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ghostedgwen · 3 years

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make it hurt | p.parker (part one)

𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾 : 𝖨 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗆 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗄 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒 -

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀/𝗌 : 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌, 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍, 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 (?), 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗈 (?)

𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 "𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽" 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝖻𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋— 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖾-𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 : 𝟥.𝟫𝗄

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You look at your reflection, you've applied three layers of concealer now and the bruise is still very much seen. It's small enough, you managed to dodge the punch narrowly, but still noticeable given that it's on your face.

Hanging your head low above the sink, you make a mental note to grab a more expensive concealer on the way home. You can't possibly be that clumsy in everyone's perspective.

You wonder for a second if Spider-Man worries about explaining his injuries, surely he's not so invincible to escape every battle unscathed?

"This is hopeless." You could try hiding it with a scarf, given that it's on your jaw but it's the height of spring and none of your thin scarves would cover this enough.

You click your tongue. "Fuck it. I'll just say I hit it with my knee."

It's something you often do, Peter knows that too, but it was never enough to bruise. But surely that can suffice and you'll just dodge better next time or invest in a better concealer.

You nod at your reflection. Putting on a smile and walking out the bathroom, grabbing your bag from the couch on your way out and looking at the kitchen counter where your keys are. Remembering that your sister left earlier for work, you used your powers to make it fly towards you and you caught it.

Grinning on your way out the door and you looked it easily without needing contact.

You make it to school, immediately taking a seat behind Peter who frowned at you. Enhanced senses or not - he could spot the bruise on your jaw clearly. He didn't get to ask questions when the class started right away.

You made sure to come in the last minute so you can avoid his questions until lunch. Peter is your best friend, he's been with you since middle school. Peter thought your drawings were pretty and despite being the shy boy he was - he approached you at lunch to compliment you.

After inviting him to sit down, you began talking to him as if you've known him all your life. Sharing stories about what your dog did last week as if you were friends catching up and he felt comfortable.

It took a while to get him out of his shell. 5 months into your friendship and you finally see him opening up to you, he was slowly letting you in and you were letting him take his sweet time. You didn't plan to make many friends.

You had an amazing sister and a loveable dog so you thought you were mostly set until this adorable boy with brown messy hair and flushed cheeks walked over to your table and said your drawings 'look like dreams, in a good way'.

You can never forget that moment and you actually had a secret plan of having it tattooed on you and surprising him with it. That's not anytime soon but you've already designed it and all that.

You eventually grew up together. You got rid of the braces, he stopped wearing his glasses, you grew taller but his growth spurt was way bigger than yours and you two began the whole developing crushes and getting into relationships part of your teenage years.

Lunchtime finally comes around, you start eating the food this time and not just picking at it to keep yourself occupied - waiting in anticipation and he did not fail to deliver when he dropped his tray in front of you and sat down.

You look up lazily, meeting his furrowed brows and pursed lips. He looks adorable when he's angry - but there's no time to dwell on your secret crush on your best friend (you're well aware how cliché it was) and instead you begin to think of a way to diffuse your situation.

"Is that a bruise?" He asks, eyes locked on the tiny patch of purple and green on your jaw.

"No, it's a hickey." You joke, smiling coyly but he didn't find it amusing. "Fine, yes, it is."

He leans forward, taking a closer look, and your heart almost leaped out of your chest. "_____. Where did that come from?"

You smile sheepishly. "I kneed myself again - it's stupid I know and you told me to stop sitting like that but it's hard to break a habit."

Your acting was convincing enough and he wanted to believe you, but your heart was loud and clear and it was pounding. He could tell you were lying and it deeply worries him, but seeing that smile on your face - he had to drop it.

He knows you'll tell him when you're ready - he just wished you'd tell him sooner.

"Okay." He nods curtly, unconvinced, and you let out a sigh of relief. "So, you wanna hang out tonight? I can help you with Chem again. We have a test next week."

You bite your lip, trying to form the sentence properly in your head. "Oh no, I can't tonight - it's uhh - it's date night." You lied through your teeth, secretly clenching your hand hidden under the table.

You hated lying to him but you knew you had to think things through first. You're new to the whole superhero thing and you didn't want to put it on him when you're barely managing yourself.

"That secret boyfriend again?" He asks and you nod. "When am I meeting him anyways?"

There is no boyfriend - with how you are hopelessly crushing on Peter? You had no room in your now even messier life for some person to come in and be romantically involved with. You just said the first thing to come to mind when he began asking why you were blowing him off more than usual.

He was usually the ones cancelling left and right and now the tables are switching so you panicked and lied - saying you have a boyfriend and that was your surprise announcement.

"He's open to the idea, but busy schedules and all that," you shrug nonchalantly. "I'll arrange a meeting soon, don't worry."

Nevermind the complications of where you're gonna find a boyfriend - you can just stage a breakup or finally tell him the truth about your alter ego that has been slowly gaining attention from the media.

It was funny. "Spider-Man is a menace and now there's another asshole playing superhero?" was a golden headline, you framed it and have it up on your bed side table.

You put on your suit and pulled your mask over your face. ( I imagine your outfit is just like Felicia's along with the hairstyle if you have long hair that gets in your face.)

You get out through your fire escape, quiet enough not to wake your sister up, and began flying off into the night. Looking down and peering your eyes through the dark alleys to scan the area. Most crimes happen in the dark and the stinky alleys.

Hearing the sound of a woman screaming had you rushing your landing, you land in the middle of a fairly dark alley where a group of men was harassing a woman and you felt your blood boil. This is one of the many reasons why being a superhero was your first thought when you discovered your powers.

Because surely just having the law enforcements around did not stop crimes like these so you had to step up, contribute to making the world a safer place and in the process proving to yourself that your past does not define you.

"Leave the lady alone." You call out, trying to assess the situation and count just how many guns are present. "Screaming is usually a telltale that she's not interesting."

They all turned to you, the men not even flinching one bit as you slowly approach them with small and slow steps. It's too dark to properly get a picture of what you're up against. You tilt your head to the side, provoking them with a smirk.

"Mind your own business, little girl." One man grunts.

"You know, that's not really an insult." You stay unfazed as all of them pulled out their guns and point it directly at you. One big perk of not being as famous as Spider-Man is your unpredictability.

They mostly knew you exist and you're creeping in the dark. But they never get enough of you to figure out what your powers are and so they never know what to expect and which points are your weaknesses.

The men exchanged looks, you counted there to be 8 of them and you felt the shivers run down your spine when you looked over your shoulders and there were 6 more who came out of the shadows.

"A set-up, really?"

"Truth be told, this one's not for you," One of the men, who you assumed is the leader with his power stance, spoke. You frown. "We made this one specially for the Spider. But you will do."

"You thought you could trap Spider-Man?" You ask, almost laughing at their audacity, and they didn't find your reaction one bit amusing. "Guns are nothing compared to what he faced so far."

"Hmm. That may be so, but we have the numbers and the element of surprise," He shrugs and you frown. You feel like you're missing something. "You hero wannabes are bad for business."

"I think it's flattering but -" You barely had enough time to react. He really engaged you in a conversation and tried to catch you off-guard - so much for the element of surprise. You hold your hand up at the sound of several bullets being shot.

You hold them suspended in the air and relished in the look of pure shock in the criminals' faces. They should know by now not to underestimate people wearing suits - did they really think you'd go around New York fighting criminals like an idiot if you didn't have confidence in your abilities?

You throw your hands to the side, dragging the bullets alongside you and burying them on the brick wall. "Yeah, guns don't really work on me."

Exhanging looks again, they nod at each other. About five ran to you - while the rest continued firing their guns and you had to multitask. Avoiding the five men's attacks while also dodging the bullets.

You could have easily manipulated their guns into another alley or to be kept safely tucked away in the roofs but they were smart enough to rush at you and keep their blows coming after another.

You know you're in a pretty tight situation and you are so not leaving here unscathed. So far, you've managed to take down two guys, using their own guns to knock them out by hitting them with it and you can feel your muscles ache under the suit.

You're not that well-built for fighting. Your 5 years of martial arts classes long forgotten - you haven't attended a class in two years and you're pretty rusty. You're mostly managing with your stocked-up knowledge and instincts.

You didn't exactly gain god-like strength or anything of the sort - just the ability to manipulate metal but that's a conversation for another time.

It took a while - it felt like forever to you, to be honest - but you managed to thin out the herd. You risked taking hits to handle bullets instead and you can tell you'll be sore tomorrow. You might have to skip school.

Out of 14 stinky criminals, there's only 7 left and you applaud yourself for at least getting half. But you can feel the strain on your body - you barely have control over your newly discovered powers and now you've got an entire gang on you.

Turning to one guy and using the metal in his belt to throw him against the wall, you grimace. Attempting to take a step forward when a sharp sting rippled through your body from your leg. You look down and see a hole on your suit - when did you miss that?

You groan, using your powers to pull out the bullet and it landed on the floor. Heaving a pained sigh, you look up. "I did not see that coming."

"You're reaching your limit, superhero. Who's gonna save you now?"

You rush forward despite the pain, eager to end this and go home to your comfy bed - your hands reached out to manipulate the bits of metal you can find in them. May it be a small button or a necklace - when you got distracted.

"That would be me."

You turn your head on instinct - distracted enough to not notice the punch aimed your way and it hit you like a truck. You stumble backwards, shaking your head and readjusting your vision. You reach up to your face to make sure the mask was still there.

"What the fuck?" You groan, feeling your head throb and you had to blink a few times to focus again and you look back up to find Spider-Man is now fighting the criminals. You had no time to process the fact that Spider-Man came to your rescue and stepped forward to begin manipulating the metals around you.

Doesn't matter what it is as long as it's metal and sent them flying behind you. There were a few stray bullets and random cans that came along the guns that you manipulated.

Finally able to get their main weapons out of the way with someone else keeping them occupied and being hit in the face did fuel your fire just enough and now - this fight just became fair to you.

You handle two guys at once while Spider-Man handled five. The woman is long gone by now. She was only used as a trap and it's smart of her not to stick around while there's a fight going on.

Landing one final punch at the guy's annoying face- you clunch and unclench your hands and wince at your bruised fingers. Who knew punching nine people could be so taxing?

"I don't think we've officially met," Spider-Man spoke, a wave of confidence surrounding him and he steps forward offering his hand. "I'm Spider-Man."

Instead of shaking his hand, you punch him right across the face - he did not expect that at all. Even his Spidey senses missed it and his head was thrown back slightly.

"You got me punched in the face," You roll your tongue against your cheek, a hidden smirk playing on your lips. "Now we're even."

"I uhh - I guess I deserved that." The punch didn't hurt as much as it should, he could tell you didn't put much force in it but it was the shock that got him.

"Yeah. Nice to meet you too." You then offer your hand. "You can call me Midnight."

He accepts your name and you pull away quickly to look around the passed out criminals.

"Midnight?"

You shrug. "Haven't you heard? I only come out at night and I wear all black so the tabloids gave me that name."

"That's cool - more creative than mine, to be honest." He shrugged and began webbing the criminals up - make sure they're restrained if they gain conciousness before the cops arrive. "So, how long have you been at it?"

"Just a week - though I've had my powers for a month. Still needed some training before doing the whole vigilante thing."

"Yeah I get that." He nods. "I saw that by the way - do you mind uhh, telling me?"

You turn to him, a sly grin on your lips. "Are you asking an exclusive from me Spider-Man?"

If you could see his face, you'd see the frown on it- realizing you can't see the expression, he tilted his head slightly to the side.

"Even the media doesn't know and they're desperate to get more info on me." You chuckle. "Maybe I'll tell you when you earn it."

"Earn it?" He asks, amused.

"Yup," You began to lift yourself off the ground. "Gotta to treat a bullet wound, see you around Spidey."

You land on your fire escape, going inside your room undetected and without waking your sister up in the middle of the night. You head for your bathroom where you shed the suit off - groaning in pain at your bullet wound and you retrieve the first aid kit without getting up from your seat on the toilet.

You struggled stitching it close, your hands were trembling too much from the pain. So you instead used your powers to move the needle around, stitching it close successfully that way.

Then you just sit there still, calming down before you crawl to the kitchen and grab ice for your bruises. From your spot in the toilet, you see half of your face in the mirror.

You got punched in the face but it luckily didn't bruise. It landed in your eye area and your metal mask received most of the impact.

So it's only swollen now and will be fine by tomorrow, as if it was never there. The bruises on your arms however will be staying for at least a day or two.

You mumble curses under your breath softly. This is the struggle of being a superhero, you bitterly thought.

But there's no time to complain and whine when you knew you signed up for this, the path of being a vigilante was not all sunshine and flowers.

You really gotta learn to fight better, you need a sparring partner. And you know just the perfect candidate.

You go to school the following day, expertly hiding your limp with the amount of painkillers you consumed.

Classes went by normally and without a hitch, you pondered if you should take a night off for today.

You heal significantly faster than a normal person but you doubt the bullet wound will be healing that quickly. Even bruises that usually take weeks would heal in 1 or 2 days.

Faster healing helps but that didn't mean you're able to do backflips the very next day.

You sit next to Peter in Chemistry, partnering up because he knows how easily distracted you are in this class and he's sort of your tutor for the subject.

"Hey, you look a little off -" Peter whispered while class went on and you fiddle with the tiny beakers.

"I do?" You frown, no one asked questions except him. "You're seeing things, Pete."

"Are you sure?" He asks and you nod with a grin. Feeling the familiar ache in your heart, he's so sweet that he makes lying almost impossible.

"Yup. Don't worry about it, how're you last night?" Recalling his invitation which you rejected.

"Studied for the exam all alone, I got so much done without you providing distractions every minute."

You roll your eyes at him.

"Okay, follow the instructions in your textbook and you may begin the experiment." Your teacher announced.

You nudge him with your elbow. "Time for me to piggyback off your genius, nerd."

He laughs at that and you both flip your textbook pages to the right one, working together in following the instructions but it didn't go smoothly.

There was so much banter and playful interactions like always.

"I miss you wearing glasses." You pout, seeing him wear the protective equipment on.

"I don't, I like contact lenses better." He shrugs.

"Do you think I'd look good in a white coat?" You ask and he looks up from his notes, raising a brow at you.

He hums, pondering for a moment and you laughed at that. "I say yes, very professional until you open your mouth."

You playfully gasp, hand on your chest in feigned offence. "I'm gonna ignore that last part. Now I'm considering trying for that Oscorp internship."

"You want an internship just for a white coat?" He frowns. "And why Oscorp?"

"Why not? You got that fancy Stark internship so I can go get mine at Oscorp."

"You do know the two companies are at odds - we'll basically be enemies." He teased.

"Isn't that fun? Makes this even more exciting, forbidden friendship and secret meetings for chem homework." You chuckle with him.

The experiment was going well and his worry was long forgotten with the playful interactions until he saw something very briefly that shook him to his core.

He could've seen it wrong, but he had to ask first just in case you change your answer before he checks your arm for himself.

"Hey, so how was date night, by the way?"

You flinch at the question, forgetting you lied about that and he noticed your tensed shoulders.

"It was great, I enjoyed myself." You nod curtly. Yeah sure, date night with 14 men and you got shot in the leg and punched in the face because of Spider-Man.

He clenched his jaw and grabbed your arm, the action caught you off guard that you had no time to react when he pulled your sleeves down.

He felt like he had been hit with a bat in the chest when he took in the appearance on your arm, bruises littered you everywhere and a gasp got caught in his throat.

You roughly pull back, fixing your sleeves and widen your eyed at him. "Why would you do that?" You asked, beginning to feel angry.

You didn't mean for him to see that and you have no way of explaining yourself now — you feel yourself begin to get angry.

Mostly at yourself, had you been skilled enough, you would have gotten out with minimal injuries. Instead here you are in school with bruises all over your arm and a worried best friend looking horrified.

It's frustrating that you almost fell asleep in the bathroom because you couldn't walk back to your bed.

And you woke up with the most agonizing pain in your leg - you had to lie to your sister and claim it was a really bad cramp just so she'd give you painkillers, not able to move around and all that.

"_____-" You turn away from him, casting your eyes down to avoid seeing the look on his face.

You'll think of something later. Come up with a brilliant excuse and apologize for snapping but you can't handle that look right now.

You were just reminded of last night's failure. Those men set up a trap for Spider-Man and he had to intervene and save you.

Just goes to show how unprepared you are and how lacking your skills are. You got too confident, not putting into factor the fact that you are not that good at fighting.

So far, you've only relied on your abilities and it proved to be an almost fatal mistake.

"Drop it, Peter." You dismiss him.

"But -"

"I said drop it." And just in time, the bell rang. You didn't hesitate to pack your things up in a hurry and run out. Losing Peter in the crowd and you go behind the school, jumping over the fence to escape and you walk down the street like normal.

Head hung low, going over what just happened and cursing yourself for the mess you've made.

Seems you're going on patrol again tonight, injured or not. You need the distraction.

to be continued. masterlist

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palbabor-writes · 4 years

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Practicum

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

Warnings: SMUT/18+ only, unbalanced/unhealthy relationships, student/teacher sex, tw.dubcon, tw.sub/dom dynamics, brat taming, fingering, masturbation, a table is pretty roughed up in this, so pls hold a brief moment of silence for it

Words: 12,857

“So, you just want me to read from the book?”

“Yes.”

“And...answer questions?”

“That’s what I said,” Shigaraki smirks, already reaching toward his bookshelf, tugging the heavy Intro to Biology text out and shifting it into his large hands.

You bite at your lip again and pass your gaze from his amused expression to the bland cover of the textbook, debating your next move, trying to walk yourself through all the ups and downs. It’s too simple; too easy. It’s not like him. He’s got something else in mind, why else would he fucking look like that? It’s not a bad look. No, it’s a look that makes your stomach flip and head spin.

“Stop being so suspicious,” Shigaraki scolds, drawing your wandering attention back to him. “I don’t bite, that is, unless you want me to.”

Notes: the title was selected because it’s got the word cum in it. ahhh, the things that crack me up. anyhow.

this is part of the BNHA Degeneracy server’s 9 to 5 collaboration! i had a ton of fun participating in this and thank you guys for making this so freaking awesome! special shoutout & thanks to @albinoburrito & @kugutsuu for their beta edits! this was a departure from what i usually write about and i appreciate all of your notes and help!

Practicum prac·ti·cum /ˈpraktəkəm/ noun a practical section of a course of study

It’s your senior year, they said. Live a little, they advised. Stop and take a breather, you’re practically home free! Take some easier classes. Focus on what’s in front of you, it’ll be over before you know it! On and on and on.

Spring semester is almost here. You’ve applied for graduation, the cap and gown ordered, and you have a shiny class ring sitting on your pinky. It’s in the bag. Just breeze through four more classes and you’re out. Well, it would be an easy shot, if you hadn’t put off this one class.

It always popped up, so it’s not like you could plead ignorance. Your advisor warned you, each quarterly meeting, that you needed to get it out of the way. Take it seriously, he cautioned, clacking out his notes, typing down that you’d failed to heed his sage advice, again. If you wait too long, you’re not going to get the professor that you want.

That was the other problem. You’re a procrastination superstar. If there was some kinda award for putting off assignments, you’d have won it ten times over. You liked the heart pounding race to the deadline, the sleepy boasts that you’d tackled the project within hours of its due date.

It’s a stupid habit. Every semester you promise yourself that you’ll do better. You won’t wait, you’ll tackle things one assignment at a time and turn them before the hard cut off at 11:59 pm. Who the fuck did you think you were kidding? Certainly not your friends, or your advisor. He could read you like a book. Hell, he’d even sent warnings.

‘Don’t forget about the deadline for senior registration!’

‘You don’t want to be on a waitlist. You especially don’t want to take one of the harder professors. These are freshman level classes, they’re designed to flunk undergrads. Don’t forget (Y/N), chew them up and spit them out tactics are employed.’

But you had. You’d set an alarm on your phone, then neglected to give it a title, so you’d only chuckled and smacked the chirping into silence that morning, snoozing the all important deadline away.

Fuck.

Most of the classes for biology are wait-listed. No, scratch that, all the classes for Intro to Genetic Biology are wait-listed. You opt into the waitlist for all of them, just in case, and a week later your phone alerts you that one has an open seat. Actually, it has several open seats, too many open seats to be natural. However, you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so for now, you’re enrolled in BIO 1208: Principles of Cell and Organismal Physiology - For Non-Science majors.

Perfect.

Yeah, no. You’d looked up the professor, since the whole open seat thing was still giving you the heebie-jeebies, and your heart dropped. You’ve heard of him, most of the student body has. His classes are notoriously small. Not because the university limited them, or planned for smaller class sizes. No, his classes are tiny because he is infamous for failing students.

Most, when they realize they’re scheduled for his bio classes, frantically drop, taking the withdrawal and praying for better luck next semester. Others, brave souls who think they can come out unscathed, attempt to grit their teeth and push through. But, by midterms, they’re war torn and haggard, shaking their heads and praying for a ‘C’, at best. Fewer still, pass.

This pedagogy isn’t a sign of good teaching; quite the opposite, in fact. You don’t want your student body failing. Yet, year after year, Professor Tomura Shigaraki keeps teaching the same Intro to Bio class. It boggles the mind, but you’ve never had to worry about it. Well, until now.

When you’d received the notification that you’re enrolled in the B section and spied the name Shigaraki under the professor listing, you’d scarfed down your suddenly flavorless lunch and dashed up the steps to the student advising hall, praying there was some way you could wiggle your way out of this growing disaster.

“I’m pretty sure I told you to take it earlier and to take it in the fall when there are more freshman level classes available. I swear I said that to you. And, AND, I even sent you emails, several times if my sent inbox is to be believed, to NOT forget when senior registration ends.”

Your advisor is peeved. You don’t blame him. He’s right, this is your fault, but there’s gotta be some kinda loophole. Something, fuck, anything, that can pull you from this mess.

“I know, I know! I’m so sorry. You’re right. But, I mean, can’t I just hold off for another week? See if the waitlist clears?”

The man that you’ve known for four years, that’s seen you progress from freshman to senior, steeples his long fingers and purses his lips, likely debating on a tactful scolding, or a firm rebuttal. He takes a deep breath and you can’t help but sink into the soft cushioning of the chair, your nose wrinkled and brow furrowed, mentally preparing yourself for the worst.

“Do you know how many students we require to take BIO 1208?”

“No,” you gulp, nibbling on your lower lip nervously.

“Over 7,000. Do you want to hear the statistics that would need to shake out in your favor for you to miraculously avoid taking this specific class? Nothing is going to open for you, it is this class, or no class.”

You sigh, and your advisor nods, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose. “Well then, I suggest you brush up on your study skills. Find a classmate that you can compare notes with, join a study group, go to the student union and ask for a tutor. I would hate to see you back here for the summer semester. You’re scheduled to walk the stage this spring and you’ve worked hard for this, so don’t fuck it up, okay?”

You’ve attended this university for four years, but the first day of term always gives you the jitters. It doesn’t matter that you know your way around, or that you know ten professors by name, and bump into several friends on the way to your next building, you’re always buried in your phone, checking and double checking the next class’ room number.

Despite all that caution, you’re lost.

In your defense, it’s your first time stepping foot in the Graduate & Research building and the whole concrete block is a fucking maze. There must be a basement because the numbers don’t match up with the floors and they seem to jumble further every time you round a corner. Like what the hell? How can this next room be GR 3.03.05 when this is clearly only the second floor and GR 2.03.11 was right down that other hallway?

Exasperated, you lean against the nearest wall and tug your phone out again. Shit. Class started ten minutes ago.

Part of you wants to call it a day, end the search here and try again on Wednesday. Maybe take a few extra minutes to scout out the building next time and have some idea of where you’re going before the start of class.

Ugh, why is this so stressful?

It’s the first day of classes. Surely Professor Shigaraki won’t mind if you’re a few minutes late; besides, if you’re lost, others must be too.

You tuck your phone back into your pocket and resume the hunt. Two hallway turns later, you find your mark.

Your hand pauses beside the heavy wood, and you take a steadying breath. Again, why are you so nervous? Just go in and take a seat, it’s easy, stop freaking out over nothing.

The door groans open, hinges protesting the sharp push, and you stumble into a darkened room. The low glow of the projector doesn’t help your blurry vision. Ah, shit, it’s one of those older rooms, so it’s built like a bad movie theater. Oh well, better get to a seat before he spots you.

Swiftly, you make your way toward the raised steps of the aisle and the second row of chairs, plopping into the first one you reach that’s empty. You’re too busy fiddling with the zipper of your backpack to notice that the speaker has stopped his rasping preamble, but as you pull your laptop out the ominous weight of that heavy silence hits you and you toss a hooded stare toward the front of the lecture hall.

Immediately, your eyes land on the professor’s and you feel a low shiver shake up your spine.

He’s watching you.

The gleam of the overhead projector makes his red eyes flash, and he openly scowls at your gaping expression, his lips curling into a dark sneer.

“Well, thank you for joining us, Miss…?”

He’s waiting for your response and you squeak out your last name, mindlessly rubbing your moistening palms against your thin skirt.

“Ah, Ms. (L/N). Now that you’ve graced the class with your belated presence, may I continue?”

“Uh,” you gasp out, your mouth dry, tongue sticking to your teeth, “I’m sorry. I got–”

“I didn’t ask for an explanation, or in your case, an excuse. Or are you now attempting to disrupt this class purposefully?”

“Wha– I-I’m–” your words stumble to a halt, voice failing under the intense glare that he’s giving you. “No,” you finish lamely, ducking your head, nails digging into your sweaty palms.

“Thank you. Do me a favor, stay after class.” His voice is gravel, threatening and low. You don’t like the edge in his tone. It makes your skin prickle and your knees knock. He sounds like the kind of guy that you don’t want to run into in a dark alleyway, or a classroom, for that matter. Even so, it’s not your fault, and despite your feelings of unease, you can’t tamp down your need to protest his unreasonableness.

“But, professor, I didn’t mean to–”

“If I need to repeat my insistence for silence, I’ll make things easier on both of us and fail you now.”

Stunned and fuming, you bite your tongue and lean back into your chair, crossing your arms and blinking back mounting tears of frustration. Great, just great. It’s the first fucking day of class and it looks like you’re already on his shit list. And for what? For being late on fucking syllabus day! What an ass.

You look over at him as you defiantly finish setting up your computer, hoping each pull of a zipper or screen reboot will grate under his stuck up skin. He’s not inordinately tall, or old. In fact, he looks like he might only be in early 30s. He has long white hair that’s pulled back into a low ponytail and, from what you can make out in the dim lighting, some kinda skin condition on his forehead. That, or he’s prematurely wrinkled, and let’s be honest, if he’s gone through life with that big of a stick up his ass, he deserves each and every pull on that mottled skin of his.

You linger in your seat when class is over, lips pulled into a thin line and legs crossed. Finally, when the last student has left the room, professor Shigaraki flips a switch beside his elevated podium, filling the lecture hall with a sharp, fluorescent light. He pauses by his raised computer system and clicks off the overhead projector, blanketing the massive room in an uncomfortable silence.

“Since you missed the part of class where I go over the syllabus, I’ll give you a brief rundown. Under no circumstances will I tolerate tardiness. If you do it once more I’ll mark you absent and three absences knock you down a full letter grade.”

Glumly, you cross your arms and peer up at him, finally able to get a good look at his face. Your first observation was correct. His skin is sharper around his forehead, but his wavy white hair does a pretty decent job of covering up the imperfections. He has two scars: one nicks across his right eye and the other splits down his rough lips, parting the skin and granting him an even more foreboding appearance than his already gruff demeanor does. He’s dressed in a dark pair of jeans and he’s wearing a low slung v neck shirt. It’s a brilliant red and it brings out that otherworldly glint of his red eyes. Shit, you think bitterly, while he’s not conventionally handsome, he’s not exactly hard on the eyes either.

You shake your head against these unproductive musings and curtly snap out a clipped, ok.

“What was that?” Shigaraki scoffs, tilting his head at your sullen figure. “Speak up.”

“I said,” you bristle, eyes narrowing and chin lifting, “Okay, I apologize for interrupting your lecture, it won’t happen again. But, in my defense, if I’m allowed to do that in this class, I’ve never been in this building before, and it’s not like–”

“You’re a senior, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Then you’ve had four years to figure out the layout of this university. The excuse of ‘being lost,’ isn’t an option for you. You know the buildings and you’re fully capable of turning up early to sort out the rooms.”

You let out a long sigh and look away, mumbling vague protests. This guy is ridiculous. You’re not a science major and it’s not your job to know the ins and outs of each building. How fucking stupid. Who does he think he–

“Speak up. I won’t ask you again.”

You bite your lip and look back at him but he’s moved in that distracted moment, silently stepping down from his raised platform and is now leaning over the first row of chairs, looming over you. You can’t help your sudden flinch as you sink further into your chair, away from him.

“If you’re gonna complain, Ms. (L/N), I’d much rather hear it. Don’t you think It’s rude for you to mutter under your breath about me? You don’t see me doing that to you.”

“Fine,” you blurt out, turning away from his insistent, and all too close, gaze. “I was saying that I’m not a science major. I get that I’m a senior, but you can’t seriously expect me to know every nook and cranny of this campus.”

“No, but I can ask for you to be a little more thoughtful. I put time and effort into my lessons and I won’t have you undermining them by bouncing in here with those legs and that flouncy little skirt.”

You’re about to counter his little haughty speech on politeness when you finally process that final comment he’d breathed out. Flabbergasted, you raise your head back to his, but he’s already moving away, snatching up his shoulder bag and waving you a curt goodbye as he presses open the squeaky door. “Next class is at 10 am sharp, so be on time Ms. (L/N).”

You’re still slumped in your seat when the door glides shut again, your eyes wide and jaw no doubt comically unhinged.

Wait. Did…did he really just say that?

Obviously, for the next class, you’re early. You’re so early that you’re the first one in the lecture hall. You select a seat toward the back and fiddle with your computer, checking your messages, adjusting your brightness, replying to old emails, anything to keep your head down and attention occupied.

The door opens and, despite your best efforts, your head flies up, expectant and tense, ready to meet those red eyes of his head on, to show him you’re here and he better… oh. It’s not him. It’s two chattering freshmen. One of them gives you a quick smile, but they both quickly take their seats, a few rows over, and continue their soft conversation, leaving you to fall back onto your earlier distraction tactics. You twiddle with your phone and shoot off a few texts, change your wallpaper, accidentally close an app you meant to leave open, and then the lecture hall door reopens.

He steps in slowly, completely ignoring you and the other scattered students, opting to sort out a few papers and set up his login on the school computer. The minutes tick by and you can’t seem to jerk your eyes away from him, suddenly fascinated by his languid movements. He looks more relaxed than he did on Monday, looser and fluid, completely in his element. True to his word, at ten am on the dot he begins class.

Professor Shigaraki has an interesting voice. It’s low, calculated, bordering on a rasp. It’s one of those tones that makes you want to lean forward and listen up, even though he’s only discussing cellular biology. Which isn’t exactly the sexiest topic for that shockingly dulcet timbre of his.

Wait. Sexy?

Your pen falters against your notebook, and your eyes drift up to his frame. He’s switched the lights off again and the shine of the overhead projector is the only illumination in the hall. His white hair gleams in the dim lighting and his long hands animatedly illustrate his points, elegant fingers opening and closing, gesticulating about the intricate nature of the human genome. You’re so focused on watching his movements that your elbow partner has to push the slip of paper onto your collapsible desktop. You blink at the sheet, your pen nearly clattering from your hand, and you twist to peer at the unfamiliar student beside you.

“It’s the attendance sheet and, um, I think you’re the last one,” they whisper, careful to lean away after they finish their explanation, not wanting to draw professor Shigaraki’s ire. You maneuver the paper under your pen and scribble down your name, biting your lip and silently berating yourself for your poor selection in seating. Great, now you’ll have to take the paper down to him after class. What if he talks with you again? Shit.

At 11:25, class ends. You collect your things and plod down the steps, the attendance sheet clutched between your fingers. He’s just snapping the projector light off when you reach his podium.

“I, uhh, have the attendance. You want me to just leave it here, or…”

“I’ll take it,” his hand is extended toward you and those red eyes are fixed on you now. It’s not the same disgruntled stare he’d given you on Monday. No, this look is a little more curious. Again, you’re taken aback by your reaction to him. He’s not even saying anything, just patiently waiting for you to deposit the sheet into his open palm, but there’s something about him that’s making your heart race.

Maybe it’s those eyes of his.

They are an unusual color and they have a strange intensity to them. Right as they narrow, the vermillion shining under the sharp lights; you press the paper to him and he pulls it from you, studying the names that are listed.

You want to say something. Maybe toss him a quick, friendly, goodbye. Or apologize for the other day? Ugh. What can you even say? ‘Gosh, so glad I was on time today! All that fascinating information about the genetic code! So glad to be here!’ No, that sounds stupid and a little patronizing. Besides, why do you want to talk with him at all? He’s an ass, remember?

“Did you need something?”

His question snaps you out of your stupor and you numbly shake your head at him, already lowering your gaze, but his exhaled chuckle makes you pause, your fingers curling around your backpack straps.

“I know I upset you the other day, but I appreciate you taking the effort to correct your mistake.”

“Oh,” you breathe, your eyes finding their way back to his. “Yeah, well, like you said, I’m a senior. Gotta take responsibility for myself someday.”

“Ah,” he smirks, that long scar on his lip quirking upward. “Seems like you’ve got some determination after all. You might be more interesting than I gave you credit for.”

“God,” you scoff, popping out a hip and crossing your arms at the bemused leer on his face. “Just come right out and say you think I’m a bad student, why don’t you?”

“Don’t worry,” he amends, tucking the attendance sheet into his shoulder bag and snapping the clasps closed. “There’s plenty of time for you to end up right back at square one with me.”

He’s already halfway out the door by the time you right yourself from the shock of his last comment and you follow him, a string of low curses falling from your lips.

The spring semester always flies by, and before you realize it, a full month has bled away. You’ve kept that same seat in Shigaraki’s class and at the end of each session you head down to his little platform, attendance sheet outstretched. Each day of class has a different ebb and flow. Sometimes he chats with you and it’s gotten easier to talk with him, both of your eyes holding and lingering, lips raised into calculating smiles. Sometimes it almost feels like he’s flirting with you. Other days he only spares you a curt nod, his white hair curtaining his expression from your curious gaze. You’re not bothered by these silences, not when you’ve got your secret weapon.

The days that you like best, the ones that you plan, sorting through your closet until you’ve found the perfect choice, are the days when you wear one of your skirts. You’d even gone on some skirt shopping sprees as of late. On those days he doesn’t just make some sort of fleeting eye contact with you, no, on those days he stares.

At first, you’d tested out your theory, staggering your outfits, careful to not screw up your suspicions with a hasty miscalculation, but as they say, the third time’s the charm. How did he expect you not to notice? He never bothers to hide those sharp ogles and recently you’ve made a point of dramatically gathering your things when you wear these cute little ensembles, bopping down the steps so his eyes have to work to follow the line of your hips and the long paths of your bare legs. One rainy afternoon you’d worn over the knee stockings, that came to an abrupt halt over the plush skin of your upper thigh, under your mini skirt and he’d practically leapt over the podium to grab the sheet from you, his eyes hooded and dark, almost wild.

“Test, on Friday,” he warns, eyes finally rising to meet your bemused expression. “Don’t stay out too late tonight.”

“What makes you say that?” you ask, brushing at a rogue fold in your skirt, luring him back to your legs.

He scoffs at you, that jagged scar arching into a smirk. “Humph. You’re dressed up. Most of the students just wear the sweats, or pjs, and call it a day.”

“I like to put a little effort in all that I do,” you retort, grinning up at his vermillion stare.

“Yes, so I’ve noticed. You certainly look the part…and you’re keeping up with the workload of this course.”

“Ahhh,” you crow, clapping your hands excitedly. “Are you saying I might get an ‘A’ in this class? Be the first time someone’s done that in a while, from what I’ve heard around campus.”

Shigaraki sneers and tuts out an inaudible reply, leaning a little closer to you, making you inadvertently fall back a step. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Awe,” you pout, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m doing ok on all the quizzes and the classwork.”

“So far,” he taunts, his pearlescent hair falling over his broad shoulder.

“Tch. Don’t be like that. I’ve been studying.”

“Sometimes it takes more than that.”

“Oh?” you smile, raising your chin. “What else should I be doing, professor?”

“We’ll know that after Friday, won’t we?”

God.

You’d felt so confident when you’d turned in your test and that stupid, horrible, sexy little quirk of his lip scar that he sends you, when you’d handed him your papers, carries you on some strange, half aroused cloud all weekend. Maybe, just maybe, this class won’t be so bad after all.

The tests are handed back the following Friday, passed from row to row so everyone can fish out their papers and marked Scantrons. Yours, since you still occupy that final seat on the back row, is the last. Biting back a grin, you flip it over, so ready to see that A, that grade that you worked so fucking hard for, that… wait.

The gross flash of red across the top of your paper leaves you reeling, your breath catching against the back of your throat. It’s not a terrible grade, well, it wouldn’t be, but there are only three tests in this class, so it’s going to plummet you down to a B. One more fuck up will leave you with a C, or worse, an automatic failing grade.

No. No, no, no, no.

You can’t afford a bad grade, you honestly can’t even let yourself slip to a B. Your fucking cap and gown have just come in and with them that cord that you can wear around your neck at graduation. The one that marks you as honors cum laude. Fuck. You’re already pulling one B, in one of your other classes, because you’ve been focusing so much time and effort on this one. Another B will strip that cord from you, leaving you barren, with a less than ideal GPA.

God fucking damn it.

You glare up at Shigaraki, who’s busy taking the rest of the class through a review of genetic mutations, but you can’t hear him anymore, too incensed, too overwhelmed to even care about what he’s saying. The test crumples under your fingertips, the paper shaking in your hands, and you seethe, your teeth biting your lower lip to pieces.

It’s not fair. You’d paid attention. You’ve taken all the notes. Read all the chapters. Drilled and studied till your eyes had drooped, heavy with exhaustion. You’ve done it all right. Plus, he’d been so fucking flirty, so open with you. You’ve never chatted with a professor this way, never gone out of your way to wear clothes they like, that make them watch you, their eyes hungry pinpricks as you walk to them, mindful of the luscious sway of your hips.

No. Fuck him. Fuck this class.

Before your elbow classmate can leave, you ask for them to hand in the attendance sheet. You barely hear their response, too busy slamming your laptop into your backpack. As you storm past the podium, you can feel his eyes on you. The distant sensation of his gaze makes your flesh prickle, but you ignore your involuntary reaction and shove your way out the door.

“(Y/N), you can’t switch classes this late. It’s almost midterms. Besides, I don’t think anything has opened up and if you’re going to drop it, you’ve gotta get the signature of the professor,” your advisor tells you, blinking at your stony expression over his thick glasses. “I don’t get it. Why do you want to drop it? Your grades are alright and it’s just one test. You can always try–”

“Gimme the paperwork.”

Shigaraki’s office is on the top floor of the research building, tucked away down another winding and weaving hallway that once again requires your careful inspection to navigate. When you finally hit the right set of doors, you slowly make your way forward, counting the numbers up as you pass. His door is wide open, a yawning cavern that’s filled with the distant light of a lamp. You brush a hand down your skirt, smoothing away any wrinkles and steadying your nerves.

You’d tossed on the skirt this morning, before you’d gotten the grade, and you hadn’t thought to go home and change, too consumed by that simmering rage bubbling within you. And now, like this fucking class, this skirt felt like a mistake, something stupid and vapid that you wished you had time to change out of. He’d told you he liked your attire, liked that you put effort into your outfits. At the time, you’d been so thrilled and excited that he’d complimented you, but now you wish you were confronting him in baggy jeans or lazy sweats, anything that would turn that avid gaze of his away from you.

Lost in thought, you waver beside his open door, nibbling on your lips and tugging at your clothes. It’s now or never. No point in putting it off. What’s the worst that can happen? What can he do now? Or, a darker side of you whispers, what do you want him to do to you? What? That’s a stupid thought, you scold yourself, lifting a hand to the wall and rapping against the beige paint, announcing your presence.

When the sound fades away, swallowed up by the empty and darkened hallway, you poke your head around the corner, searching for him. His head is tilted quizzically, and he blinks twice when he spots you, that all too familiar smirk lifting his lips.

“Ah, Ms. (L/N), what can I do for you?”

His voice is softer than usual and your name sounds like honey, his tone resting on the syllables and consonants for a beat, almost as if he’s savoring their lift, their sound. You can’t help but swallow heavily at his appraisal. Suddenly this may be a terrible idea.

Ugh. Get a grip (Y/N).

“I-I need you to sign this withdrawal paperwork,” you finally reply, digging in your bag and tugging out the thin leaflet, holding it out to him. He’s silent after your demand, meditatively threading his fingers and peering up at you, his red eyes bright.

“Step inside and shut the door behind you,” he instructs, his gaze never falling from yours. Despite the simplicity of his request, you can’t help but bristle at his imperious tone. Why does he always have to sound like that? Like he’s seconds away from taking control of the situation, or of you? He’s always one stupid step ahead, and no doubt he’s going to try and talk you down. Or, he’ll sign it and say that he always knew you were a screw up, someone who only did things halfway, who could never match up to his lofty expectations. Humph, the sooner you’re outta here and out of his class, the better. So, you obey, closing the door and petulantly flopping into the unsteady chair that sits in front of his low desk.

He maintains that uneasy quiet, his red eyes whisking over your disgruntled face, waiting, watching. Unable to take this strange standoff, you push the university paperwork toward him, sliding it as close as you dare to his bent elbows. “I would like to withdraw from your class,” you repeat, lips setting into a thin line.

“Why?” he asks, cocking his head so his loose white hair falls a little further down his rough brow.

“Something came up.”

“Hmm, I can try to work with a new schedule, if it’s your job, or home life,” he counters, eyes narrowing as he sharpens his observations of your brittle expression.

“It’s not that,” you smart, crossing your arms. Great, he’s going to make this difficult.

“Then I suggest you tell me what’s on your mind,” Shigaraki replies, mirroring your movements and leaning back in his chair.

“I don’t think this class is working out for me.”

He exhales a soft laugh at your lie, and you watch that tiny mole at the edge of his chin lift in his quiet mirth. “This is a freshman level course and you’re a senior. You’re in my class because it’s likely the last pre-rec that you need to take before you graduate.”

“Um, yeah. But–”

“And now, you’re wanting to drop it because of one poor grade.”

You grind your teeth and fix him with a stark glower. “I–”

“There will be two other tests. If you read your syllabus, you’d know this.”

“I read the syllabus. Your tests are worth a stupid amount of points and it only takes one of them to tank my grade.”

“Frankly, you did better than most of the class. You only need to work on practical application. I said that the written portion would be a major component of the exam. I also provided you with a review and a rubric. So I’m not sure–”

“Your grade drops me to a ‘B’, and that ‘B’ pulls me from the honors list. And… well… I thought that…”

“Oh? What did you think?” he presses, his voice suddenly dropping to that lower octave it had drifted into when he said your last name.

“I thought I’d get a better grade,” you spit out, turning your head and biting at your lip again.

“Why?” he counters simply. His obtuseness is making your blood boil.

“What do you mean, why?” It takes all of your will to not slip a ‘jackass’ into that question.

“It’s not a hard thing to answer. I graded you fairly and according to my rubric. Why exactly do you feel you merit a different grade than the one you earned?”

You fall into a frustrated silence. You can hear your heart pounding against your ribs and you want to scream at him, to leap over his desk and shake him until his teeth fucking rattle. Your shoulders are rising and lowering disjointedly and his vermillion eyes are honed in on your face, shifting over your pinched expression with a distant interest. You can feel tears pricking at your eyes and you hastily rub a fist over them, brushing away any rogue drops of moisture.

“How can you ask me that? You think I didn’t notice you staring at my legs? Or that you always had something to say to me when I was wearing a skirt? What was I supposed to think, huh? I fucking thought shit like that was gonna help, ok? God, I’m so stupid. I can’t… fuck.”

Shigaraki arches forward when you finish, a deep sigh leaching through his parted lips. His teeth snap together when you look up at him, your eyes gaining back some of that earlier defiance, and he gives you a quick grin, clearly pleased by your shift in attitude and pushes your paper aside, fixing you with a dark look. “Here’s a thought, since you feel you’re so different, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you a chance to make up the score.”

“I don’t care about the score anymore. I wanna drop your class,” you snap, but it’s a halfhearted barb. Something has changed in his demeanor. He’s dropped the concerned professor act and is leaning so close you can hear his steady intakes of air. He’s only a few inches away; if you want, you could touch him.

“I doubt you want to attend a class in the summer. Besides, they won’t let you walk if you haven’t finished your freshman level courses. And you can’t tell me you don’t want to graduate, to earn that cord that lets you into the honor cum laude. So stop pouting and hear me out. I think you’ll like what I have in mind.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever like anything about you,” your voice is sharper than you mean it to be, but the challenge makes Shigaraki smile. As it crosses his cracked lips, it pulls that scar up and it makes those eyes of his glow. He looks like the cat that’s got the cream and you’re not sure how to respond, so you cross your legs and wait for him to make the next move.

“You sure about that? Well, I’ll have to change your tune then, won’t I? But that can wait, lemme tell you what my requirements are. I’ve got a copy of the textbook in here. I’ll have you review some of the major concepts, you’ll read the passages aloud so I’m sure you’re on the right track, you’ll hand the book back to me, and then I’ll verbally quiz you over the material. If you answer them correctly, I’ll bump you to an ‘A’ on your test.”

You have to actively work to keep your mouth closed. “So, you just want me to read from the book?”

“Yes.”

“And… answer questions?”

“That’s what I said,” Shigaraki smirks, already reaching toward his bookshelf, tugging the heavy Intro to Biology text out and shifting it into his large hands.

“Stop being so suspicious,” Shigaraki scolds, drawing your wandering attention back to him. “I don’t bite, that is, unless you want me to.”

Your eyes boggle and you have to clench your thighs tighter, your stomach churning, you feel light-headed and you can feel your core fluttering with your sudden arousal. “Wh-what did you just say?”

“Stop gaping at me like that, you’ll make me blush. Now come on.”

Your jaw snaps closed and you shake your head, trying to clear your mind from your whirling emotions. He takes this reaction as a surrender and stands, stepping toward a marred table that rests a little ways away from his desk. He licks his thumb pad and flips through a few pages before finally settling on an appealing section. Once he places it on the table, he twists back to you and crooks a finger your way. “Come here,” he orders, his voice deep and languid. Obediently, you rise on unsteady feet, hands tugging at the length of your skirt, careful to keep it pressed down as you walk toward him.

He makes space for you to stand in front of the book and shifts back, one hand resting on the table, propping him close to your bent figure. You look up at him, but he only nods his head toward the table, a wicked smile curling the corners of his lips. Blink a few times but finally, the words clear and you can see the block of text that’s in front of you. It’s passages on DNA encodes and RNA proteins, hefty stuff, things that you had to make flash cards for. This isn’t going to be easy. If anything, he’s picked some of the harder concepts, the ones that take steady knowledge in the foundations. Flustered, you look back to him, but he’s moved. He’s leaning against the wide window beside the table, a dark mark against the glass.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, a laugh bubbling in his tone.

“There’s no way…” you stammer, shaking your head at him.

“Want me to throw a curve in?”

“I should ask what kinda curve, but knowing you, it’s likely gonna be something terrible.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he rumbles, stepping away from the window and leaning close to your stiff form. “It just takes an open mind and some enthusiasm on your part.”

“Enthusiasm?” you question, trying your best to withstand his closeness. You can feel the heat radiating off of his broad shoulder and if you tilt a little nearer, you could graze against him, or feel his breath on your skin.

“You’re right,” he amends, his forearm contacting your side. You startle at the touch, a gasp falling from your lips, but you don’t pull away and you can’t stop staring up at him, your eyes wide. “Obedience is a better word. From here on out, whatever I tell you to do, I expect you to obey it, although it’s not exactly, ah, school approved.”

“You want me to suck you off or something?” you sneer, hoping to stumble him off his guard, even if it’s only for an instant. Too bad he’s always one step ahead.

“Don’t be vulgar. Think outside of the box, (Y/N). Do you think I’m going to go for something so short sighted when I could have you bending to my will? Obeying every little demand that I make? I’d much rather see if that skin of yours tastes as good as it looks, then simply have you on your knees. No, I want you to fucking scream for me while I stuff you full of my cock. But first, you need to put in some work. You should know that by now.”

Oxygen is suddenly very hard to come by and you can feel your mind hazing over as you stammer up at him, your mind flitting from word to word disjointedly. Shigaraki grants you a wolfish grin, and he dips his lips beside your ear, whispering over those tiny hairs that rest against your tender skin. “I’ll make this part easy. Nod and I’ll give you the first set of instructions.”

What did he say? Nod? What happens when you nod? Fuck, why are you letting him do this? Is your grade really worth it? Are you that desperate that… that…

Shigaraki is whispering other promises over you as you war with yourself, speaking his words gently, slowly, his breath hot as it fans over your neck. It’s like you’ve fallen under some kinda spell and before you realize it, your traitorous head is bobbing up and down, letting him know you want him to keep going.

“Perfect,” he sighs, his lips grazing over the shell of your ear, jerking a shiver from you. “Now, lean forward and put your hands against the table.”

You do as he says, but he’s not satisfied with your positioning, his fingers wrapping around your wrists and yanking you forward, jutting your ass out and pressing your chest down, maneuvering you until your nose is right above the pages of the textbook. “There we go,” he rasps, pulling away so he can admire your splayed form. “Hmm, your legs are too close together. Spread them.” Knees trembling, you obey, gasping when he runs a palm against the curve of your thighs.

“You’ve got such nice legs (Y/N), so let’s put them on display, shall we?” His fingers search against the top of your skirt and they still when he reaches his prize: the zipper. When he pulls it down, you let out a sharp squeak of protestation but he silences you with a swift pinch to your side.

“Now, now, don’t be like that. You nodded, remember? Besides, you could have left when I told you I’d give you a curve but you couldn’t help yourself could you? You want me to keep going and to do that, I need you to take this skirt off. No, don’t move. I’ll get rid of it for you. Why don’t you focus on the task at hand, hmm? Aren’t you supposed to be reading for me?”

You arch away from his fingers and he chuckles at your impudence, one large hand hooking under your chin and pulling you toward his face. His red eyes blaze as they find yours, the dark pupils threatening to swallow up that deep vermillion. “Let’s start with the second paragraph. If you do well, I might grant you a reprieve.”

Jerking your face from his grip, you twist back to the text, trying, and failing, to ignore his inquisitive fingers, unable to resist sighing as he works one up your inner thigh. He pauses when no words fall from your lips and you grumble out a few low curses before acquiescing to his silent demand.

“The flow of genetic information in cells from DNA to mRNA to protein is described by the Central Dogma, which states that genes specify the sequence of mRNAs, which specify the sequence of proteins. The decoding of one molecule… the… the… molecule… by spec-specific…”

He’s slipped your skirt down over the swell of your ass, but he’s taking his time, flexing out the front of the material and dipping his fingers over the bump of your lower stomach, kneading into the delicate flesh that’s stretched out for him. You can’t help the twitch of your spine and you involuntarily wiggle, palms slipping forward, dragging you further along the tabletop. Shigaraki chuckles above you, running his rough lips over the back of your neck.

“You’re so sensitive. I’ve barely touched you.”

He circles his hands back to your skirt and edges it along, lowering it sharply on one side and then giving the same treatment to the other. You’re doing your best to keep up with your stammering readings, but it’s difficult when he keeps sighing and running his long nails across your newly bared skin. Finally, he works the skirt down and it thumps against your bare ankles; the fabric tickling your skin.

Meanwhile, his other fingers skitter against the elastic band of your rapidly dampening panties. Once he hooks the lace under his hand, he yanks them along your legs, trailing them sinfully slowly, ensuring that they glide down the billow of your thighs. His teeth nip at your ear when you stumble to a halt in your recitation and your hands tense over the grains of wood beneath them, your nails pinching into your palms. “If you stop, I stop,” he warns, his head bumping against yours, his sharp nose pressing against your pulse.

“You’re not exactly making this easy,” you grumble, doing your best to ignore his renewed pets and strokes.

“Stop complaining,” he smirks, leaning away from your head to peer at your newly exposed flesh. “You better pay attention to what you’re reading or you’re not going to pass the questions I’ll be asking you.”

“Yeah, yeah, ow!” you squawk, whipping your head around to glare up at him. He fucking pinched you again! This time, he’d slipped his hand between your spread legs and tweaked your inner thigh, painfully.

“Read,” he repeats, running those guilty fingers upward, lingering beside the heat of your cunt, careful to not get too close. When you start on the next sentence, one of his hands tugs up the fabric of your shirt, snaking upward until he’s thumbing against the wire of your bra. Once again, you falter to a halt and exhale a wavering breath.

Goddamn it. This review is no review. You’ll be lucky if you can even recall what a cell is if he keeps this up. You hear his ominous intake of air and quickly resume your recitation, mumbling something about RNA and mRNA differences.

Wait. Didn’t you just…

“Looks like you’re having trouble listening to me. I told you to read aloud, not to repeat the same passages over and over.”

“Hey, at least I’ll have a firm grasp on those. You should ask me something about that s-section… ah–”

The hand that was resting under the cup of your bra has made its way underneath the lightly padded material, and his thumb and index fingers have trapped your peaked nipple between them. As soon as your snarky comment left your mouth, he’d twisted the bud, squeezing it until it throbbed.

“Pay attention,” he commands, shoving your bra upward, freeing the globes of your breasts and cupping both of his broad hands under them. Your abused nipple stings and the mixture of sharp pain and jarring arousal goes right through you, stoking that coil that pulsed within your core, and sending a tacky flush of your essence down your spread thighs.

The next few words are a struggle. The text keeps blurring and your breaths are coming in fast and heavy. Shigaraki is still feeling you up, keeping his lips close to your ears, rasping sharp commands to you and dealing out lightning fast rounds of pinches and squeezes each time you falter.

“I–I can’t… I don’t even know what I’m reading anymore,” you bemoan, your hips pressing against the edge of the table, legs trembling as you attempt to keep them apart. He’s deliberately ignoring your throbbing clit and a desperate edge is creeping into your voice.

“Are you always this whiny? Fine. I’ll give you a moment to read without any distractions.”

Thank God.

True to his word, he slips away from your back and you’re left shivering against his sudden absence. Despite your quaking, you’re determined to make the most of this chance and you quickly read out the paragraphs that are on the second page. As you ramble down to the last bit of text, you realize you can’t hear him anymore and when you finish the last sentence; you start to really wonder where he’s drifted off to. A tense silence follows your completion of the material and you arch up on the tips of your toes, jutting your ass out and stretching the stiffened muscles of your lower back.

“Didn’t say you could stop reading, and judging from all of your complaints, I don’t think you got some of those earlier concepts, so I’d suggest doing a quick review,” he taunts, the sudden rasp of his voice startling a low gasp from your lips.

He’s close; somewhere behind you and to the left from the sound of it. You try to twist around, your chest lifting from the table, and when he notices, his hands return, creating a rough pressure against your neck as he forces your body back down. His weight plasters you to the surface, scraping your partially exposed stomach and tender breasts over the nicked wood. Shigaraki is merciless in his swift correction, his breath puffing out angrily behind you. “Didn’t say you could move, either.”

Stunned, you freeze. Your arms are arched awkwardly, but he keeps his weight against you, flattening your breasts and forcing your back to arch into an awkward bend. Fuck, you think, how are you supposed to stay like this? Your legs are already aching and if he shifts away again, he’s likely going to expect you to maintain this absurd pose.

“Yes,” he groans, his voice catching against the word, “Good girl. Now, stay just like that.”

Damn it.

“Go on, read the first part again,” he instructs.

“The entire genetic content of a cell is known as its genome and the study of genomes is gen-genomics. In eukaryotic cells, but… but not in p-prokaryotes, DNA forms a complex with histone proteins… with histone proteins… sub-substance… of…”

His teeth have latched onto your neck, and he’s sucking bruises into your tender skin. He’s still pinning you to the table, but his hands are widening their explorations. He’s started dragging a fingernail across the puffy folds of your cunt, teasing against the dripping and swollen flesh, chuckling when you buck against his hold.

“You always seem to lose it when you get to cellular modulations.”

“I–I–It’s not… I can’t help that you keep…” you whimper, your fingers curling under your palms, head shaking back and forth. You can’t think. He’s not being fucking fair, and you can’t even string your goddamn words together. Shit. “Y-you’re not being fair,” you accuse, falling on the only thing that keeps running through your mind, your splayed feet shifting uncomfortably under you.

“Not fair? Not once did I say fairness would come into this arrangement,” he lifts himself off of your back and leans beside you, one arm planted beside your crooked elbow. His fingers trace over the curve of your ass, cupping at the thickest part of you and squeezing.

“But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get a little satisfaction out of this arrangement. I bet you look good when you cum. And you’ve been working so hard to get my attention these last few months. So careful to do what I tell you. Looking at me with those big eyes of yours, all wide eyed every time I catch you looking at me. And don’t even get me started on your lips. You’re lucky I didn’t fucking bend you over after class, especially when you started wearing all of those cute little skirts for me. Ahhh, don’t moan like that, I won’t be able to help myself if you do. Let’s see how you’re doing, shall we?”

Without warning, he slips his longest digit into your cunt, groaning loudly when he’s sucked into your welcoming heat. Your pussy, hungry for any kind of scrap, ripples around his intrusion, clamping and pulling, desperate for more.

“Fuck,” he groans, his weight falling against your shoulder. “You’re soaking.” His elegant digit pushes deeper and you roll your hips under him, urging him closer, sighing when he sinks to the last knuckle. As he pulls his finger back, he adds another, swiftly v-ing the two before curving them together as they slip back out, dragging a steady line of pleasure from your quivering cunt. Shigaraki whispers another round of awed praise against your ear, his voice dark and breathless.

A third digit is added on another trip out, and it creates a ragged sensation within you. It’s close to what you like, but he’s stretching you too far and it’s starting to hurt. He either needs to speed up, or give you a little more pressure. If you can hump your clit against the edge of the table, maybe it’ll give you the friction that you need. When you mindlessly buck your hips, your thighs threatening to lose that spread, he stops, holding his fingers inside you, laughing as you agitatedly try to shift him back into his earlier rhythm.

“So eager. I’d say you’re ready for my questions.”

“W-what?” you gasp, wholly focused on making him restart the push and pull of his fingers inside you.

“I’ll start you off with something easy. What’s the cell membrane?”

“W-what? The cell… ah–”

“Answer me. Now,” he grunts, leaning forward, re-steadying you as his fingers pull outward, dragging against your sensitive folds and schlicking through your arousal lewdly, loudly. You moan and your eyes roll back, completely ignoring his demand as you fall into the haze of pleasure that comes after his movements.

His free hand travels up your neck and he tangles his fingers into the tendrils of your hair, yanking and jerking at the strands, demanding your attention.

“I said, answer me.”

“Shigaraki–I–fuck. I can’t even… ugh… think right now!”

“Do you want the grade, or not?” he questions, his voice tense. “Answer correctly and I’ll give you what you want.”

“I–I don’t think I can,” you whine, pressing your hips back as he thrusts his fingers forward again, curving them upward, searching for the spongy pad of nerves that rest against the front of your pelvis.

“Oh? What happened to wanting that A? What about your graduation? You gonna let me fuck up your entire college career? I can do it, you know. I’ve done it to so many simpering freshmen. I fail kids left and right and you’re no different, (Y/N).

The university lets me ahh–there it is! God, you’re so fucking wet.

Where was I? The university can’t say no to me; they let me do what I want. I bring in too much money, too many tempting grants, and that’s all they really care about. So what’s it gonna be? Let me see that you can answer this basic crap and I’ll pass you. Or would you like for me to tie you down and force it outta you another way?”

He’s picked up the pace of his fingers as he rambles over you and a swift press against that newly discovered spot inside you has you falling to pieces in his hands, popping up onto your tiptoes and rutting yourself against the surface of the table. “O-ok, God, ok! Just–fucking repeat the goddamn question,” you pant, head slumping forward, forcing his fingers to tighten against your hair to hold you upright.

“What is the cell membrane?”

You wince your eyes closed, trying to rack your brain to focus on something other than the heavy pressure of the three fingers that are teasing their way across your dribbling pussy. He’s moving his presses with a lackadaisical, inconsistent rhythm now and it’s hard to fucking think. You can’t tell if his next thrust will be hard, or soft, or so rough that it’s bordering on that bittersweet line of pain.

You shake your head, doing your best to ignore the mounting pressure that he’s building inside you and the ache of your neck and legs. Finally, after another sharp tap against that secret bunch of nerves at the front of your cunt, you latch onto a vague remembrance.

“It… it’s a double layer of–of phospholipids that make a boundary between the cell and t-the surrounding… ugh… it controls the passage of materials.”

“Very good. Elaborate on the cellular wall.”

He’s unrelenting in his domineering treatment, twisting and frigging his fingers each time your breath hitches, and your arousal is leaking down your legs, making your skin stick and pull. It’s too much, you can’t! How can he even ask this? Words are falling from your lips incoherently, and all too soon you’re gasping out his name rather than reciting the answer.

“Cellular–oh, fuck, Shi–Shigaraki–Please, keep–don’t stop! S-Shigaraki, God that… feels… ah–keep going!”

He ignores your request and pulls his fingers away, robbing you of that sweet pressure that he’s so carefully mounted within you.

“I’ll count that one as incorrect. Your ‘A’ is swiftly becoming an ‘A’ minus, (Y/N)” he snarls, his teeth gritted, hands falling to the swell of your hips, wet fingers digging into your soft skin.

“What? No! You didn’t give me enough… e-enough time! How can–can you expect me to answer that qui-quickly!”

“Let’s try another.”

It hurts. That ache that he’s drawn out of you is starting to sting and throb and he’s being such a dick about it! You twist and grind under him, and he traps your disobedient hips against the rough siding of the table.

“I don’t–” you protest weakly, your legs trembling and chest heaving under his weight.

“Do you want this? Wouldn’t you like to pass this class? To graduate with honors?” he growls, leaning closer, his hands braced against you, his fingers no doubt leaving bruises on the supple crest of your hips.

“You’re such an ass! Yes! Fuck, please! I–I want it so fucking bad!” you cry out, your voice drifting into a sob as you croak out the last plea.

“Then answer another question. What’s diffusion?”

“D-diffu-diffusion is the process by which molecules move from an a-area of… of… fuck- of high concentration, to low concentration. Shigaraki!”

“I should count that as another miss, but you got the major concept correct.” He removes his fingers from your waist and yanks your ass toward him, keeping your overeager hips away from the fleeting relief of the sturdy table. “Pop your legs together,” he commands, one hand wrapping around your arched throat, squeezing until you obey. His other hand drops to that thatch of curls that rest between your quivering thighs and he gathers up your gossamer strands, rubbing against your clit for one hazy instant, sending a flash of spots across your vision.

“Mmm, now that’s a pretty sight. Good girl, don’t move,” he reminds you and you want to scream at him. Right before you can spit some frustrated vitriol out, he’s releasing your neck, his hands dropping from your skin and letting you fall back to the uneven surface below. Just before your chin contacts the wood, his hand is back in your hair, tugging you upward, holding you a few inches above the table. The sharp pain makes your scalp tingle and you unconsciously rut against the tempting heat that’s now plastered to your ass. He’s hard. You can feel the stiff bulge of his cock straining against the front of his dark jeans, pressing into the cleft of your posterior.

“T-that’ can’t be comfortable,” you pant, twisting your head so you can look up at him from the curve of your shoulder.

“Oh? You worried about my cock?” he asks, his red eyes flashing down at you challengingly. You don’t bother giving him a verbal response, opting instead to grind your ass up, catching against the jut of his length, earning yourself a low groan. His lips curl when you repeat the motion and you realize you love watching that smug face of his drift into a look of tense pleasure. It makes his scar on his lip flush and those red eyes of his fall to a lazy half mast. He spies your arched brow and pleased grin and pushes himself off of you, leaving you alone and open on the table.

“Keep pushing your luck. I’m more than happy to drop you back to a B.”

“What?” you scoff, teeth clinking together as you clench your jaw. “I didn’t move!”

“No, but you’re trying to take control of this and we can’t have that can we?” Shigaraki sneers. “Now, how shall I punish you?”

“P-punish me?” you stammer, a chill racing down your spine.

“Ah, I know. This’ll really piss you off,” he twists from your strained gaze and walks back toward his desk. What? What the fuck does he mean? You can’t see him from this angle, not with the way your legs are stretched and back is lowered, but it doesn’t stop you from trying, your chin lifting upwards as you do your best to keep him in focus.

Ugh. It’s no use. He’s slipped past your field of vision.

Hearing is likely your best bet, so you shift your forehead back to the table and listen, straining your ears to pick up any morsel. Something opens and closes and you catch the sound of the wheels of his chair as they shift, squeaking across the floor, and the groaning of the springs when his weight is applied to the cheap leather.

Okay, so he’s in his chair. Is he just gonna look at you? That’s not… wait…

There’s a faint clicking sound.

It’s both familiar and unfamiliar to your ears, but once the teeth slide over the last pull, you realize. It’s a zipper.

Oh fuck. Is he going to jerk himself off? With a gasp, your head whips back around. He’s still positioned himself away from you, and you can only just make out the sounds that are accompanying the undoubted rise and fall of his fist. All you can see is a tiny sliver of his body, but you catch sight of the coiling muscles on his neck and you notice that his head is dipped forward, pearl white hair settling across the cut of his collarbone. The one red eye that meets yours is blazing and hungry, it makes every hair on the back of your neck stand up.

God, he’s staring at you, watching you, getting himself off as you’re half naked and bent over a desk in his office, fully subjugating yourself to his whims and fancies for the sake of your grade.

Damn it, (Y/N). This should not be a fucking turn on. You should be disgusted, but the flush of slick that drips down your thigh says otherwise.

He lets out a choked moan, picking up the pace of his hand, letting you hear the click and slip of his palm as it strokes up and down his cock. A shiver echoes up your spine and your hips seem to have a mind of their own, grinding your clenched thighs over the dip of the table, easing the clenching pulsations that your cunt is shuddering through you.

“Look at you, so desperate for my touch that you’re humping the fucking table. Such a dirty girl, and so disobedient. You’ve only answered a few of my questions correctly and yet your slutty little mouth and body keep pushing at me. Making me put you in your place. Let me ask you something, why should I go out of my way to fix your grade when you can’t even prove to me you understand the simplest concepts?

Ah, here’s a thought. What if I told you I’ll wave the other requirements; no more readings, no more quizzes, but I won’t let you cum? What if I just get myself off? You’re putting on a such a good show for me! Why should I bother with seeing that you’re satisfied when that table seems to do the job for you? Sound good? Or would you like for me to come back over there and make you cum?”

“I–I don’t… I don’t want…” You can’t get the words out, your tongue feels leaden between your lips and you can’t think of anything but the steady itch that’s spreading from your clit.

“Speak up,” Shigaraki demands, slowing his jerking fingers. The chair he’s sitting in groans as he leans forward, and his eyes wide as they take in the delicious sight that’s propped before him. “You don’t want to cum? Is that it? You’d like for me to get myself off and leave you there?”

“No!” you cry out, your fingers digging into the scuffed wood of the table. “I-I want you to make me cum.”

There’s a sharp clatter and you jump at the abrupt noise. It must be the chair you think, your heart pounding against your chest, waiting for Shigaraki’s next move. He only lets a few seconds drift by before he presses himself back to you. He leans his broad chest over your back, the front of his legs pushing against the back of yours. His exposed length is wedged firmly against the cleft of your ass and its tempting hardness makes you squirm under him, but he’s propelling you forward, pinning you against the rough wood, and you can only flail uselessly under his control. His lips skim over your neck and he bites into your skin, sucking and licking bruises as he inches closer to your pulse.

You say his name pitifully, wantonly, and he lets out a shaky gasp. Something about your tone has shifted something within him and you can feel his cock swelling, dripping a rope of wet pre-cum down your shaking leg.

He leans away, removing his sticky hardness from your ass. “Seems your priorities have shifted. You’re a little preoccupied right now, aren’t you?” he asks, his voice gravel scraping against your overwhelmed senses. You let out a weak moan and he snaps into action, his fingers pushing under your flattened stomach and tugging against the fabric that he finds. He yanks you upward, pulling your shirt up as he goes. His palms dip under your half lifted bra, and he cups at your breasts, massaging the rounded bulbs and plucking at your peaked nipples. Your head lolls back, and he sucks at your earlobe again, his breath warm and rasping as it passes by.

“Hold still,” he commands.

It’s not an easy position, this stretched upward arch that he’s forced you into, but it’s worth it when you feel his cock pushing between your tensed legs. He doesn’t thrust into you, opting to run his weeping tip against your slippery folds, pressing until his bulbous head is twitching against your pulsing clit.

Goddamn it, you think as he stills, his lips smacking open-mouthed kisses over your shoulder, it’s not enough. You wiggle your hips back and forth and he abruptly exerts a firm pressure against your windpipe, leaving you sputtering and gasping. “What’s wrong? Not happy with this? Do you think you deserve something more? Do you think you’ve earned that?” He shoves you back against the surface of the table, his broad chest following the plane of your back, trapping you under his heavy form.

You’d replied, you know you must have, but you can’t hear yourself anymore, your attention attuned to the warm length that’s pressed against your shuddering folds. You’d likely thrown in a please for good measure because Shigaraki rewards you with a quick peck to your shivering neck and his thumb, swirling it around your clit, creating a cresting ache that leaves you mumbling incoherently, a thin line of drool slipping from your parted lips. As he keeps that faint osculation up, your fingernails scrape over the wood of the table, your feet lifting you onto your toes, curving your back, and shoving your leaking pussy into his open palm.

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” Shigaraki says, a breathy desperation lingering around the edges of his rasping voice. “But it’s just not enough, right?”

You nod, licking up some of the excess saliva that’s built under your heavy tongue and crane your head back at him. His eyes are the first thing you see. They’re wild, ravenous and glinting with a roughness that makes you whisper out a soft whine. Fuck. It’s not supposed to be like this. You’re not supposed to want him this badly. Goddamn it. Now that he’s caught your gaze, he won’t let you look away, and he presses himself closer, his cock twitching and warm, the tip rubbing back and forth, keeping time with his circling thumb.

“You gonna fuck me, or not?” you finally ask, unsticking your lips and smirking up at his hardened face.

“Tch. Don’t rush me,” he grumbles, removing his hand and teasing cock from your cunt, watching as your body convulses under him, your pussy quivering against the excess stimulation that he’s wrought over you. Your thighs burn, aching to break free from his control, to rub against that throb, that tingling that keeps shuddering outward.

“One more question,” he tells you, lifting his dripping thumb to his lips and sucking off the traces of your arousal. The sight of him licking his pink tongue over his gleaming knuckles almost makes you lose your balance, your arms shaking precariously under you.

“A-another? Come on,” you pout, your eyes following the curve of his wicked lips, watching as his scar quirks upward, amused by your useless defiance.

“Make you a deal, answer it correctly and I’ll give you my cock. Sound fair?”

“Ugh, whatever, just hurry up,” you snap, so impatient and turned on that you can hardly think.

The tip of his cock presses against your sopping entrance, pushing forward just enough to part your dripping folds but stopping before he clears that first, tight ring of flesh. The promise of his dribbling tip makes you lose any semblance of self-control. You thrash under him, but he traps your disobedient hips against the rough siding of the table.

“No! Don’t stop! Come on Sh-Shigaraki–Don’t be such a fucking–ah–”

“Do you want this? Do you want my cock?” he growls, leaning over you, his fingers squeezing down, no doubt leaving bruises in the supple crest of your hips.

“Yes! Fuck, please! I–I want it so fucking bad!” you cry out, your voice drifting into a sob as you croak out the last plea.

“Then you better answer. What are cytosines?”

“They… they’re n-nitrogenous base… fuck… base that pair… that pair with guanine during D-DNA replication… I–please, please, Shigaraki! Fuck me! I want your cock! Fuck me, fuck me!”

Thankfully, he either takes pity on you, or can’t control himself anymore, his hips surging forward, gliding his thick length into your cunt and snarling at the mind numbing heat that waits for him. He keeps driving upward until he bottoms out, sharp hipbones grinding against the plushness of your ass.

He’s not gentle with you, no he’s animalistic and raw, his thrusts papping into you with a terrifying strength. You would have liked something slower, something that lets you enjoy each imperfection and dip that raced along his cock, but this, oh, this is an exception because this is perfect. It’s not what you want, but it is what you need.

The heavy fullness that he’s stuffing you with leaves you breathless, but you somehow manage to gasp out a string of nonsensical praises each time he drives back into you, overwrought by his roughness.

This coupling isn’t kind, isn’t right, and is not healthy, for either of you. No, not with the way he’s using your shivering body, distracted with slacking that euphoric thrum that’s making his cock pulse and swell inside you.

But fuck it feels good and you can’t help but tremble with delight. These intoxicating thrusts of his ram him up against something that’s buried deep inside you, and each time he hits it another star of bright pleasure races through you. The familiar coiling of release is steadily mounting with each rapid fire rut he gives you and if he could just, ah, there’s something that’s… no, fuck, it’s, it’s not going to work. It feels good, but it’s missing one vital ingredient, one thing that he’s neglected to pay attention to, to notice.

Your clit needs to be tweaked and rolled, and right now it’s pulsing away against the table, beating a sad tattoo into the grainy wood. Oh well, you think, head fuzzy, lost in the euphoria of his powerful cants, grinding your ass into his hips as he digs into another teeth chattering thrust. He’ll likely finish soon, and you’ll probably need to get yourself off later. It’s not something new, and it’s not like he’s going to care enough to focus on that, on you. This whole thing has been about control, so there’s likely no room for your own pleasure.

“What’s wrong,” he gasps out, his fingers lifting from your hips to curl beside your turned head.

“What? N-nothing–I–” you pant, eyes rolling back as he hits that spongy patch of nerves again.

“Tch. Hold on,” he interrupts, his voice rasping and breathy. He pulls himself out of you with a grunt and yanks you upward, hauling you onto the tabletop and flipping you on your back, bending your stiffened legs and bracing your knees against his lean forearms.

He holds you apart, spreading you open with his powerful hands. You can see him properly now, and the sight makes your breath catch against the back of your throat. Fuck, he looks good.

His long white hair is draped across his bare shoulders and his eyes are blazing pits of hunger, devouring the sight of you with those red irises. His jaw is clenched, and he glares down at you from his imperious height, his nostrils flaring as he drags in a quick intake of air. To your shock, he gives you a little time to acclimate to this new position, opting to languidly step forward, letting his slippery cock head press and tease at the dip of your opening. But right when you think he’ll move again, he stops, his eyes roving over the lines of your face.

His sudden stillness makes you peer quizzically up at him and you scoot closer, your feet lifting from the table. The movement snaps him out of his stupor and he grabs your ankles, roughly pinning you back down.

“Keep still,” he snarls through clenched teeth, that scar of his lifting.

You nod mutely and he rewards your unquestioning obedience with another powerful thrust, sinking his swollen cock back into your waiting cunt. He lets out a sharp groan and grabs at your hips, jerking you forward, already drifting back into that all-consuming rhythm he’d started earlier. His ruts are a little slower from this angle but, in no time at all, that familiar ache pools in your core, stoking and building at an alarming rate. The driving force of his hips soon has you blinking back spots and distant stars, and this time he adds the all important pressure of his thumb, circling the finger pad over your clit and dragging a broken moan from your quivering lips.

“So that’s what you needed. You close?” he grits out, his lips set in a curled scowl. He’s lost some of that early control, his hips stuttering as they connect with yours, his power lessening, cooling, as he looks for your release.

“I–I think–oh fuck, do that again. Yes! Just–ah!”

He angles your hips upward and gives your clit another quick oscillation, pressing down until you’re gasping. “There you go. That felt good. You’re getting tighter,” he laughs, looming over you, shoving your heaving chest downward as he jerks your hips into him, forcing your body to do most of the motion, making your shoulder blades scrape across the uneven wood. “Cum for me. Fucking cum on my cock, (Y/N). Cum and I’ll give you your A, I’ll give you whatever the fuck you want.”

Your spine arches as you break around him, your cunt greedily pulling him deeper, slipping him past the barrier of your tender cervix and earning you a weak shout of praise from Shigaraki. Seconds later, he’s pulsing and twitching against your walls, the warm pooling of his cum filling you up and spilling down your spread thighs.

His head drops to your shoulder and the rough skin of his forehead sticks to your sweat dampened flesh. For a long moment you’re both still, each of you struggling to catch your breath, luxuriating in the tingling sensation of release.

“I fucking hate you, you know,” you gasp out, your arms circling his back, fingertips etching vague patterns over his neck and shoulders.

“Ha,” he snorts, “I’ll have to remember that. Don’t worry (Y/N), I’ll pay you back for that little remark next time.”

“Oh? Next time?” you chuckle, moaning as he twists out of your hold and pulls his softening length out of you.

“I’ll fail you on every assignment if you try to keep away,” he threatens, his eyes falling to the gaping mess that he’s left behind. You cross your legs, denying him the satisfaction of leering at your dripping pussy.

“Fine. But next time, fuck me on something softer than a damn table.”

tags: @spicy-skull, @xwildskullx, @yixxes, @ghstmthr, @rekoii, @diaouranask, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love, @libiraki <--- i’m coming for you. you’re gonna have to read for this, lady. so, uh, i’m officially noneconing you here.

notes: you made it! this thing is a monster & i’m so sorry i can never stfu

#shigaraki tomura #tomura shigaraki #reader insert #shigaraki x y/n #shigaraki x you #shigaraki x reader #bnha smut #9 to 5 collab #bnha degeneracy server #collaboration #tw: unhealthy relationship #tw: teacher/student #tw: dubcon #tw: bribery

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saphirered · 3 years

Note

I have a request! How about a pre!Caleb x reader with a runechild reader that has been with Caleb and Nott from pre-stream? What would their friendship dynamic be with the two and how does Caleb react to them being hunted for experimentation by various magic users.

I’m so sorry this took so long to write. Double shifts have been killing me but I’m still trying to get these requests out regardless in whatever free time I get. I hope this one’s to your liking. It turned out pretty long 😅 . Enjoy regardless 😘

Prison. How did it come to the point where being stuck in a jail would be both the best and worst place for you to be? At least those after you wouldn’t be able to get you without getting in a lot of trouble or jumping through legal hoops giving you enough time to plan your escape.

When word got out you were a runechild people praised you… and hunted you discovering your worth as a conduit for the natural magics as well as an arcane power source. You learned many before you were hunted and killed, or enslaved for just this fact so when people came knocking you weren’t going to stick around and find out their intentions and plans for you. You value your own life more than that no matter how curious you may be about what it means to be a runechild.

Being on the run has its good sides; new places, new people and new experiences. The down side, no stability, no security and no long term friends, always on the road with barely a moment to breathe but at least you’re alive and not held captive and squeezed for every bit of arcane juju in your body. Though, you have to say you do miss having friends. Luckily you’re not the only one on the run from selfish mages with ulterior motives and as they say, birds of a feather…

You’re sitting in the corner of your cell head leaning back against the wall and one knee propped up. There’s barely any light bleeding through the narrow window up high, the only way you’ve been able differentiate day from night and count how long you’ve been here. Time’s running out. You’ll have to make your escape soon. The guard schedule is the most difficult as you don’t see yourself overpowering all of them. Sure you can charm a few but brute strength isn’t really your thing and you’re kinda squishy compared to the armoured folks trying to keep people from escaping… You weren’t going to take your chances there and draw more attention to yourself.

The barred door opens, the sound pulling you back to reality to see a rather filthy looking man and a child? Halfling? being pushed into your cell. Great. Company. Not like that eliminates what few plans you had… The door is closed behind them by the guard that gives the small person a kick in the back for good measure. You don’t respond as they cry out about to turn back around and attack the guard but are stopped by the man. The duo sees you as the guard leaves and sticks to the opposite side of your humble abode sitting down together and whisper.

This would be the next few days; these new roommates of yours sticking to themselves barely speaking at all when not whispering. Not like you could blame them. You weren’t about to stick your nose in their business just like they hadn’t. Though, what you wouldn’t do for some warmth during the colder times like the small one, a goblin you learned, snuggled up with the raggedy man. When was even the last time you had a hug? It feels like ages. Whatever they had going on, you had to say you were slightly envious. At least they had each other. You were all alone and would remain alone for the foreseeable future. You’d give the world if that meant you could have something like they do.

It’s been a few days since you were given any food. You’re hungry and by the grumbling stomachs of the man and goblin, so are they. Then the guard came by throwing a single slice of bread through the bars. Both you and the goblin scurry forward diving for the slice and you get it.

“This isn’t enough for all of us!” You shout after the guard holding onto the slice.

“It’s all you’re getting. Share or fight for the scraps.” The guard calls nibbling on some piece of fruit or something. The goblin woman curses after the guard who stops in his tracks. You quickly glance between the raggedy man and the goblin as the guard walks over to the bars. Casting the spell with nothing but your mind as the guard’s distracted by the screeching cursing woman, the guard’s form relaxes a little bit and eyes turn to you.

“I’m so sorry about her, my friend. You wouldn’t be able to help us out, would you? It’s been a few days since we’ve eaten and we’re growing hungry. Could you be a dear and fetch us some good and proper food quickly? I’d greatly appreciate it.” You bat your eyelashes and smile innocently. The guard nods happily and hands you a pouch filled with what he was snacking on.

“I’ll be back with more but please take this for now.” The guard says before he’s off to find you more food. You let out a breath of relief that it worked. You open the pouch and see some fresh berries. The goblin stares at you in confusion as the guard went from asshole to friendly in a split second. You hand her the slice of bread.

“Now let’s hope the asshole returns within the hour.” You make your way back to your corner and sit down in your usual spot. While you do nibbling on the berries you feel the man’s eyes burn into you or rather a dimly glowing rune on your lower arm. You quickly shift hiding it, staring him down until he averts his gaze. You see from the corner of your eyes as the woman offers to share the slice of bread with the man with a slight hesitation. That amount of food is going to do next to nothing to sate an empty stomach for one, let alone two people. You look down at the pouch of berries while you pop one in your mouth.

Cursing to yourself you get up, walk over to their side of the cell and sit down a couple feet away from them. You think for a second, pour some of the berries in your hand and hold it stretched out towards the man.

“Look, we’ve seen you charmed the guard with your wiles to give you food but do you have to rub it in our faces too?!” The woman screeches petting the man’s shoulder in comfort.

“I don’t think they’re taunting us. I think they’re offering to share.”

“Take them before I change my mind.” You’re still half deliberating on eating them yourself with how hungry you had grown in the past few days. The goblin calms down demeanour instead turning to confusion trying to find some ulterior motive while the man takes the berries with a brief smile and shares them with the woman.

The room turns silent again for the next thirty minutes or so before the guard returns with some plates of fresh food. Bread, not stale, butter, a couple of cuts of meat and even some steamed vegetables and rice. You rush over to the bars a little quicker than you’d wanted but even the smell’s enough to make your mouth water. You take the plates offering the guard a charming smile.

“Thank you very much, my friend. We won’t forget your generosity. Now why don’t you be back on your way and we’ll keep this our little secret alright?”

“Yeah, of course. Let me know if you need anything else.” The guard nods before leaving the three of you.

“You lot still hungry because this needs to be gone in the next thirty minutes or so.” The man pats a spot next to him and the goblin and you rush over handing them their own plates the three of you shoving down the food as fast as you can, to the crumbs, licking the plates clean. Not your finest perhaps but it only shows how long it’s been since any of you had a proper meal. After you return to your usual silence but remain seated with them.

The consequences of your spell usage came as you expected and resulted in some bruises for you but they were worth it. Since you shared the food and took full responsibility for your actions the man, Caleb and goblin, Nott had grown a little more open with you and the three of you came to a nonverbal understanding to share what you got and distribute fairly. In the mean time you’d still been plotting your escape but your stunt had put a bit of a dent in that as they changed up the guard schedule too. Time’s running out.

It’s afternoon and you’re laying on the floor curled up shivering from the cold facing away from Caleb and Nott. Your breath is visible in the air, the day unusually cold. A small hand touches your shoulder so you turn to see Nott giving you a pitied look. You sit up a little still shaking breathing into your hands and rubbing them together in the hopes of getting some warmth going. Nott grabs onto your hand and slowly pulls you in the direction of Caleb where she had been sitting before. You don’t resist as she sits you down right next to Caleb. You can’t help but cling onto him a little, responding to the warmth he brings and he does the same. While the difference is minimal, it’s better than none. Nott curls up in between the both of you on your laps using part of your coat to wrap around her, your own little heating pad against your stomachs.

Caleb snaps his fingers and you feel soft fur scratch your neck, weight of a paw shifting to your shoulder and settle down. Looking down you see a bengal cat cuddle up like a scarf between you and Caleb. You make eye contact with the man. While your knowledge of the arcane might be limited you put one and one together and recognise the cat to be a familiar. You scratch the orange fuzz-ball’s head a little making it purr.

“That trick you pulled a few days ago, you think you could do it again?” Caleb asks, voice shaky from the cold. You nod.

“Good. We’re gonna need it if we want to get out of here. Together.”

The next few days are repeated in kind, the cold sticking and freezing to death isn’t on any of your schedules. Caleb showed you a little trick of his to keep you warm when you were sure no guards would be near. The flame in his hands and cuddly cat Frumpkin, offered you some warmth and comfort when you most needed it.

One day you’re in Caleb’s embrace, Nott in yours and you’re huddled together, when you feel some kind of amulet hidden beneath the layers of Caleb’s clothes. Caleb notices you noticed and freezes up.

“Don’t worry I’m not going to steal it. Is it from your home?” You assure and while he grows a tiny bit less rigid he’s not back to his usual self.

“You could say that.” Caleb speaks absentmindedly, sounding a little stuck in his head.

“So not a good memory then. I won’t pry.” This puts him more at ease. He reaches into the neckline of his shirt and pulls out the amulet running his thumb over it. Curious what it looks like you’re slightly taken aback it matches something you’ve managed to keep hidden on your person too.

“Looks like we have more in common than I thought. People with those kind of trinkets usually intend to stay hidden from people with a tendency to stick their arcane noses where they shouldn’t.” You take out the similar amulet from beneath your robes and show it. You’d rather not go into the details of how you procured this object. What matters is you have it and it keeps you safe from more persistent folks.

“It appears so. If you don’t mind me asking, who would you be running from to need such an item?” You notice some wariness behind Caleb’s curiosity. Mistrust perhaps?

“No one in particular that I know of currently. It’s more of a precaution you see. The… origins of my abilities make me very wanted by those of arcane interests. They’d see me caged like some pretty songbird to be shown off to their friends or in chains, to be used as a power source for their spells and rituals without my consent. Certain powerful mages have been made aware of my presence in the Dwendalian Empire and seek to use me for their own plots. I prefer my freedom and staying out of their clutches.” You explain. You have no reason to hide this from Caleb. It just wasn’t relevant before.

“I think I have a feeling I know about these individuals and believe me when I say you’re better off staying far away from them. I intend to do the same.” Caleb puts the amulet back in its place hidden from sight and you do the same.

“A common interest then? Since we’re running from the same thing, perhaps sticking together after our grand escape until our paths diverge works in our benefit?” You deliberate as Nott listens along. You expected her to be asleep but apparently she had been listening too.

“You can protect us and we protect you. You can study and learn together and become more powerful. We’ll protect each other. Caleb?” Nott speaks as she grabs yours and Caleb’s hands in her small ones giving them a light squeeze.

“I don’t see why not.” Caleb mutters seeing the benefit in sticking together for the foreseeable future. He looks at you waiting for your answer.

“I guess. If you’ll have me, I’d very much appreciate the company.”

And so you decided to stick together. Your breakout, not without its hiccups, successful regardless. You did as you agreed and had each other’s backs leaving your prison days far behind. You make a great team swindling people, stealing what you need to get by. Life on the road is hard but much more bearable with these two at your side. Nott has very much taken the mother role when it comes to the two of you, making sure you’ve eaten enough, studied enough and sleep instead of sticking in the books with Caleb. She’ll cuddle up to your side even on the warmer nights wrapping her arms around your arm or sides. Caleb shares his knowledge with you, as much as he can anyway hence the two of you studying together. He’s taken up the role of tutor and friend very well. The three of you while a little rocky at first have a good thing going on. You’re more than just friends. You’re family. You look out of each other no matter what and you stick together until the bitter end through think and thin because at the end of the day; birds of a a feather, stick together.

#critical role x reader #mighty nein x reader #critrole x reader #caleb widogast x reader #nott x reader

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xo-cuteplosion-xo · 3 years

Text

Midnight ball | Chuuya x reader |

Midnight Ball | Chuuya x reader | (female reader)

I feel like I'm doing Chuuya dirty with this one-

Warnings- references to some NSFW themes, inferred attempted rape, mentions of drug use.

(really hesitant on actually posting this... nothing happens, but I don't wanna make people too uncomfortable)

Undercover missions were normal in the port mafia. Every once in a while they would come up. You went on a lot of these missions. Even the ones you didn’t care for.

The air was brisk, not too cold, but not a comfortable warmth either. It wasn’t every day you were called in on what should have been your day off. The clouds covered the noon sun, keeping its warmth tucked away. It felt as if it may rain. Maybe snow would fall with how cold the air was. The trees were bare of their leaves and the grass slowly warping to brown. The winter flowers, in full bloom. You shivered tugging the scarf closer as you walked towards the black buildings. Stepping inside was bliss, the air warm and welcoming. You walked slowly towards the elevator stepping inside as it carried you to the level Mori’s office was.

Making your way into the office, your eyes landed on the short male you had become close to. Running a hand through your hair you looked to Mori. “Ya know it’s my day off right? This better be important.” you had guts talking to your boss like this. Elise snickered from the corner of the large room, drawing a picture. Most likely something rather disturbing, as she tended to do.

You hadn’t noticed it before, but Chuuya’s face was contorted in both disgust and anger. Whatever this was, gave him quite displeasure. “He’s having us go undercover. Instead of picking another female… he’s making me wear a fucking dress.” his eyes narrowed in Mori's direction.

“Well, you work well with (y/n). I carefully considered members like Kouyou, but none of them matched what I needed for the minor mission." Mori grinned as Chuuya huffed, crossing his arms.

You tried to imagine him in a dress, but the only thing that you could think of was Kouyou, considering they did both have ginger hair. Shrugging you grabbed Chuuya’s hand, tugging him away. You figured he could brief you on the mission later.

As the sun fell under the horizon, and the moon took its place in night's embrace, the two of you settled inside the limo. Chuuya’s arms were crossed as he tugged on the dress. His eyes set in heavy glares. His hair happened to be up in a neat bun. It had taken a lot of fighting and shouting that could have deafened somebody. He was even dolled up with light specks of makeup. The red dress suited his form, his height made it ideal for heels. He already had a feminine figure, so there wasn’t much you needed to do to pass him as a female. He kept squirming around glaring at you. “How the fuck do girls wear these dreaded things.” he hissed, referring to the corset hidden beneath the silk he wore.

Snickering you shrugged leaning back. “They say beauty is pain,” you hummed, leaning back in your seat. This wasn’t ideal for you either. You much preferred to be slightly dressed down from this. Looking as fancy as you did now wasn’t modest, and it sure wasn’t something you liked to wear. You were sucking it up so why couldn’t Chuuya? Could he really be all that uncomfortable? “I could loosen it a bit.” you offered, but Chuuya shook his head staring at himself. He had mastered heals within a handful of moments so you weren’t worried about him tripping. The real challenge would be flirting with the target.

This was a two-person job due to the size of the party and the security around the target. One of you would distract the guards while the other smooth-talked their way into a private area with the target. They would either get the extent of the information this person had managed to take early this morning or silence him. You two hadn’t decided who would be doing what. It was more one of those whoever gets there first situations. The car pulled up to the entrance just as your thoughts finished. Stepping onto the ground you waited for Chuuya. The clunk of his heels on the pavement were steady and even. You went to remind him about his expression, but he rolled his eyes. “I know, no scowling, glaring, or yelling.”

You smiled gripping the edge of the dress, pulling it up so you could walk the stairs without tripping on the (f/c) fabric. Your hair was down but pinned in specific places. “Don’t forget, no swearing. We have to act ladylike Chu.” clicking his tongue, he pinched the fabric of his dress and walked up after you. Entering the large mansion you were escorted to the ballroom. Standing at the railing that overlooked the floor you smiled. Never in your life had you been to one of these. You truly wanted to participate at least a little.

Chuuya noticed the excited glimmer of your eyes and grabbed your hand. Tonight, you both were trying to pass as two female teenage siblings whose parents wanted a night alone. Without a boyfriend, the two of you showed up alone. A naive action when it came to noble parties. These were incredible to get into. You had to have power and money somewhere. He pulled you down the stairs, flashing you a small smile. He wouldn’t admit but this wasn’t that bad. He didn’t mind the corset or the way the dress flowed in the wind. He minded the hair since he always wore it in one specific style. He’d done this once before with Dazai but doing this with you was different. Probably because he wasn’t being forced to be the fiance this time. “We might as well try to enjoy ourselves.” he was surprisingly skilled at keeping his voice higher in pitch. There were a few occasional slips, but he sounded somewhat feminine.

Smirking you pulled him to the food table. “I’d say you're actually enjoying yourself Chu.” his eyes narrowed for a second before playfully hitting your shoulder.

“Sure I am.” he huffed looking over the table of snacks. He grabbed one of the tea-sandwiches and took small bites. Despite how he tried to enjoy himself, he was focused on the mission. There was still no sign of the target. Two older-looking gentlemen came up to the pair of you, holding their hands out.

“Would you two care for a dance?” Chuuya’s mouth twitched to snarl, but he quickly put on a smile despite how much he wanted to string profanities. You glanced at him, inhaling softly, you tapped his shoulder as if to reassure him.

“Depends~ how old do you think we are?” you two had decided on your roles already. To spare Chuuya some dignity you would try to be the more seductive while he played the part of the shyer, more innocent twin. Since he was a boy playing a girl, he matched the innocent child-like stereotype well, considering he didn’t have breasts.

One of the men standing in front of you chuckled lightly. “Teens, though it’s not like we're hitting on you. We simply wish to take you for a dance. You appear lonely.” Chuuya was sick to his stomach already. The last time he’d done this he didn’t have to deal with these situations because Dazai had been there. Yet, as he looked to you, he tilted his head. Your hand grabbed the man's as you looked back to Chuuya.

“Trust me, it’ll be fun. There aren't any men our age, so trust me.” the act flew softly off your lips. There was a hidden motion when you flicked your ankle. It would have passed as your feet were slightly sore to anybody else. Chuuya glanced to the railing, spotting the target. He nodded, faking a smile as the two of you entered the dance floor.

With every pulse of the music, you got closer and closer to the edge. Your eyes tracing for the amount of guards. Though based on what you were observing you had both already found them. It was a widely known fact your target had a thing for younger females. Not young like Elise but teenagers who appear frail. You and Chuuya most definitely looked the part tonight. Dipping you back your eyes met Chuuya's, a smirk crossing both of your expressions. When you returned to the normal position you switched partners.

Things started going slightly south from there. While you two had managed to keep your dancing rather close to one another, you were starting to drift apart now. Chuuya moved closer to the stairwell, while you made your way towards the back doors. Despite how you tried to move back towards him, your dance partner kept you moving in that direction. Eventually, you noted what was going on. Occasionally these types of missions had unexpected twists. This was one of those twists. You hadn’t thought to watch for other predators. Trying to rip your hands from his you glared. “I ought to get back to my sister.” you wove innocence into your voice, but he paid no mind as if he had not heard you. As the music ended, the rough grip that had succeeded in pulling the two of you apart let go. A silent satisfactory smirk placed over his lips. Walking from you he headed back to find another dancing partner.

Walking around you began to search for Chuuya among the crowd. Innocently asking couples and other women if they had seen a short, rather young-looking female ginger dressed in red. They had shaken their heads but one couple pointed towards the stairs. You curtsied respectfully, racing to the stairs only to be stopped by the two men you had previously been dancing with. Batting your eyelashes you explained somebody had seen your sister walk up these stairs not too long ago.

You couldn’t help but feel worried despite knowing Chuuya could handle himself with the utmost care. He was strong both physically and ability-wise. You bit the inside of your cheek figuring, they probably weren't idiots. If they had separated the two of you they had to think you already knew something was up. You'd probably made that worse when you tried pulling away in the dance. The high-heels were beginning to get rather annoying. They were difficult to run in, jumping would probably result in a twisted ankle if you don't land perfectly. You made sure to blend away into the crowd. Losing their eyes you slipped through doors until you made it into a hallway. Laying out the map of the building in your head you walked the halls trying to find the staircase leading upstairs. You had to dodge behind corners to avoid security. It took you close to ten minutes to finally reach the stairs. There were so many rooms it would be difficult to find which one to enter. You narrowed it down to two in your head. The others would be a waste of time, the two you had narrowed it to were close to the ballroom, small, and were bar areas. Off-limits to party-goers as well. There would be no interruptions to their perverted actions.

You looked around, spotting a guard, you gripped the edge of your glove with your teeth. Walking up as if you were scared you began to stumble purposely over words. “I-i think I’m lost. I needed the ladies room and I couldn't find my sis or the ballroom.” faking tears as you got closer, the security officer's eyes softened as you approached. Taking you as a younger female instead of an adult, he offered out his hand. You gripped it before smirking as your ability activated. Moving your hand away, you tilted your head. “Sleep,” you commanded them. They fell to the floor with a thud. Grabbing the gun from their belt you checked that the safety was on. Assured it was you stashed it in your dress. Walking to the first room you burst inside finding no sign anybody had been there, you closed the door.

Making your way to the next option you pressed an ear to the door. Whispers and the sound of metal sent you to a light panic. Glaring at the door you pulled the gun out and switched the safety off. Entering the room you pointed the gun only to hear clicks follow. Your eyes darted to the sound. “So there were four.” snarling you entered and shut the door with your heel. Your mind began thinking of every way to get away from this situation. You lowered your gun with a defeated sigh. Letting it drop to the floor, one of the guns pressed to your head. Their hand grabbed your wrist as you looked to the mop of passed-out ginger.

“Damn idiot,” you hissed knowing this was probably the result of drugging. There was no way in hell he’d be beaten by mere ability-less scum. Shoved to the floor you glared. Your hands were pulled above you. Looking to the side you snickered at the poor idiot who touched your skin. “Kill your boss,” you commanded and their body dropped you and turned to the person whose hands were on your love interest. When the next guy pointed the gun at you, you swept them off their feet, whistled, and pointed. “Shoot them.” with another fire, two of three were dead. “Now shoot yourself.” and so they ended up three of three. Tossing off the heels you made your way over to Chuuya. Checking his pulse you rolled your eyes.

You lifted him in your arms before leaving the bloody scene. Your dress was now stained with splatters of crimson. Jumping from the window, then to a tree, and down, you placed Chuuya in the limo. Grabbing a bottle of water you opened his mouth and poured it down his throat. He stirred a bit, his head falling on your shoulder. Blushing lightly you found the back of his dress was open and the corset already loosened. “Got there just in time.” you sighed as the limo pulled to your small apartment. Lifting him you carried him inside. Dropping him to the bed you sat on the opposite side of the bed.

It took three hours before his eyes fluttered open. Holding his head, he glanced at you. “Why the fuck are you here?” of course his first words would be aggressive. He could hide it all he wanted by the shiver of his body and the way his hands moved to his back made it clear. Finding the strings and ribbon undone as well as torn his eyes widened for a fraction.

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting to be separated like that.” you played around with your gloves looking back at him you pulled a thing of makeup wipes from the side table. Tossing it to him, you sighed. “I hope you don’t mind, I had Dazai lock pick your door and get you your usual clothes.” he couldn’t even be mad at you for letting that bastard into his house. His mind was still focused on recollecting what had happened. He was beyond humiliated. He should have seen it coming. “I should have gotten there faster. They shouldn’t have been able to even get that close. I’m so sorry Chuuya! I’ll talk to Mori about not putting you on these types of missions. I know you're mad but please… say something.” you twirled a strand of your hair on your finger.

“I should have been prepared.” he looked away from you before feeling your arms around his body. Your head laid in the crook of his neck as you shook your head violently. He felt something wet soil, the shoulder of his dress. Turning so he could pick your head up, he blinked, startled to see the water dripping from your eyes. “You’re crying?” he sounded baffled, confused even.

“I should have let you be yourself! If I hadn’t pushed you to act like an innocent defenseless child, that situation would have been different.'' Chuuya gripped your shoulders laughing lightly as he shook his head. “You didn’t even have a good time! You hated being there.”

“No, no, (y/n)... I... Fuck!” he was bad at words, so as he tried forming the correct words he kept shaking his head. “I enjoyed spending time with you! I’d prefer to accompany you as a man next time. Neither of us are at fault. Missions go south. Nobody got hurt, sure I feel like an idiot, I’m utterly humiliated that I let my guard down and got drugged up, but nothing happened.” he pressed his forehead against yours, his thumb wiping away the tears on your cheeks.

This was out of character for him, but it was a side only you gotta see. He hated seeing you break down or get upset over things you had no control over. His hands wrapped around your ungloved ones. Your skin touches him with a small shyness. “Can I?” he asked watching you nod as his lips passed over yours.

“We both deserve a break from work. How about we tell Mori we are taking two days off?” you hummed looking into his eyes. He smirked and nodded. His lips pressing back to yours in a heated kiss. You pressed him underneath you with a smirk. His face went red as he glared.

“You’re a fucking pervert.” he hissed watching you snicker.

“Wow Chu, I'm so offended.” you leaned back into a kiss as his cheeks turned a brighter shade of red. “Think this makes us a real couple.” he rolled his eyes as you rolled to lay next to him.

“Yeah, I guess.”

#chuuya #chuuya x reader #bsd #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs #bungo stray dogs x reader #chuuya fluff

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kurokoros · 4 years

Text

mirror mirror | shouta aizawa

Rated: M

Words: 3.3K

Pairing: shouta aizawa x fem!reader

Summary: You knew what you were in for as soon as the Pro Hero came home, the door closing behind him with a little more force than necessary.

Requested by @rreia

Warnings: smut, light bondage, mirror sex, overstimulation, dirty talk, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it folks)

Shouta Aizawa is a goddamn tease, you decide, hands fisted in the sheets beneath you. A quiet mewl slips from your parted lips as those long fingers of his squeeze around your thighs, forcing your legs open wider as his teeth scrape across your sensitive skin. Your heels dig into his back as he lazily kisses his way across your thigh, just shy of where you want him. He’s hardly touched you and you’re already quivering for him, whimpering each time he nips at your skin or you’re met with the coarse brush of his stubble.

You gasp as his tongue flicks out to taste the sweat-slicked skin that he’s been nibbling at, intent on leaving a mark. “Shouta,” you whine, trying to rock your hips forward against that sinful tongue, but he holds you down with ease. “Shouta, please!”

“Patience, kitten,” he tells you, breath hot against your dripping pussy. The rough tone of his voice hits you right between your legs. Your thighs twitch again, heat pooling low in your belly, and Shouta hums in approval as your back arches off the bed.

Shouto Aizawa is a goddamn tease and you love it.

You knew what you were in for as soon as the Pro Hero came home, the door closing behind him with a little more force than necessary. That was the only sound at all. Shouta didn’t stomp or swear, he was deathly quiet as he slipped through your apartment until he found you in your shared room. All it took was one look and you knew tonight would be one you wouldn’t be forgetting anytime soon.

There’s nothing more erotic than seeing Shouta Aizawa on his knees in front of you, playing with you until you’re a shivering, whining mess.

Whatever riled him up is channeled perfectly into each slow drag of his fingers and his wicked tongue. Dark eyes stare at you from between your legs, illuminated by the last rays of sunlight pouring in through the window. Shouta watches each subtle reaction he pulls from you, the moans and whimpers, the heaving of your naked chest, every flicker of emotion that crosses your pretty face. Each one is filed away for later, an arsenal that you’re powerless against. He knows exactly how to have you sobbing for him within seconds. And tonight he wants you begging.

Teeth latch onto your trembling thigh and bite down roughly, a dizzying blend of pleasure and pain. A strangled version of his name bubbles up from your chest, but he doesn’t let go. Another pleading sound falls from your lips and he hums. Rumbling vibrations have you keening and bucking your hips against his mouth, and you nearly sob when he pulls away.

“I said be patient.” He releases your thigh to slide his palm to your heaving chest. Rough fingers close around your breast, kneading your skin before his thumb begins to roll over your nipple, pinching and playing with the sensitive nub.

You huff as he presses a sweet kiss to the hickey already forming on your thigh. “Tease.” Shouta lavs attention on the rapidly forming bruise until you’re squirming again, proving your point. “Fuck, please, Shouta, I need you.”

The scruff on his chin scratches your inner thighs and he stops, silence ringing in the room.

The knot in your stomach is wound so tight you could cry, and you nearly scream as the tip of his tongue flicks across your clit, warm and wet and rough. The sensation drags a moan from your throat. Shouta hums an approving sound and adjusts his grip on you, spreading your thighs embarrassingly wide before leaning in to lap at your slick core like a starved man.

Releasing your grip on the sheets, you grab a fistful of hair and pull. It’s hard enough to make him grunt, lips still wrapped around your clit and suckling. A harsh pinch to your nipple is his retaliation. You moan his name and rock your hips against his face, desperate for friction.

Shouta pulls away to mouth at your thigh again, and the sound that leaves you is an embarrassing whine: high-pitched and loud. Tugging at his hair, you try to guide him back to you—to roll your hips upward—but he’s stronger, holding you down with ease. Your eyelashes flutter, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure that he can hear it.

A lazy gaze catches yours as Shouta stares up at you and you can feel his smirk against your thigh. “Such a needy little thing,” he murmurs. He rolls your nipple between his fingers one last time before his palm drags down your belly and between your spread legs. The pad of his thumb strokes through your slick folds and clicks his tongue as his fingers come away wet and glistening. “Tell me what you want or I’ll stop, kitten.”

He’s trying to kill you.

Huffing, your head flops back against the rumpled blankets as he goes back to lazily kissing your legs. When you keep your mouth shut, he’s quick to slap the outside of your thigh, the smack more surprising than it is painful. “Don’t make me ask you to beg.” His tone is a low warning that makes you shiver. You could get off just listening to this man whisper filthy things in your ear.

His knuckles brush against the spot where he slapped you, soothing any lingering pain.

It’s hard to think with him kissing across your thigh like this, but you manage a choked, “Eat me out,” that has you blushing.

“Good girl.”

This time he doesn’t tease you. You shudder as his tongue rolls over your clit at the same time two thick fingers thrust into your dripping slit with a slick sound that makes your cheeks burn. Expert fingers curl inside you, quickly finding your sweet spot, and Shouta is absolutely ruthless as he fucks you with his hand, setting up a brutal pace. Each stroke of his tongue feeds into the tight knot between your thighs, coiling tighter and tighter until all you can do is pant and roll your hips against him as much as he’ll allow.

Shouta alternates between sucking on your clit and pampering it with kitten-licks that have your chest heaving. You’re squirming, gasping for breath, and it’s only your pride that keeps you from begging for more. The fingers you have buried in his hair pull harder, and he groans.

“That’s it,” he says, voice muffled by your thighs. He curls his fingers just right and you writhe under him. “Come for me, kitten.” The vibrations from his words tease your clit and your toes curl against his clothed back. You arch off the bed as his tongue draws hard circles over your puffy bundle of nerves. It’s already too much. Arousal makes you dizzy and the knot in your stomach is so tight you could cry as his teeth scrape against you.

“Fuck, Shouta!” Your thighs threaten to clamp around his head, but he holds them open, unrelenting as he fucks you with his fingers. When he takes your clit between his lips and sucks you’re thrown over the edge. You cum hard with a throaty moan of his name. There are tears pricking at the corners of your eyes and your hips stutter. “Fuck!”

He doesn’t stop. Shouta continues to slowly torture your clit and thrust his fingers until it’s too much, too fast and the pleasure borders on painful. It’s not until you call out his name breathlessly and are practically boneless beneath him that he finally slows.

Nipping at your thigh, Shouta eases his fingers from your core.

It happens fast. Before you’ve even caught your breath, he’s yanking you off the bed and spinning you around. One of Shouta’s hands fists in your hair, pulling, and your moan is smothered by the feverish kiss he presses to your lips. On trembling legs he walks you backwards, tongue in your mouth and his free hand stroking over the length of your spine. You stumble, still dizzy from your high and so, so sensitive to the touch. Everything aches in the best way.

Your fingers clench in the front of his shirt, scrambling for anything to hold you steady, but he releases you long enough to yank your hands away and rip his shirt over his head. Both of your wrists are captured in an iron grip, long fingers wrapping around you easily. Your back meets a cold, smooth wall at the same time as something soft and silky brushes against the skin of your wrists, both of Shouta’s hands gripping yours and holding them above you. Another incessant kiss distracts you, keeping you from investigating and you can barely think. Shouta nips at your bottom lip, taking it between his teeth and sucking, and you melt into his touch.

It isn’t until something pulls on your wrists and forces you onto the tips of your toes that you realize what’s going on. “Shouta!” you gasp as he releases your lips in favor of trailing kisses across your cheek and down to your jaw.

It would be sweet, if he didn’t just use his damn scarf to tie you up.

You feel him smirk against your jaw. His hand finds your hair again, his fingers winding through the silky strands. With another tug, he guides your head to the side, his lips working their way down to your throat and leaving love bites in his wake.

You take the opportunity to glance upward, confirming your suspicions. That damn scarf is wrapped around your wrists in a firm knot that you already know you wouldn’t be able to undo even if you had one of your hands free. Following the knot upwards, your eyes widen when you see it attached to the ceiling by something shiny and strong enough to keep you suspended on your toes.

“Did you put a damn hook in the ceiling?” you ask absentmindedly.

His only answer is a grunt against the side of your neck, but you don’t have it in you to complain as he slides his hands down your sides, stroking every inch of your soft skin. He kisses down to your collarbone before finding your lips again.

As he pulls away from the feverish kiss, you barely catch sight of a mischievous smirk before he suddenly spins you around.

Your eyes widen when you’re met with your own reflection. He’s made a mess of you: kiss-swollen lips, tousled hair, faint marks littered across your throat, and your own slick dripping down your thighs in anticipation. A wave of arousal ripples through you at the sight of yourself, and you’re quick to squeeze your thighs together, trying to relieve the renewed ache between your legs. Your calves are already burning with the stretch, but the lick of pain only makes you wetter.

Shouta catches your gaze in the mirror and you shiver.

The way he nuzzles against your cheek would be sweet if it weren’t for the absolutely wicked look in his eyes. Shamelessly, he drinks in the sight of your reflection, humming to himself. One hand slides around your chest to grope at your breast, idly plucking at your nipple. With the other, he grips your thigh, forcing your legs apart until your wet pussy is on display.

“I’m gonna fuck you in front of the mirror,” he tells you, squeezing the thigh he has trapped in his firm grip. “I want you to see how pretty you look when you’re spreading your legs for me.”

It’s all you can do to keep from cumming again at his words. You whisper his name as he kisses your cheek.

One last pinch to your nipple makes you gasp before he lets go. His hand skims down your belly to your thighs, finding your puffy clit with ease and playing with it. The rough pad of his thumb traces slow, maddening circles over your sensitive skin. Your eyes flutter shut.

He slaps your ass hard enough to make you moan. “Eyes on yourself,” he snaps, the words a warning. The lick of pain has your eyes watering, but he soothes the abused skin with a gentle touch. “You know the rules. Don’t make me remind you.” Letting go of your ass, Shouta drags two fingers up the column of your throat and tilts your chin. Once again, you’re met with the sight of your flushed face. His fingers squeeze around your neck just enough for you to feel it.

“Yes, sir,” you whimper.

Shouta hums in approval, rutting against your ass. His hips roll and you can feel the outline of his cock through his pants, hard and hot. It makes your toes curl as you think about him fucking you like this. Seemingly satisfied with your response, he releases your neck.

You can’t see what he’s doing in the mirror, but the tell-tale clanking of his belt-buckle coming undone has you shivering with anticipation.

For once, he doesn’t keep you waiting. He spreads your legs open wider and hooks his elbow beneath your knee, forcing you onto your tip-toes again as his naked cock presses against your ass again. Your balance is precarious, but you know he’d never let you fall. “Be a good girl for me, kitten, and maybe I'll let you cum again.”

The teasing tone of his voice has you mewling. His cock strokes along your dripping slit slowly, and he groans as you squirm against him. Your name is a husky moan that has you biting your lip. Shouta’s free hand wraps around your waist to hold you steady. Each lazy grind of his hips has the head of his cock kissing at your clit and it has your nerves on fire.

“Shouta,” you gasp, his name the only thing you can say because god does this man know just how to touch you to keep you on the edge. He could spend hours teasing you like this. The sweetest torture. And you’d let him, too. “Shouta, please.”

The wet head of his cock presses at your slit again, and a breathless moan tumbles from your mouth as he slips into you slowly, his thick length stretching you from inside until his hips are flush against your own. From this angle, his cock is brushing against every one of your sweet spots, and each shallow thrust of his hips has you shivering and whining.

A low, throaty chuckle teases your ear, and your slick walls clench down around him. Shouta kisses the side of your neck and presses his chest against your back. Heat licks along your spine as he looms over you, those dark eyes locked on your rapturous expression in the mirror.

“You’re so wet, kitten,” he murmurs as he picks up the pace. Those slow grinds become rough thrusts that have you panting, trying desperately to rock your hips back against his, though you don’t have the leverage. “Such a pretty pussy,” he continues, hiking your thigh up higher, eyes locked on the reflection of his cock burying itself in your dripping cunt.

The wet sound of his cock filling you has you struggling to keep your eyes open. Each time your eyelashes begin to flutter you’re met with another harsh slap against your ass. Tears well in your eyes as the coil between your legs winds tighter, threatening to snap with each filthy, wet sound that comes with his cock being buried between your legs.

Two fingers find your swollen clit, pinching and rolling the sensitive bundle of nerves with intent. Twitching, you sob, hips jerking wildly against his. It’s all you can do to keep breathing each time his cock fills you from behind, stretching you wide and pounding against your sweet spot perfectly. Your walls clench around his length at a particularly harsh thrust, but Shouta doesn’t slow.

The hard circles he’s rubbing against your clit are too much. The knot in your stomach is taut and threatens to snap, but you can’t. Not yet.

“Please,” you gasp, the heat between your thighs unbearable. “Oh, fuck, please—”

An amused sound reaches your ears. “Please what?” He starts fucking you faster, still toying with your clit. Shouta adjusts his grip on your thigh, lifting your knee to your chest to reach deeper inside you.

Your fingers curl around the scarf keeping you suspended, knuckles white from the pressure. You know what he wants to hear. “Please, let me cum, sir.” Sweat drips down your stomach as your chest heaves.

The fingers on your clit don’t slow as he pretends to hum in thought. His stubble scrapes the side of your neck as he presses a kiss to your racing pulse. “Cum for me, kitten,” he demands with a sudden harsh pinch to your clit.

You forget how to breathe as the knot snaps and the tension unravels. Your toes curl and you tense as your orgasm washes over you. A strangled groan pushes past his lips as your already tight walls squeeze around his cock. His name leaves you with a choked moan as your eyes squeeze shut in absolute bliss.

Shouta doesn’t give you a moment to breathe. His fingers keep circling your clit, his hips moving faster now that you’ve cum once. You’re twitching, slick dripping down your inner thighs, and he keeps fucking you from behind, showing no signs of slowing.

You got yours. It’s his turn now.

When you can finally see straight again, you’re met with an image in the mirror that almost has you cumming again. You’re an absolute wreck and he hasn’t even finished yet, a determined gaze locked on yours in the mirror. Slowly, you begin to rock your hips back against his, your movements shaky.

He pinches your clit and you whimper at the overstimulation.

“That’s it, kitten.” He breathes a shaky sound against the back of your neck, grunting as your tight pussy squeezes around his cock again. His grip on your thigh becomes bruising. “Just a little more.”

You’re going to be so damn sore tomorrow.

Shouta’s cock twitches inside you as his thrusts lose their rhythm, becoming sloppy and rough. The stimulation is too much and you cum on his cock again, slack-jawed and boneless. His hips slap against your ass as he finishes with a low groan of your name, his cum hot as he fills you up.

Both of you are shivering and panting as he presses a sloppy kiss against the back of your shoulder. An embarrassing whimper escapes you as he pulls his softening cock from inside you and tucks himself back into his pants. You glance at yourself in the mirror, met with the sight of his cum dripping from your spent pussy and sliding down the inside of your thigh. Shouta keeps your legs spread wide, eyes locked on you in the mirror.

After another minute, he finally lowers your leg back to the floor. You wince, legs trembling as a cramp forms in your upper thigh, and his fingers kneed at you soothingly and stroke your sweat-slicked skin. Once he’s sure you won’t collapse, Shouta reaches above you. It doesn’t take him more than a second to release the knots holding you hostage, and you would be irritated if it weren’t for the exhaustion overtaking you.

The only thing keeping you upright are the big hands that wrap around your hips to steady you as Shouta carefully turns you around. Once you’re facing him, Shouta lifts you with ease. A hand hooks under your ass as you lazily drape your arms around his neck, nuzzling against the underside of his jaw as he walks you to the bed.

He kisses your temple before flopping down on the bed with a grunt, you on top of him. Situating yourself on top of him, you curl up against his chest, trying not to think about the mess of fluids still dripping down your thigh and smearing across the front of his pants. Calloused fingertips stroke your hip.

“Bad day?” you ask him sleepily, eyelids growing heavier as you’re lulled by the familiar warmth of his body. He rarely ties you up unless something’s irritating him, and you certainly aren’t complaining if that’s the case now.

A gruff, noncommittal grunt is your response, but the way his lips press against the top of your head is nothing but gentle. “Thanks, kitten,” he murmurs as you drift off, his fingers making lazy circles on your back.

#aizawa shouta x reader #shouta aizawa x reader #aizawa x reader #mha x reader #bnha x reader #mha dabi #bnha #bnha smut

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blu-joons · 4 years

Text

Underneath The Mistletoe ~ Johnny Seo

The night was beginning to draw in, the final remnants of Christmas day were left to be celebrated. As a chill graced the air you made your way out of the porch of your parent’s home feeling the crunch of the layer of snow under your booted feet.

As you let go of a sigh the air clouded, the colour of your hands turning a light shade of red as you gripped to the balcony. It had been the best part of a year since you last visited home, but one thing you made sure to never miss was Christmas.

This year was made extra special by Johnny being able to join you in a gap in his schedule, for several years your parents had been inviting him over but he always happened to be busy, but this year, he found the time to make for you.

It had been perfect, everything you could have dreamed of. You were lucky that your parents bonded so well with Johnny, and he absolutely adored them too, welcoming him into your family like he was one of their own.

The creak of the old door frame opening brought you out of your thoughts, you glanced across to see Johnny appearing by your side, handing you a thermal mug filled with hot chocolate, one for himself in his own hand too.

“When your parents bought us couple’s mugs, I thought it was stupid, but these have actually turned out to be quite handy,” he chuckled.

You lifted the lid up of the mug, allowing the steam to warm your face back up and get rid of the red hue on your cheeks as you tried to warm up. His body leant against the balcony matching your own, elbows touching against one another.

His body was wrapped up tightly having spotted you outside when he got up to grab a bite to eat, grabbing his coat and scarf before risking the outside. He was much better dressed than you were, rolling his eyes as you let go of an icy sigh.

“Do you want my jacket?” He offered, already beginning to slip it off, but your head shook, pulling it back around him. “You’ll catch a death if you stay out here like that much longer.”

Your shoulders shrugged, the weather didn’t matter, it never mattered when you were home, it was something you’d learnt to embrace. Nowhere in the world felt quite as cold as home, but that was why you loved it so much.

With your decline, Johnny instead pulled you closer into him, resting his hands either side of you on the balcony. “At least this will keep you a little warmer if you stand here for a while.”

“I’m not that cold, it just seems that way.”

“If you’re not cold, tell me why your hands match Rudolph’s nose,” he teased, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

With the sleeves of his jacket covering his hands, he rested them over yours and tightly squeezed against your skin to try and bring a bit of colour back to it. He didn’t know how you managed to stay outside when he would have been straight indoors at the first sign of a chill.

His chin rested against the top of your head as you snuggled further into the warmth of his chest. “Have you had a good Christmas with all of us?” You suddenly asked, hearing him hum in response to you.

“It’s probably been my favourite Christmas ever because I got to spend it with you. And you got me some epic presents like you always do, you always manage to exceed yourself every year, I don’t know how you do it,” he said.

You were pretty proud of your presents especially having paid attention throughout the year at all the little things he mentioned that he wanted.

“Well, I loved my watch that you bought me too, it’s the exact one that I wanted.”

The two of you fell back into a comfortable silence as you began to drink your hot chocolates, staring out at the picturesque scenery your parent’s garden provided. Droplets of snow hovered off all the tree branches, footprints were scattered everywhere from the last few days of playing in the snow, and the moon was beginning to light up perfectly to begin the festive period to a close.

Everything was just as you could have wished for, your very own winter wonderland, and the best present of all stood right by your side, finally being able to be with Johnny.

“I don’t think I’ve properly wished you a Merry Christmas today,” he noted, looking down at you.

“I’m sure you did; didn’t we say it when we woke up this morning?” You asked, thinking back.

Waking up in his arms on Christmas morning felt like a dream in itself, so you understood if maybe you had dreamt it. But you were sure as you watched his eyes open and his lips part, the two magical words came out of his mouth.

His head shook leaving you confused, as he placed his mug down onto the floor. “How can I have wished you properly if there was something missing from it?”

You watched closely as he reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a twig of mistletoe and holding it high above you. Your hand quickly came up to hide your giggle as his eyes fluttered shut and his lips pouted. You leant up to meet his lips, capturing them sweetly for a few moments, enjoying the feeling of the warmth of his body.

“Now my Christmas is complete,” he chuckled as you pulled away from him, watching the mistletoe slip out of his hold, falling gently in the gust of wind into the mountain of snow that had gathered in front of the balcony.

“I thought your Christmas was already complete by being here with me?” You challenged, remembering the second thing he told you as the two of you woke up that morning.

“It was, but I just had to be definitely sure that it was complete this time.”

Your smile grew, jabbing into his side. “You’ll do anything for a kiss sometimes, won’t you?”

If there was one thing Johnny would never tire of, it was your kisses. He was always around kissing you, whether it be raining or sunny, warm, or cold, he’d always be by your side with his lips pouted, silently demanding from you.

“I can’t help it that you’re so irresistible,” he teased, snaking his arms tightly around your waist.

Your head shook, twirling back around to look out over the garden, you only had two more days left at home before you had to go back with Johnny, all the sights that you would miss, and the people that you’d be without soon began to hit you.

“When do you think we’ll come back home?” You asked, tilting your head up to look at Johnny. “Well, to my home anyway.”

“Is this not my home?”

His eyes furrowed as you poked against his cheeks, “you know this is your home too, but you have your proper home. It’s only when I come back here do I remember how much I miss it when I’m not here, even though I love it with you.”

“I know the feeling.”

He tried to be strong and not let you see how much it phased him, but he hated being away from home too. He’d forgotten over the years what it really meant to be at home for Christmas, forgetting how special the times were that you all spent together.

“Maybe we should go to your family next year.”

He couldn’t lie, the thought of being back with his family brought a smile to his face, a tear to his eye, it had been far too long for them all. “We’ve got a whole year to talk about it yet, there’s still plenty of time for us to decide where we’ll spend Christmas.”

“Or maybe we could do it together, invite all our families to our place and really make it a Christmas that everyone will be able to remember.”

“I’ll agree to that so as long as you let me fill the place with mistletoe so I can kiss you wherever, and whenever, I want,” he teased, trailing several chilly kisses along your cheek. “Okay, maybe just one piece then, so I can still kiss you.”

You nodded in agreement, bending down to pick up the twig and hold it up against your head, offering your cheek for him to kiss, except his lips diverted, pressing against your own.

“Now my Christmas is complete, I got a kiss from you,” you blushed.”

His eyes lit up at your cheeky smile, “you don’t need to have mistletoe to get a kiss from me. Just say the words and I will always be happy to oblige and give you the best kiss in the world.”

“Best kisses in the world? Then why don’t you prove it?”

---

Masterlist

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ptergwen · 4 years

Text

last christmas

w/c: 2.0k

warnings: a few descriptions of dizziness

summary: someone might be able to get you back into the holiday spirit

a/n: hi hi hi i’m really excited about this :,) i’ve had the idea for a while and i like where it’s going! it’s based it off of the movie last christmas and this is only part one, so if it feels a little slow that’s why AND on that note i hope you enjoy

━━━ *:･。.

“you’re late,” harry comments as the coat room door bursts open. he’s not wrong, but he doesn’t have to announce it. you slip behind the counter while tying up your apron. “only ten minutes. besides, we’re never busy this early.” he presses his lips together and grabs a large cup.

that’s the face he makes whenever you say or do something stupid. you’ve learned a lot about harry in your year of working together. he’s a pretty laidback guy. funny, too. you’d consider him a friend and not just your coworker. the only time he isn’t chill is when your coffee shop has what you like to call its rush hour.

it’s in a pretty prominent area in london, and it gets packed every afternoon. people like to pop in for a muffin or some tea on their lunch break. with it being christmas time and all, the shop is way more chaotic than usual. the seasonal flavors clearly draw a crowd. you take that as a compliment since you came up with a few of them.

the point is, harry can get stressed and pretty mean. you’re afraid he’ll explode if you ask him a question sometimes. he turns super red. but, he also knows more than you do. he’s had to fix countless machines you’ve almost broken. you two make an interesting team. it’s just you and harry who work mornings.

your mouth drops open when you see the line of people squished into the shop. “oh, shit,” you whisper to yourself. harry hears it and hums smugly. “rush hour came early. get out there.” you quickly take your spot at the register. a man with a fuzzy red sweater and judgy look steps up. “hi, sorry for the wait. what can i get started for you?”

the rest of your morning is exactly the same. you deal with the crabby customers, harry makes the drinks. it gets better once your other coworkers clock in for the day. orders get done faster, and you have someone to joke around with from time to time.

you and harry eventually switch because he’s bored of making hot chocolates. you’re in charge of drinks while he rings people up now. it’s not too bad at first. all you have to do is dump some mixes into water and call names. then, everyone starts shouting at you. the drinks gets harder, you keep messing up, and customers aren’t happy.

harry is about to tell you off when he sees you stumble. he rushes to your side before you hit the ground. you grab his arm with an apologetic smile. “thanks.” “is it...” you nod, not wanting him to finish his sentence.

he’s your only coworker you told about your accident. it happened last year, almost a full one to date. you got this job a few months after. harry has always been understanding of it all, and he accommodates you however he can. you’re grateful to have his support.

“i’m just a little lightheaded. i’ll be fine,” you wave him off. he clicks his tongue. “you can’t stand if i let go of you.” you’d try to prove him wrong, but you don’t feel like falling on your face in front of all these people. “go take your break, y/n,” harry says softer this time. you give in, letting him take you to the coat room.

━ ❆

it’s finally the end of the day. your shift ended fine, and now you’re walking out with harry. you’re laughing at something he said inside. you pull your coat up around your face, smiling as you say your goodbyes. harry looks off to the car you assume is his before returning it. he waits until you’re out of sight to get into the passenger seat.

“who was that?” tom asks before harry can even shut his door. “y/n. we work together,” harry replies casually and buckles his seatbelt. the car engine is the only thing holding off silence. he raises an eyebrow at his brother.

“why do you ask?” “dunno. looks like you’re friends,” tom says quietly, pulling out of the spot he parked in. “you haven’t mentioned her.” “i have. you’re never home when i do,” he deadpans. tom drums his fingers on the steering wheel as they stop at a light.

there’s that void begging to be filled again. harry gives him a small smile. “thanks for picking me up, by the way. you’re cheaper than uber.” “does that mean i’m getting paid?” tom looks over at him. “joking. anytime, bro.”

harry can tell he’s waiting to bring you up again. all he did was look at you, and he’s falling. he’s never been subtle about his crushes. harry knows the two of you would get on well, but he’s not sure if you can handle a relationship right now. this year hasn’t been easy for you. you should be focusing on your health, not his tool of a brother.

at the same time, you could use some cheering up. you haven’t sang along to one christmas song playing at the shop. tom gets so into christmas every year, so maybe some of his festivity could rub off on you. it’s possible to work on two things at once, right? you’ll be happy and healthy for the new year. that’s all harry wants for you.

he wouldn’t mind the same for tom, either.

“she’s in all day tomorrow,” harry sighs. tom scrunches his face up in the side mirror. “who is?” “y/n, div. i knew you were going to ask.” there’s no denying that one. “right. i’ll stop in for a drink.”

he smiles about it the whole way home.

━ ❆

the next day is just like the last one. harry seems more on edge than usual, but you don’t know what that’s about. he does let you stay on register today so the chances of you passing out are lower. that all changes when your next customer walks in. you recognize him immediately, even with a scarf covering half his face.

what the hell is tom holland doing in your café? he pulls his scarf down and walks up to place an order. you sort of forget how to act. “you... you’re...” you stammer, eyes wide on him. smiling, he presses a finger to his lips. all he wants is a coffee, and you’re about to get him mobbed. you raise your hands in defense and focus on the register.

“sorry. can i get you anything?” you try again, lowering your voice. he’s still smiling. “sure, thanks. i’ll try an iced peppermint mocha.” a smile takes over your own face. “cool, i suggested that one.” you punch it into the register, keeping your eyes on tom. “i’ll bet it’s good, then. i trust your judgement.” he sounds genuine but teasing at the same time.

“hey, harry.” tom waves at him while he makes something in the blender. harry unenthusiastically waves back before getting to work again. you turn to harry with your eyebrows knitted together. “you know each other?” “really well. we’re brothers,” tom replies, your eyebrows now raised to the top of your head.

“what? how come you never told me?” you almost yell at harry. he awkwardly dumps the contents of the blender into a cup. “it never came up.” “you don’t talk about me, baby bro?” tom jokes, getting his card out. you give harry one more look before turning back to him. “oh, don’t worry about it. it’s on the house,” you dismiss him.

“he’s a multimillionaire, y/n. i think he’ll be fine,” harry chimes in. “family discount,” you decide. tom chuckles and shoves his wallet back into his pocket. “you’re a funny one. can i make it up to you somehow?” his eyes lock with yours. you feel fluttery, like your heart is going to jump out of your chest. there could be a few reasons for that.

“um, can i get your autograph?” you murmur out. “easy. do you have something to write with?” he watches you scramble to get a piece of paper. you pull a pen from behind the counter and hand them both to him. a line is starting to form, but you can’t even pretend to care. there are more important things going on.

harry starts making tom’s drink while he signs the paper. he leans on the counter, his tongue poking out. he’s so sweet for doing this. your alarm goes off before you can tell him that. you quickly shut it and peek over the register to see. harry comes up to you.

“isn’t that for your medication? you should probably go take it,” he says so only you hear. you shrug a shoulder. “i set it a few minutes early. i’ll be fine.”

“here we go.” tom grins and hands you the paper, then the pen. you put it down with another smile before looking over his signature. you’re confused when you don’t see one. instead, he wrote down a bunch of numbers.

it can’t be...

“it’s my number,” tom explains, glancing over at harry for a second. he scoffs and puts the lid on his drink. “i figured you’d like it more than my terrible cursive.”

your whole body feels hot. whether it’s from putting off your meds or getting hit on by tom holland, you’re not sure. you wouldn’t mind the latter, though. it’s the safer of the two. in all seriousness, the fact that he has any sort of interest in you is pretty insane.

“wow, for real? thank you.” you look at the piece of paper in your hands, then at tom. “does this mean i can text you?” he’s practically beaming at you. “or call.” “tom,” harry calls from the pickup counter. he rolls his eyes for good measure. “i guess your drink is ready,” you laugh out. tom adjusts his scarf again.

“i guess it is. i’ll talk to you later?” you hold up the piece of paper. “that’s what this is for.” he breathes out a laugh and turns to go. you’re about to call up the next customer, but he looks back at you. you shake your head. it’s going to be impossible getting through what’s left of your shift. “enjoy.” tom nods confidently. “i will.”

━ ❆

the first thing you do once you get home is call tom. your roommate is out with friends, so you’re spread out on the couch. all the lights are off to help the headache you got. with your luck, you’ll wake up with a migraine. you’ve become too familiar with nursing those. it’s given considering everything that happened.

tom picks up on the third ring. you hold your phone to your ear and sit up. “hello?” he asks sternly. you cringe at yourself for not texting him who you are first. “hi, it’s y/n. i probably should’ve texted.” his tone softens. “no, you’re fine. i was waiting for you to call.”

“were you really?” you lay your head back on the arm of the couch. he hums proudly. “tom holland was waiting for me to call him?” “he was.” you can hear the smirk in his voice. “he really enjoyed your conversation earlier.” sighing, you look at your reflection in the tv. “i did, too. i don’t think harry could say the same.”

“he hates having me around. i’m embarrassing, apparently,” tom laughs at his brother’s behavior. you press your lips into a pout. “is that why i’ve never heard about you?” “probably,” he confirms. it seemed weird that he wouldn’t want to tell the world his brother is spider-man. then again, harry isn’t like that.

“that’s nice, though. it’s like i’m the same me before the movies,” tom lightens the mood. “not that i know you, but i feel like you are,” you agree with a small smile. he’s grinning at his phone. “speaking of not knowing me, when are you free?” he smoothly transitions to the asking you out part. you were hoping you’d get there.

“saturday. why?” “i was wondering if you’d want to go out with me.” you hold the phone away from your face and silently squeal. tom didn’t need to witness that. “that would be fun, yeah.” “anywhere special you want to go?” he asks. he’s hoping there isn’t because he already has a place in mind. you actually don’t.

“surprise me.”

i made a new taglist form, so fill it out if you want!! the link is in my bio

#tom holland #tom holland fluff #tom holland imagine #tom holland x you #tom holland smut

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imagineabrighterworld · 4 years

Text

Psy-Cutie pt. 1

Summary // Mind Jack is an S-ranked villain who always manages to evade capture. You are a florist working in the city and never really minded what was happening around you. You kept an ear open for more relevant news, but you never heard of Mind Jack or his schemes. This works in Hitoshi Shinso's favor as he crashes into your shop one day, injured and unable to take care of himself. Lucky for him, you are just the healer he needs.

A/N: Based loosely on the song American Beauty/American Psycho, hope you enjoy! ^^

- - -

Hitoshi knew two things when he woke up in an unfamiliar bed.

One. He was in pain.

Two. He was safe.

He knew he was safe with clear surety because if the person who saved him knew who he was, he would have on handcuffs and a muzzle rather than a blanket and bandages.

-4 hours earlier-

Twisting the dial of his mask, Hitoshi tests the new vocals he had acquired.

"Help me! Please Akane!" The voice of a 45 year old woman echoes in the room, bouncing off the concrete walls. The voice belonged to Hiromi Sasaki, the wife of a broker who had ties to several Pro Heroes in the Coruscant district. She had been a thorn in Hitoshi's side what with her providing new equipment and upgraded tech to superheroes. Last month he had nearly been foiled by a beam that concentrated a hypnotic ray. But now he had the perfect plan to get rid of her.

Or rather, get rid of her clients privacy.

"Hiromi! Are you here?!" Akane yells from afar, finally catching up to him after following the sound of her wife from blocks away. Now that they were in a closed and controlled area, Hitoshi felt no need to continue this game of cat and mouse.

"How precious." His voice rings out. "You really do love her don't you. If only that love was enough to keep her safe." He steps out from his spot behind a pillar, looking at the now frozen broker who stood still at the doorway. Her eyes were wide open, a blank canvas.

He stalks forward, lowering his mask into the folds of his capture weapon. "You're going to listen to me now." Hitoshi beckons her with a finger, walking backwards to a single chair. "Come. Let's go over the terms of our agreement."

The woman sits down on the rickety chair, showing no signs of fear as it buckles under her weight.

"From now on, you'll be attaching these to all the equipment you sell to your heroes." He unties a small bag from his waist and tosses it onto her lap. They were tracking devices. "If you get caught, your wife will not come back from what I'll do to her."

Nothing, nothing showed on her face that she was listening, but he knew his instructions ran clear. He could feel his control taking over. His quirk had evolved since his time at U.A, no longer was his brain washing temporary, no, he could give long term instructions. It was very, very useful. An evolution he was sure his old classmate would have loved to jot down. But today wasn’t a day for lamenting old friendships he already burned.

Bang!

His focus snaps to the wall next to him, the concrete was beginning to crack as a barrage of fists pummeled into it.

Shit.

"Don't forget what I told you." Hitoshi pulls his mask back into place, cutting off his connection to the broker, not sparing another second to watch her as he bolts to the farthest window with his capture weapon in hand.

Breaking through the glass he sends the end of the scarf to a faraway pole, using it to swing onto a nearby building. He curls into a ball and tumbles to lessen the impact on his joints before sprinting across the rooftops. Narrowly he evades the paralyzing bullets of police officers on the ground, shouting to the heroes who were hot on his tail.

It was fun, in a way, they were finally making it fun for him after being so easily put down.

But the heroes were prepared for him. Finally, they learned to bring proper backup.

"Mind Jack!" The hero Racer yells from the rooftop next to him. The hero beside them creates a ramp of metal, allowing Racer to send themselves flying onto the rooftop he was currently on.

Hitoshi coils his capture weapon around Racer's leg as they fly midair, twisting them around and throwing them into the new hero behind him. The group that had begun to accumulate was a mixture of A and C ranked heroes, which normally would be easily handled by himself. But he was caught off guard by the sudden appearance of a telekinetic that sent him plummeting into the ground and through the floors below him.

“Damn!” His scarf wraps around the exposed edge of a steel pillar poking out of the concrete floor, allowing him to swing out of sight from the heroes that continued their path downward where they assumed he had fallen. But it didn’t mean he was safe.

All he remembers is the cold wind rushing past him as he breaks through the window of the thirtieth floor and freefalls to the unforgiving ground.

- Now -

Now he was staring at a pitcher of water with slices of lemons and leaves of mint.

Just where did he land?

"Oh you're awake!" A voice chimes in from behind a curtain. He squints at the fuzzy shadow, making out something round and human shaped.

A hand grabs the curtain and pulls it aside, the roundness now obviously a ceramic pot and the human shaped figure.. A very cute human.

He tilts his head as he watches you balance the pot of dirt on your hip, your cheeks smudged along with your gloved hands.

Who were you?

"You scared me earlier! I almost didn't get to you in time." You place the pot on a chair and pull up a stool from the vanity against the wall, crossing your legs as you sat down. "My quirk is a little reckless, so I was afraid I might hurt you more than help you. But you're a sturdy one."

"What is-!" Hitoshi cringes at the pain in his throat, reaching up a hand to cup his jugular. It felt like crushed glass was grinding against his vocal cords.

You stood up at the sound of his voice, already preparing a cup of water to give to him. "My quirk? It's repel. I can repel anything, living or non-living- but the force I exert can change from moment to moment if I'm not careful. So when I saw you falling, I had to use it in small bursts to keep you from smacking the pavement too hard."

Well, he was asking for your name but he took the water anyway, looking it over for traces of a sedative. Deeming it clean, he mouths a quick ‘thank you’ before drinking.

Using the opportunity to collect clues on what kind of person his host was, Hitoshi takes in the sight around him. A pitcher of water on a chipped black nightstand. Macrame potted plants hanging by an open window. A wardrobe with a sweater peeking out. A worn beige carpet on vinyl floors. Photographs of friends and family. Clippings of plants and dried out flowers in picture frames.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Safe.

A part of him wanted to cringe. How long had it been since he was around something so ordinary? He didn’t live in places long enough to decorate it. He didn’t leave windows open, chancing a police officer spotting him. He didn’t have any of these things you had.

“So..”

He turns his attention back to you.

“Would you happen to be Hitoshi Shinso?”

His grip on the cup tightens instinctively. Without his voice to activate his quirk, he settles on relying on his physicality. Hitoshi reaches instinctively for the scarf around his neck-

But it wasn’t there.

He settles on a nod, preparing to bolt out of the bed should you try screaming for help. Even without his scarf, he was prepared to scale the walls if he had to.

However, it isn't a yell of fear that he is met with. Surprise floods him as he watches your face light up with a smile. You lean forward with your hands tucked under your thighs. “Really?! I watched you in the U.A sports festivals when I was a teenager! You were amazing!”

Without knowing it, his hand raised from his neck to his face, covering his mouth as you continued on, a warmth building in his cheeks.

“I live pretty far away, but I took a trip to U.A. for my second year, and to see you take down students twice your size was so cool! You really worked hard after the first festival and it showed-“ A blush of your own takes root on your face. You scoot your seat backwards. “Ah- sorry about that.. I didn’t mean to be so forward.”

He shakes his head, looking at you with much softer eyes. He was a villain. And had been a villain after leaving amid his third year at U.A. He didn’t regret his decision and never cared for the love the media gave his former classmates. He didn’t need praise or the affection of strangers. He didn’t care about any of that.

But to hear someone praise him for his hard work, and to hear someone put him in such a light? To hear that someone saw him as more than his quirk?

Hitoshi could get drunk on your words alone.

“You don't mind..? I understand if it’s creepy. I've met fans of Deku who even I was uncomfortable next to.”

Once more he shakes his head, unbothered by your enthusiasm. In fact, he liked it. More than he thought he would.

Was this why heroes strived to be popular? The warm feeling it brought? Or was it because it came from you? Someone so blissfully ignorant of what he has done.

You still saw him as a hero.

A hero.

“Oh! I need to get back to the shop! Your fall left some of my pots smashed, I need to clean it up before someone gets hurt.” You get to your feet and take his now empty glass, refilling it before handing it back. “Take your time,I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

And just when he thought you couldn't get any better, you stumble on your way out, drawing out a squeak from your lips.

He was truly and utterly whipped.

#bnha #mha #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha hitoshi #mha hitoshi #hitoshi shinso #hitoshi shinso x reader #bnha hitoshi shinso #bnha hitoshi shinso x reader #mha hitoshi shinso x reader #Psy-Cutie #very self indulgent #maybe a tiny bit of angst in the future but not really #any suggestions or ideas for future mini chapters are welcome!#just really wanted a soft villain hitoshi úwù #he is my son #please be gentle with him

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anistarrose · 4 years

Link

Summary: Winters running the Mystery Shack are difficult, but two unexpected guests improve Stan’s day.

Characters: Stan Pines, Mabel Pines, Dipper Pines, Ford Pines

Relationships: Mabel Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Mabel Pines & Stan Pines

Happy Holidays, @halogalopaghost! I'm your Secret Santa, here to mash together a couple different prompts through the power of time travel (and Mabel)!

***

It doesn’t take Stan many years to learn that winter’s no good for the rural Oregon tourist business.

Granted, he can hardly blame the tourists — he has to drive on Gravity Falls roads himself, much to his disgust. Between the paved, plowed streets that always turn slick with ice where you least expect them, and the winding gravel roads that you might as well ignore when road and wilderness alike are under identical four-inch blankets of snow, he knows no gallery of fake haunted paintings or taxidermied coyote’s ass is worth the trip in these conditions.

He’s on his third winter in town, now — not counting the first, worst one he arrived at the tail end of — and if there’s a right way to run a business this time of year, he hasn’t found it yet. He always scrapes together just enough to pay his bills, thanks the occasional local who wanders over to purchase a seasonally appropriate if overpriced snow globe — but he’s lucky if he breaks even in December, and knows January through March are a lost cause before they begin. He’ll make it back within the next year, sometimes even before summer ends, but it stings to know he’s about to fail at his one goal for the next three to four months straight, and there’s nothing he can do to change it.

It might sting less if he had another way to spend these winters — if he had a good reason to formally close the Shack for a few months, like an experienced business owner making a grounded and responsible decision. But he can’t even search for Ford’s journals in this weather — he’s learned from his mistakes, his countless brushes with frostbite, throughout those cold, desperate months in the wake of the portal shutting down.

He’s useless right now, and worse, this season’s shaping up to be the bleakest yet. His usually-scammable neighbors have already lined their shelves with winter knicknacks from Mystery Shack visits past, and the bulk of Stan’s meager sales have come from shivering out-of-towners who’ve never tried to take a Pacific Northwest road trip in December before, and probably won’t be keen to try again.

What seasonal merchandise hasn’t he sold yet? Bumper stickers for miscellaneous holidays, maybe — but neither timely bumper stickers nor the usual selection of tchotchkes will convince people to visit the Shack in the first place, under these road conditions. He can’t even walk around selling merch door to door, for the same reason he can’t look for the other journals — he’d freeze to death, presuming he could make it through the snowdrifts to somewhere worth visiting in the first place. Even with snow chains on the Stanmobile’s tires and a bucket of salt in her trunk, grocery runs alone are perilous enough.

Damn it, Ford, he thinks, why couldn’t you have gone missing in Florida?

He could always do what he does best and lie, maybe — send out word that there’s free hot chocolate or something with every purchase at the Mystery Shack, and hope that people hand over their hard-earned cash before they pick up on the false advertising. He might draw in some local customers that way, and even if he loses their trust for the next few months, they always seem to forget about his cons eventually — as if he never scammed them, and they’ve never so much as heard the words caveat emptor.

He’s just about to dial the local paper’s number on the phone, hoping to flatter Toby into letting him run another ad for free, when he hears a telltale knock at the gift shop door. The bell atop that door doesn’t ring, which means that despite the hostile winds and snow they braved to get here, his visitors are still out loitering on the porch — or so Stan thinks for a moment, before it dawns on him that he doesn’t even remember unlocking the door this morning. He’d just been that pessimistic about even seeing a customer.

“Hello?” someone calls — a fairly young voice, probably approaching the tail end of puberty. “Are you there, uh…Mr. Mystery?”

“On my way!” Stan shouts, throwing on his fez and bolting for the door. His neighbors in Gravity Falls might forget and forgive a lot, but he doesn’t want to risk the wrath of a parent whose teenage kid froze to death on the local grifter’s doorstep, so he unlocks and flings open the door as fast as he can. “Welcome, travelers! Prepare to be baffled and bemused by our mind-boggling boreal mysteries, here at this last refuge at the edge of the Arctic we like to call the Cryptid Cabin!”

His visitor — no, his two visitors — both blink slowly, proving to at least be baffled, if nothing else. Both are bundled up in what Stan assumes to be several sheep worth of wool garments, lovingly knitted into sweaters, hats, and scarves.

“But you call this place the Mystery Shack,” the girl speaks up, and the boy nods.

“Yeah, and we’re nowhere near the Arctic! This is Oregon, not Alaska!”

Stan groans — the only customers he might see all week, and of course they’re teenagers. “Look, punks, business is slow these days! I’ve had a lot of time to think about a seasonal rebranding, and not a lot of chances to workshop it, alright?”

The teens’ expressions instantly soften, and the girl exclaims: “Well, you can workshop it with us!” She grabs the other kid — her brother? — by the hand, and pulls him into the gift shop.

Maybe Stan’s judged them too quickly — he’s still not thrilled to have strangers pitying him, of course, but he’ll take it over strangers mocking him any day of the week.

“Dang, you’re right,” the boy comments once inside, and face-to-face with shelves of untouched merchandise. “It really is empty in here in the winter.”

With little light coming in from the windows, and a flickering bulb overhead that will soon need replacing, the often-bustling room is now dim and eerie — aside from the junk food wrappers on the floor, which Stan hastily kicks under his desk.

“Look at all the lonely snowglobes in need of homes!” the girl pipes up, swiping a glass-encased antelabbit off the shelf and giving it a hearty shake. “Good thing I’m here to adopt this lucky little guy — how much is he?”

Stan takes a second to run the numbers — the maximum amount of money a teen would have on hand, versus what Stan needs to charge to make a profit — and replies: “Twenty-nine ninety-nine and nothing more. We don’t do sales tax here, ‘less you’re a cop.”

“Bet there’s a lot of other taxes you don’t do, either,” the boy snorts, rummaging through a shelf of hats until he unearths one with the old Murder Hut logo on it. “Aha! Now here’s a collector’s item!”

“Oh, did you come here before the rebrand and forget to grab a souvenir?” Stan asks. He doesn’t remember these two, but it’s been a couple years since he painted over the last Murder Hut sign — and they do seem pretty familiar with the building, not to mention Stan’s whole… business model.

“Oh, uh, that’s a funny story, actually! Real funny!” the boy stammers with a whole lot more trepidation than the topic should’ve warranted, and looks to his sister for help.

Sure enough, she steps in. “We lived here for a while — in Gravity Falls, I mean! Not here in the Shack, obviously — wouldn’t that be ridiculous, if we lived in your house for months without you knowing? Could you imagine —”

“That is to say, we still visit sometimes!” the boy supplies. His eyes are a whole lot more fixated on the snowglobes than with anything in Stan’s general direction. “You probably don’t remember us — we weren’t in town for very long, or anything…”

Stan sighs. They’re lying, obviously — but hey, there’s no cops in the Mystery Shack, and he doesn’t have a dog in whatever fight compelled the duo to spew this bullshit. He’ll keep an eye on the cash register, of course, but these kids are tolerable company when they’re not being suspicious as hell — so if they want to invent a bad cover story for a low-stakes tourist trap visit, more power to them.

“Well, the hat’s vintage, so that’ll be double price. Twenty bucks,” he announces matter-of-factly, and the boy groans — but there’s a smile behind it, like he’d expected this and now he’s just playing along. If there’s one thing Stan’s willing to believe, it’s that these kids have been to the Mystery Shack before.

“You’re a highway robber, old man, and I’m the coward who’s gonna let you get away with it,” the boy declares, and Stan can’t help but laugh. The kid reaches under several layers of sweaters to pull out a wallet, with a blue pine tree embroidered on, and miscellaneous charms of fantasy characters hanging off a chain on the side. Stan doesn’t recognize any of them, but they still tug at his heartstrings, because he can tell they’re the exact kind of nerdy references Ford would love.

He does take note of the pine tree design, though — it’s generic enough that slapping it on some shirts and hats wouldn’t quite be plagiarism, and in Stan’s eyes, those are always the best souvenir designs.

The kids put their money forward, hovering awkwardly as Stan rings up their items — the girl busies herself attacking a loose string on her brother’s scarf, nimble fingers tying it back in its approximate place, while the boy twiddles his thumbs and stares at the snowy, gray scene out the window. At the moment, only light flurries fill the air, but tomorrow night promises a blizzard… and Stan, grump with a soft side that he is, can’t help but hope that if these kids are really on vacation, then they aren’t planning to drive anywhere tonight.

With it being winter, and him running the business that he does, he doesn’t have much charity to give — but, if he’s going to play along with his customers’ little lie, then he should probably at least bring up the topic.

“You’re not hittin’ the road any time soon, are you?” He makes eye contact only with the green illustrated presidents in his hands, so not to come across as overly invested. “Weather forecast says tonight’s gonna be a doozy.”

“Aww, you’re worried about us?” the girl coos, because apparently both parties here are damn good at picking up on each other’s lies. “That’s so sweet — but you don’t have to be! Our great uncle’s waiting for us in town, and he’ll… well, let’s just say he’s planning to bring us back home before the blizzard hits.”

“He’s, uh — he lived here back in the seventies, so he knows what he’s doing,” the boy adds. “On the roads, that is. Mostly.”

“Well, you two take care,” Stan tells them, hastily adding on: “So you can come back when the weather isn’t terrible and buy more keychains, that is.”

“Oh, we will.” The boy grins, sharing a conspiratorial glance with his sister. “Maybe don’t count on it being next year — or the year after that, even — but you can count on it.”

“Well, uh…” Stan stops himself, resisting the impulse to divulge things he really shouldn’t. “You just shouldn’t count on me running this place forever. Be sure to get your novelty cryptid pins while they’re hot, y’know.”

He’s never really wondered what he’ll do with the Shack when he gets Ford back — and yes, he has to believe that statement deserves a when, not an if — but he figures the Shack’s fate will depend more on Ford’s own whims. If reality lands somewhere between the nightmares of Ford wanting him gone and the fantasies of finally sailing around the world, if Ford doesn’t hate him but still wants to spend more time with Important Science Experiments than with his brother, then Stan could see himself returning to a mediocre life in his moderately successful tourist trap… but with the search for the journals still coming up empty, Stan can only try not to think about the future, and accept that he’ll just cross — or burn — that bridge when he comes to it.

“Okay, Mr. Mystery,” the girl suddenly declares with a tone that frankly reminds Stan of his mother, “you look like you could use a pick-me-up!”

“What?” It’s starting to freak Stan out how well she can read him, and there’s no telling whether it’s just a sharp intuition, or something significantly more Gravity Falls-y. “If I look tired, kid, it’s because it’s December in Oregon, I haven’t seen the sun in a week, and I am tired. Only pick-me-up I need is for you to get out of my hair, and let me go back into hibernation like nature intended.”

“Okay, but counterpoint: you hear us out,” the boy insists. “We’ve got a little something up our sleeve to really light up your winter —” He winks at his sister. “Don’t we?”

“You bet we do!” She pulls a bag of marshmallows out of not her sleeve, but her backpack, and grins. “Prepare to be amazed and astounded by the natural wonders of this town, and also the miracle that is processed sugar and gelatin!”

“Are you imitating my sales pitches?” Stan asks, dumbfounded. “And do you carry those on you at all times?”

“In winter in Gravity Falls, I do!” the girl replies, already heading for the exit with her brother. “C’mon! If this doesn’t put a smile on your face, nothing will!”

“We all know you’ve got time to spare, Stan,” the boy adds, cracking open the door. “Get a move on!”

“Spare time doesn’t mean I’ve got spare limbs to lose to frostbite,” Stan grumbles, but follows them anyway. There’s something captivating about these little punks — not so much this mysterious phenomenon they’re trying to sell him on, as if they could really out-charlatan Mr. Mystery himself, but rather the way they’re not put off by his frigid facade. They see right through him, showering him in alternating kindness and acerbic wit.

Stan can’t help but wonder if their uncle’s kind of like him — tired, bitter, and pretending to be indifferent, but secretly soft on the inside, like a marshmallow that’s burnt on the surface but melted within. It would explain why they’re so good at calling him on his shit — but then again, Stan and this mystery guy can’t be too alike, because if Stan had a niece and nephew like these two, he’s sure he’d be living his life a whole lot differently.

He exits the Shack, and all his questions are immediately replaced with new ones when he sees the teens just hurling marshmallows towards the edge of the woods. The wind’s in their favor, so some of those sugary little fuckers fly far.

“Okay, so I’ve already got a couple concerns,” Stan tells them, shivering. “First off, what the hell?”

“It might take a couple minutes before one shows up,” the girl admits, as if it’s a totally reasonable stand-alone explanation for whatever the hell’s going on here. With about a third of the marshmallows now blending into the snow on Stan’s lawn, she and her brother stop with the throwing, though they still hold onto the bag. “Our grunkle theorized that they move slower in winter, to save energy — oh wait, never mind! Here comes one now!”

“Sorry, what? And where?” Stan squints out into the woods, terrified to lay his eyes upon a woodland monster these kids just lured to his doorstep — but all he sees, at first, are a few wisps of smoke dispersing in the wind above the trees. He’s not even convinced it’s smoke, really, because these aren’t the right conditions for a fire — but to his surprise, he glimpses an orange light within the woods, glowing steadily brighter until the trees and bushes around it are all casting faint shadows.

When it steps into the clearing, Stan realizes he has seen something like it before, albeit only from the overcautious distance he tries to keep from all anomalies. It’s an otherwise normal campfire perched on wooden, spiderlike legs, and it melts a path in the snow as it trots forwards, then lowers itself to the ground to absorb the first of a dozen marshmallows.

It lets out a satisfied little sound — a low, steady crackle that sounds almost like a purr — then scampers up to the next morsel of food to repeat the process.

“It’s called a Scampfire!” the girl explains, beaming. “There’s a bunch of them out in the woods, and they’ll always wander over if you leave out enough campfire food — especially sugary stuff! Isn’t that cute?”

“Our great uncle figured out this amazing trick when he used to live here, and he passed it down to us!” the boy adds, practically bouncing up and down in place. “If you leave them a trail of food, they’ll follow you around until you run out — which means they can clear your driveway, warm your hands, even save your car if you drive into a snowbank! Or help you make s’mores, of course.”

“Our grunkle says he even skipped paying his heating bill a couple winters,” the girl adds with a grin, “but I dunno if we can recommend that in good conscience.”

As the scampfire draws a closer, continuing to purr as it consumes more of the sugary trail, the boy slaps a handful of marshmallows into Stan’s palm. “Give it a try!”

Stan’s not thrilled about bringing a fire onto the wooden porch attached to his wooden house, even as cute as said fire is, so instead he tosses his ammunition at something much more disposable — the golf cart, since if this one croaks, he can always just steal another from the insufferable rich family up on the hill. His aim isn’t great — he blames his cold fingers — but exactly one marshmallow lands right in the cart’s driver seat.

The scampfire breaks course from its path towards the Shack, clearing a path through the snow before it crawls into the cart, absorbing the final morsel and curling up atop crossed legs. Nothing explodes, and in fact, a few of the icicles on the awning start to melt, dripping water into the patch of bare muddy ground surrounding the cart.

“Huh,” Stan mutters. Dozens of harebrained schemes flash before his eyes — if he could find a slingshot, or even better, some kind of cannon to mount on the cart’s front hood, then he’s sure that with practice, he could entice some scampfires to clear a path through any snowdrift…

But no matter his exact solution, it’s a way to get into town consistently. He can finally go door-to-door selling knickknacks, instead of sitting in the gift shop every day and hoping some poor soul would get bored enough to brave the roads and visit. He can actually work out a way to line his pockets even in the winter, instead of constantly waking up from nightmares about getting foreclosed on —

“See? They get food, and we don’t freeze — classic mutualistic symbiotic relationship!” the boy declares, and his sister gently socks him in the arm.

“Nerd!”

“Hey, you knew that too! We’re in the same biology class!”

It’s familiar, but the kind of familiarity that Stan doesn’t treasure anymore. It’s more like the kind that he hides in the basement or in boarded-up rooms whenever he can, and grins and bears with a heavy heart when he can’t, like every time he looks in the mirror or hears someone call him Stanford. He comes so close to asking these teens if they’re twins, because he figures the answer can’t be worse than wondering — but the question dies in his throat, and he tells himself it’s for the best.

“Is your uncle who invented this trick the same one who’s waiting in town for you?” he asks instead.

“Yep!” replies the girl. “He probably won’t get worried about us for like, ten or fifteen more minutes, though — I’m sure he’s got his nose buried deep in a book right now.”

“Do me a favor and let him know he’s a lifesaver,” Stan says. “Also tell him I’m glad he moved out, because he sounds a little too smart to fall for the fake monster wares that I peddle.”

The kids exchange a look that Stan can’t even hope to comprehend, though he’s damn sure it’s worth a thousand words to the two of them. Twins or not, he’s getting an “inseparable” kind of vibe from these two, that’s for sure.

“I’m not sure he’d like the Shack at first,” the brother muses, “but I’ve got a hunch it would grow on him.”

“He does like cryptids — sometimes even fake ones!” the sister chimes in. “Oh, shoot — we still need to grab a souvenir for him! I knew we were forgetting something!”

“Huh.” Stan throws a few more marshmallows in the direction of the woods, and the scampfire stumbles off the cart before trotting along on its merry way back to the forest. “I can get you something, no problem — I don’t call this place a gift shop for nothing, y’know. But for the love of Paul Bunyan, let’s talk about it inside.”

He’s not great at mental math, but he doesn’t have to be to know he owes a lot to these teens and the mysterious uncle he might never meet. Hell, even forgetting the business perspective — he can actually look for the journals in winter without risking frostbite, if he gets one of his fiery neighbors to tag along. Even if he finds nothing, even if he only winds up with more failures to contend with, he’d rather rule out locations than be useless to Ford for months at a time.

None of this weird family that he might never see again, these three benevolent strangers that he can only put two faces to, could possibly know how much they’ve just changed for him — and he can’t tell them, as much as his oversized heart promises he can trust these snarky kids who remind him so much of himself. But he does owe them, so when he reenters the gift shop, he goes straight for a seldom-opened and never-advertised box of knickknacks that he has no intention of charging them for. It’s got the dimensions of only about two side-by-side shoeboxes, so he lifts it onto the counter with hardly a grunt, and opens it up.

“Got lots of goodies in here — mostly stuff that I made or, ahem, acquired in bulk, so they never quite sold out by the time everyone and their mother in town had already bought their own. Take a gander.”

He knows that gander will reveal some Murder Hut-branded shirts with the words written on in marker, plastic six-sided dice with a different cryptids pictured on each side, cheap whistles purported to attract Bigfoot, cheap flashlights once advertised for attracting Mothman, exactly three cool rocks that Stan found in the woods… and the pièce de résistance, a little wooden Mystery Shack-shaped music box, which chirps out a pleasant tune when Stan flips up the roof. That last one’s a rare knickknack that Stan really put effort into personally crafting, back at the height of last winter’s monotony, through cannibalizing parts of premade music boxes and sticking them into brand-new shapes — but he couldn’t sell them for enough to be worth the cost of making more, and could never sell this last one at all.

“Oh, wow!” the girl gasps, clearly delighted. “How can I even choose between —”

“No, take it all. It’s on the house — but don’t you dare tell anyone about this, you hear me? I’ll know if you blab, ‘cause people will start asking me if they can get free crap, too, and I don’t wanna hear a word of that nonsense.”

“Free stuff at the Mystery Shack?” The boy narrows his eyes. “Are you feeling okay, old man?”

“Kid, stuff only goes in the Free Bullshit Box when I can’t sell it anyway.” Stan crosses his arms with a huff, even though he’s technically telling the truth. “The only catch is take it before I change my mind.”

A sudden spark of recognition in the brother’s eyes morphs into a grin on his face, and he nods. “Oh, we will. Don’t worry.”

“I think our grunkle will love this! Especially the dice,” the sister adds. “Hey, maybe we could give all this to him piece by piece for Hanukkah! There’s enough here for a new surprise every night!”

“Whoa, there is! Man, the look on his face the first time we bring out a Bigfoot whistle is gonna be great —” The boys eyes dart to the watch on his wrist, and he coughs into his hand. “But we should probably get a move on, huh? Don’t want to get caught in, y’know, the blizzard tonight.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Stan returns the lid and hands the box over. “You, uh, need a ride back to town? ‘Cause being a man of mystery and all, I know this neat trick to clear a whole road with just a bag full of marshmallows —”

The kids both start cackling, so hard that the box almost escapes the girl’s hands, and Stan laughs with them — not because he thought his joke was that funny, but because the kids’ laughter is absolutely priceless. The isolation’s definitely getting to his head and his heart, but he’ll take whatever reprieve he can get.

“I think we’ll manage on our own,” the boy finally wheezes out, “but thanks for the offer, Mr. Mystery. Thanks for everything, really.”

“See you later!” his sister adds as they leave. “Don’t let the feral gnomes bite!”

“You take care, too,” Stan replies, not nearly as loud — but he figures that the kids can read his lips. They can read so much about him, and know so much about the town, that he’s honestly a hair’s breadth away from assuming they’re two more anomalies from the woods themselves, just in more recognizable shapes than most…

Though if Stan’s honestly considering that theory, then more of Ford must’ve rubbed off on him than he likes to think about — which is to say, it’s a good a reason as any to stop thinking about it. What or whoever they were, the duo were actually pretty tolerable for teenagers, and Stan’s pretty sure they didn’t put a curse or whatever magic mumbo jumbo on him — because if they could manage that, they could definitely tell some less conspicuous lies, right?

He kinda likes the idea of one goddamn supernatural force in this town that’s actually benevolent, actually watching his back when his mood’s at its bleakest, and coming to his rescue with — no, he’s dropping that train of thought. No baseless hoping, just letting himself down easy before he gets up.

It does occur to him, several minutes after the gift shop door swings closed, that Hanukkah has already come and gone this year. Which probably just means the kids are prepared to hide that box for another twelve months… but maybe, when Stan finds the other journals, he’ll double-check for entries on helpful teenage cryptids who can’t lie. Just to be sure.

***

Mabel, Dipper, and Ford barrel into the living room so suddenly that Stan almost drops his mug of hot chocolate. They’re all covered in a ridiculous amount of snow, considering how briefly they were just outside, and Ford looks awfully delighted for someone whose glasses are someone whose glasses have just turned opaque with fog.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel shouts. The cardboard box in her arms has seen better days, but she’s cradling it like an infant. “You’ll never guess when we just were!”

Dipper points a gloved finger in the air. “You mean, when we just — oh wait, did you already —”

“Yeah, I beat you to it this time!” Mabel pumps her fist. “Anyways, Grunkle Stan — you’ll never guess who we just visited!”

#gravity falls #stanley pines #mabel pines #dipper pines #stanford pines #gravity falls secret santa 2020 #rosalia writes fic

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