On God

I'm Kestrel and not even dying will stop me writing. That's your problem now. Icon by bigbrain-jojo-fan and header by Liemsz.  Requests: OPEN (read about)! Check 'in progress' for what I'm currently working on!

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

I still appreciate the chapter you wrote, I hope things improve in your life! If you don't mind, I can leave a message every now and then, but I am not sure what to say, haha. I wish I could write, but I am too self conscious to ever post anything. Is it like that for you sometimes too? -A

I'm always happy to hear from you. I might not reply because I'm busy or forget but I still read all my messages on this blog aha. They keep me going sometimes ngl.

Writing doesn't have to be for other people. Don't get me wrong I do my best work when I know I have something waiting to read it but of the ideas in my head, maybe 1 in 4 make it to paper and maybe two thirds of those ever actually get shared. Do it to get it onto paper. Do it because it'll never be as good as it was when it was an abstract idea in your head, but now you can hang onto it and look at it and turn it over in your head. Even if you feel like showing it to other people, you don't have to post it somewhere if you don't want to--though frankly, I find that posting it on a side blog none of my friends know is a lot less mortifying than trying to send it to someone I message.

At the end of the day, if words are a plant then being read is the sunlight that lets them grow. Someone has to read that writing. In the beginning, sometimes that 'someone' is you.

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

*I hope you know I still go back to reread Sublimation, and think about it, haha. Thanks so much for writing as much as you did, and I hope you continue to write in your spare time! -A

I am going through a lot. Things are not ok just yet. But it was like this message uncorked something, because tonight for the first time in months I finished the rotting remains of the next chapter and posted it, for you. For the first time in months I was truly able to write again.

I hope I can write more in the coming time. Thank you for your kindness.

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

#this is probably a prequel to a proper fic tbh EYES_EMOJI_MOTION_BLUR.GIF holy shit im so happy you like my ideas!!! cos i write like potatoes! which is also how i talk how the FUCK did you read me like that lmao. joot hun that isnt very subtle bust up just ONE leg and maybe an ankle or knee on the other

Bold of you to assume he was trying to be subtle ;) ;) ;) (haven’t decided where in the timeline this is.  Probably post-SDC, where he’s riding the high of all those ptsd feels tbh.  I’ll work it out later.)

Also re: making it a proper fic... *glances at scriv*

Let’s um.  Let’s just say that between this, Sublimation and some personal work I’ve got a lot on my plate.  You’re not gonna see it for a while.

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

damnit ok retyped bcos i dont save shit, f to me 😔 i know ur nge trash so u know the song, butttttt did you know it has a SUPER DOPE preamble in some versions? google 'poets often use many words' and ull find it ANYWAY imagine if like. reader chan *thinks* theyre alone idk stuck w cleaning duty by themselves cos jotaro never does shit, so they sing to make the chore faster but. gasp surprise he was listening and thinks theyre singing to him! (or yan of ur choice) dun dunduuunnn

You are a singer.  This is not to say that you are known for your voice, or that you take special pride in songs, or even that you’re particularly good--that you have a place on the stage outside your own private fantasies.  You are a singer because it is a function of the soul.  It is what human beings do, in the same way birds make nests and bees dance.

You are also a student.  Coincidentally: today is your day to clean the classroom.  It’s a solitary and cumbersome hassle, made moreso by the fact that it shouldn’t be solitary or cumbersome, but that’s the natural consequence of being partnered with the perpetual absence of Jotaro Kujo.  It’s something you have to learn to ignore, papering over misplaced anger and indignation with empty assurances, with ‘I’m-fine’s and spiteful diligence.  Their absence exposes an unsettling silence, however.  A plaintive loneliness.  You have to create a new companion to take its place. 

The shape it takes is song.  It wobbles, crackly and out of tune, malnourished of confidence, uneven in meter and lack of practice--alright.  It's ugly.  There, I said it.  A weed in the cracks of a sidewalk except it’s a voice.  But it's yours.  And as the weeks pass, it blooms into something, and with its help your work is lighter and time goes quicker.  There’s a certain joy in the transformation, where you are no longer alone with an absence but together with yourself.  A grandness in humble passion, in articulating something from the depths of your heart: “But just to be sure that you know what I’m saying, I’ll translate as I go along--”

Today, you had even brought a cassette player, a backing track for your little solo.  That might be why you have to fight down something sour, as your friend insists on helping you finish up early, and no amount of ‘Oh it’s fine’ or ‘Really, don’t wait for me’ will dissuade them.  The idea puzzles you, as the two of you empty wastebaskets and sweep floors and wipe down the blackboard; fifteen minutes in a high school classroom can’t possibly mean that much to you, that you’re resenting its absence this deeply.  You’re going to the arcade after this!  Please be normal for a change.  Enough of this weird aloofness.  Let your tapes of Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald languish in your pocket for a day--their grand landscapes of love and feeling will be where you left them.

...your friend’s been saying something.  Your broom pauses in its mindless shuffle so the words can reach your ears.

“Your English isn’t bad, y’know?  Is that how you practice, with American songs?”

Oh.  Your voice shrivels on itself, withering in the heat of another’s attention, and your reply comes out as a pathetic raspy croak.  “Um.  No, I just--.” 

Your friend laughs and playfully hits your shoulder.  “We should try karaoke or something sometime!  Let you really belt it out, it’ll be great.”

Drinking poison would hurt you less.  You say: “Perhaps”, and leave it at that.  When you finish making the classroom spotless, it’s in dead silence--not even your footsteps make noise.  It’s a silly thing, to be mortified to this extreme, but you can’t make yourself make any noise.  When you walk out the door only to bump into a wall of muscle, you can barely find it in you to make a squeak of surprise.

Jotaro.  Your obdurately truant helper.  Somehow his presence is even worse than his absence, especially with the way he silently stares you down.  What’s that glimmer in his eyes?  Are you sure you’re not just imagining it?

“Finally felt like coming to help out, Kujo?” You ask.  There’s an accusation in your voice, peeking out from the artificial indifference.  You try not to wince when you realize he definitely noticed it.

Your friend snickers.  “Figures he’d pick the one day someone else decided to you me do his work.  Well, we’re done here, but thanks for showing up, I guess.”  

What is he even doing here?  You figured he’d quit campus the second the last bell rang, vanishing to parts unknown and deaf to everyone’s protests and whispers.

Jotaro doesn’t immediately reply.  He’s still standing there, filling the doorway with his overlarge frame.  Blocking you in here, and the worst part is that he’s probably not even conscious of doing it.  Jotaro’s just...horribly inconsiderate like that.  You're apprehensive--like approaching a strange dog--but nonetheless make to move past him, knowing that he won’t move an inch unless he decides he wants to.  To your (quickly swallowed; it’s not like he scares you) relief, he does, and you don’t even brush against him as you step into the hallway.  Your friend is quick to follow behind you, flipping their hair in obvious contempt, and ushers you down the hallway.  No, that’s not right--away from him.

“You know, I heard he’s been hanging around campus more than usual.” They whisper, leaning in.  It’s harsh, loud enough that he could easily pick it up even from where he’s standing, and he’s obviously meant to.  “Weird, right?  Everyone knows he doesn’t care about school.”  They throw an exaggerated, suspicious glance over their shoulder at him.  A warning rises in your throat--surely they’re smarter than to actively provoke Jotaro--but you don’t have the courage to voice it.  Just what is it that you’re afraid of?

“I bet he’s blackmailing someone.  Or stealing,” they continue offhandedly, counting on their fingers.  “Or stalking.  Really, I bet he’ll do anything.  I don’t get why he hasn’t just dropped out already.  Might be for the best that you don’t stay in a room alone with him, you could be next.  I wonder--”

“Don’t joke about it, please,” you interrupt, and your voice is back--as wobbly and shaky and ugly as it was when you first started singing.  “I don’t want to think about that stuff.”

“I feel you,” they nod sagely, apparently oblivious to the fact that they’re the source of your distress, “maybe we can talk to the teacher and get you a new cleaning partner?”

The cozy solitude of your classroom is stripped away.  You’re back in an ugly, chaotic world full of people who aren’t safe, and your voice can’t protect you from them.  It’s a horrible thought, one that sours your overpriced soda and throws you off your game.  When you say good-bye and part ways as you head home, your tapes are still forgotten in your pocket; all you can think about is the look on Jotaro’s face when you turned back to look at him.

Your friend doesn’t come to school the next day.  Apparently they got into an accident on their way home.  They broke both legs.

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

asdfghjk SO apparently tumblor has been eating up some of my asks and i just wanted to know if you ever got a prompt idea with reader chan singing fly with me in it? its totes cool if you did and didn't vibe with it but like if it DIDN'T send i sure want to heckling know y'know lol

...please send that ask again, I have absolutely no memory of it and a frantic scan of my askbox isn’t showing it;; 

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

Yo!! I love your writing so much!!!! I like how put together your works are, and the clever use of expressions!! They’ve inspired me lots into doing better!! I hope you’re taking care of yourself in this trying times 🥺💕

Ahhh bro I’m so glad you’re writing more!! That’s honestly the best kind of feedback I can get on my fics, that it makes other people go out and create content of their own!! Open invitation btw to tag me in anything you or any other anon posts, and I guarantee I’ll give feedback on it bc it’s just so...nice...

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

I swear Giorno went from “my sweet little ladybug broke their spine 😧. It’s okay, I’ll take care of u because I love u and I’ll give u all the huggies and kissies even tho I know u hate me I still love u with all my heart and soul” *darling gets a stand* “it’s piano and snake time baby”

Giorno becomes deathly still—even the movement of breath in his chest has ceased.  The unreadable look on his shadowed face is easy to read as indifference, even boredom, but the subtle tension in his shoulders tells another story entirely, that of only barely restrained fury.  

 “Alright.  Let it never be said,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he descends the steps, “that I didn’t give you exactly what you wanted.”

Haha...oh buddy.  You haven’t seen anything yet.

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

i think what i love most about your fanfics are the like really normal or average beginnings that just turn on a dime. it's like a spicy thriller story

Haha, my favorite thing to do is write a fic that’s completely innocuous...until you hit That Point and suddenly everything’s in a completely new and horrible context.  I should finish up that Kira request I’ve been picking at...

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

* Is it okay if we wrote stories with the yandere versions you wrote for various characters? I ADORE your version of Jonathan because of how unique and realistically terrifying you made him! I crave more of that version, but you're the only person I could find who does him like that. I would credit you, but I wanted to ask ahead of time.

*pulls myself out of my crypt long enough to check my inbox* oh my god.  I mean...yes??? I’m blown away you liked my characterization of that dude so much, you GOTTA link me whatever you write for him! (Tbh I always wanted to write more but I never got a prompt that really felt right for him....feel free to shoot me one and I’ll see if I can get to it once I struggle past my avalanche of work and also other fic requests OTL)

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

Not a confessing but just asking, do you have a Ao3 account? Or any other writings accounts? Love to know and love your writings!

I do!  There are some things I post on there that aren’t on this blog, but a lot more of my content goes on this tumblr.  That might change as my writing drive wakes up and I start putting out a good amount of content again.  You can check out my work here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KestrelBrave

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

I was tagged by @abbacchiosbelt!  Starting Hot Girl Summer with a tag meme sounds good to me.

Rules: Use 10 pics you have to describe yourself.  You can’t download new ones.

I tag...mm.... @industria-adastra, @ok-jjba-writings @mercurymetals and anyone else who wants to do this!  (And then show me if you do, I need to collect more Memes lmao)

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

yo, i just discovered your blog and lemme just yo, i just found your blog and lemme just say, the vibes here are SO good. your writing is just the kind of inspiration i need for my own work and like,, it’s been one day and i’m already 10,000 words in. take care of yourself and thank you for feeding this rat good fucking writing!! 🐀

Ten...t-thousand??  Absolutely incredible.  Shine on, you crazy diamond, I hope you keep the steam up and make something amazing!  (Thanks for enjoying my content, too!  But wow....ten thousand....)

[industria-adastra]

An introduction

Hello to whoever’s reading this.

I’m Ouro from @ouroboros-panacea, but @industria-adastra​ is my new writing blog because @ouroboros-panacea is more of a personal blog than anything. I’ll be posting mostly fanfiction, headcanons and the like, although I may occasionally post original works as well on this blog. As of now I’m probably not going to write requests, however this might change in the future. Who knows? Besides, I haven’t even established any rules yet.

I hope I’ll be able to…make friends? Interact with more people? I don’t know, I just want to share my writing and obsess over fandoms and characters with everyone.

Some info about me:

I like writing fanfiction because I get to explore the “what would change if A and B swapped places” or “how do I think A would react if placed in xxx/this situation”. I actually find it hard to write romance, but I hope I’ll be able to improve in that area as time goes by.

I used to lurk around in tumblr a lot. Dm-ing, adding onto a post or sending an ask to other people is very nerve-wracking.

Hot milk tea without sugar is great. Spicy fried chicken is the best. Miyashita Yuu’s cover of Wozwald is glorious

The tumblrs who’ve inspired me to make a writeblr in the first place would be @inkpot-dreamer and @yourfaveisyanderematic​. Both are very nice people with their own writing styles and ideas. 

To whoever’s reading this, thank you for reading my introduction, and I wish for you to have a good day today. (^~^)

–Ouro

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

Welcome to the writing community, Ouro!!! I can't wait to see what else you post!

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

wow you people really let me send that ask out the door with half a dropped sentence in Mista’s part huh

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

Your last post about the Bucci Gang and cruelty was sooooo good!!! I seriously love your writing, you have a way of making words sound absolutely poetic! It’s like *chefs kiss* pure art. I’ve been eating nothing but cereal and frozen ravioli these past weeks so thank you Kestrel for the good fucking food 

***

I--thank you so much I’m happy you enjoyed that! But also please eat something that isn’t cereal or frozen ravioli, please take care of yourself?????

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

i saw a post where someone rated yanderes on a scale of 1-10 on cruelty and was wondering if you could do the same with the bucci gang? maybe a couple little headcanons on their yandere behavior and how far they'd take it to keep their s/o close

Oh boy, this was a fun one.  Only did half the Bucci Boys in this post; might do a follow-up with the rest of the crew, assuming I don’t die in a fire first

THE WORST OF THE WORST; ‘TIL DEATH DO US PART’ WASN’T A SUGGESTION

Bruno:

“Shhh...shh...”  If you weren’t crying like your life depended on it--tears streaming helplessly down your cheeks as hitching sobs and would-be-gasps tried and failed to pass your lips--you would have laughed at the pure insanity of it all.  Bruno was your friend, someone you trusted, and until this very moment you would have confidently claimed he felt the same way.  

What did I ever do to you?  You tried to plead with your eyes, unable to do anything but watch as he ran a finger up the inside of your thigh and delicately--gently, like you were made of glass--takes you apart, neatly pulling your leg from your body like it had never been attached at all.  How did I become your enemy, that you would do this to me?

He finally looks up to meet your eyes, and there is something horrible and hungry in their depths.  “Crying won’t get you out of this,” he murmurs, “it’s not enough to be sorry sometimes, but you’ll learn.”

You think he starts to tuck your stolen limbs inside himself, like some deranged magic trick, but it’s at this point that you finally--thankfully--pass out.

Fugo:

“I--I didn’t want to do that.  You shouldn’t have said that.  You know how I get when you--”

The fury had completely evaporated from his voice, and all that was left was his shaky, desperate attempts to soothe you as he picked porcelain shards out of your skin.  The smashed remains of the vase were still scattered around you in a parody of a halo.  Your arms were still flailing, fumbling--trying to get away, even now?--as your head lolled against his shoulder.  

“I just--” his voice chokes, and suddenly he sounds so much younger than he really is as he clutches you to his chest--as if he wasn’t the reason you were bleeding out on the floor to begin with.  “I just wish you would listen to me--”

You could hear him say something else, but it wasn’t anything you could understand; the world was becoming fuzzy and indistinct as you were losing consciousness, and all you could think as you sank deeper into the darkness behind your eyelids was:

I hope he actually kills me this time.

Mista:

You wanted to scream, but what actually came out was a sort of shocked yelp as something hot and wet splattered against your skin.  Your mind was racing, trying to go through five escape plans at once, but your body had frozen in place, and all you could do was watch as your friend toppled backward in his chair, a gory mess where his head had been.  His soda had flown out of his hand, hitting the floor and rolling in a neat arc to spill at your feet. 

Mista was already moving, stepping over “Sorry I took so long, babe.  There was this one guy who just did not want to tell me where you were for some reason...glad that’s over with.  Dude, could you hold still for a sec?  That works, I guess.  Hang on--”

Two more shots rang out in the confined space of your apartment, a tap that sent the other man spinning to the ground, dead before he could make it to the door.  You still couldn’t move.  You still couldn’t move, even as the smoking barrel of his snub-nosed revolver wheeled around to face you.

“I’ve got one bullet left, sweetheart, and it’s got your name on it.  Still wanna do this the hard way?”

Giorno:

“Congratulations,” you hear.  The gunshot’s still ringing in your ears; if you wanted to, you could pretend you imagined it.  The cool, quick fingers that run down your arm and pluck the gun from your hand would beg to differ, though.

“You’re a murderer now.  Not a man alive would defend what you did.”

His head comes to rest on your shoulder.  You think about turning your head--toward him?  Away?--but don’t, if only because it doesn’t matter, and Giorno has never been a gracious winner.  Your fingers are still loosely curled around the memory of the pistol, staring down at the empty shell that used to be your boyfriend.

Murderer.  You’re a murderer, now.  “I only killed him to save him from you,” you choke out.  Is it for his benefit?  Yours?  It doesn’t matter--you can tell by the cherubic peal of laughter that Giorno’s tickled either way.

“Why you killed him doesn’t matter.  Whether you agree to stay with me, or turn yourself in, that doesn’t matter either.  You’re mine, and,” his laugh is lower now, more breathy, as his arms encircle you like a snake’s coils, “I can do what I like with you--wherever you are.”

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

Could I request yandere Trish with a stand user bodygaurd making them share a bed with her for "" protection""

It’s been a long day.

A change of clothes later, and you’re still finding blood in odd and random places--soaked in the lining of your shoes, staining your arms at the elbow, droplets caked in the roots of your hair—really, you’ll need a shower to completely purge the memory of the bloodbath you enacted.  Your Stand was powerful, but it was messy in a way that laid bare your savagery and made it impossible to get anyone else to work with you.  Every time the Don sent you and his precious daughter on a mission, you were required to act as protector and attack dog both, with Trish as your civilizing force.  When you called upon the brutal power of your Stand, it terrorized everyone who survived seeing it in action…and impressed them just as greatly, when they saw the ease with which Trish reigned you in.

At first, you didn’t understand why someone with power as vulgar as yours had been assigned to protect her, but now you could appreciate the twisted logic of it all—each mission hardened the little princess’ stomach that much more, made her more willing to put you to work as her own personal executioner.  She had a throne waiting for her, after all, and the steps leading to it were drenched in blood.

Blood…yes, blood.  The stench of it doesn’t dominate the air anymore, now that you were in the cushy hotel suite and the only red in your surroundings was the velvet trim and flowers in the wallpaper, but there are lingering traces of it all the same, and for the life of you you can’t figure out where they’re coming from.

The door next to you opens, interrupting your thoughts.  Trish walks out in a haze of steam as she towels her hair dry, the lack of makeup and expensive suits making her seem strange in a way you can’t put your finger on.

It’s not until she finishes changing into her nightwear—with you pointedly looking away, of course, you’re not that much of a beast—that you realize what it is: she actually looks her age.  It’s an occurrence that’s becoming rarer and rarer the longer you’re with her.

Trish turns to look up at you and immediately wrinkles her nose.

“I thought that might be you.  You stink,” she says.  You smile indulgently in return.

“All in a day’s work, Miss Una.  Was there anything else you needed me for?”  You can already feel it.  The hot blast of water soothing the ache from your muscles, the strong soap you’ll use to scrub every inch of you clean, and when you slide between your sheets you’ll be as clean and blameless as anyone else in this city.  You’ve become a crane-wife in reverse, threading feathers through your skin to become a beast only to tear them out again at the end of the day.  You can’t wait to be a person again, your humanity tucked out of sight before it can be mistaken for weakness.  

Except that Trish is still looking at you, head cocked in that way you’ve learned to recognize from watching her stare at little trays full of treats.  Want, naked and hungry, but it would break decorum to simply reach out and grab, and she needs a moment to work out the way to phrase her request.

“Leaving me here?”  She asks, “by myself?  You’re an awful bodyguard.  What about protection?  How am I supposed to have that if you’re gone?”

You raise an eyebrow at her.  The lie is barely worth humoring—there are no Stand users in this city, not anymore, the two of you had made sure of that this very afternoon.  Who would dare try to touch her, after all that?  Who would dare try to touch her at all?

Your master has spoken.  You ignore the ache deep in the bones of your feet, renewing their protests as your body realizes it won’t be resting anytime soon, and you move to sit in the plush armchair near the door.

A hand yanks around your arm, pulling you back.  You’re not taken off balance—you’re too disciplined—but you do hesitate, looking down at her in obvious confusion.  

“I didn’t say you weren’t resting,” she says slowly, as if it was patently obvious and you were missing the point to be obstinate, “you just have to stay with me.  For protection.”

“For…protection,” you repeat dully, trying not to imagine what would happen to you if anyone found out about this, “but of course.  Then I’ll—“

“Undress?  Yes, I’d hope so.  You’re not coming to bed wearing all that.” she finishes for you.

You stare, and then you try very hard not to imagine what would happen to you if anyone found out about this.  If a blush is heating your cheeks, Trish is polite enough not to point it out.

It was okay, right?  If she was the one who told you to do it, and you were just following orders…it wasn’t wrong to obey her, right?  You weren’t allowed to do anything else.

Your hands fumble at the buttons of your suit, shrugging the jacket off and then undoing each button one by one.  Trish rolls her eyes again and pointedly turns her head away, a courtesy you can’t help but thank her for, even though she could easily choose to not make you do this at all.  You hesitate again at the waistband of your pants, and look helplessly to her as if to ask: is this enough?  

No such answer is forthcoming: she simply huffs, clearly impatient to go to bed.  You shed your slacks, step out of your shoes and socks, and hesitate yet again at the edge of the bed.  If you weren’t terrified, you’d laugh at the absurdity of the situation—only months ago did you rankle at being beckoned to and fro like a dog, and now someone’s bed felt too much like forbidden territory to intrude upon.  You’d almost rather sleep on the floor.

She sighs, yet again, but there’s a strange emotion to it this time, one that’s difficult to place.  Trish runs her hands up your forearms, brushing against your skin, and then finally takes both your upper arms in her grip, pulling you over embroidered sheets and fluffy pillows until you’re nestled next to her.  

If you’re going to die of a heart attack, you’d better do it now.  Her skin is warm and smooth and very, very bare, and she’s entangled your legs in hers, and her head is resting against your breast, where she can hear the frantic thrum of your heart.  You’ve held her closer than this before, but that was with both of you fully clothed and in the heat of battle, so.  Totally different.  The difference of course being that nobody would argue that you weren’t doing your job then; nobody would argue that you were doing your job now.  

You needed to stop thinking about this.  Fortunately, Trish picked this moment to be a supremely unhelpful distraction, tracing patterns around the dip of her clavicle with one hand.  You focused on the motion, if only so you would stop focusing on the softness of something else pressed against your ribs.

“Say a bunch of men with guns kick down that door, right now, and attacked you,” she murmurs suddenly, almost lightly, “what would you do?”

The scenario is absolutely ridiculous.  Nobody would make it this close to her with guns alone—simply fighting their way up to you would give you more than enough time to get dressed and get out.  You humor her, though, because that’s what you do.

“I’d shield you with my body and move you to cover, where I would then escort you to the exit point.”  The answer is mechanical and practiced.  You could give it in your sleep, and you’re pretty sure you have.

She giggles.  “Liar.  You’d tear them apart where they stood.  And then you’d go back and kill the rest of my detail, for letting them up.”

A laugh huffs out of you, lightening the moment.  “Alright.  Yes.  But that’s not really the right answer.”

“Everyone knows it’s what you’d do.”  She grins, still tracing circles along the light blue webbing of your veins.  “But okay.  What if…what if I attacked you?  What would you do then?”

That one took a little more thought.  “It would depend on whether it was a reprimand, or if you were actually trying to kill me” you say at last.  “I think I can safely assume that you wouldn’t try to kill me unless you were being controlled by something.”

She pulls a little closer into you, pressing a little harder on the skin over your heart.  “You’re right,” she says at last, “I’d never do that to you.”

Her finger dips lower still, tracing circles around the pocked scars of bullet wounds across your chest and the spot where your heart beats strongest.  At last, she speaks.

“What if I told you to kill Daddy for me?”  This isn’t a hypothetical.  There’s a tremor in her voice, as if she’s almost dreading your answer, as if something very real is riding on what you say next.  “What would you do, then?”  

Your heart jumps into your throat.  Your breath, traitorously, stutters as you consider the question.  Is this some kind of test?  You try to anticipate the kind of answer she must be looking for—the earnest truth?  The calculated, political answer?  The passionate defense?  The helpless trust?—but eventually, what comes out of your mouth is:

“Are you afraid of your father, Trish?”

Her nails dig into the skin of your chest, painfully now, and belatedly you realize that the hammering of a frantic heartbeat you’d been hearing wasn’t yours—it was hers.  You stutter out a follow-up, perhaps trying to recant, to reassure her that you’re on her side without explicitly speaking against your employer.  

“M—Trish.  I know he can be brutal and cruel to everyone else, but he’s leaving his legacy to you.  There’s no reason for you to think—he wouldn’t want you to—“

Trish’s body twists and shifts, and suddenly there’s weight on top of you, making you sink into the plush bedsheets.  She’s on top of you, straddling your waist, hands over your shoulders as her eyes glare into yours, looking for something but not finding it.  Her jaw works, chewing up the words she was about to say.

“I—“ you begin, but she cuts you off.

“I don’t care what he wants,” she whispers, and you have to strain to catch every word, “Not about you.  He doesn’t care about you.  Don’t you get it?  He just wants to use you to keep me safe, and he’ll take you away from me if he thinks he needs to—once he decides you’re too broken to be with me anymore, or just a bad influence, and then he’ll give me another bodyguard and say they’re just as good.”

Her grip on you tightens, painful now, as if you’ll disappear if she doesn’t cling to you hard enough.

“It doesn’t matter what I want!”  her voice is choked now, horrible and raw in a way that makes you instinctively want to soothe her, but you can’t—not when you’re the source of her pain.  “Not when it’s you!  You’re supposed to be mine!”

She’s going to hurt herself if she clutches at you any harder.  You gently rest your hands on her white knuckles, shaking her grip loose and pulling her hands away from the crescent shaped cuts she’s left on your skin.

“I am yours, Trish,” you murmur, even though it’s clearly not really your decision to make, “Remember? Until you’re ready to let me go.”

Her burst of manic energy has run its course, because she’s slumping now, not only out of relief but also because of renewed fatigue.    

“I won’t ever do that,” she promises you, drowsily, as she nestles back in beside you.  “Not ever.”  And she means it—she’d tear down everything her father built with her own hands, if it meant she could hold onto you.

You can still feel where her fingernails cut into you.