#then just fucking exploded with his 'intellectual' points

[demidoodlefox]

I'm tired....

[shiplessoceans]

Continuing my first rewatch of Hannibal since binging it a few months ago and I swear to fuck...

The stretch of episodes between when Will shows up in Hannibal's office in his freshly showered and clean clothed state being all "I have to deal with you and ...my feelings about you" while looking up at Hannibal through his lashes as though 'aw shucks-ing' and acting vulnerable is gonna skate him past trying to have Hannibal murdered.

And the thing is that it DOES. It actually fucking works. Will can assume Hannibal's point of view and he knows Hannibal wouldn't be able to resist a contrite version of himself. One who made sure to arrive freshly groomed and wearing aftershave like a nervous prom date.

From then on Will is so sure of himself. He's gonna draw Hannibal out into the open and prove he was right about him being a manipulative murderer. He just needs to dangle the bait and reel him in. And the only bait Will has to offer is himself so...

Will gives Hannibal the perfect friend. One so interesting and malleable and open to suggestion, who intellectually spars with him, double entendres and all.

And yeah it backfires. Sure, he has a few interesting dreams. Can't even blame the encephalitis anymore for waking up panting and sweat soaked now... He's just been dreaming about Hannibal calling him beloved and talking about love before he arranged for Hannibal to be bound at his mercy and squeezed so tightly against a tree that he explodes in a gush of bodily fluid....

Man... Will really fucked around and found out huh?

The two of them sitting on the desk side by side not looking at each other and talking about how they'd kill each other with their hands and how satisfying they'd find it might be the horniest goddamn scene I've watched in memory.

I would argue episodes 2x07 through the end of season 2 are all foreplay, drawn out and delicious and heady because both of them KNOW it's a bad idea and yet they cannot resist it.

That we reach the season finale. At long last, the climactic ending where we get the anticipated penetration that Hannibal and Will really want, mind body and soul.

Yes it's with a knife but that's how these two relate. Mark my words this show is a fucking will-they won't-they romcom with violence in the place of tenderness and every other story beat the same.

Fucking brilliant. I love this insane show your honour.

[allastoredeer]

I just had to agree, that a huge Alastor fight scene is really all I want for season 2!

During "Stayed Gone", Valentino mentions a time that Alastor almost beat Vox, which implies that he narrowly lost in a fight between them.

He was badly injured in the fight with Adam, and had to retreat.

By the rule of three, it would be so poetic and amazing, if we got a fight scene where he doesn't back down, but continues to fight with everything he has, and emerges the unquestioned victor, wiping the smiles off the Vee's faces for good.

Bonus points if he actually accepts help from his found family, in the form of backup and helping him heal afterwards. He's so stuck on being a lone wolf (well, deer...), that him slowly learning to trust others would be such delicious character growth!

Actually, the way I interpreted Valentino saying that Alastor "almost beat Vox," is that during their fight Alastor was about to beat him. Like, if it continued, Vox was 100% going to lose. But the battle didn't see an actual end, with an actual victor, because, in my headcanon/theory, Vox was forced to retreat.

If Vox won, even narrowly, I don't think he would've been nearly as defensive or annoyed at Valentino for bringing it up. If the fight ended with Alastor retreating (or even losing), Vox would've milked the shit out of that. He would never let Alastor live that down. Hell, if the fight was recorded in any way, he'd be playing that shit on loop.

I think with Vox losing, it'd make him simultaneously eager for a rematch, but also nervous to fight Alastor head-on again considering he nearly lost (which might also explain why they never came face-to-face in season one. They only interacted from a distance, through their different mediums), and why he was SO happy when Alastor lost during the Extermination. He was living vicariously through Adam during that fight (Adams victory was HIS victory) because Alastor finally got a taste of the humiliation and defeat Vox felt all those years ago (and STILL feels, even now).

And considering all of that, I will go FERAL if there's a fight with all the Vees versus Alastor. I want to see what they can do. There are different ways to be powerful out side of strength and magical ability (see Rosie who's not physically or magically as strong as the other Overlords), so I want to see what Valentino and Velvette can do in a fight or on an intellectual level. The brains and the brawn (and whatever Valentino is.) I would laugh so hard if Valentino is actually the muscle of the Vee's. He's got very few braincells, but he can lift 2x his own weight, all they got to do is point him in the right direction. He's all muscle.

And I want that fight to be a close one too. In fact, if Alastor LOSES in that fight, my god, would that be such an angsty, complicated, even more humbling experience for him. Vox would be fucking THRIVING. He would be reveling. He finally beat the Radio Demon. He finally beat Alastor (and the complicated emotions. GOD the emotions that they'll both have during and after that)

But I also don't want Alastor to lose T.T He's my fav, and he already been so thoroughly humbled once, I think I'd collapse if he lost again. BUT if he were on the cusp of losing, got his second wind, and ultimately came out the victory, I would be screaming, jumping out of my seat, frothing at the mouth. I fucking LOVE that shit.

And super, serious 100% extra bonus points he gets help from his found family in the form of back-up or patching him up afterward. I think that would be amazing character growth for him. I WANT IT SO BAD ANON WHY DID YOU MAKE MY OBESSION AND YEARNING GROW I AM NOT A VERY BIG PERSON YOU'RE LITERALLY GOING TO MAKE ME EXPLODE WITH ALL THESE EMOTIONS

[tmntxthings]

So basically my friend had a dream that we were in a science room and I was creating these “world destructive” weapons. She said it looked like a mix of a flamethrower and a water gun, specifically saying it looked “funky” and like a “monstrosity”. But anyway, she says that I dropped it cause I was jumping up and down, pretending to be a hero and saving people but I was actually cackling and didn’t look heroic at all🫤 and I dropped it and a red button was almost pressed and everyone knows red button=bad. Thankfully it didn’t get pressed.

But here’s the funny part.

The reason why I was making those weapons is because Donnie (yes. Dontello the fucking turtle) provoked me by saying that my weapons were ass. So i was like, “grrr👹” and he was like, “grrr👹” and we had a deadly nerd duel.

She said we might kill humanity if we were put in a room together and if we were to fight it’d be a tie since we’d be pointing deadly weapons at each other. She ended it by saying, “Moral of the story: You and Donnie would destroy everything.”

Anyways, I was wondering if you could write headcanons or a one shot with this sort of like theme ig with Donnie and just what you get from reading this weird ass dream she sent me🤭😭 (if it inspired you to write something)

Deadly Nerd Duel

author’s note: or alternative title, This Town Ain’t Big Enough for the Both of Us . . . oh c’mon it makes sense.

warnings: crack, fluff, cursing, rlly long one shot, enemies to lovers, unedited

—————————————————————————

“This place is about to blow,” April whispered to Leo. “Yeah, and my bet is on Donnie,” Leo added smugly, holding up a fake five dollar bill. “You’re on, you have no idea how crazy Y/n really is,” April said holding up her own five, yes that one was real.

“Last chance Y/n,” Donnie took a deep breath, calming himself. Y/n rolled their eyes, shifting their weight to one side, then glanced up at the purple clad turtle, “Oh? I was quite certain you were going to back out by now,” a mischievous glint could be seen in your eyes.

Confused? Okay, let’s back it up.

“Donnie, I’d like you to meet, my newest friend,” April gave jazz hands as she presented you, “Y/n!” She beamed and the purple turtle gave you a once over before turning back to his phone. THAT. That right there was his first mistake! “Donnie! C’mon be nice!” April pleaded. Though her voice was sweet, her eyes were raging with a burning fire that was threatening to explode behind closed doors–meaning as soon as you were gone April would be chewing out Donnie’s shell. “Sigh, if I must, greetings April’s friend ‘Y/n’ I am the Othello Von Ryan,” He gave a half-hearted wave with one hand. His gaze lingered purposefully for a second longer, then he looked at April as if to say, see I can be ‘nice.’ Then, his attention promptly went back down to his phone. A smug smile forming on his face, thinking himself cool.

You blinked hard, taking in his enormous ego and trying not to gag. Strike two. “Yes, well April I thought you said you were showing me the cool one,” you said off-handedly, turning back to the lab door that you had just entered through. April sucked in a deep breath, knowing you were pissed off, so instead of trying to force the two of you to get along, she was ready and willing to follow you out of the lab. But it seemed your comment had struck a nerve on Ol’ Donatello. “Only an intellectual individual would understand how cool my lab is, therefore crowning me the coolest person you’ll ever meet. Top side or here in the sewers, darling” he hadn’t looked up from his phone, but he was definitely clenching it a tad harder than before.

You chuckled darkly, darling? He’d regret that. What was the count? Oh yeah, strike three. You were still walking for the door, turning only when you reached it. Glancing around the supposedly ‘cool’ place, and deciding right then and there the two of you were never going to be friends. No, there was a special kind of relationship between the two of you. You assumed it would level up to hate eventually but for now you’d stick him in the dislike pile. Maybe he would realize how stuck up he sounded, especially for a first meeting. Your eyes snagged on a container that had somewhat of a spotlight on it. As if to say, out of all the things in his lab, this was one of his favorites. So you were a little mean when you said, “I don’t know, it’d be a lot cooler if that was genuine uranium instead of a carbon copy fake,” nodding at the said container and then you shoved the door open without giving him a chance to reply. April scurried out, harshly whispering to Donnie that she would have a word with him later.

Donnie hadn’t gotten up from his swivel chair the entire time–you had just soaked up his favorite place in the world, all with the most judgmental eyes. You weren’t just judging his lab though, you were judging him. But he never thought that you would actually know what you were looking at. Much less be able to tell the difference from him forging and putting together a fake piece of uranium. Or just that you even knew it was uranium to begin with?! You surprised him. And you had also dissed him. A mistake that he would make sure you would regret. He quickly removed his feet from his work table, dusting it off. He never put his feet up there, he had done it because you were there. A stranger that April trusted, and he wanted to appear to be the badass he proclaimed himself to be. Donnie felt like doing something illegal, something to obtain real uranium and shove that into your face. Because there was no way he could legally afford such material. He wondered if you were some rich uptown-ie. And immediately he was pushing his swivel chair away from the work table towards his big screen. “Well darling, you’ve got my attention, now, how much science do you actually know?” He muttered to himself as he did a google search. What? He’d start off with the basics. Then he’d dive into the dark web for all your dirty little secrets, if you had any. You looked like the type to hide stuff. But what he came up with was mainly surface information. Perfect grades, perfect family (only child), perfect records, even for attendance. Which then came as no surprise when he saw you had no criminal record. It didn’t add up, no one could be that perfect, he went back, to middle school, to elementary, and still you had perfect grades/attendance/record.

“Hmm,” he spun in his chair. What’s a goody-little-two-shoes running around in the sewers of NYC with his best friend, the April O’Neil. How did the two of you become friends? These were questions that only said best friend could answer and he knew he had surely pissed her off with his antics. Donnie sighed, he’d do a deeper dive in the world wide web before he had to admit he was actually curious to April.

Three hours later and nothing relevant. You didn’t even have a social media he could uncover! Fuckity fuck.

“So what’d you think?” April asked sheepishly. Hoping that you’d just forget about the whole interaction with Donnie and focus on how positive the rest of the brothers had been. April thanked the heavens above that even Leo hadn’t acted so childishly. Sure he was still immature, but he wasn’t blatantly rude! April had come to find out that you had a short fuse and a low tolerance for any and all bullshit.

“Raph was cool, Mikey was sweet, Leo was.. alright?” You said, pondering for a moment. Then your eyes hardened and April grimaced, you hadn’t forgotten.

“But that other fellow, the purple one?” You just shook your head, knowing he was still April’s friend, whether you liked him or not. You wouldn’t go as far as to bad mouth him in front of her. That would put her in an awkward position, so you kept your mouth shut—but April readily spoke up. “I don’t know what his problem was!! Honestly Y/n, he’s a great guy, and I’ll prove it to you. He probably didn’t have any coffee this morning!” She supplied an excuse and you raised an eyebrow. “Next weekend, like Mikey said, come back with me! It’ll be way more fun, and I’ll make sure to have a word with Donnie,” April pleaded.

It was easy to agree, truly the other guys were cool, you just had a bad taste in your mouth from the purple one. “Alright, I’ll be there then,” you gave April a small smile and she instantly relaxed. “Yes!! Awesome, this will be just—“ she looked down at her phone, immediately hiding it from your view in an attempt at being discrete. You did, however, notice how her eyes had hardened just slightly behind her glasses. “I’ve gotta take this. I’ll text you the details, see ya tomorrow?” April asked. You nodded, “Of course, do I ever miss class?” You joked, and April couldn’t help but laugh, thinking of some fond memories of you rushing in, barely making it some days but still there. “True that! Alright, see ya laters!” April waved, taking off towards a different direction than where the both of you had been heading. You noticed it was back towards the alleyway, likely to the manhole—right back down to the sewers.

You shoved your hands into the pockets of your hoodie. You would give the purple turtle credit for one thing, and one thing only, he had given you slight inspiration. You headed to your apartment, to your own lab. The benefits of being a straight A student and having rich parents, was practically getting anything you wanted from them. And yes, especially if you told them it was for school, and to them sure, all the stuff you bought sounded scientific enough. They didn’t know better, truly they were just happy that you did so well in school. That’s really all that mattered to them. Get the grade, and you’ll be rewarded, so get the grade you did. You never disappointed, that wasn’t in your DNA, nope not in your gene code. So as you typed in the code to your front door, passing through the living room and heading straight for the only other door with a keypad lock, you typed in a different set of numbers. Swish, the door slid open before you, and you were hit with a chilly breeze. Ah, home sweet home.

“I’ll give you one chance to offer up a good reason as to why you were acting so—so—so childishly earlier!” April had stormed back to the lair and went straight for Donnie’s lab as soon as she saw him calling. She hadn’t answered his call, no sir, she would much rather face him. “You should’ve seen the face they made as soon as they locked eyes with me,” Donnie started and April scowled, “Are you serious?!” April practically yelled; Donnie continued, “Yes, I am, and not just me—they were eyeing my lab like it was a junkyard. I may get some parts from there, but this is definitely not a repo place.” Donnie threw his arm to the side as if to make his point. His lab was flawless, freshly cleaned (he had done so just for April and her friend, you.) “Donnie, you spoke first. You started that whole bicker back and forth,” April exasperated, “now I’m asking you to put the whole thing aside for me, and get along. Please?!” Donnie grumbled to himself, muttering how he didn’t know if that would be possible if you couldn’t fix your resting bit-

“DONNIE!” April really yelled this time. He closed his mouth, had he been saying that out loud? Sheesh, you had really done a number on him. Though maybe he was just frustrated he hadn’t been able to find anything more interesting about you. Just the fact that you were rich due to your father’s wealth as a political figure. Which only made Donnie even more angry, you definitely had the money to buy materials he couldn’t… that is, if what he was assuming was true and that you were just as big a nerd as him. “Fine, how about you tell me why, or I should say, how the two of you even became friends?” Surely April could shed some light on that unknown fact. “It’s a long story, but I promise, Y/n is legit, just give them another chance, they’ll be back next weekend,” April informed as she stood, obviously planning on heading out. But this wasn’t good, Donnie hadn’t gotten any information at all! He sighed loudly, and April shot him a glare. “Dee,” she sighed, “I thought the two of you would get along.. you have way more in common than you think.” April shook her head, and Donnie softened if only slightly. “Okay okay, for you, and you only” and April beamed brightly. “Awesome, just watch, the two of you will be buds in no time!”

And now you have a bit of context! Still confused?

Well, next week arrived and it had been going all according to April’s plan. Everyone getting along for the most part, though subtle glares were definitely exchanged. You and Donnie were… cordial? Yes, we’ll go with that word. Mikey and April had thrown a pizza party, plenty of boxes to share. Then after a movie night was in order, and after that the board games had begun. This was where things started to go a little haywire. April didn’t know why she had thought it was a good idea to let Leo choose, but she did, and monopoly it was. A long ass game that definitely could break up the fragile peace that April had been trying to cultivate between you and Donnie. As soon as Donnie had landed on one of Y/n’s property, they held out their hand for him to cough up the fake cash. His eyes had turned ablaze. Not because of your hand, but because of your smug little face, more than happy to have had him pay up first. Instead of passing the money, he slid it your way, making you pick it up yourself. Classy Donatello, very classy.

It was war after that. The light blue properties and railroads secured by Y/n, you were on a roll and trying to get the oranges next. Though Mikey had practically called it in the beginning, he hadn’t gotten that lucky with his rolls, instead landing on the pinks and utilities. You had actually traded Mikey the last utility property for the last railroad. (Donnie had seethed, not thinking that was a smart trade on Mikey’s part, but really he just didn’t want you getting another set.) Donnie had the red’s and the dark blues, plotting on everyone’s demise. All it would take would be just one person to land on those expensive ass properties that had him almost broke now, but he was in this for the long run. Long run indeed, one by one the other brothers ended up bankrupt to either you or Donnie’s schemes until it was just April left. It was getting pretty late too, April would say so every time it was her turn, but she would immediately be thwarted by both you and Donnie saying, “It’s almost over!” “Just one more round.”

The competitive nature between the both of you was alive and crackling. It was your turn, and you landed on the chance tile. As you picked up a card, the color from your face drained. “This is bullshit.” You muttered, throwing the card down on the center of the board for everyone to see. “Oh noooooo!” Mikey wailed, he had been rooting for you, much to Donnie’s dismay. Out of all the cards, you picked the one that forced you to move to Boardwalk, aka the dark blue that Donnie had the most hotels built on. It was a sure shot defeat, you knew you would go bankrupt. “It was all part of the plan,” he said as he tapped the side of his head smugly. “Yeah well, make sure to thank the chance card for your victory,” you made sure to say.

April piped up, “I’m still in the game too you know!” You gave her a sheepish smile. While that was true, April didn’t have as much as Donnie now had—with his properties and yours included, it was a sure win. “But let’s call it a night huh?” April asked for a final time and you agreed, getting up and stretching. April didn’t think you were a sore loser but on the off hand that Donnie started to brag, April wanted to get you out of there while the mood was still amiable. The brothers all said their goodbyes, Mikey already asking for future plans. Donnie had walked silently back to his lab after his mumbled sayonara. To which you only hesitated a second before following after him.

Leo nudged April, nonexistent eyebrows waggling and silently telling her to not follow just yet. April’s eyes widened, wondering if the two of you were finally going to become closer! The best buds plan that she had hoped for were now in the foreseeable future?! She smiled brightly now watching as you disappeared around the corner that led to Donnie’s lab.

“Hey wait,” you called out when you saw he was about to shut the lab door. Donnie took a step backwards, head peeking out of the entryway to see you had stopped a couple feet away from his lab. “I just wanted to say, good game.. it was smart to consider the chance cards and their uses,” your hands were in your hoodie pockets. You made sure to keep eye contact, trying to convey your sincerity. Donnie’s full form came into view as he leaned against the lab door. Listening intently, eyes not leaving yours. When you finished he wondered if April had put you up to saying something like this. But the way your eyes immediately went to the floor after you finished, the way your feet were shuffling, he deduced that possibility was less than likely.

“Yeah, it was a good game, mostly because I won,” he grinned, unable to stop from bragging— at least a little! You rolled your eyes. “Right,” you replied, giving up on the sincere tone. “But for a second there, I thought I was in deep trouble, it was uh- fun to play with you,” Donnie remedied, the smugness fading into something more genuine. You raised an eyebrow, smiling slightly as you watched him backtrack a little. Being a little nice in fact. “I was thinking, you’re pretty smart-“

“Not just smart, I’d say I’m on par with Einstein’s level of genius” Donnie interrupted you quickly. You cleared your throat, shooting him a glare as you started to rock back and forth on your heels, “as I was saying, I have some things I’ve been working on for a while, I think they may be more useful to you and your brothers.” You concluded, but it was Donnie’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “What things exactly?”

One day later, and you were back in the sewers, specifically in the common area of the lair. The suitcase you had brought down was popped open, and Raph and Mikey were peering inside as you grabbed the first weapon. “So this isn’t the most dangerous thing I’ve built but I’d say freezing people solid is pretty handy when it comes to vigilante work!” You said, pointing the gun up in the air for safe measure. Donnie was on the far side of the room, and the look on his face was close to outrage. You wanted to give his brothers cool weapons??? That was his job! Plus they didn’t need weapons, they already had weapons. Sure they didn’t freeze people, BUT they did not need your things. If anything his brothers should only want—

“Cool! Can I try??” Mikey was making grabby hands for the freeze ray and you readily handed it over. “Just be careful, the safety’s off.” You said and no sooner had you spoken a blast was shot, near poor Leo, who was quick enough to move completely out of the way. “Hey!” Leo screeched, turning his face to see the pizza boxes that had been piling up had turned into ice. “Woah,” Leo breathed out, impressed. Raph took the weapon from Mikey, not trusting him to have another shot accidentally go off. “Heh, whoops!” Mikey said sheepishly as he ran over to the block of iced pizza boxes.

“You guys think that’s cool??” Donnie piped up from across the room. He made a mad dash to his lab, going over to the glass box that read ‘BETA’ and grabbed the first thing he could get his hands on. He was back in the common area in no time, “Feast your eyes on this,” From what you could tell he was holding a weapon much like yours, shaped like a gun. He flicked a switch, aiming in your direction, “Donnie!” Raph warned, but he pulled the trigger anyway. A blast shot past your face, inches away until it landed on the recliner by the projector. On impact it shrunk two times its normal size! “A shrink ray?!” Mikey exclaimed, running to go pick up the mini sized chair. Donnie’s weapon was now directed up in the air, resting on his shoulder, he had a smug smile on his face, daring you to top that.

Game on! It was a battle of who could outshine the other. All inventions were being put on showcase for the brothers and eventually April (who had just gotten out of her last class) to ‘ohh’ and ‘ahh’ at. Weapon after weapon, prototype after prototype. Until the really dangerous shit was coming out to play. “ALRIGHT,” Donnie said, skidding to a stop for the seventh time. The trip to his lab to the living room was getting to be a bit tiring. He pointed the most dangerous thing he had, directly at you. You did the same, out of your suitcase came a wicked looking weapon, and you clicked the safety off, aiming at Donnie’s face. The two of you were huffing angrily at one another.

“This place is about to blow,” April whispered to Leo. Popcorn had been popped, everyone enjoying the show the two of you were putting on. “Yeah, and my bet is on Donnie,” Leo added smugly, holding up a fake five dollar bill. He had a knack for sneaking monopoly money when no one was paying attention. And for some reason he still had it. April snorted, “You’re on, you have no idea how crazy Y/n really is,” April held up her own five, that one being real.

“Last chance Y/n,” Donnie took a deep breath, calming himself. He was watching you carefully, one finger ready to pull back the trigger. Y/n rolled their eyes, shifting their weight to one side, then glanced up at the purple clad turtle, “Oh? I was quite certain you were going to back out by now,” a mischievous glint could be seen in your eyes. Donnie gritted his teeth, he was not about to get punked by you. “Guyssss how about we call this a tie!” Mikey breathed out nervously. Twiddling his thumbs together as he came to stand between the two of you. “Only if Y/n admits my weapon is better!” Donnie hollered over Mikey and your eyes narrowed, “Not happening,” you said immediately. Raph spoke up then, “what exactly do those guns do?” You and Donnie were talking over one another not making much sense but the gist was, BOOM. The place would go boom.

“Okay,” Raph nodded, “PUT THE WEAPONS DOWN!” He yelled at the both of you. Simultaneously it was like all the air had been sucked out of the room as slowly, the two of you listened, weapons going down to your respective sides. “Mine’s better,” Donnie muttered, and you scoffed. “It was never a competition! I just wanted to—“ and you stopped yourself. You took in a deep breath, stalked forward, you weren’t about to admit this to the entire room. You brushed past the purple turtle. He had expected you to flash out once you reached him but you just kept walking, to his lab he assumed and immediately he was following after you.

“Should we make sure they don’t kill each other in a different room?” April thought aloud. Leo’s hand made a swipe in the air, “Nahhh I’ll bet another $5” he quickly held up another fake, “that everything figures itself out!” Mikey was scurrying over making his own bets and Raph was wondering if this was the smartest thing to do right about now. When just a couple of minutes ago the place could’ve gone boom! But he was quickly being dragged into Leo and April’s betting game.

As soon as Donnie passed the threshold of his lab, you were there, backing him into the door as it shut behind him. “What’re you—?!” Donnie exclaimed not liking the close proximity at all. “That’s what I should be asking you! I thought we were finally getting along?” You accused, waving the weapon around that was still in your hand. “Yeah that was until you decided to showboat and try to take my job!” Donnie surmised angrily. “You got issues because all I was trying to do was help!” You confessed as you threw the weapon to the ground in frustration. “We don’t need your help.” Donnie sneered, wanting to get his point across, he was the tech guy, he was the genius, they didn’t need a second.

You jabbed a finger straight into his plastron. “I knew it. I knew you were just some self-obsessed, ego-maniac, who only cares about himself.” You were met with a hard stare. You waited for him to challenge that, to dare and say you were wrong. “Oh yeah? Well you—“ his own fists clenching, “are the most privileged, prissy, judgmental person I’ve ever met!” You smirked, batting away his insults with a, “and how many people have you met exactly?” Insinuating mutant turtles don’t exactly have much of a social life. “Fuck you,” Donnie glowered. “Fuck you too.” And somewhere along the insults and the arguing the two of you had gotten pressed together. It was silent for a moment as the two of you realized this, your eyes widening if only slightly as Donnie’s breath fanned your face.

He was looking at you carefully, noting your surprise and the way your breath quickened. You saw the way his eyes darted to your lips, and the way he swallowed. Fuck it! You both thought as your heads came crashing to one another. Lips meeting and teeth clacking, it was a brutal kiss. Heated passion that was stoked by the fire of anger and attraction. His hands were pulling you impossibly closer, going around your waist. Your own hands were pressed against his upper plastron. Moments passed until air was needed and your head moved back slightly to gulp down oxygen. “You drive me crazy,” Donnie said, meeting your lips once more, not letting you rest. You kissed him back feverishly, agreeing wholeheartedly, he drove you crazy too. “So is this a truce?” You panted as he drew back to breath. “For now..” he smirked, already enjoying the effect he had on you. You shook your head, was it possible for his ego to get any larger? One of his hands came up and his fingers caught your chin, lifting it and his lips met yours one more time. This kiss was softer, but it took your breath away all the same. “I guess your inventions aren’t half-bad” he murmured against your lips. You smiled smugly, “Damn right!”

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 11

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: M Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** I honestly don't know what Raphael was expecting his first audience with Mephistopheles to be like, but the answer is still probably 'Not This'. ***

Despite Avernus being-- well, Avernus, Karlach had recently found it had a few features that made it… not too unbearable, all things considered.

First thing first, it didn’t make the engine in her chest overheat to the point of explosion, which was a plus. Until that tin can had started overheating in the Material Plane, Karlach hadn’t even thought she could count ‘my heart isn’t threatening to literally explode’ as a blessing, but there she was. Secondly, while being pretty much the definition of a hellish landscape and a near-infinite battlefield where demons or devils or both could show up any second, it had a surprising amount of deep, easily defensible cave systems where they could set up camp in relative - very relative - safety after clearing out of their occupants, which were generally either imps or hellsboar. The latter were pretty tasty roasted on a spit, too. 

And third, of course, there was the company. She loved-- well. Most of the company.

The devil tagging along - who may not be a devil anymore on a sheer technicality but was still a fucking devil as far as she was concerned, the monster who’d tricked and trapped and tormented all the souls she’d spent the past weeks with and who of course tortured Hope for no damn reason but his own amusement - had been a surprise. And not a pleasant one. 

If they really needed him she could bear his presence like she’d been able to bear Mizora’s at their camp half a year earlier… but that didn’t mean she had to like it. When her turn came to stand guard at the entrance and she walked up to him, she had to really struggle to ignore the urge to grab her greataxe and give him… just a little tap on the top of the skull with the blunt edge. But, as her greataxe actually did not have a blunt edge, she didn’t. 

Instead she stopped a few feet from him, tilting her head to see what he was even doing. The box she’d thrown to his hea-- given him was open on the ground, the letter he’d been reading earlier folded and placed back inside. Next to it was the Spider’s Lyre, but the strings were gone and Raphael was tinkering with the black lyre that had been in the box. Karlach frowned, and stepped closer.

“The fuck are you doing?”

The only response she got at first was a scoff. Raphael didn’t even look up, still working on the lyre. “I may be consuming the souls of the innocent, or stringing a lyre. I’ll let your intellectual prowess lead you to the answer.”

Ah, the bastard. Good thing she was there to take his place watching out, because the idiot would probably get them all killed. Half an army of Orthons could walk past him while he was focused on the stupid lyre. “You’re supposed to be watching out for dangers.”

“I cast a glyph of warding on the ground just outside. If anything steps on it, it will trigger.”

Karlach rolled her eyes, and went to sit at the entrance as well. “Oh, great. I’m sure fucking glad wings are not commonplace here,” she muttered. “Does it trigger when flown over?”

“Do feel free to launch yourself outside and find out.”

“Don’t tempt me into launching you out.”

“Perish the thought. I’d hate to tempt anyone.” Raphael sneered, like he hadn’t tempted countless into far worse fates, still not looking up. This time, Karlach’s hands really itched to grab her weapon; still, she only glared… and saw something glinting at his neck. She recognized it immediately: the locket with the star-and-spire motif on it, the one with the miniature portrait. She sneered right back. 

“Kinda brazen, isn’t it?” she muttered. “Wearing a portrait of your first kill.”

Raphael’s hands stilled for a moment, still holding onto the string he was fastening, and his features twisted… but then they smoothed over again and, with another scoff, he resumed stringing the lyre. Something about his calm demeanor pissed her off even more. Just earlier that day, she’d watched souls - people - she’d learned to know flee deep into the House, cowering as far away as they could from the foyer. They all trembled, some stuttered pleas to be left alone - any peace they had managed to painfully regain ripped away by Raphael’s mere presence.

His sadness, Hope had called the box, but he didn’t seem nearly sad enough, nowhere near as sad as he’d made countless souls over godsdamned millennia. Nowhere as hurt as the souls in the House of Hope had been, as Hope herself had been… as a kid called Enver Flymm must have been, not too long ago, trapped in Raphael’s own slice of Hell.

This bastard fucked him over, and Gortash fucked others over in turn. Fucked me over sure enough, sold me to a damn devil like he was. Maybe none of this would have happened if Raphael never bought him. He’d have never grown up in Avernus, never met Zariel, never sold me to her. I’d still have my own heart and I wouldn’t be here now. But he did and here I am, and this bastard was the start of it all. Gortash is dead but the devil is still here.

Unaware of her thoughts, and probably uncaring either way, Raphael just spoke again. “As you’re so familiar with the fate that befalls any mortal mother of a cambion,” he said, voice even, “you’ll no doubt know I had no awareness of what was happening, and certainly no intention--”

“What does it matter? The plague doesn’t mean to kill anyone, but it’s still the fucking plague.”

It was a cruel remark; heartless, some might say, and very fittingly in her case. This time, she hit a nerve. Raphael winced as though struck, and the string he was securing to the lyre cut deep into his hand, near the base of his fingers. He hissed, and let go of the lyre to grasp the injured hand. Blood dripped on his trousers, on the lyre; Raphael stared at his bleeding hand for a few moments before breathing out, somewhat shakily. 

Karlach expected some kind of response - a temper tantrum, maybe, or a show of indifference again - but at first there was none. He wiped blood off the lyre as well as he could with a sleeve, put everything back in the box with one hand before he picked it up, awkwardly, and stood. 

“I’ll leave you to be our guard dog for the night. I trust Zariel has trained well enough for that at least,” he finally ground out, and turned away without another word, back inside the cave, a trail of blood in his wake. Fitting, that. 

She found herself staring at that blood for a few moments, and sneered… or tried to. She had wanted to get a rise out of him, but now the smile felt forced on her lips. Much like when she’d taken down Gortash, it didn’t taste like triumph. It didn’t taste like anything. She’d hit the mark and made him bleed, and he’d deserved it, yet it gave her no joy whatsoever.

Karlach sighed and turned her gaze to the burning skies outside, wondering if beheading Zariel with her own hands might, at last, do the trick.

***

“You’re wounded.”

“How very observant.”

“If you need healing--”

“Vis medicatrix.”

Ah, of course he could heal himself; Halsin had almost forgotten about it. He watched the cut on Raphael’s hand close up, and held out a clean towel when he began looking around for something to wipe off the blood. 

“Here,” he said. He kept his voice low enough not to awaken the others, who were asleep a few paces away from the fire where he sat. He was not quite tired enough to sleep yet, and had been whittling away until Raphael had come to sit by the fire too. When he replied, his voice was almost as quiet.

“... At least it’s passably clean.” He took the towel somewhat stiffly, and used it to wipe his hands before he opened his box and wiped the lyre clean as well. Half the new strings were on, the rest yet to be put in place; it was easy to tell now how the wound had come to be. The lyre cleaned, Raphael turned his attention to the blood on his trousers and sleeve, nose wrinkling in distaste.

“Cold water,” Halsin, who was rather certain the devil did not know the first thing about laundry, spoke.

“... Excuse me?”

“To get those stains out. You’ll want to use cold water and soap, before the blood can clot.”

A pause, a small sound that may even, with some effort, pass off as a chuckle. “And here I thought a druid would be more inclined to use stains as an excuse to do away with clothing entirely.”

“I will not deny I find clothing restrictive, but--”

“I know someone you might just get along with.”

“--You do learn how to take stains out of clothes when looking after a few dozen children.” 

“A worse torture than I ever could have engineered, and you do it voluntarily?”

Halsin chuckled. “I spent time untold wishing I had a chance to become a father. I am grateful to be one to so many, now.” A pause. “... I could help, if you’d like. With the blazer. Change into your camp clothes before the blood dries and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Suspiciously helpful.”

“If you’re wondering if it’s an excuse to get you to strip, no. I’d be far more direct, believe me,” Halsin quipped, and this time Raphael’s lips actually curled into a faint smile before he nodded and went to his tent to change.

It wasn’t too bad, really: the blood was still fresh enough that some cold water, soap, and a good rubbing did the trick. After putting the blazer to dry, Halsin was satisfied to see he got all the blood out. He sat back next to Raphael, and resumed whittling. “It’ll be fine to wear come morning. If… we can tell when it’s morning. Does the sky outside always look like this?”

“Yes.”

“And the natural the cycle of day and night--”

“No such thing.”

Halsin frowned.  No surprise, he thought, that Karlach had missed the stars so much. “That sounds dreadful.”

“Some would even venture to say it’s hellish,” Raphael commented. He’d resumed stringing the lyre and, by the looks of it, he was almost done. “You do get used to it, though. Or it drives you insane, I suppose. But I believe our vampiric friend,” he added, tilting his head towards where Astarion lay, head resting on Durge’s shoulder, “has reason to prefer this to daylight, at least in his current state.”

“... He does miss sunlight. I can understand. I spent years as a-- guest in the Underdark.”

“I’m going to assume you were a guest the same way Karlach was a guest in Avernus.”

“More or less. I was not forced to fight, but--” Halsin paused, and cleared his throat. “Well. I’ll never forget the moment I stepped into the sun again. I hope Astarion can feel it again soon.”

“I’d focus on getting out of here alive in the first place.”

“Heh. Fair enough,” Halsin chuckled, and said nothing more. For a time, everything was quiet again except for the crackling of fire and the steady breathing of their sleeping companions, Wyll sleeping with his rapier close at hand and Durge and Astarion sharing a bedroll. Halsin was halfway through whittling yet another duck when he saw Raphael put the lyre aside, clearly having decided to wait until morning, or what passed as morning, to tune it properly.

“You should have some soup. There is just enough left.”

“I am not particularly hungry.”

“Your body needs nourishment,” Halsin pointed out. He took the last ladle’s worth of soup out of the pot, and into a bowl. He pushed it in Raphael’s hands without waiting for a reply. “Do pretend I’m a decent cook. I’ll consider this your thanks for getting blood out of your blazer.”

“... Mph. Worse deals have been made, I suppose,” was the response, and he did drink it down, slowly, staring into the fire as though he could see something in it that Halsin could not. Halsin resumed whittling and they stayed like that for another while, without speaking, each lost in their own thoughts. 

Until Halsin looked up from his work to see that Raphael had fallen asleep, back against a boulder, the healed hand holding onto a locket he wore around his neck. In the open box, next to the newly stringed lyre, there was a folded letter with some dark splotches on it, as though something had dripped on the ink.

And it was not, Halsin could tell, blood.

***

Dearest Israfel,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that you’ll forgive me for using the name I’ve always known you by: it is the name your mother chose for you, with her last breath. I feel I’d do her wrong by not using it. 

I hope the Hells are the home I know you always wished they would be to you, and that you never have reason to look back in regret. I wish there was advice I could give you, more than what little I could impart to you, but I am no devil and I am under now delusion that I may even begin to understand the workings of the Hells. But I do know you learn fast, and I trust you’ll do what needs doing to thrive.

I also hope that you did not take the few words I spoke when you left for coldness. There was more I wished to tell you, yet words failed me as they often do. There is a reason why you could talk circles around me since you were a boy of ten, after all. I had known the day would come that you’d be taken to your father’s court, and it still caught me unprepared. Until you can visit us, then, this letter will have to suffice.

There is much I hope you can find in yourself to forgive me for. Our time together was always meant to be short; I am but a human in his twilight years, and you are an immortal being barely at the beginning of life. However, I was foolish enough to shorten it further. Ten years you lived under my roof before I so much acknowledged you. It should not have taken me that long - should not have taken your mother’s features in your human form - to truly see you.

I’d have seen Dalah in you much earlier if I had. The penchant for rhymes, a sweet tooth, the way you scrunch your nose when angry. (I know it annoys you, when it’s brought up; you’re doing it right now, I am sure. For this, too, I hope you’ll forgive me.) 

I saw her first, and only then did I finally see you. It was my failing, not yours. It was out of grief and guilt, never hatred, but it was a grievous failing nonetheless. In a different world, I would have been proud to call you my son. I am sorry this is no such world. 

I hope I could teach you something of use in the few years we did have; for the rest, I hope you know Nan, and everyone else, loved you greatly even when I could not. They still do, and we all hope to see you again soon.

I took the liberty to send you a few things I thought you’d like to have - your mother’s lyre and her favorite book, and a locket with her portrait. Only once you’d gone I realized I never showed you a portrait of her, or even so much talked about her. Again, my grief bound my tongue, but it is no excuse. I did you wrong, and I hope I may yet have the chance to rectify that mistake. When you visit, we will talk about your mother. 

Until then, I hope you are safe, and happy.

With deepest affection,

Rahirek.

***

By the time he stepped before the high doors leading to Lord Mephistopheles’ throne room, Raphael was certain of two things: he was not ready, and he was about to throw up. 

“Lord Mephistopheles demands your presence,” he’d been told, and that was it. Five words to answer a plea he’d repeated almost daily for… weeks? Months? It was hard to tell, with each day exactly like the last and a perpetual snowstorm hiding the skies outside. The preceptor had taken him there and left , telling him he’d be allowed inside shortly.

“If he can even understand what you’re saying, with that dreadful pronunciation,” he’d muttered on his way out. “Speak clearly, or he may make a meal out of you. He does not suffer fools gladly.”

For his sanity, Raphael had decided to take that warning as an exaggeration, and gathered up the courage to walk closer to the doors behind which his father sat on a throne of ice. All that waiting, all that yearning, and here he was. He should have been elated. Instead, he was terrified.

The towering pit fiend suddenly stepping before the intricately carved doors with a mace in hand and eyes glowing like fire did not help, either. His voice was a gravelly growl, and he had fangs easily as long as Raphael’s forearm. It took him an effort to look away from those formidable teeth and into the fiend’s eyes. They were not a much more reassuring sight; knowing who he was did little to help.

“Who goes there?” he asked, eyes narrowing. 

Raphael cleared his throat, hoping fervently that words would come out right, and bowed. “Duke Hutijin,” he spoke carefully, praying whoever or whatever could hear him now that he hadn’t mispronounced his name. “It is a privilege to meet you. My name is Raphael. I have been summoned by Lord Mephistopheles.”

A few moments of silence, but that mace did not come down on him, and Raphael supposed it was something. Another gravelly sound he identified as a chuckle, and he dared look up. Duke Hutijin had lowered the mace, and was leaning over to better look at him. 

“Ah, the new one. Let me have a look at you.” A huge hand with a dagger-sharp claw lifted his chin, and the pit fiend laughed when he saw him swallow. “Fear not, I’d never spill my liege’s blood unless he ordered me to himself. And no such order has been given today.” A pause, a tilt of his head. Those flaming eyes stared, but whatever he thought of what he saw, he did not say. “Well then, go meet your father. Do try not to piss yourself, little duke. You’ll find him in a fair enough mood.”

Raphael wanted to protest at the insult, say that he was not that scared, but he could tell that talking back to what was probably the most powerful pit fiend in Cania - and lying to him to boot - would probably not be a clever course of action. So he lowered his eyes, nodded, and went to the doors. A touch on the surface - ice cold, despite the warmth inside the citadel - and slowly, they opened. 

The throne room was so vast it may have felt as though he’d stepped outside if not for the domed ceiling above and the columns on both sides - each of intricately carved ice, and ice was the floor, the ceiling. Two pits opened up in the floor on either side of the throne; from one rose a column of roaring fire, and from the other a stream of swirling green wisps that, he’d learned, were mortal souls. They rose up to the ceiling and fell back down into the pit, slowly, endlessly.

And on the throne at the back of the room, beneath a banner bearing the sigil of a three-pronged ranseur piercing a halo of flames, sat Mephistopheles.

He was tall, more than any mortal Raphael had ever met, and of most devils too. Even if he did not tower the way Duke Hutijin did, Raphael knew this was but one of the forms he could take. This form of his was reminiscent of the portraits he’d seen of the Cold Lord, with deep blue skin so dark it almost looked black near the base of his four ram-like horns. The horns curled backward, golden rings around each. His hair was so black and so long it was hard to tell where it ended and where the void-black cape he wore began. 

And there were the eyes, pale blue, fixed on him.

For a moment, Raphael forgot how to breathe. He’d imagined meeting his father since he could understand what a father was, and why he did not seem to have one. When he was very young, he’d imagined that a stranger would approach him one day at a crossroads - it was always crossroads, in the stories - to reveal himself as his father, tell him he’d come to take him home. Until recently he’d had no notion that his sire may be an Archdevil, and that meeting him would need to wait until he could find the time for an audience.

Now he had that audience, and his tongue was coated with lead. For a few moments he could only stare, heart in his throat, feeling like an utter fool.

He does not suffer fools gladly.

Panic reared its head, and still Raphael stood frozen on the spot. For a few moments Mephistopheles’ features remained still, his face expressionless… then, slowly, his lips curled upwards and he let out a low, rumbling chuckle. Maybe Duke Hutijin was right, and he was in a fair mood after all. 

“You asked to see me with such insistence my own Consort requested I grant you an audience, yet you seem to have misplaced your tongue,” he said, his voice a pleasant baritone. “Am I not as you imagined?”

The calm tone was balm to Raphael’s nerves, and he finally managed to regain his speech. He bowed quickly, and deep. “My liege,” he said, and this time Infernal slid off his tongue with practiced ease. “It is an honor to stand in your presence. I deeply apologize if my earlier insistence caused annoyance.”

A hum. It sounded neither pleased, nor displeased. “You did not answer my question.”

Raphael looked up, and swallowed. He could feel the weight of that gaze, even as no true emotion showed on his sire’s face. “I have seen portraits, my lord, of this form and others.”

“Ah, of course you’d have seen those. Were you hoping to be met with the visage that most resembles your own?”

“I wouldn’t presume it’s my place to make such requests, my lord.”

Lord Mephistopheles tilted his head, just slightly, in what may have been an approving nod. “No, it is not,” he agreed, and lifted a hand to beckon him closer. Raphael did step towards the throne on somewhat shaky legs, gaze respectfully low, until his sire’s voice rang out again. “That’s close enough.”

Standing between the column of fire and the column of souls, Raphael dared look up again. Lord Mephistopheles was looking down at him, eyes narrowed. When he spoke again it was still in that calm, even tone. “You’ll have to remind me - where and when was it I sired you?”

“In Tethyr, sir, just over thirteen years ago. My mother’s name--” he began, only to be silenced with a chuckle and another wave of that hand, as though to chase a fly away.

“You can’t possibly expect me to remember the name of every mortal who received my seed,” Mephistopheles said, obviously amused. Like the mortal who’d received his seed hadn’t also borne his son, and died for it. “But where you were born matters not, as now you’re just where you ought to be. I have been told you have a proclivity for music and poetry. Is that so?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Hm. Songs of praise are always welcome here, but I do have a High Cantor and more than enough musicians, so that skill of yours is of no use to me.” A vague gesture of his hand, that unnerving gaze still fixed on him. “So tell me…” a pause, a chuckle. “Ah, but I forgot. What is your name again, boy?”

Something sank in Raphael’s chest, cold as the ice around them. 

You named me, he wanted to cry out. You took away the name my mother gave me to impose another, and still you can’t recall it?

Still, he knew better than that. He swallowed the ache, and tried to keep his voice as firm as possible. “You named me Raphael, my lord.”

“Very well, Raphael. What else can you offer to serve me?”

For a moment, Raphael found himself speechless, raking his mind for a response and finding none. What could he offer? He was well-read and learned fast; he had a good memory and, back home, people always said he could have sold ice cubes to Auril herself if he wanted. But with his sire’s gaze on him, he struggled to think of a way he could put those skills to use. 

I can use hellfire, he thought, but he hesitated to speak those words too. Antilia’s voice rang in his head, the warning as dire as it had sounded when she’d uttered it. 

Until you are certain of your affinity with hellfire, do not speak of it. Don’t ever tell them you used it entirely by accident. Go boasting about it, and you’ll be seen as too much a threat.

It seemed almost absurd to think, that Mephistopheles could consider him a threat… but Raphael had already heard tales, whispers, of how he’d destroyed far lesser devil for little to no reason but-- well, the word they used for it was caution,  but the tone made the meaning clear enough - paranoia . Lord Mephistopheles could undo him with a word and, he saw it now, he wouldn’t hesitate to do so.

Maybe Lady Antilia lied, part of him thought. Maybe he would be pleased to know I can wield hellfire. She did tell me I shouldn’t trust her either. But to what end?

“Come boy, speak,” Mephistopheles spoke up, his voice now curt, and colder. “Surely, you would not have insisted on being in my presence without something to offer.” 

The underlying threat was unmistakable, and Raphael swallowed before forcing himself to speak again. He could keep his voice from shaking, at least, and spoke in fluent enough Infernal as he lowered his head. “As of now, my liege, all I have to offer is my utter loyalty,” he said. “But I’ve been studying as much as I can, so I can find a way to serve you.”

“Mmh.” A pause, and he rubbed his chin. Again, he sounded neither pleased nor displeased; he was simply considering . “I see. I can extend you some grace, on account of you having but thirteen winters behind you. Still, my patience is not endless.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Many of my blood possess an innate talent for arcane magic. Do you?”

Raphael looked up. “Yes, my liege. I have been able to cast spells since I was--”

He had no time to finish the sentence. Mephistopheles gave a smile that did not reach his eyes, and lifted a hand. “Show me,” was all he said, and he snapped his fingers.

With a drum-shattering shriek, two imps leaped out of the column of fire, fangs bared and yellow eyes glowing with malice. One swung a clawed hand, and Raphael scrambled back just on time for the claws to miss his flesh and only tear clothes. He fell back with a cry, landing hard on the ice, head spinning.

He’s never been in a real fight before and, aside from the encounter with perytons not too long ago, he’d never struck anything but some targets the master-at-arms back home had set up for practice, when it had become clear he wasn’t meant to hold a sword. He’d been getting good at hitting those, but they were just that - targets. Static, and very much not trying to claw his eyes out.

With another shriek, one of the imps threw itself at him. Raphael cried out and instinctively held up his hands, grasping the being’s head to keep him away. Claws still sank into his arms, tearing clothes and skin, and… and…

Flames erupted from his hands and the imp’s head was all but gone, all burning flesh, scorched bone and brain matter as it fell back motionless on the floor. Raphael choked back a cry and tried to stand up, but he slipped on the ice and fell back with a grunt. Above him, there was a furious shriek. The other imp had lifted itself up in the air on tattered wings and dove down on him, fags bared, claws out, stinger dripping venom. 

What came next was, again, pure instinct: he rolled to the side and, when the imp landed with a crack on the spot where he’d been until an instant earlier, he threw out a hand. 

“Gela!”

In retrospect, it was a mistake: he was too close to his target, and the result was predictable. The ice knife hit the imp square in the chest and exploded in shards, knocking them in opposite directions. Raphael could hear the imp shrieking over his own cry of pain, shards of ice cutting into his arm, his shoulder, his face. He ground his teeth, tried to ignore the smears of blood his hand left on the floor, and lifted himself on one knee before looking up.

The imp was wounded, ice shards through its chest, but still alive. It writhed on the floor, features twisted in a snarl, glaring at him but unable to stand, to fly, to attack. It was defeated. It was helpless. It was weak, and Raphael had never hated anything more. He stood with a snarl, and again he acted without much thought at all. He lifted a hand and so did the imp, in a last futile attempt at a defense. It was an easy mark, now. One Raphael would not miss.

The splash of acid hit true, and the imp screamed. It was a cry of agony, and short-lived; it had been barely clinging to life, and the acid did the rest. The creature fell back, sizzling, and moved no more. The acrid smell of flesh melting away filled Raphael’s nostrils, and he couldn’t tear his gaze from the corpse. His wounds hurt and his heart pounded in his chest; still, he smiled. The things that hurt him were dead, and it felt good. He wished he could bring them back and kill them again and again and again, hear those screams over and over. He wished--

A chuckle snapped Raphael from his thoughts, reminding him where he was, and with whom. He looked up to see his sire was leaning his chin on his hand. “I would say that was adequate enough, for a halfbreed just plucked out of the Material Plane,” he conceded, then, “was it your first kill?”

Raphael looked up, still breathing heavily. When he spoke again his voice was rougher, honorifics entirely forgotten. “No. I killed a peryton, once.”

Mephistopheles raised an eyebrow. “A peryton? That is indeed a greater feat than defeating a pair of lowly imps. Perhaps I should have given you more of a challenge.” His lips quirked upwards, barely. “How did you kill it?”

Do not speak of it, Antilia’s voice rang in his head, and he didn’t. Not all of it. “Fire. I burned it.”

“And how did it make you feel?”

Raphael closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recall. He hadn't truly realized he'd killed the creature until the screams died down, until he saw the corpse. Until that moment there had only been his stepfather’s heartbeat against his ear, the protective embrace that seemed to last forever. He swallowed. “Good,” he whispered. “It felt good.”

“And this?” A gesture towards the half-melted, charred corpses on the ground. Raphael looked at it for a few, long moments. 

“It feels good,” he replied again, and it was no lie this time either.  I wish they screamed more, he thought.

He expected another question, but there was none: just a nod again. It gave Raphael the distinct feeling he had passed a test of some kind; not with flying colors, perhaps, but he'd passed it all the same. 

“I see. If you find no other way of serving me, you may serve well in the Blood War.”

The Blood War. Raphael had learned of it, of this endless war spilling rivers of blood, from devils and demons alike, every single day in Avernus. His preceptor had made a point to let him know many halfbreeds would go on to become cannon fodder in it. For all the pleasure Raphael had taken in this kill, the prospect of being sent to the front lines was enough to make him balk. “I-- my lord, I--”

“You’re wounded,” Lord Mephistopheles cut him off, and gestured towards the slow streams of souls, which floated up to the ceiling and then back down in the pit. “You may consume a soul, if you wish.”

Raphael stared at the souls, stepped closer, and held out a hand. They were incorporeal, of course; faintly glowing wisps, all that remained of mortal beings. There was a faint warmth to them as they weaved through his fingers - each of them once a mortal life, swayed or tricked into becoming this, the most sought-after resource in all of the Nine Hells.

“Souls,” Raphael whispered, and finally looked up. “I can-- I will get you souls, my lord. I know mortals, I know how they think. I can learn all I need to learn about contracts. This is how I can serve you.”

A nod. “Ah, yes. Your kind often has a queer attraction towards mortals. It places you well to procure souls, if you’re clever enough.”

They said I could sell ice to Auril herself, Raphael thought. I am clever enough. I can be of use. I can make you proud. 

His path forward now clear, Raphael breathed more easily. He turned his attention back on the souls dancing around his palm, focused on one, and willed it to come to him. No one had ever instructed him as to how to consume a soul, but it came as naturally as magic ever did. He breathed in deeply through his mouth and it flooded him, cool and soothing and electrifying at the same time - healing his wounds, feeding his powers, amplifying his senses. When he tore out the last shard of ice from his shoulder, Raphael felt no pain. There was only that sense of euphoria, the clarity that comes with finally seeing a path ahead after wandering blind for so long. 

Above him, unseen, the Lord of the Eighth bared his teeth in a smile.

***

“In my world there is order, he said!”

“I specified I was talking about my--”

Raphael’s protest was cut off by Karlach’s cry as she swung her axe, cutting a spinagon in half and sending its blood and guts to spray across the ground and, well, across Astarion. Who, as a response, only yelled louder, just as he drew his bowstring to put another arrow through an imp. “WE BRING THE CHAOS OF OUR WORLD IN HIS, HE SAID!”

“I WAS TALKING ABOUT MY HOUSE!”

“YOU ARE NEVER GETTING TO-- ah, nice shot, love, thank you-- NEVER WHINE ABOUT CHAOS IN THE MATERIAL PLANE AGAIN, DEVIL!”

Raphael snorted, and cast a cloud of daggers that annihilated a pair of nupperibos before they could so much as attempt an attack at Halsin’s unprotected back. The only surviving nupperibo of the trio was promptly blasted back by Wyll, into a pit of boiling tar, and didn’t resurface again.

“This entire layer is a battlefield and I would have stopped all this with the crown, spawn!” Raphael snapped, glaring at Astarion and entirely missing the spinagon trying to dive on him from above. 

Durge groaned, and dispatched it with a ray of frost before speaking. “I don’t think this is the moment to air grievances--”

“This is your doing and I’ll air all the grievances I please!”

“Oh please, let me cut him in two.”

“No, Karlach," Durge muttered, and to their relief she went to cut an imp in two instead. 

All things considered, they had to run into devils or demons sooner or later; it had been a small miracle that they’d been able to go from the House of Hope to the cave they’d chosen to rest the previous night without meeting anything but a couple of hellsboars. Raphael was right when he described Avernus as one huge battlefield, and running into foes soon after setting out for the day's march was perhaps inevitable.

Luckily, they were all rather weak. Unfortunately, there was a swarm of them. 

“We’ve been pretty lucky we didn’t run into these while next to that lake of lava!” Wyll yelled over the screams of a couple of spinagons trapped within the blackness of a Hunger of Hadar spell. “That would have made a dismal battlefield.”

“Oh, how lucky that we’ve met them in the middle of these delightful pits or tar and quicksand instead!” Astarion yelled, and drew his bowstring again. The arrow found its target in the throat of yet another spinagon just as Durge’s frost breath downed a couple of imps. “What were you planning to turn this spot into, Raphael? An archdevil resort?”

Raphael scoffed, downing another imp with an admittedly well-placed ice knife spell. “I’ll have you know that before the Blood War, this layer was the most wondrous thing you’d ever set your eyes on!”

Astarion laughed, almost dancing under an imp’s swing of a scimitar before gutting it with a single, swift strike of a knife. “Gods, are you that old?”

“It is a well known fact for anyone with even a modicum amount of knowledge, and I’d have restored its former glo--”

“FIREBALL!”

Halsin’s warning cut through the sulfur-saturated air, through the shrieks and clangs of the battle. Durge looked up to see that indeed, one of the fireballs that were ever streaking Avernus’ sky had taken a sharp turn downwards and was coming… directly at them. 

“Shit-- we got to take cover!”

“I’ve got this - get over here, everyone!” Durge called out, and lifted a hand. “Veni et iuva me!”

The Globe of Invulnerability shimmered into being around them, and Astarion immediately leaped in. Raphael and Halsin were quick to follow, though Halsin took a  moment to create a gust of wind to knock back the spinagons trying to follow. 

“Oh that’s a handy one!” Karlach laughed, nearly barrelling right through the globe and skidding to a halt just inside it. “Both the globe and the fireball, I mean! There was this one time we were in deep shit, fuckers everywhere, but then this fireball came down and fried them. Remember, Wy-- Wyll?”

With a sense of dawning horror, they all looked back to see that Wyll was some distance away from the globe, one leg stuck in quicksand up to his knee, struggling to pull free while the fireball plummeted down towards the ground. 

“Shit! No! Wyll!” Karlach cried out, and tried to run out towards him. Tried to, because they all could tell there was no way she could get to him and back on time, even if she could pluck him out from the quicksand at the first try. If she went, the fireball would strike both. Durge, Halsin and Astarion held onto her as one, and even then they struggled to hold her back. 

“Karlach, wait!”

“Karlach, no!” Wyll cried out. “Stay back! Please, keep her back!”

A scream, holding all the anguish in the world. “No, no, no! Let me go! Wyll! WY--”

“MOVE ASIDE!” 

Raphael’s voice was a roar, loud enough to drown out Karlach’s own screams. He stepped forward, almost to the edge of the globe, taking the lyre off his back to play a few notes on it, eyes fixed on Wyll. And gods, it worked: the next moment Wyll, with a grunt of effort, was able to free his leg from the quicksand. He stood, and lifted his hands to cast; Durge could recognize the gesture to cast a Dimension Door, and it was the last thing they could see at all before the fireball became too close, its light too bright, and they had to close their eyes. 

“Quod dico face!” Wyll cried out, then for a time Durge could hear nothing else: the explosion was loud enough to cancel out all other noise. Around them, the world shook, stone shattered, enemies burned. Even within the globe they were thrown to the ground, trying to cover mouths and noses to keep out dust and debris with varying degrees of success. 

When the dust finally began to settle and they could blink their eyes open they were still beneath the globe in the middle of a smoldering crater, faces and clothes black with dust but still all in one piece.

And among them, grinning widely, half-drowned in Karlach’s embrace as he made no attempt to pull away, was Wyll. 

“Wyll! Are you all right? Are you wounded?”

“I’m good, really! Only thing that’s wounded is my pride.”

With a sigh of relief, Karlach pulled back. “Oh, thank the gods.”

Another laugh. “Afraid I’ve got to thank the devil for this one, don’t I?” He turned to look over at Raphael, who was still coughing while Astarion helped him back on his feet. “That was bardic inspiration, then? Never been on the receiving end of it before. Not bad at all.”

Another cough, and Raphael rasped out, “I told you I have no need to wield a toothpick in battle, did I not?”

Durge had no idea what that was about, but it made Wyll laugh. “Ah, I suppose you really don’t. Your spells do serve you well enough, point very much taken. Thank you for saving my skin.”

“Yeah, that was-- good thinking,” Karlach muttered, crossing her arms and looking awkwardly to the side. Her compliment, half-hearted as it was, seemed to give Raphael pause, but in the end he scoffed and said nothing. 

“Well!” Astarion spoke up, clapping his hands once to break the sudden silence. “Here we are! All in one piece, enemies vanquished, ready to celebrate before we get going again. And I think we could all use a shower right about now. Halsin, if you please?”

Rainfall in Avernus had to be a rare thing indeed - a never event, most likely - and Durge enjoyed every second of it. As they glanced to the side they noticed that so did Raphael, eyes shut and face tilted upwards, palms up as though to welcome the rain.

*** [Back to Chapter 10]

[On to Chapter 12]

[Back to Start]

[rokkenjimaisland]

even though sayo is dead at this point in time in ep2 it's interesting to look back on this bc like. to me ep2 reads kind of like the ultimate "bad end". kinzo gets to be reunited with beatrice and apologize and presumably be forgiven by her. battler is completely fucking useless and decides it's more important to get drunk. beatrice goes completely unchallenged in general.

so reading this as essentially sayo just telling battler exactly why beatrice was born and exists in those 30 minutes before the island explodes is so. of course he would have no choice but to admit the witch exists. he wouldn't ever want to deny her if he knew everything, and that's the point of umineko--but it's different having him solve it, understand it, and then choose her anyway, which is why the gameboard even exists. battler chooses to close his eyes and blindly accept beatrice without really actually emotionally grasping everything even if he might know/understand it intellectually. it sort of embodies the mental difference between puzzling something out for yourself vs going to the wiki page for an answer etc.

mfw

[terraf1rma]

𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒.

Oh aren't they just the kindest? Always greeting you with warm hands and admiring eyes, it's a wonderful feeling knowing that you're the target of it all. They're not as intellectually smart as their seniors nor are they as intense but they're a much fresher breath of air than they are...

[Can be interpreted as romantic interest and you can tell I had no ideas for Razor]

Bennett

He's a sweet thing really, always tripping over his feet and laughing off the seemingly cruel intentions of the big joke that luck had in store for him.

He tries his best to help, hands always grabbing onto whatever you have, a book bag, a lunchbox, maybe even a file or two. Just leave it all to him! He says with a smile. It's almost funny with how alarmingly nice he is. Alarmingly being a key word here.

Sometimes his self deprecation is just too much for you to handle but you can't ever allow yourself to explode on him, not when his mental state seems so much worse than yours. His hands are scarred from how terrible his luck is and sometimes the smiles he has on his face seem just a little too.. uncanny. 'It's not his fault' is a thought that'll run repeatedly in your mind while with him and while Bennett doesn't like taking advantage of it, it comes in handy when his hands aren't scarred unconsciously.

Razor

You're almost confused when you meet Razor, disbelief resting heavily on your tongue as you greet him. You don't mean to be so cruel, really. At least, not intentionally that is. It's just… so hard to believe that someone like him could enter this academy so easily while you had to claw your way up here. It makes you want to throttle someone honestly.

Once again, you're not mean on purpose, just angry at how stupid life is for fucking you over like that.

Despite his less than spectacular ability to talk fluently and his academic progress, Razor's personality makes up for every insignificant loss there is. He takes care of you like you're family, doing his best to make sure that all your bruises are taken care off and that you've eaten enough for the day.

He knows so much about wildlife and how to hunt to the point where he can name all the fauna and flora surrounding the school that you're almost falling over your seat when you find out that he's part of Lisa's family by adoption. Lisa, the lazy librarian's assistant that calls everyone a nickname associated with baking ingredients, the brother to this sweet thing that just happened to growl at someone who tried to talk to you? Really??

Was this boy raised by wolves or something because you were absolutely confused by the amount of contradictions surrounding Razor.

Xingqiu

Feiyun guild. It's a title and name that you're all too familiar with. You've seen it stamped on the corners of pamphlets of businesses and on the plaques of your old school dedicated to bragging about how wonderful their sponsor was.

It's only right if the second son of such a renowned guild would be here.

What isn't right is how absolutely gremlin-like he is. You had been expecting someone prim and proper, not someone who had fucking poetry rap battles in the hallways with Hu Tao and slid jueyun chilli into his best friend's food as a joke. Rap poetry battles. If that wasn't a sign of weird rich kid vibes then you had no idea what it was.

He gives you gifts with a careless smile sometimes, as if giving expensive gifts was something anyone could do on a daily basis and maybe, just maybe, if you cared to flip through the pages of his poetry notebook, you'd find eloquently put together verses about you, some hinting at things just a little too close to home for you and your comfort.

Chongyun

You and Chongyun are the unanimous leaders of the "xingqiu is a threat and needs to be stopped" club. Of course, because you're a good student council president, you obviously can't make it into a real club but Chongyun takes full delight in knowing that if given the chance, you'd absolutely make it a reality.

He's so kind when he's not driven by the influence of his Yang side! Always tripping over his words and so focused on wiping away any bad Feng Shui around you. It's almost a running joke between the two of you but it starts to get very strange when he insists that the people you hang around are surrounded with bad spirits.

He may come from a renowned exorcist family that practiced daoism but are his words really untrustworthy when the people around you really do act up for seemingly no reason at all?

Xiangling

You've known xiangling since high school, from when you'd stumble into the warm atmosphere of her family owned restaurant after a fight with someone you really didn't like (read: hated). Her hands are always so quick when they tend to you and her words are so fond and kindhearted that you doubt that she could ever hold a piece of rudeness in her. Even if her head was more involved with food on some days.

She always keeps an eye on your intake of food much like Razor but the key difference between them is that she's the one making said food. She's fascinated with what you do but has said more than once that the amount of papers you have to go through makes her dizzy to even think about and starts asking about when you'll quit school and become a cook at her restaurant instead.

You agree with her internally but withold the urge to leave behind all moral obligations and instead externally you knock her on the head.

Honestly, you can always rely on her to make you a bento, even if you've already brought one! After all, her food is world class and you can't possibly be so unkind as to refuse her efforts of making you lunch when she woke up so early for it now, can you?

Hu tao

She brutally reminds you of those strange kids from one class over, always rambling about something you have no knowledge of. She'll drag you away from your duties to hang out with her and with how flamboyant her personality is, you can't help but get swept away by her freeness.

Her rap battles with xingqiu are extremely odd and most of the time you can't help but support her despite how strangely put together her stanzas are. Sometimes she spits out silly haikus talking about ghosts and other times its free form poetry that makes you rethink your life choices.

You have no idea whether she's your friend or not with how she treats you but hey! It's Hu Tao and she does whatever the Tao she wants. Get it?

Sometimes, you get the strangest feeling that she could recite your whole family history if prompted to.

[ahungeringknife]

365: March 24

I like intellectually know Marcus is like... a very capable Hunter and shit. On the other I can't help but imagine him just being the biggest self absorbed bastard who is WAY too smart for his own good and WAY too obsessed with sparrows and SRL.

---

It really was something getting a call from Didi to come down to part of the Hanger now because Kass was busy blowing up Marcus' workshop. The Ghost didn't even seem harrowed for the destruction she was explaining either.

Grey still booked it down there. When they arrived there was exploded sparrows everywhere and fire and Marcus and Kass having a yelling match over a burning pile of metal and scrap. Or maybe it was another new prototype from Marcus, hard to tell. Kass was positively radiant in fury and Grey had no idea what had happened.

They grabbed the fire extinguisher on the wall to start with. Grey wasn't Solar inclined and used it to wade through the scorched workshop. They were ignored by the two fighting parties and they weren't even sure what they were arguing about. Something serious to have made Kass so damn mad.

They sprayed Marcus across the back with the extinguisher making the skinny shit jump in fright and when he cleared the way they sprayed Kass down too. "Okay, that's enough," Grey said loudly before she could start yelling again. "What the fuck is going on here?"

"She lost her mind and started blowing up my work!" Marcus cried.

"He's a piece of shit," Kass pointed at Marcus accusingly.

"Just because you're insane doesn't make me-

Grey sprayed him in the face with the extinguisher. "Watch the mouth, bucko," they said cooly. Then they turned back to Kass who was wiping the extinguisher foam off her, "Whatever he did isn't worth burning down the Hanger. Cool your jets," they said.

Kass looked around at the fire absolutely starting to grow beyond the room and with a loud huff like a great puff of air all the fire went out. Which... was terrifying if Grey thought about it too long. They didn't know any Hunter who could do anything like that living or dead. A Warlock maybe. But a Hunter? Terrifying. "I am not sorry," she said, folding her arms. "Do not call me again, piece of shit," she told Marcus and stalked off.

That left Grey alone with Marcus covered in extinguisher foam. "What the fuck did you do, Ren?" Grey asked him.

"Nothing!"

"Doubtful. Didi, what'd he do?" they asked his Ghost.

"Kassandra brought him a nice Dawning gift and Marcus laughed at her," Didi said.

"Hey! That is not what happened," Marcus cried, furious.

"Is that what this is?" Grey kicked what had been between them. It was more or less some cloth that was nearly burned to a crisp.

"Yes," Didi said. "She got him a new cloak."

Grey blinked at Marcus. "And you laughed at her?"

"I did not," Marcus steamed.

"He said he thought it was a joke and was surprised Kassandra took this so seriously. He also didn't accept it."

Grey smiled dangerously at Marcus and the SRL racer looked nervous. "My sweet Kassy took your relationship serious and you laughed at her?" they said. "Is this a fucking joke to you, Ren?"

"What? It was just a fun winter league thing," Marcus said.

Grey narrowed their purple-gray eyes at him. Giving a new cloak or armor piece to your partner was a symbol you wanted to be serious with them. Lightless always said it was akin to 'marriage' but Guardians didn't get married. "She's right, you are an asshole," and they sprayed him in the face with the extinguisher again. "I see you bothering my baby girl again and I'll carve up that stupid face of yours," and for good measure threw the extinguisher at Marcus' chest where he caught it with a grunt. They walked off to go find Kass.

[telltalebatman]

7 from the grumpy prompts for pinnguin pls c:

this is set in a very convoluted arkhamverse au that exists only in my heart, basically what if the events of my bat game were also a part of the rocksteady arkham series canon. what if rocksteady pengy was MY pengy lmao

7. “I can never say ‘no’ to you, can I?”

Penguin's men paid her a visit when she was visiting her cousin in Blüdhaven.

Or rather: they kidnapped her from her cousin's home, in the middle of the day. By no means was that her first rodeo; she knew what to expect the moment she opened the front door and looked at their faces. One of them - barely out of boyhood - she even recognized; Richter, they called him. A nice kid; good with computers. Used to be a part of the Riddler's crew - until Nygma grew jealous of Richter's intellectual potential and tried to get him killed.

As they pulled out a sack to put over her head, Charlie only sighed.

"Just a moment, boys," she said, turning around. "Annie," she called out to her cousin. "Don't worry. Don't tell Nightwing. Okay," she added, turning back to face the men outside. "Proceed."

By all means, they were cautious with her; gentle, even. Probably way gentler than they'd be had she not been known as their boss's flame.

Finally - after a lengthy, bumpy ride - she was lead out of the car, sat in a chair, and had the sack pulled off her head cautiously, as to not disturb her hair; and as she blinked a few times, her eyes trying to adjust to the bright light - Penguin, her beloved, patted her on the shoulder gently.

"Good to see you, darling," he said softly. "Now, I... Probably should apologize."

"Yeah," she said with a sigh. "You should. I mean, really, Oswald? You could've just texted me. Or did your phone explode again?" she added, rolling her eyes angrily; to be fair, his phone exploding wasn't even his fault. Black Mask had Riddler program Oswald's phone to explode after receiving a text from her; and it did - except one thing Mask and Riddler failed to anticipate was the phone not being held by the Penguin as the text arrived. "Annie's son wanted to play Minecraft with me."

"And have you snatched away by that glowstick twerp? Na-ah-ah," Oswald said, shaking his head. "Not a chance."

"Right, 'cause Nightwing's known to torture his suspects," she said, rolling her eyes again. "Worst he can do is talk my ears off."

can he though? i'm used to men who never shut up. case in point: a certain bird-loving arms dealer.

"I know you're mad," he said with a sigh, rubbing the back of his head with his hand; and Charlie pursed her lips, crossed her arms, and looked away. Yeah - she was mad. Not about the kidnapping - that was expected. But the very reason she even was in Blüdhaven to begin with - was because she needed a breath of fresh air. After knowing Oswald for years, after sticking with him through thick and thin, after getting herself locked up in the Arkham City for him, getting kidnapped by the Joker, by Black Mask, by Victor Zsasz, by Riddler, by Bane, by Two Face, and countless other individuals who wanted to either get under Penguin's skin, or get to him, or any combination of the two, she thought she knows him. She thought they have built their relationship on honesty, on loyalty, on trust... Up until she found out that for the past months, Oswald - her beloved, the man for whom she dived headfirst into the unknown, the one for whom she risked it all - had been working with Thomas fucking Elliott. A man who hadn't just try to kill her - but literally eat her still beating heart too. He tried - and failed - to marry her mother; he tried to drive both Charlie and Eleanor insane. Hell hath no fury like an incel scorned; and Thomas was a shining example. "Charlie..."

"What?" she said, avoiding Oswald's apologetic gaze. "I'm all fucking ears, Oz."

"I've been selling him faulty weapons," Oswald said pleadingly; and Charlie had to stop herself from looking at him in disbelief. "All rigged to explode."

"Yeah?" she said, finally looking at him; and he looked back at her, and he looked a bit like a kicked puppy in the rain. "Funny how it's been six months of you two working together and nothing had exploded in his face yet."

"That's because I had to earn his trust first," Oswald said in a low, pleading whisper; suddenly, he got down on his knees, put his hands on her knees, and looked up at her; and her heart broke a little as she saw the shadows under his eyes, and his slightly sunken cheeks. "But it's going to happen any time now. The bastard's going down."

"Yeah, right," she said with a doubtful scowl. "Did you really have me kidnapped just to tell me this?"

The corners of Oswald's lips twitched slightly; and she wanted to yell and strangle him, as she instantly knew that he knows she has already mostly forgiven him. How could she not? She wasn't the only one who had risked everything for the two of them to work; back when he was sent to the Arkham City, the crime that cemented his sentence was him covering up for her killing a man in self-defense. Being in a relationship with someone normal and not a fellow criminal was always a risk; because the allure of having a normal life was always there. He had worked hard on earning her devotion; and as years had passed - she had made peace with the fact that he was the only one for her.

But then again - it did piss her off a bit that he knew that.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I wanted to look you in the eye too. Also, I... I have a favor to ask."

ah. there it fucking is.

"No," she replied immediately; hear him out, her heart sang. "No dice."

"Come on, luv," he said pleadingly. "Please?"

"No," she repeated; the walls of her defiance were already crumbling. "Forget it. I'm done being your bait. No."

In the end - after many rounds of pleading and negotiating - she did hear him out; and she did agree to his - somewhat ludicrous - plan of using her as a bait and a negotiator for Poison Ivy. And she did allow him to kiss her, even though she kept her arms crossed and her lips pursed; but as he kissed her, and his hands caressed her - one thing lead to another, and before she knew it, they were both naked.

"I can never say no to you," she breathed out with a gasp as his lips explored her neck. "Damn you, Oswald. Damn you and your words."

"I love you too, darling," he whispered back, his breath hot against her skin. "Quiet now. Wouldn't want my boys to hear us."

you owe me much more than a quick fuck, oz. this is gonna cost you at least three chocolate soufflés... my love.

[the-wild-wolves-around-you]

hear those bells ring: chapter 2 (a deaf!bakugo x reader fic)

Summary: Reader has to deal with the aftermath of Dynamight exploding through her window and trying to bleed out on her floor. 

Pairings: Katsuki Bakugo x Reader; Katsuki Bakugo x You

Rating: M(ature)

Warnings: Blood, descriptions of gore, and adult language. 

A/N: Here’s chapter two, hope you enjoy! ~*~*~ No spoilers or anything. This is just a self-indulgent AU fic with aged up characters. Everyone’s in their mid-20s. Fic title is from a song called “Achilles Come Down.”

AO3 Link: Here 

Ch 1 Tumblr Link: Here 

Chaos. You intellectually knew the word, in several languages in fact, but nothing could have ever prepared you for the reality of it. 

Information assaulted your senses in a deluge. The gust of cold air whistling through the broken window, raking icy fingers down your exposed arms. The bright flare of flames, even behind your clenched eyelids. The dissonant, haunting wails of several car alarms, each one just a second out of sync with the next, barely audible over the loud ringing in your ears. The taste of ash, gritty on your tongue as you sucked in heaving, panting breaths. The sharp smell of smoke and something… sweeter. Like caramelizing sugar. 

The sweet scent, incongruous with every other heinous detail, seemed to snap you fully back into your body, and your eyes flew open with a gasp. 

You were curled up in a tight ball below your now broken window, and you gaped at your ruined apartment. The lights were out, so the only illumination you had to see by were the flames behind you on the street, but it was enough. 

It looked like a tornado had torn through your home. The remnants of your window and wall—broken bits of glass, wood, and plaster—covered everything in sight in a fine layer of white dust. Your sewing desk/kitchen table was in splinters, and even with the dancing shadows, you had the distant thought that the dress you’d just finished mending was most definitely ruined. 

Then someone shouted outside on the street, and you felt it like a sledgehammer to the skull. 

Oh, god. The villain. The heroes. 

You scrambled up onto your knees, hissing when shards of glass tore through your sweatpants and bit into your skin. You’d worry about that later. For now, you focused on getting to your feet… 

And not falling out of the gaping hole in your apartment wall. 

You stumbled back a few steps from the edge, stabilizing yourself on one of your kitchen chairs that seemed to have survived the blast. The smoke was thicker now that you were off the floor, and you coughed and squinted against the hot, irritating air. 

The street in front of you was a warzone. 

The windows in the building across from you were all blown out, the empty frames like black gaping voids. The building housed a café/tea shop owned by Mr. and Mrs. Yamato, and you felt a small modicum of relief at the knowledge that they didn’t live above the shop like you did with yours. They lived in a neighborhood not too far away, and they wouldn’t be happy when they came to open in the morning, but at least they were safe. 

Safe… 

“Mr. Takeyoshi!” you gasped as you remembered your neighbor. He’d been standing on the street and nearly attacked by the villain, but a blond hero had pushed the middle-aged man out of the way. 

Your eyes scoured the street as you leaned forward as much as you dared, and just as your heart was beginning to clench, you spotted him. Mr. Takeyoshi was sitting on the curb across the street and about four storefronts down, hunched over with his head in his hands. Two heroes stood above him and seemed to be tending to him, and all three of the men looked whole for the most part. 

“God.” You exhaled shakily, your heart still stuttering in your chest, and then movement in your peripherals caught your attention. 

One hero seemed to possess a water quirk, and she was quickly working to spray down the numerous small fires still flickering up and down the road. As you watched her work, you realized the street wasn’t as badly demolished as you first assumed. It was still pretty wrecked—all of the asphalt was cracked and even just missing in some places—but aside from broken windows, the rest of the shops seemed mostly intact. The worst of the damage was centered just in front of your apartment, and as your gaze flickered over the large crater in front of you, you saw another two heroes dragging a third body out of the pit. 

The villain. 

The hero with the water quirk paused in spraying down the smoking remains of a car and turned to shout something at the other heroes. You couldn’t hear what she said over the persistent ringing in your hears, and you frowned as you focused your own quirk toward your ears. 

In your hopped-up-on-adrenaline state, you didn’t even notice the energy dip, and a moment later, your hearing returned with a loud pop. Thankfully, all of the car alarms seemed to have been cut, so you could hear the heroes pretty well.

“—still alive,” a tall hero in a red and purple suit said. You didn’t recognize him. “He’s pretty beat up, but he’ll make it.” 

“Great,” the water quirk hero sighed. “Let him be the cops’ problem now.” 

As if on cue, you could hear a siren start up in the distant, slowly moving closer. 

The threat was over. The villain was neutralized, the fires put out, and the authorities were on the way. 

So… why did you feel so on edge, like you were waiting for the other shoe to drop? 

“—fuckin’ Dynamight,” one of the heroes suddenly spat and drew you out of your thoughts. 

You frowned in confusion as the words registered. Dynamight… why did that sound familiar? 

Then your eyes widened as you remembered the blond hero, literally exploding onto the scene. His face—snarling and illuminated by the white-hot flare of his quirk—flashed in your mind’s eye, and you dropped your gaze back down to the street below. 

Dynamight, Japan’s Number Two Hero. You couldn’t believe he had been the one to turn up and save you. 

Well, not you specifically. Your neighborhood. 

You’d seen the ash-blond on television before. Usually, the media just liked to harp on his crude language or brash attitude, but you’d seen this one story of how he had saved every single person from a collapsed building. A teary blonde gushing about Dynamight rescuing her had gone briefly viral, but the clip that stuck with you was when a reporter asked the pro hero why he decided to go into the unstable building without any reinforcements. 

The blond had scowled into the camera, sweat and dirt still streaked across his pale face, his scarlet eyes flashing from beneath his black mask. 

“What was I supposed to do?” he scoffed. “Leave them in there and sit with my thumbs up my ass while the fire department takes their sweet fuckin’ time? Don’t ask me stupid questions.” 

Of course, the media had another field day with that response, but… something about it struck you as incredibly genuine. Yeah, the pro hero could have phrased it better, but the core of what he was saying was he couldn’t sit back when people were in trouble, no matter the risks. 

You had thought that very brave. 

And now you’d witnessed his bravery first hand. You weren’t confident—or really self-centered enough—to go down and thank him for what he’d done, but you thought you would just be satisfied with seeing him from afar now that things weren’t so dire. 

But, the longer you looked, the more the pit grew in your stomach. 

You couldn’t see the blond hero anywhere. He wasn’t with Mr. Takeyoshi, still hunched over on the curb. He wasn’t with the two heroes who were trying to establish a perimeter and keep out the arriving crowd of spectators. And he wasn’t with the other heroes standing watch over the unconscious villain laid out on the sidewalk. 

The rest of the heroes seemed to be arriving at the same conclusions as you. You could hear Dynamight’s name being thrown about, and then the heroes were splitting up, taking different sides of the street, peeking into broken windows. 

You wrung your hands as you watched them search from your apartment. No one had noticed you standing there yet, and you were just contemplating going downstairs to try and help in some way when a noise caught your attention. 

In the grand scheme of things, the noise wasn’t very loud, especially given the shouting on the street and the loud sirens now that the police were arriving on scene. 

But since you lived alone, someone coughing in your apartment, someone who wasn’t you, was cause for a little alarm. 

You inhaled sharply as you glanced back over your shoulder, every atom of your being standing at attention. The apartment behind you was a study in contrasts, dark shadows and the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles outside. Your eyes fell on the empty spot where your couch used to be located, and then your gaze followed the drag marks that had been carved into your wood floor. 

The couch was half embedded in the wall beside your front door, with one of the armrests denting into the plaster and the other pointing toward your gaping window/wall. The sofa’s legs had been broken, so it slumped to the floor at an angle, and some kind of stuffing spilled out of several rips in the cushions. 

But your eyes were glued to the leg sticking out over the armrest and the arm thrown over the back of the couch, which was blocking the rest of the… person from view. 

Oh, fuck. That was a person. 

Your legs reacted before your brain could even process what you should do, but you were at least cognizant enough to pick your way over the worst of the debris. Your thin, rubber-soled slippers would protect you from the small pieces of glass and rubble, but you really didn’t want to step on a nail if you could help it. 

Since your apartment was so small, and there weren’t any full pieces of furniture in the way anymore, you crossed the distance in a handful of strides, but you jerked to a stop when you reached the back of the couch. 

Your lungs seized up so suddenly they hurt. The smell of caramelized sugar was stronger now, almost overwhelming, and you actually had to grip the back of the sofa for support, your hand right next to Dynamight’s leg. 

Because it was Dynamight half-strewn across your broken couch. Even when you first saw the leg, you hadn’t imagined it could be… 

But there he was. And he looked surprisingly… human. 

His face was lax with unconsciousness, lacking the perpetual scowl or snarl he wore in pictures or on TV. His hair, which looked paler and somehow softer in person, was tinged red along his brow line, where a cut was still trickling sluggishly. He wore a non-descript black hoodie over dark jeans and darker combat boots, but a glint of color and light around his midsection caught your eye. 

You frowned and leaned down without thinking, your fingers reaching out to brush… something wet. 

“Oh, shit,” you breathed when you lifted your hand to your face and saw, even in the darkness, that the pads of your fingers were red and glistening. 

He was bleeding. 

You moved a step closer, but then your foot lost purchase, sliding, and when you glanced down, you saw your once white slippers were dark, more wetness seeping in around your toes. 

Oh, god. He was bleeding a lot. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You fumbled for the phone in your pants pocket as you scurried around the opposite end of the couch and dropped to the ground. Glass bit into your knees again, this time deeper, a sharp, brilliant pain, but you ignored it as you tried to turn your phone’s flashlight on. The touch-screen wouldn’t register your finger at first, your blood-slicked skin skimming across the glass, and you could feel a scream building in your throat just before the light flashed on. 

If you thought things were bad in the dark, being able to see made it a thousand times worse. 

Blood had already pooled around Dynamight, dark and glinting like an oil spill. The sleeve on his left arm had been burned off, and the skin below was pink and raw. It smelled like cooked meat, and the curry you ate what felt like a lifetime ago churned hotly in your gut. 

But the burn wasn’t even the worst of it. 

A wooden stake, about as wide as three of your fingers, protruded out of the pro hero’s gut by several inches. You thought part of it might have looked like your window frame, but the thought came and went when you noticed the tip of the wooden splinter was dyed red, which meant it must have come through his body. 

That had to be where all this blood came from. Was still coming from. God, there was so much of it. 

Your eyes shot to the gaping hole in your wall, your voice rising in your throat as you prepared to scream for help, but a sudden gasp nearly made you jump out of your skin. 

You whipped back around to find wide, hazy red eyes trained on your face, and the hero’s mouth gaped open as he dragged in a ragged breath. 

“Wh—hnng!” he groaned as his body seized, his right hand coming up to clutch at his stomach. 

“Don’t!” Your phone clattered to the floor, throwing light, as you lunged forward, and you caught his hand before he could jar the piece of wood lodged inside him. “D-Don’t move, a-and try not to speak.” 

The hero panted as he cracked open his eyes and looked at you. Or maybe through you. His gaze wasn’t very focused, and blood from the cut on his brow was still dripping into his right eye. 

But the scarlet color of his irises was still striking, even in the dimness of your apartment. 

“You’ve… been hurt,” you said as you met his eyes as best you could. You weren’t a doctor or an EMT, but you knew the best way to keep people calm in emergency situations was to let them know what’s happened and reassure them. “There’s a piece of wood inside you, so you can’t move or you might hurt yourself worse. But y-you’ll be okay. I’ll go get—” 

“Villain,” Dynamight suddenly spat out, cutting you off and spattering you with a fine mist of blood. 

“What?” His voice was rough and guttural, so it took your brain a moment to translate the slurred Japanese. Did he think you were another villain? 

The blond hero winced and groaned again, and it wasn’t until he squeezed down on your hand that you realized you were still holding his. His palm was rough and calloused against yours—and warm, so inexplicably warm—but then he dug his nails into your skin, and you gasped. 

“Vil… lain?” he rasped again, and you realized it was a question. 

“Oh! The villain’s been arrested. You… you beat him.” 

Dynamight scowled at you, brow knitting in confusion, and he grunted what sounded like a questioning noise at you. 

Then he shifted his head, and you saw the dark stain of blood coming out of his ear. 

He must have ruptured his eardrums in the explosion. 

You didn’t want to shout and damage his hearing even more, so you squeezed his hand back and smiled in what you hoped was reassurance. 

“You won,” you mouthed as clearly as you could. “You won, Dynamight.” 

His narrowed eyes widened a little bit with recognition, and you could have sworn the beginnings of a smirk twitched across his lips before his eyes suddenly rolled up into his head. The tension fled his body as he went limp, like a marionette with its strings cut, and your heart lurched up into your throat. 

“Dynamight?” you asked, even though you knew he couldn’t hear you with his ears the way they were. “Dynamight?” 

You squeezed his fingers, shaking him a little, but his face remained slack. 

Dropping his hand, you reached up to flatten one of yours across his chest, the other going up to feel at the underside of his neck. A moment ticked by, two, but you found his pulse, weak and thready beneath your fingertips. His breathing was shallow beneath your other hand, and the knees of your pants were warm and soaked with his blood. 

“F-Fuck,” you breathed shakily as you sat back for a moment, your hands limp in your lap. 

He was dying. Dynamight… was dying. This was too much blood, and even if you called out to the heroes right now, and they got here in seconds, it was still ten minutes to the nearest hospital. 

He didn’t have ten minutes. You didn’t think he had five. 

You stared down at the pro hero’s blood-streaked face for half a beat before you made a decision. 

Then you were moving. Consequences be damned. 

Your hands went to the hem of his hoodie, and you flinched as you pulled it away from his belly with a wet sound. You didn’t want to hurt him, but you also didn’t think he was feeling much of anything now, so you worked the hoodie up and over the stake as best you could before you shoved the fabric the rest of the way up his chest. 

The flashing lights from outside played across the dips and valleys of Dynamight’s abs, but your eyes were immediately drawn to the wooden stake. It jutted out between the hero’s belly button and his right hip bone, and every splinter was coated in tacky, crimson blood. More of the viscous liquid bubbled up around the torn skin at the stake’s base, and it trickled across his pale, alabaster abdomen like spilled paint. 

You bit your lip as you considered your next move, but then Dynamight’s breath hitched with a wet sound, and you knew you didn’t have time for doubts. 

“Okay, steady,” you muttered to yourself as you knelt over the hero’s prone body. Your knees burned, glass digging deeper into the skin by the second, but you shoved away your own pain as you reached out and wrapped both hands around the stake. Splinters tore into your palms, and your heart hammered out a staccato rhythm beneath your sternum. 

Then panic started to creep up your spine like a million little spider legs. What if removing the stake only made him worse, killed him faster? What if you killed Japan’s Number Two Hero? 

Just as you were about to let go of the stake, Dynamight hacked out a gurgling cough, blood bubbling out of his dry, cracked lips, and you felt the warm spray of it against your collarbone and arms. 

The sound rattled something deep inside you, and before you could second guess yourself again, you tightened your grip on the stake and tugged it up and out in one single motion. 

Dynamight wheezed once more, but you were already dropping the stake, hands slapping down against his abdomen. Warm blood pulsed through your fingers like pliable clay, and bile rose in the back of your throat before you took a deep breath, closed your eyes, and called upon your quirk. 

An instant later, agony like you’ve never experienced slammed into you, ripping a gasp from your lungs. It felt like someone had stuck a white-hot poker through your gut, ignited your insides, and twisted. The pain was so intense, your ears started ringing again, and when you cracked open your eyes, your vision quickly began to tunnel until the only thing you could see was the bare outline of your hands, lined with green, against the hero’s stomach. You gritted your teeth as unconsciousness threatened to pull you under, and you groaned as you shoved as much energy as you could spare into the dying hero. 

As your quirk flooded into the blond’s body, you received vague impressions of his injuries healing. It was hard to describe, but it was kind of like you could see flashes of the tissue in your mind as it was stitched back together. First, the jagged hole on his back sealed over, and then your power wormed its way through the hero’s insides, patching up nicked arteries and punctured organs. The pain was still intense, so intense that your already limited vision was blurred by tears, but once you reached the top layers of his abs, you ripped your hands away with a gasp. 

You fell back on your ass, more glass and debris digging into your cheeks and the palms of your hands, and you sucked in ragged breaths as you tried to keep from passing out. The hero swam unsteadily before you, both from the tears in your eyes and because the entire apartment was swaying. Saliva pooled in your mouth as nausea clamped down on your stomach, but you focused on the burning in your palms to center yourself. Then you started counting deep breaths, and when you got to thirty, the darkness had receded from the corners of your vision, and the apartment more or less steadied out around you. 

You still felt like shit warmed over, like you’d been run over by a car and then dragged for several miles, but the bone-deep exhaustion could be cured with a good night’s sleep. The rest of the nicks and cuts on your body still burned like a million paper cuts, too, but your quirk was down to embers and was of no more use to you. 

But was it worth it? 

The two feet of distance between you and Dynamight felt like a canyon that stretched for miles, but somehow you found one last burst of strength to drag yourself forward a few inches. Then you held your breath and leaned over the hero’s abdomen, wiping away most of the pooling blood with the hem of his hoodie. 

There was still a significant gash carved into his skin, but when you shakily picked up your discarded phone from the floor and directed the light at him, you saw the wound was much shallower, maybe a few centimeters deep. The first few layers of skin were flayed back, but the muscles beneath were intact and healthy looking. A small trickle of blood continued to drip into the valley of the hero’s abs, but instead of a broken fire hydrant, it was just a leaky faucet. 

You dragged your tired eyes up Dynamight’s body, and you very quickly realized his breathing was deeper and not as wet sounding. Just to be doubly sure, you reached out and tentatively wrapped your fingers around his left wrist, only absently noticing that the once raw, flayed skin had been partially healed from third degree burns to first. 

You had poured more energy into him than you meant to, but it was hard to regret anything when you felt his pulse against your fingertips, strong, steady, and sure. 

“Oh, thank you,” you choked out as you closed your eyes, tears stinging in the corners. You didn’t know who you were thanking. You didn’t know if you believed in a “god” in the colloquial sense, but you felt as if the universe had given you a gift just now, and you could be nothing but grateful for it. 

You sighed as you slumped a little, and it was like weights were strapped to your eyelids as you struggled to open them and keep them open. You might have actually gone under, succumb to the exhaustion… 

If you didn’t catch sight of two crimson eyes staring back at you. 

“Fuck,” you gasped as a zap of adrenaline shocked you upright, and your phone clattered to the ground once again. 

Dynamight squinted, irises still a little glassy, but unlike last time, his gaze was very much focused on you. 

And the weight of it, the intensity, pinned you to the floor. 

“Y-You’re awake.” The words tripped off your tongue, chased out by the panic running circles in your brain. Damn it, you hadn’t even had time to come up with a plausible backstory for the pool of blood he was lying in. 

The blond hero’s eyes widened a fraction as he stared at you for an immeasurably long moment, and then you remembered with a start that he hadn’t been able to hear you before. This could work in your favor, though. You opened your mouth, ready to pantomime an elaborate story, but his voice—deep and rough, like crunching gravel or an expensive engine turning over—cut you off at the knees. 

“And you have eyes,” he said in clipped Japanese, a note of snide derision in his tone. 

You blinked in shock—at his attitude, the steadiness of his voice, and the fact he could hear you just fine all the sudden—but he just barreled onward like he had barreled through your window. 

“What happened?” he asked. No, demanded. “Who are you?” 

“I—” 

“And where’s that fuckin’ villain?” he cut you off as his split upper lip curled into a snarl, and his red eyes jumped to the gaping window over your shoulder. 

You frowned at him, pursing your lips into a thin line. “Are you going to let me answer?” 

A part of your brain was screaming at you, distantly: Are you giving Japan’s Number Two Hero attitude after he saved your life?!  You normally weren’t like this. Every inch the people pleaser, you were usually deferential to the point of your own detriment. 

But you were still so tired, every inch of you aching, blood still dripping and slick along your exposed skin, and he was the one who decided to be rude first. 

Plus, you saved his life, too, thankyouverymuch. 

Dynamight actually seemed surprised by your response because his gaze stopped its frantic search of your darkened apartment and settled on you. Those scarlet eyes raked over you quickly, a flick from head to toe, before they met your own. 

A beat of silence passed between you, and then his face pulled into a sharp frown. 

“Well?” he grunted. “Are you actually going to answer me?” 

The nerve of this man. Maybe the media had been right. 

“What happened was you decided to practically drop a bomb outside on the street, and then you crashed straight through my window and destroyed my apartment,” you said in a short, clipped tone. “But don’t worry. My couch managed to break your fall, so you’re mostly in one piece. Oh, and you beat the villain, the other heroes are outside handing him off to authorities. Satisfied with my answers?” 

You sucked in a deep breath after your little tirade, the blood roaring in your ears. Absently, you patted yourself on the back for the impromptu white lie you’d fed him. The couch did in fact break his fall… and shoved a stake through his gut, but he didn’t need to know that. Fortunately, you had dropped said impaling object behind you in your haste to keep some blood in his body, and you shifted a little now to insure it was blocked from his view. You had healed his life-threatening injury—and his hearing, apparently, though you hadn’t intended that—but he was still covered in scrapes, cuts, and minor burns along his left arm. It was a… plausible amount of wounds, so hopefully your little quirk indiscretion would go unnoticed. 

Dynamight was still staring at you in silence, and you began to fidget, on the edge of saying you were going to go flag down another hero, when he finally spoke up again. 

“No, I’m not satisfied. You didn’t answer all my damn questions. Who the hell are you?” 

A flush of heat infused your cheeks—part anger, part embarrassment for being put on the spot again and being the subject of his intense glare—and you averted your eyes as you mumbled out your name. 

“Hah?” he practically shouted as he leaned forward, bringing with him that bewildering scent of burned sugar, but he suddenly stopped with a wince that he quickly turned into a scowl. “Speak up, I hate when people mutter. Just like goddamn Deku.” 

The last sentence wasn’t directed at you, but you found his mention of Japan’s Number One Hero intriguing. 

You sighed and repeated your name for him, a little louder this time, and he grunted in what seemed like acknowledgment before he started to struggle upright again in the ruins of your couch. 

“Don’t move too fast, you’ll start bleeding again,” you chided and scooted closer to stop him from aggravating the injury on his abdomen. You’d healed the worst of it, but it was still an open wound, and he was bound to be sore as hell after smashing through a window/wall. 

“M’ fine,” he grumbled as he settled into a slightly more seated position. Then he looked down and noticed his hoodie was still partially rucked up around his arm pits, and his red eyes shot back to you. He studied you for a long moment, but his face was unreadable. “Undressing me while I was unconscious? You’re not one of those damn obsessed fangirls, are ya?” 

Your cheeks flared red-hot, but you scowled at the ash-blond hero. “N-No! I—You were bleeding, so I wanted to make sure it wasn’t too b-bad. But, uh, the gash isn’t that deep.” 

It was a little harder to make more articulate, detailed lies, especially when his blood was still drying on your hands and you could remember the exact feel of his pulse slowing beneath your fingertips. 

Dynamight narrowed his scarlet eyes at you, and you knew you weren’t being convincing. Panic started to claw up the back of your throat again. His burning gaze was charring away at your weaknesses, your resolve. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, confessing. You’d saved his life after all. That wasn’t a bad thing. 

Then you remembered all the articles you’d looked up one anxiety-filled night, soon after moving here. All the stories about people using their quirks and causing damage. Of people with healing quirks trying to help and only doing more harm. The fines, the charges, and in rare cases, imprisonment. 

You didn’t think you’d be locked up, but you couldn’t afford any fines now, and as an immigrant, any mark on your record could get you immediately deported. 

Your mouth dried up. You couldn’t be deported, sent back to your parents as a failure again. What’s more, you had people who relied on you here, like Mrs. Kojima. You weren’t a hero, not important by any means, but… you had just found something to give your life a little purpose. A little stability. 

No, you couldn’t be discovered. You just couldn’t. 

Your newfound resolve stiffened your spine a little, but when you lifted your chin and met those piercing crimson eyes again, your courage—along with your tongue—shriveled inside you. 

Fuck, how were you going to lie your way out of this? 

Unfortunately, Dynamight didn’t give you any more time to get your story straight. 

“Your hands are all fucked up.” 

You startled at his rough voice, instinctively flipping your hands palm-side down and tucking them between your legs. Then, when your brain caught up to your body, you cursed yourself. 

Could you be any more obvious, any more guilty? 

“I, uh, i-it’s nothing,” you stammered, clearing your throat before you continued. “I cut myself on the broken glass from the window, but it’s not serious. Nothing a few bandaids won’t fix, anyway. Maybe some gauze and antiseptic, but definitely not a hospital visit or anything.” 

You knew you were babbling but somehow couldn’t stop it, your anxiety just seizing control of your tongue, and you clenched your torn-up hands into fists until the stinging pain centered you a little bit. 

Once again, Dynamight studied you in silence, like he was choosing his words carefully. 

“Did you nick your damn wrist, too?” he finally asked as his neutral mask twisted into his signature scowl. “Looks like a lot of blood. Don’t be an idiot and bleed out on me. I don’t wanna deal with the fuckin’ paperwork.” 

Well, maybe not that carefully. 

“I-I’m not bleeding out,” you protested with a frown. “I’m fine.” 

“Let me see.” 

You blinked. “Excuse me? 

The hero stuck out his right hand, palm up, his scowl only deepening. “Let me see your hands.” 

Fuck. A drop of icy cold fear slid down your spine. Your hands were indeed “fucked up” like the blond said, but the cuts were all shallow and minor. They would in no way explain how you were coated in blood up past your wrists. None of your injuries would account for that. 

And none of his current ones would, either. 

“I—” You opened and closed your mouth several times like a gasping fish, and Dynamight’s eyes narrowed on you with what you were sure was suspicion. 

And then, like a gift from the heavens, a small but bright beam of light suddenly flooded your apartment from over your shoulder. 

“Dynamight?” a male voice shouted. 

The blond hero clenched his eyes shut and turned away from the light, and you. “I’m here! Turn that damn light out.” 

Said light cut out an instant later, and you seized the opportunity that had just been presented to you. 

Quick as a whip, you leaned over and snatched a large swath of dark fabric that you’d seen in the brief moment of illumination, and you reeled it into your lap quickly. The fabric had been a personal project of yours, a gown you’d started on a whim, but that didn’t matter now. Dynamight was still rubbing at his eyes, grumbling about being blinded, so you kicked half of the unfinished garment under and around the base of the ruined couch, effectively covering up the large pool of blood that had congealed under the splintered furniture. Then you reached behind you, grabbed the bloody stake, and shoved it between the folds of fabric. 

There. Now, most of the evidence was hidden. 

And not a moment too soon, because in the next breath you heard the crunch of glass as the unnamed hero stepped into the apartment behind you. 

“Hello?” 

“We’re over here,” you called back, struggling to your feet so the hero could see you over the back of the couch. 

The hero was silhouetted against your ruined window and the flashing police lights outside, so you couldn’t see much of his face, but you could tell he was tall and broad-shouldered, wrapped in a red and purple suit you didn’t recognize. 

“Are you alright, ma’am?” the hero asked in very formal Japanese. 

You opened your mouth to reply, but Dynamight cut you off. It seemed to be a habit of his. 

“We’re fine,” he grunted, and you turned to see the blond shoving himself to his feet. A gasp caught in your throat, and you made a half-aborted motion to stop him, but his red eyes snapped up and glared at you, freezing you in your tracks. “Aren’t we?” 

It took a moment for you to realize the last question was directed at you, and when Dynamight’s lip curled up into a sneer as he accusingly dropped his gaze to your hands, you realized none of your lies had convinced him after all. 

“Y-Yes.” The word stumbled out of your mouth without your permission, but you couldn’t seem to tear your eyes off the blond as you felt your world falling in around you for the second time tonight. “We’re fine.” 

The hero behind you said something, but it was lost in the static suddenly filling your head. 

He knows. He knows. Dynamight knows. 

The words cycled through your brain again and again, a broken record. What would he do? Would he tell the other hero? Or take you down to the authorities himself? And what then? Would they arrest you? Give you a few days to pack up and say your goodbyes before your deportation? 

Just as you were beginning to spiral, movement caught your attention, and you watched as if from a distance as Dynamight suddenly stepped past you, the scent of burnt sugar stinging your nose as he went. He was talking, and the low rumble of his voice vibrated through your body since he was so close, barely a hair’s breadth away, but he seemed to be talking to the other hero. 

Was he confessing your secret already? 

You couldn’t seem to turn around, your slippered feet rooted to your debris strewn floor. Even in the dark, you could see the black stain of Dynamight’s blood on your ruined couch cushions, and without thinking, you leaned down, picked up another torn and dirty piece of fabric, and threw it over the stain, blocking it from view. 

You didn’t know why you did that. It didn’t matter now. Dynamight knew, and— 

“Ma’am?” A hand touched your elbow, and you jumped, whirling around. “Whoa, careful there.” 

It was the tall hero in the red and purple suit. He was wearing a partial mask over his eyes, so only the lower half of his face was visible, framed by two pieces of dark hair. He smiled at you, a pleasant, reassuring gesture, but you could only gape at him. 

“Are you alright?” he asked you again, a frown replacing his smile. His eyes started to look you over, but you shoved your hands into the pockets of your sweats before he could see them. 

It doesn’t matter, you idiot, your brain screamed, but your body was still going through the motions of keeping your secret, twisting your hands in your pockets, trying to rub out the blood. 

“I’m fine,” you said again and then realized repeating the same trite phrase probably wasn’t convincing. So, you smiled at the hero, or at least you thought you did. Your face felt strangely stiff and numb, but you flashed your teeth and crinkled your eyes just the same. “Really. I’m just a little… shaken up is all. I have a few cuts and bruises, but nothing serious. The apartment took the worst of the damage, obviously.” 

You laughed, a hint of hysteria in your voice, as you gestured to the gaping hole in your wall behind the hero, hoping to get him away from your blood-soaked couch. And, blessedly, he did turn, so you took a few steps past him until you were both facing the broken window. 

Then you noticed Dynamight was standing near the hole, very cautiously leaning against the last remaining, exposed stud in the wall, with his hands shoved in the pocket of his hoodie. His body was facing out into the street, but his eyes were still locked on you, the red of them only intensified by the police lights still flashing on the street. 

His eyes seemed to say, I know what you did, and all the saliva dried up in your mouth. 

“Well, as bad as the damage is to your home, I’m glad you weren’t seriously injured, ma’am,” the hero at your side suddenly said, and you jolted when you realized he was responding to your inane babble from what already felt like hours ago. 

“O-Oh, yes.” You smiled again, just as forced and twice as shaky. “I was… very lucky. A-And thank you! For doing your part to s-stop that villain before he hurt anyone or caused even more damage.” 

“Yes, well, there was still more damage than I would have preferred,” the hero replied, and you didn’t miss the dirty look he shot Dynamight, who just deepened his scowl because he was still looking at you. “But let’s get you down to the street. The paramedics will look you over, and the authorities will want to take a statement. But don’t worry, they’ll also put you up in a hotel for the night since you obviously can’t stay here.” 

He threw the last part of the sentence at Dynamight like a dagger, and the blond finally tore his eyes off you to glare at the other hero. 

You waited for the explosive hero to… well, explode, but he only stared down the tall man beside you before he rolled his eyes, glanced at you one last time, and then jumped out the hole in your wall. 

“No—” you gasped, stumbling forward like you could stop him, but an instant later, you heard a mini-boom out on the street, followed by Dynamight barking orders at someone. 

Oh, yeah. You remembered how the blond had burst through the air while fighting the villain and realized he didn’t just ruin all your hard, illegal healing work by face-planting onto the concrete. 

You sighed and suddenly swayed, like the blond leaving had finally cut all of your tense strings. The adrenaline was fading at last, exhaustion leeching through your veins in its place, and you listed into the hero beside you. 

“Ma’am?” he asked, a note of concern in his voice. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled sleepily, trying and failing to find your balance. “I think… the shock is wearing off. Just… tired.” 

“Would it be alright if I carried you down to the street?” 

You wanted to protest, say you could take the stairs down to your shop, but your tongue felt sluggish in your mouth, and all you managed was a vaguely affirmative sounding hum. 

“Okay, hold on.” 

You felt one hand wrap around your shoulders while the other scooped you up around the knees, and usually, you would protest, insecure about your weight, but the hero settled you against his chest with ease. The instant you were off your feet, every muscle in your body went limp, and you were too tired to even be embarrassed when your head flopped against the hero’s collarbone. 

You had the vague thought that he didn’t smell like warm sugar, followed by a flash of disappointment, but then the hero was moving, jumping, and you were falling through the air. 

Unfortunately, you didn’t get the luxury of passing out. 

Once you hit the street, it was all sirens and shouting, flashing lights and flashes of people, so many people. 

True to his word, the hero in the red and purple suit carried you over to an ambulance and two waiting paramedics. The American in you panicked, instinctively trying to refuse care because your shop and home were just destroyed, you didn’t have money for an ambulance ride, too. 

But as the medics peppered you with rapid fire Japanese questions, you were reminded of where you were, and the bright flashlight shining into your eyes sure woke you up a little. 

The next half an hour was a blur. The paramedics tended to the wounds on your palms, knees, and, embarrassingly, ass, but all of the cuts were shallow, and none of them even required stitches. You knew they wouldn’t require stitches anyway, because once you rested up, your quirk would heal you, but you kept your mouth shut and let the medics wrap you in gauze and bandages. You seemed to have rubbed away enough of the blood on your hands that they weren’t suspicious, but it brought you no relief. 

While they worked, you watched the heroes and police out of your peripherals. They were still working to seal off the scene and tend to your neighbors, who were gathered further down the block behind some yellow tape. It didn’t look like anyone else had been injured beside you, and for that you were grateful. 

But your stomach was still in knots. 

More than once, you heard Dynamight’s brash voice bark over the sirens and other voices, and as the paramedics were finishing up the bandages on your hands, a head of ash-blond hair jutted out over the police car closest to you. Unable to stop yourself, your eyes zeroed in on that distinctive hair color, and you saw the explosive hero was speaking—well, yelling—at two police officers. 

Your mouth felt suddenly dry despite the multiple cups of water the medics had fed to you. What was Dynamight saying? 

As if he could hear your thoughts, red eyes snapped to the side and locked onto yours, and the breath hitched in your chest. That crimson gaze held you trapped, unable to look away, so when the two officers he’d been speaking to suddenly stepped into your field of vision, you gasped. 

“Apologies, didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am,” one of the officers said. He was a middle-aged man, balding, with a serious face and a no-nonsense expression. “We just wanted to ask you a few questions, if you feel up to it.” 

You swallowed, your throat clicking, and your heart stuttered into a breakneck pace beneath your sternum. 

“O-Of course,” you replied, only stumbling a little over your Japanese. You smiled at the officers, but the expression felt stilted, and fear seized you by the throat and squeezed until your breaths were shallow and grating in your ears. 

“Thank you.” The balding officer nodded. “My name is Detective Nakahara. I’ve been told you witnessed and were injured in tonight’s attack.” 

You thought the injury part was obvious, given your myriad of bandages and the fact you were sitting in the back of an ambulance, but you nodded to confirm anyway since your voice had abandoned you. 

This was it. He was going to ask you the damning question, and you were going to tell the truth. Lying to a hero in the heat of the moment had been one thing, but lying to a police officer during an official statement was another thing entirely. It would take one database search for them to confirm your quirk and Dynamight’s story, and then you really would be in trouble. Maybe imprisoned instead of deported. You cursed yourself for not knowing more about the laws that were going to quickly ruin your life. 

But… then Nakahara started asking you about the villain and what you saw, and you stuttered out an answer to the best of your ability. You thought this might have been a disarming tactic, to lull you into a false sense of security, but when you got to the part of the story where Dynamight burst through your window, the officer sighed. 

“I take it that’s your apartment there?” Detective Nakahara asked as he gestured to the gaping hole. 

“Y-Yes.” You nodded. “And I own the shop below.” 

Which you now realized looked no better than your apartment. The windows were all blown out, black scorch marks along the door frame, and you didn’t want to even think about the shape of the interior. 

“What kind of shop is it?” he followed up, but he sounded more curious than interrogatory. 

“Clothing alterations,” you said. “M-My grandparents were a tailor and seamstress. I inherited the shop about a year ago, after they passed.” 

“My condolences,” Nakahara murmured with a small dip of his head, and he seemed genuine. “For your grandparents, and your home and business.” 

You blinked in surprise at the turn in conversation. “O-Oh, thank you, that’s very kind.” 

“Do you have anywhere to go for the night, or were you on the way to the hospital?” he asked as he looked you over. 

“No,” you said quickly and then blushed. “I-I mean, my injuries aren’t serious enough for a hospital visit. Just some cuts and scrapes.” 

“Alright.” Nakahara nodded. “Is there any family we can call for you? Or take you to?” 

“N-No,” you repeated, a little more timidly this time. “My parents… don’t live around here, and I don’t really have any other family.” 

“Any friends?” he asked with a furrowed brow. 

Your face was red-hot now, and you dropped your eyes to your lap, fiddling with your bandaged fingers. What were you going to say? That you were an introvert, and the only “friends” you had were the old ladies who frequented your shop? 

“None that I would want to bother in the middle of the night,” you muttered before you suddenly remembered something. “But, um, one of the heroes said you could maybe take me to a hotel?” 

“Of course, we can take you right now, and we’ll also pay for the night,” the detective said. 

“Oh, you don’t have to—” you started to protest as you snapped your head up, but the officer held up a hand. 

“The city has funds to aid those displaced by villain attacks,” he explained. “The next forty-eight hours are guaranteed, so if I were you, I would use the opportunity to rest.” 

Detective Nakahara glanced down at your bandages, and you bit your lips as you nodded. 

“Okay, thank you for your help then, sir.” It was all you could think to say. 

“You’re welcome.” Nakahara nodded back at you and then reached out to help you out of the ambulance. “If you’ll come this way, we can have an officer collect some things from your apartment, and then we’ll head to the hotel and get you settled.” 

The finality in his tone and the idea of a hotel drew you up short. What… was happening? You had thought the detective was going to interrogate you about your quirk, not… chauffeur you to a nice hotel. 

The practical part of your brain was screaming for you to let it go, but the words were high-diving off your tongue before you could stop them. 

“I-Is that all?” 

Detective Nakahara paused and looked at you with a raised eyebrow. “Is what all?” 

“I—” Shut up, shut up, shut up! “You didn’t have any more questions for me?” 

“No,” the detective said simply. “We have your statement, and it matches the others we’ve obtained.” Here, he frowned and seemed to study you for a moment. “Did you have any other questions for me?” 

“I… was just wondering what the next steps are for my apartment and shop,” you blurted out the first thing you could think of. “Will the… city pay for repairs? Do I have to fill out some forms?” 

It was an honest question, a real one you had, but your mind was still reeling. He wasn’t going to ask about your quirk? Had… Had Dynamight not said anything? 

Nakahara sighed but held a hand out for you to take, and you absently let him help you down from the ambulance. Then he slowly began walking toward one of the police cars, and you had no choice but to follow since you were still holding onto his arm for balance. 

“Unfortunately,” the detective started, “the city will not be able to repair your home or business.” 

“Why?” you asked with a frown. “I thought you said there were funds.” 

“There are,” he said, and when you looked up at him, you noticed his lips were pursed into a thin line. “And, if the villain himself had thrown debris through your window, then the city would compensate you. But, in this situation, Dynamight caused the damaged.” 

The detective practically spat the blond hero’s name, and your surprise must have shown on your face because Nakahara quickly cleared his throat and schooled his expression. 

“Because of this, his agency will be responsible for repairs, so you will have to contact them,” the officer finished. 

Contact them? You had to contact Dynamight’s agency, which meant… fuck. You felt the blood drain from your face, and your expression must have shown your dismay because Nakahara patted your hand that was still looped through his arm 

“But you can worry about that tomorrow,” he said. “Let’s get your things and get you to the hotel so you can rest.” 

You nodded blankly and let the detective lead you to the open backseat of a police car. Nakahara called another officer over, and the woman asked you questions about where things were in your apartment. You answered numbly, listing out different clothing items and how to get to your bedroom. Then she was gone, and Nakahara stepped away to do something else, so you were suddenly left all alone. 

Unbidden, you looked up and searched for that pair of scarlet eyes, that head of ash-blond hair, but the explosive hero was suddenly nowhere to be found. 

The crime scene continued to bustle around you, but all the while, two thoughts circled each other in your head, like binary stars stuck in each other’s orbit: 

Dynamight didn’t reveal my secret. 

But I’m going to have to face him again.

[i-like-writing-stuff]

sorry [five hargreeves x reader]

request: wanted to say I love ur 5 fics and how you portray their relationship as old partners :”) 💖If it’s not trouble to do (Dont feel obligated plz) I had this idea of 5 and reader having a fight and them being too prideful or bitter to apologize. Reader ignores him for some time and Five gets grumpier than usual bc of that. To the point where, one of his siblings tell him to just stop being children, apologize and give them flowers. But he finds it hard bc he is not good with that kinda of stuff ☺️

a/n: thank youuu <3, i try my best to keep the tua characters in... well, character lol- as much as possible! i hope this fic turned the way you wanted it, anyway- enjoy!!~

summary: five gets grumpy when his girlfriend gives him the silent treatment for being a jerk... shocker.

“Could you stop for one damn second and relax?!” You yelled at your boyfriend, already stressed out by the way he had been almost carving a hole through the floor of the living room with all his pacing.

“Relax?!” Five yelled, turning to glare at you, “Do you even realize how stupid you sound?! How could I relax- I lost my last lead on that fucking eye!”

“Come again?” You raised a brow, crossing your arms as you watched him curiously. Did he just call you stupid indirectly?

Your nerves were tugging at the last threads of patience you had left within you- they had been doing that for a few days. You knew that life wouldn’t be quiet when you decided to give a relationship with your partner a shot, but you never expected things to get so messy.

Not only you followed his grumpy butt all the way to 2019 to stop an apocalypse- which you couldn’t care less about, now you had been stuck in your younger bodies because he miscalculated something before traveling in time. On top of all that, he had been a jerk to his siblings- which you grew quite fond of and viceversa, he also started being an asshole to you, all because he couldn’t find a way to stop the apocalypse.

“Five Hargreeves, did you just call me stupid?” You asked, seeing that he was frozen in place, going back over his words in his mind.

“Not exactly.” He knitted his brows in confusion, before realizing the irritated look on your face, “I don’t have time for this, Y/N.”

“You think I had any time these past two years putting up with your shit?” You retorted, making him raise his brows in surprise by your sudden burst, “Screw you, asshole.”

“Now that was rude!” He yelled after you, once you started walking out of the room, completely ignoring him, “Y/N!”

You had been with the Commission for over four decades, you completely trusted its choices, since you never were given a reason not to. Well, that was until the Handler recruited Five Hargreeves. He was about four-five years older than you, but nonetheless still had the impeccable skills of an assassin- just what the organization wanted and needed.

You, being one of the Handler’s most trusted agents, she assigned him under your wing in the beginning until he’d get adjusted. So, he became your partner, it didn’t take long until he became your partner in the real sense of the word.

Five was in love with you- stupidly in love with you. He loved your wit and your kindness, he loved that he could have intellectual conversations with you for hours on end, he loved the fact that he’d feel whole again with just one look at your face, your smile, your eyes.

But he was a prideful man, he knew that. If he was wrong- which he rarely was, he had no intention of apologizing. You knew how important stopping the apocalypse was to him, but... it pained you to see him almost lose his shit completely when he loses the last remaining lead.

For the next couple of hours, you completely avoided him at all costs until he’d get that stick out of his ass and apologize. 

And he’d better have a grand way of doing it.

You knew that it was not like him- he’d never apologize, and the fact that you were avoiding him was not making it any easier on him, but you were beyond pissed. Even if he may not have meant it, all you tried to do was help him relax for a moment, take a breather before that pretty head of his would explode. And in return? 

In return, Five fucking Hargreeves continues being an asshole- what a surprise.

“Jesus, where did all the caffeine in this house go?!” Five groaned, searching the cupboards in the kitchen, feeling grumpier than usual.

“I told you- dad didn’t like it.” Allison reminded him, as she and Luther sat at the table, watching him in confusion, “What’s got into you?”

“What are you talking about?” He asked, not done yet with his search- he wanted at least something that felt like coffee, “Come on- we don’t even have... coffee flavored fucking chocolate or some shit like that..?” He mumbled, shutting the cupboard with a loud smack.

“She means... you’re... grumpier... than usual...” Luther hesitantly explained, afraid that his little-older psychotic brother might have finally snapped.

“Mind your business, will ya?” Five asked with a fake smile, stomping out of the kitchen.

“I love Y/N, I swear I do... and oddly enough, Five too.” Allison spoke up, “But honestly, what was she thinking becoming his girlfriend?”

“I am just happy for her they’re not married.” Luther shrugged, resting his hand on his palm, as Diego walked into the kitchen;

“Is it just me or is Five a lesser ray of sunshine than usual?”

The following day, you treated Five with the same coldness as the prior day, which really drove him insane. Not only he spent the night in his bed alone, since you decided to bunk for the night in one of the empty rooms, but now you were still giving him the silent treatment.

Luckily, during breakfast, the Hargreeves siblings finally managed to understand what was going on.

“Hey, Diego, do you think we can pay Eudora a visit at the station after breakfast?” You asked the man, “I promised her the other day some files to help with an investigation she has on the side.”

“Sure thing.” Diego smiled, looking forward to seeing the detective again, even if he bickered with her from time to time.

“What files?” Five asked curiously.

“Vanya, can you please pass me the salt?” You ignored him, smiling at his sister.

Vanya raised a brow, unsure what to do, as the other siblings were piecing the puzzle together. Five raised a brow, as you avoided eye contact with him, waiting for the salt shaker which was, ironically, closer to him than Vanya.

“Here.” He said, reaching for it before his sister, handing it to you.

You looked at him with a smile, then at the salt shaker that was waiting on you to pick it from your boyfriend’s hand. Instead, you scoffed, getting up from your seat with your plate in your hands, suddenly losing your appetite.

“I am gonna go change.” You declared, placing your dish in the sink, “Diego, I’ll wait for you in the car.”

“Unbelievable....” Five muttered, throwing the salt shaker somewhere on the table, before abruptly getting up from his seat to pour himself a cup of freshly made coffee- Klaus made sure to stock up since Allison and Luther told him what had happened the other day.

“Why is Y/N giving you the cold shoulder?” Diego asked his brother, raising a brow.

“Leave me alone.” Five muttered, leaving the room even grumpier, with his hot cup of coffee in his hand to at least soothe him down a bit.

“Five!” Allison yelled after him, but he was already out of there, “Urgh, he’s such a child!”

After you and Diego had left the Hargreeves mansion, Five found it hard to focus on trying to get another lead on the prosthetic eye- he could not stop thinking about the fact that it almost had been twenty four hours since the woman he loved had chosen to deliberately ignore him, all because his stupid mouth could not help snapping at her.

What a moron he was, he knew that.

“Y/N told me what happened.” Allison told her brother, entering his room softly, watching as he laid on his bed on his back, “And woah- aren’t you an asshole?”

“What do you want, Allison?” He asked, rolling his eyes, staring up at his ceiling.

“Here’s a crazy idea... why don’t you apologize?” She suggested, crossing her arms.

“Have you... met me?” Five frowned, lifting his head to watch his sister in confusion.

“Look, you and Y/N both need to stop being children!” She said, “I know you may have teen bodies, but aren’t you both like over fifty? Honestly, Five...”

“Knowing I will regret this, what do you suggest, Allison?” Five asked with a sigh, watching as his sister smirked in response.

You and Diego didn’t really take long to finish your business at the police station. In about thirty minutes, you both were back on your way home, unaware of the big surprise that was waiting for you.

You entered the house, stretching your arms, already telling yourself you needed a drink, even if it was only noon. You figured a glass of some expensive bourbon would calm you down, so you made your way in the living room, as Diego went to his room in his own business.

Although, you couldn’t help but widen your eyes in surprise, as you stopped in your tracks once your look fell on Five, who was sitting at the bar with a Margarita in one hand, and a big bouquet of flowers rested in his lap.

“Five?” You frowned, stepping towards him confused.

Never in his life, would Five ever think he’d be so happy to hear his name on your lips. He softly smiled, realizing that Allison’s plan was working, as you finally spoke to him, even if it was one word.

“Y/N.” Five gulped, setting down his glass to jump off the stool, “These are for you...” He hesitantly said, stretching his hands towards you, as he held the big, colorful bouquet of all sorts of flowers towards you.

“I... Uh... what?” You frowned, taken aback by the gesture.

Five wasn’t necessarily the romantic type, so this was the first bouquet of flowers you ever received from him. You knew he loved you with all his heart and he was in love with you, that’s why you didn’t care about the romantic gestures he never did- but, right now, watching his cheeks turn into a slight shade of pink as he was biting on his bottom lip anxiously- your heart melted.

Allison had given him all sorts of advice on how to apologize to you with the help of Vanya, since they were both well aware of the fact that their brother was not capable of saying such words by himself. But right now, as you stood before him, Five had forgotten all that they taught him.

“I... I suck at this kind of stuff, I gotta be honest.” Five sighed, stepping closer to you, still with the bouquet in his hands, as you were still hesitant, “I... I shouldn’t have snapped at you, Y/N, I know. You didn’t deserve to be told that, even if I didn’t mean it at all. I swear, I was only mad and I never meant to take it out on you.”

“Oh my God.” You covered your mouth in shock, “Are you... actually... trying to apologize to me?”

“Sort of... yeah...” Five sighed, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, “Look, what I am trying to say... What I am trying to say is that I appreciate your love, and having your support with me, and I know you care about my well-being.”

“Keep going...” You smirked, stepping closer to him, “Come on... they are three simple words.”

“Right...” Five sighed, running a hand through his hair, “Look, Y/N? I... I am...”

You didn’t even let him finish, as you softly took the bouquet out of his hand not to squish it, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him into a tight hug. You knew how hard it must have been so far for a know-it-all like Five to say that, so you didn’t want to push him further. To you it was enough that he at least felt sorry for bursting like that.

“I love you.” Five sighed, wrapping his arms around your waist, “And I truly mean what I said earlier.”

“I love you too.” You smiled, not yet pulling away from the loving embrace, “And I know... I know...”

Five pulled away to smile down at you, “Thank you for being so understanding... and supportive.”

“I’d say it is my pleasure, but I’d be lying.” You teased him, bopping his nose with the free hand that was not wrapped around his neck still and holding the flowers.

“Hilarious.” Five sarcastically said, slowly leaning in, “I think I liked it better when you weren’t talking.”

“Really?” You scoffed, but before you could continue the playful banter, Five had already captured your lips into a soft kiss, finding a better way to shut you up.

[lightlavenders]

Time for my Entrapdak rant (a.k.a. why Hordak was better for her than literally anyone else, a.k.a. I’m not bias I swear)

as I read through Entrapta/Hordak/princess gang discourse on this site I started to realise the reason why I loved Entrapdak so much in the first place, and I will now talk about that here (some of these points are stolen from better posts). ALSO no matter how much I shit on other characters just know this isn’t an attack of any of them. This is gonna be VERY ENTRAPTA FOCUSED.

OK SO we get introduced to Entrapta pretty early in season 1 and we get to learn a lot about her. It also quickly becomes clear that she’s neurodivergent - something confirmed to be intentional by many of the creators. Entrapta has a passion for technology, science and inventing, and (same as the previous princesses) the best friend squad decide they need her in the alliance so she can build them weapons (whICH SHE NEVER ACTUALLY DOES i think BUT THATS NOT THE POINT). 

Throughout the episode though, the squad (mostly Glimmer bc she’s the one who gets to closely interact with Entrapta the most... Adora being completely out of it and Bow with the kitchen staff) seems to slowly run out of patience for her - Glimmer very obviously puts up a front of tolerance despite her frustration. This is unlike the other episodes, where all the princesses get along in the end and become best friends oh boy! So... we have our only neurodivergent character so far who isn’t really welcomed into the group the same way as the others... and her autistic behaviour is only tolerated because they need her... okay, maybe that’ll change later.

Or not? When Entrapta joins the others on the quest to save Glimmer, she is constantly infantilised by the others and not taken seriously. She runs off to study Horde tech and actually helps rescue Sea Hawk, two very helpful things, but Perfuma talks down to her like a child and PUTS HER ON A LEASH? SHE’S 30!!! SHE WAS TRYING TO HELP! And no one tells Sea Hawk off for getting lost and alerting Scorpia to their presence, which wasn’t helpful at all. Then later, Mermista says she’ll keep an eye on her “in case she decides to befriend any more robots” like okay... she isn’t a child, and she didn’t run off because she wanted to play with robots or something?

Okay, so, Entrapta is left behind, which I won’t blame them for because it definitely looked like she died (they get over it pretty quickly but I digress), and she comes across Catra. Okay! Here’s a chance for Entrapta to make a true friend, right? Or not, because Entrapta and Catra’s friendship is built entirely on manipulation. At least Scorpia was sincere. 

Here Entrapta is again, in a position where she’s being used for her skills and in a we’re-sort-of-friends-but-I-only-tolerate-you-because-you’re-useful situation, with Scorpia probably being her only true friend at the moment. She starts helping out the horde, because they actually let her do what she wants and at the very least don’t treat her like a child. Then, she stumbles into Hordak’s lab.

I’m gonna say this now because I’ll get murdered if I don’t - Hordak is a bad guy. He does bad guy stuff. But so does Entrapta sometimes (I’ll talk about that later) so good morals don’t need to play into their relationship I think. It’s about how they treat each other.

At first, Hordak is very defensive and angry towards Entrapta, as he would be to anyone coming in to his lab without permission and discovering his secret portal project. But then she fixes said portal and he immediately sees her as an intellectual equal. Again, Entrapta has had to prove herself to someone by making herself useful, but it actually goes further. ALSO can I say how Hordak is the ONLY person who interacts directly with Entrapta who doesn’t treat her like a child or emotionally manipulate her, with the exception of Wrong Hordak, Emily, and Imp of all characters... Even Scorpia is guilty of this later.

So, Entrapta and Hordak start working together, and Entrapta is obviously very excited to have someone treat her as an equal (they’re lab partners!!). On top of that, Hordak is also happy to have someone he can actually trust. Catra and Scorpia at separate times both remark on how Entrapta spends all of her time with him now, and who can fucking blame her when he’s the only one that has literally spent all this time growing close to her and understanding her as a person, not just using her, not just tolerating her, not talking down to her constantly. Hordak opens up his trauma to Entrapta and she responds by opening up a bit in return, literally saying that she doesn’t fit in and that Catra doesn’t even talk to her anymore. They are obviously comfortable around each other, and if Hordak was manipulating her, then why was he so distraught when she was taken away? Why did he CRY??? Why did he consider giving up on his life’s purpose and abandoning what is essentially his god for her???

Anyway, stuff happens, and Entrapta shows that she isn’t the irresponsible child everyone thinks she is by agreeing to shut off the portal. But of course, Catra betrays her and sends her away. To die. How nice. Catra tells Hordak that Entrapta betrayed him, and instead of flipping out and turning all Hal Stewart incel “if I can’t have you no one can” he just gets sad... and then later all he really wants is to see her again, even if it is on the battlefield. I’m not sure what he would’ve done so we can’t say for sure, but I seriously doubt he wanted to hurt her.

sidenote - I’m not gonna blame Scorpia for letting Catra doing this, Scorpia had her own shit going on and was essentially trapped in an abusive relationship and she also later makes up for letting Entrapta down by getting her rescued

SO then the best friend squad go to save her from Beast Island, and she’s literally completely given up. Gee, I wonder why. Could it be because it seems like every friend she’s ever had has abandoned her, scolded her, or outright zapped her unconscious and sent her to die in a monster filled island? But the squad save her and affirm to her that they didn’t give up on her and that they’re still her friends. Actions speak louder than words, guys, but okay, cool! To Bow and Adora’s credit, they were the least patronising and mean out of anyone... so, that’s something. Anyway! Affirmations! Some respect from her friends! I hope this lasts... 

It didn’t! Season 5, Entrapta goes along with the others to help find out where Glimmer is. Here is where I quickly have to say something - Entrapta does indeed make some ‘evil’ and stupid decisions sometimes - hacking the black garnet, building robots that attack her old friends, walking out absentmindedly in front of a robot and compromising her team. Some of these things can be explained by her neurodivergence, but do not always justify it. That being said. Entrapta is not evil, she is not stupid, and her “weirdness” does not give her friends the excuse to treat her like a child. 

Here’s where it gets bad!! Perfuma puts Entrapta on a leash AGAIN!!!!!! WHAT? Writers? Wyd?? Not only this, but the others talk about her behind her back, and then scold her without any consideration for how she, as a neurodivergent person, was interpreting the situation. They could’ve explained their feelings to her in a calm way, instead of shunning her and expecting her to pick up on their cues, then exploding at her when they didn’t. THEN THEY CALL HER A BAD FRIEND.... and I feel hypocrisy in this chili’s tonight... and then Scorpia... doesn’t say anything? Girl help. Ik we can’t totally blame her since she was new to the squad and probably didn’t wanna get kicked out or yelled at like with Catra, but please... that is your friend...say something. also why did mermista need to pull her hair and then later say “you’re still a weirdo” like what. why do people ship them? because mermista cried when entrapta ‘died’? Okay??

I think Entrapta actually goes through some character development after this which is pretty cool - she outwardly expresses her concern for Glimmer, which is affirming to her friends the squad, and later at the end of the series, intentionally keeps herself focused during the most high stakes moment instead of running off. I’m not qualified to talk about if these traits, which could be considered traits of autistic people, deserve to be treated as flaws to be fixed, that’s a whole other bag of worms, but yay character development.

Finally, at the end, Hordak properly reunites with Entrapta and he decides to rebel against his creator and his purpose to save her life, showing that Entrapta, and their connection, is his priority now. And once Adora saves Hordak from Prime (thanks Adora), the two finally reunite in a spinning hug - that is literally the most physical contact either of them have had with anyone, how could anyone not believe in their connection and mutual trust???

Mermista gives us one last jab, an understandable one considering Hordak was conquering their planet for years on end, but still - “so, are we all just like, okay with this?” yes girl, we are. He’s literally the only one who ever treated her with real respect and love, the only one who ever prioritised her.

I know some people are gonna be like “just ship her with wrong Hordak” and if you really like that... go ahead I guess? But do we need to force a clone who just got control of his own mind into a relationship, or a girl who is very much in love with someone else into a relationship with one of her friends? You can do what you want though, it’s literally fine, I’m the one who just spent over 1500 words talking about why a 30 year old science woman should go out with an alien warlord.

In conclusion - Hordak and Entrapta deserve each other, because Entrapta deserves someone who treats her right, and I love her.

[aperfecttimeforscreaming]

10 reasons why a poorly adjusted adult Dib is a Valid headcanon

1. Dib is/was a neglected child

Dib doesn’t have a parent that he can lean on and go talk to for advice, his father is frequently out of the picture and doesn’t give a shit about the thing that Dib cares about. Dib is actively encouraged by his neglectful father to give up on it, actually. I believe this would make Dibs stubborn streak really bitter and spiteful. Most people reading this are LGBTQ+, I assume I don’t need to explain how a fucked up an isolated upbringing, or being unable to be yourself around a parent, hurts you in the long run. 

2. Dib is bullied for the things he is passionate about, and being bullied heavily colours your perception of other people 

The world of Invader Zim is not kind, Dib is frequently harassed by his classmates/superiors/family for his outbursts/lectures/overall investigator shtick. 

Now you might say “but, Screaming, wouldn’t Dib learn to tone it down as he got older?” and YEAH. Probably! But does that mean that he would just forgive all the people that made his life horrible before that point? Or who socially ostracized him for the things he’d done in the past? No. No one is under any  obligation to forgive anyone who hurt them, and I think Dib wouldn’t even try to forgive someone he saw as intellectually inferior 

3. Dib is a selfish rich kid

Dib is selfish. He wants to be the protector of earth- but he doesn’t do it for earths sake. He’s clearly doing it as a cry for attention/ a reason to eventually be vindicated for being spit on by his own kind.  I don’t think he would have genuine empathy for other people. If he did have it, it’d have to be something he had to work really hard at. However, I don’t see Dib putting much effort into understanding other humans. 

Dib is rich (probably). This one being more of a headcanon- in the series Dib wants for no material object, he wastes technology on his explorations like it’s something he can just pick up from the dollar store, his father is a world renowned scientist with access to crazy technology and the ears of world leaders. I think he’d feel entitled to one or two things 

4. Gaz is not her brothers keeper. 

She’s not responsible for his mental health, she’s not responsible for keeping him in line and “normal”. Most of the time she doesn’t want a damn thing to do with him. If we’re going by the standards of the IZ tv show, the only times that Gaz interfered with Dibs paranormal investigations were when Professor M. Was also involved. Either she wanted to see her dad and Dibs antics were getting in the way (forcing her to intervene), or she was directly ordered by their dad to keep Dib out of trouble.  Sure, you could argue that she would beat the shit out of Dib for doing something she didn’t like- but that wouldn’t “fix” the mind of a very stubborn person. It might even make them dig their heels in even deeper out of spite and bitterness as a “fuck you I’m right you’re wrong” 

Furthermore, as Gaz gets older she’s going to have her own life to worry about and might stop tolerating the way Prof. M uses her as a middle man to deal with his “poor insane son”. She’s under no obligation to fix any of the phases Dibs life might go through. If Dib was unpleasant enough, and Gaz had the resources to leave, I think she might just bail on him. 

5. Dib is arrogant 

He's gonna do what he thinks is the best course of action unless you physically stop him from doing so. He comes from a place of thinking that he is right, the opinion of anyone else is secondary. Dib will do “what needs to be done” for “the greater good”. Whatever he thinks that “good” is. He wants to play the white knight at any cost. He cannot be in the wrong, or that bravado towards being righteous in the end crumbles. I think Dib would subscribe to a “the ends justify the means” mentality

6. Dib would harm another person to get what he wanted

In a room with a moose, Dib debates letting himself die just to take his entire class down with him. In the unaired episode “return of Keef”, he co-operates with Zim in an attempt to make Keef explode, because he thinks Keef is irritating. Dib used Gaz to test out an ancient spell book, cursed Gaz to only taste pork, and then only helped fix the problem when threatened with physical violence. This could be the kind of thinking that gets worse over time as more people mock his attempts to save and protect them. Why care about people that don’t even give a shit if they live or die?  Dib is a smart fringe personality in his world, and the otherness that he feels for that could lead to a sociopathic way of thinking if things went bad enough 

7. Dib does not care about other peoples personal space

Dib hides cameras in Zims house. Dib ran right past the front gate at NASA Place, Dib chased a baby big foot up a radio tower. Dib bullied Zim physically on the playground using his known weaknesses against him. Dib would do anything to get the evidence he needed to prove what he wanted to prove, and that would get him in trouble. Repeatedly

8. Antisocial tendencies (like spending countless hours fused to a chair, or most of your young adult life spent hunched over a desk at a computer screen) make it difficult to smoothly socially integrate, and the world of Invader Zim is fuckin' mean

You know the world he comes from is mean. However, assuming Dib did find community somewhere, who’s to say they would agree with him? Or like him? Maybe one of them would cause problems for him that were bad enough he’d have to leave. I’ve always found that the IZ portrayal of earth to be like this funny cynical parody of a dystopian police state america. If we’re going by “what can go wrong will go wrong”, Dibs social integration wouldn’t get easier without a bunch of effort on Dibs part. Maybe Dib would have to pretend to be somebody unlike himself just to get by in his day to day adult life. If we see Dibs country of residence as a police state, the world Dib grows up in would encroach heavily on his personal privacy, and that might make him even stranger via paranoia 

9. Sadistic tendencies towards anything paranormal (obsessed with the act of dominating and exposing the unknown)

Dib is a fucking jerk to Zim (rightfully so), but Dib is a dick to pretty much every supernatural thing he comes across. Either out of an excess of enthusiasm, or using a supernatural being to further his own plans, or from an invasion of privacy, or being an irritant to the entity he’s dealing with. He LIKES to be mean to them.  He  wishes to have mastery over knowing how they work. (maybe it’s more fair to say Dib is a voyeur?)  

This is more headcanon than anything, but I don’t think it’s a stretch to say he might also want to control the paranormal for his own purposes. If Dib could say- catch a ghost in a jar so he could show it to everyone, he’d do it. If he could trick a werewolf into transforming on stage in front of a large audience? He’d do that.

10. Dib is created to be Zims equal

Dib is as “evil” as Zim is and vice versa. Neither of them is good, or pure, or morally justified. It’s a nice little grey dynamic. Both characters think they’re entirely in the right when they act. That they often aren’t in the right is fun because then you get to write/draw/ think about how they’d react to the consequences. Dib could still totally be a hero in his own mind, despite setting an apartment block on fire to flush out a coven of litches.

The reverse of this is also true, Zim can do nice things, and occasionally be good as Dib can be good. I figure the Zim/Dib dynamic changes for everyones interpretations at least somewhat. Having Zims terrible actions rub off on Dib as their battles escalate is a really fun way to go about exploring their relationship 

11. I like the it

There is no right or wrong way to enjoy a cartoon character! Live to make yourself happy in fandom! If you ever thought you needed permission to create rancid content, I’m sorry you felt pressured not to do it. 

You want to make a serial killer Dib?? You want to make a basement dwelling depressed zit covered Dib?? You want to make a Dib who struggles with his trauma through substance abuse?? Go HAM!! 

[weakzen]

Eyes Shut

Oh no, Mason and the Detective find Bobby knocked out cold on the sidewalk! No one saw what happened to him.

Just like no one saw anyone cry—and no one saw any comfort either.

pairing: female detective/mason rating: m wc: 9k+ series: part 1 of 3 warnings: references to a past emotionally abusive relationship, trauma, gender policing & slut-shaming (no slurs), vague sexual coercion, non-con nude photos, threats of revenge porn; bobby is a fucking scumbag

AO3 version

also submitted for @31daysofwayhaven day 11 – transformation ♥

A jab would send him sprawling, easily.

Wouldn't even take any leg drive, just a sloppy, weak strike thrown from the shoulder. He'd go stumbling backwards, skidding over yellow leaves, splashing through rain puddles, phone flying up and away to clatter on the ground, screen shattered. Hands flying up too, toward the pain exploding across his face, pointless but instinctive, when he really ought to be using those arms to protect his head from cracking against the sidewalk.

I snort a little, and eye the concrete planter a few meters away.

Hell, if I did it with a proper pivot, I could probably get him to land in that. Knock his glasses off, too.

Knock him out cold as well. Probably fracture his jaw along with it.

And destroy the station's beautiful chrysanthemums and dahlias—though, I think Tina would consider it a worthy sacrifice.

In the distance, streetlights flicker to life, cars drive over wet asphalt, the last of the daylight bleeds red across the sky, chased by a cloudy smattering of stars, and Bobby continues yammering on at me, oblivious to it all. Reading something from his phone that couldn't wait. An upcoming article, I think. Admonishment, I'm sure, for something I did wrong again. Pouty lips illuminated by his screen, blasting puffs of hot air in more than one way, flapping relentlessly with eager disapproval and a frown that barely conceals the cutting smugness in his voice.

He'd never see my fist coming, either. Because he's not looking, obviously.

Because he doesn't see me at all—and never has.

I'm just… an enraptured audience for him. An adoring mirror. A rung to higher places. A pretty doll. A trophy. An angel.

Not a person.

Certainly not someone capable of loathing his ratshit fucking guts and who has every goddamn reason to throw that punch and all the long years of practice to make it really fucking count.

I shove my hands deeper into my jacket and blow out a puff of my own, breath coming shallow against the tension winding in my chest.

That's something he almost took from me as well, now that I think about it.

My ability to fight.

He never liked how much time I spent training. Or the types of exercise I did. Said all of it was making me too bulky. Too muscular. That I was ruining my 'femininity' and 'soft, natural beauty.' That the scars were already unattractive enough, no need for hideous bruises too, and physical combat was just brutish. Barbaric. Beneath someone of my intellectual caliber. An unworthy pursuit. A waste of effort. Irresponsible, really, to let my mind rot away in favor of it. And he was just looking out for me and my best interests by pointing these things out, you know. Speaking honestly, when no one else had the courage. Taking care of me, when no one else ever had.

Showing his love, one jagged hollow-point comment at a time, jacketed in concern and fired my direction, until enough of them hit and tore through, expanding and eroding away, that little remained of me eventually other than a raw, bloody mess and the total belief in his correctness.

For a time, anyway.

Too long a time.

“Did you catch all of that, Detective Black?”

The irritated edge to his tone snaps my attention back to him immediately, if not my eyes. Alarm flares inside me for an instant, atavistic instinct surging out of dormancy on a wave of adrenaline, but I inhale slightly and let it pass.

Then I make him wait a little bit longer, blinking a few times before I focus my gaze on his.

“Not really,” I reply flatly, shrugging. “Bullshit has a real sedative effect on me.”

I force a yawn at him, something large and unapologetically open-mouthed that probably ruins my femininity too, and I try to stretch out some of that tightness from my back and body. But Bobby's eyes only crawl over me as I do, lingering on my breasts and exposed midriff before I quickly drop my arms and pull my jacket tighter.

“Why don't we continue this discussion at your apartment, then?” He leers at me, voice dipping queasily low, “And afterward, I can refresh you on all the ways I know how to keep you awake and… fully aroused.”

My face twists into an open grimace and I exhale a sharp noise of disgust. Bobby advances regardless, smirk coiling beneath a heated look, and my fingers clench into fists.

I fucking swear, if he touches me again—

But he doesn't.

He stops dead in his tracks almost immediately, gaze flicking past me, eyes narrowing, right before a hand splays warm across my lower back and I breathe in a familiar scent.

Smoke and sandalwood.

Startling me far more than the touch, for the rush of unexpected comfort it brings.

The hand slides around to my hip and Mason swings in front of me with it, blocking Bobby and everything else as he leans down with a smirk to press his lips against mine.

He deepens the kiss quickly, tongue slipping hot into my mouth, hand sliding around my back, the other up into my hair, tangling, urging me closer, until I'm on my toes, arms hooked around his neck, kissing him eagerly as we press fully together. I lose myself in him for a moment. His warmth. His welcome, pleasurable respite. His reassurance too, however unknown and unintentional, that I don't have to face Bobby alone this time.

Because I can do it alone. I have done it alone.

But having someone around just as ready to dunk that insufferable piece of shit into a nearby planter always makes enduring his presence a hell of lot more bearable.

Enjoyable, even, in some regards.

And maybe Mason agrees with me on that point, if the grin that keeps tugging at his lips is any indication.

I can't help but return it, and soon I'm shaking against him with growing, barely subdued laughter. His hands squeeze me in response, smile spreading against my mouth before he pulls back slightly, gazing down at me with half-lidded eyes heavy with desire and amusement.

“You ready to go home, sweetheart? Your ride's here.”

Mason rolls his hips forward for emphasis, sliding his hands down to cup my ass too as he grinds against me. I burst into open laughter—and I grind back, weight swaying off his neck, cheeks flushed, breath catching as well, when his eyes darken above into something more serious.

When they smolder deeply and then it suddenly is just the two of us. Embracing.

And all I can feel—all I want to feel—is him pressed against every fucking piece of me.

Until Bobby's voice slashes through the moment anyway, clipped and raised.

“Well, don't be rude, angel. Introduce me to your colleague.”

The sharpness to his tone surprises me a little. So does Mason, when he immediately whirls on Bobby.

“The fuck did you just call her?” Mason sneers. “'Angel?'”

Bobby takes a few steps back. Uncertainty flashes across his face before he recovers, ever the opportunist, eyes darting from Mason to lock on mine as he smirks again.

“You only need to take one look at her to see that,” Bobby coos, sweet as a mouthful of antifreeze and just as revolting. “She is an angel. My gorgeous muse. My inspiration—”

Something twists sharply inside of me.

A ragged scoff surges past my lips and I rush forward, whipping around Mason until I'm crowding into Bobby's face, forcing him to retreat even more. “I think 'host' is a better word, Robert,” I spit, “before I plucked you off and flicked you away like the destructive fucking parasite you are.”

Bobby's expression singes away beneath the heat of my outburst, blasted into shock. It startles me too, the force of my words. The vehemence burning my tone. The fact I'm standing in front of him like this at all, heart thundering and suddenly overwhelmed, knotting with emotion, too much of it, too intense, expanding, filling my chest, until it tangles around my throat and chokes so tight I can barely breathe, barely keep from trembling, barely hold back those hot fucking tears blurring my vision and threatening to spill down my cheeks.

Inspiration.

Something he claimed I took from him.

A word that echoed high and often against the walls and coffered ceiling of the tribunal, along with every other one of his fucking lies.

I can still hear it.

Still feel the hem of my skirt twisted around my fingers, wrinkled, stretched taut, unable to stop my hands from shaking. Still smell the musty books and ammonia, the cheap washroom soap and tang of vomit burning raw in my throat. Still taste the salt on my tongue, the steady swallow of mucus, the sobs I can't let out, not here, not now, but they just keep coming anyway, straining against a wall of clenched teeth, shuddering silent through my body while I spin inside the swirling, sickening, heartbroken disbelief that any of it's actually happening. That he's actually saying these things about me. That he actually did this to me.

That he's actually fucking trying to blame it all on me.

Like he always does.

A touch from behind draws me back, shoves out the air trapped in my lungs, then an arm slings across my shoulders and Mason pulls me in against his chest.

My hands slide upward, unthinking, unintentionally, but there they are, suddenly beneath his jacket, pressed against the warmth of his back, clutching at him while his other hand comes up to squeeze my hip. My head tips forward too, also unintentional, and trying to swerve at the last moment only lands my ear next to his heartbeat. I've felt it before, often, but… I've never actually heard it.

It pounds steady. Soothing.

Increasingly too intimate.

Like eavesdropping on something meant to be private.

I know I shouldn't stay here like this, resting above that sound, trespassing in it, taking comfort from it that isn't being offered. So I blink hard at the moisture stinging my eyes, and start swallowing the rest as quickly as I can. As quietly as I can too, trying not to sniffle. Failing not to sniffle. Cringing immediately, stiffening, about to pull away, flee, run back to the station and— I-I don't know, hide in the washroom, like it's fucking middle school again—when I hear a soft sigh I wouldn't be able to discern at any other distance either.

Then Mason pulls me in even closer. Until my ear rests flat on his chest and my eyes squeeze shut.

And a new swell of emotion finally knocks some of that moisture free.

I wipe at it immediately, roughly. Smearing it across my swollen, overly-hot cheeks.

How fucking embarrassing.

All of it.

And Bobby knows it too, high off victory and armed with a new weapon for his arsenal.

“I realize you're having a… moment,” he says, smile ghosting over the word, “but you still haven't introduced me to your colleague, Alexandra.”

Mason tenses against me and shifts above, glancing down with an intensity I can easily feel pressing on the top of my head.

“You wanna finish kicking the shit out of this asshole yourself, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, words rumbling through his chest into mine. “Or do you want me to take care of it for you?”

He keeps staring, willing me to look up at him with that heavy, insistent gaze, and eventually I do. Reluctantly. Hesitantly. Meeting those unwavering grey eyes, hard with resolve and seriousness, but also…

Soft.

Somehow.

I glance away quickly.

“Not sure.” My voice comes out hoarse around the knot in my throat, and so does the quiet, faintly amused huff that follows. “Tough fucking choice, sun—” I skid past his nickname, stiffening. Not here. “I want to, but… it might be pretty funny to see how far you can throw him.”

“He'll go as far as you fucking need. Just say the word.”

Mason drags his gaze away from me to stare at Bobby, eyes darkening with something deeply predatory, that intense, piercing focus of his, the one his look sharpens into whenever missions tip sideways, unblinking and controlled, but only barely. Only just holding back the violence less than a heartbeat away. Bobby flinches beneath it, squirming visibly, uncertainty and fear flickering in his own eyes as they dart rapidly across the two of us. Probably deciding whether it's worth it or not to risk staying.

Or searching for the next weak point to burrow into.

The station's exterior lights shudder on around us, bathing everything in a slowly-brightening sodium-orange glow. It makes the flowers pop, sunset colors burning warm against the night, and I nod at them, wiping the last trace of moisture from my face.

“You think I could get him in the planter? If I punched him from here?”

Mason barks out a loud laugh and squeezes me slightly. “Don't underestimate yourself, sweetheart. You could get him much further than that.”

Another flash of uncertainty passes through Bobby—then it hardens and he starts to dig.

“Thank you both so much for handing me my next story.” He puffs up straighter. “It's about government officials abusing their authority, threatening private citizens with violence. Was the corruption already infesting our police force prior to the arrival of this mysterious Agency, or does their continued, shadowy presence indicate an oppressive new era for our freedom and safety in Wayhaven?”

Bobby wields his phone at us, voice recorder no doubt running since he forced himself into my path and every attempt to move around him as I tried to leave the station.

I raise an eyebrow. “…You realize we're both private citizens too, right? Off duty. No badge,” I explain slowly, tapping the empty spot on my belt, “not working at the moment. Not representing anything.”

Mason shrugs. “I'd still threaten him if I was on duty.”

Bobby's head swivels at Mason, eyes narrowed as he smirks confidently. “Is that due to the specific nature of your job, Specialist Agent Mason?”

Mason just stares at him, unimpressed.

I remain quiet, too. Silence only encourages Bobby. Always so eager to fill it with himself.

Always so unable to hold back when there's a chance to jerk off his ego.

“Redacted surname to conceal your identity?” Bobby continues, smirk widening. “That's what I assumed, when I strangely couldn't find one anywhere. But now, after hearing your accent up close, I bet it's Greek—along with your actual given name.”

“What accent?” I blurt out.

“Yeah, I don't have an accent,” Mason agrees, in his very obvious, very lilting Greek accent.

Somehow, I manage to keep a straight face, squishing it into something that resembles a furrowed look of concern. Bobby's brow creases too, the briefest sparks of confusion and self-doubt igniting in his eyes. When they do, I clench my jaw hard.

It takes everything I have not to burst out laughing—and Mason's amused little squeeze at my hip does not help.

The crease on Bobby's brow deepens, before he blows past it and presses on. “I know you're the so-called 'interrogations expert' for Unit Bravo.”

Mason snorts.

Bobby smiles, chuckling slightly. “I find that word a bit bureaucratically euphemistic myself—interrogation—such an unassuming beige facade constructed around the ugly truth of what it actually means.” His smile sharpens. “Would you prefer to be called a 'torturer' instead?”

That actually makes Mason break into a scoffing laugh. “Would be a lot more fucking satisfying some days if that were true,” he says, smiling back even sharper. “Like right now.”

Cracks form at the edge of Bobby's smile. “Threats of violence and now threats of torture. Does your Agency condone this appalling conduct? Are all of the members of your,” his lip curls, “little team as bloodthirsty as you?”

“Yes,” Mason replies instantly.

A loud snort escapes me and I slap my hand over my mouth, trying not to laugh.

But it slips past my palm anyway, and sputters free into the night.

“Is something funny about this, Detective Black?” Bobby's sneer rolls off my title. “Because I fail to see the humor in the situation and I'm beginning to have serious reservations about your judgment and ability to serve this community—”

“Just beginning to?” I cut in, snorting again. “What was that article you wrote about me after I first got hired? Something about 'nepotistic incompetency' about to 'doom the town?'”

“It appears I was prescient as always, if this is the company you're choosing to keep. To trust.”

Bobby's expression softens and his gaze locks onto mine once more, brown eyes filling with worry, lips frowning with concern.

Or what would be worry and concern, if it came from anybody else.

“Why would this Agency need someone with a dangerous skill set like his in a small town like Wayhaven? Why would they need it so badly that they would pull an asset from halfway around the world and station him here to do it? Did you ever stop and ask yourself that, Alexandra? Or is something—someone—making you too afraid to consider it?”

Mason scoffs hard and I glance up to catch him mid-eye roll. “Tell me you've made up your mind already, sweetheart,” he mutters, jaw clenched. “This guy is begging to eat a fucking fist.”

Bobby tries to remain focused on me, but his eyes still flicker to Mason. Tension pulls on his features, revealing a glimpse of the irritation lurking beneath, right before he forces his face back into what I'm sure he believes is a powerful and irresistible look of pained affection.

“I know we've had our… difficulties in the past,” his voice snags over the word, cracking slightly for effect and I roll my eyes, “but regardless of how far apart they've forced us over the years, I want you to know that I am still here for you if you're in trouble, Alexandra. I will help you, no matter what.” He slides his hand up his chest. “I still care for you—more deeply than you know—and I always will.”

I'm not sure which scoff is louder this time—Mason's or mine.

They both blast into the night on puffs of hot breath, followed by another peal of my snorting laughter.

I glance up at Mason again after it passes, sly grin tugging at my lips. “So, I can get him past the planter. You think I could delete his bullshit recording too, with a little assistance?”

He smirks in response.

“Whatever you need.”

Mason lunges forward fluidly, beautifully, arm whipping out in a near blur to effortlessly snatch the phone away—then it's in my hands, warm and grease-crusted, before Bobby's eyes even have time to widen.

Which, they do, quickly. First in disbelief.

Then in that vacant, coiling rage I've witnessed so many times before it exploded out at me.

It always happens so fast.

The only warning I get is the sickening plummet, my stomach dropping down to anchor me on the spot, pulling that cold rush of dread along with it.

Half a decade later and I still freeze.

Bobby springs forward—

—and jerks to a stop immediately as Mason steps between us, waiting.

I stare at his back for a moment, hunched and visibly tense, even through the jacket, then I force out a sharp breath and tear my eyes away to the phone.

I stop the recording and delete it.

And…

Well…

If I've already deleted one, and already contaminated my hands with the world's grimiest fucking phone, then I'm committed—and I really ought to honor that bar of soap I'm gonna have to use up later by just deleting fucking everything while I'm here.

Bobby peers around the wall of Mason, red-faced with a severely strained smile.

“Alexandra—”

And Mason grabs him by the jaw, squeezes, and shoves him back into his spot.

“You can talk when she says you can.”

A smirk twitches at my lips, and a small twinge of satisfaction thrums in my chest. I glance back down to check his phone's settings. He's using the basic cloud sync to back everything up—which means if it's deleted here, then it's deleted from every other device linked to this account.

My smirk widens.

Good.

Well… unless he downloaded a copy of everything somewhere. I blow out a sigh.

Nothing I can do about that right now, though.

“Go ahead. Try it. Find out if you can run faster than me.”

I glance up again to see Bobby edging slightly to the side, scowl fixed on the station behind us.

Mason chuckles deeply, then adds, “Or if anyone in there actually gives a shit about what happens to you.”

He isn't wrong. I look over my shoulder, into the fluorescent light blasting through the glass panel walls. Douglas hooks over the front desk, back curved like a candy cane while he falls into his phone. It's just him in there right now, until the night shift volunteer shows up.

Well—volunteer no more. They're all paid positions now. Part time. With benefits.

And totally worth asking Rebecca to lean on the mayor as a favor to make it happen.

The sound of paper being flipped through angrily draws my attention back to Bobby—and to the small, black reporter's notebook in his hand. I raise an eyebrow as he whips out a pen too, then practically stabs the pad with it as he starts furiously scribbling. He always carried both of those things around in college, proudly tucked in his jacket pocket, but I never once saw him actually use them.

I just assumed he did it for the hipster cred.

Lips pursed, I shrug and start mass deleting his recordings. Scrolling and ticking, dragging and disappearing, fingers smearing new oily paths through the gunk on his screen with every sliding shift of movement. I resist the urge to shudder. Or worse—the instinct to wipe his phone clean on my jeans. I ignore it and power through, working quickly until, soon enough, all the recordings are gone. From the recently deleted folder, too.

I do the same for all of his notes and texts, email and voice mail, call logs and contacts. And I make sure nothing remains in the cloud storage app as well.

Good.

It won't stop him or his shitty excuse for journalism, but losing all of that data—all those jotted ideas, half-composed articles, research and years of correspondence—it should hurt. A lot. Should slow him down for a while, too.

And if not, well, there's always the option of a literal kick in the balls.

I'm about to chuck the phone back at his face when my stomach does an uneasy flip, breath snagging over it as a roll of icy needles prickle across my body.

I open up his photos instead, a moment later.

Unit Bravo feature prominently in the recent ones.

Public appearances only, at a glance, from various places around town. Felix ducking away from Mason as they enter the station together. Nate sitting at Haley's, legs folded awkwardly beneath a tiny outdoor table. Adam storming out of city hall, door slammed open and coat flared dramatically. No pictures of the Warehouse, thankfully. Or anything else implicating, as far as I can tell.

I keep scrolling back.

Through endless selfies.

A lot of them shirtless, of course. Most of them taken from places around town or the city. Some from gorgeous spots in wilderness between. At events and adventures too, all mixed in with photos of plated food and golden hour architectural shots and Bobby's arm slung around various strangers and Wayhaven elite alike, the same fake smile plastered on his face in every single image. There are pictures and video of other Wayhaven citizens too, taken from afar and up close. Covertly. Caught in the crosshair of whatever bullshit investigation he plotted against them. Just trying to go about their day, out living their lives while Bobby crept around in the bushes and painted a target on their back.

My lip curls.

And the dick pics.

So many fucking dick pics.

Who the fuck knows how many countless places those things have been shoved into unsolicited, how many people he's forced to look at them unwillingly.

Even one is too many.

I blow out a sharp breath and keep scrolling. Jumping back. Four years, five.

Until I see them.

Just a glimpse at first as I accidentally scroll past, but it's enough to recognize them, even as blurred thumbnails.

And it's enough to knock the air from my lungs, body suddenly cold except for the bile rising in my throat.

I swallow it down.

My thumb hovers above the screen for a moment, trembling slightly, before I work up the courage to scroll back.

To my nudes.

The ones he spent months badgering me into letting him take, until I finally gave in. The ones he promised me he would delete a few days later, after I told him that I really wasn't comfortable with what we did.

The ones that showed up at the tribunal too, his star witnesses, offered as proof of an inappropriate relationship that I pressured him into using my position as a teaching assistant. Last time I saw these, they were printed on handouts, glossy with toner, black bars covering my nipples and vagina to preserve my modesty while each image was studied and scrutinized by a group of men twice my age.

I blink back the sting in my eyes again.

One of the most humiliating moments of my life.

Nausea roils in my stomach and I take a deep, shuddering breath around it, the best I can, as quietly as I can, then tap over to his photo folders.

There's one with my name on it.

I open it up.

The nudes greet me there too, but so do other photos from college. Of happier moments.

Bobby and I biking together through the park. Kissing at a hockey game. Messing around in the aquarium gift shop, my hand stuffed into a shark puppet while I attack the camera. Out on dates at hole-in-the-wall hipster restaurants too, featuring impractically tall thigh-bruising stools and cherry-red lipstick and way more cleavage than I show off these days. There are even some pictures of us cuddled together and sinking into that grody, overstuffed couch, the one at that house party with the ridiculously strong edibles, where Bobby was too blazed off his ass and giggly to play devil's advocate and start pointless philosophical arguments.

I snort and flick my thumb, scrolling further. Thumbnails blur past until the roll stops.

On a picture I recognize immediately too.

I tap it open, and Bobby's face fills the screen. Mine too. Next to his. Leaning cheek-to-cheek with his arm slung around me, mountains looming over the city behind us, rocky peaks and glass towers and the deep blue water below all bathed gold and glittering in the sunset.

Bonfire night at the beach near campus.

My eyes are still slightly red in the photo. Puffy, but bright. Brimming with soft hope and joy behind slightly smeared mascara, like they hadn't been filled with silent tears less than a half-hour prior. Like I hadn't sat hunched in his kitchen chair, trembling, sick to my stomach while he yelled at me. I don't even remember about what or why, just the geometric pattern in the linoleum, his bare feet pacing back and forth across it, and then the relief that flooded through me when it all stopped.

When his arms circled around me, and he held me while I sobbed, murmuring forgiveness and promises things would be better in the future while he stroked his fingers through my hair.

My younger face smiles up at me. So happy to be in love, despite my inexperience. So happy to finally be loved, despite my glaring shortcomings as a partner and a person.

So fucking unaware of what was really happening—and how much worse it would get.

I don't blame her for not seeing it sooner. For any of it. I won't.

But, even now, the parts of me poisoned by him still echo his words anyway.

We only get what we deserve, angel.

You have no one to blame for anything but yourself.

I wipe at my eyes again with a rough drag of my sleeve—and manage to hold back the fucking sniffle this time.

Then I tap out of the folder and jump back even further in time, to the very beginning of his camera roll, and start preparing his photos for deletion.

One quick horizontal swipe to select the row, then a sharp vertical drag to make it scroll.

Back into the thicket of selfies. Of memories. Harassment.

And dick.

Every single hard-on highlighted with selection as they speed by, a blur of flesh, passing too quickly to see clearly, but still…

A forest of fucking cock.

At a certain point—little over halfway down the roll, to be specific—I can't help but mumble under my breath, “How many fucking pictures does one man need of his dick?”

Bobby shifts in the corner of my vision. “You could certainly never get enough before, and how much it… fulfilled you.”

I grimace, but keep my eyes focused on the task.

“Wouldn't brag about that too much,” I mutter, then nod at Mason. “His is bigger. And he actually makes me come, so…”

Mason cracks into the loudest fucking laugh I've ever heard from him. It slams into the building and echoes around us, deep and satisfied, so much that I have to look up and witness it. His back shakes in front of me and a grin tugs at my lips, spreading wider the longer I watch, the longer his amusement reverberates inside of me, until I'm laughing again too, with something soft and quiet of my own.

“I make you come every time, sweetheart,” he calls out, “with or without this big cock.” His voice overflows with so much smugness it almost makes me regret saying that. Though, he drops most of it from his tone quickly enough, when he snaps at Bobby, “Make sure you put that in whatever you're writing about me.”

It almost seems like Bobby will for a moment, from the way he stiffens beneath Mason's words. I snort, then the scowl on his face twists deeper before he glares over at me.

“I never took you for the type to find any appeal in such banal vulgarity.” He scoffs. “I also thought you were a little old to fall for the tired, leather jacket, chain-smoking bad boy cliché straight off a teenager's bookshelf.”

Mason scoffs harder. “No wonder this asshole never gave you any pleasure. He doesn't fucking know what you like at all.” The smirk returns. “I'm gonna have to make up for it. Start by fucking you a few extra times tonight.”

I chuckle. “Oh, you hardly needed an excuse to do that.”

“No, but I'm already making plans for it. And they involve you sitting on my face.” His voice thickens into something huskier. “It's been too long since I've tasted you.”

“You tasted me last night.”

“Too fucking long ago, like I said.” He groans slightly, in a way that makes my lips roll together. “I've been missing it all day, the feel of your thighs clenching around my head while you buck up under my tongue and scream.”

The pen cracks in Bobby's grip.

“You still getting all this? Good.”

“But to provide further edification to that quote, Bobby,” I add, as the scrolling nears the end of the roll, “I'm usually screaming his name when I do that.”

Mason laughs again while I grin.

And send every single fucking photo and video into the trash.

The phone buckles beneath the strain of the task, hanging on a frozen screen for such a long moment that I start to worry, but it eventually staggers through. We both have a much easier time, two screens over, in the recently deleted folder, when I simply press the 'delete all' button.

Then the photos are gone.

All of them.

I double-check the cloud app again to make sure, but…

They're gone.

Finally.

I inhale deeply and blow out a long breath.

“Well,” I say, glancing up at Bobby, “looks like I've got a very urgent face-sitting appointment to make.” I step forward next to Mason, patting his back. “And I wanna get railed tonight too, by the chain-smoking bad boy cliché—”

“And his big cock.”

Mason smirks.

I chuckle and roll my eyes. Hard.

“Yeah, that, so—if there's nothing else Bobby, I'm gonna go.”

Turning on my heel, I move to leave, then jerk to an exaggerated stop.

“Oh shit, almost forgot—your phone.”

He glares at me, silent for once, as I hold it out to him. Anger swirls in his eyes. Not the vacant, heated rage, but that icy calculation. Working the angles. Finding a trajectory for the incoming cruelty, the spot to strike for maximum damage. It doesn't concern me, though.

He's not gonna say anything I haven't already heard thousands of times before.

Bobby reaches out to take the phone—

—but just as he's about to grab it, I pull it away.

Then I wind up my bulky, too muscular arm and hurl it as hard as I can toward the street.

It sails high through the air, lost momentarily in the darkening sky above, until it plummets back into the glow of streetlights a block away, black speck careening toward the road before it smashes into the asphalt and bounces up, exploding into pieces on a spray of shards and a quiet, tinkling clatter.

“Whoops,” I say flatly. “Slipped. Probably should clean that thing more often.”

Mason snorts. “Nice. I would've aimed for his face.”

“I thought about that, but his skull isn't that thick.” I wipe my hands on my jeans. “It wouldn't shatter if I threw it there.”

“It would if you threw it hard enough.”

I shake my head, grinning, and Mason slings his arm over my shoulder.

We start to leave.

“Did you delete your pictures, angel?”

I freeze mid-step.

“Don't worry, I have extensive backups of those,” Bobby coos. “Treasures should be protected, after all. Kept hidden, safe, and… private.”

A cold smirk greets me when I look over to him. It sharpens as our eyes meet, and old alarm blares distantly in my ear.

“I think your colleague is right. I don't know what you like, not anymore. You've changed so much since we parted, for the worst, and I see that now. Truly.” He slams the notebook shut and secures it with a snap of elastic. “Regardless, there's still one thing I could do for you that you would enjoy—that you would absolutely love.”

“You're gonna eat shit and fuck off forever?” I scoff. “Aw, Bobby, don't threaten me with a good time.”

He snorts derisively. “You're so… disappointingly vulgar, Alexandra. Crude. Filthy. It's disgusting, really.” His eyes gleam maliciously. “That's how I know you'll be soaking wet and overjoyed later, when I show the world exactly how wide you can spread your legs—”

Mason punches him.

A hard cross.

With pivot.

Right in the jaw.

The notebook goes flying. The pen goes flying. The glasses go flying, too.

Even one of his boots flies off his foot and up into the night.

Bobby pirouettes wildly past the planter into the bushes, where he lands, bounces off, and crumples onto the sidewalk, out cold.

I stare at him for a moment, blinking, trembling, eyes roaming over his splayed form, face-down and unmoving beneath the sodium lamps and twilight. Another car drives by in the distance, and I glance back to Mason.

“You missed the planter.”

Mason shrugs, rubbing his knuckles. “Didn't wanna ruin the flowers.”

My lips purse in consideration for a moment, before I give a nod of agreement, finding no flaw in the logic.

I walk down the sidewalk to Bobby, then roll him over with my boot and into a puddle. Oops. He sprawls out limp, eyes shut, jaw misaligned, blood trickling slowly from the corner of his mouth. The sight of him like that doesn't fill me with happiness, exactly, or… much of anything really. Maybe a vague sense of satisfaction that he finally got what he fucking deserved. A futile bit of hope that it teaches him some kind of lesson.

Mostly I just feel… tired. Strangely calm. Flat.

That probably just means I get to look forward to all of this shit hitting me later.

Hopefully, not with the force of a proper punch thrown by a vampire.

I nudge Bobby with my toe a few times. “You didn't… kill him, right?”

Mason steps next to me, passing over the notebook before he folds his arms.

“He'll live. For now.”

“Hm. Probably won't be eating solid food for a while, though.”

Mason snorts. “Or talking.”

I grin slightly, then unzip my bag, exchanging the notebook for my keys.

We stand above Bobby for a few moments, long enough for me to finally notice the faint rise and fall of his chest. And the water soaking into the ass of his jeans, insult to fucking injury. It looks like he fucking shit himself.

So, of course, that's what makes me start laughing.

Hard. Then uncontrollably. To the point where I buckle over on myself and my stomach begins to hurts and my eyes fill with tears again.

Crude and vulgar, indeed.

I don't know how long I stand there cackling, but eventually Mason nudges me. And when I unfurl to glance at him, he nods toward the end of the sidewalk, to the short set of stairs leading down to the parking lot.

And to Ennis springing up them, bundled in a puffy coat, hands jammed in pockets and on time to relieve Douglas.

They pause for a moment at the top, staring as us, then at Bobby—but they don't seem very surprised.

I raise an eyebrow.

“What happened?” they ask, walking over.

I shrug. “Ah, I dunno. Just found him like this.”

Mason grunts in agreement.

My gaze wanders toward Bobby. “Looks like he might've… got punched in the face.”

Ennis glances down the sidewalk, eyes moving from boot, to glasses, to pen, to Bobby, and finally back up to us, to my swollen cheeks and watery eyes and barely-subdued grin twitching next to the flat disinterest on Mason's face.

Their eyebrow raises too, gaze twinkling with something subdued of their own. “What a shame. I'll call an ambulance.”

“Thanks.” I smile.

“Have a good night, Detective.” Ennis smiles in return, then moves to head into the station. As they pass Mason, they nod slightly—and Mason returns it, just as faintly.

My lips purse, but I don't question it either.

Add it to the pile of shit about to bury me tomorrow.

All I want to do right now is head home. Collapse into bed. Burrow into a duvet.

To that end, I sling the backpack over my shoulder again and jog down the steps into the parking lot. Mason follows, falling into step with me, and I can see it lurking in the corner of my eye, sudden and blindingly bright. And I can feel it too, radiating off him.

A smirk to end all fucking smirks and the biggest regret of my evening.

Possibly of the rest of my year too—and beyond—because I am never gonna hear the end of it from him.

I blow out a breath and roll my eyes. “Oh, wipe that smug fucking look off your face. I only said all that shit to piss him off.”

“No,” the smirk widens insufferably, “you didn't.”

I huff, trying not to grin as I unlock the driver's door. “Well, don't let it go to your head—either of them.”

His hands slide over my hips from behind.

“Way too late for that, sweetheart,” he whispers against my ear.

The backpack slips from my shoulder, down my arm, and he's already spinning me around before it hits the asphalt with a soft thump. The keys follow, a jangling clatter, bumped out of the lock by my ass when he presses in to kiss me. Our hands find familiar places, favored purchase, his icy and insistent, burrowing beneath the warmth of my braid, cold fingers curled around my neck and scalp while his other hand splays out across my lower back and sneaks under my jacket, my sweater, tugging up my undershirt too, until I'm arching away from what's coming, into him, nowhere to go, nothing to do but squeal protests into the heat of his mouth as the frigid chill radiates closer.

Then presses directly against my skin.

His new favorite thing to do since the weather turned cold.

A violent shiver rips up my spine and I growl against his lips. He just smirks between kisses and glides his hand higher to make it happen again.

“Oh, that's fucking it, asshole,” I nip at his lower lip and suck it into my mouth, “I'm gonna knit you those damn mittens now, the ones with the huge pom-poms.”

Mason groans into me and shifts his hand again, forcing another shiver.

“Don't need 'em when I have you.”

I start to grumble something in response, but it's lost, pulled into a noise of pleasure when he deepens the kiss. Then it spreads into a smirk of my own, when I slip my fingers through his hair, down the collar of his jacket, and drag out a shiver from the warmth of his neck too.

He growls into me, pins my hips to the car with his, cold metal crushed against my ass while that cold touch circles around to my stomach.

And back and forth it goes.

Two jerks stealing warmth and trying to make each other shiver, with frosty fingers and nips of teeth and strokes in the right places, pressed and building heat regardless.

At least, until he unexpectedly leans away—and I unthinkingly follow.

Our lips stick together briefly before they part, releasing a breathy exhale from mine that brushes over the lingering moisture on his.

Mason shivers again as he draws back to look at me.

Desire smolders in that half-lidded gaze, but it's warm and deep. Embers instead of flame. Intense and unwavering, but gentle. Quiet. Strangely soft again.

And… searching.

For something.

My gaze drops away from it, to his chest, hands sliding down there as well, over worn leather warm from my body. Uncertainty makes me swallow and shift. I don't know what he's trying to see. Or hopes to find. But it does bring to mind something I really should've said to him as soon as Bobby hit the concrete.

“Thanks, by the way. For helping me deal with him.” I bite my lip. “…For staying.”

“I go where you go, sweetheart, you know that.” His thumb swipes across my cheek to tuck strands of loose hair behind my ear. “But I think you would've done just fine without the help.”

I shrug. “Yeah, maybe. But…”

Silence hangs on the end of my sentence as the words tangle into a knot. I don't quite know how to explain what it means to even have someone's help. To have someone do that for me, look out for me. And with no reservation, no judgment, no knowledge of the situation. No question either, just—

What it means that someone would think I'm worth any of that. Worth standing up for at all.

Even just as a teammate. Even just temporarily.

What it means to have someone—

I huff out a breath and smile faintly.

It doesn't matter. Mason wouldn't give a shit about my explanations regardless, even if I had them.

“Thanks anyway,” I say finally, patting his jacket a few times before I slide my hands away.

He catches one before it can fall. Holds it near his chest, cradling me there in his grasp, in shared warmth, fingers curled around the back of my hand while his thumb strokes something so soft against my palm it's almost imperceptible.

“You okay?”

I raise an eyebrow, smile pulling into a smirk as I give him a wink. “I'll be on time for my appointment, sunshine, don't worry.”

He raises his eyebrow too, frowning slightly. “That's not what I'm worried about.”

And that's… not what I expected him to say.

My smirk falters slightly as he stares at me, brow furrowing.

I glance away again.

“Well, I'll be ready for the mission tomorrow too.” I grip his hand in return, shaking it back and forth slightly while I grin. “I can even run properly again. No more sad, limping horse gallop.”

Mason blows out a sharp breath and forces our hands still. “That's not what I'm asking about, sweetheart. Stop ducking around the question.”

“Ducking around what, exactly? I answered you.”

“You were crying earlier. Twice.”

His jaw tenses, like maybe the words are knotting on his tongue too, and he can't quite unravel an explanation either.

I look away before he does, heat burning my face, and I'm suddenly too aware of the blood throbbing in my ears and throat, the pulsation across my cheeks and down my arms, the heartbeat driving it all, the hard, heavy thrum pounding against the wall of my chest.

It's loud for me. At this distance, it must be almost deafening for him.

“I felt it,” he murmurs, voice almost lost when the beat spikes. “Even before I touched you. Could've felt it coming off you from how far away you threw that fucking phone.”

I don't say anything in response. Don't even breathe, really.

“Anger and fear.”

My back stiffens.

“Pain.” His hand tightens around mine, thumb rubbing erratic circles around my palm while the wind rustles the last leaves in the trees and a siren plays in the distance. “A lot of it, Alex…”

I wonder if he felt the sudden tightness clawing up my chest and into my throat. The shallow breaths around it. The overwhelming sting in my eyes, in my nose.

I wonder if he feels it right now.

And how invasive it must seem at this distance.

“Yeah, well…” My voice is thick again. Hoarse. I swallow around it and force an exhale. “It's just old stuff. Nothing to worry about. Nothing that matters.”

I'm not sure whether the words are meant more for him—or for me.

Either way, he doesn't respond. Or move. Or do anything other than stare down at me with that heavy gaze of his.

I was wrong, too.

About my biggest regret of the evening.

I've… fantasized about it for so long, ever since I stepped into the hallway outside that final tribunal, air warm from the early afternoon light spilling in through the glass, shaking uncontrollably, too sick and too overwhelmed to even feel relief, especially not when he exited out the other set of doors and called my name down the corridor, in that exact same tone as all of his forgiveness and fucking lies.

I stormed away instead.

Kept walking. Ended up collapsed under a tree somewhere across campus, near the water. Slumped against the bark, exhausted and aching everywhere. Covered in grass stains with runs in my stockings and gashes in my palms. Nail marks. From clenched fists.

And the bitter, incandescent fury—for him and for me—that I hadn't blazed down that hallway and struck my name from his mouth.

That I didn't follow him to the parking lot, stalking from behind before I curled my hand into his hair, twisted, and smashed his head against the car door. That I never cracked my books across his temple whenever he cornered me on campus afterward. Or that I never stomped down the stairs and planted my foot into his chest, sent him flying off our porch and into the rose bushes every time his fucking voice drifted up through the window before my roommates told him to fuck off. Or that I didn't slam him face first into the fucking produce when he sidled up next to me at the grocery store a few months after I returned to Wayhaven.

Or that I've fucking failed to do any of the other countless fucking things I've thought of doing to him since, every fucking time, as he's sneered comments at me and stalked me around town and haunted me through his headlines.

And after all of that, after everything he's done, everything he continues to do, when I finally decide to let it out, to come at him, guns blazing, tonight of all fucking nights, I just—

Trip over my own feet.

Just stumble forward, wide-eyed into a dead stand, and let him insult me.

Again.

All that time and distance and training and fantasizing…

And the only thing I could do was freeze up and cry.

Like I never left his kitchen.

The siren blares in the distance, long whines stretching closer, and the fingers at my nape curl into my scalp, tugging slightly, gently, encouraging me to glance up.

His brow is still furrowed when I do. Eyes still soft. Quiet. Gorgeous, really, that endless and intense grey.

Now that I actually stop to look.

Mason leans down and kisses me again.

Not with his usual passionate eagerness. Or barely restrained desire.

It's still deep and intense. Urgent. But… slow.

Soft.

Somehow.

Just like his eyes.

And just as unfamiliar.

I return it anyway, lips moving to a strange rhythm, longer slides of tongue and breathy inhales, quiet groans and stubble scratching lightly against my chin as the siren gets louder.

His thumb swipes across my cheek too, and he squeezes my hand, shifts it, shifts us, brushing my fingers over cold leather and even colder hardware, until they bump into the tab of his zipper and remain. I grab it, freezing metal between my thumb and forefinger and, as soon as I do, he pulls our hands down. Down the bumpy track, teeth clicking and slowly parting, one at a time, a long descent, to the hitch at the end, the slight catch at terminus, before his jacket falls open and the tab jangles free and the heat of his body rolls out to me, strong enough to feel even through my layers.

He drags his thumb across my palm next as we continue to kiss, a hooped stroke curving at apex into a dull scrape of nail, right before his fingers lace between mine and open my hand. Then he spreads me against his stomach and presses flat. His hand splays atop mine, fingers still twined, blanketing me between his touch and the thin fabric of his shirt, the rolling planes of his abs and the hair that shifts slightly beneath on every draw of his breath. He pushes upward after a moment, rumpling cloth, dragging wrinkles, sliding us up his body to the growing siren, louder and louder, up through the center of his chest when we suddenly circle back slightly.

Until we stop above his heart.

It pounds faster than I heard earlier, but still the same.

Steady. Soothing.

Beating directly into my grasp as he holds me there.

The siren surrounds us. Deafening, but… distant.

I'm more enveloped in the heat of his touch and heartbeat, the way it thrums into me joining mine, reverberating around each comforting inhale of smoke and sandalwood, echoing back against the solid warmth of his body, the needy movement of our mouths and lips, the taste of his tongue and every urgent, unspoken word he's saying to me right now.

I press closer to hear better, raise up on my toes, open my hand even wider, until my skin stretches over my palm and my knuckles ache. He groans softly, fingers tightening on my neck and hand, encouraging, drawing me toward him.

Closer. So much closer.

And at this distance, it almost sounds like—

The siren cuts out with abrupt sharpness, startlingly fast, and ringing silence screams in my ears instead.

—nothing.

I pull back from the kiss with a breathy gasp, drop my heels with even heavier breathing, and open my eyes, catching his for the briefest instant before I tear them away.

Red lights flash across the parking lot and I look toward them eagerly. Doors open and slam shut on the ambulance as the responders emerge from it and jog up the stairs with their kits. My heartbeat thunders in my ears now, dissonant with the beat under my palm, but they still occasionally align and match.

Still find a rhythm together.

I swallow and slide my hand out from beneath his.

It was just a kiss.

“We should go,” I murmur.

A long moment passes before he moves, before his fingers squeeze at my nape so gently that it's probably just an errant twitch, then Mason pulls away and bends over to pick up my keys and bag. He holds the former out to me, and my hand curls around them without looking.

It was just something to get me back in the mood.

I turn to get in the car. Unlock the door for him. Sit while he climbs in with a slam. Click the seat belt, press the clutch, and start the engine.

Just something to make me eager—

As we pull out of the station driveway, the responders carry a stretcher up the stairs in the rearview.

Something to keep me wanting—

The streetlights and recent rain make the road hard to follow, the lines difficult to see.

And squirming in my seat—

But I've traveled this route frequently, often enough to navigate it under any condition.

—on the long drive back to my apartment.

Even with my eyes shut.

I turn off the tree-lined street onto the main road through town, bare boughs arching above giving way to painted brick, gas lamps, and a buzz of Friday night activity.

A field of brake lights and billowing exhaust choke the intersection by the Square, and we roll to a stop in the middle of it at a red light. Rush hour traffic, such as it exists in Wayhaven, from the shift change at the sawmill and last minute groceries and excited dinner plans. Normally, I time things to miss all of this, but…

I glance at Mason out of the corner of my eye. He slouches in the passenger seat, pack tucked between his thighs, one hand resting on it as he stares out the side window, cheek on fist, seemingly lost in thought. The quality of silence rolling off him feels more contemplative than usual, anyway.

But I'm probably just imagining that, too.

I force my attention back out the window, to the bustle of people on the sidewalk, the movement of shopping bags and takeout, dogs on leashes and children on shoulders, groups clumped together and spilling out of the entrances to bars and restaurants, and then to the rain, when it starts to patter against the roof and windshield.

I'm just… rattled. Too many old memories. Too many wounds not nearly as healed as I thought.

And way too much fucking Bobby.

Then again, that could be said about any amount of him.

The light changes, but we miss it and have to wait for another. At the front of the line, at least.

I stop in front of the cross walk, absently wiggling the stick in neutral before I take my foot off the clutch. Raindrops continue to rapidly accumulate on the glass, each one glowing with reflection, covering the windshield in a sea of bright red droplets.

Hard to see the pedestrians beyond it, laughing loudly and smiling as they hurry through the headlights. Not that it matters at the moment, because I'm stopped. Because I can't keep focused on them anyway. Because they're a world away from the two of us and the quiet in this car filled with the sound of everything I didn't hear.

And the look in his eye I can't get out of my mind either.

The raw glimpse I saw before I turned away.

The impossible name for it.

That softness.

The steering wheel creaks under my grip as I stare hard into the red.

Care.

The droplets on the windows flash green.

I bump the wipers, smear them away, and drive home.

[normal-thoughts-official]

Ok so Camille’s an asshole on that we can all agree, but I’m really tired of people in the fandom acting like she’s just your typical annoying ex and she makes poor uwu Alec feel insecure cause fuck that. Camille was 100% abusive and manipulative but I also think she was sexually abusive too I mean seeing what she did to Simon and kissing Magnus without his consent even though he was clearly uncomfortable, consent doesn’t really seem to be an issue for her-

I feel like she definitely manipulated his fear of loneliness and not being good enough, to suit her needs. Like Magnus isn’t in the mood for sex or it’s especially triggering on a certain day, either way he’s not up for it but Camille makes him do it anyway. She threatens to leave or go find someone else who can fulfill her needs or take care of her when Magnus won’t, ‘I mean does he even love her when he won’t do this one simple thing for her?’ 

So he just lets her do what she wants, even if he’s having a full blown panic attack Camille doesn’t care or she’ll just leave insulting him saying she can’t deal with this right now and leaving Magnus with no idea when or if she’ll be back. So the next time she asks he hesitates less or initiates it more even when he’s not in the mood so she won’t leave and yeah I have a lot of emotions relating to this. and now I’m thinking about how it’ll affect his future relationships, not even talking about Alec but other people - I have this headcanon where when he got away from Camille and is healing, him ragnor and Catarina live together in ragnors cottage or somewhere away from people for awhile so Magnus can slowly heal and focus on himself and unlearn Camille’s abuse with the help of his family 

But despite what this fandom says Magnus has always been a helper and a selfless person to the point of self destruction. He’s unable to prioritise his own health and he wouldn’t be able to slow down and feel the full force of the abuse he experienced cause he feels like he’ll fall apart if he does and ‘no one wants a pathetic crybaby who breaks down when someone moves their hand too fast in his direction it wasn’t even that bad he’s just exaggerating like he always does this is why Camille doesn’t love him back’ (the ‘’ parts were meant to be strikethrough to signify Magnus’ inner thoughts but that doesn’t work on asks)

And he’s scared to get in another relationship cause he doesn’t think he’d be able to speak up for himself if they turned violent or controlling, he’s scared that if they did he’d just let them so he closes himself off from people puts these walls around him and a bright smile on his face that doesn’t let anyone think there’s anything wrong. And theres so much pain going on in the world ‘they have it much worse than him anyway’ and Magnus tries to help the best he can as he always does and he’s always there for people to lean on without any reciprocation and he’s so emotionally and physically tired and he’s not sure how much longer he can take it, almost considers going back to blackfairs bridge ‘really he’d be doing the world a favour’ but theres too many bad memories and he promised his family he would try so he holds on and then he finds Raphael and that obviously doesn’t fix everything but- I was going to continue this but it’s two am in my country and honesty it’s too long already😅 sorry for the rant it’s just a lot of emotions. Im so tired of the ‘Camille’s an annoying ex who keeps getting in the way of my favourite gay ship😠’ metas and needed to let out some feelings before I explode from my hate for Camille

UGH ANON HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE NOT ONLY A GENIUS BUT ALSO MY NEW BEST FRIEND, AN INTELLECTUAL, AND COMPLETELY RIGHT. YOU ARE SO CORRECT!!! idk if uve read my other post that i posted while i was waiting for you but we no longer have the same hat we are SHARING the hat!! i can't believe i got this ask right after i had just made that long ass rant and was in so much need to talk about this like ugh are you my guardian angel. i love you more than anyone else ive ever met

ok ok ok coherent thoughts ok i can do this. first of all THE SALT how does it feel to have vision and coherency. ppl writing camille as just an annoying ex or a bad ex or even as like "oh they both made mistakes and it ended up terrible" drives me UP THE WALL. camille was explicitly abusive, so much so that magnus CANONICALLY WAS UNABLE TO ALLOW PEOPLE TO GET CLOSE TO HIM FOR ALMOST A CENTURY. and she was shown to be abusive, both in the physical sense as you have reminded us so brilliantly and in the sense that her whole "choose me" speech? like she doesn't have to literally say the words "no one but me would ever love you" for that to be exactly what she's saying. she's obviously playing with his insecurities and putting him down while presenting her as his savior, it's CLASSIC ABUSE. she was written as such a perfect to-the-book abuser that it honestly shocks me like they did that really all they ticked all the boxes. the way she immediately launched to talk about alec's mortality too, the way she was obviously trying to make them fight and draw them apart - it wasn't a jealousy thing, it is just that she's abusive and she wants him isolated so she can toy with him and manipulate him 

EVEN SALTIER WHEN THEY MAKE IT ABOUT ALEC BEING INSECURE LIKE. especially because canonically he literally watched camille kiss magnus and didn't care, which was sexy of him because i was dreading some jealousy drama or something but instead he was just like. obviously she did it to hurt you. i only care in the sense that she's a fucking bitch. we stan! 

as for how she treated him! oof i think the same thing with the same words dioajdsaoij it always circled back to "why can't you do this for me?" in and outside of sex - i mentioned that in a conversation in the comments of my other post but i think that with camille the sexual abuse was really just an extension of the regular abuse, so they bleed together and are not really separable in that sense. at every turn, he had to prove his worth, and she used his fear of loneliness both in the sense that she amplified it and made it seem like the only way to not be lonely was to be with her, and that she gave him just enough for him not to feel desperately lonely so she could string him along. not to mention, they both always go back to how magnus supposedly "owes" her, and yes, it's because of the bridge, of course, but there's also that underlying tone of "because she put up with him and gave him affection when no one else would". even when what she did was nowhere close to real affection. so it's both the bridge and the after. she could have saved him and left, but she stayed. that's why he feels he owes her, and she will absolutely use it

AND UR SO RIGHT ABOUT MAGNUS BEING UNABLE TO PRIORITIZE HIS OWN HEALTH UGH UGH UGH UGH like he has no choice for a while because she left him fucking broken and seeing the way she treats him and the amount of shit he puts up with i can only imagine how far she had to go for him to reach a breaking point and leave her for real. but as soon as he could pretend to have himself together he just threw himself out there. and i believe that he felt guilty for having catarina and ragnor take care of him when he abandoned them because of camille - obviously that's not what happened, she manipulated him into staying away from them, made his life hell whenever he wanted to hang out with them until he no longer had the energy to put up a fight to keep in contact with the people he loves, but it's what he feels that happened, and most likely what camille herself eventually started to tell him happened once they had been pulled away enough. ("you're gonna leave me? and go back to who? your little friends who tried to pit you against me from day one? they're just gonna say 'i told you so', magnus. and why would they take you back when you left them before? when was the last time you even saw them? you chose this, you chose me, and now you're gonna come back to them and expect them to welcome you with open arms? you selfish little prick")

AND RAPHAEL!!! raphael was so important, honestly, we say that magnus didn't let anyone into his heart but obviously raphael was the exception and EXTREMELY important for his healing. it's a complicated relationship because he's sort of a father figure for rapha, and as such, he doesn't allow himself to be completely vulnerable around him, because that's not "his role". but! he was the first person whom magnus let in. and they obviously know each other deeply ("i hate to see you like this" even though magnus looked completely put together to the outside eye) and are plenty affectionate ("sweet boy", the hugs, the way rapha talked about magnus with so much love and awe in his eyes and voice) and trusting (the way raphael went to magnus' loft, not his own damn clan, when he was tortured...). i know this fandom likes to pretend that they pretend to hate each other but NO THEY DON'T they are openly caring and loving with each other fucking fight me on this

anyway, my point is that raphael was the first person he allowed himself to trust, and of course, part of that is simply because raphael was vulnerable and in need and like you said he can't just stay still when he sees someone struggling. but to care for raphael eventually had to mean to open up to him and when he welcomed raphael in, he gained a new member to his family. raphael is his kid. that's no small thing. their bond goes deep and it's extremely important because again, after camille magnus wouldn't allow people to get close to his heart, because he was scared of how they could use that against him. raphael was his first, and the only reason magnus was able to open himself up for romantic love again (which was an extra step, not because romantic love is more important or deeper, but because it's specifically the kind of love that camille used against him, and thus it makes him even more scared) was because he had already been relearning trust and platonic love with rapha

rapha did him good!!! there's a reason he calls him "sweet boy" okay. and rapha cares about him and he NOTICES WHEN HE'S IN A BAD SHAPE EVEN THROUGH ALL OF MAGNUS' WALLS and he specifically didn't want magnus involved with the camille drama even when it had obviously gotten out of hand because he wanted to keep him safe and away from her!!! i want to be shot in the face!!! they love each other so much! fuck!

and also that implies that raphael knows about camille which means he might be the first person who met magnus post-camille and heard the story, which means that he might be (and probably is) the first person who was never involved that magnus opened up about this to. if that ain't some powerful and important shit i don't know what is. because part of abuse is that you can't talk about it - there's this sense of shame and guilt both from staying and from not staying more, especially because magnus canonically still feels like he owes her... aaaaa

this answer is all over the place im sorry but my point is you are correct, camille is a textbook abuser not just a shitty ex, she fucked up his head and made him unable to open up for a long time, and the first person that helped him break those walls was raphael and they LOVE EACH OTHER VERY MUCH AND DEEPLY thank you for your attention

[skeletorific]

(Sorry if it’s already been asked)what’s your interpretation/view of the quadrants? What in your mind makes an healthy and unhealthy quadrantship?

*distant drumbeat* I’ve been WAITING for this one! Turn it up!!!!

So, a few general notes about quadrants before getting into a breakdown. First, I don’t think there’s a hard and fast definition of what makes, say, a healthy kismessitude, any more than there’s a hard and fast definition of a healthy human relationship. What would be toxic and terrible for one couple may be exactly what keeps a different relationship together. Meowrails is very different from pale Vrisrezi, because Equius and Nepeta are different people with different wants and needs in a relationship than Vriska and Terezi. As with all bonds, it’s important to look at a broader trend of behavior and the individual mental health levels before you can say “this is unhealthy”. I DO think there are certain things to watch out for, but ultimately I probably have ships in that quadrant that may violate one or more of those “no-nos” just because of how those characters bounce off each other. 

Second, I think there’s more fluidity in quadrants than the fandom typically allows for, because human relationships are also by their nature fluid. We’ve all seen a set of best friends who act like a couple even if they aren’t romantically interested, and we’ve seen couples who bicker and squabble despite being deeply in love. How you choose to identify your relationship is ultimately nobody’s business but your own, even if red love for you looks like pale love to someone else. Alternian troll culture is romance obsessed and this can lend itself to an obsession with defining the attraction, but this doesn’t mean that’s necessarily how it HAS to be.

Finally, I’ll be listing ALL confirmed canon examples of each quadrant to provide a context for what I’m referencing. This should not be taken as necessary endorsement for any of these ships, or even that I think they were a “good example”, simply that how they chose to identify influenced my own definition of these quadrants. I will also be leaving out a lot of ships that would seem to fit a particular quadrant (noteably Rosemary and Arasol) because their own status is complicated in-text (Rose explicitly refers to wanting to be in all of Kanaya’s quadrants and their relationship has tended explicitly pitch at points, Sollux is referred to as Aradia’s “boyfriend” and yet there is apparently no issue between either of them when his flush quadrant becomes occupied)

With that, let’s dig in

Matespritship:

Successful/Actually Date(d) Examples: Dad/Mom, Latula/Mituna, Meulin/Kurloz, Aranea/Porrim, Mindfang/Summoner, Meenah/Vriska, Sollux/Feferi, Konyyl/Azdaja (currently vacillating), Stelsa/Tyzias

Crushes (unrequited, vacillating, or thwarted): Eridan/Feferi, Kanaya/Vriska, Nepeta/Karkat, Equius/Aradia, Tavros/Jade, Gamzee/Tavros, Sollux/Gamzee, Jack/PM, Lynera/Bronya

What it means to me: Matespritship tends to be an opt-out quadrant for a lot of people, I think. Most seem to stop reading at “closely analogous to human conceptions of romance” and turn off their brains. However, as with all things troll culture, I think there’s more to it the deeper you go, especially considering the fact that your moirail is expected to do a LOT of what we would consider standard s/o stuff: caretaking, comfort, intimate knowledge, closeness. I absolutely refuse to buy that the only thing distinguishing the two is that matesprits have sex, especially since that stumble into some VERY UNCOMFORTABLE territory in regards to troll asexuality. So then, if it’s not that, then what is it?

Ultimately I keep coming back to the idea of passion. Your matesprit I think is the person who you genuinely see in the best possible light. Unusual for Alternian society, you’re unable to ignore the depths of your admiration of them, or to let their flaws filter into your perception. Moiraillegiance is about total honesty and unflinching recognition, but matespritship to me is about that kind of fairy tale passion. Its a person who, even if you know on an intellectual level they are not perfect, that you genuinely have a harder time seeing the darker side of because you are so consumed by this passion for what you see in them, your unfiltered awe and appreciation for who they are. 

Additionally, I see matespritship as on some level inherently possessive. You not only admire that person, but you fundamentally crave their attention in a way that is probably a bit on the selfish side. Its not enough to want good for them, it has to be good alongside you. This is typically where it’s more prone to flipping caliginous. 

Warning signs: Matespritships seemed to vacillate pitch FREQUENTLY on Alternia. This is not necessarily a sign that something is wrong. As Karkat says, it’s often a matter of communication and timing. However, it does have the potential to explode in everyone’s face if not carefully managed, in no small part due to the passionate emotions involved. Some things that tend to go bad fast:

-Admiration is key to an effective matespritship, but pedestalling your flushed partner too much can be dangerous. Once the flaws do become apparent (as they will in any relationship) they can become increasingly hard to ignore, and that can be SHATTERING if you don’t prepare.

-Especially on Alternia, matesprits are the quadrant I see as most likely to neglect the communication aspect of their relationship. Safety isn’t a factor for them like it is for more caliginous quadrants, and the expectation is usually that feelings jams are for moirails. Especially for younger trolls, there’s an idea that we’re in love and thus should just know what the other person needs/wants. If you don’t pick up on it, then maybe we aren’t meant to be. This is a trap. ALL relationships need communication in order to function on a day to day basis. Opening up to your matesprit about something that’s bothering you isn’t a sign of fading passion, but of maturity and your own changing needs.

-Despite a fondness for fate pairings I think matespritships are usually expected to fade out, in no small part because they’re founded on a level of passion that can be hard to keep up long-term. This is actually fine. Not all relationships are meant to last eternally. However, if you know your matesprit is a person you want in your life long-term, part of that is learning how to cope with periods of low passion. Its normal to not always feel an all-consuming desire to keep your matesprit in arms reach. It’s normal to need space. What’s important is that YOU know that you still love them, and that they have the confidence to know that’s true even when you can’t always express it.

Moirallegiance

Successful/Actually Date(d) Examples: Kanaya/Vriska, Eridan/Feferi, Gamzee/Karkat, Nepeta/Equius, Kurloz/Mituna, Meulin/Horuss, Terezi/Vriska, Kuprum/Folykl, MSPAR/Polypa, Xefros/Dammek

Crushes (unrequited, vacillating, or thwarted): Eridan/Karkat, MSPAR/Chixie, MSPAR/Stelsa, Tegiri/Polypa

What it means to me: To start out with, I haaaaaaaate hate hate the perception that moirails are just BFFs. To me, there’s too much evidence to suggest otherwise, not the least of which being that after Feferi ends their moirallegiance she tells Eridan she still wants to be friends with him. How many of you break up with your best friend and then tell them you can still be friends after?

To me, moirallegiance on Alternia is as much a coping mechanism at it is a romantic entanglement. In a society where there’s no such thing as therapy, your moirail ideally functions as a release valve for you, to help you exercise softer feelings in a safe, sanctioned environment. Two things are key in that dynamic: honesty, and selflessness.

There’s no pretense in a moirallegiance, but an unflinching embrace. The successful moirails we’ve seen (Meowrails, KupFol, arguably GamKar) have always been rooted in banter that may come off as pitch at first glance. This is partly due to general Alternian socialization practice, but I think it also stems from the fact that pale love is founded in knowing every inch of your partner. You know what they are, body and soul, the flaws and the highlights, and while you do not uncritically accept it like a matesprit might, some part of you fundamentally identifies with. Your moirail is that person who you feel like you’ve known for years after talking for a few hours, because something about how they’re wired clicks with you in a way most don’t. As such, there’s less need for posturing. A feelings jam is one of the few places on Alternia where you are allowed to admit to vulnerability, to fear, to frustration, because you know that the other person will have your back unquestioningly without letting you get away with bullshit.

This mutual support stems from the other half of pale love: the desire to see the other person flourish, no matter what. If the matesprit wants you to be happy at their side, the moirail wants you to flourish even if they do not stand to benefit. You experience your moirail’s success like it was your own, and want as good for them or better than you want for yourself.

Some warning signs:

-Burnout. We see this in most clearly in Eridan and Feferi’s case (and a bit in Gamzee and Karkat’s case), but its a genuine risk in moirallegiance. The caretaking HAS to go both ways or the relationship is doomed to fail. More often than not, burnout indicates a failure within the relationship. Your moirail has not been caring for you to the degree you need, and quite possibly you have not been communicating HOW you would like that behavior to change. As I said, honesty is essential, and things ideally should never reach the point of burnout because you are in constant complete openness with your moirail about how you need taking care of.

-Fucked expectations. Romance is a dominating subject on Alternia, for obvious reasons, and one of the biggest hits a moirallegiance can take is a person questioning too far into pale desire until they mistake it for something else. The two are very close, but they are not exactly the same thing and often times the relationship can be sunk by one person getting in their head about that intimacy until they try to make it something it isn’t. Moiraillegiance is not a stepping stone for matesprit or kismesis, and most importantly it is not a consolation prize quadrant. You should never “settle” for moirail, or pale date someone who will accept you as a moirail only if they can’t get you as anything else. You need to want a moirail for a moirails sake, or its just a crush with extra levels of fuckery and expected free therapy.

Kismessitude

Successful/Actually Date(d) Examples: Spades Slick/Sn0wman, Jack Noir/Black Queen, Eridan/Vriska (now broken up), Karkat/Karkat, Mindfang/Dualscar, Terezi/Gamzee, Tagora/Galekh, Bronya/Elwurd.

Crushes (unrequited, thwarted, vacillating): Eridan/Rose, Vriska/Tavros,  Karkat/John, Gamzee/Dave, Sollux/Gamzee, Eridan/Sollux, PM/Bec Noir, Terezi/Vriska, John/Terezi, Konyyl/Skylla, Daraya/Lynera

What it means to me:

I want to structure this as a dismantling of two very common misconceptions I see for this quadrant. One, kismesis is NOT the inherent abuse quadrant. This I believe is working with a faulty definition of what abuse is. Abuse is not simply being mean or engaging in a physical manner with somebody. As has become something of a mantra for this essay, its about expectations. Abuse requires someone to be taking advantage, exploiting a particular vulnerability (or creating it if none inherently exists). What makes a relationship abusive is a situation where someone you SHOULD be able to trust or care for uses those expectations to hurt you, either for personal gain or simply to make themselves feel better. A kismesis is not that, because a healthy kismesis goes in with the expectation of rivalry. For some kismeses, this looks like basic sniping, insults, and jabs. For others, it looks like actual fighting. In either case, its the difference between a boxing match and assault. As long as the rules are being respected, both parties are consented, and someone is checking in to ensure that no one is hurting themselves (sometimes your partner, sometimes your moirail, sometimes your auspitice), then there is nothing inherently wrong with having a circumstance in which you are allowed to work through some nastier feelings without fear of consequence or hurting someone who can’t take it.

The second misconception: kismesis is not just a relationship with some bitchier dialogue. As we’ve seen, being a little bit rude is not restricted to pitch feelings. We have many examples of it in relationships that would be considered unequivocally red or pale on Alternia (KupFol, MeenVris). I go back to the Karkat dialogue constantly. Your kismesis is not just a person you make fun of, but something closer to your true rival (in the shonen anime sense). Its a person who you see so much good (or potential for good in), but who is brought down by some kind of fatal flaw that just grates at you. And so, you fixate on the idea of pushing them out of that flaw, through whatever means necessary.

Its from this fatal flaw that I believe the benefits of kismesis come out. Your kismesis, like your matesprit, has intense passion for you, but doesn’t idealize you. In fact, at points your kismesis may be incredibly aware of the WORST possible version of you. What distinguishes it from platonic hate, though, is the fact that you at your worst doesn’t make them flinch. It makes them want to provoke you, to see how you can change. Kismeses sharpen each other, which is something that rarely feels good but is so often necessary. You should never let your kismesis sit back too far on their laurels, because it is your job to be consciously aware of their faults and call them out on it. 

Additionally, while the hatefucking aspect is often overestimated, I think its not surprising that passion in these kinds of relationships tend to get intense, which is part of why it so often requires some kind of ashen intervention. Once harnessed, though, that passion can be turned to powerful ends for both yourselves and the world around you. 

Some things to watch out for (unsurprisingly there’s a LOT for this one but I’ve distilled it into two broad ones because this thing will be long enough):

Power imbalance: As I said, kismesis is not inherently abusive. However, it DECIDEDLY has the potential to become so, in particular in a society like Alternia where the power strafes are often so significant. This is particularly the case in pitch relationships involving a highblood and a lowblood, especially when the highblood is “steering the ship”. Vriska/Tavros is a good example. If summarized, her feelings for Tavros pre-Sgrub are very straightforward and healthy pitch ones. She admires his potential and envies his kinder relationships while despising his indecisiveness. All fine enough groundwork. However, three factors collaborate to make it a hot disaster: Tavros’s disinterest in her (meaning the pitch advances are unwelcome and in some real sense nonconsensual), Vriska’s own lack of restraint (meaning she takes things too far even for a kismesis), and the inherent caste imbalance (meaning Tavros has no meaningful way of fighting back and nothing in Vriska’s rearing has taught her to care if a lowblood gets hurt by her actions). This isn’t to say a highblood-lowblood (or any humanly imbalanced relationship) can NEVER work, but it requires both parties to put the work in to even the playing field. The highblood needs to actively show restraint, both physically and situationally. This is also where an auspitice generally comes in handy, ensuring things never get to a point where the action becomes one-sided.

Misdirected Rage: As I said, kismessitude is a Space, much like moiraillegiance, that gives you the opportunity to work through some less-than-palatable emotions. Using a pitch date as a way to burn off stress is not inherently invalid; in fact, its often expected and as long as your partner is willing can be one of the better ways to cope with something without having to address it directly. However, this CANNOT be built into the foundation of the relationship. Your kismesis is not a punching bag, but their own person, and the focus always needs to eventually return to that. You cannot effectively sharpen someone else if your anger is never about them, and it is ultimately unfair to constantly ask someone else to consistently bear the brunt of your bad days. This is (debatably) where pitch Gamrezi went wrong. Ultimately that kismesis was never really about each other, but about both of them projecting their self-loathing onto the other person when they were both at incredibly low place, thus making their anger unproductive and meaningless for both of them. As such, any kind of empathy was impossible and they were not able to self-regulate. 

Auspiticism

Succesful/Actually Date(d): Vriska/Kanaya/Tavros, Karkat/Jade/Karkat, Spades Slick/Doc Scratch/Sn0wman, Liv Tyler/Courtyard Droll/Wizardly Vassal, PM/Jade/Bec Noir, Kanaya/Vriska/Rose

Crushes (unrequited, thwarted, vacillating): Vriska/Kanaya/Eridan, Gamzee/Rose/Terezi (look I know this one is practically canon but Rose kind of implies she never really used those auspiticism lessons), Rose/Kanaya/Horrorterrors, Eridan/Feferi/Sollux, Gamzee/Kanaya/Karkat, Dave/Kanaya/Karkat, Konyyl/MSPA Reader/Azdaja.

What it means to me: Ahh the bastard child of quadrants. I’ve got a lot of unpopular opinions on auspiticism (most notably that Kanaya isn’t actually that good at it), but let’s start with defining some things. I believe there are two kinds of auspitices. 

One is the “breakup” auspitice. This is the version described in the infamous romance pages of Homestuck. This version is meant to prevent a black romance from breaking out where one shouldn’t occur, either because one or both parties already has a kismesis or because there is some other mitigating factor that means neither can afford to get bogged down in this crush. A breakup auspitice should ideally be a figure that both parties trust, even in the midst of heated feelings. They should also have the strength of will to continually interfere, and a clear enough head to cut to the root of the issue. Its a thankless task, often, but a very vital one, and most importantly, short-lived. This auspitice’s job only lasts as long as the feelings last. Once both parties have had the chance to cool down (or the circumstances creating the rivalry are at an end), their job is considered over.

The other kind is the version that we arguably see more of in canon, what I call the Third Leaf. This is less an intercessary party and more the third member of a particularly tempestuous kismesis, who will act to ensure the other two leaves don’t cause serious harm to themselves or each other. This relationship is far more long-term, and thus has more requirements. To me, your auspitice is someone who has pale potential with both you AND your kismesis. They know and care about you both on a very deep level, to the point that they are willing to put themselves in the middle of your bullshit very consistently. This means that you trust them enough to call it quits even in the heat of your anger, and you also believe what they tell you about your own pitch partner when their actions need greater contextualization to keep things on the level. This task is often equally challenging, but (hopefully) not as thankless or as pragmatic.

I’ve previously referred to the auspitice as a personified safeword, and I believe that’s very emblematic of the Third Leaf. Even healthy kismeses may reach a point where one needs a day off, or something hits in the wrong way. In a rivalry, though, admitting that isn’t necessarily easy, as its both breaking kayfabe and has the potential to read as more weakness that needs to be excised (”it hurts because its working”). The auspitice is privileged to go between and be believed every time. If your auspitice says its a no go then you better have a pretty damn good reason to ignore them. For some kismeses, overriding the auspitice is grounds to break up once and for all. 

Some warning signs:

Burnout: As is the case with the previously discussed concilliatory quadrant, caretaking can be exhausting. This is especially the case in auspiticism, where the care is often expected to be very one sided, and usually involves dealing with a lot of vitriol, anger, and even physical violence. Obviously its more prevalent in Third Leaf dynamics, but even breakup auspitices can reach a breaking point if they’re not careful. Its important as the ashenmate to understand your own limits. For better or for worse, the focus will not be on you. If you are reaching a low point, then you need to be vocal about this with your other two leaves, or disaster is almost inevitable. The trade-off for this is that (according to my headcanons at least), your ashenmates are expected to drop everything to care for you if you need it. The kismesis will not be safe to proceed until you are back in fighting shape, and as such a truce is declared until they have both done “aftercare” of a sort for you. What this looks like is different for every auspiticism. For some, its alone time. For others, its blanket burritos, movies, and forehead kisses. No matter what, though its IMPERATIVE that you find a method that works for you, because the relationship crumbles without self-care.

Doormatting: As I said, auspiticism is a concilliatory quadrant. As such, there can be a tendency to over-forgive or overwork, especially if your other two leaves have stronger personalities. In particular, ausptices who are closer with one leaf over the other need to be vigilant for favoritism or bowing down. It is your job to contextualize the actions of your ashenmates. It is not your job to do apologetics for them or atone for their actions. Hold them all accountable. They need to be putting in at least as much work as you do to make their relationship work and not just offset the emotional repair to you.

Controlling: The inverse of this is the power-tripping auspitice. This seems unlikely, but its more of a threat than one might think, in my view. Because of the trust auspitices command by virtue of their position and their relationship with the other two leaves, their word is in some sense law. This can be addictive to some people, and lead to an abuse of power that can be just as toxic as in any other quadrant. It can look like scolding your ashenmates far too much, placing yourself at the center of their issues, or even punishing them for annoying you when what they’re doing is perfectly acceptable within the context of a kismessitude. As I said, self-care is important for an auspitice, but selflessness needs to be at the core of concilliatory dynamics. You are here because you genuinely want good for the people you are mediating for. If the relationship has become all about you, then something has gone horribly wrong. Avoid the urge to power trip just because the role is sometimes a Lot.