#(he says to himself gripping the sink and looking haggard) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

inoreuct · 8 months ago

Note

more sanji drinking angst plis,,, 🙏🏼😁

y’know, it’s normal when zoro drinks. he has an iron liver and a sky-high tolerance. he get mildly tipsy with the amount of alcohol sufficient to kill a regular man.

when sanji drinks, though, it’s usually… not very good.

they’re in the galley, have been since dinner. zoro’s drowsy and full and slumped over the table with his chin in his hand as he watches sanji scrub at the dishes until they squeak, divested of his suit jacket and shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, and the cook looks haggard. they’ve all been expecting it, really, what with Whole Cake being a fucking doozy— but sanji’s been holding it together perfectly. big smiles and neatly-pressed suits and coiffed hair and all.

zoro knows him well enough to know that he’s due to break at some point. still, tonight is the first time he’s seen sanji like this; like he’d just decided to say fuck it all and throw pretence to the wind. maybe it had been thanks to the emptiness of the galley, save the both of them. maybe sanji had considered it safe because zoro was in no place to judge.

but when sanji had picked up that bottle of rum, he hadn’t put it down until there was nothing left.

zoro had let him drink. the cook hadn’t even been smoking any more than usual— hadn’t had a single hair out of place, no sign of the pressure except the strain at the edges of his smile. everybody had been walking on eggshells for the past few days and sanji had just kept going like nothing was wrong, which zoro knows means quite a lot is wrong, because sanji’s a self-sacrificial bastard who wouldn’t be able to ask for help if his life depended on it.

didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt, though. he’s felt like he couldn’t breathe, the whole of last week; it doesn’t feel right seeing the cook with a bottle between his lips instead of a cigarette, liquor wetting the corners of his mouth instead of smoke. it makes part of zoro tighten into a dead knot. on one hand, it’s an unspoken show of trust— deliberately left alone so as to not draw attention to it, but one all the same. sanji would never let himself go in front of anyone else like this. maybe a few months earlier he’d think the cook just didn’t care enough for his opinion and get all offended, but now?

sanji knows he’s here. he’s never unaware of his surroundings, and especially now after… everything. he’s believing that zoro won’t judge him, and he won’t. he doesn’t. but enough is enough, and sanji’s grip on the edge of the plate is tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

it’s almost a relief in a really twisted way. zoro’s been hovering by the sidelines, sleeping with one eye open and waiting for sanji to crack just so he can catch all the pieces before the cook falls apart completely, and it seems like this is it.

his chair scrapes against the floor as he stands. “alright, let’s get you to bed.”

“no.” sanji doesn’t stop scrubbing. he doesn’t even bother looking up. “why?”

zoro scoffs. “because you’re fucking drunk, cook. you’ve been washing that plate for five minutes.”

“well maybe it’s just not fucking clean, yeah?” sanji spits, quiet vitriol leadening his words even with his head bowed, and his breathing is jerky as zoro walks forward.

“oi.” it doesn’t come out harshly, exactly, but he needs sanji to know that he isn’t fucking around with this. “What the hell’s going on?”

“i don’t know.”

“what do you mean you don’t—”

“i don’t know!”

zoro lurches back at the outburst as the cook whips around, seething within the span of a second, plate dropped carelessly into the water in the sink. he hears it thunk when it hits the bottom.

“i don’t know, alright?” sanji laughs, eyes wild. “nothing’s wrong. everything’s wrong. everything is fucking perfect and i feel like i’m fucking dying inside.” his voice cracks right before he takes a visible breath and turns sharply, dipping his hand under the water to grab the plate and sponge again.

zoro watches his shoulders tremble. every movement of his now is precise and carefully calculated; he’s moving like a fucking robot and zoro hates it. hates the way his spine looks rigid enough to snap with a touch. hates the way his face is a placid mask, still water with a storm roiling beneath. zoro doesn’t know how to approach this other than with barbed words and concern thinly veiled as confrontation. he doesn’t know what to do other than be here because it’s better than not being here at all.

sanji’s hands have been scrubbed pink and raw. “get out, mosshead.”

“no.”

the cook’s cuticles are peeling, his fingertips pruned. he never lets either of them get this bad. “i said get out—”

“and I said no.” zoro crosses his arms. he counts three seconds of silence before sanji snaps.

“god, for once could you fucking listen?!” the cook snarls, rounding on zoro like a cornered animal and waving his arms. “i don’t want to talk to you right now! i do not want you here! so please, fuck off and— put me down, you piece of shit!” sanji borderline screams, struggling and wiggling over zoro’s shoulder as he’s hauled up and marched out of the galley.

zoro winces as the toe of a steel-capped oxford jams into his ribs, digging in deeper as sanji grunts with the effort. he doesn’t know where he’s going but they end up outside the infirmary, and he shoulders the door open before depositing sanji on the bed without preamble. “stay,” he grunts, ignoring the noises of outrage and turning to go get water.

“you can’t tell me what to do,” sanji spits from behind him, cheeks red from more than just anger as he pushes himself unsteadily to his feet. he either doesn’t realise that he’s listing to the side or he doesn’t care.

“sit down or I’ll make you.”

the cook barks a laugh that snaps in the air like a neck in rope. “try! i fucking dare you, marimo, you—”

zoro tackles him down and he screeches like a trapped cat, trying to escape even as the swordsman pins his legs and shoves his shoulders down into the bunk. “you are drunk. stop it.”

“why?” sanji shouts in his face. the cook is straining against him, all wild eyes and bared teeth, shoulders jerking with a sardonic laugh. “don’t wanna fight anymore?”

“no. i don’t.” the air is suddenly too quiet, too heavy, with something zoro doesn’t know if he should name. he watches as the cook’s face falls and twists into something sullen as he tries one last time to jerk his way out of zoro’s hold. “not like this.”

their ship rocks gently as zoro slowly eases off, shifting his weight back and sitting on the edge of the mattress with a soundless, weary sigh. there’s still a stubborn set to sanji’s chin even as he lays there on his back, unmoving from where zoro put him— leave it to him to be contrary for the sake of being contrary. the swordsman takes a deep breath to suppress an eye roll and opens his mouth to say something—

“it hurts.”

zoro stills, turning so he can see sanji better. “what hurts, cook?”

“everything.”

the blond is staring at the ceiling, unblinking and unreadable. the fabric of his slacks is riding up and zoro swallows down the urge to curl a hand around his pale ankle for comfort. he tells himself he doesn’t know where the urge to soothe came from, but he knows, he knows— this melancholy is something that sanji buries so deep, none of them catch even a glimpse of it on a normal day. his face is a blank slate, his usual fire banked, and he looks so drained. an cracked shell of himself running on empty. “i don’t want to feel it. i don’t want to feel anything,” he continues, softly enough that zoro has to strain to hear, leaning in instinctively.

glossy blue eyes flick over. golden hair scrunches against the off-white sheets as sanji turns his face towards him and whispers, “doesn’t that make me exactly like them?”

no. zoro swallows, at the same time both too wet and too dry, feeling a little like he’s been gutted with a dull knife. he says a mental to hell with it and slowly shifts his hand to wrap his fingers around sanji’s ankle, just a gentle grip, his thumb resting beneath the notch of bone. he can hear the soft sounds of the waves outside as it melds with sanji’s breathing, as he opens his mouth and comes up dry for things to say. “…get some sleep, curls.”

“can’t.” sanji purses his lips, shrugging a shoulder as he looks away like it’s no big deal. “can’t sleep. not well, at least. not since…”

zoro feels his own heart thud against his ribs as his gaze slips over sanji’s face, the redness rimming his eyes and the dark circles beneath. “i’m sleeping with you tonight,” he decides.

the cook makes an aborted noise of indignation before apparently deciding that it isn’t worth the effort. “we can’t fit two people in a bed.”

zoro shrugs, unaffected in the face of the venomous look sanji shoots him. “we can try.”

sanji mutters something to the ceiling under his breath. the swordsman pretends not to hear it.

they end up crammed onto the infirmary bed, sanji squashed against the wall and zoro almost falling off. the blond wiggles around in discomfort for five minutes before sitting bolt upright with a hissed curse and undoing his dress shirt in a frenzy; zoro stifles a laugh as he balls it up and hurls it at the desk across the room before flopping back down with a loud huff.

the cook scrunches himself up, spine pressed against the wall and one knee pulled up between them to maintain the distance, pointed at zoro’s gut as a subtle threat. “i’m not gonna bite you, y’know,” zoro grumbles. here he is doing this out of goodwill and this is how he’s treated.

“i wouldn’t put it past you,” sanji snips in reply. “also, you stink.”

“no i don’t. i just showered.”

“irrelevant.”

“priss.”

“moron.”

“spoiled.”

“i have standards, you sentient piece of kelp.”

“you—” zoro grits out, before he stalls. somehow, throughout this whole exchange, they’d inched closer and closer together and now sanji’s shoulder is digging into his breastbone, his breath warm across zoro’s cheek even as a brush of his skin above the loose, low front of zoro’s shirt feels completely opposite. “why’re you so fuckin’ cold?” he mutters, briskly rubbing at sanji’s upper arms before the cook bats him away with a startled hiss.

“don’t—” he cuts off and huffs a harsh breath, sneering in the dark as he digs for the right word, “—coddle me.”

“why not?” zoro shoots back. the words are out of his mouth faster than he can process, but it’s too late to take them back. “give me one good reason and i’ll stop. just one.”

the quiet that falls into place after that is broken by the sound of sanji’s swallow and nothing else. it’s nearly pitch-black; they’d put out the lamp on the wall and the infirmary has no windows. if zoro strains his eye he can see sanji’s outline curled close to his own front, golden hair darkened to honey and arms wrapped around himself.

he recalls how it had felt to have fine bones beneath his hand. how the cook hadn’t kicked him off.

the hand he rests on sanji side is tentative. barely-there pressure, a ghost of a touch with enough space for sanji to back away. he settles his palm down more firmly after a few seconds, tracking his thumb up and down the bumps of sanji’s ribs, and he barely stops his breath from catching when the cook wiggles away from the wall and presses his spine into zoro’s hand.

sanji’s looking at him. he can see the occasional flutter of long lashes, feel the weight of the cook’s attention like sanji’s preparing to say something, but it never comes. a soft breath slips from his lips before zoro feels a hand curl around his waist, fingers curling into his shirt.

“sanji.”

the cook heaves a long-suffering sigh. it doesn’t hide how he’s affected by zoro using his real name; zoro can read him too well for that. knows him too well for that. “what.”

zoro readjusts, fingertips pressing into the small of sanji’s back to pull him closer, and wonder of wonders, the cook lets him. “you’re nothing like them.”

he pretends he doesn’t feel sanji’s arm tighten around him after a few seconds. he notices that his shirt’s damp right before he falls asleep, right where sanji has his face buried in his shoulder.

he doesn’t mention any of it.

the next morning is… interesting.

zoro had woken to an empty bed, with the sheets just barely warm and hazy recollections of a lithe body tucked to his side, a leg thrown over his and soft hair under his chin. he stretches and ambles down to the galley, scratching at his stomach beneath his shirt as he yawns, and right on cue— sanji’s disdainful little tongue click reaches his ears, and he smiles. everything’s back to normal, then.

there’s more of the usual; luffy getting yelled at to leave the eggs alone, i don’t care if you’re hungry, they are raw, and nami and robin being handed their special little tiny cups of coffee and tea respectively. the rest of the crew filters in, and zoro people-watches from his spot on the ratty corner couch before he eventually gets up and slides into his seat at the table.

but when sanji takes his spot beside him, it feels different. the cook’s made onigiri for breakfast, the plate set down just a little closer to zoro’s side than usual before he sits, and zoro pauses with his chopsticks in the air as an ankle bumps into his.

not roughly, or painfully, nowhere near, no. just a reminder. a small nudge that could say any possible number of things, but from the way sanji’s gaze meets his before darting away, he’d guess it’s the thank you that their cook always has so much trouble saying. it’s never a lack of gratitude— more of a refusal to acknowledge that he needed help in the first place, that he accepted it, but zoro will take what he can get.

the circles under sanji’s eyes aren’t quite so dark anymore.

zoro knocks back. he feels the rasp of his boot laces against the heel of sanji’s patent leather oxford, and neither of them pull away. the swordsman presses his lips together and takes a big bite to hide his smile, failing momentarily when sanji immediately starts berating his abysmal table manners, marimo, honestly, if you choke i will leave you to die, and yeah, sure. back to normal.

he catches sanji’s eye again, sky-cornflower-ocean blue, and he wonders what sanji could be seeing in his to make his face soften like that.

normal, and maybe a little something new.

(he isn’t quite sure what to do the following night. sanji’s already in his own bunk when he slips in for a quick few hours of shut-eye, but it isn’t long before he feels someone climbing in with him, and he just knows instinctively without even needing to open his eye. they’ve got limbs hanging out here and there but they fit reasonably well and zoro wakes with sanji’s sleep shirt tucked in his fist and his thin blanket pulled up around his shoulders.

it goes on like this night after night to the point where their crew knows, he thinks. even if zoro discounts the fact that most of them share a bunkroom, they’ve still got to know something’s up; sanji glows like sunlight reflecting off the ocean now, real smiles and laughs that have him tossing his head back and holding his stomach, eyes in sapphire half-moons. robin brings it up offhandedly one day and zoro hums that proper sleep’s doing their cook good— she gives him that look that she does, and he turns away with a smile that he hides in his arm.

the first time sanji finds him in the crow’s nest, he’s still asleep when zoro’s watch ends. the cook’s stretched out on the bench above as zoro sits on the floor, hand draped down against zoro’s collarbone, his face so peaceful that zoro can’t— fuck, he can’t wake him.

and it can’t be comfortable lying on his own arm like that; zoro sits down and carefully pushes him up until sanji’s leaning on his shoulder, that sharp nose tucked under his jaw, and drifts asleep.)

(he stirs awake before sanji’s gone. his eye flutters open to find the cook mid-yawn, working out a crick in his neck and bathed in early-morning light, warm and golden. the cook realises he’s watching and freezes, shoulders going tense and stiff—

he deflates a little when zoro blinks at him, sleep-warm and bleary. “gotta make breakfast, marimo,” he murmurs, reaching out after a moment’s hesitation.

the hand that cups zoro’s cheek is gently callused and somehow familiar. he turns into it like a flower to the sun and breathes in something that he never even realised he’d gotten used to, olive oil and shoe polish and orange blossom pomade. “i know,” he replies, pressing the words into sanji’s palm, and a thumb drags across his cheekbone.

“need anything before i go?” sanji asks, and they both know it’s half a joke. what could he possibly give zoro in here? a dumbbell sandwich?

that other half, though— it’s far too serious. a cold plunge of water through zoro’s muddled early-morning brain. he knows what he wants, but zoro also knows that patience is a virtue for a reason.

the cook already has a hard enough time letting people in. zoro doesn’t want to push. the hand against his cheek is enough for him, even if it is all sanji could ever want, and so he slips the blond a wry grin. “onigiri?”

“you— ugh, fine.” sanji huffs. “anything else?”

zoro frowns, growing increasingly convinced that this is some sort of trap. these are unprecedented levels of generosity. “…protein shake?”

it takes all of two seconds before sanji puts his face into his hands, taking a deep breath before zoro hears something about having to do everything myself, don’t i? the cook plants his hands on his hips, tapping his foot with one brow arched. “of all the people in the world,” he mutters through his teeth, advancing on zoro with enough of a menacing air that the swordsman leans back into the backrest, “of course it had to be you.”

“me what?” zoro says warily, eyeing sanji up and down, and opens his mouth to continue before a fist grips his collar and there’s a brush of contact at his temple— a kiss, he realises, before all the thoughts drain out of his fucking brain.)

(he’s still reeling when he stumbles his way to breakfast. still wide-eyed as he washes the plates, for once, without complaint. it’s when it’s just the two of them, when zoro twists around to ask a question that he hasn’t yet phrased, that arms lock around his waist and sanji’s forehead presses to his nape.

they’re quiet for a long, long while. “you remind me that i’m not like them, y’know,” sanji breathes, barely loud enough to be heard.

zoro turns in his hold, hands dripping all over the floor, fuck, the cook’ll make him clean that up later, he knows and he isn’t even mad about it. “what do you mean, curls?”

sanji leans into him, all sharp edges and bony joints softened by lean muscle and zoro’s fondness, fingers long and thin and laced together over zoro’s hip. “i’m pretty damn sure they’ve never felt like this.”)

(not much changes after that. franky does make them a bigger bunk to share, though, and they fight perhaps even more fiercely now; afternoons are spent toying with each other across the deck, pushing their limits, pushing each other higher until nami yells at them to stop making a racket. zoro doesn’t pretend that he can’t tell when sanji needs a little more contact, keeping him close when perfectly filed nails dig into his shirt. sanji takes care of them all like he always does, and he lets zoro take care of him— most of the time, at least. it’s still a toss-up on whether he’ll explode or break down whenever anyone tries to help him, but with zoro it’s either both in succession or neither.

sometimes he picks a fight and then cries afterwards. others, he concedes to being wrapped in a ratty old blanket and tucked into zoro’s chest where he can hide from the world.

he sleeps through every night now, though. he’s fiery and sharp-tongued and bright-eyed and when he’s had a bit too much to drink he just gets loud, fooling around with their captain and cackling with nami in a corner of the galley between conspiratorial whispers, but zoro can’t deny him anything even though he’s fairly sure they’re plotting his downfall.

he wouldn’t have it any other way.)

#THANK YOU FOR THE ASK ANONNNN #will never get tired of angsting this babygirl. i’m sorry he just has so many Issues #BUT I ALWAYS GIVE THEM HAPPY ENDINGS ALRIGHT SO IT BALANCES OUTTTT #it’s almost 4am this time this is actually horrid #GOODNIGHT ZOSAN NATIONNN #zosan #one piece #black leg sanji #zoro x sanji #roronoa zoro #one piece sanji #one piece zosan #one piece zoro #sanji #zoro #ino writes #ino’s ask box

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ilydeku · 1 year ago

Text

you're staring at izuku's neck

Just another exhausting day for Izuku Midoriya. All in the day's work of being the number one hero. And what better way to end the day than coming home and having you all to himself?

So here you both were, relaxed on your shared queen-sized bed. Izuku leaned against the headboard with his arms wrapped around your waist as you sat on his lap facing him, your legs crossed around his abdomen as he contentedly went on about his day at work. At first, you listened with eagerness, inclined to whatever your boyfriend wanted to talk about, but your attention was slowly drawn to the fact that Izuku freaking Midoriya was yours. All yours. Only yours.

A fluttery feeling of joy piqued throughout your body as you stared at him. What a handsome man he is. His pretty eyes, his cute freckles, his...his neck. Oh, how the sudden urge to bite and kiss at his burly neck and jawline overwhelmed you. Your eyes seemed to be riveted, captivated.

It was a few minutes later that Izuku realized that you weren't quite listening to the whole of his story

"...and then I was told that the kid wasn't..." He paused, shortly after taking a good look at you to check if you were still tuned in. By your blank expression, clearly, you were totally out of it. "Y/n?" He gazed at you, a hint of worry wavering as his arms slightly tightened around your waist. Subconsciously, you found your fingers gently wrapped around the back of his neck, your thumbs gently caressing the ridges around his throat.

"..." A sudden silence filled the air. Izuku tensed up at the sudden action, but he soon relaxed into your touch, a few small whimpers here and there. Before long, Izuku pulled your body into him so that your chests touched, moving one arm up to around your torso. And surely shaken out of your little trance were you. He then closed the small gap between you and him and settled next to your ear.

"Did you...did you want to kiss my neck..?" He asked, barely above a whisper. His breath tickled against your ear and you trembled under his touch. "Y/n...I know you were staring the whole time—I could see you with my own eyes—you don't hide it very well, hehe." A soft chuckle escaped him after kissing your burning cheek. You remained silent, too embarrassed to fathom the words to describe how you felt that very moment. "Be honest, y/n..." You nodded with guilt as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Izuku smiled, tilting his head down to the lateral of your own neck. Your arms hooked around his back onto his shoulders as his lips delicately pressed against your skin. "You don't need permission from me, y/n...you can do anything you want to me..." whispered Izuku, peppering kisses around. You shivered at the feeling, his haggard breaths softly heaving against your skin. Before sinking his teeth in, he finished with a few words that absolutely made your heart race and body tingle in excitement. "As long as I can do anything I want to you~"

The room was filled with a heavy silence, one that could only be broken by the sound of your racing heart. You were too shy to say anything, but your body language had already given you away. Izuku chuckled softly as he leaned back, giving you an impish grin. "Well then, my love, why don't you go ahead and do it?" With that, he tilted his head to the side, offering his neck to you. And you, feeling emboldened by his words, eagerly leaned in to kiss and nibble on his skin, eliciting a low moan from Izuku's lips.

Izuku's hands roamed over your body, pulling you even closer to him, your breathing becoming quick and heavy as well as his. You could feel his pulse quicken beneath your lips. The sensation was overwhelming, and you couldn't help but let out a soft sigh of pleasure.

Izuku's grip on you tightened, and he leaned in to whisper in your ear. "You're so beautiful, y/n. I love you." His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you pulled back to look into his eyes. They were filled with love and adoration, and you couldn't help but smile.

"I love you too, Izuku," you whispered back, before leaning in for another kiss.

It was moments like these that made all the stress and chaos of being a hero worth it for Izuku. Just being able to come home to you and share these intimate moments was all he needed to recharge for the next day. And for you, being able to feel his love and affection so strongly was a feeling you never wanted to let go of.

UM??? 🦋🦋

support me? :)

#w.midizu #MEOWW #HIS NECK #REOWW #izuku x reader #deku x reader #midoriya x reader #deku x you #deku x y/n #izuku x you #bnha x reader #mha x reader #drabbles

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yanderechuu · 3 years ago

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do any of the teachers ever notice the things happening to y/n? (i headcannon Mic and Midnight as yanderes that would give advice to 1A lol)

yandere!Class 1A x fem!reader

[2.1K]

Summary: Aizawa is the first one you approached in regards to your certain predicament.

Warning: nonconsensual recording

│

Aizawa suspected something wasn’t quite right by the moment he saw you entering the class a minute before the bell rang, all haggard and teary-eyed, though you tried your best to obscure your disposition. He always knew you to often be in a state of discomfort whenever you were compelled to socialize, especially with your classmates, but now - you looked as if you reached your limit of holding the weight of the world on your shoulders, crashing down all at once as depicted on your crestfallen expression.

And when you showed up in front of the faculty room, timidly soliciting his presence, his suspicions were only further verified. Even with a pending question regarding subject matters in your mind, you weren’t one to approach a teacher to inquire about it, and if you did it was because the teacher was the one who would ask your attendance; never the other way around.

Present Mic was the first one to acknowledge you. He stood up from his office chair, waving at you comically. “Yo, (l/n)! Having trouble with English again?”

You never had a problem with his subject; he only insisted that you’d come to him in regards to that. “N-no, not really. May I speak to Aizawa-sensei?”

“Talk with me instead!” He enthusiastically spoke and headed over to you. “Come on, what’s the matter?”

“It isn’t your place to ask that when I’m here.” Aizawa interceded, clearly unimpressed by Mic’s antics. He failed to see the latter’s displeased countenance. “(L/n), what is it?”

You avoided eye contact with him, averting your view to the ground - that was alright. You were always like this, and he didn’t mind. Nothing out of place except for the fact that it looked as if you were about to cry any moment now.

“Can we- can we, um, talk somewhere more private?” You asked quietly.

His brows raised in wonder at your request. Nevertheless, he didn’t decline you, only nodding lackadaisically before heading towards the teacher’s lounge, where you followed him suit. He flicked the door tag to ‘occupied’ and entered the room after you, when he told you sit on the three-person sofa situated not quite on the farthest left of the space. Then, he settled himself on the chair across you.

“Well?” He asked, expectantly.

But you had once again your head above a thick cloud of anxiety. You knew that after the event with Momo in the girls’ locker room - where you had injured her against your will because she had been violating your personal space - your homeroom teacher kept a cautious eye on you in case you’d re-enact that incident. And it wasn’t just that incident that made him look at you like you were a criminal on the loose, either. Your classmates found and did a lot of ways to place you in Aizawa’s naughty list just so you wouldn’t snitch on their abusive (they’d call it affectionate) behavior on you.

That didn’t erase the fact that you were nevertheless his student; he cared for you no less than he cared for his other pupils, yet you were just too ignorant in figuring that out. All that mattered to you was that you’d voice out your current concern to him, but with your insecurities holding you down it seemed it would be more difficult than you had primarily foreseen it to be.

“I-I,” you stammered out, fiddling with something inside your pocket, “u-um, you see, t-there’s this, I mean, I can’t-”

He grew increasingly frustrated with your constant stuttering, and although he did understand your shy nature which largely affected your conversational habits, he only had so much patience to deal with it.

“I don’t have all day.” He stated, glowering at your form in mild irritation. “If you’re going to keep doing that, talk to the wall.”

You abruptly halted in speaking after that, only looking down on your lap, staring wide-eyed, grief-stricken at the revelation that perhaps he really did not want to heed any of your words because you were just that bad of a student that he had decided you were not worth much the effort to concern himself with. And maybe he was right - that your words didn’t matter because you didn’t matter; that there were more affairs he better be tending to than yours; that you were only making a big deal out of this when it truthfully wasn’t.

Oh god, you felt like vomiting. Self-deprecation was getting the better of you.

He stood up and sauntered to the exit, not bothering to spare you a glance. “Come back to me when you actually know what you want to say.”

It was a matter of seconds when you ran to him, pulling him back rather harshly by the grip you had on his sleeve. He turned around due to the force to see your head still hung low, avoiding his gaze as always - only, your shoulders were quivering sporadically, and occasional sniffs were heard from your person.

“P-please, sensei...” you voiced out, shaken and horrifyingly delicate. “I-I’m so scared. Please.”

While he looked at you with contracted irises, countenance now alert from your unexpected disposition, you pulled your trembling hand out of your skirt pocket, nervously disclosing to him from your palm a small, black device with a tiny yet prominent lens.

“M-my room,” you heaved, “I-I saw this i-in my room, m-my closet, while- while I was dressing up, and I don’t know how long it had been in there but it probably already caught me bare and-”

You broke down in a flurry misery and shame, allowing yourself to fall to the ground but you didn’t - Aizawa seized you in his arms, his gentle, fatherly arms that could only do so much to console you from the horror of your reality. And he held your head as you cried on his chest, one little thing he could do after ignoring your situation and letting you think that your significance was less than the rest of his other students. At that moment, you were just so little, so fragile, so naïve he’d keep you in his pocket if he could. Why would someone do something as debauched as illegally recording your innocent self?

“I’m sor-sorry,” you sobbed, “I’m really telling the truth, p-please-”

“Shh, it’s okay. I don’t doubt you.” He reassured. Why were you apologizing? Were you that insecure of being a nuisance? No, no, you never were. Not to him. He reached for your hand to take the cursed device. “Since when did you find out?”

“J-just this morning.” You responded.

“Alright. Do you want to rest? This must have taken a huge toll on you.”

But you still had classes ongoing. Then again, you didn’t feel like looking at the faces of the prime suspects who possibly did you dirty, even when you knew that you’d have to eventually interact with them to get notes of your missed lessons. You were so tired from summoning the lot of your courage to confront your teacher regarding your problem, so you probably wouldn’t have the energy to listen to class discussion. Aizawa finalized your decision by pulling you up and guiding you towards the office of Recovery Girl who, after being briefed of your predicament by your homeroom teacher, welcomed you with a warm smile, telling you to make yourself comfortable in one of the beds in the infirmary.

He then made his way to 1A classroom, a newfound swelling of rage and disappointment in his chest, both forwarded to his class and to himself because only now did he realize that perhaps you were often so restless and apprehensive in the presence of your classmates because they did things that made you bury yourself in the deepest parts of your shell as a last attempt to revel in a sense of safety. Your timidity was not entirely derived from your own nature; it was also due to the maltreatment you were receiving from your classmates. Halting his steps by the classroom door, he looked through the glass window, seeing the class focusing on Midnight’s lecture.

Well, not quite. He could tell that your classmates were visibly affected by the lack of your presence, glancing at your desk from time to time as quiz papers were being passed behind - so they were in the middle of a test, he guessed. But that wasn’t his concern.

In impudent manner, he walked in amid Midnight’s talking, disregarding her face’s sudden morphing into vexation as the students gave him a look of confusion.

“Eraser, what are you-” she was rudely interrupted as Aizawa took the test reference papers from her hands. Something about Modern Hero Art History, he read. He faced his class with disdain, stating,

“Until someone confesses their crime of hiding a spy camera on (l/n)’s dorm room, all of you are receiving failing marks on this test.”

Quite suddenly, the class burst into violent upheaval, gasping, perking, some allowing the dreadful news of your situation to sink in, others letting out noises of complaint before actually taking consideration to the main point of Aizawa’s statement. Midnight stared at him in disbelief, but did nothing to stop his measures.

Momo abruptly stood. “I-is (y/n) okay? We should go check on her!”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Aizawa said. “All of you are suspects. You’ve no right to see her.”

“She probably just made that up get back on us for whatever fucking reason!” Yelled Bakugou.

“Yeah?” The male pro-hero disingenuously mused. He then picked up the spy camera and held it for everyone to see, before setting it down the teacher’s podium. “This was found on her closet. Would she risk recording herself naked just to prove that point?”

Noise died down thereafter, setting their sights solemnly at the device, the class collectively having the same thought in regards to the spy camera.

(Why hadn’t they thought of that? It could have been easier to check on you that way, since you almost always confined yourself in the privacy of your own room.)

“So? No one wants to speak up?” Aizawa asked, though expected the silence.

“Aizawa, have them approach you after classes. It’s embarrassing this way.” Midnight intervened.

“Well that’s the point. Get them exposed to the entire class, so everyone could realize how much of a perverted bastard one of these to-be heroes are. Good values, my ass.” He replied, not bothering to filter rather colorful vocabulary. “Where’s your dignity?”

He let a minute or two pass for the perpetrator to reveal themselves, but soon it became apparent that whomever they were refused to admit to their crime, willing to sacrifice the grades of the class for the sake of anonymity. That would be deemed useless, anyway, because Aizawa was already set on figuring out whom they were, no matter the extent he’d go to in order for that to happen. He’d expel them at once.

But he didn’t have the power to expel someone outside of his class.

“I guess that’s it for your test.” He sighed, disgruntled, picking up the small camera and sauntering his way out of the classroom after giving Midnight a look that he was dead serious with marking all of them a failing score. She stared at him in uncertainty, nonetheless abided by his decisions, albeit hesitantly.

Upon ascertaining his absence, Midnight turned to Class 1A, amusement and humor dancing on her seductive countenance.

“Naïve, hormonal teenagers,” she mused, “the closet, really? Couldn’t you have chosen somewhere less conspicuous?”

None of them bothered to tell her that they were truthfully unaware of the incident.

===

Hagakure Toru, stealth hero, entered your room silently in the nude, the only proof of her movements being a tinier, different spy camera she’d brought along with her. No, not the closet, you might find it again. It looked so painfully obvious on the desk, too, and neither in the bathroom due to its pale white interior.

But on the pencil holder situated atop your nightstand would do. You barely moved it, anyway, only having its purpose served as a decoration; something to fill the vacancy of the bedside table. After a few adjustments in camouflaging the device with the environment and making sure the lens displayed the area of your space, Hagakure checked its concealment one more time, before mechanically heading outside and back to her own dorm.

Her body collided almost violently with her room’s door, snapping her out of her trance.

“H-huh!? Weird... how’d I end up in my room?” She asked, receiving no answer from particularly anyone.

But Shinso Hitoshi could provide her one, if only he weren’t outside, staring at your terrace from five stories down your room, a gratifying smirk donned on his features. Now, the only thing he had to do was dismantle and relocate the gadgets wirelessly connected with the camera Aizawa had confiscated.

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uchihashisuii · 2 years ago

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hey look some rushed smut cause he makes me Feel Things

in which Akari has a Day and her Hokage makes her feel better with his cock

Namikaze Minato/Nara Akari

ao3

Minato is aware enough to sense a storm of embroiled chakra, focused as he is on the seemingly unending pile of paperwork that sits in neat stacks on his desk. He doesn't even flinch as the door to his office bangs open, revealing a haggard Akari that breathes as heavily as though she'd just run a mile. Minato arches a brow as she shuts the door behind her, not even pausing to glance back when she crosses the room.

Her chakra is usually stable, muted; accustomed to keeping a tight leash to how she feels and the subsequent instinctive flux of chakra in reaction to heightened emotions. But right now she is a tempest, his hair standing on end as her frustration chimes like a bell, brushing against his own still and balmy chakra like a heated caress. He can almost taste the ozone, settling thick and sweet over his tongue and making his fingertips numb. When she moves around the desk, Minato pushing back enough to allow her space to stand between his spread thighs, he can see the smallest spark dancing over his knuckles.

"Akari -" he uses her name and not her moniker, brows furrowing and worry beginning to swell beneath his ribs; but she doesn't even offer him a moment to ask, interrupting him with a look as sharp as glass. Instead she leans down, ignores the alarm painting his features, and grips tight to the front of his shirt.

"Shut up," she hisses beneath her breath, making Minato blink in abject shock, her nimble hands dragging him half out of his chair, "and kiss me."

Well. He cant really argue with that, can he?

His palms find her hips, thumbs dragging over the exposed skin. She closes the little distance between them, mouth finding his and climbing easily into his lap.

Minato loses himself in the press of her body, the taste of something sweet dancing on her tongue when their lips part and the kiss deepens. Akari wastes no time, slotting herself over him with her knees bracketing his hips, hands roving from his chest to his shoulders. He pulls her closer, fingers splaying over her hips when she grinds firmly against him, cock beginning to swell beneath his jonin blues.

She shudders above him, a small sigh catching in the back of her throat. Akari brings a hand up to tangle her fingers in his hair, gently tugging on the thick golden strands. His answering groan is loud to his own ears, hips bucking up towards her heat as he feels a flush dust his face, tongue teasing at the roof of her mouth to drink deep of her gasps.

A hand fits between them to tug at the ties of his pants, Minato swallowing down his growing excitement.

"What's gotten into you?" He asks her between kisses, voice pitched low as he struggles not to thrust eagerly. Akari says nothing, wrapping her fingers around his length and stroking him expertly, smirking against his mouth when she feels his thighs tense beneath her.

"You, hopefully," she quips after a moment, sitting up on her knees to allow him the space to pull her pants down over the swell of her hips. Minato shoots her a look when she stands for long enough to rip them away, earning a roll of her eyes before she's taking her place in his lap once more. Her cunt is slick, warm and wanting for him already; the feel of her naked sex grinding over his length has him groaning.

"Bad day," she admits when she takes hold of his cock, angling the swollen head to brush over her pearl before it catches on her opening. His hands tighten on her hips, a show of sympathy and care, before he loses himself completely to the tight sheath of her body.

She wraps around him like a gift, like she was made for him. Akari throws her head back when she sinks down on his cock, feeling every inch stretch her deliciously open. Minato pulls her forward, face buried in her neck to press a heated kiss to her fluttering pulse, teeth dragging over the graceful arch of her throat.

"Needed you," she continues in a whisper, cunt clenching tight as a vise. She stills when he's fully inside her, enjoying the way he presses snug against her cervix and cards a hand through his hair.

Her words warm him, but still he glances nervously past her shoulder to the closed door. "Anyone could walk in."

Akari tilts her head forward to catch his eye, a single brow arched as she slowly drags herself up, until the head of his cock rests just inside her. "Let them," is all she says, before she sinks down in one quick drop.

She fucks herself happily on his cock, dark eyes lidded as she bounces and gasps. The sight of her with lips gently parted and the sweet sounds escaping her throat nearly prove to be Minato's undoing, hips bucking forward as he feels her silken cunt tighten around his sensitive shaft.

"I touched myself this morning," Akari whispers in a purr, grinding down and bringing herself shamelessly to the edge. "Even used a toy, thinking about your thick cock inside me, your hands all over me. It wasn't enough, wasn't the same."

"Akari -" Her name escapes in a hiss from between clenched teeth, his core tightening and his flush deepening at her words. She'd never spoken like this before, and the effect it has on both of them is not lost, when she whimpers and hurries her pace.

"I wanted you to fuck me, wanted to feel you come. Will you come inside me, Mina?"

"Yes," he replies in a hoarse whisper, feet planted flat on the floor to give extra leverage. He leaves imprints of his fingertips into the pale skin of her hips, grip tightening when she slams her hips down. Harder, faster; pleasure rushing thick and hot through his veins when she arches her back, shifting the angle and clenching hard -

"I want it," Akari murmurs, hand tightening in his hair and tugging him back until he meets her eye, finding naked pleasure and bitten lips. She rolls her hips, now, circling above him while he thrusts into her heat. "Give it to me, please? I've been good, Mina, I need to feel it. Fill me, please -"

It sends him readily over the edge. Minato cries out as the tightening in his core releases, hips jerking and cock twitching as he spends deep into her cunt. He yanks her down to stay flush with him, painting her walls and refusing to allow her to move while he fills her. Akari moans, shameless; clenches around him all the way through his orgasm, pressing a kiss to his hair.

"Thank you," she whispers with a broken little sigh, rolling her hips forward and taking everything he gives.

Minato lets his head fall back against the chair, muscles relaxing when Akari lifts herself from him. He makes a disappointed noise when his cock meets cool air, though he swallows thickly at the sight of her moving to lean over his desk.

He watches, rapt, as she spreads her legs shamelessly. Glances at him from over her shoulder with a wry smirk, bringing her hands back to tease at her wet folds. She spreads herself open, showing him her fluttering little hole, and the thick mess of his come beginning to spill from her.

"Holy shit," is all he manages to get out, voice breaking and eyes gone wide. Heat pools within his core when he shoves himself from his chair, going to his knees behind her and pressing his face intimately to the curve of her sex.

Akari's gasp is high, keening; he noses at her ass, pressing a palm over the small of her back to get her to jut herself back. She does as she's bid, spine stiffening when she feels his tongue swirling around her cunt, tasting himself on her and swallowing greedily.

He traces her opening, tongue gliding over her folds and dipping inside. His own release thick and bitter on his tongue but tasting it from her own fluttering hole after she'd begged for it - it's almost better than the orgasm. Akari's legs tremble and she stifles her moans into her knuckles, knees nearly folding when Minato brings his hand to the front of her cunt to rub his thumb over her clit.

He teases her with mouth and hands until she writhes atop his desk, keeping her dancing on the precipice of her release but refusing to let her fall, until his cock is once more hard and aching. Akari's forehead thumps into the wood as he licks from her cunt to her ass, dragging his teeth over the curve. She nearly sobs when he pulls his hand from between her legs, the sound going straight to his cock.

"I cleaned you up rather well. Do you need it again?" Minato asks her when he stands with a parting kiss to her heated skin, grabbing a handful of her plush rear and dragging her back to his groin.

"Yes," she answers immediately in a hiss, legs shaking and nails dragging over his desk. "Please, Mina, more -"

He reaches around to shove two fingers between her lips, keeping her tongue pinned down. Her cheeks hollow and she sucks on them diligently, the moan that lingers around his digits breaking off into a muted scream when he thrusts forward, deep into her aching cunt.

"I'll give you more," he promises her in a growl, bending forward until he can bury his face in the sweat-dampened hair at the back of her neck. "Anything you need, everything you need. Only I can give you what you want."

Akari's whimpers are lost to his hand, though they're still the most beautiful sound he's heard from her when he pounds into her.

#minato x oc #minato namikaze #namikaze minato #minato smut #naruto #naruto oc #jules writes #akari #minakari

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spenciebabie · 4 years ago

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so like... spencer x reader sex tape omg 🥰🥰🙈 but you’re literally the reason i got tumblr you’re so talented 🥺🥺🥺

first of all! ahhhhh!!!! that’s crazy, thank you so much!!!!

second of all, im combining it with this request:

“making a sex tape with Spencer so when he is on a case, he can be reminded of what is waiting for him when he gets home”

Visuals here and here

— —

He’s away so often, and honestly, after a point pictures just didn’t cut it anymore. They couldn’t always talk on the phone because he’d usually get in late, or he’d be in a whole other time zone.

He tried watching porn but it just wasn’t the same, how could it ever live up when it was just some girl. When it wasn’t you?

So he came home after one particularly long case with an idea. Well, with a camera, a tripod, and an idea.

“Getting into photography are we?” you joke, eyeing him up as he comes through the door.

“Maybe I am” his tone is excited and eager.

“So what’s your subject, oh god you’re not about to get really into birds or something are you?” you cross your arms, watching him as he lays his new purchases down on his desk, opening up the boxes with the enthusiasm of a kid at Christmas.

“Nope” he says, giddy, “my subject is you, well, us?”

You pick it up almost immidately, you’d gotten enough hopeful dirty texts from him late at night over the past couple of weeks that you were almost waiting for this to happen.

“You wanna film us?” you ask and he nods,

“I wanna film us having sex?” he clarifies

“Well I pieced that much together genius!” you joke walking towards him, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. He was so eager to show you his new toys he’d barely even said hello.

“Can we do it now?” asks, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth in anticipation. His eyes are so wide and soft that you just can’t say no. You were planning on jumping him the second he got through the door anyway, what was the harm in pointing a camera at the bed. So you nod and a huge smile breaks out on his face.

“Let me get changed, I may as well be in something sexy don’t you think?”

His eyes bulge out as you speak, as you turn to walk towards the bedroom he calls out after you.

“The red one! I mean— could you? Put on that red set I like? Please?” he tries to look a little less eager as if he hadn’t given himself away already.

“You got it baby” you call back, rooting the underwear out from your drawer. You head into the bathroom to get changed, leaving him to set up.

When Spencer finally joins you in the bedroom, camera situated on its tripod, pointed right at the bed, he’s already undressed. Laying on the bed in nothing but his briefs, his hair already messy, no doubt from how fast he pulled off his sweater.

His jaw drops when he sees you, as though you’ve never worn this exact set in front of him before.

“Fuck baby” he looks you up and down, taking you all in. “Come here” he commands and you walk towards the bed.

“Is that recording already?” You point to the camera and he nods.

You make a production of it once you’re sure you’re within the frame. Climbing onto the bed on all fours, pushing your ass out and up just a little, accentuating the curve of your back for the camera, for future Spencer.

You crawl towards him, tossing a leg either side of him so that you can straddle his lap, leaning in close to place a sloppy kiss on his lips before trailing your mouth down along his neck, his collarbones, his chest. Sliding down his body until you were nestled between his legs, gently teasing him over his boxers with your lips.

“Already so hard for me?” You ask, looking up at him, he always thought you looked so beautiful from this angle.

“Uh huh, thought about you non stop” he moans out,

“And what did you think about?” You tease him, your fingers coming up to graze the little wet patch on his briefs. You pull down the elastic, pulling his already hard cock out with your hand, gently squeezing it.

“Did you think about this?” you ask, pumping it up and down gently, looking up at him again and he’s nodding, “or maybe” you pull a face like you’re thinking before you bring your lips down, so tantalizingly close to the top of his cock, “was it this you thought about?”

Before he can answer you’re sinking down on him, your lips sealed around him as you push down. Taking his cock in as far as it’ll go, just until it hits the back of your throat and you can feel the tears welling in your eyes.

He starts to moan, soft and quiet, almost whimpers. So you pull off, looking up at him with a mock disappointment.

“You’re gonna have to moan louder than that if you want the camera to hear you baby” you scold him before you’re back on him, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock and then taking it right into the back of your throat again.

This time he’s moaning properly, letting loose, his hands come down to fist in your hair. They’re pulling slightly until they’re yanking you off. The jolt of pain heads straight to your core.

“What’s wrong baby?” you ask with a fake innocence.

“That’s not where I wanna finish” he gasps out, breathing already haggard, but there’s a commanding tone to his words, or maybe just a look on his face that tells you he’s the one in charge now.

“Lay down on your stomach” it’s an order, not a question, so you lay down. You take a moment to figure out your angle and decide to lay down facing the camera. Spencer loved the way you felt when he fucked you from behind. The way he could just get so deep that you’d almost always end up crying. The only downside was the fact that he also loved the faces you made when he was inside you. This time he didn’t have to compromise.

When you lay down you prop your knees up, presenting your ass to him, wiggling your hips slightly as you push them up in the air. Resting your head on your folded arms as you look into the lens.

“That’s a good girl” he says, and you let out a small moan at the praise.

“Same rules apply princess, you gotta keep it nice and loud for me” his hand comes down in a harsh smack against your ass as he speaks. It’s unexpected and you let out a small gasp at the shock.

“Fuck” you whine, “I will Spencer! I’m a good girl!”

With that you feel his fingers tease at your panties, pressing up against the saturated lace between your legs.

“Desperate are we?” He teases, “you’re fucking soaked” he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties, pulling them slowly down until he has to yank them roughly off at your knees.

“You’re dripping wet for me” he groans, his hands coming to rest on either side of your hips. You knew what was next so you braced yourself, taking in a deep breath.

He lines himself up behind you before he’s pushing in, giving you no time to adjust. Just thrusting so deep inside you on the first go that you were almost screaming.

“Ah! Fuck! Spencer!” you moan, your hands flying out immidately to grab at the sheets.

“Your little pussy’s so fucking tight” he groans, his hands digging into your hips so firmly, keeping you exactly where he wanted to while the rest of your body all but melted into the bed.

He starts to move right away, his hips rocking back and forth, thrusting in and out of you so impossibly deep each time.

“Feels so—fuck ah! Spencer! Your cock feels so good” your whimpering, a few stray tears already escaping down your cheeks.

Your instinct is to bury your face in the bedsheets, but that would only muffle your cries.

Spencer’s not holding back either, his harsh pants are only interrupted by a string of expletives, growls and moans as he fucks in and out of you roughly. The wet sounds of his cock working in and out of your cunt, the skin of his hips at is meets your ass all coupled with his perfect little moans is sending you so completely over the edge now.

“Fuck Spencer I’m— I can’t—” you’re whimpering, desperate and pathetic in his grip.

“What’s the problem, can’t take it princess? Thought you were a good girl?” He’s teasing you as you squirm and moan around him, so painfully close.

He takes one hand hand off your hip before roughly bringing it down with in a hard slap against your ass. The pain just amplifies the pleasure and you’re desperate now.

A second later you’re cumming around him as he works in and out of you. Your knees would go out from under you if he wasn’t holding you so tight, continuing to fuck in and out of you until he was spilling inside you himself.

Collapsing gently against your back for a moment he gathers himself just enough to pull out of you slow and steady before you’re both collapsing on the matress, completely spent.

“Do you think that’ll keep you satiated for a while?” you ask with a chuckle, your breathing ragged, chest heaving. And he looks no better when you glance over to him.

“Not even close”

#Spencer Reid smut #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds smut #spencer reid imagine #Matthew gray gubler smut #mgg smut #spencer reid x reader smut #Matthew gray gubler x reader #criminal minds imagine #Matthew gray gubler imagine #blurb #blurbs #imagine concept #anon #answered

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palbabor-writes · 4 years ago

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OK so please consider typical Shig/reader where theres unspoken mutual attraction and they're not quite together but it's Post-kamino Shig, like IMMEDIATE post-kamino where he's still processing and incredibly vulnerable from just losing his sensei. I've had this in my head for a while but IDK how it would go and I think you'd do it justice (just ignore this if u don't wanna i just needed to put it out there 😌)

ugh, i loved this idea. where do you find them lydia? they just live in your mind rent free and i want to go to there. gosh, thank you for the ask.

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Adult language, SMUT, NSFW/18+ only, mild angst, pivotal life moments, TW: drinking/drug use, masturbation, blow jobs, face fucking, spanking/mild pain play, vaginal fingering, cunniliginus, overstimulation, switching, dirty talk, loss of virginity (if you squint), dominance, vaginal sex

Word Count: 11,800

Notes: oh man. so, if the word count didn’t give it away, this is plot, with a hefty dose of porn. in my mind, this is all part of the grieving process for shigaraki and he’s having a rough time coming to terms with what he’s needing to do. yeah, AFO supported him and enabled him to build a following, but he also hid all of the major pieces from him (i.e. the doctor & gigantomachia) so i can see him mourning for AFO as a teacher & as a psudo loved one, after all, at the end of that chapter he’s clutching those hands to him like he’ll fall apart without them.

Edited by the lovely Lydia: @kugutsuu. she is the best and if you’re not reading her works, all I have to say is: YOU SHOULD BE.

Mise en Place

/mē-ˌzäⁿ-ˈpläs/ noun or verb a French culinary phrase which means "putting in place" or "everything in its place.”

This has got to be the strangest, hole in the wall, bar you’ve ever worked at.

The patrons are touchy and most seem downright dangerous. The whole lot of them are more like mid level criminals than the usual haggard, overworked, regular, citizens you find in local watering holes. Meanwhile, the gentleman who runs the day to day operations shares more similarities with a will o’ the wisp than a man, and the bar itself is smack dab in one of the seediest parts of town.

The liquor selection, however, is top of the line. Some of the labels you haven’t seen outside of posh hotels or high class country clubs, and many of the older bottles are rarities. Honestly, there are so many of the high brow bottles that you’re not sure who to ask about the rail selection. There’s no real order to the place and it’s the most free reign you’ve ever been given with your mixology experiments. There’s not even a listing of drinks to go off of. But, if the disgruntled evening crowd is happy, then so is the upper management. All they ask is that you lock up before you leave.

No, nothing about this place makes sense. But, it does pay well and, right now, that’s the only thing you need to worry about.

There’s one other barkeep, a stogy man named Akio. He usually works the day shift, but late yesterday afternoon, he’d given you a call and asked if the two of you could swap for the duration of next week. At first, you’d balked, worried you’d need to schmooze with an unfamiliar bunch of regulars, who’d then decline to tip simply because you were new. But, Akio had sweetened the pot with the promise of $20,000 yen, so, you’d agreed.

“It’s fairly quiet in the afternoon,” Akio reassured you. “It’s really just putting away shipment and serving the odd customer who happens to pass by. The only thing...well, I’m sure you’ve met him. You’ve been working there for over a month, no way you could miss him.”

“Who?” you ask, twirling your spoon in your mid-morning coffee, curious, but not wanting to seem overly eager in your questioning. You like your night shift and you’re not wanting this to become a regular swap. You detest having to lug heavy boxes to and fro, pulling liquor and checking lot numbers, ick. Plus, if it really is that slow in the afternoons, it would only be a matter of time before Kurogiri would come after you with a duster and ask you to clean the upper shelves. Yeah, no, thanks. This would be a one week deal, ONLY.

“His name is Shigaraki. He’s, er, different. I suppose you’ll meet him soon, if you haven’t already.”

“Shigaraki? No, that name doesn’t ring a bell. Is he--”

“I have to go, my son is here. Thanks again for the swap and talk soon, (Y/N).”

The line clicks and you let your phone fall from your ear, clattering the metal and plastic along your kitchen table. Shigaraki, you think, taking a scalding sip of your coffee, no, that’s not a name you’ve heard before. Wonder what it is about him that has Akio so on edge. It’s not like him to give you, er, whatever that strange heads-up had been. Either way, it would take more than a vague descriptor like different, to spook you off.

******

Akio was right, on all counts, about the haze of monotony that permeated the afternoon shift at the bar.

Well, right on everything except a sighting of that elusive Shigaraki guy. No, the whole afternoon it’s just been you, Kurogiri, and one, rather sloshed old man, who you’ve long since cut off, and propped at the far end of the bartop. It’s been a dull, slow, day. Thank God you’d taken that extra cash from Akio, or this might not even turn out to be worth your while.

You’re slipping another bottle of whiskey on the lower shelf when you hear a barstool scrape back. You turn at the sound, your head already lifted and a small, friendly, smile lingering on your lips. There’s a lanky guy, dressed all in black with a mop of wavy white hair, working himself onto the small seat. His head is lowered and he hasn’t bothered to look up at you, not yet, anyway. He looks, not really young, but you can’t tell and you’re not about to let some underaged kid worm his way in here. You’ve had enough of those punks sneaking in in the evening, thank you.

“Gimme a shot of scotch,” the man says, his voice low, with a quiet rasp racing along the tone. It’s a strange timbre and it makes you pause, your eyes scanning those pearlescent strands of hair that are hiding his face from view.

“Hmph,” you snort, arching a brow at his attempts at concealment. He must be underage, who comes up to a barkeep with a ducked head and demands a scotch?

“Let me give you a piece of advice, don’t come into a bar and immediately refuse to make eye contact with the bartender. We’re like animals at the zoo, we startle easily and don’t like surprises. And, with your face tucked like that, I can’t gauge your age. So, before I get you that unnamed and unbranded scotch, I’m gonna to need to see some ID.”

The man lifts his head at your preamble and you feel your breath catch at the raw annoyance that’s etched across his scarred and cracked face. His eyes are a rich red, closer to ruby and they latch onto yours, insistent and sharp. It’s a deeply intense stare and you can’t seem to pull yourself away, your brow furrowing at his sudden shift in demeanor.

“I don’t have an ID,” he snaps, his lips lifting into a snarl, showing you the vivid whiteness of his teeth.

You lick your lips and his gaze follows the motion, eyes lowering, freeing you from that uneasy imprisonment he’d abruptly ensnared you in.

Your heart is beating rapidly against your throat and you shake your head, refocusing your bewildering reaction to this guy's presence. “I-I haven’t heard that one before,” you say, taking a few steadying breaths and tossing a dirty glass in the dishwasher, looking for any task that will let you step away from this strange interaction.

“You must be new,” he says, leaning back and hunching those dark shoulders. You watch him out of the corner of your eye and shut the dishwasher door, hitting the button to run a cycle.

“Nope,” you correct him, pulling out two fresh glasses and lining them up on the bartop, reaching for the rail scotch. “I’ve worked here for over a month.”

“Never seen you before.”

“That makes two of us,” you reply, flipping the bottle up and filling both glasses with four counts of the dark liquor. You press one to him and lift the other for yourself. The man narrows his eyes at you and looks pointedly at the glass in your hands.

“You supposed to drink on the clock?”

You laugh and he shifts back at the sound, his head bowing forward, another scowl lifting his lips. Realizing you must have made him uncomfortable, you step toward him and clumsily clink your glass against his, tilting your head at the surrealness of this whole conversation. “They don’t really care what I do. Come on, stranger who has no ID, bottoms up.”

He looks from you to the shot a few times before finally relenting and taking the vessel in a strange four fingered grip, his middle finger arched carefully away. Once you’re sure he’s actually going to toast with you, you sling your shot back, enjoying the sharp burn of the rich liquor.

You’re about to ask your new drinking companion another question when you hear his chair scrape back. By the time you’re stepping toward him, he’s already pacing down a back hallway, blending into the darkness and disappearing from your sight.

“Um! You can’t...I don’t think you can go back there. And you gotta pay, dude! Hey--”

“He doesn’t need to pay.”

You always hear Kurogiri before you see him and today is no exception. He’s standing at the entrance to the back of the bartop and he’s watching the path the strange young man took, his shifting face turned from you. You cock your head at his assertion and swiftly place your empty glass into the soapy water of the filled sink. He likely saw you take the shot, but you’re not about to leave evidence behind.

“What do you mean?” You ask, watching as the wisp like man turns and steps toward you, his amber slits watchful. It’s like he’s sizing you up and you shift on your feet, uncomfortable at the frank, open, assessment.

“He’s Tomura Shigaraki, and he owns this bar.”

******

You’re off for the next two days and the wait, the silence, is abjectly harrowing. You can’t sit down, can’t relax, can’t focus. The one time you decide to get overly familiar, of fucking course, it would be with the owner. But no one has called, and no one has sent you any messages. The empty static of your job's reticence doesn’t alleviate your nerves.

Who knows, they might want to act out the sick power play of having you show up for your shift, only be fired as soon as you darken the doorway.

The next afternoon, you take a familiar route to the bar, your feet tapping hollowly along the steps and alleyways that wind to the rusty entrance. You come in the front, blinking against the darkness, and lock the door behind you. Everything is quiet. But, in forty minutes, the open sign will switch on and you need to get your bar set up, plus slap on a little bit of makeup. You’re so lost in thought that you’re almost to the long bartop when you spot him.

It’s Tomura Shigaraki. He’s sitting at the same bar stool and his head turns as you approach, those unearthly red eyes lingering over you. It’s a different look, very, very removed from that harsh glare he’d given you the other day. He looks less hostile and more, well, curious.

You give him a cursory nod and pad behind the high counter, taking the final glasses out of the dishwasher and removing the stoppers from all the open liquor bottles. He’s still watching you and you can feel his gaze as it bores into your back, your side, your front. You attempt to ignore him, but the constant threat of those insistent red eyes is beginning to frustrate you. Finally, once you’ve replaced the cash drawer, you lift your gaze to his.

“What is it?” Your voice sounds waspish, but you don’t care.

“Nothing,” he replies, leaning forward and propping his chin on his palm, not breaking that unsettling leer.

“So stop staring at me,” you bristle, unsure why your heart is starting to beat a rapid tattoo against your ribs. You don’t know this guy. Sure, he’s mysterious and almost handsome, in a dark horse kinda way, but there’s no reason for him to give you this odd staredown. You’ve done absolutely nothing to warrant this attention, well, besides drinking on the job, but he could just fire you for that, if it was so troublesome. Either way, he should either speak up, or knock it off.

He smirks at your impudence and murmurs a raspy, “No,” back, his head tilting, waiting for your next move.

“You’re a real charmer, you know that?” You scoff, crossing your arms and jutting your chin defiantly.

“Whatever you say,” he breathes, that smile of his deepening, making his vermillion eyes shine. And, just like that, the two of you wander into a stilted game of give and take.

For the first few days, he makes sure he’s there before you arrive for the last of your afternoon shifts, his dark back already perched over the bartop as you shut the door behind you. Then, when you transition back to the evening shifts, he’s there too, sitting at that familiar perch, his eyes always, always watching, observing. You continue to ignore him and he seems to relish your agitated silence, flashing you dark smirks and quiet laughs.

Finally, two weeks into this stagnated stalemate, you make a point to strike up a real conversation with him. He’s obviously taken aback by your first few questions, his eyes wide and jaw tense, but he plays along.

Over time, the two of you carefully erect a haphazard friendship. And that chair of his? That center barstool? He used to not mind if another person was sitting in it when he arrived late, but recently that’s all changed. Now he guards it ferociously. Snapping and glaring at anyone who is stupid enough to drift into it.

Along with the lingering looks and burgeoning, almost flirty, dialogue you’ve pushed him into, he’s also gotten very demanding of your attention. If you spend too much time talking with another customer, or with Kurogiri, he pouts and darkens until you return, his tense form losing that sharpness. It's almost like he’s got a crush on you, but he’s not sure what to do with the newfound sensation, lost and confounded by your teases and grins.

Most people, you notice, give him a wide berth, but not you. No, you like his keen wit and heated musings. He’s fascinating and you want to see more. And in his flustered confusion, he lets you lean in, blinking and wide eyed at your open, flagrant interest in him.

******

As the weeks drift into summer, things start to change at the bar.

There’s some atypical deposit of power that’s been bestowed upon the place. People you’ve never seen before, begin to frequent the premises, sharing videos and whispered conversations about that man, Chizome Akaguro, better known to the general public as the Hero Killer.

Tomura flits between several, dark moods, clutching his newly injured shoulder and murmuring complaints about hero society, All Might and the Hero Killer. Apparently, there had been an altercation between the two of them and Tomura didn’t hide his ire, his agitation from you. No, he would vent to you, his voice gravel and ash as he snarled his rage.

Then, as if things couldn’t get any stranger, one evening a young girl begins to hang around, pestering you for a soda and prattling on and on about blood. Another new guy slips in a few hours later, his skin marred by thick, ragged burns and staples. He’s quiet, rudely demanding a shot and nursing it in a corner, his bright blue eyes flashing as he stares vacantly out at the crowd by the well.

A quiet man, called Spinner, asks you for a water, and you acquiesce, watching as his green hands wrap around the glass, downing the liquid in a quick gulp. Later, there’s a robust, loud, clearly confused guy, wearing a skin tight black bodysuit loitering by your bartop. He keeps entreating you for a drink, then tells you to buzz off seconds later. Exasperated, you plunk a whole bottle down beside his glass and continue on with your work, ignoring his chatter.

Finally, a man in a white mask and a top hat rounds out the strange posse and the group gathers together, hovering around Tomura, asking questions and listening to his rasping answers.

Thankfully, the rag-tag group leaves soon after closing, all of them shouldering their way back out into the night. You shake your head as the door closes behind them, gathering the collection of dirty glasses they left in their wake. Only Tomura remains, sipping meditatively on his drink, his red eyes foggy and unfocused. You know from experience that it’s not a good time to ask him questions, so you continue with your closing duties, keeping your eyes down.

Something is going on, that much is clear. But, unless you could worm the information out of Tomura, you’d likely never fully know all of the details. Part of you warns that it’s likely dangerous. Many of the people who haunt the bar are low level villains or brokers, not a winning combination if you’re wanting to stay out of the fray, and on the right side of the law.

You finish wiping everything down and return to Tomura, asking him softly if you can wash his empty glass. His eyes lift to yours and the expression that greets you almost makes you want to reach out and cup his cheek. He looks tired, worn thin and so, so needy. You’ve never seen him like this. It almost feels like he’s showing you something he’s never revealed to anyone else, a vulnerability that only you can see. He’s giving you access to a quiet secret that can hang between the two of you, safe in the knowledge that he can trust you with it. That urge to stroke a finger down his roughed brow rises again, but you shove the impulse away, rattled by your sudden, visceral, reaction to him.

To distract yourself, you snatch up his glass, and turn from the intensity of his stare, a slow prickle of gooseflesh trembling along your skin. As you run hot water and soap over the vessel, you feel your heart begin to pound and you chance another peek at Tomura’s quiet form. As usual, he’s watching you, but he looks unfocused again, that broken vulnerability tucked away. You want to ask him if he’s ok, but before you can croak the words out, he pushes his stool back and paces down the dark hallway, leaving you alone and bewildered.

******

A few days later, you ask Kurogiri if you can sneak away for a minute, you need a break. The bar has been packed since nine and you could use a quick breather. It’s the first night Tomura hasn’t stopped by and his absence has bothered you. You missed his grumpy quips and his persistent glances. All this time, you’d thought it was just him that was catching any kind of feelings, but it looks like he’s somehow managed to nag his way into your psyche, too.

You take the back stairs quietly and let yourself out onto the alleyway balcony, climbing the rickety fire escape to the rooftop. You’d found the access to the roof your second week and it’s still your favorite place in the whole bar. On a clear night, you can see all the way to downtown Tokyo. It’s always quiet this high up, tranquil and serene. You brace yourself against the concrete wall and watch the lights of the city glimmer, like distant jewels, in the darkness.

You pull a small joint from your pant pocket and flick your lighter on, setting the edge of the rolling paper alight and taking a slow drag. The inhale fills your lungs with a light pressure and you savor the feeling before blowing a thin line of smoke into the night. You get a few more hits in before you hear the fire escape stairs rattle, signaling that someone is coming your way. You debate dampening your roach, but you don’t want to waste it, so you tuck the smoldering paper in your other hand, maneuvering it out of sight.

The white shine of his hair always gives him away.

Tomura hops over the ledge and his eyes are already lifting, searching for yours as he stands. You arch an eyebrow at his tense stance and you can’t help your giddy smile. “Everything ok?”

“Kurogiri said you were taking a break,” he replies, dipping his long fingers into his pockets and sauntering over to the patch of concrete you’re braced against.

“Yeah,” you confirm, waiting until he’s closer to lift the joint back to your lips, taking a steadying pull and scooting over, so he can fit beside you on the wall. “It’s busy, and I’ve been slinging drinks all night. Just wanted to decompress for a bit.”

Tomura doesn’t reply, but he does slot himself close, the warmth of his broad shoulder radiating against yours. The two of you drift into a companionable silence, and the only sounds that greet you is the quiet hush of traffic below and your inhales and exhales of smoke.

“You got another meeting?” you ask, crossing your arms and pressing minutely closer, enjoying the distant shiver Tomura gifts you.

“No,” he murmurs, his voice low. You think that might be the end of the conversation but he continues a few seconds later, his head tilting toward yours, those red eyes scanning your upturned face. “They’re on a mission. I’m not able to participate. It will need to be like a SIM game. They are the pieces that I’ll move over the board, they’ll act to my battle plan.”

You turn to him, your eyes wide. “So, they’re just...pawns? Little NPC’s that don’t matter?”

Tomura laughs and his teeth gleam in the moonlight and distant shine of the neon lights. “Of course not. Do I look that heartless? No, they’re valuable players and if this goes right, we’ll be able to take on the next level with a decided edge.”

You let that last comment hover, pausing to take another huff, your eyes lowered, brooding over his words. “So, you’re their vanguard leader?”

“Sure,” Tomura nods, “We can’t keep grinding each mission, hoping to pick up any XP these heroes happen to drop. We need to make waves of our own.”

“Oh? Like the Hero Killer?”

“No,” Tomura snarls, his arm tensing beside yours, a hand rising to scritch at his scarred neck agitatedly. “Nothing like him. We’re looking past him. He was too short sighted, so busy following his own code of justice that he didn’t notice he was breeding more heroes, not putting them down.”

“Hmm,” you sigh, thumping your head lightly against the concrete behind you. “That is true. But, you can’t deny he’s brought up some serious divisions. It’s funny, really. It makes me think of this little hero toy I had when I was younger.

It was of an older hero, he prolly died long ago, but I loved that toy when I was a kid. Then, as I got older, it stopped mattering and one day, without me even realizing it, it lost its importance entirely. I wonder if hero society will ever shift to that. With the fractures that have been seen at UA and all over Japan, it could be a matter of time before real change starts to happen. Anyway, I wasn’t meaning to grill you on your, uh, projects. I was--”

“What toy?”

His question nonpluses you and you cock your head, blinking up at his peripheral stare. “Um, I think it was of that fast hero, O’clock. It was my older brothers originally, but he passed it down to me. No idea where it is now. It likely got lost in a move or accidentally left behind.”

Tomura lifts his eyes from yours, his jaw clenching and a slow gulp echoing down his lean throat. You watch the bob of his Adam’s apple, fascinated by the movement. That urge to touch him is back and you have to clench your fingers into your palms to quiet it.

You’re so distracted by your primal reaction to him, that you miss his question and he has to repeat it, his eyes slipping back to yours, the red dark.

“What?” you ask, blinking against the acuteness of his gaze.

“Can I take a hit of that?”

“Of what...oh.” You lift the half smoked joint and chuckle at yourself, pressing the smoldering paper toward him. “Sure. You had one before?”

“Does it matter?” He scoffs, carefully taking the white roach from you and raising it to his chapped lips.

“Go slow,” you warn as he begins to inhale, his eyes drifting to a half mast, concentrating.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he grumbles, pulling a tentative, but heavy, drag into his lungs.

“Fine,” you scoff playfully, “do what you want. But don’t blame me when you’re coughing up a lung.”

He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t heed your advice and, seconds later, he’s clutching at his throat, dropping the joint onto the broken gravel and concrete as he heaves. Instinctively, you thump him on his back and run your palm soothingly over his lean shoulder blades, surprised by the corded muscle that greets you. For a relatively thin guy, he’s certainly packing some strength under that unassuming form of his.

Tomura startles at your touch and he yanks himself away from you, his head ducked, eyes fastening onto yours, the irises accusatory and bright, burning with some underlying emotion that you’re too nervous to name right now.

“Uh,” you begin, aghast that you’ve upset him, “m-my bad…”

But, he’s already leaving, his head firmly turned from you, clambering over the edge and back onto the fire escape, leaving you alone in the darkness.

******

After that night, you can’t slip him out of your mind. Even when you sleep, you can see those red eyes of his, gleaming and hungry. One evening, you’d even woken with your fingers firmly pressed to your throbbing clit, stumbling and gasping, shaking free of a dream of him. He’d felt so real, so in focus and you can’t catch your breath, fingers still rubbing a tight circle over your quivering bundle of nerves. You pant as you break yourself, sukling in the whites and reds that haze over your vision. Yeah, that crush of his definitely isn’t a one sided thing.

The next shift you work, he’s waiting for you, perched in his familiar seat, his shoulders curved and tight. You give him a glance, but he doesn’t meet your eyes. His hands are lowered, fiddling with something under the bartop. You begin to open your bar, trying to quiet your wandering thoughts, not wanting to perturb him again. You’re uncorking a red wine when he presses something across the mahogany wood of the bar, toward you.

It’s small, with dark colors and a tiny, familiar, upper half mask. You let the bottle of wine thud against the counter, abandoning the half opened bottle to move closer. It’s...it’s your-- No. It can’t be yours, but it is the same toy, the one you’d mentioned on the roof the other night. How did he?

You gulp and look up at him, your heart pulsing wildly against your ribs. For the first time, he looks away from you first, his white hair pillowing across his brow. His lips start to rise in an all too habitual scowl and his raspy voice lifts to your ears. “If you don’t want it,” he grouses, one hand pulling away from the offered toy, clearly flustered by your wondering gaze. Without thinking, you slip your fingertips over the top of his hand, prolonging the touch, sulking in the warmth of him.

His fingers curl, some unconscious tremor racing along his digits. He almost yanks himself away, but then he stops, sighing as his eyes lift to yours. For a long moment, the two of you watch the other. You can hear his breathing speed up and you can almost smell the shift in the air. All it would take is one, tiny push to break that delicious tension.

Tomura’s nostrils flare as you start to lean closer, your body curving toward his, fingers still pressing into his skin. Your tongue dips out, wetting your lower lip and pulling it into your mouth, sucking on the plush flesh. His eyelids have lowered and he’s mirroring your motions, his elbows assisting his lift, his face upturning, seeking, reaching.

With a bang, the front door is flung open and it breaks the spell that’s fallen over the two of you. Tomura leans away first, his eyes narrowed in agitation, sliding from your open face to the darkness of the entryway. You exhale a shaking breath and follow Tomura’s gaze. It’s that masked man, the one with the top hat and he’s already striding confidently forward, peppering Tomura with a series of questions.

Snagging up his gift to you, you walk back to your bottle of wine.

******

You don’t have a chance to see Tomura again until he tells you, one evening, that the bar is going to be closed for the next few days. Then, over his shoulder, you spot the blonde boy, strapped and bound into a stiff chair and you blanch, stunned, too overwrought to give him more than a one word acknowledgement before stumbling back outside. In all of your talks, he’d never mentioned anything like this. That boy looked like a kid, barely past middle school, his eyes wild and defiant, but also so, so frightened.

No, you think, pacing your apartment, it’s impossible to come to terms with this. You can’t stay there, can’t work there. It’s too dangerous, too close to a real criminal den for comfort. You have to look out for yourself, no matter your feelings for the man who’s wandering down some long, lost pathway, toward a future you can’t even comprehend, let alone see.

So, you hand in your written resignation.

Kurogiri is behind the bar when you bring it in, and you’re hoping that the early morning conversation will spare you from having to see him. The wispy, purple hand of Kurogiri is just about to take your letter when Tomura barges down the hallway. His eyes immediately land on you and he steps forward, a dark look passing over his palled features.

“Why?” he growls, fingers snatching the paper from Kurogiri and crumbling the parchment to bits, his quirk rendering your typed words to nothingness.

“I don’t want to be a part of any kidnapping. It…” you pause, looking toward Kurogiri and, to your surprise, he nods to Tomura and moves away, leaving the two of you alone in the vacant bar. Tomura is still glaring at you, but he’s waiting for you to finish your thought, his jaw grinding quietly.

“This doesn’t feel like you.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Tomura scoffs, his chin jutting at the assertion.

“This doesn’t change society. This is just some petty attempt to get back at the UA staff. It’s like...It’s like you’re asking for trouble to seek you out. You’re smarter than this. Besides, what are you going to do with him?” you smart, crossing your arms and balling your fingers into your fists.

“What do you know about anything? That kid’s been oppressed by hero society, literally muzzled and bound--”

“As if you’re doing any better! He’s still muzzled and bound, Tomura! He’s just in a different location. This is insanity. Who put you up to doing--”

“That doesn’t matter. This conversation has nothing to do with that. You can’t leave,” Tomura snaps, his head lowering, soft white hair falling over his face. “Give it a few more days.”

“What? I can’t stay if the bar is raided and it’s prolly gonna be if you keep that kid. Besides, that’s not--”

“Just...just give me a few more days. I don’t want to beg you, I shouldn’t fucking need to beg you. It’s not an impossible request (Y/N). Just--”

“Fine,” you sigh, uncrossing your arms and watching him. He looks on edge, haggard and angry. Those emotions aren’t projected at you, you know that. Nevertheless, it doesn’t lessen the danger he’s asking you to stand with him in. But, you can give him a few days and you tell him so, trying to ignore the pattering of your heart when he looks at you and smiles.

******

Then, Kamino happens.

You weren’t there, thank God. But he was, and now, no matter what he’d asked of you, no matter what he’d hoped for, everything shifts apart. Days linger into weeks and you’re trying your best to reason that he’d made it out in one piece. Surely, you would have heard something. The capture of the leader of the League of Villains would have been a morsel that the media would have wanted to crow about, especially after the loss of All Might.

Late one evening, your phone rings.

It’s an unknown, blacked out number, but something tells you to answer, so you pick it up. You almost gasp when you hear that familiar rasp and you listen to what he tells you. You can’t get over how brittle and cracked his voice sounds but you write down the address he gives you. He cloaks his true motivations with a lie. Apparently, he has your last paycheck. Like that even matters to you. Honestly, you’re just glad he’s safe and whole. But, he’s gone to all this effort to build a bridge back to him, so of course you’re going to go.

You check and double check the directions, carefully maneuvering and weaving through bus stops and back streets. Somehow, you make it and find yourself pressing open a dilapidated door and stepping into a small room. Only darkness greets you, even though the bright midday sun is shining outside. The place he’s brought you to is on a dock, on the outskirts of town, close to the salty edge of a bay. You can hear the mournful cries of a seagull as you close the door behind you, sealing yourself inside and blinking into the gloom.

It takes you a minute to catch sight of him.

He’s lingering along the edges but you can make out the glow of his eyes, red and fierce. He looks different. It’s only been a few weeks, but it looks like the weight of years has crushed him under its unfeeling grind in that short amount of time. No, Kamino has changed him, rendering him unhinged and dangerous, drifting along the peripheral of your vision. Still, you haven’t come here to witness him falling to bits at your feet. No, you’d come here with another, darker motive.

Now, to work.

“What happened?” you ask, keeping your back firmly against the door. Watching him move closer, those red shoes of his glinting over the dark wooden floors.

“Sensei is...gone,” he replies, his voice hollow and faint. He’s mentioned his Sensei before and you’d heard the man’s strange voice echoing from that back television, like some distant, terrifying specter. But, you knew he was important to Tomura, more like a father than a teacher. However, you’d seen the news. You knew he was beaten to a pulp and captured, locked away and out of Tomura’s reach. Now, he can’t ask his Sensei for advice or support, not anymore. Even knowing what little you’ve gleaned about the strange man, Tomura must be devastated by his loss.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, genuine in your sympathy.

Tomura nods and fishes for something in the pocket of his trench coat, lifting a thin slip of paper out and showing it to you. “Here,” he sighs, still not meeting your eyes directly.

“Oh,” you say, moving away from the door and taking a few steps toward him. “You really did ask me here for the check, huh?”

“What else did you want?” he grumbles, his voice regaining a small slice of that familiar rasping. The question lingers and you feel your pulse speed up, your palms itching at your sides. “Or, did you want to scold me again?” Tomura continues disgruntled, and you can see a grimace pass over his face.

“You deserved it,” you confirm, taking another step, only wavering when you’re a few feet from him. “You wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn't kidnapped that UA student. Now, the kid, and your Sensei are gone and you’re stuck here. Wherever here is”

“Look at you, quite the oracle aren’t you? So, you did come here to berate me.” Tomura snaps, dropping your pay stub to the dusty floor.

“No,” you shake your head, not wanting this to spiral out of your control, not wanting him to simply shut you out, alone on that pier, left with all of your what ifs. “No, I didn’t come here to do that. I-I...it’s just that...well...that wasn’t you. That whole plan...it still doesn’t make sense”

“How the fuck would you know what is, or isn’t, me? You said that that morning, too. I didn’t like it then and I don’t like it now,” Tomura bristles, closing the distance and bowing up to you. You can feel the sheer heat of him radiating against your shirt and you shiver at the sensation. If you lift your hand you could touch him, you think distantly. He’s so close...He’s so...

You gulp, trying to quell your rising emotions. “I guess, I don’t know then.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Fine,” you say, biting your lip.

“Fine,” he repeats, no doubt thinking that will be the end of it, but you’re not finished.

“You’re better than this you know,” you tell him, eyes searching for his, not relenting your glare until he finally meets you halfway, his red eyes flashing.

“Better than what? Better than you? A half baked woman, slumming her way from mid range bar, to mid range bar. Hoping you’ll catch the eye of the right person, someone who can pluck you from all the muck and grime that you lift that pretty little nose of yours at.”

“What?” you breathe, a snarl of your own etching across your face.

“Don’t act like you didn’t know what you were doing. Fucking leading me on like that--”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You thought I’d be your ticket out, or you could wager me later for a better piece, something stronger, someone that could do something for you.” Tomura is seething, his chest bumping against yours, the red of his eyes burning as he glowers at you.

“Tomura- I don’t know what you’re talk--”

“Stop saying that. You stupid, or something? And stop saying my name like that. Like it fucking matters. You could have had anything, you know? But...but you took it all for granted. You had the world...and then it...it’s...it’s just gone.”

He’s not talking about you anymore. Even though he’s growling and spitting rage at you, he’s not talking about you. “Shigaraki,” you begin, trying to see some way to reason with him. To bring him back to you.

“Don’t call me that,” he groans, his head dipping, almost resting against your shoulder. “I haven’t earned...that’s not me.”

“Alright. What am I supposed to call you?” you whisper, overwhelmed and trying to resist that urge to pull him into your arms. You’ve never seen him like this, and you don’t know, you don’t…

“There you go again, acting like you care.” Tomura scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“I do care, you ass,” you bite, turning your head toward him and letting your voice fall beside his ear. He snarls at the assertion and presses impossibly closer, trying his best to put on a show of wavering strength, knowing you might still be bullied into backing down, into denying him. But it’s not working, no you’ve come this far and you don’t want to leave him, not like this.

“I care,” you repeat, still murmuring next to his cheek, so near you can hear, and feel, his ragged breaths, hot against your skin.

“About what?” he grunts, moving his head from you, determined to not let you win.

“About, well, you.”

“Liar,” he spits, but his voice wavers, showing you a tiny, tiny sliver of hope.

“Am not,” you counter and watch as he leans back, those vermillion eyes searching for yours. One of his hands lifts and he ghosts the digits over the top of your shoulder, watching as you shift toward the distant touch, pulled to him, like a magnet.

“Such a liar,” he posits, fingers hovering beside your neck, twitching with want.

“No, I’m not,” you gasp, your voice so faint, you’re worried he might not hear it. But he does and he dips his head toward you, inches from your face, lips already parted and waiting.

“Prove it,” he challenges, his voice deepening, losing that sharpened edge at long last.

So, you shove him.

You’re not sure why that’s your first, instinctive reaction, but it’s too late to question your motives and it sparks a crazed response from the man in front of you, snapping him out of his head and refocusing him.

He fumbles backwards, caught off guard, his red shoes catching as he lumbers, trying to not fall. His eyes flash at you and he instantly rights himself, moving back to you. Through it all, you can hear yourself saying something. It sounds like it might have been another taunt, but you can’t focus, not when he’s pressing himself against you, his fingers finally, finally touching you.

Tomura can’t seem to settle now that he’s gotten ahold of you, his fingers tracing over your neck, your shoulders, your face, your sides. He’s panting and gasping, his fevered exhales fanning over your prickling skin.

“Get off me,” you moan, batting at his wandering hands.

“No,” he sighs, cupping your jaw and dragging you to his shaking lips. His kiss is clumsy, almost childlike. He lifts and leans, pressing halting smacks against you, grunting when you twist from him, fighting his hold.

“You don’t deserve it,” you tell him, wanting to lance that boil that’s festering in his mind, knowing he needs the pain before he can handle the sweetness of the pleasure. The last thing he needs is love. No, not right now. Hopefully, there will be time for that later. But for now, he needs something raw and shattered, something that will let him see that it’s not impossible to pick up the pieces, that he can be whole again, he just needs to try.

He drags his rough lips over yours and you lower your fingers into his snowy hair, pulling him closer, demanding that he give you more. He gasps at the sudden shift and you slip your tongue into his mouth, tangling it with his and yanking stammering moans from him. Your lips are slick now and you use the extra lubrication to slip down his neck, leaving him trembling above you.

You dip into each and every scar, laving over all those old hurts until he’s snarling. You leave a bruising bite against his pulse and he snatches your face between his palms, dragging you back to his lips.

“Stop squirming,” he complains, his forehead bumping against yours, trying to keep up with your rapid fire laps and sucks.

“No,” you laugh, fingers lacing into the lapels of his trench coat and using the leverage to drag your breasts over his hardened pectorals. He grunts at the sensation, one arm wrapping around your lower back, pinning you to him. When he finally manages to work his way free of your frantic presses, he lowers his lips to your neck, mimicking the same path you’d taken with him, his teeth nipping and pulling until your humming, giving him a thin cry of encouragement that spurs him on.

Tomura drags a canine over your pulse and you shiver, folding into his crumpled embrace. He’s almost having to hold you upright and he growls when you slip from his arms, annoyed you’re making this so fucking difficult.

“I said, keep still,” he reminds you, heaving you back up, lean forearms bracing you to him. You smile and lace your arms around his neck, wanting his lips again. He allows the pull, loving the contrast of your plush skin against his. He’s a fast learner and this time, it’s his tongue taps and maneuvers for entrance, swallowing down your needy pants. His nose presses into your cheek and you cup at his jaw, stroking the warm skin until he slows his frantic pace, meeting you halfway, and lingering in your wet softness.

Then, just as he’s getting comfortable, you dig your teeth into his lower lip, pulling until you bleed out a little taste of copper. He snarls and shoves you away, lifting the side of his hand to his injured mouth.

“What was that for?” He snaps, tapping his fingers against the wound, watching as they come back red. “The fuck is wrong with…” His ire stutters to a halt when he catches sight of you.

You’ve already slipped your shirt over your head and now your fingers are twisting until you unclasp your bra, sliding the lace down your arms. The cool air makes your nipples tighten but you don’t attempt to cover yourself from him. Instead, you arch an eyebrow at his abashed expression and begin to unbutton your pants, your fingers teasingly lingering over the button and zipper, before lowering the denim down the curve of your hips.

You don’t even hear him approach. No, you’re too distracted by your little show to notice him until you feel those warm fingers tracing over the newly bared swells of your skin. You lift your head and your eyes catch his, smiling at the hazy hunger that’s blazing out at you. His touch is tentative and you roll your eyes openly at him, lifting your own hands over his, pressing him until he’s digging those four digits into your sumptuous flesh.

His thumb rubs over your pebbled nipple and you reward him with a low moan, your eyes slipping behind your heavy eyelids. He cups at your other breast and lifts the weight of you into his palm, openly marveling at the feel of you. Still, it’s not enough and if you’re going to get your point across, you need him to give you more than these lazy strokes.

“Take off your jacket,” you tell him, stepping away from him, quaking minutely in the loss of his warmth.

“What?” he asks, clearly too overwrought to hear you. So, you help him along. Your fingers snatch the shoulders of his trench and you yank it off him, tossing the fabric down to the gritty floors. Then, you shove at him again. He isn’t as taken aback this time and he rallies immediately, snatching at you and dragging you against him, making you gasp at the harsh sensation of his dark clothes against your bare front.

“What do you want?” you ask him, licking your tongue along the underside of his jaw, listening to his shuddering breaths. “What do you want to do to me, Tomura? Come on, I know you’ve got some idea. Fucking show me. Don’t let me boss you around, unless that’s what you’re wanting today to be about. I can take those reigns from you. I’m better at this after all. Less...flustered,” you pause, sucking and nipping at his neck, enjoying the indecisive flex of his fingers on your upper arms.

He allows you one more bite and then he’s tossing you down, not caring where you land. Thankfully, you sprawl over his discarded jacket, the fabric sparing you from the neglected wooden floor. You’re trying to regain your bearings when you hear his belt clatter to the floor. You look up at him, watching as he flings that dark shirt away, showing you the lean muscles that you’ve wondered about for so long. God, for someone so lanky, he looks fucking good.

Tomura smirks at your expression and swiftly yanks his pants and boxers away too, revealing something even more mouthwatering. Fuck, fuck, you think, an involuntary gasp leaving your lips. His cock is thick, pulsing and absolutely dripping with his precum. The tip is a lovely pink, curving toward that chiseled stomach of his and damn, you want to suck on it until he’s putty in your hands.

As if he can read your mind, Tomura steps closer, giving himself a few tugs as he peers down on you, imperious and almost perfectly in control. “You want it?” He asks, trying to hide that sudden shift in his voice, wanting to show you that he understands what you’re expecting from him. You nod and bite your lip, looking up at him from feathery eyelashes.

“Come here,” he requests, slowing those pulls and letting his precum slip from his fist to the floor, tempting you with those tiny droplets of arousal. Obediently, you rise to your knees, fingers tracing up his thighs, smiling at the light buckling he gives you, his calves twitching and shaking.

You tease your way to the apex of his hips and pause, lingering along that dip of his stomach. “Can I taste you?” you question coquettishly and you adore the moan that falls from his lips.

Taking that as a yes, you slowly lower your mouth to him, ghosting the tip of him over you. Rubbing him back and forth, painting that thick precum over your lips until they’re glistening. Tiring of this little game, his fingers dip into your hair and he grips you, hard. With one pull, he’s burying that velvet heat of his length past the ring of your lips and into the sweet cavern of your mouth. His cock swells and throbs as you lap ravenous at the hefty weight of him.

He’s salty and earthy and you let your tongue swirl over his slit, lapping into that leaking gap until he’s murmuring nonsense over you. He’s almost too big for you to take, so one of your hands lifts and wraps around his base, easing your sucks and ensuring that none of him is left out of this gift of mind numbing ecstasy you’re bestowing upon him.

There are several veins, racing along the side of his cock and you tickle along each of them, pressing until you can feel the beat of his heart, frantic and fluttering. Soon, he begins to silently ask you for more, rutting his hips against your face, scraping himself along the back of your throat. When you heave around him he lets out a loud, elongated moan and digs in again, lingering until you’re nearly choking.

You chance a peek up at him and are surprised to see him gazing right back, those red eyes of his clouded and muddled. His hand keeps an insistent pressure against the back of your head, demanding that you keep going. So, you pick up the pace, lapping and sucking, hollowing your cheeks until a thin line of your drool begins to trickle along your chin, dripping onto your knees.

“Can...can I…” he begins, fingers starting to tremble, his knees buckling. No, that’s not what you want from him. You shake free of his hand, letting him slip from your mouth, and he stammers and sputters at the loss, his eyes narrowed and dark, glaring at you with a raw frustration.

“No,” you tell him, keeping one hand on him, stroking him, maintaining that steady pressure until he’s grunting, his hips instinctively canting into the tantalizing motion. “No, you don’t ask me for anything. Yeah, I can finish you off, if you need me to take control, but it’s not going to be on your terms. If you’re wanting something Tomura, you better fucking take it. Stop asking me for permission. I’m not-- mmph--”

He rips your hand off of his dick and his fingers curl beside your ears, forcing your mouth back, and impaling you on his length, immediately gagging you on his heady thrusts. You inhale sharply, your breath catching, failing as he keeps railing into you. More saliva slides out of your lips and you falter, a weak whimper echoing around him.

“Mmm,” he growls, holding your face as he presses against the back of your throat loving the clenching and mewls you give him. “That feels fucking good, (Y/N). Taking all of my cock, ah- fucking choking on it. You’re so fucking greedy. Don’t worry, I’ll give you more. Let’s see, what would make this even better, oh, I know. Saw it in a porn once. Put your hands behind your back and don’t move them unless I tell you to.”

Immediately, you clasp your fingers together, letting them rest against your lower back. The suspension knocks you off kilter, but Tomura braces your head with his other hand, pinning you between his palms. His dick is still lancing in and out of your mouth, scraping against your tonsils, making you swallow and open, trying to push yourself past that oppressive gagging sensation.

“Ahhh, such a good girl, now spread your legs and lift up, just a little bit, yes- right there. Better keep those hands still,” he taunts, pulling his cock out until it hangs against your lower lip, glimmering with the sheen of your ministrations. Then, he dives back in, thrusting and grinding until his balls are papping against your soaking chin. Your legs tremble as you hold yourself up and you can feel your own arousal, slipping down your inner thighs, splattering onto that dark trench coat of his.

You’re heaving under him, grunting and slobbering trying to not fucking choke on the girth that’s being pistoned into you. He’s gasping praise at you, his white head thrown back, and his lower abdomen is rippling, letting you know he’s so, so close to spilling down your abused throat. He bows over you as he cums, spewing thick ropes of his release into you. You gulp at him, determined to let every last drop slither down your waiting throat, longing to savor everything that he’s giving you.

True to your promise, you keep your hands clasped and you nearly topple over when he tugs free of your lips. Tomura takes pity on your wilted form and lowers himself to his knees, wrapping one hand around you and tapping twice on your shaking digits, letting you know you can relax your grip. You fall forward, and he waits above you, watching you with a mounting fascination. Once you catch your breath, you look up at him, not caring that you’re still covered in a mix of tears, spit and his cum. He smirks at your dishevelment, pleased by your open display of your wanton lust for him.

“See? It’s not hard to take what you want, to do what you want,” you pant, still trying to gulp down a few more rough intakes of air.

Tomura sucks his teeth at your bravado, but you notice he’s having a little bit of trouble steading his own breathing and his hands are twitching as they reach for you. You hum when he cups at your dips and curves, lingering over spots that make you moan for him. As he plucks at one of your puckered nipples his eyes lift to yours and he leans close, pressing a wet line of kisses against your collarbone.

“Lay back,” he rumbles, still sucking at the hollow of your throat. You do as he says, propping yourself on your elbows, curious and waiting. He’s slowed down now that he’s slaked that first brush of pent up aggression, but he’s still got a little more to burn. You can see it, lingering behind his vermillion eyes, gleaming under the carnal intrigue.

His fingers, so dangerous and deadly, race down your sides, falling to the juncture of your legs and dipping into the slick that he finds. He parts your folds, bracing himself over you, his lips sucking bruises into your skin. The gossamer threads of your leaking cunt run down his fingers and onto his open palm and he groans into your neck, nuzzling his nose to your skin and inhaling, deeply.

“Does that feel good?” He asks, his voice scraping, like sandpaper, hoarse and undone along your heated cheek. Ok, you think, arching as he dips one digit into you, you can let him have that one question, especially when your mind is fogging over like this, unable to think of anything but that ache that’s pounding through your core. You roll your hips again, urging that finger to slip further and he hisses as you pull him in, your walls trembling at the intrusion.

“Fuck,” he grunts, lifting himself to look down at you, his eyes wide with an awed marvel. “You’re so…”

“Mmm, so what?” you ask, wanting him to keep talking to you, loving rasp of his tone as it tells you such sinful things.

“So soft and warm and...God...so wet,” he replies, adding another finger, watching as you whine for him, your lower lips parting and welcoming him. He pumps the digits, in and out, at a steady rate, waiting for each quiver and ripple, trying to feel his way along, wanting to please you.

“Can--” he stops himself, flushing as your eyes open and snap to his, a rough displeasure written over your face. He tears his gaze from yours and scowls, letting his fingers press a rougher rhythm into you, sucking his teeth at his unspoken inexperience.

“This feels good,” you reassure him, not wanting to completely leave him adrift, knowing that he does need a little piece of guidance, for this part, at least. “Why don’t you get a closer look?”

Tomura looks back to you and nods before sliding down your body, lowering himself until he’s face to face with his prize. His mouth drops and he licks at his chapped lips, painting a few, warm, exhales against your sensitive folds. You squirm at the sensation and he grins, leaning closer, his free hand spreading you for his inspection.

“Is this…” his voice trails off and you can feel him wandering his way to just the right spot. When he lifts the fleshy hood of your clit and thumbs the distended pearl you gasp and shiver, your head falling back against his jacket, thumping against the floor.

He laughs and you can feel him getting ready to swipe at you again, his thumb already slippery and near, the heat of it radiating against that sensitive bundle. “You like that,” he crows, repeating the motion until you’re writhing. “But—” he ponders, moving so his lips are pressed against you, resting on those sopping folds, waiting for you to look up at him. Once your head lifts and your eyes meet his, he lowers his mouth, sliding his tongue over you.

“Oh,” you whisper, your hands automatically lifting and curling into his hair, threading the white tendrils along your palms. His tongue is rough and bumpy as it glides along, pausing to lap at some of your arousal. He smacks his lips at the taste, savoring the flavor before voraciously pressing back into you for more. When he pauses his explorations to give your clit a soft suck, you can’t help but flail, your back bowing and thighs tightening around his head.

Tomura grunts at the rough treatment, prying your legs apart but not letting up on that suction, pleased he’s found something that makes you tremble to pieces in his hands. He’s always liked working you up, so it makes sense that, in this instance, he’s no different.

His long digits are scraping into you, dragging along your quivering walls and spreading your cunt apart, leaking your arousal all over his jacket and onto his chin. He’s not satisfied yet, you’re not satisfied yet, so he keeps going, listening and watching, catching on to what makes you cry out his name, learning and adapting at an alarming speed.

“T-Tomura,” you keen, your hips lifting, grinding yourself against his face, begging him to not stop. You feel a smirk lift his lips and his tongue begins to circle and lick over your clit, maintaining a steady pressure. Meanwhile, his fingers have latched onto something delicate and spongy within your pussy, repeating an arched gesture, curling and uncurling as they stroke your budding flames higher.

“So good…” you murmur, hardly able to form the words as you feel that all encompassing tingle race along your bloodstream. “You’re doing so f-fucking good.”

In response, he begins to suckle on your clit, lightly tracing a canine over the pulsing bundle and that’s all that it takes. Your head dips back, pressing into the floor so hard that your neck arches with your back and your legs wrap around him, holding him to you as you quiver and shake under him. You can feel your heartbeat as you return to yourself, thumping a rapid beat over your breastbone and radiating out to your fingers and toes.

Tomura, for his part, hadn’t stopped lapping at you, his tongue replacing his fingers as he pushes the wet appendage into you, soaking up each wave of your release. Even when you’d dropped your death grip, your legs and arms flopping away from him, boneless and shaking, he’d kept on. After a few minutes of this, his lips suddenly feel a little too ragged, the chapped skin scratching against your sensitive, overstimulated, flushed lower lips. You do your best to wriggle away, but he stills your movements, not quite finished.

“Ah- that...it’s starting to hurt,” you grouse, pushing a hand against his bowed head. That declaration seems to get through and, finally placated, he gives you one last lick and lifts his head, his eyes glinting down on you, dark and mischievous.

“I want to fuck you,” he tells you, wiping a hand across his mouth, dragging the last of your essence away. You tilt your head and grin up at him. “So fuck me,” you reply, spreading your legs again, making room for his trim hips.

“Not like this,” he qualifies, his eyes hooded as he runs a hand along your leg, enjoying your skin, warm and pliant under his palm.

“Then how?” you ask, a little bewildered by this shift in attitude. Tomura leans up, resting on his haunches, leering at your nakedness, another smirk lifting his lips, arching that scar.

“Stand up,” he instructs.

You pull your legs away and slowly rise to your feet, waiting for him to do the same. Once the two of you are eye level again, he tugs you to him, his lips pulling and nipping at yours. You can’t help but melt into his persistent touch and when he feels you slacken against him, he starts to push you backwards. He walks you slowly, carefully, but once your back touches the cold wall, his caresses become rougher, more insistent.

He’s lifting your chin and his teeth are doing more biting than nipping, pulling at your lips until you’re gasping and swollen. He begins to lift away and you protest the movement, but his hand presses into your chest, shoving you back to the wall. You freeze at the forceful treatment, your eyes opening and fastening onto his. Waiting for his next move.

Tomura’s regained that wild look, his eyes hardening, sharpening like ruby slips of flint as they linger over you. “Turn around and brace your hands against the wall,” he commands and, for an instant, you debate pushing back, challenging his order, but that’s not what you’re here for. No, you’d come here with one thought in mind.

To see if you could show him what choices, what strong inner drive, wholly independent of his Sensei, he did have.

You’d watched that kidnapping debacle and all you could think about was how much better, how much stronger he’d be if he could just get out from under the thumb of that man, that voice on the tv. Even with this informal exercise of your own, Tomura had taken to your carnal lessons like a fish to water. He had always been a natural born leader, someone who cultivated and demanded change, he just needs a chance to try. A chance to prove that he didn’t need to ask permission, to ask questions. No, he only needed to act and he could make his aspirations a reality.

So, you turn, splaying your fingers against the wall and waiting for his next move, tilting your head, wanting to see him. He runs a calloused hand over the plush swell of your ass, kneading the skin and stepping closer. Once his hips are flush with your posterior, he ruts his newly re-hardened cock against you, his ever copious precum aiding his motion, letting him glide between your cheeks, easing into that cleft. You groan and press back, wordlessly asking for him to keep going.

Suddenly, his palm smacks against your ass, stinging the flesh and sending a sharp crack around the barren room. “I said, push out more. How am I supposed to fuck you when you’re plastered to the wall like that?” Tomura questions, his voice deep and guttural. You brace your hands against the peeling wallpaper and jut your ass out, presenting yourself to him, quietly hoping he’ll reward you with another spank. Pleased, Tomura does just that, his other hand lifting and smarting against your other, neglected cheek, imprinting his mark on you, even if it’s only for a brief moment, and his fingers linger on the warmth he’s raised from your skin.

“Good girl,” he groans, taking his cock in his hand and searching for that weeping entrance to your waiting pussy. You aid him as best as you can, arching your hips until he finally, finally slips into you. Tomura lets out a deep sigh as your cunt devours his cock, slicking him into the heat of your rippling channel. “Oh, fuck,” he moans, pressing until his hips are flush with your ass, grinding his bony hipbone into your supple softness.

He gives you a brief second to adjust before he bows his head over your shoulder, panting and grunting. “Hold on,” he gasps, slowly pulling his hips back and then ramming his straining cock back into you. You mewl at the sudden ferocity of his thrusts, your head dipping against the steady weight of the wall.

He offers you no reprieve as he pounds into you, his teeth latching onto your skin, sucking and drooling, losing himself in you. His balls tap against your swelled ass and you moan when he traces one hand around you, his fingers seeking your clit and pinching at the nub.

Your teeth begin to chatter, but he doesn’t let up, maintaining that mind numbing pace, pressing and grinding until you can’t fucking think straight. He’s completely untethered and he slakes out all of those pent up questions, feelings, hurts and wants against you. After a time, he begins to murmur things to you, finally sucking up his loose tongue and resting his chin on the mess he’s left on your skin.

He’s worried he can’t do it.

He’s never been alone, not like this.

Sure, he has the others, he has Kurogiri, but it’s not the fucking same.

He needs to see this through.

He wants to, he has to.

Where do you go, when there’s no one else to turn to?

It’s like a confessional, this rutting he’s doing and it’s bleeding all of those thoughts away, letting them pool against the front of his mind and then, pop, they shift away.

Oh this helps, he thinks, loving how you’re fucking taking him, how much you fucking need him. He can’t let you go. He can’t, he won’t. You’re all he has left. After all this, he can’t lose anything else. No, you were right, he’s gotta start taking things, snatching up pieces until he becomes this unstoppable force, greater than his Sensei, greater than All Might, greater than all of them. Yes, yes, yes, when he has you like this, everything else feels so fucking simple.

He’s slowing, his hips beginning to stutter and press erratically against you. There’s no need to worry about you cumming for him, not when you’ve already broken around him so many times in the last few minutes. No, the second he started panting all of those thoughts against you, you were lost, your cunt gripping him so tightly you were worried it might never let go.

Finally, with one last thrust, Tomura grinds his hips against you, his cock swelling and pulsing as he spills himself into you. The sensation of his cum splashing against your walls hurtles you over that edge one last time and you almost collapse, your legs shaking so badly you can't support your own weight. The only thing that prevents you from falling is Tomura. His arms snake around your waist and he holds you to him, his forehead resting heavily against your shoulder, sticking to your skin.

After a long beat, Tomura pulls himself out of you, grunting at the loss of your warmth and sinks to the floor, dragging you with him. Naked and gasping, the two of you cling to the other, waiting for the world to stop spinning as you come back to yourselves. Tomura recovers first, tugging you to his chest and wrapping himself around you, his chin perched on the familiar slope of your shoulder.

“You didn’t...you didn’t need to do this, but...” Tomura halts, his voice soft as his lips press rough kisses to your skin, silently saying what he really means, what you mean to him.

“That’s not true,” you counter, turning your head toward him. “You deserve to make a choice for yourself. You’re your own boss now. Now all you have to do is act like it. Don’t make those mistakes again. You call the shots, not your Sensei, not anyone else in the League, just you. You’ll have other choices soon, so don’t doubt yourself, it’s not like you.”

He huffs out a laugh and buries his nose in your neck, inhaling your scent as he licks at a rising bruise. “I don’t think you’ll like my next choice,” he rumbles, one hand drifting over your side and cupping the soft mound of your breast.

“That depends on what it is,” you smile, your eyes closing at the tempting touch.

“Mmm, do me a favor,” he begins, nipping at your earlobe. “Get on your knees and open your mouth. You looked so fucking pretty when you were sucking on my cock, I wanna see it, one more time.”

“What?” you question, absolutely incredulous, “again?”

“Do as I say (Y/N),” he replies, rubbing his rising length along your ass.

“God,” you gasp, bucking at the sensation, “what have I done? At this rate, I won’t be able to walk for a week.”

“You’ll like it,” Tomura promises, his voice dark, “I’ll make sure that you do.”

Notes: never have i ever liked that kidnapping bullshit. i guess it lets AFO face off with All Might, but for Tomura’s development? it makes no sense and he’s never done anything like that again, in canon. so, uh, yeah. booo kidnapping scheme.

Tags: @spicy-skull, @xwildskullx, @yixxes, @ghstmthr, @rekoii, @diaouranask, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love

#asks #answered asks #pal muses #on Tomura’s dick #and his trauma #shigaraki tomura #tomura shigaraki #shigaraki x y/n #shigaraki x you #shigaraki x reader #tomura x reader #tomura x y/n #tomura x you #tenko shimura #shimura tenko #reader insert

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lafourmii20 · 3 years ago

Note

My favorite pairing is probably DrPepperony if I had to choose one, and I'm a sucker for 30 (the protective one). While I tend to swerve to "people protecting Stephen", please write it however you'd like - if you're interested in this combination. :)

Thank you for the ask, @aelaer 💕

I love drpepperony and I was very happy to write this OT3 with this prompt. It's a bit longer than I thought, and maybe not exactly what you imagined. I hope you like it!

~~~

drpepperony, pre-relationship (could almost be read as gen), hurt stephen, with a bit of blood, protective pepper, protective tony, not clint friendly (sorry i had to find sort of a bad guy), post Endgame but Tony lives and Steve died

~~~

“If you’re so powerful, why couldn’t you save her?!”

Clint’s shout echoed on the lawn, all the way to the cabin. Tony instantly got to his feet.

“Stay with uncle Happy, Maguna.”

He left his drink on a table, and his daughter under Happy’s careful watch, and hurried outside. When he pushed the front door, he frowned, deeply unhappy with the scene.

“I’m sorry,” Stephen whispered in such a thin voice Tony wasn’t sure anyone heard him –not sure the guy even wanted to be heard.

“You’re sorry? Is that what you just mumbled?” Clint answered, his tone getting angrier and angrier with each word.

“I am truly deeply sorry,” Stephen articulated more clearly this time.

It did not seem to appease Clint. At all.

“Well, great! You’re sorry. But Nat is dead because of you. And your sorry ass apologies won’t do shit to bring her back!”

Clint was furious. He was grieving. But he was taking it out on the wrong guy.

“It’s all your fault!”

Stephen didn’t move, didn’t even blink when Clint lurched forward and punched him square in the face. He fell backwards and blood splattered on the ground.

“It’s all your fucking fault!” Clint bellowed as Sam and Bucky restrained him, tried to stop him from attacking again.

He almost tore free, and Tony took a step forward. He was all for letting his fellow Avengers sort things out between themselves the way they wanted to –and if they had to punch some sense into each other from time to time, well it was their business. But no one was getting beaten up, without even trying to resist, on his lawn.

But before Tony could say anything, Pepper stepped into the scene.

“What is going on here?” she asked in her no-nonsense voice. Se didn’t wait for someone to answer –as if there even was a correct way to answer when she used that voice. “No one is fighting in my home! Today, we celebrate those we brought back, and we grieve those we lost. This is not a time for fighting and I will not tolerate it. Is that clear?”

Clint might try to protest, there was no way he would sway Pepper. He was an Avenger. She was even more dangerous, Tony thought with pride. Looked like he could let his wife handle the dirty business.

He crossed the lawn, got to the poor wizard still slumped on the ground, haggard and defeated. His nose was bleeding profusely, and the corner of his eye was starting to turn purple. Tony grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Come on. Let me take care of you.”

Stephen looked up at him. There was a deep sadness, a resigned look in his eyes that broke Tony’s heart. Then Stephen got up and it was gone. They walked silently through the crowd, crossed the lawn and reached the house. Tony pushed him as carefully as he could in a bathroom.

“Here we go,” he said softly, helping Stephen sit on the edge of the tub. “Fri, where’s the first aid kit?”

“Under the sink, boss,” the AI answered immediately and Tony dived under the sink to retrieve the little box, opening it to get some cotton balls and antiseptic, though he wasn’t sure what to do with those. “May I suggest the ice pack, boss?”

“You’re the best, baby girl.”

“Of course,” she answered, and Tony chuckled.

He went back to Stephen with a slightly wet towel to wipe off the blood while he handed him the cold pack. Stephen’s fingers shook wildly when he took it and pressed it on the side of his head, with a painful wince.

“You don’t have to do all this,” the Wizard of Oz finally said. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah, look in the mirror, doc, and tell that to your face,” Tony scoffed.

He got a brief glimpse of a smile before he moved the towel over nose, lips, chin, and all the mess of blood that covered Stephen’s face.

“Why didn’t you send Clint to the Sinister Dimension or whatever the name of that hellish world is?” Tony asked, trying not to wince with Stephen every time the towel stroked over a sensitive area.

“Dark Dimension,” Stephen corrected.

“Sure.”

A moment of silence passed. Tony took the time to rinse the blood out of the towel before applying it again. It seemed like the bleeding had stopped. That only left the big ugly contusion at the corner of Stephen’s eye. Ouch, that looked painful.

“Fri, can you scan our good doctor? Make sure there are no deeper wounds?”

“I’m fine,” Stephen protested with another wince that said otherwise.

“Fri?”

“The good doctor is right, boss. No deeper injury.”

“Great.”

As Tony looked at the slumped and beaten up form in front of him, it seemed that nothing was great. If there were no physical wounds, it seemed that there was a more profound, more painful, psychological one. That man was wounded, burned out, and morally exhausted. And Tony was suddenly filled with the impulse to help him, to fix this, whatever this was.

He wanted to see the powerful and cocky sorcerer he clashed with, when they first met.

He wanted the weirdly flirty wink after great prowess of magic, and butting heads with someone that didn’t take his nonsense but actually listened to him, and compromised.

“So, why didn’t you stop him?” he asked again after a minute of almost comfortable silence.

He threw the bloody towel in the laundry basket and leaned against the sink, watching Stephen intently.

“Because he’s grieving. And he’s right,” Stephen answered in a too small voice.

Defeated.

Tony was not taking any of it. If Pepper had to protect Stephen from Clint, Tony would have to protect Stephen from himself, apparently. It was far from the weirdest thing he had ever done.

“Bullshit. It’s not your fault.”

Stephen arched an eyebrow behind the cold pack, before he winced and dropped it. Tony picked it up for him and, instead of giving it back to the wizard, he brought it up to Stephen’s face and gently hold it up against his temple. Stephen just sighed, closed his eyes for a second, letting Tony take care of him. The situation was slightly more intimate than Tony anticipated but it warmed his heart to see Stephen accept his help. And yeah, he could see himself get closer to the wizard in the near future.

“It’s not your fault,” he repeated.

“It kinda is. I chose this path, the one where Natasha and Steve had to die. Their deaths are on my hands.”

“That’s just pure bullshit! You didn’t push Nat on Vormir, she jumped. You didn’t put the gauntlet on Steve’s hand, he took it and snapped his own fingers knowing he would not survive it. You did not murder them. They chose to sacrifice themselves to save us all, and believe me, I would have done the same thing, without blaming you. You know what you did?”

“Wallow in self-pity, dishonoring their great sacrifice?” he whispered defeated and seemingly disgusted with himself.

“No.” Damn, that man really needed to be protected from himself. Tony knew a thing or two about blaming himself for everything, but Strange was on another level completely. “You put us on the right path, you risked your sanity to view all those possible futures and other timeline. You are a hero.”

That seemed to finally shut Stephen up. He blinked, looked up at Tony, but this time, there was something different in his eyes. A deep emotion Tony couldn’t really name. It made his heart race.

Stephen’s hand rose, lightly touched Tony’s at the side of his head. It was delicate and far more intimate than he expected. But before Tony could say anything else, the bathroom’s door opened, and Pepper stepped in.

Stephen quickly took his hand away, but Tony kept his position. There was nothing he wanted to hide from his wife. Besides, if something ever happened with the wizard, he was pretty sure Pepper would want to be included. Yep, that would be very nice actually, the three of them in the cabin. Tony could almost picture it.

Wait, he was thinking a bit ahead of himself, wasn’t he? Well, who could blame him, he was a futurist, after all.

“Are you okay, Dr. Strange?” Pepper asked.

“You can call me Stephen. And yes, I’m okay. Tony took care of me.”

Pepper looked at her husband. Tony winked, she smirked in return. His hand was still pressed against Stephen’s head –there was a cold pack between them, but did that really matter?

Pepper went to Stephen’s other side, carefully took his chin in her hand to examine him –and there was no cold pack or any medical supply to excuse the proximity. Stephen tensed for a second, then he relaxed in her grip.

“You did well,” Pepper finally concluded, with a small stroke on Stephen’s cheek. The wizard shuddered. Then she stepped back and the fluttering moment was over. “Tony, you stay with him, I’m gonna send everyone home,” she ordered more than asked.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Tony answered immediately.

“And Stephen?”

“Yes?”

“Stay for dinner with us tonight. Please?”

A moment of hesitation, blue-green eyes jumping from Tony to Pepper, a gulp and finally.

“I will.”

Well, well, well, Tony thought. That was a very interesting turn of events. He couldn’t wait to see where all of this would lead them.

~~~

Inspired by this intimacy prompt list

Prompts filled: 3. touching foreheads (ironstrangefrost) 23. wearing someone’s clothing (ironstrange) 29. kissing while mad (ironstrange) 59. height difference (ironstrange)

#drpepperony #fic #hurt stephen strange #protective tony stark #protective pepper potts #bad clint barton #tw blood #pre relationship #hurt comfort #ask answered #lafourmii writes

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n-miri · 3 years ago

Text

More Tommy-Purpled friendship content!! CW for: brief mentions of corpses and death (via being struck by lightning)

Word count: 1610

On rainy days, Purpled polishes his sword. It’s a good weapon: netherite, with Sharpening V, Unbreaking III— the usual overpowered enchantments. He isn’t complaining though; the stronger he is, the better. He goes through a collection of blades, from the one he knows best to the oldest one he owns, on the verge of being grinded into dust. Wipe, sharpen, steer clear of rust. Keep the blade clean and dry. It’s easy to get lost in the repetitive motions.

Dogchamp lies by his side, close to the fire, hind leg poking at his thigh through the soft material. Their ears perk up, and their tail begins to wag. Back, forth, thumping on the floorboards.

A door slams open, followed by a myriad of curses. It’s the usual rainy day, after all.

“Don’t let my floor get wet,” Purpled says immediately. His voice rebounds within the house, a meagre two rooms decorated with torches. A temporary base, if you will. One that he’s planning to blow up soon.

His UFO was…

It just isn’t the same.

“Fuck you,” the trespasser immediately responds. The house is unbearably empty despite its miniscule nature. “I’ll do whatever I want.”

A beat. He probably found the towel Purpled placed on the counter earlier, specifically for this scenario. Footsteps, sharp against the falling of rain—white hair peeks out from the door. Tommy sneers at the other derisively, before crossing the room in five long steps and dropping down on Purpled’s other side.

This has become a ritual of sorts, with the two blondes (or, in Tommy’s case, ex-blonde) seeking refuge from bad days. Sometimes it’s sunny out, or the middle of the night; most of the time, it’s raining.

The day they met, it was raining too. Wide eyes meet each other in the solace of darkness. The past is unforgivingly cruel, and whispers mockeries into their ears. Tommy looked so small, in the Church Prime’s pew; Purpled was sure he looked equally as haggard, hand clenched around the hilt of his sword.

So, Purpled invited Tommy to his base. It’s warm despite being unfamiliar, and Dogchamp is amicable towards traumatised teenagers who need way more therapy than life is willing to give. They talked a bit about the stupidity of other members. Rarely, there was a glimpse into their lives, what they missed and have lost. Neither of them actively asked and, in a sense, it was comforting.

Then it happens again. And again. Tommy pulls out his sewing kit on the third visit and demands to patch up his hoodie. Purpled teaches Tommy how to shear sheep, wool coming off in lines of blue. Just like this, they help each other. There’s too much left unspoken and no expectations to be had. There is no debt to be repaid, or a favour to be granted, or a profitable exchange.

It’s just that. It’s just them, crossing each other’s path sometimes. Seeing how the other has changed from their previous meeting.

“It’s stupid,” Tommy says suddenly. His shrill voice pierces through the haze of thoughts. Pale eyes flicker around the room, with shadows from corners pulling faces. “This is what you do in your spare time? Fight, prepare to fight, fight some more?” He scoffs, not even sparing Purpled a glance. “Idiot.”

Much to the mercenary’s bemusement, Tommy proceeds to pull a cake out of his inventory. As in, a full-blown, home-baked dessert.

“.... Huh?”

An embarrassed scowl creeps onto his face. “Don’t be like that.” He drops the plate loudly onto the space between the two. “It’s edible, if that’s what you were wondering. I know how to cook shit. Niki…” Tommy’s eyes grow distant, fingers twitching, as if moving to punch the treat into oblivion. “She used to bake. A lot. Back in- y’know, back in L’manberg. I learned a bit from her,” he finishes lamely. All the bravado has left him.

“That’s cool, dude,” Purpled replies. “It looks good.”

“Wh- of course it does! I’m poggers at everything I do. That’s why the women love me.” Carefully, the boy flicks strands of white hair away from his eyes. “I’m astonishingly charming.”

There was a time where Tommy’s hair imitated the sunlight, gold and yellow and bursting with happiness. He smiled more. Laughed more, too. Was more brash and insolent; was so willing to see the good in everyone he met.

Now his hair is completely white. His dull eyes flicker around the room and his hands are always, always trembling. Tommy is different from who he was before.

The Tommy and Purpled of before would never have become friends.

“Hold up, let me cut it.” Saying that, the mercenary raises his newly polished sword. Tommy sputters, holding a hand out to stop him.

“Why can’t you use a knife like a normal person!”

Purpled shrugs. “Technically, a sword is a very big knife. It’s… stabby and shit.”

Exasperated, Tommy gets up from his spot in a tangle of long limbs and half-hearted glares. “I’m going to slice this cake like a normal person. It deserves to be treated with respect.”

“We’re going to eat it anyway,” Purpled points out.

The other sniffs indignantly, turning heel to find cutleries. Dogchamp lifts their head in his direction, turning to Purpled, then back again. Slowly, the wolf raises from their sitting position and trots out of the room. Traitor.

From the closed window, lightning streaks through the sky, followed closely by a clap of thunder. It’s loud, Purpled winces. He had expected it but- the sound still makes him jumpy. Rainy days in general are terrible.

The patter of rain against the dirt and harsh concrete pulls out a vivid scene from his memory. Soldiers, rising out of graves, burdened by shiftless armour, heaving up weapons twice their arm span. Thunder imitates piercing shrieks, the blast of an explosion. Raindrops sound like corpses hitting the ground.

Everytime it rains, he recalls that scene with bitter reminiscence; greets it like an old friend who came back to haunt him as an afterthought. It’s not the best way to spend his day.

“You know,” Tommy says, having entered the room when he wasn’t aware, “I got struck by lightning once.”

Distantly, Purpled thinks of raindrops rolling through hair and a shock so bright it electrifies the body. The event he construes in his mind, like always, paints his own death in a morbid way. He wonders if he died, would anyone come visit him? Would there even be a grave?

“That sucks,” the blonde replies.

Tommy gives a non-committal hum, shifting the objects in his arms. In one hand the boy carries a kitchen knife and in the other, a blanket. It’s the one with a UFO print on it—too childish for the purple boy’s tastes, yet too precious to be thrown away.

Once again, the two -three, counting Dogchamp- are back in their original positions. The blanket is draped over Purpled’s lap and he watches, warily, as Tommy’s shaking hands raise the knife. At this point, Purpled would have offered to do it. He nearly does, too, but-

Ten minutes have passed. Eyebrows scrunched, a bead of sweat against his forehead, Tommy tries to steady his grip and cut the cake in equal slices. It doesn’t work. It’s uneven at best, falling apart at worst, but-

None of that matters. He did it.

A ‘good job’ or ‘gg’ sticks on Purpled’s tongue, sincere yet worried of coming off as patronising. Instead, he gives a silent thumbs-up and hopes that conveys all the things he wishes he could say.

Tommy grins. “Eat up before it gets cold, purple boy.” Neither of them mention that it’s definitely not warm anymore, with how long it’s been and how cold the weather is. Obediently, the teenager picks up the tiniest chunk of cake and pops it into his mouth.

Sweet is the first thing that touches his tongue. Honestly, it shouldn’t come as a surprise— Tommy started over-seasoning his food after the prison visit, the same time he came back with a head full of white hair. That, paired with the fact Awesamdude said he had died, creates a sinking feeling in Purpled’s guts. It doesn’t take an idiot to connect the dots.

“Yummy,” he comments. “Delicious. Uhh, what other synonyms are there? Delectable, tasteful-” A choking laugh cuts him off, too loud and too worryingly breathless all at once. “I’ll give this a… hm. Maybe an eight out of ten.”

“I should have gotten full marks,” Tommy says sarcastically. “Glad you like it, though.” Underneath the amusement is the barest form of sincerity, and that’s enough for the both of them.

“Uh-huh! I do.”

Once the rain lets up, the two will part again. Purpled will wash sugar off his fingers, keep the polishing kit in a chest and carry on with his life. That’s how this has always been.

But for now, light from the fireplace casts a glow across their faces, painting a sunset upon Tommy’s self. It’s reminiscent of older days, better days; ones that have long since passed. They’ll never get any of it back—family, homes, the people they once were. All they can do is yearn for what has been lost and move on.

So for now, Purpled stops focusing on the what-ifs and could-have-beens. For now, he relishes in the warmth in his sides as he laughs himself silly. Dogchamp dozes off contentedly. A blanket is shared, covering his and Tommy’s laps, barely offering heat. The half-eaten cake lies between them and his friend is threatening to smash it into his face.

Outside, rain drums against the earth. Neither of them pay it mind.

#minecraft #dreamsmp #tommyinnit #purpled #dogchamp #purpled-centric #back at it again with boys being boys #tired writer moment #marie antoinette! tommy

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pathofregeneration · 3 years ago

Text

We Are Our Own Judges, part I

“After this terrible things began to happen to me and I became aware that I was dying. A great wind seemed to catch me up and blow me to and fro, as a leaf is blown in the eddies of a winter gale. Enormous rushes of darkness flowed over me, to be succeeded by vivid bursts of brightness that dazzled like lightning. I fell off precipices and at the foot of them was caught by some fearful strength and tossed to the very skies.

From those skies I was hurled down again into a kind of whirlpool of inky night, round which I spun perpetually, as it seemed for hours and hours. But worst of all was the awful loneliness from which I suffered. It seemed to me as though there were no other living thing in all the Universe and never had been and never would be any other living thing. I felt as though I were the Universe rushing solitary through space for ages upon ages in a frantic search for fellowship, and finding none.

Then something seemed to grip my throat and I knew that I had died for the world floated away from beneath me.

Now fear and every mortal sensation left me, to be replaced by a new and spiritual terror. I, or rather my disembodied consciousness, seemed to come up for judgment, and the horror of it was that I appeared to be my own judge. There, a very embodiment of cold justice, my Spirit, grown luminous, sat upon a throne and to it, with dread and merciless particularity I set out all my misdeeds. It was as if some part of me remained mortal, for I could see my two eyes, my mouth and my hands, but nothing else and strange enough they looked. From the eyes came tears, from the mouth flowed words and the hands were joined, as though in prayer to that throned and adamantine Spirit which was ME.

It was as though this Spirit were asking how my body had served its purposes and advanced its mighty ends, and in reply oh! what a miserable tale I had to tell. Fault upon fault, weakness upon weakness, sin upon sin; never before did I understand how black was my record. I tried to relieve the picture with some incidents of attempted good, but that Spirit would not hearken. It seemed to say that it had gathered up the good and knew it all. It was of the evil that it would learn, not of the good that had bettered it, but of the evil by which it had been harmed.

Hearing this there rose up in my consciousness some memory of what Ayesha had said; namely, that the body lived within the temple of the spirit which is oft defied, and not the spirit in the body.

The story was told and I hearkened for the judgment, my own judgment on myself, which I knew would be accepted without question and registered for good or ill. But none came, since ere the balance sank this way or that, ere it could be uttered, I was swept afar.

Through Infinity I was swept, and as I fled faster than the light, the meaning of what I had seen came home to me. I knew, or seemed to know for the first time, that at the last man must answer to himself, or perhaps to a divine principle within himself, that out of his own free-will, through long aeons and by a million steps, he climbs or sinks to the heights or depths dormant in his nature; that from what he was, springs what he is, and what he is, engenders what he shall be for ever and aye.”

— H. Rider Haggard, She and Allan

* * *

Hans Georg Leiendecker, Angel of Power

#Judgement #Afterlife #H. Rider Haggard #She and Allan #Wisdom #Hans Georg Leiendecker #Angel of Power #Art #Beauty #Painting #Visionary #We Are Our Own Judges

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mintjamsblog · 4 years ago

Note

Hey, I miss your writing! I don't know if you're taking asks but hate-sex? Argument-sex? Make-up sex?

Okay, sorry for the delay, have a horny ficlet

Tommy/Alfie Hate-sex

It's not that Tommy means to be selfish, Alfie's pretty sure of that, it's just that selfishness comes to him naturally. It's no doubt a byproduct of the life he's led, a combination of ruthless self-sufficiency and entrenched self-preservation that manifests in occasionally infuriating ways. He spends so much time wandering around in his own labyrinth of a head that 'e don't always seem to realise where 'e is or how 'e got there. How 'is food got onto that plate in front of 'im for that matter. Which is kind of a case in point.

Alfie scrapes the remnants of an individual salmon encroute into the kitchen bin, dislodging the perfectly-cooked pastry that's now curling upwards, like the ribs of a rotting cadaver, protecting what's left of the messily pecked-out pinkness inside. He can't help being stung that Tommy couldn't even be bothered to finish it. It's as if the cocky little bastard thinks perfectly-prepared dinners-for-one just appear in the oven of their own accord. As if the cupboards are self-replenishing — automatically restocking his favourite whisky and tea (and semi-skimmed milk, 'cause skimmed tastes like dishwater and full-fat's too creamy) every time supplies run low.

But communication is key in any relationship, innit? So rather than run his mouth off half-cocked, Alfie decides to conduct an experiment. See how long it takes Tommy to communicate his appreciation for the things Alfie does.

The answer, it turns out, is a fucking long time — longer than Alfie's patience will last at any rate. When he walks in for the fifth night in a row to find the meal he prepared half-eaten, dirty dishes next to the sink, and Tommy so enthralled by his laptop he barely nods, "hello," well ... Alfie has had enough. He schools himself though. Clenches his fists and forces his voice to taken on a deceptively breezy tone.

"You eaten, treacle?" he enquires.

"Yeah," Tommy answers with a quick glance up. The living room's in near total-darkness, not a single lamp switched on, which means Tommy's lit only by the bluish glare of whatever's on 'is screen. It's not a flattering light. Makes 'im look tired — haggard actually — all sharp angles and purple shadows. Then again, it is one o'clock in the morning. (It'd have to be some quality porn to have Alfie absorbed at this hour, but the sad reality is that it's far more likely spreadsheets.)

"What did you 'ave?" Alfie asks.

"Eh?"

"To eat."

Tommy sighs. "Er ... that thing you left in the oven." He glances up again, irritably this time.

"Hmmm," Alfie says. "Bouillabaisse."

"What?"

"Bouillabaisse. French fish stew."

"Yeah, it was fish." Tommy's typing something now, bashing the keys impatiently — workaholic little prick.

Alfie looks round the room. There's a bottle of whisky on the coffee table and a glass (no sign of a coaster). A sea of stale bread crumbs flecks the sofa — the accompaniment to tonight's lovingly prepared meal. The man himself sits cross-legged, bare feet tucked up into the backs of his knees, socks discarded amongst the pale shreds of sourdough like twisted creatures in a gloomy velvet sea. He doesn't acknowledge Alfie's scrutiny; doesn't even seem to notice.

Alfie would like to start an argument right here, right now, to ask Tommy what his last slave died of and who the fuck he thinks he is. Instead he finds himself gritting his teeth and swiping at crumbs with brusque, rigid movements. He pairs Tommy's socks and collects up the discarded innards of this morning's Financial Times, seething quietly all the while. He's worked damn hard tonight, serving one hundred and forty covers in two sittings, (one hundred and forty three if you count Prince Tommy's dinner. That thought irks him more than it should). He needs a shower more than a row, but he can't help himself from needling.

"Nice was it?" he asks, crumpling the newspaper into the fire-bucket.

"What?"

"Your dinner."

Tommy huffs and finally looks up, dropping his hands from the keyboard to rest either side of his legs. "Is there a problem, Alfie?" he says.

"Problem?" Alfie says, his eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "No, nah. No problem. Just wondered if it was nice? Ya know, the bouillabaisse?"

"Yes. It was nice," Tommy says, digging thick fingers into his eye sockets as if the bloodshot orbs were the source of his irritation. "I have to send this to Pol in the next fifteen minutes or she'll fucking skin me tomorrow. Alright?"

"S'not Pol makes all your dinners," Alfie mutters under his breath.

"What?"

"I said Pernot. Makes all the difference."

"Right."

"To bouillabasisse."

"Fuck's sake..."

"I'm going up for a shower."

"Fine. I'll be up when this is done."

Alfie stands under the hot water and lets his anger simmer, stirs it just enough to intensify the flavours. He pours over the paltry slights, the daily irritations and provocations that come from sharing a home. And alright, each annoyance on its own might not sour the dish, but combined they begin to thicken. Alfie's careful not to let his anger boil, he don't want to turn it bitter, but by the time he walks into the bedroom he can taste it on his tongue.

Tommy is already in bed, one hand tucked behind his head as he reads a document of some kind, several creamy pages stapled together. He tuts and turns the page, without looking over to Alfie. And p'raps that's what does it, finally tears Alfie's patience; he strides to the bed and rips the papers clean out of Tommy's hand, hurling them across the floor.

"What the fuck?" Tommy says. He looks shocked, and slightly bewildered. There's anger there, but dulled by a visible weariness.

Alfie ain't in the mood for concessions; he climbs onto the bed, boxing Tommy in on all fours.

"That's fucking rude," Tommy says, his mouth a mean little line.

"Rude?" Alfie says. "Me?" He laughs so unexpectedly it comes out as more of a bark. "You're fuckin' unbelievable, mate."

Tommy's face hardens in that way that suggests he's about to say something deeply unwise. Alfie leans down to kiss him, hard, before he has the chance. There's a startled sound and a clashing of teeth as Tommy tries to shut him out, but one strategically-placed hand around his throat and he opens for Alfie's tongue with an audible exhale.

Alfie licks into him, probes the inside of his mouth, overwhelmed with a desire to retake what Tommy's withheld: his attention. His full, undivided attention ... by god, he's gonna give it now. Tommy's defences start to weaken — his tongue softens, his mouth falls wide — when he lets out a whorish little moan, Alfie pulls away. He's hard with lovingly-nurtured anger and ready to put it to use. "Over," he says, nudging Tommy's hip with a knee.

Tommy rolls reluctantly, looking rather bewildered. Alfie reaches into the bedside drawer and slicks himself one-handed, cursing as the lube falls noisily onto the floor. Don't matter, he's done enough.

"Got something to say to me, Tommy?" he asks, fumbling in his haste.

Tommy doesn't answer, though he can be in no doubt as to where this is leading. It's a source of unending wonder how he can look so fucking truculent when he's splayed face-down on the bed.

"No?" Alfie prompts. "You sure about that?"

Tommy stays defiantly mute, so Alfie wraps an arm beneath him and slams in with a single thrust. The sound of breath being knocked out of Tommy shocks the air in the room, and sends fire licking through Alfie. He hauls Tommy closer still, squeezing his slender waist as if emptying a soda-bottle of air. His hips and forearm are opposing forces, jaws clamping down on a pelvis — he lets Tommy feel the bite of his strength, of his want, until a cry of anguish fills the air.

Then he waits, breathing slowly through the seconds of charged stillness as Tommy fights to yield. Ten seconds turn into fifteen, twenty, followed by a convulsion — one rigid spasm that travels the length of Tommy's body and ends with a shuddering groan. The precious sound of acceptance. Only then does Alfie ease back, sliding out an inch or two purely for the pleasure of pressing back in and making him cry out again.

"Thank me," he says, voice low as he presses a kiss into Tommy's neck.

Tommy groans and tips his head but doesn't form the words.

"Thank me," Alfie repeats with a thrust. "I want to hear you say it."

Tommy buries his face in the sheets and doesn't make a sound.

"Alright, if that's how you want to play it." Alfie heaves himself upwards, and presses his weight into Tommy's shoulder-blades. "You will thank me," he promises, "if I 'ave to fuck you into next week."

Maybe that's what Tommy needs, Alfie ain't giving any more chances. He builds up the pace with increasingly vigorous thrusts, which Tommy just lies there and takes it. And takes it. And takes it. The sheets come untucked, the pillows bank up against the headboard and Alfie fills with dark delight when Tommy starts to falter, to let little growls and mewls escape. He sounds like a wounded animal. Perhaps he's expecting sympathy ... poor deluded boy. Alfie slows his hips and shifts position, wrapping his arms beneath Tommy's armpits and locking hands in front of his chest. The position puts his mouth against Tommy's ear.

"If you ain't gonna say it, darlin', you'd better shut the fuck up." He pulls out achingly slowly, feeling the grip around his cock before slamming back in with a groan. The angle clearly changes something because this time Tommy sounds desperate — a series of high-pitched sounds ripples out of him, ending with a whine.

"Say it," Alfie growls, repeating the exact same movement to even more delightful effect. He pulls out for a third time, about to fuck in again when

Tommy whispers something that sounds awfully like compliance.

"What's that?" Alfie says, pausing to pull him out of the pillows by his hair.

"Thank you," Tommy says, his voice barely a whisper as he quietly obeys.

"Again," Alfie says as he drives back in, pulling hard on the black locks so that Tommy's neck is bared.

"Thank you," Tommy repeats. This time the response is a gasp, two gasps, but still Alfie isn't sated.

"Again," he says, with another thrust.

"Thank you," Tommy replies; the struggle in his voice drives Alfie on like a racehorse under the whip.

"Again," he says, "again ... again."

"Thank you," Tommy murmurs, "thank, ahh, thank y—"

Alfie lets go of the hair and fucks Tommy hard, cutting off each gasped response before it's fully formed. Soon it's like an echo that follows every thrust. "Thank—, than—, tha— urgh!" Tommy's fingers splay out like flags of surrender but Alfie ain't feeling merciful.

"Again," he growls. "Thank me again, thank me until you can't say it."

Tommy does, he says it over and over, until he's so battered by Alfie's desire that every pitiful, "thank you," is a breath forced into the mattress. Is a plea. Is a please ... "please Alfie, fuck, god, please ..."

***

Afterwards, Alfie curls onto his side and basks in the faintly horrifying afterglow of his own cruelty. It takes a good few moments until he feels his own pinkness subside. Tommy shuffles closer, ducks into the concave space formed by the curve of Alfie's body. His arms slide around Alfie's belly and he holds on tight, in the way he only ever does after a particular type of sex. Alfie bends to kiss the top of his head, a single peck that's suffused, somehow, with more tenderness than an hour of tongued kisses.

"Thank you," Tommy whispers into the hair on Alfie's chest. Alfie strokes the back of his neck and feels overwhelmingly and incongruously protective.

"For the dinners or the sex?"

"Both. You always know what I need."

"Good job one of us knows what's good for you."

"You are."

"Hmm."

Alfie wishes he were more certain of that.

#tommy x alfie #tofie #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #alfie solomons #my fic #tommy/alfie #writing #sholomons #asks #anon #why can't i write anything short?

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sellyoursoulforagoodfic · 4 years ago

Text

Shelbys at Somme Chapter 17

Thomas X Reader

Word Count: 2640

Summary: Another memory from the trenches claws its way to the surface after the Lees leave behind wire cutters.

by @adventuresintooblivion

Thomas was shaking so badly he was convinced that he was rattling Finn to his core. His ears rang from the explosion they’d narrowly avoided.

“This is why you never pretend to be me. Ok?” Finn vigorously nodded his head. Maybe Thomas wasn’t the only one shaking. He ushered his youngest brother off to join the rest of the family.

Those damned Lees! How am I going to end this without us all getting killed?

It wasn’t until he’d made it a few feet down the road before he froze. If they had enough knowledge to place the grenade in his car, they had to have been watching him. If they were watching…

“Y/N.” He launched himself down the street. His feet pounded against the ground, the soles of his shoes skidding against the gravel or sliding through the mud as he bolted towards the Garrison.

Men dove out of his way, some of which had seen the grenade. Shouting grew up around him as innocent onlookers saw something for the first time. A Shelby sprinting through the streets. Thomas Shelby of all people. The crowd didn’t follow, only gazed in wonder at the gang leader that hadn’t shown an ounce of fear since coming back from the war.

He didn’t twist the door knob when he arrived, only shouldered the wood. It was well into operating hours and the wood gave easily as he skidded to a halt in front of dozens of men. His eyes scanned the room. He refused to wait long enough for them to adjust, but soon enough he didn’t have to.

“Thomas?” Y/N asked, a hand reaching out to him in the dark as he gasped for air.

He clapped his hand over hers, some irrational part inside him screaming that she wasn’t real. It was telling him that these last few months had been some fever dream, that he’d finally overdosed on opium and was holed up in some bed somewhere, while Arthur ran everything into the ground.

Y/N squeezed his hand, “Tommy what’s going on?”

Tommy. No, she was real. And she was in danger.

His voice cracked as he answered, “Have you seen any of the Lees around? They booby trapped my car.”

Her brow furrowed as she shook her head. His eyes had finally adjusted enough that he could see that everyone was staring at them. Even those who tended to keep to themselves had peeked over their tankards. It took every ounce of discipline he had not to draw Y/N closer, to hide her from the prying of Birmingham.

“You can guarantee no one’s been upstairs besides you?”

Y/N glanced at the stairs, then back at him, “I guess I’ll have to go check.”

Before he could stop her she strode towards her room, “Y/N!” He followed quickly.

She was already checking the floor of her bedroom when he caught up. It wasn’t until he found himself glancing to his own rooms that it occurred to him that, instead of her, they were after just him.

He began towards his room as he absently asked, “Where’s Grace?” He didn’t need her following them and getting in the way.

Thomas was answered by a loud thunk and a curse, “She took the day off.”

Y/N sounded more annoyed than usual, but he couldn’t lose focus as he quickly opened his door. As no explosion greeted him, he slowly made his way further and further into the room. After a few minutes, he was startled by Y/N leaning against his dresser.

“I think the Lees don’t know about this place just yet, Tommy.” There it was again. A sense of warmth coiled in his chest as his muscles relaxed. If he could have one thing for the rest of his life, it would be Y/N saying his name like that. With a deep sense of familiarity that made it sound like they’d known each other for a lifetime, maybe even longer.

He cleared his throat, “You’re probably right.”

Thomas glanced up at her, only to be answered by that playful look in her eyes. He took a deep breath as he stood. The room was actually clear. God, I need a cigarette.

He grumbled idly as his fingers closed around a rectangle of cool metal. He quickly pulled it out and barely registered the feel of it in his hand as he jammed a cigarette into his mouth. Thomas could already taste the nicotine, a part of him buzzing to life as it demanded the satisfaction of the burn going down his throat.

“Holy shit.” He barely heard Y/N, but after a pause he turned to face her, cigarette still dangling out of his lips.

Y/N’s eyes had gone wide, her posture rigid as she stared down at his hand. He glanced down, as horror gripped his heart. Did she see a wire?

Her voice broke when she spoke again, “You kept it.” She pressed her hands over her heart, as if to rub away the sting.

That’s when he realized what he had grabbed. In his hand was his “ring”, a cigarette case with Y/N’s initials engraved on the face in elegant swooping letters. The silver box was heavy against his calloused skin as he reflexively rubbed his thumb over the engraving, more out of habit than anything, over the only spot where it’d tarnished from human touch. For the first time in years, it felt foreign in his hand.

Thomas was at a loss for words until, with shaky hands, Y/N pulled out a familiar lighter from her pocket and lit his cigarette for him. While it could’ve been a part of a matching set with the case, one thing set it apart. Instead of engraved initials, they were inlaid gold that spelled out “T.M.S”.

He nearly choked on the smoke as it filled his mouth. Then, taking a shuddering draw, he reached out and brushed his thumb over his initials. There were a thousand things he could say and a thousand more he could deny. But in that moment, after being rubbed raw by the events of the day, he didn’t much care.

“Of course, I did. Do you really think you mean so little to me?”

Y/N took a deep breath, “I was dead, Tommy. You had every reason to get rid of it.”

His hand closed around hers, and the lighter within, “And get rid of the last piece of you that I had left? No, it’s a part of me now. Just like my cap, even my own name. I am Thomas Shelby, leader of the Peaky Blinders, and I carry around a cigarette case that has the wrong initials.”

He’d stepped closer during his little speech. One small step, on right after the other until he wasn’t even an inch from pressing his forehead against Y/N’s. His lips, hovering nearby in some sort of limbo, between the need to kiss her or to keep talking and fill the silence.

“Do people think it belonged to an enemy?” Y/N chuckled breathlessly. He could hear the sound of tears in her voice as she desperately tried to lighten the mood.

Thomas shrugged, “It’s an easy rumor that helps with my image.”

She couldn’t help but laugh as she finally rested her forehead on his shoulder, “Everyday?”

“Everyday.”

〜

It was the next day; Thomas resisted the urge to pace as he waited for the Inspector to arrive. It’d been a long day of pulling strings, but with the communist’s address in his pocket, he felt oddly hopeful. Now he just needed Ada and Freddie to be anything but stubborn.

Inspector Campbell rounded the corner. In the rain it was difficult to see, but something about the man seemed more haggard, more animalistic. It wasn’t until farther in the conversation that Thomas realized how wrong he was to bring an innocent man into this. But he’d offer up all of Birmingham, if it meant Ada wouldn’t get caught up in all this.

The officer began his tirade, threats against his family. Each one was something he’d anticipated before coming here. The Inspector somehow managed to always ride the line between predictable and problematic. Though, even Thomas had to admit he was seeing red a little by the end. It wasn’t until the Inspector made his last comment that he was caught off guard.

“You know, despite our little feud over these guns, I’m actually surprised by your restraint Mr. Shelby.”

Thomas blinked away the rain, “Pardon me, Inspector?”

He shrugged, “Well, after we grabbed your little friend off the streets, I was expecting more retribution than getting off scot free. Maybe Ms. Y/L/N isn’t as important to you as we thought. Oh well, what’s one more broken girl in Birmingham.”

Inspector Campbell turned to leave and in that moment that it took for his words to sink in, Thomas’ world exploded.

It was HIM.

Thomas’s gun was out of it’s holster before he could stop himself. White hot rage coursed through his veins, his finger twitching on the trigger. Aunt Pol’s voice in his head, reminding him of something called consequences, was the only thing that gave him pause. Then the Inspector was gone.

Thomas knew he looked wild as he lowered the pistol. The image of Y/N shuffling toward him, supporting herself with garbage, burned itself on the back of his eyelids. She was there when he closed his eyes. She was there when he opened them, shadowed by the rain. Her face was turned up in pain. Then it was Arthur he heard, first telling him about the copper that had ambushed him outside.

He stood there for a long time, rain soaking through his coat. It wasn’t until a shout from down the road caught his attention. Y/N, not the ghost, was striding closer beneath an umbrella.

“Tommy? You ok?”

He forced himself to nod, “What’re you doing out here in the rain?”

She raised her eyebrow, “Did you forget? It’s Wednesday.”

〜

[Two Months before Somme]

“Christ Tommy, you’ve got that stupid smile on your face again.” Freddie elbowed him with a grin.

Thomas blinked, “What smile?”

Freddie didn’t answer, only rolled his eyes. The day had actually been a slower one for once. Something in the air had changed and a hush had settled over the soldiers in response. Everyone knew something big was on the horizon, but only a select handful would know for certain. And it definitely wasn’t Thomas.

Instead, Freddie asked a question, “So, when is Y/N gonna become queen of the Peaky Blinders?”

“Queen, huh? What’s that make me?” Thomas snorted.

“You’re dodging the question. I know you’ve got no one back home waiting. And I’ve got that little thing called eyes.”

Thomas ducked his head. He didn’t like talking about the life he could have had. But then something else about what Freddie had said caught his attention.

“It’s that obvious?”

Freddie nodded, “Hopper’s convinced you have a thing for the blokes. Even he sees how you look at her.”

Thomas grimaced, “Well, as long as he’s paying attention to me.”

“You still haven’t answered the question.”

“What question?” Y/N huffed as she tossed a bag down beside the two men. Thomas could already smell the cured meats, she’d been “acquiring’ again.

He quickly shook his head, “Nothing. What’s all this for?”

Y/N flopped beside him, “Made a deal with a regiment or two. If I can get them tasty food, they can get us better guns that aren’t falling apart.”

“And how do you know they won’t turn you in?”

She flashed him a feral grin, “Last time they asked me for whiskey, remember that?” He nodded. “Well, I’d gotten it from their commanding officer. Who is still pissed about that by the way.”

Thomas found himself laughing. It was then that Freddie glanced between them.

Freddie gracelessly stood, “Well, I gotta head out and do the thing. I’ll see you two later.”

“There’s a thing?” Thomas waved away Y/N’s question as Freddie squelched away in the mud.

Queen of the Peaky Blinders.

Thomas ran his fingers through his hair, “So besides wrangling up stolen goods, what have you been doing all day?”

“Christ, don’t get me started.” When he gestured for her to continue she settled in to explain her little misadventure. “Turns out that the Acquisitions Officer is on the hunt for whoever has been taking socks from the stores. He assumes it’s me, which is fair, but it’s not for once and I’ve been dodging that man all day. Not to mention I got a letter.”

He glanced at her, “That’s a first. From who?”

Y/N grimaced, “My dad, the coward he is.”

Thomas scooted closer, his arm brushing against hers, “What’d he do?”

“Idiot didn’t realize he was too old to draft. So, instead of there even being a possibility of him going to war, he smashed his own knee cap. I’ll give him credit for the no hesitation.”

She took a steadying breath, “However, could you imagine what would happen if you’d done something similar? Everyone was already terrified of what would happen to them. So when word got out about what the Old Man did, other’s tried to do the same thing. Except, most people can’t just break their own knees, so they got drafted anyways. And for everyone else? They’d given up before they were even shipped out.”

“He’d rather cripple himself than go to war?”

Y/N nodded, “It’s why I’m here. Almost everyone who worked for my dad got drafted, but upper management was too old. I was the only one left to look out for them.”

“And that’s your job why?”

“I’m the Boss’s daughter, it’s always been me.”

He nodded, “So what’d you do with the letter?”

Y/N flashed him a grin, “Burned it. Got myself a bit while doing it though.”

“Oh you poor thing, if we make it through this will you marry me?” the question was out of his lips before he could stop himself.

Y/N raised her eyebrow, “Are we going around using that for every little inconvenience now?”

He shrugged defensively, “Maybe I just like to say it.”

Y/N barked with laughter, “Keep this up Shelby, and you’ll actually have to get me a ring.” He stared at her for a moment stunned. Had that been an actual ‘Yes’?

Thomas groaned, “Where the hell am I gonna find a ring in a war camp?”

“That’s up to you.”

“You’re the one that usually finds things,” he grumbled exasperated.

She reached down and pulled something out of her pocket, “Here. This can be your ‘ring’.”

He gazed at the cigarette case for a long moment before producing an almost matching lighter. The air had almost grown solemn, the whole world was holding its breath to see if either of them were brave enough.

With a reverence he didn’t even show Aunt Pol’s God, he placed the lighter in Y/N’s hand. And in return, the cold metal of the case slipped between his fingers. Something about the moment felt final, monumental almost. As if these two trinkets had actually been rings exchanged in a church.

“How is it that we even have the same taste in accessories?” Y/N joked, but he could have sworn her grip tightened around the lighter that was once his.

He tugged on his cap, “Dunno, I had mine made after my first job. At least the first one that went right.”

Y/N gasped in mock horror, “The great Thomas Shelby making mistakes?”

“That’s no way to talk to your husband.”

She curled over laughing.

#thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #reader insert #peaky blinders imagine

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kingkatsuki · 5 years ago

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Pay attention to me | Bakugou Katsuki

This was part of the first ever sfw bnharem server collab. If you’d like to check out all the other amazing authors please click here.

Warnings: Angst.

Word count: 663.

A hero doesn’t always feel like a hero.

You’d heard people say it, but until today you never believed it.

Your heart ached for the scene in front of you. Bakugou’s knuckles turning a ghastly shade of white from how hard he was clutching his muscular thighs, nails digging into his torn and dirty hero trousers as his breath continued to come out in haggard pants. Fresh tears trickled down his cheeks and fell into his lap, his messy hair concealing the sight from your worried eyes. Your fingers reached out to brush some of his sweaty hair from his brow but he recoiled from your touch, the grip on his thighs tightening impossibly as he spat out a dismissal when you closed the door behind you.

“I don’t want your fuckin’ pity.” Your heart clenched at his defeated tone, completely void of any malice or resentment. He was broken.

“Katsuki,” You stepped closer, taking a seat beside him at the foot of your bed as you held your hands in your lap. You wanted desperately to reach out and hold him, to tell him everything would be okay but you thought better of it in the moment. Knowing your boyfriend probably felt even worse from showing his vulnerability, the emotions he saw as weaknesses now seeping out of him uncontrollably.

“I’m not trying to-” You were cut off as Bakugou lifted his head, bloodshot eyes glaring at you, dark circles under his tear soaked eyes. His palms began to spark, dark wisps of grey smoke began to weave their way up through his fingers, his hands began to tremble as the memory resurfaced.

“Whatever the fuck it is you’re trying to do. I don’t deserve shit.”

“Don’t say that,” You put a hand on his arm as you immediately felt his muscles tense at the action, “You can’t let this consume you-”

“Are you deaf? It was my fucking fault.” He haphazardly jerked his arm from your grip, a spark flying from his palm as he desperately tried to avert his eyes from you, wanting nothing more than to sink into your touch. He couldn’t. This was all his fault.

“I wasn’t fast enough, strong enough-” Bakugou’s breath hitched as he cleared his throat with a dry cough, his guard wavering as he mumbled incoherently, “I should have been there. To protect him. I couldn’t protect-”

“Hey,” You whispered, shakily reaching a hand out to cup his wet cheek, angling his face up so you could see his bloodshot eyes, which still refused to return your gaze, “Katsuki, pay attention to me.”

Both hands moved to cup his cheeks, directing his gaze to your own. Your heart almost broke at the sight, your strong boyfriend peering at you with such a pitiful look on his features, the guilt ebbing through his entire being as he tried desperately to stop his tears from falling. He was weak.

“Katsuki,” You whispered, thumbs brushing away the patterns of his fallen tears as you stared into his eyes, “None of this is your fault.”

“Shut up.” He shook his head, pulling himself away from your grip. He didn’t deserve this consolement. He didn’t deserve anything.

“It’s not! You did everything you could’ve done. You’re an amazing hero, you-”

“Everything I could’ve done?” He scoffed, “How can you fucking say that when someone is dead because of me?” Bakugou stood from his position beside you at the foot of your bed, your hand immediately reaching out to grasp his sweaty palm, desperate to keep him with you.

“‘Suki, please-” You stood beside him, tightening your grip in a feeble attempt to make him stay with you, to talk to you but Bakugou’s sweat slicked palm twisted out of your grasp as he stepped towards the door to your shared bedroom.

“An amazing hero?” Bakugou mocked, his hand stilling on the handle, turning to glance back at you with pure darkness in his eyes.

“I’m no fucking hero.”

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou imagines #bakugou katsuki imagines #discord collab #server collab #bnharem collab

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fireheartfaery · 3 years ago

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after office hours

Cass and i had a truly delicious conversation about Fenrys and Hunt over the weekend and it led to this mess. please accept it as the smut it so rightfully is. they’re like kind of hot i’m not gonna lie? (this is also on ao3)

to Cass: my love, you are the beginning and end of my sjm fanfic career. thank you for the spice and the support. we (the writing demon and i) would be lost in a void without you. i hope you enjoy! (@terrible-and-proud)

CW: smut [this contains explicit sexual content and is not intended for persons under the age of 18. discretion is advised]; derogatory name calling

Fenrys is having a stressful day. The kind of day that makes him want to rip his beautiful golden hair out or punch a sand-bag till it explodes, better yet punch someone who will punch back. His reflection in the bathroom mirror looks haggard, days of little sleep and nights of long work. Even his brown skin, free of marks, smooth as glass, is paled. There are bags under his eyes he’s sure Aelin would pay money to use. Basically, fundamentally, he looks like shit. And there would be no relief. They were still trying to close out this report, still trying to play nice with the investors breathing down their necks like angry dragons.

He splashes cold water on his face. Some drips into his shirt, past the stiff crimson tie and the hidden silver chain. He shivers, but doesn't bother to stop its path; let the drops wake him up. Maybe he’ll survive this.

“What are you doing?” A voice, smooth as gun metal, hard as marble, mocks from behind him. “You look like you’re three seconds away from crying.”

Fenrys closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to deal with this, with him.

“Leave me alone Athalar.” He bites, “Don’t you have more pressing matters to attend to than stalking me?”

Because he’s at least sixty percent sure Hunt Athalar is stalking him. They had run into each other four times today. Normal if they worked on the same floor, or had the same project. But Hunt worked in Asset Management and Fenrys worked in fucking Public Relations. There was hardly ever a reason for them to interact. But here they were, knocking shoulders like they’d shared lunch every day for three years.

“What?” Hunt’s dark eyebrow is raised, neatly disappearing into the strands of hair over his forehead. “I can’t use the bathroom at the same time as you?”

“Not when you’re five floors up.” Fenrys glares at him.

“I’m working in this department to help get the reports done.” That smirk is still there, full of bright red arrogance. And the dimple it produces should offset the whole look but it just makes his colleague frustratingly… hot.

Fenrys is more sleep deprived than he thought.

“Please just— stay out of my way, Athalar.” He sighs. Scrubs a hand down his face, makes his way to the door.

“Can’t promise anything.” The reply is bright, choking green. Fenrys wants to expel his stress on this two meter, beautifully dark-skinned, glittering eyed punching bag.

He doesn’t bother with a reply. There are files awaiting his scattered attention, and coffee calling his tired brain.

The day drags by in stuck moments, knitting yarn unravelling and knotting every few inches. He wants to take scissors to time and cut off all the tangles. Shorten it to manageable, to length he can bear, to anything less than this.

With each completed offering, someone brings a new problem. The sky goes quiet, spilling colour almost accidentally before settling down. He barely sees the golden of sunset, or the purple of dusk, or the branding blue of night. He barely takes note of his own body. He is a vessel for work and it is killing him.

“Goodbye Fen,” Someone calls. He registers the pleasantness of their tone, and the exhaustion in their words.

He about mutters a greeting back before burying his head in another ink-filled page. Slowly people trickle out. Just a few more he thinks, staring at his paper mountain.

“Go home Fenrys!” One of his coworker’s laugh, clapping him on the back as they walk out. He turns his head to see long dark hair tied in a knot at the base of their neck, and a worn leather jacket stretching over large shoulders.

“Bye Lorcan” He calls, mind already focusing on the task at hand.

The stack gets smaller, small enough that he believes he’ll leave the office before midnight. If he just keeps working diligently. If he just gets it done.

A hand presses against his back. It is warm, and large, and he wants to sink into it. And then the owner of the hand speaks.

“Still being the obedient little puppy, Fenrys?”

“What do you want, Athalar?” He grits out, pressing his chest into his desk to escape the addictive warmth of that hand.

“Just making sure you’re not working yourself to haggards.” He can hear the teasing, the mocking grin in that voice. He wonders if he’ll hit crown jewels should he elbow backwards. “Wouldn’t want your pretty face to be all washed out, now would we?”

“Fuck off.” He will not punch his coworker. He will not punch his coworker. He will not punch his cowork—

The man doesn’t listen, he’s not sure if he even heard. “What are you working so hard on?”

And then Hunt Athalar is leaning over his shoulder, and Fenrys is surrounded by him. His beautiful intoxicating smell— sharp rose and soft fern; and the heat of his body— so much body; and the dark purple tie brushing his face— it’s soft enough to sleep on. Hands lean against his desk, fingers long and bony, so pretty. If he looks up there’s a high possibility his eyelashes will brush a sculpted jaw. He stares straight ahead. He will not move an inch. He will not let the feel of this man affect him. He will not be a carrier to the Hunt Hypnosis. A real and deadly thing in this company.

“Oh,” He senses trouble. “There’s a spelling mistake here.”

Fenrys is an over-boiling pot, spitting and hissing as water splashes the stove. He is done. He is tired. He is exploding.

With a growl, an actual rumble in his throat, he turns his head and hisses, “Fuck you Athatlar.” His coworker is so close his lips brush against that hot skin. He doesn’t care. “Fuck. You.”

Hunt looks down slowly, until there’s barely enough space to breathe between them. “I wish you would.”

He chokes on blue air, stutters in the shade orange, colours himself rose pink. “What— what?”

“I wish you would fuck me.” He says it again, so plainly, so starkly, hospital white.

“Why?” It’s all Fenrys can think to say. He isn’t actually thinking. He doesn’t quite know what he’s doing. He feels electrocuted.

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for weeks.” Hunt is so painfully close, rock brown eyes darkening as his pupils eat up the colour. “But you’re so,” He waves his hand around the desk, out towards the office, lip curling, “dedicated to your work it’s almost impossible to get you to think about anything else.”

“So you though the best way to go about this was to annoy me into fucking you?” Fenrys has found his voice and it is a tether stretching bubblegum pretty between them.

“Yes.” The man says simply.

He reaches a hand up, takes a fistful of dark hair and yanks ever so slightly. “Brat.” He spits.

There’s a gurgle in Hunt’s throat that makes them both fire blue. Pure, uncharted lust strikes him. He pulls the soft hair in his hand harder, exposing more of that supple neck.

“On your knees, pretty boy.”

His coworker goes down without a fight, eyes bright enough to rival diamonds.

“You wanna be mouthy with me,” He brushes their noses together, lets their lips meet, pulls away. “Better make it worth my time.”

Hunt groans, throat bobbing as he swallows the words. The sound goes straight to Fenrys’ cock. He is so hard the zipper at his jeans is making indentations in his skin.

He loosens his grip ever so slightly, lets himself feel the strands of hair between his fingers, and then he tugs them together and finally kisses his cocky little brat.

He doesn’t expect it, but he should have. The softness of Hunt’s lips, the taste of him as sweet as wild berries. He feels as if he’s entered a buffet dedicated to desserts. He won’t leave until he’s had his fill. They explore each other eagerly, roughly. He strokes his tongue along the seam of those pillow lips and groans as they part on a breathy moan. It’s not a battle of dominance but a battle of tension, and air. Who gasps first? Who’s desperate enough to die like this? He’s not sure it isn’t him.

Hunt whimpers when he bites his lip, and that’s enough to have them drawing back. The black-haired man is a vision, sitting before him, knees spread, lips red and swollen, eyes glassy.

“Such a pretty little thing,” He tilts his head, taking in the sight. “You ready to be good for me?”

He nods, black hair falling across his cheeks, into his eyes. It’s not enough.

“Words baby,” Fenrys caresses his jaw, lets a warm finger trail the sensitive column of his neck.

“Yes,” He sighs, eyes pleading sweet and fuckable.

With a little maneuvering he manages to undo his belt and unzip his pants while getting Hunt more comfortable between his legs. He can’t imagine the carpet burn is fun but he also kind of doesn’t care, kind of wants to see the streaks of abraded skin, kind of wants this pretty little slut to feel him in every way tomorrow.

Hands, dark and exploring, come up to his thighs, start tracing circles against the linen of his pants. He feels the heat of those fingers, watches with hungry eyes as they trail along him. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t so much as blink. The man before him is entranced in the task, focused solely on the path his fingers are making as they get closer and closer to—

“Did I say you could touch me, sweetheart?”

Hands freeze, fingers twitch. “No,” The reply is breathy, a little bashful but those eyes say mischief to the tenth degree.

“Think we better do something about those wandering digits.” And then Fenrys is tugging off his tie, and with expert skill he places Hunt’s hands behind his back and binds his wrists together. The deep red of the tie looks magical, sinful, against that rich brown skin, and it takes everything in his will to stop from groaning.

He leans back, tilts his coworker’s head up with the nudge of his finger against a sharp chin. “You okay baby?”

“Yes.”

“Good, you’re using your words.” A kiss, two, languid strokes, nips of teeth, lack of oxygen, soft full lips. Reward. They’re plum purple with readiness.

They break apart and Fenrys wants to protest. They don’t need air, he needs to get closer. Gods Hunt is beautiful like this, a masterpiece in heaving motion.

“Please Fen,” He whines.

“Please what, pretty slut?” He smirks, lets his foot trail along the inside of the man’s thighs. He can feel the muscle underneath his arch. It makes his spine shiver. Powerful. A vision of his lips between them goes through his brain and suddenly the world is orange fire bright.

“Please let me suck you.” Dark eyelashes flutter and neither of them can hold in a moan as the words settle thickly in the air.

“Gods you’re beautiful when you beg.” He mumbles before removing the last layer of cloth between them.

Hunt licks his lips, eyes laser focused on the cock that springs free from its fabric confines. There is already precome beading the tip, and the blue veins that bulge slightly only throb harder. He feels everything like pinprick pleasure. Everywhere, overwhelming, so full of it he could turn it into infinity. He is blush-pink with it.

“Please,” His coworker mutters, halfway to incoherent, slurring on his own anticipation.

With a deep breath, a final kiss, a brush against a sharp cheek, he guides Hunt’s head forward and over his lap.

The first lick nearly kills him.

Heat envelops his sensitive cock, takes over until he’s squeezing his desire enough to suffocate it. Fenrys will not explode, he will melt.

Hunt takes the head into his mouth, and the air becomes unbreathable. He feels a tongue swirl over his slit but before he can react to it he is taken almost to the hilt. The cry he lets loose could make wolves bow.

“Fuck baby,” The tears in his eyes are products of his engulfing pleasure. As crimson beautiful as the tie binding wandering hands. His grip in that dark hair tightens, loosens, cards through as he is taken again and again.

Hunt moans when Fenrys snaps his hips up, a moment of control lost. The vibrations are his near undoing, but he needs to be in this hot wet mouth a little longer. He looks down to see the impression of his cock in the overworked throat and he cannot help but drag his fingers over the column. Another moan travels straight up his spine.

Hunt pulls back and the obscene sight of spit connecting his dick to those plump lips makes Fenrys want to scream. He bites down on his bottom lip instead.

“What’s wrong, my pretty?”

“Please Fen,” The man is breathless, “Please untie my hands. I want to—”

He smiles, waits patiently for the words he knows are coming. He can feel the deny on his tongue, sticky and sweet.

“I want to touch you.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to get bold.”

“Please,” The begging is almost too much. He won't last much longer; he’s surprised he’s lasted even this long.

“No.” He smiles. And then he pulls Hunt down and those lips wrap around him once more, and he is drowning in the ecstasy, the heat.

This time Fenrys is not gentle. He thrusts upwards, chasing his own pleasure. That tortuous mouth is a sleeve and his cock is happy to fill it.

His coworker kneels there, tears rolling down his cheeks as his face is fucked. Moans vibrate between them, making him curse, making him snap harder. The pornographic sounds of his balls hitting Hunt’s chin, of the wet noises as he pulls back, pushes in, is his ultimate undoing. He sees brown eyes looking up at him and he lets go.

Hunt milks him for everything he’s worth. Sucking and slurping every drop, swallowing like he is born for it. Even after, when there is nothing left, that tongue is still lapping. Around his cock, on the head, tonguing at his slit, over his balls. He wants to push him away, sensitive beyond what he can bear. He doesn’t have the energy. He is sage green sated.

“You like my cock, little slut?”

The man nods around him, looking unwilling to server any part of their connection just yet. It gives him an idea, one Hunt gleans from his eyes because he moans filthily and all the spent nerves in Fenrys’ body relight, spark tenfold.

“Want to be my cockwarmer, baby?” He bends down; the movement pushes him further into that wet mouth.

Hunt whimpers, gurgles around the intrusion.

“Can you tap once for yes, two for no or stop?” He murmurs, lips brushing the man’s ear as he undoes the tie.

As soon as his wrists are free, Hunt lays his hands on Fenrys thighs, taps once.

“Well done, pretty boy.” He mindlessly rubs soothing circles over the red marks on that brown skin, trying to ease the sting of bound hands. The sight before him is almost dreamlike. A very wet, very faraway dream.

“If you’re a good little cocksleeve, i’ll fuck you right here on this desk after i’ve finished working.” His words have a visceral reaction on the man, who shifts before him, hips grinding forward as if to find the relief he so desperately needs. “Would you like that, baby?”

A single tap on his leg.

Fenrys’ cock is only half hard as it sits on Hunt’s tongue. He can feel the mind-numbing heat, the eagerness of a throat swallowing again, again, again. He knows he could ask his coworker to suck him into painful hardness again, but he likes the picture they make. The cock and his sleeve. Michaelangelo would be proud.

With a gentle kiss to a sweaty forehead Fenrys picks up his report, rests his foot against the pulsing erection below him, and gets back to work. He is ocean blue content.

He was wrong about his bothersome co-worker. Hunt Athalar, as it turns out, is a well behaved slut indeed. In unrelated news: he needs a new desk.

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[image id: a text message that reads, “i want to hear you beg for me, baby.” end id]

#hunt x fenrys #fenrys x hunt #fds fanfic #smut #smut warning #hunt athalar #fenrys moonbeam #tog #crescent city #throne of glass

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mxvladdy · 4 years ago

Text

A Break- Chapter 5

Oh lord this took too long and ‘bout killed me. I hope my edits are good!

It’s a biggen so it’s all under the cut!

Hope y’all like it! I know it was long over do :/

He dreams of dragons. A swirling blur of purples, reds, and yellows. His mindscape was a rich profusion of colors. Two become sharper standing out in the sea of hues. His father’s dragon emerges from the mass. The great black dragon floats ethereally around him, judging him. But, unlike the years spent under his father's tutelage, all he got were stern looks and cold words of praise. Now, he can feel a warm sense of- pride. Was his father finally proud of him? How? Of what? Next to him, another dragon appears. His mother’s dragon wove around the long form of his father. Black and pearly pink twisting and revolve hypnotically around his body. They radiated peace, and rest. An urge to join them began to overwhelm him. A break sounded nice. He deserved one, didn’t he?

When was the last time he had felt this at peace? There were a few times perhaps in recent memories. A blurry face comes to mind. A sweet smile and a laugh that is so warm and bright. He remembers the feel of soft fingers scratching along his goatee. He felt at peace then, safe and loved. It gives him pause- the urge to slip away waning. His paternal dragon stops its coiling, eyes locking with his partner. He pulls backs, separating from his mate. His mother’s dragon chirps, drifting closer and closer, she tries to touch her son. Her whiskers mere inches from his floating hand. Obsidian claws stop her from touching her eldest. His father’s dragon huffs once in warning, shaking its great head. His mother snaps at the claw, stubborn in her convictions. She wanted her son back, safe within her clutches in the afterlife. Had he not gone through enough? From the clan to his own penances? She had been so close to getting her youngest back years ago. Yet she had been robbed then too.

She wouldn’t be denied twice.

Hanzo watches helplessly as the two beasts argue in a language he does not know. He is torn between a want to be here with them, and the warm thoughts trickling slowly back into his mind. The pearlescent dragon rears back with a cry of anguish, nostrils flaring at whatever the black dragon had said. She makes eye contact with him once more. The dragon’s eyes were the same color as his mother's before she turned from him leaving his line of sight. His father gave him one last look filled with, pride? Before disappearing too. He shouts for them, crying out for his mother. To not be left alone again. But they were silent in the void. Not even in death was he good enough.

He floats again, or lays? He truly cannot tell what axis or plane he was on. But he could still feel. He felt cold and so so tired. Where were his dragons? If his parents were here surely his dragons must be too. He calls for them, but he gets no answer. The seal on his arm was horribly quiet.

He can do nothing but drift now.

He hears things sometimes, a soft sweet voice reading to him. Other times it’s a smooth accented voice walking him through something they were about to do. Hallucinations or reality he couldn’t tell. They get stronger though. Soon he begins to feel a warmth on his face. Like he was basking in the heat of the summer sun. Other times it’s the brush of something cool and wet on his neck and arms. The fingers were too smooth to be human but dexterous like them. They were humming, the tinny and augmented drone familiar. Hanzo knew that melody, he knew that voice, but he just couldn’t place it. Hanzo listens for a while, floating on the melody before it too disappears. They leave him, only an incisive beeping echoing in his head for company.

His dragons come to him after what felt like an eternity. Akuma approaches first, his massive body colliding with Hanzo’s. The archer clings to the great beast burying his face into the fur. Hanzo cares little for the claws puncturing his skin and scratching him as Akuma clicks and coos in delight. Ibuki wraps herself around them both, quiet but vibrating with relief. Hanzo opens his mouth to speak. His throat clicks, dry and inflamed. Something is choking him.

No-rest. We will get you out soon. Out? He stiffens in their warm embrace. He didn't want out. It was nice here, quiet. He didn't feel pain or much of anything in here. He could stay like this... No. Akuma nips his cheek in aggravation. Family, they need you. She needs you-

It comes back to him hard and fast. His last kiss with you before leaving for the terminal. The video before bed. Him whispering goodnight to your sleeping face ending the call before turning in himself. To the security breach and his fight. He needs to get back. If his parents left him here then he should wake up. Why wasn't he waking up? We will protect. His dragons nuzzle him once more before they push away returning to the great beyond, promising to take care of you while he gets stronger. Their determination fuels him to fight, to survive.

He trains his mind to pick up on the noises and touches happening around him while he waits. He picks up the tick of a clock and the sound of waves by his side. Their constant background noise soothing and grounding. Genji comes daily to hum and chat in their native tongue. He spoke of idle, sweet little things. The weather, who was on kitchen duty that evening, the training schedule. He sounded so hopeful every time he visited. Like his big brother was going to wake up at any moment and respond. After Genji came Mei and Ana. The two mostly acted like he was with them and discussed whatever book they were reading while waiting on him. They would come in the evenings and read passages aloud for him. It was a welcomed break from the monotony of silence. Ana came more often than Mei. He could smell the tea she would bring in when she sat by his side reading aloud in Arabic. Ah- her favorite book of poetry. She never translated this book for him, but between her cadences and phrasing, she wove the beauty of the verses nonetheless.

Ana was interrupted today though. Midway through a verse, she stopped. Her tongue stumbling over itself uncharacteristically. Hanzo felt her shift and rise without another word. He recognized Baptiste and Angela's voices talking to her, their voices low and hurried. He hears Ana laugh gently and the door to his room snaps shut. His doctors bustle around him for a moment though he senses another person in the room with them. Odd- unless his brother came back. No, much too quiet to be him. Angie and Baptiste leave quickly, their check-up done, leaving him alone with the new visitor.

"Hey, Hanz." A soft voice brushes his cheek. "How are you today?" Hanzo’s heart hurts. How did- when did you come here. He wanted to be angry, to yell at you for coming to such a dangerous place. He wanted to hunt down whoever found you and throttle them. This was putting you in harm’s way. Yet, at the same time, he wished he could see you. He wished he could tell you how much he missed you and that he was there. Instead, floats in his own subconscious. “I-Angie says that you might hear me. Something about your brain scans?” You squeeze his hand with a light chuckle. You trail off distracting yourself by rubbing soothing patterns in his palm. “If-if you can, know that I know. Not everything, your brother has been so kind to me.” You squeeze his hand, bordering on almost uncomfortable. “But I need to hear the things he said from you. So-so get better soon, please? I miss you.” Now more than ever he wishes he could comfort you. Why hadn't he just swallowed his pride early? This could have been avoided. He hoped at least.

The rest of your visit passes too quickly for his liking. The scant bit of privacy he had with you was filled with your tender voice and gentle touches. He felt your fingers brush along his smooth jaw, stroking it like you did whenever you would lounge in bed sweaty but happy after a lengthy reunion. The kisses you placed on his brow were just as sweet too. You only left after one of the doctors came in to force you out to get dinner and stretch.

You poke at the warm meal Ana had plated for you in the mess hall. The steaming rice and tomato covered lentils sitting comfortably in your stomach. “Eat, dear. Then I think it’s best if you take a nap. When was the last time you slept horizontally?” Ana winks at you over her shoulder stirring a pot filled with browning onions and spices. The elderly medic had lost count of the number of times she had walked in on you sleeping in the chairs in the medical wing.

“I’m fine-really.” You smile rubbing at your sore neck. The hospital chairs here were soft, sure, but not meant for daily sleeping. Ana snorts but doesn’t say anything more on the matter. Instead, she distracts your haggard mind with recipes and tea ideas, sprinkling in little stores of her childhood. You find yourself relaxing more and more; the time between when you wanted to get back to Hanzo’s side and since you sat down for dinner growing longer and longer in between. You yawn widely, failing to cover it with your mouth with your hand. “Shit- sorry.” You flush. The other woman waves it off.

“It’s fine sweetheart. Just means my food and company did its job.” She smiles collecting both of your dishes to place them in the sink. “Come-let me escort you to your room.”

“You really aren’t going to let me go back huh?”

“Not a chance child. He isn’t going anywhere trust me.” She grips the back of your shirt to lead you in the opposite direction of the ICU. You scowl but follow along, dragging your feet along a little in the process.

You had been offered Hanzo’s room when you landed last week. It had been untouched since he had been transferred to the Ilios base. But you couldn’t, it felt almost rude to. He hadn’t consented to any of this. It just felt wrong. His room was what you had always imagined. Clean and tidy, the few items he had well loved and maintained. Some looked pricy, but most were homey little things that must have reminded him of Japan. You ask to stay in a vacant room but still find yourself in his room from time to time, dusting his heavy bookshelf or to vacuum his rug and shake the linens out. You only broke down once in his room, but it was enough for you to never want to go back in there. Not until Hanzo was back living in it. While mopping one day you stumbled across a little box, it was your box, the old thing was filled with letters. The creases in the paper thin and tearing from constantly being opened and reread over and over again. The trinkets you had sent him over the years were worn, but clean. The metal pins and coins shiny and discolored from fingers rubbing them lovingly. You put the box back where you found it and leave. Athena could clean from now on.

Genji and Angie had discussed a lot with you since you took up residence. You were grateful for their updates and check-ins. Baptiste even gave you some reading about what to expect when Hanzo is up and going through physical therapy. He emphasized that the longer he was in the ICU the longer recovery could be. “But don’t stress,” He pats your hand warmly. “That man is as stubborn as an Ox. He’ll bounce back in no time!”

You hope so. From the bits Genji told you after they found him...it had been- disparaging. The road had been rocky, though they wouldn’t disclose all the details to you. The first few weeks were touch and go before Angie finally could sign off on putting him under medically. She spoke as simply as she could but it was still a lot for you. But she was certain he would pull through, and that as soon as he could breathe on his own again she would begin the process of waking him up.

How long that would take no one knew.

You met quite a few interesting characters while you sat vigil by his bedside. Mei is a riot. The plucky young scientist is a delightful conversationalist and had many stories about Hanzo. When she talked about him you could immediately understand why they were friends. Both mathematically minded and sentimental to a fault.

Satya was more pensive when she visited at first, but warmed up to you gradually over talks of your business. Her eyes lit up when you told her your struggles with tin designs. “Let me design some for you. Your tins are wonderfully shaped, but ultimately boring.” She looks down at Hanzo’s resting form. She strokes his head lightly. The stubble growing on his crown had been recently washed. Baptist came in earlier to remove the stitches around his temporal lobe. “I’ll send you some designs tonight.” She nods curtly before leaving you alone again. Over the next few weeks, you gradually met the rest of the agents. Whether it be them coming to say hello and check up on their comrade or in the kitchen, welcoming you to a warm meal, and thousands of questions about how you met.

It wasn’t until the second month of your stay did you meet Hanzo’s dragons. It was late, later than any of the medical staff would advise you to stay up. But, you could only stay away from work for so long and it was finally quiet. You were working by Hanzo’s side, the beeping of his monitor lulling you into a trance while you read over your spreadsheets. At first, you didn’t notice, the rhythmic beeping of his machinery was white noise to you at this point. The first few hitches you missed, too preoccupied with moving numbers and shipments around. The skips steadily grew faster and more erratic, it pulls your focus from your screen. “Hanzo?” You toss your laptop to the side, ready to buzz for help. He doesn’t move, not even a flicker behind his eyelids. Nothing was out of place until you touched him. His arm is warm underneath your fingers. Too warm, near scorching. You yelp in pain falling back at a sudden blinding light that erupts from his tattoo. The room fills with a blaze of blue and gold, the energy of the blast knocks you to the floor. You scream as two massive dragons irrupt from him. They swirl around the tiny space, scleraless eyes scan the room for something.

That something just happened to be you. Two sets of eyes lock with yours. Large fanged jaws open wide, hackles raised. You sit frozen in awe and terror. Were they going to kill you? No-surely not. Genji said they would recognize you-hypothetically. They were an extension of their master's souls. The two lunge for you, three-clawed feet open wide like birds of prey. Squeezing your eyes shut you wait for the impact of scales and teeth.

Two small projectiles collide with you. The force of which knocks the air from you. “Oph!” You wheeze arms wrapping instinctively around the squirming warm creatures clinging to your chest. Two thin dry tongues flick out and tickle your jaw and cheeks.

“I heard a scream! Are you-” Genji burst in looking about frantically, his wakizashi drawn and at the ready. Angie and Baptist barge in behind him, both armed as well. “Oh.” Genji gasps, his sword drops limply to his side. “Aniki.” You look up from your prone position, still dazed and confused by the now tiny blue dragons nestled on your stomach.

“Are you alright?” Genji asks, helping you up back to your feet and righting your upturned chair. His eyes never leave the two spirits in your hands. You nod meekly. “Come, let’s give them room to work.” He takes one last look at his brother and the doctors before leading you out with him. “What happened?” He asks in the hallway eyeing the two blue dragons now wrapped around your upper body. He punches in the code for his room and lets you in.

“I-I don’t know.” The larger of the two dragons chirps as it loses its grip on your sweater. You scoop it up to nuzzle your neck like you would an infant. It coos, wrapping its fluffy tail around your wrist. The slimmer smaller one squawks indignantly, jealous of its partner's attention. It too nuzzles at your neck, draping itself around you like a scarf. “One minute I was balancing my checkbooks, and the next I heard the heart monitor going crazy. Then these two jump me.” You glanze up at Genji. He looks so hopeful. A small sigh of relief escapes him. “Is this good?”

Genji sighs heavily and flops onto his bed. He rubs at the synthetic skin of his chin thoughtfully. He points at the two dragons. “Look at how translucent they are. It takes a lot of energy to summon them to our realm.” You clutch at the squirming reptiles taking a good look at them. The two look at you with large innocent eyes. What he said was true. You could see your hands through their bodies. Their scales were dull and lacked the luster of Genji’s dragon. The larger one’s left antler was chipped and flaking onto the floor. The smaller one was very thin and hollow looking. Genji sighs looking miffed. “My best bet is they told Hanzo you're here and he sent them out to look after you. Which is sweet, but foolish. Summoning when we are mentally or physically weak could kill us if we are not careful.” He drags his fingers through his hair in frustration.

“What happens now?”

He shrugs. “I can’t say. It’s up to him now. But, I believe this is a good sign.” Genji reaches out and scratches behind one of the dragon's ears. “Thank you for coming out to us.” He speaks directly to the dragons, bowing his head low in respect. They preen, clicking and cooing in delight. Genji’s little dragon appears shortly after jumping into the fray of blue and gold. You sit in the cyborg’s cozy room watching Hanzo’s dragons play. For the first time in ages your chest cliches with something other than fear.

It takes another 3 weeks for Hanzo to open his eyes. Of course, he had to do it the one night you decided to sleep in a bed. Your back had been pleading for days for a normal night's rest. It felt like your head had barely hit your pillow before his two dragons woke you. Tiny claws kneading your stomach and chest. They were solid and heavy. Their scales are bright and iridescent. The larger one, Akuma bumps your face hard with his antlers. Huge, arching healthy antlers. He trills at you expectantly.

Genji beats you to the medical ward by seconds. His exhaust vents pumping steam out like a geyser. He speaks quickly, his words fast and agitated. He switches languages rapidly, getting more and more agitated at the blank look the assistant barring the door gives him. He is getting flustered and quickly. His green lights blazed brighter and brighter with agitated arm gestures.

“Genji-Genji!” You rest a gentle hand on his cold shoulder. He rounds on you blindly, eyes electric. The hairs on your arm begins to rise as his dragon begins to awaken just under the surface. His temper cools when he recognizes just who was trying to calm him. You glance over to the trembling medical assistant. “Come- we’ve waited this long. They will get us when it’s safe to.” You assure your friend. Genji nods jerkily, taking your offered hand. He follows you down the hall back to his room. You were both tense and vibrating with nervous energy.

You lead Genji to his room, much like he did weeks ago. Punching in his room code you collapse onto the mountain of pillows he had on the floor for a chair the moment the door closed. You hug his pillows close, trying to quell the butterflies in your stomach “He’s up.” Genji spoke in awe. You crane your neck to look as Genji paces around you. His tone was tight but hopeful. “He’s up- He’s ok.” He smiles down at you, his face the brightest you had ever seen it. He wipes at his eyes and exhales a curse of joy. Dropping down next to you, he sits cross-legged by your side.

“Yes-” It was all you could manage to say. You squeeze his knee in reassurance, your own eyes prickling around the corners. Hot tears threatening to overflow. You didn’t want to admit it to him, to anyone, but you had started to lose hope. How many times had you sat there painstakingly etching each and every angle and blemish on Hanzo’s unconscious face into your memory, just in case it was to be your last time with him? How many nights had you held your breath, eyes locked with the complex monitors and pumps looking for something, hitch in his breath, or a twitch of a finger. Something to tell you he was still there. A wave of guilt washes over you just thinking of how he had woken up alone, how you weren’t there for him.

It’s not like he knew you were here, but it hurt your heart regardless. Doubt hits you. Would he even want you here? He clearly had no intentions of telling about this part of him. He had his crew to support him, and his brother here. “What are you going to say?” Genji asks gently. You feel his warm human hand land on top of yours giving you a comforting squeeze.

“What are you planning to say?” You parrot.

Genji thinks on it for a second, biting the synthetic skin of his lower lip. “Ugh- that’s why I asked you first! I don’t know if I want to punch him for making us all worry, or hug him.”

“I wish I had an answer too.” You confess. “I don’t even know if I should go see him.”

“What!” Genji gasps. “You have to! He’ll be so happy to see you.”

“Genji,” You roll on to your side. “I’m not even supposed to be here.” You nestle into the multicolored pillows rubbing at your eyes wearily. “Maybe it would be best if I went back home. Give him some space to recover. Give whatever this is time.” Your conversation partner goes quiet. His dark eyes, so expressive like his brothers bore into you. It wasn’t judgment. Nothing of the sort. It was understanding and flickers of sympathy.

“Do you want to leave?” He asks. No. Deep down you didn’t, but the high of hearing Hanzo's condition was slowly being replaced with the reality of the situation. The reality of what now? You shrug hiding your face in your arms too ashamed to admit. He lets you stew for a moment. “My brother-” He starts slowly. “My brother is many things, he is prideful and arrogant. Sometimes to the point of being unbearable to deal with. He can be as immovable as a mountain, as you might say bullheaded. ” Genji chuckles. “But, he is incredibly patient, I never noticed it as a child…but now, it’s a trait I envy.” He rubs at his eyes thinking back to the box he found in his brother’s room, the hidden pictures of you and him. He had never seen his brother so relaxed before. He would do anything to keep seeing that smile on his brother’s face. “I guess what I’m trying to say is,” Genji continues. “ just please try to see him once? If you're able to talk to him, do. I can tell you’re special to him, he will do what it takes to make this work.”

You bob your head in understanding, working to swallow around the lump growing in your throat. “I’m scared.” You admit timidly. Genji gives you a gentle pat on the leg.

“It is a scary situation, but trust me when I say you have nothing to fear from Hanzo.”

Genji leaves you at that, you both decided that when they were given that all clear to see Hanzo he should go first. He tries to object, but it was merely a formality. You could see how desperate he was to go. You spend your time waiting in his room, with his dragon Mizuki and her siblings. They could tell you were in distress and tried their hardest to comfort you. Their warm bodies blanket yours, their purring helping drift you off to sleep.

A sharp knock wakes you and your three dragons. They all perk up, ears all twitching towards the door. Akuma growls low in his throat. You open the door to Angie. She beams at you, hand hovering mid-knock. “Ah good! Sorry if you were resting.Hanzo was asking for you.” She steps back to let you out. Mizuki yips shrilly and leaps at the doctor. She catches them gracefully and strokes their head. “You can visit briefly. I am still monitoring him.”

“Right- thank you Angie.” You turn to go.

Angie stops you with a firm hand on your shoulders. “His larynx and trachea are still healing. Talking on his end is strictly forbidden, understand?” You nod. “I’m keeping him for observation for the next week- you are welcome to visit whenever he is feeling up to it.” With that she gives your shoulders a firm clap and lets you go. You walk slowly to the medbay, Hanzo’s dragons quiet and contemplative on your shoulders. For all your anxiety your mind was completely blank. Where would you even start? Knocking softly on the door to Hanzo's private room you enter.

The sigh of relief that escapes is loud in the open space. He turns to watch you from his inclined position on his hospital bed. He looks better. The tubes and wires helping him breathe and heal had been condensed down to just a heart monitor, IV drip, and oxygen. You take in the muted colors of healing bruises on his face and chest. He hardly looked like himself though. His face was clean shaven from surgery and his hair buzz cut short. It wasn’t him, but it didn’t matter. The fire was still there behind his dark eyes. They still screamed strength and perseverance. It was the same look that had attracted you from the start.

Hanzo regards you heavily, his expression gives nothing away as you come to sit by him. His fiery eyes flicker for a moment when he notices the unshed tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. He opens his mouth to speak and winces. Each breath felt like fire in his lungs. Hanzo rubs at his bandaged neck in agony. “You know you’re not allowed to talk.” You chastise him rushing up to grab his water and straw. He waves it away with a frown and sinks back into the thin pillows of his bed. You sit back down, playing with the metal straw between your fingers. “We have a lot to talk about huh?” You ask to break the silence. Hanzo huffs at the understatement of the century. He rubs his sweaty palms across the sheets covering the stumps of his legs. You watch him, he always rubbed at his knees when he was nervous. You reached for his hand not filled with wires and tubes, but stopped. Hanzo grabs your hand before you could pull it back. His large hand covering yours, he was so warm and safe. “I’m sorry.” You can feel yourself falling apart at the seams. A mix of relief and anxiety creating an indescribable feeling in you.

Damn, what were you even apologizing for? Knowing his secret? Learning about the Shimada clan without his consent, especially since he made it clear he had no intentions of telling you himself. Genji hadn’t told you everything, but it was enough to add fuel to the fire of nightly rants with his dragons. You wipe at your face hating how hot your skin felt with tears. Hanzo tugs at your hand to get your attention. “Wha-” He grunts pointing to the side table by the door and mimes writing on his palm. His com and phone sat innocently alongside his gold ribbon and a few get-well cards and dried flowers, all gifted to him by the team. He takes the phone from you eagerly and opens up to his notes app. He writes out something quickly and trusts it at you without hesitation.

I love you, I’m sorry

What little resolve you had left breaks at his admission. You pepper his waxy skin with tear streaked kisses “I love you too- truly.” You whisper into the bandages on his skull. The strong smell of antiseptics not deterring you in the least bit. He catches a stray kiss and turns back to his screen with vigor.

I know I have much to explain, secrets that I’ve held for too long and for no reason. You were never at fault for any of this, I trust you implicitly I have for a while.

Hanzo swallows thickly, thumbs hovering over the keyboard while you read in silence.

I know I have damaged what trust you must have had in me. If this is too much, if you deem this unsalvageable… I cannot blame- I would never blame you for wanting to step back. If you desire a clean break.

“Hanzo-” He wouldn’t-

But, if you are willing to give me a chance- I will give you everything. If you are willing to wait…

He looks to you waiting. You would either stay or leave, it was up to you. You read and reread his words, both of you trying to ignore the uptick on his heart monitor. You click the phone off and put it on the windowsill. Breathing deeply you stare blindly out the window. You don’t answer with words. Truthfully you think you had any that would express what you felt in that moment. Instead, you take his hand in both of yours. You kiss along his knuckles, brushing your lips along each scar you see, both old and new alike. You knew them all by heart. They had been a calendar of sorts, the mending of torn skin and removal of stitches, your anchor. They were what kept you going on the hardest nights, they kept you knowing that the wait was worth it. You couldn’t think of stopping now, fear be damned. “I’ll be here as long as you need.”

The smile that graces his face was well worth the wait.

#Overwatch #hanzo shimada x reader #hanzo shimada #f!reader

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