#*internally and externally shivering unable to feel my hands or feet or ears even with gloves and hats and thick socks* its great!

[tuptastic]

"hey, how's that cold weather been?"

OW.

[obutsuwrites]

work friends (miruko x reader, part 1)

summary: Suddenly, her blood felt too hot and steamy. Like lava that devoured roads. She wanted to pinch the woman’s cheeks. The thought caused a light red cloud to drift across the hero’s face. A brush felt foreign on her face. Usagiyama’s cheeks burned; hot blood that scorched her veins.

xxx

basically based off of a prompt i found on tumblr, "we're not friends and you fucking know it." (you'll eventually find out why, am big horny 4 this stupid bunny!!)

word count:  1731

my ao3 for more shitposts

my inbox is open 4 requests~!

The young reporter shifted in her seat, nerves electric and on fire. Being in the same room as pro heroes was -- until now -- a foreign concept to her. This was the chance of a lifetime, the young woman thought as bored fingers drummed against her thighs. Fidgeting somewhat controlled her anxiety. The ball of static within her stomach now coiled, like hunger pains.

She released a shaky breath, face stoic and serious. Breath hot and impatient. The young woman considered her servere expression a natural poker face; the perfect disguise for jitters. A strength that landed the reporter this. A press conference with top heroes. Ask the right questions and any reporter could become a star. Perhaps, with enough determination, she could start a publishing company! Maybe even rival the likes of Kizuki Chitose! The eager reporter’s mind swam with possibilities, determination in her eyes. Jaw tense.

≛

Usagiyama Rumi sighed. It was today, wasn’t it? The realization had snaked through early morning brain fog. Almost an afterthought. Today, an afterthought? Her chest rumbled as a throaty chuckle escaped. Yeah, as fuckin’ if.  

Crimson eyes squinted as the afternoon sun streamed through mishandled blinds. Right. Should fix that eventually. She discarded the thought. The Rabbit Hero’s heart swelled with excitement. The tips of her fingers tingled; her passion tangible and airy. Usagiyama was pathetic towards the reporters. Answering their questions was a part of the entire gig, of course.

Instead the keen rabbit anticipated the cameras. The theatrics of it all. A press conference with cameras and answering questions with the fervor Usagiyama reserved for villains. Expressing herself for the world -- finally -- as number seven. Pro hero number seven; Rabbit Hero Miruko! She decided the title fit perfectly.

≛

Usagiyama bounced on the balls of her feet. She was never one for waiting. Yet here the keen rabbit was, waiting in a shitty white room with other top heroes. She scanned the room. Even Endeavor was here. This’ll be good, Usagiyama reasons. Pro hero Miruko, All Might, and Endeavor?

So much passion!

≛

A weary exhale was the only sound from the annoyed woman. She had arrived early for this, and yet, there was some sort of mistake. Technical difficulties, an assistant explained. Her voice too chipper and loud for a late afternoon.

“Can you believe this?” the reporter muttered, her words heavy and taunt. Like her nerves.

The press conference was slated for this morning, 10 a.m. on the dot. Early, but certainly not impossible for heroes or their lackeys. Annoyed, the huffy woman glanced at her watch. 1:30 p.m.

She giggled, the sound agitated and loud.

≛

That laugh. What asshole laughs like that? Usagiyama wondered. A manic sound that bothered the energetic hero. Too high pitched and noisy.

Pro hero Miruko strutted towards the stage; muscular hips swaying underneath her costume. The costume was revealing, but it served a purpose; maximum ability to kick villain ass. Usagiyama considered the risque nature a plus. Hard earned muscles deserved an audience.

Excited orbs darted around the large auditorium. Usagiyama puffed out her chest, as if the rabbit hero was a peacock.

Yeah, this is it. I’ve made it. Rabbit Hero: Miruko. The thought ignited a small fire within her heart. An organ that beat like a drum in her ears. Usagiyama continued to peer into the sea of reporters, passionate eyes landing on chubby cheeks. Suddenly, her blood felt too hot and steamy. Like lava that devoured roads. She wanted to pinch the woman’s cheeks. The thought caused a  light red cloud to drift across the hero’s face. A brush felt foreign on her face. Usagiyama’s cheeks burned; hot blood that scorched her veins. The hero wondered what the reporter looked like beneath her. A sweaty, curvy mess. Flesh so soft and supple. A body made for holding.

Miruko swallowed, her throat dry and lumpy. She wanted to call out to the reporter, maybe flash a cocky smile and wink. Acts of flirtation she reserved for pickups from shady bars. Instead, crimson eyes watched the reporter, their intent almost carnivorous.

≛

A… a pro hero wasn’t staring at her, right? Miruko was known for intense crimson orbs, but the reporter felt them on her. Almost going through her. Two hot orbs that ate away at the woman’s insecurity. The reporter tugged at her skirt; material snug against plush thighs. The garment didn’t quite fit, but it was the only skirt she owned. Pant suits were too business for such a hyped event. She looked away, desperate to bend in. A part of her felt undeserving. Miruko was seven on the charts and she was simply a reporter. Not even a part of a big publication; she had to beg -- plead -- for this opportunity. And yet, the Rabbit Hero was burning holes into her.

≛

Due to the lack of her notoriety, no hero called on any question she had. At least, until it was Miruko’s turn. The rabbit’s maroon eyes gawked at her; expression sharp and determined. Her stare ignited warmth between the reporter’s thighs.

“You… you got questions, ya? Ask me!” Miruko beamed. Her voice boomed throughout the room, bouncing off the cement walls. Despite an athletic frame, the Rabbit Hero was dwarfed by All Might and Endeavor. She looked as small as the woman felt. Every muscle shrunk underneath Miruko’s gaze.

Please let a villain attack…

The thought was selfish, but every nerve felt numb. Her body fell asleep; jaw slack and resting taunt.

She stood up. Words struggled to become tangible. “Uh,” she began, “yeah. You always mention shining accomplishments. So… so many for someone your age. However, uh, do you have any everyday problems civilians don’t face?” Internally, she was screaming. Externally? A stoic expression. Jaw muscles set and contrasting round cheeks.

≛

Miruko laughed, the sound hearty and thunderous. The noise was a juxtaposition to her size. She stood 159 cm, a height that left the hero underestimated. Thought fodder for a toned body even Adonis would admire. She strived for perfection; large hips capable of powerful kicks. A carved v-line that led to strong calves. Miruko’s costume was efficient for her fighting style. The leotard left little skin undiscovered. Miruko knew this; she reveled in the stares.

But… but the chubby reporter gazed upon the floor. Her shoes seemed a more interesting subject than a pro hero.

“Normal q-tips hurt my ears.” Her tone was formal and blunt. Enthusiasm sucked dry from the rabbit’s being. Miruko appeared so vulnerable, expression soft and sincere. Thin lips pulled into a lazy grin.

≛

Pro hero Miruko only called upon her once. It was the one question she was able to ask. Every other hero ignored the reporter, unable to recognize her publication's logo. Even All Might, a man the woman admired. She wanted to run her fingers over his muscles and feel them contract underneath her. Hard earned tissue she wanted to worship.

And yet, Miruko swam like a haze through the woman’s mind. The rabbit occasionally popped into her mind as she prepared to leave. Despite being such a small business, the reporter spared no expense. The items were mostly drunken impulse buys that she needed for her trip; lavish ink pens she wouldn’t normally purchase. Paper that felt sturdy underneath her fingertips, little accents that she cherished. They would carry the memory of this event.

Even… even if All Might ignored me and Miruko looked at me… like that.

The reporter busied herself. She wanted to ignore the intoxicating, almost obnoxious thoughts of Miruko. Her very presence was suffocating. Too fierce and imposing. No wonder you’re number seven.  

Too distracted, the woman didn’t notice the overbearing aura several paces behind.

≛

Miruko couldn’t help herself. She had never seen such pillowy thighs before. Thighs she wanted to smother in. The rabbit’s ears twitched as a shiver crawled through her nerves. She smiled, eager and predatory.

Quietly, she approached the curvy woman. Miruko wanted to be casual, and because of this, the Rabbit Hero donned a muted yellow tracksuit. Plush material that clung to toned muscles.

“You’re new, right? Your question was fun,” she began, “and I can’t resist a cutie.” Her tone was suggestive and light, but behind maroon orbs was a flaming desire.

“Okay… thanks.” Her reply was curt and proper, as if the pro hero was a nuisance. The reporter continued to pack her bags, refusing to acknowledge Miruko.

Thin lips pursed together in annoyance. So it’s like that.

Miruko regained her smile. “Give me your number. I’d do an interview for you.”

The reporter turned to face Miruko, hands delicate and shaky. Even behind her, the number seventh hero choked her. Her lungs ached, as if the rabbit sucked out all oxygen. An airless moment between the two.

“I have to decline. I -- I’m sorry, but I need to finish packing. Maybe --”

Before the sentence left her, calloused hands clasped around the woman’s trembling shoulders.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Miruko suggested as fingers traced patterns in the reporter’s shoulders. “No gossip rag shit.”

Her hands… so warm. The slightest hue of rose painted her cheeks, as if the woman had pinched them.

An exclusive interview with the number seventh hero would launch her career… and yet, a bundle of nerves gathered in her stomach. Like snakes.

She swallowed, the woman’s mouth too dry to swallow the dread.

A laugh flew past her lips. Miruko noted it was the same laugh she heard before; the sound too obnoxious and high-pitched.

Red orbs observed as she spoke, “I -- I guess you can give me your number.” Miruko’s eyes pierced through her; a knife that buried itself into the woman’s very being. The woman wanted to go home and disappear. Anything… Anything to escape the hero’s intense stare.

≛

After exchanging numbers, the reporter was finally home. She kicked off worn heels and began to undress. Pajamas were comfort, and required. A smile crept across the woman’s lips; she almost craved the plush material against her skin. Her security blanket.

The woman was clothed in her precious sleepwear as she toyed with her phone. A desert still in her mouth.

Almost like the bitter aftertaste of that woman…

She laughed; the sound genuine and delicate. It was a privilege. Something so sacred, so personal. Sparks of joy were meant for friends and family.

[grimlegate]

The Asfoor Flies Free

              Every sound set his ears twitching, trailing down his arms to where his hands sat, palms upright and cradled in his lap. Golden skin rose and fell with each breath, eyes shut, and brow furrowed as he chased his ‘inner peace’. The dais beneath him felt cold to his skin, despite the sun shining overhead. A bead of sweat trailed over his brow, but he knew better than to raise a hand to swipe it away. He knew he shouldn’t be aware of its presence at all. He knew why his master had scolded him and sent him to meditate, but he wished he could work through his anger without the roundaboutness of this.

              Sparring worked for him, allowed the energy that stagnated within his body to be released, the flame of his temper to be doused. Golden eyes peaked up at the sun, knowing that this much was not allowed, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He stared until it hurt, until he wanted to shy away from the brilliance of the celestial body, but the stinging meant something.

              It was something he could feel, not some injury that the half-ichor running through his veins could whisk away so quickly. A deep-seated bitterness festered in his gut, and a longing to know his place. The wind had its place, whipping around him and blowing loose leaves across the courtyard in front of him. The sun had its duty, bringing light to the worlds it touched, the tides obeyed the whims of the moon, and his master’s place was at the monastery, but what about him?

              “This is pointless.” He grumbled, coming out less harsh than he had imagined in his head. He wanted to scream the words to the high heavens, in the hopes that someone, something would hear him. He had done it before, when his home had been gripped in a maelstrom, he bore his heart to the sky, hoping that by the end of it, his parent would hear him.

              But only thunder and the pounding rain had heard him.

              He remembers being led back into his room by his master, soaked to the bone and shivering from the cold that the rain had leeched from his body. A cold that quickly dissipated, leaving him feeling nothing but the emptiness that had come from calling out, only to find silence as an answer for his woes.

              He lifted a hand to his face, wiping away the dried blood, and feeling where his lip had split, already healed with nothing remaining. He fought so he could feel something, anything, but it was not the ‘monk way’, as he had been lectured.

              “Why should I give a damn? He started it…”

              “And you gave in to his taunting.” His head lifted, just as a harsh chop met the crown of his head. He held the injured spot, turning narrowed eyes to the closest thing to a mother he had. Her own amber eyes stared down at him over the prominent hawk nose, and he set his gaze to the floor, refusing to look at the woman. Nadiya sighed, moving to sit beside him, golden chains twinkling as she shuffled down into place.

              He could feel her disappointment heavy in the air, and he wished he could feel the pain again – it was better than this, anything was. Silence stretched between the two, until he mustered up the courage to look into her scarred face. The golden fabric of her niqab shifted as she did, facing him fully. It took him multiple tries to get the words out, before he could bring them to bear.

              “Why the hell am I the only one sat out here!?” He snapped, motioning back towards the dormitory, knowing that the other monk who started the fight was probably sat in his room or a buddy’s room, talking about the fight. “Lemme guess, it’s cause I’m god borne, it’s because I should know better, is that it!?”

              “It’s because I know you know better.” Came the icy reply, sucking the wind from his sails. Nadiya stood, dusting off her tunic before slipping into a defensive position, her gaze baring into him. “Fighting position. Now.”

              His body slipped into the same position on reflex, having heard those words many times over. They stood like this, silent and still as the wind brushed passed them, and he wondered if he was supposed to make the first move. His blood ran hot, he was even slightly light-headed from his shouting, and his mind still roiled with the anger from the fight and being put in time out like a child.

              So occupied, he didn’t see her foot slide forward.

              When her foot connected to the rest of his body, he couldn’t help but cry out, too slow to deflect the vicious hit. A growl drew from his throat, and he threw a punch at his master, the woman nimbly slapping his hand away as she drew closer enough to jab at his side. His fury spurred him on, moving his own foot for a kick, missing as she hopped back.

              Every punch, every kick: too wide, not wide enough, too slow.

              He collapsed to his knees, chest unable to rise fast enough to pull in the air his body craved. His body ached from the beating, while Nadiya stood, ever calm and composed. Angry tears rose in his eyes, unable to stop them from beading down over his cheeks, staining the stone beneath him.

              “Why…” The woman cocked a single brow while the man looked up at her, haggard and miserable. “Why come out here just to beat me?”

              “Because I want you to see.” Her accented voice sliced through him like a blade, and he fell back on his haunches as she stepped forward. “You are blinded by your anger – I’ve seen it in you since you were a young child. You are captivated by who you are meant to be, where your place is in this world.” She took another step forward. “It will be your ruin, and when your mind is clouded by misery and fury, you will always lose. Every fight, internal or external.”

              He watched as she stooped and slid to her knees, hardly processing when her arms drew him in tight to her chest. Her face softened as she embraced him, and her voice dropped as she felt the young man tremble, and his pointed ears droop. “Who are you?” A rhetorical question. “You are Daivik Amari, son of Nadiya Amari, kyaung of Solisen Temple.” Daivik’s shoulders shook as the tears fell faster and faster, until the sobs registered in their ears. Nadiya clutched him tighter, her face pulled tight in sorrow. “No matter who your parents are, whenever you ask yourself that question, never forget: you are my son. You will always be.”

              “You’re what?”

              Daivik gawked at Nadiya, who stood like a monument, unrelenting in her decision. The man could hardly believe his ears, and the pack by her feet.

              “You’ll never be satisfied with this life, and you’ll never find your answers staying here and meditating.” She murmured, picking up the backpack. “You will always have a home here, but I believe you need to go find yourself – and you won’t be able to do that here.”

              He wanted to argue, he wanted to stay, but part of his soul sang at the prospect of journeying out to seek his answers. It was everything he wanted and more… then why did he feel so crestfallen? He gingerly took the pack, settling it along his shoulders. The weight of it felt so right… but the weight on his heart refused to go away. He looked up at his mentor, his mother, to find her smiling, and if he looked close enough – he would swear there were tears in her eyes.

              He stepped into the hug that he knew was coming, feeling her arms vice-grip him, as though she never wanted to let him go. When she pulled away, he must have been making a face, as she gave him a little chop on his head, laughing heartily.

              “It’s not as though I’m kicking you out – you may always return. But, I’ve seen your longing, I know how you feel. I did the same when I was much younger. The world can teach you many things I cannot, as much as I loathe to admit. And maybe you’ll find your answers somewhere in the wild world.”

              His goodbyes went swiftly, retreading old grounds with a lethargy to his movements, savoring every last memory, marking down everything as he went. He pack was heavy with tokens and meals by the time he left, Nadiya watching even as he disappeared into the tree line.

              She stood there for a long moment, unaware of the other senior monk beside her, as she sighed wistfully, eyes unmoving from where Daivik disappeared. Part of her hoped he would stay, but she knew better.

              “Fare well, my little asfoor.”

              “Why do you always call him that?” She started slightly as the man beside her finally made his presence known, and a soft expression replaced the surprise on her face.

              “Because, I know a cage, however gilded, is no place for him.” The earth genasi murmured, looking to the sun setting over the horizon. “You humans have a saying, ‘if you love something, let it go.’ His is my little asfoor, my little bird. I’ve always known he must fly free.”