Daphne, though I must warn you that I am not one for, ahem, gossip about my masters,” she replied, finishing her binding of your shoulder wound. Next she searched through the cabinet by the sink, looking for a medicinal salve of some sort. Once she found it she was right back to work. The substance stung a tad on your skin, but you could hardly complain, seeing as it would help fight off possible infections.

“You sure about no gossip? What if we call it ‘helping me get acclimated to my new situation’? I’m a fish outta water here, Daphne,” you suggested, turning your head to look her in the eyes. At first she ignored you, focusing on rubbing the medicine into your skin. Eventually she meets your gaze, briefly, and releases a quiet sigh.

“You are free to ask questions-” you start to celebrate, though not for long- “just as I am free to withhold answers. Though I may be more responsive if you can tell me one thing… Why was Lady Cassandra’s dress wet?” Daphne asked, making you freeze in place. Of course she wanted the one answer you didn’t feel confident about giving. She’s quick to notice this, though, and laughs to herself. “Well, I suppose some things must remain a mystery. Now let’s get your face cleaned up…”

-------------------------------

By the time you make it to Cassandra’s room, the sun is starting to rise, leaking in through the castle windows. Exhaustion weighs you down, making you want to fall immediately into the nearest bed. As it stands, that was none other than your soulmate’s, though it was currently occupied. For a moment you hover in her doorway, contemplating whether or not you should steal her blanket. Floor can’t be too bad, you think, right? Before you can decide you notice Cassandra stirring from her sleep.

“What took you so fucking long?” She asked groggily. Now she’s sitting up, blanket clinging loosely to her body, and you realize that she’s not wearing a shirt. Though a blush rishes up your cheeks, you’re certain it’s too dark for Cassandra to notice. Or at least you hope so. Wanting to think about something other than what she was (or was not) wearing, you focus your energy on responding.

“Isn’t it obvious? I got invited to a sick orgy on the way back, and I wasn’t about to turn that down, so…” You trailed off, gesturing idly with your hands. The movement stretches your shoulder more than you’d like, resulting in an ache that lasts several seconds. It distracts you to the point where you almost can’t catch the object Cassandra promptly throws at you. “What the hell…?” It’s a shoe, as far as you can tell, that definitely would have hurt, had it hit its intended target. “Such a lovely gift, babe. I will treasure it for the rest of my days, forever keeping it as a reminder that you-” your tone shifts from a false joy to deadpan- “are a piece of shit. Now, seriously, where am I supposed to sleep? Is there a walk-in closet I can camp in? Or do I get the bed, while you sleep in a fucking coffin or something?”

Before Cassandra has a chance to respond, you’re walking further into her room, wanting to take a quick look around. There’s a large dresser that you quickly toss her shoe inside, as well as a window sill with a built-in reading nook. Trading your tiredness for sheer dickery, you throw open the curtains, letting the light pour in (and nearly blind you in the process). Half of you expects your soulmate to screech in response. Maybe even turn to ash. Instead, you hear her moving, and you turn to find her laying back down, facing away from you.

“When you’re done fucking around, come over here and sleep. I will knock you out if I have to,” Cassandra muttered, still sounding half asleep. As much as you wanted to know if she’d go through with her threat, you are exhausted. Begrudgingly you approach the bed. It’s certainly large enough for two people, even having enough room for you to be completely separate from each other. When you start to climb in, you find yourself overwhelmed for a moment, surprised at the quality of the sheet fabric. Exactly how rich were these vampiric assholes? This room alone seemed to be worth more than you had ever known.

This was, perhaps, the one bright side to your situation: A comfortable state of existence. Well, as comfortable as one could get in a place like this. So lovely on the outside, a muse worthy of a thousand artists, yet hiding far darker horrors within… much like the woman you now found yourself laying beside. Why me? Why her? What could possibly bring the two of us together, you think, other than a cruel fate? There’s a pain in your chest, dishearteningly similar to heartache. Damning the universe, and your blood bond, and yourself, you think ‘fuck it’ before sliding closer to Cassandra. One arm drapes itself over her waist, while you slowly lean your head against her back.

In an instant she’s tense, not even breathing, waiting for you to reveal whatever trick hid up your sleeve. But no trick comes, just your hand meeting hers, squeezing softly. Suddenly the tension is gone. None remains, not even lingering in the air, and the two of you soon drift off to sleep...

-------------------------------

Shaking, body made a wreck through tremors, tears staining her cheeks. Breathing comes hard, each shift of her lungs bringing with it a mighty ache. Someone’s holding her, whispering sweet nothings in her ear, fingers tracing circles against her back. But she’s lost in her dream, eyes clenched shut. Visions flash before her gaze like lightning in a storm. There’s no time to process, no opportunity to prepare for the thunder that follows. Every strike is a punch to the gut she can’t ignore. When release finally comes, it is not a gentle kiss to her forehead, or a reassuring hand on her own, but rather an intense surge of pain that jolts her awake.

Cassandra nearly screams as she sits up, hands reflexively going to hold her head. One of them stings, bad, and she notices what look like bite marks on the side. For a moment her confusion acts as a welcome distraction. Then she’s looking next to her, and the puzzle practically puts itself together. There you are, one hand in your mouth, an eyebrow raised as you stare at her. Ignoring the lingering memories of her dream, she turns all of her rage towards you. Quickly she grabs ahold of your arm, forcefully yanking your hand out of your mouth, even though it makes your teeth dig in a little deeper. It takes more willpower than she wants to admit to stop herself from strangling you right then and there.

“I didn’t know monsters could even have nightmares,” you taunted. Before you know what’s happening, Cassandra is lunging towards you, pressing her forearm against your throat. There’s just enough pressure to make talking difficult. Both of her yellow eyes are filled with hatred, aimed right at you, but you can’t help but laugh. “Ya know, I did try to wake you up nicely. I should have known you only respond to violence. Next time, though, I’ll remember to stay a safe distance away.”

“You don’t know anything, dipshit. Anyone else would know better than to spout so much fucking ignorance, but nobody taught you how to behave, huh?” Cassandra growled, applying more pressure with her arm, leaving you unable to reply (for once). “You’re a goddamn mutt, aren’t you? Thrown to the street like the garbage you are, left to live in the gutter, feeding off of trash like a fucking cannibal. You should be honored to be allowed anywhere near me. You should be worshiping me, for fuck’s sake!” Black dots form in your vision, a dark halo edging into the corners of your eyes, as your lungs beg for air. But you’re grinning. You’re showing your teeth, bright and proud, knowing full well that you have won this round. As soon as realization dawns on Cassandra’s face she’s pulling herself off of you.

Still, you are left gasping, clutching at your neck as she hurriedly gets dressed for the day. By the time you can see properly again, she’s left without another word. Even as she stalks down the corridor, eagerly rushing away from you, she hears your laughter howling through the castle. It digs into her brain, taunting her. Soon enough you’ll stop, light headed, but she will still hear it echoing inside her mind. You’ll haunt her just as much as her wicked dreams. Hopefully more.

[glitchstoxicwaste]

CONGRATS ON 300!!! 🎉 I’M SO PROUD OF YOU!

seriously tho, that’s an amazing achievement! you really do deserve it, you’re very talented! i’m excited to see you grow even more!

for the prompts, may i request 8. “Hehehe ow haha” for bo & vincent? poly (not incest) or separate, either or is okay!

thank you so much and once again, congratulations! ♥️

I just put on makeup and I’m about to cry-

Thank you so much! I can’t wait to grow more because of all of you!! You all made this happen!!! 🤍🖤

Slashers | Prompts

Prompt #8: “Hehehe ow haha”

Bo Sinclair x Reader

Vincent Sinclair x Reader

TW: Reader gets hurt

↓Continue under the cut!↓

Bo Sinclair!

It was a Norman day in Ambrose, hot as hell, no new visitors, just you and Bo in the garage. You were helping him with his truck, and by that I mean you’re handing him the tools he asks for, and sometimes has to explain what it looks like in detail, possibly more than once.

He had his truck suspended by an old rusty carjack that squeaks every time you pump the handle. He had gone to the opposite side of you and asked you to hand him something, you grabbed the tool from the box behind you and bent over the car to hand it to him, adding extra pressure to the already unstable carjack.

Squeak

Snap

Clank

CRUNCH

Bo had jumped back, startled by the carjack bending, breaking, and the truck falling. He chuckled nervously and looked up at you, a confused expression covered his face as he saw you shaking a little.

“Hehehe ow haha.”

He looked under the car and saw your foot directly under the tire. Panic shot through him and he tried to lift the car up with his strength.

“Bo”

He tried harder, his fingers getting cut from the metal digging harsh into his skin.

“Bo!”

He squat down, hooking his palms under the front and tried to pick it up that way, his back cracked and he groaned but never gave up.

“BEAUREGARD SINCLAIR!”

His breathing hitched as he glared at you, anger rushing though his veins at the sound of his first name rushing off your tongue like his mother used to.

“Finally! Stop trying to become the Hulk, get your damn tow truck, and lift the car up slowly.”

His eyebrow rose.

“How do ya know so much ‘bout this? How’re ya so calm?”

You smirk and cross your arms.

“Bo, babe, if this was the first time my foot got crushed by something, I’d be crying and screaming from a pain I never felt before.”

He shook his head and left for the tow truck, a fond smile gracing his features.

Vincent Sinclair!

You and Vin were in the basement, he was showing you how he put the bodies in positions to be covered in wax.

You watched in awe at how careful and delicate he was, the intricate things that you would have easily overlooked, the way his hands smooth over areas and hush the faint screams of the victim laying still.

He motioned for you to mix the wax to keep it all melted and even, and so you did, placing your hands on the hot metal ladle that was sitting in the wax.

Tss

The sound of something simmering and the scent of burning flesh filled the room quickly as you jerked your hand away from the large spoon.

“Hehehe ow haha.”

Vincent put the tools down and walked up to you, grabbed your hand, and looked at you, his teal eyes swimming with fear and dread.

“Vinny, baby, it’s just a small burn, I’ll be fine.”

He shook his head, lifting up the hand to show your entire hand now a bubbling blister, throbbing with pain and lingering heat.

He took you to the sink and ran cold water on it, your hand cooling down slightly.

He nuzzled his masked face into your neck, regretting asking you to stir the wax, forgetting to tell you to put on gloves beforehand. The smell of your cooking flesh will haunt him forever.

[babybluebex]

desperados [arvin russell x reader smut]

➽ pairing: arvin russell x fem!reader ➽ word count: 4.0k ➽ summary: arvin gets revenge against the man who wronged the girls he loves.  ��� warnings: NSFW/MDNI. smut, explicit language, fingering (f!receiving), graphic violence, is getting to third base in a church parkling lot a warning? probably, excessive mentions of tom’s abs ➽ a/n: make sure to check out the sequel to this on my blog!! thanks for reading!

I saw Arvin’s hands shaking fiercely. The sun was nearly lowered over the distant mountains and people in this town were sure to talk about how the orphan Russell boy had come and picked me up this close to night, but I knew Arvin. He wasn’t very talkative, so his affection (and I use that term lightly) came in other ways. He always let me have his last cigarette, even though I barely smoked. He had saved a seat on the school bus for me, back before we graduated. He was kind, just not in the ways that Coal Creek knew. I knew, when I heard Arvin’s old ‘51 Chevy in front of my house, that he needed me; I jumped in his car before my mom had time to tell me to get dressed decently. 

“Arv,” I whispered. “What’s going on? Where’re we going?” 

Arvin took a deep breath, but he didn’t answer. He looked out his window before returning his gaze to the front windshield, and his fingers began to tap on his steering wheel. “He killed my Lenora,” he mumbled finally. “Light me a smoke, would ya?” 

It took a moment for his words to register. Ever since Lenora died, Arvin had become distant, nearly a whole different man. He went to work and went back to his grandmother’s house. He barely made time for me anymore. That was alright, though; he had lost the only person he had ever really loved. I couldn’t blame him. I wasn’t much to him, other than someone who tolerated him. 

“I thought Lenora…” I began and swallowed my words. He had requested a cigarette. I reached into the backseat where his jacket was slung and tugged out his crushed box of cigarettes and a matchbox, and I lit him a cigarette. I passed it to him, and he carefully took it between his fingers. 

“Ain’t you gonna take the first gasp?” Arvin asked, managing a weak chuckle. His eyes were dark and focused, and there was nothing behind his smile. Levity, I assumed, to make me feel better about whatever was happening. 

“My mama would skin me if I came home smelling like smoke,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself. “Go ‘head, Arv.”

Arvin lifted his hand to his mouth, his thin lips wrapping around the end, and he took a deep pull at it. He blew the smoke out of his nose, and he said, “Lenora did it to herself, yeah, but he made her do it. He drove her to it.” 

“Who’s he?” I asked. 

“Did that Teagardin son ova bitch ever lay his hands on you?” Arvin asked quickly. His gaze flicked to me, curled up next to him, still wearing my house shoes and pajamas. No makeup, no cover-up; I would be the talk of the town the next morning, I knew it. 

“Pastor Teagardin?” I clarified, and Arvin nodded. “No. He tried, though, I think. Once.” 

“Ya think?” Arvin repeated. “God damn it, Y/N, what he’d do to you?” 

“He didn’t do nothing,” I said quickly. “He’s old enough to be my daddy, ya know how sick that is?” 

“You said he tried,” Arvin rebutted. “Tried to do what?” 

I huffed out a breath. “I stayed after a service on Wednesday night a few months ago to help Mrs. Teagardin gather up hymns and stuff. She went off to do something, and Brother Preston approached me. Said he… Said he saw me hanging out with you… Saw us drinking and smoking… And he said I gotta repent for my sins. Jesus, the man thought we fucked. He made me get down on my knees to pray, but I heard his belt ‘fore anything happened. Told him I’d call the sheriff on him if he tried anything like that again.” 

Arvin breathed deeply, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. “That’s three,” he said. “You, the Reaster girl… and Lenora.” 

My heart sank into my stomach. As much as I loved Lenora, she was naive. From the day that she was born, she trusted everybody. If she had ever been with someone, they took advantage of her. Maybe not with violence, but advantage nonetheless. “No,” I mumbled. “He didn’t… Not her.” 

“Coroner said Lenora was pregnant,” Arvin told me. He situated his cigarette in his mouth, and his hand floated down to rest on my knee. “I just know it was him. Who the fuck else would it be?”

“Arvin, what’re you doing?” I asked. “Where’re we going?”

“I’m going down to that church,” Arvin began. “And I’m killing that son of a bitch Pastor Teagardin.” 

“Arvin!” I yelped. “You’re not! You can’t-- How--?”

The car rolled to a stop in front of the small church, the gravel crunching under the tires. Arvin squeezed my knee, shutting me up, and he leaned forward and dug around behind him for a moment. Slowly, from the back of his pants, Arvin pulled out a small revolver gun. My breath caught in my throat; Arvin was rough around the edges, sure, but never did I think I would see him with a gun in his hands. My Arvin looked so unsure of the weapon, but his thumb clicked the hammer back, readying it to shoot, and I saw something behind his eyes change. He wasn’t vindictive, but revenge was a choice that had to be made. Arvin made his choice. 

“A German luger,” Arvin mumbled, his cigarette still in his mouth. “My daddy told my uncle Earvell that it’s the gun Hitler killed himself with.” 

I couldn’t manage any words. My lips fell open in shock, my brain struggling to make any coherent thought out of what was happening. “Arvin,” I finally choked out. “You ain’t really gonna kill Pastor Teagardin, are you?” 

“He killed my sister,” Arvin said, his voice low in his chest. “He tried to hurt you. Who says he won’t try that shit again?” 

“Arvin, you don’t need to avenge me,” I said quickly. My hands grasped his, and I fumbled with his fingers to release the gun. “Lenora wouldn’t want this.” 

“How do you know?” Arvin asked. His eyes, the color of dark West Virginian molasses, locked on mine, and his hands came up to capture my face. He was shaking violently, and I wasn’t sure that he would even be able to hold his gun. “None of us will ever know what Lenora would want. I knew her better than goddamn anyone else on this earth, and I think I know. I know, Y/N. And even if he didn’t manage to hurt you, it’s the thought that he would try that-- I don’t know how many other girls he’s got to. I’m doing this whole damn town a service by getting rid of him.” 

I gulped in a breath, trying to stop myself from crying. “What’re ya gonna do once you’re done?” I asked. “You can’t stay here.” 

“I’m not,” Arvin said. “I don’t know where I’m gonna go, but far away from fuckin’ Coal Creek. I want you to come with me.” 

“Arv, I got my family here,” I said quickly. “My momma and my daddy, I can’t just leave them.” 

“Y/N,” Arvin sighed heavily. His eyes softened and his thumb pressed into my cheek kindly, and he said, “I can’t leave you here. I love you too damn much.” 

“Arvin Russell, I love you too, but I--” I began. “I can’t.”

“Y/N,” Arvin said firmly. “I love you. And I want you to come with me.” 

This was different. Arvin had told me that he loved me before, but I always thought he had meant “as a friend” or “as a sister”. Had I been mistaken this whole time? Did Arvin care for me differently than he could ever care for Lenora? “You…” I started. “You love me?” 

“I’ve loved you since the day I laid my eyes on you,” Arvin told me. “Fucking seventh grade, your hair was in these little braids, you offered me a seat on the school bus. I thought it was… A crush. But Lenora showed me real love, and I know that I love you. I have always loved you, Y/N. Please, wherever I go, I can’t go without you. I need you, love.” 

Tears were welled up in Arvin’s eyes, and he sniffled back his emotions. I hated that. Arvin always tried to hide his emotions and, ever since I had known him, he had only cried in front of me once: the night Lenora died, he came to my house, eyes puffy, and he buried his head in my chest and heaved sobs into me. The strangled sounds of anguish had stayed with me and haunted me in the night, and I never wanted to see Arvin hurting like that again. “Okay,” I whispered. “I’ll come with you.” 

Arvin nodded slowly. The tip of his tongue wet his bottom lip as he looked behind me to the small church, Pastor Teagardin’s fancy Cadillac parked in front. “Now, I don’t know what’s gonna happen in there,” he began. “Gimme an hour. If I ain’t back by then, leave. Get outta here, you never knew me. Alright?” 

“You don’t think you’d…” I started, and the ache in my heart forced me to stop talking. “Don’t die, Arv. My heart couldn’t take it.” A moment passed where the both of us were still and silent, and finally Arvin’s hand carefully moved to the back of my neck. Quietly, he pulled me close to him and pressed his lips to mine, and my stomach flipped around inside of my body. I had never kissed anyone before, but his kiss felt right. Arvin broke the kiss first, his lips lingering just before mine, and I thought about how my momma had told me that boys didn’t like when girls made the first move. Arvin had kissed me first, though, so, if I kissed back, that wasn’t making the first move. My momma was forever concerned with how people saw me, but, if I was going to run away with a man about to murder, I felt like maybe those societal pleasantries could be pushed aside. 

I took Arvin’s coat collar in my hands and tugged him closer, and I reconnected our lips. Arvin was on the same page as me, his hands falling to my waist as easily as if he had done it a hundred times before. His kiss was hungry, like a man depraved, and he guided me to lean against the car door. He moved on top of me, one hand moving above my head to brace against the car door, his other hand pushing my shirt up to expose my stomach. I knew he wanted to see more but was waiting for my permission, and I broke the kiss with a laugh. “This ain’t like ya, Arv,” I giggled. 

Arvin seemed to almost wake up, and he moved away from me. “Sorry,” he said, his voice rumbling. “Don’t know what got into me--”

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” I told him. “I was saying that you don’t normally ask for permission to do things, you just… Do.” 

“When it comes to pretty girls, I always ask,” Arvin told me. He hovered over me again, his eyes drinking in the sight of me, and I pushed the rugged ball cap off of his head to expose his chestnut hair. 

“Got a lotta experience with pretty girls, huh?” I asked, and the corner of Arvin’s mouth quirked into a devilish smile. 

“Well, we doin’ this now, ain’t we?” Arvin asked. “I’m thinking this is all the experience I need.” 

“Shut your fucking mouth and kiss me, Arv,” I scoffed, and Arvin dove back in. His palm rested on my jaw, his thumb on my cheek, and he kissed me like nobody has ever kissed me. His warm tongue was inside my mouth, drawing quiet moans from the depths of my chest, and his free hand pulled my shirt up, up, up, until I was forced to pull away from his mouth to tug it over my head. My mouth felt chapped from his dark stubble, but my breasts welcomed the roughness. He kissed my mouth, then my neck, then situated himself to bury his face between my breasts. He kissed them, then took one in his hand and squeezed until I whimpered, and I felt him smirk against my tender skin. 

“Ya like that, darlin’?” Arvin rasped, and I nodded quickly. “I thought so. You’re making such damn pretty noises, I could listen forever.” 

Arvin’s kisses trailed down the middle of my chest, then his mouth refocused on my nipple, stiffened with excitement. His tongue circled it and he gave it a hard suck, hard enough for me to yelp and pull at his hair. This seemed to urge him on, because he started to kiss and gently nip all over my breasts. My skin tingled with each kiss, and his knee found its way between my legs. His thigh pressed lightly into my already-soaked core, and I suddenly felt like I was suffocating with the heat inside of the car. “Arv, shit, hold on,” I mumbled and lifted my hips to take my pants off. His free hand came down and helped me, and his warm palm replaced his thigh once I was bare. 

Not once had I ever been touched there. The feeling was foreign but not unwelcome, especially since it was Arvin. I panted, trying to sort myself out, and Arvin pressed a soft kiss to the shell of my ear. “You alright there, darlin’?” he asked, his hand melting away from my body. “Need me to stop?” 

“No,” I said. “Keep going, Arv. Please. I’ll die if you don’t keep on.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Arvin chuckled, and his hand went back to my cunt. The pad of his middle finger massaged my wetness, and he pushed his finger past my folds and carefully pressed just the tip of his finger into me. I moaned at the sweet goodness of it all, and I opened my eyes to see Arvin watching me. He didn’t seem to be studying me-- his eyebrows weren’t drawn together in consideration-- but he seemed to be admiring me. I tugged him down to my lips by his hair and kissed him, and his finger pressed further into me. Arvin’s kiss moved to my neck, and he slowly began to pump his finger inside of me. I never knew anything could feel so good. “More,” I whispered, my head falling back to expose my throat to him, and he nipped at my throat before he pushed his ring finger in to meet his middle finger. “Fuck, Arv, this ain’t fair at all,” I gasped. 

“What d’ya mean, darlin’?” Arvin asked, his fingers moving with increasing quickness inside me, massaging something in me that I didn’t know existed. It made my legs shake. 

“Arvin,” I whimpered. “Take-- Oh, fuck!” His fingers had pressed right into that sweet spot in my body, and the pleasure made my middle seize up. “T-Take off those goddamn pants, please.” 

“Always so polite,” Arvin smirked. His fingers retreated from me and, in the fading sunlight coming through the sweating windows, I saw my wetness glistening on his fingers as he undid his belt. He whipped his belt off and tossed it into the backseat before he started to take off his ripped and dirty work pants. Arvin worked on the roads and I knew that the hard labor had gotten him fit, but, as I pulled his shirt off while he removed his pants, I was faced with his body. His chest and stomach were as hard as a rock, his muscles taut under his skin, and his arms bulged with a tight but lithe strength. His middle came down in a sharp V to his cock, half-hard, the tip flushed, resting on one of his built thighs. I had never really paid attention to how attractive Arvin was-- he had a nice face and gave me tight hugs, but that was about as far as I thought of his body or attractiveness. Arvin was so much more than attractive, though. The sight of his body, tanned and scarred and built like an Italian statue, made me face a truth that might have been hard to swallow twenty minutes ago. 

“Arvin,” I whispered, pressing my hand to his face. His cheek was warm under my fingers, and his jaw clenched as he awaited my words. “Fuck me, Arvin. I want you.” 

“That’s what I was planning on doin’, darlin’,” Arvin drawled, and his hand went to his cock. He stroked himself a few times until he was fully hard, and, by then, he had a thin sheen on sweat on his upper lip. Maybe it wasn’t our clothes that made me sweat and suffocate; it was hot as the devil in this car. The windows were fogged up against the cool West Virginia night, and I reached up and pushed Arvin’s sweaty curls from his forehead. The moment of tenderness seemed to stop Arvin in his tracks, because his eyes lifted from himself to mine, and he gave me an uncharacteristically-sheepish smile. “Everything alright there?” 

“Oh, I’m more than alright, Arv,” I whispered. “Just lookin’ at you.” The sunset, nearly done, cast orange light into the car, right onto Arvin’s face, and it caught the flush in his cheeks. 

“I…” he started. “I ain’t ever done this before. Never got this far with a girl before.” 

“Me neither,” I said. “I haven’t even been kissed before tonight.” 

“You still want to…” Arvin began. His cockiness was gone, replaced with a tender intimacy that I was surprised to see existed inside of Arvin Russell. 

“I do,” I said. “If it means I get a few extra minutes with you ‘fore you go confront Pastor Teagardin.” 

“That’s not the only reason, is it?” Arvin asked. 

“Of course not,” I told him. “I just don’t…” I paused and struggled for the right words. “Don’t want you to get hurt.” 

“I won’t,” Arvin said. “Son of a bitch ain’t even got a gun.”

The reminder of what Arvin had yet to do made me feel sick to my stomach. My Arvin wasn’t a murderer; was he? I felt the sick rise in my throat, and I struggled to open the car door and contort myself to vomit out into the gravel and grass. I felt Arvin take a handful of my loose hair and hold it away from my face, and I gasped as I felt the burning in my nose. “I shouldn’t’ve said that shit,” Arvin whispered in my ear. “I’m sorry, love.” 

“So!” A man’s voice called, and I lifted my head to see Pastor Preston Teagardin standing a few yards away from the car, but certainly close enough to know what Arvin and I had been doing. “Couldn’t handle him, could ya, girly? Y’all got a little trigger in the back of y’all’s throats, ya know. Might do you good to remember that.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Arvin barked. His pants rustled as he pulled them back on, and he gave me his shirt to pull on quickly. My hands were shaking nearly too hard for me to dress myself, but I managed to put his shirt on my body. I shut the car door behind me as Arvin opened his, and I shoved the gun into the back of his pants quickly. I hoped that Pastor Teagardin hadn’t seen that. “Don’t you talk ‘bout my Y/N like that.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Pastor Teagardin drawled, his voice dripping sarcasm like honey. ”I thought y’all were the ones fucking at the church!”

“You gotta lotta nerve talkin’ to me like that,” Arvin shouted. His voice bounced around the empty space, sending a chill up my spine. I grabbed my panties and pulled them on as I listened to the confrontation, and, even though I didn’t care too much for God, I made a quick prayer to protect my Arvin. “After what you did to my sister and my wife.” 

Wife. Was he saying that to give himself humility? To add credence to his argument? No matter the reason, even if it was a slip of the tongue, it warmed my stomach and cemented in my mind that Arvin really did love me. 

“What I did--!” Teagardin scoffed. “Your sister got in that state with some boy! She was delusional, got it in her head that I was the daddy and that I would provide! I had nothing to do with that bastard child! And your wife! Your wife? Who, the whore of Coal Creek, tryna fuck you on top of your sister’s grave?” 

Arvin moved as quick as lightning, drawing his gun and focusing it on Teagardin. I saw the pastor flinch away and he shouted, “God damn it, boy! Put the gun down and we can talk ‘bout this like real men!”

Arvin’s thumb pulled back the hammer and I heard the solid click of a bullet entering the chamber. “I’m more of a man than you’ll ever be,” Arvin said, scarily calm. 

“What makes you say that?” Teagardin asked. “‘Cause you’ve got a gun?” 

“Any man can have a gun,” Arvin said. “It’s ‘cause I got the balls to use it.”

The gun went off, and the air froze. The second felt like a vacuum, forever expanding. I saw Arvin jolt away from the gunshot, I saw his arm kick up at the force of the gun, and I saw the back of Pastor Teagardin’s head explode like it had been detonated from inside.

I didn’t even realize that I was screaming. It hurt my throat and rang in my ears but I didn’t register it. It wasn’t until Arvin threw the car door open and kneeled down next to me that I became aware of what I was doing, but I couldn’t stop. Arvin’s face screwed up in anger and he slammed his hand down on the roof of the car hard enough to leave a dent. “God damn it, woman, shut your fucking mouth!” Arvin growled. “Someone’s gonna hear you!”

“Arvin,” I gasped. My entire body was shaking and the sick feeling returned. “Arvin, you--” 

“I know what I did,” Arvin whispered firmly. “I know… Did you see where the bullet shell went?” 

I shook my head quickly, my knees crawling up to press against my chest protectively. “No,” I sniffled. I was crying. “Arvin, we gotta leave here.” 

“I know, love,” Arvin whispered. He sat in front of me for a second more before putting a shaking hand on my knee in a meek act of comfort. “You can go home. You can pretend like none of this ever happened.” 

“How do I…” I began. “I’m never gonna be able to forget that… Looked like pie filling… And I can’t lose you, Arvin. Not-Not after I just got you the way I want you.” 

“You really wanna come with me?” Arvin asked. “Ya sure?” 

“Yes,” I told him. “I’m sure, Arvin. Please, fuck, get in the car, we need to go.” 

Arvin returned to the car and we quietly put all of our clothes back on. Arvin gave me a bundle of floral fabric to wear instead of my pajamas, and I unraveled it to find a young woman’s dress. My heart sank and I looked at Arvin for an explanation, and he mumbled, “S’not Lenora’s. Found it in a box of my momma’s stuff, looked like your size.” 

“You brought a dress along before you knew I’d agree to come with you?” I asked. I slipped off Arvin’s shirt and put the dress on and, when my head emerged, I found Arvin giving me that same tender look from before. “Unless you always knew I’d come with.” 

“That’s the thing ‘bout you, love,” Arvin chuckled lightly. “You’re usually so predictable.” 

As we left, I gave one last look to Pastor Teagardin’s body, laying in the grass and gravel, never knowing what happened to him. He heard the gunshot; maybe he felt the pain of the back of his skull exploding outward. As I watched his body disappear with the distance, I felt like I knew him well. He was a man-- a wicked man, yes-- but he preached it best. It wasn’t worth much to put up a fight against the sins of the flesh. 

I wrapped my hands around Arvin’s free arm as he drove, and I pressed myself into him. Night fell as we drove, leaving our headlights to be the sole light, and it was once I saw a broke-down sign saying that we had entered Ohio that I thought to ask, “Where’re we going?” 

“Knockemstiff, Ohio. I wanna go bury my dog and this gun and start over… With you.”