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iphoenixrising · 3 years ago

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DickTim Week 2021: Day 5 Winged!Talon Tim au

So. another dual prompt and I really regret nothing about this one tbh. I took tomorrow’s Talon and today’s Wings and made a Winged!Talon!Tim fic. Of course, I talked to the wonderful babes on Capes & Coffee about a what if combination and this just, whew. Careful, it might break your heart a little, but damn if it isn’t an interesting idea.

Not beta read, so don't be a hater :D

Previous Talon!Tim universe posts: The initial idea, Babe and I talking it out, Talon Training Ask, Ra’s vs the Court, Talon and Ra’s, Talon and Ra’s take 2, Talon and Shiva short.

Watching B take on the new and improved Talon is really the entertainment of the year.

Once upon a time it had taken all of them plus more to take down as much of the Court of Owls as humanly possible. Of course, like rats, the Bats knew there would be no way to get the entire Court or all the Talons, not when the upper echelons of Gotham had spent the better part of 200 years creating, storing, training, and obtaining more.

Politicians were investigated, corrupt cops removed, and criminals burrowed underground once word of what the capes did to save the day got passed around.

For the first time in years, crime in Gotham was at an all time low.

But, as the coin flip dictates, nothing good lasts forever. Trouble is always brewing below the surface to eventually rise to the top and try to take over.

Case in point:

The Bats of Gotham have come up against a new threat wearing the signature Talon armor, and the call goes out to all available capes for help taking on the undead mercenary before another crime family ends up in the Obituaries rather than Blackgate.

The fact the Court is still up and running after the Batfamily took them down in a fiery blaze that ended with all their Talons gone, Sensei exposed, and most the ruling families imprisoned or poisoned by Lincoln March, is like a kick to the abdomen after they closed that particular book. Worse, with a new Talon soldier is sighted running around Gotham, another circus kid has been kidnapped and turned into the right hand of the Court of Owls. Dick, with his absolute survivors guilt, is the one to make going after the Talon and whoever is still behind the scenes a top priority.

Which is how they find themselves in the middle of Knight’s Stadium facing down a Talon that is too short to be March. Red Hood, Nightwing, Robin, Batgirl, and Black Bat pretty much got their asses handed to them in the first twelve minutes. Pretty hard to understand until you take into account the new and improved Talon facing them now is terrifying in a completely different way than most undead assassins are.

He knows them.

He knows them in ways that lets him fight fast and furious with vicious accuracy, striking at weaknesses few of the vigilantes of Gotham realized they even had.

He isn't as big as Lincoln or even Cobb, not nearly as old. He hasn't been kept in cryostasis waiting for the next generation to need his skills. He doesn't have creaks in his joints from being put on deep freeze too many times.

This one is silent and efficient, obviously trained in multiple types of martial arts, is highly proficient with or without the standard Talon knives, is a master tactician, counters the majority of their moves with alarming consistency–

and the fucking Talon has wings.

Honest-to-God wings.

Everyone had assumed the metal monstrosities on his back were weapons of some kind, but the glint of steel in the streetlight flash a warning before the lumps moved in an arch, extending far out past his shoulder blades, slicing into Red Hood’s body suit with a razor-sharp edge, shredding the armor like paper.

It’s not enough he’s got weapons obviously made specifically for his skill set, it’s not enough he’s an assassin and doesn’t hold to the same standards of non-lethal combat, it’s not enough that he can use his wings to fly or to fight like he’s using another limb to kick the shit out of them, and it’s not enough that he effortlessly counters so many of their attacks that he has to have some kind of inside information on all of them and their fighting styles.

The knives are definitely a thing when the Talon can throw them hard enough to penetrate parts of their suits in between armored plating, which further drives the theory that this is a person they’ve dealt with before. Intimately. Few people in the world know how their suits are made. Even more, few people know particulars enough when their suits are constantly reconstructed.

The only thing on their side that tipped the scales in their favor–

–the Batman.

The wings threw him off his game, obviously, but not enough to stop B from holding his own with swift and merciless force.

It's like watching a dance of fast and furious fists, blades in Talon's hands glinting deadly in the night, finding B's suit over and over and over until he's made it to blood and bone. He takes every hit the Batman can dish out, head snapping back, left, and right with the volley of jaw-breaking blows and bone-shattering kicks.

None of it gives the Talon pause. When a move makes him drop a blade, another is already in hand, cutting into their body suits, wings flipping out to defend or distract, sweeping moves and well coordinated attacks.

The unnatural appendages are like another arm, another leg, an extension working on the same central nervous system, regardless as to how the Court managed to make it happen.

A jump kick off a trash can is a lucky shot as a wing catches B in the ribs hard enough to knock him into the wall of Mike's Famous Hotdogs. The only thing saving the Dark Knight from a concussion or permanent brain damage is the plating in his cowl.

It gives the Talon enough time to make a final bid for a battered Nightwing, Red Hood, and Robin struggling to their feet again, eyes for their fallen mentor.

Before he can lunge forward to start the attack yet again, the Talon just stops, pauses like he’s stuck or something, and in the span of a breath, both wings extend fully, flap powerfully once to propel him up into the Gotham night.

O tries her best to track his flight through the city, but no one’s arms are working well enough to toss a tracker on him.

She loses him over Cape Carmine, slams her palms against her system in frustration, makes sure she gets as much footage from the confrontation as possible.

After some sleep and a whole lot of bandages and ice packs, the Bat family meets in the Cave to watch the footage, breakdown the Talon’s fighting style, his weaponry, and make theories on his identity.

O helps out with readings she has of electronic pulses she managed to capture coming from the armor over his wings. She thinks she might be able to use it to track him if they can get close enough for her equipment to ping the signal again.

B makes a trip to Arkham since Freeze apparently hasn’t stopped producing the formula used to put Talons in cryostasis.

It’s not until Gotham’s power grid has a massive surge that O and the Bats can pinpoint a possible location, all of them invested in one hell of a fight to get the last rats still scurrying in the underground.

The plan of attack comes together smoothly once they’ve scoped out the location, seen the shady activity, and together, they make one hell of a plan.

And because, you know, Gotham, it is completely normal for the Court of Owl's headquarters to have a skylight.

Natch.

For this one, they've got Batgirl and Black Bat, Red Hood and Robin, Nightwing and B, a real family affair.

O's quiet voice over comms leading them through the maze of traps and empty rooms, abandoned libraries and spooky ball rooms. The laboratory isn't the most horrific they've all ever seen (because the Joker's summer place is literally the stuff of nightmares), but a few of them do gag on the smell alone.

The plan, however, goes horribly awry when the clear sounds of tormented screaming echoes from right under their reinforced bootheels.

Black Bat's fists clench hard, her breathing wheezes out when the tone, the utter agony goes right through her.

A shudder slides up Robin's spine as all of them turn toward the noise.

Without a flicker or a word, the Batman moves, strafing in the shadows toward the sound. He can't assume it's an innocent civilian with something the Court wants, but he's betting on the fact that scream will lead them to whoever is running the show.

The medieval room has bars and reinforced locks, implements hanging on the wall. The cement brick is stained rust colored with old blood, the vestiges of training, and the awful realization they've found another hidden niche in the city that always existed right under their noses is punctuated with the abrupt drop in temperature, with the sudden charge in the air, with the zzzzcrack snapping beyond the door, replaced with a muted buzzing Robin can feel in his back teeth.

B is already on his way to the roof, Batgirl down through the floor vent while Nightwing picks the locks with fast precision, knocking the tumblers around.

Robin and Red Hood stay close to the reinforced door, balancing on the balls of their feet, katana and .45s at the ready.

Black Bat takes the high road, ceiling tiles giving way under her Bat-a-rang. She gives a sharp nod before she's up and gone.

"All right. Ready?" Nightwing stands, cracks his neck, flips his escrimas in both hands, works his shoulders to prepare for the strain of each blow he plans to give.

"Ya betcha ass," Hood murmurs low, a cut figure with both guns at his sides, gloved fingers on the trigger guard.

"Don't disappoint," Robin snarls, "either of you."

"Nice pep talk, squirt," Nightwing snickers.

"Tt, back up your mouth with action."

"Better shuddap, Demon. Golden Boy ain't fuckin' 'round. Neither is the Bat. We get one more chance a' this asshole. We ain't gonna blow it again, ya feel me?"

"Finally, something we agree on, Hood."

"Other than N's shitty mullet?"

Nightwing swiftly glares at them both over his shoulder, unconsciously putting himself front and center of the trio, ready to be the first in once they get the signal.

– which is the sound of the glass raining down from the heavens.

Three booted feet kick the door hard enough to take it off the hinges, lying against the faded stains like a fallen body.

First step in the room is the complete opposite to what they'd all been expecting.

The two Owl masks aren't the usual, but a perversion of the originals, crudely drawn yawning mouths complete with fangs dripping blood.

But.

The boy on his knees, arms in a binder holding the appendages hostage at a painful angle, is dripping the real thing. Rivulets down his chest and where his back is partially visible. Some from the base of the wings going into the back of his shoulder blades where the skin is torn and raw.

The bar gag shoved in his mouth doesn't take away from the splatters on his chin, the bruising on his face, the swollen eye. But it's his wings that makes the Bats falter from the initial rushing attack.

His wings are without the armor, are bound straight up above his restrained body with hooks grotesquely puncturing through the downy softness, desecrating the beauty with blood and gore. The angle makes the pull to his back where the wings are part of him just another agony on top of atrocity.

"Fuck," from the first Owl mask, and a swift move frees the Talon's bound arms, the appendages flopping uselessly to the floor, only his trapped, tortured wings keeping him up on his knees.

The second Owl shoves the first back, "let him take care of them. Let's get out of here!"

The first Owl snarls out something low and foreign, the phrases rolling off his tongue.

The words lock into place, and the Talon's head snaps up, snarling around the gag in his mouth.

When his face is finally, finally visible, the protectors of Gotham are frozen in their tracks.

Familiar violet-blue eyes, too-long blue-black hair, cut jawline and pointed nose. Tiny scar on his right cheek from the time he caught Ra's al Ghul's ring across the face.

"Jesus Fucking Christ," is barely heard through the Red Hood's synths and in no way fully expresses his utter horror at what these dirty motherfuckers have done.

Robin wretches, bile burning the back of his throat once those eyes swing up to the masked parody of the Owls and his bare upper body is visible through the blood and sweat on his chest, when the scars peeking through on his collar bones form a half-visible Y-incision, when the coloring of the bared wings now makes sense (robin's wings, Damian Wayne thinks with his heart beating pitter patter fast, and his stomach in knots, they put robin's wings on him...).

And the hurt, agonized noise coming out of Nightwing's chest is the only noise he can make when those dimmed, dazed eyes swing from the Owls back to the vigilantes frozen in their spots, when there's no spark of joy or fondness or stubbornness he's so used to seeing staring him down.

The errant thought, the first instinct, is the only humane way to deal with this new Talon is to put him down for good wars with the man behind the mask that only wants to reach out, wants to pull the Talon into his body and curve over, to scream at the injustice of it all, to rail at himself for not even suspecting.

Another switch flipped and the hooks release his wings, blood splattering on top the old stains.

"Get them! Don't fuck it up this time or you won't get another chance," the second Owl shoves the Talon's injured shoulder in the direction of the horrified vigilantes.

They don't even bother to take the gag out of his mouth before setting him on his target.

A flap of wings, and the Talon is on his feet again, swaying only slightly. He's in the boots and pants from earlier, the rest of his uniform tossed carelessly behind him by his tormentors. A sweep of his feet and the knives glint in bare palms, a whisper of a sound.

The curved, clawed blade glints in the overhead light when the Talon raises it and cuts the strap of the bar gag in his bloody mouth, turns his head to spit it out without looking away from the vigilantes.

The Batman, grim and stoic in the face of this surprising turn of events, gives the barest nod. From her hiding spot behind the complex machinery, Black Bat takes off after the running Owl members, leaving the rest of the family to deal with their former third Robin.

The wings flinchingly flare out and their former bird hunches over, ready for the attack.

“Wait! Wait, wait, wait,” the Red Hood removes the helmet, leaves the domino underneath. He keeps one hand out in peace, slowly dipping down to put his helmet on the ground. “Is us, Tim. Timmy. Baby Bird. Is us. Yer family. Gotta lookit us, yeah?”

For the first time, the Talon speaks, “who’s Tim?”

And then he lunges.

The fight happens very differently this time.

The former power behind the punches is obviously dulled with the Talon’s identity reveal. He doesn’t hold back, is utterly ruthless with his attacks. He takes out B’s right knee, puts Hood down on the stained floor, knocks Robin into the wall with crushing force, and slams Batgirl’s head off the operating table.

He stands over Nightwing, wicked blade in hand and robin’s wings spread wide. He takes a knee, the sharp edge right above N’s adam’s apple, staring down impassively into the whiteouts.

“Timmy,” N spits blood, grunting when one knee pins his arm down. “Timmy, please. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I love you and I’m sorry they did this to you.”

Those eyes don’t change in the slightest. “You should not have tried to oppose the Owls.”

“We beat them once,” Nightwing gasps, “and you helped us, Baby Bird. You were with us then, don’t you remember.”

“I was nothing before the Court perfected me,�� the Talon replies emotionlessly.

“You were perfect before they ever touched you.”

“No,” and the Talon leans down, puts them a breath away. “The only thing you and those others do is put the criminals back in prison, back in Arkham for them to escape again, for them to kill and destroy over and over again. Like this, I can stop them permanently.”

“Oh Timmy,” and behind the whiteouts, Nightwing’s eyes spill over, his vision wavery. “Timmy–”

“Don’t call me that. Stop calling me that.”

“You know me, you know us. You have to remember–”

“Lies. All of it lies!”

Nightwing’s chest stutters, his fist clenching, “it’s not. None of it is. Not even this–”

And he’s fast enough to grab the back of the Talon’s neck, to lean up enough against the blade pressed against his throat, can bring their mouths together, can kiss him like he’s dying and the Talon is the only thing that can save him.

It’s sloppy and awkward because the Talon doesn’t know what’s happening, gasps against the vigilante’s mouth. The tongue sliding over his, the muffled moan in his mouth sparks something in the back of his brain where the Court of Owls could never touch.

When Nightwing pulls back, stares up at wide violet-blue eyes, when the blade falls away to clatter against the block, when the Talon’s mouth trembles and tears fill his eyes, when his wings flutter and falter, fold in on them both, when his voice goes hoarse with, “D-Dick?” Nightwing throws both arms around his waist and holds on.

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honeesucker · 4 years ago

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Darling, Dearest | Part 3

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x F!Reader (READ ALL WARNINGS)

Word count: 4,307 (Ch. 3 of a multi-chapter fic)

Part one ♡

Part two ♡

Divider designed by Firefly-Graphics ♡

‘Uhhnfhh!” My voice was hoarse from the constant screams being pulled from my throat so easily. I had since lost the ability to form coherent sentences using real words, my brain muddled from orgasms I long since lost count had resigned itself to baser sounds. My pussy was squelching so lewdly amidst the tireless ministrations of the man between my legs, which were draped over his shoulders. I was surprised my body could still produce any sort of substance after cumming so much but I was continually surprised by how the man brought out one more orgasm, pushing me over the edge again and again with each hungry stroke of the magic muscle currently devouring my sloppy, numb cunt like a starved animal. “Mmfmfhh, p-please! Stop s’too much!”

“Oh, come on now princess,” the deep rasp of a familiar voice sounded from between my legs. I peel my heavy eyelids open, sticky with tears from overstimulation as I glance down, my half-lidded gaze meeting deep carmine eyes shimmering up at me with a mischievous hunger. The soft baby blue waves framed his face unhidden by Father as he tilted his head like a curious puppy, despite his scars and rough patches of skin, he was beautiful.

So beautiful.

“P-please can’t take anymore, please don’t make me cum again,” I was a mewling mess of tears, saliva and heavy sobs wracking my whole body with trembling shakes but it only made Shigaraki glow and smirk, “Tomu p-please, n’more” I slurred as my eyelids fell shut.

“Okay my princess,” Shigaraki whispered, clambering up the length of my body to meet me in a sweet kiss. My eyes still shut but I felt him lean down and nuzzle against my neck gently, applying a soft peppering of kisses along the column of my neck and along my jaw, making me giggle. “I’ll give you some time to rest before the real fun starts,” I sighed contentedly while allowing the feeling of exhaustion to take over my body for a short rest, the elation of finally receiving a reprieve from Shigaraki’s insatiable needs halted by the feeling of my pussy being stretched wider than ever before, my body began to shake in the motions of being fucked at a brutal pace but when my eyes shot open Shigaraki was gone, and the soft pink dream world we shared was starting to bleed into deep hues of blackened blue. It felt like I had been holding my breath underwater for longer than I could, and wasn’t near the surface yet until finally I broke through with a sobbing gasp.

My eyes met almost total darkness aside from the dim glow of a gaming menu left to repeat on the screen of the wall mounted TV. The frantic thumping of my heart took over as mind tried to gather its bearings from being ripped out of a peaceful dream into reality in such a harsh way. I heard huffing and felt wet droplets fall onto my face. Blinking away the sleep in my eyes I watched in horror as Shigaraki, the real Shigaraki, was leaning over me while droplets of saliva from his tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth fell onto my face again. His cock was spearing in and out of me without abandon or care for my comfort, feeling like I was being torn apart. I tried to scream but found that there was a wadded-up piece of fabric shoved in my mouth, and secured with a silken gag tied around my head which only allowed a muffled cry to break through the sounds of Shigaraki’s labored breathing. His eyes finally snapped down to my awakening form with a wide smile.

“You did say you’d do anything, right Y/N?” Shigaraki mimicked the way I pleaded with him earlier, the embarrassment of being made fun of heating up my cheeks to a fiery pink. “Why don’t you keep being such a good, compliant cock-sleeve for me hm?” I tried to thrash my body but found that my wrists and ankles were bound to the bed and unable to move beyond an inch. The relentless slap of heavy balls against my ass added a strange sensation that sparked a fire straight into my core while the thrusts of the villain above me began to quicken and stutter before a few final pushes that had the head of his cock slamming up against my cervix over and over, sending full-body jolts throughout my nervous system that had the coil of an impending orgasm ready to snap.

“Come on little cock-sleeve, why don’t you cum for me? I feel you squeezing my cock, ready to milk me for all I have,” Shigaraki was laughing like a maniac above me as he finally let out a loud groan while he pinned his hips against mine, anchoring his cock as deep inside of me as it would go as it shot ropes of hot white cum against my womb, and the coil snapped as he was filling me up. My walls were clamping down around his cock, spasming and sucking him in deeper as my body thrashed against the bindings, my blood felt electric as I cried and drooled against my gag. Shigaraki fell fully on top of me, skin slick with sweat causing us to stick together like half-dried glue. He kept his cock seated fully in my cunt as he caught his breath, and once he did, he slowly pulled his length out of me simultaneously pulling a whimper from my throat with it as the ridges and veins caught every sensitive part inside of my abused hole on the way out.

“You’re turning out to be more useful than I initially thought,” Shigaraki mused, more to himself out loud than to me. I was left shaking, sweaty and full of warm, sticky cum that was leaking out of my pussy and onto the mattress. Fat rolls of tears were still spilling from my eyes and down the sides of my face as I lay back on the pillow, my limbs ached and I wanted to badly to curl in on myself but my wrists and ankles were still tied to the bed without much give. “I have to go and meet someone about some prospective members for the League, you be a good toy and stay put,” and with that he was gone.

I wasn’t certain how long it had been since Shigaraki left. Ten minutes or two hours felt the same when my mind remained a hazy mess of pain and disgust at myself that I came on the cock that fucked me awake. I was in such a tormented state of mind that I didn’t realize that my quirk had activated and was working itself on my body, I didn’t take notice when the blue tendrils of energy healed the raw skin around my wrists and ankles where the ties dug in... didn’t realize I was pulling my knees to my chest and tucking arms against my stomach in as tight of a ball as I could get after the energy worked itself away at the material keeping me hostage.

I fell asleep sobbing.

I woke up in a muddled haze of pain and confusion. My body ached like I’d been in the same position for days, and I stretched out and welcomed the sting that came with using the dormant muscles. I sat up and realized I was back in the room that had become ‘mine’ the one I initially woke up in when this whole mess started. I stretched and twisted my body until the ache dulled to a comfortable degree, and walked into the bathroom to shower; well-deserved as my skin felt filthy, sticky and wet with sweat. I turned the shower on and let the steam fill up the entire bathroom before stripping and stepping under the burning spray. I showered until the hot water turned tepid after over an hour of scrubbing, sudsing, conditioning and exfoliating every inch of my body – something in my head telling me to scrub. Scrub until it was gone.

Until what was gone?

I stepped out of the glass door and into the steamy room, enjoying the way the air quick-cooled my skin and left me feeling more refreshed than I had in a while since my arrival here. I was watching myself in the mirror as I brushed my teeth.

“You said you’d do anything, right Y/N?” Shigaraki’s voice came through the haze of my mind like a wasp sting to the psyche. I spit out my toothbrush and gagged on the memory, slipping to the floor as the night of horror came back to the forefront of my mind, something my restful state tried to protect me from but wasn’t strong enough to overtake.

I swallowed the thick memory back down while resigning myself to the reality of what happened.

I did say I’d do anything, didn’t I?

Fucking coward.

After a glacial-paced week of sitting and watching Kurogiri take care of the bar with Shigaraki always watching some lesser-known Pro Hero on the TV complete an interview for the most recent villain attack that they thwarted, muttering to himself about the hypocrisy of it all. “Government mandated violence all in the name of the Greater Good... y’ugh,” he’d murmur angrily as his nail dug harshly into the column of his throat where new wounds and old scars comingled. With a sigh I’d stand up and walk over to where Shigaraki was sat, ruby eyes glued to the TV in silent rage as I slowly cupped his large, slender hands in my own as I pulled them down, replacing the scratch of his nails with the soft palms of my hands allowing the liquid glow of my quirk to cool and heal the raw wounds. He was resistant to me touching him in this way at first but it soon became a softened reluctance over an outright disgust.

Sometimes I almost felt him sigh and soften into my touch; and if I caught him on a particularly good day he would let me rub a moisturizing ointment on his neck, around his lips and eyes, and the scarred ridges of his forehead he seemed especially tender about. I’d always thank him for letting me into his personal space without killing me. The sarcastic quip always got me a slight tug at the corner of his lips, not a full smile but close enough in my book.

Being a reluctant (see compelled) member of the Leage of Villains as the go-to feel good girl wasn’t as awful as the first few weeks that compiled a list of horrors I was never exposed to in my day-to-day civilian life. I had a coming-to-self moment with all that had happened and recognized the pedestal I set my standards on didn’t apply here, not when I was doing whatever it took to survive each day as it came... be it an uppity thug with a colt .45 placed between my eyes (he was dusted before he thought about pulling the trigger) or Shigaraki and his hellishly huge cock - I’d take it on. I had to, had to mold myself to this uncertain lifestyle.

The pain was starting to morph into something I derived a sick amount of pleasure from, body numb from overstimulation and pussy filled and leaking on an almost nightly basis whether back at the bar in Shigaraki’s room, or out somewhere in a filthy backway alley because his temper got out of control and he needed something grounding to reestablish his dominance over – and of course I wouldn’t let Shigaraki come an inch on to knowing I was getting more enjoyment than what reactions he forced from me with his brutal ministrations.

I was walking shortly behind Shigaraki along the dimly lit street coming back from one of the many meetings with Giran that Shigaraki has been attending, hearing promises of new blood to come for the League of Villains – Giran was set to bring a few new bodies to the bar next week after a failed rendezvous earlier the previous week with Stain, the Hero Killer, hadn’t panned out the way Shigaraki had hoped it would; though he was completely unfazed by the failing of Stain’s recruitment and just moved on to bigger plans that included destroying him instead along the way. It was a miraculous turnaround after the failed recruitment of Stain and a meeting Shigaraki had mentioned with a student that was ‘surprisingly insightful’ - I wasn’t sure what it meant then but Shigaraki had slowly began to morph into a true leader of the League as opposed to the childish brat with an anger problem and disposable resources. He was still angry, still had all he could want short of the collapse of Hero Society at his fingertips... but his demeanor and reactions to certain things shifted and I admired the change in him.

I was pulled from my mindless day dreaming by someone quite literally pulling on me and shoving me hard against a wall behind a convenience store Shigaraki and I had been walking past, though his long legs had meant he was further ahead of me when I was grabbed. A meaty hand that smelt like cigarettes and filth was clamped over my mouth and I looked up to see the stocky form of some no-life thug in a grey wifebeater and jeans looking at me with blown pupils and a sick grin of uneven black and yellowed teeth. There was an indistinguishable press of a dulled knife in my stomach, not quite puncturing into me yet but I felt the tiniest amount of blood trickling down to my navel from the initial push. I glowered at the hunk of fat and ill-intent pinning me to the wall, struggling against the grip that while shaky, was still strong enough to overpower me. I had just gotten one of my legs loose from where his own were pinning them just enough to give a good kick straight up into his family jewels but just as my boot was meant to contact balls his body crumbled and disintegrated to comingle with the other debris and filth of the alleyway where he truly belonged.

“Fuc-” I was cut off by Shigaraki’s annoyed expression, shaking his hand slightly as it dusting it off.

“You’re an incessant magnet for scum,” he growled, yanking me from my shocked position still on the wall and out back onto the sidewalk toward the bar. He had an iron-tight four fingered grip on my wrist that I knew was going to leave an angry looking mark once he let me go. With his pace set to a brutal haste, we were back inside the bar in no time. Walking quickly past Kurogiri who gave us a questioning look but didn’t push Shigaraki any further, knowing the man was furious and on a mission. We rounded a corner and down a hall to where I knew Shigaraki’s room was, and he opened the door and threw me inside, shutting it behind him and leaning against it with his slender arms crossed tightly across his chest, his gleaming red eyes glaring daggers down at me where I fell on his mattress, his right hand came up to his neck and scratched at it relentlessly, picking at the tender skin and causing pearls of blood to show.

“May I ask what the hell this is?” I motioned to my bruised wrist and outwardly to the room around us in general. Shigaraki was taking in sharp, deep breaths like he was trying to calm himself down.

“Shut up,” is all he growled out.

“W-” I started and then decided to clamp my mouth shut, thinking better against speaking up like my need for the last word is fighting me to do. I just give a small nod and fold my hands in my lap, waiting; and I wasn’t kept waiting long before slender, pale fingers reached out in front of me and quickly decayed my sweatshirt and the joggers of Shigaraki’s I was still wearing. Knowing where this was going to head, I quickly kicked off the boots I was still wearing and waited, almost afraid to breathe as Shigaraki’s fingertips ghosted over the contours of my body, stopping to press a red mark into an especially soft spot with a pleased hum. He finally decided upon utilizing both his hands pointer finger and thumb to tug and roll my nipples harshly between his fingers with an unforgiving pressure, taking extra pleasure in the pathetic, pained mewls that left my throat when he tugged forward harshly.

“You belong to me,” he said evenly, his deadpan tone and calm demeanor scaring me more than I am during any of his previous outbursts. One hand let go of the abused nipple it was holding onto to rain down a slap that left the room echoing with a deafening silence. I bit into my bottom lip until it bled, holding back the cry as a few tears escapes my eyes. Shigaraki leaned forward and licked up along the curve of my cheek, taking my throat into his hand, leaving his middle finger up in the air as he pressed into my throat with force. “Say it,” he growled.

“Y-yours,” I choked out as best I could from the pressure on my throat, “I belong to you - I’m yours.”

“That’s right, you’re mine. Mine to do with as I please, mine to keep,” Shigaraki leant down and took a long breath in, leaning in further to place a kiss on the top of my head. “Then why do you keep letting the slums of the Earth put their hands on what’s mine? Once or twice might be a coincidence, but it’s happened what, princess, three or four times now? That’s a pattern...” Shigaraki’s tone was dangerous and my heart leapt up into my throat jack hammering like a rabbit caught beneath a wolf’s paw. “A pattern that needs to be broken,” he finishes and the tears are flowing in a silent river down my cheeks, landing on my bare chest and mixing with the remaining ash of my clothes in grey streaks.

“S-Shigaraki, I don’t... I-I can’t control what others do to me,” I whisper nearly inaudible, “I don’t ask to be touched or threatened, or – or fucking whatever!” I didn’t realize I was shaking until Shigaraki placed his hands on my shoulders careful not to lay all fingers down as always, and pressed down on them until I was laying back on the bed underneath his weight. My body was still trembling beneath the hard crimson stare of the villain above me as he slowly leant down to draw a deep breath against the skin of my shoulder, sending a shiver up the length of my spine. “P-please I don’t mean to draw their attention, I don’t want it,” I was whining weakly as he kept up his slowly ghosting over my body, drawing deep inhales of my skin and hair, tracing a long wet line with his tongue up the column of my neck and the curve of my face... the way you’d imagine a dragon would play with a sheep before it devoured the poor creature. I stopped my pleading quickly when I realized it wasn’t changing his demeanor, or my inevitable fate, of what that was I wasn’t certain, but I had one last pleading question. “W-why am I being punished for someone else’s transgressions?” I wasn’t proud of the way my voice cracked and bubbled with fear, and lost the fight to the threat of tears almost spilling over my eyes.

“You’re not,” Shigaraki breathed, ghosting his against my neck before placing sweet kisses against the skin.

“Then why-?” I was cut off by the press of his scarred lips to mine, and while it was always an odd feeling blooming in the pit of my stomach at the uncharacteristically intimate act, I allowed him to do as he pleased; and despite the side effects of his quirk affecting his skin, his lips were still warm and welcoming. Shigaraki pressed his body further against mine, lodging a knee between my thighs as he pressed the joint hard up against my pussy causing my cheeks to burn hot and pink with the embarrassment of how turned on I was by the simple action, my arousal evident in the hot pulsations of need aching where his knee pressed and rubbed just enough to frustrate me.

“Is being with me really such a punishment?” He asked, his tone even despite the personal sting the question would bring anyone asking that of themselves. He doesn’t wait for an answer though before his mouth is back on mine, slender fingers kneading harshly into the soft fat of my stomach and hips with a bruising force, dipping down to my thighs as he hiked them to curl up around his own hips. Shigaraki was rutting his clothed cock against my core, already shamefully hot and wet, soaking into the fabric of his pants as he grinded against the slick lips. He broke the kiss and pressed his forehead against mine, as my lips parted with puffing breaths from the growing arousal of his grinding, wanting more friction, more anything... more of him. “Don’t you see that someone so weak like you, someone so naive and alluring to such pathetic scum needs to be kept and looked after by someone who is able to protect them?” Shigaraki was punctuating his sentences with deep grinds against my bare pussy, the rough seams of his pants bringing me a mixture of pleasure from having just enough friction, and pain from how harsh the fabric was against the sensitive bud. I just nodded, dumb from the aching between my legs. I was always a magnet for trouble, big or small, and I noticed it more and more since having first been taken that night in the alley; it’s been one shitty situation after another with someone trying to take something from me. Shigaraki seemed to sense the change in my thoughts as he decayed his own clothing in a fit of frustrated rage at what was separating our bodies. His pale cock slapped up heavy against his stomach as the fabric fell from his body. The head was red, angry with need and leaking a bead of pearly precum. As if my body decided to move on its own, I was on my hands and knees on Shigaraki’s bed and leaning forward to grab at the delicious looking cock, lavishing the head with kitten licks swirling around the tip in a mess of saliva and precum. His long fingers were tangling in my hair, gentling scratching my scalp with the main four fingers, eliciting a hum from me as I leant into his palm like a cat. His fingers found purchase tangled in my hair on the back of my head as he gripped hard and gave a hard yank that had tears brimming my eyes as Shigaraki looked down at me with a charming smile stretching his lips and his ruby eyes narrowed down at me. “Answer me, princess,” Shigaraki purred and I only nodded along quickly.

“Y-yes I need protecting,” I whimpered out when his grip tightened, pulling at the roots of my hair painfully.

“You need me,” he stated simply and I nodded fervently.

“Yes, I n-need you,” I let out a breath when Shigaraki released his Titan grip on my hair, plopping onto the bed and rubbing at the back of my head with a series of pitiful whines.

“What do you need me for, princess?” Shigaraki asked with a wicked grin on his face.

“Mmfmmph n-need you to protect me,” I managed out between the small thrusts Shigaraki made of barely his cockhead in and out of my mouth, teasing me. “Need your coc-” a hard shove had his full length sheathed down my throat as I drooled and gagged around the fleshy member. Sputtering and trying to breathe through my nose until Shigaraki used his forefinger and thumb to pinch my nostrils affectively cutting off all my air which had me struggling against him.

“That’s right,” Shigaraki stated above me, as cool and collected as ever as I thrashed and struggled for air beneath him, “you need me, my cock. I am the Master of your future, I can give you so much and take everything away,” he said giving one final thrust into my mouth after I calmed down from lack of oxygen and resignation to my fate, and pulled out letting me sputter and pull hungry breaths of air in as he looked on with a sick satisfaction etched across his soft, scarred features. I fell down on my stomach flat like a frog and just let the tears flow freely as my body shook with hiccups and fits of coughs as the ability to breathe came back to me fully.

Shigaraki leant down until he was face to face with me, his hand reaching out to cut my tear-soaked cheek as he spoke, “You’re going to make such an exceptional player two when I’m done with you.”

I resigned myself to the comfort that came as he crawled into his bed with me, wrapping his frame around mine as I still shook a bit from the sobs that wracked my chest. I fell asleep coming down from the high of fear, sinking into the comfort of no longer being used for the time being having been pushed past a limit tonight.

I felt strong, slender arms grasp my waist tighter in my sleep as I drifted off into a black, dreamless sleep.

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alicemitch09writes · 4 years ago

Text

lame

07.

look, i know i’m an asshole but at least i’m trying

“Look at that, isn’t he amazing?” the blond boy yells, pointing at the TV on display, showing one of those heroes in work.

“Uwah, All Might’s so cool!”

(E/c) eyes followed the boys’ gazes, watching a big hulking figure power through villains.

She could only nod, half-heartedly, keeping her eyes on the screen, listening to the two boys go on about how amazing he was.

Booming laughter sounded off from the screen, the two boys anticipating as the hero turned to the camera. “I am here!”

And then, the boys went wild – gesticulating wildly, words of admiration leaving their lips, eyes twinkling with amazement. Honestly, it was easy to like someone as big and prominent as All Might.

But in a world ruled by quirks, and your perception of them tainted at an early age, it was difficult to really set yourself on where you stood.

“Isn’t he the coolest, (Nickname?)” green eyes turned to the (h/c) girl.

“Uh, yeah…” came the girl’s reply, rather dull and lacking in the same energy as the two boys.

“That was a weak reply, (Name)!” the blond boy turned to her, a bit offended. “You should be crying out like me and Deku! All Might’s the coolest!”

Chancing a look at the said hero on screen, she shrugged, unsure how to reply to that. “I mean, I guess he is.”

Both boys froze at their friend’s lack of admiration for their favorite hero.

“Sorry I’m not like you guys.”

“T-That’s okay, (Nickname).” The green-haired boy says, voice shaky and his eyes sheen with tears he’s fighting off, smiling warmly at her.

“Hey, that doesn’t mean I don’t like him, though. He’s just not my favorite hero.”

The blond boy’s carmine eyes widen at that, the three kids began to walk home together once the show was over.

“Then, who is your favorite?”

“Hm…I guess I prefer the quiet heroes, I guess?” she nods, mind thinking of policemen, teachers, cooks, train staff, and fishermen. “Ones that don’t really stand out but are cooler in other ways.”

“Ah, there’s this one hero I heard about from Kyoto!” Izuku tells her. “He has a healing quirk, but he’s also really good at martial arts and carries a cool staff with him.”

“That’s Merlin!” the girl gushes excitedly, her walking having a bit of a jump. “The Wandering Hero: Merlin! He’s so cool! I think my grandpa mentioned him before, having trained in our dojo when he was still in training. Ma says he was the prettiest looking man next to Pa. And Pa says his quirk’s extra cool if you get to see it in person!”

(E/c) eyes sparkled the more she gushed about this hero of hers, one he’s never heard of because of his rather elusive nature as a hero.

“That sounds amazing, (Nickname)! I wish my family could have known All Might as well!” the green-haired boy’s tiny fists shook with excitement, sharing her enthusiasm.

“Tch, All Might’s still better. Just wait ‘til I become a hero, (Name)…” muttered the blond, hands in his pockets. “Then you’ll see that I’m definitely the best outta the rest.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, looking at her friend in disbelief. Then mischief.

Getting behind him, she kicks the backs of his knees, causing him to topple to the ground face first.

“Ah, Kacchan!”

“What the hell was that for, (Name)!?”

“That was so lame of you, Katsuki!” laughed the girl, sticking her tongue out as she grabbed the green-haired boy’s hand and proceeded to run ahead of him.

Angered the boy rushes to his knees, cheeks definitely not flushed, and gives the two a chase. “HAH!? WHO’RE YOU CALLING LAME!?”

Three little kids ran down the streets, laughing in their wake.

Traditions in Japan were rather a thing that made the country quite known to the outside world, as many adhered to certain types of customs.

And as per family tradition, certain family never fails to hand over ochugen gifts to the people in your lives.

A (h/c) girl was headed off to the Bakugou’s first, a box full of fresh harvest from her grandpa’s garden. Coincidentally, it also happened to be Izuku’s birthday and she got him special tickets to that superhero exhibit. To commemorate, she had even worn an All Might shirt!

Reaching the Bakugou’s, she put down the Midoriya’s box, before reaching for the doorbell. Someone yelled inside, followed by explosive remarks, which was something she’s rather used to.

Patiently waiting, she felt a buzz, taking her phone out of her shorts pocket, smiling when she saw a text from the birthday boy, feeling the excitement through his text.

The door clicked open, her smile still in place as she furiously texted Izuku back. As she pressed reply, she then pocketed her phone and readily met a pair of carmine eyes.

Except, the owner of said eyes came from the last person she cared for, smile flattening.

For a second there was surprise in his features, softening slightly as his usual scowl set in. His eyes took in her form, the box, then at the ridiculous shirt she had on. “What the fuck are you wear-“

Behind him, a voice called out. “(Name)-chan!”

It was Auntie Mitsuki.

Smile finding its way back, a rather polite one at that, the teen greeted her back. “Hiya, Auntie!”

Shouldering her son aside, receiving a snarky reply she didn’t bother with, the Bakugou matriarch’s eyes shined at the sight of the young teen. “Look at you, growing up so fast to be this cute!” unable to help herself, she reached over to pinch the younger girl’s cheeks before swallowing her into her arms for a hug. Releasing the girl, her carmine eyes then focused and shined at the items in her hand. “Ah, Shihan really has the neatest harvest every summer, thanks for these!”

“We most graciously bestow our gratitude to you, oh great Bakugou Mitsuki!” the teen implored, rather dramatically, earning a laugh between the two, like a running gag.

Bakugou could only watch, quite amazed at their relationship.

“Oi brat, get this will ya?” snapped his mother over her shoulder.

“Don’t tell me what to do, hag!” screamed the blond back, carefully taking the box from her hands.

Their eyes met briefly before she easily slid them away to focus on his mom, an instantaneous reaction.

“You seem dolled up, (Name)-chan. Got a date?”

Humming, she tilted her head to the side. “You could say that,” at that, Bakugou nearly stumbled in his step but she didn’t notice. “it’s Izuku’s birthday today and I’m just having a birthday date with him in a while!”

At the mentioned of Deku, Bakugou froze in his step, looking over his shoulder to take in her attire once more – a gaudy All Might shirt tucked into some simple denim shorts, then some sneakers.

“Aw, ain’t that cute. Oi, Katsuki, why aren’t you with them!?”

Caught, he burst out a reply. “HAH? Why the hell would I spend time with those extras?” his words got the best of him before he could control himself, her brows knitting together, pain flashing through (e/c) eyes for a quick second. He instantly regretted opening his stupid mouth.

“Anyways," he couldn't help notice the slight strain in her voice, feeling his heart drop "I just came to drop by our ochugen gifts. Thank you again for all your help, Auntie.” Grabbing the Midoriya’s gift box from the ground, the teen worked on a smile. “Please tell Uncle Masaru I said hi!” And with that, she was gone.

Both blonds watch the young girl walk away before the door closed. Without a word, Mitsuki walked back in, giving a quick smack to her son’s head before disappearing into the kitchen.

Her hit was rather soft, reprimanding.

Something unpleasant filled his gut as he dropped the gift box on the dining room table and headed off to his room, pained (e/c) eyes haunting him.

You always hurt the ones you love.

Does it feel weird to feel close to someone you haven’t spoken to in years? That there’s always been this sort of connection between the two of you that instantly links you together even after days, months, years of zero contact?

Well, that’s how Bakugou Katsuki feels towards Yuroichi (Name).

Ever since they were kids and he was introduced to (Name), she was all he cared about. Well, there was Deku, but he was second on his list.

(Name) had always been special for him.

But then, things changed.

Since being paired up with Deku for his practical exam, he was unsettled. Well, he’s been unsettled for a lot of things for lots of reasons. But basically, what he’s been unsettled about with Deku was (Name).

While he remembered wimpy Deku trailing behind him, there was always (Name) ready to drag him away or be beside him. Where there was Deku, (Name) was sure to follow. They were like a combo; one was never without the other. He hated it.

Deku had no fucking quirk, was weak, small, a shitty nerd, yet he had the fucking gall to stand up and try to be a hero. With that, (Name) shifted her attention and adoration to him and him alone.

Honestly, he didn’t mind that they were quirkless – they honestly just got in the way.

Still, it fucking hurts that (Name) wouldn’t bother looking his way or even saying a word to him. Fuck, even Deku would acknowledge him even if it were outta fear!

Bullying probably made sense to keep her distance, especially since he loved targeting weak quirkless like Deku and her. But to be on the receiving end of those angry eyes, it made him weak. It may have enforced and asserted his dominance in middle school, but to her, it was a disgusting power play.

He may not be close with her compared to when they were younger, but he’s always kept an eye out for her (and Deku, shut up). He knows that she’s an expert martial artist, bagging and winning several competitions and tournaments, was the pride of the school and her family dojo, sleeps a lot during classes, and sometimes, the older kids would pick on her because they knew she was tough.

(However, after that one time in middle school, she stopped with the fighting and worked on a clean slate.)

She never befriended anyone without a quirk lightly, the majority of her friends either were quirkless or had a really minor, insignificant quirk. She didn’t seem to care nor mind. However, Deku remained her closest companion.

He’d see her a lot – in hallways, in class, on the way home, but he never got to be with her.

Nonchalant, lax, yet kind and sweet to others, but to him, she was forcibly polite and civil.

Those adoring, reassuring, warm (e/c) eyes were reserved for that one shitty nerd.

He hated to admit it, but he craved for her attention, yearned for her approval, and desperately lingered on the fact that they were childhood friends, so he’s obliged to keep a relationship, even when now they’re barely acquaintances.

On his middle school graduation, while he was surrounded by his so-called friends and his parents, his eyes easily caught on two people laughing amongst themselves.

Just seeing them, laughing together with cherry blossoms fluttering to paint an idyllic image, suddenly made him feel extremely lonely. His hold on his diploma slackened, fingers and foot twitching, eyes taking his childhood acquaintances in.

Graduating top of his class, with a bright future set for UA High School. He should be excited, right? Ecstatic even at what he’s gained? Yet why does it feel so lacking?

Carmine eyes began to soften, especially at the smaller of the two. Realization dawned unto him, the occasion was rather bittersweet for (Name), as it was nearing a year since she lost her parents and she couldn’t share the joyous occasion with them. Thankfully, she had her grandfather with her, then Auntie Inko, and Deku.

But not him.

Irked, he left before his mom could find them, no doubt, to use the opportunity to snag a photo of the three.

Nothing hurts more than to realize that the one person – he swore to protect, to keep by his side, had completely shunned him.

At first, they were inseparable. But as the years passed, they drifted apart.

The day (Name) punched him was a literal awakening, a prologue really. It got him worked up. Then the Sludge Incident happened. Her parents died. The light in those (e/c) eyes weren’t as bright as before, even when she got a part-time job.

He knew he was wrong; he won’t deny that (but he won’t say it out loud either), but he won’t ever hide from it either.

After getting into UA, he felt her punch even more at the introduction of his classmates with quirks, as she aptly put it “better and flashier” compared to his.

That stung, hurting his ego.

Damn, the top was a challenge.

But he wasn’t backing down, damn it.

So, what is he was a proud asshole? He had every reason to be! He had compensated with his talents, smarts, and versatility.

Still, to be called out on having a shitty personality boosted only by the fact that he had a strong quirk could do a number to him.

When it came to matters of the heart, he sucked in that aspect.

(h/c) locks, framing a pretty face with (e/c) eyes, they always, always, always manage to catch him off-guard.

Unbeknownst to the green-haired nerd, whenever he opened his big mouth to his friends in 1-A, he’d hope there was something about (Name), no matter how small or insignificant. They even texted.

Pride would always win over him whenever Deku would openly talk about (Name) – Bakugou would pretend to be uninterested, looking out the window while he was actually taking in the nerd’s words like a starved man, he was the only source of news he had because for the first time in their life, (Name) was not there with them. It sucked. (She was very clear on steering away from heroics or people who had a quirk, despite having one herself)

The days were lonelier and duller without her. Deku’s ramblings were something – slightly comforting, but don’t tell him that, but it just missed that one figure next to him.

For all his bravado, just the mere mention of Yoruichi (Name) made him weak. Wait, scratch that, (Name) was a strong person by herself, he did not make him weak, shut up. Hesitate, yeah, that’s the word, she made him falter, hesitate. Whatever.

Thankfully, none of his idiotic ragtag of friends keyed in on that. Save for Deku.

Deku, who’d always known. Deku, that sharp fucking nerd who always tried to be the goody-two-shoes and goaded him to talk to her.

Like fuck he’d talk to him about (Name), fucking no way. He’d rather have his nails done with half-and-half bastard than to have a heart-to-heart talk with fucking Deku.

Still, there was just one thing he was sure of about Deku, one thing he’ll never admit to anyone – or even him, out loud: compared between the two, Deku was always the bigger person. He was kinder, gentler, better.

A part of him would forever be jealous of the fact that Deku had been there for her when he couldn’t. Deku had access to parts of (Name) he was barred from. Deku was protective of her. Deku had (Name).

And as for him? Well, he was probably good as a dead fuck to her.

The punch still stung.

Nothing hurts more than to realize that you never had a chance, to begin with.

From: (Name) Yuroichi

To: Bakugou Katsuki

I’m glad you’re safe.

A day after Kamino…

For once, the Bakugou household was at peace, a day after his kidnapping. The day before, there was screaming, yelling, crying from both parentals that probably had dried off for today. At least for the first few minutes of the day.

The doorbell rang, Katsuki called out to get it, desperate for a bit of distraction from the silence around him.

He opened the door then froze, breath hitching. Two breaths, actually.

Carmine met (e/c).

For once, indifference was not the expression set on her face that he was looking at, but a softened expression. So incredibly soft.

An image of a younger her suddenly came to mind, back to when they first met each other.

“Katsu- “stopping, her lips pinched together, a small frown setting in, not ready to say his name just yet.

Hurt flashed in his eyes, desperately taking her in.

When he was kidnapped, first of all, he was annoyed as fuck, but most of all, he was scared. The League of Villains had him by the neck, literally, immobilized him, just to lure out All Might. And the thing that kept him grounded was her, (Name). The memory of her soft expression after they’d washed the dishes, comforting silence between them, that burnt mark on her neck, her telling him to have fun at summer camp. Her text message.

Remembering her presence at his doorstep, his eyes caught hold of the item in her hand – ochugen gifts, he uncharacteristically gestured at it.

“U-Uh…”

“Y-Yeah…ochugen.”

“My mom’s not home, so…” his words came out lamely, weakly. So, unlike him.

But she was so lost in her head that she could only nod.

Gently, he reached for the box, their fingers brushing against each other lightly.

Something fluttered in his chest, wildly and tightly. Summer seemed to have come quickly as he was beginning to sweat, the smell of burnt sugar bleeding through.

“T-Then…”

“Hn,”

Head still hung low, he took it as her parting, something in his chest twisting painfully, and he slowly turned on his back.

(Before he headed back in, instincts – maybe, or her heart forced her to, she grabbed hold on the back of his shirt, stopping him, and pressed her head between his shoulder blades, taking in his scent.)

Bakugou didn’t move, feeling her shaking hands balling into fists, as though to ground herself.

“I…I know I said this already, but still, I want you to know,” her voice was shaky, but she continued to speak, taking a deep breath. “I’m so glad you’re safe.” The thing in his chest continued to flutter wildly, threatening to come out. “And I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

Silence followed, likening to a pregnant pause, there was more she wanted to say, but the fear of having your feelings get the best of you seemed off-setting in the given situation, so she settled for that.

Before another word was said, she hurriedly grabbed the Midoriya’s box and clumsily left, completely red in the face.

He watched her leave over his shoulder, she almost ran into the gate, fumbling with the box as she headed to the Midoriya’s.

Suddenly, he felt lighter. The punch no longer hurt, leaving a bruise in its wake. This was the beginning of progress with her, it was something. Proud as he is, Bakugou’s never one to admit his mistakes, but for her, he’ll try.

If anything, she was right about everything she thought about him. Especially the part that he was lame.

masterlist • eight

#lame #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki fic #bakugou katsuki angst #bakugou katsuki angst fic #bnha #bnha fic #bnha angst #bnha angst fic #bnha x reader #mha #mha x reader #mha fic #mha angst #mha angst fic

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thetorturerwrites · 4 years ago

Text

Bucket

Snippet: You were little more than a thrumming nerve. Your entire body throbbed inside your suddenly itchy sweater and leggings, aching and ready for him to do whatever it was he would do. That was the entire nature of your relationship with Adam. He told you what he wanted, and you delivered.

Notes: I wasn't sure I was going to post this because it is different from my regular Sackler, but I need to get it out of my brain. As always, this is an adult work, and there's not a lot about me that's fluffy. So, please be aware. Also, this is all the way behind the cut because it is just straight porn, y'all.

“Fuck, that’s it.”

Adam’s strong hands wrapped around your skull entirely. His fingers dug into your scalp, guiding you up and down again and again. He grunted at your whimper; the sound clipped by the stab of his dick against your uvula. Every salacious sound boomed in the empty theater.

On your knees between his, you clutched at his corded, jean-clad thighs, but the smooth fabric thwarted your every effort at keeping your balance. You slid against the stage's hardwood floor, only contained by his manipulative grip and his boots at the outsides of your thighs.

For the last half hour, Adam used your mouth to edge himself. He inched right up to the line where you’d taste that salty desire dribble out; and then, he’d back off, slapping his dick at the flat of your tongue with a lewd groan or allowing you to lick at the distended veins decorating his cock and wiggle your tongue tip into his weeping slit.

He was all you could smell, all you could taste. When he allowed it, musk and sweat tainted the air you breathed. You lapped at the tangy underside and head of his dick, swirling the slick around and around before swallowing it down on a delirious sigh.

Cock drunk from the first drop.

The longer he fucked your mouth, the more it swelled and numbed, and the natural apprehension of your throat to keep invaders out grew lax. That’s what he wanted. That was the goal — to park his massive dick into your throat as far as he could and cum down it.

His phone alarm blared, signaling the impending start of the next rehearsal. He responded with an annoyed kick to send it skittering across the floor.

“Goddammit.” He tangled his fingers in roughly, jerking you back to the tip. He yanked his black t-shirt up and out of the way, baring that mouth-watering abdomen. “Hands.”

You were little more than a thrumming nerve. Your entire body throbbed inside your suddenly itchy sweater and leggings, aching and ready for him to do whatever it was he would do. That was the entire nature of your relationship with Adam. He told you what he wanted, and you delivered.

Blow job in the middle of the day, the park, the cab? Often. Pictures of your tits at three in the morning so he could jerk off when everyone else in the apartment was asleep? Check. Dirty bar bathroom fucking while his narcissist girlfriend waited? Of course.

He used you — however, whenever, wherever he wanted.

You reveled in it, in being his on-demand whore. Often, he didn’t care if you enjoyed it. He never worried about making you cum or being nice. You were at his disposal for every vicious fuck, for every lascivious, law-breaking adventure.

You picked up where his idiotic girlfriends left off.

And now? Now, you obeyed for the hundredth time, wrapped both hands around his straining, heated cock, and used them in tandem with your mouth, twisting and tugging. His arousal and the spit he coaxed from the back of your tongue combined to make every pass glide easily. Each obscene slurp and shuck echoed, a sinful chorus your heart beat in rhythm to. He moaned loud as you massaged and drooled and swallowed.

The sounds he made had you rocking pitifully against nothing. Pins and needles shot through your calves and feet. Your quads burned; your head swam. But your breasts were heavy with arousal, nipples erect in that way that made you want to beg him to lick and suck them. Your pussy clamored, banging an intense, unrelenting tempo and soaking through the paltry fabric between your thighs.

“Think about this goddamn mouth more than I should.” He huffed and squirmed, unable to decide between the combination of lips and hands or the invitation at the back of your neck. “Can’t get Hannah to give a decent blow job to save my life. Shit, fuck, right there.”

You purred at his words and concentrated harder on relaxing your jaw and swiping your tongue along his length in response. This was the only praise you ever received from Adam — this comparison to whomever he was dating.

Clutching at your head, he forced you down, down, down until your nose nudged his groin and your throat, abused and beaten into submission, accepted his barrage. He growled and thrust in, pushy and pleased with himself. He interrupted each gag with a new spearing of his cock. Barking another curse, Adam lodged himself so far into your throat he blocked your air supply and spilled straight into your gullet, denying you even the taste.

He was demanding, depraved, delectable.

He held you there a long time, until your fingers eased and your shoulders slumped with imminent unconsciousness. When he finally vacated your mouth, he held you upright by the throat as your brain came back into itself. He waited until you blinked bleary eyes at him and licked your swollen, cracked lips.

Pulling away, you took a dizzy moment to adjust your clothes sluggishly. You wiped the sticky spit from your face and nodded once, the only sign he ever asked for that you weren’t going to die or press charges.

He jerked his head towards the back door and grabbed his script from the floor.

“Get the fuck outta here.”

***

AS: Carmine’s. 15. Y: N. Too far. 30. AS: Fine.

Twenty-five minutes later, you strolled through the Italian restaurant’s door and paused at the attendant’s booth. You were here to meet someone, you said, breezing by her with a smile as you had a dozen times before. For all she knew, you were a regular paying customer, not a booty call who was about to corrupt some recently cleaned surface.

Pointing yourself toward the restrooms, you hummed and strolled through the bustling room. You caught sight of Adam seated at an over-crowded table, surrounded by half-drunk, too loud people he looked close to murdering.

The scowl on his face promised any number of sinful things.

As soon as he caught your eye, you ducked down the dim hallway and into the ladies’ room to wait. Carmine’s was one of his favorite spots because of this particular bathroom — single occupancy, thick door, sturdy lock.

Minutes later, tall, dark, and menacing stepped in, slammed the door, and threw the lock into place. Hands on his hips, he leveled that annoyed gaze at you. Your breath hitched; your mouth watered. Slowly, deliberately, his eyes roamed from your favorite pair of come-fuck-me boots, along shapely curves accentuated by black skinny jeans. He lingered at the low swoop of your blouse and the rich plum coloring your full lips.

Somehow, his gaze darkened even further.

“You on a fucking date?”

He closed the distance in two irritated strides, prompting you to stand up straighter. Adam’s left hand pulled you in by your ass, squeezing and lifting you against him. His right found your breast to graze and swipe his thumb back and forth over the straining nipple. The lace bralette you wore left nothing to chance. You felt every nudge of the stiff peak side to side, sending electric current straight to your clit.

“Are you?” You met his eyes, a dare and a plea all wrapped up in one look. “You don’t care.”

Honey-gold eyes narrowed at you. Lush, pink lips hard lined. The hand at your breast lifted to your face and smeared the pretty lipstick all across your cheek, lending an air of just-fucked to your as yet unfucked appearance. You were loose for him from the first text, before you even walked in the door, but the sound he made melted your insides.

“You’re right.” Adam spun you to face the mirror and tore at your pants, nearly ripping the button clean off. “Don’t give a damn.”

Shoving the fabric down your hips, he impatiently tore your panties, pushed you further up onto the little counter, and dipped his fingers into the well at your core.

“Always ready for me, huh bucket?”

Your head dropped on a hushed groan at the pet name. Bucket. Short for Cum Bucket — his own personal sperm bank.

You didn’t need to answer; the evidence was clear. And before you could even plan the words, the fat head of his cock pushed past your puffy labia and broke the jellied seal on your cunt. You bit your lip hard to keep the whining noise from turning loud as he stretched you. It burned so goddamn good, and you lifted onto your toes for even an inch more.

Warm-up over, Adam gripped both of your hips and slammed forward punishingly. The force of it was so great, your mouth popped open on a hiccup, something between a delighted cry and a punch to the chest. Stunned, you planted your clammy hand on the mirror for some support, but he held you in place. His wide, determined hands kept your body right where he wanted it.

His pace was brutal. Hips pistoning, fingers digging in, teeth bared. All take and no give, he leaned further into you, pressing your abdomen against the marble counter so hard you knew there would be bruises. Each pass was frenzied, and the only thing that muffled the slap of his body against yours was the fact that the bathroom was next door to the kitchen.

The smell of sex mingled with spice and bread, coaxing a gurgle from your stomach. Starved in more ways than one, you arched your back and tipped your ass up further, earning a pleasured grunt from behind.

You knew the drill, and you held your breath. He hardly wanted to hear your sounds, often because he was muttering angrily or cursing at whatever bullshit happened over the course of the day. Your wailing was distracting, annoying, he said. You screwed your eyes shut to keep from watching him fuck you in the mirror, certain that you wouldn’t be able to keep quiet if you did.

But a whimper escaped, and you clawed at the sink. It was too much, too fucking good to bear in silence no matter how hard you tried.

His panting and grunting was music, and you pictured every shiny, veiny inch disappearing into your sizzling cunt. He didn’t care if you came, but he could drive you there, drive you crazy, the way he bottomed out, the way his sheer size filled you into your guts, the way he pushed and pulled and moved you to his liking.

Fucking you like this, in the bathroom of such a fine family establishment, was vulgar, disrespectful. His girlfriend and her friends were right outside, drinking and carrying on, but he was in here with you, hollowing out your pussy for his freight train cock.

It was mean and rude and shameful.

Addicting.

Something changed this time, though. You hurtled fast towards the kind of blinding orgasm only Adam could deliver, struggling to keep your mouth shut as you did, when his firm hand wrapped around your neck and lifted your back into his chest. He tightened his grip and hissed in your ear.

“Open your eyes. You think some suit can fuck you like this?”

The sight that met your peeking was carnal candy. His face was flushed and right at your ear. Your mouth hung open, letting strangled sounds of pleasure squeak free. He buried his dick far, far, far into your cunt and gripped the soft swell of your stomach for leverage. His fingernails dug in, and you could do nothing but brace, hold on, quake.

“Some college frat asshole gonna make you cum like I do? You know you want to. Almost there aren’t you, bucket? You think I don’t know when you cum?”

That was it. That’s all it took to send you reeling. Your body lit up, constricting around the angry cock inside and pulling a volley of curses from its owner. A long, muted ‘ffffffuck’ dripped from your lips right before the rest of you followed, shaking through the orgasm and the hot flood of slick that accompanied it.

It was liquid fire leaking down your thighs for him, a delicious loosening of every muscle to draw him in even further, and he rewarded you with a loud groan and a vicious bite to the shoulder.

He fucked you through your high mercilessly, never stopping the rough, quick pace. Pushing your torso away, he wrapped his hands back around your hips and furiously crashed into you until he snarled and emptied his cock, painting your insides with a fresh coat of Adam.

He was right. Nobody could fuck you like that.

Slumping against the mirror, you mewled at the cool press of the glass, grateful for the temperature change. You bit your lip as he pulled out, already feeling empty in the wake of his use. Managing to make your legs work, you pulled your clothes back into place and reached to turn on the faucet so you could wash away the mussed make-up, but he caught your hand and turned you to face him.

He tipped your face up by fingers at your chin.

“Fucking tramp is what you are.” His voice dropped, and it seemed like almost a muse to himself, something you weren’t supposed to hear. “Never prettier than when you’re crying and filled with cum.”

Your brow furrowed, lost in this moment because you didn’t know what to do if he was praising you without comparing you to Hannah or whoever it was today. You could count the times he looked you right in the face on one hand, and you looked away, not wanting to go down the rabbit hole of how beautiful he was.

“Wear it like this. Show everybody what kind of whore you are.”

He dipped his head, bit your cheek, and spun out of the room. You mashed your lips together and took another long moment to get all of your shit back together. Slipping out, you tucked your hands into your jacket pockets and slithered through the crowd towards the door.

“Miss? Hey shit, are you ok?!?”

You knew what it looked like. He knew what it would look like, too; that was the point. It looked like you’d been assaulted in the bathroom. And to explain the disheveled clothes, the messy hair and smeared make-up, you’d have to say no, I let this guy I know fuck me while you all ate ravioli. You’d have to say no, I wasn’t assaulted; I’m his tramp, his whore, his on-call cunt.

For a flash, you contemplated doing just that, mulling over how the words would sound, would taste on your tongue.

Deciding against it, you ignored the concern and tossed a brief look over your shoulder to your at-will tormentor before disappearing out into the street.

***

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Rigid fingers encircled your upper arm, gouging at the tender flesh through your dress shirt as the body attached to those fingers yanked you backwards into the janitor’s closet. You shrieked, pushing at the human column who kept you pinned in the corner.

“You come when I ask you, that’s it. You don’t fucking follow me here with my girlfriend like some goddamn stalker.”

It took a full 30 seconds to register the person grousing at you.

“I know the rules, Adam.” You fished out your badge and held it up for him to see. “I work here.”

He seethed for another heartbeat, then another. It was almost as though he wanted to be angry at you, at something. He snatched the badge and looked from you to it and back again.

“Didn’t know dirty sluts could get regular jobs.”

“Pay me.” It was blunt, and it shot out of your mouth before you could think better of it. “Till then, a girl’s gotta eat.”

His hypnotic eyes flashed, and he licked his lips, taking a step closer to you. Swallowing to wet the wicked dryness of your throat, you scooted back until you hit the wall, clutching your bag between you and him. You weren’t sure you meant what you said, but it was too late to take it back.

He looked at you like he wanted to eat you, and your body rose to the very idea of his mouth between your thighs. And then you thought how much better your shift would be if he fucked you first. A sloppy, rough ride to get you through the day.

“Wha-” Clearing your throat, you forced yourself to look at his face and not lower to see if his dick was hard in those navy blue slacks. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Some bullshit writer thing.” He leaned into your personal space and licked up the salty bead of perspiration at your temple. “But now I’m thinking about stuffing your filthy cunt full of my dick.”

Your agreement with the notion must have played across your face because he shoved your badge in your mouth, turned you around, and pushed your cheek against the cold slab wall. His deft hands wasted no time in sending your black dress pants to pool around your ankles and tugging aside your panties.

No warning, no checking to see if you were ready. He did exactly as he said he would; he stuffed his hard length into you, stretching and tearing, making you bite down on the plastic card.

Your eyes stung, tears smudging mascara and eyeliner into a globby blur. You scratched at the wall and squirmed through the pain, but Adam didn’t miss the way your hips moved, the way your ass wiggled against his groin. It didn’t matter why or where; you would always be ready for him to fuck you. Even if it hurt.

“Nasty, eager, goddamn slut.”

It was fast, frenetic. He pounded you so hard your eyes crossed. The full scope of your relationship coalesced in this moment. He fucked you blazingly quick, only worried about himself, and you flailed like a rag doll, a whore toy for his amusement.

You whimpered, unable to stop the noise even though you knew it wasn’t welcome. You carved little white divots into your badge with the death grip you had on it. Adam growled behind his own gnashing teeth, pulled you down onto his dick good and deep, and spilled into your waiting cavern. In a matter of two minutes, he finished with you and left.

It had been some time since it was that fast. Your head swam, caught in the murky middle of euphoria that only you, only your body could get him to do that and the ache and pulse he always left you with, the edge you seldom got to drop over.

It was the worst, and best, sort of torment, a masochism that got you through day after day.

***

“What’s wrong?! Are you dead?!”

You shoved your earbuds in and answered the phone in a panic because nobody made phone calls these days, especially the person on the line.

“Not dead. Where are you?”

You sighed, relieved that Adam wasn’t injured but unsure if he had lost his mind. Phone calls were against the rules.

“Working. You still haven’t paid me.”

His laugh soothed your nerves a bit; and like always, you waited for him to tell you what he wanted.

“Are you fucking anybody else?”

The question surprised you. This entire conversation surprised you. None of this was normal behavior for Adam, who spent all this time telling you he only wanted your mouth, your pussy. You weren’t sure what this was, but you knew to your bones it had to be part of his game.

“Nope. Should I be?”

He released a heavy sigh, the sort where you’ve finally sat down after a long day. You pictured it; him stretched out and relaxed. You only ever saw him relax the brief bits of time it took him to put his clothes back on.

“Can’t say no, can I? Probably shouldn’t be fucking around with me, cheating all over the place.”

“I’m not the cheater.” You half hoped he could hear the sneer, his comment souring your gut. “You are. I’m just a single gal with terrible judgment who likes to get fucked.”

“Yeah, you do.” He chuckled again, abandoning the self-loathing for something else. “Do you touch yourself when you’re not with me, bucket?”

You chewed your lip until it hurt. Even the mention of that name, the dirty things he called you, set your insides to warming, skin to flushing.

“Ah... no.” You winced because this wasn’t the sort of conversation you imagined having with anybody. Your masturbatory habits weren’t exactly noteworthy. “No, I don’t.”

“Why?”

“It.. uh... it makes sex better.”

“You don’t always cum when I’m fucking you, though. What do you do then?”

You sighed in defeat because you would do whatever he wanted, tell him whatever he wanted.

“Wait. I just wait.”

“Why?”

“Fucking hell.” You rubbed at your flaming cheeks and forehead. “Because it hurts, alright? You happy? Why are we talking about this?”

“Don't pretend to be shy. I’ve fucked you all over the city. Tell me what hurts.”

You could hear it now, a quiet rustling, a shift of his body, the slight change of his breath. He was stroking himself; you were sure of it. The very idea emboldened you.

“Fine.” You huffed, exasperated, and tried to settle, pressing your back against the wall. “It's this ache that never gets better. Everything stays swollen, and there’s this throb that’s always there. Once I cum, that goes away, and I have to start all over.”

“So, you don’t like to cum?”

You pondered the question, tapping your fingers restlessly. The answer was simple, but you didn’t want to say it out loud.

“No, I do. If it's been weeks of that deprivation, the orgasms are pretty amazing, but the in between is sometimes better. It keeps the memories fresh when I’m alone.”

Which was always.

“Does it hurt right now? Are your tits sore? Pussy wet and aching from being empty?”

The stutter to his voice confirmed it; he definitely had his dick in his hand. You shifted on your stool, spreading your legs apart far enough to push your pussy down against it. If you arched your back a little, your shirt grazed your skin in such a teasing way.

“You’re thinking about my tits now?”

He grunted, cursed under his breath.

“Think about you all the time. Your mouth and how you drank my piss that night.” He groaned and shifted again. You could hear him fucking his fist now. “How you’ll fuck me anywhere I want. Your cunt and how tight it gets when you do cum. Feel like I could fuck you every day, and it wouldn’t be enough.”

Struck dumb, you blinked hard at your monitor, unable to tell if this was honesty or manipulation. Players always played the game.

“Adam...”

“Hnngfuck. You don’t say my name enough.”

“You don’t say my name at all!” The heavy moment lifted, and you laughed because there was a part of you that doubted he even knew your name. “You call me bucket.”

“Guh!” Short, choppy gasps wafted through the phone, conjuring all manner of salacious imagery and staining your panties. “Came in you three times that day. You were so fucking pretty on your knees for me.”

“You did.” You nodded at nothing, eyes not even focusing anymore. You didn’t think he remembered the times he spent with you, let alone the first time he called you by a pet name. “Twice in my mouth and once in my pussy.”

You debated the next thing you wanted to say, not sure if it was even worth saying, but you jumped off the bridge. Terrible judgment.

“I even bought a shirt that says bucket.”

This was bad. Catching feelings for Adam would be so easy and yet monumentally stupid. Luckily, reality stepped through the door and headed for your window.

“Customer. Gotta go, k Adam? Bye.”

Ripping out the ear buds, you shoved them, your phone, and everything that just happened away.

***

AS: Remember where I live? Y: Y AS: Stop ducking me AS: 6pm AS: Wear the shirt

You stalled at the door, unable to bring yourself to knock. This was risky, dangerous, and you knew you should turn right around and go home. Bringing your side piece into the home you shared with your partner was an all-around asshole move.

Yet, here you were.

He wasn’t wrong; you had been ducking him. That call was too close, filled with too much potential. So, you let it sit, went on dates and outings with your friends, spent a lot of time purposefully misplacing your phone. None of it was enough, not nearly enough to make you stop thinking about Adam. Or the way he fucked you.

But if you did this, you weren’t sure you’d recover.

Decision made, you spun on your heel, shaking your head no. Can’t do it. Won’t. He must have opened the door right at that moment because his big hand caught you around the wrist and tugged you to a stop.

“Hey, where the fuck are you going?”

You dared a look over your shoulder and found him standing in the doorway in a dark button up with the sleeves cuffed at his elbows, tattered blue jeans, and bare feet. Looking like the damn devil himself.

He didn’t see it the first time; so, you shook your head for his benefit, but you couldn’t say out loud that you were leaving.

He took that silence as invitation and pulled you towards the door, as though he didn’t have the magnetic pull of the sun himself. Back at the threshold, he hooked a finger under your chin, tipped your head back, and swept a feather-soft kiss across your mouth.

“Miss me?”

Your brain short-circuited, and you stared at him, unable to formulate any kind of response.

He’d never kissed you before.

One taste wasn’t enough for him, though, because he snatched up your face into both hands and laid a kiss on you that singed you to the very tips of your eyelashes. Those pillowy lips you’d only ever seen in a hard line moved against yours in the best way, and the satisfied sound he made blew through your resolve to leave.

He seemed to know the very second your tension somewhat eased. He hunched down, slid your arms around his neck, and lifted you onto your toes so he could walk you into the apartment. Slamming the door behind you, Adam leaned you into it for support and slid his knee between yours, pinning you right there.

You still weren’t certain what to do, and it kept your face tight, anxious. Something rumbled against your chest, tickling your nipples as he broke the kiss. Your brow knit, and you tried to focus on his face. Long fingers slid around your throat loosely, the thumb at your chin keeping your head tilted.

“Relax. Let me taste.”

He nipped at your jaw, tripping a shudder that rushed down your spine. The next pass he made at your mouth came with the tease of his tongue along the seam of your lips. Your chest seized; you clutched at his shirt and squirmed in his hold. And then, his tongue curled along yours, cinnamon sugar and Sriracha spice. You thought you might die; you certainly didn’t mean to whine the way you did, but it escaped before you could catch it.

“You’ve swallowed so much of my cum, I expected you to taste like me.” His raspy words smeared a trail down your throat as his hands slid up to find skin under the hem of your shirt. “The rest of you taste this good?”

Your instincts screamed that this all was taking too long. You never had this much time, and he was wasting it with kisses and pretty words he didn’t mean.

“You.. ah..” You pushed at his shoulders to get him to look at you. “You don’t have to say those things. We both know I’m a sure thing. So, maybe let’s skip that part, yeah?”

“You got somewhere to be?”

“No, but Ha--”

“Good.” He licked at the shell of your ear and curled his fingers into your ribs. “Cause I’m in the mood to wreck you.”

Adam slanted his mouth over yours once more, stealing any further objection. His kisses were hungry but unhurried, and he explored your mouth as though he had all the time in the world. He unbuttoned your jeans and slid his hands down beneath the waistband, cupping and kneading your ass, teasing at the edges of your panties.

Those fingers that mainly dug bruises into your hips dipped between your legs, sliding along the sticky fabric. He pressed open-mouthed kisses all along your jawline and neck, biting sexily beneath your earlobe. Your hips rocked against his caress of their own accord, your body starving for this kind of touch from this particular man. Dubious, you chewed the inside of your cheek to keep your erratic tongue in check. It was likely that if you got too loud, all of this would end.

“Stop doing that.” He tugged at your lower lip, watching the corner of your mouth quiver. “Wanna hear you.”

Caught in his confusing web, you glued your eyes to the ceiling. If you looked at him, those feelings you tried so hard to skirt would come barreling back.

“Adam... what is this?”

Finding his way into your panties, he slid his long fingers between your slippery labia and against your oft-neglected clit on a pleased purr. You choked on your own spit, fisted your hands into his shirt, and pushed at his shoulders on reflex.

“Something new.”

It was subtle, intimate, the way he stroked your pussy, and it pushed you right up to that cliff in no time flat. Shaking inside your skin, you dropped your head against his shoulder. For weeks now, you rode that line, the sharp edge of denial; and in only a few passes of Adam’s thick fingers, your body was ready to jump off.

“M’gonna.. shit.. Ad-am!”

A loud, pained groan ripped from your throat when he pulled his fingers away, dangling you right there on the verge of bliss. This was more in line with the man you knew. This cocky asshole who could play you like a violin.

“Noooo, not yet.” Hasty now, he pulled off your clothes, tossing hoodie, shoes, and jeans over his shoulder. Catching sight of your white tank with ‘bucket’ painted over your breasts in script, he paused, gaping. “That’s the best fucking thing ever.”

His hands were suddenly everywhere. Shoving your arms away, turning your face to his for voracious kisses, groping at your aching breasts underneath the shirt. He palmed and rubbed and tugged at your flushing tits, all while whispering in your ear how he wanted you to wear that shirt all the time, wanted to paint it with his cum.

When he pinched and rolled your nipples, a low tide of pleasure wracked your body, pitching you into a tremor. Your cunt contracted and twinged, bending you towards its tormentor on a strangled moan. You couldn’t help it; your body could only handle so much. Adam’s eyes flashed, dark and glittery. He said he always knew when you came, and it seemed he was right.

“Think we can do better than that, bucket.”

And then he was on his knees, pressing you into the wall by one hand at your stomach and tearing your panties out of the way with the other. His lips connected with your cunt on a loud moan, and your brain stopped working. Your knees buckled, unable to keep you steady as he lathed your sex and thighs with messy, slurping kisses.

“Adam,” the desperation in your voice was terrible. “Jesusfuckinghell.”

Your pitiful, pleading noises only made him double down. His kisses came rougher, harder, and he sucked your clit until you shouted. Tears pricked at your eyes, but all you could do was beg. Please don’t stop. Please don’t stop. Please don’t stop.

But of course, he stopped.

Flush against you, he trapped your trembling mouth to share your taste, grunting as you tangled tingling fingers into his hair to keep from buzzing right out of your body.

“Want you to crawl to my bed, bucket. Put that pretty cunt up so I can see.”

The world stopped. You blinked rapidly, feeling like someone had doused you with ice cold water. Pushing him away, you shook your head and tried to disentangle your limbs from his.

“Y-you want me to crawl,” your face dropped into a scowl, anger diffusing through your already heated chest and neck, “To Hannah’s bed?! Fuck you, Adam. No. That’s too much.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, he tugged you back into place beneath him and nudged your nose with his. He rubbed his thumb back and forth over your mouth until your gaze softened from fury to confusion.

“My bed.” His voice was soft, his eyes searching. “No more Hannah. Or Jessa. Or anybody.”

You blew out a long, uncertain breath, letting it lead right into the question. “... when?”

“The night you hung up on me. Couple hours after that.” He drew lazy circles on your hip with his fingertips. “Found out I got a part I really wanted after I talked to you, and you were the only person I wanted to celebrate with. Been trying to pin you down for weeks so I could tell you.”

Something new, he said. You looked up at him with wide, shining eyes, trying to decide if he was telling the truth.

“I want you around. When I wake up at three a.m. because I want to fuck you so bad. I wanna take you to new restaurants so we can cheapen up their bathrooms. Wanna call you bucket in public so people think I’m crazy. Think I owe you about a thousand orgasms, and I wanna give them to you.”

Twisting out of his hold, you shook your head. Unstable, fuzzy on your intention, you leaned against the couch while you slid your jeans and shoes back on. You looked everywhere but directly at Adam and dodged his hand when he reached for you.

“Can’t do this right now.”

With a crash of the door behind you, you ran out of the building with no particular direction other than away from him.

***

“Fuck, that’s it.”

You tangled your fingers in soft, raven locks and scratched at Adam’s scalp. That was your handle to guide him up and down, side to side. He hummed into your slick pussy, lapping and sucking so loud someone had to have heard.

On his knees at the little sink, he buried his face far between your thighs, nudging your clit with his nose and jostling it ever so slightly with each vulgar kiss, each smacking pop against your labia. Brushing his mouth and cheeks through the syrup shining on your skin, he murmured praises about how amazing you were, how good you tasted, what a filthy thing you were to spread your legs for him in this grimy bathroom. His words tumbled away with the spear of his tongue, replaced by your wanton whimpers. Gripping your legs to keep them apart, he tongue fucked you until the things coming out of your mouth made little sense.

Smacking his hands away, you tugged on his hair to draw Adam up to stand. He cupped your face and smothered you with a tart kiss. It was his turn to whimper as your fingers worked the belt and buttons of his pants, wiggling them open and down his hips.

“You’re sure?”

"Mhm. Debt paid."

You bit at his swollen lips and nodded, untucking his heavy, hard dick and scooting to the edge of the sink. For weeks now, you treated Adam the way he had treated you for so long. You called him when you wanted to cum, and you put him on his knees wherever you were.

His lips, his tongue, his fingers — all worked every time you called, but you didn’t let him fuck you. And you didn’t return the favor.

All you could think about right this moment was getting his dick inside of you. You pinched a hot drop of want from his inflamed cock head and relished the needy groan that accompanied it. He hesitated, as though he didn’t want to ruin it; but finally, he lined himself up and struck, rocking his hips and shoving, shoving, shoving until he bottomed out.

He whined into your neck, gripping your hips in that possessive way you didn’t realize you wanted so badly. You clung to his shoulders, thighs cinched around his wide body. He filled and stretched you so goddamn good, but it was the things coming out of his mouth that sent you careening.

“Shit, that’s good. Missed you so fucking much. Can’t believe it's been this long since I’ve been in your cunt.”

Like so many times before, Adam held you in place, his broad hands anchoring you to the sink ledge so he could pound into you with abandon. The slide of his dick was mind-numbing, and you bit into his shirt to keep from shouting.

The tingle first started in your toes. It slithered up your calves and jerked your knees together at Adam’s sides. It had been such a long time since you’d had him inside you that your pussy squeezed tight, earning a growled string of curses at your ear. Your clit was so engorged and aching that his light touch sent your yelp echoing in the little room. Redirecting his hand, you bit down on his thumb and watched his gaze change.

In a second, he was old Adam, punishing and wickedly wild. He forced his thumb further into your mouth and pressed down on your tongue, making the saliva pool around it. Your eager moan was louder than you intended, but it only made him fuck you harder, faster.

He liked it when you were quiet, but he liked it more when you were loud. Liked it even better when you were loud in public.

“Greedy girl, aren’t you? Always ready for me to fuck you stupid.”

You tipped your pelvis into that perfectly tantalizing angle, where the drag of his cock head rubbed against those spots that made you see stars again and again, and you ignited. Everything tensed, toes curling, fingers quivering. Your cunt clenched around him so hard, his thrusts turned violent, forcing you to accept him deeper and deeper.

You wailed his name into his shoulder, unraveling completely from your white hot center outwards.

With his cock seated far inside your ravaged pussy, Adam latched back onto your clit, rubbing the hard nub in quick circles to draw out your orgasm. You shrieked and batted at his hand again, but he caught your arm, drew it behind your back painfully, and bit into your neck.

“If you want my cum, bucket, you’re gonna have to milk me for it.”

His hips kept moving against yours, the slightest of thrusts, but it was his fingers, his evil fingers that ruined you. They never stopped moving at your clit, even when you begged him for a breath. They slid down around your weeping entrance, where his cock stretched you, and back up, bringing a fresh coat of slip to help his fingers fly.

Your eyes slammed shut; your face scrunched up tight and mute. He dropped his mouth to the crook of your neck, cinched your arm more firmly behind your back, and growled as your cunt convulsed for him a second time. You couldn’t even shout; all you could do was keen and quake.

It was enough to push Adam over. He jerked against you, grinding and losing himself to the obscene pull of your spasming pussy. He moaned your name into your pulse and clung to you frantically. His voice hitched, and he poured into you so hard you heard him sniffle, overcome with the blinding pleasure of it.

When your breathing returned to normal, and the aftershocks subsided, he helped you back into your clothes since your legs were still wobbly. He even tied your shoes.

“Don’t worry.” He bit your cheek the way he used to, the way that was unique to the two of you. “We’ll tell the manager you had a seizure or something.”

Chuckling, you snuck your hand into his; and this time, you left the bathroom together.

#adam sackler #adam sackler imagine #adam sackler x reader #adam sackler smut #adam sackler x you #dirty bastard but we like it

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shoutogepi · 5 years ago

Text

No Touching

Kirishima Eijirou

word count : 4.3K of S M U T (seriously 98% smut)

[ ✘ (nsfw!) ]

themes : sub!kiri, dom!reader, thigh riding, ball gag and cock ring nastiness

bio : You finally give in to the desires of your favorite client, Red Riot... Not that you’re complaining though.

author’s note : ya so i said i was writing something sinful (shouto smut on hold for the moment) and uhh well this certainly qualifies lmao. ALSO go easy on me please this is my first Kiri fic and I tried my best to do him justice :’(

tagging : @lildreamer93 ty for supporting me 🥰

also available on AO3 here

─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

🅂weat drips down the prominent contours of Red Riot’s chest, the broad muscles jumping in shock at the cold and harsh snap of the clips. His nipples stand out as his back arches off the back of the chair, shoving his thick pectorals into your face. He whimpers out a low moan as your finger gently tugs at the chain connecting the clamps latched onto his sensitive chest. His thighs press together, creating the friction his throbbing cock so desperately desires.

“Y-Y/N,” he grumbles, his crimson eyes flashing briefly at your wicked gaze.

“Tsk tsk tsk, you know better than to call me that, Red.” The words taste so right rolling off your sultry tongue, and the way the number six hero’s eyes roll back as they shut sends your confidence through the roof.

He gasps as your fist squeezes his cock, this being the first time you’ve touched him so directly all night. Your heavy breath on his moist skin makes his legs shake slightly, and he throws his head back over the top of the chair when your hand glides down his shaft, maintaining your tight grip. His cock glistens with your spit and his precum, which has continued to dribble out of his aching slit since you’d begun your teasing long ago.

Sucking the chain into your mouth, you gently rear your head back so the clamps pull on his tender buds. The new position allows you to greedily soak up the way his chest puffs and falls at a quickening rate, his eyebrows scrunched in pleasure. A trickle of blood runs down his chin, his sharp teeth tucked into his bottom lip frantically. He wiggles his hips ever so slightly, hoping you won’t notice how he subtly tries to quicken the pace you’re jerking his dick to. His fingers stab into the meat of his outer thighs, trying to restrain himself from reaching out and touching you.

As his inner battle ensues, you take your time playing with his swollen cock. Gliding your fingers over the protruding veins that decorate his length, squeezing his balls just hard enough to make him shift in his seat— oh god, you love the expressions that fluctuate on his handsome face. It’s partly why he’s your favorite patron.

Sure, being a high end dominatrix has its ups and downs. Sometimes you’d get stuck with a disgusting politician, and sometimes you’d have the pleasure of spending your evening with a top hero. Many a hero had paid for a night with you, and after some time you were able to make your living off of your handful of regulars. You were no virgin to teasing men to their wits’ end, but every time your hands were on your favorite crimson client, you couldn’t help but feel sinful butterflies in your stomach.

But it was dangerous playing with a man who blazed as bright as his fiery red locks. He was dangerous. He was dangerous in the sense that always at the peak of your nights with him, you’d find yourself wondering what would happen if you broke the rules.

“Stop squirming so much,” you instruct, and although a loud whine escapes him, his body instantly stills to follow your command. His eyes slit open as your hand leaves his dick, sagging slightly in his seat in a mixture of disappointment and relief that you had stopped. “Stay,” you demand, winking at his longing gaze.

You saunter over to the vanity, ass pushed out to bend your spine just the way he likes. Your manicured fingernail drags along the drawers, and you enjoy the feeling of his hot eyes glued to your every motion. Opening the top drawer, you search for the items you’d come over here for. Your smile only widens as you recognize the smooth plastics, and you make sure to keep the various items out of Kirishima’s sight as you take it out of the drawer. Reaching out to grab a container of lube perched at the top of the shelf, you gasp as you knock the container onto the floor.

“Clumsy me,” you purr, watching the redhead’s eyes ignite with renewed interest as you lean down to retrieve the bottle. Your tiny little skirt does nothing to cover the ruby red thong that slips between your cheeks, and a broken moan erupts from the hero across the room. Your hand slides up to grip one of your ass cheeks, pulling apart and almost revealing your needy holes.

But you know just how far to spread— and much to Kirishima’s chagrin, he can only see the tiniest glimpse of your sex before you stand upright again.

When you come closer to him, you can see how you’ve affected him. His cock is angry— thick and red and twitching impatiently against his taut stomach. The emotions swirling within his scarlet gaze makes your pussy flutter, and a slight blush rises to your cheeks even though you’re the one in control here.

“My favorite panties, darlin’? You’re always so considerate of me.” His gravelly voice causes shivers to shoot down your spine. His eyes fixed on yours, the corner of his mouth twitches up as you draw nearer, a full smirk on his face as you sink to your knees between his legs. His length jumps eagerly at your proximity, a puff of hot air washing over your face as he exhales.

“Do you like them, Red?” You inquire, but it sounds more like a taunt. You deposit the plastic items on the floor underneath his chair, keeping them out of view. His thighs jerk roughly as your palms lay against the skin there, your fingernails tickling his flesh.

He gulps, his cocky grin faltering as your fingers slide upwards toward his erect cock. “I didn’t get a very good look at ‘em sweetheart. Be a doll and ‘gimme a refresher?” His voice is softer this time, but it still has that Red Riot edge to it. He knows he is not in a position to make requests, but fuck all if he’s not going to try and see your perfect body again.

His heart slams against his ribs at the bright smile that splits your lips. “Hmm, I ‘dunno, Eiji,” you tantalize, ecstatic at the loud groan he releases. His name falling from your pouty lips makes his eyes roll back, his fingers cutting into his palms as he clenches his fists. “You didn’t even say please.”

Drawing fresh air into his lungs, Kirishima licks his lips as you push yourself to stand halfway upright, your face dangling just a short distance from his. Oh, how much he’d pay to lean in and taste your mischievous lips. Your hands still on his thighs, his body trembles at your closeness. “Please, baby, ‘lemme see those panties,” he begs, his voice crackling slightly in desperation. His brows cinched and his eyelids half-lidded, his teeth grind together as he grovels.

You lean in, and his eyes dart south to analyze your breasts for a moment before he looks back at your face in flustered surprise. “You’re such a naughty boy,” you moan, smiling at how his cock jolts upright, standing vertically as if saluting you. “Only ‘cause you asked so nicely.”

You turn around and the sound of Kirishima’s sharp inhale makes the corners of your lips curl into a satisfied smirk. Your ass meets his thighs, cunt placed strategically in between so he doesn’t get the pleasure of feeling your wetness. Of course you’re turned on, but you must comply with those infernal fucking rules.

Kirishima groans unabashedly as you grind your ass against his thighs. He’d visited you many nights before, but this was the first time he’d felt the silky skin of your ass and thighs on his own, and the sensation only makes his aching cock impossibly harder. Twisting your back, you turn your face so you can watch his expression. His eyes are scrunched shut and more blood trails down his chin as he bites his lip so hard his teeth stab into himself. His fists are clenched so tightly beside his thighs that they’re white and trembling, and it seems like he’s too tense to even take in a breath of air.

“Eiji,” you whimper and he immediately opens his eyes, his pupils blown out. “Don’t you wanna see ‘em again?” His gaze remains on your eyes for a moment before he realizes one of your hands is lifting up the back of your skirt, presenting your ass and that delicious sliver of carmine lace that disappears between your cheeks. Your ass jiggles slightly as you drag yourself along his thighs, and he nearly explodes as he watches your asshole pucker underneath the mesh fabric.

“F-fuck, Y/N,” he gasps, finally releasing his poor bottom lip from his pointy teeth’s hold. Your sweet skin on his is too much— infinitely better than the meager scraps his imagination had conjured up all those late nights when he would return home from your workplace. Even though you’d always get him off, he’d find himself hard and ready to go again as he’d replay the hours you’d spent with him in his head. Of course he’d jerked himself off to the thought of finally fucking you, but he would never force you into something you were uncomfortable doing. And then, of course there were those forsaken boundaries with your job, which he ruefully reminds himself of with every roll of your hips.

Kirishima cries out at the loss of your touch, desperate to have your skin on his. The contact was much too brief after all his pent up imaginations had run so wild. A foxy frown is on your pursed lips as you turn around, sinking back to your knees between his legs. “Red,” your tone is low and oozing with lust, and even though he’s being admonished he can’t help but leak more precum at your sultry voice. “You know you’re not supposed to call me that.”

Before he can apologize, you grab one of the toys from underneath the chair. The thick black ring makes him slightly recoil, but his reaction doesn’t stop you as your mouth eagerly engulfs his tip. The pearly substance gathered there greets your tongue with a bitter saltiness that you gladly welcome. His hips nearly buck, and he doesn’t know how he manages to keep still as your throat welcomes his throbbing cock. Moans tumble out from him, loud and dissolute, just the way you love it. You only allow a few bobs on his length before you lean back, sliding the ring around his cock and fixing it to slip around his balls so it sits tightly at the very base of him.

The muscles on his torso are quivering as he tries to recover, his breath ragged and uneven. “I’m s-sorry, darlin’,” he pants and he nearly doubles over as the ring begins to vibrate,” I— fuck— I got too excited.” You wonder if the expletive is because of the vibrating ring or because he’d wanted your body on his longer. You’d barely even touched his cock and yet he was horrifyingly close to climaxing, an embarrassed flush tainting his tan cheeks.

“I forgive you, Red,” you slap his thigh, not soft but also not hard enough to hurt— just the right strength to make him sweat. “But you’ve still gotta take your punishment.”

Kirishima whines gently as his gaze lands on the ball gag you’d brought over, which you now dangle in front of his face. His apologetic gaze captures you as your thumb traces his broken bottom lip, smoothing over the small cuts from his vicious fangs. He dares to lean forward, lips parting and taking your thumb into his mouth. Careful not to slice your skin, he tucks his teeth away and caresses your finger with his warm, strong tongue. You become aware of your cunt dripping between your legs, your arousal intensifying at his intimate and contrite action. You want that tongue on you, all over your body, especially on the places hidden away from his piercing eyes.

You sigh at his submissive gesture, licking your lips as he opens up without protest for the gag. The ball isn’t too large a size, just grand enough to leave his mouth open and to keep him from hurting himself on his spiky teeth. “No hiding now,” you sigh into his ear as you lean into his neck. His moan is much louder with his mouth propped open, and you savor how he blushes slightly at the heightened lewdness. “Aw, you’re blushing, Red?” The color on his cheeks only darkens, and another heavy moan sounds when your fingers land on his cock.

His body is still trembling as you continue your work, and his eyes fall shut as you place your lips on the juncture where his neck meets his broad shoulder. His harsh breaths give warning to how close he is, and you heed their warning as your fingers slowly pull on his rosy member. Strategically ignoring his inflamed tip, you languidly stroke his shaft, and you’re rewarded with a slew of short and desperate mewls from the hero beneath you.

You know just how hard this must be for him. Red Riot, the unbreakable, top hero who prides himself on his manliness and bravery. An absolute unit of a man— rippling muscles strung along his huge frame, sharp teeth to dazzle his fans with his signature cocky grin, and of course the most gallant, chivalrous character— Yes, that’s who is melting into a puddle underneath you.

Your lips dance along his slick chest, never staying long enough to leave a mark that could tarnish his noble reputation. The moans turn to deeper growls as your hand floats further up his length with every jerk, his noises of pleasure so exquisitely loud with his jaw hanging open. You can’t help but shift against his thighs, the burning between your legs becoming hard to ignore. A wave of embarrassment crashes through you as you realize your desire for the man beneath you. If you could have it your way, his cock would be nestled in your cunt so quick he wouldn’t even notice until you were cumming around him. Fuck, if only you weren’t at work right now… what are the damn rules again?

No touching.

No kissing.

No penetration.

The three statements are a blaring mantra in your head, repeating over and over, faster and faster. Fear mixes with your lust, a terror culminating that you might do something forbidden if the words stray from your focus.

No touching.

No kissing.

No penetration.

Kirishima, ever the gentleman, notices the subtle shift in your mood, his eyes taking in your wanton expression and how your hips just barely swing along his thighs. Your core still in between his legs, untouched save for your arousal pooling in your panties. His hungry stare roves over your black brassiere, the thin material not doing much to hide your hard nipples from poking through. He lets out a vicious groan as he imagines how you’d squeal if he could take one of those cute little buds in between his teeth, just hard enough to make you squirm but not so much you’d bleed. Fuck, how wet your cunt must be under that string you called panties, how you’d scream as he rammed his fat cock into your tight little pussy.

Little do you know, the rules are replaying in his head too. He wants you just as badly, if not more.

No touching.

No kissing.

No penetration.

Your hand stops abruptly and he grumbles, unceremoniously ripped from his imagination once more. Your gazes lock, and he lets out a soft moan when you bite your bottom lip, unsure eyes floating around his handsome face.

You’d like to think Eijirou trusts you after all the nights you’ve spent together, but you can’t stop the nerves that tingle with uncertainty as you summon the courage to say something. You’d had surprisingly deep conversation with the man when you weren’t teasing the living shit out of him, even going so far as to reveal your real name in exchange for his-- something a woman in your profession should know much better than to do. But you couldn’t help it, and although you had to chastise him for uttering your name, every time he did so sent a wave of heat rushing toward your core. Even now, after you’d edged him mercilessly all night, his eyes hold a deep, touching sincerity as he looks back at you.

No penetration.

No kissing.

No...

Your shaking hands reach down to land atop his fists. His eyes widen as your thumb pokes into the middle of his fists, unraveling and pulling them so his hands lay open in yours. Your fingers around his wrists now, you guide them to your hips, hovering over your skin as you continue to doubt yourself.

Kirishima allows you to hold his hands so enticingly close, his crimson orbs flickering between your waist and your hasty expression. So he makes the move instead. Slowly, at an almost agonizing pace, he lowers his hands to rest on your flesh.

Touching!

Oh god, he’s touching you and it feels so fucking good!

The skin on his palms is calloused and rough, but they feel like heaven on the smooth skin of your hips. A whimper departs from your open lips, eyes falling closed at how hot and manly his touch feels. His fingers press into your supple hips, moving your torso to the left slightly and maneuvering you to poise directly above his thigh. He watches your erotic expression blossom as you sink yourself onto his thigh, your cunt finally receiving the friction it so desperately desires. He snarls out a sexy groan at how easily your cunt wets his thigh, your arousal soaking through the red thong you had put on just for him.

“Eiji,” you moan and he grabs your hips hard. His biceps bulge as he slides you toward him, dragging your pussy along his thigh and soliciting a whine from your parted lips.

Your hand starts up again on Kirishima’s cock, jerking his whole length now and making sure to pay special attention to his pretty pink tip. Your other hand flies up to curl around the back of his neck, your elbow perching on his shoulder. His soft red locks tickle your wrist, his hair flat and void of product. Your fingers twitch to undo the ball gag but you know very well if you do that, you’re going to kiss him. You’re going to kiss him and feel his tongue on yours, and you’re going to suck in all his moans and give him some of your own.

And then, that’s two rules thrown out the window, why not abandon the last as well?

No, you’re a good girl and you need this job. You need it more than you need Eijirou’s mouth and his cock, even if the call is so disturbingly close. No kissing and no penetration. And fuck, you could get off with just his touch no problem.

The hero underneath you groans at your renewed vigor on his member, his grip tightening still as he drives your hips back and forth against his thigh. His jaw becoming sore from being open so long, drool trickles down his chin to drip onto his lap. He longs for your release, eyes barely open to watch you make such a sinful face as you let him push and pull your body against his. A devious thought enters his mind, and he quickly acts on it, activating his quirk on his lower half.

The gasp that tears from you is exhilarating, and Kirishima’s wrists only flick your hips faster against his hardened muscles. He allows his moans to ring out into the room without restraint, his deep, guttural noises loud enough to drown out the beautiful whines that he forces out of you. Your hand keeps up with this increased pace, thumb pressing dangerously into the head of his cock and smearing the essence trickling out of him so it lubes up your ministrations.

His hardened thigh sends delicious jolts of pleasure through your body as Kirishima drags your clit against himself. Your fingers pull tightly on the hairs at the base of his head, eliciting a sensual howl to rumble from his chest. The incredible solidity of his muscle beneath your quivering cunt forces you to hurdle to the edge at a shameful speed— already you can feel the haziness of an orgasm consuming you. His quirk so delectably harmonious with the onslaught his hands roll you against, your head tilts back as your eyes slam shut.

“Red!” Your body crumbles in his hands, collapsing as your climax wracks through you, emanating from your core and making your entirety surge with a pulsating, white heat. Your hand on his cock clenches, frantically yanking at his sensitive tip and making his hips buck up against you.

Kirishima revels in your euphoric expression and how your pussy clenches through your thong against his now-soft thigh. He continues to draw your hips along his lap sensually, watching your chest shake as you recuperate. Your head flops forward so your forehead rests on his shoulder, your hand on his neck falling to drag your nails along his muscular back. The sensation makes his skin prickle, and he can’t hold back the smug grin that appears on his lips. He’d made you orgasm and he’d barely even touched you.

Finally catching your breath, you slither off his thigh. A thin trail of your arousal strings out as your hips retreat, connecting your cunt and the pool of slick that had leaked onto his muscle. A pink blush blooms on your cheeks at the sight, and Kirishima can only let out another vocal groan to assure you he finds it sexy.

Shakily landing on your knees once more between his legs, your fingers slide under the confining ring on his base, slipping the forsaken toy off of him. His cock seems to immediately grow, pulsing and radiating heat against your palms. His hand frames your face, thumb on your chin and middle finger brushing the corner of your jaw. The other hand pushes your hair away from your mouth, and you hum in appreciation as your hand cups his length.

Kirishima sighs as you take him into your mouth, his cock feeling free yet hypersensitive after the torture from the vibrating ring. Your tongue caresses the tip, swirling around to collect his saltiness before flattening at the bottom of your mouth, and sliding his member deep into your throat. His sensual moans greet your ears as your velvety mouth welcomes his length, and his eyes flutter closed as you guide more and more of him inside.

Your movements are lazier than usual, your brain still clouded with ecstasy from your orgasm, but he doesn’t seem to mind the extra care you give. Your tongue curls around his length, the soft ack ack ack of his cock nestling entirely inside your throat making him shudder. Your fingers trail up his flexed torso, hooking around the metal chain across his chest and gently pulling it towards yourself. His groans increasing in frequency and volume, you blearily look up to catch his scarlet gaze honed in on you. Your other hand cupping his balls and your nails combing through his black, trimmed hair, his eyes whirl back into his skull, and a broken, ferocious snarl tears through him.

Briny, hot ropes of his cum easily coast down your throat, and your purr against his member. He lets out another animalistic growl, his long overdue orgasm sending shivers from head to toe. The face he pulls is exquisite, his eyes nearly crossing in bliss and his jaw still hung open, drool dribbling down the corner of his mouth. Rolling his balls in your palm as your tongue glides alone his veins, your mouth leaves his cock as you stand. Your cunt throbs, longing to be stretched with his thick cock at the knowledge that had his mouth not been full on the gag, it would’ve been dripping with your name.

Sitting in his lap, facing him again, your fingers wind around the back of his head and undo the gag. The ball falls out of his slack jaw and drips with his saliva, not that that phases you. His lust-clouded eyes regard yours, and a low chuckle thrums out of him as his hands drift up and down your spine. His lips curve into a sated smile, a warm feeling trickling into your chest and you suddenly feel bashful under his intense eyes.

“So we breakin’ the rules now, baby? Long time comin’,” He whispers, his hands gathering your hips once more and dragging you into his chest. The friction on your puffy clit makes your core spasm around nothing, and as if the movement is not enough to be noticed by Red Riot, a low whine tumbles out of you. He presses you closer to his torso, the sinew underneath his skin protruding delightfully. You let out a mewl as your cunt touches his still-hard cock, your mesh panties the only barrier separating your bodies. “You’re so fuckin’ cute pressed up against me like this, darlin’.”

You gasp as his finger dips into the puddle you’d left on his thigh, shocked as he sticks the digit in his mouth and groans.

“Bet these lips of yours are just as sweet,” he mumbles as his hand takes your chin, thumb rolling over your plump bottom lip. His eyebrow quirks as an idea comes to mind, his hands still running across your soft skin with his darkened gaze challenging you.

“Does it count as rule breakin’ if we head back to my place?”

─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

thank you so much for reading. If you’d like a part 2 (breaking the other rules huehuehue) please be sure to let me know ♥︎

make sure to shoot me a comment/ask/reblog if you enjoyed ♥︎♥︎♥︎ I’d love to receive any feedback!!!

➥ masterlist

𝐂𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 © 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐩𝐢 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟎. 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝.

#waaa my first kiri fic!!#i hope i portrayed him alright #i really struggled trying to capture his character so if it's off im sorry :((#but dang he was kinda hot tho right?? lmao #if part 2 is in demand the tables may turn 👀#my fics #kirishima fic #kirishima eijiro x reader #kirishima eijirou smut #kirishima smut #red riot smut #red riot fic #kirishima eijirou fic #bnha smut #bnha fic #mha smut #mha fic #bnha x reader #mha x reader

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kiribakutrash33 · 4 years ago

Text

Do You Need A Spot

Ok here is my krbk gym au it is NSFW

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Bakugou/Kirishima (aged up, no quirks)

Summary: Bakugou couldn't wait to get to the gym and destress, he ends up getting a different work out than he expected

ENJOY!

Bakugou couldn't wait to get to the gym and work out all of his pent up stress from the day. Work had be shit trying to meet the deadline for his project and his mom was breathing down his neck about coming over for a family dinner that weekend. He also somehow managed to lock his keys in the car that morning and didn't realize it until he was leaving work, which meant sitting around for an hour in the heat while waiting for a locksmith to show up and open hi car.

Fuck. He was over today.

Thankfully there was a small local gym he liked to go to and they were open 24 hours so fitting in a late night workout wouldn't be an issue. It also meant that there wouldn't be a ton of people to get in his way.

When he walked in he looked around and noticed the only people in the gym were Pinky who worked the check-in desk and a few other guys by the free weights.

Perfect.

The blonde started with some stretching and cardio before he moving on to the core of his work out. Bakugou was about 30 minutes into his workout and while he liked to stay in the zone he couldn't help but notice one of the other guys in the gym kept looking in his direction. The other man had obnoxious red hair that was spiked up with white bandanna around his forehead. Shitty hair was huge too, maybe 6'5'' and he looked like he spent several hours a day at the gym. He wasn't bad looking but the way he kept looking over at Bakugou was starting to piss him off.

After red looked over at him for the 5th time Bakugou tried his best to shut him out and headed over to set up the weight bench. Bakugou just finished his first set when movement in the wall length mirror caught he attention. Fucking shitty hair was walking towards him. Bakugou put on his best scowl and went back to his work out. He was on his second rep when he heard voice from behind him.

"Hey man, do you need a spot?"

"No" Bakugou grunted out and he continued on with his set.

"Are you sure bro, those weights look pretty heavy," shitty hair kept talking,"just figured you'd like some one spot you"

Bakugou put the bar back on the rack so he could properly look this asshole in his face while telling him off. But when he turned to face the red head he froze. The other man was better looking up close. He had carmine red eyes, the right one had a little scar above it. He wasn't wearing a shirt and Bakugou couldn't help but look over the expanse of skin stretched tight over bulging muscles. His arms were thick and strong with what looked like years of hard work. Damn, shitty hair was hot. Maybe it was because Bakugou was pent up but he definitely found his mind drifting off with dirty thoughts while looking the other man up and down. When his eyes rose back up to look red in the face he noticed a slight blush dusting the other man's cheeks.

"What's your name Shitty hair."

"Hey my hair isn't shitty! And it's Kirishima," the other man held his hand out, "Kirishima Eijirou."

Bakugou grabbed Kirishima by the hand pulling the other man closer until they were face to face a smirk covered his features when he noticed Shitty hair held his breath, "Bakugou Katsuki, and I don't need help with my work out but you can help me with something else....if you're up for it" Bakugou released Kirishima's had with a wink and started walking towards the locker room. It was only a few seconds before he heard the other man follow him.

Bakugou made his way to the last locker in the room where he kept his stuff and started putting in the combo to his lock. He felt a presence crowding in behind him and a hot breath on his ear. "Are you sure about this?" Shitty hair asked in a low rumble, and if the bulge poking into his ass was anything to go on red was just as turned on as he was.

"I don't say things I don't mean Red," Bakugou turned with a sly grin and backed up Kirishima into the lockers across from his.

He had to angle up a little bit to kiss Kirishima properly because the fucker was tall but when they're lips met it sent a wave of excitement through Bakugou's whole body. He moaned into the kiss a ran his tongue across the seam of Kirishima's lips, diving in with a purpose when the other man opened up for him. Big hands started roaming up Bakugou's sides and he let out another moan at the sensation.

"Fuck you're hot," Bakugou whispered in Kirishima's ear before gently biting down and sucking on the lobe.

"Mmmm...ahh...yea I'm glad my buddy convinced me to come say something to you" Kirishima panted out and Bakugou latched on to the side of his neck sucking a mark that was definitely going to last a few days. When Bakugou pulled back to look at Kirishima he notices his eyes were blown out with lust, almost completely black with only a little sliver of red around the edge. He normally didn't do this kind of stuff, sure he had been on tinder and gone on dates but hooking up with some rando at the gym was not his style. He didn't know what it was about Kirishima that he was just drawn to.

Bakugou pressed his growing erection against the very impressive bulge between Kirishima's legs and the sounds he got in return were like music to his ear. The friction was amazing at releasing some of the pressure that had built up during their make out session. Bakugou started kissing his way down Kirishima's sculpted body, leaving a trail of saliva as he made his way down. He got on his knees and licked a strip from the waist of Kirishima's workout shorts up to his belly button making direct eye contact with him the whole time.

"Fuck...Bakugou...please" Red was begging for him and Bakugou was more than happy to oblige. He pulled on the other mans shorts until his cock bounced free, a bead of precum. Katsuki kissed the tip and licked is lips.

"Fuck Red you taste so good." with that Katsuki took the head of Kirishima's cock into his mouth sucking lightly, getting used to the feel before he really got down to business.

"Ahhh..mmm..Baku..gou..feels so good," Kirishima was panting a one if his big hands found its way to the top of Bakugou's head and lightly tugged at his hair. Bakugou let out a slow moan as his sank his mouth all the way to the base. Kirishima was big but Bakugou had mastered his gag reflex long ago, and honestly he liked the burn in his jaw at the challenging fit. He started to bob his head in earnest, hollowing his cheeks. Kirishima still had a light grip in in his hair that was getting tighter and tighter as Bakugou went. The other man slowly started to control Bakugou's head and he relaxed his jaw and let Kirishima fuck into his mouth. Bakugou reached down between his legs to his own neglected cock and started stroking himself through his shorts. He let out another low moan when Kirishima yanked him off his dick and pulled him up for a kiss.

"Don't want to come without getting you off too," Kirishima managed to get out and he started pulling at Bakugou's shorts. Once his shorts were around his ankles he watched as Kirishima lined their cocks ups and took both of them into one of his big hands. The red head spit on the tip of Katsuki's dick and then started to pump his hand up and down.

"Ahh..fuck..fuckfuckfuck...go faster Red" Bakugou was begging for release. He didn't care if someone walked in at this point, he was so close. He felt Kirishima tense against him as the other man sputtered his release all over his won hand and chest. He kept pumping milking his own orgasm and Bakugou wasn't far behind. A few pumps later had Bakugou spilling into Kirishima's hand and adding to the mess.

"Well that was fun," Bakugou said with a smirk as he grabbed a towel from his locker to wipe down himself and Kirishima.

"Uhh, yeah it was. Definitely not what I had intended but I'm happy with it." As Kirishima pulled up his shorts and started heading to the door he stopped and turned to Bakugou, "Let me know if you ever need another spot," and he left with a wink.

A few minutes later Bakugou was making his way out when Pinky called him over "Hey Blondie, Kiri wanted me to give this to you." She slid him a piece of paper with a wink. When he looked down at the paper there was a number. Heat rushed up to his cheeks as he stuffed the paper into his pocket and made his way out of the gym.

Maybe having a workout partner wasn't going to be as horrible as he thought.

#kiribaku #kirishima eijirou #bakugou katsuki #bakushima #katsuki bakugou #kirishima #my writing

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vagrantblvrd · 6 years ago

Text

A Place So Dark (2/?)

Summary: Gavin died on a Thursday.

That’s what the official records say, anyway.

They also say he died in an accident.

Notes: This is loosely (very much so) based on the movie The Wraith and inspired by Michael and Gavin messing around in the GTA V Jetpack Joyrides video. (Look, I don’t know what happened either. Also, let’s pretend Tron isn’t a thing in this AU, because reasons.)

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 ||

(Read on AO3)

When Michael turns, Gavin has the helmet in his hands and this small, awkward smile on his face.

He looks...uncertain.

That hesitant little smile Michael knows so well. The one he’d get when he’d done something stupid or messed up and fucking well knew it, couldn’t apologize like a normal person, no.

Just.

A mess of issues and stupid about it all, and hoping Michael would somehow be able to read his mind. Understand that whatever had happened wasn’t his intent. That there really was a reason the toaster was suddenly in pieces, or the plumbing was fucked up.

A whole slew of things gone wrong that shouldn’t have, really, Michael, he didn’t expect it to happen.

After a moment Gavin’s eyes slide away from Michael’s, shoulders hunching because Michael cannot stop scowling at him.

Anger burning hot in his chest because this stupid bastard. This stupid motherfucker who got himself in trouble, got in so deep someone wanted him dead.

Fucking Gavin who made Michael promise him months and months and months ago. Goddamn years, that if he was ever in trouble he’d go to Gavin.

Ask for help and Gavin would give it, no questions asked because it was just that simple. They’d figure it together, no reason to go it alone when it was the two of them against the world.

Partners in crime, the two of them, and this stupid little giggle from Gavin because they’d both had a little too much to drink. Gotten the kind of serious you do sometimes when you’re like that.

Dumb jokes and stories, this sideways slide into the heart of things without a by your leave. Gavin worrying about Michael and the bruises and worse he’d come back to their shitty apartment with sometimes.

“Your arm,” Gavin says suddenly, frowning slightly as he sets his helmet down on the table and moves over to Michael.

Gavin moves slow, careful as he reaches out and pulls Michael’s arm toward him. Looking to him as though he’s asking permission as he examines a cut on Michael’s arm visible through the ripped sleeve of his jacket.

Michael fights the urge to yank his arm back, annoyance rising because now that Gavin’s called attention to the injury he can feel the damn thing. Feel a myriad of small injuries he must have gotten earlier and hadn’t paid attention to with his focus on getting them out of there. Quashes the feeling as he watches Gavin.

Concerned frown on his face so damn familiar it hurts. Sharp ache in his chest that’s almost a physical pain, because he never thought he’d get to see it again.

“I don’t think you’ll need stitches for it,” Gavin says, and looks up to meet Michael's eyes. “But you should put a bandage on it at least.”

He glances at the abandoned bag with the medical supplies and cocks his head just so, a gesture Michael knows so fucking well because he’s seen it so many times before.

Just another one of the things he should have picked up on earlier. Another one of Gavin’s quirks and ticks Michael had seen the biker use and never thought to connect to Gavin.

So much evidence in front of him leading to the biker’s identity and Michael just never seeing any of it because why the fuck would he expect to when Gavin was dead?

The Gavin he’d known was an awkward, clumsy dork who was good with computers and loved playing with his cameras. An idiot who never let on he wasn’t quite who Michael thought he was, but then again the reverse is true because Michael did the same, didn’t he?

Lies upon lies, and all of them mean to protect each other because it was dangerous not to.

This fucking city.

And maybe it’s not just Los Santos to blame for all of this. The secrets they both hid from each other, thinking they were protecting each other and doing more harm than good in the end, but it’s easier to cast blame than it is to face up to how stupid they've both been about this.

The fact that somehow Gavin’s here, looking at Michael with those eyes of his. Big and worried and holding himself like he thinks -

“I can’t do this on my own,” Michael hears himself say as he stares at Gavin’s hands. Fingers curled around his wrist, thumb resting over his pulse point.

Gavin blinks, mouth opening to ask why – always with he questions because he has a curious fucking mind doesn’t he. Never satisfied until he’s picked something apart, gotten a good look at what makes it tick and finds a way to put it back together again. (Not always right, but he tries.)

“I’m right handed, idiot.”

The cut’s on his right arm, and Michael could manage to slap a rough bandage on it, keep from making things worse, but it won’t be pretty. Might as well not even bother for all the good it will do him.

“I’ll fuck it up,” Michael says, and shrugs at the look Gavin gives him.

Michael doesn’t know how any of this is possible. How Gavin is standing in front him, solid and real and so goddamned familiar.

Watching Michael with that worried look he used to get when Michael would come home after a rough job and lie to him about it. Tell him some idiot at work had run into him, or that he’d hit his head on something. Nothing important, serious, so no need to worry about it.

Nothing but lies mixed tied up with the truth like that was just the way things had to be and why change things if it worked?

Gavin patching him up with this little frown between his eyes and so, so careful no to ask even though Michael could tell he wanted to more than anything.

Gavin starts to let go.

“Gavin.”

Gavin freezes, eyes skittering away from Michael’s.

He still looks the same.

Dumb hair that looks like it never met a comb it liked and that fucking nose of his. Laugh lines around his eyes that Michael always hoped he’d contributed to. The mole under his eye, so many other things Michael was worried he’d forgotten, and it’s killing him a little.

This whole mess is killing him because he can’t do this alone the way he was so convinced he could.

Just him against Carmine’s organization like one of those godawful movies Michael loved as a kid.

Good triumphing over evil, white hats against black hats. Scenarios where good always won because that’s how the stories were supposed to go.

Somewhere along the way he forgot on of the hardest lessons he ever learned, forgot that life isn’t like that. Realized just how fine the line between good and evil is, and which side he landed on as he grew up, made the kinds of choices he did.

The way people like Carmine with money and power behind them win out more often than not. That people like him and Gavin get trampled underfoot and forgotten, because they were just a statistic in the end.

Michael’s been lucky so far. Luckier than anyone has a right to be, but that same luck is bound to run out on him sooner rather than later with his hard he’s been pushing things.

And for whatever reason Gavin’s here, he’s back.

He’s the asshole half the city’s talking about.

This incredible force – anger and fury and something else to him Michael can’t explain, doesn’t have the words for - going after Carmine and his organization with equally single-minded determination.

He’s done more to hurt Carmine in these past few weeks than Michael has in the entire time he found out about his involvement in Gavin’s death. Cracked the foundations under Carmine’s feet, but it’s still not enough.

Worse, after tonight they know Gavin’s not invincible. They managed to make him bleed, proved they can hurt him. Kill him, and they’re not about to forget that after what he’s done to them, cost them.

“I can’t do this on my own,” Michael says again, and he sounds like he picked smoking back up. Voice fucked up because he’s not just talking about Carmine and his hired guns, doesn’t think he could take losing Gavin again. “I’ll fuck it up if I try.”

He’s been driven by anger and grief, this need to make whoever was responsible pay and no real plan behind any of it. Belated realization that he never expected to make it as far as he has. Expected Carmine or Rat-face to sniff him out, realize what he was up to and make an example out of him the way they did with Gavin.

He’d only gotten as close as he has through sheer luck, and doesn’t know where to go from here.

Gavin stares at him for a long moment, and Michael can’t read him. Can’t tell what he’s thinking, or even if he knows him as well as he thought he did to be able to read him.

“Let’s look at your arm first,” Gavin says, eyes dropping away from Michael’s as he goes to get the medical supplies. “Wouldn’t want it to get infected.”

Michael watches him walk away and wonders what the hell he as expecting. For Gavin to jump at the chance to team up with him like this is some kind of stupid superhero movie?

“Yeah, alright,” Michael sighs, and follows Gavin to the cramped bathroom where the lighting is better.

Gavin gives him a small smile as Michael sits on the edge of the tub. Helps him peel off his jacket, managing to reopen the wound a little in the process. Dried blood gluing it to his skin and it's not pretty, hurts like hell as Gavin cleans the wound up best he can with their available supplies.

His hands are cool, which isn’t a surprise because Gavin always runs cold, but there’s a different quality now that makes Michael uneasy.

“I’d hate to be the one to find that,” Gavin says, seeming to pick up on his mood and trying for a bit of levity as he tips his head towards the pile of bloodstained washcloths he tossed into the bathtub.

Michael snorts.

“I’d hate to be the one to find anything in this dump,” Michael shoots back because there’s not enough money in the world for that.

Gavin makes a face, gagging as his mind pulls up likely scenarios, and Michael’s chest aches because it’s such a familiar sight. Michael fucking with Gavin because it was always so easy, and cackling about it because he’s that kind of asshole.

“You’re a bloody bully Michael,” Gavin says, wounded note to his voice like he hasn't learned better by now.

And Michael -

“Literally,” he says, unable to stop himself as Gavin spreads ointment over the cut and tapes a gauze pad over it.

Gavin sighs, world-weary and such a brave little toaster for putting up with the terrible shit Michael puts him through, and it hurts how normal this feels.

Gavin leaves his hands on Michael's arm, frown on his face as he traces the edges of old scars from Michael’s line of work.

A few are from knives, but there’s a bullet graze near his elbow. Road rash that never healed quite right from a spill off a bike running from the cops once. More scars and marks left from countless fights, scrapes, he’s been in hidden by his clothes.

Souvenirs of a life that’s probably going kill him before long.

“Gav?”

Gavin reluctantly pulls his hands away and looks at Michael.

“You’re not going to stop even if I say no, are you.”

That.

“No,” Michael says, calm, even.

It would be better if they worked together on taking Carmine down because Gavin’s the one with all the cards here. Found something that spooked Carmine enough to have him killed, and Michael’s just been fumbling in the dark.

But if Gavin says no, chooses not to work together with him Michael’s just going to keep going until he succeeds or gets himself killed, whichever comes first. Can’t just let it go, even with Gavin here in front of him now.

The worst part about is that Michael’s still a coward, isn’t he. Can’t tell Gavin why he’s so determined to do this. All those words he had time to figure out after Gavin died, things he swore to himself he’d tell him if he ever got the chance to seem to have dried up and crumbled to dust on the back of his tongue.

Gavin huffs a laugh, and sits back to look at Michael.

“I can’t stay,” Gavin says, and waves a hand toward the window they can just see through the open door of the bathroom, sunlight breaking through the curtains. “There are rules, limits, to this. To whatever I am.”

Michael feels that uneasiness from earlier rear its head.

“What, are you a fucking vampire now? Do you burn in the sunlight?”

Gavin gives Michael this look, like maybe Michael’s parents dropped him on his head as a kid one time too many.

“What? No. You’ve seen me in the daylight before, haven’t you?” he says, and his tone of voice backs up the look on his face perfectly. “But I used a lot of energy tonight, didn’t I, and I have to go back.”

There’s something about the way Gavin says it that sends a chill down his spine.

“Go back?” he asks, trying to hold Gavin’s gaze but the fucker is a champ at avoidance.

Motherfucking gold medalist.

“For a little bit,” Gavin clarifies, still not meeting his eyes. “Just to rest.”

“Gav - “

“Give it a day or two, yeah?” Gavin pulls the latex gloves he was using off and slings them into the trash can under the bathroom sink. Gets to his feet. “Try not to do anything stupid before then, and we’ll talk about things. Get everything sorted.”

Like they’re talking about whose turn it is to do the dishes or why the fuck Gavin can’t remember not to throw a half empty cup of coffee in the trash from across the room. Like it’s something simple, stupid, small.

Like Michael isn’t terrified that Gavin won’t come back. Will just be gone, or that Michael hallucinated all of this. Hit his head and ended up in some stupid movie coma only to wake up and find out it was a dream all along.

Gavin finally looks at him, bright smile on his face like this whole situation isn’t fucked.

“No promises,” Michael says, hands clenching where they rest on his lap, grasping on to the sting, burn, that runs through his injured arm. “Don’t fucking stop for coffee on your back, you fuck.”

There’s a mirror over the sink facing the tub Michael’s sitting on. Dirty and cracked, and Michael stares at his reflection in it as Gavin pauses to squeeze his shoulder as he walks past, hand burning cold where it touches him.

Michael doesn’t hear the outer door when Gavin leaves, and it’s a long, long time before he can make himself get up.

========

Jeremy knows something is up when Michael slinks back in later that morning.

Would have to be blind not to given the state Michael’s in even after he made an effort to clean up. His clothes are still fucked and there’s no adrenaline to allow him to ignore the fact he’s hurting.

Still, Jeremy doesn’t say a damn thing.

Michael gets this look from him. The kind of worry Jeremy shouldn’t waste on a shitty friend like him, but that’s just like him, isn’t it.

The same way it’s just like him when Jeremy sits down next to Michael on the couch and pushes a cup of coffee into his hands to help warm him up. Sets a plate down with one of the donuts he picked up a few days ago.

Pretends like he’s not keeping an eye on Michael to make sure he’s not about to keel over on him right there and then. Force Jeremy to drag him down to a clinic or the emergency room.

Turns on the television so they can listen to the news, hear all about the commotion the night before in the industrial district. Fire fighters still on site, and various news crews vying for the best shots. Solemn faced reporters going over what they know so far, batting theories and rumors back and forth with their counterparts behind the anchor desk back at the news station.

“Looks like a mess,” Jeremy notes, taking a sip of his coffee and carefully not looking at Michael.

Michael sighs, slumping a little into the soft cushions of the couch.

It’s so goddamn tempting to just tell Jeremy everything. What’s been going on to make him worry about Michael so much when he doesn’t deserve it, but Michael wouldn’t even know where to start without sounding like damned lunatic.

Weird shit happens in Los Santos all the time, but this?

Got to be enough to get him locked away, and he’s not sure it wouldn’t be warranted at this point.

“Yeah,” Michael says, and splits the doughnut between them as a peace offering.

He can’t tell Jeremy what’s going on, but he sure as fuck appreciates that he wants to help.

Jeremy snorts, flipping through stations until he lands on an early morning cartoon.

Bright colors and weird animal characters with no real plot to speak of. Simple cartoonish bullshit accompanied by whimsical music that is clearly meant to be a punishment of some sort because it’s all so bad.

Which is fair, really.

Better than what Michael deserves, that’s for damn certain.

========

Rat-face calls Michael and tells him to lie low for now. That Carmine and his top people are coming up with a plan to deal with Gavin once and for all and they’ll contact him when they need him.

Michael plays his part, gives him yes sir, and no sir, and I understand, sir, and feels this thread of fear wrap tight around his heart because he still hasn’t heard from Gavin.

Doesn’t know where he is, if he’s okay. Doesn’t know a goddamned thing, and the not knowing is killing him, but there’s not a lot Michael can about it until Gavin decides to show his face again. (Michael’s half afraid he won’t, that he just imagined the whole thing and Jeremy’s not wrong about Michael losing his damn mind.)

He makes a few half-hearted attempts to crack Gavin’s password, and watches daytime dramas that he doesn’t pay attention to. Too worried about Gavin and what Carmine and his flunkies are up to to focus long enough to understand the plot.

Pretends like he doesn’t see the worried looks Jeremy keeps tossing his way and does his best to act like he’s not slowly going out of his mind.

After the fifth day it gets old, and something drags Michael back to the apartment building he and Gavin lived in.

There’s not much left to it anymore. It’s been hollowed out by the fire, scavengers and worse in and out picking over the bones, looking for anything of value and coming up empty-handed.

Michael kicks aside a piece of charred wood and carefully makes his way through the rubble left behind from the fire. The place smells faintly of rot and decay over the lingering stench of smoke, or maybe that last is his mind overlaying memories with what his eyes are seeing, who the fuck knows.

“Christ,” he mutters, walking into what used to be the his – their -old living room.

Barely big enough for that stupid couch Gavin made him haul up several flights of stairs so long ago.

Stupid heavy and ugly as all hell, but something about it had caught Gavin’s eye and he’d spent money they couldn’t really afford on it. Big, stupid grin on his face and cajoling note to his voice, and Michael?

He always did have a hard time saying no to Gavin, even when he knew better.

So he lugged the fucking hideous thing upstairs while Gavin fretted and fussed. Offered up completely useless advice as he “helped”. Dropped his end of the couch more times than Michael cares to remember, mumbling sheepish apologies and laughing about it.

The damn couch is a pile of blackened wood now, melted bits of metal.

So much of their lives here gone up in fire and nothing but rubble and ash under his feet and if that isn’t some kind of shitty metaphor, Michael doesn’t know what is.

Michael lifts his head when he hears footsteps behind him, hands curling into loose fists at his side because he knows who it is.

Heard that fucking bike earlier, the low purr of its engine as it pulled up.

“Fire department said it was faulty wiring.”

Bad wiring in an old building, and shit like that happens all the in a city like this where code enforcement is so lax. No one gives much of a damn unless it makes the news, and even then it barely makes a ripple in the news cycle.

Why would it, when this is the kind of place where the police look the other way when it comes to crime all the fucking time? When people tsk over a murder and shake their heads before moving on because it’s just another statistic?

Always such a shame, and so convenient that it happens to someone else.

Gavin doesn’t say anything, but Michael can hear him sifting through the mess, looking for something.

Michael finally turns around, almost expecting Gavin to disappear the moment he does like that fucked up Greek myth about the asshole who went to the underworld in search of his wife after she died.

But this is reality, for whatever that’s worth, and Gavin doesn’t fade away when Michael looks at him.

Seems solid and real as he sweeps a pile of debris aside with his foot, glancing around with this odd frown on his face.

“Michael,” Gavin says, frustrated note to his voice. “Where was the bedroom?”

Of all the things he was expecting to hear from Gavin, that wasn’t anywhere on the list.

“What?”

Gavin looks frustrated, annoyed.

“Well it’s not like I had the floor plans memorized, now is it?” Gavin asks, turning his head away when Michael keeps staring.

They lived in that shitty apartment of theirs for years. Tiny and cramped, hardly enough room in it for the two of them and their shit. The kind of place you learn where everything is real quick or otherwise end up with stubbed toes and bumps on the back of your head moving around in the dark.

Th single bedroom they shared because they were adults who could handle sharing a bed with their couch being uncomfortable as hell. Always a bout of insomnia or work project that couldn’t wait for a reasonable hour, some other excuse that would keep one of them awake and trying to be considerate of each other.

Gavin had been prone to those kind of nights more often than Michael, ended up knowing it better than he did.

Gavin still won’t meet his eyes and Michael lets it drop because looking around now, he can see how it would be hard to pinpoint where the hallway ends and the bedroom begins. Where everything should have been.

“Over here, I think,” Michael says, and moves past Gavin to gesture towards a pile of debris where the doorway to the bedroom door used to be. “What are you looking for?”

Gavin twitches a shoulder in a shrug as he maps out where the boundaries of the room would have been.

“Of course,” he mumbles to himself, and sets to clearing away what looks like part of the ceiling and half of the wall.

“Don’t just stand there, give me a hand, you bastard,” Gavin calls over his shoulder in a fit of pique, and Michael snorts as he goes over to help.

Follows Gavin’s orders as they dig out a small area roughly where the bed used to be. Stands back when Gavin drives the heel of his foot down on a section of floor to reveal a hidden compartment containing a fire safe.

“Maybe it was worth what I paid for it after all,” Gavin muses as he crouches down to examine it for damage, eyes meeting Michael’s over it. “Did you get the package?”

Nice and casual, like Gavin’s asking about the weather or something equally normal.

As if Gavin hadn’t planned ahead, expected for something to go wrong with whatever he’d been doing.

For someone to kill him.

Like he hadn’t taken the necessary precautions to ensure that whatever he’d found made it to Michael, that he’d gotten him everything he’d need to start up a new life somewhere, like that something people just fucking did.

Goddamn, it makes Michael angry all over again just thinking about it. About Gavin realizing how much trouble he was in and taking all these steps to protect Michael without giving a fucking thought to how he’d feel about things in the aftermath of his death.

As though Michael wouldn’t lose sleep wondering what he could have done differently to get Gavin to trust him enough to ask for help. What he’d done to make him think he wouldn’t drop everything if Gavin had just fucking asked.

“Yeah,” Michael says. “About that.”

Gavin looks up, frown on his face like he doesn’t know what the fucking problem is.

“Why didn’t you come to me with this?” Michael asks, hating the way his voice sounds rough, cracks showing through because Gavin’s secrets got him killed and Michael was too stupid to ask. “I could have fucking helped.”

Gavin stares at Michael like he’s trying to think up a lie, some excuse or reason that he thinks Michael’s just going to buy and that’ll be the end of that. No reason to get bothered over any of it.

“I don’t care if you didn’t know I was involved in this shit,” Michael says, before Gavin can interrupt him, say something that will just make him angrier. “I would have fucking helped you, Gavin. Jesus fuck, you know I would have.”

If nothing else, they were friends and Michael thought Gavin had known that. Known Michael would have done anything for him if he asked.

But he hadn’t, had he.

Had just dug himself deeper into whatever trouble he’d found that it had gotten him killed, and Michael left behind to pick up the pieces of his life. Move on, like it ever would have been so simple.

“Carmine’s a monster,” Gavin says, low and quiet. This fierceness to his voice Michael's never heard. His hand is splayed over the top of the fire safe like he’s keeping whatever secrets are inside from spilling out like Pandora’s box for better or worse. “You have no idea what he’s capable of, Michael.”

Michael can guess, given what happened to Gavin. The things he picked up when he was trying to find a way into Carmine’s organization. Bits and pieces he overheard from the others once he did.

The way Jeremy and others Michael’s come into contact with on his search for answers have warned him away from the fucker. Want nothing to do with him, which says so goddamned much in a city like this.

“By the time I knew what kind of monster he was, it was too late to back out of things, and I wanted to keep you out of it,” Gavin says, gaze focused on the damn fire safe under his hand. “I thought if he didn’t know about you, you’d be safe. That he couldn’t use you against me if he found out what I was doing.”

Oh, Christ.

“He was toying with me the whole time,” Gavin says, and his laugh sounds all broken and wrong, jagged little pieces to it. “Let me think I was getting away with things, that everything was going to turn out okay. That I didn’t manage bollocks everything up.”

“Gav - “

“I had a plan, Michael,” Gavin says. “I had a plan.”

But life – especially here in Los Santos – has a way of fucking you over if you’re not careful. (Sometimes even when you are.)

Michael stares at Gavin.

At this fucking idiot who tried so hard to keep Michael safe with no one there to watch his back, no one to keep him safe. Lying like his life depended on to keep Michael in the dark, and managing it all right up until the end.

Goddamn.

“You fucking idiot,” Michael snarls, and drags Gavin into a hug. Closes his eyes at Gavin’s startled intake of breath, like he was expecting Michael to hit him instead, like he would have deserved it, and holds on tighter.

There’s no way to change what happened, no point in second-guessing Gavin’s choices when it would be nothing but cruelty now. Salt in fresh wounds, but maybe, maybe, they can find a way to make things right now if Gavin will let him.

“I have to go,” Gavin says, some time later, even though he makes no move to let go of Michael. “Michael, I have to go.”

Michael wants to ask him why. Plead with him to stay, maybe, because he knows Gavin’s not going to give up on Carmine. Knows he’s still going to after him even though it almost got him killed (again, a part of Michael’s mind points out, again) last time.

“Be careful, asshole,” he says, because he knows he can’t stop Gavin even if he tries. Might drive him away altogether if he does. “They’re planning something.”

Gavin laughs, like this is all a fucking joke.

“Of course they are,” he says, and then he’s untangling himself from Michael's hold, this sad smile on his face that’s breaking Michael’s heart. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Like he has any fucking right to say something like that after everything that’s happened.

Still.

“Same goes for you, asshole,” he says, and watches Gavin walk away.

========

Gavin goes on his hit and runs, and Michael hears about it on the news afterwards.

Watches the so-called experts attempt to analyze what little data about him they have. Pinpoint his methodology, reason for his attacks, with little success.

Gavin’s smart about things, switches up his plan of attack even as he focuses on Carmine’s allies with his organization laying low after the ambush.

Chipping away at his support, whittling away his options one by one by one.

In the midst of all this, Jeremy’s crew has him running around doing damage control. He’s out at all hours and starting to look like shit warmed over.

According to him Gavin hasn’t gone after them, shouldn’t have reason to, but they’re understandably concerned. Their allies are understandably concerned, and there’s not much Michael can do to help him without revealing too much.

Feels like an asshole as he watches as Jeremy spends less and less time at the apartment until he might as well not be there at all.

So of course, of course, that’s when Gavin comes to visit.

Picks a day when Jeremy’s out, or maybe he’s been watching them the whole time and waiting for just the right moment.

Either way, there’s no mistaking the sound his bike makes when it pulls up outside.

When Michael opens the door, Gavin has his bike helmet tucked under one arm and he looks -

He looks tired.

Exhausted.

Like someone at the end of their rope and barely hanging on, and he asks after the package he sent to Michael.

“Why do you want it?”

Gavin opens his mouth to speak, and stops.

Eyes narrowing as he looks at Michael.

“You don’t know.”

Michael doesn’t bother denying it. Not when he’s been trying to crack Gavin’s fucking password for so long, been tempted to drag Jeremy and Matt into this whole mess when he couldn’t.

“No,” Michael says, and decides to try on some honesty between them for size. “But I sure as hell want to.”

He wants to know what Gavin found that was so important, so fucking terrible that he couldn’t tell Michael about. What Carmine wanted him dead for.

Gavin stares at him for a long, long moment. Long enough that Michael thinks he’s going to pull another one of his disappearing tricks. Claim he can’t stay, that he has to leave and then fuck off the was he’s been doing for one reason or another, but he doesn’t.

“If I show you,” Gavin says, like he’s still not convinced Michael's serious about this, or maybe just doesn’t want to pull him in any deeper than he already is, “there’s no going back.”

Christ, be more melodramatic.

“Really?” Michael asks. “Really?”

Gavin makes a face, looks away because even he knows that was a little over the top, even with everything else about this clusterfuck.

“It’s...complicated,” Gavin hedges, not quite making eye contact. “And it’s dangerous.”

No shit.

The fact Gavin’s still trying to protect him is as sweet as it is heartbreaking, but it’s a little too late for that now. Michael’s not giving up until Carmine’s dead, and while he’d be thrilled to work with Gavin on that, he’s not going to be deterred if he has to do it on his own.

“Alright,” Gavin says, because he must see all of that in Michael’s expression, or maybe he’s just tired of going it alone. “Alright. Bring the package along because we’re going to need it.”

========

Gavin takes them to several stops around the city. Has this cagey look to him as they pick up packages and other shit he’d stashed, all of them under different names and aliases.

Sends Michael on ahead with combinations or passwords. Shuffles his feet when he hands over a key and runs a hand through his hair when he tells Michael they’re almost done.

Avoids Michael’s eyes when he looks up from studying the scorched key chain singed tag attached to it like he wouldn’t recognize it as one of Gavin’s. (The way the metal of the key itself feels hot to the touch. Hot enough to burn.)

“There are only three people authorized to access it, and it would be awkward if I went in to collect it,” Gavin says, and flips the visor of his helmet down to end the conversation, a new habit of his that’s already gotten old.

It’s another storage facility. The kind of place that has the kind of security that requires ID to get past the main desk. Only one like it of all the places they’ve been to, and it has him paying even closer attention to things once he goes inside.

Unlike the others, this one is under Gavin’s real name. Paid for in cash with no paper trail to lead back to it and a certain air to the whole thing that feels borderline legal. Very discreet and hush-hush. Guards with weapons showing under their jackets and this veneer of civility that does nothing to hide how dangerous they are under it all.

The woman behind the counter gives Michael a cursory glance when he walks in, finishes up what she’s working on before turning to him with a polite smile.

“I’m here about locker 339?” he says, holding up the key Gavin handed off to him.

Her eyes narrow, but apparently she’s seen worse because she just asks for his driver license to verify he is who he claims to be. Spends a moment to make sure everything is in order before she buzzes him through the security door.

There's an attendant on the other side of the security door to escort him to the lockers, standing just inside the door while Michael checks the contents to Gavin’s.

There’s an external hard drive instead of the USB drives they’ve collected today, as well as several envelopes with Gavin’s handwriting on them.

Feeling oddly guilty, Michael flips through them. There’s one for the dead reporter Gavin wanted Michael to go to, and another addressed to Michael.

It looks older than the others, including to the one he had sent to Michael.

Battered, worn, almost as though Gavin kept it with him for a while before deciding to put it here.

“We have secure rooms,” the attendant says, because Michael's just standing there like an idiot staring down at it. “If you’d like to view your items privately?”

Michael blinks, realizes he’s taken longer than he should have. Was supposed to collect the locker’s contents. Gather up whatever Gavin had squirreled away here and close out his account, not whatever the hell he thinks he’s doing wasting precious time like this.

“No,” Michael says, sliding the letters into the interior pocket of his jacket along with the external hard drive and shuts the locker. “No, that won’t be necessary.”

He gets an odd look for that, but the attendant lets it slide. Probably attributes it to grief – their records are up to date, after all – and quietly leads the way back to the front desk.

Michael settles things with the woman there, something final about it that has him hurrying back out to Gavin. As though sighing his name on the dotted line is what’s going to be what sends him back to wherever he keeps disappearing off to, ridiculous as it sounds.

It’s raining outside the way it had been threatening to all afternoon and Michael instinctively pulls his jacket around him tighter to protect the external hard drive and letters.

There are dark gray clouds overhead, flashes of lightning in in the distance and the faint sound of thunder rolling in off the hills around Los Santos. Heavy downpour that cutting down on visibility, and the world around them muted.

Gavin, thank God, is still out there on that bike of his. Head tipped up to stare at the sky, rain trailing down the smooth face of his helmet.

“You got it, then?”

Gavin turns to look at him, and something about it – his posture, the slow movement – looks tired.

Far more so than when he appeared at the apartment earlier, like the weather is sapping his energy away.

“I – Yeah,” Michael says, nervous and unsettled for no reason he can name. “What - “

“One last stop,” Gavin says, and starts his bike, low growl almost drowned out by the rain, something almost like laughter in his voice. “Try to keep up, Michael.”

And then the damn cheater peels off, tires squealing as he gets one hell of a head start. Manages to weave through lanes of traffic the way he damn well knows Michael can’t in his car, the fucking asshole.

========

Michael catches up to Gavin at a red light a few streets over.

Glares when the asshole looks straight back at him and revs his bike’s engine. This full-throated growl he can feel through the floorboards of his car. It rises in pitch to a scream when the light turns green and Gavin speeds off, just missing the asshole who thought he could beat the yellow coming the opposite direction through the intersection.

Michael leans on the horn, flips the fucker off and races after Gavin who, terrifyingly enough, has gotten even more reckless now than he was before if that’s even possible.

Maybe it has something to do with what he is now, whatever that is. Doesn’t think anything can hurt him now, or maybe he just doesn’t care. (Michael isn’t sure which possibility scares him more.)

Gavin takes them through back streets to a quiet little neighborhood in just one more rundown part of the city. It’s late enough by now that most of its residents are either asleep or working the night shift.

A handful few people are outside smoking or talking bullshit, bursts of noise every so often, laughter echoing off the brick and stone walls of the buildings around them. Shady figures lurking just out of range of the streetlights.

“Safe house for when I’m...here,” Gavin says, entirely too cryptically as he gestures at himself when Michael gives him a questioning look. “No one else knows about it.”

That’s -

“Huh,” Michael says, adding it to the things he never knew about Gavin and wondering how many more there are left to discover.

Gavin lets them inside an apartment on the third floor. Shabby little place a few steps down from their old one. Decked out with tacky furniture and terrible carpeting. Has one hell of a lived-in look to it.

There’s a goddamned murder board up on one wall. Maps of Los Santos and the neighboring areas with what seems to be color-coded pins. News articles and other shit hanging up alongside the maps, and a laptop on the coffee table.

Goddamned plethora of old mugs of coffee and empty energy drink cans next to it. A medical kit or two, rust brown splotches and smears on the lid, the latches.

Michael looks up, catches Gavin watching him taking all of it in.

“You - “

Gavin smiles, this twisted thing, and gestures for Michael to set the boxes and packages on the coffee table as he shoves things aside to make room for them.

“I��m not invincible, Michael,” he murmurs, and leaves it at that as he starts his laptop up.

Like that’s not a fucking kick to the chest, hearing Gavin admit to it even after seeing the proof for himself. Imagining Gavin retreating here to lick his wounds alone, even with that healing factor he seems to have. (Knowing how fucking much Carmine and Rat-face want him dead, how hard they’ve tried to make it happen.)

Michael watches him for a long moment, feeling too wrung out to argue.

Much.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, looking around at the mess.

Gavin winces, slides him a look. A Little defensive, a little annoyed. Dumbass all the way.

“I’ve been busy Michael,” he grumbles, because they lived together too long for him not to know what Michael’s thinking. About all yelling that isn’t happening because what even is this situation right now? “Haven’t had the time to tidy.”

It doesn’t hold the usual bite it would because Gavin’s distracted. Rooting through the pile in front of him to organize the drives and memory cards according to some bizarre system of his. Doing his damnedest to ignore Michael as he works.

That’s so much like him that Michael can’t help but laugh, scrubbing a hand over his face as he gets up to collect empty cans and dirty mugs to put in the sink. Give them both a little time to gather themselves for what’s ahead.

Shakes his head at how familiar this much is in spite of the circumstances, following along to clean up after Gavin. Oddly soothing as Michael finds an old grocery bag for the cans and shoves as many of them in there as he can.

Opens the fridge to find more energy drinks and – of all things – a box of baking soda. Containers of take-out shoved to the back that are well past being remotely edible that immediately go in the trash.

Apparently still human enough to eat and drink, or as capable of it as still being the same fucking slob he always has been, whatever that means.

Christ.

Michael’s contemplating the task of cleaning out the cheap little coffee maker when Gavin calls him back into the living room.

“Michael,” he says. Stops. Fidgets. “Michael, you don’t have to – You can still leave.”

Michael stares at him.

“Take the money and leave, go back to Jersey if you want,” Gavin says, flicking a hand at the packages they recovered earlier, more than just USB drives and memory cards.

Enough money to get both them far, far away from Los Santos. False identities and all the paperwork to go along with them to go somewhere Carmine can never find them and disappear, if such a place exists.

No.

Where Michael can disappear while Gavin stays in Los Santos to finish what he started, make sure Carmine won’t find Michael.

Lie to him, claim he’ll be right behind him and Michael waiting for a day that won’t come, because he knows this little idiot, doesn’t he.

All the lies between them and some things that never changed because they’re such an intrinsic part of the people they are under it all.

Gavin’s looking at him like he wants Michael to just give in. Take the easy way out even thought they both know it’s too late for that. That Michael was fucking clear about things from the outset, and still.

He’s still trying to get Michael to see sense, to do the smart thing. Give up on his stupid quest for vengeance like it doesn’t mean anything. Like Gavin was never worth it.

“No.”

Soft and even, every last bit of Michael’s conviction behind it, because he’ll be damned if he walks away now. Turns his back on Gavin when he can help him this time, do something worthwhile.

“Fuck you, no,” he says, anger starting to bleed into it when Gavin looks like he’s going to try another tack. Come at Michael sideways like he won’t see it coming. “Stop trying of get rid of me and just let me fucking help.”

If his voice breaks a little on that last, neither of them mention it.

Gavin’s hands clench into fists before he lets out his breath on a long exhale that goes a little ragged at the end.

“Okay,” he says as he reaches for his laptop. “Okay, then."

Michael eyes him warily because Gavin folded too easily, backed down way too fast for him to believe this is the last time they’re going to do this.

“I had a system,” Gavin says, darting a look at Michael when he sits next to him. “Didn’t want Carmine or any of his people to figure out what I was doing, so I was careful about it.”

Gavin clicks on a file, smile on his face that says he was too naive about just how careful he was.

“Thought I was, anyway,” he admits with a humorless laugh as the file opens.

At first it’s meaningless to Michael, letters and numbers laid out in some kind of code.

Before he can ask about it Gavin plugs one of the USB drives they recovered into the laptop. A prompt pops up and Gavin enters a password and drums his fingers nervously as he waits for it password to be accepted.

“Shipment schedules here,” he says, gesturing to the spreadsheet while they wait for the USB drive to load, taps the screen as a new window for the drive opens. “Codes here.”

It’s empty.

Gavin flashes Michael a cheeky little grin and plays around with file options until hidden folders appear, and opens one showing several files that he clicks on.

More gibberish once they open, but Gavin resizes the windows and places them side by side with the spreadsheet open behind them.

“What the hell am I looking at?” Michael asks, even though he thinks he knows, focus flicking between the windows.

Gavin laughs, tapping the laptop screen again.

“A cipher key,” he says, and highlights a row on the spreadsheet. “Broken up a bit, but you see it, yeah?”

Michael looks at the spreadsheet, and down at the open windows. The cipher key isn’t complete with just the two files he has open to work off, but he can see what Gavin’s talking about. See how it lines up with the spreadsheet, able to figure out just what kind of information he’s looking at.

“This is all outdated,” Gavin says. “Old files I got my hands on in the beginning. Waters – the reporter I told you about in the letter – got a little too close around that time. Spooked Carmine into upping his security around his files. Made getting my hands on them harder.”

Gavin falters there, smile fading.

“Guess I should have known Carmine would know about him,” he says with a tired little laugh. “Bastard was always three steps ahead the whole time.”

Michael watches helplessly as Gavin goes through the files on the other USB drives, the memory cards. Connects them together like a fucking puzzle, shows him more shipping manifests and other incriminating evidence that could put Carmine and his people away for life.

Hesitates before the connects the external hard drive to the laptop and brings up a media player.

“I planted bugs, listening devices where I could,” Gavin says, palms flat on the coffee table as he plays goddamned audio clips of Carmine ordering hits against his enemies. “It was too risky to try to sneak a camera in, but even this is more than enough to incriminate him.”

Rival crews, gangs that didn’t bow and scrape fast enough for his liking. The rare few willing to cross him, testify against him for protection. Politicians and public figures in Los Santos and beyond who ended up dying in unfortunate accidents here and there.

The ones he wanted to serve as messages to anyone getting ideas about bringing him down.

Michael’s blood goes cold when he realizes there are several folders listed on the external, and they’re just listening to the first one.

Wonders distantly if there’s a recording out there Gavin wasn’t able to retrieve in time ordering his own fucking death. (Given the way Gavin’s hands shake a little when he stops the playback on the final recording, he’s had the same thought.)

Carmine’s a bigger deal than anyone realized. His influence is spreading through Los Santos like a disease, creating what threatens to be a vast criminal empire for him and he’s still not satisfied.

“Gavin - “

Gavin shakes his head, and holds up the package he had sent to Michael, pushing on because he promised he’d explain everything, didn’t he. Let Michael know what he’d been doing, what got him killed.

“I put copies of the most recent files I’d gotten on here,” he says. “Along with instructions on how to find the rest.”

All of it neatly packaged up for Waters, items he’d entrusted to Michael. Knew he would have gotten it to Waters because Gavin asked him to in that letter of his, told him it was important and to leave Los Santos when he’d done that and stay the fuck away from it afterwards.

Christ.

Michael stares at the USB drives and memory cards, the contents of Gavin’s stashes spread over the coffee table and can’t help but wonder would have happened if he’d just been able to figure out his fucking password.

Wonders if this could have been over by now, all this damning evidence in the right hands and Los Santos turned upside down to rip Carmine from its underbelly like cancerous growth. If Michael would have found a way to fuck everything up, gone to the wrong person without realizing it, and all of this buried with Michael the way Carmine had tried to bury it with Gavin.

Wonders where they hell they can even go now.

“Christ,” Michael says, mind reeling.

Gavin laughs again, the one that’s all wrong on him. So full of bitterness, angry at the edges.

“Carmine knew,” Gavin says, staring blankly at his laptop screen. “He knew I had...I had someone I was protecting. The whole time I worked for him, I thought I was being so goddamned careful. Never let anyone know about you, but he knew there was someone.”

Gavin looks up at him, crooked smile on his face.

“I guess he thought it was Waters. Must have had someone follow me, or someone told him about the two of us when we’d meet. I don’t know.”

And then Carmine had had Waters killed after he’d dealt with Gavin, leaving Michael to fumble in the dark on his own once he got his head out of his ass.

“It was a bit of a shock,” Gavin says, and there’s something to his voice that has Michael worried. Has him watch the way Gavin’s picking at his thumbnail, worrying the skin there. “When I saw you at the compound, I mean. Wasn’t expecting that.”

Oh, fuck.

Gavin laughs, mouth twitching like he’s trying to remember how to smile, make it convincing.

“I thought - “ Gavin shakes his head, frowns. “I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me back then, kind of new to everything and all. Not being dead, you know. Thought I was seeing things.”

There’s a stinging sensation at the back of Michael’s eyes, this ache in his chest he’s grown used to since Gavin died as Michael listens to him talk. Explain how he thought Michael had betrayed him, gone from being the one thing he’d been certain of all this time to -

“I wanted to be sure,” Gavin says, more to himself than to Michael. “I needed to be sure.”

Wanted to be sure Michael wasn’t involved with Carmine, Michael knows. That he hadn’t been working with him all along, or just sold him out for the right price, Jesus fuck.

“Gavin - “

Gavin keeps talking, like if he stops now he won’t be able to get the words out later.

“I followed you for a bit after that, figured you wouldn’t be doing all this if you had been working with Carmine the whole time, it just didn’t add up,” he says, like it’s not a fucking knife in Michael’s chest digging deep. “And you were so stupid about it, Michael!”

Gavin’s glaring at him now, all hurt and anger and fear under it all, because he’s already died because of goddamned Carmine. Somehow came back – and fuck if Michael isn’t going to get that story out of him – and here idiot Michael is trying to do the same fucking thing.

Only stupider.

“What the fuck do you want me to say?” Michael asks, so fucking tired. Feels cracked open and bled dry because he hadn’t stopped to think what he was doing might have looked like to Gavin. “The bastard killed you, what did you want me to do? Was I supposed to just walk away? Let him get away with it?”

It sounds so stupid out loud, like a kid angry at the world for not being fair, because this is Los Santos and so much worse goes on here every fucking day.

No one cares in this city.

People like Gavin, like Michael, they don’t matter here.

Go missing every fucking day, and no one thinks twice about it.

“Yes!” Gavin yells, getting up in Michael’s face. So fucking furious, and this light flaring in the back of his eyes.

The same blue-white of that fucking bike of his that gives Michael pause almost as much as the fact Gavin’s angry enough to yell, to mean it.

“He’s dangerous, you idiot! You should have taken everything I left you and gotten out of the damn city! Started a new life somewhere, been happy!”

Gavin’s breathing like he’s run a goddamned marathon, chest heaving and so damn scared under that anger he's wearing like armor.

“But you didn’t, did you. Just marched right on into the lion’s den like you had a bloody playdate scheduled!”

“Oh my God, no,” Michael says, even though Gavin’s uncomfortably close to the truth with that. “I had a plan too, asshole.”

Gavin’s still so fucking smart, though. Knows Michael well enough to know the kind of plan he’d come up with.

The stupidly suicidal kind, because he’s an idiot. Blunt fucking weapon compared to Gavin.

“What was your plan then, Michael?” he asks, so very quiet. “Tell me, Michael. What was your plan?”

It feels like Michael’s chest is caught in a vise, no way to shake it loose with Gavin this close after losing him the way he had. Everything Gavin showed him, told him, tonight and stupid, stupid Michael trying to play catch-up the way he always has when Gavin’s involved.

“He took the most important person in my life away,” Michael says, because that’s always been at the heart of this for him, this one simple truth. “And I’m going to kill him for that.”

Whatever it takes.

Gavin freezes.

Goes so still Michael doesn’t think he’s even breathing, and Michael lets him see everything. No point in hiding anything anymore when all their secrets haven’t done them any goddamned good.

Knows he’s probably fucking things up here. That there has to be a better way of doing this, damn sure there’s a better time and place for it, but he’s just so fucking tired of waiting on them to come around. (Already wasted too much time before, and Gavin had died without knowing what he means to Michael, and goddamn but this is selfish of him.)

“You stupid bastard,” Gavin hisses, pulling away from him as he stumbles to his feet.

Michael reaches for him, but Gavin ducks away. Expression shuttered as he grabs his helmet he carelessly dropped onto a side table earlier, makes his way to the front door.

“Gavin!”

Michael follows, but stops just short of arm’s length when he sees the way Gavin’s holding himself. (Fragile in a way he’s never been, like the slightest breeze might be enough to shatter him and send the pieces flying.)

Gavin stops, ducks his head as he pulls the helmet on and glances back at him.

“I need to think,” he says, and then he’s gone.

========

Michael doesn’t know what to do after Gavin leaves, suddenly terrified that he’s pushed him too far too fast this time. That this is the thing that makes him leave.

Go back to where he goes when he’s not here, wherever that is, and Jesus Christ there’s still so much he still doesn’t know. (Might never know now because he just had to lay his cards on the table like that, think doing so would make things better sometime.

Jesus Christ, but Michael’s an idiot.

As much as he wants to go after Gavin, he knows he can’t. Has already pushed him hard enough as it is, doesn’t want to risk making things worse.

And he doesn’t want to leave the evidence Gavin worked so hard to gather, sacrificed his fucking life for just sitting here without anyone watching over it, so he waits.

He waits and hopes like hell Gavin’s going to come back at some point and feels useless and stupid as he does.

Picks his phone up off the coffee table where he left it before his cleaning spree and Gavin’s reveal, and fucks around with it. Deletes old apps and other shit he doesn’t need anymore and ends up scrolling through his contacts.

Stops he lands on Gavin’s, and wonders what would happen if he called him now.

Gavin’s phone was lost in the “crash”, but his account is still active. Bullshit clerical errors and something having to do with company policy because his name is the only one connected to his account and they won’t give Michael the time of day.

He doubts Gavin would pick up now, would probably just let it go to voicemail and delete whatever message he’d leave.

And honestly, Michael can’t find it in him to blame him if he did after that little shitshow, so.

“Idiot,” Michael mutters, and keeps scrolling.

Stops again when Jeremy’s name pops up, and almost calls him before he thinks better of it. Jeremy’s with his crew handling the city-wide crisis Gavin’s caused, managing to put the scare into anyone with criminal leanings.

All the crews and petty little gangs in a panic over what his next move is going to be, like they haven’t figured out that he only goes after very specific targets.

And even though Jeremy reassured Michael that his crew is sure to be safe from Gain, they’re smart enough to be concerned.

It’s still tempting to call him though, because Jeremy is a hell of a lot smarter than Michael. Solid and steady and has more common sense to him than you’d expect given his life choices. A voice of reason when it’s needed, and goddamn is it needed now.

Michael fucked up tonight, and he knows it. Spooked Gavin because he was an idiot and now -

“Fuck,” Michael sighs, gaze drifting back to Gavin’s laptop and the files still open on it.

Flips his phone back onto the coffee table as he slides over see if he can make better sense of them.

He spends a few hours slogging through the sheer amount of information Gavin’s put together, learning more about Carmine’s operations than he honestly ever wanted to.

Michael knew the fucker was involved with just about everything you’d expect to find in a place like Los Santos, but never suspected the extent of his involvement.

Traffics drugs, weapons. People, and Michael wants a shower just reading the damn files. Can’t imagine how Gavin must have felt being involved in it, taking the risks he had.

Listens to the recordings again, struck by how cold, indifferent Gavin sounds in the ones he must have been wired up to get. Like he’s not affected at all by what Carmine’s doing. That it’s all just business to him, another callous bastard in a city full of them, when he used to think Gavin was a shit liar.

Used to think Gavin couldn’t bluff his way through a game of cards for anything, and yet -

And yet, it makes a surprising amount of sense with how much time they spent lying to each other about what they did. Lies come so goddamned easily to them about it in order to protect one another from the truth that Michael hadn’t suspected a damn thing until the end.

When Gavin must have been under so much stress from dealing with Carmine he didn’t have anything left to lie convincingly to Michael.

And why should he, when Michael was so fucking clueless about it, caught up in his own lies? All Gavin had to do was offer up what scraps he had left and let Michael do the rest, so fucking simple.

Michael gives up then, puts his phone back in his pocket and freezes when his fingers brush up against paper.

Gavin’s letters, forgotten in the face of everything that happened. That odd reaction of his when Michael met up with him outside the storage company, like he’d known Michael would find it, but he’d never actually said anything, had he.

Michael feels strangely guilty, like a damn snoop going behind Gavin’s back as he takes the letters out of his pocket. Part of him so damn scared about what Gavin would have put in it after everything that had been in the letter he’d meant for Michael to have.

Why he locked this one away like this, kept it somewhere only Waters should have had access to if something happened to him. Where it would have been his choice whether or not Michael ever saw it.

“You idiot,” he mutters, not sure who he’s talking to, and takes care not to tear the envelope or the letter itself as he opens it.

The letter spans several pages, folded and folded again, uneven creases that Gavin bothered to go back to fix, which is telling in itself.

It’s clear he struggled with this one, Michael able to see the starts and stops in the flow of words. Dark blots where the ink from the pen bled into the paper, realizes Gavin must have used that old fountain pen his father gave him to write it.

The ink’s a certain kind of blue Michael remembers seeing staining Gavin’s fingers in the past. His bright laughter as he threatened to smear blobs of it on Michael before they dried. Use it’s refill cartridges as weapons when Michael bitched about what a mess he was making, papers everywhere and goddammit you asshole.

Michael’s chest aches because the pen was lost in the fire, just one more thing among many but so important to Gavin even if he always tried to play it off like it wasn’t. (Another thing for Carmine to answer for.)

He stares at the letter in his hands, and starts reading.

========

Gavin comes back a few hours later, moves with a stealth and grace Michael’s never noticed before. Never bothered to look for, when Gavin’s always been his own best distraction, noise and flash and an uncanny ability to piss Michael off with a single word.

“Bloody hell,” Gavin says, when he turns around and finally notices he’s not alone in the living room.

Skirts around Michael warily after flipping the lights on, head cocked when Michael just watches him.

“Michael?”

Gavin seems...tired still. Slump to his shoulders like he’s carrying the weight of the world on them.

“I read your letter,” Michael says, glances at it sitting innocently in its envelope beside Gavin’s laptop. “The one you put into storage at that last place.”

Gavin sighs, moves to sit in one of the chairs across from the coffee table, picking the letter up as he does.

Michael watches him playing with a bent corner on the envelope like it’s something he’s done countless times before. Is the reason the damn thing’s bent to start with, and avoids meeting his eyes.

Has to be a goddamned pro at avoiding eye contact at this point, which is funny in all the ways it isn’t.

“We’re both idiots,” Michael says, another one of those simple little truths.

A couple of idiots who’ve been too afraid of risking ruining one of the best things in their lives. Always though they’d have time to do it one day, and ran out of time when they weren’t looking.

Gavin tenses slightly before forcing himself to relax, make it look like he’s calm and relaxed. Absolutely nothing to worry about here, really.

Worries the corner of the envelope over and over, nervous energy and this deep-rooted fear.

Michael doesn’t ask why Gavin never told him how he felt in all the time they’ve known each other because it would be insulting to them both, not to mention hypocritical as fuck.

Gavin laughs, turning the envelope over in his hands, seems to find it so damn fascinating.

“Always had a problem with terrible timing too,” he murmurs, one part truth, one apart deflection.

Michael smiles, stupid little thing.

Thinks about Gavin’s letter, all the excuses and rationalizations he gave himself that he explains to Michael. Lays out so plainly in a way he’d never been able to say out loud. So much easier to spill everything into a letter, leave it behind for Michael to find one day and read the truth of them. Where Gavin wouldn’t have to sit there waiting for the rejection he was so sure he’d get if he told Michael how he felt.

All of it so close to everything Michael’s told himself that it would be funny if it didn’t mean so fucking much, and his heart hurts at the thought of all the time they’ve wasted.

“I love you,” he says, words he’s choked back so many times before coming so easily now.

Gavin looks at him helplessly, so Michael pushes on.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,” he says, holding Gavin's gaze because this is important, something he doesn’t want to fuck up. “I’m sorry I didn’t see what was going on until it was too late. I’m sorry you had to do that alone. I’m sorry - “

Gavin’s face twists, strangled noise caught in his throat as he pushes himself out of his chair, closing the distance between them until he’s looking down at Michael.

“You stupid bastard,” Gavin says, nothing like anger to it this time as he searches Michael's face for something he must find because then he’s bending down to kiss him.

Awkward angle and graceless as hell, simple stupid human want, need.

Something heartbreakingly desperate to it, hands shaking where they cradle Michael's face, and so fucking sweet because of it. Pulls back to rest his forehead against Michael's, breathes out a little sigh.

“You stupid bastard.”

Far from being a confession of undying love except for all the ways it is, and Michael refuses to let it slip through his fingers this time as he pulls Gavin down for another kiss.

========

Waking up in a strange place is never a great experience.

That initial moment of disorientation where you try to remember how you even got there, and why.

If you should be worried, or just deeply disappointed. (In yourself, the universe at large, it all works out to be the same in the end.)

This time is no different as Michael closes his eyes. Hand coming up to massage his temples because of the steady, low-grade headache that’s taken up residency there.

Not enough sleep, or water. Too much stress, maybe all of the above, who fucking knows.

He bites back a groan when it spikes right behind his eyes, painful enough to make him grasp at any distraction at hand. His idiot brain deciding now would be a good time to retrace his steps to answer the questions of where the hell he is, and how the fuck he got here.

Flips back through flashes and glimpses of moments, remembers Gavin showing up at Jeremy’s apartment. The jumbled series of events that followed falling into some kind of order as his mind sorts itself out bit by agonizing bit.

Running all over the city to pick Gavin’s stashes clean, the drive back here. Gavin finally showing him why Carmine wanted him dead, what got him killed. The relentless soap opera level drama that followed, and -

“Oh, fuck.”

Jesus.

The two of them with their emotionally stunted confessions. The kisses that had lead to the bedroom because hell if they were both going to fit on that damned couch. Both of them too tired after the day they’d had to do much of anything pass trading kisses and giving voice to the things they couldn’t before. Things too fragile for the light of day, protected in the bubble around them under the overs with the lights out, whispered to one another in confidence.

Falling asleep, only for Michael to wake up alone and the other side of the bed long gone cold. (Waking up alone if never a great experience, but it’s so much worse after something like that.)

Michael looks toward the direction of the living room when he hears noises coming from there.

Footsteps and something heavy hitting the floor, the low murmur of someone’s voice pitched towards annoyance that follows not long after.

Gavin.

Michael breathes out a sigh of relief that he hasn’t managed to spook him again. Chased him away again, but trepidation comes creeping in soon afterwards because he doesn’t know what to expect now.

He listens to Gavin moving around in the other room until the ridiculousness of the situation forces him into action. He’s still dressed, jacket dropped by the side of the bed and his shoes kicked off by the doorway.

Michael feels more rested than he has in a long time even with that bitch of a headache, and remembers Gavin’s medical kits. Probably aspirin to be found in one of them he could take to get rid of it.

Nothing to be gained hiding in the bedroom anyway, so Michael shuffles out to the living room.

Gavin’s pacing restlessly in front of the wall he's turned into a murder board, arms crossed and a frown on his face.

He turns when Michael somehow manages to find the one goddamned squeaky board in the whole damned place. Just plants his fat fucking foot right in the middle of it to alert the goddamned world to his presence.

Michael almost misses the guilty look that flashes across Gavin’s face. Chases the frown away only to be replaced in turn by a small, hesitant smile.

“Good morning, Michael,” Gavin says, even though it has to be closing in on noon with the way sunlight is slanting through the spotty curtains on the windows.

Still, he Michael will give him an A for effort and all that bullshit as his attempt at normalcy, strained as it is.

The laptop is humming away on the coffee table, files from the previous night pulled up.

Gavin must have gone out, because there’s a new batch of empty energy drink cans that weren’t there the night before littered around the room, which might explain the pacing.

“Morning,” Michael greets cautiously. “What are you doing?”

Gavin tips his head as he considers Michael, and turns to look at the murder board like he’d forgotten it was there. Licks his lips nervously when he looks back at Michael.

Comes to some sort of decision and holds his hand out to him in silent invitation.

Michael goes, easy as anything. Lets Gavin pull him in close, feels the vise around his chest loosen at the soft sigh from Gavin as he does, tension bleeding out of him.

Smiles at Gavin, small and shaky and closes his eyes when Gavin kisses him, slow and sweet.

Laughs a little when Gavin makes a noise in his throat, muttering about morning breath when they break away for air, cheeks tinged red as he feigns annoyance to avoid meeting Michael’s eyes.

“Gav?”

Gavin elbows him for the teasing note in his voice. Turns his focus back to the damn murder board and Michael does the same, his smile fading as he takes it in.

Gavin’s been busy, it seems.

There are more pins in it this morning, overwhelmingly red with a few other colors scattered across it.

A healthy amount of black pins, along with a thin band of yellow and a broad swatch of green.

“I started this using locations of Carmine’s operations I knew about, remembered,” Gavin says, gesturing at the main map. “I needed the files on the drives and memory cards for the rest.”

Michael studies the map, eyes narrowing when he sees where they’ve been placed.

Matches it against the dodgy mental map he has of Los Santos and territories claimed by various crews and gangs.

“The black pins are for places I’ve hit. Yellow ones are for Carmine’s allies, and the red ones mark the rest of Carmine’s operations,” Gavin says, and shrugs. “The ones I’m still sure about, anyway. He’s probably moved some of them by now, or will before too long.”

There’s still a hell of a lot of red up, outer edges starting to bleed into the green.

“What the hell is the green for?” Michael asks, even though he’s pretty goddamned sure he knows what Gavin’s answer is going to be.

There are only a handful of crews in Los Santos that would have that large of a presence, that kind of reach. Really only one that might pose any sort of threat to Carmine and what he’s attempting to do, even without outside backing. One with more than enough reason to want to push back with him encroaching on their territory.

Gavin hesitates, arm around Michael tightening briefly because he has to know this has a significant chance of backfiring on them if they’re wrong about this.

“People we might be able to go to for help,” he says, and gestures to the side of his damned murder board covered in photographs and stills he must have taken from security cameras and God only knows what else. “The Fake AH Crew.”s

#mavin #ragehappy #vagrant fic #A Place So Dark #supernatural elements #reference to major character death #(temporary!major character death)#lololol of jfc it only took X amount of months to get this part out #XD #/o\

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perfectlypinkduck · 2 years ago

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FICTIONAl NOVEL

Sav walked in the living room and sat next to Hope and whispered to Hope and said, baby I got the front room and the kitchen to our self's tonight.

We're going to have a romantic dinner and movie all by ourselves. Really said, Hope?

Yes said, Sav and Lilly is going to take the kids to the movies with the guys earlier and then shopping and out to eat .

The girls are going to bed a little bit earlier than usual tonight.

My plans are to make sure they have fun and enjoy themselves too. I will bring the girls to our room after they are showered and have their pj's on and they will spend time with us and I will read them their favorite stories.

Well play wall puppets and laugh for a while.

Then I will put them to bed and then it's our time together and alone.

What about the four guys who protects us every day and Lilly? Well, Vince has a hot date with someone who he's just met.

Max, he'll be in the formal living room by the front door. The other two guys will be close by Lilly and the girls.

Vince knows to come through the back entrance to night

When we retire to our bedroom I will tell max and he'll let the guys know that they can come back to the living room.

Oh ok, said Hope, but the catch is that you go take a nap and get some rest.

I cooking steak and potatoes and the dessert is a secret but it's one of your favorites dishes.

Hope smiled and said, this sounds like fun and please don't make any kind of sea food because you know that I can't stand any kind of Sea food and the smell will gag me.

No worries baby, thank you Sav, hope said.

Now, you go get rest for our romantic dinner and movie tonight.

But I need to talk to the girls for a few minutes first.

Hope went outside where the girls are playing. She sat down and told them about what is going on and they are going to go shopping and out to eat and see a movie and come home and see mommy and daddy before they go to sleep.

Yay they said, oh mommy will uncle Vince be home because he plays checkers with us and goldfish.

He owes us both candy because he lost in goldfish the other night.

I will tell uncle Max to remind uncle Vince to come and see you two before you two go to sleep.

Yay, thank you mommy, I hugged and kissed them and went back inside of the house and to my bed.

Sav was busy writing down a grocery list for Bruno to get for tonight.

Sav, asked carmine to buy really pretty flowers for tonight.

Max looks at both of them and said, please don't screw this up guys.

Hope has been through hell with that asshole who went to prison okay?

We won't screw it up max sai, the guys.

Sav said, Vince, I hear you know how to cook steaks really good is this right? Vince smiling said, yes Mr. Sav I do. Great then, will you please cook two steaks a little bit later for me and hope. Do you want me to cook anything else to?

Like what asked Sav, I mean what do you have in mind?

I need to buy fresh steak to cook it right and salad and the rest of the dinner stuff and I can cook you two the best dinner ever.

What's for dessert, I mean hope didn't like the cheese cake you bought the last time.

Well, she loves chocolate cake moist chocolate cake and I have a bakery making one for me.

Okay, said Vince tell me where it is and I will get the cake too .

I need to buy non acholic beverage because hope is pregnant.

Oh shit, that's right, thank you for remembering that Vince said, Sav.

Your welcome sir, said Vince.

Sal, turned around and said, oh shit you have a date tonight. No. Sir, that's tomorrow night, oh I don't know why I was thinking it was tonight.

No problem said Vince, if it's ok with you, leave this up to me and I will create you and hope a very romantic dinner.

Max, grinning and said, sav this is going to be the best romantic dinner ever and hope will not be mad at you for anything for a month.

Vince is going to do the drippy candles and the whole entire thing.

Yep, that's me said Vince.

Well thank you all for doing everything that you do to help us out like you do.

Max said, you and Mrs hope are just like family to us and we don't feel like we're working most of the time.

We love our jobs and the kids, by the way Vince the girls said, you lost in goldfish and checkers the other day and you owe them candy.

Your presence has been requested by the two of them tonight said sav.

Vince, blushing and smiling said, I thought they had forgotten about it.

No they didn't said, max.

You might want to buy some candy while you are out at the store here in a few minutes.

Vince said, yes I n seed to pay what I owe or I just might be sleeping with the fishes later tonight.

The three men just busted out with laughter.

Ok guy, I am going to go and hug up with my wife and take a nap with her

Oh, Vince what ever you do don't cook anything with seafood because hope hates it and she will gag and throw up all over the place.

Shit said Vince, that was going to be a part of the appetizers .

Oh God no, anything else except for that ok

Said Vince.

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goddamnitdazai · 7 years ago

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Survival is a Process {1}

Characters: Oda Sakunosuke/Mafia!Dazai Osamu (platonic), Port Mafia, Armed Detective Agency, Ango. Rating: Teen and Up Genre: Angst, canon-divergence Pairing: (platonic) Odazai Warnings/Tags: Mentions of suicide, suicide attempts, alcoholism, depictions of violence, canon violence, language. (AO3 link)

Hospital 01 There are little pieces of him everywhere. Carmine splatters clinging to Dazai’s pants and shirt sleeves. The tips of his hair are dip-dyed scarlet, crusted to the back of his neck. His coat, beige and smelling like gunpowder and smoke, sits draped over Dazai’s knees. Two holes frayed at the edges where the sash ties to his waist like two blossoming flowers. Dazai’s hands feel warm from the scrubbing and his bandages are still wet from the sink over flowing. It’s been eight hours now, nine if you count the screaming on the phone and the car ride and the twenty-two minutes Dazai spent with his gun down a doctor’s throat. The blinds are drawn shut but sunlight finds its way through and scatters over the off-white tiles. It’s too bright for him, Dazai thinks, but Dazai can’t move. There’s safety in this miniscule space by the bed. He’s been here since the start and nothing terrible had happened. The thought pushes a sarcastic snort through his chapped lips. Except everything was terrible.

Seconds drag by. The edges of his teeth grind on his bottom lip until it begins to bleed. Hours become unrelenting demons taunting him with deafening silence. Pale fingertips scrape the tattered fabric burnt onyx by two bullets; Dazai can hear metal tearing through the air as his thumb slides over a single burnt thread. Automated machines click in patterns; Dazai has them memorized. Dripping IV fluids become environmental reminders that Odasaku is still breathing. Plastic tubes stretch from his dry, spit caked mouth down to a mess of wires and lines hardwired into boxed machinery. Up and down and up and down the life line of luminescent green bounces to the drumbeat of a broken heart (still alive). Dazai loses control of his breathing and gags on oxygen. Trembling lips fight to inhale; the memory of smoke and charred flesh returns like a reel of an old horror film stuck on a loop. Dazai’s fingers curl to his palm at the sound of his cell phone ringing for the tenth time in half an hour. The garbage can rattles against the floor as the phone drops, he should have crushed the thing. Yet the consistent ringing battering against his over-sensitive ears poses as a miniscule distraction. Moments slip away too quickly; within a minute the quiet beeping of medical devices consumes the air. Dazai fidgets and switches his left leg with his right. The ball of his foot bounces over the tile. Exhaustion tugs at him to close his eyes just for a minute. But what if he dies while I’m sleeping? He can’t hold on to air. Fervency causes his fingers to shake as he pulls the black tie from his neck. Dazai counts the tiles on the floor, but his heart refuses to fall back to a natural rhythm. He can feel the overstrained muscle pounding in his ears. Bloodshot eyes flit from corner to corner; Dazai tries to laugh at himself—his throat is too dry. Anxiety crawls on him, leeches. He can feel them holding on to his skin, scurrying beneath his bandages, making his heart beat louder. It’s a war drum pounding in his head. The taste of blood fills his mouth, his bottom lip is throbbing. The muscles in his legs squeeze as he eyes the corner of the bathroom. If he moves the world will end. Bile rumbles in his stomach. It’s been twelve hours; he can’t feel his entire body. The edges of the world start to shimmer. He counts the spots of colors rapidly changing in front of him. Part of him, a quiet part that used to rule the forefront of his mind, tells him to breathe—there’s no oxygen going to your brain, you’re going to pass out. Dazai tries to pull the voice forward. Reality has become unrecognizable. He reaches for Odasaku’s hand as his head falls to the fluffy white blanket covering his friend’s lower half. Odasaku’s fingers twitch under the touch. Dazai counts to five, exhale. The mattress groans but Dazai can no longer hold himself upright. There is a weight resting on Dazai’s chest trying to drag him down like quicksand. Immovable, untouchable, unrelenting. A hand reaches to touch the back of his neck. Instinct screams at him to move, but there is no strength left in his legs. Half-heartedly he reaches for the gun at his side. The nurse backs away at the sight of metal. Dazai smirks a bit as his hand falls to his side, empty. “You should rest s-“ “I don’t want to hear your voice unless you have information on why he hasn’t woken up yet.” Dazai says coldly. ______________________ He counts the tiles again, but by twos this time. Then four, and then he counts backwards from the bathroom towards the front of the room. The door shuts quietly; nothing has changed. He shifts his knees up to his chest as he counts. He’s far too tall to fit comfortably like this, but he can’t stand the way the cold hospital floor feels under his feet. Brilliant orange fills the window as violet trickles down from the highest part of the sky. Odasaku once mentioned he loved this time of day, the combination of remaining daylight and growing twilight. Brilliant swirls of dark blue contrasting through puffy cotton-candy clouds—Dazai couldn’t understand his fascination with it. Odasaku was never one to prattle on about the vitality of a sunset (he mentioned it once but Dazai changed the subject), yet his nature to stare in awe at the swirling hues did not leave him. Silently as they walked Odasaku would glance up every few minutes at the sky until the moon hung lover over the city. Dazai always thought it was the alcohol that fueled Odasaku’s child-like lust for a painted sky of oranges and blues. But now he wondered if his friend just enjoyed something brilliantly simple, and Dazai was not a good enough friend to listen. Dazai was the mouth piece, that fact he knew, but it never occurred to him the bulk of conversations revolved around Dazai’s subject of choice. Relentlessly picking on Chuuya, over-dramatizing situations where he nearly died (he waited and waited but it never happened), the affections of a woman he met at a bar the previous night. There was an endless list of things forever growing in the back of Dazai’s mind, but he couldn’t pinpoint when that list first formulated. He could recall the first time he bothered Chuuya about his hat when they were younger, and it made the boy turn red instantly. Chuuya punched him hard in the stomach (Kouyou made him apologize right after). It had been the first time Chuuya talked to him on his own volition. He was shy, quiet, and always hiding behind Kouyou especially when Mori was around. At times Chuuya would wander through the hallways but never spark conversation, and he called Dazai weird one time under his breath. He liked the way Chuuya’s face strained when he was angry; he could understand it. And so he kept going and going and going. So much that now Dazai could map out the way Chuuya’s eyes narrow when he’s really angry, or how one brow twitches when he’s trying not to let Dazai get under his skin. At least it was something—he was a person to Chuuya; even if Chuuya hated the person he was. Forced partners, but it was okay sometimes. Mori never showed the slightest bit of emotion on his features regardless of what happened; except once. The knife in his hand glimmered beneath the moonlight, and his eyes had grown just as wide as the source of the light. Dazai watched his face contort to a man who had finally found the grasp of power he’d been searching for. His motive, his movements, they were calculated down to the finest detail. Mori knew Dazai would never speak of this, yet he found it necessary to mention it aloud. His voice was cold iron against Dazai’s skin. It had been the first and last time Mori made his skin crawl. There was nothing left after that—Mori and himself weren’t people, to each other, to most. Prodigy and master, as expected from Dazai (the demon). That was okay, he supposed. Odasaku—he was simple; but Dazai still found him puzzling. The sheer blasé words that came from his mouth sounded incredibly strange given his background. A man in the Port Mafia, a killer who chose to stop, to adopt orphans, to be good. But, he still rested on the side of darkness. He drank with the prodigy of Yokohama’s criminal elite, but spilled no blood. An oddity of the Port Mafia, like Dazai, perhaps this is what fused them. But, Dazai could never understand the motives behind pure selflessness. What it felt like to breathe life for someone else, for anything else, was not something Dazai bothered to miss. For as long as he could remember he never had a thing in the world to hold close to his heart. What would he even want? Humans were endlessly selfish, and that he understood. The logistics of self-elevating, self-serving. Of winning. Dazai always won—he was good at it. Perhaps Odasaku’s simplicity allowed him to choose the manner in which he lived, or maybe he was too good at hiding from people who would have taken him in. Would Mori have brought him to the Port Mafia if he’d found Odasaku at that age? Dazai shivers at the thought of a young Odasaku covered in blood with empty eyes staring back at him. Would he have seen past Dazai’s demonic reputation? Doubtful. Their encounter was chance, or fate, because fate was always an incredibly cruel beast. Weakness is not a familiarity. The waning strength in his shoulders and ache in his back do nothing but irritate him even more. As the clock ticks forward Dazai’s mind continues to dwindle down to a blank canvas. The simplest of movements take extreme amount of energy to even put forth minimal effort. Heavy ink-colored bags hang below his eyes. It’s close to ten pm. He fights the urge to glance towards the garbage where he’d thrown his phone earlier. Surprisingly it had remained eerily silent, and none of Mori’s subordinates had stopped to talk to Dazai or tell him to leave. Nobody had come by at all. It was better this way. Just the two of them suspended in time; waiting and waiting and waiting. Dazai’s arms cross over each other as he leans his cheek onto his left wrist, elbows expanded over Odasaku’s stomach. For a man who’d been sleeping for over a day, Odasaku looks overly exhausted. Even from a distance Dazai can see the drooping beneath his eyes like someone had come and tugged the skin hard enough to permanently alter its elasticity, leaving behind saggy darkened bags. Instead of his usual soft expression there is a hardened furl of his bottom lip that drags wrinkles across his chin. The look he wore, a man with anger and with guilt, when he left Dazai in the parking lot of the restaurant remains etched in his features even as he sleeps. Fragile moonlight streaks over Dazai’s back illuminating the gentle rise and fall of Odasaku’s chest. The warmth from his skin begins to lull Dazai into a half-sleep, but something inside him snaps. A siren, a rush of fear sweeping him up like a tidal wave pulling him to the blackest part of the ocean. Air is sucked from his lungs leaving him gasping with trembling shoulders and enclosed hands. Nails dig crescent moons into his palm; get a fucking grip. Dazai counts the ticking of the clock by twos until his vision levels out and the fog clogging his mind dissipates. He matches every miniscule inhale with Odasaku’s until their heartbeats syncopate. Memories fade in and out like ghosts. Dazai’s state wavers on the line of conscious dreaming and exhaustion. He can hear the music playing softly through the worn speakers. Low hanging lights casting a halcyon glow over the amber liquid swirling in his glass. Ango’s blood-red tomato juice filling the cup; Odasaku’s genuine interest in Dazai’s experience with a machinegun mounted truck. The picture they took resides in his pocket still; he can hear it crinkle as he slumps further on to Odasaku’s stomach. Haunting him. Fueling him to burn the entire city to the ground. The scent of death mixes with whisky. Ango’s office felt musty and dark. Rows and rows of books neatly organized on shelves with far too much dust collecting on the edges. Odasaku let Dazai prattle on about Ango’s odd habits without rolling his eyes or telling him to quit. Ango’s nose scrunched up the closer Dazai got to his desk. Immediately Ango furled back into his chair shouting that he smelled terrible and how could he go to a bar with all this work? But what if he smelled like us? Odasaku played Dazai’s game happily (even if it was childish). Their tab was enormous and the night was warm. Summer had sprawled over the city and Dazai had thrown his jacket in Odasaku’s fridge before passing out on the couch. “Because he is my friend.” Mori’s eyes narrow but every other detail remains upright. He can see through Dazai’s bandages and skin and façade of childlike antics as the cogs in his mind start churning. Problem solving was something Mori enjoyed unfolding. Like a paper crane deconstructed back to its original form. Dazai worked backwards from the simple words Mori spoke to the events from days and days before. Sunlight burns red over Yokohama. Dazai’s men drive too slowly for his liking. His heart pounds as his shoes smack against blood soaked tile. The scent of metal and burning flesh overtakes the natural musk of the forest. Heat scorches up his back and constricts his throat; a ball of smoke lodges itself in his lungs. Door after door there are bodies littered on the floor wailing in pain, calling out to him, to Gide, to death. Shards of glass decorate the floor in shimmering glitter as the moonlight gleams in from the cracked skylight. “He is my friend.” Dazai jolts upright. Panicked hands crawl to Odasaku’s stomach and his chest, eyes strained and blurry from fighting against relenting darkness. His lips tremble, the name falling from them as though the mere utterance of it would send the entire world crashing down on him. The resonating beep from the monitor does little to satiate Dazai’s blossoming anxiousness. He only recoils his hands after counting Odasaku’s heartbeat twelve times. Two am and there is no more light peeking through the blinds. Shadows overlap as Dazai’s eyes adjust to the darkness. He buries his head on Odasaku’s stomach once more. Cheek turned slightly to feel muscle twitches and radiating thumps of his heart pumping blood through his organs. His eyes retrace Odasaku’s wearied expression. A good man forgives, and Odasaku was a good man. Better than Dazai could ever hope to be. There would be no situation in the entire world where Odasaku would not have stopped Dazai from chasing revenge. He would have stalled him, stopped him, helped him. Dazai was not a man of righteousness or selfless acts of kindness. He was not the type to see pain and reach out to help. Instead he allowed his friends to blindly go and rely on their own skill, much like Dazai relied on his own skill to keep him alive (ironic). Dazai was not a good friend to Odasaku. He was not a good man; he was not a good person (or a person at all). Bred into darkness with sadism threaded in his blood. Their friendship was neither fate nor chance it was a fluke in every way possible. Blossoming only to wither and die on the vine. Had he chosen to follow instead of retreat they could have ended their lives together, but even the thought of lying with Odasaku in death’s grip did not sit well in his stomach. Self-sacrifice was not in Dazai’s nature either. Born to play puppet master in a devil’s playground. What else could he possibly offer Odasaku? He was never bothered by it all. By the radiating sadistic nature in which Dazai performed. The Spartan-like training Dazai heaved at his subordinates and their casual disposal when their talents never came to fruition. Friendship was unethical, but the truest form of care. Or, what Dazai presumed was the care from one human to another. A gentle breeze following a storm; a radiant glow of new life forming after a fire destroys an entire acre of land. Perhaps this mixture of the two of them sought to balance out the roles of their paths; but all that seemed entirely too simple of an explanation. No, Dazai thinks, there is nothing deeper than the random encounter of two men finding themselves in the same place at the same time. Then why did it feel like a hundred knives were plummeting into Dazai’s chest at the thought of never meeting Odasaku? The image of him writing Dazai off as an annoying, pessimistic devil built for nothing but destruction? King of death, ruler of Yokohama’s underworld. He did not rightfully merit Odasaku’s unfathomable devotion. Wandering aimlessly to the void of nothing, searching for any retched sliver of something to grasp, only for it to be pulled from him the moment he discovers its worth. This was the end he’d always seen, always experience. He deserved it; but Odasaku did not deserve this ending. Pained sobs clog up his chest. Teeth burrow to the bottom of his lip and tear open old scars from hours before. A mess of exhaustion and turmoil Dazai flattens his face against the blanket and bites at his lip. His toes curl inside his shoes as every muscle contracts. Exhaustion tapers off to vehemence. Teeth grind hard enough to crack. The barrel of his gun is beginning to look extremely appetizing. �� Odasaku begins to cough. The tube down his throat chokes him; Dazai freezes. A world stuck in slow motion abruptly speeds up. Dazai feels dizzy as he stumbles from the chair to press the button to call a nurse. They swarm him. Without realizing Dazai walks backwards towards the window, the chair he’d been residing in for a day left on its side near the doorway. Saliva drips from the clear tube as it’s pulled from Odasaku’s throat. Silence is broken by questions and strained coughs. Nurses move like ethereal beings leaving trails of their existence like blurred starlight. Dazai sinks to his knees. The door shuts behind the last nurse as she reminds Odasaku to rest. Bandages cover his upper half and wrap lazily down his right arm. A new scar buried under stitches sits on his left cheek. Odasaku’s eyes are hauntingly empty. For once Dazai is hyperaware of the sound of his own breathing. Like a child discovering movement Odasaku experimentally wiggles his fingers. His eyes roam over his legs; Dazai swallows a lump in his throat and averts his eyes to the clock hanging on the wall. Four am. Odasaku peers at Dazai as if he’s trying to reconstruct him from the ground up. Piece by piece memories reconnect like building blocks. Dazai watches the way his eyes grow from grey, hollowed ashes to burning whips of emotion. Odasaku’s back straightens. Dazai can’t figure out how to move back to his feet. Hidden instinct forces Dazai to reach his hand forward though the distance between them leaves nothing but space for his fingers to touch. Shadows blindly run over Odasaku’s face leaving slivers of fading moonlight striped down his torso from the blinds. His eyes bore into Dazai’s but he’s looking passed him, at something, at nothing. His voice is heavy and raw, it scrapes over Dazai’s ears. “You should have let me die.”

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