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candleshopmenace · 2 years

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hell is empty [all the devils are here] | day four: hidden injury

SUMMARY

They chain him up like he’s a fucking monster.

I’m not, Katsuki thinks, even as he thrashes and feels blood run down his wrists where the cuffs chafe against his skin. I’m not, I’m not, I’m not -

The crowd roars its approval, and Bakugou Katsuki screams.

—

Katsuki is seven years old when he gets called a villain for the first time, and it happens while he’s sitting in the passenger seat of his mother’s car.

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Katsuki is seven years old when he gets called a villain for the first time, and it happens while he’s sitting in the passenger seat of his mother’s car. It's almost casual, the way she starts the conversation - it's nothing at all like how she spoke back at Katsuki’s school, when she was shooting him furious glares in the spaces of the principal’s words - and so he doesn’t trust it at all.

She says, “What, no excuses?”

She can’t seem to keep her eyes on the road. She keeps glancing over at him. He avoids her gaze, staring at his hands and the dashboard, crossing his arms over his chest, scowling out the window and watching the trees blur by in one big smear of motion, fast as the beat of his heart. He doesn’t hate very many things, not yet, but he hates it when she looks at him like she’s looking at him now, like he’s something the world chewed up and spat back out at her feet. Like she can’t see herself in him.

When he doesn’t answer, his mother sighs. “Katsuki.”

At the sound of his name, he turns his head a fraction of a degree, just enough that he can see her clearly in his peripheral vision. “What?” he asks, eyes darting between the set of her jaw and the way her hands are clawed around the steering wheel, white-knuckled.

“Don’t you think that I deserve an explanation?”

Katsuki bites the inside of his cheek and slumps down further in his seat. He’d gotten into fights before at school, but this one was unfamiliar because it had been his mother, not his father, who had shown up in the aftermath. It was fucking weird, and he still wasn’t sure as how to deal with it. Finally, he says, “He had it coming.” He knows even as the words leave his mouth that they’re nowhere near enough.

His mother swerves around a street corner and Katsuki goes crashing hard against the door. His teeth dig into his tongue as pain shocks through his shoulder. “That’s your answer?” his mother snaps, voice waspish and sharp. “Are you fucking serious, Katsuki? He had it coming?” She yanks the car into the driveway and kills the engine, snarls, “I didn’t raise you to be like this. I don’t know what I raised you to be, but it sure as Hell wasn’t a sociopathic little freak.”

“I’m not a freak,” Katsuki says, instead of saying that he’s not the one that started the fight, instead of saying that none of it was his fault in the first place, he was just the one that got blamed because he was always the one who got blamed, the one that everyone pointed their fingers at.

Ignoring him, his mother says, “I don’t know why you’re like this. What is wrong with you?” She tugs the key out of the ignition, looks at him, and says, “Do you know what happens to kids like you? Kids who grow up angry?”

“No.”

“They turn into fucking monsters, that’s what happens to them. They turn into monsters and then they go to jail, and if that happens, Katsuki, I will disown you.” She leans across the armrests of the center console and closes one hand around his jaw, forcing him to look at her. “Do you understand me, Katsuki? I will disown you, and you won’t be my son anymore. You’ll be dead to me.”

Katsuki stares at her, grits his teeth, and doesn’t answer.

Her nails dig into his skin, and his cheek throbs where his classmate had managed to land a punch. “Listen to me, Katsuki,” she says, enunciating every word, driving the point home. “You are going to grow up to be a villain, and when that happens, I will disown you. You won’t be part of this family anymore. You will rot in jail and I will let you, because that’s what people like you deserve. Do you understand?”

Katsuki takes a deep breath. His throat burns, and his knuckles ache where they're split open and crusted with blood. He’s silent for a long, long moment, and then he says, “Yeah.”

He says, in a voice heavy with resignation, “Yeah. I understand.”

II.

The next time it happens, he’s almost expecting it.

After all, what else could someone like him be called?

He is nine years old and he is shaking. His pulse is roaring in his ears, drowning out everything except for the sound of his mother’s voice, his own ragged breaths.

“I give you food!” his mother screams, and Katsuki can all but feel the foundations of the house tremble under his feet. “I give you a roof over your head! I give you everything you could ever want, and you still don’t even have the decency to treat me with respect, you ungrateful little -”

“Mitsuki,” Katsuki’s father says, and grabs her arm. “The neighbors.”

Katsuki’s mother jerks away, her eyes set on Katsuki. Her fingers curl and uncurl at her sides, like she’s itching to wrap them around something - his throat, probably - and squeeze. “Fuck the neighbors,” she says. “And fuck you, too, Masaru. Fuck this entire family.” She stabs a finger at Katsuki and he just barely manages to keep himself from flinching. “Get the Hell out of my face, or I swear to fucking God that I will kill you. I should’ve seen you for what you were when you were a baby, should’ve cut my losses, but I didn’t, and look what that’s gotten me. A son who acts like a monster and a husband that won’t even take his own wife’s side.”

Katsuki stares at her, chest heaving. It always ended like this, in a screaming match that only served to drive a wedge between him and his parents - Hell, this had started as a normal conversation! It had only turned into an argument when Katsuki said something that his mother didn’t agree with. Even now, he can’t pinpoint exactly what it was that set her off. Talking to his mother was like trying to walk through a minefield - he never knew what topics were harmless and which ones would make her blow up in his face.

“I hate you,” he hisses, then stalks past her and up the stairs, slamming his bedroom door against the sound of her footsteps storming behind him. He sits down on his bed and throws his comforter over his head, cloaking himself in darkness.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, but he knows that he only moves from the spot when he hears a knock on his door.

It's his father, has to be.

His mother isn’t the type to wait to be invited.

“Come in,” he says, poking his head into the air, wrapping his blanket around his shoulders like a cape. He watches warily as his father steps into his room. “What do you want?”

His father smiles, but it's tight and forced. “How are you feeling?”

Like shit, Katsuki wants to say, but he doesn’t. He just narrows his eyes and says, “That doesn’t count. You can’t answer a question with another question. That’s stupid.”

His father’s smile becomes a little more genuine, and the knot in Katsuki’s chest loosens just a bit. He looks pointedly at the spot beside him on the bed, and his father huffs a laugh, sits down. He ruffles Katsuki’s hair. Katsuki leans into the touch despite himself, the gentleness more than welcome after his mother’s razor-sharp words.

Did she really hate him enough to want to kill him?

Was he really that horrible of a son?

Katsuki blinks rapidly. He’s not going to cry. If he didn’t cry when his mother told him that she wanted him dead, then he wasn’t going to cry now just because his father is trying to minimize the damage. But his eyes still burn when his father says, “She didn’t mean it, you know.”

Katsuki’s chest feels compressed tight whenever he takes a breath, like every emotion he’s ever felt is being forced into the space between his ribs and his lungs. He nods and then nods again, says, “Yeah, I know,” because he knows it's what his father wants to hear, even if it's a fucking lie, even if his father knows that it's a lie. She didn’t mean it. She didn’t mean it. Maybe if he repeats it enough times he’ll believe it.

His father puts a hand on Katsuki’s shoulder, tugs him into his side. “She loves you. We both love you.”

“How do you know?” Katsuki asks before he can stop himself.

His father blinks at him. He opens his mouth. Closes it. He says, eyebrows furrowed, “Sorry, what was that?”

Katsuki glares down at his hands, regretting even saying anything. “How do you know that she loves me?”

The hand on his shoulder tightens. “All parents love their children, Katsuki,” his father says. “They have to.”

“Oh.”

For a while, neither of them speak. They sit in silence, staticy and tense, just the sound of them breathing and the air conditioner whirring through the vents. The house is so cold that he feels like he’s freezing all the way down to his bones.

Finally, almost reluctantly, his father says, “Katsuki, don’t you want to be a hero?”

Katsuki’s eyes flick over to him, scan his face. Where is he going with this? What is he planning? Carefully, he says, “Yes.” Looking across the room at the poster taped onto his closet door, All Might loudly proclaiming, I AM HERE!, he says, “I do.”

“Well, Katsuki, an important part of being a hero is being able to respect the people who are more powerful than you.”

Ah. So that’s what this is about. Katsuki hefts his blanket tighter around his shoulders, shoving his father’s hand away. He mutters, “It wasn’t even my fucking fault.”

His father hums under his breath, considering. “Maybe so,” he says, but there’s an edge of doubt to his voice that makes Katsuki’s skin crawl. “But sometimes you just have to accept the things that you can’t change.”

“But it wasn’t my fault,” Katsuki insists.

“Katsuki, are you even listening to me?”

“She just started yelling, and I don’t even know why!”

“Katsuki -”

“I fucking hate her! I hate her! She always acts like I’m stupid!”

“Bakugou Katsuki!”

Katsuki halts. His hands are trembling, and he can smell smoke, and his vision is blurry. He sniffs miserably and swipes his arm across his eyes. He can feel his father seething beside him, which isn’t doing anything to help him get his feelings back in check. Making his father angry is a hard thing to do, and once he got well and truly pissed he rivaled even his wife in terms of fury. It's never been aimed directly at Katsuki before, but he’s seen it happen - once when he was six, his parents brought him along to a ball, and he’d been able to witness his father get into an argument with a coworker. By the time security got called, there was broken glass everywhere and Katsuki had a cut on his forehead from getting in the way of a flying vase.

He can hear his father take a deep breath, blow it out. He says, in a slightly strained voice, “Katsuki, be quiet and listen to me.” His words say, Please let me speak, but his tone says, Shut the fuck up, Katsuki.

Katsuki shudders and pulls his knees up to his chest.

His father continues, “Your mother has been under a great deal of stress lately, and you’re not helping matters by antagonizing her every chance you get. You say you want to be a hero, but there’s a lot more to being a hero than winning every battle you fight - you have to know when to back down.”

In other words, when to turn the other cheek.

Katsuki is so, so cold, but he’s burning all the same. His chest feels like it's made of hot coals, like it's scorching him from the inside-out.

“A hero that doesn’t take other people’s feelings into account isn’t a hero at all, Katsuki.” His father puts his hand back on his shoulder and Katsuki tenses, tries to shrug it off, but the grip just tightens and tightens. “And if someone isn’t a hero, what does that make them?”

Under his father’s expectant gaze, Katsuki relents. He says, anger and shame and pain mixing together in his throat until he feels sick to his stomach, “A villain.” He curls his fists, and his nails stab into his palms. “That makes them a villain.”

“And do you want to be a villain?”

The hand on his shoulder falls away. His father stands, looks down at him. He rakes his fingers through his hair. He looks tired, and Katsuki feels so guilty that it's hard to breathe. Here his father is, acting as the mediator between his wife and his son, and Katsuki isn’t being helpful at all. In fact, he’s being worse than not helpful. He’s being actively destructive. He’s being fucking useless.

“Katsuki,” his father says when he doesn’t speak. “Answer me. Do you want to be a villain?”

Katsuki shakes his head.

“Then stop acting like one.”

His breath hitches. The words jolt him all the way to his core, punch the air from his lungs. He bites his lip and nods again, sharper, blinking back the stinging of his eyes.

“I don’t like having these talks, Katsuki,” his father says. “I don’t like having to choose between you and your mother when you get into an argument. Think about that next time, okay?”

“Okay,” Katsuki whispers, and the tears overflow, spill down his face. His voice cracks when he says, “I’m sorry.”

His father sighs. “I know.”

With that, he turns and walks out of Katsuki’s room without looking back.

He closes the door behind him.

Katsuki’s heart aches.

III.

The third time, it's his own damn fault. He does it to himself. The word is spit out in his own voice, a knife turned inwards, the blade resting against his neck and his fingers wrapped around the handle, testing its weight.

He’s sitting on the roof with Kariage, legs kicking back and forth over the edge. One move forward is all that it would take, but Kariage is here, the person he loves more than he’s ever loved anyone before, and Katsuki may be an asshole but he’s not enough of an asshole to traumatize his best friend. Later, he tells himself, come back when you’re alone, and he knows even as he thinks it that he won’t end up doing it. He’s selfish, much too selfish to give his mother the satisfaction of having him dead.

He’s twelve years old and he wants to die.

Kariage blows out a stream of smoke, tilts his head to look at Katsuki. “You always look so pissed,” he says, and he sounds almost fond. “What’s going on in that head of yours, huh?”

Katsuki thinks, for a long moment, of what he could possibly say. What answer he could give. I think that I’m going to Hell, he almost says, actually does start to say it, “I think I’m -” and just barely manages to cut himself off.

Kariage’s eyes glitter with amusement. “Katsuki?”

Katsuki swallows, hard. He stares up at the sky stretching above him, stretching beyond him, endless and infinite and unforgivingly bright, and says, “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” Kariage says, grinning around his cigarette. “You’re always thinking about something, Katsuki. You know that. I know that. So cut the crap.”

Katsuki laughs. It's yanked out of him, involuntary, and he couldn’t stop it if he tried. He smothers it behind his hand, stifles it until he can look at Kariage without a hint of humor. “Fine,” he says, and nods towards the little white stick burning and burning and burning between Kariage’s fingers, “I was thinking about how much that thing stinks.”

In response, Kariage brings it to his lips and blows a cloud of smoke right into Katsuki’s face. Katsuki jerks back, coughs, snaps, “I hate you.”

Kariage smiles, wide and sharp. “You love me.”

“You fucking wish.”

Kariage snorts and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure.” He stubs the cigarette out on his palm and flicks it over the side of the building, ignoring Katsuki’s scolding of, That’s littering, dumbass. “Anyways, really, the Hell is up with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing,” he mocks, doing a poor imitation of Katsuki’s voice. “So… what? You’re just being moody for no reason?”

“I’m not being moody,” Katsuki huffs, then pauses. “Wait, am I being moody?”

“Um, yeah.” Kariage raises an eyebrow. “What happened? Did Missie die or something?”

“My cat is fine. It's just -” Katsuki leans forward, watches the people milling around down below. It's going to be time to go back to class soon, since the school seemed to think that twenty minutes was enough time to wait in line, get lunch, and eat said lunch, but he doesn’t want to leave. He just wants to stay up here, forever, wind blowing in his ears and Kariage at his side. “What do you want to be when you’re older? What do you want your job to be?”

“Weird question, Kit-Kat.”

“Shut up and answer.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Kariage glaring at the sky, like he’s asking God why he has to be the one to deal with Katsuki’s quirks and idiosyncrasies. He says, sullen, “I mean, I guess that being a mechanic or something wouldn’t be too bad.”

“A mechanic,” Katsuki echoes.

“I said what I said.” Kariage looks over at him. “And you’re going to be a hero, obviously.”

“Yeah,” Katsuki says. “I want to be a hero.”

Kariage’s eyes sharpen, and Katsuki curses at himself. The thing about Kariage is that he’s smart. Maybe not so much in academics, but when it comes to reading people he’s a Goddamn genius, and he has an uncanny knack for spotting details that anyone else would overlook. “Oh?” he says, almost to himself. “So that’s what’s bothering you.”

Katsuki bristles. “Shut the fuck up,” he says, harsher than he means to, but Kariage just gives him a shit-eating grin that only serves to infuriate him further. “Damnit, Kari, get out of my fucking head.”

“I’m not doing anything. If you can’t stop thinking about me, that’s your fault, not mine.”

“You’re a fucking bastard and I hate you.”

“Mhm,” Kariage hums, sounding unconvinced. “Sure.” He pulls a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offers it to Katsuki.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Like Hell you don’t, you stuck-up little shit.” Kariage shakes one out of the box, grabs Katsuki’s hand, presses it into his palm. “I’ve seen you smoke, you damn loser. You do it when you’re stressed.”

“Fuck you,” Katsuki says, but doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t let go, either, even as he says, “And I’m not stressed.”

He used to have a touch of asthma, back when he was a little kid. All the smoke from his explosions, all of those accidental fires. It's gone now, but it might come back if he accepts. No, he should say. He should tell Kariage to quit the habit. He should get off the fucking roof. He should stop thinking about what his body would look like, hanging from the bar in his closet, flat on its back with a bullet in its head, bloody and broken on the ground.

There are so many things that he should do, but, in the end, he knows that he won’t.

Kariage’s lighter flares to life, and Katsuki’s a goner.

After a few minutes of silence, in which Katsuki gets so light-headed that Kariage grabs his collar to stop him from tumbling end-over-end into oblivion, Kariage says, “So, I’ve decided that your brain is a bit of a bitch.”

Katsuki smiles, just slightly. “My brain is a bitch?”

Kariage nods, waves a hand in a wide, pointless gesture. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.” He takes a long, long drag, blows it out. “Because it makes you feel bad about yourself, and I don’t think that you should feel bad about yourself. Y’know what I’m saying? It's like - like - it's your brain’s fault, but it's not your fault.” He makes a frustrated noise, the kind he used to make back when they were kids and he couldn’t puzzle out a word, couldn’t sound it out properly. “I’m not even making any sense.”

“Yeah, you’re not, but I think I get it.”

“Anyways, anyways.” Kariage’s fingers tap a drumbeat against the roof. “You’re stressed about the entrance exams, aren’t you?”

“What? No.”

“Well, you’re stressed about something, and I know it's related to being a hero.”

“Yeah?” Katsuki’s throat burns, burns, burns, and he keeps his eyes fixed on the sky. “What makes you say that?”

“Because when I said, You’re going to be a hero, you said, I want to be a hero.” A subtle tic of grammar, an entire world of difference. “So, what’s up? Do you think you’re not going to make it?”

Maybe it's the cigarette, or maybe it's the fact that it's Kariage who’s asking, but when Katsuki opens his mouth and starts to speak, he hears himself tell the exact truth to the boy on the rooftop beside him. “I’m pretty sure that I’m a villain, Kari,” he says, and the admission, the honesty, sears like whiskey on his tongue. “I only ever seem to do the wrong thing. I’m a failure and a waste of space and I deserve to die.”

There’s nothing but the whistle of wind for a long moment, and then Kariage says, slowly, “Katsuki.”

And it hits him.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Fuck, what has he done?

He’s on his feet and heading towards the door, running away again, before he even stops to think about what he’s doing - and that’s his problem, isn’t it, the way that he never fucking thinks? What is wrong with him?

What is wrong with him?

IV.

The fourth time doesn’t really count, since it's not explicitly said, but the sentiment is there.

Oh, yeah, the sentiment is definitely there.

This is becoming a routine, Katsuki thinks, bitterly amused even as he yanks against the restraints that tie him to the pedestal. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, something about being forced into a role that he doesn’t want. Something symbolic. Or maybe it's a joke. Katsuki always has been absolute shit at telling the difference between the two.

I would spit in your face if I could, Katsuki thinks, all rage and borderline mania even as he stares at the smile that’s been hung on his closet wall for longer than he can remember, I AM HERE!

All Might takes off the muzzle to give him a medal, a stupid, worthless medal, and Katsuki’s teeth snap shut just bare centimeters away from his fingers. All Might keeps on grinning, but his voice is cold when he leans forward and hisses low enough that no one else can hear, “Behave yourself.”

Like he’s a fucking dog, sit, heel, fetch. Like he’s the one who’s being irrational, like he’s not fucking tied up on live TV, like he’s not being handed a prize that he doesn’t want, doesn’t deserve. Like he’s not even worthy of being treated with basic human decency.

Like he’s a Goddamn villain.

I’m not, Katsuki thinks, even as he thrashes and feels blood run down his wrists where the cuffs chafe against his skin. I’m not, I’m not, I’m not -

The crowd roars its approval, and Bakugou Katsuki screams.

When it happens for the fifth and final time to date, it's because Katsuki was having a bad day. It's hard to classify what counts as a bad day and what counts as a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, but he’d say that the one that kick-started the mess that followed definitely fell in the latter category.

So, it started with a bad day, got worse, and turned into a bad week. He failed a training exercise and made Icy-Hot pissed, because after Kamino, Katsuki can’t quite stand to be in the same room as the bastard - something about his fire reminds Katsuki way too much of Dabi.

After that, he flunked a test that he’d studied for, actually studied for, and that had dropped his class ranking down until he was down below Deku - Katsuki could make it up, of course, but it was the fact of the matter that frustrated him. He shouldn’t have to make anything up. The look that Aizawa-sensei had given him when he handed back the paper didn’t help, either. Why was Katsuki the only one that he looked at like that, like he was actually worried?

It didn’t make any fucking sense.

So, yeah, he’s a little bit on edge, and, of course, the one that makes him snap is Kirishima.

The person that was usually able to calm him down is the very one that sends him past what is probably the point of no return, and now Katsuki is about to lose the only person who he feels comfortable, truly comfortable, and it’ll be all his fault because he couldn’t reign in his tongue or his temper for one more fucking second.

It starts like this: Kaminari won’t leave him alone. Whether he genuinely wants company or is actively trying to be annoying is something Katsuki has not yet figured out, but it's irritating as Hell and he wants it to stop. And the truth of the matter, the crux of the issue, is that Katsuki actually wouldn’t mind hanging out with Kaminari, if it were just him. But he and his friends are like a flock of seagulls - if one of them goes somewhere, the rest of them follow.

And so Katsuki ended up here, here being on the couch in the common room, crowded in the middle and surrounded by his classmates, half-heartedly watching a movie that he can’t focus on because he can’t stop thinking about how much he’d like to go back to his dorm and fall into bed and close his eyes and sleep until he stopped feeling like his skin was going to crawl right off of his bones.

Jirou digs an elbow into his side. “Are you good?” she asks, and that - of course - draws Kirishima’s attention to him, so now he has two sets of eyes burning into him instead of just one.

Katsuki grits his teeth. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Mind your own business, Ears.”

“Ears?” Jirou’s voice is an odd mix of amused and concerned. “Haven’t heard that in a while. Are you sure that -”

“I said that I’m fine,” Katsuki snaps. “For someone with great hearing, you’re surprisingly shit at listening, Ears.”

Kaminari, who’s sitting on the ground in front of the couch, tilts his head back against Katsuki’s knees and frowns up at him. “Hey, Bakugou, uncalled for. Lay off a bit.”

“There’s a better way you could’ve said that, Denki,” Sero says, and shoots Katsuki an apologetic smile. “He’s just worried about you, Katsuki.”

“Aren’t we all,” Jirou mutters.

She says it in a way that makes it clear that she’s not expecting to be heard, and Katsuki’s hackles rise. He whips his head back towards her. “What was that?”

Ashido’s arms are slung over the top of the couch, and she bats one hand towards Katsuki’s face in an ill-advised - and ill-fated - attempt to get him to simmer down. “She didn’t mean anything by it,” she says, and maybe it's a good thing that she’s at an angle that doesn’t let her see Jirou’s expression, because it's downright fucking murderous. “You know how Kyoka is.”

Kaminari jumps in, as always, with, “Hey!” like he’s the one who just got insulted.

Jirou wrinkles her nose at him. “Oh, shut up, Denki.” Ignoring his indignant sputtering, she looks at Katsuki. “Look, we’re worried about you.”

“Yeah!” Kirishima butts in, and his hands are around Katsuki’s arm now, like he’s making sure that he won’t make a break for it. “You’ve been so quiet lately, which is weird because we’re in the dorms now and so I thought -”

“Eijirou,” Sero says. He reaches over and pries Kirishima’s fingers away from where they’re digging into Katsuki’s skin. “You know he doesn’t like to be touched. And I told you that -”

“But look at him! He looks depressed!”

“He doesn’t look depressed, he just looks pissed as Hell, and I would be, too, if I was in his position.” Sero makes a sharp cutting motion through the air, directed at Katsuki, and it's ridiculous but Katsuki still can’t stop himself from jerking back. “It's obvious that he doesn’t want to be here, but he’s watching the damn movie with us anyways, and all you guys are doing is arguing!”

Katsuki stands so quickly that he almost steps on Kaminari, who yelps and scrambles back. “Right,” Katsuki says. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Bakugou, it's only eight o’clock,” Jirou says, bemused.

Kirishima gets up as well. “The movie isn’t over!” It's an obvious attempt to get Katsuki to stay a little longer, and, Hell, it even almost works, but then Katsuki imagines having to stay down here with people who talk about him like he’s not even there, people who have the best intentions but execute their plans hilariously badly, uncoordinated, and something in his heart starts to tick-tick-tick away like a time bomb.

“I don’t care,” he says, and it's a lie, it's a fucking lie, because he wants to spend time with his friends and he wants to be around them but he’s so scared of what will happen if they stand in the blast zone while he inevitably explodes. “I’m going to sleep, and if any of you wake me up, I swear to God that I’ll be a bitch to you in training tomorrow.”

“Bakugou,” Kirishima says, and makes a move like he’s about to grab Katsuki’s hand. He huffs when Katsuki yanks away, says, almost irritated, “Look, everyone knows that you’ve been stressed lately, and all we’re doing is trying to help! Let us help you! I know we can’t make everything better, but we can at least make it so that you can relax a little.”

Katsuki doesn’t know why he says it. He doesn’t. He feels like he’s standing outside of his own body, like nothing is tangible, real. “Yeah,” he says, and his own fucking voice sounds like it's coming at him from the end of a tunnel. “Because that’s all I need in my life, right? Yuuei, villains, and Kirishima Eijirou by my side.”

Kirishima flinches but hides it well, just keeps pressing forward, “And this is my point, Bakugou! You act like you hate all of us but I know that you don’t!” He takes a long, deep breath, looks at Katsuki with accusatory eyes. “You’re just so Goddamn stubborn, Bakugou, and you make it so hard to help you.”

Something hits the ground - Katsuki’s heart, maybe - and Katsuki follows, the weight of the world crashing down hard on his back. He shakes and he shakes and he feels like he’s yelling, and Sero has jumped up from the couch, Ashido is shouting, and there’s a hand on the back of his collar that drags him to his feet. When Katsuki’s vision clears, when the red fades away, he sees that Kirishima is still on the floor of the common room. He has a hand to his mouth and is looking at Katsuki like he’s something to be afraid of.

“What the fuck, Katsuki,” Sero gripes in his ear, still holding him firmly by the arm. “What’s gotten into you?”

Katsuki’s breaths rip at his lungs. “Nothing,” he snarls, and a voice in his head croons, You sociopathic little freak. “Nothing, just -” He stares at Kirishima and his fingers curl back into fists, skin splotched and red with his friend’s blood. “Fucking idiot, you should’ve used your Quirk.”

“He didn’t want to hurt you,” Ashido grumbles, irritated, like it should’ve been obvious. She’s crouched down by Kirishima’s side and is glaring up at Katsuki. “You know, because that’s what heroes do.”

Kirishima drops his hand from his mouth, hisses, “Mina,” and Katsuki watches a line of red creep down his chin.

“Don’t get all pissy at me! He’s being a dumbass! He’s acting like a -”

“Hey, none of that.” It's Sero, again. He steps between Katsuki and Ashido, like he thinks that maybe if he blocks Katsuki’s view he won’t realize what Ashido was about to say. “I think we all just need to get some rest.”

Katsuki takes another breath, feels it rattle in his throat. He isn’t even in control of himself right now, and that’s just pathetic. Kirishima hasn’t looked him in the eye once since Katsuki punched him, hasn’t even gotten off of the ground, but tomorrow he’ll probably greet Katsuki with a smile that he doesn’t deserve, because that’s how Kirishima is, always so forgiving, and Katsuki is taking advantage of that, he’s such a horrible person -

Kaminari comes out of the kitchen with Jirou in tow. He’s holding a roll of paper towels and a water bottle, and he tosses both to Kirishima. Jirou looks at Katsuki, mouths, Get some sleep.

Katsuki shakes off Sero’s hands and walks towards the elevators, pausing for just a moment with an apology on his lips. But apologies don’t make things better, and apologies don’t fix mistakes.

Nobody tries to stop him when he lets the doors close behind him, and Bakugou Katsuki has never felt more like his mother’s son.

#whumptober2022 #no.4 #hidden injury #emotional injury #fic #boku no hero academia #bakusquad #nitro whumptober 2022

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sensitiveheartless · 8 months

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(the rest is under the cut!)

#this one really got away from me it was not originally supposed to be 15 pages long #but I had FUN >:D #side note/explanation of Dazai carrying Chuuya off to bed partway through :#Dazai has been making an attempt to use her words about her feelings just like skk mutually promised each other in the last comic #...but she also struggles with it unless she is aggressively cuddling Chuuya #thus Chuuya is slowly becoming accustomed to being unceremoniously yoinked up and carried off to a cuddling location #whenever Dazai needs to share Emotions #fem!skk #bsd #my art #bsd chuuya #bsd dazai #bungou stray dogs #soukoku #skk #blood cw #injury cw

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cuubism · 8 months

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The thing is.

Hob understands that Dream cannot be hurt easily. He is an ancient, powerful, nonhuman being. Hob has, in fact, heard a story from Matthew about when some foolish human wannabe-magician had attempted to stab him when Dream had gone to retrieve a spell book that had slipped from the Dreaming library. According to Matthew, the knife had simply gone through his chest like he was made of smoke and left no mark at all.

(Hob still wishes he had been there. He’d have snapped the guy’s arm. Or worse.)

Barring luck and a magical binding, like what happened with Roderick Burgess, Dream can’t be hurt by mortal means. Hob understands this. Hell, he can hardly be hurt by supernatural means either. Only a few very powerful beings would be able to manage it, or else the very laws that govern his existence, coming down upon his head.

The thing also is.

Dream bruises so easily.

Sometimes.

Like now, when Dream is actually limping across the floor of the Inn. Long coat, which usually does not come with him to the waking world, wrapped tight around him. A dark bruise blooms along his cheekbone. Hob doesn’t understand how it’s possible. It shouldn’t be, not when Dream can take a knife to the heart like it’s a gust of wind, but the fact of the matter is that it is possible, apparently. And so Hob’s got to do something about it.

He meets Dream halfway across the room, braces him by the arms. “Jesus, Dream. Are you hurt?” Well, evidently he is. “How badly?”

“I told him he should stay home and rest,” grumbles Matthew from where he’s hopping along the floor at Dream’s side. Hob hadn’t even seen him there, he’d been so focused on Dream. The fact that Matthew’s not even riding on Dream’s shoulder is not a good sign.

“I did not want to miss our meeting,” Dream says. Which is a hell of a thing.

“Come upstairs, then,” Hob says, and doesn’t quite realize he’s grabbed Dream’s arm and is right pulling him along until he’s already done it. But Dream just follows him. Matthew follows, too, which, again, is not making Hob feel confident about Dream not being too badly injured.

“What happened?” Hob asks, as he sits Dream down on the couch, perching carefully at his side.

“A minor altercation,” says Dream.

“He was thrown into a wall,” says Matthew. “The wall cracked, by the way.”

Hob winces in sympathy. “Thrown by who? Or… what?”

Dream says, “It’s of no consequence.”

Matthew says, “I don’t know, but it had a lot of limbs.”

Hob’s kind of glad Matthew’s here as bullshit translator right now.

“How badly were you hurt?” he asks again. Not badly enough to keep him from traveling, evidently, but badly enough that he is limping. As a measly little human, Hob might find himself limping for a while just by twisting his ankle going down the stairs— but he does not like that intersection of facts when it’s someone like Dream.

“I am fine,” says Dream, and then winces as he shifts his weight on the couch.

“Bullshit,” say Hob and Matthew simultaneously, after which Matthew adds, “Uh, I mean, bullshit, your lordship.”

Dream slants a reproving glance over at him, then back to Hob. “Can I see?” Hob asks, more gently. “I’d like to help. If I can.”

Gingerly, Dream shrugs his long robe off his shoulders. Underneath, he’s wearing his usual black t-shirt, and at Hob’s urging he pulls that off over his head, too, though evidently with some pain. His chest and stomach seem uninjured, the unnaturally pale and smooth skin is still just that, unnaturally pale and smooth— so Hob tugs on his shoulder. “Can I see your back?”

Dream turns, and Hob tries not to think too hard about Dream doing his bidding like that—it’s tender and troubling and arousing all at once, and he’s definitely not going to think about that last bit—and sucks in a breath.

His back is a map of bruises, nebulae arcing over his shoulders and the nape of his neck, curling down over his spine like a coiled dragon. Dream bruises prettily, even like this, periwinkle and dusk blue, the purple of sunset clouds. Another reminder of how Night, too, lives within him.

“I told you,” Matthew says, hopping up onto the back of the couch by Hob’s shoulder.

Dream makes a grumbling sound, but doesn’t deny him this time.

Hob traces a light hand along his shoulder blade and the deep, spilled-watercolor of the bruise there. Thrown into a wall, Matthew had said. Ouch.

Dream shivers at the touch, and Hob says, tentative, “Do you usually bruise like that, love?”

He’s seen it before, though not this bad. Lines of strain on Dream’s hands. A red, banded mark on his arm on one of the few occasions he’d taken his coat off in Hob’s presence. He wants to hear it from Dream, though.

Dream says, tentative now, hunched on the couch like a wounded physical thing rather than what he is, “I… suppose.”

Sitting only in his tight jeans and boots, hair a mess, the mark on his cheek makes him look hunted. Hob touches that too, with light fingertips. Dream leans into his hand with a little sigh, and… oh. That’s something.

“Hey, he got the shit kicked out of him like a few days ago and just walked away like it was nothing,” Matthew complains, as if Dream’s I suppose answer is ridiculous. “And then obliterated the other guy, too.”

“Sorry, when was this?” Hob is still holding Dream’s cheek, but Dream doesn’t turn further to meet his eyes. “Why are you getting beaten up all the time, exactly?”

He’s not Dream’s minder. He’s not. He’s not. Hob forces himself to remember that fact.

“In my absence many have forgotten the might and sanctity of the Dreaming,” says Dream, and if Hob’s not mistaken there’s a little whining petulance in his tone which is… endearing, almost. “Other realms have become… impudent. Entitled. I am simply. Reminding them to show respect. Sometimes physical conflict is necessary.”

Hob sighs. “Well, Your Majesty, maybe it’s time to take a break from the ritual dueling, yeah?”

“…Perhaps,” Dream says, which is as much of an agreement as Hob ever gets.

He supposes he’ll take perhaps. Though the more he thinks about it, the more distressing it is to imagine Dream going around getting hurt. Even if he thinks he’s doing it for some important cause.

“Well, there’s not much I can do for these right now,” Hob says, and can’t keep the concern out of his voice. “Other than letting them heal on their own.”

“I see,” says Dream, and if Hob’s not mistaken his voice is small. And he reaches for his shirt, and—

“Hey.” Hob grabs his wrist. Dream freezes. “That doesn’t mean you have to leave?” He hates that it comes out as a question.

Dream wavers. Then he says, “Matthew.”

It’s loaded with more than just Matthew’s name. An order. Matthew squawks indignantly. “Boss! Come on. You’re really gonna send me back like that? When you’re like this?”

Dream just looks at him.

Matthew sighs, fluttering his wings. “Fine. Have your special private time, then.”

Special private time, Hob mouths to himself.

Matthew lifts his wings for takeoff. “You better not send him back with more bruises, Hobert.”

“Excuse me?”

Then he’s gone, winging out a window that Hob hadn’t realized was open. Maybe it wasn’t a moment ago. Who knows.

Dream looks after him, and sighs with real fatigue. “His insolence only grows.”

“Special private time?” Hob says, and Dream glances at him, and then away.

“He is under the impression that you are my…” he says, and trails off.

Oh. Well.

They’re not like that. But.

But?

Dream looks despondent now, staring off into the corner of the flat, back still turned to Hob’s chest. Hob’s become certain that he wants something, he came here for something, not just to make their usual meeting time… but he still doesn’t know what.

Probably he should ask. Not that that ever works with Dream. Probably he should anyway.

Instead he presses his lips to the curve of Dream’s shoulder, where the bruise is deepest blue.

Dream shudders, and then goes slack in his grip, his shoulders caving. “Hob…”

“Is that what you wanted?” Hob says against his skin. He can’t believe he’s doing this. He can’t believe Dream is letting him. “Does it hurt very badly? Is that helping?”

“It…” Dream muses, and sighs. “Is. Helping.”

Hob takes Dream’s chin between his fingers and turns his face enough that he can kiss his cheek, over the horrible sprawled mark of the bruise. Dream’s eyes flutter shut. He braces a hand on Hob’s thigh as he twists back to lean into Hob’s touch. Hob could use his grip to turn his head further and kiss him properly, he thinks, with a trip in his chest. Dream’s lips are right there, soft and open.

Instead, he leans his head on the back of Dream’s neck. Lets his hands fall to Dream’s bare waist, lips brushing his skin as he says, “You don’t… really bruise, do you?”

Dream still has his head tipped back; Hob’s hair brushes his cheek. “It affects you to see it,” he says quietly.

“Of course it does,” Hob says, equally hushed now. “I hate seeing you hurt.”

“Even,” says Dream, almost tentative, “if I am not truly hurt?”

“You are hurt,” Hob says, and finally draws the strength to lift his head from Dream’s neck. Dream is still looking at him, over his shoulder. His eyes are very dark in the dim light, rimmed red, he looks soft and fragile as a flower petal and Hob would do anything for him. “You were thrown into a wall by ‘something with a lot of limbs’, after all.”

Dream huffs. “Matthew exaggerates.”

“It’s okay if you want it to matter,” Hob tells him. That’s what it is, isn’t it? “To… be seen.” He slides his hand over Dream’s where it still rests on his thigh, twines their fingers together. A flicker of stillness runs through Dream’s body, the way a human’s breath might catch. Hob thinks he might pull away.

Instead he yields, and Hob exhales hard, a breath that had coiled far too tight in his lungs unwinding. Dream caves into him, and Hob wraps his arms around him, pulls him close, kisses the curve of his shoulder and watches a bruise disappear in the echo of that touch.

“Just wanted a hug after a rough day, in the end?” Hob says, and Dream huffs again as if such a desire is offending even to imply. He doesn’t move away though.

“Is it that easy for you?” Dream’s face is close enough that his hair brushes Hob’s temple as he speaks.

“And what if it is?” What if Hob had wanted to hug him when he first spoke of his imprisonment, and held back, and still regrets it? And what if it’s so easy to fall into it now? To slip into a world, this world where he can pull Dream into his arms, like he’s wading into the ocean for the first time, into foreign currents powerful beyond imagining but primordially known. Resonant as a familiar dream.

In some sense it would be accurate to say that Hob has known Dream all his life—he is, after all, dreams. But Hob doesn’t think of his friend as dreams. Maybe it’s a limitation of his human mind not to see the endless scale of the picture. But when he thinks of Dream, he doesn’t think of all of life or anything like that.

Instead, he goes back to their meeting in 1689. When Dream had thought he might no longer want to live, and Hob swore he saw a tear nearly break that usually stern countenance. Hob had always been fascinated by him, but he thinks that was the first moment he really saw him, beyond the cloak of distance and fantasy Dream liked to wrap around himself.

He’d like to think that Dream saw him then, too.

That’s the Dream he thinks of. The Dream he’d like to say he knows. The person, not the incomprehensible entity that Dream sees himself as. An incomprehensible entity can take a knife through the chest and dissipate around it like smoke, but not a person.

“If it is,” says Dream, pulling back to properly look at him, “then perhaps I might… impose.”

He looks so… cautiously hopeful. How can he not know already? “You think it’s possible for you to impose?”

“Imposition is easy,” says Dream, quietly. Hob lifts a hand to cup his cheek, and at the same time, as if of the same mind, Dream leans in and fits his face to Hob’s palm, eyes falling shut again.

He looks so gaunt now, with his bruised cheek and shadowed eyes, sharp collarbones and the swooping curves of his ribs. Hob had thought it had gotten better since his imprisonment, but now he’s not so sure. Maybe it’s just that without the shielding of his shirt, and his robe, he looks smaller than Hob’s used to thinking of him, and angular and fragile. He’s still so impossibly beautiful, delicate like a tree glazed in post-storm ice.

It makes Hob feel unexpectedly bold. His heart trips over, but he leans in and kisses the corner of Dream’s mouth.

Dream makes a quiet, surprised sound. Turns his head, blind, seeking, and then their lips connect properly.

When Hob had let himself imagine the possibility of kissing Dream, he had seen a force of nature. His friend would kiss with the chill of the rain that night he’d left Hob standing behind the White Horse. With the encompassing darkness of the night sky. The full experience of him would be overpowering and that was okay, because even a taste of him had already turned the course of Hob’s life.

But this Dream caves. Tips his head back in Hob’s hand, opens his mouth under Hob’s. Stiffness bleeds from him, regality flees him, and what Hob has left in his hands is a soft, horribly bruised thing leaning in for a deeper kiss.

So he kisses Dream deeper. Swipes his tongue into Dream’s mouth. He tastes slightly metallic, like he might have bitten his tongue and bled, were he human, and he makes a soft sound as Hob breaks the kiss for an unfortunate but necessary breath.

He keeps Dream close, hand to his cheek. Dream, eyes still closed, says, “A kiss just to comfort me, Hob?”

It hurts, just a little, that he thinks so. “How about a kiss just because I wanted to kiss you? You really think I’m more selfless than I am.”

Dream chuckles. “I see.”

Finally, he opens his eyes to look at Hob again properly. He looks tentatively happy now, it’s there in the slight crease at the corners of his eyes, the little spark that’s returned to them. Hob’s heart swells to see it, to think that he could do that.

“What then,” says Dream, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip, “would you do… selfishly?”

“Same thing,” says Hob, and kisses him again. Dream hums into it this time, pleased. “And tell you to bring me with you next time you’re asserting your dominance around the galaxy or whatever.”

“Why?”

“There’s some guys I want to throw into walls,” Hob says.

Dream huffs, but Hob thinks he looks secretly pleased. “I am not certain ‘guys’ is an accurate description.”

“You think just because the fifteen-armed thing is a lady that I won’t—”

And Dream actually laughs, a startled choking laugh. “Your definition of chivalry is—” he gathers himself— “appalling.”

“Take it or leave it, Your Majesty,” Hob says, grinning. Nothing feels better than getting a rare laugh out of Dream.

Mirth sparkles in Dream’s eyes. “I will take it,” he says, turning his head to kiss Hob’s palm, “of course. When you offer me haven and defense both, how can I not?”

Hob presses his kissed palm back to Dream’s cheek, over the dark bruise there, watching it start to fade. “Bring me your bruises, darling,” he says, “and I’ll protect you.”

Dream leans back in, and rests his forehead against Hob’s. He doesn’t need to ask for another hug. Hob just wraps his arms around him, and lets Dream’s contented sigh be its own question, and answer, at once.

#'you've written about dream manifesting physical injuries to reflect his emotional turmoil before' and i will again!#dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #my writing #one short wip finished 5 billion wips to go

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myuminji · 7 months

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#copy pasting from twt but thinking of 98ww being the only one who still retains human empathy the most out of all WWs #bcs he didn't really go through modifications that makes him feel like he completely lost his right to 'humanity'...#<- smth abt ww treating Vash as someone that is also capable to process emotion and pain like a human despite knowing his true nature...#smth abt it that makes Vash wants to cry and it's not bcs of his injuries anymore...#trigun #trigun 98 #vash the stampede #nicholas d wolfwood #vashwood #ish #myuminjiart #sorry for the wonky art i just want to throw this idea out

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spinzolliii · 11 days

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Caretaker falling apart over what might’ve happened to Whumpee, but deciding to respect Whumpee’s privacy. They have to stop themselves from prying or asking certain questions, knowing full well that there’s a darker, painful, intimate story behind Whumpee’s condition.

Alternatively, Whumpee’s history is eating away at them, and they’re dying to tell Caretaker everything. They decide to repress themselves for one reason or another. Maybe they’re afraid of disturbing Caretaker. Maybe they’re doubting their own recollection of what happened. Maybe they’ve been conditioned to view vulnerability as weakness.

Either way, there’s something preventing these two people from sharing the whole truth about a painful situation.

#physical whump #whump #whump prompt #whump tropes #whumpblr #whumpee #emotional whump #hurt/comfort #angst #injury #injury whump #whump scenario #whump ideas #whumper #caretaker #caretaking

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yutaan · 2 years

Photo

Lightning whip LIGHTNING WHIP!!!!

#jiang cheng #mo dao zu shi #zidian #the untamed #scars #tw scars #my art #digital #brush pen #would you believe that the initial idea for this was that I wanted to do #like #a thoughtful composition contrasting Jiang Cheng’s whip scars with how he uses a whip as his main weapon #despite his past injuries and all the emotional trauma associated with Zidian in particular #i.e. something something alchemizing his trauma into a tool that helps keep him and his loved ones safe #for better and-or for worse #(often for worse)#and then halfway through the coloring process I paused and was like Hang on.#This is just a pinup drawing of Jiang Cheng.#Oh well!! It can be BOTH those things!!!!

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radio-writes · 18 days

Note

Congrats on the 300 followers Vien! for the event:

"They were there, you weren't" + "What keeps you up at night?"

Embracing Faded Pages of Tainted Saints

300 Followers Event

Warnings: Mentions of past physical injuries

Tags: Alastor x reader, gn reader, relationship can be read in any way

MDNI

You stood awkwardly at the doorstep of the new hotel, unsure exactly of what to do next.

You knew there was a chance he'd be the one to open the door and greet you, but truth be told you were hoping otherwise. You thought you had worked through all your emotions about him years ago; but standing in front of him now, you realized that was far from the case.

You felt a surge of pressure almost squeezing at your heart, but you tried your best to ignore it as you offered Alastor a small smile.

"Hey, Al. Long time no see." You tried for casual, despite the way things ended the last time you were together.

"How are you—" Al finally spoke, his grin tight as his eyes narrowed at you.

A bright, bubbly woman shoved her way to the door, effectively cutting off whatever Alastor was going to say.

She grabbed you by your hands, and you did your best to shift your focus to her. You listened, responded, and tried very hard to ignore Alastor's burning gaze on you.

You were very swiftly taken into the hotel lobby, brushing right past the tall man. You were introduced to the staff and guests alike, and you painted your best smile as the blonde host swept you here and there. You merely tried to swallow past the lump at your throat as you greeted everyone.

You heard this place offered a chance at redemption, as well as some sort of protection from all the horrors Hell had to offer. You thought it was worth it, that the solace you could find in here would greatly outweigh having to be near Alastor again.

But his mere presence, just knowing that he was in the same room as you again, was already eating at you—suffocating you.

It was like you could feel the sharp stabbing pain across your gut again. The blood—the life—leaking out of you. The desperation crushing your heart.

"I'll take it from here, Charlie, dear." You heard his voice before you felt a heavy hand at the small of your back. "This lovely demon seems to be a little bit overwhelmed. They can do with some rest, don't you think?"

The bright blonde agreed easily, allowing Alastor to quickly guide you along the halls of the hotel and away from all the excited chatter.

"You're alive." Alastor stated, his eyes set ahead of himself as he walked beside you. His hand had retracted from your body, now resting behind his back.

No thanks to you.

"Nope, still dead." You tried to joke, a soft, fleeting attempt at a laugh following it. But you stopped immediately when you realized that, despite his wide smile, Alastor didn't seem to be in the mood for jokes.

"You were bleeding heavily." He said instead.

You tried to keep your responses vague. "Yes, I...I remember."

You've thought about it many times over since your near-second-death experience. How Alastor had always been a dear friend of yours, through life on earth and Hell. How you both knew you were helpless at that time. How it was perfectly normal for him to choose to save himself instead.

You've forgiven him, at least that's what you told yourself. You still saw him as a friend, even after he abandoned you—and that's why you would never let him find out about your betrayal.

You could never hurt him like that.

You thought that this was all so crystal clear to you. That you've long healed this wound, but evidently that wasn't the case.

Just seeing him now. So well poised, so put together, cozying it up with the Princess of Hell. His smile was as you remembered it, and not a hair was misplaced on his head.

He had continued on like nothing happened, like he didn't once leave you to die.

And there was that awful, bitter, anger slowly filling your chest. That nauseating feeling of betrayal that twisted your gut. No matter how hard you tried to stick to reason, to remember all you've resolved in the past years, you just couldn't help but hate how he was able to move on so easily.

The rest of your time heading to your room was silent. Just a constant soft static noise following your steps. You spent that time fighting your base instincts to just jump him, throttle his neck, scream at him.

How could you? How could you just leave me to die like that?

Alastor finally halted by a door, his clawed hand turned the knob and ushered you in.

You looked up at him, smiling once more as you tried to hold onto your more logical side. "I don't know how I feel about you having keys to my room." You try to joke again.

Oh did you miss the times when the two of you wasted hours in hysterics; just exchanging the dumbest jokes you could think of.

But that felt like almost two lifetimes ago.

"This is my room." Alastor clarified.

"Well that explains the swamp." You say bluntly. You walked slowly in, not exactly knowing what you were doing here now.

"I thought we could sit down for some coffee—" Alastor said, closing the door behind him. His hands reached for a coffee pot, but paused before he could reach the handle. "No no, this definitely calls for something much stronger."

He sat down on one of the seats by the fireplace, easily summoning two small glasses and a bottle of rye on the table.

You watched him tentatively, heart tightening at the familiar sight.

There was once a time when nights like this was something you looked forward to—but it didn't seem that way anymore.

Your eyes couldn't help but narrow at how well off he looked. It's like nothing had changed for him at all.

You attempted to be civil, still, and made your way to sit across him. It's was stupid to hold a grudge against him for something like that. What he did made sense, and you shouldn't be mad about it.

Your eyes scanned the knickknacks scattered about his shelves and walls, eyes catching on a wide set of antlers mounted high above.

"That yours or a friend's?" You once again tried to lighten the mood. Whether it was for your sake or Alastor's, you weren't sure.

"We both know I've never been one for small talk, dear." Alastor said, pouring alcohol in your glass before his. He easily downs the drink he poured himself before filling it up again. "How are you alive?" His head tilted.

The moment the words left his mouth it felt like someone emptied a bucket of ice water over you.

The question simply came out of nowhere. Sure you had expected him to ask sooner rather than later, but to jump right to it?

Your half-assed smile dropped just a fraction of a bit.

Looking up at your old friend, the ever charming, ever present smile, you realized that perhaps you were being stupid—and not for the reason you originally thought.

You've been friends with this man since either of you could walk, friends through his stupid murder fixation, friends through his takeover of Hell.

But he left you for dead.

He finally found out that you survived and the first thing out of his mouth was an interrogation?

Where was your fucking apology?

So maybe, just maybe, you've been stupid this entire time. That you didn't need to be making excuses for him. That you didn't need to forgive him. That maybe your anger, your want to hurt him back, was more than valid.

You picked up your own glass and downed its contents in one go, relishing in the familiar bitter taste.

"There's no bed." You noted instead of answering your old friend, your grip was tight around the glass you held. "Where do you sleep?"

"I don't." Alastor answered simply. He moved only to fill up your glass again, but his eyes never strayed from you.

You weren't sure how much truth there was behind his words. Sinners still slept, and no matter how highly Alastor thought of himself, he still functioned the same way the rest of you do.

"What keeps you up at night, then?" You couldn't help but ask.

Perhaps it was an attempt to piss him off. Make small talk, delay from giving him answers.

But as much as you hated to admit it, it was likely because there was an answer you wanted to hear. One caused by that part of you that still hoped for your old friend to show you even just a hint of a conscience.

Perhaps if he gave you that, it would be enough for you to hold onto civility. It would be enough for your to at least honor what past friendship you had with him.

"Nothing in particular, really." Alastor glanced away from you, downing his drink once more. "There's just no rest for the wicked, isn't that what they say?"

You followed his lead, throwing your head back and letting the alcohol burn its way down your throat.

It almost felt like old times when you'd compete with him in old dingy bars.

"Ah, I figured you wouldn't be hung up on it." You held your empty glass in your hands, a finger unconsciously caressing its cool surface.

"My bad, dear." Alastor gave you a faux look of guilt, but the mockery that dripped from his tone easily gave it away. "Did you want me to mourn you for a couple decades?"

You rolled your eyes. "Considering everything we've been through, I'd have expected at least a few years."

You noticed Alastor fill his glass up again, he knocked it back just as quickly as the previous ones.

You both looked like you were drinking your problems away, but it seemed like this was more of a habit. One formed through a lifetime of repetitions.

"I can start now if you'd like." Alastor smiled at you.

Your brows raised. "I am very clearly not dead."

"You might be soon." The static in his voice was heavier, and for a split second you could have sworn his pupils changed to dials.

Your fingers stilled against the glass you held, feeling your skin prickle at the silence that followed.

The wood in the fireplace crackled, and the eerie light coming from the green flames added just a tinge more terror to your situation.

Or it would have if the only emotion you felt wasn't an all consuming rage.

The clear threat hung in the air for a second before Alastor spoke again. "So tell me,"

How long have you been alive?

Why didn't you tell me?

"How are you alive?" He said.

You had no idea why on earth he was angry. What gave him the right?

"We both know the answer to that already, don't we?" Your own smile tightened, teeth clenched hard to keep yourself from growling at him.

You tried to stomp out your anger, but every time you tried to reason that he used to be a friend, you couldn't help but be brought back to that time.

Lying in a pool of warm blood—your own blood. Seeing the exorcists flying down to you, racing to see who could kill you first. Turning your head, using the very last of your strength to reach out to your friend. Watching him stand from your side and melting away into shadows without you.

"Well yes, a deal, of course. But with whom? Not many demons down in this festering tar pit have that much power. You were practically gone, dear."

Ah, so it was a pride thing, you thought. He was bothered that there was someone who could do what he couldn't.

You couldn't hold back from scoffing. "And did that ever bother you? That I was practically gone?"

He paused. The sound of static grew messier for a few seconds before Alastor gave up on his glass entirely. He opted to just grab the bottle by its neck and drank from it.

"You seem like you were hoping it did." He teased as he set the bottle down back on the table. "Shouldn't a good friend be happy I wasn't suffering?"

Your heart clenched, eyes narrowed. The both of you have danced around it this entire time, but it just seemed like there was no longer any way to stop the words as they finally slipped from your mouth.

"Shouldn't a good friend try everything to save the other?"

The accusation, the betrayal, the bitterness, finally dripped like venom from your question.

A heavy tension covered both of you once more. The elephant in the room finally addressed properly, but it seemed neither of you knew what to do with it now.

A beat of silence.

"Then, it looks like we're both such terrible friends." Alastor said, as he sunk back into his chair. You hadn't noticed the tension in his body this entire time, you weren't sure if Alastor himself noticed it either.

But as he rested his head behind him, you noticed something you failed to before now.

He looked...exhausted. His smile was in place, his hair neat, his suit wrinkle free. He looked as perfect as ever; but he looked tired.

You were sure you didn't look any more chipper currently.

You tore your eyes away from the demon that sat across you. "It's been a long night."

"It's been twenty minutes." There was finally a hint of genuine amusement in his tone, but it felt strained.

Like it slipped before he could stop it, a habit formed through decades of banter.

"Twenty too many around you." You simply shut it down.

Still, not one apology. Did he even regret it?

You felt so confused, so conflicted, so angry, and you knew you just had to leave before you did something you would regret later on—whatever that may be.

He looked like he wanted to say something as you got up, but he chose to bring the bottle of alcohol to his lips instead.

It was only when your hand landed on the door handle did he speak. "I would do it again."

It felt like a light went out inside you somewhere.

You didn't turn around.

"I would leave you to die—over and over." Alastor's floaty voice continued. "You were a good friend, but not great enough for me to risk my own skin."

You've known your friend to be quite the liar. He knew what to say and when to say it, and he lived to crawl under people's skin and piss them off.

But at that moment, you knew it was one of the rare few instances where Alastor was honest.

"It seemed like you wanted to know." His normally mocking voice seemed softer. Like it really was just a fact and nothing more.

"The V's were there when you weren't." You found yourself saying. You turned your head to the side just a tiny bit, but still didn't turn to look at him.

The lights flickered and your hand closed around the handle of the door.

"I made a deal with the V's. Everything about you and more, in exchange for my life." You continued, almost unable to stop the words from coming out, really.

"Your defeat seven years ago was my doing."

You really were terrible friends.

"It seemed like you wanted to know, old pal."

You left his room just as the lights fully went out.

#tw: physical injuries #friendly reminder this event has closed #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin alastor #hazbin alastor x reader #alastor #alastor x reader #vien writes #follower event #we went for emotional pain this time around #more subtle than outright choking the man but I feel like having a dear friend betray him as much as he betrayed them would sting a lot mor #i am firm believer that alastor CAN care if he wanted to #but i must admit i made him a tiny bit ooc here bc i had to tone down his sillies for the mood

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