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shibaraki · 1 year ago

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THE ARSONIST’S LULLABY ┊ TODOROKI TOUYA

synopsis: the theory is everyone has a metaphorical part of themselves frozen in childhood. a symbolic, younger version of the self that can still be saved.

dabi comes home with what seems to be a sleeping four year old in his arms and the look of a man who has just seen a ghost.

tags: GN reader, reader is a civilian, sorta established relationship (dabi is paranoid and allergic to labels), accidental child acquisition, angst and fluff, pre LOV (like right before), alludes to past canon child abuse, dissociation, family feels (dabi shithead big brother tendencies)

wc: 8K

“What the fuck—”

“Don’t,” Dabi hushed you frantically, far more frayed than you’ve ever seen him. Affronted, you open the door wider all the same, allowing him inside.

He’s careful with his movements as he kicks off his boots and ducks into the living room. The lump bundled in his jacket does not stir. Dabi lowers to a crouch and settles a young child on the sofa cushions. You note the deliberate care in which he slides his arms out from beneath the boy's body.

The coat lapels have slipped to reveal a child that can surely be no older than four years old. Waxen skin, full cheeks and a wind bitten nose. Most notable is the red hair, thick and fanning across the decorative pillow in undefined waves.

You feel inclined to tiptoe as you approach. Navigating the short space cautiously, knowing where to set your feet; avoiding the creaky floorboards you’ve long since memorised. Dabi lets out a shuddering breath and slumps back against the coffee table. Not once does he look at you even as you enter his vision.

Knelt at Dabi’s side, you evaluate the things laid out before you. The air remains tepid. There are no remnants of smoke clinging to his clothes. Your gaze sweeps over his body. He isn’t running hot, and the sutures aren’t weeping. Not a blood stain nor a burn mark to be seen. He is simply frozen, staring down at the boy.

The child, too, is unscathed. Under a thin T-shirt his small chest rises and falls. He wears an expression that can only be described as tranquil. Part of this disturbs you, and tempts you to poke the kid, if only to make sure he isn’t a doll.

You brush your knuckles along his jaw. The kid runs cold but he’s warmer than expected after being rushed through the late evening streets without sleeves. No shoes on his feet either. Odd, considering his socks are clean.

There are a million questions clamouring in your head that you lose the opportunity to ask—that all lead to a single, heartbreaking answer—because the little boy stirs at your touch. His eyelids scrunch together as if to protest his own consciousness, then gradually open, irises as blue as early spring periwinkles peeking through slits.

Nausea grips you. A dark amalgamation of anger, anxiety, confusion and jealousy knotted itself deep in your gut. Those eyes—eyes just like Dabi’s, staring back at you, head tilting with a blank expression.

You take far too long to notice that he’s stopped breathing. Stuck in place, likely frightened to be somewhere unfamiliar, crowded by people he does not know. “Hi there sweetheart,” you say, willing yourself to smile reassuringly. “I know this must be scary for you but I promise you’re safe. We won’t hurt you”.

At that the little boy puffs up. “I’m not scared!”

Dabi scoffs. He hasn’t looked in the boy's direction since he woke up. You nudge his side, brow furrowed in disapproval. “Good. 'Cause you've got nothing to be scared of,” you tell him, glare softening as it slides back to the couch. “Do you think you could tell us your name?”

The silence is oppressive. You’re stared at as if you were a battle to be conquered. You sigh, “Alright. You don’t need to tell me. Stranger danger, right?”

Oddly enough, the boy doesn’t appear disturbed about his surroundings at all. You’d prepared yourself for tears, or some wailing. Instead he casually pushed himself upright into a sitting position and stretched his short arms high over his head, as if waking from a routine nap.

You draw air through your teeth, gasping as his shirt lifts with the stretch and reveals his belly. Dabi’s jaw winds at the sight. The air around you expands, thick with ephemeral warmth. He’s considerate to keep it there, boiling violently under his skin. His reaction nags at your conscience, and you want to grab him when he stands to walk away, but you’ve no choice but to prioritise the situation in front of you.

There are burns around the child’s midsection. Mottled pink and swollen. He rejects your touch as you reach out to examine him further. “You’re hurt, kiddo. We can help. Let me—”

“No!” he yells. You startle at the genuine heartbreak in his voice. He scrambles down and shoves past you. Rabbit footed, he sprints to the bathroom and slams the door. You strain to listen, relieved that he does not turn the lock, and debate going after him. Something about that childlike anger is deeply familiar.

Ice crawls through your chest; it’s a dread that lingers in your periphery yet evades perception the longer you try to put a finger on it. You throw another glance down the hallway as you stride toward the genkan. “Dabi,” you call firmly. His hands, bloodied with the runoff dirt and ash, continue scrubbing at the sole of his boot in an almost mechanical fashion. “Touya,” you try again, quieter, exercising caution when wielding that name. And his movement stutters. “You can’t just—go! Not now. He’s badly burned. Where did you even find him?”

You’re patient as he exhales a harsh breath. He seems to grapple with his thoughts, a distant look in his eyes. Seeing him so unsettled is scaring you. “Does it really matter? He’ll probably be gone soon,” he mutters. A wave of defensiveness on behalf of the poor child bubbles to the surface. But before you can argue, he is tugging his cleaned boots on with sudden force.

Dabi stomps to settle the heel and pulls open your front door. It rattles on the hinges. A cold evening breeze billows into the apartment and bites at your bare arms. “I’ll be back later. Just pretend he’s not here,” he grunts. “He won’t notice the difference”.

“Wait, baby—!”

And he’s gone again.

You smother the frustrated yell that follows into your hands. There’s a faint sense of abandonment on the fringes, creeping in and forming a lump in your throat. Dabi always had to run first. You rub at your eyes until the sting disappears and exhale until all the air in your lungs is gone, taking with it your frustrations.

Somehow the hallway stretches that much longer. This time you press weight onto the old floorboards and hear them creak, making your presence known as you approach. There’s no noise behind the bathroom door. Your fingers curl around the handle but a gut feeling begs that you pause.

The soft knock of your knuckles to the frame echoes through the apartment. “It’s me,” you say. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, little guy. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t in pain…”

Your ears prick at the quiet movement inside the bathroom. The latch clicks as the handle turns and you move away as much as the narrow space can afford, the front of your sweater bunched up in your fist; it mirrors the child’s own stance, shifting in place gripping his shirt.

Now under the cheap flickering light you notice an uneven patch of white in his hair. There is something uncomfortably broken about him that you can’t place. A dissonance between his outline and the world, as though he were a pencil drawing in a watercolour canvas.

“M’not little,” he insists with a stomp, looking like he might cry. “Stop talkin’ to me like I’m a baby”.

“Alright. You’re not a baby, you’re a big kid,” you settle on your knees in front of him, lowering your voice in a way a child might consider more ‘grown up’, “But I still have to make sure you don’t need a doctor. So is it okay if I ask about the marks on your tummy?”

This time his reaction is far more subdued. Exhausted from his earlier anger, maybe. Or resigned to the fact that you will not let the injuries go. He jerked his shoulders and crossed both arms, staring down at his feet.

“Has someone been hurting you—did they do that to you?”

The kid huffs, indignant. “No,” he mumbles with a pout. Your eyes follow his fingers where they begin to anxiously clench and unclench. “My quirk…”

The admission is clearly difficult for him, like he has to force the words out of his mouth. You unfold your legs from beneath you and dip to try to meet his eyes, “Your quirk hurts you?”

“Not all the time!” there’s that flash of emotion again, racketing through him like thunder. If he were a kitten you think all the hair on his body would be on end. “If—if I train more I bet it wouldn’t,” he sniffs. “But father told me I can’t do that anymore”.

“Oh,” you’re taken aback at the mention of another father figure. You feel a growing dislike for the unknown man. “Well that’s kinda silly. How will you ever learn to use it safely if you don’t practice?”

Finally, the boy’s glassy eyes snap up and meet your own. He’s practically glowing; awestruck, as though you’d turned his entire worldview on its head with just a few words. “Right, right?” he begins to bounce on the balls of his feet. “I’m gonna be the bestest, strongest hero. Better than All Might!”

Your thoughts stall, reaction delayed. Only Dabi would bring home a kid who loves heroes—that is if they’re related at all. You find it hard to believe. Those eyes do not lie.

“That right?” you let yourself be influenced by his enthusiasm and mirror his grin. Whatever Dabi did or did not omit it’s not the kids fault. “Well, I’ll be cheering you on from the sidelines. How about that?”

“Yeah! You’ll see!” your heart clenches at the sight of his little leg stomping excitedly as he rubs at his eyes. A hiccup wracks his body. Telegraphing your movements you rest a hand at his back, rubbing back and forth to calm him. Such an extreme response to such a simple praise.

After some gentle cajoling you manage to get him to sit on a stool in the kitchen with some apple juice that you miraculously had in the fridge. Your eyes linger on the glass in his hands as you apply the medicated cream to his stomach, barely big enough to hold it.

You exhale, fingers pausing by his waist. The sight is hard to swallow. The tissue is smooth to touch and irregularly shaped, as though the scar had outgrew the initial wound. Even as you reached the inflamed sections he hadn’t so much as flinched. Again you're reminded of Dabi, his impassive expression perched on the edge of your bathtub, skin swelling around his sutures, a merry scarlet waterfall weeping from the exposed wounds.

“Where did that man go?” he asks, pulling you from your reverie.

“Ah, he needed to go get something,” the lie is unconvincing even to your own ears. Discomfited, you clear your throat and add, “You can call him Dabi when he’s back”.

You search for his discarded shirt while he tests the name with his own voice. Small mouth shaped around the syllables, da-bi, and spitting it out quick again, dabi. “That’s right. Dabi. You like his name?” the kid staunchly shakes his head, hair falling over his eyes. He pushes it back with both of his hands.

“S’dumb,” he says. The bluntness makes you laugh.

“I bet your name is cooler, right?” that catches his attention. He nods once with a firm hum. “You wanna tell me it now?”

Your efforts seemed to fall flat. The child would not tell you his name; during the numerous attempts in the hours that followed, you got the sense that he couldn’t tell you. And he would get this odd look about him, as if it was you asking that was confusing to him. As if you should already know.

Far more concerning to you is that he never asks to go home. Not once does he mention his mother or father of his own volition. After countless questions you can discern that his knowledge is strangely limited. He seems frozen in time, with no real memory of how Dabi found him.

The hours pass uninterrupted when your curiosity veers away from his circumstances and closer to him. To things he loves, and the like. You carry him on your hip, surprisingly light, and settle him back on the couch as he rambled about Caped Kid and Supertoon and the old All Might animated shorts that you forgot even existed. He kicks his feet along the cushions excitedly when you find some pirated clips online for him to watch.

By the time Dabi comes home the kid has fallen asleep, right back where he first left him. Your arms cross over your chest, the earlier anger rising once more, but something about his expression wills you to temper it.

Dabi is wet through. Soaked to the bone, clothes hanging on his frame. Black streaks are running down his cheeks, and despite your disappointment you hastily tug your sleeve over your hand as you start forward, bringing it up to dab away the dye before it seeps into his sutures.

It’s a relief that he doesn’t flinch away. Not even as his gaze drifts to the TV, which has automatically started up another All Might clip. No vitriol comes. A warm, savoury smell fills your senses and you notice that he’s carrying a plastic bag.

“Brought food,” he rasps. You look back up and meet his eyes, unnerved at how far away he sounds.

“Thank you,” you murmur. Casting a final glance to the young boy on your couch—laying suspiciously still—you wrap fingers around Dabi’s cold wrist and coax him into the kitchen. He sets the food on the counter and in letting go the plastic handle is left upright, misshapen from the responsive heat of his quirk.

He inhales, readying himself to speak, but you gently interrupt, “I think you should shower first. Change into something comfortable. I’ll… I’ll serve the food”.

Dabi sighs but slinks away to the bathroom at your suggestion. You watch him bristle and glare halfheartedly at the head peeking up from behind the couch cushions and the boy shrinks back. Not a moment later the door slams and he flinches, chubby fingers clutching tight to the upholstery.

“Is Dabi mad?” the small voice asks. Sullen in a way that draws you closer to comfort him. Your hand comes to rest on the crown of his head, petting him now that he’ll let you.

“No, no,” you demurred. “Well. Maybe he is, but he’s just having a lot of uh, big feelings”.

“Big feelings,” the boy nods. Then he peers up at you searchingly, “…Is he melting?”

Having expected him to ask literally anything but that, you give a soft laugh. “Dabi isn’t melting. It’s the colour in his hair. He painted it and if it gets wet it washes out, like you saw”.

“Oh”.

The kid is calmer now, no longer ready to bury himself between the cushions. “He brought food back. Smells like curry,” you tell him. “Want some?”

Returning to the kitchen after an enthusiastic ‘yes’—pushed out between a big yawn—you unwrap the takeout boxes and begin to portion them. Dabi finished his shower, dressed in the loose fitted sweatpants and t-shirt you kept for the nights he felt comfortable enough to stay, and accepted the plate you put in his hands.

Together, you eat around the kotatsu in relative silence filled only by the limited ramblings of the child Dabi brought home. He’s the type to express things with his entire body, the type that cannot sit still, and you find yourself shooting Dabi the odd furtive glance, worried he might snap, almost daring him to try.

But Dabi does not snap. He doesn’t look at either of you. You note the tension in his shoulders, winding tighter with every mention of the word ‘hero’, and how his fist clenches and uncurls, knuckles white where the blood recedes. He keeps his head down, forearm curled protectively around the food on his plate as he eats, and doesn’t say a word.

You’ve never met anyone else who can so readily act as though they’re unfeeling. The embodiment of feigned indifference. Dabi was so confident in his detachment, with the scathing comments, comfort in violence and purposefully unapproachable demeanour, but you knew what lie underneath; you can tell when it’s an act and when it’s real, and right now he’s never been more transparent.

The boy starts to droop into his food some time during the next Caped Kid episode. Your hand shoots out to cup his chin when his head wobbles on his shoulders, close to using the rice as a pillow. “He’s all tuckered out again,” you comment aloud, licking your thumb to wipe at the sauce around his mouth. “Can you take the—?”

Dabi is already standing, stacking the plates atop one another without so much as trying to be quiet. You roll your eyes to the ceiling, seeking strength, and tuck the little boy to your front, hoisting him back up into the couch. He stirs and blinks around the room as though seeing for the first time.

“It’s alright. Go back to sleep,” you whisper. He yawns, jaw stretching around such a tiny squeak that you can’t help but to kiss his hair.

Dabi is standing at the sink, back turned to the dirty dishes and leant against the counter. Your eyes meet, but you pointedly look away and say nothing as you step forward to gather the empty takeout boxes and throw them out.

He speaks, if only to fill the silence, “I shouldn’t have walked out”.

It’s the closest to an apology you’ll probably ever get. “Y’think?” you hesitated for a long minute, speaking only as you sensed his presence at your back. “Actually, what the fuck were you thinking?”

Really, your relationship with Dabi has always been chimerical in nature. Some strange patchwork attempt at being human. You fucked, kissed one another at the door, shared parts of your lives that you wished you never had. Labels only drove him away, like identifying the thing you’d woven together would bring it to actuality, make it corporeal, ridding you of plausible deniability.

It was never a question why he brought the kid here. This is where you play house, after all. Dabi’s shoebox apartment was empty, simply a place to go when he wasn’t out doing who knows what, like a waiting room. A space between spaces. Yours was far more appropriate for a child, and you’d thought that maybe—he chose to trust you enough, to finally ask for help, rather than doing it out of convenience.

Heat soaks through your shirt as his mottled, slender hand settles on your waist. You turn on your heel to face him directly, resolve weakening at the careful squeeze of his fingers. You sigh, palms brushing featherlight up the uneven flesh along his forearms and follow as he retreated backward to lower onto the nearby breakfast stool.

“I was hit with a quirk on my way back”.

“What?” your inner conflict falters. Concern superseding your anger you cup his jaw to tip his head back and side to side to get a good look at him. “When? Are you hurt?”

Dabi snorts, relaxed by your gentle countenance and fretting. “Not now. Earlier. Some middle schooler without a handle on her quirk yet. Quit fussin’, I’m fine,” he continues and shakes free of your hands, so you settle them on his shoulders. He walks his fingers behind your knees, cupping the back of your thighs, uncharacteristically restless.

“It’s where the…“ his jaw clenched and he pressed his forehead hard to your stomach, burrowing into the fabric. Anticipation grips your lungs when he doesn’t immediately explain.

“Talk to me,” you run your fingers through his hair and they come away stained black. “How did—what does the quirk do?”

“Fuck, I hardly had time to ask about specifics. The stupid kid knocked into me and suddenly I had my arms full,” Dabi’s snarling dwindles. He licks his lips, hesitant, and casts his eyes to the narrow space between your bodies. Quieter this time, “It’s where he came from”.

You register his words. The realisation slides through you with sharp clarity. It swells in you, all encompassing and painful, like love and heartbreak at the same time. “He’s not yours, is he?” you say, reminiscent of a whisper. “He’s you”.

“My inner child. Some pseudo bullshit like that,” Dabi supplies, as though the distinction was important. He looks up, the column of his throat pressed to your sternum, and your chest loosens a little, some of the fear ebbing. “Did you seriously think I knocked someone up?”

“Plausibly, what else was I supposed to think?”

“Not that,” he scoffs. “Either way, I don’t know how long we’re stuck with him”.

“Don’t talk about him like he’s a burden,” you frowned. Dabi’s eyes squint, and he makes a low, dubious noise. “Why didn’t you tell me straight away?”

“Didn’t want you to know,” he shrugs. It shouldn’t sting the way it does. This is hardly the first time Dabi kept something from you. “Thought I could make the kid keep his mouth shut about my family”.

Inwardly you think he needn’t worry about that. They were as secretive and stubborn as each other, in that respect. Hell, it took Dabi three years to give up his name and that was only because he’d been delirious at the time.

“But you left anyway”.

“He woke up,” Dabi says, like that was enough explanation. You give a commiserate nod, cradling his rough jaw, because maybe it is. “Needed to blow off some steam. Figured I might look for the twerp that caused all this but she’d probably run if she saw me again”.

“Don’t tell me you scared the poor girl shitless?”

“Alright. I won’t tell you,” he snorted, biting at the heel of your hand when you mutter his name disapprovingly.

“So we just wait for him to go?” you brush the remaining skin between his eye and his cheek with your thumb, following the curve of his sutures. “Maybe it is psychological then. Make your inner child happy and the quirk might cancel out sooner”.

There’s something dark in Dabi’s expression when his mouth pulls wide into a smarmy grin, eyes burning as his fingers dig into your thighs. “Looking to rehabilitate me, sweetheart?”

You soon put that to rest, guiding him into a kiss. His grip falls slack, and then returns, more needy than dangerous. Dabi’s lips pressed back, insisted, softer than you thought possible. “Course not,” you murmur, admiring the resentful flush on his face as you draw back. “Maybe I like you as you are. Just a little”.

“Bad taste,” he breathes. His nose scrunches the way it always does when he’s feeling too much, and you kiss that too. You recognise Dabi’s flaws for what they are, and you’ve given yourself to him knowingly. Even so, in the confines of your mind, you do wish he might’ve had the chance to be something better.

This inner child incident could be a small step. You don’t expect his perspective on society will change; he could learn compassion and forgive himself for whatever led him here. But what exactly is an inner child?

The theory goes that everyone has a metaphorical part of themselves frozen in childhood. A symbolic, younger version of the self that can be talked to, supported, and guided—that can still be saved.

Dabi informs you with great reluctance that this little Touya was probably closer to five years old, and stuck in the time right after his first brother was born. You never knew he had siblings.

“Did something significant happen around that time?” you worry at your bottom lip, glancing out toward the living room, shrouded in darkness now that the TV has switched to standby. “Do you remember what you wanted most, from before?”

You hear your name. You’re startled by the intensity in Dabi’s stare, unyielding and sharp. A primitive part of you wants to shrink back from it. “Don’t push it,” he says.

It was on the tip of your tongue to remark something equally catty. Instead you swallow. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” you muttered. Through trial and error you’ve already memorised the ley lines that make up Dabi’s boundaries and know well enough that prying too far into his past, or encroaching on his future plans, is a hard no-no.

“We’re going to need a cover story for him if he’s here longer than a day,” you continue, a smile creeping in alongside your teasing inflection. “Guess you’re a dad—”

“Not a chance in hell,” Dabi grimaces, skin taut around his scars. “If it comes to it, say he’s my nephew”.

“You’re no fun,” you concede. “Fine. Uncle Dabi”.

The discussion leads nowhere in the end. Dabi is unwilling to delve any further into his childhood and you know a losing battle when you see one. You turn your attention to the sleeping arrangements, and decide that it would be best to roll out your spare futons in the living room, just in case something happens.

And Dabi, despite his objections, despite puttering around with pillows under each arm and cursing under his breath, throws them down and sprawls out across the blankets. You feel his stare as you move Touya—as you’ve taken to calling him in your head—from his resting place to the space between your bodies.

Touya isn’t yet the light sleeper you know Dabi to be. His eyes shift behind closed lids and his lips curl in momentary discomfort but he doesn’t wake. “Does he have to sleep there?” Dabi all but sneers when Touya curls into your warm chest, much the way he would like to.

“Aw. Don’t be jealous,” you pillow Touya’s head on your shoulder and reach across to take Dabi’s hand, entwining your fingers through stubborn means. “He’s just a baby”.

A fresh wave of heat ripples around your hands and Dabi’s grip is solid, as though you’ve been soldered together. “He’s not a baby. He’s already five,” he mutters with a faraway look in his eyes, indifferent to the callousness in his words.

Your palms kiss and you aim for a lighthearted tone, “Stop being a dick. You’ll have me to yourself again soon enough”.

Dabi grunts and some of the tension is relieved from the atmosphere, his face thrown into stark relief by the sliver of moonlight flooding through your curtains. Not for the first time, you wonder if he feels the after aches of childhood—if the hollow inside him felt that much deeper now that Touya was out here, safe in your arms—and suddenly holding his hand is not enough.

You entangle your legs and distract yourself with the feel of his boney ankle. Some things are better left unknown, you reason. A mantra that encompasses your relationship. Better not pick and prod. You’ve done quite enough of it already, more than you’re entitled to. Sometimes you worry that one day you’ll unravel the wrong thread and he’ll never stop bleeding.

Touya clutches tighter to your shirt. Kicks a tiny foot against your pelvis in protest of the movement, surprisingly hard. Dabi snickers at your restrained groan. “Guess you’ve always been a restless sleeper”.

“That's what you get for giving him my spot,” Dabi says, the beginnings of a smile in his voice. “Was worse when I was a kid”.

“Clearly. A fly could sneeze and wake you up,” you remove the heel from your stomach and let it tangle with the blankets. Touya suddenly flips onto his back, arm cast out toward Dabi, not far from smacking him in the face. “Atleast he feels safe, I suppose”.

The night settles, your apartment alongside it. Walls quietly groan as the wind picks up a fraction. “We should take him somewhere tomorrow,” you think aloud, staring at the hairline fracture in the ceiling. “The arcade, maybe?”

“Now why the fuck would we do that?” Dabi’s voice is lower, muffled, and a quick sidelong glance confirms that his mouth is half squashed into the pillow, fatigue starting to weigh on him. “Don’t even have clothes for him”.

“Kano-san might let us borrow some,” you offer tiredly. Though your neighbour's four children were all over five years old you had no doubt she kept hand-me-downs. “It’s not fair to just keep him holed up til he disappears”.

“I refuse…” Dabi mumbled. You snort, resting your chin on Touya’s crown, swaddled by warmth. Shadows creep in and blur the edges of your vision. You’re gently coaxed into sleep, final thoughts being the hope that Dabi would still be there tomorrow.

What you receive is far more. Where soft moonlight once drifted in through the cracks, harsh sun is striking through the dim room, right against your closed eyes. You flinch away from it, turning into your pillow. Half-awake, you aren’t quite in and not quite outside yourself, but you are conscious enough to hear Dabi laugh at your displeasure.

The weight in your arms is gone. Pawing at the yawning emptiness, you abruptly sit up and whip your eyes around the room. They land on Dabi, who is laid on his back and surrendering to his current predicament. He pointedly avoids acknowledging it.

Time stretches thinly as you take in the scene. At some point in the night, Touya had made his way over to Dabi and laid himself on top of him. Chubby cheek squished to Dabi’s sternum, lashes fluttering as he dreams. Fleeting, you consider that he may be trying to crawl right back into him.

“G’morning,” you sigh, blood rushing to your limbs as you contort and stretch. Unable to resist, you shuffle across the futon and press yourself to Dabi’s side, nuzzling into his shoulder. You tilt your head up to find Dabi looking down at you. “Kiss?”

“Your breath stinks,” but he kisses you anyway. His own is hardly better. You nip at his lip, licking over the faint sting and drawing back before he can reciprocate.

“Did you sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” his hands gesture toward the lump on his chest, “until this shit happened”.

“Now he’s taken my spot”. You could point out that Dabi had every opportunity to move the boy through the night, or however long he’d been there, but didn't. “Though it makes sense he’d want to be near you”.

“He doesn’t want anything. He’s not real,” Dabi drawls. He’s betrayed by the arm that supports Touya from beneath as he sits up exceedingly slowly, the other holding the back of his head. Dabi pivots the small figure into his lap, acting like a cradle.

Limbs akimbo, Touya lies on his back, mouth open and ribs expanding with each breath. His clothes are askew. Shirt ridden up his round belly, loose pants bunched up at the knees. To your relief the burn marks look no worse than the day before.

“Even though his body isn’t suited to his quirk, he still…” your voice is but a murmur as you sit up to trace a fingertip over the swell of his pink cheek. “He’s a very brave little boy”

Dabi held the toddler delicately in his arms, a fraction away from his body, and paled whenever he stirred a little. You see how his pupils soften, tension seeping from his shoulders bit by bit. “Or maybe he’s just stupid," he rasps.

“Well, many heroes are both of those things,” you offer, mouth curling as you hold Dabi’s half lidded gaze. His mouth presses thin so as not to give you the satisfaction of making him smile. When your attention returns to Touya an unfamiliar quietude comes over you.

“Last night,” Dabi starts. “I left because I thought it would be harder”.

You pause, peering up from the little boy curled in his lap. “To what?”

“Not to hurt the kid,” he says, quietly. “Or you”.

Then Touya sputters a first, clean breath, breaking into a drawn out sob that drags you from processing what that could mean. Dabi grows tense and your hand flutters across Touya, rubbing over his chest as you coo and hush. The louder he cries the stronger the tremor in Dabi’s hand becomes.

“There there, little guy. We’re right here,” you slip an arm around Dabi’s back, and suddenly your murmurings begin to soothe Touya’s distress. Red rimmed eyes squint up at you. “Did you have a nightmare, buddy?”

“Heroes—” Touya eventually hiccups and jolts. Frustrated he hits himself, face twisted in devastating anger. “Heroes don’t—have nightmares!”

You move to still his fists but Dabi beats you to it, fingers circling a pair of wrists and holding them firmly. “They will if I have anything to say about it,” he says.

“Really, Dabi,” you admonish, pursing your lips at him. He wrinkles his nose and sticks his tongue out in response. Muffled giggling fills the room and you realise it’s coming from the bundle in his lap.

Dabi looks as if he’s been struck. A finger pokes at the skin above his puckered cheek. “Dabi made an ugly face,” Touya grins.

“Oh yeah?” Dabi growls and leans forward, spine bending uncomfortably just to get into the boy’s personal space. “Well I’ve got bad news for you, kid”.

Whatever the desired effect, Touya’s chime-like laughter only doubles, and while watching their interaction you feel warmth ignite behind your breastbone.

Not long after, you return from Kano-san’s upstairs apartment with a cotton sweater, discoloured patches sewn onto the elbows, and a pair of pants. They’re size five yet too big for Touya, so you roll them to the ankle. “How’s that?” you ask, getting to your feet. “It’s not itchy on your burns, is it?”

Touya wriggles. You’ve come to learn that he really can’t sit still, especially when you’re fussing. “No,” he says, flapping the sleeves that fall over his hands, silently asking that you roll those up too. “Where are we going? I want to train!”

“No training inside. You’re going to set off my fire alarm,” you reply, absentminded as your fingers gently fold back the shirtsleeves to his wrist. “And we’re going to try the arcades first. You can beat Dabi at all the games”.

“Yeah!”

“Fat chance,” Dabi calls from the bathroom. Light footsteps echo through the hallway and his voice grows louder. “We’re not going anywhere near Musutafu,” he adds, shucking on his dried black coat over a plain t-shirt and jeans that may as well have been painted on his legs. He pulls something out from his pocket and throws it, “Put that on him to be safe”.

You catch the lump one handed, bringing it down to inspect it. A beanie hat. “Is that really necessary?” you murmur, releasing your grasp when Touya decides he wants the hat for himself and stretches it haphazardly over his head.

Dabi rounds the couch and hooks his chin over your shoulder, watching the kid struggle. “Can’t have him being recognised…” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching at a thought that suddenly crosses his mind. “Or maybe we should. Hey, kid,” Touya’s head whirls around the room in search of Dabi, vision blocked by the beanie. He pushes it up above his eyebrows, periwinkle eyes peeking beneath.

“Wanna go to my old house and scare someone?”

Touya’s lips thin and his nose crinkles, managing to look down at Dabi despite being so much shorter. “Heroes aren’t ‘posed to scare people,” he argued.

“Whatever. This guy isn’t good,” Dabi huffs, wincing at the click in his knees as he crouches in front of the boy to fix the hat seam, and Touya positively preens under Dabi’s direct attention. “This guy hurts people. Hurts his family. Probably deserves it, right?”

You watch in disbelief as Touya hums and begins to consider it. “Okay that’s enough,” you circle and coax them toward the genkan. “We aren’t scaring anyone. We are going to the arcade and we’re not going to cause trouble. Yes?”

Dabi and Touya share a long, knowing look. You can’t say you’re unhappy that they’re connecting—they’re unbearably cute when standing side by side, dithering as you slip on your shoes. “Yes?” you repeat yourself with more emphasis.

They nod in tandem.

“Good. Now who is holding my hand?”

Daylight feeds in through the sparse grey clouds, upper wind guiding them east where they darken, likely raining over another part of the city. The pavements are wet, rainwater fed into the uprooted cracks. A couple smile at you as they pass. It is rare for anyone to glance your way when Dabi’s at your side. He knows the image he projects and he likes it that way. But today, with Touya in the middle holding one of each hand, you paint a far lovelier picture.

You think you must look like a family on the outside. It’s nothing you ever imagined for yourself. Especially not with Dabi, who was seemingly hell bent on getting himself arrested, or killed, in his spare time—not that you knew the finer details, but you weren’t dense.

“I can feel your street cred depleting,” you quietly tease as you stop at a pedestrian crossing, bridging the gap while Touya is preoccupied with counting down until the red man turns green. “Uncle Dabi”.

Dabi’s upper lip curls and he lurches half a step, as if to attack you, and you pull away laughing.

Your neighbourhood doesn’t see much in the way of funding, or heroes, and that truth is reflected in the surroundings. Buildings half constructed, shutters down, people lingering on the streets. Touya presses a hairsbreadth closer to Dabi, sensing how eyes turn to him, and you catch the way Dabi squeezes his small hand in response.

“Scared?”

Touya straightens, “No!”

Dabi snorts, “Thought not”.

The arcade isn’t far. Well beyond its years, an old musk clings to the carpets despite the open windows. Light bulbs flicker here and there. You can taste electricity buzzing in the air. The machines are outdated, but they work. High pitched, quick paced music paces from all directions. If you had to, you'd describe it as the embodiment of sensory overload.

As luck would have it Touya recognises most of the games, having been released around his time. He steps on your shoes to watch raptly while you try to win him a prize on the claw machines, and he kneels at your feet to steal any ticket away before you can grab them.

He frees himself of your grip the moment he spots Crimson Fighter. You sidle up beside Dabi as if to shield from it all. His knuckles brush the back of your hand and you smile to yourself. So starved for affection yet so intensely humiliated by it—that and the fact that he cannot seem to let Touya out of his sight, only a few feet away.

You loosely entwine your fingers and he relaxes. “Not gonna play another round with him?”

“Why don’t you?”

In that instant you hear the repeated call of your name. Touya bounces from left to right, waving you over. “Look at me! Come watch!” he beams. “Look at me, I can win!”

Dabi’s fingers flex, tighten, digging crescent moons into your knuckles. You shoot him a worried glance but the light in his eyes has dimmed once again, and you tug him over towards Touya like a kite on a string, keeping him tethered until he returns from whatever memory he’s lost in.

“I’m looking, I'm looking,” you titter, standing behind him and tilting to watch the screen. Dabi’s presence lingers. Your heart pangs when Touya stands on the tips of his toes to reach the controls. He picks the Endeavor avatar and the game opens up onto a floating platform, All Might standing at the other end.

“Fight!” Touya whispers in sync with the narrator, mashing all the buttons without direction or strategy. He clicks and clicks and clicks until Endeavor’s quirk bar is maxed out and he releases; pixelated flames burst across the screen, doing significant damage to All Might but not enough—and too much to himself. The Endeavor avatar drops to his knees, overcome by dehydration and exhaustion, defeated by his own flame.

Apparently brought back to the present, Dabi laughs.

“No…” Touya’s eyes grow round in disbelief and then harden. He kicks the machine with as much force as he can muster. Before he can do it again you’ve wrapped an arm under his armpits and herded him outside. “Let go!”

“Absolutely not,” you grasp his elbows and settle on your haunches. Touya turns his head away from you in dramatic fashion. “That isn’t okay. These games belong to someone else. They’re not yours to damage”.

“Shouldn’t’a picked Endeavor,” Dabi remarks.

Your neck aches as it snaps up to glare at him. “Not helping,” you hiss through gritted teeth. He puts his hands up in a show of surrender and you inhale until your lungs feel tight. Exhale.

Touya has fallen suspiciously quiet, chin tucked to his chest, and thankfully nobody inside noticed his brief outburst. “Hey,” gently, you run your palms along his shoulders. “Talk to me, kiddo. I promise you’re not in big trouble”.

Your ears pick up fragmented parts of his mumbling, “Lost… M’weak… Endeavor… stronger… not ‘posed to lose”. Something about his reaction is both fragile and momentous, and with Dabi nearby your instincts are telling you to tread carefully.

“Hey, listen to me. I don’t know much but I do know you’re not weak,” you begin to smooth down his sweater, and fiddle with the seam of his beanie while you talk—fretting, admittedly, and determined to wipe the heartbreak off his face. “You’re the strongest little dude I know”.

Touya sniffs, unconvinced. He waddles further into your embrace and you take it as a win “Gotta be stronger than All Might”.

“One day you could be,” you reason, gathering him against your front and hoisting him up as his legs wrap around your waist. A firm body stands behind you. Dabi is closer than anticipated and you falter, meeting his half lidded eyes. Reality stomps over the little charade you’ve created—recalling that the boy in your arms, so desperate to reach the pinnacle of heroics, will one day be Dabi, the self proclaimed villain.

“Y’know, even All Might didn’t become the number one hero until he was twenty,” you tuck a wayward curl back into Touya’s beanie and use your sleeve to wipe his damp cheeks. “He had to learn to control his quirk and get through hero school, just like you will. It takes time”.

“R—really…?” you’d be remiss not to notice the hope in his voice as he fists at his sweater, stretching the fabric further. “But I need to be strong now,” he insists thickly, a fresh round of tears at his waterline.

Dabi steps closer as more people pass by, nudging you into a dead end alley. There’s heat emanating from his skin, making ripples in the air. You hold his gaze with purpose, turning until Touya is once again enveloped by your bodies, and the boy instinctively reaches for his adult counterpart.

“You are strong,” you tell him, pressing a kiss to Touya’s temple. “Wanna know what Dabi and I were talking about while you were sleeping this morning?”

Touya’s mouth quivers, sneaking a furtive glance. He nods. You narrow your eyes at Dabi, try to tell him that this could be it, and he relents, accepting the weight as it is passed to him.

Touya settles in his arms. “We…” Dabi’s jaw ticks. There’s a depression in his cheek where the inner flesh is held between teeth. “We said that you’re brave”.

You circle your arms around his middle, around Touya, and rest your cheek on his shoulder. Touya blinks in awe. “Brave?”

“Brave for trying so hard to reach your goal,” Dabi continues. The harsh edge to his voice has puttered out into melancholy. “Even when it hurts. Especially then”.

“I am?”

“You are,” you murmur, cradling the back of Touya’s head. There’s an odd sheen to his skin. Translucent, almost. Your heart jolts. The quirk was wearing off. Conflicting emotions swell in your chest, leaving you torn. “That takes courage. I heard heroes have that in spades”.

Eyes bright and wide, undoubtedly that of a child, Touya looks at Dabi, and Dabi looks back. “You’d be one of the good ones, kid,” he rasps. It comes like pulling teeth but he means it, and Touya must know—the quirk must hear the sincerity, because the little boy beams and the air tastes sharp. He lights up, eyes first, like dusk catching on stained glass windows, robin egg blue overcast with shades of pink, heat suffusing through his bones until—

Your fingers enclose around the limp fabric of Touya’s beanie. Dabi shudders an exhale. The patched sweater falls limp over his crossed arms.

“That… worked?”

Dabi’s mouth opens and closes, lips shaping around words he doesn’t know how to say. You cannot read his expression at all. You yourself can hardly register Touya’s absence, left like a bruise that you just know is going to start aching the second the adrenaline wears off.

“I guess it did,” he finally agrees, quietly. Not quite whispered, but his voice carried no strength. Through the discomfit cuts an abrupt, shrill beep. Dabi swallows, and after pulling out his phone his expression sours.

“Who is it?”

“An associate,” he says, hands an unsteady counterpoint to the surety in his voice. Another blatant cover that you know better than to peel back. “…He wants me to meet his new colleagues. He thinks I’ll work well with them”.

“Do you need to go now, or…?” your skin prickles with unease, leaning into him as close and psychics would allow, not wanting to part with him.

“Think you’ll miss him?” Dabi asks instead, bordering on hesitation. Your head tilts at the sudden change in topic. His gaze dips low to avoid yours. You rest your hand over his chest. His heart beats against your palm, hard and steady. You wonder what, if anything, Touya’s time here might’ve changed.

“I don’t have to,” you tell him, choosing your words carefully. “He’s right in here”.

Dabi hums in that way he often does when he thinks you’re being ridiculous. Your thumb moves back and forth, shifting the fabric of his shirt. “…He deserved better,” you say, heedless of the cold determination setting into Dabi’s bones. And later, despite being the truth, you would come to regret voicing it.

He looks back at the message on his phone, typing out a reply with his screen tilted away from prying eyes. “You’re right,” he mutters.

“He did”.

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #dabi x reader #todoroki touya x reader

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noneorother · 1 year ago

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It couldn't be a masquerade ball because it was an unmasked ball

The S2E5 ball symbolism seemed very prominent to me when I watched Season 2 even for the first time, but I saw @meatballlady ask this wonderful question & Neil's answer and thought : hey why not share my thoughts on the clothing at the ball as well.

If you're reading this you probably know all about how coat lapels are an important character signifier both seasons of GO. If not, TLDR; jacket lapels align with a character's intentions, and their alignment with a faction is determined by their jacket colour (light goes up or dark goes down).

So why do I say that this was an "unmasked" ball? Because if you follow the lapel theory, all the important participants who seem neutral in real life gain allegiances in their costumes when they enter the bookshop. Let's break it down.

Crowley & Aziraphale

If you aren't just making everyone fancy, but actually trying to reveal intentions during this ball, then it would make sense that Aziraphale and Crowley don't change outfits : they've been wearing their hearts on their sleeves since season 1. Maggie

In everyday life, Maggie purposely wears tops without lapels. Everything is round or crew-neck, and she never wears black. In the ball reveal, Maggie wears black for the first time, and has big pointing down lapels on her navy satin shirt, indicating alignment with Hell in both colour and intention. All of her cutesy bows and hearts and gold jewelry are gone. She wears sparkly silver only, and a prominent wristwatch (like Crowley). However, her pinkie ring is still present. (go read @indigovigilance's post about pinkie rings, it's great).

Nina

Nina is all over the place in real life. Colours clash and she wears black and earth tones often. She also never wears jackets with lapels. When we get to the ball however, she suddenly has a golden brocade jacket with teal & crimson shoulders, and golden hair clasps. She becomes exactly what Maggie is attempting to project in real life, but her lapels are pointing out and up, so alignment with heaven in both colour and intention. No pinkie ring on Nina in the series. Under the jacket she wears green and crimson. A confused pairing as I've ever seen on the show. Who knows what that's about*. Jimbriel

In normal life, Jim is ultra-neutral with lapels pointing out (neither up nor down) on a brown coat. (Underneath is a whole different ball game for another post.) Jimbriel gets a hilariously Liberace-fied version of the Aziraphale outfit : bowtie, poweder blue and labels pointing down and also to the side, fluffy white and details like Michael and Uriel. He's HELPING AZIRAPHALE WITH THE PLAN, wink wink nudge nudge. You go Jim. Mutt

Mutt the magic shop owner also has a pinkie ring in real life, as does his spouse, and keeps it for the ball. He gains impressive gold details on his lapel-less tunic, and the colour shifts from base of black to a base of navy, with red and white flowers instead of orange and teal swoops. His sleeves widen, becoming almost an angelic robe-like tunic, making him kind of a mysterious mashup of symbols. Arnold

Arnold of Arnold's music shop fame is wearing black with rainbow tie and suspenders before the ball, without much jewelry save a pinkie ring. Inside the ball, he keeps the black, but now has crimson and teal accents instead of rainbow, and lapels that are very high up, but that point out to the side, making him more neutral/Mutt the magician aligned, even if he's wearing black. Justine

Justine wears Hellish green and black in real life on her daisy patterned dress, no lapels here. She has no pinkie ring either, but once inside the ball, all the green melts away and she's allllll black flowered lace. She also has no lapels here, making her also more aligned with Mutt & Arnold than anything, but just as mysterious. Mrs Sandwich

Mrs Sandwich seems easier to judge. Black and gold no lapels in real life, alllll sparkly black and big downturned lapels for the ball. No pinkie ring on her in either outfit, but a prominent wristwatch. This makes total sense to me. Even if she might not be aligned with hell directly, she runs a brothel and profits off of sex workers so probably a pretty bad lady if we're weighing the odds from a biblical perspective. In other moments she also seems pretty fond of Crowley, and pretty unhappy with Nina (see above). Mr&Mrs Cheng

Mr & Mrs Cheng are VERY interesting to me. While Cheng wears all black in real life, and we never see her partner, she is transformed in the ball into the only character (besides Nina in solid green) who wears a green pattern. She has become a plant/garden (specifically a Monsterra, like in Corwley's box), and her husband is the pollinating golden butterfly, (with neutral lapels on a black background). Neither of them wear pinkie rings, but Mrs Cheng keeps her distinctive teal earrings, and is now sporting red lipstick, making her and her husband most associated with Nina. Nina also trusts Cheng enough to mind her coffee shop whilst talking to Crowley across the street in the last dregs of E6. As an aside, they also seem to *sort of* have a pre-teen girl child at this ball. We see her briefly in the evacuation but very hidden between other characters, and never in the ball proper. Mr Brown

Do we need to go through Mr Brown's outfit again? I don't think so. ------------------------------ * I have a feeling it's to do with other things, like Jim's sweater vest, but I'll have to dig into it later.

#good omens meta #good omens season two #art director talks good omens #good omens 2 #go season 2 #go meta #good omens season 2 #good omens prime #crowley x aziraphale

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0bticeo · 11 months ago

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may the odds be in your favour | coriolanus snow x fem! reader

series masterlist.

part 1. part 2. part 3. part 4. part 5.

chapter summary: blood will have blood.

“what makes you think that, put in the same circumstances, we wouldn’t turn ourselves into beasts to survive?”

there’s silence. there are twenty four gazes pinning you down to your seat. there’s coriolanus snow, blue eyes a shade darker than they were before you started talking. you meet his gaze and sense something shifting. it’s in the way he leans a tad bit closer, lips parted as though to speak – no. to taste.

wc. approx. 2000 words.

cw. sexual tension. probably innacurate anatomical description. manipulation. reader and coriolanus being assholes. death threat (implied). religious imagery. sleep deprived author.

weeks pass. snow greets you every morning at your front door and extends his arm to you until you have no choice but to link it with your own. occasionally, he brings a rose, gently tucking it in the lapels of your coat. in your hair, fingers gently brushing your cheek. in your breast pocket.

you know it to be a blatant claim. here you are, proud descendent of the ash dynasty, allowing him to own you. you tell yourself it’s only for a few months. that, whatever the outcome may be, there’s no way that damned prize will escape you. you ignore the growing ache between your thighs, the way you lean into snow’s touch when he leads you back home.

let him think he’s playing you like a fiddle. let him think he’s turned your own game against you. let him think, and weaponize the truth to your advantage.

you have very few things left to your name. pride is one of them. you won’t discard it for his name.

what you will do is this. you will sit next to him in class, head held high, legs crossed under your skirt. you will not pretend you’re not enjoying the way his gaze burns into you whenever you turn one of his arguments against him in rhetoric class. oh, rhetoric.

etched in white remnants of chalk against the blackboard is the question you’ll have to treat today. there’s silence in the class, as you all take it in.

what are the hunger games for?

date’s fourth of february. in five months, maybe, you’ll get an answer that doesn’t rely solely on theory. that doesn’t rely on the minds of know-it-all, privileged bastards whose only experience of life has been luxury. for now, your only choice is to take your seat next to coriolanus snow and lean back ever so slightly, trying not to roll back your eyes.

they talk, all of them. felix ravinstill, arachne crane.

the hunger games are a proud display of savages from the districts—to remind us that we are better than them.

clemensia dovecote. lysistrata vickers.

the hunger games are a reminder of what befalls the districts. that they should not stand against the capitol.

sejanus plinth.

it’s barbaric.

at that, your attention shifts. you focus on him, the one from district 2. the one whose father’s wealth was enough to bring to the capitol. the one with the dark curls and passionate fire in his eyes—he dreams of justice and fairness. interesting.

he doesn’t talk. no, he argues. finally someone who understands the noble art of rhetoric.

“putting them in an arena to fight—they’re doomed the moment their names are chosen! it’s inhumane, having them slaughter each other for our own entertainment!”

you watch him, cheek cradled in your palm. he’d make a good lawyer, you muse. the naive, righteous type.

you watch the others. the way arachne crane rolls her eyes so far back in her skull you think they’ll stay stuck. the way felix ravinstill snickers, barely conceals his disdain for the district boy, for daddy’s precious boy. it’s palpable, the way they all disregard him. doesn’t matter if he’s wealthier than half the class—he’s district.

“what about you, ash?”

fucking snow.

you glance at him, from the corner of your eye. he’s been watching you, too. wonderful mise en abîme. you watch them, he watches you. who watches him? are you all being watched?

ah, he’s waiting. they all are. as if your opinion matters to them. as if it matters at all. but you have to put on your usual show, display your wit. so you lean back against your chair, lips drawn in a sharp, sharp smile, and say:

“why, it’s a dreadful reminder of human nature is all.”

there’s silence, then. twenty-four gazes are on you, and they’re waiting.

what are you, a messiah?

snow smile, judas dressed in red.

“go on, ash.”

you do, martyr thrown to the lions.

“so far, the general sentiment has been that we’re better than them, those savages from the districts—don’t look at me like that ravinstill, i’m only quoting you.”

you pause. you can’t outright tell them they’re influenced by a centuries-long tradition of countless philosophers. you’ll lose their interest.

“we think they’re savages. we see what we think is proof—footage of the games, of how they use anything at their disposal to slaughter themselves for our own entertainment, as plinth wonderfully put it.”

you nod in his direction and watch the glint of confusion is his eye, perceptible even from afar. poor boy will be torn to shreds if he doesn’t learn to conceal his emotions better. this is the capitol—worse arena known to panem.

(you think of your father’s flesh being torn by a man-beast’s bloody teeth in what was supposed to be a beacon of civilisation. you think of the dark abysses of his eyes, of the silent promise in them – you’d be next.)

you intend to make that fact known to those oblivious to it.

“what makes you think that, put in the same circumstances, we wouldn’t turn ourselves into beasts to survive?”

“those are bold words from such a young lady, miss ash. you shouldn’t speak so lightly of such grave matters.”

you realise that in the brief time your gaze met snow’s, your classmates have looked up. up towards esteemed casca highbottom who stares you down, short silhouette all-encompassing. there’s something in his tone that makes your blood boil.

you smile, sweet and sharp.

“then maybe we shouldn’t brooch the subject in rhetoric class, sir.”

the odds switch and twist and turn with each passing second. you might get a glimpse of what’s in store in the way the dean’s hand trembles as it reaches in the recesses of his robe – morphine.

he gulps down the contents of the small vial in one go.

“class is dismissed for today.”

when you leave the room, you feel the weight of his gaze like a knife between your shoulder blades.

you don’t like the feeling of it.

philosophy’s only worth it if you’ve got someone to discuss with. unfortunately, you don’t. rhetoric class doesn’t count. after the dean’s impromptu interruption, you don’t get to debate. not anymore. instead, he makes you pour over law texts – capital punishments for traitors. you think of it as a warning and keep your mouth shut.

what you do enjoy is anatomy class. which is why you’re currently in the library, pouring over a heavy tome, nibbling on your lip as your fingers trace over the shape of a drawing. it’s beautiful, an inked figure detailing the different veins in the neck. jugular. internal. external. carotid artery. dorsal scapular artery. your finger follows the pattern, lips parted in an inaudible murmur as you stare ahead. inferior thyroid vein-

“what are you doing?”

fucking snow.

you have half a mind to throw him an annoyed glare and go back to your drawing.

“what does it look like?”

he raises an eyebrow. inquisitive bastard, that one.

“studying. badly.”

this time, you raise your head.

“and does the great coriolanus snow have a better way to memorise the anatomy of the cervical region? enlighten me.”

he slides on the bench next to you. close. close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from him. to smell him. roses, as usual. the same fragrance of the roses he gives to you each time he notices one withers away. (you don’t tell him you’ve kept them. each of them, pressed neatly between the pages of what books remain of your family’s once grandiose library.)

he unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt, revealing the pale expanse of his neck. pale as snow. how very fitting.

“well? Where’s the external jugular?”

you let out a chuckle and move closer to him, until your fingers trail down his neck, following the path of his vein.

“what’s next, snow?”

he gulps, adam apple bobbing up and down ever so slightly. Leans into your touch as he glances down at the book – your fingers dig into his neck, until you feel his pulse, quick as the fluttering wings of a jay bird.

“inferior thyroid vein.”

there’s no pattern to the veins he’s asking you to map out on his skin. your fingers move slightly to the left. if you squint, you can make out its contours, faint blue line under the pale, pale skin. You wonder if you’d see it better if you’d blow on it. you do, softly, until you feel his breath catch in his throat – he coughs.

“next.”

“anterior jugular vein.”

you chose to start your path from the bottom, lightly pressing your finger over the button of his shirt – not yet undone, this one. you trail up.

“next.”

“external carotid artery.”

you chuckle at that. Ssomehow, you’ve moved closer to him. His hand has come to rest on your hip, steadying you as you trace the patterns that make up his life. you look up at him. he meets your stare, stark blue eyes darkening. pretty, deadly eyes.

“do you know the difference between the jugular vein and the carotid artery, snow?”

you move to his jaw, pressing your fingers lightly against the bone, until you’re all but cradling his face between your hands, a breath away from his lips.

“tell me.”

“the carotid’s harder to reach with a knife.” you lean forward. his eyes dart to your lips. “however, If i were to succeed, it would take you two minutes to die.”

when you lean back, you’re the one smiling.

"thank you for helping me study, snow. it's been most... enlighting."

#obticeo writes #tbosas #coriolanus snow #president snow #the hunger games #sejanus plinth #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x you

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starleska · 5 months ago

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so i have a theory about Maxime Le Mal and Valentina in Despicable Me 4...🦟🦋

theories and spoilers for Despicable Me 4 below!!! some of this is all but confirmed thanks to trailer screenshots and some toys, but some of this is just conjecture, so be cautious (especially as there's spoilery discussion in the replies!) 😉

so by this point, most of us are aware that Maxime Le Mal is a bug-themed villain...specifically a cockroach. not only does he have a bug-themed patterns on his large coat and a huge insectoid ship, but we've seen him apparently have antennae under his hair, as well as a large, cockroach-like appendage hidden beneath his coat and gloves.

this matches up well with the cockroach body he's sporting in this toy line, which is presumably why Maxime wears such a large coat - underneath that, he's all bug! perhaps this is the result of his own experimentation, or it's Gru's fault and that's why he wants revenge... however. i'm interested in what Valentina's deal is...because we can see that she is dressed in a manner which is very similar to Maxime. the large glasses which resemble bug eyes, the gloves, the long hair, and the coat + shirt combo which goes all the way up to the neck...

here's my theory. i think that it's not just Maxime who's all bug under the coat: i think Valentina is too. we already know that Valentina and Maxime have been together a long time, possibly since high school, as Gru remembers her from the same time...if we go with the idea that Maxime was transformed around that time into having a bug body, it could well be that Valentina was affected too!! i don't know...something about the sick cut of her coat, specifically the lapels, makes me think Valentina could have the body of a dragonfly or something similar. we know that Maxime has cockroach wings and can fly from a very tiny shot in the trailer...wouldn't it be cool if his girlfriend, and the pilot of their ship, could fly too? how neat would it be to have a pair of evil lovers bonded over their respective insect transformations? 👀

#genuinely so obsessed with these two already and i will scream if this turns out to be correct #what do you guys think? any thoughts about Maxime and Valentina in general? i wanna hear 'em all!!! :3c #maxime le mal #valentina #maxina #despicable me 4 #despicable me 4 spoilers #despicable me 4 theories #despicable me #starleskatalks #long post

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sionisjaune · 1 year ago

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do nico and lewis ever fuck in the lab? 😈

I thought it was implied 😈

The last clump of lethargic undergrads shuffles out of the lab, and Nico, who was supervising Lewis’s section coolly from the seat in the corner, stalks across the room, between benches bearing spectrophotometers and untidy clusters of glassware, and kisses Lewis on the mouth.

“I thought about that,” says Nico, pulling away slowly, “for two hours.”

Lewis pulls him in for another kiss, and Nico’s gloved hands find the lapels of his lab coat, gripping tightly. The fact that the door to the adjacent lab is wide open and the first-floor windows face the sunny quad falls out of Lewis’s mind until Nico pulls back again. It's always been easy to lose himself in Nico, he thinks.

Nico knocks his forehead against Lewis’s and tugs again at his coat. His lips are shiny with Lewis’s saliva and the high planes of his cheeks are pink. Lewis swallows, tongue wet, and despite himself thinks about his lab section spitting in tubes to collect saliva for the amylase assay. Lewis could spit in a tube and sequence it, and find Nico's DNA tangled alongside his own.

“I’m still… wet, from this morning,” Nico whispers, into Lewis’s mouth.

“What?” says Lewis.

“Let’s fuck,” Nico clarifies.

Lewis’s foolish heart skips a beat. It would be conceited and downright irresponsible. He dives in for another biting kiss anyway, and drags Nico towards the door to shut and lock it, and then presses Nico against it, mouthing at his throat. Nico laughs and clutches at the back of Lewis’s head, the silky skin of his gloves skimming the nape of Lewis’s neck.

Lewis gets lost in Nico’s mouth—again—for another five minutes, kissing him like a desperate, intimacy-starved teenager under the fluorescent lights. It’s almost like he’ll never get enough of Nico. It's almost like there’s an endosymbiotic theory of the two of them, like Lewis ate Nico one billion years ago, and he hasn’t been the same since.

He wrestles Nico around and onto his elbows, bent over the bench at the front of the lab. The projector is still running, shining a four-step diagram onto the whiteboard that over-explains how to press the buttons on the crappy spectrophotometers the undergrads get to use.

“Ow,” says Nico, sliding forwards and sticking his ass out. A stand of drying test tubes rattles and clinks. Lewis flips Nico’s lab coat up over his back, and Nico drags it off, his cheek on the surface of the lab bench, which hasn’t strictly been sanitized, but hasn’t actually seen anything more hazardous than dilute indicators in the last week.

While Lewis fumbles blindly at Nico’s fly, Nico balls up his lab coat and tucks it under his forearms, sinking deeper into the stretch. Lewis gets Nico's jeans open and shoves them down his thighs, and then he’s unbuttoning his own fly, and sinking deep inside Nico in a helpless hurry. Nico moans like Lewis is murdering him.

“Quiet,” says Lewis, snapping his hips. The undergraduate coordinator’s office is just down the hall. Nico moans again, so wantonly that Lewis has half a mind to forgive him, to let him whine and scream until he gets them caught and Lewis’s grant taken away. Instead, he leans forwards and reaches to wrap his hand around Nico’s mouth.

“Shit,” he says, freezing.

“Fuck,” says Nico. “Keep going.”

“I’m still wearing gloves,” says Lewis. He removes his hand from Nico’s hip to practice proper procedure and pinch one glove off, grasping it at the palm. Nico pushes his hips back onto Lewis’s dick and moans again, just as shamelessly as before.

Lewis lurches forward to cover his mouth again without thinking. His still gloved right hand covers Nico’s lips, and Nico’s tongue darts out to lick over Lewis’s palm.

“Jesus, don’t do that,” says Lewis. Nico ignores him and sucks two of Lewis’s fingers into the heat of his mouth. There's none of the silky wetness and only the superheated temperature, warm and dry like the heat of a thermocycler. Nico whines again, this time muffled, and Lewis’s rational brain snags on the picture of his own nitrile gloves sliding in and out of Nico’s mouth. They should both know better. Lewis's hips jerk involuntarily. He'll never be able to think about the fucking box of safety gloves the same way.

Afterwards, Nico seems extremely nonplussed to have Lewis’s come dripping down his thigh while he fastens his jeans and tosses his crumpled lab coat over one arm. He kisses Lewis chastely and disposes of the mangled ball of Lewis’s gloves in the hazardous waste bin at the back of the room, slipping off his own and tossing them afterwards. Lewis watches him fix his hair before he walks out, tousling it until he’s satisfied.

“See you at home,” says Nico, in the doorway. “Dr. Williams wants an update on my proposal, so I’ll be back late.”

“See you,” says Lewis, still catching his breath.

#this au has been living in my brain rent free thank you em for encouraging me!#stemcedes #asks

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alj4890 · 4 months ago

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You Heard, What!

(Tobias Carrick x F!MC) and (Aurora Emery x M!OC) in a Choices Open Heart Drabble

Tobias Carrick Appreciation Week

Day 7 WWTD? He's walking past an on-call room and hears two coworkers having sex. What does he do?

A/N For this short fic, Tobias and Chris are newly married. When he overhears something interesting, he goes directly to the one person he can tease. And yes, I do intend to write some followups for this situation, LOL!

Masterlist

Edenbrook, late one night...

Unusually loud sounds were coming from the oncall room. Tobias paused the closer he got. His lips curved in a sly smile as he leaned closer to the door.

No doubt about it. Someone was having a very good time in there. Just as he was about to walk away to give the unknown couple some privacy, he heard a familiar voice.

Eyes widening, he flattened his ear to the door to try and confirm his suspicions of the source.

"Will?" He whispered, his smile growing bigger in hearing the unmistakable voice of one of his best friends.

Dr. William Kent, a pediatric surgeon, had recently joined Edenbrook's roster of physicians.

Tobias couldn't help but be impressed that his friend was already hooking up with someone in the hospital. It'd only been a couple of weeks since he began working there. He knew he shouldn't have doubted him. The fun loving man was not only handsome, but had a history of charming women out of their clothes.

Just as Tobias decided he shouldn't be listening, he heard another familiar voice, one that shocked him.

Dr. Aurora Emery.

Tobias's former diagnostics partner was many things: intelligent, practical, and private. She wasn't the last person he'd expect to have sex at work, because she wasn't even on the list of people he knew who would consider doing so.

Aurora displayed little romantic interest in anyone. Whenever Chris tried to encourage her to flirt with someone or pay attention to someone checking her out, she always gave the same response.

"No thanks."

It drove Chris crazy that one of her best friends was missing out on dating.

"She's great!" Chris told him one night. "A lot of fun, once you get past her protective, cold outer shell."

She slumped down in her chair.

"Why won't she date someone?"

"She was the same at Mass Kenmore. A few people tried to flirt with her and she shut them down." He said.

"It kills me." Chris grumbled. "She deserves to let someone tell her how great she is."

***************

If he was to go by the moans Will was making, Aurora was definitely being told how great she was.

Shaking his head in amusement, Tobias made his way to the diagnostics office.

Chris looked up from her laptop when her husband walked in.

"Almost finished?" He asked, pressing a kiss to her lips.

"I am." She closed her screen. "I was looking further into a theory of mine."

She noticed the amused, smug smile upon his face.

"What's going on?"

Tobias winked at her. "Nothing."

Her eyes narrowed. "That's," she pointed at his smile, "not nothing."

He tugged her out of her chair and wrapped his arms around her.

In a singsong voice, he decided to tease her.

"I know something you don't know."

"What?" Chris demanded, her laughter bubbling out.

"Not going to tell." He replied. "Ready to go home?"

"Hang on!" She gripped the lapels of his doctor's coat. "You can't keep secrets from me!"

"Who says?" He teased.

"Um, our vows." She told him.

"I don't remember that from our wedding ceremony."

"You were only concentrated on the honeymoon." Chris teased. "You don't know what you promised me."

"Ouch." He playfully winced. "Fair, but ouch."

"Tobias." She whined, bouncing up and down. "Tell me."

"Hmm." His eyes twinkled with mischief. "What's in it for me?"

Chris gasped. "You expect me to bribe you?"

He nodded.

Smiling, she slipped her arms around him. "What kind of bride are we talking here?"

He pulled her flush against his body. "I think you know exactly what kind of bribe I expect."

Her eyes darted down to his lips. "I think that can be arranged."

She looked about at the empty office. "Though, I think I'll wait until we're home to pay the price for this information."

Tobias chuckled. "What I know is that two people we know decided not to wait."

"What?" Chris gasped. "Who?"

"Come with me." He grasped her hand and led her out of the office.

The two crept down the hall where the oncall room was located. Placing a finger on his lips, Tobias sneaked over to listen at the door. Chris waited until he motioned her over to join him.

She pressed her ear against the wooden barrier. Her eyebrows rose in astonishment.

"Is that--" she mouthed in disbelief.

"Yep."

Chris silently celebrated.

Tobias chuckled softly over her victory dance.

"I can't believe it!" She whispered excitedly. "How long do you think they've been doing this."

Tobias checked the time. "At least thirty minutes."

"Not that!" She elbowed him. "I meant getting together."

He shrugged. "I think we should think about something more important than that."

Chris looked at him curiously.

"Now that we know," he whispered, "what should we do with this information?"

She began to shake with muffled laughter.

"There's only one thing we can do." She told him. "And that's hint that we know and tease them until they finally admit what they're doing."

Tobias couldn't be more proud of having Chris for his wife.

"God, I love you." He murmured.

Smiling with a future now filled with moments of torturing those they loved, the couple left to plan out their attack.

#tcaw #tobias carrick appreciation week #tobias x chris #tobias carrick x mc #choices oh #choices open heart #open heart fanfic #choices fic writers creations #choices the stories you play

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bullet-prooflove · 1 year ago

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Ok since I encouraged you to kill Jimmy and his wife. 🤣 here’s a nicer one

Kiss me in the corridor?

It's tender, the brush of Jimmy's lips over yours as you stand in a quiet corridor of the hospital. Your hands come to rest on his chest, fingers smoothing over the crisp lapels of his lab coat.

Your cheeks colour as he draws away, a small smile playing across his features.

"I thought you didn't want people to know..." You trail off as he kisses you again.

This time it's fierce, there's a passion rushing through him that he can't seem to control. He knows where it stems from, he saw Crockett talking to you, saw the way the other man smiled as he lingered just a little bit too close to comfort. It's not his fault, not really, it's Jimmy that wanted to keep things separate. He likes compartmentalisation, a clear difference between his home life and his work life. In theory it works. In practice...

The two of you are so professional that people don't know that you are actually together, hence what happened today.

"You're jealous." You realise as his forehead comes to rest on yours.

"A little..." he concedes.

"It's an interesting shade on you." You tease him.

"Not a fan of it." He says with a sigh.

"You could just tell them." You remind him, your fingertips rearranging the collar of his lab coat so it sits properly.

"I don't like being talked about." He reminds you. "And they're so gossipy."

You shrug your shoulders.

"You can't have it both ways."

He knows that. The thing is you are an attractive woman, compassionate and capable, he knows that other men see it too. Crockett may have been the first but he's not going to be the last. He's already seen Matt Cooper giving you the eye.

"I know." He tells before he kisses you again. "I'll figure something out."

#jimmy lanik x you #doctor jimmy lanik #jimmy lanik x reader #jimmy lanik #dr james lanik #james lanik x reader #james lanik x you #james lanik

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selene-and-the-cold · 1 year ago

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☕️ and 💧for Silas and Bertie?

Yesterday, I reblogged this great list of snz fall prompts by @buckysnose and was sent this great ask for Silas and Bertie.

Warm drinks ☕️

Sniffles 💧

I really loved the prompt combination, Kaze, and was excited to write for the two of them again. Thank you so much for sending this ask <3 I hope you'll enjoy this little ficlet.

These are my two Victorian-era- inspired OCs Silas and Albert. Their story so far can be read in Part 1 - Taking a Ride, as well as Part 2 - Taking a Rest. I am currently working on Part 3, but it might still take a while.

This little scene is set at some point after Part 3 of their story. It can be read on its own and I apologise for the title as well as for any mistakes because this is not beta-ed.

Warnings: two men in love, one of them with a cold, the other with a valet as cool as a cucumber. Nakedness is mentioned, but not explicitly described. And somehow they are drinking alcohol again. It seems to be their thing. Brief mention of naughty things done with a tasseled belt. And of course some snz.

***

Frolicking (OCs, M/M, cold)

"I don't know what you were thinking!,"Albert chided, giving Silas a reproachful look as he hovered over him like an angry bee, then fussed some more as he pried the soaking wet coat off Silas' body. Silas just let it happen, trying his best not to exasperate his friend even more. He shivered slightly, even though Albert's rooms were nice and warm as always, but the damp fabric clung to his body like a second skin.

"Once again, I... hhhehhh... I do apologize, Bertie. It's just that I longed to see you tonight, so I decided to come over for a surprise visit*snnnffff* I meant to sneak in rather stealthily with the key you gave me. It was never my intention to cause any trouble.. and I certainly did not mean to compromise you by letting Barker witness my arrival. ” At that, Albert suddenly stopped the fussing, hands resting on Silas' drenched lapels as he eyed him confusedly. "Barker? Why on earth...?”

It took a moment until the penny dropped and Albert caught Silas' meaning. Apparently, Silas was worried he was angry with him because Barker had seen him enter. Usually, Silas was very good at entering the house unnoticed, but his sodden shoes and trouser legs had naturally drawn the valet's attention as they had made the most horrific noise on the tiles in the downstairs hallway, no matter how hard Silas had tried to slink soundlessly along the hallway.

“Ooohhh...! Oh no, don't you worry about Barker, that's not what I meant,” Albert reassured him, waving his hand dismissively. “Barker won't mind, he is very discreet. No, I'm talking about you, my love! Walking all the way here in the pouring rain! Look at the state of you!" Albert gestured, while Silas kept dripping water from every inch of his being, soaking the plush carpet in Albert's private sitting room. Albert was not wrong. Silas was in an absolutely awful state. The sudden downpour had taken him by surprise only a few minutes after he had left his own house for a sneaky, late-evening visit to his friend. Of course he could have turned around and gone back home, but he had longed to see his Bertie, and besides they did not live THAT far from each other, did they?

In theory, they did not. However, Silas soon found that the downpour was only getting worse and that the distance between their respective dwellings seemed to cruelly stretch out further and further the heavier the raindrops pelted down on him and his fashionable, alas regrettably thin coat.

So Silas had arrived at Albert's town house a dripping wet mess. Barker had met the scene with an almost blank, neutral face. Only the hint of a smile and the slightest twitch of an eyebrow had suggested Barker's real thoughts on Silas' late-evening visit long after respectable calling hours, as the valet had taken him upstairs to Albert's private quarters without as much as a word on why Silas was there. It had all been terribly embarrassing. "I'm sorry, Bertie, please don't be cross with me. I couldn't bear it... heehhhh....Hehh'dzSHhIew!!!" "Ah, there we go! Now you've caught a chill from frolicking around in the rain!" "I did not 'frolic' I was merely walk...wahhhlkhiinnn...Ngg'TSSHiih!! *snffff* Hell's teeth! Excuse mbe!" Silas had hastily ducked to the side to avoid spraying Albert with the poorly stifled sneeze, annoyed with his nose for its terrible timing. Albert just clicked his tongue and gave Silas a withering look. "See?! Quod erat demonstrandum, my love." "It's been only a few sneezes, Bertie. If anything it's a slight case of the sniffles, nothing more... HhEdzZsHIh!! TSSHHIhh!!! *snnfff*" he clamped a gloved hand in front of his face, barely covering the set of sneezes that shook his frame and sent droplets of water flying from his drenched clothes as if he were a wet dog. "*snnnrrff* So sorry.... As I said, it is merely a case of the sniffles. Do not fret on my behalf. You keep fussing over nothing, Bertie!”

“Why don't you let me be the judge of that?,” Albert retorted, sounding audibly piqued. The truth was that Silas had felt not quite like himself for a few days already. He had suffered from a terrible headache and an irritatingly sore about two days ago. The sniffling and sneezing had started yesterday evening and he had felt tired and cranky all day. If he was completely honest, he had felt miserable and craved Albert's sweet, loving embrace and kind eyes, hence why he had decided to venture out for this night time visit despite the adverse conditions. And now he had ruined their evening by getting himself all wet and Albert all cross with him. Tears of frustration pricked Silas' eyes, causing Albert's stern look to soften instantly.

“Come, Sy, let's not squabble about this. The most important thing is that you are here now and that we have to get you warmed up, my love,” he said softly, his hands rubbing Silas' arms in a weak attempt to generate warmth for his sogging wet partner. “We can't have you catch a chill! Now, you stay put here in my quarters near the fireplace, while I go downstairs and organise a few things. And for goodness sake get out of these wet clothes!," Albert chided, since Silas still stood in his wet shirt, waistcoat and trousers, having only shrugged out of his coat, which lay forgotten on the floor in a sorry wet heap.

Silas wanted nothing more than to lean into Albert, to have him close his arms around him and kiss his neck, as was Albert's habit. He was still far too wet, though, so instead of folding himself into Albert's embrace, Silas began to peel the sodden fabric from his body.

“I'll get you one of my pajamas and the warm golden-brown dressing gown,” Albert announced softly, then stayed long enough to ensure that Silas did in fact undress, before he left him to it.

Albert's bedroom was directly connected to his private sitting room, so Silas did his best not to sneeze in Albert's earshot. He could not help the waves of shivers running down his spine, though, and soon he was shaking like a leaf as he tossed one item of clothing after the other on the growing wet pile of fabric. It really was a shame about the beautiful carpet.

“Here you are, my love, you can slip straight into these once you're done drying yourself off. I brought you a towel as well, just toss it on the pile when you're done with it,” Albert explained, sweetly but efficiently, his mind snapping into efficient mode so it would not have to linger on the worries about Silas.

“Thank you, dearest. I am so terribly sorry to be such a burden to you.. Hehh'DZzzSHHI!!”

Letting the last bit of clothing drop onto the pile, Silas snapped forward with a pitiful sneeze that had him sway on his feet. Tears threatened to well up once again, when Silas was suddenly painfully aware of his own vulnerability as he stood there, naked and shivery, barely able to keep his balance in the wake of the sneeze. He blinked, trying to force the tears down, when he suddenly felt himself wrapped into a fluffy towel and Albert's warm embrace.

“Bless you,” Albert whispered softly, his lips mere inches away from Silas' ear as he was hugging Silas from behind, wrapping the towel around his shivering frame. “You are not a burden, Sy. You are a gift I intend to keep protected for as long as I can.”

He turned him around to kiss him, then. Long and slow – a silent promise.

When their lips parted, Silas had stopped shivering.

“That's much better, isn't it, Sy? Now you towel yourself off, slip into my pajamas and get comfortable on the sofa. I'll be right back with a little something to warm you up.”

~~~~~

Some time later, Silas found himself bundled up in Albert's pajamas, the dressing gown with the tasseled belt, which Albert had once used to spank him, and a warm blanket around himself. Next to him on the side table stood a tray laden with the most delicious treats. It seemed that Albert had raided the kitchen for him, since there were biscuits, a steaming cup of tea, as well as another mug filled with a fortifying hot toddy. The first few sips had filled Silas' cold body with a heavy wave of warmth, and he had finally been able to relax.

He had taken quite a few more sips since then and thus felt a little drowsy, his cheeks red from a mixture of alcohol, the heat from the fire and the first licks of a burning fever. Albert sat right behind him on the couch, so Silas could rest against his lover's chest, his body moving softly with the rise and fall of Albert's breathing.

“And you are certain that it is no trouble if I stay here tonight, Bertie?,” Silas asked in a small voice for about the millionth time.

“Quite certain, Sy, my love. Besides, it is still raining outside and I won't let you ruin my dressing gown by frolicking around in the rain again.”

Silas rolled his eyes. “For the last time, I was not frolicking around! Hehh'TttssSHHieW!”

“Bless you~”

#answered asks #fall snz prompts #Silas x Albert #empresskaze #snz #cold #Silas has a cold and Albert fusses about him #my writing

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secretsbetweenfriends · 20 days ago

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jqui62 · 23 days ago

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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Theory Tan Double Breasted Trench Coat.

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almostfancywombat · 3 years ago

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Entry #1

TASIUSAQ, YUKON

Inhaling icicles, my breath crystallizes in the air. Despite the frigid conditions, it isn’t the weather that is chill inducing: rather, it is how her heart is missing, with ventricles clinging to the corroded organ. Everything above her waist is torn to shreds, exposing the bones beneath. Midnight blood congeals on the snow-laden concrete.

Grumbling, I adjust the mask covering my face. I line the insides of it with a mixture of herbs. Contrary to the novice habit, my preferred scent combination is a configuration of experience: cinnamon, myrrh, and a dash of honey. Just enough to render corpses a nuisance rather than the stomach-churning sights they are.

“Khompon seinan-ekhyan.” I focus on breathing, keeping deathly calm as I drown the outside world with silence, entering a space where figures are overcome by shadows, souls taking the center stage. The lady’s soul is dim from a lack of activity and stored in her cranium, weeping. Hers hardly has a sound and gleam, a dying rhythm. It blurs like streetlights viewed through a rain-washed window.

I grimace and lean against a wall, blinking until it disappears and the city’s gentle thrum returns. What little remains of her is held together by sinew. Empty space now in place of a stomach, chest, and face, but what remains of her jaw clamps down in a grimace. An entire desecration of the mind, body, and soul. It is safe to assume that the perpetrator was searching for her soul; gaping holes occupy the cavities where her heart should be. A nametag sits on the lapel of her coat. In small print, it shares her name: Elisa Arnatsiaq, with an even smaller Teaching Assistant below. To the left is a photo of the lady. She’s youthful, probably in her late twenties. A broad smile shows slightly crooked, dirty teeth, lips upturned.

Peyton stands with his back to the alley, mindlessly twirling his kali sticks. His apathetic nature is something I once scorned. Now, it only fuels hypocritical rage.

“Peyton,” I say, gesturing. His recent slacker tendencies have me taking the lead. “Come get Elisa’s things. And put some gloves on. We can’t have a repeat of last time.”

Huffing, he rests the weapons against the wall and reaches into his bag. Moments later, he puts the sticks away. He dons a pair of wrist-length gloves as he pulls out an old camera. Peyton snaps some pictures before swapping the device for his journal. A glance over his shoulder gives me a good view of his notes, scribbled in neat shorthand. He’s creating a victim profile, noting observations, briefly touching on theories, and estimating the time of death. An above and beyond effort, for him at least.

Providing an inkling of professionalism, he crouches over her body, unmoving until all necessary details are documented. Snow crunches beneath him, the only sound between us. On a technical level, reapers only retrieve souls. However, in cases such as these, when we feel other divisions are lacking, reapers function in their stead.

Finally, the journal closes with a snap. Peyton stands, brushing himself off. “Since we’ve done what we can, let’s go. We won’t have a chance of catching whatever did this to her if we don’t leave soon.”

The officials won’t arrive soon. Instead, they must visit another similar scene, collect the first batch of victims, then tend to Elisa. For now, it is in our best interests to discover any trace of the perpetrator before they fade.

Peyton drags the scythe behind him as we walk. It dips into the snow, snagging onto the concrete beneath. Metal screeches against the pavement, eliciting an ear-grating sound as we sprint out of the alley. People wave without hesitation, calling our names. We’re a spectacle but plain enough to ignore, and after spending half a year in town, I suspect we’ve become much-beloved nuisances.

He guides us through the slippery streets we know too well, jumping and dashing around lithely. Considering his clumsiness, it’s surprising that no one has been impaled.

I’m lost in thought as we plow through the throng, then suddenly, we’re in the middle of a residential road. Mobile homes line the path like vibrant teeth. A gaggle of children floss between them, peeking out from corners to toss snowballs. Their parents perch idly on porches, leaning over railings to chat with mugs of hot chocolate. I see the steam rising and exhale, creating a similar effect.

Distracted, I crash into Peyton and stumble, almost losing my footing on the ice. Upon seeing the object of his attention, I sigh. Staring back is an image of a grinning beaver on the snowed-over man-hole cover. Puzzled, I stare and await an explanation.

When he doesn’t offer one, I clear my throat. “We’re standing above a sewer.” His acute senses must be dulling, a fact I’ll gladly report; the last thing we need is a repeat of Vancouver. “There’s nothing here.”

No sooner than I say it, he turns to face me. I despise how emotional he comes off, even with his face covered. “Hear that?” He asks with a sense of anticipation, holding a finger in the air.

I shake my head but lean in to listen. Without warning, he roughly shoves me aside. Feeling my palms meet the ground, swiping away the freshly fallen snow beneath, I’m about to curse, but the heavy sewer lid flies upwards. Mere moments later, a piercing cry penetrates the air. I turn to see the victim. Or rather, the survivor.

A child stands petrified in the middle of the road before launching into flight, darting toward a porch. Someone—his mother—slumps over on the wooden steps. Her head is deformed by the fall, the cover pinning her against the boards. The boy clutches her bloody shirt, wailing until another lady scoops him up, shielding his body with her own as she tears into the house next door.

It’s chaos in the streets, but we won’t have the luxury of aiding just yet. I force the image from my mind and surge forward, bracing for the pass-off from Peyton. My hands wrap around the handle, and I glide into position as something bursts from the ground. Bricks fly loose as it tunnels upwards, creating a cloud of debris, dust, and powdery snow. Yellow street lights shine through the leaden mist to expose a disfigured thing that can only be the stuff of nightmares. It is a man. Or rather, what remains of one. He isn’t exactly dead yet, transformed into a mythos called Aranea. Limbs dangle several feet above four spindly, hairy legs. A face in the likeness of a spider snaps mandibles covered with blood. Not a hint of anything human remains.

He’s faceless and nameless. No longer restrained by human law. It’s twisted, if not cruel, to permit anything to exist in this state.

Hands, calloused and old, reach into the night. They’re leathery, wrinkled, and starkly black, almost midnight. Those in the streets finally react and scurry in different directions, screaming. With this creature, silence is one’s best hope of escaping with their life. Fear must be powerful enough to override reason.

To aid the escape efforts, I slam my weapon into the ground. Mouth open, I shriek. The aranea loses focus on the dispersing crowds, settling its two sets of beady eyes on me. +Suddenly, it feels like my limbs are entangled in a web. My limbs are lead. Instead of recalling the relevant pages from our guidebooks, my mind remains blank. Seeming to sense my blunder, the aranea releases a murderous shriek and charges.

I scramble into position, one foot behind the other. I lift the scythe. Just as I swing, mandibles lock around the blade and tug with enough force to sweep me into the air. Panicking, I struggle against it. The material oozing from its mouth is foul, its disgusting face inches from mine.

Peyton clears ground, bounding toward me before I can call for help. As he nears, he brandishes a kali stick. Deadly in even untrained hands, they are more so in his.

Jabbing the creature’s side, the Aranea crumbles, shrieking and hissing. It swings around, lunging for him. Only to receive another slam to the face, sending it stumbling back. Freeing my scythe, I do what I do best; I retreat, watching Peyton hit the creature’s legs and torso. He moves like a bird, diving and attacking, retreating before it can ensnare him. Each hit is followed by a loud crack. He slams the Aranea’s sides and legs with the stick with urgency, not halting until it’s stopped on its back.

Finally, with the job done, he sighs, running a hand through his messy hair. He won’t remove his mask and only slides it up to feel the breeze.

“Only female victims so far,” he says. Kicking the creature, he steps back to catch his breath. “I think our monster’s a misogynist.”

I shouldn’t laugh, but I do. It’s a bitter, resentful sound. Looking at Peyton stand over the twitching beast, I feel a twinge of jealousy. Perfected over a decade, his sense of professionalism and spectacle are unparalleled. Once again, watching as he gathers his things, I wait. My insecurity quietly simmers.

It doesn’t matter that he’s trained longer than I, that he’s someone seemingly made for this kind of life. Or at least, I like to believe he had a choice in following it. Contrarily, my sense of obligation makes me feel that I’ve always got to be two steps ahead of him and everyone else.

Watching as he gathers his things, I wait and observe every action, the seamless, heel-to-toe walk, the practiced ease of his actions. My insecurities quietly simmer.

After rummaging through his bag, he sends a box flying my way, muttering a half-hearted “Heads up!”

I catch it and scowl. The item nearly slips through my fingers. Anxious, I scoop it up and stride over to Peyton. But, more importantly, I reach the still-alive monster.

Opening the box, I retrieve an ornate dagger. Once used in a revered soul-collecting ceremony, we now use it casually, as if we were butchering a pig, removing entails, which is what most wayward souls are considered worse than.

Removing the dagger from its container, I steady it in my left hand. I move it up, left, right, then down. Poised over the Aranea’s chest, the dagger’s tip barely hits it before a siren sounds. Intent on completing the only task I can, I bring it up and slam it into the body. Putrid blood splatters across me; I back up as it dissolves, floating up and away into the sky. It seems there was no soul left to reap and that a bystander had taken it upon themself to call the authorities.

I return both items, shutting the box with a sigh. Peyton fiddles with his bag as we sit on the slippery curb. An officer steps out of a small, dingy car. He looks poorly, bear-like in the sense of hair. Nearly slipping on the puddle of blood, his nose crinkles.

“By Lord Life,” he mumbles, carefully making his way to us. Coming to a stop, he narrows his eyes. “What are you doing? Witchy things?”

Peyton laughs, a dry sound as he presents our badges. “We caught this man in aranea form after we were sent to investigate a murder on Row 202. We determined that it was the suspect and acted accordingly.”

“202? Is that near the stores?”

“Sure,” he answers, pulling out his notepad to further consult his notes. A flash of recognition shines on the officer’s face. “Closer to the river than stores.”

Squinting, the officer inspects us. His grim expression blossoms. “You’re some of Death’s little lackeys, aren’t you?” He asks with too much enthusiasm. I can’t tell whether it’s good or bad. He seems sterner as he stares, probably at the way I tense.

“Who else would be caught dead in this fashion?” says Peyton, doing a little twirl.

I elbow his side. Sticking to protocol, “We are humble servants of Our Lady.”

“Right,” the officer says. “Anyhow, what are a couple of youngsters doing to get work like this? Enchantment?”

Peyton answers, tiredly kicking at the ground. “Excuse me, but we’ve got a job to finish.” He’s standing now at full height, towering over the unintimated man.

“No, you don’t. Since you can’t verify, I’m here to clean things up.”

A smile carries in Peyton’s tone. “Isn’t that great! That means we’ll get home before nine-thirty. Dealing with that traumatized little boy would really spoil dinner. Let’s get going now. Oh, and collect Miss Arnatsiaq, won’t you?” Before seizing the scythe from my grasp, he wraps an arm around my shoulders. “They never get less annoying. Let’s leave before I have to file an incident report.”

Incident reports occur when reapers inevitably involve themselves in non-essential violence. The concept of necessary harm is intriguing, but not more so in how the phenomenon has a place in protocol.

I groan, ignoring the officer’s angry protests as I trail after Peyton. Long before either of us notices, a silvery half-moon replaces the sun. Grotesque patterns appear in the sky, a soft blotching of face-like clouds. Streetlights flicker as we trudge through the streets, snow crunching beneath blood-stained boots.

With the hours of the night now upon us, we make haste to ensure we reach Elisa Arnatsiaq before other forces do. Moving as fast as I can, I still manage to nag Peyton as we jog down the empty roads to where we’d left her. She still lay untouched in the alleyway, now stiff beneath the streetlights. Rigor mortis must’ve finally set in while we were away.

“Hold on, I’ve got the spirit box.” Peyton once again pulls out the box from earlier. He sets it close to her head.

Coming to a stop directly before her, I briefly stretch and then stand upright. Clasping my hands together, I conduct parting rites.

“Bu khamkha khiyanwat khampokyan; raengshiathaai, aciliakhamaai, hacikhaai, chayohaai, dayallaai.” Using the ancient tongue, I state the soul’s components. A person’s essence as: personality, impulse, identity, secrets, and heart. Then I ask them to abandon the physical form. “Kiyanwat chodikhaer-tikha yakti.”

Dark masses of shadows pour from Elisa. They surge like rain in reverse, swirling and pooling in the air above. The atmosphere feels electric, faintly glowing. I see a blueish, fire-like orb arise from the lady’s corpse before shutting my eyes to focus. Warmth floods the area near my gut as I recite Death’s appeal in her language. “O’ Thienkhai-ara, the salvation and end; I pray to absolve our friend, school teacher Elisa Arnatsiaq, of corruption. I offer her soul to thine embrace.”

Air rushes in gusts; it should be freezing, but it isn’t. I’m warm to the point of feeling as if I’m bathing in molten lava, my soul offering a protective layer. Amidst it, another voice joins my chanting, screaming in pure agony. Elisa Arnatsiaq’s corpse is the culprit, writhing on the ground. Her voice changes in death. Gruff and deep, less human with every second.

Her mouth remains open until a final burst of light ignites her body. It spreads, consuming Elisa until she’s covered in flames. Quickly engulfed, she bursts, creating a miniature supernova in her wake. The snow-covered ground melts, exposing the concrete beneath her and scorching everything, yet I remain unharmed. The weak reaction indicates something of her soul. A bygone innocence, a soul too nurturing to harm others, even in death.

Pain blossoms across my ribcage, burning like hellfire. I double over and catch a glimpse of where Elisa previously lay. Save for a small, pale blue orb in the middle of her skeleton, nothing of her remains in this world. Translucent, her soul looks like sea glass.

It’s a tiny thing, lacking an extravagant form and color. I don’t think I’ve ever seen something so small or weak that still beats with the urgent impulse to live. All I can discern from the flickering object is that her life is not one I would ever want to lead. Shuddering, I pass Peyton the ceremonial box.

Peyton snatches her soul, entrapping it. “Hey, Blair,” he begins, toying with the claps, “what do you think the Lady’s name means? Aren’t most of the old accords lost?”

From my place on the ground, I glare. Ragged breaths come out in short spurts, pain flooding the entirety of my being. It hurts terribly, the fire coursing through my veins. The snow doesn’t help. It only burns like hot coals instead of a balm. I don’t know if I’ll ever adapt to the strenuous activity, but soon enough, the sensation disappears. My head stops spinning, and although I can stand, my limbs feel like jelly. But I grit my teeth and bear it because, at the very least, I’m still alive.

Peyton grips my arm, hoisting me up, silently dragging me through the streets as we head towards the bus station, occasionally slipping. Several times, I come dangerously close to kissing my scythe. He laughs at that, helping to hoist me up when the bus comes to a stop. The kindly driver rejects our fair. Mr. Basaure is adamant about safely getting us, his regular pair of creepily masked patrons, home. Or rather, the cold, drafty shack we occupy in its stead.

“We appreciate it.”

“Your route isn’t too far from my home,” he says, voice creaky and old.

I grin and shuffle into the vehicle, fervently thanking him. At this hour, hardly anyone is out, allowing us the entire bus to ourselves. Peyton, his heathen of a self, spreads his legs, taking up four seats with my scythe held hostage across his lap. It leaves me to plop down to his left. I hold on as the bus sets off, shifting slightly.

Once we’re away from the residential areas of town, I feel safe enough to remove my mask. Finally, breathing unscented air is much like eating after seven days; I can tell my face is red from the heat radiating from it. My inability to sweat is an utter nightmare in warmer climates, causing extreme overheating.

Although the world is a peculiar patchwork of eras and climates, Tasiusaq is on the perimeter of the Arctic circle, where winters have plentiful snow. Technology is still behind, with no service offered outside the ski lodge grounds or grocery store.

Belonging to the ski lodge’s owner—a member of the Lady’s council—our house here is more of a glorified shack. Nevertheless, we are permitted to use it during our stay. The cold is a friend to me but not to Peyton, who is accustomed to living on estates in warmer locations. What he does abroad during the cold season, I couldn’t ever know. But, for sure, I know he was less inclined to landlocked states and hardly remained in any place longer than a month before his assignment to me.

More pressing, however, is our day. Relatively uncommon, these spider-like mythos derive from complete misuse of the human form, whether physical or spiritual. If someone had forced the man into such a state, then who? And if not, what heinous acts had he committed? Do they render him worthy of such an end?

“What are we going to do?” I mumble, slumping over. The guidebooks and studying hadn’t prepared me for man-made horrors beyond mortal comprehension. Considering how outdated those are, it’s only expected, but the existence of aranea implies sinister forces at work, and they shouldn’t be anywhere near here. “I don’t see how anyone could have a soul so ugly, you know? It’s not natural! There must be something we can—”

“Blair,” Peyton tries to come off as unfazed, but I know better. Through his whiny tone, I can practically hear the gears in his head spinning, working to rationalize the fear. “Don’t worry about that. We should be worried about our pay! The Lady’s sooo not going to be pleased about this. You, her golden child, coming under inspection again? She’s going to skin me! And turn me into one of those ugly rugs she gives everyone during the holidays!”

Despite myself, I chuckle. Those are, in fact, incredibly ugly. She gifted us one last winter, and it’s still hanging outside to dry.

“So, we agree to lie on the report?” Peyton asks, tilting his head.

“There’s absolutely no reason to.”

“Blair, Blair, Blair,” says Peyton, sing-songy. He slides over, seeming to float across the seat. Arm hovering over my shoulder, he pulls back when I glare. Nevertheless, he remains flush against my side. “I think you mean, no reason not to.”

No one has to know about it. Embellishing the mythos type won’t hurt. It will spare us unnecessary trouble. And innumerable sheets of paper work.

I glower at the thought, but it’s so very enticing.

Swallowing my pride, “Well, we weren’t in inherent danger, and we still need to see if it was behind the others. Araneas form all the time in large cities, and the entrance to that weird underground place is close. We’re only, what? A few hours from it? It’s possible one snuck over.”

In agreement, he prattles about corrupt farmers, reapers, and game wardens. An instance of bribery, failure to follow protocol and consequences. That establishes our ever-evolving guidelines.

Something jumps to mind. “Wasn’t there that case where someone tried illegally bringing a kappa into the country?” Vaguely, I recall a stale-smelling man in the station, briefly encountering him before he was whisked away.

“See? Smuggling happens all the time, too.” he chirps. “The world’s getting crazier by the day. Don’t worry too much over something that’s likely a cosmic fluke.” But the cosmos never makes mistakes. I nearly protest. Instead, I cling to the notion of normalcy, repeating it like a mantra.

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