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featherburnt · 3 years

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➟ Til the Hurt is Gone: Bloodfeather

Title: Confrontation Part #: 4 Pairing: Hawks x m!OC Word Count: 5k, give or take. Tags: Canon-typical violence, language.

Summary: For three years, the hero Hellhound has been hunting, infiltrating groups of villains and probing for information in his search for one named Sonata, the former hero Prisma. A U.A. graduate, he should know better. He should be protecting civilians, hunting down villains when ordered, but his heart lingers on the pains of old memories, the hot desire for retribution burning in his chest. On one fateful night, when the enemy is locked in his sights, a man with vermillion wings snuffs the flames seated in his palms, using his words to burrow under his skin like a fowl little bug. What will he do then? Will he continue his hunt, or will boiling blood finally cool?

As always, minors do not interact.

Bloodfeather Chapter Masterlist

Same Day, 10:00PM

When needle-like vanes retracted from the skin around Hellhound’s throat, he’d allowed himself a moment to breathe, inhaling sharply through his nose and exhaling quickly. Wine-red eyes flit from head to head, lingering on pairs of curious eyes as people passed around him and this… trespasser. So many looked like they’d wanted to say something and others had the gumption to, excited whispers and thoughtful exclamations worming their way into his ears, some skipping right up to request an autograph or fawn over the man beside him. All he could extrapolate from their mutterings was a name, one that was familiar enough to get him thinking, distract him from his prior engagement, and as he stood, rigid as a wooden board, mouth going dry, he frowned deeply.

Just his fucking luck.

Over the course of the last few years, he had only off-handedly paid attention to the goings on of hero society, largely ignoring what he deemed useless to him and committing to memory only that which he knew would keep him relatively aware. Informed. It irritated him, now, to realize he’d been stalled by Hawks, urged along by a vermillion feather at the small of his back with others no doubt at the ready to shackle him should he give him any trouble or attempt an escape. He cast his gaze forward, frantically searching for the man responsible for bringing him out of hiding in the first place, the man who murdered his mother, but that head of russet hair was long gone and he knew, then, that this opportunity, his chance to finally put him down like the sick dog he was, had been utterly and completely wasted.

Three years down the fucking drain in just a measly moment, a half-second, with a feather tight around his throat, and for what? The color drained from his face and his heart hammered against his rib cage with reckless abandon as a uniquely overwhelming sense of disappointment crept into his chest. Heavy and impossible to ignore, he tried like hell to catch Prisma’s scent in the air, breathe in the foul aroma of iron and decay, but it, too, had all but disappeared. Anger spilled into his gut, settling like a stone, and it wasn’t alone - Guilt only made it worse. For a brief moment, he thought of Yana, teeth gnawing on his lower lip. He didn’t have the luxury of thinking about any of it now, not when a particularly high-level hero had him - unfortunately - by the balls at any given moment, with and without having to use his stupid feathers. Hellhound may have been bent on taking the life of a bastard, which in itself would’ve been a foolish idea under most other circumstances, but he wasn’t an idiot. He had to focus.

He was guided forward, vanes ghosting over his spine.

Every step he took was taken with utmost reluctance, hands hanging limply at his sides as he walked along beside Hawks, teeth grinding as instinctive agitation began to further give way to that awful sense of dismay. Stubbornly, however, he simmered, a pot of water always on the verge of boiling over. From what he recalled, the Wing Hero was number three in the charts, propped up as the sarcastic runner-up to Endeavor and All Might, but that wasn’t what was important. No, it was his wings, what he could do with those feathers, and even if Hellhound had known precious little, he wasn’t stupid enough to put himself at any further risk and especially for that reason. At least, not yet. The relentless animal inside him wasn’t capable of outrunning a man built for speed and much of his quirk was unknown to him, up in the air and unpredictable, but the seeds of a plan were beginning to take root, and he hoped, before too much longer, he would find an opening.

For now, however, he would play along, grit his teeth and keep silent, but continue on nonetheless. He could deal with the issue of his failure sometime later, when he’d untangled himself from Hawks’ feathered grip.

The feather hovering at the small of his back dropped, seemingly only there to encourage him forward and nothing more.

“So, Hellhound! What brings you to Shizuoka? Visiting family? Catching up with old friends, maybe? I’m sure someone’s been missing their pup,” came a series of playful words, each one more obnoxious than the last. He narrowed his eyes, grateful for the tiny shred of anonymity provided by his mask, eyes raking over flashing storefront signs and civilian faces in an effort to ignore the man. “I imagine there would be at least a few heroes in the ranks eager to see you, too. After all, you did kinda disappear without a trace. I can’t think of any reason why relief wouldn’t be an immediate reaction to learning you’ve been alive all this time.”

It wasn’t surprising to hear, but it nonetheless remained a point of contention and, so, Hellhound kept his mouth firmly shut, refusing to volunteer any information, glancing every which way in the hopes he might find an alley, some place he could run. He didn’t much care for the fondness of those he once worked with, not when he’d a goal outweighing the reasons he became a hero to begin with - they didn’t matter. A number of them were much older than him and some faces he remembered had been there that day, oh so long ago, when the world would stop turning and that which kept him kind, motivated, alive as a man had ceased to be. Dramatic, anyone with two brain cells to rub together might say, but such as it was: He had nothing left. And maybe it was a sign of weakness, that he should give in to the grief still clinging to the forefront of his mind, to the pain, but maybe his colleagues should’ve done better. Maybe they should’ve tried harder.

Maybe she’d still be alive if they had.

Still, he turned his eyes to the street ahead - another crossing, blinking lights signaling that it was safe to walk across the road. People continued to call to Hawks, and he responded in kind every time, but Hellhound opted to ignore it each and every time. Where they were headed, he hadn’t one iota, but, provided he found his opening, he would bolt and wouldn’t have to find out. Provided the winged man could be distracted by a few nameless faces long enough. He narrowed his eyes, trying his damnedest to ignore Hawks’ constant squawking, to no avail.

“Y’know, depending on how all that goes, you should return to the fold, yeah? From what I remember of you, you have a strong quirk and we’re always hiring.” A chuckle. Again, playful, as he signed a young girl’s bag. Lighthearted. Red wings shifted and stray feathers brushed against him, grazing his backside as Hawks fluffed them, stretching them out. He wondered, momentarily, if that was purposeful, but some small part of him figured it might’ve just been to keep himself comfortable and his wings pliable should he take off. The number three had to be ready for anything, didn’t he?

Hellhound narrowed his eyes, stubbornly remaining silent.

“You’re not much of a talker, huh?”

Oh, I’ll talk, but not to you.

“Was it something I said?”

There it was again, that fucking tone. Like this was a game and nothing more. It was grating on his last working nerve, as if Hawks’ interference hadn’t already stolen from him his revenge, his last hurrah. He was fine with inevitably being taken to Tartarus. He was fine with having that blood on his hands and being punished for it accordingly. He’d already made his peace with the consequences of the choice he’d already made three years ago. He didn’t have the time or the energy to keep listening to his constant babbling, let alone how he spoke, and the longer this went on, it became clearer and clearer to him that he had to look a little harder for the opening he needed. Escaping this gods-awful man was his first priority. Prisma had to come second.

“You’re annoying,” he all but hissed, his gaze hovering over the dead-end at the end of the street. The crowd seemed to dwindle most there and if he could keep Hawks headed that direction, then, perhaps, he could squirm free of his attention. The street, if he remembered correctly, ended before a hilly greenspan leading down to the canal. He could, potentially, use that to his advantage, provided Hawks couldn’t swim. Provided he couldn’t afford to get his feathers wet. Provided he himself could bear to stomach his own inability, his childish fear of the water. He wouldn’t have placed any bets on that, however, his mind settling on the circumstances of their meeting.

One thing was absolutely clear: This was no accident, and it was painfully obvious. Either the blond was handling this in so messy a manner on purpose, or he was hoping Hellhound wouldn’t notice - or it was a bit of both. He seemed aware of more than he was letting on regardless of his intentions, regardless of what he was trying to do, and depending on what he knew exactly, then getting the desired outcome of this attempt to escape him would prove a bit more difficult than he’d initially thought. He had to take that into consideration, even if it wasn’t the case, because he had thrown caution to the wind in order to reach Prisma. Did Hawks think him a fool, someone easy to manipulate? Did he not know that feathers burn like kindling? He kept his eyes trained on that point at the end of the road, whetting his lips under layers of bandaging and cloth. The cool night air was a blessing, truly, and he’d argue it was the only thing keeping him from taking off sooner.

“All the best people are.” He could hear the grin on Hawks’ face. “And I’m one of the best, pup.”

Hellhound craned his head to look at him, really look at him. Irritation would’ve been clear on his own face had he not kept it entirely covered, but something told him Hawks knew without having to see it at all - which only served to agitate him further. He saw chicken scratch for chin hairs, darker blond than the wind-blown fluff on his head, and sharp golden eyes framed by natural black markings. His lips were drawn into a cheeky smile - eye roll - and one that really only confirmed Hellhound’s suspicions, speaking to a certain arrogance. It didn’t touch his eyes. Ultimately, he committed that face to memory, dragging hot burgundy over every tanline, every expression line, the furrow of his brow, the knowing gleam to his eyes, and every freckle tucked beneath that blue visor of his. Step after step, he kept his gaze glued to the man, memorizing how and when he would fluff his wings, pull the collar of his coat up, how the breeze blew through arched strands of blond, the color of his skin, the shade of red his feathers were, down to the way his adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. He looked as annoying as he was, self-satisfied and, again, arrogant, but… Strangely, there was something about him that told Hellhound that, under any other circumstances, he might have enjoyed his company, might’ve enjoyed looking at him, too.

When Hawks winked at him, batting a lash, his grin widening, he had to pull his eyes away. He wrinkled his nose then, a hand rising if only to adjust his mask by the snout.

Annoying, indeed.

Just a few blocks ahead was the end of the road and he was thankful for it, breathing in the watery scent of the nearing canal. It might be drastic, a silly and temporary solution to his problem, but he had to do something - he couldn’t bear to deal with this man any longer, and he knew it could prove to be entirely pointless. Hawks wouldn’t just let him escape, would he? Not likely, but, still, he had to try. Prisma had returned to Shizuoka and he would have his head on a pike if it killed him, regardless of whether or not the Number Three would allow it. Chance meetings were rarely a coincidence and, if he had to guess, it would’ve been an old friend, an old mentor, who’d sent him after him to keep him from claiming his revenge. Why ultimately hadn’t mattered. Nogitsune had his own agenda and had always been a master manipulator; Getting the fastest hero of all to pin him down and stop him could’ve only been child’s play for him.

He didn’t know that for sure, however, and he wasn’t soon to act on it without proof. Regardless, he’d found his opening and, before too much longer, he would make his move, unafraid of the consequences - he had to be. His heart thrashed in his chest, blood thundering in his veins, but he suppressed every shred of agitated anxiety creeping over him--

“Hawks! It’s him, momma!” came the sudden, shrill voice of a small child, interrupting his thoughts. Their collective steps halted, and Hawks dropped to a crouch, leveling with them.

“Hey, kiddo!” he chirped, hands propped up on his knees, a warm smile on his face.

Burgundy momentarily widened, lashes fluttering quickly, and he looked down at the tiny little boy balling his fists and beaming bright as the sun.

Oh, he’d been blessed with an opportunity! He needn’t wait for the end of the road, no. He could bolt down an alley and disappear in the darkness, claw his way to safety, out of Hawks’ purview. He had to try; He couldn’t afford to let Prisma get any further away than he already had, and he might even pick up his scent along the way… Fingers twitched, Devil Dog already beginning to tug and pull at capillaries, muscle, and flesh.

“What are you doing here? We never see you here!” said the little boy, practically jumping for joy.

“Oh, just meetin’ up with an old friend. What’re you and your momma doing out this late?”

“Momma promised we’d see a movie, but it’s over now so we’re going home!”

“Oh yeah? What’d you see?” Hawks all but chuckled.

“We went to see one of those American superhero movies. Guardians, I think it was?” the little boy’s mother would take her turn to speak, running her fingers through her son’s hair, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

“I hear that’s a good one! Good choice, yeah? Didja like it, kiddo?”

“Uh-huh! It was so cool! All the heroes were like whoosh! Nyoom! BOOM!” The kid waved his arms around excitedly, making sound effects the best he could, running circles around his mother.

Hellhound waited around throughout the exchange for a few seconds longer before tense muscles would launch him forward, beyond the duo in front of him, and he ran, narrowly avoiding small clusters of people here and there until an alleyway presented itself to him. He had to get away, he had to. He didn’t bother looking back, knowing full well that Hawks would either be after him or his feathers would be, but he couldn’t afford to check, couldn’t afford to stall himself. He took a sharp left turn, greeted only by the musty darkness of a trashy alley, wide and unlit. Eyes briefly scanned the area, but he couldn’t make out any hard details - except a dead end, brick and mortar blocking his path. Shit.

Frantically, he glanced all around, chest heaving, hands heavy and increasing in size, exposed muscle and claw now at full capacity. He could use it to climb… so he did. With no small amount of swiftness and even desperation, he darted forward once more, bending his knees and pushing himself off the ground, boring claws into cement and scaling the wall until he’d made it over the edge and onto the rooftop, avoiding every window, every other ledge. Moonlight illuminated cool grey stone, shadows stretching across the way from a roof access point, and while the moon had risen, bothered by light pollution, he couldn’t stop to admire it. Without a doubt, Hawks would be right on his tail, especially if he was right about even a single one of his assumptions. He took off running once more, booted feet thudding against stone, and, in record time, he made it to the other side, vaulting over the ledge and plummeting into another pitch-dark alley.

He couldn’t see particularly well in either direction, his sight hindered greatly by the darkness, but he could smell movement in the air, feel the direction it was coming from, and the moment he landed, he would straighten himself, dust himself off, and keep moving. Light flashed ahead, the dull glow of street lamps and precious few headlights on an empty road coaxing him ever further, guiding his steps. Unease washed over him like a tidal wave; He knew that damn bird was hot on his heels, regardless of whether or not he could hear or smell him. His escape was made only too fucking easy, how could he possibly have been successful? Granted, he hadn’t gotten far, but…

Still, he lunged forward, darting out onto the next street, this time taking a hard right. Being out in the open would not serve him well to any capacity, so he decided, quickly, that he would stay his course toward the canal. While the prospect may have frightened him to some degree, he could dive into the water and lose the hero. Luckily, he could hold his breath for an admittedly impressive amount of time, thanks to years of practice, training to gain control of his quirk, and he would use that to his advantage if it killed him. As the end of the road drew nearer, muscular legs powering him further ahead, he could see the hill dip down toward the canal, blurry as it was, and while he’d not yet made it out of the woods, he was close to it. So close he could almost taste it - and, the second he shook the bird for good, he would resume his hunt.

Maybe he could salvage his evening after all and get that fucking bastard.

Or, so he’d hoped.

Dread spread through him like a poison in the bloodstream, eating away at his nervous system, bleeding into his lungs, and the foul scent of graveyard soil and rot wafted into his nostrils. Something grabbed a fistful of his hair as he ran and, in doing so, snapped him backward, agonizing pain webbing across his scalp. He let out a gasp, hands darting to the base and length of his ponytail in an effort to free himself, soothe the pain, but only too quickly had another curved along his jaw, fingertips sliding over and tapping against the ball of his chin. His eyes watered, wide, teeth gritting, raw muscle tightening over his maw.

“Oh, would you look at that.” Hot, moldered breath fanned against the shell of his ear, blood and decay attacking Hellhound’s sense of smell. Fear mingled with his sense of foreboding, the pit forming in his stomach ever expanding, deep and unfathomable, as if the rug had been yanked out from underneath him and he’d all but been left to fall into an endless abyss.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go down.

“Is the little mutt giving his watch dog a run for his money? Such a good, stupid boy.”

How...how had he known? How had he fucking known?

He was jerked back again, pulled flush against Prisma’s heavily clothed frame, and his gaze flitted about, panic-struck, finding himself, ironically, desperate for that bird to show his face. He panted, every noise out of him nothing more than a pained rasp as he struggled to break himself free of Prisma’s grip. He had to get away from him, had to use Growl, catch him off guard and deafen him, distract him long enough to--

Another, sharper yank, and fingers hooked underneath the hinges of his jaw, nails pushing uncomfortably under bone. With his movement restricted, head angled upward, he had to think of something else, had to try--

“Ah-ah, little mutt. Did you really think you could ever get the drop on me?” Every word was laced with a twisted sort of amusement, sly and sinister as the word before it, loud as thunder in his ears.

He tried kicking backward at Prisma’s knees, one leg after the other, throwing an elbow back into his gut, but every attempt was easily dodged and met with retaliation, his hair and jaw abandoned in favor of catching his wrist and pinning his arm tight behind him, perfectly parallel with his spine; One of his legs was promptly kicked out from underneath him, and before he knew it, he’d been tackled and nailed to the pavement, that other hand slamming his face into the cement, a knee pressing firmly into the small of his back.

“You heroes are so predictable,” Prisma crooned, his voice like a filthy knife dragging across his skin, as if at any moment he’d be cut open and left to gangrenous infection - a threat. His presence was oppressive, nothing at all like it’d been not half an hour before, but maybe Hellhound hadn’t noticed when he’d cocked his head over his shoulder, watching with delight as Hawks dragged him aside and distracted him. He never should’ve taken his eyes off of him, not for a moment, not for anything. He gulped, huffing into the pavement, dust and dirt on his tongue with every inhale. He should have paid better attention, should have fought harder to stay on track, but he didn't. He didn't.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“Oh, but I guess you’re not a hero anymore, are you? No, you’re just a little boy, a baby with a chip on his shoulder.” An airy, maniacal laugh filled his ears then. Prisma’s breath was beginning to make him nauseous, his head swimming, and he knew there’d be no point in trying to fight him now, even if giving up wasn’t in his nature. At any moment, Prisma could activate his quirk and rob him of his life, drain him of blood and leave him as little more than a husk, a black stain on the curb under the dull orange glow of the streetlights overhead - just like he did to his mother.

Anger was quick to take the place of the terror gripping his heart, rage building in his chest, and especially so as Prisma ground his head into the sidewalk, his mask scraping against it, chipping, nose uncomfortably pressed into the snout. No, he couldn’t just give in, not when this fucker broke into his home and tortured his mother, killed her the moment he got what he wanted out of her. He remembered it all, remembered the flashing lights atop the police cars, remembered all those heroes lined up out front on the street, remembered bolting passed them, weaving his way around them, and finding her shriveled body surrounded by investigators. He remembered the color of her skin, how patchy and rotten it was, and he remembered how she smelled, how the air tasted of a peculiar foulness he never could’ve placed or fingered as anything other than death, of a body that looked like it'd been decaying for years. He remembered! He fucking remembered everything! The reason he’d chosen to step free of the shadows that cloaked him was so he could exact his revenge, so that this terrible bastard of a man could taste the very same death he’d led his mother and countless others to - so that he would have to stare everything he’d done in the face and suffer for it. How the fuck could he back down now, cower and shake like a shitting dog when he finally had him at his fingertips?

Hellhound took in a long, deep breath, the air in his lungs pressurizing, compounding. Prisma may have had his arm twisted behind him, but he wasn’t counting on him using his quirk, was he? He didn’t know who he was, only that he’d been hunting him, and he had to believe that. He had to believe he could prove effective here, or else he’d never get free, never put an end to all this-- Tightly did he clench his teeth, seething, his blood boiling the longer he thought of her, the longer his last memory of her wasted form lingered in his mind, the water in his eyes sliding free of his lash line. It didn’t matter what happened to him so long as he took Prisma down with him. It didn't matter. It couldn't.

He could feel the flame building inside him, tongues lapping at his trachea, smoke burning at the back of his throat; All he had to do now was direct it through his body and let it jet from his palm, focus and dump as much of his energy as he possibly could, even if it meant his fingers would bubble and burn. He could risk the overuse, he had to. He had to. With his palm facing upward, he had no doubt it would immediately blast Prisma in the face, or at least the side of his head, and this would be enough to let him free. He had to keep his hand relaxed, pretend as though this sack of shit had the upper hand for a moment longer.

Just another moment more.

“It’s such a shame, how adaptable you are. So smart, such a drive to live,” Prisma mused, tutting to himself, disappointment and awe at odds in his tone. He didn’t care what he had to say, couldn’t bear to listen, his nose growing sore. It should've shocked him, that he clearly knew who he was, that he knew what he was capable of, now. How many people had fleshy palms and claws to match, let alone a head of unmistakable burgundy-colored hair? But he had to cling to his hope, his thoughts before, even as his eyes stung, his heart aching, throat smoldering. “But you’re so, so very blind.”

Then...

Something raw and jarring shook him to his core, a pain he’d never felt before slowly creeping through his veins, a vicious animal on the prowl, and little more than a broken whimper escaped him, his head knocking back into Prisma’s palm, mouth hanging open. Saliva dribbled from his lips, soaking through layers of bandaging and fabric; It was like a knife had dug under his skin and snapped his tendons, a hammer shattering his bones - he could think of nothing else. It was too great, far, far too great for him to bear, his body shuddering and convulsing as though he’d been bludgeoned half to death, every breath devoid of the air he so desperately needed. The spread of decay was slow, agonizingly so, flesh necrotizing little by little with each passing second, but he was quickly approaching his breaking point. A mere shred, a fraction of what his mother had taken up to the moment she breathed her last breath and he couldn’t fucking take it. He hiccuped and sputtered, tears spilling from his eyes, floundering beneath Prisma in vain attempts to wriggle free, to run, to disappear, to scream--

But not a sound would leave him.

All the flame he’d kept contained within sparked in the palm of his hand and released, building and building until he could feel his own clothes catch fire, until he could smell hair burning, until Prisma’s caustic grip loosened and vacated with an abrupt gasp. He scrambled to get to his feet, stumbling forward, raw muscle fingers closing tight around his wrist as he spun on his heel to face him, stabilizing his hand and continuing to jet him with a bright, hot burst of flame. Smoke billowed around them, destructive blue-violet only brightening, and he could no longer see Prisma, watching as the blaze consumed him entirely, eyes wide and burning from the acridity of the smoke, every inch of his body quaking with an excrutiating combination of all he'd felt since the confrontation began. He wouldn’t stop until he was nothing more than a pile of ash, until he was certain he was gone, reduced to nothing but a horrible memory, a nightmare he could shut his eyes to and forget. Prisma could not survive, not if he wanted to avenge his mother and all others who'd died at his hands, not if he wanted this to end once and for all.

His mask fell from his face, cracking under impossible temperatures, ropes singed beyond repair, and he didn’t care, so focused, so blinded by what was in front of him. He could hear only the lion's roar of his flame, shoulders trembling, not the fluttering of wings, the cool breeze blowing through feather vanes and golden hair. He couldn’t feel anything but his heat and the sharp pain of his injury shooting up his arm, spidering in his brain as his body fought to reclaim that which had necrotized, blood and pus and infection oozing between his fingers, skin slick with sweat. Instinct guided him, now, but all that pain-- It was pervasive, strong, impossible to ignore, so much so that his muscles were beginning to give, his knees shaking and buckling under him, his flames all but dying the moment tearful eyes closed shut, fizzling out as though it'd never caught in the first place.

“I’ve got you!” came that familiar voice, the one that belonged to Hawks, breathless, and, for a moment, he was grateful for the arms snaking under his own to keep him on his feet. Feathers fanned away the smoke, a whirlwind of brilliant red forcing it all to dissipate and quickly. Burgundy opened if only to be sure that he’d done something to Prisma as soon as the smoke cleared. He had to be sure, had to see with his own eyes a pile of ash…

He could accept whatever happened after that, so long as he knew.

And when he saw it, dreadfully small as it was, embers still burning, a false, too hopeful sense of relief flooded him and he allowed himself to be taken by the Wing Hero, sheltered by the spread of vermillion. Eyes sagged shut once more, and he surrendered himself to unconsciousness, some vague, nostalgic image of his mother smiling down at him settling in his mind before endless blackness took its place.

“You’re all right, pup. Safe, now,” Hawks muttered, more to himself than anything, pulling Hellhound's arm over his shoulders and circling his own around his waist. He had to get him off the street, someplace quiet and tucked away where he could look over and treat his injuries - and report to Nogitsune and his superiors. He dawdled a little too long, hanging back, watching, waiting to see what Prisma could do with his quirk, see how it worked, but he’d wasted too much time, and it'd resulted in injury, necrotized and charred flesh. Luckily, Hellhound had a strong enough will to survive that he acted before the decay could escalate, claim any more of him - but maybe luck didn’t have anything to do with it at all. He furrowed his brow, golden gaze firm on the spot Prisma had been standing, caught in Hellhound’s surge of flame.

A heap of dust had been left in his place, faintly crackling as chilly night air and feathers whirled around it, but Hawks had known only too well that he’d disappeared, that pile being shreds of Prisma's clothes. He'd made his escape before the hero in his arms could put an end to him. Hellhound needed to believe he was gone, that he'd succeeded in his efforts to destroy him, or this would happen over and over again - even if it meant he'd have to lie.

#fic shit #hawks x oc #hawks x male oc #takami keigo x oc #takami keigo x male oc #mha fanfiction #bnha fanfiction #fanfiction

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