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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 11 months ago

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Yves (yandere oc)

Tw: stalking, infantilization, obsessive behavior, reader cheating on yves hypothetically, gore

enjouy

Yves is a man who knows how to take care of himself well. Adorning expensive scents, maintaining his hygiene, and diligently attending his regular self-pampering saloon, manicure, and facial treatments. His skin is porcelain, supple, and free of any imperfections. His hair is full, lush, shiny, pitch-dark; soft, and smooth.

He is a man who values the importance of physical fitness, strength, and the sculpting of the body, daily exercise in his modest yet sophisticated home gym is a must. Though he also understands the essence of moderation in training, he has a towering stature with a lean, muscular frame; no one in the right state of mind would ever call him frail or weak. But no one would accuse him of taking performance-enhancing drugs either.

His fashion and mannerisms exude class and elegance. His aesthetic and tastes are nothing to scoff at, very few could meet his standards. Even if they could, it would be close to improbability to keep up.

He presents his best image of himself to the world every day without missing a beat. There is no such thing as 'sloppy' in his vocabulary. All things are done with such precision and care, his rouge immaculately lining his sultry lips. A dusting of bronze eyeshadow accentuated his emerald irises and sensual yet steely, calculating gaze. Clad in quality clothes that usually cover him from the neck down, he moves fluidly with them with such grace; as if it was his second skin. Yves dislikes having anything loud and overwhelming on him, his palettes are of black, white, greys, and neutrals. He does not like to stand out. But he will; in a room filled with commoners. As he seems ethereal.

His money matches his spoiled lifestyle. It is unknown what he does for a living, but what he brings in a night, is more than what a normal, middle-class worker earns in a decade. Yves prefers not to discuss about his line of work, however, all you need to know is that he works remotely; and his hours are extremely flexible. There are times, rare, but possible, that he has to physically travel to someplace. He would be away for days and come back as pristine as ever. However, to the trained eye, he comes back exhausted, irritated, and freshly scarred. Perhaps that is why he loves to conceal. He does it so well.

He loves so obsessively, so consumingly; and he hides it well. Yves notices each and every minute detail about you. From the number of breaths you take when you're calm versus in an agitated state, to the fidgeting between your index finger and thumb behind your back. All of it means something, and goodness, does it help to accurately predict your next move.

Without a doubt, he knows you more than anyone. Even yourself. You don't come even close to the knowledge he gathered on you. He would know what you're feeling before you even realize it. The body works faster than the brain, and the mind gives up before the body, as they say. He observes and appreciates what no one sees or deems important. You are under his constant scrutiny with or without your awareness. Yves knows what you like, he knows what you hate. He knows what you will like; he knows what you will hate; and he is never wrong. Not ever.

Drives upon digital drives of data are stored within his office, graphical statistics, images, annotations, hypotheses, diagrams, conclusions, and many more, of one study subject: You. Not all of them were stored in hardware. Yves has a library, bookshelves upon bookshelves of research-level papers in monstrously thick paper binders with him the sole author. There is a section where his information vault is full of academic papers related to you and your behavior, where he could appropriately draw conclusions and compare his findings with others.

His collection spanned over years, decades, even. He studies you intensively and he enjoys it. He reviews the extensive hoard of dossiers on you to keep his mind sharp, and memory fresh. All while you go on living your life normally, without suspecting something is awry. Everything you do is data. Precious data.

Yves knows what you want at any given moment and your words or awareness aren't necessary.

He orchestrated the ideal meeting sequence. Whether that be a meet-cute at the local cafe, a charming first encounter by picking your fallen papers after you 'accidentally' crashed into him, a flirty exchange that escalated into something more at a lonely bar, having his attractive dating profile appear on your monitor screen, being paired up as a classmate or colleague for a project, being your saving grace from an abusive home or partner, being your "blind" date your friend set you up with, as the religious, alluring man that takes your attention away from the lord at churches, the man who offered his umbrella when you're stuck in the rain, maybe even just starting off with innocent small talk in the elevator that leads to months of brief chatter, but no progress; all of it has one common denominator: it is specially tailored for you and no one else.

And you will inevitably fall for him. Yves knows you but you don't know him. He knows what gets you excited, flustered, giddy, and hot under the collar. Most importantly: he is patient. Like a predator stalking its' prey, his patience knows no bounds. He will not slip up and make a silly mistake because he wants you so badly. He absolutely does, but he is a man of discipline. Yves achieved full control over himself, and that is what made him so menacing. No human has ever done so except him.

Perhaps, you might be suspicious of him. You're pleasantly surprised when he dims the lights that have been irritating you for a while without you saying anything. Then, it happens again; Yves hands you a refreshing bottle of your favorite drink as you're starting to feel thirsty and lethargic. And again; he politely dismissed your friends when you're silently starting to feel sick of socially interacting with others. And again; You're cranky because you received an itchy or painful rash, maybe you live near stagnant water, and mosquitos are common. Yves would almost instantly relieve that by wordlessly applying a special ointment on your skin. He knows what to do.

And again; You're craving seafood, maybe. Then, tonight's date is at an exquisite restaurant that serves only the finest salmon, crabs, lobsters, and whatever else you might want. Lucky guess? And again; he toggles the control panel for the air conditioning unit to cool the room further. You then just realized you're starting to feel a bit too warm for comfort, but you haven't even broken a sweat yet, how did he know? This cannot be a coincidence.

It's delightful, not needing to ask. Not needing to demand or beg someone to make your life easier for you. Having a second 'you' doing the things necessary to keep you comfortable and happy. Having someone to read your mind.

But, then again. Someone is reading your mind. It can make one feel naked and vulnerable. As if, you can't even have the privacy of your own thoughts anymore. All that is visible and invisible is broadcast for everyone to witness. If you're the type to overthink, this could induce some sort of paranoia.

Bold of you to assume that Yves hasn't accounted for that yet.

If his calm, no-nonsense demeanor, reassuring smile, and gentle gaze aren't enough to lull you into a false sense of security; maybe his quiet, baritone, seductive voice with a charismatic coupling of a posh European accent would do the trick? It is quite possible that still wouldn't be able to soothe your nerves. No matter what, Yves always has something under his sleeve to overcome every obstacle in his way.

His body language is outstandingly alluring. He utilizes his looks and his hair, you might catch him leaning forward and playfully twirling a lock of his hair around his slender fingers. He appears to be tremendously interested in you and enamored by you. If that is what you like. Otherwise, he would keep his composure. Have a faint smile on his lips as his eyes are trained on you. Nodding at appropriate times.

Yves has exemplary table manners and etiquette, and his posture is confident and tall. He prefers to listen; of course, he does, as he rests his hands on his knee; his legs are delicately crossed and still. Best be careful of what you say and when you say it; And how you say it. He always remembers.

Yves takes care of you much, much more than he takes care of himself. He is already a marvelous chef with indeterminate years of experience but for certain, more than a decade. Cooking healthy and delicious meals for you and himself. He actually prefers to cook instead of going out, he knows your portions and the nutrients your body truly needs to feel satiated. He knows how you like your eggs done or if you even like eggs at all. He is an expert in making dishes tasty and simultaneously fitting your dietary needs and, or restrictions.

It's only fitting that he lives in a richer neighborhood. However, he isn't swayed by flashy displays of wealth in the form of purchasing mansions, luxury cars, and yachts. Yves owns a modest two-story house with a modern finish. As modest as a billionaire could be. However, it is small enough for Yves to be successful in maintaining the cleanliness and the state of the building himself. He has no hired help, unlike his neighbors. He is responsible for scrubbing the entire house from top to bottom every week. He is responsible for keeping his lawn trimmed and even. All of that, he still has ample time to accompany you everywhere you want him to be, keep up with his self-grooming rituals, and conduct his extensive research. It's almost as if Yves has 72 hours a day instead of the regular 24.

His humble abode follows a modern gothic aesthetic. Dark yet soothing. Unfortunately, he has a very strict set of rules as to how his home should appear to him, you, and others. Fussy about the choice of curtains, floorings, flooring, bathroom towels, and even the cutlery available in the kitchen; he would politely express his displeasure if you were to tamper with anything without his approval. However, he will provide a large room for you to express yourself, Yves will be more than happy to provide whatever you require to make your designated room purely yours.

Although he finds delight in serving your (almost) every verbal or silent request, he isn't spineless. Disrespect and rudeness are unacceptable, he will not entertain you if you're treating him as subhuman. Yves made sure you understand that he is deserving of esteem and dignity as well. He does that by calmly but firmly explaining that he does indeed love you and would do anything to make you happy. But he will not accept unnecessary callousness from you. Hence, it is not at all advisable to take your frustrations out on him.

"I understand you're upset that this happened. I have your best interests at heart, I have been nothing but compassionate to you. Please, do not act cruel towards me." That is what he would have said in such events. His scolding glare, stern body language, and muted yet assertive tone are usually enough to snap anyone out of their anger, retract their hurtful words, and hang their head in shame as they mutter an apology.

Yves will relax, soften his gaze, and fully demonstrate his appreciation for your remorse. The reward for your desired behavior is dependent on your files. It could be as simple as a forehead kiss, or it could be a platter of intricately cut fruits. Regardless, his main priority will always be solving your problems and making you the happiest version of yourself.

Perhaps, to a select few, you're undeterred by him calling you out. Maybe you would amp up your mistreatment towards him. No matter, he knows what to do. He is the master of bending reality by meticulously carrying out his convoluted plans. He could orchestrate the perfect circumstance without you ever suspecting he has any involvement in it, and it will influence you to change your ways, to be kinder towards him. Rest assured, he will never mirror your actions, as he believes it's unnecessary and horrible to treat the love of his life that way.

You could have tried to beat him into a pulp out of the blue and he would have never thought of doing that back. Of course, he will appropriately defend himself and obviously, you will not listen to reason. So he stays eerily silent as he blocks all your hits or restrain your wrists enough to protect himself, but not enough to hurt you. Or he simply walks away. Again, depending on the situation and your personality. Are you going to cause yourself harm? Or will your tantrum stop when he pays no mind and it's all for show?

Could it be that you're having a meltdown out of overwhelm instead? Quite unlikely, Yves would have swiftly eliminated all the factors that can cause a mental or physical overload before it happens. Nonetheless, Yves is not an omnipotent, omnipresent god (but he is close to being one) and you, as a human, are facing constant changes. That is why he has to update his database often for any new observations and review past records regularly.

On the topic of keeping records, his collection indeed includes your medical history. Even that unknown to the hospitals. The number of scrapes and cuts you have gotten, even paper cuts, the time and date you received that minor injury, and how long it takes to heal. Your genome sequence and many reports on your probability of developing certain diseases. Your dental records, your blood work archives, any and every radiological image taken of your being, your prescription details, vaccination history or lack thereof, and many more.

Yves could recite the values on a blood test you took a decade ago by heart. He would accurately and nonchalantly describe the figures on that sheet of paper. As if he was reciting the alphabet.

He will undeniably be the first person to notice that you're falling ill or close to catching a cold. You might think he has a 6th sense that detects your sickness before any symptoms start to arise. But his sharp eyes, nose, ears, and mind already picked up on all the signs that doctors will miss.

You could be his little prince or princess while you're unwell. He would be at your beck and call with no complaints. Yves would fix up a hearty meal, spoon-feed you, and stay up all night comforting you to sleep. He has no problem if you get any mucus, vomit, or other bodily fluids on him. He will settle your situation first, valuing your dignity and feelings of utmost importance before cleaning himself up.

Or, maybe you feel pathetic. Maybe you would very much prefer to continue working or studying and going about with your day. You don't like the feeling of being pitied or pampered just because you're sick. You don't like having your autonomy taken over just because you're temporarily weakened; or permanently disabled. Yves understands that.

Yves allows you to have your cake and eat it too. You may think that he's not watching or caring because he isn't around you. But he always is; and to a certain degree, you knew that. He made sure of it. Yves is always a couple seconds away from helping you. Though, you wouldn't know that a lot of the time, you're living a lie.

The thesis that you're slaving over for months despite your chronic illnesses, sacrificing a few years off your lifespan, you got an outstanding award for it. But your actual thesis is in Yves library; it was abysmal. You would have definitely failed if he hadn't intercepted the network and swapped the file with a wonderfully written one instead. Written by the man himself after he spent as much time studying about your course as you in secret.

It's a miracle you passed your final exams even though all you did in the past month was break down into a messy puddle of tears. Nothing a bit of hush money between your lecturer and your significant other couldn't fix.

The balance sheet that you're supposed to submit to your higher-ups. That would have landed you in jail at worst and fired at best. You did it while you were severely sleep deprived and the numbers were all wrong and there were many missing figures that Yves had to locate. If you pay attention, the red pens in his pencil holder are almost out of ink.

You would have poisoned your customers if he didn't buy the entire ruined batch of bread from your bakery. All this while, you thought Yves was an event manager who chose your business as catering.

You would have killed hundreds of passengers if he didn't sneak into the hangar and tightened that one bolt you missed. Either due to carelessness or otherwise.

He does a very convincing job impersonating a respected doctor at the hospital you work in. He forged the signature as an imposter, legally implying that "he" was the one who administered 100 times the appropriate dosage of insulin. You, as a nurse, mistook 1 unit of insulin for 1 ml. The doctor takes the fall and you get off scot-free. Maybe a bit shaken because you know the truth. At least you will be a lot more careful next time.

You're lucky he is also an expert in all things coding. Yves needs a glasses prescription change after staring at his computer monitor for so long to wipe out the bugs, faulty lines of code, and vulnerabilities. If you were to publish this for the massive corporation that you're working with, lawsuits would come flying right at you like darts.

Yves is constantly cleaning up after you without your awareness. Yet you still get all the praise and recognition for it. He is very content with that.

Yves rarely faces any ailments of his own. As reiterated over and over again, he takes care of himself better than most of the world takes care of their children; and his genes are almost invincible. However, as he is still human (even that may sometimes be debatable), he will succumb to an absurdly powerful virus and develop the flu. But you wouldn't know aside from his increased hand washing and his unusual choice to wear two surgical masks around you. He is still carrying himself with grace, fluidity, and with the energy of a healthy, young man.

If the illness is particularly contagious and he knows that it could put a severe toll on your body if you catch it, he will isolate himself and hire someone competent to take care of you from behind the scenes, out of your sight. He worries for you.

There are very few people whom he would trust. He has no family that you know of, he never speaks about his friends; only his associates. Even if you're the most insecure person in the world, only in Yves will you feel secure. He seems to devote all his time to you and more. He is a self-sufficient man who built everything he has from the ground up. It seems unfair that he knows you like he lived in your body twice, yet his last name is unknown to you. Yves said that he does not own a surname, it's a bit hard to believe him but what else could you do? You're not the one with the magnifying glass, he is.

He is a very private person. He does indulge you with information about himself from time to time. Like how he enjoys caviar on toast points, how he prefers buying high quality bags and clothes with discrete logos from obscure yet lavish designers and companies; he is fond of its' meticulous craftmanship and durability. He plays the grand piano and the harp, as evidenced by the presence of a grand piano and a harp in his designated music room; things that you would expect him to like or dislike based on the stereotypes of rich people.

You already made assumptions that he spoke English and French, based on his name and accent. Which was accurate. What came to you as a surprise is that he also spoken fluent Mandarin and Cantonese over the phone before. You were watching a cooking video one day on your smartphone, there was a voice over in Russian. Yves gently rubbed your shoulder to announce his presence before handing you your glass of water. It was a shock to know that he could translate the whole thing effortlessly to English. He even offered to make the food shown for you.

It puzzled you to no end when you caught him leisurely reading a set of papers printed in Hindi Devanagari. He was sipping on his steaming cup of black tea, not needing an ounce of effort to get through the jargon. He told you that he is reading a published journal article about Ayurvedic medicine.

You asked him what other languages he speaks. "الانتظار لمعرفة." He said with a playful wink, he pushes his reading glasses back up. Yves offered you to sit on his lap while he reads his article. You may or may not have accepted the offer, he is fine either way.

He is prone to touching you. Nothing malicious in nature, Yves would always have an arm around your waist, a hand on your shoulder, locking his large, warm and soft hands with yours, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, running your fingers through your locks if you have any, hooking his pinkie fingers with yours and many more. He knows your limits and backs off accordingly, he noted when is the best time and circumstance to give you physical affection if you're the type to like the surprise.

Otherwise, he would whisper if he could give you a kiss on the cheek, forehead and the lips, or a hug. Asking for permission not too frequently and at the appropriate time. You can feel his love is lingering and undying whenever he holds you close to his chest.

Yves doesn't believe in keeping you all to himself, locking you up in a glided cage and clipping your wings. Because your happiness and health is his main priority in life and he is intelligent enough to understand that you need others to fill in roles that he may not be able to fill. Yes, you're allowed to have friends. Yes, you should visit your family, he will come with. Yes, the ones that you love aside from him are welcome into his home. Within limits.

He is, in most aspects of his life: polite, but distant to your friends and family. Yves has a separate database for all of them them somewhere in his shelves for security reasons- to keep them in check and nip any threat at the bud, but they're plainly not as vast as yours. You better hope none of them annoy him, he has access to their private messages, call logs and emails. To his disgust, a lot of them has their own infidelities to hide.

If you have decent parents who were there for most of your life, you would be astonished to see Yves speaking to them so warmly. As if he cares about their existence. His eyes pupils will be dilated as he takes in as much information as possible. It's unnerving, even you had the vibe that this relationship between him and your parents is that of researchers and lab rats.

Yves recognizes that your parents or guardians are a treasure trove of information revolving around you. Now, he understands that their memories of you may not be the most reliable, but the data is still as precious. The knowledge that your friends have of you is useless, as Yves already possesses a more accurate and objective version of it. But information from the people who raised you or taught you (I.e., teachers), he may not have them in his logs yet.

What did you like as a child? What were you like as a child? Any strange fixations you had that could better explain some of your behaviors and preferences now? Any verbal tics? If so, when did it occur? What were your "bad behaviors" and were they a reaction to unpleasant stimuli? What did you tell them about your schooling life? How much did you tell them about your life? What were the values passed down from their generation to yours? When you were a toddler, did they notice what made you cry the most? Who made you cry the most? What media did you consume, cartoons? Live action? Specifically, which ones? How did you punish bad behavior, any lasting effect on your innate reflexes? Any repetitive habits? Where did you look when spoken to, straight into the eyes, away from the eyes, downcast, or past the speaker entirely? Did you prefer your nails long or cut? Did you fit in? Did you enjoy playing 'house' with the other children? Or did you prefer to play alone? The list is not exhaustive.

The barrage of questions was carefully worded and strategically sprinkled into the conversation. His social intellect is unmatched, he could easily obtain the necessary voice recordings in three meetings without your parents feeling overwhelmed or perturbed. With his unbelievable charm, your parents instantly fell in love with him too, thinking that he's the best fit for an attentive, loving, and dependable partner.

It doesn't matter if your parents were conservatives who may be offended by how he presents himself with modest makeup as an androgynous man. No one can deny that he looks stunning in every angle. He will win them over without compromising on his identity too much. Knowledge is power and Yves is the most powerful one out there.

You might or might not find it strange that he defies the common trope of hating his in-laws. Yves gets along with your parents well, maybe a bit too well. There is an 'off' aura to each interaction; he also makes a beeline to his office when he gets back home, claiming that he was contacted for work.

Obviously, he was transcribing what was recorded and organizing them, to improve his predictive algorithm.

One thing that you may be worried about, would he secretly judge you for liking this one thing, for doing a particular activity your own special way, and disliking something he likes? No. Yves is humble, who is he to pass judgment? He is lucid enough to know that he's not at all normal. Nothing about you irks him, data is data. You may have dated before him. Maybe during with him. But he remains neutral, it just means some hypotheses are either proven or disproven. Does that mean he will not get jealous? No, he can turn into a green-eyed monster of envy. However, he has full control over all aspects of his life, even his feelings. It may not be easy, but he is fully capable.

He does consider cheating as a major betrayal and disrespect, as he ensures that the both of you had the talk, discussing what is considered acceptable and what isn't. But he never let his emotions take him over. Yves remains cold and calculating as ever. Depending on your personality, he could either confront you and come to a compromise- and update your records, or he could simply eradicate the nuisance- and update your records. Yves is a strong believer that your actions were bad, but it does not mean that you are a bad person, And you could grow from it. He words his thoughts very carefully here, guaranteeing that he doesn't label your entire being as evil. Your actions are separate from your inherent value.

Everything he does is according to your nature and what works most effectively. His goal is never to punish you for wrongdoing, it's always to love you unconditionally while advocating for himself.

Even if he has tears rolling down his cheeks upon setting sights on the surveillance camera footage that confirms your adultery.

He would be badly hurt, the pain searing through every unit of life in his body. However, Yves would still love you the same and care for you to the best of his abilities. He just needs you to understand that it is not acceptable.

If it takes brutally dismembering your lover in front of you to teach you that lesson, so be it. Let the filth smear his expensive clothes. Let the blood paint his lips even redder. Let his tears wash the smear of viscera away from his face.

Your screams will be data to him. Your hyperventilation, heart rate, and blood pressure shall be the baseline wherein you're experiencing an extremely traumatic event. It will improve his prediction.

When that's all done and over with, he will assess the situation. Have you learned anything? Do you feel regret or remorse? Will you do it again? Will you break his faith once more by outing his crimes to the public?

Once Yves is satisfied with the outcome, he will give you a tight, comforting hug. Thanking you for enduring that and appreciating your genuine apologies. This is only if he is absolutely sure he achieved what he wanted.

But thankfully, that is unlikely to happen. As you wouldn't cheat, correct? You know better. You know very well that isn't a good idea to cheat on your personal mind reader.

As long as you're kind, in line, and faithful, you will have a wonderful, fulfilling life with Yves. All the ugly, unsightly parts of him will remain hidden in the shadows. He will conceal his eyes, giving you that sense of normalcy in day-to-day life while monitoring your every step and breath. Like a magic trick, the magic lies in not knowing how the trick works.

But unlike knowing the ruses of a magic trick, you will be horrified to learn about Yves's clandestine machinations.

Don't ruin a good thing for yourself.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere male #yandere concept #x reader #yandere x you #yandere headcanons #tw gore #tw blood #tw yandere #tw infantilization #yandere oc x reader #male yandere oc x reader #tw reader cheating #oc yves

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fae-of-prey · 8 months ago

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# key ꜝ

# ⊹ ࣪ ˖ a creation by kitty ˖ ࣪ ⊹ — my official writing endeavors!!!

# kitty.exe — my additions onto others posts (specifically ones that i’m proud of or were significant to me)

# kitty notes — my annotations / notes on fics

# ‹ feelings mootual �� — my beautiful beautiful moots!!!

# ⊹˙⋆ ꒰ aes › visuals ˖ · ͙ — aesthetic visuals

reblogging as a fic library for works i like (also works as recs if you prefer) + sometimes i even write myself! so either way here’s my dewey decimal tagging system

mood genres

# ✧˚༘⋆｡˚⸝⸝ ꒰ faves 𝜗𝜚˚ㆍ₊⊹

# ⊹˙⋆ ꒰ safe space ˖ ·͙ — filter out works without sensitive content / make it sfw

# ⊹˙⋆ ꒰ nymphomania ˖ ·͙ — includes smut or otherwise nsfw content

# ⊹˙⋆ ꒰ tw ⚠︎︎ ˖ ·͙ — includes dark or triggering content / themes

# ⊹˙⋆ ꒰ heartbreakers </3 ˖ ·͙ — gut-wrenchingly angsty fics (a little bit dead dove do not eat)

# ⊹˙⋆ ꒰ comfort food ˖ ·͙ — comfort/hurt/comfort

# ⊹˙⋆ ꒰ study break ✎ᝰ*ੈ ˖ · ͙ — born to shop, forced to work, but that doesn’t mean i can’t daydream a little in between right?

# ⊹˙⋆ ꒰ sick fics ˖ ·͙

# ⊹˙⋆ ꒰ sleepy ⏾ ˖ ࣪⊹ ˖ ·͙ — fics i read as bedtime stories and/or my morning routine skxkns

character worlds

# ꒰ ⁺˖ ⸝⸝ comic superheroes ⁶¹⁶ ꒱

# ₊˚⊹ ᗢ ꒰ wanda maximov ꒱ .ೃ࿔*:･

# ₊˚⊹ 𖤍 ꒰ dick grayson ꒱

# ₊˚⊹ 📸 ꒰ peter parker ꒱ 🕸️

# ₊˚⊹ 🕷️ ꒰ miguel o’hara ꒱ ²⁰⁹⁹

# ₊˚ ♱ ꒰ matt murdock ꒱ · ₊˚ ♰

# ₊˚⊹ ‎✪ ꒰ bucky barnes ꒱‎ ⋆⁺₊❅.

# ₊˚⊹ 🩰 ꒰ natasha romanova ꒱ ‎⧗ ⁺₊❆⋆

# ₊˚⊹🩸꒰ vicky neuman ꒱ ꒷꒦

# ₊˚⊹ 🗡️ ꒰ queen meave ꒱ ♛

# ꒰ ⁺˖ ⸝⸝ scream queens & final girlies 🔪 ꒱

# ₊˚⊹ ꒰ sam carpenter ꒱ 🩹

# ₊˚⊹ 🌏 ꒰ tara carpenter ꒱ 🧸ྀི

# ₊˚⊹ 🎐 ꒰ anika kayoko ꒱ 🫧 ໒꒱۪

# ₊˚⊹ ꒰ chad meeks-martin ꒱ 𐚁

# ₊˚⊹ ꒰ 𝑒than landry ꒱ 👕

# ꒰ ⁺˖ ⸝⸝ obx 🔱 ꒱

# ₊˚⊹ 💸 ꒰ rafe cameron ꒱ 🛥️

# ₊˚⊹ 🐙 ꒰ pope heyward ꒱ ♱

# ₊˚⊹ 🐚 ꒰ sarah cameron ꒱ 🫧👙

# ꒰ ⁺˖ ⸝⸝ miscellaneous etc. ꒱

# ₊˚⊹ ❥ ꒰ love quinn ꒱ 🥧 💘

# ₊˚⊹ ꒰ stiles stilinski ꒱ 🥍

# ₊˚⊹ ꒰ anakin skywalker ꒱ 🪐

# ₊˚⊹ ꒰ hazel callahan ꒱ 🌰

# ₊˚⊹ 🎾 ꒰ challengers ꒱

#. ݁✴︎#. ݁🗝️

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ltadoriyuujl · 5 months ago

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annotation time!

Sure, he doesn’t mind sweat but it’s her job to take note of wet things and he hates just how much it puts him at her mercy.

she's got him under a microscope and he's the world's most unwilling experiment sigh real romance

spitting out thirty-some balloons and a voice like high tide.

this is such a fun descriptor I'm stealing it asap

It’s gotta be on purpose, little things he knows she could fix but leave just to make him insane. A pencil with squeaky lead, the half dead hem of her uniform skirt– knocking a water glass over shared notes and leaving the paper dry but misshapen when her quirk sucks it all out again.

she's such a menace its so fun

He stares ahead and has entirely forgotten what he’s doing in the hallway besides bracing for a fist fight or doing his best to keep his head above her spicy summer perfume.

the established detail of katsuki having a journal is so real to me bc this is exactly the kinda stuff he would notice, try not to think about, and then think wayyy too hard about. anika changed her lip gloss shade today i hope she chokes on it YOU'RE OBSESSED

“You see my catch today?”

she loves to corner the market on his attention and i fear she's got him hook line and sinker

He never considered how it might feel to have the life pulled from his pores, but her quirk makes it easy and the second she shows up he starts overheating.

opposites attract but in the sense that they could easily be narrative foils

A single afternoon jump from twelve to seven should make #3 Katsuki shudder but he’d have to be brain dead to let his heart beat that fast in this heat.

there's something to be said about the strength of his self-control and how she still manages to test the limits of it

He can’t get hotter than white fire and he could never be more destructive than her, so what could possibly go wrong in a firing oven?

they enable each other they neutralize each other they match each others freak ad infinitum

back in her perfume, back caught in a trap, looking, watching the shapes her eyebrows can make when she isn’t glaring—

this is what i'm talking about HE'S A NOTICER HE SEES EVERYTHING. half the time its really to his own detriment poor guy

“Bombsquad’s here.”

this was literally so funny and so apt she knows how to defuse him but she's fascinated by the aesthetics of his explosion

She lets Mina pull her in by the shoulder while she fills a smitten Kirishima in on details from her sidekick gig and an apparently psychic new neighbor.

KIRIMINA CRUMBS RAHHHH

so much so he splashed the blond with freshly washed hands and got kicked into the fridge.

nooo izu's catching strays...

“You know,” she coos and breaks the seal on crisp frozen air, “When a puppy’s too aggressive you’re supposed to play with their paws.” “You fucking drunk?”

the fact that he didn't even throw out warning sparks here...real love

They can’t let guests in, can’t check their phones, can’t mix a decent drink or queue any good music— Why’d Mina throw this party anyway? Graduation was ages ago. Why did she need balloons twenty minutes before this was all supposed to start? Katsuki simmers beside her, resting his hips on the rounded edge of the counter.

it's all coming together....

His waist is so narrow compared to his shoulders that the hem of his shirt hangs slightly over his jeans, a black belt hugging milk skin in Mina’s obnoxious colored strip lights.

hes so sharp and triangular in every possible way i'm crying

“Not starving like a dog you fuck, starving like the ocean. You’re breathing all my goddamned air so go back to your wasted friends.”

this line made me want to drop to my knees at 8 in the morning. guy who's only ever read "a hymn to black water" voice: wow getting a lot of ahtbw vibes here

Katsuki’s asahi sits four good steps behind him for how far he’s leaned into his frustration and Anika’s legs part to accommodate him at the sticky lip of the counter.

that is all.

Finals and a nasty burglary at their internship agency. The last two awake in a 3A study session and the first awake on the last day of school. Catching the sunrise, they’d both lied.

in another, scarier universe they're the worlds most intense situationship thank god its not this one though

Anika was not built to treat him gently.

It hurts when she wants it to, when the sweat leaves too quickly or explodes while she’s stealing it. She can be gentle. She is gentle with him, the water fell off of his knuckles as if he wanted it to and floats in pools like the tide on her palm.

THE CONTRAST THE PARALLELS I'M CRAWLING ON THE WALLSSS

Doing a favor for a friend, huh? Anika slips off the counter when she understands, finally understands the whole weird evening. Shitty margaritas keep her from exploding and in fact help her reach out for a rapidly escaping Dynamight.

THE DOTS THEY'VE CONNECTED

From another party, another planet, Katsuki bobs under her spice just once, glaring—

Suddenly the apartment is infinitely larger than it should be, stretching and winding with two bad tempers at one end and the rest of their old classmates ogling at the other,

“Hey,” Anika whispers because she knows if it’s anyone, he can hear her through white noise, even tossing on a jacket and kicking on his shoes.

they're literally the only two people in the whole world everyone else is just fluff and dressing. my favorite binary stars

“Seven minutes!” someone hollers from the living room and then wheezes from a blow to the head.

ten bucks this was denki

“Scared she’s gonna steal his secrets or sumthin and take his precious ranking.” There are some grumbles, nods, and Shinsou snorts and ducks his head back out. Right, suicide.

peer pressure is a crazy thing yall stay safe

YESSSS THIS IS WHAT ITS ALL ABOUT. the love makes the bickering really mean something its a crucial ingredient

He sighs too, and dips too far down for her to stop him, eyes closed, to brush his lips over hers.

bro folded in .2 seconds he's so whipped its actually crazy

His exhale tastes like hops, warm oats in the second Anika gives herself to think before she raises a startled hand and swings, claps it perfect center, into Katsuki’s cheek.

this bit genuinely made me snort on the bus

“You— no, explain myself!” Seven minutes is an awfully long time Anika stares, fingers to her lips.

i imagine during this whole exchange everyone outside is just turning their heads back and forth like it's a tennis volley

“I’m not sorry I kissed you, I’m not sorry we’re fighting—” Her freckles shift with her cheeks and she wets her lips, “It’s hard unless we’re fighting, huh?” “I like fighting with you,” he bites, hint of a smile, like he couldn’t possibly get the thought out fast enough.

asshole4asshole. real love <3

Katsuki did his homework in the common room on nights Anika made dinner. He didn’t say anything when she clipped her hair short, though she only got compliments if he was somewhere in the room. He was always in the room, the first hero to respond to a call for backup, the last person home after a drunk night out, grumpy but inevitably the one you know will answer a text when someone can’t walk on their own.

IT'S ABOUT THE QUALITY TIME THE SHARED SPACE. KNOWING WHO'S WAITING ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DOOR. BINARY STARS I TELL YOU

Anika wraps her fingers in his tshirt to stay standing, suckling, kneading, begging for him to lose slightly more composure and make some noise for her. A tongue across his teeth gets her what she wants.

he can't refuse her anything real men are so back

He holds his weight as much off of her as he can in the tight space and the subtlety of his strength gets steam trickling from her ears.

she wants to be thrown over his shoulder so bad...

He doesn’t need to see to know what kind of face she’s making as she takes his fingers in her mouth and the thought stalls him just long enough— wet, swirling— to— tight— whimper.

you can actually see him planning their honeymoon itinerary in this scene if you look closely

How quickly would her breasts warm in his fingers? How quickly would she—

this the kinda lust they were talking about in the bible

“Alright, jesus!” Mina’s pop pink voice shrills in a sudden wash of light and fresh air and her kitchen monsters startle on the floor. “Party foul! No fucking in the closet.”

another part that made wheeze out loud

Black charcoal is smudged on all fours walls, on every clean sheet on the shelf, drips in streaks and fingerprints over the bruises at both of their throats and generally illustrates the whole incriminating scene.

i felt so bad for mina at this part...her clean sheets...half their next paychecks have to go to her dry cleaning bill

Katsuki blinks up. Anika tightens her lips and Shinsou pretends not to watch through the window but smiles nonetheless in a puff of smoke on the fire escape.

AND THEY ALL LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER YIPPEEEEE

once again pomme my love you have outdone yourself and my gratitude knows no bounds

drive me like a madness, to the sea

bkg x water quirk!oc

"Fluorescent lights, hallway must, caramel and big brown eyes, melting together and at this rate forever waiting on the wrong side of a the party."

this piece was sponsored by the inimitable @ltadoriyuujl for the @ficsforgaza initiative! thank you sm for trusting me with your lovely Anika and for all your patience and guidance. cw seven min/heaven shenanigans including makeout + heavy petting, clothed grinding, manhandling, quirk use, brief description of alcohol use, aggressive banter, and implied audience. stevie nicks. one (1) miserable stint in a sweaty hallway and approximately thirty balloons. 5.9k

Sometimes just touching pages in a book, leafing through chapters, is too much. Damp hands on dry paper– they jump and rub, grate like running fingers between bricks to test how smooth they'll get. Katsuki regrets the paper gift bag he picked, slowly deteriorating in his fist and tries not to linger on the drag of class textbooks or crisp study planners as he pulls a little moleskine from his pocket.

Jun 9

Mina’s, 9pm.

6-1-63-802.

He clamps the A5 shut with his free hand and shoves it back into the depths of the hoodie he shouldn’t have worn. It’s the 1st. It’s 9:30, apartment 802. Why the fuck isn’t anyone answering the door?

The celebration in Mina’s new place thumps like caught fish and Katsuki tries to find new things to notice about the sweltering hallway, no windows, cobwebs under sprinklers, someone rattling around in the elevator a few stories down, and the errant blinking of a security camera, instead of blasting the door off its hinges. He shakes a stray blond strand from the sweat on his forehead and prays Mina can at least afford a box fan after scrounging the last few cents of the security deposit for this place from their penniless friends.

Katsuki doesn’t mind being sweaty. He doesn’t love being stranded in stuffy hallways, but he doesn’t hate the noise at these things; he mostly just hates the laundryproof reek of liquor and cigs but he’s not tapping holes in carpet for fun. Soon a distant dam will break and the floodwater hero he has no chance of outswimming will be perched on the opposite end of a loveseat six asses over capacity. She’ll be here, Anika, inevitable, thunderstorm. Sure, he doesn’t mind sweat but it’s her job to take note of wet things and he hates just how much it puts him at her mercy.

Before he can fish out his phone again to call someone inside, a bell kills the peace of the hallway and the muffled tumult of the elevator shaft bursts when its doors ding first and open, spitting out thirty-some balloons and a voice like high tide.

“Dynamight?”

He doesn’t have to turn around to know it’s her but a choir of two dozen rubbing, kissing, squeaking rubber hellions makes the hair on his arms stand up so fast that he instinctively spins to bear his teeth to it.

“What the fuck?”

Anika, as if summoned by his own dread, struggles through the elevator frame and down the hall in the same black jeans she’s worn all spring and a too-big leather jacket that does nothing to help her manage her cargo. She shakes her head in an attempt to calm some static, “Fuck what? These?” and tips up to the balloons with her chin.

“How are you showing up late with the decorations?”

“You’re just as late as I am.” Anika grunts, shrugging a purse back up her shoulder and dragging her supplies towards the door.

“Sans party essentials.”

She doesn't look like she just got off overtime but contrary to popular belief Katsuki doesn’t have the group chat muted: picking up a shift that afternoon but I’ll be there! Blah, blah. Plus, he knows that charcoal residue. She plays it off as eyeliner when she doesn’t have time to wash her face well in the agency showers. It’s gotta be on purpose, little things he knows she could fix but leave just to make him insane. A pencil with squeaky lead, the half dead hem of her uniform skirt– knocking a water glass over shared notes and leaving the paper dry but misshapen when her quirk sucks it all out again.

Anika doesn’t look like a tsunami, ambling closer in the tight space with a litany of balloons in tow and increasingly irritated he isn’t coming to meet her. She doesn’t look like the hero that apprehended a villain with their tears this afternoon and she certainly doesn’t look like a girl whose slender hands have ever knocked him unconscious. She’s grinning, practically growling through her latex bouquet when she finally manages the journey to Mina’s door and lets her bag drop off her shoulder to the doormat. She rolls her head towards him theatrically, “my hero.”

“Spare me,” Katsuki grimaces. He stares ahead and has entirely forgotten what he’s doing in the hallway besides bracing for a fist fight or doing his best to keep his head above her spicy summer perfume.

“You see my catch today?”

He considers and then grunts, fingering the binding on his notebook to give the hand in his pocket something to do instead of, again, breaking and entering. He did. Balloon static pours off Anika’s chest in waves and the cloy of it at the fuzz on his cheek almost makes him turn to face her. Like the hallway couldn’t get any stuffier. Earth would be too cramped if they were the last things on it.

“That why you’re late?”

She at least has the courtesy in this hell hall to push her ballooned fist away before leaning in close like she might have a secret to tell, “Gimme some credit Dynamight,” and, bad omen, he can taste the smile in her voice before he hears it, “or am I making you nervous?”

Everyday is the day that he met her, transfer student, water quirk, a poor matchup in his sparring class– every conversation or study session or close proximity since that day, has been the sudden agony of his defense peeled off of him like a skinned animal. He never considered how it might feel to have the life pulled from his pores, but her quirk makes it easy and the second she shows up he starts overheating. Is it that obvious? What else can he do but tilt his chin down to finally spare her a glance after so many weeks apart?

It’s a mess. Just a painters wash of freckles on cider brown cheeks and mischief close enough to bite. Anika was not built to treat him gently. Her hair, short, spikes like his with static and tickles the sleeve of his jacket as she waits for him to finally admit that she’s right. She presses closer, predator, purring on his shoulder. Fluorescent lights, hallway must, caramel and big brown eyes, melting together and at this rate forever waiting on the wrong side of a the party.

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t turn away and hopes a few of his teeth are still bared, “What am I supposed to be nervous about, huh? Your nine-week plateau at #12?”

But Anika is not like him. For all her attitude she doesn’t explode off the battlefield and he knows this won’t be the thing that suddenly makes her do anything besides draw the damp off her brow with the trace of a fingernail. She leans away, jostling giggling balloons, “That’s number seven to you.”

A single afternoon jump from twelve to seven should make #3 Katsuki shudder but he’d have to be brain dead to let his heart beat that fast in this heat. Anika, hurricane, bends to collect her purse and knocks on Mina’s door as she rises,

“And what’s in your bag?—or—wait,” and grins. She bats her black lashes up, up, sweat pearling at her temples and in wild baby hairs, “about-to-be-clutch. I know you’re melting that dumb paper handle.”

The inside of kiln is actually a very nice place to be, he concedes. It’s a place Katsuki knows he can’t truly destroy anything. He can’t get hotter than white fire and he could never be more destructive than her, so what could possibly go wrong in a firing oven? What could he do, explode? Cure a porcelain vase or two? She’ll flood the whole hallway, she’ll drown all the guests, there’s nothing he could do to break her. He is melting the paper handles. What here makes him angrier, the fact that she’s right or that he’s smirking too? Albeit, over a frown.

“Well?”

He growls something in response, not important. A curled lip suits her, cocky like a feral cat. His friends get crinkle-eyed smiles and pats on the shoulder. They got to link arms with her on the way to class and they get to hold her hands during hospital stays where she coos and kisses them better. Katsuki gets this, an exclusively mischievous shimmer like glass on the backs of her dark eyes. She’s swimming in that stupid leather jacket. “Well what.”

“Were you gonna knock or are we starting a rival party in the hallway?” Anika adjusts grips on her purse and decorations and wipes at her forehead. Where her fingers graze, sweat pills and pulls gently behind them off of her skin and patters to the floor where she directs it, but the balloons don’t love being jostled and Katsuki continues to hate the sounds they make.

He winces, “already tried.”

“And?”

“Music’s too loud.”

“Perfect, I’ll start setting up out here.”

“I sent a text,” he rolls his eyes and again lets the silence of the hallway descend as he rotates rankings and pearls in his mind.

“What’s wrong with you today?”

What’s wrong with him today. Hm. What? “Eh?” Katsuki blinks himself back into the hallway, back beside her and two dozen balloons, back in her perfume, back caught in a trap, looking, watching the shapes her eyebrows can make when she isn’t glaring—

Anika frowns, “you’re being a freak.”

“Fuck off.”

“Fuck you, what’s your problem? You’re extra quiet, get hurt on patrol?”

It’s time for this door to lose some hinges. Katsuki lets his phone drop back into the soup of his pocket lest it catches a loose spark and leans back, “I’m fucking tired— unlike the rest of you shits, I catch more than one villain a day.”

But it’s not enough, it’s not thrilling, he’s no longer interesting and Anika tucks a charged piece of hair as far behind her ear as it’ll reach before turning away. She knocks again and the vibrations of Mina’s party fill the silence.

“Whatever.”

The balloons are no longer charming and Katsuki’s losing his grip on his bag. He’s drowning, side by side and not trying to tread in the miserable hallway beside her.

Anika pinches her purse on her shoulder with her chin and fishes her phone from its depths while droplets of sweat pluck themselves from her skin to fall in a pretty ring around her. Irritated or glowing with joy, Anika always looks the same. Face of a hero, Katsuki supposes, even stranded in his company. She concentrates constantly, more with the bridge of her nose than anything else, crinkled asymmetrically between her eyes. She watches wet things and she is never wrong.

“Fucking Hanta—” she growls and pulls her phone away from her cheek to dial another number. “If you don’t—” But she doesn’t get to finish.

Katsuki’s hand jumps damp from his pocket and flies for red balloon strings as he turns. Anika startles, propelling her balloons even faster towards the spiked sprinklers above, half dropping her phone, and fully dropping the the sweat from her brow into an eye. The first pop is horrid in the silence. Like Katsuki’s heart could beat any faster. He jerks the bundle of strings down from the stucco ceiling and flies so much closer to her than he meant to, faces mirrored in sickly light— pop! The second comes quickly, worse, but not so much worse than the third— Pop pop! Four more bursts rattle the sticky hallway and Katsuki winces every time, but Anika only stares, one hand on her eye and the other still holding an ever-wilting and only partially floating bouquet, through the noise above them.

Mina’s door soars open, purple lights, music, burnt pizza, and he and Anika both turn, tucked into one another. Her hunched and biting back laughter and Katsuki grimacing, mid lunge for party decorations.

Kaminari grins as Katsuki’s bag fails— rips right off its soaked handle, plops to floor— and leans against the door he opened.

“Bombsquad’s here.”

Katsuki perches at the edge of the kitchen only just barely still in Anika’s field of vision. He’s miserable, obviously, and nursing his headache with a beer.

“Drinking it would help more.”

He glares before the words even leave her mouth, to his group of friends and Anika perched among them, sprawled out on Mina’s unfurnished floor. He grips the asahi pressed to his forehead a little too hard and its uncracked tab wheezes with pressure. He’s already finished two. Anika knows better than anyone what a lightweight he is and how much he hates it— how much he hates a lot of things these days.

Mina, Sero, Kirishima, Uraraka, Momo, Kaminari and some kids from old class-B cluster in the living room where a sofa should go and more importantly, in the crosswind between two windows. There’s a fire escape Katsuki keeps eyeing from his storm cloud, but Shinsou’s been out there smoking with half-n-half for the past hour. Drinks splash, groups laugh, and music floods the little one-bedroom in waves from genkan to linen closet. Anika slipped her phone in the aux line up when her friends finally pulled themselves away from go-fish long enough to let her and Katsuki in. It’s been a little less Party Rock Anthem On Repeat and slightly more Fleetwood Mac’s Greatest Hits since. Smells like school. She lets Mina pull her in by the shoulder while she fills a smitten Kirishima in on details from her sidekick gig and an apparently psychic new neighbor.

Parties after work are like falling asleep in her parents’ backseat. The white noise of people she loves, though, there are fewer mcguyvered margaritas on family roadtrips. “Be right back,” Anika smiles into her friend's ear and kisses her cheek before rising on a mission for ice. Everyone’s distracted today. Maybe it’s the heat.

Katsuki growls at anyone who walks past and almost gave Deku a heart attack when he came out of the bathroom, so much so he splashed the blond with freshly washed hands and got kicked into the fridge.

“Can I reach for the freezer or am I gonna get a black eye?”

“Try me.”

Katsuki doesn’t crack as she approaches, but still moves to let her close.

“You know,” she coos and breaks the seal on crisp frozen air, “When a puppy’s too aggressive you’re supposed to play with their paws.”

“You fucking drunk?”

Anika smiles into the artificial breeze and directs six ice cubes out of their tray with a finger. Even Dynamight, elven in his rage, can’t be bothered to quip or fight today. Can’t even be bothered to go home. What planet did everyone ship off to without her? They can’t let guests in, can’t check their phones, can’t mix a decent drink or queue any good music— Why’d Mina throw this party anyway? Graduation was ages ago. Why did she need balloons twenty minutes before this was all supposed to start? Katsuki simmers beside her, resting his hips on the rounded edge of the counter.

“You feeling particularly territorial?” She drags an ice cube over the back of his hand as she closes the door and ducks slightly to avoid recoil. His forehead beer shrieks with more pressure but neither ice nor punches fly.

“M’not your dog.”

“Not with that attitude you’re not.” She plucks a floater from the counter and dumps it in the sink behind them. He’s got no bark today, nothing’s made him bite.

Katsuki glares over his shoulder into the small sea of people chattering and setting games up on the floor. He glows. Fairy lights fizzle at the base of his neck where sweat stains the ripple of back muscles and his cotton t-shirt. Every part of him is heavy and polished. He is intentional even with his back turned. A skull hoodie hangs in the entryway and Anika can pick out his shoes from thirty others because of how particularly he lays them together. She lifts her hips over the counter to sit. He’ll let her closer. He always does even if only to get in striking range.

“You’re soaked, short-fuse.”

“First day with eyes?”

Can he feel her eyes tracing his throat? His waist is so narrow compared to his shoulders that the hem of his shirt hangs slightly over his jeans, a black belt hugging milk skin in Mina’s obnoxious colored strip lights. Katsuki reeks of caramel. He finally turns back around. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Anika pretends like she hasn’t been watching and flicks the tap water on to fill her cup, “Like what?”

“Like you’re starving. I’m not in the mood.”

“You’re fucking delusional,” she huffs, nursing water, “You’re the mutt here not me. And I’ve been eating, unlike someone whose too focused on looking cool to join the goddamned party.”

“Not in the mood.”

“When are you ever.”

Katsuki’s beer finally cracks when he drops it on the counter. The two heroes hiss without a/c in an apartment they don’t realize is watching them. Always a fist fight, he is always just one wrong look away from snapping or bursting but never storming away and today is no different even if he tries to feign disinterest. He can’t pretend forever in their kiln for two. She’ll wash away the clay.

“Not starving like a dog you fuck, starving like the ocean. You’re breathing all my goddamned air so go back to your wasted friends.”

“I’m keeping one company right now.”

His jaw puffs as he grinds his teeth, “Just leave me alone.”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“Bump up a few ranks and suddenly you think you’re the people’s fucking princess—”

“Oi—”

“—you’re not the center of the universe tsunami.”

“Why’d you even come if you’re just gonna sulk in here away from everyone?”

“I’m doing an infinitely shittier and shittier friend a fucking favor being here and putting up with interrogation practice from the worst bad cop in the country wasn’t part of our agreement.”

Katsuki’s asahi sits four good steps behind him for how far he’s leaned into his frustration and Anika’s legs part to accommodate him at the sticky lip of the counter. His white knuckles go pink. It’s been two weeks since she’s seen him outside of a television screen and nine since they’ve been alone. Finals and a nasty burglary at their internship agency. The last two awake in a 3A study session and the first awake on the last day of school. Catching the sunrise, they’d both lied.

“You’re beating the shit out of anyone that comes into the kitchen, just go home if you hate it here so badly.”

“I can think of something,” he growls, closer, “that’ll make me hate it less.”

“m’not letting you kick Deku again.”`

He stops short of shouting but it’s too late to hide from her now. He forgot he was trying. “You got your ice now git, back out to sea or wherever the fuck you stir shit for a living.” Stevie fucking Nicks moans somewhere in the thrum of their friends and their friends and those friends’ terrible mixology skills as clear liquor stings every nose in the room and both of the kitchen monsters pretend like their ears aren’t hot with drink. From another party, another planet, Katsuki bobs under her spice just once, glaring— how could he not, she’s one breath away pressed back into the counter between his arms and curling her own fingers over his without looking away.

“Still soaked,” Anika hisses and a door slams somewhere as Katsuki snatches her wrist with Dynamight strength to keep her quirk from killing him.

Sparring with her is suicidal, the only way to win is in close quarters after Katsuki has enough ammunition hidden to hold her tight and detonate. He’s knocked them both unconscious fourteen times. She’s won conscious twice and tonight might make three because Anika’s grin explodes cheshire with her back on kitchen tiles and a dripping hand crushed at the wrist.

“Have it back,” she purrs and before she can flex her fingers, before Katsuki can lunge, someone whistles from the living room.

“You’re up, bombsquad.”

Suddenly the apartment is infinitely larger than it should be, stretching and winding with two bad tempers at one end and the rest of their old classmates ogling at the other, fingers on their noses. Shinsou pokes a head through the window and all the sweat drops from Anika’s hand to the floor.

The linen closet, the walk-in beside the bedroom door, hangs open in white light with Momo and Jiro scurrying out to much fanfare. Uraraka must have been the one who slammed the door open because she stands beside it now bashfully checking the wall behind it for holes.

“Nose went, sorry guys.”

Katsuki backs off before Anika can kick him and more quickly than he’s moved all night, reaches for his hoodie.

“Not so fast Kats!” Kirishima grins. He’s humoring Kaminari’s burnt pizza with one hand and rubbing his nose with the other on a makeshift cardboard stool beside the window. Doing a favor for a friend, huh? Anika slips off the counter when she understands, finally understands the whole weird evening. Shitty margaritas keep her from exploding and in fact help her reach out for a rapidly escaping Dynamight. “Katsuki!” Kirishima whines again, “Please!”

“I told you he wouldn’t!”

“Leave them alone,” Momo tries to soothe but Jiro covers her mouth and kisses the back of her palm.

“Hey,” Anika whispers because she knows if it’s anyone, he can hear her through white noise, even tossing on a jacket and kicking on his shoes. The crowd boos and she presses closer “Katsuki.”

“Fuck off! M’not playing juvenile drinking games.”

“Thought you weren’t drunk,” she pushes just a little too far and resists flinching when the hero jolts back around, crackling, snarling. Her hand lands on his chest instead of an arm when he pressed in and the force pushes her back.

“You knew. Fuck ev—!”

“I didn’t Kats—“

“Going home.”

“I’m—” she doesn’t want that, “I shouldn’t have teased—” and grips the fabric over his heart just a little bit tighter so he won’t leave without a fight. “It was too much. Can I just talk to you for a minute?”

“Seven minutes!” someone hollers from the living room and then wheezes from a blow to the head.

“Whatever, can we just talk for seven minutes? God knows when I'll see you after tonight.”

Katsuki’s frozen mid-hoodie to glare, hunched; damp little hands on his chest where he can’t hide his heartbeat. Anika wipes a running pearl from the curve Katsuki’s collarbone. No quirk this time. It’s faint but Sero murmurs into a bad drink, “Scared she’s gonna steal his secrets or sumthin and take his precious ranking.” There are some grumbles, nods, and Shinsou snorts and ducks his head back out. Right, suicide.

"Start the timer,” Dynamight growls.

It takes four seconds for Katsuki’s hoodie to hit the back wall (and whip Denki with the zipper) and for the kitchen monsters to cross the humming room towards the linen closet. “Seven,” he spits to the closest onlooker, Uraraka, who startles and juggles her phone in her hands a few times before getting a hold of herself. Katsuki slams the door behind his company without looking back and there’s an unspoken consensus that this wouldn’t have been such an excellent idea sober.

It wouldn’t have happened sober, it barely happened tipsy and Anika tries to gauge the difference between gin and water in her veins before fumbling for the lights. Immediately, the skin between her thighs is damp. The heat of such a tight space would be unbearable if it weren’t for a little stained glass window and the crosswind from under the door, but still, she considers in the dark, it’s miserable. Momo’s bodysuit was stained gray from sweat and Jiro wasn’t just pink from a kiss or two.

“They’re trying to kill us,” she huffs, and cracks the little window before pulling on the light. Katsuki beats her to it.

He’s a dick but he’s not belligerent, and more than anything he’s made to be a hero. He made himself to save people, his parents made him to love him and his friends love to have him. Anika loves to have him. Even if he takes up all the room in this box with his overworked chest and red glare, it shouldn’t matter how weird he’s acting and she shouldn’t be so childish.

“Short-fuse,” she sighs, and turns. Apologies suck, but she’s not a student anymore, she’s not a intern, she’s not even in college, she’s a hero, they’re grown they’re busy, and she’ll devolve forever into immature goads cos he’ll let her. They don’t have enough time anymore to be kids or be close or pretend. “Katsuki—”

He sighs too, and dips too far down for her to stop him, eyes closed, to brush his lips over hers. His exhale tastes like hops, warm oats in the second Anika gives herself to think before she raises a startled hand and swings, claps it perfect center, into Katsuki’s cheek. The whole affair is noisy like they’re two crabs boxing in a paper bag. He stumbles into a towel rack, clutching his face, Anika holding her own and both of them staring, both of them slack jawed, as someone turns her music down outside.

“What the fuck!” She squeals after getting a grip on the windowsill behind her.

He can’t back up any farther than the doorframe and with his back on wood Katsuki, barks “I could say the same!” holding tight to his red face.

“I— I was trying to a apologize first!”

“First?! You were gonna kiss me anyway but when I beat you to it I get a concussion!”

“No— well, wait— apologize before you, you could—!”

“Could what!”

“I was gonna explain!”

“You hadn’t even done a fucking thing yet what would you have explained?!”

“You— no, explain myself!” Seven minutes is an awfully long time Anika stares, fingers to her lips. She hadn’t thought about what to do after apologizing, or how badly she needed to kiss him. Needs to kiss him. “I was— I just, miss you.”

Katsuki howls before freezing, before his face drops from harsh lines to one smooth stare.

“I haven’t seen you! I don’t get to see you, at home, at work, and when I finally do you won’t even talk to me. You won’t—” Anika swallows and tilts her head side to side before trying to look back up. She fingers a short piece of hair by her ear, “You don’t like parties, you don’t like anyone but Kirishima I don’t know how I’m supposed to see you anymore and I finally get the chance and I act like a second-year, I— you— you were lying. I knew something was wrong— or you were thinking about something or— er— and I was just so excited you actually came, I would talk to you about anything, you could told me about paint drying, but you’ve been acting so weird all night and I just,” Anika heaves, her hand falls from her mouth and takes up the job of a fist, “I’m sorry.”

Katsuki flinches, slightly more wide eyed than sobriety would usually allow him, a foot or two away from one of his favorite people and the cling of her summer perfume. “You’re not an idiot,” he sighs.

“You’re not listening!”

“I’m always listening.”

“You’re never getting a fucking apology from me again.”

“I don’t want one.”

“Gun to my head.”

“I never want another, don’t apologize.” This closet is not up to code so Katsuki moves slowly to avoid splinters and another blow to the head.

“I shouldn’t have used my quirk,” Anika sneers, “I’m sorry.”

“Stop it.”

She pushes off the back wall, “M’sorry for teasing you about that dumb paper bag,” freckles and sweat mixing. She has never been wrong.

“Anika.”

“I’m sorry you’re stuck in here with me.”

Every thought is one inch closer, “I’m not.” Until Katsuki can lift his hands just and inch and her jaw is there waiting to fit perfectly into them.

“It’s your turn.”

“I’m not sorry.”

She sucks her teeth but lets him closer.

“I’m not sorry I kissed you, I’m not sorry we’re fighting—”

Her freckles shift with her cheeks and she wets her lips, “It’s hard unless we’re fighting, huh?”

“I like fighting with you,” he bites, hint of a smile, like he couldn’t possibly get the thought out fast enough. “I just, I don’t know how anymore. We don’t live together, we don't work together—”

Anika smiles back, “How long?”

“Two years.”

“How long left?”

“Five minutes.”

It’s enough, she traces the back of his clammy neck and dips into a kiss.

She always imagined him more timid than this, to kiss, a nerd too nervous to hold hands, but Katsuki presses as deeply as she’ll let him and they both fumble towards a wall. Four legs tangled, he holds the back of her head away from wood and glass and bites a lip to keep her close. Anika wraps her fingers in his tshirt to stay standing, suckling, kneading, begging for him to lose slightly more composure and make some noise for her. A tongue across his teeth gets her what she wants. Katsuki grabs her wrists and throws them over his shoulders so she has something to hold when he hoists her off her feet and onto the top of the step ladder.

“y’move too much,” he growls knowing she can’t hear him, knowing he might not have even said anything and melting a little when her tongue slips gently under his. He has to cup her cheeks to keep from falling over. He’s not close enough. Anika pulls him the only place he can still move, crumbling on top of her and poised on the steps of a shitty metal stool. He fits between her legs like a puzzle and she gasps into his mouth when he rolls too deep.

“Bad sound?” he startles and settles again when Anika shakes her head with her hands in his hair. Not bad, not drunk, not gentle, she wants to watch him fall apart but she’ll cherish a dark closet on a sticky night if that’s the best the universe can do on such short notice. He holds his weight as much off of her as he can in the tight space and the subtlety of his strength gets steam trickling from her ears.

He drags a thumb over the swell of her lip to catch his breath in the heat but she shudders and chases his hand with her tongue. God, if he was clammy before. Anika clutches his shirt and his wrist and for more than a second Katsuki skewers commons sense to the wall. She sucks just hard enough to pull the tip of his thumb past her lips. Too hot, it’s too hot, Katsuki is soaked, sweat floods the swell of his chest and drips between his knuckles. He doesn’t need to see to know what kind of face she’s making as she takes his fingers in her mouth and the thought stalls him just long enough— wet, swirling— to— tight— whimper. Katsuki snatches her jaw with his fist and buries his face in the damp of her neck. Salty, she trembles when he kisses her there and makes a frazzled sound when he growls.

“Don’t,” he groans with slightly more sense, “my quirk—"

“I’m waterproof.”

“Y’rnot bombproof.”

“Well don’t light a candle,” she grins into the dim and him with her, dragging his lips from her ear to her throat and sinking his teeth into the pulse of her perfume.

He likes the sound she makes when he bites even more so he does it again. Again, he pulls the fragile skin between his lips and soothes over the welts he makes with his tongue when her fingers start to dance on his chest. Between her lips and her collar bone he rises to kiss her and falls to bruise her on the path that makes her breathe loudest and when she finally has to cover her mouth he pauses and kneads harder. How quickly would her breasts warm in his fingers? How quickly would she—

“Katsuki,” Anika huffs above him and his eyes dart to hers, glowing black in the moonlight. “How long?”

“Don’t care.”

She drags her fingers over his forehead and claws through the front of his hair without another word. Her nails are heaven on his scalp. As much as he hates to look away, his eyes roll and she swallows, sinking off the steps and into the crook of his neck. Better, her lips are better than her nails and when her hair tickles his chin it’s all Katsuki can do not to dissolve around her. Anika works gingerly and she pulls the collar of his shirt down to reach the parts of him she wants. His ear, throat, the vibrating skin above his heart, all bloom in pink bruises while her nails rake his shoulder. He manages to drag his hands up her waist and bite his own tongue to stay quiet, but hardly more than that. Melt into her lips when she lets him. They sink together into a spot between stacked towels and a previously functional laundry horse and forget for the next however long that there will be things to talk about in the world outside of Mina’s linen closet. Forget sleep, forget work and shitty apartments, forget clothes— Katsuki's hands glide over wet skin and under the hem of Anika’s top. Every inch closer is the drum of her heart and her clumsy desperate fingers tugging at his belt loops in gasps caught between their lips.

“Alright, jesus!” Mina’s pop pink voice shrills in a sudden wash of light and fresh air and her kitchen monsters startle on the floor. “Party foul! No fucking in the closet.” Katsuki’s hoodie sails over Mina’s shoulder from the crowd and onto Anika’s head.

His tshirt is a v-neck in four different places and Anika’s hair spikes in every direction but the one that she styled it in after work. Black charcoal is smudged on all fours walls, on every clean sheet on the shelf, drips in streaks and fingerprints over the bruises at both of their throats and generally illustrates the whole incriminating scene.

“Happy?” Mina’s overliquored drink rolls her eyes for her and she turns back around to the stunned crowd, spilling a little onto Sero, “everyone happy? Can we please have normal parties now? One’s that don’t gamble with my security deposit.” She turns again, overshooting it, ignoring the hands Kirishima hovers right over the spot her head would land if she tipped over, “And you two, did we fix you or was was this a terrible idea?”

Katsuki blinks up. Anika tightens her lips and Shinsou pretends not to watch through the window but smiles nonetheless in a puff of smoke on the fire escape.

#rambles #annotations #my little barbie and ken doll im smashing them together to make them kiss #bakugou x oc #bakugo x oc #pomme i love youuu

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everythingships · 3 years ago

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⁺ ˚₊ ⁎ CAN I TELL YOU I LOVE YOU YET? ⁺ ༚ ⁎⁺

hello! i just wanted to share some information about me and properly introduce myself and my blog!

> INTRODUCTION ;

rory, they/them, minor, bisexual, fem!nb, dark/chaotic academia, intp 5w4, july cancer ; aspiring fashion designer/stylist , writer/journalist , tv producer , or architect.

interests: reading, writing, fashion design, traditional art, (sometimes) painting, procrastination.

<3 YOU series, fashion, forest colours, “old” music, film production, fully annotated books and messy notebooks, neutral milk hotel, autumn, abandoned buildings, poetry, cinematography, and art.

kin list: april ludgate, margo roth speigalman, violet baudelaire, love quinn, wednesday addams, abed nadir, maeve wiley, alaska young, maeby fünke, rory gilmore, hermione granger, allie pressman.

favorite artists: taylor swift, radical face, the cure, sugarthief, her’s, tea, neutral milk hotel, rolemodel, tv girl, the vamps, hozier, mouse rat, the smiths, the beatles, renforshort, the backseat lovers, pixies, maya hawke, and more!

socials: tiktok. instagram. twitter.

> THE BLOG ;

fandoms - the ones i will most likely be posting about!

( i might not post about all of these fandoms. nevertheless, here’s as many as i can think of at the moment. )

YOU (serie), parks and recreation, a series of unfortunate events, how i met your mother, dead poets society, aubrey plaza, taylor swift, marauders era (hp), gilmore girls, new girl, jane austen’s novels (pride and prejudice, mansfield park, etc.), and tons more!

content in this blog : many, many fandom posts - mostly asoue, you, and marauders, book posts and possible spoilers (which i’ll mark), the dark academia and forest aesthetic, my own photos, art and literature, lyrics, my edits, info about my novel!

tags : i mostly tag everything by their category but on the possibility that i don’t tag something, feel free to use the search, please tell me if you want something tagged (ie. specific tws) and i’ll try my best to remember them!

> NOTES ;

DNI : basic criteria (homophobes, transphobes, acephobes, misogynists, racists, ableists, and very nsfw blogs, creepy 21+ adults - i dont mind older people following me but i’ll block if you’re creepy.), strong anti of any of my faves, spam.

this blog is welcome to all! /gen

if you need someone to talk to, you can always im me, and my dms are always open for mutuals! <3

₊ ⁎ and that’s it! thank you for reading! ⁺ ༚

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kerstrel · 2 years ago

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keshi song and lyric analysis -- blue

this is gonna become a series of keshi song breakdowns, isn't it?

TW/CW: Mentioned intoxication, loss of self, drifting relationships.

-- All songs will be linked through Spotify!! --

blue -- keshi (Genre: Alt-Indie)

This is one of those songs that you blast on your radio as you drive seventy miles down a deserted highway at night. It references a blue moon-- an uncommon phenomenon but incredibly beautiful. The music video is gorgeous, you can watch that here. Overall, the aesthetic to very nostalgic to me and I have personal private connections to it. I love how the lyrics depict a gradual but still very dramatic shift in relationships that aren't quite noticed until it's too late. He expresses how change is difficult (and I agree. If change is easy for you, I both respect and fear you.) and how he copes with it. If you go onto genius lyrics, you can see keshi's direct annotations on what things mean. I'm going to talk about them, but you can read the genius stuff here. "Sixth Street" is a street full of bars in Austin, Texas and represents how one drinks their sorrows away. keshi's direct annotation of the lyrics "blue moon in different phases" is, and I quote, "been a long min." Blue moons usually appear every three years-- that's a fun transition into the next set of lines "three hours, three months away." I love the repeated use of the number three-- it's always been a really cool prime number. He references mundane life with common phrases like "date night" and "9-5" albeit most people don't work 9 to 5 anymore.

Overall, the song is quite wistful, referencing the unwillingness or inability to cope with the changes taking place in the individual's life. While site-specific locations may not necessarily be the case in everyone's life, many people can relate to hitting up a bar or feeling lost in the sea of life and feeling behind while everyone moves on. Everyone changes and adjusts at different paces. I hope where you are, you're in a good place. <3 :)

#lyric breakdown #music reviews #keshi #keshimusic #blue #keshi blue #blue moon #a bit of a song ramble #personal lyric analysis #musings from the beyond

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swearwolfremuslupin · 3 years ago

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Intro to Remus Lupin:

Chocolate, cable-knit sweaters, bruised skin, bandages, healing potions, mugs of tea, sugar, old books, dog-eared pages, annotations in the margins, raised scars, chewed fingernails, dark circles under the eyes, tousled hair, nightmares, sharing blankets, holding hands…

TW: animal attacks, childhood trauma, terminal illness, parental illness Aesthetics: Chocolate, cable-knit sweaters, bruised skin, bandages, healing potions, mugs of tea, sugar, old books, dog-eared pages, annotations in the margins, raised scars, chewed fingernails, dark circles under the eyes, tousled hair, nightmares, sharing blankets, holding hands… Name: Remus John Lupin Age: 21 years old Birthday: 10/03/1960 Former House: Gryffindor Graduation Year: 1978 Wand: Unicorn hair, Cypress, 10 ¼ inches, and fairly flexible. Occupation: Unemployed

Current Circumstance: Remus joined the order knowing full well that his condition could be used to the advantage of the movement. This was due to a conversation with Dumbledore prior to his graduation. Although the implication of meeting feral wolves and potentially having to affiliate with them terrified him to his core, he felt as though he owed Dumbledore more than he could ever pay him back and he signed himself up without hesitation. This dire need to please Albus is still buried deeply within his sub-conscious. He blindly followed the man, almost child-like in his conviction that he can do no wrong. Like many of Dumbledore’s followers, he very rarely questioned him, believing he absolutely knew best.

It was only after months of living with the werewolves, and being forced to pledge loyalty to the man who had maliciously attacked him as a child, that Remus temporarily removed his rose-coloured glasses. Greyback and his pack live rough, squatting or camping with no equipment, often in abandoned or near uninhabitable spaces. They are aggressive, blood-thirsty, violent individuals, the complete opposite of Remus. He had to do some terrible things to earn their trust. Forced to sacrifice all of his favourite creature comforts, things like tea, books, and chocolate were out of reach. These were the things he used, and still uses, to ground himself. To remind himself that, despite everything, he is Human. The first time he was forced to eat raw meat with the other wolves it took every ounce of his willpower to stomach it. Not because he didn’t enjoy the taste but because he did.

During a meeting with Dumbledore, in which he was expected to communicate plans, names, and dates to recite back to the Order, Remus found himself sitting in the familiar office, his head in his hands, completely and utterly broken. His mental health had taken an incredible dive and, despite telling himself repeatedly that this mission, alongside being trusted to take it on, was an honour, he begged for permission to stay in the Wizarding world. He was honest, confiding in Albus, admitting to feeling like an animal, like he might be losing himself to what he was. He also talked about how distant he was beginning to feel from his friends. Albus was kind and understanding but made it very clear to Remus that the Order needed him. It had to be him, he had to be strong enough. Remus steeled himself, realising he didn’t have a choice in the matter, and agreed, leaving with a newfound determination that did nothing to dispel the hollow feeling in his chest and subsequent emotional exhaustion. For the first time in his life, he felt a spark of resentment for the man he admired above all.

Doubts began to creep in, and he found him considering whether Dumbledore would have asked him to return to Greyback if he saw him as Remus and not as a werewolf. Whenever he was forced to do something terrible, or he felt something inside him break, the anger that used to be directed at Greyback, was suddenly directed at Dumbledore. And then the attack happened. Peter Pettigrew was outed as a spy and Remus felt his entire world beginning to crumble. He began to convince himself that if he had been more present, if he hadn’t spent so much time isolated from the people he loved, maybe he would have noticed something was wrong. Maybe he could have saved Sirius from the trauma of confronting him alone.

Taking a break from his mission at Dumbledore’s unexpected behest, as he Order withdraws from the public eye and continues its work underground, Remus is currently living in a small one bedroom flat, situated in the heart of London. His parents were quick to welcome him home but his mother, Hope, is incredibly ill. He refuses to burden his parents with his own illness so when a friend of his father’s, travelling to escape London’s heavy atmosphere, offered up her apartment, he accepted the offer, incredibly grateful. Whenever he makes a little money, he sends some to her, appreciative of her kindness despite believing if she discovered his condition she would be disgusted by the fact that he had even set foot inside of her home.

Additional Information: He perfected the Patronus charm at the considerably young age of 13 after learning about Dementors in DADA. He became obsessed with the idea of running into one someday. Knowing he had more darkness in his life than most students his age, he was convinced he would be overpowered and lose his soul. He knew he would only be able to conquer his fear by mastering the Patronus Charm and spent months hard at work until he was finally successful. That being said, he only conjures a corporeal Patronus in front of friends, ashamed, and embarrassed by the shape it takes. He is very good at protection spells. Remus prefers defensive spells purely because he feels as though if he attacks first he is succumbing to the monster hiding just below the surface of his skin. He is beyond terrible at potions, overwhelmed by the scents of the ingredients. The scar from Fenrir’s bite is on his left shoulder and he does everything he can to ensure nobody sees it. When he is nervous or scared he reaches under the collar of his shirt to press his hand against it, using it as a reminder of how strong and capable he is. It doesn’t calm him down but it helps to steel his resolution. If he is upset, he touches it to punish himself, to remind himself that he isn’t human, that he doesn’t deserve to be happy. Remus is terrified of being asked to return to the feral wolves. He’s aware his only true value to the Order of the Phoenix lies in his Lycanthropy. Hope Lupin is sick with a Muggle illness that has been worsening for nearly a year. Remus strongly suspects it is far more serious than his parents are willing to admit, and harbours a lot of guilt, believing he manifested her poor health after using it as a cover for his routine disappearances while at school. Although small, gentle, and quiet, on occasion when things become too much Remus finds himself filled with anger and frustration. During these times he often takes his pain out on his closest friends, the only people to ever see him so unravelled. He still suffers nightmares due to the trauma of his attack. When he was 4, Greyback climbed through his bedroom window, half-transformed, to bite, and infect him. Even at the age of 21, if it is dark outside, he finds it unbearable to be in a room with an open window.

#revelio.intro #remus lupin #intro #muse #animal attack tw #childhood trauma tw #terminal illness tw #parental illness tw

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the-uptake · 5 years ago

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Faith in Higher Things

The Uptake, With Symbiotic Self-Indulgence. Book III, Chapter 8. Go to previous. Go to next. TWs: Stitches, metropolitan crisis onset. Count the questions on one hand...

________________________________

Augen nudged ‘Choly awake in the pitch dark.

“We should get going,” the vampire whispered.

The Lazarus Hall. Right. ‘Choly’s chest tightened, that the overly sweet aroma wasn’t an air freshener, and he struggled upright. ‘Choly had slept atop Augen’s clothes, and Augen retrieved them, but prioritized helping his friend dress first. The vampire turned on his reader flashlight, and handed ‘Choly’s orthotics to him one at a time. 'Choly permitted him to help only with the corset.

“Are you okay?” ‘Choly started. “Your ribs. You’re okay now?”

Met with a hush, his not-quite-lucid mind gurgled with the memory of the textures and structures that had filled his lap, though in the dark, he could not process how long ago. Augen’s reader light grazed insinuations of thick, clear slime in places, rucked up on the concrete floor like well-traversed urban snow. The vampire seemed himself again. ‘Choly pursed his lips tight as he got his muck-stiff shirt and sweater back on over his head. Winning an argument with his leg brace, he sat at last in his wheelchair, and Augen finally got dressed, and they took stock of their effects one last time. Then, the two slipped out of the once-parlor the same way they’d entered.

Barring the discomfort of the dried weighted crunch of their clothing, to onlookers stepping into the fluorescent lighting of the broad hallways only punctuated their disarray. Augen took ‘Choly to the public restrooms on that floor to freshen up, and also to refill his canteen. Augen fished a new hair tie from his apron, and re-added any jewelry he’d removed prior to his healing process. ‘Choly pinched at bit at his itching chin suture, then took his next dose of both medication with a few palmfuls of sink water. He grunted with a squint at still not having eyeglasses. By the time he sank back in his chair to recollect himself, someone was inching him aside to get at the sink for themselves, unable to wait his turn any longer. Augen stepped up to cart him onward before ‘Choly could knock out any of the stiffness in his shirt.

“Guess it’s a good thing I bought instead of rented,” ‘Choly commented of his wheelchair with a huff, on their way to the elevator. He checked the time on his reader, as well as the battery--10:02, 46%--and sneered as he spoke next. “You sure made a mess of, well, us. Not sure we can get whatever that was out of the upholstery.”

“You mean I can’t just take you through a car wash?” the vampire jeered, doing his very best to ignore the crustiness of his hair. He leaned near to his ear. “Nothing a few bottles of dish detergent won’t fix.”

“...Take it you’ve got experience with this...”

He almost asked Augen what the chemical at the parlor had been, but Augen propelled them both into the then-ready elevator car, placing themselves amid a group of office-dwelling folk. In an undesirable silence, they aimed for the top floor as they had before. He thought to text Cecil, but recalled that if April Fool’s had damaged his reader, it surely must have destroyed Cecil’s. On the way to ground level, no fewer than two people shied from the rank, chalky musk the two exuded.

They made their way back HP way. ‘Choly removed his sweater, Augen tucking it into the back pouch of the chair, and wore his dark tank with the salmon dress shirt unbuttoned over it. The orthotic corset crested over the neckline, but although partly his binding garment, he didn’t wholly consider it unmentionable.

The line for the optician’s department took no time. The optician examined ‘Choly, and when she annotated both his updated prescription and his metahuman cataracts as addenda to his serial file, he requested the prescription for personal reference as well. The eyewear specialist offered him two catalogues to pick from, but he immediately declined the ShipShop options in favor of restoring his vision promptly by picking options available in-house. He still knew very little of Leveler culture, especially the nuances of navigating medical provisions, but mostly anyone no matter their upbringing knew how to select their earpiece and frame combination from the catalogues. Billable or not, Though he had a pair from ShipShop, if a body had eyewear these days, they more than likely came from the optician’s edition of a BF Meehl catalogue. It had been since the last time he’d broken his glasses that he’d even bothered to update his prescription, let alone his frames, and he enjoyed the aesthetic refresh.

Within fifteen minutes of the exam, a pair of thick flat round black acetate frames sat on his face. Separate but built-in sunglasses lenses hinged independently at an upward diagonal. Everything had features again. Distinct, clear, and tangible. They made him feel a bit like a spider. Though he wished there were something more of substance to the impression, he didn’t mind feeling at all like a spider.

Augen’s only reaction to the acquisition was to casually flip down the sunglasses to their useful position. ‘Choly didn’t object until they started moving again.

“H-- hey, what now? We’re getting coffee and breakfast now, right? Wasn’t that the turn to go to the cafeteria? Isn’t this the way out of the hos--”

“--To the nearest Overflow.” Augen snipped out a halted breath, and kept pushing when ‘Choly gave no reply which would suggest diminished confusion. “Just how long ago was it, that you said you leveled up?”

“My serial’s just shy of three years old now.” His shoulders shrank as he gripped the armrests.

“And still don’t know how all this stuff works? How any of billing works? Tch! I don’t mind helping, but a little communication wouldn’t hurt. So glad I nicked the room slip from you. Knowing you, you’d have tossed it by now. I know you don’t carry a wallet, either, and--”

“--Just how do you know that?” He couldn’t understand how a slip of paper could carry any sense of irreplaceability, and his ears burned.

“I pay attention. Which you really should. It’s like you don’t even know what’s going on and you could hardly be more dead center of it without being in Cecil’s shoes.”

‘Choly frowned meaningfully.

“He says to the injured man full of opiates... and completely empty of caffeine.”

“Coffee. Right. Overflow first. One thing at a time.”

He supposed he could forgive that Augen wasn’t a morning person either.

They crossed the street to The Granfalloon Overflow, and entered the busy glass-front lobby with pewter carpeting, to find easily two hundred patrons stood in the check-in line. ‘Choly held their place while Augen stepped out to grab them both coffee. By the time the vampire returned, the dirt-black dark roast had dipped to a quaffable temperature, and only twenty almost-customers remained in front of the pair.

“Let me do the talking when we get up to the desk window. I got you a filled croissant. You like berry, right?”

“Anything but grape,” he appreciated. He shrugged at the instructions. “You’ve got the... room slip, or whatever it is. Y’need my serial, too?”

“The slip has everything we need on it.”

Rather than ask what Cecil’s room had to do with anything, ‘Choly alternated between his caffeine and his fruit jelly and nearly gelatinous cheese pastry. He said nothing of the texture it had gained from growing cold, grateful simply to have something in his stomach.

When they got up to the window, ‘Choly watched as Augen spoke quietly to the clerk through the slotted glass, and scanned the carbon-paper slip the vampire produced. The clerk looked up to ‘Choly, then back to the computer terminal. Augen objected at one point, but resigned to whatever the clerk had either asked or insinuated, and scanned a second item Augen produced before pocketing again. A pair of cardkeys ejected under the counter, and Augen retrieved them with a mention of gratitude before they sped off to one end of the large, open lobby to let the next patron check in.

“I thought you said the slip was all--”

“--They think I’m going to be present enough to count as an occupant to your room, since I’m pushing your wheelchair. I had to give them a serial.”

“But you’re not...” The word ‘documented’ stayed in his lungs.

“You collect a great many useful things riverbed scavenging the Hudson.”

‘Choly’s mouth tightened and his eyes widened behind his myopic, dark glasses.

“The more important question is, I never stayed in a hotel in my whole life, but I know how slagging expensive it is to. Who’s paying for this!”

“How do I put this? Overflows are hotels sponsored by the hospital they’re affiliated with. Usually they’re either part of the same building, or are right next door attached by skybridges. We needed the slip because staying at an Overflow sponsored location can be tacked onto the billing package for most inpatient hospital stays. I didn’t want you to have to cash in on it, because you responded so poorly to the billing process at the start, but in your current state, and knowing how long Cecil will be here, you really don’t have much choice. Especially since Tri-City bound transportation is still down. Every other lodging option is going to cost you, out of pocket, up front, and I can guarantee that, in the current state of things, anywhere else would charge you ten to fifteen times more for sake of emergency-stimulated opportunism.”

“You mean... If Cecil has visitors, they can stay at specific hotels and the tab goes on his billing?” When Augen didn’t correct him, he let out a low whistle. “I don’t think we should order room service...”

Pale gold halls radiated off the lobby to both sides at several angles. Following the digital wall-projected signage Augen took ‘Choly down one crowded frontmost hall in pursuit of the cluster of indoor stores and eateries. They popped into the convenience store. Augen tucked a shopping basked in ‘Choly’s lap and tossed a few things in it as they navigated around other shoppers in the small tiled space. As an ice-breaker, the vampire picked out a few beverages including a travel size assortment of liquors, then made ‘Choly pick out some shelf-stable sandwiches and some toiletries. ‘Choly also nudged him to get some isopropyl alcohol, and a bleach kit bottle, the latter of which elicited a wry smirk. Just as he’d said nothing of Augen’s very obviously faked identification, Augen said nothing of the bleach. The two paid separately, and for each purchase, the clerk required they swipe their cardkey. As they left the store with their plastic bags of items, Augen mumbled with a smile.

“You’re not allowed to ruin my rum with that.”

“The vodk--” ‘Choly sputtered. “The rubbing alcohol’s not for drinking--”

“You don’t add either to good rum.”

“Says who!”

They returned to the lobby and took a different hall in search of an elevator, a sleek mirror-wainscoted thing which they then rode to the ninth floor. The halls snaked such that Augen jerked about ‘Choly’s chair on their way to the room which would be loaned out to those who had visited the patient in HP’s room ICB-3406 the day before. Augen slid one cardkey and held the door open so ‘Choly could wheel himself inside. Accessing just about any facet of the hotel required a swipe of a cardkey to prove tenancy, down to making a purchase at any of the establishments on the ground floor, ‘Choly supposed.

“You know I appreciate you going down there with me,” Augen said as they sized up the place. He stepped into the bathroom with the bags, but did not shut the door.

The walls were cream, the carpet deep blue. A single queen-size bed, dark red. Wall-mount television. Small fridge. Two nightstands, one with a lamp and the other a tabletop-surface kiosk. Inset lighting around the whole perimeter of the ceiling. The vague floral residue of recent cleaning. The far wall, with a pair of full-length windows to either side of the small table with two upholstered chairs. The windows, with light-blocking treatments the same blue as the carpeting.

“And you know I appreciate you taking me with you. What even was that stuff? You never told me if your rib healed.”

“To be entirely fair, I haven’t a clue. What’s important is, it did the trick.” The vampire returned empty-handed to ‘Choly, and handed him a cardkey to put in his bag. “We can talk later. Now that you’re situated, I really must go check on some things. You are situated, yet? You’ll be all right a few hours?”

“But--” Augen pecked him on the cheek and patted him on the head. The parting gesture boxed his rationality, and he nodded. “Yeah, I’ll text you if I hear anything new from Cecil.”

“I’m not going far. We can go visit him when I get back.” The door shut behind Augen.

‘Choly stared off into the room in ever-mounting exhaustion. He tried to stand, only to have to shoulder the wall to continue succeeding. He seethed, and groaned.

“I should have gotten him to help me into the bath.”

He made it into the bathroom and sat on the toilet seat. The leg brace came off, then so did everything else. He almost searched for the bags of things from the convenience store, only to see the vampire had gone in the bathroom before to set them out for him on the dark marbled counter. Toiletries to one side of the sink, food and drink at the other. A jar of instant coffee stood among the bottles, and he couldn’t help but laugh at Augen thinking it something of a priority for ‘Choly. He pulled a towel and washcloth off the acrylic bath shelving, set his glasses on the counter, and resigned to drawing a bath to keep his leg elevated.

While the water filled the tub, he retrieved the sewing kit from his diamond bag and hobbled back to set it at the sink. He ripped open the carton of bathtub cherry bombs and flicked one of the small spheres into the water. He hadn’t gotten a good look at his face stitches earlier, and took the time to scrutinize its integrity uninterrupted. He turned the water off. He punctured the safety film over the mouth of the rubbing alcohol and doused some toilet paper with it to dab at his chin. A hard pinch produced a drizzle of thin pus, and he winced as he sopped at it. He removed the dressing from his leg, and palpated it finding similar heat and tightness. With some nervousness as to the soundness of his unsupported leg bones, the brace went back on without replacing the gauze. Of what he’d read of the instructions e-mail he’d received from Dr. Thornton’s care, the brace was waterproof, but submerging it was not recommended. He slipped into the effervescent tub with his leg elevated, and let the aromatics permeate his aching body.

He sat on the toilet lid and towel dried his hair a bit, and used the clippers from the sewing kit to open the brush and comb pack. It had been five years since he last changed the color of his hair, but he’d maintained coloration of all kinds throughout his twenties, and he didn’t deem it necessary to re-read the instructions label on the bleach. So he took off the cap to remove the rigid safety stick that ran down the full depth of the bottle right down the center, and closed it up again. Through the soft squeezable plastic of the outer bottle, he felt around for the long brittle tube now floating loose, and he cracked it and shook the contents to incorporate them. Once the bottle felt warm, he parted his dark, damp bangtails down the middle, and flipped the squeeze-top, to bleach the right half only. A few bobby pins held the hair in place while the chemicals worked. He set an alarm on his reader for thirty minutes.

A seam ripper popped the stitches on his face, and tweezers picked out the fibers. He leaned over the sink and let the basin catch the alcohol he poured over his chin. Alcohol-sterilized needle and thread reaffixed the seven stitches, and he snipped the thread off close to the knot. Sitting on the toilet lid again, he inspected his leg injury as best he could for the angles he could twist himself. A lot of the swelling around the wound site had gone down, and he imagined the warmth of the bath had helped both its drainage and circulation. Drainage. Despite the wound depth, Thornton had not implemented any kind of tubing to permit the free expression of fluids. He grimaced at the oversight. His portable sewing kit only included what he needed to do touch-up maintenance, not full repairs. Until he got home and had access to his own scissors and surgical knives, he’d have to keep a closer eye on the healing progress than he did of most of his skin repairs in past years. He patted it with rubbing alcohol, and replaced the dressing. The alarm vibrated his reader. He rinsed his hair.

He gazed at his naked reflection for some time before he at least put his tank top back on. Were it not for the marbling of railroad scars all over his body, and the absence of the forearm tattoo he’d gotten when he’d started dating Cecil, he nearly would have thought it were ten years earlier. At a point where everything felt like it was falling apart, at least he could do this. Stalkers might not have placed a wholesome value in superficial alterations such as these, but Levelers embraced it with enthusiasm. He sniffed in detachment. For once, the split dye job made him feel more like he fit in, rather than stuck out.

Uncertain as to the next time he’d get a change of clothes, he rinsed out his socks and underwear with soap and water, and laid them on the edge of the tub.

‘Choly carried his then-cold coffee to the nightstand and sat back in the plush down comfort of the hotel room’s queen size bed. He turned on the television. He crinkled his nose to push up his new glasses, then crinkled his nose again. The extra weight would take some getting used to, but he’d wanted prescription sunglasses for years. Augen had made good on his promise, not to leave ‘Choly unattended until they could replace his eyeglasses, but he couldn’t tell how long he’d be alone in the hotel room. Or if Augen would return anytime soon. How hard would it be for him to get himself back over to the HP to see Cecil?

He scratched at his fresh leg dressing with an absent sneer, and sank into the most comfortable bedding he’d ever put his ass on. He felt like he hadn’t been able to just sit down and rest for entire days, and a long soak followed by an unfathomably soft bed had him drifting off already. For the time being, it was just him and the endless procession of webcasts covering and discussing the aftermath of the Central bombing. He slipped under the thick, lightweight down comforter and cream colored sheets. And he kept scratching.

Channel flipping felt like a game of roulette where every pocket was a black number. Speculation as to how the stalkers had managed such a feat. Avowal that the quarantine’s integrity would be both investigated and reinforced. Discussion as to how FEMA would reinstate structured emergency power, and the potential duration of the power and server outage. Insistence that the displacement of nearly twelve million people would not be permanent. Assuagement of the mounting hysteria in other fusion cities, that similar could happen to them. The disaster had laid bare a glaring vulnerability of the grid, and it was all the federal agencies could do to swear something like this could never happen again. A fluke. No one could come up with an answer as to how it could have possibly happened.

But no one seemed to want answers. They just wanted it fixed, and they wanted someone to blame. And yet, no one seemed to pinpoint that the hybrids had anything to gain in the aftermath. All ‘Choly could think of, staring down the collateral, was how the geek bar the day before had erupted with good will over what the bombing did to the servers, and the absolute rapture of the tiger host. Augen had been so distressed over the other hybrids’ elation. Augen was right, that ‘Choly had been out of it even before agreeing to an April Fool’s Day lunch. But how out of it had ‘Choly been? Had he missed something important in the chaos, that could explain it all? What other harmful data stored at Central had been negated in the act?

His head hurt. He pulled out his reader to look at the pictures he’d taken the day before. Pallet after pallet of eight drums each. Bright orange, with no designating marker besides the semicircle insignia of BF Meehl. Thinking on it more, was Meehl the owner, or just the manufacturer of the drum itself? Regardless of origin, the drums very clearly had been left there within the last year. He’d have to take it up with Augen later. Maybe Augen would be able to tell him all about what had happened at The Lazarus Hall yesterday. Lacking anything of substance to distract himself with researching the Meehl drums, he resumed paying attention to the television.

It had taken two days, but the media coverage had shifted away from visuals of the explosion itself and moved onto the current state of Tri-City. Automobiles no longer stippled the treadless avenues, instead replaced by the congestion of emergency vehicles. Projected advertisements no longer flooded every neobrutalist surface with light, the Wolfram concrete taking on a lifelessness it had never known for even a moment. Everything had come to a standstill, threatening societal necrosis. People couldn’t transit.

Supermarkets had been upturned by Levelers attempting to hoard all shelf-stable food supplies they could locate, but after a single day no one could even get to them, not even to clock in for work. One channel’s webcast had postulated that FEMA had paired up with ShipShop, and together in the coming week they would set up emergency relief kiosks at every major housing block. If people hadn’t made it out of their apartment buildings by day one, the government had issued a warning to shelter in place.

None of it had felt real until he came across a segment regarding ShipShop’s FEMA-issue thetic delivery drone fleet. He lost the remote in the sheets at this point and leaned forward, staring in dread at these nonliving agency employees. Most thetic personalities he’d experienced firsthand had been only waist-up, a humanoid shape installed on whatever vehicle or robotic vending to stand in where a clerk might have functioned in prior decades. These androids made no exception, and would engage the ShipShop kiosks in order to dispense the variety of goods available through the company that had been ordered by those inhabiting the block where the kiosk had been placed. Either ShipShop or FEMA knew in advance that this would be a long-term arrangement, for how much effort they were putting forth to erect these kiosks... and for how the kiosks themselves would be run by full-body thetics.

The chaos of it all, it hadn’t just been Cecil getting critically injured and losing his hearing, hadn’t just been ‘Choly getting his leg broken by gunshot wound, hadn’t just been ‘Choly and Augen tumbling headlong into a completely unprotected vehicle crash. The known casualties had since tallied in the thousands, and the longer Tri-City went without power, those numbers would only continue growing, ShipShop or no.

He stuttered, patting frantically in the sheets to relocate the remote. He couldn’t remember if he’d been sure to stay on non-decimal stations. Once he’d relocated it and double-checked it was on Channel 43, he pulled up the hotel’s terms of service on his reader to check what was complimentary versus what cost extra. Provided he only pulled up non-decimal channels on a television, and only pulled up decimal channels on any non-television, there’d be no charge. The thought of having to keep them straight worsened his headache, and he curled up in the bed as best he could with the leg brace still on.

His reader chirped and buzzed for an incoming phone call, and he wouldn’t have picked up, but his services identified the caller as Hillock Plaza.

“I, hello?”

“Good morning,” Cecil greeted in a playful, low affect. “I got word you settled into a room at the Granfalloon. Glad I didn’t have to ring through to your room, though. Means your reader survived.”

“Good morning? It’s almost one o’clock. Yeah, I’ve told you f’years, they don’t make ‘em like they used to.” He grinned tiredly, relieved just to hear his boyfriend’s voice. “I miss you.”

“Miss you, too. I didn’t dream you visited me, if you’ve checked into Overflow. I was starting to worry if you were all right.”

“I’ll have some of whatever you’re having, if you can’t remember the conversations that have been happening in that hospital room. Wait, shit.” He shot up in the bed. “They haven’t had you sign anything without me there, right? Right!?”

“Not that I know of. Why? What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? Abandon help me, do you even know what day of the week it is?” He calmed himself a tic, and his face screwed up in a complicated grief. “What billing option did you take?”

“Alternative. What’s wrong?”

"...Are you worried that the HP will come find you down the line and do other truck to you?”

“What? No! That’s bogeyman talk. ‘Choly everything is all right. I’m just recovering from a bad injury. And can’t hear on my own anymore. It’s fine.”

“On what planet is what you described ‘fine’! ...Ben said he could have kept you from billing.” A long silence held. “Cecil?”

“I wouldn’t have wanted him to. I don’t want to talk about that.”

“So you’re happy with the thetic halo? With having that stuff installed in your head?”

“Completely. It’ll take getting used to. But it works. And I can sync with data protocols to make phone calls with it. It’s how I’m calling you right now.”

“...I took alternative for my broken leg, too. You don’t think...”

“I don’t know anyone who’s taken alternative, and a hospital made good on the thread. It’s literally just a legal loophole where people aren’t allowed to sue the hospital. What has Augen been telling you? Damn.”

A notification from Augen butted in, and ‘Choly flopped over in the bed after reading it. ||Shoe size?|| He sent along all his size information with an eye-roll, poorly containing his glee at the likelihood that such a question could mean fresh clothing would come along sooner than anticipated.

“Sorry about that. I think his ears were burning... Nothing’s gonna be the same after the other day. I’m just... worried about tomorrow. And the next day. And... and...”

“Focus on today, babe. It’s all we can do right now. I need to sleep more. I was just calling to check on you. I’ll see about texting you from the hospital room. Love you.”

“Talking later sounds very good. Love you.”

‘Choly shoved his reader under the pillow with a strange, empty frown and got more comfortable. He nearly thought he was hearing sirens going off outside, but chalked it up to feeling like he’d drifted off. He glanced up at the television in detachment, only halfway processing the ‘breaking news’ streamer that at some point had begun chasing the bottom of the screen. He didn’t recognize the plume of smoke as belonging to any of the footage he’d seen before. The bombing had occurred after nightfall, and this footage took place in broad daylight. He stifled a yelp when he bent his leg a way the brace wouldn’t let him, and scrambled through the sheets to find the remote again and turn up the sound.

“...Second series of explosions at Tri-City’s Central building just twenty minutes ago. Despite Tesla’s best efforts, damage to the nuclear generators still resulted in their overheating, and it began the process of meltdown just hours after the detonations which rocked much of Tri-City on April First. Radiation has been confirmed far in excess of safe levels. Emergency devices are on-site now both containing the heat and radiation, as well as assessing the best course for containment. This is not a test: If you are still stationed withing any five-kilometer radius of Central and can receive this broadcast, evacuate immediately to a nuclear shelter and await further instruction. Available buses from all adjacent sectors will be running nonstop for Tri-City for the next twelve hours to facilitate evacuation. Everyone else within a thirty-kilometer radius of Central is to shelter in place. I repeat--”

Was... the true goal of the bombing to perpetrate another maximum scale nuclear disaster? Had the terrorist only made it look like they’d gone after the servers, so no one would think of potential reactor damage until it was too late? Immediately, his mind drifted in a soup through other urban nuclear explosions. Middletown, Palo Verde, Okuma... Pripyat... At this very moment, Central’s fuel was melting through its containment and slipping nearer and nearer the Newark Bay. Imagery haunted him of the different shapes various known corium flows had adopted in their pursuit of final rest. Slag swaths pouring ironically from water coolant release valves... Stalactites from falling through floodwater... The largest diamond in the world, formed through the sheer heat and density of a completely dry meltdown... He no longer dreaded the proximity to the disaster, instead transfixed.

“Hey, now, sleeping is just about the last thing I’d expect you to be doing right now.�� Augen threw down two very large shopping bags on the end of the bed and rooted through one. He went into the bathroom with an armful. “Sorry I took so long. The line at the ShipShop kiosk was godawful.”

“Good morning to you, too.” ‘Choly grunted upright and finished off his cold coffee. “I was wondering where the hell you went. I didn’t mean to drift off, for what it’s worth.”

“I see the TV’s on. You saw the news, right?”

“I, yeah.” He glanced up at the screen to see emergency alerts still flooded the broadcasts. “Yeah, I didn’t think I dreamed that.”

“Slept well, then, I’m guessing?”

“As well as to be expected. Why were you asking about my sizing?” he started, looking slyly to the bags.

“You can root around and see for yourself. I’m going to help myself to your shampoo and stuff. As unnatural as it feels, I’m going to bathe twice in one week. Last night justifies it.”

One of the bags contained several boxes including a pair of shoes, while the other was a bunch of garments. He pulled out a few, and took off his tank to try on a few. A black tee stated a simple but gaudy ‘Sorry I’m late, I was masturbating.’ He scoffed, but, drawn to it, put it on immediately. He’d have said something, but the shower was already going, so he kept fishing in the clothes. Augen had brought him lacy black underwear, in both thong and bikini cut, and flustering he favored the latter for lack of another option. With the shirt he paired vein-print leggings. The shoes were low-heeled black boots, with pointed toes accented with a metallic tip. He returned them to the shoe box to pull out the other boxes in the bag. Several of them were carefully wrapped but otherwise unlabeled. Of those he could discern, he couldn’t really identify what they were.

“Figured you’d like that one the best.”

Augen came out in a white button-down and a pair of straight-leg black jeans, drying his hair.

“What, the shirt? You sure you didn’t get that for you?”

“A mirror, darkly. In these trying times, I took it upon myself to devise a new fashion capsule for you.” Augen flopped onto the bed to recline beside ‘Choly. “Zahnsammlung. You tend to emulate metahumans you fancy. I figure you could emulate me for a change.”

“Awfully presumptuous of you, to think I would,” ‘Choly feigned, laying back beside him eye to eye. “It’s been years since I emulated anyone besides myself... Tell me, what qualifications can you cite? To justify that degree of fixation?”

“Just how many demonstrations must I provide you, before you understand I’m the real deal?” Heavy-lidded, Augen played with ‘Choly’s bleached hair. “I’ve always thought this was a good look for you.”

“Have you ever...?”

“Bleached? Once. I thought it was too much trouble to do upkeep. How do you think Cecil will react to seeing you did your hair again?”

“He’ll think, that I think I’m guilty of everything that’s going on. And to some extent, he’s right. My brain tends to cope, badly, by accepting some or all of the blame for things I can’t have possibly done. But no, I guess I did it because even little expressions of self-control can anchor the chaos around a person.”

“Speaking of the chaos...” At Augen’s prompting ‘Choly flipped to be spooned, the vampire cuddled up to him and petted his hair. “Tell me, how you think it’s all going down, down there...”

‘Choly’s eyes rolled back, knowing exactly what buttons Augen set out to push.

“...Well, Central’s energy series is a ring of nine reactors...”

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#biopunk #cyberpunk #dystopian #the uptake #with symbiotic self indulgence #melanochro kara #august ritter #george cecil

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