#anyway it's a really extensive subject and a fascinating one. for later. sleep now

[raendown]

Next up in the follower milestone gift fics is for @FollowingTheRivers, prompt word torpid. 

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 1397 Rated: T+ Summary: It wouldn't occur to him until much later just how ready he'd been to trust the one who found him.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

Anchor in  the Drift

Maybe, Tobirama thought, if he tried very hard, he could invent a new seal on the spot that would allow him to stand up outside of his own body and carry it to safety. That sounded a great deal like a job for those solid clones he was still working on but not really, that wasn’t entirely what he wanted. What he actually wanted was to close his eyes and just let consciousness swim away from him like it was trying so very hard to do. Unfortunately that was definitely a bad idea at the moment. Very unsafe. Entirely likely to get him killed. 

If only he could muster the energy to care. 

Something grunted nearby and Tobirama gave some thought to a curious hum. Then decided against it. Humming felt like too much effort. The sheer act of living felt like too much effort right now while his head swam wildly between perfect silence and jangling alarm. 

“You’re a hard man to find, Senju.”

Fingers carded through his hair and Tobirama found he was so much more interested in that sensation than any of the other ones he could barely feel anymore anyway. His eyes fell closed and then his eyebrows pinched when that seemed to act as a signal for the fingers to stop. That wasn’t right. He hadn’t meant for them to stop. 

“Uh...alright. So that’s not normal. You good?”

He would be perfectly good if only the fingers would come back to his hair but the very thought of cracking his jaw open to communicate such felt like asking himself to lift a mountain. Instead he whined faintly and hoped that would do. It was hard to remember the last time he’d made any sound even close to a whine over the past decade or more but thankfully whatever or whoever might be attached to those fingers seemed to get the point because a moment later they were there again and Tobirama could only smile happily with his eyes still closed. How nice. 

“Not good. Definitely not good. Look, whatever’s up, you need to live long enough for me to make fun of you for this, okay?” 

Obviously he had no answer for that but as long as he got to enjoy the sensation of being petted like some common housecat he found that he just did not care. Even when the entire weight of his body was suddenly floating, torpid limbs lifted and positioned for him, still he had no thoughts but to admire the pleasant cool sensation of whatever he was being draped across. How lovely just when his body was starting to feel too warm. Clearly the universe had decided to realign itself in order to grant him his every wish. Actually, no, that wasn’t entirely true. The hand in his hair was gone and that was simply unacceptable if he was supposed to be getting everything he wanted. 

For a short time Tobirama drifted, vaguely cognizant of the air rushing past him just a tad too firm to be a pleasant breeze, barely aware that whether his eyes were open or closed the world existed as the same blurry haze. Something might be wrong. It should probably bother him that he couldn’t tell. Mostly the last shreds of his thought processing abilities were taken up by wondering if he’d somehow developed the ability to fly. Now that would be an absolutely fascinating development, one he would need to perform extensive tests on, though just the thought of performing any sort of experiment at the moment made him want to lay down and go to sleep. Was he already laying down? It was hard to tell. 

“Here we go, easy now. Don’t even think about flopping around or something. If you get any more hurt than however much you already are I’ll kill you myself after you’re better.”

Whoever that was they appeared to lack a certain sense of their own irony. Tobirama wanted to laugh but lacked the energy. He settled for mentally composing a rather disjointed speech about how pleasant this person’s voice was, very soothing to listen to. Definitely not helping his urges towards sleep. 

“Tobirama. Can you even fucking hear me?”

“Nnh...”

“Oh thank fuck. You know, I had my own shit to do. I’m tired too. Got my own fucking mission and everything. But no! No, here I am pulling your chestnuts out of the fire and you can’t even roll over to thank me. Fucking hell.” 

It took a few moments of lethargic musing but eventually Tobirama realized he knew that voice. Or, rather, he knew the shape and cadence of those swear words, could have recognized that tone in the soundless vacuum of outer space. Apparently Madara had come to rescue him. That was sweet. It would have been sweeter if he could have done it without the bitching but that was just his way and Tobirama was self aware enough to admit he wouldn't change the man. Well, he was usually pretty self aware. Right at that moment he wasn’t aware of much more than the haze in his veins and the warmth of something tracing along his cheek.

When did they stop moving?

“Back with me again?” Madara’s voice asked him and this time Tobirama found it in himself to hum the affirmative. “Not a single injury on you; this is actual bullshit. I’ve seen all sorts of reactions to chakra exhaustion but this one’s new. You’re more coherent when you’re drunk, for fuck’s sake.”

“Hair.”

“...what?”

“My hair.”

Somewhere above him he could hear the disconnected spluttering that had soothed him off in to dreams more times than anyone could count until finally Madara gave a violent snort. “More words, dumb ass. I don’t know what the hell you’re on about.”

Annoyed, Tobirama reached deep for any remaining tatters of energy. It was just enough to form what he hoped was a very irritated frown. 

“Liked it. Touched my hair. Again.” As soon as the words were out his muscles liquified and his jaw snapped shut, utterly drained. The trained shinobi in the back of his mind piped up at last to note smugly that he had, at least, completed his mission. Unfortunately he’d also run across not one but two squads of resistance on his way out of Lightning Country and fighting when he was already exhausted was never fun. If he tried he could almost recall the way it felt to drain the very last of his chakra and hit the ground in tandem with the man he’d just killed. If Madara hadn’t found him - well, there was really no point in thinking about it. No doubt he’d be getting a lecture on the subject later anyway.

It would be worth it, though, because Madara’s hands were back in his hair and if he had the energy Tobirama would have purred like one of Izuna’s damn cats. Even with the low grumbling diatribe that accompanied the petting it was soothing, grounding. Tobirama couldn’t even bring himself to care that he was being so open about something he enjoyed, a vulnerability neither of them could easily afford even after several years of marriage. 

Time had already lost all meaning so the fact that hours or minutes could have gone by didn’t even occur to him. Consciousness came and went but Tobirama couldn't tell the difference. He definitely noticed when his chakra finally started regenerating itself enough that he fell in to a true sleep, waking probably too many hours later to the rumble of Madara snoring. Which meant he’d fallen asleep sitting up. He only snored when he slept sitting up. It took a shamefully long time for Tobirama to realize he was sprawled out on cold ground with his torso leaning back against the other man’s chest, thick fingers buried in his hair with the sort of grip that spoke of an unwillingness to let go. 

Why, he wondered, were they sitting alone in a dark cave? 

“One of us did something stupid,” he muttered to the silence around them. Madara’s snore jumped in time with whatever he was dreaming about and Tobirama sighed, eyes sliding closed again. “You can tell me about it later.” 

For now he was tired, limbs like molasses, more than happy to lie here without moving for just a few more hours. 

#rae writes #follower milestone #madatobi #tobirama #madara #fanfiction

[rivetgoth]

OC #5 - Giorgio Marcello

Okay! Here’s another OC profile. Admittedly I’ve been dreading this one because to be honest Giorgio is probably my worst/one of my worst OCs morally and I gained like a dozen followers this week LOL, but I guess this is the chance for y’all to really see how stupid some of these characters are. *thinking* Anyway, he’s much more of a villain character, and he’s probably the only character of mine where I really felt the need to throw a big “I don’t condone his actions” stamp on him, because while I obviously don’t write any of my characters to be morally commendable I think Giorgio is good at being especially deplorable. He’s very fun though. I think absolutely irredeemably bad characters who are still stylish and obnoxious are really fun to work with ;D

Giorgio is the older half brother of Giovanni and Vittoria. He’s in his early forties and… bi. While Giovanni and Vittoria are the product of their father’s second marriage, Giorgio is a product of the first. He has an elder full blood brother, Antonio, and a twin brother, Matteo. All three of them were really spoiled as kids, their parents Vittorio and Maria loved them dearly and even after Maria died Vittorio remained very fond of them. However, because it was only fair, Antonio was destined to inherit the majority of the Marcello Candy Company as the oldest child, but Giorgio and Matteo were still loved and extremely spoiled and encouraged to become powerful, high-ranking members of the Fresno Megalopolis. So Giorgio grew up in a strange spot, where he was not necessarily his father’s favorite, but he was still spoiled and loved dearly, but he always felt that hint of inferiority and desperation to prove himself and get on top. As adults, Matteo would end up becoming a high ranking officer and eventual a captain of the Street Patrol, the Fresno police force, and Giorgio would go to medical school to become a successful celebrity plastic surgeon at Himmel Medicine.

Giorgio is interested in glamour and beauty and pushing the limits of the human body to achieve perfection. He doesn’t really care if anybody lives or dies as long as it moves forward his research. He frequently undergoes surgeries of his own, sometimes even operating on himself directly for fun, constantly changing his look entirely. He looks like the product of countless, extensive plastic surgeries, and he’s always adding to the changes and modifying his looks in new and exciting ways. On a physical level alone he’s very inspired by people like Pete Burns. In the public eye he’s very charming. Many people adore him, considering him a pioneer of the medical world and a crucial figure of Fresno, although many people (including his younger half sister, Sofia, an avid activist against the treatment of her family to the rest of the city) are also very vocally against his inhumane experiments and lack of consideration for any life but his own… But with the power he has between both Himmel Medicine and the Marcello Candy Company backing him up, he tends to manage to get away with almost anything.

Matteo and Giorgio are extremely close...  maybe too close, if you know what I mean, but nothing has necessarily been proven to the public about the extent of their relationship. Either way, through his connections at Himmel, Giorgio has been able to actively “partner” with the Street Patrol and specifically his brother many times. In fact, Giorgio was a huge advocate for Himmel buying out the Street Patrol force and the prison complex, so that Himmel would be able to arrest criminals and drag them straight to the operating room. And, if crime rates have been low and Giorgio is restless, bored, or feeling inspired, he can convince Matteo to go out and find someone who won’t be missed and arrest them for whatever he can possibly charge them on, no matter how much of a stretch it is, giving Giorgio a new plaything.

He’s pioneered a number of experimental surgeries, and what he finds the most fascinating is experimenting with living creatures on a genetic level, tampering with their DNA and genetic structure and modifying their very cells. One of his first “successful” projects was creating a genetically enhanced super-K9 for the Street Patrol, as a gift to his brother. Although it took the “sacrifice” of countless litters of puppies, he eventually was able to bioengineer a german shepherd beast at least triple the size of a regular shepherd and significantly more vicious. A typical Street Patrol K-9 can’t be near anything except the Patrol officer assigned to it, or it’ll do everything in its power to maul it to death. These are terrible and aggressive animals that should never have been born. They tend to look kind of awful and rotting, because the experiment still wasn’t completely perfect upon releasing the first batch, and the dogs’ flesh couldn’t fully grow and stretch around the size of the enhanced canines, making it look like it’s covered in exposed muscle and horribly stretched skin. It’s a really terrible animal that’s killed plenty of poor people, and, since animals are easier to get ahold of for testing than people, Giorgio continues to work with dogs, trying to perfect his K-9 creation, further the designer pet market, as well as using them as early test subjects for eventual human experiments as well.

Once Giorgio had moved up from dogs he began experimenting with splicing and modifying genetics in humans. One of his early experiments for such a thing was the Icarus Project, which involved sewing non-human, artificial body parts to humans as a form of extreme cosmetic surgery. Angel Steel was the primary subject of Giorgio’s major experiment within the Icarus Project, which involved grafting huge, artificial angel wings into Angel’s muscles and flesh and nervous system. Thenceforth, as Angel was trapped within Himmel’s control, Giorgio and Angel had an extensive relationship together. Giorgio was endlessly amused by Angel and saw him as something of a muse. He saw him as a living doll and would endlessly experiment with him and toy with him, careful for one of the first times in his life not to kill his subject. Giorgio frequently bribed and drugged Angel with the heavily addictive candies he received in bulk from his father’s company. For Giorgio, this was perhaps the closest he had ever come to feeling like he truly “loved” someone. He awkwardly would attempt to keep Angel chained to him emotionally in whatever way possible, such as genetically engineering puppies and insisting that he and Angel were to raise them together. He never really cared at all about Angel’s actual well being though, and what he didn’t realize was that over the course of this relationship Angel was successfully gathering bits and pieces of information that would eventually lead to his escape. A heartbroken Giorgio would put a bounty on his head and label him a dangerous terrorist to the public, stating that he would reward whoever brought him Angel’s body, alive or dead, with a hefty reward.

...Which brings me to another one of Giorgio’s experiments, Leatherette, who is one of the bounty hunters that Giorgio sends out after Angel. Leatherette is going to get his own post as well (I might do him next, actually), but to keep things short, he was once a member of the Street Patrol and a close friend to Matteo, and after attempting to defect, was arrested and brought directly by Matteo to Giorgio, telling him to do whatever he wished to him. Giorgio used Leatherette as a guinea pig for the next step of the Icarus Project, moving beyond grafting external things to the body and now beginning to tamper with humans on a genetic level, specifically by attempting to insert animal DNA into a living being. Afraid that adding too much would kill his subject, he spliced only a small amount of bull DNA with Leatherette’s preexisting DNA, creating a sort of minotaur bull-man monster out of him, and partnering with Himmel’s neurology department to brainwash him into a sort of soldier for Himmel… More on all of that later.

Giorgio’s experiments moved forward from there to creating 200%ers, people spliced with an entire living creature - Think of The Fly. When Brundle and the fly go through the machine together, they come out a single thing. 100% human and 100% fly. This, with some more control, is what Giorgio expands his operations to. Thus, the living being to come out the other end would be 200% alive. One of the first people to undergo this operation is Cosmo Halloway, Vittoria’s boyfriend. I’m going to talk about him soon too, but basically, he splices himself with a snake and becomes half snake.

Currently, one of Giorgio’s main concerns is that he cannot genetically modify unborn humans without killing the fetus. He can modify dogs but genetically modified human fetuses are consistently stillborn. This is a problem alongside his other main focus, which is removing the sterility that happens whenever a 200%er is created, since, similar to the way a donkey and a horse mating results in sterile offspring, a human splicing their DNA with another creature leaves them sterile. It’s a work in progress, and he doesn’t really care how many people have to die and how many infants are born stillborn to get his desired results.

Giorgio finds something very erotic in the surgery process and the intimacy of the “penetration” once someone is cut open. He sleeps with patients often, entirely regardless of gender, and even outside of the operating room he enjoys things like knifeplay. He doesn’t really see other people as people at all, but as “canvasses” for his art, which are his experiments. He doesn’t really have any moral decency whatsoever and is happy to exert his power to get his way in any scenario. He’s a very vocal advocate for far right late capitalism where the local megacorps that run the world - Himmel, in particular, of course - get a limitless amount of power. He’s entirely depraved and debauched. And the thing is, because he’s so successful, he’s just allowed to keep doing what he does. No one has stopped him yet, and he’s still a hugely prolific figure in Fresno. He’s good at putting on a smile when he’s in the public eye and insisting that what he does is for the common good. He has a lot in common with Giovanni in the sense that he’s very flamboyant and adores glamour, but unlike GIovanni, who lives with quite a bit of guilt and self-hate to the point that he finds it in himself to self-reflect at times and regret his actions or be aware of other people’s existence, Giorgio never has those moments… except, perhaps briefly, when Angel Steel ran away. But by then it was far too late (to fix what he had done or learn from it).

Giovanni and Vittoria want nothing to do with Giorgio. Although he didn’t outright beat Giovanni as Antonio did, he was always full of snide remarks and cruel comments towards both Giovanni and Vittoria. Vittoria eventually ends up forced to interact with him a bit, as her boyfriend is so entangled in Giorgio’s experiments now, but they’re not on remotely good terms. Giorgio is especially close to Matteo, of course, and also frequently enjoys the company of Antonio, although even Antonio finds him easy to get annoyed by. He’s really a terrible person.

#daily OC talk

[queen-swagzilla]

Born in Dreams, Forged in Blood -  Chapter 1

Rated: M (largely for profanity)

Summary: Katsuki Bakugo was not a good communicator. To be fair, neither was Izuku Midoriya. Looking back on their dumpster fire of a friendship, communication was probably the most significant missing piece in their interpersonal puzzle. Luckily, their translator is back in town, and they're about to take UA by storm.

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She kept her eyes glued to her phone, scrolling lazily as she ignored the whispers that sprang up around her. As each person entered the classroom, the murmurs grew louder.

“Who is she?”

“You think she’s in the wrong classroom?”

“She looks kinda mean.”

“She looks like a delinquent.”

Idiots. Did they really not realize how loud they were being? She kept scrolling, opting to read through the hero analysis forum instead of indulging their curiosity. There was some excellent information about Bubble Girl and Centipeder that she wanted to dive into. Nighteye’s sidekicks were always fascinating, and she’d much rather learn about them than deal with petty high school crap.

“What the hell are you doing here?” A gruff voice demanded from the doorway. Finally, she looked up.

“Nice. Really welcoming.” She replied dryly.

“Answer the fucking question.” Katsuki snapped.

“If you’re looking for welcoming…or friendly, Bakugo’s the wrong person. He’s more of an acquired taste.” A girl on the other end of the classroom joked. The one who had said she looked mean. She snorted but didn’t respond.

“Shut the hell up, Kirby.” Katsuki glowered. “Seriously Sana, why are you here?”

“BAKUGO! You are being very rude!” This time, it was an uptight dude with glasses.

“At least he fucking greeted me directly instead of insulting me within earshot.” She snapped, finally turning to glare at them. “You don’t fucking know me, and I don’t need you to tell me how shit works with Katsuki.” Glasses and Kirby both looked affronted, but Katsuki was grinning.

“Good. For a minute there I thought you’d lost your teeth.” He dropped into the desk next to her. “But you still haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like?”

“It looks like you’re sitting in my classroom and not explaining yourself.” He grunted. “Does Deku know you’re here?”

“Nope! It was supposed to be a surprise. Where is he?”

“How the fuck should I know?” He demanded. She leveled him with an unimpressed stare, and he rolled his eyes. “He’s in the infirmary after breaking his entire fucking body during training.”

“He’s still in the infirmary?” The annoying girl yelped. Sana rounded on her, eyes flashing.

“Hey, I’m trying to have a conversation. Wanna keep your big nose out of it?” She snapped.

“I MUST ASK THAT YOU TREAT US WITH RESPECT!” Glasses shouted.

She scoffed. “Like you treated me with respect? Whispering about me while I was right here? I don’t think you even tried to lower your voice. You—“ she pointed at the Kirby. “Said I look mean, and you—“ she pointed at Glasses. “Said I look like a delinquent. So step the fuck off me and stay out of my business.”

“Easy, Sana. They’re Deku’s best friends. Round-Face is Uraraka and Four-Eyes is Iida, our class rep.”

“If these are his best friends, we need to talk to him about his shitty taste in people.” She muttered to him. He snorted.

“Deku likes everyone. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be Deku. His friendship requirements are breathing and having a pulse.” He rolled his eyes.

“Whatever.” She turned her gaze back to the now tremendously offended duo. “Keep your noses out of my business. Same goes for any of you who were talking shit when you thought I wasn’t listening.”

“Seriously, dude, take it down a notch. You don’t want to be lashing out when Aizawa gets here. Pay them back in training.” Katsuki muttered. She grinned at him—a sharp, toothy, vicious-looking thing.

“Figured it out?”

“I’m not stupid.” He snapped. “I was surprised.”

“A good surprise?” She prodded. He glared at her mutinously, and her grin widened.

“No. You’re a pain in the ass and I hate you.”

“Liar.”

“Woah!” A surprised voice sounded from the doorway. “You’re talking to him and he’s not yelling! That’s awesome!” A spiky-haired redhead bounded toward them, followed by a blonde boy, a black-haired boy, a pink (like literally head-to-toe pink) girl, and a purple-haired girl.

“What, does he usually just scream at everyone?” She asked dryly.

“Yeah! Our boy’s feral, but it looks like you’ve got the magic touch. Only like…three people do, and it’s not exactly reliable.” The blonde one explained. She snorted. That sounded about right, but—

“I thought you’d grown out of that.” She muttered. He glared at her.

“Maybe they understand each other. She seems like she’s basically the girl version of Bakugo, ribbit.”

“Shut the fuck up Frog-face.” Katsuki snarled. “I don’t care what you think of me, but don’t you dare talk shit about her. You don’t know her.”

The silence that boomed through the room was deafening. “Being the girl version of you isn’t an insult. It’s not really true, but it’s not an insult.” Sana said after a long, surprised moment.

“Trust me, she meant it as one.” He snapped.

“Alright, problem children. Sit down and shut up.” Aizawa grumbled as he dragged himself into the classroom. The class hastened to comply. “First of all, as I imagine you’ve noticed, we have a new student—Sana Kimura. She was scouted by Principal Nezu after an incident with a villain in Kyoto. I trust you’ll all welcome her to 1-A.” He drawled. “Second, Midoriya won’t be joining us today due to his most recent set of injuries. Recovery Girl has informed me that she will not be relaxing visiting hours, so if you want to see him, you see him before 8 pm and leave as soon as visiting hours are over. If you try to overstay your welcome, you will be barred from future visiting hours indefinitely.”

Sana raised her hand. “Excuse me, sir. He usually bounces back faster. Is something wrong?”

“No. The damage was too extensive to be healed in one pass, so she’s keeping him longer. Her quirk drains stamina, so she’s keeping him in the infirmary. No need for concern.” He assured her. “You’ll find that Midoriya spends about half his time in the infirmary. The shock and concern will eventually fade.”

Katsuki snorted. “She’s more of a mother hen than my actual mother. Not a chance.”

“Shut your face.” She grumbled, kicking at his chair.

“Anyways,” Aizawa said, interrupting before they could start arguing.”We’ll be skipping team exercises until Midoriya returns, just so that we can keep the playing ground fair. Since we have a student with abilities that we aren’t familiar with yet, I’d like for you all to be on the same page when we start sparring while she’s included.”

“Sensei, Deku already knows what her quirk is.” Katsuki interrupted.

“That may be, but I’d wager he hasn’t seen it used in quite some time, let alone fought against it. The more information his classmates can gain, the less objective I can be regarding your ability to make quick evaluations or learn from previous experiences. I’d rather you all take on those challenges together. Besides, I’d like to have more teachers available when we do our initial evaluation of Miss Kimura’s ability and potential.”

Katsuki seemed to accept that logic, so he slumped back in his seat.

“So we won’t be training today? At all?” The candy-cane looking dude from the back asked, voice monotone. Iida looked rather sour at the thought, frowning deeply. She didn’t really care unless he yelled about it later. The guy was fuckin’ loud.

“I’m going to allow you to use homeroom as a study period, and for hero training, you can choose to either train physically or continue to develop your coursework. Some of you are performing disastrously in your core subjects, and I’d strongly advise you to prepare for your exams.” His eyes skated over the room, landing in a few key spots that she didn’t pay attention to. “Use the extra time wisely, and don’t do anything stupid.” Sana watched in amusement as the adult-in-charge whipped out a sleeping bag and curled up in a cocoon on the classroom floor.

“Yo, Bakubro—could you help me with the calc homework? I’m stuck on number ten.” The redhead spiky dude asked.

“Why didn’t you ask me last night, Shitty Hair?”

“You were asleep by the time I got to it!” He complained.

Katsuki sighed…well, growled, and held out his hand. “Let me see what you tried so far.” He turned to Sana. “This is Eijirou Kirishima. The blond one is Denki Kaminari. That’s Hanta Sero, Pinky is Mina Ashido, and AirPods is Kyoka Jiro.”

She gaped. “Woah, you actually learned their names? You must really like them.” She chuckled incredulously. He muttered under his breath, so quickly that it sounded like a growl to their companions, but she heard it clear as day.

“Shut the fuck up.” He’d said. “If they know that I actually like them, they’ll want to hang out even more.”

She threw her head back and laughed, but acquiesced. “Well, I trust your taste in friends. You’re more discerning than Zuku. He’d befriend a serial killer if he had the chance.” She said, still chuckling. “It’s nice to meet you guys.”

The redhead grinned. “Nice to meet you too! How do you know Bakubro and Midoriya?”

“Her mom went to college with our moms. I’ve been stuck with her since birth.” Katsuki snapped.

“Right, that’s definitely why you called me and Deku-screeched at me for an hour when you got accepted to UA.” She drawled. He glared at her, snarling.

“Deku-screeched?” Earlobe girl—Jiro—snorted.

“You know how Zuku mutters super fast under his breath? Well when he gets super excited about it, sometimes he does it really loudly. He sounds kinda like an auctioneer, but with Present Mic’s quirk.” Sana replied. “I thought he was trying to blow my eardrums out when he called.”

“First of all, shut the fuck up. Second of all, at least I told you that I got in. Third, Aizawa said you were scouted after a villain attack. You haven’t said shit about a villain attack. Start talking.” Katsuki demanded.

“I thought you wanted me to shut the fuck up.” She teased. The glare he shot her this time was different. Yeah, it could have melted glass, but it was a little more pleading. She sighed. “Can I tell you later? When Zuku’s here? I figured we could catch up on everything at once. I think between the three of us, there are some things we don’t want to talk about more than once, if possible.”

He glowered but conceded. “Fine. But we are talking about this.” His voice dropped again, too low for the rest to hear. “You and fucking Deku are going to give me heart attacks.”

She ducked her head, inky black hair falling into her eyes. “Of course we’ll talk about it. Sorry, Kacchan.” There was a dramatic collection of gasps, and she glanced at Katsuki’s friends. “What?”

“N-nobody but Midoriya is allowed to call him that!” Kaminari stammered. She laughed.

“Sorry, Zuku might have started it, but it’s a childhood friend privilege.” She replied. “He couldn’t pronounce Kacchan’s name when we were younger, and I liked it because it sounded cute. It’s really just for me and Zuku, though. At least, as far as I know.”

“Yeah, because I hate it, but I can’t get you two to stop.”

“Yeah? Then why did you blow up your couch the last time I called you Bakugo?” She snickered.

“Stop exposing me, asshole.” He growled, turning to the messy homework that Kirishima had slid onto his desk.

“While he’s making sure Kiri doesn’t fail, why don’t you tell us about yourself?” Jiro suggested, pulling her chair closer.

“YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE STUDYING!” Four-Eyes barked. “PLEASE FOLLOW MR. AIZAWA’S DIRECTIONS! MISS KIMURA MUST HAVE WORK TO CATCH UP ON!”

“What did I just say about minding your own business? I can make my own decisions.” Sana snapped. “But if you guys need to study, I can help! Kacchan and I can tag team!” She offered, switching gears from being pissed at Iida to smiling pleasantly at Katsuki’s friends, who were making her feel substantially more welcome than the rest of the class had.

“We’re actually caught up for once, and I think we can revise later.” Mina smiled. “We’re supposed to make you feel welcome, right? We wanna get to know you! But thanks for offering.”

“Yeah, I might take you up on that later. Bakugo’s smart, but he can be vicious.” Kaminari joked.

They all ignored Katsuki’s answering snarl. “Alright, then. Well, what do you want to know?” She asked, a little nervous. It was always nerve-wracking being the new girl.

“Where did you transfer from?” Jiro asked.

“Shiketsu. I didn’t apply to UA—it would have cost too much for me to get an apartment.”

“Even though mom and Auntie Inko both said they’d let you stay with us,” Katsuki muttered. She ignored him.

“Since you’re living in the dorms now, accommodations are taken care of. It all worked out. Even if I hate the reason the dorms were built.” She continued, shooting a nasty glare at the back of Katsuki’s head.

“I didn’t want to get kidnapped by shitty, delusional villains.” He growled.

“What’s your quirk?” Kirishima asked, leaning in.

“Uh…well, it’s called Kinesis. But I guess vibration is a simpler way to explain it.” She shrugged. “My hero name will be Aftershock.”

“That’s way better than King Explosion Murder.” Kaminari sniggered. Sana pinned Katsuki with another glare.

“That is not your hero name. Zuku and I worked really hard on your hero name! AND you helped me with mine!” She pouted. He ignored her. “I swear, if I see King Explosion Murder on your provisional license, I’ll start ruining your perfect, disciplinarian life routine, starting with your sleep schedule. You know I can.” She threatened.

“Give it a rest. It felt weird to use it with the shit going on between me n’ Deku. Doesn’t mean I don’t like the name.” He mumbled. She pinned him with a completely unimpressed look, and he knew exactly what it meant.

It meant ‘you can stop the shit between you and Deku whenever you decide to stop being a jackass, and you know it.'

“What hero name did you come up with for him?” Kirishima asked. Sana grinned.

“Ground Zero.” She stated proudly.

“That one’s awesome!” Mina cried. “Did you pick one for Midoriya too? I mean, Deku isn’t the worst hero name, but it’s not really as awesome as his quirk.”

She bit her lip. “Kacchan and I have differing opinions on that.” She stated, deflecting. Sure, she had an idea, but she had no idea if Katsuki did. Hell, she hadn’t even seen them since Izuku had mysteriously developed a quirk, and her little broccoli boy had seemed to want to keep his late development under wraps.

She’d still seen that quirk of his in action at the Sports Festival. It was amazing, and she wanted answers.

“Well, what’s your idea?” Mina pushed, leaning closer.

She pursed her lips. “I came up with it when he wasn’t that good at using his quirk. You know; he’d break his bones if he used it, but he still stood up for everyone and tried to keep his friends safe, even if that meant fighting off bullies quirkless. I thought he should be called ’Stronghold’.” She explained.

“And I thought that screwed with our theme—battle focused heroes with conceptual names.” Katsuki supplied, annoyed. Sana raised her eyebrows in surprise. He was willingly sharing information about his relationship with Izuku? “I thought he should be called Last Stand. Like the person who’ll keep going, even when they don’t think they’ll win.”

“Those are both great!” Kirishima cheered. “Super manly!”

“Why would you need his name to match?” Kaminari asked, face screwed up in confusion.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but that’s a good question.” Jiro agreed, annoyed that Kaminari had thought of it first. Sana glanced at Katsuki who looked a little constipated if she was being honest.

But he surprised her again, dropping Kirishima’s homework and turning to the group. “When we were young, the three of us wanted to be a hero team.” He barked. “When we were coming up with names, it felt weird that our ideas didn’t fit. But that’s not a fucking problem anymore since we’re not a fucking team."

Sana pouted. “We’re not?”

Katsuki refused to look her in the eye when he replied, “Absolutely fucking not.”

“But Kacchan—“

“No.”

She huffed. “I go to school here now, you know. I’ve got three whole years to wear you down.” She reminded him. All of a sudden, Katsuki looked like he wanted to jump out of a window. “If you make it to graduation without caving, I’ll still have family dinners and holidays. You might as well accept it, Kacchan.”

“I don’t have to accept shit.” He grunted, going back to the homework in front of him. His four friends watched them bicker, eyes bouncing between them. They had to wonder—who would come out on top? And if it wasn't Katsuki, they wondered if he’d really consider it a loss.

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[unsettlingshortstories]

The Road Virus Heads North

Stephen King (1999)

Richard Kinnell wasn't frightened when he first saw the picture at the yard sale in Rosewood.

He was fascinated by it, and he felt he'd had the good luck to find something which might be very special, but fright? No. It didn't occur to him until later ("not until it was too late," as he might have written in one of his own numbingly successful novels) that he had felt much the same way about certain illegal drugs as a young man.

He had gone down to Boston to participate in a PEN/New England conference tided "The Threat of Popularity." You could count on PEN to come up with such subjects, Kinnell had found; it was actually sort of comforting. He drove the two hundred and sixty miles from Derry rather than flying because he'd come to a plot impasse on his latest book and wanted some quiet time to try to work it out.

At the conference, he sat on a panel where people who should have known better asked him where he got his ideas and if he ever scared himself. He left the city by way of the Tobin Bridge, then got on Route 1. He never took the turnpike when he was trying to work out problems; the turnpike lulled him into a state that was like dreamless, waking sleep. It was restful, but not very creative. The stop-and-go traffic on the coast road, however, acted like grit inside an oyster-it created a fair amount of mental activity ... and sometimes even a pearl.

Not, he supposed, that his critics would use that word. In an issue of Esquire last year, Bradley Simons had begun his review of Nightmare City this way: "Richard Kinnell, who writes like Jeffery Dahmer cooks, has suffered a fresh bout of projectile vomiting. He has tided this most recent mass of ejecta Nightmare City."

Route 1 took him through Revere, Malden, Everett, and up the coast to Newburyport. Beyond Newburyport and just south of the Massachusetts-New Hampshire border was the tidy little town of Rosewood. A mile or so beyond the town center, he saw an array of cheap-looking goods spread out on the lawn of a two-story Cape. Propped against an avocado-colored electric stove was a sign reading YARD SALE. Cars were parked on both sides of the road, creating one of those bottlenecks which travelers unaffected by the yard sale mystique curse their way through. Kinnell liked yard sales, particularly the boxes of old books you sometimes found at them. He drove through the bottleneck, parked his Audi at the head of the line of cars pointed toward Maine and New Hampshire, then walked back.

A dozen or so people were circulating on the littered front lawn of the blue-and-gray Cape Cod. A large television stood to the left of the cement walk, its feet planted on four paper ashtrays that were doing absolutely nothing to protect the lawn. On top was a sign reading MAKE AN OFFER-YOU MIGHT BE SURPRISED. An electrical cord, augmented by an extension, mailed back from the TV and through the open front door. A fat woman sat in a lawn chair before it, shaded by an umbrella with CINZANO printed on the colorful scalloped flaps. There was a card table beside her with a cigar box, a pad of paper, and another handlettered sign on it. This sign read ALL SALES CASH, ALL SALES FINAL. The TV was on, turned to an afternoon soap opera where two beautiful young people looked on the verge of having deeply unsafe sex. The fat

woman glanced at Kinnell, then back at the TV. She looked at it for a moment, then looked back at him again. This time her mouth was slightly sprung.

Ah, Kinnell thought, looking around for the liquor box fined with paperbacks that was sure to be here someplace, a fan.

He didn't see any paperbacks, but he saw the picture, leaning against an ironing board and held in place by a couple of plastic laundry baskets, and his breath stopped in his throat. He wanted it at once.

He walked over with a casualness that felt exaggerated and dropped to one knee in front of it. The painting was a watercolor, and technically very good. Kinnell didn't care about that; technique didn't interest him (a fact the critics of his own work had duly noted). What he liked in works of art was content, and the more unsettling the better. This picture scored high in that department. He knelt between the two laundry baskets, which had been filled with a jumble of small appliances, and let his fingers slip over the glass facing of the picture. He glanced around briefly, looking for others like it, and saw none - only the usual yard sale art collection of Little Bo Peeps, praying hands, and gambling dogs.

He looked back at the framed watercolor, and in his mind he was already moving his suitcase into the backseat of the Audi so he could slip the picture comfortably into the trunk.

It showed a young man behind the wheel of a muscle car-maybe a Grand Am, maybe a GTX, something with a T-top, anyway - crossing the Tobin Bridge at sunset. The T-top was off, turning the black car into a half-assed convertible. The young man's left arm. was cocked on the door, his right wrist was draped casually over the wheel. Behind him, the sky was a bruise-colored mass of yellows and grays, streaked with veins of pink. The young man had lank blond hair that spilled over his low forehead. He was grinning, and his parted lips revealed teeth which were not teeth at all but fangs.

Or maybe they're filed to points, Kinnell thought. Maybe he's supposed to be a cannibal.

He liked that; liked the idea of a cannibal crossing the Tobin Bridge at sunset. In a Grand Am. He knew what most of the audience at the PEN panel discussion would have thought - Oh, yes, great picture for Rich Kinnell he probably wants it for inspiration, a feather to tickle his tired old gorge into one more fit of projectile vomiting-but most of those folks were ignoramuses, at least as far as his work went, and what was more, they treasured their ignorance, cossetted it the way some people inexplicably treasured and cossetted those stupid, mean-spirited little dogs that yapped at visitors and sometimes bit the paperboy's ankles. He hadn't been attracted to this painting because he wrote horror stories; he wrote horror stories because he was attracted to things like this painting. His fans sent him stuff - pictures, mostly - and he threw most of them away, not because they were bad art but because they were tiresome and predictable. One fan from Omaha had sent him a little ceramic sculpture of a screaming, horrified monkey's head poking out of a refrigerator door, however, and that one he had kept. It was unskillfully executed, but there was an unexpected juxtaposition there that lit UP his dials. This painting had some of the same quality, but it was even better. Much better.

As he was reaching for it, wanting to pick it up right now, this second, wanting to tuck it under his arm and proclaim his intentions, a voice spoke up behind him: "Aren't you Richard Kinnell?"

He jumped, then turned. The fat woman was standing directly behind him, blotting out most of the immediate landscape. She had put on fresh lipstick before approaching, and now her mouth had been transformed into a bleeding grin.

"Yes, I am," he said, smiling back.

Her eyes dropped to the picture. "I should have known you'd go right to that," she said, simpering. "It's so You."

"It is, isn't it?" he said, and smiled his best celebrity smile. "How much would you need for it?"

"Forty-five dollars," she said. "I'll be honest with you, I started it at seventy, but nobody likes it, so now it's marked down. If you come back tomorrow, you can probably have it for thirty." The simper had grown to frightening proportions. Kinnell could see little gray spit-buds in the dimples at the comers of her stretched mouth.

"I don't think I want to take that chance," he said. "I'll write you a check right now."

The simper continued to stretch; the woman now looked like some grotesque John Waters parody. Divine does Shirley Temple. "I'm really not supposed to take checks, but all right," she said, her tone that of a teenage girl finally consenting to have sex with her boyfriend. "Only while you have your pen out, could you write an autograph for my daughter? Her name is Michela?"

"What a beautiful name," Kinnell said automatically. He took the picture and followed the fat woman back to the card table. On the TV next to it, the lustful young people had been temporarily displaced by an elderly woman gobbling bran flakes.

" Michela reads all your books," the fat woman said. "Where in the world do you get all those crazy ideas?"

"I don't know," Kinnell said, smiling more widely than ever. "They just come to me. Isn't that amazing?. "

The yard sale minder's name was Judy Diment, and she lived in the house next door. When Kinnell asked her if she knew who the artist happened to be, she said she certainly did; Bobby Hastings had done it, and Bobby Hastings was the reason she was selling off the Hastings' things. "That's the only painting he didn't bum," she said. "Poor Iris! She's the one I really feel sorry for. I don't think George cared much, really. And I know he didn't understand why she wants to sell the house." She rolled her eyes in her large, sweaty face - the old can-you-imagine-that look. She took Kinnell's check when he tore it off, then gave him the pad where she had written down all the items she'd sold and the prices she'd obtained for them. "Just make it out to Michela," she said. "Pretty please with sugar on it?" The simper reappeared, like an old acquaintance you'd hoped was dead.

"Uh-huh," Kinnell said, and wrote his standard thanks-for-being-a-fan message. He didn't have to watch his hands or even think about it anymore, not after twenty-five years of writing autographs. "Tell me about the picture, and the Hastingses."

Judy Diment folded her pudgy hands in the manner of a woman about to recite a favorite story.

"Bobby was just twenty-three when he killed himself this spring. Can you believe that? He was the tortured genius type, you know, but still living at home." Her eyes rolled, again asking Kinnell if he could imagine it. "He must have had seventy, eighty paintings, plus all his sketchbooks. Down in the basement, they were." She pointed her chin at the Cape Cod, then looked at the picture of the fiendish young man driving across the Tobin Bridge at sunset. "Iris-that's Bobby's mother - said most of them were real bad, lots worse'n this. Stuff that'd curl your hair." She lowered her voice to a whisper, glancing at a woman who was looking at the Hastings' mismatched silverware and a pretty good collection of old McDonald's plastic glasses in a Honey, I Shrunk the Kids motif. "Most of them had sex stuff in them."

"Oh no," Kinnell said.

"He did the worst ones after he got on drugs," Judy Diment continued. "After he was dead-he hung himself down in the basement, where he used to paint-they found over a hundred of those little bottles they sell crack cocaine in. Aren't drugs awful, Mr. Kinnell?"

"They sure are."

"Anyway, I guess he finally just got to the end of his rope, no pun intended. He took all of his sketches and paintings out into the back yard-except for that one, I guess - and burned them. Then he hung himself down in the basement. He pinned a note to his shirt. It said, 'I can't stand what's happening to me.' Isn't that awful, Mr. Kinnell? Isn't that just the awfulest thing you ever heard?"

'Yes," Kinnell said, sincerely enough. "It just about is."

'Like I say, I think George would go right on living in the house if he had his druthers, " Judy Diment said. She took the sheet of paper with Michela's autograph on it, held it up next to Kinnell's check, and shook her head, as if the similarity of the signatures amazed her. "But men are different."

"Are they?"

"Oh, yes, much less sensitive. By the end of his life, Bobby Hastings was just skin and bone, dirty all the time-you could smell him - and he wore the same T-shirt, day in and day out. It had a picture of the Led Zeppelins on it. His eyes were red, he had a scraggle on his cheeks that you couldn't quite call a beard, and his pimples were coming back, like he was a teenager again. But she loved him, because a mother's love sees past all those things."

The woman who had been looking at the silverware and the glasses came over with a set of Star Wars placemats. Mrs. Diment took five I dollars for them, wrote the sale carefully down on her pad below "ONE DOZ. ASSORTED POTHOLDERS & HOTPADS," then turned back to Kinnell.

They went out to Arizona," she said, "to stay with Iris's folks. I know George is looking for work out there in Flagstaff-he's a draftsman-but I don't know if he's found any yet. If he has, I suppose we might not ever see them again here in Rosewood. She marked out all the stuff she wanted me to sell-Iris did - and told me I could keep twenty percent for my trouble. I'll send a check for the rest. There won't be much." She sighed.

"The picture is great," Kinnell said.

"Yeah, too bad he burned the rest, because most of this other stuff is your standard yard sale crap, pardon my French. What's that?"

Kinnell had turned the picture around. There was a length of Dymotape pasted to the back.

"A tide, I think."

"What does it say?"

He grabbed the picture by the sides and held it up so she could read it for herself This put the picture at eye level to him, and he studied it eagerly, once again taken by the simpleminded weirdness of the subject., kid behind the wheel of a muscle car, a kid with a nasty, knowing grin that revealed the filed points of an even nastier set of teeth.

It fits, he thought. If ever a title futted a painting, this one does.

" The Road Virus Heads North," she read. "I never noticed that when my boys were lugging stuff out. Is it the tide, do you think?"

"Must be." Kinnell couldn't take his eyes off the blond kid's grin. I know something, the grin said. I know something you never will.

"Well, I guess you'd have to believe the fella who did this was high on drugs," she said, sounding upset - authentically upset, Kinnell thought. "No wonder he could kill himself and break his mamma's heart."

"I've got to be heading north myself," Kinnell said, tucking the picture under his arm. "Thanks for-"

" Mr. Kinnell?"

"Yes?"

"Can I see your driver's license?" She apparently found nothing ironic or even amusing in this request. "I ought to write the number on the back of your check."

Kinnell put the picture down so he could dig for his wallet. "Sure. You bet."

The woman who'd bought the Star Wars placemats had paused on her way back to her car to watch some of the soap opera playing on the lawn TV. Now she glanced at the picture, which Kinnell had propped against his shins.

"Ag," she said. "Who'd want an ugly old thing like that? I'd think about it every time I turned the lights out."

"What's wrong with that?" Kinnell asked.

Kinnell's Aunt Trudy lived in Wells, which is about six miles north of the Maine - New Hampshire border. Kinnell pulled off at the exit which circled the bright green Wells water tower, the one with the comic sign on it (KEEP MAINE GREEN, BRING MONEY in letters four feet high), and five minutes later he was turning into the driveway of her neat little saltbox house. No TV sinking into the lawn on paper ashtrays here, only Aunt Trudy's amiable masses of flowers. Kinnell needed to pee and hadn't wanted to take care of that in a roadside rest stop when he could come here, but he also wanted an update on all the family gossip. Aunt Trudy retailed the best; she was to gossip what Zabar's is to deli. Also, of course, he wanted to show her his new acquisition.

She came out to meet him, gave him a hug, and covered his face with her patented little birdy-kisses, the ones that had made him shiver all over as a kid.

"Want to see something?" he asked her. "It'll blow your pantyhose off."

"What a charming thought," Aunt Trudy said, clasping her elbows in her palms and looking at him with amusement.

He opened the trunk and took out his new picture. It affected her, all right, but not in the way he had expected. The color fell out of her face in a sheet-he had never seen anything quite like it in his entire life. "It's horrible," she said in a tight, controlled voice. "I hate it. I suppose I can see what attracted you to it, Richie, but what you play at, it does for, real. Put it back in your trunk, like a good boy. And when you get to the Saco River, why don't you pull over into the breakdown lane and throw it in?"

He gaped at her. Aunt Trudy's lips were pressed tightly together to stop them trembling, and now her long, thin hands were not just clasping her elbows but clutching them, as if to keep her from flying away. At that moment she looked not sixty-one but ninety-one.

" Auntie?" Kinnell spoke tentatively, not sure what was going on here. "Auntie, what's wrong?"

"That." she said, unlocking her right hand and pointing at the picture. "I'm surprised you don't feel it more strongly yourself, an imaginative guy like you."

Well, he felt something, obviously he had, or he never would have unlimbered his checkbook in the first place. Aunt Trudy was feeling something else, though ... or something more. He turned the picture around so he could see it (he had been holding it out for her, so the side with the Dymotaped title faced him), and looked at it again. What he saw hit him in the chest and belly like a one-two punch.

The picture had changed, that was punch number one. Not much, but it had dearly changed. The young blond man's smile was wider, revealing more of those filed cannibal-teeth. His eyes were squinted down more, too, giving his face a look which was more knowing and nastier than ever.

The degree of a smile ... the vista of sharpened teeth widening slightly ... the tilt and squint of the eyes ... all pretty subjective stuff. A person could be mistaken about things like that, and of course he hadn't really studied the painting before buying it. Also, there had been the distraction of Mrs. Diment, who could probably talk the cock off a brass monkey.

But there was also punch number two, and that wasn't subjective. In the darkness of the Audi's trunk, the blond young man had turned his left arm, the one cocked on the door, so that Kinnell could now see a tattoo which had been hidden before. It was a vine-wrapped dagger with a bloody tip. Below it were words. Kinnell could make Out DEATH BEFORE, and he supposed you didn't have to be a big best-selling novelist to figure out the word that was still hidden. DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR was, after all, just the sort of a thing a hoodoo traveling man like this was apt to have on his arm. And an ace of spades or a pot plant on the other one, Kinnell thought.

"You hate it, don't you, Auntie?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, and now he saw an even more amazing thing: she had turned away from him, pretending to look out at the street (which was dozing and deserted in the hot afternoon sunlight), so she wouldn't have to look at the picture. "In fact, Auntie loathes it. Now put it away and come on into the house. I'll bet you need to use the bathroom."

Aunt Trudy recovered her savoir faire almost as soon as the watercolor was back in the trunk. They talked about Kinnell's mother (Pasadena), his sister (Baton Rouge), and his ex-wife, Sally (Nashua). Sally was a space-case who ran an animal shelter out of a double-wide trailer and published two newsletters each month. Survivors was filled with astral info and supposedly true tales of the spirit world; Visitors contained the reports of people who'd had close encounters with space aliens. Kinnell no longer went to fan conventions which specialized in fantasy and horror. One Sally in a lifetime, he sometimes told people, was enough.

When Aunt Trudy walked him back out to the car, it was fourthirty and he'd turned down the obligatory dinner invitation. "I can get most of the way back to Derry in daylight, if I leave now."

"Okay," she said. "And I'm sorry I was so mean about your picture. Of course you like it, you've always liked your ... your oddities. It just hit me the wrong way. That awful face. " She shuddered. "As if we were looking at him . . . and he was looking right back."

Kinnell grinned and kissed the tip of her nose. "You've got quite an imagination yourself, sweetheart."

"Of course, it runs in the family. Are you sure you don't want to use the facility again before you go?"

He shook his head. "That's not why I stop, anyway, not really."

"Oh? Why do you?"

He grinned. "Because you know who's being naughty and who's being nice. And you're not afraid to share what you know."

"Go on, get going," she said, pushing at his shoulder but clearly pleased. "If I were you, I'd want to get home quick. I wouldn't want that nasty guy riding along behind me in the dark, even in the trunk. I mean, did you see his teeth? Ag!"

He got on the turnpike, trading scenery for speed, and made it as far as the Gray service area before deciding to have another look at the picture. Some of his aunt's unease had transmitted itself to him like a germ, but he didn't think that was really the problem. The. problem was his perception that the picture had changed.

The service area featured the usual gourmet chow - burgers by Roy Rogers, cones by TCBY - and had a small, littered picnic and dogwalking area at the rear. Kinnell parked next to a van with Missouri plates, drew in a deep breath, let it out. He'd driven to Boston in order to kill some plot gremlins in the new book, which was pretty ironic. He'd spent the ride down working out what he'd say on the panel if certain tough questions were tossed at him, but none had been-once they'd found out he didn't know where he got his ideas, and yes, he did sometimes scare himself, they'd only wanted to know how you got an agent.

And now, heading back, he couldn't think of anything but the damned picture.

Had it changed? If it had, if the blond kid's arm had moved enough so he, Kinnell, could read a tattoo which had been partly hidden before, then he could write a column for one of Sally's magazines. Hell, a fourpart series. If, on the other hand, it wasn't changing, then ... what? He was suffering a hallucination? Having a breakdown? That was crap. His life was pretty much in order, and he felt good. Had, anyway, until his fascination with the picture had begun to waver into something else, something darker.

"Ah, fuck, you just saw it wrong the first time," he said out loud as he got out of the car. Well, maybe. Maybe. It wouldn't be the first time his head had screwed with his perceptions. That was also a part of what he did. Sometimes his imagination got a little ... well ...

"Feisty," Kinnell said, and opened the trunk. He took the picture out of the trunk and looked at it, and it was during the space of the ten seconds when he looked at it without remembering to breathe that he became authentically afraid of the thing, afraid the way you were afraid of a sudden dry rattle in the bushes, afraid the way you were when you saw an insect that would probably sting if you provoked it.

The blond driver was grinning insanely at him now-yes, at him, Kinnell was sure of it-with those filed cannibal-teeth exposed all the way to the gumlines. His eyes simultaneously glared and laughed. And the Tobin Bridge was gone. So was the Boston skyline. So was the sunset. It was almost dark in the painting now, the car and its wild rider illuminated by a single streetlamp that ran a buttery glow across the road and the car's chrome. It looked to Kinnell as if the car (he was pretty sure it was a Grand Am) was on the edge of a small town on Route 1, and he was pretty sure he knew what town it was-he had driven through it himself only a few hours ago.

"Rosewood," he muttered. "That's Rosewood. I'm pretty sure."

The Road Virus was heading north, all right, coming up Route 1 just as he had. The blond's left arm was still cocked out the window, but it had rotated enough back toward its original position so that Kinnell could no longer see the tattoo. But he knew it was there, didn't he? Yes, you bet.

The blond kid looked like a Metallica fan who had escaped from a mental asylum for the criminally insane.

"Jesus," Kinnell whispered, and the word seemed to come from someplace else, not from him. The strength suddenly ran out of his body, ran out like water from a bucket with a hole in the bottom, and he sat down heavily on the curb separating the parking lot from the dog-walking zone. He suddenly understood that this was the truth he'd missed in all his fiction, this was how people really reacted when they came face-to-face with something which made no rational sense. You felt as if you were bleeding to death, only inside your head.

"No wonder the guy who painted it killed himself," he croaked, still staring at the picture, at the ferocious grin, at the eyes that were both shrewd and stupid.

There was a note pinned to his shirt, Mrs. Diment had said. "I can't stand what's happening to me. " Isn't that awful, Mr. Kinnell?

Yes, it was awful, all right.

Really awful.

He got up, gripping the picture by its top, then strode across the dog-walking area. He kept his eyes trained strictly in front of him, looking for canine land mines. He did not look down at the picture. His legs felt trembly and untrustworthy, but they seemed to support him all right. just ahead, close to the belt of trees at the rear of the service area, was a pretty young thing in white shorts and a red halter. She was walking a cocker spaniel. She began to smile at Kinnell, then saw something in his face that straightened her lips out in a hurry. She headed left, and fast. The cocker didn't want to go that fast so she dragged it, coughing, in her wake.

The scrubby pines behind the service area sloped down to a boggy area that stank of plant and animal decomposition. The carpet of pine needles was a road litter fallout zone: burger wrappers, paper soft drink cups, TCBY napkins, beer cans, empty wine-cooler bottles, cigarette butts. He saw a used condom lying like a dead snail next to a torn pair of panties with the word TUESDAY stitched on them in cursive girly-girl script.

Now that he was here, he chanced another look down at the picture. He steeled himself for further changes even for the possibility that the painting would be in motion, like a movie in a frame - but there was none. There didn't have to be, Kinnell realized; the blond kid's face was enough. That stone-crazy grin. Those pointed teeth. The face said, Hey, old man, guess what? I'm done fucking with civilization. I'm a representative of the real generation X, the next millennium is tight here behind the wheel of this fine, high-steppin' mo-sheen.

Aunt Trudy's initial reaction to the painting had been to advise Kinnell that he should throw it into the Saco River. Auntie had been right. The Saco was now almost twenty miles behind him, but . .

"This'll do," he said. "I think this'll do just fine."

He raised the picture over his head like a guy holding up some kind of sports trophy for the postgame photographers and then heaved it down the slope. It flipped over twice, the frame caching winks of hazy late-day sun, then struck a tree. The glass facing shattered. The picture fell to the ground and then slid down the dry, needle-carpeted slope, as if down a chute. It landed in the bog, one comer of the frame protruding from a thick stand of reeds. Otherwise, there was nothing visible but the strew of broken glass, and Kinnell thought that went very well with the rest of the litter.

He turned and went back to his car, already picking up his mental trowel. He would wall this incident off in its own special niche, he thought ... and it occurred to him that that was probably what most people did when they ran into stuff like this. Liars and wannabees (or maybe in this case they were wannasees) wrote up their fantasies for publications like Survivors and called them truth; those who blundered into authentic occult phenomena kept their mouths shut and used those trowels. Because when cracks like this appeared in your life, you had to do something about them; if you didn't, they were apt to widen and sooner or later everything would fall in.

Kinnell glanced up and saw the pretty young thing watching him apprehensively from what she probably hoped was a safe distance. When she saw him looking at her, she turned around and started toward the restaurant building, once more dragging the cocker spaniel behind her and trying to keep as much sway Out of her hips as possible.

You think I'm crazy, don't you pretty girl? Kinnell thought. He saw he had left his trunk lid up. It gaped like a mouth. He slammed it shut. You and half the fiction-reading population of America, I guess. But I'm not crazy. Absolutely not. I just made a little mistake, that's all. Stopped at a yard sale I should have passed up. Anyone could have done it. You could have done it. And that picture

" What picture?" Rich Kinnell asked the hot summer evening, and tried on a smile. "I don't see any picture."

He slid behind the wheel of his Audi and started the engine. He looked at the fuel gauge and saw it had dropped under a half. He was going to need gas before he got home, but he thought he'd fill the tank a little further up the line. Right now all he wanted to do was to put a belt of miles - as thick a one as possible - between him and the discarded painting.

Once outside the city limits of Derry, Kansas Street becomes Kansas Road. As it approaches the incorporated town limits (an area that is actually open countryside), it becomes Kansas Lane. Not long after,, Kansas Lane passes between two fieldstone posts. Tar gives way to' gravel. What is one of Derry's busiest downtown streets eight miles east of here has become a driveway leading up a shallow hill, and on moonlit summer nights it glimmers like something out of an Alfred Noyes poem. At the top of the hill stands an angular, handsome barn-board structure with reflectorized windows, a stable that is actually a garage, and a satellite dish tilted at the stars. A waggish reporter from the Derry News once called it the House that Gore Built ... not meaning the vice president of the United States. Richard Kinnell simply called it home, and he parked in front of it that night with a sense of weary satisfaction. He felt as if he had lived through a week's worth of time since getting up in the Boston Harbor hotel that morning at nine o'clock.

No more yard sales, he thought, looking up at the moon. No more yard sales ever.

I "Amen," he said, and started toward the house. He probably should stick the car in the garage, but the hell with it. What he wanted right now was a drink, a light meal - something microwaveable - and then sleep. Preferably the kind without dreams. He couldn't wait to put this day behind him.

He stuck his key in the lock, turned it, and punched 3817 to silence the warning bleep from the burglar alarm panel. He turned on the front hall light, stepped through the door, pushed it shut behind him, began to turn, saw what was on the wall where his collection of framed book covers had been just two days ago, and screamed. In his head he screamed. Nothing actually came out of his mouth but a harsh exhalation of air. He heard a thump and a tuneless little jingle as his keys fell out of his relaxing hand and dropped to the carpet between his feet.

The Road Virus Heads North was no longer in the puckerbrush behind the Gray turnpike service area.

It was mounted on his entry wall.

It had changed yet again. The car was now parked in the driveway of the yard sale yard. The goods were still spread out everywhereglassware and furniture and ceramic knickknacks (Scottie dogs smoking pipes, bare-assed toddlers, winking fish), but now they gleamed beneath the light of the same skullface moon that rode in the sky above Kinnell's house. The TV was still there, too, and it was still on, casting its own pallid radiance onto the grass, and what lay in front of it, next to an overturned lawn chair. Judy Diment was on her back, and she was no longer all there. After a moment, Kinnell saw the rest. It was on the ironing board, dead eyes glowing like fifty-cent pieces in the moonlight.

The Grand Am's taillights were a blur of red-pink watercolor paint. It was Kinnell's first look at the car's back deck. Written across it in Old English letters were three words: THE ROAD VIRUS.

Makes perfect sense, Kinnell thought numbly. Not him, his car. Except for a guy like this, there's probably not much difference.

"This isn't happening," he whispered, except it was. Maybe it wouldn't have happened to someone a little less open to such things, but it was happening. And as he stared at the painting he found himself remembering the little sign on Judy Diment's card table. ALL SALES CASH, it had said (although she had taken his check, only adding his driver's license ID number for safety's sake). And it had said something else, too.

ALL SALES FINAL.

Kinnell walked past the picture and into the living room. He felt like a stranger inside his own body, and he sensed part of his mind groping for the trowel he had used earlier. He seemed to have misplaced it.

He turned on the TV, then the Toshiba satellite tuner which sat on top of it. He turned to V-14, and all the time he could feel the picture out there in the hall, pushing at the back of his head. The picture that had somehow beaten him here.

"Must have known a shortcut," Kinnell said, and laughed.

He hadn't been able to see much of the blond in this version of the picture, but there had been a blur behind the wheel which Kinnell assumed had been him. The Road Virus had finished his business in Rosewood. It was time to move north. Next stop

He brought a heavy steel door down on that thought, cutting it off before he could see all of it. "After all, I could still be imagining all this," he told the empty living room. Instead of comforting him, the hoarse, shaky quality of his voice frightened him even more. "This could be ... But he couldn't finish. All that came to him was an old song, belted out in the pseudo-hip style of some early '50s Sinatra done: This could be the start of something BIG ...

The tune oozing from the TV's stereo speakers wasn't Sinatra but Paul Simon, arranged for strings. The white computer type on the blue screen said WELCOME TO NEW ENGLAND NEWSWIRE. There were ordering instructions below this, but Kinnell didn't have to read them; he was a Newswire junkie and knew the drill by heart. He dialed, punched in his Mastercard number, then 508.

"You have ordered Newswire for [slight pause] central and northem Massachusetts," the robot voice said. "Thank you very m--"

Kinnell dropped the phone back into the cradle and stood looking at the New England Newswire logo, snapping his fingers nervously. "Come on," he said. "Come on, come on."

The screen flickered then, and the blue background became green. Words began scrolling up, something about a house fire in Taunton. This was followed by the latest on a dog-racing scandal, then tonight's weather - clear and mild. Kinnell was starting to relax, starting to wonder if he'd really seen what he thought he'd seen on the entryway wall or if it had been a bit of travel-induced fugue, when the TV beeped shrilly and the words BREAKING NEWS appeared. He stood watching the caps scroll up.

NENphAUG19/8:40P A ROSEWOOD WOMAN HAS BEEN BRUTALLY MURDER-ED WHILE DOING A FAVOR FOR AN ABSENT FRIEND. 38-YEAR-OLD JUDITH DIMENT WAS SAVAGELY HACKED TO DEATH ON THE LAWN OF HER NEIGHBOR'S HOUSE, WHERE SHE HAD BEEN CONDUCTING A YARD SALE. NO SCREAMS WERE HEARD AND MRS. DIMENT WAS NOT FOUND UNTIL EIGHT O'CLOCK, WHEN A NEIGHBOR ACROSS THE STREET CAME OVER TO COMPLAIN ABOUT LOUD TELEVISION NOISE. THE NEIGHBOR, DAVID GRAVES, SAID THAT MRS. DIMENT HAD BEEN DECAPITATED. "HER HEAD WAS ON THE IRONING BOARD," HE SAID. "IT WAS THE MOST AWFUL THING I'VE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE." GRAVES SAID HE HEARD NO SIGNS OF A STRUGGLE, ONLY THE TV AND, SHORTLY BEFORE FINDING THE BODY, A LOUD CAR, POSSIBLY EQUIPPED WITH A GLASSPACK MUFFLER, ACCELERATING AWAY FROM THE VICINITY ALONG ROUTE ONE. SPECULATION THAT THIS VEHICLE MAY HAVE BELONGED TO THE KILLER

Except that wasn't speculation; that was a simple fact.

Breathing hard, not quite panting, Kinnell hurried back into the entryway. The picture was still there, but it had changed once more. Now it showed two glaring white circles - headlights - with the dark shape of the car hulking behind them.

He's on the move again, Kinnell thought, and Aunt Trudy was on top of his mind now - sweet Aunt Trudy, who always knew who had been naughty and who had been nice. Aunt Trudy, who lived in Wells, no more than forty miles from Rosewood.

" God, please God, please send him by the coast road," Kinnell said, reaching for the picture. Was it his imagination or were the headlights farther apart now, as if the car were actually moving before his eyes ... but stealthily, the way the minute hand moved on a Pocket watch? "Send him by the coast road, please."

He tore the picture off the wall and ran back into the living room with it. The screen was in place before the fireplace, of course; it would be at least two months before a fire was wanted in here. Kinnell batted it aside and threw the painting in, breaking the glass fronting-which he had already broken once, at the Gray service area - against the firedogs. Then he pelted for the kitchen, wondering what he would do if this didn't work either.

It has to, he thought. It will because it has to, and that's A there is to it.

He opened the kitchen cabinets and pawed through them, spilling the oatmeal, spilling a canister of salt, spilling the vinegar. The bottle broken open on the counter and assaulted his nose and eyes with the high stink.

Not there. What he wanted wasn't there.

He raced into the pantry, looked behind the door - nothing but a plastic bucket and an 0 Cedar - and then on the shelf by the dryer. There it was, next to the briquets.

Lighter fluid.

He grabbed it and ran back, glancing at the telephone on the kitchen wall as he hurried by. He wanted to stop, wanted to call Aunt Trudy. Credibility wasn't an issue with her; if her favorite nephew called and told her to get out of the house, to get out light now, she would do it ... but what if the blond kid followed her? Chased her?

And he would. Kinnell knew he would.

He hurried across the living room and stopped in front of the fireplace.

"Jesus," he whispered. "Jesus, no."

The picture beneath the splintered glass no longer showed oncoming headlights. Now it showed the Grand Am on a sharply curving piece of road that could only be an exit ramp. Moonlight shone like liquid satin on the car's dark flank. In the background was a water tower, and the words on it were easily readable in the moonlight. KEEP MAINE GREEN, they said. BRING MONEY.

Kinnell didn't hit the picture with the first squeeze of lighter fluid; his hands were shaking badly and the aromatic liquid simply ran down the unbroken part of the glass, blurring the Road Virus's back deck. He took a deep breath, aimed, then squeezed again. This time the lighter fluid squirted in through the jagged hole made by one of the firedogs and ran down the picture, cutting through the paint, making it run, turning a Goodyear Wide Oval into a sooty teardrop.

Kinnell took one of the ornamental matches from the jar on the mantel, struck it on the hearth, and poked it in through the hole in the glass. The painting caught at once, fire billowing up and down across the Grand Am and the water tower. The remaining glass in the frame turned black, then broke outward in a shower of flaming pieces. Kinnell crunched them under his sneakers, putting them out before they could set the rug on fire.

He went to the phone and punched in Aunt Trudy's number, unaware that he was crying. On the third ring, his aunt's answering machine picked up. "Hello," Aunt Trudy said, "I know it encourages the burglars to say things like this, but I've gone up to Kennebunk to watch the new Harrison Ford movie. If you intend to break in, please don't take my china pigs. If you want to leave a message, do so at the beep."

Kinnell waited, then, keeping his voice as steady as possible, he said:

"It's Richie, Aunt Trudy. Call me when you get back, okay? No matter how late."

He hung up, looked at the TV, then dialed Newswire again, this time punching in the Maine area code. While the computers on the other end processed his order, he went back and used a poker to jab at the blackened, twisted thing in the fireplace. The stench was ghastly - it made the spilled vinegar smell like a flowerpatch in comparison-but Kinnell found he didn't mind. The picture was entirely gone, reduced to ash, and that made it worthwhile.

Mat if it comes back again?

"It won't," he said, putting the poker back and returning to the TV. "I'm sure it won't."

But every time the news scroll started to recycle, he got up to check. The picture was just ashes on the hearth ... and there was no word of elderly women being murdered in the Wells-Saco-Kennebunk area of the state. Kinnell kept watching, almost expecting to see A GRAND AM MOVING AT HIGH SPEED CRASHED INTO A KENNEBUNK MOVIE THEATER TONIGHT, KILLING AT LEAST TEN, but nothing of the sort showed up.

At a quarter of eleven the telephone rang. Kinnell snatched it up. "Hello?"

"It's Trudy, dear. Are you all right?"

"Yes, fine."

"You don't sound fine," she said. "Your voice sounds trembly and funny. What's wrong? What is it?" And then, chilling him but not really surprising him: "It's that picture you were so pleased with, isn't it? That goddamned picture!"

It calmed him somehow, that she should guess so much ... and, of course, there was the relief of knowing she was safe.

"Well, maybe," he said. "I had the heebie-jeebies all the way back here, so I burned it. In the fireplace."

She's going to find out about Judy Diment, you know, a voice inside warned. She doesn't have a twenty-thousand-dollar satellite hookup, but she does subscribe to the Union-Leader and this'll be on the front page. She'll put two and two together. She's far from stupid.

Yes, that was undoubtedly true, but further explanations could wait until the morning, when he might be a little less freaked ... when he might've found a way to think about the Road Virus without losing his mind ... and when he'd begun to be sure it was really over.

"Good!" she said emphatically. "You ought to scatter the ashes, too!" She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "You were worried about me, weren't you? Because you showed it to me.

"A little, yes."

"But you feel better now?"

He leaned back and closed his eyes. It was true, he did. "Uh-huh. How was the movie?"

"Good. Harrison Ford looks wonderful in a uniform. Now, if he'd just get rid of that little bump on his chin . . ."

"Good night, Aunt Trudy. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Will we?"

"Yes," he said. "I think so."

He hung up, went over to the fireplace again, and stirred the ashes with the poker. He could see a scrap of fender and a ragged little flap of road, but that was it. Fire was what it had needed all along, apparently. Wasn't that how you usually killed supernatural emissaries of evil? Of course it was. He'd used it a few times himself, most notably in The Departing, his haunted train station novel.

"Yes, indeed," he said. "Bum, baby, bum."

He thought about getting the drink he'd promised himself, then remembered the spilled bottle of vinegar (which by now would probably be soaking into the spilled oatmeal-what a thought). He decided he would simply go on upstairs instead. In a book-one by Richard Kinnell, for instance - sleep would be out of the question after the sort of thing which had just happened to him.

In real life, he thought he might sleep just fine.

He actually dozed off in the shower, leaning against the back wall with his hair full of shampoo and the water beating on his chest. He was at the yard sale again, and the TV standing on the paper ashtrays was broadcasting Judy Diment. Her head was back on, but Kinnell could see the medical examiner's primitive industrial stitchwork; it circled her throat like a grisly necklace. "Now this New England Newswire update," she said, and Kinnell, who had always been a vivid dreamer, could actually see the stitches on her neck stretch and relax as she spoke. "Bobby Hastings took all his paintings and burned them, including yours, Mr. Kinnell ... and it is yours, as I'm sure you know. All sales are final, you saw the sign. Why, you just ought to be glad I took your check."

Burned all his paintings, yes, of course he did, Kinnell thought in his watery dream. He couldn't stand what was happening to him, that's what the note said, and when you get to that point in the festivities, you don't pause to see if you want to except one special piece of work from the bonfire. It's just that you got something special into The Road Virus Heads North, didn't you, Bobby? And probably completely by accident. You were talented, I could see that right away, but talent has nothing to do with what's going on in that picture.

"Some things are just good at survival," Judy Diment said on the TV. "They keep coming back no matter how hard you try to get rid of them. They keep coming back like viruses."

Kinnell reached out and changed the channel, but apparently there was nothing on all the way around the dial except for The Judy Diment Show.

" You might say he opened a hole into the basement of the universe," she was saying now. "Bobby Hastings, I mean. And this is what drove out. Nice, isn't it?"

Kinnell's feet slid then, not enough to go out from under him completely, but enough to snap him to.

He opened his eyes, winced at the immediate sting of the soap (Prell had run down his face in thick white rivulets while he had been dozing), and cupped his hands under the shower-spray to splash it away. He did this once and was reaching out to do it again when he heard something. A ragged rumbling sound.

Don't be stupid, he told himself. All you hear is the shower. The rest is only imagination.

Except it wasn't.

Kinnell reached out and turned off the water.

The rumbling sound continued. Low and powerful. Coming from outside.

He got out of the shower and walked, dripping, across his bedroom on the second floor. There was still enough shampoo in his hair to make him look as if it had turned white while he was dozing-as if his dream of Judy Diment had turned it white.

My did I ever stop at that yard sale? he asked himself, but for this he had no answer. He supposed no one ever did.

The rumbling sound grew louder as he approached the window overlooking the driveway-the driveway that glimmered in the summer moonlight like something out of an Alfred Noyes poem.

As he brushed aside the curtain and looked out, he found himself thinking of his ex-wife, Sally, whom he had met at the World Fantasy Convention in 1978. Sally, who now published two magazines out of

her trailer home, one called Survivors, one called Visitors. Looking down at the driveway, these two tides came together in Kinnell's mind like a double image in a stereopticon.

He had a visitor who was definitely a survivor.

The Grand Am idled in front of the house, the white haze from its twin chromed tailpipes rising in the still night air. The Old English letters on the back deck were perfectly readable. The driver's side door stood open, and that wasn't all; the light spilling down the porch steps suggested that Kinnell's front door was also open.

Forgot to lock it, Kinnell thought, wiping soap off his forehead with a hand he could no longer feel. Forgot to reset the burglar alarm, too . not that it would have made much difference to this guy.

Well, he might have caused it to detour around Aunt Trudy, and that was something, but just now the thought brought him no comfort.

Survivors.

The soft rumble of the big engine, probably at least a 442 with a four-barrel carb, reground valves, fuel injection.

He turned slowly on legs that had lost all feeling, a naked man with a headful of soap, and saw the picture over his bed, just as he'd known he would. In it, the Grand Am stood in his driveway with the driver's door open and two plumes of exhaust rising from the chromed tailpipes. From this angle he could also see his own front door, standing open, and a long man-shaped shadow stretching down the hall.

Survivors.

Survivors and visitors.

Now he could hear feet ascending the stairs. It was a heavy tread, and he knew without having to see that the blond kid was wearing motorcycle boots. People with DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR tattooed on their arms always wore motorcycle boots, just as they always smoked unfiltered Camels. These things were like a national law.

And the knife. He would be carrying a long, sharp knife - more of a machete, actually, the sort of knife that could strike off a person's head in a single sweeping stroke.

And he would be grinning, showing those filed cannibal-teeth.

Kinnell knew these things. He was an imaginative guy, after all.

He didn't need anyone to draw him a picture.

"No," he whispered, suddenly conscious of his global nakedness, suddenly freezing all the way around his skin. "No, please, go away." But the footfalls kept coming, of course they did. You couldn't tell a guy like this to go away. It didn't work; it wasn't the way the story was supposed to end.

Kinnell could hear him nearing the top of the stairs. Outside the Grand Am went on rumbling in the moonlight.

The feet coming down the hall now, worn bootheels rapping on polished hardwood.

A terrible paralysis had gripped Kinnell. He threw it off with an effort and bolted toward the bedroom door, wanting to lock it before the thing could get in here, but he slipped in a puddle of soapy water and this time he did go down, flat on his back on the oak planks, and what he saw as the door clicked open and the motorcycle boots crossed the room toward where he lay, naked and with his hair full of Prell, was the picture hanging on the wall over his bed, the picture of the Road Virus idling in front of his house with the driver's side door open.

The driver's side bucket seat, he saw, was full of blood. I'm going outside, I think, Kinnell thought, and closed his eyes.

[komahinasecretexchange]

Title: Side Hope: Aftermath

Author: @deliriousgummi

Rating/ Warnings: T for mention of things in game and DR3 Side: Despair

For: @pearltoroses

Prompt: Set after DR3 Hope Arc where they just kind of talk about despair

Author’s note: Hey! I apologise for how late this is! Komahina is my ultimate OTP so I hope I did it justice :). I took ‘despair’ in the prompt as the events that took place in the game. I really enjoyed writing this so i hope you’ll like reading this too. Thanks for reading! :D

The summer heat still hung in the air despite being mostly washed out by the serenity of the night. A peaceful atmosphere drifted through, leaving the brown haired teen with a sense of calm. The pale yellow orb glowed in the starry night above, radiating its soft light upon the quarterdeck. Hinata laid back on a makeshift bed – just a bench covered with a piece of cloth – , soaking in the constant sounds of the whirring fan and the lapping waves.

He made no sign of movement, just the occasional rise and fall of the chest as he gazed up blankly at the ceiling. His mind stayed empty other than the reviewing and replaying of past events, letting them pass by with no particular thought. It was rather strange to remain in this happy dreamlike ending after everything, almost too perfect. He let out a sigh; he of all people should know nothing horribly tragic would occur. Just as he was swinging his legs to the side about to return to the cabin, the faint tap of footsteps alerted him to another’s presence.

“Hm? You’re still awake out here?”

Hinata changed to a sitting position, turning to face his new companion with a warm smile.  “And you? We’re only reaching Jabberwock Island by dawn, Komaeda.”

A brief chuckle reverberated through the air before settling back to its usual raspy voice that Hinata so became fond of, “True, sleep is something we’ve all been lacking. May I sit?”

“Yeah. Come on, there’s plenty of room on the bench.”

The messy, white-haired teen beamed, his smile reaching his eyes signalling its genuity. He leaned against the wall, taking Hinata’s right as the other scooted over to give him more space. The two stared at the nothing in front of them, indulging in the placidity that was so hard to obtain nowadays.

Hinata turned his head yet again, this time fixing his eyes on the steadily ticking clock situated on the paper white wall, rocking in turn with the ship.

tick

“So why are you awake anyway?” He started. Might as well begin their inevitable conversation and enjoy his friend’s company while it lasted.

“Ah, I was just cleaning. Since I couldn’t sleep I thought I should just clean up. I do have experience in that regard after all.”

“Hm, this place is becoming a bit of a sty. Though I did mention earlier we were arriving in the morning, it wouldn’t do to leave this place so dirty. When was the last time we mopped the decks? The party?”

“Yeah,” Komaeda stated, returning a light-hearted smile. “So what about you? Can’t sleep? Such brilliant hopes like you should get adequate rest.”

Hinata nodded, unable to find the energy to dissuade another of Komaeda’s rambles. He thought back to Hope’s Peak Academy and the events that transpired there. He thought back to his time as Kamukura and the scientist’s excited murmurs. He thought back to the Steering Committee and the nameless student council and Junko. He thought back to despair, hope, his fascination, his boredom, everything and the galaga clip…

“Do you want to head to the deck? There’s a pretty nice view right now.” The auburn haired boy took a look at Komaeda’s grey-green optics, noticing their underlying concern.

“Sure.”

tock

Komaeda wasn’t kidding about the view. Millions of sparkling stars shone bright in the seemingly endless abyss of night, shades of purples and blues and blacks gleaming through the clouds. It was the simple depiction of nocturne.

They took a seat on the ground, feeling the ruffle of plastic fake grass.

Hinata sucked in a breath, “Can we talk?” He paused, bracing himself for all the memories he carefully hid  behind lock and key. “About the killing game that is.”

Komaeda stared at him, most likely in puzzlement though he couldn’t pinpoint the exact emotion, “Are you sure?”

He couldn’t exactly blame the other for his hesitation. There has not been a night where he himself have not woken up in cold sweat, the events of the past flashing vividly in his mind, haunting him from their grave. He had to remind himself: they all experienced this. If anything, Komaeda was the most numb to this, given his past experiences that Hinata determined as the truth. Giving him a nod, he began his talking, “I need to. If not, I would never be able to move past it.”

“Shall I start then?” Hinata gave a sign of approval as Komaeda proceeded, “I must say it’s still a shock that I wasn’t killed that day at the party. I planned everything to become a stepping stone to hope but I guess I’m just trash.”

“Don’t talk like that.” Hinata sighed as Komaeda gave a slight laugh. He would be unable to stop his self loathing but he could at least try. “You know you really are headstrong. I wish you would be able to see the good in you that I do.”

At that, Komaeda gave a blank stare.

“Anyway, I really wish you didn’t plan that murder. You have no idea how heartbreaking it was for us to see Toga- I mean Sagishi like that…” Stumbling across his words, Hinata made a mental note to not call his classmate that. It was a habit he had yet to correct and while Imposter was still unwilling to share his name, it was at least a sign that trust was slowly growing between them as he now refused to don his masks. The name still had negative implications but they would bridge the gap. They surely would.

“Haha, yeah. I will let you know that you cannot change my beliefs but please do know I will never endanger anyone here again. Moving past that, Monokuma’s punishment for Teruteru was really cruel… To turn such a brilliant hope’s talent against himself, it really is despairing.”

Hinata winced, recalling the painful screams that echoed through the screen as he saw his friend go through inexplicable torture. It was there and then that he was reminded of the cruel reality that awaited them at that island. But now after that simulation, they are now each other’s pillars of support, slowly building up each other and be their source of comfort.

We will always be there for each other

tick

“The motive that Monokuma prepared for the second trial really was a low blow. I can never forgive Junko for that. Such despair like that is unforgivable.”

The reminder of that trial still exists in the form of Fuyuhiko’s scar across his eye though it was obtained from a previous, different event. It was difficult to remember that the cause was something else however, They all still blame themselves for it; it’s so painfully evident in their eyes.

“Yeah. And to learn that Twilight Syndrome was actually real. That really hurt Fuyuhiko and Peko and Mahiru.” And our whole class too by extension. Hinata continued, afraid of the sudden influx of images that will surface in his mind when he stops, “I was actually growing closer to Natsumi during that time. She really was a great friend even if others didn’t see it. It definitely would help if she stopped bullying and picking on Mahiru and Sato, I wish she did in fact but… her desire to be with her big brother. I have to say she was one of the influences in my decision to turn to Kamukura. And I can’t say I was ever close to Sato but her devotion to Mahiru was undeniable. It’s just wishful thinking but there are days where I just hope they were both still alive and breathing and living here with us.”

It wasn’t just them. Hinata dearly missed his family despite their terrible decision to let him sign on for the project. He missed that he would never again see their faces and kind smiles as they led him through the harsh depths of reality.

None of them would ever. Not Akane and her seven siblings, not Ibuki and her ex bandmates, not Sonia and her beloved subjects, not Gundham and his mother, not Souda and his parents, not anyone…

“You know, it really is hard to recall Hiyoko’s reaction to Mahiru’s death. It’s also really heartbreaking for the execution too,” Hinata carried on speaking, desperate to change the topic, even to one that might be equally bad. Komaeda offered a look of understanding and silence to allow him to vent. “When we reach the island, let’s offer them all a shrine. Taking after Hiyoko’s idea, that may be the best way for us to grieve and remember them.”

“That is a wonderful idea. I’m sure the others will appreciate it dearly.”

“Don’t forget about your parents and dog too. We need to make one for them too.”

Komaeda stared, stunned and shocked. Slowly, he gave a small laugh, expressing all of his gratefulness and muttered, “Thank you.”

They might be gone physically from this world but they will still remain in Class 77’s hearts and minds. Forever.

tock

“Actually, you were quite sick during the Despair Disease weren’t you. I mean your current illnesses probably made it worst. What was it again? Stage 3 malignant lymphoma and frontotemporal dementia?”

“You’re right. I’m surprised you remembered that, especially since I told you that it was a lie. That’s quite a bit of trust that you are willing to place in trash like me.”

“I told you to quit that. You never listen to do,” Hinata mumbled, shaking his head as he started again in a louder tone of voice, “I really am glad you’re better now. It was quite a scare.”  

“I apologise for that.” Komaeda provided a carefree smile, though it was immediately noticeable to someone close that it hid sadness deep underneath.

“You know you can talk to me right? Even anyone here. We told that to Mikan and that applies to you too.”

“This much be such amazing luck that you’re taking such interest in me. I can’t begin to imagine the bad luck that will befall me later.” He tugged at his jacket and pulled it closer, an action that did not go unnoticed by his partner and spoke again before he could object, “Mikan is a surprisingly good actress when it comes to it. Well, that could be debated by the despair she was under.”

Hinata nodded; no one had really suspected her of the brutal murders of Hiyoko and Ibuki before the trial. It added onto the hopelessness with the sudden disruption of Hiyoko’s and Fuyuhiko’s working towards a change of attitude towards the group plus the the interruption of Ibuki’s concert. It added on to Nekomaru’s presence in the hospital, in the battle of life and death and the appearance of the Despair Disease.

“Thinking back on it, that’s where we first learnt about Junko. Or at least alerted to her existence,” Hinata hummed. Komaeda only nodded in response, clearly deep in his own mind.

It hurt to think of Mikan’s ranting, to learn that their friend, no, their whole class was capable of such terrible deeds after Junko’s brainwashing. It could be said that wasn’t and was them.

But… that is their past. The future is what they look to for a better them. The future is why they keep walking despite all the pain. The future is… where they are now.

tick

“Nekomaru’s and Gundham’s trial, huh?” Komaeda put up a hand to his chin, hand brushing against his off-white hair strands.

“That had been one of the bigger shocks in my opinion. Murder directly conflicted with Gundham’s morals at the island,” his thoughts immediately flew to the animal breeder, the bicoloured haired teen’s chuunibyou nature masking a kind soul for both humans and animals alike. “I’m glad his Four Dark Devas of destruction are still safe, multiplied even.”

“And Nekomaru is back to his regular state too. I can’t say that I ever got used to his robotic form. It was just downright strange.”

“You got that right.”

Hinata reflected back to each of their awakenings. They were all out of order from the killings, dependent on the victim's’ mental state and how they died. Gundham and Nekomaru were quite close to each other in terms of when they woke: Gundham first, celebrated by being surrounded by his animal partners and Souda’s thankful sigh and Sonia’s tears of relief and Nekomaru about two people after, accompanied by Akane’s immediate declaration of a challenge as a sign of a weight being pulled from her shoulders. They all had their closest somebody’s back to them.

Recovery would be slow but it is definitely there.

tock

“If there was a ranking of how shit these trials were, the fifth one has to be at the top. You don’t know how hard it was…”

“I apologise but I cannot say that I regret my decision. I simply did what I thought would best fit the situation. At that time, Chiaki really was the only hope left there,” Komaeda said, a small but understanding smile lingering on his face.

“You really are a weird enigma. To be honest I’m not sure if I should but I forgive you. That’s what I want at least,” Hinata uttered, soft but powerful words echoing it’s meaning. “One thing I regret though, is not getting to know Chiaki further.”

He had no idea why he mumbled that but he needs to get it out, to let someone know.

“She.. she was practically my guiding light before I met all of you. Before all of this bullshit ever happened in the first place. I miss playing games with her, getting to know her. In the simulation even, she kept guiding me. She was probably my closest friend there after you stopped talking with me and being friends with me. And in both lifes, I pretty much condemned her to death…”

Komaeda glanced, a worried look plastered on his face. His hand hung in midair, probably unsure whether stopping or letting it continue was the best choice. Hinata paid no heed to it and continued.

“When I was Izuru, I let everything happen. I never stopped Junko or protect all of you. I just… watched her bleed out in front of me. And even as myself, even if it was forced, I had to pick her as the culprit. I just watched again, watched her be crushed by that by that stupid bear!”

At this point, small teardrops started dripping down from his eyes. They fell onto his clenched hands, blending in with the sweat that had started to gather. At this point, he didn’t care. He just needed to cry.

“I’m sorry… I don’t exactly know how to respond in this situation. I think maybe this would help though.”

Before he could understand Komaeda’s words, Hinata was pulled into an embrace. He felt the comforting warmth of his companion. He leaned in, desperate to find support from within his close friend, burying his face in the cotton of the now soaked t-shirt.

“Thank you,” Hinata managed to get those words out under his increasing sobs. Komaeda’s hands delicately caressed the side of his face and that action continued until the the other raised his head and muttered.

“Let me ask of you one more request.”

Hinata pressed his lips against Komaeda’s smooth one. He could taste the vague taste of mint, most likely from his toothpaste, as he eased in, taking in a sense of both solace and pleasure.

As he was satisfied getting what he wanted, he pulled away, leaving Komaeda with a stunned look and a inscrutable stare.

Then, Komaeda laughed. It was full with joy and so genuine.

“I really do love the hope within you from the bottom of my heart,” he beamed, twinkling with such a brightness.

The two of them moved closer to each other, enjoying the company of the other as the seagulls start calling in a rhythmic beat. A sweetened honey atmosphere rested over the two, covering them like a blanket of security.

tick

“We’re here.”

#fanfiction #komahina #komahina secret exchange

[queen-swagzilla]

Born in Dreams, Forged in Blood - Chapter 1

Rated: M

Summary: Katsuki Bakugo was not a good communicator. To be fair, neither was Izuku Midoriya. Looking back on their dumpster fire of a friendship, communication was probably the most significant missing piece in their interpersonal puzzle. Luckily, their translator is back in town, and they're about to take UA by storm.

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 She kept her eyes glued to her phone, scrolling lazily as she ignored the whispers that sprang up around her. As each person entered the classroom, the murmurs grew louder. 

 “Who is she?”

“You think she’s in the wrong classroom?”

“She looks kinda mean.”

“She looks like a delinquent.”

Idiots. Did they really not realize how loud they were being? She kept scrolling, opting to read through the hero analysis forum instead of indulging their curiosity. There was some excellent information about Bubble Girl and Centipeder that she wanted to dive into. Nighteye’s sidekicks were always fascinating, and she’d much rather learn about them than deal with petty high school crap. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” A gruff voice demanded from the doorway. Finally, she looked up.

“Nice. Really welcoming.” She replied dryly. 

“Answer the fucking question.” Katsuki snapped. 

“If you’re looking for welcoming…or friendly, Bakugo’s the wrong person. He’s more of an acquired taste.” A girl on the other end of the classroom joked. The one who had said she looked mean. She snorted but didn’t respond.

“Shut the hell up, Kirby.” Katsuki glowered. “Seriously Sana, why are you here?”

“BAKUGO! You are being very rude!” This time, it was an uptight dude with glasses. 

“At least he fucking greeted me directly instead of insulting me within earshot.” She snapped, finally turning to glare at them. “You don’t fucking know me, and I don’t need you to tell me how shit works with Katsuki.” Glasses and Kirby both looked affronted, but Katsuki was grinning. 

“Good. For a minute there I thought you’d lost your teeth.” He dropped into the desk next to her. “But you still haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like?”

“It looks like you’re sitting in my classroom and not explaining yourself.” He grunted. “Does Deku know you’re here?”

“Nope! It was supposed to be a surprise. Where is he?”

“How the fuck should I know?” He demanded. She leveled him with an unimpressed stare, and he rolled his eyes. “He’s in the infirmary after breaking his entire fucking body during training.”

“He’s still in the infirmary?” The annoying girl yelped. Sana rounded on her, eyes flashing.

“Hey, I’m trying to have a conversation. Wanna keep your big nose out of it?” She snapped.

“I MUST ASK THAT YOU TREAT US WITH RESPECT!” Glasses shouted. 

She scoffed. “Like you treated me with respect? Whispering about me while I was right here? I don’t think you even tried to lower your voice. You—“ she pointed at the Kirby. “Said I look mean, and you—“ she pointed at Glasses. “Said I look like a delinquent. So step the fuck off me and stay out of my business.”

“Easy, Sana. They’re Deku’s best friends. Round-Face is Uraraka and Four-Eyes is Iida, our class rep.”

“If these are his best friends, we need to talk to him about his shitty taste in people.” She muttered to him. He snorted.

“Deku likes everyone. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be Deku. His friendship requirements are breathing and having a pulse.” He rolled his eyes.

“Whatever.” She turned her gaze back to the now tremendously offended duo. “Keep your noses out of my business. Same goes for any of you who were talking shit when you thought I wasn’t listening.”

“Seriously, dude, take it down a notch. You don’t want to be lashing out when Aizawa gets here. Pay them back in training.” Katsuki muttered. She grinned at him—a sharp, toothy, vicious-looking thing.

“Figured it out?”

“I’m not stupid.” He snapped. “I was surprised.”

“A good surprise?” She prodded. He glared at her mutinously, and her grin widened.

“No. You’re a pain in the ass and I hate you.”

“Liar.”

“Woah!” A surprised voice sounded from the doorway. “You’re talking to him and he’s not yelling! That’s awesome!” A spiky-haired redhead bounded toward them, followed by a blonde boy, a black-haired boy, a pink (like literally head-to-toe pink) girl, and a purple-haired girl. 

“What, does he usually just scream at everyone?” She asked dryly.

“Yeah! Our boy’s feral, but it looks like you’ve got the magic touch. Only like…three people do, and it’s not exactly reliable.” The blonde one explained. She snorted. That sounded about right, but—

“I thought you’d grown out of that.” She muttered. He glared at her.

 “Maybe they understand each other. She seems like she’s basically the girl version of Bakugo, ribbit.”

 “Shut the fuck up Frog-face.” Katsuki snarled. “I don’t care what you think of me, but don’t you dare talk shit about her. You don’t know her.”

The silence that boomed through the room was deafening. “Being the girl version of you isn’t an insult. It’s not really true, but it’s not an insult.” Sana said after a long, surprised moment. 

“Trust me, she meant it as one.” He snapped.

“Alright, problem children. Sit down and shut up.” Aizawa grumbled as he dragged himself into the classroom. The class hastened to comply. “First of all, as I imagine you’ve noticed, we have a new student—Sana Kimura. She was scouted by Principal Nezu after an incident with a villain in Kyoto. I trust you’ll all welcome her to 1-A.” He drawled. “Second, Midoriya won’t be joining us today due to his most recent set of injuries. Recovery Girl has informed me that she will not be relaxing visiting hours, so if you want to see him, you see him before 8 pm and leave as soon as visiting hours are over. If you try to overstay your welcome, you will be barred from future visiting hours indefinitely.”

Sana raised her hand. “Excuse me, sir. He usually bounces back faster. Is something wrong?”

“No. The damage was too extensive to be healed in one pass, so she’s keeping him longer. Her quirk drains stamina, so she’s keeping him in the infirmary. No need for concern.” He assured her. “You’ll find that Midoriya spends about half his time in the infirmary. The shock and concern will eventually fade.”

Katsuki snorted. “She’s more of a mother hen than my actual mother. Not a chance.”

“Shut your face.” She grumbled, kicking at his chair.

“Anyways,” Aizawa said, interrupting before they could start arguing.”We’ll be skipping team exercises until Midoriya returns, just so that we can keep the playing ground fair. Since we have a student with abilities that we aren’t familiar with yet, I’d like for you all to be on the same page when we start sparring while she’s included.”

“Sensei, Deku already knows what her quirk is.” Katsuki interrupted. 

“That may be, but I’d wager he hasn’t seen it used in quite some time, let alone fought against it. The more information his classmates can gain, the less objective I can be regarding your ability to make quick evaluations or learn from previous experiences. I’d rather you all take on those challenges together. Besides, I’d like to have more teachers available when we do our initial evaluation of Miss Kimura’s ability and potential.”

Katsuki seemed to accept that logic, so he slumped back in his seat. 

 “So we won’t be training today? At all?” The candy-cane looking dude from the back asked, voice monotone. Iida looked rather sour at the thought, frowning deeply. She didn’t really care unless he yelled about it later. The guy was fuckin’ loud.

“I’m going to allow you to use homeroom as a study period, and for hero training, you can choose to either train physically or continue to develop your coursework. Some of you are performing disastrously in your core subjects, and I’d strongly advise you to prepare for your exams.” His eyes skated over the room, landing in a few key spots that she didn’t pay attention to. “Use the extra time wisely, and don’t do anything stupid.” Sana watched in amusement as the adult-in-charge whipped out a sleeping bag and curled up in a cocoon on the classroom floor. 

 “Yo, Bakubro—could you help me with the calc homework? I’m stuck on number ten.” The redhead spiky dude asked.

“Why didn’t you ask me last night, Shitty Hair?”

“You were asleep by the time I got to it!” He complained. 

 Katsuki sighed…well, growled, and held out his hand. “Let me see what you tried so far.” He turned to Sana. “This is Eijirou Kirishima. The blond one is Denki Kaminari. That’s Hanta Sero, Pinky is Mina Ashido, and AirPods is Kyoka Jiro.”

She gaped. “Woah, you actually learned their names? You must really like them.” She chuckled incredulously. He muttered under his breath, so quickly that it sounded like a growl to their companions, but she heard it clear as day. 

“Shut the fuck up.” He’d said. “If they know that I actually like them, they’ll want to hang out even more.”

She threw her head back and laughed, but acquiesced. “Well, I trust your taste in friends. You’re more discerning than Zuku. He’d befriend a serial killer if he had the chance.” She said, still chuckling. “It’s nice to meet you guys.”

The redhead grinned. “Nice to meet you too! How do you know Bakubro and Midoriya?”

“Her mom went to college with our moms. I’ve been stuck with her since birth.” Katsuki snapped. 

“Right, that’s definitely why you called me and Deku-screeched at me for an hour when you got accepted to UA.” She drawled. He glared at her, snarling.

 “Deku-screeched?” Earlobe girl—Jiro—snorted. 

“You know how Zuku mutters super fast under his breath? Well when he gets super excited about it, sometimes he does it really loudly. He sounds kinda like an auctioneer, but with Present Mic’s quirk.” Sana replied. “I thought he was trying to blow my eardrums out when he called.”

“First of all, shut the fuck up. Second of all, at least I told you that I got in. Third, Aizawa said you were scouted after a villain attack. You haven’t said shit about a villain attack. Start talking.” Katsuki demanded.

 “I thought you wanted me to shut the fuck up.” She teased. The glare he shot her this time was different. Yeah, it could have melted glass, but it was a little more pleading. She sighed. “Can I tell you later? When Zuku’s here? I figured we could catch up on everything at once. I think between the three of us, there are some things we don’t want to talk about more than once, if possible.”

He glowered but conceded. “Fine. But we are talking about this.” His voice dropped again, too low for the rest to hear. “You and fucking Deku are going to give me heart attacks.”

She ducked her head, inky black hair falling into her eyes. “Of course we’ll talk about it. Sorry, Kacchan.” There was a dramatic collection of gasps, and she glanced at Katsuki’s friends. “What?”

 “N-nobody but Midoriya is allowed to call him that!” Kaminari stammered. She laughed.

“Sorry, Zuku might have started it, but it’s a childhood friend privilege.” She replied. “He couldn’t pronounce Kacchan’s name when we were younger, and I liked it because it sounded cute. It’s really just for me and Zuku, though. At least, as far as I know.”

 “Yeah, because I hate it, but I can’t get you two to stop.”

“Yeah? Then why did you blow up your couch the last time I called you Bakugo?” She snickered.

“Stop exposing me, asshole.” He growled, turning to the messy homework that Kirishima had slid onto his desk. 

“While he’s making sure Kiri doesn’t fail, why don’t you tell us about yourself?” Jiro suggested, pulling her chair closer.

“YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE STUDYING!” Four-Eyes barked. “PLEASE FOLLOW MR. AIZAWA’S DIRECTIONS! MISS KIMURA MUST HAVE WORK TO CATCH UP ON!” 

“What did I just say about minding your own business? I can make my own decisions.” Sana snapped. “But if you guys need to study, I can help! Kacchan and I can tag team!” She offered, switching gears from being pissed at Iida to smiling pleasantly at Katsuki’s friends, who were making her feel substantially more welcome than the rest of the class had. 

“We’re actually caught up for once, and I think we can revise later.” Mina smiled. “We’re supposed to make you feel welcome, right? We wanna get to know you! But thanks for offering.”

“Yeah, I might take you up on that later. Bakugo’s smart, but he can be vicious.” Kaminari joked. 

They all ignored Katsuki’s answering snarl. “Alright, then. Well, what do you want to know?” She asked, a little nervous. It was always nerve-wracking being the new girl. 

“Where did you transfer from?” Jiro asked. 

“Shiketsu. I didn’t apply to UA—it would have cost too much for me to get an apartment.”

“Even though mom and Auntie Inko both said they’d let you stay with us,” Katsuki muttered. She ignored him.

“Since you’re living in the dorms now, accommodations are taken care of. It all worked out. Even if I hate the reason the dorms were built.” She continued, shooting a nasty glare at the back of Katsuki’s head.

“I didn’t want to get kidnapped by shitty, delusional villains.” He growled. 

“What’s your quirk?” Kirishima asked, leaning in. 

“Uh…well, it’s called Kinesis. But I guess vibration is a simpler way to explain it.” She shrugged. “My hero name will be Aftershock.”

“That’s way better than King Explosion Murder.” Kaminari sniggered. Sana pinned Katsuki with another glare. 

“That is not your hero name. Zuku and I worked really hard on your hero name! AND you helped me with mine!” She pouted. He ignored her. “I swear, if I see King Explosion Murder on your provisional license, I’ll start ruining your perfect, disciplinarian life routine, starting with your sleep schedule. You know I can.” She threatened. 

“Give it a rest. It felt weird to use it with the shit going on between me n’ Deku. Doesn’t mean I don’t like the name.” He mumbled. She pinned him with a completely unimpressed look, and he knew exactly what it meant. 

It meant ‘you can stop the shit between you and Deku whenever you decide to stop being a jackass, and you know it.'

“What hero name did you come up with for him?” Kirishima asked. Sana grinned. 

“Ground Zero.” She stated proudly. 

 “That one’s awesome!” Mina cried. “Did you pick one for Midoriya too? I mean, Deku isn’t the worst hero name, but it’s not really as awesome as his quirk.”

She bit her lip. “Kacchan and I have differing opinions on that.” She stated, deflecting. Sure, she had an idea, but she had no idea if Katsuki did. Hell, she hadn’t even seen them since Izuku had mysteriously developed a quirk, and her little broccoli boy had seemed to want to keep his late development under wraps. 

She’d still seen that quirk of his in action at the Sports Festival. It was amazing, and she wanted answers.

“Well, what’s your idea?” Mina pushed, leaning closer. 

She pursed her lips. “I came up with it when he wasn’t that good at using his quirk. You know; he’d break his bones if he used it, but he still stood up for everyone and tried to keep his friends safe, even if that meant fighting off bullies quirkless. I thought he should be called ’Stronghold’.” She explained. 

“And I thought that screwed with our theme—battle focused heroes with conceptual names.” Katsuki supplied, annoyed. Sana raised her eyebrows in surprise. He was willingly sharing information about his relationship with Izuku? “I thought he should be called Last Stand. Like the person who’ll keep going, even when they don’t think they’ll win.”

“Those are both great!” Kirishima cheered. “Super manly!”

“Why would you need his name to match?” Kaminari asked, face screwed up in confusion. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but that’s a good question.” Jiro agreed, annoyed that Kaminari had thought of it first. Sana glanced at Katsuki who looked a little constipated if she was being honest. 

But he surprised her again, dropping Kirishima’s homework and turning to the group. “When we were young, the three of us wanted to be a hero team.” He barked. “When we were coming up with names, it felt weird that our ideas didn’t fit. But that’s not a fucking problem anymore since we’re not a fucking team."

Sana pouted. “We’re not?”

Katsuki refused to look her in the eye when he replied, “Absolutely fucking not.”

“But Kacchan—“

“No.”

She huffed. “I go to school here now, you know. I’ve got three whole years to wear you down.” She reminded him. All of a sudden, Katsuki looked like he wanted to jump out of a window. “If you make it to graduation without caving, I’ll still have family dinners and holidays. You might as well accept it, Kacchan.”

 “I don’t have to accept shit.” He grunted, going back to the homework in front of him. His four friends watched them bicker, eyes bouncing between them. They had to wonder—who would come out on top? And if it wasn't Katsuki, they wondered if he’d really consider it a loss. 

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#my hero academia #bnha fanfiction #bakudeku #katsuki bakugo x izuku midoriya #katsuki bakugo #izuku midoriya #boom boy #shota aizawa #hitoshi shinso #toshinori yagi #all might #eraserhead #class 1-a #denki kaminari #kyoka jiro #kirishima eijirou #mina ashido #hanta sero #queen-swagzilla #swagzilla writes #s_the_queen on ao3 #born in dreams forged in blood #bnha