#bloodebt

[tzdkh]

@bloodebt​ wanted some hacker husbands sit - for your muse to pull mine into their lap  [ meme ]

Reginald Blechman walked a good walk, he talked a good talk, he played a good game. He was fun and weird and a living meme. He was also dangerous and temperamental and had more than his fair share of marks on his belt. He was also, unfortunately enough, a sufferer of anxiety, the kind of anxiety that had had him wearing a mask for most of his adult life. The kind of anxiety that picks up the fucking moment shit in London tidies itself up, because it means he has to go home and face the music that he’s been avoiding for over a year, and all the memories that came with it.

Jay, predictably, doesn’t give a shit. Jay wants to get out of the war zone - and all the bullshit that came with it - and go home. Jay wanted - Well, Reggie didn’t know all Jay wanted. He just knew the basics of his plan: Get back to the States and as fucking far away from London as he could fucking get. And he was on his way to doing just that.

Perched on a bar stool, the infamous Defalt, maskless, with hair still dyed blacker than black, was bartering - like it was the fucking Age of Bartering or whatever - over travel plans with a definitely-not-shady-as-fuck smuggler. Or, at least, he thinks he is, Reggie’s honestly stopped listening ten minutes previous, when he came to the sudden realization that he was truly going home.

He was so fucked. 

Tearing at the corner of his thumb with his teeth, the once-Dedsec member squints at the tiny pub TV. Looks at the glass behind the bar (shit, he looked like shit). Looked out the window at the people cheerily passing in the night. Watches the rowdy crowd playing darts. And then, finally, turns his gaze back to his companion, only to blink as he realizes that he’s being watched and the shady-not-shady smuggler was shuffling off to answer his phone.

“So, uh, are we like. Trading him a goat or something? Two goats?” Reggie doesn’t let Jay get a word in as he creeps closer to the DJ, continuing to prattle uselessly. “How many goats is it to smuggle people into the States, what’s the goat rate on that?”

Jay looks at him like he’s considering murdering him if he keeps talking which, fair because he’s probably heard enough about goats to last a lifetime at this point, but also unfair because Reggie is considering murdering himself at this point in time. If Jay was going to do it, he might as well stop cockteasing about it.

Opening his mouth to tell Jay just that, he instead lets out a noise of surprise as a hand grabs him and yanks him closer. The world doesn’t so much spin as it does just change very suddenly, and by the time Reggie has his wits about him again, he’s been tucked between Jay’s legs, his weight mostly settled across the other man’s thigh.

“Oh.” He blinks, watching in fascination as an arm curls around his waist. “Okay.”

“Shut up about the fucking goats.”

Reggie wants to gloat, or talk about goats more, but instead he settles against Jay with a put-out noise and tries to hide the fact that the anxiety attack that had been building steadily has just crumbled into dust, leaving him stunned and strangely settled.

If the look on Jay’s face was anything to go by, however, he’d failed that pretty miserably.

[0xa00001]

I WAS SUPPOSED TO GO TO BED, KYRILL @bloodebt​

"pick your next words very carefully."

defalt, predictably, didn't.

or maybe he did— and that's what makes jay such a pain in his goddamn ass, that's why his knuckles ache and bleed over shards of plexiglass embedded in thin skin and why it feels like retribution singing in his ear, the thrum of his adrenaline-fueled pulse up his arm a melody of stinging praise for shattering that gaudy fucking facade. (surprise surprise, he’s an asshole under that, too.) that shit-eating, blood-filled smirk sits right under james' skin with that fury that’s gotten so cold defalt's underflowed it right to 1024 degrees like the pompous dicksocket troll he is.

that mantra of stop, count back from ten, breathe almost saves him. he clenches and unclenches his fist to the steadily decreasing beat, teeth gnashed so hard they squeak, glasses askew from the force with which he'd sprung up and slugged defalt clear across the jaw—

“does this mean you’re finally letting go?”

james explodes like a supernova.

james is out of his chair and onto him in the span of a blink, his momentum carrying both of them onto the ground. in this moment james park doesn't give one single shit about the fact that it's his chair in his apartment that snaps under their weight, because in this tiny sliver of time that defalt's carved out of his life, the single thought that preoccupies his mind is the spiderwebs of blood he's going to choke out across defalt's skin.

defalt laughs— actually laughs when james gets his hands around his throat. it's one of those horrifying real and honest laughs, bright and cheerful. it makes james want to dig in his nails and rip out his fucking jugular.

"shut your fucking mouth," he snarls. the cool, composed james park has been incinerated in stellar fire.

"so," defalt says. he's still laughing. it doesn't even matter that his voice is rough and torn all to hell beneath the pressure of james' hands, because he's still fucking laughing, eyes crinkled with genuine amusement, like james is a novelty like a crocodile dentist taped up with razor blades and not someone in a position to crush his goddamn hyoid. "do I get the honor of joining the pile of skel—"

that choked sound is james' hands suddenly tightening, and instantly it's apparent he was toying earlier. before, he'd allowed jay a minuscule stream of air; now there's none. nothing. just the steadily mounting pressure against his larynx and the pop-pop-pop of the blood vessels in his eyes and cheeks blooming like flowers in the spring.

james thinks, that's nice.

defalt's eyes widen the moment he realizes james isn't letting go. he shoves up, trying to buck him off, bares his teeth when james simply moves along with him— good luck with that, james has ridden men with much enthusiasm than defalt can muster half-choked— and his fingers continue to press hard against his neck until red-black-gray sparkles swarm in defalt's vision.

here's the thing: defalt is stronger than james. always has been. always will be. no amount of leverage can change the fact that defalt has at least fifty pounds on him and most of it is muscle, so this is less a question of can he win and more can he win before his air runs out?

and james should be saying something, should be snarking back at him, should summon some quip like defalt expects— but every facet of his mind has been sudo'd by bloodlust to focus on the erratic heartbeat under his hands, how he can still hear defalt laughing under the pounding of blood in his ears, until the thrashing under him turns to flailing turns to a barely-there spasm, until defalt's face is those deep, satisfying shades of blood-engorged red-purple. and just as he feels that heartbeat almost flutter to a stop—

james lets go.

defalt's body rips out a gasp as ugly and ragged as a rusted-out lawnmower, pure mechanics— defalt didn't decide to breathe that air in. the body that the entity known as defalt operates within demanded air now, and the mouth drew in air into lungs and the bruised flesh and muscle spasmed and forced out a cough, wet with blood.

it’s only clear to him now that that second set of shaky breath is his own. he’s regaining his composure slowly even as he straightens with his knees on either side of defalt's chest, glancing down with disdain at his hands covered in some combination of their blood.

the look he gives him is malice incarnate.

"death is too good for you."

[tzdkh]

@bloodebt​​ asked for drunk texts for a husband [ meme ]

[ txt | Jaybae | sent: 02:59a ]     heyheyheyheyheyhey     🖤 💙 🖤 💙 🖤 💙 🖤      luv you

[ txt | Jaybae | sent: 03:05a ]     🍆 💦 🍑 ?

[ txt | Jaybae | sent: 03:06a ]    stop ignoring meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee    i’m going to get a comple    x    a complex. not an ex.    never getting rid of me sorr

[ txt | Jaybae | sent: 03:09a ]    just wanna have nice sexx    and eevn nicer cuddling    :(

[ txt | Jaybae | sent: 03:20a ]    Jay, it’s Marcus. I’ve got him. We’re at that diner near my place. He’s eating fries and telling stories about London. Did he for real almost kill the Fox? 

[ txt | Jaybae | sent: 03:30a ]    Still Marcus. Come get your husband. Please. He just threw my phone into a dumpster and is trying to climb in to get it.

[tzdkh]

@bloodebt​​ is bullying me. sacrifice - for your muse to get hurt protecting mine  [ meme ]

There are many things Bran regrets in life, things that he thinks upon in the dead of night, while the world around him sleeps. But the moment he finds himself standing unharmed when he should be at least bleeding, the moment he sees Shigaraki crumbling in front of him, he thinks he’s found the regret of regrets, the one that would haunt his every waking or sleeping moment. In all honesty, it takes him a fraction of a second longer than it should for him to take in what’s happened, but once it does - once it does -

Catching the boy - because he is a boy at just twenty years of age - Bran lowers them both to the ground, ignoring the threat for a moment. There’s blood, enough of it that he should be concerned, not enough of it where he knows too much damage has been done. Touching an exposed face, he does not look for the hand that had been masking it moments before, instead he swipes at a trickle of blood, then shifts to prop him up against the tree.

Someone moves to their left - Shuichi perhaps - but Bran holds up a single hand and they stop. Before them, the hero heaves a breath and reaches to touch what he can only assume to be a comm link of some kind.

He doesn’t get that far.

It’s sudden - one moment he’s standing, the next he’s on his knees, and above him Bran stares, expression strange and peaceful. “Shh, little one.” His voice is whisper soft, the hand that comes to gently cup a chin parentally kind. “It will be over soon.”

Only it won’t. It’s not. 

The moment he releases the hero, someone not too much older than Shigaraki himself, he starts screaming and crunching, collapsing on the ground as his body seems to fold in upon itself. He doesn’t stop - It doesn’t stop. Not when the demon moves away, not when he stops to scoop Shigaraki up in an impossibly strong grip. Not when he turns to look at the others and nods at them to go.

The sounds of screaming and crunching follow them home.

(No one looks him in the eye for the rest of the day.)

[tzdkh]

@bloodebt​ wanted some father-son time but the kid is hitting the hard questions: “ why do you walk around as if you’re somehow less valuable than the rest of the world? ” [ meme ]

How do you explain to someone so young and damaged that you are a monster? How do you do that to someone who, by all rights, is just as monstrous as you? Just as broken, just as damaged, just as much of a cursed being?

Bran doesn’t know, so, for a long while he’s silent. The only sound that comes from him is the rustle of fabric, the sound of cards flipping as he plays hand after hand of childish card games. Across from him, Shigaraki remains the same, quiet and studious, watching as card after card is laid down and ultimately swiped to the side. By the end of it, Bran has won, though merely by chance, and Shigaraki looks nonplussed, frowning at the stack of cards he’s lost, expressions easy to understand despite the hand laid over his face.

“Why do you?” Bran finally answers, though not to the other’s satisfaction. When he’s given a look, red eyes narrow and annoyed and peering between dead fingers, he sighs and continues, hand movements automatic as they retrieve the cards and begin to shuffle them.

“Sometimes we think of ourselves as lesser because we feel that is what we are, little bird.” The answer is equally as unsatisfactory, but he doesn’t let it sit in the air long enough to make his companion angrier. “A very long time ago, I did things your young master could only dream of, and for that, I am...” He trails off, shakes his head. “What I did was horrible. That is what makes me lesser in value - I took things that were not mine to take, things that can never be replaced or given back. And for that,” He holds out the deck, smile faint. “I am lesser, because those who take things that are not theirs do not deserve to stand with the rest of society.”

The path you are on leads to the same ending, little Tomura, I only hope you can stop yourself in time.

[bellicaustic-blog1]

      @bloodebt  //  c.

   there’s not a part of wrench that does not enjoy pointing out equipment errors to the other, not a single fiber of his being that doesn’t enjoy watching defalt be angry and dramatic about something that usually was an easy fix for him. 

   it’s probably because he has no sense of danger, or that all the wires in his head have crossed and fizzled out a long, long time ago. but, regardless, he’s enjoying this and it’s obvious from the way his shoulders tremble, the way the leds of his mask light up flick between amused emotions.

   tsking in a way that can only come off as condescending, wrench sinks to his knees besides jay, lips curving under his own mask in terrible, terrible amusement at the sight of the glare, at the sound of frustration and mentions of fox fucker.

   god, he loved this. he loved this because it reminded him of the rush of feel good that happened whenever he saw something explode, or felt blood on his fists. it was comparable to every act of violence he ever truly loved - without the danger of feds on his ass.

   “aw, come on now jaybae,” the nickname falls off his tongue so easily, the mocking tone of his voice obvious now that he couldn’t use the modifier, wouldn’t use it around jay’s ridiculously sensitive audio equipment. “quitters are spitters.” which made no sense at all, but he’s already sliding under the console to join him, nudging himself into the other’s space like he owned it so he could look and what had broken today.

   “let daddy wrench see what you messed up.”

[0xa00001]

#b

MEME.  MEME TAG.  INBOX.  ALWAYS ACCEPTING! @bloodebt 

eight days have passed with defalt in new york and exactly nothing has happened. it was on day three that james’ mind began churning with a familiar, coiling serpent of paranoia. by day eight, he’s slept maybe twelve hours over the last week and feels like death warmed over, hands shaking from starvation and sleep deprivation like anything he tries to stomach had instead fed that irrational beast of suspicion. at this point the small snake of worry coiled in his stomach has grown teeth and claws and sits poised with jaw open around his skull, an alligator waiting to feast.

“you’re being paranoid,” grace tells him. james marvels at how these four people seem to know him without knowing him, and his overtired, overstressed mind tells him that’s dangerous, they’re going to hurt you, they’re going to get hurt for you and maybe that’s worse—

           "I’m always paranoid.“

”besides that. amr’s been out boxing with him twice this week, right? between the concerts and the bullshit afterparties defalt loves,“ the relative silence of the hackerspace forces him to listen to her, information-starved mind desperate for any sort of validation or proof. any sign that defalt’s done something, because surely he can’t just be here to play. of course not. it’s not like new york is one of the most populous cities in the country, and a musically-inclined one at that— no, defalt is here to destroy them. “you know he’d figure it out. that’s his dumb superpower, getting people to think he’s a big, loveable puppy they can say anything to.”

james thinks, defalt could talk circles around any single one of us and we would never know until it was too late.

             ”I don’t believe whatever this is,“ he mutters, the crease in his brow skeptical, petulant. “and I don’t believe he’s here for work.”

[0xa00001]

#b

MEME.  MEME TAG.  INBOX.  ALWAYS ACCEPTING! @bloodebt LIKE THERE WAS ANY DOUBT ABOUT WHO THIS WAS FOR

                                                  “what’re you gonna do, park? soapbox ‘em to death?”

 it’s almost like defalt’s forgetting who exactly he’s talking to. some part of james wants to remind him that he’s talking a lot of shit to someone who not only knows several fixers personally, but have two on speed dial who owe him a favour, but they both know that’s an empty threat, and what’s more— defalt wants him angry. that’s why he’s here. that’s why he’s sneering half-assed insults down the bridge of his nose while dedsec’s scrambling to deal with p_8′s latest adrenalized kick in their collective dick.

           “admittedly I visualize some ultimate comeuppance with heads on pikes, and pikes on walls, and—” he smiles at him like a cocked gun. “well, you get the point.”