#I almost blotted out the faces i might consider spoilers but

[camarilla-arts]

Hamato family, a photo taken late into the story, but before the ending.

Tag for this iteration

[villainessprefect]

OC x Canon Week 2023 - Day 6: touching foreheads / sci-fi AU / "Can you stay? Please..."

summary: post ch6 but no spoilers for it. Shroud bros find out Vales��‘condition’ or kinda their link with Grim during their chapter so???

ship: IdiaVale (idia/gn!oc)

@theocxcanonweek​

Read on AO3

Asking people for help isn't their thing. People ask them for help, whether it be for something small or large, Vale will do all they can for another person. It's never the other way around.

Even as they lie sick in bed, guilt rises in their chest for burdening others. Ace, Deuce, and Grim were all reassured that they would manage for the day. It's better if they don't know the cause behind it either.

But it's different when Ortho intervenes. Vale can't lie when his analysis bears the truth right in front of their face. No matter what they come up with, he will pester them into resting. This is his area of expertise after all. Idia's too.

"You should tell Grim," Idia says after looking over Ortho's data. Vale swallows. "If he keeps this up..."

They shake their head. How could they steal Grim's dreams away from him? Tell him to stop using magic at their expense? It would be better to at least tell him to know his limits, but...

Idia sighs and looks to his brother. There isn't much to do aside from keeping an eye on them and Grim. Ortho is given the order to assure that Grim doesn't overdue his magic while Idia ends up staying behind. Ramshackle isn't the greatest place to be, but he has enough tech set up to make it bearable for a while.

Vale turns in bed, body heavy and making their movements sluggish. It isn't as bad as it could be. But it hurts. A lot.

They take in a breath and try to force a smile on their face. Fake it until you make it, goes an old saying. Don't let your weakness show, goes another. Beg for help and no one will listen, echoes the loudest. Their strained smile leaves their face.

Would it hurt to be just a little selfish for once?

"Idia...?" They call his name and even they’re surprised by how weak their voice sounds. Vale nearly regrets uttering his name as the tapping of a screen comes to a halt.

The blue haired boy turns to them. His focus on his game shifted towards the one in bed. Worry and unease settle quickly into him. He wants to call Ortho for help, but he's on his own mission right now.

Vale opens their mouth to speak. Their body trembles. Maybe if they stay like this then Idia will return to his game. He doesn't.

"Do you need s-something..." He tries, he really does. "Water?"

As he doesn't get a response, he begins to fidget. Normally they'd give an answer, but in this state? He isn't sure what's going on. Idia decides that he will go get some water, for them and himself.

When he stands, something pulls him back. It's a weak hold on his sleeve but one that keeps him from taking a step forward. Idia turns back to see a hand gripping with all its might onto him.

"Can you stay? Please..." they breathe out. "Don't go."

Idia gulps. "S-Sure..." He sits back down onto the bed. "You...okay?"

Idia wishes he could pull up a manual for what to do during moments like this. Or at least pause and read up on what the right steps were to lead to a good ending. He's never been prepared for this. Not just the whole 'magicless human somehow has to deal with blot' thing but also having to see this side of Vale. The usual easygoing and strong Prefect of Ramshackle has been reduced to a sad, almost broken mess in front of him.

Vale tries to answer with a yes, but it feels like there's some kind of magic preventing them from lying. So, all they can do is shake their head. They try to bury their head further into their pillow while releasing their hold on him.

"You can go back to playing your game. Sorry for interrupting," they whisper.

For a moment, Idia dares to consider it. It's an easy escape from this treacherously dangerous social situation. He could ignore them and focus on his game, but it wouldn't be as easy as he makes it sound.

"I-I'm okay. Ortho says I need to take a break anyway. Are you...sure you don't need anything?"

Vale takes in a breath. What they need isn't materialistic. If they could cry out their heart without any regret, it would be nice. Maybe that's why the blot continues to stick to them. All their worries and selfish regrets make the ink stick to them even more. But, they can't burden Idia with their worries. He's done more than enough today.

"I just...need you here."

The boy nods and shifts a little closer to them in bed. He lets his hand linger closer to theirs, allowing them to take it if they wish. They don't hesitate to do so. The touch of another is comforting when they feel so wretched.

"Thank you, Idia..."

With a shaky breath, they smile into the pillow. It's small and weak, but genuine enough to be considered a real one.

[sienna-writes]

Butterfly Blood // update 1

woo! first writing update on this WIP so far! (Finally!!). Since I don't want to include huge spoilers on this book, as I might one day end up publishing (who knows), I will be splitting these posts into chatting about my process, character development, edits etc. and then include extracts that aren't too spoilery! I think it'll be okay for the first sections of the book, especially as alot of the first few chapters is character building and imagery to set the scene, tone and atmosphere.

Also, the working title of "Bleeding Out" that I HATED with a PASSION is finally gone! My novel is now called Butterfly Blood based on a excerpt way in the future of the story. (Which I'm very excited to share c: )

I wrote the prologue after I’d finished the first chapter, to introduce the book and it’s mystery in a more captivating way than it had initially been introduced.

Frog finds himself underground in the middle of a forest with no knowledge of his surrounds, his past, or his identity. He clings to one certainty, that he is and was raised by frogs. (This book is a bit wack, just roll with it.)

As he crawls into the middle of the road, a truck starts hurtling toward him and careens off the road last minute. The driver drops down and searches for for Frog, but cannot find anyone.

There is no blood, no screaming, no mangled man wailing on the ground. Reluctantly, the driver withdraws from the dark and locks himself in the enclosed cabin of his truck, steadying his breathing.

As the exhaust sputters to life again, and tires tug against the initial friction of the gravel, the disappearance twists the driver’s thoughts.

His passenger clings with sticky tree frog palms to the trucks stomach; well-oiled organs huffing heat and fumes onto his face.

So this book actually began with a very horribly written chapter. The structure was a mess and for some reason I kept bombarding the reader with information about my main character Rowan and really pushing forward the idea that she’s an energetic person... Which was stiff and just poor writing, honestly. (Also, I've changed my ideas since about how I want to characterise her.) But out of the 3000 word (approx) start, there were salvageable aspects, and those went into the first chapter along with a lot more fleshing out of the scenes, setting and character. I also finally decided on a tense and perspective after being super inconsistent with it and unable to make my mind up.

But! We got there in the end, I just thought I’d share my struggle since writing is not a perfect process and there is a lot of rearranging, and sometimes it feels like pulling teeth.

The premise of this chapter is to set the scene of Blackerwick (a fictional, dreary british seaside town), introduce Rowan (our main character), and the complex relationship with her father, who has become insular over the past month before the story starts.

—excerpts;

A little world building and set up!

Everything about the sleepy town Rowan’s family had moved to is soaked in a distinct achromatic despondency. Inland residents slumped and slogged in their routines, never caring to change them, almost afraid of living. It had confused Rowan at first when she’d come here from Ireland at fourteen, how much the dull town contrasted its landscape. It seemed undeserving of such beauty; a tall mountain range to the left of Blackerwick, and beyond it a city; wide stretches of moors headed toward the forests, and beyond the forests—the ocean. It was as if all the world’s natural beauties had congregated here millions of years ago as the earth slid into place, waiting for settlers to enjoy it. They didn’t even seem to notice.

    Fading out of view behind her, a mangle of dark rooftops mesh amongst each other, a severe contrast to the pallidly painted house fronts, and chimneys slice into the sky, puffing endlessly on their pipes.

Hot air is exhaled from the horizon, tugging striking, unruly orange hair from her heavy ponytail as it whistles past her face. She closes her eyes peacefully against the feverish winds, her clothes buffeting and pounding as if fighting it off. Grinning, she leans toward the sea, trusting its breath to hold her weight.

In the course of this chapter Rowan has had an altercation with her teacher and gotten a detention, pushed through the forests toward the beach, and now is returning home. She rouses her dad’s attention by feigning a headache, because he doesn’t bother with her unless he sees she is in pain etc. Now for some quality mild gore!

    Turning, she leans in to hug him when she realises there’s blood gushing from her nose.

    “Oh shit! Shit, shit, shit! Not again!” Rowan scoops shaking hands to her nose, tacky blood spilling over her fingertips. “Dad, Dad!”

    He is already on it, tipping her head back into his cupped palm, holding tissues tightly to her nose. She wheezes and sputters, the world spinning as she lurches toward the sink, clinging to the draining board to keep her balance. Everything red, the four walls of the kitchen, red. Her blurring vision, red. Everything bleeding like her gums beneath grinding teeth as she bites down on the impulse to say something. She wants to scream, or throw up, head swimming as her world tilts upside down. Her skull rests in her father’s strong palm, a fleshy safety net.

Wash your mouth out with soap, ma’am. 

I was considering having Rowan not swear around her father, but her mother is pretty aggressive and her dad (Karmen) swears regularly, so it doesn’t seem too outrageous anymore. (I could never, my mum would flip).

When the bleeding slows finally, and her chin closes in on her neck again she notices her father’s shirt is covered with dried, grubby gore. It looks like he is bleeding out from a deep gash notched into his chest. His heart clawed savagely from its dwelling. 

Karmen being a worried dad is best dad;

     “You said not again.” He says finally, as she gathers herself, filling glass after glass with water and gulping hungrily, throat tilted toward the sky.

    “I’ve been getting more than usual recently.” She replies nonchalantly.

    “That’s shouldn’t be normal.” He says.

     Rowan shrugs, “I’ve always been prone to bleeding and bruising.” As if to defend herself or prove her case, she pulls down her jeans slightly, revealing a black contusion on her hip. It fades into swarthy purple and blue; a gradient discolouring her pale freckled skin; a deep ink blot, as if the flesh had been punctured with a fountain pen.

    Her dad hisses sharply. “How did you do that? I told you not to go into those woods anymore!”

Ok! Enough blood! I really made nosebleeds overly dramatic lol.

Anywho!

the first 2000 ish words of this chapter follow Frog (he's later named Mint), and let me tell you, his perspective came so naturally, and was such an interesting world view to write in. I'm not saying i like him, but I enjoy writing him for sure.

This chapter was initially 2100 words and I intended it to be a brief introduction of mint, but I merged it with the next one because I thought they joined together nicely. The other aspects of this chapter introduce more of the friend group (honestly the only relevent characters within this group are Damian and Jamie, the rest are low-key assholes) and set up later events.

—excerpts;

Mint is wandering in the forest, and hunting.

He slinks into step with the deer as it rises, shaking his head as it shakes its placid mane. Serenity slices the air in two.

     Frog strikes.

    The blade almost glitters in the air as it shoots toward the limpid animal’s vulnerable throat, veins pulsing beneath frosty, translucent fur. Incorporeal beast. A surreptitious streak in the night, headfirst, embedding with a gurgle and a coarse, barbaric scream. Deer’s aren't meant to sound like this. Like a human, like something capable of feeling and hurting. Frog wriggles the blade out of its fleshy sheath and exhales into a whistle. He looks gleefully at the drowned grass damp with blood. Gushing over his squirming toes.

      Its crown tumbles to the soil, antlers embedding deep into the foliage at Frogs feet. He sits beside Stag on the floor laden with pine needles--wreathing its glazed face like christ’s crown-- and strokes the un-bloodied fur of its forehead, holding its unblinking, waxy glare. Frog is the victor.

Frog/Mint is hunting! He kills a stag! Then he brutally dissects it;

      Peeling away at the thick membrane enshrouding Stag's skull, with tender interest, Frog carves muscle and fat from its head, pellucid and opaline, dropping the pale crumbs of carcass onto the ground. The deer’s dense ghost is not yet cold in his crimson tinted hands. 

Rowan feeling numb, because oh boy us writers like to see our characters in pain;

The water is scalding. Rowan breaks out in goose bumps. Catching her reflection in the rippling bathwater she almost doesn’t recognise herself. Flushed, pale cheeks. All sharp edges, cheekbones slicing beneath the eyes, graceful slanting nose scooping down into a slight point. Her lips protrude from her face, full and large, accommodating an easy smile. Rowan pulls her downturned lips into a small grin. The constructed happiness blurs in the water. Holding her breath, she leans into the baths hot grip, filling with her fiery hair.

    The silence smudges in her ears.

I also wrote some banter-y dialogues but I think I'll share them another time... After they've been edited.... a heck ton... There's an over exaggerated smoking description in this chap too but I've shared that before heh :)

I hope you enjoyed this LONG overdue chapter update! So far there are 7 chapters, so I have a lot of updating to catch up on! :)

I don’t have a tag list at the moment, but if you’re interested in this wip and want to be on it, then please send me an ask or a comment and I’ll add you :)

Tag list, ask to be added or removed;

@alicewestwater @elaz-ivero @coffeeandcalligraphy @hanwatchingmovies @sirfitzroys @chloeswords @nev-953

[forgedobsidian]

Break

A MHA fanfiction. Chapter 1 of 2.

AO3

Summary: All For One escapes from prison. It takes a few days for Toshinori to break down.

Trigger warnings for: blood, cuts, disassociation, general unhappy feelings, pain

Spoilers for non-manga readers.

Toshinori was washing dishes when he heard the news.

It came on over the television, an urgent report that cut into the middle of whatever the students had been watching. The reporter looked frazzled, and the camera was jittery.

“We’re here, reporting just outside the famed prison Tartarus. According to reports, there has been a breakout from the otherwise secure holding center.”

The background beyond the reporter shows a mess of firetrucks and yellow tape, police cars strewn about and crowds of people lining the sidewalks. Several ambulances and their attendants are seeing to injured guards.

“Wait, wait, we’re getting information . . .” The reporter pressed their hand to their ear, listening intently. Their face dropped, an unprofessional expression twisting their brows.

“Apparently there are several escaped convicts, but the main concern is the villain from the Kamino Ward incident. He’s escaped, and the police have yet to pick up any trail.”

Toshinori didn’t realize how tightly he was gripping the glass cup in his hand until it shatters with an anticlimactic crackle. He looks at his hand for a moment, eyeing the scratches and the few places the thick glass had embedded itself in his palm. He doesn’t feel anything, though, and for one insane moment he wants to slam his injured hand down on the counter.

Then the students are all scrambling, some running for the first aid kit and others dashing to Toshinori’s side, carefully reaching out and pulling pieces of glass from the sink. Toshinori is still staring at his hand, blood welling in his palm and spilling over to run down his forearm. Uraraka made a distressed sound in the back of her throat and pressed a wash towel against his wrist, trying to stem the flow of blood.

Then Aizawa is there, gently pulling Toshinori’s injured hand over to a bowl. It had been filled with cold water, and several towels are resting nearby.

There’s a weird haze in Toshinori’s head, a buzzing that made his hearing go in and out. His neck feels tense, and he wonders dimly if he’s going to throw up. It’s only when Aizawa gently rests his injured hand on the table that he snaps out of it.

“I -” Toshinori blinks, and clears his throat. My right hand. Bad hand.  “I can handle this, Aizawa. No need to worry.”

Aizawa tightens his grip on Toshinori’s wrist. “Just sit still, unless you want this to get worse.”

Toshinori doesn’t move, and Aizawa starts to gently pull the shards of glass from his palm. Now his hand stings, and Toshinori almost pulls away on instinct more than once.

“You’re going to see Recovery Girl tomorrow,” Aizawa says, leaving little room for argument. “You’re lucky nothing important was damaged.”

Toshinori hums, noticing that one of the students had turned off the television. The buzzing started up again, drilling into the back of his head.

The glass removed, Aizawa sets to gently washing Toshinori’s hand with the water and nearby towels. He binds Toshinori’s hand with some gauze and medical wrap, smearing antiseptic on the pads before placing them over the worst of the cuts. Toshinori bears it all with a faraway gaze, almost unaware of the students gathered around him.

“All Might-sensei?”

The sound filtered through Toshinori’s skull like molasses, and it’s hard for his eyes to focus when he turns to look at Tsuyu.

The girl gently rests her hands on the table in front of her. “Are you okay?”

The other students are all watching him. Kirishima and Sero look like they’re on the verge of tears, and Todoroki has a thoughtful look on his face. Uraraka is still holding a bloodied towel, her fingers picking at the edges.

Toshinori forces a smile, more than aware that they’ll see through it. “I’m fine. Just a bit startled, I think.”

Sero leans forward, hand hovering over Toshinori’s wrist. “You sure you’re okay? We could call someone, it you want.”

A strike of something cold goes down Toshinori’s spine. He’s out. “No. I think I’ll just go to my room. Sleep this off.” He waved his bandaged hand, not registering the spikes of pain when his fingers twitched.

“Oh. Okay.” Sero seems disappointed, for some reason. He exchanges a worried glance with Kirishima.

Toshinori gets to his feet, shaking his head when his balance tilts to the side. His awareness blinks out, and the next thing he knows is that he’s in the elevator and hitting the button for the fifth floor.

Toshinori grips his head with his undamaged hand, his breaths hitching and his nails digging into his scalp.

He’s out. Everything that happened is . . .

When he gets to his room, he stumbles into the bathroom and throws up.

He never goes to see Recovery Girl.

He can see Aizawa giving him a disapproving glare, but there’s a haze over his senses, so he doesn’t really care.

Naomasa had called him last night, the exhaustion in his voice clear even through the distortion of his phone. “I’m sorry. There wasn’t any time to contact you before the media arrived and started broadcasting.”

Toshinori had shook his head, fingers tapping against his leg. “No, no, not your fault. Be careful.”

They’d hung up soon after.

Toshinori sighed, clenching his injured hand into a fist. He felt a flare of pain, heat running along the cuts in his palm.

There was nothing you could have done, even if you had been there.

The thought feels like it’s coated in vitriol and it eats through his chest.

He clenched his teeth, allowing a muscle to flex in his jaw. Then he tried to relax, consciously lowering his shoulders and deepening his breathing.

Toshinori got to his feet slowly, not looking forward to the long day. He strapped on his wrist brace, hoping that it would help hide the bandages on his fingers.

He grabbed his notes, took a deep breath, and walked out into the hallway. Tension settled between his shoulders and up the back of his neck before he closed the door behind himself.

Nighteye calls him that evening.

“How are you doing?”

Toshinori, still a bit surprised at his former partner contacting him, stammers. “F-fine, Nighteye! I’m holding up. How are you?”

When Nighteye answers, it’s almost as though he hadn’t heard Toshinori. “This is about the breakout. I want you to come stay with me.”

“Stay with you?”

“At the agency. You’ll be protected, and I can take another reading on your future.”

“Nighteye, I don’t -” Toshinori groaned and rubbed his hand down his face. “I know you’re busy, and I wouldn’t want to bother you.”

“That doesn’t matter. You need to be in a safe place, All Might.”

Toshinori fiddled with the edge of his phone. “Nighteye, do you know why I told you that it was unnecessary to ‘look’ at me, to peer into my future?”

“No, you never did.”

It was because I wasn’t as important as the people we were going to help. I was only valuable insofar as I could save others, or put myself between them and harm. Now, there’s nothing much that would be lost if the worst should happen. “You shouldn’t focus on me. You have more important things going on than looking after an old retiree.”

“You’re not old, All Might.”

Toshinori gave an emotionless snort. “Old enough. Listen, I’m fine here at UA. There’s no need to worry.”

“There’s every reason to worry. You know how All For One was gunning for you at Kamino, and now when you can’t use your quirk you’re more vulnerable than ever.” Nighteye sighed, and Toshinori could almost see his former partner reaching up to rub his eyes. “Please, come stay with my agency. You’ll be safe.”

I’ll also be absolutely useless, instead of mostly useless. “No. I’m staying at UA. Please don’t fight me on this.”

“I’m just concerned for your well-being, All Might. Please, at least consider it.”

Toshinori sighed. “Fine, I’ll think about it. No promises, though.”

“That’s enough for me.” Then Nighteye hung up.

Toshinori glared at the phone, his face falling into a sad expression a moment later. He place the phone on the table, screen down, and let himself sag in his seat. His gaze fell to his bandaged hand, the brace resting next to it.

The buzzing grew in the back of his head, whispering of guilt and uselessness and futility and a wasted life.

Before he could make sense of anything Toshinori slammed his hand down on the table. The wrappings didn’t offer a substantial buffer, and he could feel scabs cracking and splitting even though he couldn’t see the cuts.

A spike of pain went up his arm, and he gritted his teeth as he ground the edge of his hand into the table. Red blots started to grow along the bandage. He curled his hand into a fist, feeling his nails dig into the cuts through the wrapping.

He was glad that none of the students stopped by his dorm room as he rewrapped his hand in fresh bandages.

He disassociates in the middle of giving a lecture.

He had been writing something on the blackboard, the chalk shakily gripped in his right hand. Then, without any warning, his awareness had shifted.

Everything suddenly felt far away, and he couldn’t force his eyes to focus on anything in front of him. It felt like his ears were stuffed with cotton. He couldn’t feel time passing, and he only dimly felt someone touch his shoulder. The hand gives his arm a shake, and it takes all of his effort to look down at his side. His eyes find Iida, but it’s like looking through fogged glass.

“Sensei, are you alright?” Iida’s words take time to dribble through Toshinori’s skull, and when they finally register, the teacher shakes his head and slowly lowers his hand.

“I think,” he says, and his voice sounds weird and bubbly, “that it might be time to end class for today.”

Several students stood up, many of them asking if he was feeling well. Toshinori felt like he was underwater with how well he could hear them. He gave a noncommittal nod and placed the chalk on the desk.

He doesn’t notice Izuku giving him a panicked look, sharing it with Bakugou. Both of the students watched as their teacher slowly gathered up his notes and shuffled out of the door.

Two days after the announcement, Toshinori was resting in the teacher’s room.

Yamada was giving him constant looks, peering around the edge of his work station to find Toshinori where the retiree was stretched out on the couch. He scrambled when Toshinori got up, striving to look like he hadn’t been keeping an eye on him.

Toshinori looked terrible. There were dark circles under his eyes, and Yamada suspected that he’d lost weight, too, if the sharpness of his shoulders through his shirt was anything to go by. He noticed that Toshinori’s hand was still covered in bandages, and he could help but wince when he saw the bruised fingertips.

“You sure you don’t wanna lay down a bit longer?” Yamada asked, making sure to keep his voice quiet.

Toshinori shook his head. “No, no. I just need to move around a bit.”

Yamada’s eyes followed him as Toshinori shuffled his way out of the lounge. He could see the tension warring with exhaustion in the older man’s shoulders, and his head sagged like his neck had trouble holding it up.

“Shouta,” Yamada said, leaning over the desk once Toshinori had left, “If he keeps holding himself like that, he’s gonna snap.”

“He’s an adult.” Aizawa reached for a pen. “We have to trust him, at least when it comes to taking care of himself.”

“You do realize what you just said, right? Expecting him to take care of himself without prompting is the same as expecting you to throw away your sleeping bag.”

Aizawa sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Listen, either he’ll handle it, or he won’t. I doubt we have anything to say that could help, anyways.”

Kayama peered over at the pair, having listened to their conversation. “Aizawa, the man he spent his entire career to put behind bars escaped. For all he can see, his life’s work is falling to pieces around him, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He needs his friends.”

“And I’m willing to be there for him when the time comes.” Aizawa shot Kayama a level gaze. “With where he is now, he wouldn’t listen to us no matter what we said. Give him time.”

Toshinori downed the last of his tea and looked at the clock.

Just past midnight.

He shifted, looking around the dorm commons. All of the students had gone to bed several hours earlier, tuckered out from a day filled with endurance exercises. He had to give a small smile at remembering Izuku dragging his feet, the boy’s exhaustion evident in his loopy smile.

They did well, today.

For the moment, the buzzing in his head was quiet, and he could allow himself a moment of quiet, focusing on his breathing. His breath hitched, though, and he gave a wet cough only a minute into his meditation. He felt coppery blood coat his tongue, and he cleared his throat.

Can’t even do that right, apparently.

The thought was bitter. He took a shallow breath and swallowed, pinching his lips together until he was certain he wouldn’t leak blood from between his teeth.

Pain flared from his hand and Toshinori looked down at his thin arms, crisscrossed by scar tissue and warped from bone broken too many times.

Who was I to think I could still be useful after my retirement, even just a bit? The only thing I was ever good for was throwing punches, and now teaching is all that’s left for me, and I can’t even do that.

His memory flashed back to disassociating in the middle of writing down notes, and how he hadn’t been able to look any of his students in the eye when he left the classroom. He gave a self-deriding snort, and pushed his empty cup of tea further down the table.

He felt old, down into his bones. All used up.

The television segment he’d seen today had been filled with reports of increasing violence and over-worked heroes, several of whom needed to be hospitalized for treatment.

My fault, again. I shouldn’t have just dropped them all like that.

He sagged in his seat and let his head fall backwards.

I just wanted to help, to change things. How could I have been so arrogant as to take that on myself?

He rested his head on the table and let the void in his chest eat him.

The next night he went to the school gym.

It was thankfully devoid of life, the area closing off to the students several hours ago. It’s only thanks to his teacher pass that he’s able to get into the room at all.

The familiar scent of old training pads meets his nose, along with the crisp smell of metal. All of the weights and work bags are at rest, the floor empty. Toshinori turned on a few lights on autopilot, not truly focusing on his actions.

A hanging punching bag catches his attention. He walks slowly, trying to feel any sort of sensation in his body. He gives the bag a push, watching as the chains holding it clink and twist.

A small smile grew across his face. Once, many years ago, Torino had placed a young Toshinori in front of a bag very similar to this one, leading him through strengthening his punches. He’d spent four hours just doing exercises and drills, and at the end of it his legs had been shaky and unsteady.

Nana had laughed a lot at that, seeing her successor wobble about and make pathetic grabs for his water bottle.

The memory of Nana sent him back to Kamino ward, and an oily voice trickled down his back.

Tomura Shigaraki is Tenko Shimura, your predecessor’s grandson.

He snarled, pulling his lips away from his teeth, and threw a punch. “It’s just in my head. He’s not here.”

A sudden swell of loathing in his chest leads to him throwing another punch, then a jab, then a variety of combos that had been ingrained in his muscle memory for decades.

He swung his fists with experience and near-perfect technique, imagining himself landing blows on shoulders and torsos and faces. He twists his hips, throwing his entire mass into a left hook and countering with a sharp rap of his right elbow.

He could remember when his blows were taken seriously, when even without the use of One For All he could have shattered bone.

Now the punching bag barely swings.

His knuckles skid off the thick canvas and his skin tears, blood welling along the cracks in his skin.

Toshinori hisses and pulls his hand back, flexing his fingers. He could feel where he reopened the cuts in his hand, in addition to the new abrasions swelling across his knuckles. Anger blooms in his chest, and he throws another series of vicious punches, digging his knuckles into the bag.

Something inside him breaks with an almost audible snap.

He falls to his knees, grabbing the bag with his hands. An angry tear slips free and trickles over his sharp cheekbones.

Useless. Useless. Everything a waste.

He knew the voice was wrong, that he had saved people, given them a chance at life. That didn’t stop the choking spark of truth in the thoughts.

It’s all . . . going bad. I wanted to protect them, and instead the peace I worked to build is rotting from the inside out.

A sob worked it’s way out of his throat. His fingers dug into the punching bag as he slowly sagged to the floor, trying to breathe around the gasps building in his chest. Everything ached, from his bowed back to his angular feet. He felt raw and weak.

More tears made their way down his face, and he could feel his twisted nose start to run. “Dammit,” Toshinori muttered under his breath, sniffing and trying to rub at his face. The tears stung the abrasions and cuts on his hand, soaking the bandaging.

It was getting harder for him to breathe, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to start going through a calming exercise. He felt like he was drowning, gasping for air around a pained throat. He coughed, and felt blood trickle from his tongue.

He curled up on the floor, gripping his head between his forearms. A muffled groan slipped past his ragged throat, and he curled himself up tighter, trying to ride out the storm.

He stays on the gym floor until morning light starts eeking through the windows. It’s only the faraway noise of his students getting ready for the first training session of the day that pushes him to his feet. He staggers out of the doors, slowly making his way back to the quiet of his dorm room.

He left smears of blood on the punching bag, thick red embedded in the canvas. 

Author’s Note: I’m still working on Aphelion, no worries ^^ I think I need to do some short-term projects, though, just to keep from getting bogged down.

Thanks for reading!!