#get personal. get intimate. get blood on your hands and struggle with your victim

[rancidarling]

it's probably such a good thing I didn't grow up in America because anytime I went to someone's house and they had a bb gun, I'd just be obsessed with it and trying to be subtle about how interested I was in using it and also wanting to know what it would be like to shoot someone with it 😍

[polarisbibliotheque]

Can You Hear The Rumble? - Vergil x Reader

Music Inspired Fics (Devil May Music) - Cirice, by Ghost

Pairing: Vergil x Reader

Summary: Everyone knew the kind of demon a hunter should be wary about is the one who plays with their victim's minds. You and Vergil were very proud on the outside - but how would it be when having to save each other on the inside for the first time?

TRIGGER WARNING: A lot of blood, cuts, bruises, scars and suffering on both Vergil and the reader's sides. The reader also struggles with perfection and self-loathing - in a "I'm never going to be a good person" kind of way, because I needed to get more intimate on the reader's part as well - and there are scenes with the reader covered in cuts and bleeding, though not self-imposed, it could be read like that. Those scenes are the reader's and Vergil's internal images of themselves. Reader and Vergil meet each other on their imperfections and the darkest parts of their souls, so BE WARNED. This might not be everyone's cup of tea and there are lots of potential triggers.

Author's Note: @tokkis-shelf asked me if Vergil's part of the Halloween special was inspired by Cirice, and here we are now. It is what kickstarted the song-fic requests! As with a lot of people, I think, Cirice is pretty personal to me.

In the video, it was so comforting to me seeing the black sheep being represented hahahaha and I guess that's why people love it so much. The part where they hold hands? I died, I'd never let go, I cry my soul out upon watching. (I did a very similar drawing to that scene when I was in school around 15 years ago, so it drop-kicked me out of my body xD)

Now, when writing this, I kept in mind that this song has a double meaning and can be quite comforting and quite manipulative at the same time - hence why I use the "can't you see that you're lost without me?" in two different situations, 'cause I think Cirice can be interpreted in so many ways and each person takes what they need from this song. I hope you guys like it!!

Plus, the song the reader and Dante sing at the end is The Power of Love, by Huey Lewis and The News

Cirice, by Ghost

“Can’t you see that you’re lost…?”

It happened every time Vergil walked in the darkness.

That voice in the back of his head, silently taunting him, the hiss of a quiet viper in the hopes of taking him back to the darkest parts of his soul. Quiet, lurking, whispering… Mundus always there, somewhere in the folds of his consciousness, guiding him back into the void – luring Vergil back into his shackles.

“Can’t you see that you’re lost without me?”

As if Vergil couldn’t belong anywhere else, as if his place was in Hell. After all he had been through, after all the sins he perpetrated, he believed wholeheartedly there was no hope for him at all – only a fool’s hope; only a glimmer of a wish he wasn’t as tainted as he was… A desire to not be such a monster as he was.

Pacing quietly through the empty cathedral, Vergil had already learned not to give in to those thoughts – to keep them at bay, as only a whisper in the darkness, of trickster voices that would always remind him of how inhuman he was.

It was times like this Vergil longed for the faint glimmer of the moon, or the warm ghostly light of a candle. It was easy to get lost in the dark, but a single ray of light could help through the direst of situations. That night, though, it seemed like the moon had fallen asleep behind the curtains of the clouds – Selene hiding her tears for her earthly lover in his eternal sleep.

None of you knew what that night entailed – you weren’t even certain what you were dealing with. That was the reason why Lady strutted in the Devil May Cry, not too fond of taking a job she didn’t know if it was up to her abilities.

“Well, looks like I have a new one for you to pay your debt, big guy!” Her singsong voice interrupted the ambience of the jukebox; Lady entering the shop with Kalina Ann and all.

“Eh, I’m never gonna be free of my debt, Lady, let’s be honest.” Dante sighed, putting his feet down and throwing his magazine across the table, shooting her a serious glare. “But things have been borin’ lately, so one of your odd jobs’ not gonna hurt. Whaddya have for me?”

“You talk as if I never help you enough to maintain this place.” She lifted one eyebrow, approaching the big desk at the middle of the shop.

“Gotta give the woman credit, Dante. Last month’s bills were on her.” You shrugged as you had finally come out of your shower, happy to see Lady around, still drying your hair with the towel as you went down the stairs.

“See? Someone who has a bit of common sense.” Her smile was nothing short of devilish as she gestured towards you.

“You know where you are, Lady. ‘Common sense’ isn’t much of a thing in this household.” You greeted her by quickly blowing her a kiss while passing by, making your way towards the couch where Vergil was quietly reading.

“Ey, you’re hurtin’ my feelings like that.” Dante put one of his hands over his heart, laughing alongside you as you kept on your way. “But fine. I’ll give ya that, Lady. So, what’s up? What job do you wanna throw at me this time?”

“I am not throwing it at you.” And there it was: you could always see when Dante stroke a nerve when Lady got defensive and with that fiery stare on her multicolored eyes. “If you wanna do it, great, if you don’t, I can deal with it myself just fine. I’m here to be a good friend since you can barely afford all that pizza you keep stuffing yourself with!”

As you sat by Vergil’s side, you both exchanged a telling glare. Just like you, Vergil was used to observing people. Granted, he didn’t know Lady as much as Dante or even you, but he did know her since he was very young. That fiery, easy-to-anger personality had been there since they first met at the Temen-ni-gru – and Vergil argued it was one of Lady’s traits that would never change.

Something he was quite pleased with, if he had to be honest with himself. It was a good trait for a human demon hunter like her. Dante always praised human’s hearts and particularly their love and empathy – Vergil praised their burning anger that made them unconquerable in the direst of circumstances.

“Jeez, alright, alright, don’t shoot me!” Dante raised his hands as if he was at gunpoint, making you wheeze quietly. Vergil side-eyed you for a while – half judging, half holding his own laugh. “It’s not like I have much of a choice, do I?”

“Humpf.” Lady rolled her eyes and took a slice of pizza from the box resting on the desk, pointing at Dante with it right after. “You know I wouldn’t bring you something if it wasn’t important.”

“Actually, you would.” With those words, Dante rested his arms crossed on the table – all the while, you and Vergil watched it all as if it was a show. Who needed a TV when you had those two? “But you’re bein’ too dodgy ‘bout it, babe. What’s goin’ on?”

“I got a call from a priest in a city nearby.” Lady’s answer was uncharacteristically quiet, followed by a bite from the pizza while she seemed pensive and in any hurry to chew it. “I’ve done some jobs there, know the guy, he’s nice. All the times he called me, it was always a quick, good-paying job. He said some weird things have been happening at the cathedral for the last couple of weeks.”

“Not to sound mean, but there’s always somethin’ strange happenin’ at churches.” Dante’s eyes carried a bit of skepticism: ‘weird things’ didn’t always entail a job for the Devil May Cry – and it usually ended with all of you hunting a rogue raccoon or something.

“I know. But this guy, he doesn’t get scared easy, ok? He’s one of those types of priests who’ll try to shoot down a couple of demons with a shotgun and, if that doesn’t work, he gives me a call.” Those words, though, made you and the Spardas raise your eyebrows. Indeed, it was a rare type of priest, but a good one to keep as acquaintance. “He said the cathedral is increasingly quiet, even from noises outside, with occasional distant noises that are not done by any of those who live there. After it all started, the other priests reported having weird nightmares, of being chased by something in the dark, inside the cathedral – this thing whispering things they can’t understand. Alright if it happened to one or two, but soon all of them started waking up in the middle of the night with similar nightmares – and, catch this, the higher ups of the clergy didn’t tell the common priests about it, but they all reported the very same dream.” Those words caught everyone’s attention. Vergil finally closed his book and leaned forward, paying attention to Lady’s retelling of the priest’s misfortunes. “The priest has been trying to figure out what’s going on, but some old books appear to go missing from the library, only to re-appear as if nothing has happened. Some books are missing pages, something that never happened before. He also said the inside of the cathedral has been getting darker and darker as the weeks go by. As if something is approaching – his words, not mine.”

Vergil immediately furrowed his brows and seemed to turn into an ice sculpture right by your side. You risked a glance, finding him with his usual dark aura – pensive, somber and quiet; hunter’s eyes showing themselves in a matter of seconds.

“Rare are the creatures in Hell in search for knowledge…” He muttered loud enough for his brother and Lady to turn their attention to him. “But those who do, are usually among the worst. Haunting noises, torn books, nightmares, dead silence and total darkness…”

“What? You think those Hell Piranhas came out of their pit?” Dante’s question had a bit of fun in the words, but his eyes were serious and he didn’t allow his lips to smile.

“Could be. Could also be a demon trying to mimic them to hide something else.”

“Hell Piranhas?” You and Lady didn’t need a cue to ask at the very same time. Neither of you had ever heard of that – and both of you had heard of a lot.

“This is not their name, but it is how Dante calls them since we were kids.” Vergil almost sighed in response.

“How we both called ‘em. Mister smart-pants over here isn’t that much better than lil’ ol’ me.” Dante winked at both of you, making you giggle quietly in return. “They’re kinda like illusion demons, but they like stayin’ in the darkness and gatherin’ knowledge. Usually work for someone bigger, though.”

“And even if they don’t, they swallow up all their knowledge and that is dangerous in itself. Afterwards, they feed from the victims they have been toying for so long.” Vergil continued Dante’s thought, ignoring his brother’s previous words. The more you didn’t think about what Dante had said about him, the better – for Vergil couldn’t deny it. “They hunt in packs, and the more victims, the more powerful they become. Some call them the Pit Deceivers, others call them the Lie Weavers…”

“You call them Hell Piranhas.” You concluded bluntly, making Vergil stare at the horizon with emptiness in his eyes – he could say all he wanted, flex all his demonic knowledge, you heard the Piranhas and now you’d never forget it.

“I never heard of them.” Lady had her eyebrows furrowed, searching her memory for some story like that.

“They either don’t leave the pit that much or not many humans survive to tell the story. That’s why.” Dante pointed at a great, old book Vergil had left on one of the tables a long time ago and now it was its official resting place. “You can find it only in the likes of the Codex Daemonica.”

“So either we have them around, or it’s something else. Something bigger. Right?” As you asked, Vergil only agreed with his head as the attentions turned to you. “Or something mimicking the Piranhas.” And Vergil had to sigh at your addition. He would never have peace again. “The mimic or the master, what kind of demon would the Piranhas answer to? If they are that obscure, I take it their existence is more of a niche knowledge in Hell rather than a common information.”

“On that, you are correct…” Vergil murmured in response, falling back into his pensive demeanor. You knew he would be lost for a while.

“See? Good thing I brought this for you, then.” Lady waved dismissively at Dante, but you could sense a little edge in her playful voice. Dealing with big things was fine, same as dealing with cruel demons and the ones that played the big-scary-one persona. Unknown demons were another kind of monster – one only Dante and Vergil used to deal with. “Plus, they always pay well.”

“Eh, I won’t be seein’ much of that money, if I know ya well.” Dante scoffed, having a small smile hidden in the corner of his lips; his tone and demeanor, though, were quite somber and you knew the red devil was taking it seriously.

“If you don’t mind, Dante, I would like to take over this one.” Vergil finally declared while getting up from the couch. “I know some of the hellish creatures who might make use of the Weavers or mimic them.”

“Fine for me, I’m needin’ some time to rest.” Dante sighed, but looked right back at you while Vergil rested his book on the big Devil May Cry desk. “But I’m gonna feel a lot better with someone around to keep an eye on ‘im, pretty thing.”

“Well, I didn’t intend on letting you guys deal with this all by yourselves anyway.” You got up from the couch, immediately receiving a glare from Vergil. “I’m going, blue devil, whether you want it or not. I want to get acquainted with these Piranhas.”

Vergil only closed his eyes, letting out the longest and most regretful sigh you ever heard in your life.

And there you were – although Vergil lost track of you quite a while ago. He knew the stirrings rippling through his heart when you were in danger; and being the fierce human you were, Vergil wasn’t worried about having you search for the demons in the cathedral.

There was, though, a slight uneasiness. That voice echoing in the darkest parts of his soul, it always came as an omen – causing nothing but destruction, inside or outside of himself. Vergil never could really say which one would be, but both were devastating.

“Veeeeergil…”

His steps came to a dry halt in the middle of the cathedral. The night outside the colorful stained-glass windows was pitch black, robbing the colors of their warmth and light – the fire on the candles, long dead in that cold night. The whisper that crept to his ears, like stark chalk on a chalkboard, dragged itself through the marble floor and took a hold of his soul in its clutches.

It was a different kind of sound – different from the ones inside himself, calling him to the darkness. It was from the outside… The Lie Weavers. Slowly coming up, finding him as their next victim. He was close to one of the places they were certainly lurking in the shadows, patiently waiting for someone they could consume.

Vergil never feared the darkness. Tightening his grip around Yamato, his steps resumed his way, approaching the places in the cathedral the faint light of the night could barely touch. Those demons should have known their end was near, and he was the harbinger of their demise – he expected all kinds of trickery, of resistance, of fight from them.

He did not expect to hear a familiar voice, filled with uncertainty.

“Vergil…?”

Halting his steps once more, this time his silvery eyes lost their predatorial gaze as his heart jumped in his chest – even if for a slight second.

“Mother?”

His answer was but a whisper before he was swallowed by darkness.

*

When engaging with illusion demons, one should be aware of not falling into their element: when engulfed by it, those demons were more powerful than expected, able to subdue even the strongest of foes. Breaking from their control required mental and emotional discipline rather than brute force.

It was a slight second – a foolish slip from his human soul, disarmed by the trickery of Eva’s voice – and Vergil was surrounded by a sea of darkness and turmoil. His heart stirred with anger towards himself for being such a child, a vulnerable stupid child, tricked by a puppet of something his heart missed so much.

Eva was long dead. There was no demon able to bring her back. And he would never see her again. All that logic was tossed aside in a spark of a second by his stupid human heart, trembling upon hearing her speak his name again. Granted, Vergil only heard his mother in his dreams, barely remembering how her voice sounded in reality, and this time he heard outside himself – but he should have seen it coming. Illusion demons, trickster demons, cruel demons… They all relied on the barely closed scars inside his damned human soul.

Vergil could always count on them to re-open those wounds, making him bleed as much as he did on the floor of that cursed cemetery so many years ago – and he was a fool to fall for it after he had been through so much.

“Vergil… Can you hear me…?”

“I can, you damned deceiver. You can stop these theatrics – mimicking my dead mother will not affect me.” His voice cut through the dark like the sharpest of ice, his predatorial gaze back into his silver eyes.

“I… Don’t understand you, son. I cannot find you.” Her voice had a tinge of sorrow and desperation – but it was exactly like Eva’s voice. Vergil remembered it with a tinge of gold, probably a result of the haze of nostalgia, but today it was grounded and melancholic – perhaps, that was how Eva had always sounded… He just didn’t remember it. “I can’t find you. You aren’t home.”

“I haven’t been home for a long while.” Vergil didn’t even try to hide the growl that raised from his chest as he argued with that creature. He was used to having a puppet of his mother parading in front of him to hurt his human soul even more, but that was already getting on his nerves. Taunting him about the fact his mother ran to find him that fateful night wasn’t part of the usual games those filthy demons played – and to say they were honing his wrath was an understatement. “And I will never be back.”

“I… I cannot see you, Vergil. Where are you…? Why…?” He could hear the weeping in her voice, faint sobbing while the desperation made her words tremble. Vergil raised his head in the darkness, holding his own heart not to quiver: she wasn’t real and it was all a gimmick to affect him. He would not be affected. He was stronger than that. “Why couldn’t I save you? Those demons they… They hurt you, didn’t they? Oh, my child! My son! They hurt you and I could do nothing! I couldn’t be your mother!”

“Enough with this, filthy, hellish creature!” His voice finally exploded from his chest, roaring in the dark and echoing through the void, finding only silence. “You have no right to desecrate my mother’s memory like this! Shut your putrid mouth and stop with your rancid lies!”

The glint of the Yamato being unsheathed made the darkness recoil for a split second, only to envelop the Dark Slayer once more. His grip was tight, his eyes fiercely looking for his first opponent to direct a very well-placed judgement cut that could end all those creatures with just one swing of his hand. Vergil had enough and all the patience he carried in his being wouldn’t be enough to stop him from overkilling those demons – he just had to know where to direct his wrath.

“Don’t say those words, Vergil… You are not… Not like this.” Her voice still trembled, and his hand was still certain around Yamato. Vergil knew quite well at that state he was a weapon of mass destruction, he just had to find his opponent. His soul was screaming for him to do that, to put a stop to all that mockery. “You are good… You are my son.”

Vergil would have sliced that demon into a thousand million pieces without flinching, even if it took the form of his mother – but his eyes widened as a soft, warm hand touched his face. In all those years being taunted by demons, being tricked and mocked, seeing so many puppets of Eva, Sparda and Dante, none of them had touched him… And none of them genuinely felt like them.

It had been so many lost years he hadn’t felt his mother’s touch – last time, she could cup his entire face, thumb lovingly caressing his innocent eyebrows, but now her thumb could only reach his cheekbones. Nevertheless, it felt like her: not like a golden, nostalgic lost memory of how she felt, but exactly like Eva’s hands, even with the slight roughness of her continuous gardening.

“It took me so long to find you… I am so sorry.”

“You are not my mother.”

“Don’t say that.” Her answer was a sorrowful whisper, her thumb now carefully caressing his sharp cheekbone. Vergil closed his eyes, unable to move, convincing himself all of that wasn’t real and not allowing his heart to sway – forcing his arms to remain frozen by his side, fighting the urge to embrace her. Reminding himself: his mother was dead, killed while trying to save him, a long time ago, and nothing could bring her back. “Your heart hasn’t hardened as much as not to recognize me. You…” Her voice once more became soft, as if trying to do the same with his soul. “You are not a monster… You are my son, my Vergil.”

With those words, Eva’s hand was finally met with a tear – melting the ice from those silvery eyes.

*

There was an impending storm rumbling inside your chest.

Whenever that turmoil took ahold of your heart, you knew Vergil was in trouble. You had just finished checking your side of the cathedral, finding some things out of the ordinary but no demons, when the waves became aggressive in your chest. Your steps were already taking you to meet him, but you found yourself walking even hastier – the sound, though, eaten by the shadows that seemed to only grow around you.

Neither of you had calm seas of feelings: they usually raged like a maelstrom of emotions you could barely get through without some destruction – be it internal or external. But there was a certain note of melancholy and desperation in your heart at that moment that made you know Vergil was hurting – and that hurting, you knew quite well.

It was almost ironic how you apparently despised each other at the beginning, but after a while you came to understand; that aversion was there because you, in a certain way, were a mirror of each other. You could see in him the traits in your soul you disliked the most, and Vergil did see in you the same thing – those traits, however, were the same ones that brought you together, and made both you and Vergil feel seen and understood for the first time in your lives.

He didn’t judge your sins, as you didn’t judge his. To your eyes, he was never a monster, and to his, you could never be as crooked as you thought you were. You found each other in imperfection and, in that, you managed to talk and feel on the same level – after that, every feeling of admiration, care and love was easy to blossom.

You understood that storm, that thunder rumbling inside your chest at that very moment. You could feel it exactly the way he felt – and you knew Vergil needed help… Even if he would never say so himself.

You couldn’t hear or see him, though. You found yourself exactly at his area of patrol in the cathedral, but there was no clue as where your blue devil had gone – and for him to completely disappear, imposing presence and all, was quite an achievement in itself. The air was stiff, heavy as if the windows had never been opened, eating up any sound from the inside and the outside. The darkness was heavier than the one you had previously patrolled, shadows allowing only a few glimpses of the opulent decoration and the path in front of you – although, you couldn’t see more than a few meters beyond your feet.

If you couldn’t trust your sight or your hearing to find him, you could trust your heart: the storm would guide you. Closing your eyes, you allowed your feelings to take over, following with your footsteps in the direction you could hear his soul calling.

Those shadow creatures wouldn’t be able to hide him from you: no matter what happened or where you found yourselves, you would always be able to feel Vergil’s presence and find him in the darkest of hours.

And as the thunder in your chest cracked violently, your feet came to a halt and you opened your eyes.

Right in front of you, there was only darkness. Not like in the shadows that took the cathedral little by little, but pitch-black darkness, that no light could cast aside. To enter it would mean to be completely bare: vulnerable, lost, without guidance, naked – but the screaming in your soul made it very clear Vergil was in there.

Contrary to your lover, you were afraid of the dark. You always preferred to have a little light by your side, for you never knew what could be lurking alongside you, ready to pounce and drag you to certain suffering and death. You protected yourself by being forever vigilant, as you always did – a trait that exhausted you, yes, but luckily, in the last few years, you had Vergil around to keep a light by you when your body started giving out.

For that reason, you would never fear entering the darkness for him.

And with a deep breath, your bold steps took you inside the dark.

*

Your feet were cold, bare, stumbling over a sticky floor. Even if your eyes could see only darkness, you felt the freezing air of that night slicing your skin: you were shirtless and something was hurting… Oozing. The cold wind mixed with a faint warmness that leaked from the open wounds on your skin.

Blood. You were bleeding.

Your arms immediately wrapped around you – those scars, they were showing. They never showed before.

Running your hands quickly over your body, you could feel the warm blood slipping through your fingers; some wounds barely holding themselves closed while others still poured as in the day they were created.

That was the version of yourself you used to fiercely hide. None of those wounds were physical, none of them could be seen… But whenever you looked in the mirror, you saw them there, under your skin, under your soul, quietly resting until you couldn’t hide them anymore.

“You are lost…”

It was always the same voice, of something dark, something inside you that could break your soul if you didn’t shove it back into the darkness like you always did. That was why you were afraid; that was why Vergil always kept a faint glow by your side whenever you couldn’t hold yourself together. The dark was dangerous to you – to both of you.

“You are lost without me…”

“I can survive quite well without you…!” You growled to the darkness, keeping that part of yourself at bay. The part that gave in to the pain, that bathed in the blood and didn’t want to get up… And the part that would bathe and rise in rage, making you survive at great cost to those around you.

You were past that. And you didn’t need that to survive. You didn’t have to survive, you could live.

“Can’t you see that you’re lost…?”

“Vergil!” Your scream was a roar in the dark, looking for the one you plunged into the darkness to find. You wouldn’t give in to the trickery of those Piranhas – and you would get Vergil out of there.

They would learn they shouldn’t fear only the son of Sparda: they should also fear you.

“You think you can find him…?” After the mischievous ethereal voice questioned, you heard a giggle rippling around your feet as you stumbled on the sticky floor to find your lover. “You think you are that good? You think you aren’t a monster?”

You furrowed your brows, doing your best to ignore the voices. You knew it was that part inside of you that always taunted how broken you were, how imperfect your soul was. For the longest time you believed there was nothing good in you, nothing to save you from a life of loneliness, until you crossed paths with Vergil.

He was broken too – and he would never judge the things you did to survive your lethal wounds.

“Vergil! Can you hear me?! I’m here to find you!”

“How chivalrous, how heroic! What are you trying to accomplish?” The giggles pooled around your feet, threatening to drag you inside that pool of viscous darkness. “Trying to prove yourself? You’re never going to be perfect. You’re a black sheep, an outcast, remember? The likes of you aren’t heroes.”

“Oh, I’m no hero…” You growled back, fighting against the things trying to pull you back; fighting against the pain of the freezing cold and warmness of blood. “I’m a fucking fighter. You’re messing with the wrong kind of monster, fucking Hell Piranhas.”

“Piranhas…?” A faint whisper in the dark broke whatever control those things were trying to have over your body, starting at your feet. It was Vergil’s whisper – followed by a louder speaking tone. “Y/n! I can feel you, where are you?!”

“Trying to find you!” You screamed back, immediately dragging your feet towards Vergil. You couldn’t see him, but you could feel where he was – and there was nothing those demons could do against that.

The darkness seemed to shift for a couple of seconds. You couldn’t understand what was happening, but you saw a faint, ghostly pale glow in the dark – almost imperceptible, but your heart knew, you could finally see Vergil.

And, in return, he could see you. Moving his feet, Vergil dragged heavy shackles through the floor, screeching in a horrid, soul scratching sound as he willed his body to move towards you. You could hear him grunting with the effort, another set of chains being dragged as Vergil moved his arms – slowly, but surely, wearing all of his strength to get to you.

You felt the viscous ripples of the floor creeping up your legs, almost on your knees, doing their best to pull you away – back into the darkness, back to the taunting voices, to the doubt, the hurt, the self-loathing.

“Vergil! Let me hear your voice! You’re still there, right?!”

“Yes. I am always here.” His answer came with grunts of effort, barely above the noise of the chains screeching around him.

The darkness shifted again, and his form became even more visible, as yours did to him – followed by a scream that rumbled in his chest, Vergil managed to get even closer. That made something spark inside yourself, that thundering storm breaking in your soul cracking in a scream that broke the insidious tentacles holding you back and making you lunge forward.

Once again, the glow you diffused only to each other seemed to get stronger as the darkness wavered.

“Y/n…” He growled once more, the shackles screaming on the floor as he reached out to you.

“Vergil…!” You reached out in return, barely making out the form of his fingers in the dark.

As you were almost touching each other’s hands, the heavy, muffling darkness faltered once more. You could finally see one another, as you were in that godforsaken place.

Vergil was shirtless, his body covered in wounds – new and old – bleeding profusely. His silvery eyes were red, sunken in deep shadow, surrounded by a deep purple mist on his dry skin. You could see his bones under his pale skin covered in so many lacerations you wouldn’t even know where to start healing him. His knuckles were battered, showing the flesh underneath, as well as his wrists covered by heavy iron shackles – wounds from fighting against them for so long. His hands were still long and elegant, but bony and covered in bruises.

You had never seen Vergil so hurt, so broken, so… Vulnerable.

In return, his eyes took in shock the vision of you: as shirtless as him, as battered and wounded as he was. Even if not locked in the shackles he wore for so long in Hell, you walked barefoot leaving a trail of blood behind you. Those scars, those wounds, those bruises… He knew they were there, but he had never seen those. You looked weak and tired, bloodshot eyes under dry skin, as if you hadn’t slept in ages… And those things you fought so much to conceal, now crystal clear in front of him.

Those were the scars you carried inside yourselves. The wounds you had to fight against every day – that you had to try to heal, even if sometimes it seemed impossible. The things you would never show, but, somehow, you managed to sense it in each other… Now you could see it, clear as a bright night.

And, even if you wouldn’t admit to yourselves, those were the very same breaking thunders that would keep you moving – fiercely fighting, fiercely surviving.

As you took in each other’s internal selves, Vergil’s silvery eyes finally found yours.

A loud thundering noise shook the floor underneath your feet twice, as your hearts rumbled alongside the devastating sound. You lunged forward, holding Vergil’s hand as if your life depended on it. Never breaking your eye contact, Vergil held your hand with the strength you would expect of the legendary Dark Slayer. You made each other stronger, and there was nothing that could come between you now.

His shackles immediately screeched back, pulling Vergil violently away from you. At the same time, you were grabbed by the viscous darkness – your knees, your legs, your abdomen, your arms. It pulled you back with vicious strength, doing its best to drag you away from him – back into the darkness.

“Don’t let me go!” You screamed back, tightening your grip around his bony hand.

“I will never let go!” He growled, doing the same, trying to drag his body forward – failing to notice you willed yourself towards him as he pulled you into his arms. Those silvery eyes never moved away from yours.

“You are lost…! Lost…!”

The voices chanted and screeched around you, doing their best to drag you apart. For a moment, your hand slipped and you let out a desperate scream, hurting your lungs as you were almost pulled back into the void. Vergil’s cry resembled a roar as he willed his body to move and tightened his grip in a way he didn’t hold even Yamato.

He hadn’t held his brother’s hand once. This time he wouldn’t make the same mistake. This time, he would hold you even if that damned the both of you to the darkest pits of Hell.

“Can’t you see…? Can’t you see that…?”

“I am lost…!” You barked back to the voices, still staring into Vergil’s eyes, trying to catch your breath while your lungs stung as if you were inhaling a thousand knives.

As Vergil looked into your eyes, though, he knew exactly what you were going to say – and he could safely say it was the very same thing he struggled to find the words to.

“Without you.” His answer came in a dark tone, ragged from the effort he too made to be able to hold your hand.

The thunder rumbled twice again – the voices shrieked and you suddenly found yourselves being launched into each other’s arms as the forces that bind you broke into a million pieces.

Vergil’s arms wrapped around you, one of his hands holding your head close to his chest, as you wrapped yours around his waist, keeping him as close as you could. His head rested on top of yours, and you kept your eyes closed – washing away the blood above his heart with the tears that streamed down your face.

“Don’t ever hide from me.” Vergil’s voice was uncharacteristically shaky, somber but reassuring. You had never been so vulnerable in front of him – and even upon seeing you like that, his reaction was to take you in his arms, to welcome you. “I’m not afraid of the dark.”

“And I’m not afraid of your darkness.” You tightened your arms around his cold, bony body as you felt tears running through your hair. “I can see beyond your glimmer, and I’m not afraid of what’s in the dark.” Your voice shook as you took a deep breath and Vergil’s arms held you even closer – his body shaking with the tears falling from his eyes. “It’s you. And I’m never afraid of you.”

“Neither am I of you.”

His answer was but a whisper – a whisper enough to break the darkness into a memory to be kept away in the deepest pits of Hell.

I can feel the thunder that’s breaking in your heart I can see through the scars inside you

*

*

*

*

“You killed the Piranhas from Hell with the power of love?”

Vergil wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. Or die. Or both.

Probably both.

The whole crew was there as you and Vergil never came back from the job as quickly as expected – and when you did, it looked like you hadn’t slept in days.

The priest was more than happy with the result of your work – even though you never discovered why the Weavers decided to come out of hiding nor what they wanted. The congregation was just happy they were gone and the whole reason behind it would be a long-term thing for the Devil May Cry to work on – or to keep an eye on; maybe something bigger was approaching.

You and Vergil didn’t feel like going back to the shop, though. When you were hurt physically, things were very much ok to deal with, but when the wounds were emotional… You needed time for yourselves.

Unlike his brother, Vergil was a little more responsible with his money – and you, a lot more than the two. You managed to find somewhere to spend a few nights… Which involved the both of you talking out everything you felt and saw. It was harrowing at first, something neither of you were versed in and honestly were terrified of, but it eventually brought you even closer together.

So, to say you had defeated the Lie Weavers with the power of love was something that killed Vergil inside.

And you could almost see his internal self, glaring at you with a ‘really, after all of this you say this kind of foolishness’ look in his sad, silvery eyes, as Lady stared at both of you and made the question everyone was thinking.

“Yep. Power of love, it’s a curious thing.” You shrugged, making Vergil physically groan by your side while Dante slapped his table with a huge grin on his face.

“Make a one man weep, make another man sing! Hell yeah, Back To The Future, babe!” He winked back at you as you smiled in response.

“Of all the people you could end up dating, Vergil…” Trish sat on Dante’s desk, crossing her long legs while sporting a devilish smile on her rosy lips. It was interesting how her voice could never really sound like Eva’s. “It had to be someone who references the same songs as your brother.”

“Alas, fate plays many games…” Vergil rolled his eyes, but as they rested on you, there was a vulnerability you saw only once in that pitch black darkness. “But it is kind enough to give us what we need.”

No one ever really understood what he meant, but Dante was the only one who managed to see something inside his brother’s silvery eyes that could only reflect in yours – and that made him genuinely smile.

Indeed, you would never be the romance of a fairy tale book or a romantic comedy – but you could see what lied beyond each other’s scars; taking a glimpse at the worst of each other without fear and finding whatever light was left inside. You could understand – and that was much more than most lovers in the world would ever have.

[strahms-thrussy]

this video is dedicated to the ten most homoerotic blood pumping traps in the saw movie franchise. warning, its about to get messy. Just like these relationships.

Number 10: The Laser Collar Trap

While the set up of this trap is the perfect meet cute, it leaves a lot to be desired in terms of chemistry. Being forced to confess your darkest secrets with your crush would be a lot more sexy than what we actually get with this trap.

Number 9: The Mausoleum Trap

Just like the previous entry, this trap has a compelling set up for some homoerotic tension, but these two victims have other priorities. At least they get their hands all over each other.

Number 8: The Hangman's Noose Trap

This Trap earns the eighth spot in this list because of the inherent homoeroticism of being blindfolded and having to put your faith in another man to guide you to safety. What makes this trap stand out above the previous two is that the participants actually know each other. Cale and Bobby Dagen are best friends. This is a perfect time for a last minute confession. Anyway the blindfold is kinda hot.

Number 7: Ceiling Jar Trap

This trap earns seventh place primarily on the grounds of how it was supposed to be completed. Unfortunately, because these victims were uncooperative with one another they didnt get to experience the sexual tension involved with squeezing into a tunnel together with someone you don't like. Darn. Don't notice my boner Mallick.

Number 6: The Angel Trap

From here on out all the traps are going to be pretty sexy, so don't shake your head at any of these placements. They're competing with some of the greats. The gayest part of this trap is how I feel looking at Kerry's arms. holy shit. Also Amanda personally coming to watch her rip in half was so sensual to me.

Number 5: Shotgun Chair Trap

Coming in hot at spot five, this trap is where we really start to get intimate. While the shotgun chair is pretty lame as a trap, it's the perfect tool for foreplay. If the victim struggles too much trying to escape they'll pull the trigger on the gun and blow their own head off. There's a lot to say here about the phallic imagery of guns and how its pressed between Hoffman's legs and aiming at his face but I'mgetting too hard to talk about that.

Number 4: Ice Block Trap/Rigg's trial

This kinky little thing comes in at spot 4. While Amanda is lezing it up in the other room Hoffman tied himself up to look cute for Rigg. The common theory is that Rigg's trial is actually Hoffman's attempt at taking Rigg in as an apprentice, which adds a bunch of layers of sexual tension in multiple directions. All of the participants here know each other well, and are stuck together for a long period of time, which helps its placement here.

Number 3: The Bathroom Trap

This yaoi moment is a fan favorite for a reason. The bathroom trap is not inherently homoerotic, and while the two victims have some pre-existing knowledge of each other, they aren't exactly close. But Adam and Lawrence come together in a heartfelt, tear jerking sort of way by the end of their time together.

Number 2: The Shotgun Collar Trap/Amanda's Test

Holy shit. Do I even need to say it. Like 20 minutes of saw 3 is Amanda touching and getting in Lynn's face. The only reason this isn't the top spot is that the two traps themselves aren't inherently homoerotic, but Amanda just really wanted it to be, ok.

watch mojos top 10 gayest saw traps

[k-s-morgan]

Hi! I've been in the Hannibal fandom for two years now. Rewatched the show many times and yet Will Graham still confuses me like no one else. Hannibal's design is complex but somewhat understandable after watching the show again again. But Will's design is like a loophole. He can empathise with the killers. That means he can understand them. If he can understand them then why does it feel good for him to kill them? How does it work for him exactly. Does he feel for the killers? If he felt for the killers then what about his violent tendencies towards them?

I've always thought that he is like a God. A God of the killers. The killers offer him their design and he takes sacrifice in return of understanding. But how does his psyche work exactly?

Hello! Oh yes, Will is a very confusing character - it’s his defining trait, and I think that’s because he lies to himself, to others, and to us as an audience. He wants one thing, wants to want another thing, does the third thing, and making sense of it is a complex process.

I think Will’s empathy is a big red herring. I agree with Freddie here: he understands killers because he’s one. He has an almost supernatural gift that helps him recreate the situations almost exactly as they happened. He understands what motivates killers, he might sympathize with them, but I think he might also envy them their freedom to be what they are. They are a reminder of what he is and what he can’t allow himself to have. But most importantly, they are a way for Will to find a compromise with himself and feel better about his true self. Killing bad people is an excuse to justify his darkness, but I don’t think it’s a part of his design per se. 

I agree with you that Will is like a God - he and Hannibal both are. That’s one of the things that separates them from others and elevates them above everyone else. Let’s make an overview of Will’s victims.

1) Hobbs. Hobbs was a monster and Will killed him. But it wasn’t about justice and righteousness, not according to him. Killing a person and feeling pleased that you saved someone versus liking the act of killing itself are drastically different things. Many police officers have to kill in their line of duty. Very few of them get off on the act of murder. Those who do are killers, and they are especially dangerous if they immediately try to follow it up with another murder. Will never once says he liked killing Hobbs because he made this world better. When asked, he says that he felt a sense of power. This is a motivation of many actual serial killers. If Will was just glad that he saved Abigail, he would know it's normal. He wouldn't have been almost on the verge of a break-down and haunted by Hobbs. So it’s not about helping others, it's about murder, even if the victim was a monster.

2) Stammets. Will had no reason to try to kill him (which he admits to doing). Based on his and Hannibal’s talk, he understands that he just wanted to feel what he felt after killing Hobbs, and this makes him panic. So again, no someone. He’s chasing the high of killing someone, and Stammets is the most appropriate victim. 

3) Ingram. On the surface, it looks like Will wanted to avenge Peter and himself by proxy, hence pulling the trigger on Ingram. However, after Hannibal manages to stop him, days later, Will complains about losing a chance to feel how he felt when killing Hobbs. Murder high is his main motivation again - everything else is background or an excuse, depending on your reading.    

4) Randall. Will threw away the gun on purpose to make the murder more intimate. This is not about justice and this is not about protecting himself because by doing this, he reduced his chances. Will also beat Randall up until he wasn't moving. There was no reason to snap his neck. Mutilation, cannibalism that followed, keeping his suit, admitting he enjoyed the murder and calling it his design - this is about murder and WIll’s love for it primarily. The design part is especially important: based on it, we can conclude that Will loves a performance just like Hannibal.  

4) Chiyoh and her prisoner who Will set up. Chiyoh was innocent and didn't deserve to die. Her prisoner might not have been guilty - in fact, Will was the one to suggest that, and yet Will still set him up. It was a game and he was an observer - he lied in waiting for Chiyoh’s scream. He then turned the body of a losing party into art. Very creepy and very like Hannibal.

5) Chilton. Will clearly explained his motivation: he wanted Chilton to pay just because he wanted to be famous and messed with Hannibal by writing his ridiculous book. Will showed no remorse and admitted he did it on purpose.

6) Police officers he set up to be killed by cooperating with Francis. The ones he stepped over without a second look. They were innocent and they were a collateral damage. Will is a cruel God who doesn’t bother with mere mortals as long as it fits his purpose. In this case, his purpose was freeing Hannibal. Everything else was still a blur in his mind. 

7) Francis. Enjoyed the murder, admired the blood, called the situation beautiful.

8) Bedelia. She's innocent in comparison to Will and his body count. If Will faced no repercussions and continued getting more and more people killed, she had every right to go free. But God doesn’t have to be fair, and Will proves it by targeting her. 

What does it all say about Will’s design and philosophy? Apart from Godlike attributes and indifference toward collateral damage, I think Will is led by his bloodlust - he just tends to control it and direct it at specific targets. 

Will might prefer to kill “bad people” in the first two seasons, but it’s the process of murder that excites him. So I see his righteous choices as a preference that helps him justify his dark nature partly, not the core reason for his violence. Hannibal seems to be moved by his interest in human nature and his hunter instinct, but Will, I think, is a truer killer because he actually feels drunk on murder. Unlike Hannibal, he looks downright euphoric when/after he kills Randall and Francis. In TWOTL, Hannibal is more focused on the fact that his dream came true and he and Will killed someone together, but Will seems primarily caught up in the murder after-shocks themselves. Hannibal thinks about Will, Will thinks about how beautiful blood looks under the moonlight.

So, post Fall, I believe that at first, Will will stick to killing bad people like murderers, but once some times passes, his need for justifications will fade. He’ll move on to rude people, only his rude will differ from Hannibal’s. Hannibal doesn’t differentiate between genders and ages, but I think Will will. He’s interested in a feeling of power, like he himself says, in a sense of dominance, so he’ll look forward to a fight. He won’t be interested in attacking a teenager like Cassie, for instance, because the power imbalance is too prominent. But as soon as someone more equal does something Will heavily dislikes, something that wakes his bloodlust (a personal insult, physical or verbal abuse toward other people/animals, etc.), he’ll attack. He’ll be careful - he knows how to avoid being caught, but it will still be unpredictable and passionate. Will is a storm to Hannibal’s calm.

Then there is unpredictability. Hannibal tends to plan everything methodically. The only times we see him being impulsive is in Europe, where he’s descending into self-destructive mode, so it’s not a norm for him. For Will, though? Will consists of unpredictability, and Hannibal is fascinated by it.I think Will is going to kill when an impulse strikes. For example, he might go shopping, without having any dark plans, and end up murdering someone because the circumstances pushed some unfortunate soul onto his path. Will might or might not display the body depending on his mood. Today he can be in an artistic mood, but tomorrow he’ll be in a violent and impatient one, wanting to destroy the body entirely and leaving a total mess behind.

How Will would prefer to kill? In my opinion, in an intimate way. It doesn’t mean he’ll be weaponless, but something like a knife would fit his tastes well. He’d be able to feel it plunge into his victim’s body, tearing through skin and muscles, etc. - personal and intimate. Akin to what he did with Francis - his feral half-snarl, the way he paused after stabbing him before opening him up - it was dark and mesmerizing. Will might get into strangling, too, because it takes a lot of time and it is even more intimate. It might end up being his favorite. So, I can see him using his hands or small weapons to fully sense what he’s doing to a victim. This is something that he has in common with Hannibal because from what we saw, Hannibal also enjoys more intimate and prolonged murders that give him a glimpse into a person’s pain and struggle for life.

[dabifixation]

the importance of knocking

dabi x fem!reader

summary: When Dabi told you to wait at the bar because he was going to "Take care of things" you shouldn't have humored him. You shouldn't have gotten drunk on a mission. And most of all you shouldn't have ignored your gut feeling by looking for the blue flame user and discovering exactly what he meant by taking care of things.

warnings: nsfw, smut, voyeurism, unprotected sex, squirting, MINORS DNI

word count: 2.4k

~

You really didn't like villains. They were temperamental bigots who were hard to work with and cared very little about their environment.

Blue eyed, flame wielding, two-toned nuisances were not the exception to this.

If anything, having Dabi tag along on your mission didn't really help with your dwindling impression of the man.

Said mission was going downhill very fast, losing your chance to achieve funds from your organization's formidable benefactors, all because somebody thought it was funny to set Mr Park's hair on fire after the man passed a comment on somebody's unprofessional attire.

You hated him for that. Truly hated him. However you knew he wasn't just messing up your mission for his own amusement. You weren't stupid, you knew a field test when you saw one. This mission was set up to see how well you'd do now that the Meta Liberation Army was under siege from the League of Villains. Dabi was your examiner.

And you failed the test.

So it came as a surprise to you when the bane of your existence suggested that he'd take care of things, which made you wonder if he was a comedian in his past life cause what could he possibly do to fix things.

You spent the next hour by yourself with an endless supply of whisky in hopes of coming up with a good plan in order to leave Japan undetected.

When the next hour passed by you began to wonder where your flame wielding partner went and how long he'd be. You were convinced that he was just hunting down one of the benefactor's and stole their suitcase filled with money. But you doubt killing someone took a full two hours, so you began to worry.

Not for him of course. That would be out of character for you. You were just worried about disappointing Shigaraki by coming empty handed and not on time. At the end of the day, you were a sucker for praise and didn't mind getting it from someone who ruined the goals and reputation of the Meta Liberation Army.

You had a serious problem.

Checking your wristwatch one last time, you decided now was a good time to phone Dabi. Snickering to yourself when you saw his contact was saved under 'If Menstruational Pain Was A Person'. You clicked on his contact, hoping he wouldn't be those annoying people who answered after the fifth ring on purpose.

He wasn't.

"Whoever this is, it better be important. I'm in the middle of something." He sounded slightly out of breath, and from the soft rustling of something in the background you could tell he wasn't in any danger. It made you sigh in relief.

"Where the fuck are you?"

"Oh it's you. Miss me already?" You didn't need to see him smirking on the other end, cause you knew he was.

You ignored his question, "Where are you?"

There was pause that lasted long enough for you to hear a muffled cry in the background and an unknown squelching sound. You didn't take him for someone that tortured his victims.

You learn new things everyday.

"Room 3406." You heard a groan this time, making you frown. Why was he dragging his torture session out so long, the least he could do was put the poor person out of their misery and take their money.

Wait.

"You're still in the hotel. You damn asshole I thought you were dead in a ditch!" You raised your voice, not caring that people passing by gave you concerning looks.

"Didn't realize you cared so much about little old me." He let out a sound crossed between surprise and a laugh, which caught you off guard.

He hung up before you could give a response.

That was weird.

You looked down at your naked arms, noticing the goosebumps.

Yeah, very weird.

❦

It didn't take you long to find the hotel room, thanking your lucky stars when you found out the room was unlocked and didn't require a key card.

Once you entered the room, you glanced around noticing that nothing was out of place or broken. There was no signs of struggle, which was a good thing. It made cleaning up easier.

Your eyes landed on a pair of familiar boots placed adjacent to a pair of red bottom heels that were laying on its side.

You picked the heel up, examining it to see if there was any blood on it. There wasn't.

That's strange.

"Uhnnnggg~"

Your head snapped in the direction of the main bedroom when you heard the sounds of someone whimpering in pain. The warning bells in your head grew louder when you decided to check out what was going on.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar but not enough for you to see what was on the other side. You heard a deep groan as your fingers brushed the doorframe, your heart in your throat at what you'd find. So you pushed forward expecting everything but what was in front of you.

You didn't dare move.

There Dabi was, hands gripping tightly on some woman's hips. The muscle in his arms flexing, and his legs out stretched beneath her. Her hands were buried in his obsidian locks as he set the pace for her, bouncing her up and down his cock. Each time he brought her down, she'd let out a R-rated moan. She swiveled her hips as best as she could, but from the way her thighs trembled from the pleasure, you could tell it was too much for her.

Dabi's eyes were shut in bliss, letting out a breathy moan when she opted for grounding on his cock instead. From her quick movements, you could tell she was close.

"Yes, yes, yes –oh fuck!"

Dabi immediately flipped her over, preventing her from reaching her climax. His heavy cock slapped against his abdomen, smearing moisture against his defined stomach. You quickly looked away, focusing on the woman instead.

It immediately clicked in. You knew who she was.

Yui Murukami, the 34 year old heiress and CEO to the company that supplied our friends in capes with support items. She was a rich and powerful woman known throughout Japan, and one of the benefactor's that pulled out their sponsorship after finding out that the Meta Liberation Army was infiltrated with "heretics."

The same heretic that's narrow hips she currently had her long milky legs wrapped around.

What a hypocrite.

You got a good look at Dabi for the first time tonight. Your eyes traveled down his lean form. What he lacked in muscle, he made up for in flexibility. The position he was in was a testimony to that.

The subtle red hair trailing down towards his impressive length caught your attention. So he was a natural redhead? That or he had some weird hobby of dyeing his pubes.

It made you shudder.

He pumped at his veiny cock, gathering the pre-come dripping from the pink and angry head, and used it to lubricate himself further. The golden piercings keeping his two skin types together stretched as he did so.

You thanked whatever God was out there for Dabi not noticing you. They surely had your back. Now was the perfect time to escape. Dabi was clearly lost in the throes of pleasure. But just as you stepped back, the floor beneath your feet decided now was a good time to announce your presence.

Dabi's eyes immediately snapped open in your direction.

Those ocean blues stared at you intensely without a hint of shame. You were frozen in place as you held his heated gaze, eyes falling to his lips when his tongue jotted out to lick them. It had you entranced and you almost missed the way his lips broke out into a full grin when he knew exactly what position he had you in.

Hook, line and sinker.

He was taunting you, waiting on you to storm out of this room in embarrassment and anger. Dabi was a sick individual who'd take any and every opportunity to test you and your loyalty to the Paranormal Liberation Front. If you walked out now, despite how badly you really wanted to, that would be the same as failing. You weren't about to fail twice in one night.

He raised an eyebrow when you didn't barge at his challenge. Shrugging, he guided his cock back inside the woman with a soft sigh. He broke eye contact first, looking down at where their bodies joined and bottomed out into her. She let out a ridiculously high-pitched moan.

He kept her thighs far apart as he continued his ministrations despite knowing you were watching.

Your face was hot as you clenched your fists tightly.

Slapping and squelching sounds filled the room as their movements picked up. The air growing heavy with the smell of sex. Dabi was rutting into her in a way that had her breasts bouncing in a particular rhythm.

There was something so enticing about the way she pushed herself back onto him every time he gave short deep thrusts. She clawed at his chest, trying to push him away but he wasn't having it. Instead he drove into her faster and more ruthlessly as a warning.

This moment was too intimate and private, but you couldn't bring yourself to look away either.

It was intoxicating.

Suddenly a long keening sound left her lips, hands digging into the once pristine sheets, almost tearing them apart. Dabi hit a special spot inside of her that neither of you could see.

Heat rushed to your belly in an all too familiar feeling.

He continued hitting that spot, her body violently shaking and writhing. The way his hips were angled, it brushed against the little button at the top of her mound perfectly.

That was the last straw.

She came so hard, no doubt clamping tightly around his cock. Causing him to throw his head back in eye rolling pleasure with a deep throaty groan. His movements began to filter in order to prolong the feeling, but he quickly regained his composure and picked up where he left off. Triggering her into squirting all over his abdomen. Not once, twice but thrice.

His abdomen glistened with her juices and his added sweat. The way his hair fell into his eyes and clung to his neck had your heart skipping a beat.

"Does this make you feel good?" He asked her as his hips bucked up. Voice deep, too deep.

Fuck yes.

She responded in a tired moan.

"I could have you like this underneath me every night if you just–" he snapped his hips into hers to accentuate his point, "–begged nicely."

Jesus.

She continued to mewl, clawing into the sheets as she neared her second orgasm.

"All you got to —fuck— say is please and I'll be scratching every itch inside of you that those fingers can't reach." He toppled over her, dropping both hands on either side of the her head.

"Uh huh." She let out, eyes squeezed shut in concentration.

"I don't like being ignored." He looked at you this time, making you jolt. One of his hands reached out to grip around her throat, making her gasp as he controlled her airway.

When she responded in a broken moan, he ignored her and kept his eyes focused on you instead. He narrowed his eyes, something dark flashing in them before he looked back down at her. A deep growl in his throat.

Oh.

He was talking to you the entire time.

You rubbed your thighs together to ease the aching between your legs.

It didn't go by unnoticed, as much as you hoped. Dabi gave you a look that made him seem so vulnerable at that moment. All his walls came crashing down and for once you could read his facial expression. He desperately wanted you to be the one underneath him.

"Touch yourself." He commanded, hips bucking in urgency.

He was close.

Yui was long forgotten as it felt like it was just the two of you in the room. You did as he said, ignoring the voice in your head that was calling you a 'fucking idiot.'

You unzipped your pants, enough to give him a view of the shape of your pussy and the increasing wet patch at the center of your lace panties. You pushed your hand into your pants, while the other bunched your shirt up. The moment your fingers brushed against your drenched folds through your panties, you closed your eyes and let out a silent moan. Everything felt hypersensitive. You didn't care that this wasn't enough to send you over the edge, all you cared about was imagining it was him touching you like this, rubbing your clit in tight circles as he fucked you into next week.

"Fuck." He let out after a long time of being silent. "Good girl, just like that–"

A loud groan ripped out of his throat before he could finish his rambling.

Not too long and the rhythm Dabi started with began to stutter when his hips bucked up irregularly. The woman underneath him putting on a whole performance but he continued to ignore her in favor of you.

He gave you a needy look as he gave one last sloppy thrust, waves of pleasure being sent to your pussy.

Dabi let out a moan that was so guttural and so deep as he came inside of her wishing it was you instead. He chased his high in quick juvenile thrusts, making sure every last drop was emptied inside of her.

His hips continued to twitch from his intense climax, a pained hiss leaving his lips. The oversensitivity finally catching up to him.

He gave her a slow open mouthed kiss after they regained their breaths. Pulling his softening cock out of her with a wet pop. He nuzzled his face into her neck, causing her to giggle and hug his form closer to hers. And he allowed it.

He looked back up at you, an indescribable look passing through his eyes. It was quickly gone as it had come, being replaced by a smirk and knowing wink that said everything you needed to know.

Bastard

Dabi was an incredible actor and you were just another one of his victims.

You left just as Dabi started getting hard again, obviously he could go for another round, a round you wanted no part in witnessing.

You weren't going to be used by him again in order for him to find a quick release. To hell with him and his twisted version of testing someone's loyalty. You felt utterly humiliated and dirty. All you wanted was to go back to the PLF hideout and crawl into your bed and forget this all happened.

How could you be so stupid. He had this all planned out from the start. No wonder he was so quick to help you when the mission started going downhill.

You hated him so much.

You wanted to scream when you realized he told you the room number on purpose despite being in the middle of that. He wanted you come up and catch him in the act, and that's why he had no problem in you watching him do those things to her. He wanted to see what you'd do in that situation. This was all one big joke to him.

Yet you couldn't understand why you were still so horny and soaking wet.

[nomadthor]

PROTECTOR - II - BUCKY BARNES

this is part two! click here to read the first part

prompt: the reader and bucky try to escape a sticky situation, bucky protects the reader at every available opportunity words: 1734 warnings: mentions of death, violence/gunfights, blood, angst, hurt/comfort notes: gender neutral reader

if you have any ideas or requests please send them to my ask so I can write them!

What you judged to be approximately a quarter of an hour, you apprehensively sat with Bucky’s hand cradling yours: you both awaited in strained quietude until you presumed the coast was clear after a stretch of secure silence. Despite his hesitant and disquieting demeanour, he seemed indifferent yet the elusive curl in the corner of his flushed lips told you the contrary. “We should get going now,” Bucky hoarsely commanded as he let your grip slip from his before he toiled to stand on and support his own body weight but he contrived with a throaty growl nonetheless. He briefly glanced at his bullet-ridden phone as its technical innards blistered from the globular apertures which still had fragments of the shrapnel embedded in the splintered plastic; how if only luck would have been on your side you could’ve called for help.

“Do you need a hand?” He softly questioned with delicate eyes as he presented his hand once more, you’d be being dishonest to yourself if you affirmed that you didn’t relish his solicitous, protective and balmy hands that made you feel secure and rid most of the anxiety and fret. You felt guilty and disinclined to acknowledge these feelings since ultimately you were just coworkers. “I’m good,” you muttered and heaved yourself from the floor, abruptly being reminded of the absence of room as the pair of you were now rubbing shoulders. The close proximity you both shared both filled you with satisfaction and compunction as you were anticipating the early arrival of sprouting feelings that would soon doubtlessly become unrequited; it was bittersweet. Something changed in that room and you don’t know what it was.

Frailly, he twisted the knob of the door and cautiously pulled it towards you both after becoming a human blockade as he shoehorned himself between you and the expanse of dubiety. He carefully peered around the corner with an attentive survey making sure to detect any almost imperceptible movements. With a swift flex of his head, he motioned for you to follow him as the set of you immediately scanned the conflict tarnished building for any means of self-defence: crimson stains and defunct cadavers besmirched the shattered debris rooted floor. Bucky trounced the pain from his laceration as his stagger shifted into a succinct strut with an acute limp. He hurriedly strode towards an adrift pistol with scarlet blemishes coating the finish before he checked the magazine to authenticate the unconsumed ammunition. “Take this,” he instructed unwittingly appearing abrasive but you were habituated to his inflexion and his adventitious gesture of compassion countermanded his sternness.

Hesitantly you took the weapon from his hand unsure whether you should have been first priority due to the circumstance of you not having profound wounds daubing your limbs. Bucky quickly discerned your concerned delay before he reassured you, “I’m a super soldier, I can manage,” he dryly quipped with a minute grin as he failed to find another weapon with any bullets left before he lead the way down the unsettled and dismal corridor, “besides, I trust you more than I trust myself.” Evidently, he was being sincere but you were taken aback by his forthright commendation as your conversations were plainly incisive and condensed; he was slowly unravelling to become exceedingly personable, he was just restricting this part from you whether it was deliberate or not.

He continued to escort you throughout the building acting as a human shield to protect you from any unexpected oncoming bombardment, although you didn’t refrain from keeping a close eye on your six. Bucky regularly and consistently checked on you throughout the whole ordeal and although admittedly, it was growing to become increasingly irritating it made you surge with appreciation and feel deeply indebted towards his consonant trouble. “I can handle myself,” you jested lightheartedly as you both approached a doorway and began to descend the concrete steps. “I know, that’s why I gave you the gun.” He retorted wittily as his heavy lumbering footsteps echoed through the towering washed-out stairwell. The descent was unnerving, to say the least, it put you at a monumental disadvantage due to anyone who would waylay from the upper floors would have a quality vantage point; they would metaphorically and quite literally have the higher ground. Despite this, your venture was thankfully undisturbed and you set forth to the final few rooms before you could evacuate the building and retreat to definite safety.

As you approached the final room a rogue bullet whizzed past your head, the brisk air skimming your head. The crack of the bullet as it became lodged in the wall beside you was devastatingly loud as it immediately pummeled your eardrums inevitably causing them to ring overwhelmingly. Bucky grabbed your arm and impulsively pulled you behind a counter for cover, unintentionally yanking too hard albeit with good intention. Nevertheless, you had worse things to worry about. “Where was that from?” You questioned as you clasped the gun firmly in your hands ready to tug the trigger if need be. The pair of you winced at the bullets that proceeded to soar just inches above your head as they became fixed in the now splintering walls, plastering chipping off and sinking to the floor. “On our six.” Bucky relayed as the gunfire paused which signified they’d either taken cover or needed to reload their magazine. You took this chance to peer over the ceramic tile countertop as you just barely caught the glimpse of a figure before the appearance and the shine of a metallic assault rifle instinctively cause you to duck before the bullets continued to rain once more.

The incapacitating sound of the bullets pummeling the walls and any surrounding surface ceased just about any communication as you couldn’t hear his voice over the resounding extermination. Systematically the gunshots stopped periodically as you peeked once more to return the fire which ultimately led to a drawn-out scrimmage where the winner was the one who eventually could land a shot. Alas, your gun eventually dry-fired as it choked due to the preordained fact it had run out of bullets. All that left your mouth were a string of curses as you angrily threw the futile firearm to the ground out of frustration. Your attention soon turned to Bucky who impetuously looked you up and down with dismayed eyes.

Dense and prolonged footsteps traipsed closer, sending jolts of panic through your body with every step. You couldn’t help but just stare at each other out of sheer panic and confessedly the thought of him being there with you was comforting and slightly eased the tension. He nervously bit his lip as he pondered, scrambling to think of a plan so you didn’t both become victims of the barrel of the gun that was leisurely parading closer. Bucky was already incapacitated with an injured leg so this was a major disadvantage but coming face to face with sudden death: anything was worth a try. He gave you a final longing look before hoisting himself above the counter with a struggle and promptly hurling hefty punches as the opponent made triumphant attempts at blocking them before powerfully pressing the butt of the gun between his eyes. Bucky’s neck contorted backwards as his whole body painfully and forcefully propelled to the floor headfirst with a belligerent thump. What could’ve easily knocked someone unconscious merely left him with obscured vision as he crawled backwards towards you.

The vermillion began to seep from his head as it left a sizeable gash on his eyebrow. Bucky’s head swayed as he barricaded himself between you and the formidable stranger who was glancing down the iron sight with a wicked grin, only doing it to savour the fear and panic, he elongated the process. Bucky looked absolutely woeful presumably thinking you were disappointed and displeased with his final efforts. The eye contact you made was beyond intimate and familiar. It was too late to do anything with the barrel of the gun pointed right at you, any sudden movements and you were unmistakenly dead. Bucky hopelessly and desperately embraced you as he used his hand to cradle your head into the crook of his neck. Exposed to all danger, his back was facing the gunman as he was willing to catch any bullets for you.

A sudden bang caused you to jump in your skin but was attenuated by Bucky’s secure and caring clutch. Staying nestled for a few seconds longer, the quietude became eerily bemusing as you pulled back from his embrace but arms still lingering on you. His eyes were wide and bewildered but relieved, they immediately scanned your body for any punctures before he even gazed down at his own body. He swivelled his cricked neck to witness the gunman face down and a bullet wound centred in his chest. A thud of a door being booted open as it slammed against the wall with force, you’d never felt so grateful in your life to see the familiar face of Sam who examined the room, panic-stricken, to find you both. He stared for a while at your clutched bodies, “come on love birds we’ve got to go,” he jested completely destroying the tension and morbidity in the air. Bucky gently turned his gaze back to you as he examined your face looking for any reaction out of Sam’s statement. Maybe he was looking for your revulsion or a snide remark but your silence spoke volumes as you slipped out of his arms and helped him up.

“Let’s get you patched up,” Sam composedly stated in regards to Bucky’s blood-engulfed leg, and the streak of red that flowed down his forehead. “How did you find us?” Bucky confusedly questioned as he approached Sam, bolstering his neck which probably was going to accompany an agonising concussion. “I traced your signal before it went offline, sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.” Sam apologised as the pair continued to the exit of the building as you followed, lingering just behind. Completely ignoring the words that were being spoken to him from Sam, Bucky turned around and shot you a gentle gaze, his eyes soft and tender as he tried to analyse you again. Ambiguous as to whatever he was looking for he surely was going to get his answer sooner or later. What brings people closer than desperately hugging each other at death’s door?

-

= masterlist =

[arvandus]

Touch (pt 9) - Amity

PAIRING: Dabi x Fem!Reader

STORY WARNINGS: 18+ only please!  Drug abuse/withdrawal, adult language/themes, heavy angst, past trauma/abuse, anxiety/panic attacks, PTSD, fluff, pining, slow burn, eventual emotional SMUT. *please pay attention to the chapter tags as these warnings will apply at different times*

CHAPTER WARNINGS: talk of killing, blood, needle/medical sewing; pining... lots of resistant pining.  Typical sensory overload due to quirk use.

CHAPTER SONG: Ocean Eyes by Billie Eilish

Part 1   Part 8

Artwork credit to @hellowon31 on Twitter (https://twitter.com/hellowon31)

Part 9: Amity

Between your second night in a row of poor sleep and waking up incredibly early, it didn’t take long for exhaustion to find you again.  By mid-day your sensory overload had subsided enough that you collapsed into your bed, dreamless sleep dragging you under instantly.  It was short-lived, however; it felt like no sooner had your head hit the pillow, that a knock on your door roused you groggily from your slumber.

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you stood up and answered the door to see Toga standing in front of you, a bloodied washcloth held to her temple.

“Oh my god, what happened to you??” you exclaimed, as you let her into your room.

“I was out running some errands and a thug tried to jump me in an alleyway.” Toga replied cheerfully. She halted in her tracks.  “Oh… aren’t you still sick with the flu?”  She instantly covered her mouth and nose with her free hand, taking a step back.

“Huh? Oh!” you exclaimed. Right.  Crap. You forgot about that little white lie.  “Sorry, hang on a sec.”  You quickly went to your medical bag and pulled out a white disposable mask, placing it over your face.  “Is that better?” You asked, your voice muffled.

The tension in Toga’s shoulders instantly left, her posture easing as her hand dropped away from her face. “Yeah, thanks.  Are you feeling okay?  I could try to do this myself this time…”

You balked at the thought of Toga treating her own injuries.

“I’m fine right now, I promise.” You replied. 

The blonde shrugged and fully entered your space, although her folded hands in front of her body communicated she didn’t want to touch anything.

“So, a guy jumped you in an alley?” You asked.

“Yeah.  He was big, too.  And had a quirk that gave him extra reach on his arms.”  Toga explained.

You weren’t quite sure what sort of errands required Toga to be in alleyways, but you had a feeling none of them were good. The curiosity pulled at you - you could feel the question on your lips, but you swallowed it down.  When you had first joined the League, you and Shigaraki had discussed the importance of compartmentalizing your role from the others.  You were the only one out of the group who was defenseless after all, so as the weakest link within the League, you had both decided it would be best if you knew as little of the League’s affairs as possible, in case you ever got captured and questioned.  You were allowed to participate in general discussions regarding the League’s next moves and what areas were important to you that you wanted to focus on, but the nitty gritty details were kept separate: private meetings with other villains, locations, times, that sort of thing.  So, despite your curiosity, you knew not to pry.

Instead, you asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she replied, “but I can’t get this to stop bleeding.”

“Let’s take a look.” You gingerly removed the cloth from the wound to see a deep gash in the skin before new blood filled up. You placed the washcloth back over the wound before it could spill over.  “Hm. Better keep that on there.  You’re going to need stitches.”

“I figured.” She grinned. She took over holding the cloth to her head while you grabbed your medical bag.  You escorted her into your bathroom and had her sit on the toilet seat. Her outfit was speckled with blood, some of it from her wound, and, you suspected, some of it not.

“So…” you started, as you washed your hands in the sink. “What happened to the thug?”

“I drained him.” She replied cheerfully.  The casualness of her statement filled you with a confusing mixture of fear and pity.

“You killed him?” you asked, as you prepped your needle and thread.

Toga looked at you with her yellow feline-like eyes.  “He would have killed me if I didn’t.”

“Tilt your head back.” You instructed.  Toga did as you said, and you carefully removed the cloth before placing your fingers over her open wound. She winced slightly at the contact, but quickly relaxed as your quirk soaked in. 

Silence filled the room as you cleaned her wound with antiseptic and set to work.  The heavy quiet dragged on as your mind mulled over the girl next to you.  You had a thousand questions in your mind, but none of them seemed very appropriate to ask, not without upsetting her.  And despite your good standing with the League, you made it a careful point not to get on anyone’s bad side.  It wasn’t so much that you didn’t trust them, although a part of you was always wary around those who were willing to commit violence.  But you also understood on a personal level that the problems these villains had went far deeper than society was willing to acknowledge.  Mental illness, quirkology, environment… all of it played a role in dealing the hand that these outcast individuals had been dealt.

Minutes passed as you stitched up the cut and cleaned the blood from the sealed wound once more. You were washing your hands when Toga finally spoke, her voice soft.  “Are you mad at me?”

You paused to look down at her.  Her brow was furrowed, her mouth pulled into a sulky frown as she stared at her hands. She looked like a child waiting to be scolded, and in that moment, you could see how young she still was.  You gave a soft sigh.  “Of course not.  He attacked you, right? You had to defend yourself.”

You paused then followed up with, “I’m sorry you had to do it.”

“Don’t be…” she replied. “I liked killing him.”

Your hands faltered as you began putting away your supplies and Toga noticed. 

“You don’t like it, do you?” she asked, accusation lacing her voice. She was defensive, waiting for your judgement. 

You couldn’t blame her. No doubt her quirk was something she likely struggled with all of her life before finally giving in to it.  She had never given you her story directly, but it wasn’t hard to guess.  Everything about her – from her ramblings to her actions - spoke of a caged animal who finally got a taste of freedom and refused to be captured.

Contradicting feelings warred within you, and you struggled to wrangle them.  You had to admit, you hated the idea of her killing.  More importantly, you knew that her victims weren’t always street thugs, villains, or corrupted heroes.  But at the same time, despite this uncomfortable fact, you also understood how strongly quirks affected behavior, how it could act like a poison, messing with the mind and forcing its way into being expressed.  It wasn’t the first time you’d seen it; you understood it intimately.

You looked down at her and a familiar sense of pity unfurled in your gut, snaking into your veins, pulling at your emotions even as your core roiled at the idea of needless violence. She was just like him... a victim in her own way, despite the horrific things she did.

“You think I’m a monster.” Her words cut through your thoughts, and your attention refocused on her. She had her knees hugged up to her chest, her feet propped on the closed toilet lid that she occupied.  You mentally scolded yourself for abandoning her as you got lost in your head and crouched down next to her.

“No.  I don’t think you’re a monster.” You answered soothingly.

“Then why do you look scared of me?” Toga demanded. 

You gave her a smile that you hoped reached your eyes. She was more perceptive than you gave her credit for sometimes.  You had to choose your words carefully. 

“I’m not scared of you.” You explained.  “ But I am a healer, Toga. I see someone who’s hurt, and I want to take that pain away.  It’s what my quirk is. It’s a part of who I am and it’s what motivates me. So, I won’t deny that it’s hard for me sometimes to understand why you do what you do because it’s so opposite of how I am.”

Toga averted her eyes, her body tightening in on itself.

“But…” you continued as you placed a hand on her forearm, “I’m not scared of you.  And even though you do monstrous things, I don’t think you’re a monster.”

Toga slowly lowered her knees, letting her feet touch the floor as she stared at you.  “Why not?” she asked.

“Because,” you replied, “You still care about people.  You and Twice were the first to welcome and befriend me when I joined the League. And the way you take care of Twice… like he’s your big brother… that counts for something.  You even care about Dabi, even though he’s an ass. That was why you checked on him that night, right?  You treat each of us like family.  Now why would a monster do that?”

“But I still want to cut you guys all the time…” she confessed.

“I know.  But you don’t.  That should count for something.”

Toga smiled at you with teary eyes.  “You’re so nice, big sis.”  Her compliment made you smile. 

Toga hopped of the toilet with a nimble bounce, signaling the end of the conversation.  “Am I all done?”

You nodded.  “You’re free to go.” You announced.  Toga made her way to your bedroom door, but she halted when you called her name.  “Toga… don’t forget to change your clothes.”

Toga looked down at the bloodstains splattered across her school uniform.  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.  Thanks, big sis!”

She left your room with a jovial wave.  As soon as the door closed behind her, you slumped down onto your bed as you removed the white mask from your face and placed it on your nightstand.  Exhaustion washed over you again, deeper this time than it was before.  It wasn’t even so much due to your quirk since you didn’t have to use very much of it this time.  Instead, your mind focused on Toga, replaying the conversation.  It filled you with a swath of competing emotions; pity, anger, frustration, helplessness, fear.  The feelings swirled in you making a rank stew in your soul, old and familiar.

This was just like before.

You shoved the feelings aside, unwilling to look too closely at them. You already had enough on your plate as it was… you didn’t want to dredge up more of the past.  It would only add more stress and it wouldn’t change anything.

You laid down again in the hopes that this time, finally, your sleep would be nightmare free and uninterrupted.

 * * * * *

The withdrawal-induced restlessness Dabi felt lasted throughout the day, making sleep near impossible.  To keep himself from going crazy, he forced his energy into cleaning up his space, despite his typical disdain for chores.  He straightened up his desk, took out the trash, and most importantly, did his laundry. It was overflowing and stank of mildew, and he was in desperate need of clean towels.  His bed was no better, reeking of sweat and infection and covered in chip crumbs. But while his body appreciated the movement, the lack of mental power the activities required did little to distract from intrusive, obsessive thoughts.

He wasn’t sure which thoughts he wanted to avoid more - thoughts of his family or thoughts of you.  The memories of family were old and familiar, but the emotions in them were raw, threatening to suck him in and shred him to pieces like it’d already done so many times before.  But thoughts of you weren’t much better, at least not to Dabi. He didn’t like the warmth he felt each time he thought of you, and yet he kept going back to that feeling, like opening the fridge to stare at that last piece of cake.  He was at war with himself, and he didn’t know how to fight it.

Somehow, with all of his coming and going from his room, he somehow managed to never run into you. He wasn’t entirely sure if that was a good thing or not, but like all other uncomfortable thoughts, his forced himself not to focus on it.  It shouldn’t be important.  You shouldn’t be important.  His mouth pressed into a thin line.  The number of times he had to tell himself that were becoming too many to count, and it never did seem to make much difference.  

The cleaning only occupied him for so long.  Towards the end of it he found himself sitting in his room, waiting for his clothes to finish drying so he could retrieve them.  He had laid back on his bed just for a moment, to stare at his phone. He woke up an hour and a half later, his mind muddled with jumbled dreams and memories.  Cigarette smoke, a child’s laughter, the sound of himself screaming in agony…

He shook his head to knock the unwanted fog from his brain and grabbed a smoke to soothe the shaking in his hands.  The cigarette was gone within a minute.  The haze still lingered though as every inch of Dabi’s nerves hummed and his gut clenched in discomfort.  So, he inhaled a second cigarette for good measure and followed it up with an electrolyte drink paired with a couple of antacids.  His laundry was likely done now; no point in letting it sit there and risk another League member touching his things.

With the laundry dry and sitting on his bed in a crumpled heap, he stared at the contents, a frown on his face.  Your towels were mingled with his, and the sight of it filled him with an uneasiness that had little to do with his withdrawal.  It looked entirely alien to him, intrusive in his personal space.  His stomach gave a weird flutter before giving way to a wave of nausea.

Stupid, he thought to himself.  They’re just fucking towels.

He began folding the first towel. It was half-assed in its effort and one hundred percent intentional, as if giving careful care to your items would give away something about himself he wanted to keep secret.  But even as he did so, intrusive curiosity crept into his mind.  How did you fold your towels?

Idiot.  He caught his wandering mind and reeled it back in forcefully, but it did little good. His mind was a master escape artist, running away to explore other unwanted thoughts without his permission as soon as his mental back was turned.

As he folded your items, his hands slowed slightly in their actions, taking in the feel of cotton on his fingers. He watched as he rolled the soft material between his thumb and forefinger while memories bubbled forth, broken and vague.  Waking up in the shower, sitting on the toilet with your towel over his head, feeling of your hands working the cotton over his wet hair. He tried not to think of your face, but of course not wanting it made it appear in his mind.  He remembered your eyes, the concern in them, and the memory filled him with a warmth that he was still struggling to understand, even as he tried to deny its presence. 

It was short-lived – the memory of your tender gaze soon faded away to a terrified one, and now he was remembering your scar.  A new thought came into his mind then, dark and plaguing. The look of fear you’d given him that night - did you wear that same frightened expression on your face when you were burned, marked by whatever asshole laid their hands on you?

Dabi could feel his body temperature begin to rise.

The last towel was folded, and he swiftly grabbed the pile and shoved it on top of his dresser as if were contaminated.  Contaminated with memories, contaminated with you…

He faltered for a moment, his anger disrupted by that strange sense of guilt that gnawed at him.  The unwelcome mental picture of you cowering in fear as flames licked your skin danced in his imagination.  No wonder you had been so utterly terrified of him that night. No wonder you’d been unable to look him in the eyes the next day…

Dabi caught himself staring at your things and forced himself to turn around to finish his laundry. He folded his clothes swiftly, not caring whether or not they were done nicely before shoving them into the dresser drawer. Then, with his clean towels in his arm, he went into the bathroom to give himself that much-needed shower.

 * * * * *

You woke up feeling groggier than usual as the orange-red glow of the late afternoon haze filtered into your room. As predicted, your sleep was restless and riddled with hazy uncomfortable dreams that instantly began to fade away as soon as you opened your eyes.  You sighed in annoyance as dissatisfaction slinked across your tired skin. It was as if you had slept the entire time with your body tensed, ready to run at a moment’s notice, and now you were feeling the effects. 

You got out of bed with a stretch to ease the stiffness in your muscles.  Maybe something to eat and drink could lift your spirits and wake your body up.  You slipped on your shoes and opened the door before remembering to grab your mask off of your nightstand.  Then, you left your room to trudge downstairs.

The smell of pizza greeted you as soon as you stepped out onto the main floor, and your stomach growled in response, your mouth watering.

“Y/N!” Toga cheered. “Did you take a nap?”

You frowned as your hand self-consciously went to your messy hair. Was it really that obvious?

“Yeah, I was pretty tired.” You confessed, as you tried to fix your stray strands.

“Are you feeling any better?” Magne asked.  You could tell she was asking about the ‘flu’ you were supposed to have.

You shrugged. “Yeah, a little…”

“And how about Dabi? You were treating him too, right?” Magne continued.

You felt embarrassment bubble in you, and you scratched at your cheek as a distraction.  “He’s doing okay… I think it’s hitting him harder, though. He’s probably going to need some more time to recover.”

“He came down here yesterday without a mask and everything.” Spinner grumbled. “Then decided to take a stroll.  He couldn’t be that bad, could he?”

You shrugged. “Stomach bugs are weird and vary from person to person.”

Shigaraki’s voice surprised you from behind.  “How’s his burn?”

He knew about that…?  Maybe Dabi said something the day before.  Either way, no point in lying about it now…

“It’s doing well... but it’s not completely healed yet.”

Shigaraki grunted and grabbed a slice of pizza from the open box sitting on the bar.

“Hey, Y/N!  You want some pizza?” Twice offered.

“Yes, that’d be-“

“She can’t eat pizza when she has the flu!” Toga scolded.  “She might throw it up.  She needs something simple!”

Your heart sank.  No pizza??

“No, it’s okay…” you started, your eyes staring at the perfect slice.

“I’ll go make you something, okay big sis?” Toga chirped as she bounded lightly towards the small kitchen behind the bar.

Oh… oh no….

“Oh, um… it’s okay Toga, I’m not really hungry…” you tried to call after her, but she was already gone and out of earshot.

You fiddled with your hands nervously.  Cooking was not one of Toga’s strong suits.  Fortunately, Kurogiri was present, watching the exchange.

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t burn down the kitchen.” He commented, as he followed after her.

You stood there awkwardly, strongly contemplating grabbing the entire pizza box and running away with it. But you’d just had that personal exchange with Toga earlier, so abandoning her when she was trying to do something nice for you probably wouldn’t go over well.

Damn it.  You were too nice for your own good sometimes.

On defeated feet, you walked over to the couch and sat down next to Compress who was reading a book. He put the item down as you sat next to him and gave you a smile.  “How nice of you to grace me with your company, little flower.”

You crossed your arms and sulked into the couch cushions, wishing they would swallow you up.  “Toga is cooking for me.”

“Oh dear, so I heard.” He commented.  “However, Kurogiri is supervising her.  Perhaps this time it won’t be so bad.”

“Kurogiri doesn’t eat.” You pointed out.

“True,” he laughed. “But perhaps you set your standards too high.  I never said he’d ensure that the food is good; however, his assistance may ensure that it is edible.”

“Don’t you use logic on me, Mr.” you replied, even as you tried to suppress a smile.

“Then perhaps a magic trick then?” he offered.  “As a distraction.”

“Sure.” You grinned.

A few minutes later, Toga came out with two steaming bowls sitting on a rectangular tray.

“Oh good! You’re still here!” Toga smiled.  “I made you soup!”

You stifled a groan as you stood up and stared at the contents.  It… didn’t look bad…. It looked like it was canned soup at least, which, all things considered, were one of the simplest things to make. Still, it had that a slight burned odor to it when the steam reached your nose.

“Why are there two bowls?” you asked.

“Oh!  One’s for you and one’s for Dabi.”  Toga explained.  Behind her, Magne chuckled at the table.  “He hasn’t come down to eat yet today so he’s probably hungry.”

“It was my suggestion.” Kurogiri stated.  “You are still sick after all, so it would be in the League’s interest if you and Dabi had your meals in your rooms until you are no longer contagious.”

“Maybe it can be like a little dinner date!” Toga added.

You fought the flush of hot heat that seemed to take over your insides.  “A what?”

The last thing you needed was the League thinking you and Dabi were dating.

The blonde girl giggled as she handed you the tray.  Her hands instantly went up to her hot cheeks, her eyes glazed over with infatuation. “What I wouldn’t give to have a private dinner date with Izuku!”

“Oh geez, not this again…” Spinner grumbled.

“Hey!” Toga shot at him.  “It’s rude to tease a girl in love!”

You were grateful that Toga was easily distracted, and you took the opportunity to make your escape. “O-Okay. I guess I’ll go take this upstairs then… Thank you, Toga.” You mumbled.

You walked out of the room quickly, the soup sloshing in the bowls and threatening to spill.  But you wanted to get out of there before things got even more awkward.  Toga wasn’t even the real concern – the real concern was Magne.  Her chuckle had not gone unnoticed by you, and she was a master conversationalist when she wanted to be.  The last thing you needed was more intrusive questions or implied statements, especially with everyone there to listen in.

You took the stairs instead of the elevator, not trusting the old rust bucket to run smooth enough with bowls of hot soup in front of you.

Dinner date.  You wanted to laugh.  Dabi certainly wasn’t the type to do dinner dates.  In fact, Dabi probably didn’t even date. He probably just hooked up with random girls whenever he felt like it.

Your stomach tightened into an uncomfortable knot.

It didn’t matter.  You weren’t his type anyway.  And he shouldn’t be yours, not with all of his baggage. And boy, did he seem to have a lot of baggage.  Besides, he didn’t need the pressure of someone pining over him while he struggled to keep himself together.  He needed someone he could trust.  He needed a friend.

You felt yourself start to calm as you centered yourself on that single fact.  He needed a friend. You could do that.  You’d already committed yourself to it.

You made it to your own room and set the tray on the floor outside your door so you could go in and grab your medical bag.  If you were going to take soup to Dabi, then you might as well treat his wounds and give him his pills.  It was about time for it anyway.  With your bag slung onto your shoulder and the tray once again in your hand, you went over to his door and knocked.

It opened and you froze, eyes wide, as a warm humid air wrapped you up in the scent of shampoo and body wash.

Dabi stood before you in nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants that left little to the imagination.  Shit. It hadn’t even been a full five seconds and you were already staring at his crotch.  Hot embarrassment flooded you as you averted your eyes, only to get stuck on his glistening, bare form.  You’d seen him shirtless many times, had your hands on his body, even… but something about this moment was different.  Maybe it was the shower.  Maybe it was the simple - yet absolutely sinful - sweatpants.  Or maybe it was how he seemed to be carrying himself in this moment, like he was the king of his domain.  He was a living art piece, every angle of him stunning from the slope of his shoulders to the cut of his lean waist. Even his stitches looked beautiful, the light bouncing off of them like gems.  Whatever it was, Dabi seemed to be a thousand times hotter than you remember him being, and it left your brain feeling dumb as hot desire washed over you.

You were staring.  You knew you were staring but you couldn’t break the trance he seemed to put you in. Your eyes took in the cut of his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, the shape of his lips.   Aqua blue eyes stared at you in knowing amusement, grabbing you like the tide and pulling you in.  You could feel yourself floundering beneath his intense gaze as you struggled to get a hold of yourself.

“Uh…” you stuttered.

You were still staring.

“Hey, Doll­…” He greeted, a playful grin on his lips.  His voice washed over you, and you felt lightheaded.

This was so embarrassing.  If he had any doubts that you found him attractive before, then he certainly didn’t now.

“Hi.” You said dumbly.

His eyes broke contact with yours to look down.  “Hey-” His hand shot out to quickly grab the tilting tray, soup splashing messily over the sides of the bowls.

“Shit! Sorry, sorry.” You cursed, as you adjusted your hold. You kept your eyes down, unable to stare at him any longer.  “Can I come in?”

“Yeah.” 

Was that a chuckle you heard in his voice?  How dare he.

You crossed the threshold, only to find yourself even more smothered by the clean scent of his recent shower that permeated the entire space like a fog.  Beneath it, the faint hint of cigarette smoke was present, but it was muted.  The light in the room was dimmer than you remembered and you realized why – he had put one of his shirts over his shoddy lamp, reducing its brightness.  The humid warmth in the room was paired with a strange heavy silence.  Your eyes instantly checked his window and there was no billow of the curtains this time, no street noise coming forth.  Your breath froze in your throat for a moment as you realized – he remembered.  All the things that had bothered you this morning were modified for your arrival.  A weightlessness swelled in your chest, intertwining with the attraction you were still grappling with.  You set the tray down with shaky hands before wiping your sweaty palms onto your pants.

Dabi came to stand next to you with his towel on his shoulder, the warm bare skin of his chest brushing against your arm as he stared down at the bowls.  With his proximity so close and your own emotions running amok, it took every ounce of mental fortitude not to hug him right then and there.

“Did you make that?” he asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Oh, uh.. Toga did.” You finally said, as you moved slightly away from his bare skin.

“We should have let the tray fall.”  He stated as he stared at the contents with distaste.  You couldn’t help but laugh at his comment, and it helped clear some of the brain fog.  He gave you a soft glare.  “Why did you even take this?  You should have just said no.”

“Well, not all of us can be as nice as you, Dabi.” You teased.  “Besides, she wanted to do something nice for us because she thinks we’re sick.”  You explained.

“If I eat that I probably will be.” He retorted.

“Oh, come on… it’s probably not that bad… just a little smokiness to it.  That shouldn’t bother you, right?” You put a spoon into a bowl and handed it to him.

He gave you a deadpan look as you held the bowl against his chest, his hands refusing to take it. “I’m not eating it.”

“Hey, if I have to eat this, then so do you.” You glared.

“Like hell.” He replied. “Besides, I already have food here.”

You set the bowl down and stared at the bags on his desk.  “Yes, chips, beef jerky, and cigarettes!  So healthy.”

“The three basic food groups.” He agreed with a grin. He sat down in his desk chair, his legs spread wide as he slouched back.  It took extra effort to not let your eyes wander.  “Tell ya what, doll… you try it first.  If you don’t throw up or die, then maybe I’ll consider eating mine.”

You rolled your eyes at him and grabbed your bowl.  “Fine, you big baby.” 

You filled your spoon and raised it to him in a mock toast before placing it into your mouth.  He watched the motion in silent amusement, his eyes focused on your lips as they closed around the spoon.

It was awful.  Definitely burnt.  And the parts that weren’t burnt were overcooked, making the textures all wrong in your mouth.  You swallowed forcefully, suppressing a gag.

“Mmm… You look like you enjoyed that.”  Dabi teased.

“Hey at least I’ve actually tried it.” You shot back.  “So, I guess that means only one of us is a little bitch.” 

Dabi’s eyes widened, the light in them dancing in amusement, as a grin spread across his face. “You kiss your mother with that mouth, doll?  You’ve been with the League too long.”

You pointed your spoon at him.  “Don’t try to act like you know me.  And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not dead.  So eat up.”  You picked up his bowl again and held it under his nose. By this point, you knew the soup wasn’t really that edible, but now you were determined to have him suffer with you.

The smell wafted up and he wrinkled his nose.  He pushed the bowl away back towards you.  “I don’t think so.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.  “You said you’d try it if I did.”

“I said I’d consider it.”  He replied. “It’s been considered and denied.”

“You’re an ass.” You pouted. “It really is awful though…” you confessed.  “and she had Kurogiri with her, too.  Like… how?”

“Kurogiri doesn’t eat.” Dabi replied.

You laughed.  “That’s what I told Compress!”

Your conversation was interrupted by a loud, hungry rumble in your gut.

A low chuckle rumbled from Dabi’s chest that made your heart pound and your flesh feel warm.  “C’mon doll, don’t torture yourself.” He said. “Why don’t we just go get a bite to eat. There’s nothing keeping us locked up in here.”

Toga’s words echoed in your head.  Dinner date.  Oh geez, if she or Magne saw you two leaving the premises together, you’d never hear the end of it.  The offer was tempting though, and you were pretty sure Dabi was starting to get tired of his snacks.  Junk food could only satisfy for so long; at some point he needed a proper meal.

But something nagged at you as you stared at the man in front of you.  He seemed to be doing okay at first glance… his recent shower certainly seemed to lift his spirits.  But you had been too distracted by his attractiveness earlier that you hadn’t taken the time to really assess him.  Now, you could see the exhaustion still in his face, could see the small wiggle of his leg and the drumming of his fingers on the table.   You checked the time on your phone – no doubt your quirk and the pills were beginning to wear off.  But how far along that was, you couldn’t really say; it was hard to tell with Dabi; he didn’t show his pain very easily.

You knew your appetite would disappear once you pushed yourself into sensory overload.  But Dabi couldn’t wait, even if he might try to play it off that he could.  More importantly, you didn’t want to try to deal with a withdrawal-suffering Dabi out in public. Your heart sank slightly. Goodbye delicious dinner, for the second time that night.

“…I should probably treat you first.” Your eyes landed on his bag of goods as your stomach rumbled again. “But maybe a snack would be good.” You confessed.  You felt embarrassed for asking, especially after the big show you’d just point on… but pride had to take a back seat before your stomach ate itself.

His blue eyes stared at you for a long moment.  You could feel your skin start to prickle under the weight of them.

“Sure, doll.”  He finally said.  He rummaged through one of the bags until he found what he was looking for under a bag of spicy chips.  “Is this your style?”

He tossed you a prepackaged muffin about the size of a softball.  You couldn’t fight the smile that blossomed across your face.  “Yeah, thanks.”  You opened up the wrapping and began breaking off pieces of it.  “You want some?” you offered, holding the muffin towards him.

He shook his head. “Nah.  Don’t feel much like eating.”

You broke off half of the muffin for him anyway.  “I still need to give you your pills, so you should eat something first.  Besides, this is too big for me to finish by myself anyway.” 

Was it a lie?  Of course. You were starving.  Did Dabi know that you were lying?  Of course.  But he took the other half of the muffin anyway.  You sat on the edge of his bed while he sat in his chair as the two of you ate together in silence for a moment. As you ate, your eyes wandered around his room.

That was when you noticed it.

 “Are those my towels?” you asked. 

Dabi looked over at his dresser as he stuffed the last of the muffin into his mouth.  “Yeah.  They’re clean now.”

“Thank you…” you replied. Your eyes scanned the room, taking in the details.  “You cleaned up…”

Dabi shrugged. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m not a complete slob.”

You stared at him as he began fidgeting with a pack of cigarettes, tapping the box on the table, flipping it over, and tapping the other end.  Over and over it somersaulted, and you wondered if he was craving one right now.  Why didn’t he just take one out and light it up?

Was Dabi… being considerate?

Then again, the action didn’t come as much of a surprise to you as it might have before.  He’d been more willing to do small acts of kindness ever since the night of his withdrawal.  Bringing ramen.  Adjusting his room for your sensory overload.

Now this.

Was it fueled by guilt? Or did he actually care?

He looked like he was waiting for something.  You watched as he rubbed at his scarred arm with his free hand, irritation flashing across his eyes.  Of course. He was waiting for you and your quirk. You ate your muffin faster.  As soon as it had disappeared into your mouth, you reached for your bag and took out the pill bottle.  His eyes were on it instantly, the shaking in his leg stilled by the sight of it, his shoulders releasing some of their tension.

“Here.” You offered, handing him his pills.  He took them and swallowed them dry before opening up a beverage and taking a swig.

Dabi eyed the bottle in your hand as you closed it.  “That’s looking awfully low there, isn’t it?”

You put the container back in your bag, enclosing it in a zippered space.  “It’ll be enough to last us through tomorrow morning.”

“That’s cutting it real close, don’tcha think?” he replied.

You looked up to see his brow furrowed in concern and offered him a reassuring smile.  “It is.  But I’ll be picking up the refills tomorrow before our evening session, so there’s nothing to worry about.  Now let’s take a look at your back real quick.”

He stood up and dragged his chair over to where you sat and straddled the seat with his back facing you. The bandage was still on, but you could tell it had gotten wet in the shower.  You’d have to be careful when changing it this time, since the bits of skin that were starting to heal might reopen.

You applied your quirk first around the bandages, then began to delicately remove the wet gauze and tape. Your fingers were cold on Dabi’s skin and a small shiver ran up his spine at the sensation of your touch.  The wound didn’t show any signs of infection or fresh damage, so you continued business as usual, applying the antiseptic followed by fresh gauze.  As you patched him up, your eyes kept drifting to your towels, thinking about what had happened that night.  There was something important you’d been meaning to ask him.  Something you had to know.

“I… have a question.” You ventured.

“Hm?” Dabi responded, his head turning slightly to the sound of your voice.

“The next day… after I helped you out that one night… was there anything… off?  About you specifically?” you asked.

There was a long pause and you could tell Dabi was thinking heavily, which only made the dread in your gut sink in deeper.

“I couldn’t feel anything.” He finally admitted. 

“I’m not talking about the pain.  I’m talking about… I don’t know.  Anything else.”

“I know.” He replied. “When I woke up, I couldn’t feel anything.”

Your brow furrowed and the dread hardened into a stone.  “…what does that mean?”

“It means I didn’t care about a thing, doll.  Everything was turned off.” He was facing away from you and in that moment, you wished he wasn’t – you desperately wanted to see the expression on his face.  Your hands felt clammy as you processed his words.

“You mean your emotions?” you clarified.  You needed to understand more.  You needed to know how bad it was.  “What… did it feel like?”

“Empty.”

You finished putting the last bandage on him but you barely noticed as your vision became unfocused, your thoughts whirling.  Holy shit. You had turned off his emotions?  You supposed in hindsight it made sense, since it was likely his memories and the emotions attached to them that were torturing him that night.  Why else would he have been blabbering incoherent apologies as if he were desperately trying to atone for something? But still… the severity of that made your blood run cold. Emotions were everything, contrary to what some people might think. They fuel how people think, how they act, how they react… entire personalities – entire identities are built around how emotions are felt and how they are dealt with.  You very well could have entirely erased Dabi as a person. In fact, you likely did, at least temporarily.

You swallowed the hard lump in your throat and tried to calm your panicked breathing.  “…How long did it last?”

He was quiet again, and the silence was worse than anything.

“Please tell me.” You begged.  “How long?”

“Hours.”

Your heart was racing and your ears ringing.  Your eyes began to sting but you fought it, focusing on a patch of scarred flesh on his back to distract yourself, memorizing its pattern.  You didn’t want to cry in front of him. Not again.  And certainly not twice in one day.  You wanted to apologize, to beg his forgiveness, but you couldn’t make the words come out, not without your emotions spilling out with them.  Instead, you forced yourself into action, treating his scars with your quirk. 

There was so much more you wanted to know. How did he get his emotions back?  What did it feel like? Was it slow, or at all at once? Did he feel relieved?

Did it hurt?

But you couldn’t bring yourself to ask those questions, no matter how badly you wanted to know, no matter how badly you wanted to understand.  They were too personal, and you could already tell by Dabi’s growing reluctance that he didn’t want to talk about it any further.

You’d apologize to him. At some point, once your emotions were under control, you’d apologize.

You finished numbing his back and shoulders, even tracing down his triceps a little.  “Turn around,” you instructed.

He did as you asked, adjusting himself in the chair so he was now facing you.  You avoided looking at him, the shame and guilt far too heavy for you to lift your eyes.  Unbeknownst to you, a frown pulled at his brow, his lips.  You wore your emotions so plainly…

You took his hand in yours and continued your quirk as your skin began to prickle and sting. The sound of the shower dripping in the bathroom was louder now. Dabi shifted slightly in his chair and the scraping sound against the floor was like nails on a chalkboard.  The odors in the room went from pleasant to offensive.

“I gotta question for ya,” Dabi suddenly ventured.  “Did you change my clothes that night?”

Your hands faltered and you glanced up at his face before you could catch yourself.  His eyes had a glint in them you couldn’t quite place in your distracted mental state.  You felt embarrassment creep across your skin.

“I did.  I had to get you into the shower before you combusted.” You replied as you continued to treat him, your hands on his collarbone. The feel of it was so familiar now…

“I was naked?”

“Only for a moment!” you replied.  “You were in your boxers for most of it, but I had to change you out of those after the shower.” God, this entire conversation was so embarrassing… why did he have to ask about this of all things?

“…did ya peek?” he asked.

Your mouth struggled like a fish out of water for a moment as you glared at him.  “NO!” You finally exclaimed.  “Of course, I didn’t!  Why would you even…”  but then you saw the grin on his face and you realized he was teasing you. 

You playfully punched his arm.  “You’re an asshole.” You fumed.

He laughed.  “That didn’t even hurt.” He mocked.

“Of course it didn’t, idiot. I already used my quirk there.” You shot back.  “Now stay still so I can get your damn face.”

“So feisty…” he murmured.

Shit.  With your senses heightened, you could almost feel the vibration in his voice, as if he were closer to you than he actually was. For the briefest moment, it distracted you from the growing pain of your scar, from the sound of the drip drip from the bathroom shower.  You wondered what it would feel like to have those words uttered against your skin, his hot breath warming your flesh, the feel of his rough lower lip brushing…

You clenched your jaw until you nearly gave yourself a headache, forcing the intrusive thoughts out of your mind.  You weren’t here for this.  You were here to treat him and get out of his space.  You weren’t his type.  You repeated it to yourself like a mantra, a prayer, a reminder to the illogical part of you that wanted to follow the lure of his voice.  Why did he have to be such a flirt?  It didn’t surprise you, but it certainly left you feeling confused when his actions and words sometimes contradicted themselves.

All it meant was that he was getting comfortable with you again. He was treating you like a friend, and friends teased all the time.  Right?

His eyes watched you closely as your hands caressed his jaw, relieving the ache there.  You seemed lost in your thoughts and while you certainly didn’t look comfortable, you also didn’t look too be too horribly in pain. You were doing better today.  Still, your fingers danced quickly across his skin, skating under his eyes which he instinctively closed, and barely touching his lower lip.  It happened far too quickly before the presence of you disappeared, and it left him feeling empty.  How badly he wanted to grab your hands right then and put them back onto his face. 

When he opened his eyes again, your own eyes were downcast as you stretched your fingers slightly.

“You okay?” he ventured. The question sounded odd coming from him, even to his own ears.

You looked up at him then, and you could see he was concerned. That’s right… he knew about your quirk and your scar now.  You clasped your hands in your lap to keep them from shaking.  Shaking from the pain you were feeling, shaking from the fear of your own thoughts and desires.

“I’m fine.” You lied. Did he know you were lying with this too?

He knew.  In fact, you’d given him the same false words he always gave you.  It was like looking into a mirror.

“You don’t gotta do the legs.” He offered.  “I’m not dressed for it anyway.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” You chided.  “Of course I’m going to do your legs.  The better I treat you, the better you can rest.  And your body needs rest to heal your burn.”

He noticed that you made no comment on his withdrawal, which a part of him appreciated; it helped him avoid the discomfort of shame that was always associated with it. Still…

“It’s not like I’m going anywhere, doll.  I won’t be needing them.  Besides, the drugs help.” He replied.

You eyed him for a moment, assessing.  “How about I just do your calves then?” you bartered.

He assessed you in return before he gave a small half-smirk.  “Deal.”

By the time you’d treated his calves down to the tops of his feet, you were definitely grateful you didn’t have to do any more.

PING……..PING……

You rubbed at the bridge of your nose, feeling the onset of a headache as you skirted just shy of overload. You closed your eyes, hoping maybe the lack of visual stimulation might make the auditory more bearable.  Or at least bearable enough that you could actually move your body instead of feeling frozen.  But it only made it worse, allowing your brain to hyperfixate on it. You covered your ears against it as you struggled to find your way out of it, to regain control of yourself.

While you lost yourself in your senses, Dabi watched you in displeasure.  He’d made sure to have everything ready before you showed up.  He even made sure not to light up a cigarette, as much as that had grated on him, since he knew the smell would linger long after. But clearly, something was bothering you.  What had he missed?

He watched, waiting, giving you time to figure yourself out or ask for help while he secretly tried to decode the mystery.  Your eyes were closed, your hands over your ears.  Was it multiple sensory attacks?  You flinched again.  And again. There was a rhythm.  So, it was something you were hearing.

Curiously, Dabi closed his own eyes listening for anything that stood out.  Slowly, the quiet sound of water dripping greeted his ears like a whisper.  He opened his eyes just in time to see your flinch match with the sound.

That was it.

“It’s the shower.” He commented. 

It wasn’t a question – it was a statement.  You opened your eyes and looked at him with surprise before giving a nod, your hands still over your ears.  He knew his shower leaked for a bit after he used it, but he’d gotten so used to it that he just tuned out the sound by this point.  But for you… especially after using your quirk on him…

Why didn’t you just get up and leave?  Why stay here if it was bothering you this much?  Obviously, you wanted to get away from it…

Maybe you couldn’t.  Maybe, for some reason, you were stuck in what you were experiencing, unable to find your way out.

Dabi could relate to that.

And he didn’t like it.

He stood up and closed the bathroom door before returning to sit in the chair in front of you, waiting.

You could still hear it. But it was manageable now, muffled. Quieter.  You could feel yourself start to process the rest of what you were feeling.  The pain on your back; the feel of your clothes, your hair; the smell of Dabi’s body wash, fresh linen… cigarettes.  Slowly, your hands lowered from your ears as you focused on each sense, identifying all you recognized.  The world was still loud around you, but at least you could somewhat function again. Slowly, you opened your eyes to see him watching you through an unreadable expression.

“Better?” he asked.

“Much.” You replied. “Thank you.  Again.”

“It’s fine.”

A heavy, awkward quiet filled the space, and in that moment, despite Dabi’s kindness, all you wanted was to be back safely in your room.  Maybe it was because you were feeling overwhelmed by your own emotions, unable to properly control how your heart pounded around him, or how you couldn’t keep your eyes off him. Or maybe it was the way he kept looking at you, his expression unreadable yet his gaze intense, as if you were all that he was focused on and he was determined to discover all of your secrets.

Either way, you felt an ache grow within you, threatening to drown you. But you couldn’t focus on it, couldn’t dismantle it or bury it, not while your brain fought the senses overwhelming you. You could handle one or the other… but you couldn’t handle both.

You needed the comfort of your room; you needed your safe space.

“I’m… going to go lay down.” You said quietly, as you grabbed your bag.  It felt heavy in your hand.

If Dabi noticed the shift in your mood, he didn’t say so.  Instead, he stood from his seat and shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants.

“Yeah.  Me too.” He replied.

Despite the suddenly aloof atmosphere, he still walked you to his door.  After you left, he leaned his back against the cold wood and ran his hand down his face.

So much for not caring…

________________________________________________

Part 10 ________________________________________________

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[anika-ann]

The 5 Times Steve Felt Betrayed - Pt.1

and the 1 Time He Felt Like He Was Betraying You

Type: mini-series to a series (part 1 & part 2 & Part 3),  Avenger!reader AU.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader, Matt Murdock & reader         

Word count (ch1): 2400

Summary: After the fiasco in Nigeria, the world is fed up with dealing with the Avengers’ mess. The Sokovia Accords are invented. It’s understandable that the team is divided.

But Steve would never expect that The Accords would wedge a split between the two of you as well. And he sure as hell wouldn’t expect your disagreement not to end there.

Warnings: mentions of cheating, talk about what happened in Lagos during CA:CW, langauge, angst? (I mean, check out the title)

A/N: So, this mini-series is a part of the Melting Hearts ‘verse and follows the events of CA: Civil War, sometimes only referencing and kinda expecting the readers to knwo what’s up ;) obviously some things will be slightly altered.

Will be posted in double chapters (1st &2nd time, 3th & 4th, 5th+1)

────── ·❆· ──────  

1. (Cause & Consequence)

“Our people's blood is spilled on foreign soil. Not only because of the actions of criminals, but by the indifference of those pledged to stop them. Victory at the expense of the innocent… is no victory at all.”

Steve shut the TV down, placing the remote control on the table. His fingers went to massage the bridge of his nose.

It was everywhere – a month after the fiasco in Lagos, they were still talking about it in the news. This time it was the king of Wakanda speaking, questioning the activities of the Avengers team.

And during the past weeks, he had barely been the only one.

Steve was well-aware of their mistakes – of his mistake. The way he had lost it with Rumlow was unforgivable, especially with so many lives lost. Wanda might have been the one to send the exploding man into the building full of civilians, but Steve was watching the source of the tragedy every goddamn day in the mirror.

He had failed to deal with the HYDRA mercenary. Wanda had saved Steve’s life when she removed the burning man out of his reach, accidently blowing up a building. You had tried your best to put out the fire in the building with your powers, but the damage had already been done.

It had been a collective error. But Steve knew that if they hadn’t been in Nigeria in the first place, many more people would die. And it was what he was trying to hold onto, some days handling it better than others.

If the public thought they didn’t feel remorse at what had happened, they were very, oh so very wrong.

He winced when the voice of the reporter he had just shut down evaded his ears again, and frowned.

He knew it couldn’t be you – you weren’t home, which was just another thing to make him feel like crap. You were spending a lot of time away lately – Steve couldn’t help but wondering if it was his fault too, if he had driven you away with his dark thoughts.

And then there were moments when he wasn’t sure if it wasn’t simply you not being able to look at him, not seeing him in the same light as you had used to when you had said yes to his proposal.

Were you gone because you were judging him for freezing at Bucky’s name? For not handling the situation? He couldn’t help but feel a little betrayed. Loving someone… it shouldn’t be about expecting something back, but… after all the support he gave you whenever you were struggling? He thought you would be there for him.

But maybe it was just too much for you, dealing with yourself and comforting him at the same time – it would only confirm his theory about you feeling guilty for some of the victims.

However… why wouldn’t you try to deal with your own feelings with Steve? He was hundred percent sure you thought you could have done more, be there sooner, hell, stop the explosion yourself. He knew you felt like it was your failure as much as his and Wanda’s – or at least he believed so.

But why were you seeking shelter somewhere else? He was your fiancé – a person you had agreed to spend the rest of your life with – so why weren’t you with him in a time like this? Your relationship had been very intimate from the very beginning after all, only blossoming into more with time.

So why had you gone to see another man again? He couldn’t help the nagging pang of betrayal and jealousy. You always said you needed to see Matt Murdock. How could it not get into his very core and wound him there? Especially when after those meetings with Matt, you always seemed restless, jumping at the slightest of sounds, often escaping to the gym, claiming you needed few more moments alone.

“I’m sorry,” you would always say, a regretful smile on your lips, your gaze avoiding his. “I just… I guess I just need to hit something and I don’t want you to see me like that.”

And then you would hug him, kiss his cheek gently, sometimes pressing your lips to his for a split second and you’d be gone. Truth to your words, you would always come back exhausted, but somewhat calmer and offering affection with more urgency than usual to make up for the lost time.

Steve had no idea what to think about that or how to approach the matter.

What he knew he could do, however, was to walk into Wanda’s room and turn off her goddamn TV, because he was sure the voice was coming from there – no one had watched the news with more intensity than her, always coming after any new bits about the incident in Lagos so she could torture herself.

That girl was way too much like you.

“It’s my fault,” she stated when she acknowledged his presence. It was hard not to, since he had turned off the broadcast.

“That’s not true.”

“Turn the TV back on. They’re being very specific.”

“Well, what they say on TV is a load of— stupid things. We both know that I should have handled the situation way before you had to intervene. People died. And unlike what they say on the news – that’s on me,” he said, heavily seating himself next to her on her bed.

She gave him a sorrowful smile. “Well. I guess it’s on both of us.”

And not on the three of us, Steve’s mind supplied helpfully in an instant and he sighed at the intrusive voice in the back of his head.

“She’s out again. I’m sorry. She’s taking it pretty hard, especially considering it wasn’t her fault at all,” Wanda offered gently and Steve mentally cursed at the mind-reader slash empath slash million other things. “She’s afraid too. She worries for you, because of the way the mission affected you. But she’s not blaming you.”  

Steve eyed her, meeting her honest gaze full of compassion.

“Well, she could say that by herself, but she won’t. Instead…”

“You know… she was very fast at learning how to build a wall in her head to shield her thoughts from me. I can’t read her mind… but I can always tell there’s a lot on it when she comes back,” the Sokovian informed him and Steve stiffened.

Yeah, that was exactly the thing he did not want to hear.

“The thing is… she’s terrible at hiding her emotions. I… I’m not gonna pretend I don’t know what crosses your mind from time to time, I don’t need to read thoughts for that, or emotions. But I can tell you that she only has feelings for you, Steve. Her heart – it’s always with you. She’s carrying it on her sleeve, but it’s yours. You got yourself a good woman, Captain. A troubled one, sure,” she chuckled softly, apparently pleased she felt Steve’s relief. And relieved he was; you weren’t cheating on him. You weren’t thinking about cheating on him. You still loved him. You didn’t blame him. It was as if he could breathe again, indescribable weight falling off him. “But a loyal one and good one.”

Steve covered her hand with his, determined to sooth her as well. “Well. I knew from the beginning that you two were too much alike.”

“Thank you, Steve,” she smiled at him softly and Steve wished he wasn’t imagining the slightest relief in her eyes as well.

“No, Wanda. Thank you.”

────── ·❆· ──────  

2. (Empty Promises)

The Sokovia Accords. A miraculous solution to the problem of the uncontrollable bunch of (mostly) superhumans that hold no responsibility for their action.

Go. To. Hell.

Steve wanted to burn the hundreds-pages document to ashes. It was nonsense. The document just shifted the blame to someone else and wanted to put all of them in check; in a way Steve didn’t like at all.

As long as he remembered, all he wanted was to do good – to serve his country, sure, but mainly to serve the people in it, serve a good purpose. And this regulation went straight against it. Hell, it went against the promise he had once made to the man who gave him the power to fight for a good cause, because he had thought Steve could value it. And he did. He heard Doctor Erskine’s voice as clearly as if he was sitting on the opposite bed at the Camp Lehigh, the night before the procedure.

‘Promise me, that you will stay who you are. Not a perfect soldier – but a good man.’

Being a perfect soldier meant obeying orders and not thinking twice it they meant doing the right thing or not. Being a good man meant standing for what he believed was good with his whole heart.

Signing this peace of— paper would go against everything he believed in.

“We’re not perfect, but the safest hands are still our own,” Steve finished the argumentation and that said it all.

He looked up at Tony with intense glare, his blue eyes gleaming with severity. The air felt too heavy to breathe, the silence itself weighting a ton.

It was your timid voice that cut it in the end and what you said made Steve’s heart ache.

“That’s not something all of us can say about themselves, Steve.”

His attention shifted to you, his lips parting at the well-known expression on your face. His shoulders slumped with a sigh.

Apparently, he had been right about Nigeria – you did feel guilty. And the beginning of your new life with powers had branded you forever as well; this was just another prove of that. A scar for life – the way you saw yourself after killing the scientists on accident, it was affecting you every goddamn minute of your existence and some were just more difficult than others.

“No matter the mistakes we have made, the lives lost on our watch – it doesn’t outweigh the good we’re doing,” he opposed you gently before turning back to Tony to make a point. “The good we might not be able to do if we sign.”

The billionaire huffed. “If we don’t do this now, it will be done to us later. That’s a fact. And it won’t be pretty.”

“You say they’ll come for me,” Wanda stated with scary steadiness to her voice and all eyes snapped to her.

“We would protect you.”

For some reason, Steve’s gut twisted at Vision’s measured voice. A discussion started all over again and Steve was slowly losing the grasp on who was on which side. He glanced your direction as you were observing the fighting team quietly, a troubled expression on your face – the very same he had seen all too often, every time you had come back to the compound.

With sudden urge to comfort you, he rose to his feet and made his way to you. It was when his phone vibrated in his pocket, announcing the worst possible news.

Peggy Carter had just died.

“I gotta go.”

────── ·❆· ──────  

You had gone to London with him, together with Sam. It was… difficult. Soul-crashing. Steve knew that this day would come, possibly very soon, but it hit him like a train, the blow knocking him to the ground.

The blows just kept coming and Steve would love to make a cheeky comment about him being able to do that all day, but this beating was hitting him on places that really, really hurt and he couldn’t bear it. He cried when he carried the casket. He didn’t have the capacity to feel ashamed for it.

God knew you had been there for him as a silent support the whole time; even when he was shamelessly staring at the woman he knew as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and she introduced herself as Sharon Carter. Peggy’s niece.

To be fair, it wasn’t just the revelation of her relation to Peggy or her appearance – it was her, quoting an amazingly strong and inspirational woman, who had, just like Steve, always only wanted to do the right thing. It moved him in a way he wouldn’t be able to put into words if anyone asked him to do so.

You had given him a moment alone only when he had asked for it – you had left the church with everyone else.

It surprised him when he heard the door opening again after what could be a minute; but it wasn’t you. It was Natasha. Bringing up the issue of The Sokovia Accords that Steve had backburned without even realizing it.

His opinion hadn’t changed and he refused to leave to Vienna with Natasha. It was when you replaced her in the otherwise empty church, approaching him slowly and timidly, when he realized that you were about to that though.

“You’re coming with her,” he stated, unable to keep the bitterness off his tone.

Just another punch into his solar plexus. Sure. He could do this all day.

Your smaller hand caught his, for once warmer than his own despite the cold air of the church. Your eyes were on his too, searching in his face. He didn’t have the strength to hide anything from you now.

“Unless you want me to… no, not now. I don’t need to sign publicly – I’m a long way from Black Widow’s popularity and fame.”

“You know that’s not true,” he opposed wryly, too weak to snatch your hand away.

It felt too heavy against his, almost foreign; he hadn’t known if you had made up your mind and decided to sign, not until that moment, not for sure. Now he did. Yet, there was a comfort he was seeking in your touch, because it was something that always helped to calm him down, ground him. He was vainly chasing after the feeling now.

Sensing his struggle, you hesitantly brought your hand up to cup his cheek; on instinct more than anything else, he leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. Your thumb skimmed over his skin, affectionate, giving.

“And you know I don’t need an audience,” you whispered. “I… I can’t imagine what you’re going through, Steve. I want to be here for you, if you want as well. Work can wait.”

Your words, your touch, your affection – it should all bring him peace, but it just wasn’t coming. His first true love had left this world, left him, and now it felt like you were leaving him too – leaving him behind and betraying an oath you had premised when you let him slip an engagement ring on your finger.

────── ·❆· ──────  

Part 2 (the third and the fourth time)

────── ·❆· ──────  

Thank you for reading!

I decided to post it here on tumblr in double-chapters, because they would be reatively short otherwise... but posting it as one monster chapter would be a bit much... I think.

Have a good start of your week!

[random-imagines-blog]

Vampire Town {Lestat de Lioncourt x Reader}

Requested by: I’m so sorry, I couldn’t find the conversation so I can’t remember. :( Wordcount: 2778 Summary: Happiness and Love can appear when least expected.

During the long span of your life, a lot of your nights had been sent in solitary. You wandered through the world, seeing the beautiful sights of history; the architecture, the music, the literature, the wars, but never had anyone to share that with. Until you came across the broken form of a blonde vampire - Lestat. “Oh, my dear, my dear,” You said, sensing the poor vampire. Broken, without a home, ready to give up on his life after his partner had left him. You sat on the stoop of a burned down mansion beside him, tore your wrist open and forced him to drink from you. He became greedy, which you encouraged. You had just fed on three mortals, willing victims who walked away just as safe as they had come, just a little anemic. You put your hand on the back of his neck and tilted his head back, letting the blood pour down his throat. You squeezed a few more drops, and he let you go, hanging his head upon your shoulder like a hungover human.

You took him to the abode you were staying in. Nothing so gothic as what Lestat may have been living in, but a home nonetheless. A three-story brownstone with a basement that concealed your coffin. You put Lestat into it before the dawn arrived, and looked down at him with a tilt of your head. He was a very handsome vampire, and would only look better with more blood flowing through his veins. He would need a trough-full, however. You would need to wake early to prepare that for him.

Your long fingers stroked his face, turning it towards the candlelight to get a better look. His skin was pale, his hair flaxen. He had been through a lot of pain - even his sleeping face showed that. It may take a dozen nights, perhaps, to get him to peak performance. But you did love a challenge, and were a sucker for a disaster of a person. Loneliness had grown old along side of you - why not try something new for once.

It took some time for the vampire, whom you learned to be named Lestat, to look alive again. Or, perhaps, a little less dead. He was far too beautiful to ever be considered a human being. Those dull creatures, though you were one of them once, bored you with their generic looks. You enticed a few of them towards the house, let Lestat feed. You found out one thing about him instantly - he was absolutely vicious when it came to feeding. Not at all as elegant as his demeanor might make it seem. And you allowed him to finish victims to nearly the point of death, then disposed of the bodies yourself.

“You seem to be feeling much better,” You said, joining him in your parlor. It was just you and he, as you knew no one else in New Orleans. You had only stopped here because it was where the first boat you came across was going. “How could you give up on your life like that?”

Another thing you learned about Lestat; he was very convinced of his own righteousness.

“It is my right to give up my life if I so wish,” He hissed, despite the blood dripping from his mouth. You did not say anything to contrary, just licked your thumb and plucked the droplet from his face. You let it rest on the tip of your tongue, savoring the flavor. “Who are you to try to bring me back?”

“You may call me y/n,” You said with a soft smile, ignoring his harsh tone. “I am noticing that you are alone, but you are well versed in talking to people. Were you a social one, Lestat?”

He was quiet for a little while after that, in some sort of reflection. He stared at nothing, and you left him to that, sleeping in a box rather than your coffin for you still allowed him to take over yours. That was the most intimate gesture that you had ever given to someone. You had shared your clothes with him, even, until you had gotten him some of his own. He looked as pretty as a painting in your white blouses, in your long dark skirts. In this world, for the first time, you had someone to share everything with.

His perpetually bad mood never bothered you. Nor did his dramatic nature. Because you knew that one day, he would either open up to you, or he would leave. You would prefer the first. But would have to quietly accept the second.

But after two years, a blink of an eye for someone like you, he opened up. He told you all about Louis, about Claudio, about Armand. About the reporter whom he had turned who was who-knows-where. About Marius, even, and how he had turned which was further back than you had expected him to go. And so in return, you told him about your loneliness, about how you had traveled from town to town and only run into a few like you. You did not know your maker. You didn’t remember him, or her. You didn’t even remember where it was that you were changed, only that you were high up in the mountains. Why you were there, you could not recall either. But you did not dwell on the mysteries of the past; only your present time.

And on Lestat, because for the present, and forseeable future, you were stuck with him. Lead a stray dog to a home and you have a pet, as you’ve heard someone say.

-

Half of the candles in the parlor remained unlit, for neither of you needed much light in order to see in the dark. Lestat had one of your hands in his as he lead you in a waltz around the room. You could not stop smiling - a facial expression that you hadn’t used too often over the years. A dance! You’ve never danced before, hence why Lestat was currently giving you a lesson. You were even wearing a gown that he had gifted to you - custom made in one of the best shops. He still had his connections in the city of New Orleans. A real vampire’s town, as you had discovered.

“You are a natural!” He praised with a smile of his own, showing off his glinting, sharp, white teeth. “Are you sure you haven’t done this before?”

“I’ve never had a partner. I haven’t met many of our kind before and dancing with a human just seems so...” You struggled to find the words. “Slow.”

“Very slow indeed,” Lestat agreed. He had picked a roses from the garden, and had them in a vase to add something living to the house. He now took one of them, and stuck it into his mouth, the thorns cutting at his lips but he did not have a care about that. You laughed at that - what a silly vampire you had ended up with.

“How is the pain, my darling?” You asked, licking your lips at the sight of that little bit of blood.

“Agonizing,” He droned, swinging you around into a spin, then returned you into his strong arms. The blouse that he wore, another thing custom made, was of a silk fabric, and felt soft upon your cheek. You suddenly remembered what it was like to cry, just from that light touch. Agonizing - you recalled what that felt like. It had been well over a century.

“The same as when you were betrayed by your love, Louis?” You questioned. Lestat cut the dance short, but he still held you.

“I don’t wish to talk about him any further,” He said, harshly. “There are more important things in my life now! I am free of him and his ... whining. I am being treated in the way that I deserve. And you - you are finally being treated as you deserve.”

Lestat wielded compliments as a weapon. He used them to distract you from asking further questions. And it worked, every time. You sighed contently as  he kissed your hand, then went up your arm towards your shoulder, then all the way back down. You could feel his cold lips through the fabric of your sleeves. It made you feel like a flower bulb in Spring, sprouting up for the first time from the damp dirt into the beautiful world above.

“You flatter me deeply, Lestat. You are better than I deserve.”

He spun you around once more, and you continued to spin in the middle of the room, arms outstretched as he watched you. Thanks to being a vampire, you did not feel dizziness like the humans did, and could outdance them all if you so wished. Lestat was a grand teacher. He then caught you, then dipped you low to the ground, so much so you could smell the dust of the floor.

“No, that is what you are to me.” His fangs were exposed as he smiled down at you, a fearsome image for anyone else, but not for you. You smiled back at him, and held him tightly as he brought you back up to your feet, humming along with the song.

“I should get cleaning this place, Lestat. It takes more than dancing to make a house a home.” You let go of him to go and grab a broom, but the blonde vampire grabbed you again. Ever since he had opened up to you, he loved to be in your presence. And it wasn’t something that you were going to complain about after being alone for so long.

“Don’t tease,” He said, holding onto your hands with his long fingers. “I’ll hire us a thousand maids, so you don’t have to get these wonderful hands dirty.” You let out a child-like laugh of glee at his amazing words. You were a sucker for them, mind the pun. “And a thousand more dresses for if you get a speck of dust on this one.”

“I don’t need a thousand dresses, Lestat. I could live in rags as long as I still had you.”

-

Five years later, you and Lestat still resided in New Orleans. It was a town of pleasure, of magic, of long nights - and plenty of swampland in order to hide bodies if you went too far with any victims. You did your best not to, but sometimes temptations swept in and you nearly drank to the point of death. But apart from that, you were living in a near-domestic bliss.

“Now, why are you doing this when you don’t get cold?” Lestat asked, walking in from the outside world with coins in his pocket and a well-fed look on his face. You were holding knitting needles in your hand, working on a shawl pattern that you had seen a woman working on last time you were out shopping. He kissed the top of your head and placed a bag on your lap before you could even answer him.

“I like to keep busy - it keeps eternity interesting,” You insisted. You set aside the knitting and started to examine the shopping bag that was on your lap. “What is this?”

“Why don’t you open it and see?” Lestat asked, with a cocky smile. You looked at him with amusement, then delicately opened up the bag. Inside was something ... something fabric. You pulled it out then stood with it in front of you. A long black gown - the color that you always wore, and which Lestat said you wore so well - and it was made of the softest velvet that you had ever felt. He looked pleased as you brought a sleeve to your face to feel the fabric even better. “Do you like it?”

“It’s wonderful, Lestat, thank you. What’s the occasion?”

“It is the anniversary of the day that you found me. The day that everything changed,” He held his hands up in the air as if he were an actor on a stage, something that you always found entertaining. You loved encouraging the odder aspects of his personality, just as he did the same for you, even when he could not understand.

“What a cheerful gown, I’ll wear it on our next night out.” You exclaimed, twirling with it. Though you would never be able to see yourself wearing it in a mirror, you thought that you would feel beautiful in it. And Lestat would tell you that you were. He was growing predictable in the most wonderful way.

“Why not today?” He questioned, approaching you and held it onto your body to emphasize how lovely you would look in it. “Wear it to bed with me. I want to feel it upon my cheek while I sleep.”

“I wouldn’t want it to get wrinkled... oh, alright,” You said, seeing his earnest expression. He helped you out of the simple dress that you were wearing, one that you had picked yourself. He was much more into the luxurious fashion of the day, favorite bright colors that made him stand out. You were not so flamboyant, and preferred to let him be the center of attention rather than yourself. It worked out well, though you did get occasional glances from other ladies, wondering how someone such as yourself had managed to gain the love of such a charmer.

You wondered the same thing yourself.

As his fingers tickled at your spine, as his hair swept against your face, you questioned how you could have grown so lucky. Were the years of isolation just a pre-payment for the years of happiness that you were having now?

You stepped into the new gown, and he pulled it up, over your thighs, your waist, your bust, your shoulders, and smoothed everything down so it draped you perfectly. He must have came home just in time, for a flash of lightning came through the windows, and the rumble of thunder. The sound of rain upon the roof and on the sidewalk. “Music to my ears,” You said, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“A most marvelous lullaby,” Lestat said, unable to stop feeling the fabric. The seamstress must have put a lot of work into this gown, for it fit you perfectly, emphasizing your waist and bust in a way you haven’t seen before without a corset, and fell to the ground without pooling at your feet. “May I take you to bed, beautiful?”

“Oh, you divine charmer,” You said, pressing your hand upon his cheek. He whisked you away, down to the basement where your coffin lay.

A while back, you had traded in your usual sarcophagus bed for something much better. It was Lestat’s idea initially, complaining about the long, cold days alone inside of a tomb. It had been an unexpected surprise when he actually did something about it, instead of expecting you to do so. When you came home from a feeding and a walk, he presented to you the double coffin. It was exactly as it sounded - two built into one, with room for both of you, and no inner wall to keep you apart.

He held your hand to help you climb inside, then followed you right in. Velvet dress on velvet interior; it felt both warm and rather sexual. With the lid closed, and the two of you in complete darkness, you felt confident, wrapping your arms around your blonde lover and pulled him close.

It took you some time to realize that this was the love that you deserved. That you were worthy of affection and love, despite all of the years that you had gone without it. And you were just lucky enough to find it with another vampire, so the only limit that you had was not time, but imagination.

As for Lestat, you had truly saved him from the misery that he had put himself through after Louis. He was ready to lock himself up for a hundred years or more, just to avoid the pain. To take the sleep of the immortal ones and awake in a brand new age. But this one still had a lot to offer, that much was clear with you. He never thought of that; only that he would remain in a state of purgatory, rather than a life of shooting stars and velvet gowns.

He was glad he stayed in this Vampire Town.

[wickwrites]

Burning as a Motif for Humanity in Violet Evergarden

I think, when watching Violet Evergarden, most of us picked up on fire as a motif for Violet’s trauma – the violence and destruction she witnessed in the war, and the violence and destruction she engendered with her own hands. I’m not going to go into this too much because it’s all pretty self-explanatory, if not trite, but here are some quick examples of fire as a motif for her trauma just to lay the groundwork for the rest of the essay:

In frame 1 (episode 8), Violet draws first blood on the battlefield, and the once contained fire from the felled soldiers’ lanterns spread quickly through the forest, a symbol for how one small act of violence can cascade into large scale destruction. In frame 2, Gilbert stares at the carnage in front of him, horrified. In frame 3, the major is shot, and all we get to see is a screen of flames. In frame 4 (episode 12), Merkulov stares into a fire as he schemes about re-kindling the war.

I want to follow this (well trodden) opinion up with a more encompassing statement. That is, fire, in Violet Evergarden, is not limited to representing the destructive power of violence and trauma. Instead, it is a motif for humanity itself – an embodiment of the full range of experiences and emotions that make us human.  

To show this, I’m going to start off at the beginning of Violet’s journey, focusing on how her disconnect (from herself as well as others) is illustrated in episode one. For instance, her initial struggle to move her now mechanical arms as she sits in her hospital bed in the opening sequence is an excellent embodiment of her dissociation from her own body and lack of agency. I want to, however, focus on two scenes that are particularly relevant for our discussion:

First, the scene where Violet spills tea on her hand:

And second, the scene where Hodgins insists that Violet is burning:

These scenes are similar: in both, someone asserts that Violet must be in pain, specifically due to burning, and in both, Violet rejects that statement. In the first, however, that burning is physical. And in the second, that burning is emotional. Regardless, Violet is so removed from her own body that she is incapable of feeling either. Her mechanical hand is therefore an embodiment of her inhumanity (ie. her “dollness” or “weapon-ness”). Like her, it is cold, mechanical, insensitive, without life or agency. After all, up until now, all she’s been doing is killing on command, without the ability to think for herself, experience her own pain, or sympathize with her victims’ pain.

When the screen shows that Hodgins is indeed correct, that Violet is literally on fire (frame 1), that fire is depicted with restraint. Flames engulfs Violet’s body, but those flames are from a streetlamp enclosed in glass. It is controlled and distant. This encapsulates Violet’s current state; she is literally on fire, but that fire is so compartmentalized and suppressed, and she is so far removed from her own experience, that she is incapable of feeling it.

In frame 2, we are viewing Violet in a flashback, from Hodgin’s point of view. Although we’re offered a close up shot of her bloodied hands, we see, about two cuts later, that Hodgin is actually observing Violet from afar (frame 2.5). This distance demonstrates that he cannot bring himself to reach out to her, something that Hodgin confesses he feels guilty about literally 5 seconds later. They were, at that point in time, and perhaps even now, unable to connect.

In frames 3 and 4, Hodgin is speaking again. We get this super far shot of Violet’s body. The camera is straight on, objective, and unfeeling. This unsympathetic framing has two functions. First, it distances us from Violet. Our inability to see the details on her face and her relatively neutral body language gives us, the audience, no real way inidication her thoughts. Second, it distances Violet from herself. As someone who experiences dissociative symptoms from PTSD, this is a very poignant way of framing what it feels like to be removed from your own experience. Hodgin’s line, “You’ll understand what I’m saying one day. And, for the first time, you’ll notice all your burn scars,” further drives home the sense that Violet is completely estranged from herself. It almost feels like we are looking at her, from her own detached point of view.

We’re going to move on now, but we’ll get back to these frames later in the analysis, so hold onto them.

Throughout Violet’s journey, fire comes up again and again. Specifically, it shows up in moments of emotional intimacy, connection, and healing. Let’s see what I mean by this:

I have here a collection of moments that all occur at the same narrative point in their respective mini-stories: the moment where one character reaches out to another, sympathizes with them, and literally pulls them of their darkness. For example, frame 1 (episode 3) shows Violet bringing a letter from Luculia to her brother. It expresses Luculia’s gratitude and love for him, and ultimately mends their relationship. In frame 2 (episode 4), Violet and Iris share a moment of emotional intimacy and connection, which is the beginning of Iris’ story’s resolution. In frame 3 (episode 9), Violet’s suicidal despondency is interrupted by the mailman, bringing her a heartwarming letter from all her friends. In frame 4 (episode 11), Violet comforts a dying solder by a fireplace.

It’s not that other modes of lighting do not exist – modern looking lamps show up repeatedly in the show. Even Iris’ rural family has them, so I can reasonably assume that, no, the above moments do not all coincidentally use lamps because that’s all there is in this universe; the usage of fire during moments of catharsis is deliberate, and establishes that fire can also bring hope, kindness, and love.

Now that we’ve explored the dual nature of fire as both destructive/constructive, painful/cathartic, let’s go onto the thesis of my essay. Why do I say that being on fire is to be human? Let’s go back to the scene where Hodgin tells Violet she’s on fire (episode 1, on the left), and compare it to the scene where Violet finally realizes that Hodgin was right and that she is on fire (episode 7, on the right):

In these sequences, there is a notable shift in framing and perspective. In frame 1b, we finally get to see Violet’s blood-stained hands from her point of view, as opposed to from Hodgin’s point of view in 1a. Violet becomes aware of her past as an actual agent choosing to kill, shown through the first-person point of view. Similarly, the medium, straight on shot of Violet looking down at her hands (frame 2a) is replaced with an intimate first-person, close-up view (frame 2b). In shots 3a and 3b, the difference in framing is most pronounced. In 3a, we get this straight on, long shot. In frame 3b, the camera’s detachment is replaced by a claustrophobic closeness. While this framing does an excellent job at conveying the panicked feeling of “everything crashing down all at once”, it also demonstrates Violet’s new-found awareness of herself. While before, the camera was used to alienate, now it is used to create a sense of painful awareness and intimacy.

These series of shots are the first in the entire show, I believe, of Violet's body from her own point of view. Their co-incidence with her awakening self-awareness characterizes the state of “being in one’s body” as a precondition to self-connection, or more specifically, to Violet’s understanding of herself as neither a weapon nor a doll, but as a human. Correspondingly, this pivotal moment serves as a catalyst for her subsequent emotional development. From this episode on towards the finale, we’re launched into a heart wrenching sequence of events: Violet’s desperate grieving for Gilbert’s apparent death, her attempted suicide driven by newfound grief, and most importantly, Violet receiving her first written letter, an act that is strongly representative of genuine human connection. Following these events, Violet’s emotional connection to both herself and others only continues to grow; during her two final jobs of the story, she breaks down crying in response to the suffering of her clients, demonstrating a level of compassion—if not empathy—that she seems to have never been able to tap into before.

At the same time, Violet acquires a new sense of agency, making plot-driving decisions that no longer require other characters’ validations. Most poignantly, in episode 12, she chooses to stay on the train to fight Merkulov, explicitly going against Dietfried’s order for her to leave. Her reason?

She doesn’t want anyone to die anymore.

And it’s this moment, for me, that consolidated her as a character with true agency. Up until now, all her major decisions have been framed in relation to Gilbert: she killed in the war because Gilbert ordered her to, and she became an Auto Memories Doll because she wanted to understand Gilbert’s enigmatic “I love you”. Now, however, her motivation is purely her own—she fights, simply because she doesn’t want anyone else to die. It’s a line implies an intimate knowledge of loss. It’s a sentiment motivated by compassion. It’s a raw and extraordinarily human thing to say.

When Violet embarks on her journey to decipher Gilbert’s love, she is devoid of many traits we consider inherent and possibly even unique to being human—suffering, compassion, altruism, love, agency, and the interplay between them. As an Auto Memories Doll, she learns to live, experiencing all these emotions she had never had the luxury to experience before, and we quickly realize that she cannot know what love is without simultaneously wrestling with her trauma. She learns that yes, sometimes the fire destroys and sometimes it burns, but sometimes it thaws too, and you cannot have one without the other. You cannot choose what the fire does to you; you cannot choose what you want to feel. Thus, to be on fire is to know the anguish of its destruction, but it is also, and more importantly, to know the catharsis of human connection, to be the warm flame that pulls someone else out of the dark, to be pulled out of the dark yourself. To be on fire is to be human.

[magos-dominus]

FFVII: REMAKE Exists to Mock Your Pain

This is a post about Aerith Gainsborough.

If you are wondering, this is not a post about shipping.  It is also very long. 

I do talk about the love triangle from a narrative construction and game design standpoint, though. If that interests you, go ahead. If not, scroll on.

+++ Open Spoilers for FFVII (1997) and FFVII: REMAKE +++

So, my reading of FFVII’s infamous Love Triangle has always been that, in the text, there, uh…

Isn't one.

Not really.

The structure of the entire narrative and the trajectory of Cloud's and Tifa's character arcs are built around the two of them baring their vulnerabilities at each other in a rare moment of acceptance, connection, and understanding. You might argue that we never see them physically intimate, here them say those three little words, or even engage in a few PDAs, that the nature of their relationship isn’t clear.

But to be honest?

Who cares that we don’t?

Something we can learn from Good Omens is that, if two characters have to kiss or fuck or say ‘I love you’ to convince you that they’re head over heels for each other, the story is either poorly written or you don’t really understand the meaning of the word.

I have a higher opinion of this game than that, and I want to have a high opinion of you, gentle reader.

The Lifestream Sequence is the emotional climax of the game’s narrative. The rest is simply clean up and denouement. However, that fact does beg the question: "What then, is the narrative purpose of Aerith's attraction to Cloud?"

To start, it's not a connection to Zack Fair, given that in the OG he's more plot device than person. So, what is it then?

I'd argue, that through a combination of incident and design, the Triangle exists at the crux of two competing narrative threads, held in tension by the fact that, as an audience, we share our perspective with the POV character, Cloud in this instance, and the plot works through him to us, most of the time. These two narrative threads are:

Establishing and foreshadowing Cloud's romantic feelings for Tifa as present and important to him and his character.

Getting the audience, not Cloud, to fall in love with Aerith Gainsborough.

If you’ll allow me to put my Doylist hat on for a moment, I have some trivia for you.

As an interesting hiccup of human psychology, the wad of soggy bacon that is your brain is incapable of distinguishing, on an emotional level, between real people and fictional ones. This is why you can start to feel like, after watching the same streamer or listening to the same podcast for long enough, you might start to feel like the hosts are your friends, even if you logically know that isn't true. It is the fundamental psychological reason fiction can resonate with us, despite us knowing it’s, fundamentally, an entertaining lie. Video games, as an interactive medium, can dig into this phenomenon like no other form of storytelling. With Aerith, you might have spent 20 to 30 hours with her by the time you get to the Forgotten Capital. You’ve laughed and fought and maybe cried with her across two continents and a trio of plot arcs. She’s a person the audience has, via Cloud, shared a whirlwind, globe-spanning adventure.

The reason that its her death, out of all the other fictional deaths we’ve experienced, out of all the deaths within FFVII itself, that hurts the most, is because that, by the time she leaves the Temple of the Ancients on her own, she doesn’t just feel like Cloud’s friend.

Its over just when she feels like she’s become yours.

Not content to simply to explore the grieving process of its own characters, FFVII reaches out to take something from you, and have you grieve with them.

A recurring and oft-pointed-out design decision is the empty space left by Aerith after she dies. Holes in group formations, gaps in menus, etc. Places where she used to be. A reminder of the loss, or more optimistically, a commentary on how she’s still with the party in spirit.

I would argue that it might just as easily be you in that space. AVALANCHE is a rag-tag group of misfits bound together by their grief, and when you leave the Forgotten Capital, you’ve been blooded. You’re trauma-bonded to the group now, and you’re all there, shoulder-to-shoulder to do right by your fallen friend.

It’s a gimmick that appears on the ludic level as well. Cloud’s various panic attacks, out-of-body experiences, and struggles for control are experienced by the audience through the mechanics. Sephiroth manipulates Cloud by disrupting, blocking, and limiting your connection to him. he isn’t just denying Cloud agency, he’s reaching out through the fourth wall to deny you your own.

To personally victimize you.

Once you leave the Forgotten Capital, the dialogue choices vanish. You are no longer Cloud’s co-pilot. The trauma and grief has severed that connection you had with him. You can’t do anything to help or guide him anymore. He’s on his own and you, along with Tifa, have to watch him slip out of your grasp and into the hands of an enemy all three of you are powerless to fight.

Final Fantasy VII isn’t a video game.

Final Fantasy VII is an elaborate mouse trap masquerading as a late-90′s JRPG, and Aerith Gainsborough, part-time human, full-time hello kitty monster truck, is an insidiously crafted piece of fine Swiss Gouda. It is designed, from script to visuals to music, to fill your heart to bursting and then run it over with a sixteen-wheeler; then leave you reeling for long enough that you don’t hear the tell-tale crunch of rubber-on-asphalt as it backs up over your pulped torso for good measure.

Which brings us to REMAKE. Namely, why did they cut a lot of scenes from the OG’s script that heavily featured Aerith flirting with Cloud? Or suggested there might be something there, between them, to the audience? It’s for the same reason that Sephiroth no longer has his trademark slow-burn rise to the center of the stage.

Those plot points no longer served their narrative purpose.

REMAKE is, functionally, a pseudo-sequel. A retelling that exists in conversation with a past version of itself, and is constructed with the assumption that the audience is, at least passingly, familiar with its legacy. 

Sephiroth doesn’t get a mysterious build-up because everyone already knows who he is and what he’s about, he and Aerith are familiar with at least a broad-strokes version of the script because the audience already knows it by heart, Cloud gets headache flashbacks of scenes from the OG when we see something we know will be picked up down the line, and Aerith isn’t pushed as hard as a love interest to the audience because we’re already attached to her at the hip.

Aerith seemingly knows about her fate, and while the game leans heavily on suggesting Tifa and Cloud’s shared romantic feelings, even moreso than the original did in this segment, it still holds space for Cloud to pursue Aerith, should you choose. However, she all but talks past him and directly to the audience in her Chapter 14 Resolution scene, warning us away and signposting an oncoming tragedy so that we might brace for it when the time comes and spare us any unnecessary pain.

Her character development gets fast tracked too, through knowledge granted from the Arbiters, she grows quickly towards her late-disk-one identity as the Last Ancient. She gets a piece of the closure with Zack she might get at the Gold Saucer on her date with Cloud, a chance to say goodbye to the last bit of her normal life before she was able to fully embrace the fact that it was gone. She even gets the closing speech this time, last words usually reserved for the protagonist.

But that’s what she is at the end of REMAKE, isn’t it? The only one on the same playing field as Sephiroth and the only one who might be on the same page as the audience. Equal parts the Aerith that just left Midgar and the Aerith that we saw leave for the Forgotten Capital back in 1997, on a mission to protect her friends from the danger that lay on the path she knew she had to walk. 

All of us now get to walk that path on more time.

Maybe this time we’ll get to walk it with her. Maybe this time we’ll get that happy ending. Hell, maybe Zack makes it out fine too and we get that heartfelt reunion our hearts bled for when finished Crisis Core. Maybe yours is still bleeding.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

The Arbiters subplot exists to taunt us with these possibilities, to roll back our grief from acceptance to bargaining to denial, if we ever reached those stages to begin with. I can almost see our girl getting to go home this time, safe and happy and surrounded by her newfound misfit family, free of the crippling loneliness that’s haunted her entire life.

But to be honest?

All I can see is a better mouse trap.

[bau-rookie]

a close examination of Hotch and Foyet

in which Hotch’s greatest strength becomes his fatal flaw.

(a/n: super long essay, because i don’t know how else to consume media apparently lol. i’ve been sitting on this since “100″ because it is really sad and I just wanted to make sure I get all my thoughts in order. It is, to my discovery, Aaron Hotchner’s birthday today, so what better way to celebrate than by explaining all the ways the Foyet arc reads like a Greek tragedy and how Hotch is an amazingly well-written character. Sorry the only way I can think about paying tribute is by making myself sad. Oh there’s GIFs too! I made them and that’s neat :D)

I. Ingredients for a Greek tragedy.

Greek tragedies stem from classical plays, usually about the nobility, and is centered around their struggle against the Gods/Fate. The noble character has a hamartia, or a fatal flaw, usually their own arrogance, that brings upon their own downfall.

Technically, Criminal Minds would fall under the category of modern tragedy which focuses more on common people and everyday problems. (Though you could argue that being a BAU profiler isn’t your typical career, which makes our characters noble not by blood, but in spirit.)

In modern tragedy, there is less of an emphasis on the involvement of a higher power or Fate. Every bad thing that happens is of mankind’s own making, and this is something that CM discusses often, that evil isn’t necessarily brought upon by a higher power. It’s brought upon by ordinary people choosing to do terrible things. 

And Foyet is no different. He chose to kill all these people because he wanted to, but his fascination with Hotch and how his plans for him play out, entrap Hotch in a tragedy more Greek in nature.

What Foyet ultimately does is take Hotch’s greatest strength—his stoic resolve to serve justice—and uses it to hold him personally responsible for the death of his ex-wife, all while bending the hand of Fate to his will.

II. Hotch as a noble character.

In “Omnivore” we are introduced to the Reaper and the many ways he tries to exert control and power over his victims. After killing so many times loses its appeal, the Reaper decides to toy with detective Tom Shaunessey by offering him a deal—if you stop hunting me, I will stop hunting them. 

While we sympathize with Shaunessey simply trying to save lives, he does so with the knowledge that he is deliberately letting a serial killer go free. The fear and the guilt eats away at him until his death.

Hotch, on the other hand, quickly establishes himself to be a resolute pursuer of justice. We don’t get to make those decisions. We don’t let them get away with it. He holds onto the idea that they have no right to decide who lives or dies and that the victims that unsubs like the Reaper takes, are not something he, or anyone in his line of work, should feel responsible for. Their sole responsibility is to stop them. 

This isn’t to say that Hotch is unaffected by the increasing number of bodies. When he turns down the deal and the Reaper attacks the bus full of people, he is visibly shaken by this, so much so that we see Hotch cry for the first time. It takes Rossi delivering some tough love to remind him of what’s important.

Look, if you want to end up like Shaunessy, like Gideon, blaming yourself for everything, you go ahead. But that voice in your head—it’s not your conscience. It’s your ego. This isn’t about us, Aaron. It’s about the bad guys. That why we profile them. It’s their fault. We’re just guys doing a job. And when we stop doing it someone else will.

Hotch and the team in general, are faced with constant reminders that they are only human. They are fallible and cannot control every outcome. 

Not everyone can handle the stresses of being a profiler. Despite the horrors, the chance of failing, Hotch’s greatest strength is his stoic resolve. He’s become our beloved Unit Chief, the person on the team who takes on the most pressure, takes it upon himself to, at times, shield the rest of the team from the greater burdens. Personally, he’s arguably also the one who sacrificed the most to have this job, having lost his marriage.

Yet despite the horrors, despite the toll, Hotch shows up for the job anyway. Because he can’t imagine letting the bad guys get away with it.

III. Foyet as a representation of Fate

“The Eye of Providence. A symbol adopted by the U.S. Government with the words: Annuit Coeptis. Latin for “Providence or fate has favored our undertakings.” The Reaper seems to see himself as the personification of Fate.”  — Dr. Spencer Reid, “Omnivore”

From the beginning Foyet is shown to have a flair for theatrics. He leaves markings of the Eye of Providence, writes Fate in blood, calls himself the The Reaper. He has delusions of grandeur and posits himself as a higher power, one who gets to decide the course of other people’s lives. Everyone who has the misfortune of coming into contact with the Reaper, becomes another chess piece in his twisted game of Fate.

In another life, Hotch would never cross paths with Foyet. But because he did, Foyet acts as Fate, bringing down divine intervention in the form of driving Hotch into a tragedy of his own making.

Foyet acting as Fate is, paradoxically, also an argument against the actual existence of Fate. Everything that happens is a result of Foyet’s choices. It is him, a man, and not Fate who is choosing to kill, maim and be cruel.

When it came to Shaunessy, Foyet also emphasized pinning the blame of the death of innocent lives on the failure of law enforcement. It isn’t Fate when there’s something you could do to stop it. Shaunessy took the deal because he felt personally responsible for the possible loss of lives, an outcome that Foyet pretty much predicted, but one that doesn’t really affect him. Shaunessy agrees, he gets off on controlling the police. If he doesn’t, well, he can just keep on killing.

Foyet repeats the deal with Hotch. Offers him the deal, which Hotch refuses then immediately murders 7 people on the bus, setting a chain of cause and effect that makes it seems like Hotch’s actions led to this gruesome outcome. Again, placing the blame personally, on Hotch. And Hotch does blame himself, if momentarily.

Later, once Foyet escapes and corners Hotch in his own apartment, he makes it clear, you should have made a deal. Foyet acts as a vessel for Fate, a vehicle through which the consequences of Hotch’s actions are served. 

Foyet takes it a step further, when he puts Haley and Jack in witness protection. Left all the usual clues, to simply say your wife and child are in danger because you never took the deal. I hold all the cards here, your fate will come for you eventually.

Then Foyet disappears, and waits. Leaving Hotch filled with guilt over endangering his ex-wife and child, at the mercy of Foyet’s arbitration of Fate.

IV. Dominoes and fatal flaws

By the time “100″ rolls around, you’re so captivated by the action happening on screen that it’s easy to overlook how we got there. When I first watched this season, I had assumed that Foyet would be put on the back burner until the end of the season. His quicker-than-expected return seems to be happenstance, the writers behind-the-scenes doing some plot magic, but if you reexamine the events that lead up to “100″ we see Foyet’s greater machinations at play.

On the surface, the preceding episode “Outfoxed” seems to be a straight forward throwback to an earlier case. Faced with a family annihilator, Hotch and Emily visit the original Fox in prison, believing the current unsub might be a copycat. The episode seems to be about the mental toll being a profiler brings, with Emily contending with a sense of disgust at having to get intimate with a serial killer (post-”Lauren” this reads very differently, but I digress). Until right at the end, when they reveal the admirer letters were actually from Foyet, and the one being outfoxed is Hotch.

When the events of “100″ go down, we hear Foyet repeatedly blame Hotch for what happens with Haley, calls out what we see as a noble resolve to instead be Hotch’s fatal flaw. It was the same thing that led Haley to leave him, a failing borne from Hotch’s own ego, the part of him that insists that it be him who catches the bad guys, that it be him who risks it all. And Foyet uses that to his advantage, uses Hotch’s resolve to trick him into thinking that maybe he did cause all of this tragedy to happen.

One small detail that caught my attention, and set me on this Greek tragedy path, is when they try to track down Foyet in “100″, Garcia notes that he had set an internet search alert for the name “Peter Rhea.”

At this point, Foyet was ready to go after Haley and Jack. He already had pictures and surveillance of the U.S. Marshall in charge of them. He could’ve gone and killed them anytime, but that’s not how Foyet operates. He needs Hotch to feel personally responsible for things ending badly. He set the bait with the letters and simply had to wait for Hotch and the team to get close enough, to find Peter Rhea. This is, of course, incredibly risky. The team could catch him before Foyet gets anywhere close to Haley and Jack, but Foyet is sure of himself and is an extensive planner. He made sure he was always two steps ahead.

The irony is that Foyet would never have gone after Haley and Jack if Hotch and the team didn’t get close to tracking him down. There’s an added layer of Spencer figuring out Foyet’s alias using his genius anagram deciphering brain and Garcia’s expert tech analyst skills. Foyet managed to hurt Hotch because this specific BAU team are just too damn good at their jobs.

Foyet set up dominoes that only Aaron Hotchner could tip to fall. He does it so well it almost feels like Fate.

V. The inevitability of fate

“Men heap together the mistakes of their lives and create a monster called destiny.”  — John Hobbes, “Omnivore” closing quote.

A key aspect of Greek tragedy, is that Fate is often the result of divine intervention. They cause certain events to happen in certain ways so as to result in the most tragic outcome, usually death. It’s designed so that the audience is aware of what’s to come, and can see no other way for the story to end. The tragedy is supposed to feel inevitable.

One could argue, that there is no such thing as Fate. Life is simply a sequence of random happenstance, but our need to prescribe meaning to the chaos cobbles up stories of predetermined destinies. Especially when the idea of owning up to our mistakes and their consequences is too much.

All of this was the result of one sick man, George Foyet, choosing to be so cruel. And Hotch was simply a victim of circumstance because if Foyet wasn’t going after Hotch, he’d be going after someone else.

But what are the odds that Hotch’s first case as lead profiler happens to be The Boston Reaper? It was from that moment that Hotch’s fate was really sealed, he and Foyet would be forever intertwined. 

Hotch, being who he is, had inadvertently, made the Reaper personal. Even when his BAU team was sent away, his resolve wouldn’t let the Reaper simply disappear. It led him to build his profile, alone and over many years. Any other person might’ve just let the case go, but not Hotch.

So when Shaunessy died and the Reaper resurfaced, the only person in the world who knows enough about the Reaper to track him down, is Hotch. It’s what leads him to George Foyet, a victim at first glance, and Hotch comes to him unaware that he is promising The Reaper a new, worthy adversary, one a decade in the making. And everything, from his prison escape, to his attack on Hotch in his apartment, plays out exactly as Foyet expects it to, because as much as Hotch can read him, Foyet can read his behavior too.

At the end of 5x03, “Reckoner”, Rossi talks about what could have been when it comes to his childhood sweetheart to Hotch. About how he was too obsessed with his job, with the hunt that he gave up his chance of having a family. Rossi warns Hotch, don’t make my mistakes, kid.

You have a family. When all this is over, what are you gonna do to make sure you’re not a lonely guy wondering why you let the purest thing in your life get away?

My initial reaction was that they were setting up for Hotch to leave the BAU for good. The man who hung on to the job so much that it cost him his marriage, for the first time, actually considers leaving it all behind him. Because what Rossi says to him, driven by the circumstances that Foyet has created, is too profound for him to ignore. Foyet is too big of a thing to just move on from once its over.

Of course, my hopes of Hotch riding off into sunset to live a quieter life and watch his son grow up were optimistic at best. It’s a fantasy that purposely ignores the reality of who Hotch is, simply because I want the alternative to be possible. By the time Haley is buried, and Strauss offers Hotch retirement, we already know what his answer is going to be. Because everything we know about this man can only lead us to one conclusion.

Aaron Hotchner is the man who goes after the bad guys, the man who doesn’t let them get away with it. No matter how much I yell at my screen about how Hotch should just retire and spend all his time with Jack, deep down I knew that was never going to happen. Him losing Haley and still going back to work, seems like the only logical outcome. It’s almost feels inevitable.

VI. Catharsis

The point of tragedy is, according to Aristotle, to achieve catharsis. The purging of emotion through the telling of another person’s suffering. And that’s what “100″ does (unless your heart is made of stone and you somehow did not tear up even once).

Others would say that tragedy is meant to teach us a lesson. Meant to teach us the limits of our mortal abilities, to warn against hubris and arrogance; to remind us that they are higher powers and unseen forces beyond our understanding or control.

Criminal Minds doesn’t try to give us that lesson. Like in so many previous cases, the premise of a crime procedural is really a way of examining human nature. Why do people do bad things? More often than not, though our profilers can figure out how an unsub goes from doing thing A to thing B, they don’t have a satisfying answer for why. 

In Foyet’s case, he does all of this to Hotch because he can, because he enjoys making him suffer. It is evil, unnecessarily cruel. There is no sense to be found in what happened.

But “100″ does not deliver pure tragedy. It ended in the death of Haley but it also provided hope in the survival of Jack. Hotch finally rids the world of Foyet, though the way it went down, you can’t help but wonder about the price of justice, if the cost is too much for this one man to pay. But then the show reminds the audience, that this one man isn’t bearing that cost alone.

Aaron Hotchner has his team, his family, and with their support, a chance to recover from the tragedy that Foyet wrought.

I used to think that, despite being dead, George Foyet still won. He set out to hurt Hotch, and that’s exactly what he did. We’ve only seen Hotch openly cry twice at this point, and they both were directly caused by Foyet. And I suppose that’s still partly true. It’s hard to really tell with our stone-faced unit chief, but it’s hard to see how Foyet wouldn’t linger.

But that victory isn’t absolute. Foyet is gone, and he loses every time Jack gets to spend another day happy and alive. Foyet loses, every time Hotch shows up for the job and doesn’t let another unsub like him get away with it.

And maybe that’s the lesson. That though good doesn’t always triumph over evil, there is a way to move past tragedy. And that path lies not in solitude, in carrying the burden alone, but in the solace of our friends and family who can bear witness to all that we must face.

For all all my waxing poetic about how Hotch is a noble hero, this entire ordeal just shows how human he is. Yet despite his flaws and the tragedy, the core unassailable truth of who he is, the values he represents, remain unchanged.

He is Aaron Hotchner. The guy who hunts down guys like Foyet. The guy who doesn’t let the bad guys get away with it. The guy who, despite everything, managed to save his son. The guy who will keep his promise to the woman he was once married to, to teach their son that love is the most important thing. The guy who makes sure that his son knows that good people do exist.

Aaron Hotchner is the guy who, despite all the hurt, the pain and the loss, chooses to be the hero. And that’s the farthest thing from tragic.

[my-fanfic-library]

Something Different {BBC Dracula x Reader} [10]

Masterlist

~^*^~

The doors to the room swung opened and Zoe paced in holding a metal briefcase. Her face was stoic and hard as she made her way towards you and Jack. You were both sitting together, sorting through accounts of Count Dracula trying to find something, anything. She made her way to the pair of you and set the case down.

“What’s that?” Jack piped up.

“This,” Zoe began, “is a sample of Dracula’s blood. I managed to get a little sent off for testing.”

“A little? Zoe you had a whole vile-“ you began, however she cut you off.

“Yes that doesn’t matter. What matters is that we have our lab results back. And I’m sure that you are both as curious as myself to see what’s inside the box.” She smiled, a little enthusiastic about getting the results back.

You weren’t entirely sure on how Dracula’s blood would differ from any other mammals on earth, but you supposed you could always just find out. It may be important, after all. With eager eyes, both you and Jack watched as Zoe flipped open the case. Inside, a brown paper envelope with ‘classified’ stamped over the front and underneath, secured in black foam, the vile with a few drops of Dracula’s blood left. Zoe tore open the paper and began to read.

“How utterly curious...” she mumbled as she continued to read.

“What is it?” Jack inquired.

“Dracula’s blood... it has no red blood cells whatsoever. I mean, it makes sense considering he doesn’t breathe but... you would think his bone marrow would still produce the cells anyway...”

“Is there anything else?”

“Yes... they sampled some white blood cells, for the DNA, you see... it’s... it’s completely mutated. Dracula’s DNA is so completely scrambled. It’s a mesh of DNA from all of his victims, this must be how his body accumulates the desirable attributes of his victims.”

You took the paper out of Zoe’s hands, reading the same words (more or less) in the pages. It explained a lot. How Dracula’s own biology worked.

“Whatever you do, Zoe, don’t let him get his hands on this.” You warned quietly, “I don’t doubt that he’d use it for his own gain.”

“Yes. We must keep this safe.” She took the papers back from you, placed them back and snapped the case shut, “I wish I could stay, kids, but I have somewhere to be. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

When Zoe departed, you and Jack simply went back to reading account after account, scribbling down any notes that would be beneficial to the research. Jack had wanted to say something to you about that night, but he felt a lump grow in the back of his throat every time he thought about saying a word. Maybe it was best to keep quiet for now. Besides, he knew you well enough, if you wanted to talk about it, you would.

A few hours passed, but Zoe did not return. Instead of burning your brains anymore on reading passage after passage, you decided it was time to get out for a while and take a quick stroll. Side by side, you wandered aimlessly back down the 199 steps, and took a sharp right turn down the cobbled alley that lead to the slipway and onto the other pier where the lighthouse stood proud. Instead of walking to the very end, you sat down on an empty bench, looking inwards to the harbour, at the swing bridge and the bustle of the town.

The noise was a little diluted from where you were sitting. But you could still make out the rumble of car engines, the disorder and merged chatter of tourists and citizens alike, the cry of seagulls and the occasional crescendo in the music coming from the amusements. It was peaceful. It was intimate being so far away from the rest of the town.

It was nice to be in Jack’s company.

He turned to you.

“[First],”

“Yeah?”

“What really happened with Dracula?” You turned your head to look at him.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. It really does.”

“Alright.” You sighed, “you want to know?” He merely nodded at your strong tone, “he killed the owner of a small cottage, regained his strength and we spent the night there. All we did was talk until I fell asleep and he had to find somewhere dark to stay for the entirety of the day. The next night, we sat up and again just talked until the first train back to Whitby at 6am when he dropped me off at the train station and went back into hiding. I’m telling you, nothing happened.” You explained firmly.

Jack looked at you, a little taken aback by your confession. He didn’t know why he and Zoe had decided to distrust you. You had never proven yourself to be silly. You’d never give yourself up to a vampire willingly. They should have known to be more trusting of you. You could handle it.

“I’m... I’m sorry.” He lowered his head.

“Don’t be. We both know how Dracula can enchant his victims. Not me, though, Jack. I promise I won’t let him enchant me.”

Jack looked up. You were smiling at him. The way the sun glowed gold on your skin, illuminated your hair with a halo of warm light, glistened in your eyes. His heart stopped for a moment. When had you become so pretty?

~^*^~

[DraccyBoi: 8pm. Be ready.]

[You: you can’t tell me what to do, toothy.]

[DraccyBoi: I won’t tell you again. I’ve given you enough warning.]

Texting a vampire was always going to be an odd affair, you thought. You rolled your eyes at his last message. How he could be so charming in person and yet kind of an asshole over text was beyond you. You didn’t really have a lot of time to ponder over it, considering you had just over three hours to ready yourself.

The weekend had come and you knew exactly what Dracula was telling you to ready yourself for. Sighing, you pushed yourself up and made your way towards the bathroom. You knew it would take time to get ready, and you wanted to. Not that you needed to do anything for Count Dracula; sometimes it was just nice to put in the effort.

Halfway through your shower, the music you had been singing along to cut off and your phone began to ring. You groaned, turning off the water and sliding the button to answer and quickly putting it on speakerphone.

“Hello?” You gasped, the hot air in the bathroom making it a little difficult to breathe.

“I was beginning to worry. You didn’t text me back.” His smug voice rang through your bathroom.

“Clingy much?”

“No, just making sure you’re following orders. Are you?”

“Considering you just interrupted my shower, I’d say yes.”

“Your shower?” You could hear the cockiness in his voice, “remind me again, what does that entail? Correct me if I’m wrong but that would mean that you are currently very n-“

“Bye Dracula.”

You hung up, wishing to never have a conversation like that again. Quickly, you resumed your shower and within the next two hours, you were all ready, except for being in your dress. There wasn’t much point in getting into it an hour before you needed to leave.

Instead, you flipped through the channels until about ten-to-eight, when you clambered back up your stairs.

The dress was where you had left it, hanging up in your spare bedroom. Getting it on was a struggle, considering that the hem of the skirt came out by two feet in a circumference around your waist in the centre. It was matte, with a few rhinestones sewn on here and there to make it sparkle just a little. The neckline was a plunging sweetheart, and thick straps settled on your mid arm, between your shoulder and your elbow. You thanked your recently past self for opting to put your shoes on before the dress, and you heard the door open just as you tried to tug up the zip at the back.

“Hello?” His voice called out.

“Up here!” You called back.

You heard the rythmic thud of his shoes slowly gain volume as he made his way up the stairs.

“You’re not in a similar state as the one when we talked on the phone are you?” He playfully called out.

“No!” He chuckled at the hint of embarrassment and the clear irritation in your voice. There was a pause, “...can you come in here?”

“...why?”

“Because... I need you to zip me up.”

Now this was a turn of events. Dracula could not help the smug smirk that overcame his face. With a slow stride, he made his way into your room. The curtains were drawn, your bedside lamp illuminating the room a little. You were standing facing away from him, the back of your dress zipped down, just enough to give a tease of the dimples in your back.

The dress, as he had anticipated, fit you perfectly. With the height of your heels, the hem was merely a centimetre away from the floor. It was perfect.

“Needing a little help?” His soft voice teased.

“Just... quickly, please.” You spoke, not moving.

“Alright.”

You heard him come closer. When his fingers made contact with your hot skin, you shivered and your heart picked up the pace. He hummed. With no shaky hand like the previous men in your life, with confidence, with an oddly tender touch, he zipped the dress up. When done, he positioned the ends of your hair a little, just making them perfect.

“All done.” He mused, “look at me, [First].”

You turned on the ball of your foot. You were quite a few inches higher now and thus a lot closer to his own height. He liked how you hadn’t gone overboard with the colours on your face, opting to simply enhance your features, bar the red lipstick that stuck out and seamlessly pulled your entire look for the evening together.

His eyes glossed over you, taking in the way the dress fit you perfectly. He had never seen you so dressed up. He had never seen you looking so formal.

“Beautiful.” He breathed, “absolutely stunning.”

He grasped your hand. You enjoyed the familiar coolness that spread through your fingertips and up your arm. Locking eyes with you, and keeping them locked, he lowered his head and pressed a tender kiss to your knuckles.

“Shall we go?” He spoke lowly against your hand. You nodded.

~^*^~

In all honesty, you didn’t know how Dracula was coping. The room was full of beautiful ladies in gothic dresses, laughing, many of them being whisked around by men, similarly dressed. The room was hot and buzzing with life. You could only imagine how stir crazy the vampire was going inside of his head. However, he kept his grip on you, your arms linked as you moved through the crowd of people. He was leading you towards the dance floor...

“Drac...” your voice came out meek and you tried to pull away from him but with no avail. He simply turned to look at you.

“What is it?” He inquired gently.

“I can’t...”

“Now, [First], a lady as beautiful as yourself should have the luxury of being engaged in a dance at a ball. It’s basic social etiquette.” He spoke fluidly, as if it were simple law everyone ought to know.

“Yes, but, I can’t... I don’t know how...” your eyes were pleaading up at him, you were begging him silently to listen to your pleas. You didn’t know how to dance and you sure as hell didn’t intend on making a fool of yourself. You managed to tug your arm out of his.

“Then let me teach you.” He commanded lowly, “dance with me, [First].”

“I don’t know, Drac... there’s so many people here and-“

“And none of them are going to judge. It is my understanding that your society doesn’t know the first thing about real etiquette or balls or the such. You’ll be fine.”

He was too convincing. His voice too smooth, his eyes too genuine, his smile too kind for you to refuse. You took his hand. That boyish grin took over his face and he strode a little forwards, tugging you further into the mass of people. When you broke through the barrier, before you, many couples were swirling around. It was dizzying watching them waltz around without a care in the world. Laughter erupted from every corner of the room amongst the chatter. Dracula turned to face you.

Your heart caught in your throat as one of his arms snakes around your waist, bringing you forwards. He positioned your arms for you, and pressed his lips to the cartilage of your ear.

“Just follow my lead and you’ll be ok.” He reassured quietly. His voice melted into your brain. He was too close.

And then, he was gliding you across the room. He was smiling down at you, eyes warm unlike their usual inhumane coolness. He whisked you along, your body reacting just as it should and as he swept you up into his grasp and around the ballroom, everything faded away. It became white noise, it became irrelevant. You were swallowed by him, his arms around you, his mouth right next to your ear.

It was as if you were intoxicated.

You let him lead you around the floor, some people stopped to watch the way the handsome Count Dracula swept the most elegant young woman up at. You were quite the sight. The way your eyes were locked on him, the way he carried you with such ease. Every movement of your dress accentuated the way your body twisted and turned.

Turning on one spot, Dracula slowed. Keeping his hand firmly on your waist, he guided you down, holding you as if you were a porcelain doll. You were precious. He grinned down at you. And he bowed his head down. Your heart began to race. You sucked in a breath and his lips gently caressed the soft skin of your neck. It ignighted a fire beneath your flesh, warming up your heart and your cheeks in an instant. Your stomach flipped. He lingered for a moment. He was listening to your pulse. It had suddenly become erratic. He smirked against your skin.

When he dipped you back up, you clung on to his arms. You were breathless and your head was spinning. You looked up at him, mouth slightly ajar and eyes locked.

“I knew you could do it.” There was a hint of smugness as his lips rugged up at the edges, “dearie me, your heartbeat really is lively this evening.” He teased.

You couldn’t find any words to reply to him. You simply held onto his arms as if you were dependent on him. You continued to look into his eyes, until he moved forwards once more to press a chaste kiss on your cheek.

“Bear with me a moment, darling.” He whispered.

And like that, he had disappeared. You stood alone in the middle of the dance floor. Once you had regained some sense, you rushed away to the sides. You waited for a good 20 minutes, and Dracula did not return. You decided to leave.

You couldn’t help but feel a little rejected as you pushed open the doors, fleeing past the latecomers. Your heels clicked against the pavement. You felt stupid. Dracula did not care about you at all. He was toying with you. It was a sick game and no matter what, you would lose.

It was dark. And being alone in the dark made you feel vulnerable. You turned the corner, looking over at the whale bones that stood proud, between them the sight of the Abbey on the other side of the harbour. You looked left and right before crossing the road. When you turned your head back to look at where you had come from, you saw the familiar figure of the vampire pacing up and down on the other side of the road to the Bay Royal Hotel. You didn’t realise at first, but he was on the phone and you could just about make out what he was saying.

“No... I can’t... I’m busy... well yes, I miss you too...” who was he talking to, you wondered, “...maybe tomorrow or the night after... not today, I can’t... no... no, Lucy.”

Your heart stopped. Lucy...? She was still alive? And Dracula had left you alone to... is that why he had spent so long in London? Dread filled your gut as it sank hard and fast.

It had happened all over again.

The tears that began to spill from your eyes were unavoidable and you plucked up your dress, feeling like a cliche and rushed down the steps, away from the whale bones and as far away as you could (and as quickly) from Count Dracula.

When you reached the bottom of the steps, you were heaving tears. You plucked your phone out from your bag and dialled a number.

“Can you come pick me up...?”

~^taglist^~

@vampiregirl1797 @avalanet @bunnyreese12 @nerdonpluto @teamceleries @grifffins @hitbythunder @winterseoul @mymagicsuitcase @angeli-fucking-cat @benedictethegoddess @bloodhon3yx @nifflersravenclaw @writteninthestars288 @labelladrama @frankcastlesgrunts @angelicdestieldemon @quakerlasss @aliisa-jones @wolverinexmenn @clairedragonessbaker @voidxngel @mitsukatsu @piratewhore @your-pixels-are-showing @tardisnesss @ladydovahkiin180 @catwomom @god-of-dramatic-death-scenes @th3rah @viper-queen @mephdcosplay @greghouse7 @faeprinces @kokoro-no-yami @trishaferdream @therealmoni @crazytxgradstudent @sansthelonelypunster @crowley-needs-a-hug @girlonfireice @wasntpriscilla @ivanna6026 @greeniemoon @blueinkblot @tefymorgan @misfitgirlwrites

[beforetheflowers]

Poinsettia

SPNAdventCalendar2020 prompt: day 13, poinsettia

Read complete on AO3!

Ok, I’m a little late with this, but here we go. Read the first half below the cut!

Hunters might not get paid for doing their jobs, but it was not uncommon to receive gifts of appreciation. These gifts ranged from invitations to sit down for a home-cooked meal, boxes of snacks and drinks, a good bottle of scotch, gift cards to restaurants… actually, the gifts took the form of food quite often. 

It was curious, this human impulse to show their love by feeding each other. Taking care of each other’s most basic need, giving the blessing of not needing to worry about where the next meal was coming from. 

Though angels did not, as a rule, feel hunger, Castiel understood it intimately. He’d been human quite a few times in the last decade, and he knew the dull ache that could only be filled by sinking his teeth into something delicious.   

Of course, Castiel made a point of breaking heaven’s rules. He never told Dean this, but occasionally he would fly out into a field or forest and let his grace drain into the Earth, depleting his own power so that he could become something close to human. It wasn’t easy to do in winter; someone would probably get suspicious if a grove of trees suddenly sprouted greenery under their blankets of snow, but he made it work. 

Let’s just say that a particular river in Kansas was full of incredibly vigorous fish, and leave it at that.

Draining his power in that way allowed Castiel to experience mortality with Dean. His vessel aged, so subtly that Dean hadn’t even noticed yet, but Cas was determined to grow old with him. They had their eternal youth to look forward to in the afterlife. 

It also allowed him to feel human drives; hunger, thirst, desire, pain. All the risks and rewards of freedom.  

Castiel also felt that taking care of the Earth was a proper angelic duty. He wasn’t interested in being an agent of fate, or a tool in Chuck’s arsenal. But blessing the Earth with life gave him great joy and contentment in his role as an angel. His grace was a gift he could give to wild things. 

So, although Castiel understood humanity’s gift-giving impulse on a personal level, he found it quaint and charming nevertheless. In times of hardship, humans reached out for each other instead of turning away, they gave more generously instead of less. Despite the flaws of their species, Castiel believed they were good at their core. He wasn’t sure he could say the same about angels.

The winter holidays seemed to motivate humans to give more than any other season. Perhaps it was simply the darkness and lack of plant growth in winter that pushed them to share resources, but… they took care of each other.

Cas was, however, sometimes baffled at their choice of gifts. 

One day in late November, he had gone grocery shopping while Dean was at work and had seen rows and rows of tiny replicas of popular fictional characters, stuffed animals in unnatural colors, pink models of kitchens, and even boxes of toys that weren’t assembled yet. How any of these objects helped humans survive winter, Cas didn’t know. 

Musing about the nature of humanity along the ends of the toy aisles, he had walked past a little red creature that started singing at him. He finished his shopping quickly after that. 

Also in November, Cas had received another bewildering gift from a family he had saved from a poltergeist. Dean had been at work again when Cas heard a strange report on the police scanner; officers had responded to a call about a strange man smashing up the neighbor’s house while everyone was out. 

When they had arrived, they found all the doors and windows closed and locked. Inside was indeed smashed up; the dining table was broken down the middle, stuffing was ripped from the couches, glass littered the floor from shattered picture frames and ceramic decorations. There was nobody in the house.

The mom left work right away after the cops notified her, and - Cas perused the subsequent report - she had mentioned instances of paintings falling off the walls, doors slamming, furniture being moved, but nothing close to the destruction of that day. The police had chalked it up to a very clever home invader and told the family to invest in a better security system. 

A security system wouldn’t work against a poltergeist, if indeed that was what the family was dealing with. 

Cas packed a duffle bag with ghost-hunting paraphernalia and teleported to the end of the family’s driveway. The family had been unwilling to trust him at first - apparently, they didn’t appreciate blunt honesty - but when the sun went down and the poltergeist started hurling knives around the kitchen, they welcomed Cas back inside, where he made quick work of the poltergeist. 

As it turned out, they had recently purchased a painting of a sunset from a charity auction. All seemed normal until Cas tore off the paper backing, revealing the signature of the painter; it was not created by some local artist as the family had assumed, but by someone who went down in history as a serial killer. The alizarin crimson was fortified with actual human blood, and the victim had become a restless spirit, tethered to the painting and unable to rest. 

Cas burned the painting and the spirit finally moved on. In their gratitude, the family had insisted he take home the apple pie that had been cooling on the counter and shoved a plant into his hands. Arms full of ghost-hunting equipment and the family’s generous gifts, Cas left, waiting until he reached the cover of shadows before teleporting home. 

The pie was a good gift because it made sense. Food. And a dessert at that, a delectable treat. Dean especially would like it. But the plant?

It had broad red leaves with tiny yellow blooms in the center. The lower leaves were dark green. A poinsettia. 

The Aztecs had cultivated this plant for its usefulness as medication and dye, but surely the family didn’t expect him to use it for those purposes. Of course, Cas knew about its association with Christ. Legend held that an angel encouraged a girl in Mexico to give a gift, no matter how plain, for Christ’s birthday. She gathered a bouquet of roadside weeds, but when she placed them on the altar, they became the blazing red, star-shaped leaves of the poinsettia. 

Cas had no idea which angel had performed that particular miracle, but it sounded on-brand for the heavenly host. Most angels only helped humanity when it served the glory of the Lord. Or maybe Cas was just a cynic. 

Either way, it didn’t explain why the family had given him one. They didn’t know he was an angel, right? The plant symbolized sacrifice, success, happiness, or purity; was it perhaps a wish that he would experience one of these? He’d take success or happiness, but he’d sacrificed far too much already, and he was so far beyond purity that it was almost a joke. 

Dean was already home when Cas, bypassing the struggle of opening the door with his hands full, teleported into the kitchen. 

“Hello, Dean.”

Flinching mightily, Dean nearly flipped the contents of the pan straight onto the floor. He chuckled weakly when he saw who it was. “Jesus Christ, man. Could you try knocking first, or something?”

“My hands were full,” Cas explained, finally setting everything down. He put the pie and the plant on the table and returned the duffle bag back to its place in the basement before returning to Dean. 

The smell that pervaded the house was wonderful; garlic and rosemary under the scent of sizzling steak. Cas’s stomach growled, and he realized he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. It was easy for an angel to lose track of such things, but Dean always took care of him. 

“Have a glass of wine,” Dean said, handing him a cab sauv. He leaned his back against the counter, watching Cas and his cooking at the same time. “Tell me about your day, baby.” 

Cas told him about the poltergeist and the gratitude of the family. “I don’t understand why they gave me this plant,” he ended the story, brushing one soft, red leaf between his fingertips.  

“What do you mean? It’s a poinsettia.” 

“Yes. It’s a holy symbol that often represents the crucifixion in the Western, Christian tradition. Why would they want to remind me of that? It was a horrible event, really. A man died.”    

Dean gave him that look, half exasperation, half amusement, that usually meant Cas had failed to understand some social norm. “People always give each other poinsettias around Christmas. It doesn’t really have any deep symbolic meaning these days, it’s just pretty to look at.”

Well, that was certainly true. It was a vibrant little thing, with plush crimson leaves and yellow center, like it was both reaching out for the sun and reflecting it deep within. Cas could feel the life buzzing inside it, drawing water and nutrients from the soil and exhaling oxygen through its broad leaves. 

It was a good gift, he decided with a little smile. 

But that wasn’t the end of it... 

[callmeblake]

Frank Iero, New York, NY, June 2019 (X)

Aug 29, 2019, 09:10am

Frank Iero May Just Be His Own Puppet Master

Photo Credit: Audrey Lew

Interview below the cut

Derek Scancarelli

Contributor

Hollywood & Entertainment

I am a music journalist living in New York City.

Frank Iero is breathing deeply and fighting off nausea. This isn’t uncommon for the 37-year-old guitarist and vocalist, given his predilection for debilitating anxiety. But on this occasion, it isn’t pre-show jitters.

“Oh my god, I hate this f*cking boat,” Iero says, as the docked vessel on which he sits knocks against a pier in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Iero and his band, The Future Violents, just finished an intimate Saturday matinee show as fans sweat, sang and caught a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty.

It had been about 16 years since Iero and his now defunct band, My Chemical Romance (the band broke up in 2013), first performed on water. In July of 2002, the band released its debut album, I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love. In October of 2003, the soon-to-be emo heroes performed alongside New York Hardcore legends Sick Of It All at an aquatic gig booked by New Jersey college radio station WSOU. And in June of 2004, My Chemical Romance released Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge, the band’s platinum-selling breakthrough record. In a matter of two years, Iero’s life changed dramatically.

In 2019, Iero still hasn’t found his sea legs, but a lot more has changed. He’s fathered three children, released three full-length solo records (including 2019’s Barriers), and survived a near-death experience. And as he gets older, he finds truth in life’s greatest clichés.

“Time flies, it just screams by,” Iero says. “You think you’re appreciating the time, but it’s easy to take it for granted. It’s a shame.”

But Iero is trying his hardest to pay attention to the little things, especially when it comes to family. He and his wife, Jamia, have three children together: nine-year-old twin daughters, Cherry and Lily, and a seven-year-old son named Miles.

“It’s wonderful to see them evolve and come into their own,” Iero says. “But it’s funny how personalities are innate. We shape the way they experience things or teach them the ropes, but for the most part, I’ve found that we are who we are when we’re born.”

From the start, Iero has seen an even split in the twins’ personalities. Cherry, he says, most behaves like her mother, whereas Lily possesses her father’s attitude.

“Some of the sh*t I hear coming out of my daughter's mouth,” Iero says laughing. “My God! It’s stuff I think but never say — they don't know to be ashamed yet! It's amazing and honest and pure. And I know exactly where she's coming from because I feel the same way.”

As part of fostering a relationship of trust and honesty, Iero has been age-appropriately transparent with his kids about the 2016 accident that almost killed him, his brother-in-law and guitarist Evan Nestor and his manager Paul Clegg.

While unloading gear from their van in Sydney, Australia, a city bus crashed into the group and their vehicle. In a 2017 interview with MTV, Iero recounted, in vivid detail, the moment he was dragged underneath the bumper of the bus, the screams of his brother-in-law, and the blood pooling from his manager.

Although Iero was able to walk into an ambulance carrying one of his friends, the scene was a spectacle overrun with emergency personnel — they even landed a rescue helicopter in nearby Hyde Park. Despite serious injuries, amazingly, there were no fatalities.

When Iero returned home from the hospital, he explained to his children that he was in a car accident, but that it was a singular freak incident.

“You don't want to lie,” he says. “They're getting older. Their friends and their parents are on the internet. They're asking questions. It does get back to them.”

Iero was as honest as possible, but avoided any gory details. He was also conscious that it wouldn’t be long before he would travel for work again — and he didn’t want to scare his kids any further.

Almost four years later, residual damage from the crash is impossible to ignore. Nestor has nerve damage in his leg that may never be corrected. Clegg’s leg and knee have undergone multiple surgeries, but are in poor shape. And Iero still has a tear in his shoulder that hurts every time he plays the guitar. Despite the pain, he’s afraid to undergo surgery.

“I was lucky enough to walk away and still play,” Iero says. “If I were to test fate again and go under the knife, if something were to go wrong… to let that be taken from me … no, I can't.”

On some days, the emotional toll of surviving such a traumatic accident weighs more heavily. Iero describes his recovery as non-linear: some days he feels collected and in control, other days the memory rushes back into his mind.

After his new band finished recording Barriers, Iero and his team went back to Australia for appointments pertaining to the accident and corresponding litigation. As soon as he exited the plane, Iero felt like he’d returned to the horrific scene. For the following week, he was barraged by an unending state of panic.

“You go through these instances of PTSD,” he says. “You never know what's going to trigger and send you all the way back to the beginning with recovery.”

Iero greatly underestimated how difficult his return to Australia would be. When navigating to a doctor’s office near where the accident occurred, he couldn’t bring himself to walk down the street. And suddenly, he felt surrounded by buses.

“I don't know if this is true,” he says. “But it felt like every other car on the street was one of these f*cking buses. They were everywhere. It was frightening. I couldn't do anything. I was shaking like a leaf.”

Despite the traumatic flashbacks, Iero continues to reflect on that day. In the promotional run for Barriers, he discussed the accident at length. And on the record itself, he addresses the complicated ripple effect it’s had on his entire sense of self.

“I don't think it needs to define me,” Iero says. “But it was something I needed to talk about on this record. It's not something I could sweep under the rug. But do I want to dwell on it every day and relive it? No. But I think about it constantly. I feel the pain constantly. It's on my mind.”

In recent interviews, Iero has tended to frame a few philosophical takeaways from his ordeal. In simple terms, the first idea is that he’s found a new lease on life — that everything happens for a reason and he’s been given an opportunity to seize the day. The second philosophy is much darker, a sort of survivor’s guilt compounded with fear and existential dread. The third and most abstract consideration is closest to Simulation Theory — where Iero has the ability to control his own artificial timeline.

Sometimes, Iero questions if actually died that day. He wonders: Is this all real?

“It’s hard. No one can tell you what to believe,” he says. “But you come to this realization, ‘Well, this is real to me, the hand I was dealt, so I have to make the best of it!’”

Through the acceptance of uncertainty, Iero surmises that he just may be his own puppet master.

“If this is a figment of my imagination,” Iero says. “If this is all in my head, then I am the master of my own destiny. If I want to do something, I can manufacture it. And if it's not the case, then at least it's a self-fulfilling prophecy. Maybe putting positive vibes out into the universe is beneficial. If we didn't make it and we're just going through this weird labyrinth in my mind, I can do anything I want.”

And lately, he’s been doing just that. Call it sorcery or the power of positive thinking, but Iero is motivated. For Barriers, he was able to assemble a dream band, The Future Violents (different lineups of his backing band have previously gone by The Cellabration and The Patience), featuring his brother-in-law Nestor on guitar, Thursday’s Tucker Rule on drums, Murder by Death’s Matt Armstrong on bass, and Kayleigh Goldsworthy on keyboard.

The theme of the album — and his own internal dialogue — mostly relates to tragedy and timing. Did the universe have a course set out for him? Or was he just some random victim?

“The crazy thing is that you didn't do anything wrong,” Iero says of the accident. “Yet, all of this stuff was taken from you and you have to make these decisions. You get angry a lot.”

He continues: “These random, abrupt, violent actions. Do they happen to us? Or for us? I wouldn't have been able to make this record if it didn't happen. And it made me realize a lot of things about myself. Am I happy it happened? No. But I'm happy where I am right now.”

Iero views Barriers as an exercise in vulnerability. If the aftermath of his accident taught him anything, it’s that success was meaningless to his character, but adversity helped him grow. For the first time, addressing childhood trauma helped Iero expose himself in a way that felt freeing.

“When you put something to song, it gives that memory weight,” Iero explains. “If you never talk about it, it's almost like it didn't happen. There's a fine line between relinquishing that power to this memory, situation or trauma, or holding that power over it and creating your own narrative from it.”

Barriers also intertwines Iero’s childhood experiences with his current perspective as a father. This go around, he felt comfortable writing about his parents’ divorce — the couple split when he was three and divorced when he was seven.

He looks back on the unpleasantness of the process and his consequential understanding of his mother’s issues with addiction, depression and mental illness. On his 2016 record, Parachutes, Iero first referenced his mother’s struggles and his own liability to inherit her traits. He’s still horrified by the idea of predeterminism.

“When you're a young kid being surrounded with it, it doesn't feel right,” Iero says. “You're not happy. You're scared. You're constantly concerned for your parent. It’s almost as if you become the caregiver.”

He continues: “Then you see yourself falling into these patterns that you were witness to and maybe in a roundabout way were taught. That addiction, that depression, runs through you. It's easy to fall off that cliff. I don't want that for my kids and I need to stop this cycle. Like this sh*t stops with me. Whether it be I get okay, or I f*cking turn my lights out.”

It’s this sort of tongue-in-cheek use of concerning language that keeps Iero’s fanbase enthralled, yet somewhat on edge. Take for example, in the comment section for his video “Young & Doomed,” some diehard fans are troubled by his repeated use of the words “hurt myself again.” While he’s surprised to hear about the response, he counters that the record is ultimately meant to feel uplifting and positive, even if addressing dark topics.

“I don't think that we should strive for perfection,” Iero says. “This idea that we should all have this perfect life and be pretty and purse our lips to post a picture on social media is bullsh*t. The things that make us unique are important.”

He continues: “Sometimes we're our own worst enemies and we hurt ourselves. Those scars, though, are important. They're beautiful. ‘Young And Doomed’ is a call to arms to celebrate the things people think are wrong with us.”

Now, Iero just hopes his story and music inspire fans to try, fail and try again.

“You don't find out who you are unless you get a scar and get hurt,” Iero says. “You should be hurt, hurt other people, and learn that it feels terrible to hurt someone else. You should feel sorry for it and make amends for it. These are important lessons to be a better person. You find out who you truly are by attacking things that scare you the most.”

Frank Iero is currently touring Europe with Laura Jane Grace & The Devouring Mothers.

[dememarquette]

True Crime

They parked outside a cottage. Portend Point was a gorgeous neighborhood. Occupying it, 1305 Parkview was an equally picturesque property. It had everything one could want from a gentrified postcard: a manicured lawn, a white picket fence, friendly neighborhood dogs excited to see you but not too excited. A sign advertised this slice of warm American pie could be yours. FOR SALE it said, smacked across an unfortunate realtor's forehead. Kevin Locklear had a new golf cart staked on this commission. In his desperation, which reeked as bad as the scene, he ducked below the police tape to plant an optimistic 'Open House Resumes Wednesday!' picket. Adria would take personal pleasure in throwing it in the garbage.

"Jean and Sidney Morin," She briefed, as Ian punched in the door code. "They're from New Gisen, reported missing 72 hours ago. Gas station footage has the suspect grabbing Jean at the Circle K. Sidney was seen by traffic cams in hot pursuit, but we have nothing after the first intersection. Men are checking doorbell cameras along the street. So far, nothing." The stolen car in the driveway was similarly combed through. Every stray hair inside was documented. There wasn't much left that wasn't bagged, tagged and sent off to the lab, but Ian liked one last intimate walk-through before tossing the keys to clean-up. If he was absorbing one word of what Adria was saying, it didn't show. Her partner worked like a TNT detective. Adria pictured the world bottoming out around him. He'd suffer 50 consecutive epiphanies after looking at something stupid like a tipped ketchup bottle, and construct a convoluted MO from there, but that's not how she worked. If reading the block text helped, murder's hooked on phonics, by God she'd do it. "Neighbors didn't hear anything. We have no idea where the struggle took place, if there was one. Judging from the looks of this place-" "It wasn't here." He said, tuning in only for silent confirmation. She nodded, and he killed the lights. His UV swept over the walls. The inside had the aesthetically-pleasing insipidity of a gourmet cracker. It had been sanitized for a showing, but according to the carpet, the perp wasn't admiring the crown modeling. A modest drip-trail led straight from the front door to the basement, and there wasn't a petal out of place before it. After a quick scan of the rooms composing the ground floor, Ian got his fill of Ashley HomeStore's heritage collection. To the basement they went. Each wood plank creaked under their feet. The floor consisted of a flat slab of water-stained cement. The space was fashioned into a man-cave. Shelves were bolted to the walls. All the sofas were leather. Posters on the wall were swapped for something more palatable, flanking an entertainment system that was to be marveled. In a move that didn't appear to serve any purpose toward the room's breathability, all the furniture was shoved to the side to clear the center. A single bulb hung by chain overhead. Energy funneled through a copper wire made it hum. Evidence photos never did it justice. The victims were strung together by a lawn hose. A single cloth gag- maybe a sheet- knocked their heads together, pulled taut at the pocket of their jaws. Their height difference forced Jean's face heavenward. The whites of her eyes were visible from the top, but you had to be at the bottom to see the shadow she sat in was actually a pattern. Their blood leaked into a paste-like outline, seeping color into the circle etched into it. Where the natural tug of gravity didn't fill the trenches, the killer dropped to their knees and started fingerprinting, casting away any macabre elegance it formerly had. Their hands scraped to fill the pattern all until it got to the bottom of the arc. Ian read her mind. "They were interrupted." "By what?" She asked. His mouth pressed into a hard line. He didn't have an answer. Instead he completed his circuit before dropping closer to the gag. Adria knelt beside him, her boots toeing the edge where the brushwork tapered. Fingerprints- fragmented and smeared- were shipped off to IAFIS. Problem was, when the suspect hadn't indulged in some casual DUI, she needed something to match it to. She sized her hand up against theirs, while the deceased husband stared on. Adria avoided eye contact. Violent crime wasn't anything new. She's seen her fair share since moving to the city, but never a throat cut this deeply. Sidney had been nearly decapitated. Skin folded off his Adam's apple like a bow-tie. Stringy matter underneath was on full display. "What about the design? Does that mean anything to you?" "The team is working on tracking it. So far they're thinking it’s some type of online cult." "And that?" She tipped her head to the bowls skirting the outline. Ian grabbed one, sifting through it with a finger. Its contents stuck to the latex, white. "Cinnamon, and salt. The last one's pyrite. Offerings." "Then what were they?" "Bait." The moment he said it the lights died. Ian shot up. Adria pulsed to follow, but her balance teetered. Neither were near a switch. "Who else is here?" "No one." The bowl Ian was holding warbled a low note, spinning where he’d been. He shouted from the foot of the stairs. "Has to be the breaker. Don't move." "What?" "Don't move." "Wh- I'm not going to touch anything!" Adria lurched on steel-toes. Offense had her fumbling with her flashlight. Sure. Okay. Fine. So in the past she hasn't been the most careful. Maybe she's stomped through one or two crime scenes. But never when it mattered! So it's not like she'd- Something blew past her ear.  With a graceless shriek, she made it a third. "God DAMN it!" Coagulated blood gunked to her jeans. She fell onto her back, swearing and curling to assess the damage. Ian would take one look at her and scowl. He'll do that smoldering, glower thing of his that she only liked when it was directed to other people. And then she'll have to go home, change her jeans, and hope he lets her back onto the property before they break out the body bags. He's going to see right away that- There's smoke? She dropped her knee. Sniffing, she swiveled. Air was escaping somewhere, hissing like a busted soda can. Whatever it was suffused the room. Her eyes burned just to move, but she couldn’t shut them. It could be more than the breaker- But that wouldn't explain why it was in the middle of the scene. With a yelp, she witnessed a spark fly between the corpses. Her heels planted into the floor. She kicked, hastily wedging distance between her and smog lifting off the concrete. She could've pretended she missed the class where she found out cinnamon was flammable. She could've maybe let it slide that denim wasn't an accelerant, but this was straight up sulfur. A ribbon of light unwound between them. A silhouette stretched out from behind it, towering. "Ian?" She asked, already knowing it wasn't. It had too many feelings to be. "What is this?" It croned. Miserably, it picked up a leg. "Ugh." Fingers acting faster than her brain, Adria whipped her gun from its holster "HANDS. Hands up, now!" "Sticky-" It groused. She heard a wet, staggered ppmf-ff. That suspiciously sounded like bodies toppling. In a maneuver she couldn't repeat, she blindly vaulted over the sofa, jamming herself between its backing and the wall. Her vision developed slow. First outlines, then shapes. Colors a little after when the smokescreen fanned out, blurring the glow around his face. She propped up her gun. Old leather gave away her position. The red light of eyes widened, vaguely cartoon-ish. "WHOA, hey now. Don't shoot." "Get on the ground." She ordered. "I said I wanna see your hands! Both of them, now!" "Aye-aye!" He complied. There was something sarcastic about the way his shadow wiggled to the floor. "Happy?" "Who are you?!" "Demetri Marquette, at your service." He tried to bow, until the violent rattle of her pistol suggested that was strictly prohibited. "What are you doing here?!" "Same as you, I imagine." "What?! What does that mean?" "You know. Working. The hustle." He shimmied. One by one, the candles surrounding them lit. The man in the center appeared nothing as he did in the shadows. His stature halved. The reddish glow vanished from his face, but most perplexing yet was that he somehow found a cover to throw over the bodies. With the blanket over them, they looked like fucking sock puppets. Adria sucked in a breath, sputtering nothing but inarticulated syllables for solid five seconds before, "Hey- stop fucking with my scene!!" "Oh- this?" He patted the victim's heads. The disrespect alone should’ve been grounds to fire. "I was meaning to talk to you about that. I'm sorry but two? Overkill. We’re not in the business of extra credit but I do appreciate the enthusiasm. So, uh. What's it going to be?" She swore nothing about this conversation was tracking. "Huh? "Money, fame, power, et cetera?" Nonsense! Complete nonsense. What was he implying? That this was an offer? A transaction for the bodies? It didn't matter. He overstayed his welcome before he popped in. And the fact he got in here at all may mean he knew something they didn't. This ridiculous, unexplainable suspension of belief kept her from feeling imperiled but this fuck was going to ruin the whole case if he didn't already. She pinched the button on the side of her walkie. "Ian, I need back-up downstairs now." The stranger sucked his teeth. "Ah. I wouldn't do that.” ’Oh my God, shut up. “Come on, talk to me.” He cooed. “What would make you more comfortable? Fresh air? The lights- is it the lights?" She glared, trigger finger satisfied with rapid-fire button clicking. Ian's hip would be going off like the fire alarm should be. "You know, I was going for ambiance, but." He snapped. Suddenly the power was back. She twisted from her fort. Corner to corner, stomping cleared across ceiling. The basement door creaked. Ian came swinging down the stairs, perfectly on cue. "The breaker fixed itself." He announced, sounding leery of it. "Imagine that," Said Blondie. Adria’s aim stayed fixed, prepared for sudden moves. There weren’t any, even from her partner. Ian’s velocity slowed to a stop. His grip on the handrail turned rigid before the bottom, tightening like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes roved over the ruined scene, the magnitude of it driving a huge crease into his brow. He did not notice the stranger directly beside him. Adria desperately looked between the both of them. "He can't see me," Demetri elaborated. "Adria?" Said Ian. The gravelly rumble of his voice asked fifty questions- none of which she had an answer to. She had a gun aimed at nothing. Two bodies were down, bizarrely set up for a picnic. "I-..." She stuttered. "Word of advice," Demetri picked a piece of lint of Ian’s shoulder. The detective reacted with only the slight drift of his eye-line, before his attention snapped back to Adria. "Don't say anything or you'll buy yourself a ticket to a psych eval." "Ian, you can't-?" "Nevermind. From this angle, you already look insane." Ian waited for her to continue but she lowered her gun. If he was right, there was no coming back from this. "...I thought I saw someone in the smoke." "Smoke?" There was no smoke. No fire, no light. Demetri's trapeze around the basement hadn't even left footprints. To Ian, she used the two minutes he was away to go nuts. Just lose her mind. Sanity to the wind. Who needs to critically think when you can barricade yourself behind a sofa, wildly waving a gun around? Defending yourself from scary shadow people that a paid electricity bill keeps at bay? Ian stared, impatience surging from a quiet simmer to a boil. She realized it’s been too long since she even tried answering a question. "Are you alright?" He rephrased. What she heard was ’Are you an idiot?’ Her face burned hot. "I think-" She slung her bag over his shoulder. "I think I need a minute. I'll be back." The tight set of his jaw meant he agreed. She ran past him, bolting for the cruiser. Now she was going to have to type up an incident report. Scrub her pants. Contemplate the onset of her paranoia induced insanity, and hope they wouldn't take her badge for this. She threw herself into the front seat of her cruiser. The door slammed behind her. Before she’d let frustrated tears get the better of her, she pulled up a Chrome browser. Occult. Satanism. She typed. Demon summoning. Symbol. All the results looked close. Matching the exact twisted pattern would be a nightmare. "Mind if we hit Starbucks?" Demetri necked her seat. She jolted, narrowly stopping herself from throwing her elbow through his eye socket. Knowing he was fictional made her wish she hadn't hesitated. "Why are you in my car?!" She swiped at her face. "For a frap. Hopefully. Is butterscotch still in season?" "No! Get out." His cheek squished against her headrest. "Aw, c'mon." She adjusted the rear-view, only for him pop up passenger side. "I get it." He said, proving he did Not actually. Devoid of any understanding of what 'Get out' meant, "More of a Dunkin' girl. That's fine I guess. Oh! Hope you don't mind. I dug through your glove department. I was trying to get to know you." He waggled a scrap of stationary. "Does the department know you're dating? Seems naughty. Is that against HIPA or something?" She flustered, red-faced. That note had been in Ian’s lunch. "OUT!" "I mean, I'm not judging. I like it. You'd think detective romances would get cliché but ugh." He pressed it to his heart. "There's something so enticing about seeing the ugliness of humankind hand-in-hand with the one you love. A real testament to love's resilience. Do you listen to Rihanna?" We Found Love belted from her speakers. Forget the psych eval, now she had to worry about the HOA. "What do you want, huh?!” Adria punched her stereo. “What do you want? Why are you here? Turn this OFF-" "I want to know what you want." He shrugged. "I want you to leave?! I’ve said a million times!" "No can do. Gonna need something more substantial. Unless, gasp." He made a show of patting down his slacks before producing a pen. The document it came with looked real and official. Spooky, until it came to 'Officer Hardass' at the top of a memo. It read "I forfeit my eternal soul to get Demetrius Marquette to GTFO" in gold. She looked down at the paper, head reeling. This was a fever dream. A nightmare. A joke, but she could feel the weight surrounding the document. Metaphysical. And as tempting as it would be to physically take his pen and jam it through his palm, five finger fillet- "NO." She shouted, chucking it back at him. "I'm not selling anything." Rihanna's chorus guttered and died. Its volume fell with his face. Hopeless indeed. "I don't get it." He huffed, impossibly exasperated. Like she was the one being objectively difficult here. "Why did you even summon me, then? What's the point?" "I didn't summon you, asshole! Some psychopath did!" "Huh." He pondered, deciding that did make more sense after-all. "...SO GO AWAY." "EeeeeEEEH. I don't think I will." He kicked back in the seat. A pair of sunglasses slid down his nose, gilded logo hitting the sun just right. How did a Dolce and Gabbana sales associate see him but not Ian? "You see. The problem is that I'm here now. I can't go home without something to show for it." "That's not my problem," Adria said, incredulously. "YOU are my problem! I don’t know who you think you are, but I don't owe you anything. You came onto my scene, jeopardized my career, made me look like an idiot, and now you're making my car smell like eggs!" Demetri recoiled. For a moment she thought she got through to him. Then it became abundantly clear it was just the egg part, actually. "Wow." He said. Hurt gave his voice a raspy edge. "Wow..." “So GO AWAY.” She tried for two. Three would be a taser. “You- you know what?” Demetri splayed his hands. “Fine. We’re done here. I’ll go-” “THANK YOU.” He scowled. “-I’ll go, but I will be back. And when I return, we're continuing this discussion in earnest. I hope, I sincerely hope Detective Kyro, that you think about it." She wouldn’t. But he vanished before she could say so. - - - By the time she got home, the scene was cleared. Since it had been cataloged ad nauseam, there was no need to report his partner’s lapse in sanity. Ian let it go. He covered her ass by risking his to shuffle in clean-up before anyone with a badge audited the damage. She got off easy. Despite earning every letter of a psych referral, confrontation fell away into 'unspoken' territory. He said nothing, but it was strongly encouraged by his cancellation of their Friday after-work happy hour that she take an extended weekend to 'rest.' That part he phoned in without her approval. Defeated, she threw off her jacket. She hooked her gun belt on a peg by the door. Her jeans were just going to burn- they were as good as cursed as far as she was concerned. There was nothing left to do but take a long, hot shower. Maybe she’d feel better if her skin ran hotter than the shame. The rest could be dealt with Monday. What choice did she have, really? She jammed a thumb through her braid. The plaits fell loose as she kicked off her boots, Adria went through the motions of attaining tentative comfort. And the moment she thought she could let it go (until she’d inevitably replay it at all again tonight) she smacked into the chest of someone in the bathroom. Her bathroom. This motherfucker made himself at home. “So,” His finger wound in the cord of her hairdryer. Freshly washed, and expertly coiffed, Demetri smelled exactly like her body wash. "Did you think about it?"