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luveline · 1 year ago

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𝐚𝐧 𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨'𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚

you and miguel have different definitions of the same word. he finally gives in to temptation —featuring a cranky but lovesick miguel and a flirty, head-in-the-clouds spider-girl. pre across the spider-verse but contains spoilers. requested here. fem!reader, 3k

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

This has to be your favourite song in the whole world.

You sit in the hall beside the entrance to Miguel's office (this week, you're thinking you might call it The Bedroom, on account of all the magic happening inside), headphones on, a bottle of lemonade beside you.

Today has the makings of a great day. You're at the Spider Society headquarters and not at home, for starters, and one of the Peter Parkers you'd made friends with in the med-wing saw you this morning and recognised you, which is brilliant because he looked super similar to every other Peter Parker you've met. He offered to help you fix your rinky-dink headphones, and now they're working again and loud enough to cover the sound of Spider Chatter, even with your enhanced senses.

What's more, Miguel has finally emerged from his dormitory, and he's walking toward you looking confused. That's a step up from unhappy.

He asks you something.

"What? I can't hear you."

He says something else. You shake your head, music too loud to catch even a hint of what he's saying, and Miguel eventually crouches down to push your headphones around your neck. He's surprisingly gentle.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Waiting for you, what did you think I was doing?"

"Why are you sitting on the ground?" He gestures backward to a red-lit control panel. "Chair right there."

"I think that's someone's desk."

"It's really not."

Miguel stands up and doesn't hesitate to grab your arms and help you up too. It means more to you than it should, because it's not necessary and a few months ago he wouldn't have bothered. Which isn't to imply that Miguel is a mean guy, Lyla says he used to be a loser (code for sweetheart), and you get flashes of it every now and then in chivalry and kind smiles.

He's not mean, he's cranky.

"Don't sit on the floor," he says. "Just– just go inside if I'm not here."

"Well, The Bedroom doesn't come when I call."

Miguel's lips part in confusion for a second. Lyla appears at his shoulder, and says, "She can't get the platform to come down without you, genius."

"Put her name on the command list," Miguel says.

Your eyes widen. Lyla flashes to his other side, closer to you, and smiles playfully. "Done."

"Stop sitting on the floor," Miguel says, turning around. He walks a few steps and pauses when he realises you're not following. "Are you coming with me?"

You jog to catch up with him. Music plays against your collar, a slinking, indie sound that makes Miguel wrinkle his nose. You turn it up a little bit and smile when he glares at you.

You enter the atrium that houses The Bedroom. Miguel hops up onto the platform because he's too tall to see sense while you struggle, but you're pleased when he takes your hand and pulls you up properly. All these familiar touches today, anyone might think Miguel liked you.

He definitely does.

You sit down in the spinning chair near what you've decided is your desk but certainly isn't, again pleased beyond words when you find your sketchbook from last time still there, cleaned away carefully, pencils in a pot and a brand new pencil sharpener by the side of it. It matches your spider suit. You look over your shoulder, your face lit up with thanks, and Miguel swiftly looks away from you.

"It's electric. Tell me when the battery's dead, I'll charge it."

"Thank you," you say, flipping your sketchbook open to the last entry.

You aren't Picasso, but most members of the Spider Society are somewhat artistically inclined, considering the suit-making rite of passage they must all endure —if you don't know how to sew before you start, you will by the end.

Or like Miguel, you could cheat and make the suit out of nanotechnology.

You haven't really been designing any suits lately. Spidering is tiring, you need to relax, and your reluctant friends are the easiest subjects, though Miguel's face is painstakingly difficult to get right. He's very angular, high cheekbones with that divot that needs kissing stat, and his nose… He's really pretty, but you almost wish he wasn't so your sketches of him held a better likeness.

He's the only one of the regular crew that stands still long enough to be drawn. Jessica doesn't like you (or maybe she does, it's hard to tell, but she hasn't forgiven you for asking if her baby was like a maraca bead when she fights) so she doesn't let you draw her. Lyla will stand very still if you request it, but after a few portraits she got bored and started changing her hair or glasses, and after a few more she gave up. Margo is hard to focus on because her blue light makes everything else seem super orange, though she does stand in one place usually. She takes up a lot of pages, but it's Miguel you've drawn most of all.

You go around the Spider Society sometimes asking people if they'll sit for you, but again your skills aren't impressive, so it's awkward when they want to see how you've done. There are drawings of all kinds of Spiders, including yourself, between Miguel, and Miguel, and Miguel.

His back, the side of his face, his hands ungloved. His pointy bottom teeth mid fight. The naked stretch of his arm and his Rapture injector positioned over it. He might not appreciate that one. You rip it out and toss it in the waste paper basket under your desk, where it incinerates, paper smoke curling up toward the extractor fan on the atrium ceiling.

"What are you doing?" he asks without looking at you, his gaze on one of his marigold coloured monitors.

"Drawing." You're not drawing so much as sitting there with a coloured pencil in hand, trying to think of conversation starters. "What are you upto?"

"According to the program, there are no Canon events today at risk of disruption," Lyla chimes in, "so Miguel's doing chores."

"What, not one bad thing is gonna happen today?" you ask.

"Nothing we can predict," Miguel says.

You swap your pencil for your drink, unscrewing the lid of your lemonade to sip at it leisurely. Today is your favourite kind of day. No fighting, lots of time with Miguel, and music to go with it. You're so happy you could melt.

Miguel turns to you and sees your stickying smile.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just happy to be here with you," you say.

"Don't say stuff like that," he says, turning back to his screen.

"Scared you'll actually experience sincerity?" Lyla asks.

"Lyla," he warns, as though Lyla might be afraid of any consequence he had the power to inflict.

"Sorry," you say, not very sorry, but not wanting him to be uncomfortable, "it's just nice, being friends with you."

"We aren't friends."

You're not quick to take offence with Miguel. He can be cruel. He's hurting, he's unhappy, he has a lot on his plate. Oftentimes he's so tense with apprehension his neck locks up and you hear it clicking as he turns one way or another, or if he isn't apprehensive he's disappointed, furious, upset. You give him the benefit of the doubt because you know him, but you don't know the tone of voice he uses now. It's like he's offended at the insinuation. Like he would never, ever be friends with you.

You put your lemonade on the desk and don't know what to do. His insipid floating platform is too high now to leave without causing a scene. Maybe when he's busy you can web down and go home. All you know is that you desperately don't want to be near him. But home sucks, and the dormitories are worse. You're stuck.

"You can be so mean," you say softly, turning back to your sketchbook and pencils.

You're thinking you might draw him with a bunch of bee stings, or find a previous sketch and cross his eyes out.

"What?" he asks.

Your hackles rise. "You're mean. Don't talk to me."

"What?" Miguel stands very still. "Y/N, what?"

"What do you mean, what? I said something nice and you said something cruel. I get it, okay, we aren't friends, so don't talk to me."

"I've upset you."

You stare at your blank page. "It doesn't matter."

"No, I've said the wrong thing."

"Miguel, don't bother. What else could you mean by that?" You laugh with little humour. Crestfallen doesn't begin to describe how you feel. "I'll be quiet. I just don't want to be at home."

"What's wrong with home?"

"Is there ever much right?"

"Did something happen?"

"We aren't friends, so why ask me?"

You bite the inside of your lip as Miguel approaches, his footfall hushed over the lightweight metal flooring. You turn to him in your chair, head tilted back to meet his eyes, arms crossed over your stomach defensively.

"That's not what I meant when I said that." He speaks slowly, firmly, to avoid any misunderstanding. "What's wrong with home, mi cielo?"

You tap his ankle with your shoe, looking away from his gaze. You don't want to tell him, and if he keeps looking at you like that, you will.

"¿Qué pasó?" He bends at the waist slightly, bringing his face closer to yours, dark hair falling into his eyes.

"I don't know what that means," you murmur.

"Did something happen?" he asks.

"Nothing happened, it's just– it's lonely there," you say, squirming under the weight of his gaze, his sudden caring. "What's with you? One minute you're not my friend, the next you're worrying about me? You're giving me whiplash."

He stands up, and his face falls back into a more typical emotionlessness. He's clearly feeling something, but he's wiping the slate clean.

"When I said we aren't friends, it didn't mean–" He grunts, crossing his arms over his chest. "I thought you were staying in the women's dormitory?" he asks, frustrated.

"I am, but I'm useless, and they don't really respect me because I'm–"

"Eccentric?"

"–not as experienced," you finish, eyes flaring.

"Oh, my god," Lyla says, appearing in front of him to make sure he sees her delight at his slip up.

Miguel bats her hologram with an annoyed grunt. She disappears again, her tinkling laughter cut short.

"It's a good thing," Miguel says quickly.

You stand up. "It's not the point."

"You should feel at home in the dormitory, and if you don't, I'll find you somewhere else to stay here, you don't have to be in there if you don't feel welcome."

"Miguel, you're sounding awfully friendly right now."

"We aren't friends," he says again, stepping closer to you. "What's so hard to understand about that?"

"But we spend time together. We have fun. You like me, Miguel, you do, you tell me jokes sometimes, you make me things for me. You… you do like me, right?"

"You know that I do," he says, his eyebrows pinching together.

"You like me, like, you want me," you say, just to make sure.

His fist clenches hard enough to make an audible sound. Miguel's voice is fraught, and through barely parted lips, "If you know that, what's the problem?"

You don't know. Maybe it was silly to worry about how he sees you, because you do know that Miguel likes you, but you also know he hadn't wanted to like you. His attraction to you was reluctant, you're not stupid enough to miss that, and it was important to you that whatever tension sexual or otherwise lingering between you had bloomed into mutual affection.

"I want us to be friends, too," you say.

"I thought we were more than that."

It's such a quiet admission. He isn't afraid to say it, and he isn't reluctant like you feared.

"Miguel," you say. "I want you to like me. I know I can be off-putting, I know I tease too much, but I don't want you to like me despite those things, I just want you to like me. So, when you say we aren't friends…"

"I've never heard you say three serious sentences in a row," Miguel says, reaching out for your hand. He pulls you toward him slowly, his fingertips gliding up the length of your arm. "Then again, it's the same nonsense as usual."

"Miguel–"

"Of course I like you. How else do you need me to say it? I like you and I want to kiss you, I like you and I like that you're irregular. You want us to be friends? Then let's be friends." Miguel's hand closes around your bicep. His thumb presses against soft fat and muscle alike. "But not just friends."

Relieved, you sigh. "So you're saying we really weren't friends?"

Miguel leans down until his face is the only thing you can see. His smooth skin, his dark eyes, their darker flush of too-long lashes; it's unfair how pretty his eyelashes are, how they curl, how they bunch in triangles you have to fight to resist touching. His eyebrows so often slightly set, giving him an unhappy expression even now.

He brings the hand that isn't clasped at your bicep to the hill of your waist. It's hot as a brand, and it pulls you closer, your neck craning with every inch he steals from between you.

"We can be friends," he says.

His fingers twitch against your arm, and his hand begins to climb. It's not as slow as it feels, conquering the curve of your shoulder, your neck. His hand is big, his thumb pressing into the column of your throat gently.

He looks at you for a measured lapse of time, and you know, finally, that you're on the same page.

"What you said before, 'mi cielo?'" You hold his elbow. "What does that mean?"

"My sky," he says. "My… my heavens. It's saccharine. It's something teenagers say, when they're," —his voice dips, the hand at your waist squeezing tight like you might slip through his hold— "infatuated."

"Just teenagers say that?" you ask.

"No," he allows. "I always thought it was too much."

"But you–"

"Yeah. I did."

The first kiss is surprisingly sweet. On the tail end of words, Miguel presses his lips half-parted to yours, slowly, softly, like the brush of a downy feather. He lingers, and it's your own movement that spurs him on —you shudder up into his lips and he loses control.

The sound he makes is a shock. You try to pull back to check he isn't hurting, and he lets you until he realises why it is you're pulling away. "It's fine, it's okay," he says quickly.

Assuaged of your concern, he pulls you back in and he kisses you, he kisses you, his hand squeezing too tight and his nose bridge sliding up against yours from the force of it all. Your chest feels like a pit and you need Miguel closer if you're ever going to fill it, your hands snapping up to his face like magnets. There's no need to pull him down to you, he's already wading in, not wading —crashing, kissing you so hard your lips burn.

You make a sound that says, hopefully, This is really fun, but don't give me a bruise.

His tongue is a heat at the seam of your lips. Your weight bends, your chest leaning into his front. He doesn't hesitate to ease his hand behind your back and prop you up against him as things get heady, and the only thing you can feel is him.

All those times he almost kissed you, all those times he couldn't cross the gap. He poked and prodded and provoked you into getting into his space and each time you called his bluff. You wanted Miguel to give in, and now he has, it's the meltiest, most stickying warmth you've ever felt.

Voices sound far away, off the platform and down the hall. Jessica and someone else, approaching fast.

Something sharp snags your bottom lip as Miguel pulls away. You press your finger to your sore lip. When you pull it away, blood spots your skin.

Miguel takes your face into his hand and angles your face to a glowing screen carefully, in total juxtaposition of the grip he'd had on your waist.

"Sorry," he mumbles, the tip of his fangs catching the light. His adrenaline must be high.

"Excited?" you ask him breathily.

He wipes your lip with his thumb. The other hand pet's your cheek. You feel suddenly and smotheringly adored, all his attention on your pinprick wound.

"Everything okay up there?" Jessica calls.

Miguel drops your face like he's remembered himself. You turn to your newfound company, Jessica Drew and an unhappy looking Gwen Stacy. This high up, there's no way they can see the state of either of you, mussed hair and Miguel's blushy cheeks, but they'll see you eventually. And Miguel might like you, might want you, might be your more-than-friend, but he's a stickler for appearances, and being found kissing your subordinate dizzy when you're supposed to be working would mortify him.

"I cut my lip on a lemonade bottle," you call cheerily, waving at grumpy Gwen. Her lips perk up. "Miguel's trying to tell me it's my fault. Is lemonade usually sharp?"

His hand flattens subtly at the small of your pack.

"Thanks," he murmurs.

"Welcome, handsome. Is it bad?" you ask, turning back to hip with your lip pouted.

His eyes visibly soften at the sight of you. "Not that bad."

"Alright, good. You'll have to let the platform down, I need to go."

"What? Where are you going?" he asks.

"If we're friends now," you say, lilting, performing a half spin in front of him just to watch his eyes narrow, "I'm going to have to make us bracelets. Friendship bracelets." He clearly doesn't like the idea of being friends still, so you amend with a softer tone, "Friends and whatever that was. Come on, you'll love it. I'll make it match your suit."

He rubs the space between his eyebrows.

"Will you bring your stuff here?" he asks, the platform beginning to lower under your feet.

"Duh. I need to take lots of measurements. I'll be in your hair all day, you'll hate it."

He nods like he agrees. "I'll hate it," he says, deadpan. When he's sure Jessica and Gwen aren't looking, he gives you a smile you've never seen before.

You and I have a secret, it says.

Lyla appears by your shoulder to instantly tell him otherwise. It goes without saying that she's mildly disgusted and extremely smug. "Don't match it to his suit, Y/N. Mr. Heartthrob here needs something soft. How about some baby pinks, hm?"

Miguel sighs, but you barely hear him over your excited gasp. "Yes! Pink and white, for sure, that would be so nice."

"Great," Miguel says. "Perfect. Thanks for that, Lyla."

"You're so welcome!"

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed :D please reblog if you have the time ♡

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neochan · 1 year ago

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RULE BREAKER (M)

PAIRING: rockstar!mark lee & fem!reader

GENRE: rockstar au! band au! pwop

SUMMARY: another city, another girl, another broken rule.

WC: 3.3k

WARNINGS: mentions of alcohol & drugs, cursing, explicit sexual content, fingering, pretty tame smut ngl, spanking, choking, hair pulling

NOTE: this was just to get me back in the groove of smut writing since it's been a couple months. this is also a submission for @nctpromptmeme . this is prompt 1 of this list!

mark lee knows it’s against the rules to take a fan backstage.

it’s not the venues rules. staff members barely spare a glance when he tangles his fingers in yours and pulls you down the nearly abandoned hallways just left of the stage. he doesn’t get a second look from a wandering sound engineer when he escorts you through the jungle of metal rails supporting the stage from beneath. and no one bats an eye when he slips past security to an empty green room nearing the back of the building.

it’s not his own personal rule either. mark has done this plenty of times; choosing someone within the first few rows at his concert, playing up the eye contact, having a security guard slip them a note telling them to wait up after the concert — and it almost never fails. after the band bids goodnight, and fans filter out on the street, mark hops back on stage to greet his lucky winner.

and they’re always there, eyes aglow with excitement and shock when they realize that yes, this was real. mark lee wants them for the night. leader of pop punk band parasocial wants to meet…y/n.

the taste of your name rolls off his tongue so beautifully, so intoxicatingly, he has to repeat it a few more times once the green room door is locked and the curtains are drawn — not too loudly though.

because while it might not be the venues rules, and it certainly isn’t his own, he promised his band mates this couldn’t happen. he swore up and down they wouldn’t become those kinds of rockstars. everyone knows the type — scandal starters, excessive partiers, seen with a bottle of alcohol or tightly wrapped blunt in hand, escorting fans backstage at every show to....well, to do exactly what he was doing right now.

but mark isn't stupid, so he hides it from his bandmates; despite them breaking the rules so brazenly. jaemin stacks up scandals like spare drum sticks, jeno gets off on the attention & fame, renjun self medicates with alcohol, and haechan couldn't be labeled as anything other than a junkie. but he can't be like that, because mark is the leader. the one that has to walk a straight line — at least in public.

so when he's finally locked away in private with his lucky hit, he let's go. there's no need to be an upstanding, careful leader — he can shake off the tension, relax his shoulders, and focus on what's right in front of him.

which, at the moment, just so happened to be you.

"you're gorgeous, you know that?" a tender hand tucks stray strands of hair behind your ear, "couldn't keep my eyes off you tonight."

you can't believe mark lee is right in front of you, touching you, praising you. it's every fantasy you've had of him rolled into one. so when his hands wash over your top, fitting themselves so perfectly on your waist, you giggle and take a little step forward. his body is warm, and he smells smoky with a tinge of bourbon, but what's catching you off guard is how much prettier he is up close. eyeliner is smudged underneath his lashes, and there's blue hair dye running down the side of his neck, on par with rivulets of sweat. the metal bar through his eyebrow is real, and when he flicks his tongue out to lick at his lips, you find a matching tongue piercing.

he loves this.

the wide eyes, taking him all in. the giddiness. the oh my god mark lee is touching me; and while he might not get off on it as much as jeno, he can't help the feeling rushing straight to his cock.

after a few beats of becoming completely starstruck by him, you respond, clasping tightly onto the front of his shirt, "i mean i'm not all that special, but you...." a blush warms your cheeks, "you're out of this world."

it's a reference to one of the songs he sang tonight, so he let's out a forced chuckle and mumbles the rest of the line, "if galileo could see you, he would fall to his knees." he catches himself by surprise when he slowly sinks down onto the floor, the cold tile seeping through the rips in his jeans. his fist curls around the waistband of your skirt, eyes raking your figure. hunger clouds his eyes, but you don't care.

you want this.

he almost thinks you're backing out when you clamp a hand around his arm, but then you say something that makes his head spin on it's shoulders, "you don't have to be gentle...."

it's the desire in your eye, the same glint that matches his own, that permisses him to yank the flimsy skirt down around your ankles, nearly throwing you off balance in the process. "pretty girl wants it rough, huh?" mark pulls himself back up to his feet, one hand winding through your hair, the other knocking your thighs apart, "don't worry, i'll make you scream." his fingers open you up, just the tips of them pushing into you. already you're stretched on your tip toes, trying to run from the warming sensation below your navel. but mark catches this and gives a harsh tug on the roots of your hair, "feet down."

you're basically sinking down on his fingers when you settle on the balls of your feet, the stretch welcoming yet too intense for your body, "f-fuck." you curse.

"baby," he coos, "if you're drooling over two fingers, i don't think you'll be able to take my cock."

"i can, i promise." you mumble, face burning with embarrassment. not because you were under the rough hand of your favorite singer, not because he was teasing you about how tight you were, but because he was peering so fucking deep into your eyes, like he was searching for your soul.

"oh she promises," he mocks, pushing his fingers deeper. he can feel your walls fluttering around his digits; pulsing when they curl and brush the sweet spot he knows all too well.

you're out of breath, eyelids drooping with the weight of having to keep them open, "s-stop toying with me." you plead, nails raking the arm that's holding your body against the cinder block walls.

theres no snarky comment that follows. instead, he leans forward and captures your trembling lips with his own, and you see stars. it's exactly like you imagined it be — feverish, rough and demanding, exhausting every bit of willpower from you. his tongue swipes at your bottom lip, and his piercing clacks against your teeth, forcing a shiver down your spine. he smirks, that much you register, before bullying his tongue into your mouth, the hand between your legs matching.

too many sensations cloud your head — his hot tongue swirling around your own, forcing you to open up and taste each other, the metal ball on his tongue sticking against your teeth, and his fingers culling you into a head high. your eyes drift shut and you push your hips into his hands, all but grinding down.

mark lee might not have been a guitarist, but he sure did know how to use those hands of his. he sets back and licks his lips, letting out a shaky breath. the wet heat of you was drawing him in; he eases two fingers back inside until his knuckles pressed against your folds, and you sighed his name again. he was hard and aching now; listening to the soft pants that fell heavy as he thrust his fingers in and out. the hand that was threaded through your hair finds home on the sides of your throat, squeezing just enough to get your eyes fluttering open.

"whaddya doing sweetheart? sleeping?" he teases, his voice a drawn out purr in the quiet room, "i can't be that boring now, can i?"

when you try to shake your head no, this was far from boring, you find yourself stuck in his grip.

"maybe you want my cock instead?" marks eyes go soft, melting with the way you try to squeak out a response, "what was that?"

"p-please," you cry out hoarsely, his fingers finding that sweet spot again — but, only for the last time. just as fast as he was in you, he was pulling out.

"look at how wet you were for me," he groans, showing off your arousal that dripped from his fingers. he doesn't hesitate when he sticks them both between his lips, the most vulgar sound emanating from his throat, "you taste good as fuck."

warmth returns to your face at his remark, and it's only then that you realize your state. he was still covered head to toe in his stage outfit; metal chains and dark black alt pieces of clothing hung off his body, but you....you only had your top on. from the waist down, you were completely exposed.

mark seems to realize this too. "take this off for me?" he asks, fingering the strap of your top. "don't worry, i'll do the same." the grin you'd seen splashed across magazines and album covers lights up his face when you do as he asked. and true to his word, his shirt was on the ground in a matter of seconds - right next to yours. dark spills of ink swirl up and around his torso, nearly becoming a second shirt, but you see the muscles. the abs everyone goes crazy for, and with a tentative hand, you reach out to touch them.

"aw, don't be shy baby, i won't bite." he grabs your wrist and makes contact for you. another wave of arousal rushes down your spine when the hard lines of his stomach flex in response to your graze. "you like that, huh?" furiously nodding your head, he chuckles,

"alright, let me give you what you want," he says it like his cock wasn't nearly bursting from his pants, swiftly aching at the mere thought of sinking into you. his gaze darts from yours to the couch to the wall to the table shoved in the corner of the room. where did he want to fuck tonight... "come here," his hand tugs you away from the cinder block walls, over to the soft looking leather couch, "let me see you bend that pretty body over...." he purrs, a wide sweeping gesture to indicate that he knew exactly how he wanted you.

face down, ass up...wasn't that the saying?

and you don't mind, gleefully shimmying across the arm of the couch, cold leather nipping at your skin.

"fuck, man...look at you," you can't see him, but you bet his gaze is hungry again, soft, but visibly desperate, "you really are out of this world."

a chuckle passes your lips at the joke, and for a fleeting second you wonder if you weren't the first girl to hear the phrase. but the thought is swept clean from your mind once you hear his pants slipping on the ground, his metal pocket chains scraping the linoleum.

"stop taking your time and fuck me."

he cocks his head to the side...did he just hear that right? a harsh smack lands on your ass cheek, the throbbing, searing pain causing you to lurch forward and cry out. marks hand rubs over the spot immediately, trying to soothe the sting.

"now come on baby, i just need you to be patient with me." you mewl out an incoherent acknowledgment. "here," he grins, "is this what you want?"

a gasp is pulled from your chest at the feeling of him dragging the head of his cock between your folds. "mark please, fuck." slowly, he pushes into you. one hand guides himself, the other is lazily wrapped around your hip. but you can't even think of that right now, because he was filling you to the brim. you've never felt this type of stretch before. it was mind-numbingly delicious,"you're so big."

both of you share a shuddered breath of air when he pulls out and pushes back into you, "damn." he swats at your ass again, this time not bothering to rub his hand over the sting, "you just keep getting tighter...."

his eyes flutter close for a second, lost in the wet heat of you. he's never felt this before — the mutuality of getting off. every other time it's felt forced from the other end; the overdramatic moans were always a turn off but you... you take it like it's real. like it's truly the best cock you'd ever sat on.

mark loves that the most.

"feel good?" the question is drawn out, too focused on keeping his pace even and sharp so that you wouldn't go face first into the couch cushions. you babble out some sort of response that mark can't quiet understand, "words baby..use your words."

"so f-fucking good," you choke on a gasp, "oh god, please don't stop." each word feels like it's ripped from your throat as mark works behind you, thrusting so deep you're left on your tiptoes again.

mark lets out a dark chuckle, fingers digging into your side so he can keep leverage, "be careful what you pray for baby, the devil might hear." it's another musical reference, one that you catch immediately, but you're too cock drunk to form a coherent thought much less a sentence. he feels the way your pussy clenches at his words though, "you liked that, hm?"

you shake your head, arms stretching out in front of you to keep yourself from slipping further down the arm of the couch before a squeal is wrenched from your throat. "you're so deep!"

before he can tease you about going deeper, a loud buzzing sound goes off on the coffee table next to you. it's his phone, lit up with someones caller ID. your eyes are glazed over and blurry, too unfocused to see who the hell was interrupting this. but it didn't matter, because mark ignores it and keeps fucking into you — a little more enthusiastic than before. his fingers still dig into your waist, yet this time, they pull you back to meet his cock. essentially you were bouncing on him without having to do most of the work, "look at that ass bounce."

the buzzing finally stops, replaced with another harsh smack to your ass. you cry out in pain, quickly drowned out by a moan as mark swivels his hips so that he was hitting your sweet spot. white hot pleasure courses through your entire body, and you all but thrash against the leather. "almost there, fuck, keep going. gonna c-cum."

the words are like music to his ears. "just a little longer," mark typically had great stamina, but after the performance tonight, and the way your pussy was sucking him in right now, his willpower was melting away. he was edging himself within your walls at this very second. he needed release. "you're so fucking wet, i can't... oh fuck." his phone starts buzzing again, and this time he glances at the name flashing across the screen and groans, "be quiet okay baby? i need to take this."

furiously, mark jabs the green button on the screen of his phone, "what do you want." through gritted teeth, he keeps his pace, thrusting into your warm cunt. it's difficult, but you manage to stuff your fist in your mouth and bite down, stifling any sound that threatened to come out. hot electricity was still running through every nerve in your body, but as mark mindlessly slows to concentrate on not moaning into the phones receiver, it slowly dwindles.

"i'm..." he glances down at the way your waist curved in, the jiggle of your ass when his hips met yours, "i'm outside. why."

you can't hear who's on the other end of the line. maybe it was his manager, or another member of the band. the only thing you knew for certain was they wanted to know where the fuck he was at.

"don't you dare talk sideways to me." the warning in his voice nearly makes you moan out loud. this side of mark lee was something to marvel at. but you don't. you just push your hips backwards onto him.

a breath of air rushes past his lips, "shit." he mumbles.

"i wasn't-" he grits his teeth, "i wasn't cursing at you......because i dropped my cig on the ground, i don't know jaemin."

ah so it was na jaemin - drummer of parasocial. hot head. scandal starter. covered in more ink than you thought possible.

"okay..." mark sighs, his pace slowing, "okay, i'm coming....yeah whatever." he presses the end call button on the screen and tosses the phone on to the couch in front of you.

"baby..." he warns, now lazily fucking you, "i gotta go..."

"why?" you whine, hips pushing back against him in an attempt to get his pace started again. you so desperately wanted him to keep bullying his cock into you.

"they said the vans packed up... if i don't go now, they're gonna leave me behind." he pulls out and helps you flip over to face him, hands instinctively come up to cover your chest, "i'm sorry," he breathes.

"it's okay."

maybe you didn't get to orgasm, but mark lee between your thighs was enough of a treat. as long as he felt good, it didn't matter. so it doesn't irk you when he says, "i'm sorry this couldn't be more..i'm worn out from the show, and...." his voice trails off into a sheepish shrug, his wrist flicking towards his phone.

"i know." it wasn't your job to reassure him, but you knew what this was. what his life entailed, even if it was from an outsiders perspective.

mark sighs, settling back against the couch while he watches you hurriedly throw your clothes on. there's something different about you.

"i can walk you to your car if you want," he offered, his voice tinged with a mix of earnestness and hesitation. he knew he couldn't, not really. the risk of being seen outside the venue with a fan was far too great — jaemin learned that the hard way. but still, there was something about your presence, something that made him want to break the rules just a bit more.

you responded with a wry smile, "nah, i'm good. appreciate it though."

he returned the smile, though a hint of disappointment flickered across his features, swiftly masked by indifference. "alright then, take care."

as you turned to walk away, his gaze lingered, a mixture of longing and apprehension in his eyes. the echo of the performance still reverberated in the air, and the cacophony of the crowd faded into the background. the isolation that often accompanied the applause and adoration settled around him—a sense of detachment despite the proximity to his admirers; to you.

"hey, wait up!" his voice rings out, more desperate than he intends. you stop and turn back to him, a questioning look on your face. "here." he thrusts a piece of paper into your hand, his fingers brushing yours for a moment. in messy scrawl, a ten-digit number is scratched across the paper. he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, the stage persona melting away to reveal the vulnerability underneath. "call me when you get where you're headed."

you take the paper, feeling surprise and curiosity bloom in your chest. "sure, i will." a smirk tugs at the corners of your lips as you tuck the slip of paper into the pocket of your skirt, a secret kept close to your heart. "have a good night, rockstar."

his eyes meet yours, a silent exchange that speaks volumes. in that moment, no other words are needed to understand that this is a fleeting connection, a chapter in a story that will continue for him in different cities, with different faces. another show, another night, another girl.

another fake number.

A. NOTE: this can be read as a standalone, but it is also part of a bigger series i've yet to release. so if you like this one shot, please let me know! you can send in an ask, or comment, reblog, or like <3

TAGLIST: @peachjaem00 @mrkis @downtonbabyah @vangoes @cutiepeas @yujuvly @nuttie-nv-blog @seuomo @mrkleelvr @kazuhateez @chardonnayyyy @hyuckiegirlfriend @jwijii @meowniee @leep0ems @hibye02 @girlwholoveslpreppyattire

#nct dream smut #mark lee smut #nct mark lee x reader #mark lee x reader #nct mark lee smut #nct dream x reader #nct dream band au #nct dream fic #mark lee fic #nctpromptmemedone #nct dream mark

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kingtomura · 6 months ago

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Vitality | 4

Summary: You were always told heroes and villains had no place in your home. Not when there’s an increase in crime, not when there’s monsters on the loose in Hosu and certainly not when the man in your home raises a hand to you. All it takes is one impulsive decision to change your life forever. content: shigaraki tomura x female reader, slow burn, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, reader has a quirk, graphic depictions of violence, past abuse, past sa, angst, pstd, eventual smut, dark themes, found family LoV, mdni wc: 5k | prev | chapter 5 | m. list | read on ao3

Shigaraki is avoiding you.

You don't have any definitive proof, but you can read between the lines.

It’s not obvious, but you have seen him a lot less than usual, and even though you could be wrong, you just can’t shake the feeling.

The lack of his presence in the bar, for starters, is one instance. He hasn’t needed any healing help from you either even though he’s been out and about. You can only assume he’s been fine, but it doesn’t take the sinking feeling away from the pit of your gut.

There is something else that’s been bothering you as well. Pulling at your thoughts and living within the walls of your mind.

You can’t stop thinking about what happened a few nights ago.

The distressed look on Shigaraki's face haunts you, and it doesn’t help that you haven't had a chance to apologize. Hell, you haven’t even seen him at all since that night. Your days have consisted of training and healing, with no sign of your leader.

Today you are with Toga once more, in a field you have become more familiar with, sparring.

Twice has joined you both, stating that he was the best person to help — and you agree. He has been making clones of Toga to help you spar and the addition takes away the consequence of harming her.

As for her clone harming you…

Well, you just need to improve — and you believe that you have, as you’ve ended up less on the ground and more on top by the end of the week.

She comes at you without a care in the world and a knife in her hand, but you’ve learned how to dodge. You know well how to duck and then swing, how to sway is just the right ways that would give you an opening to knock her off of her feet. During your time training you have learned how to get the upper hand.

Every time you can dodge an attack it makes you feel good.

It reminds you that you’re learning and that this isn’t in vain.

There’s a moment right as Toga’s clone is about to strike that you see it — the perfect opening.

Your right hand forms a fist and you don’t think as you do it, just swing and hit the mark, right against her left cheek and it takes the clone down completely. It turns to sludge before you and the claps of Twice and Toga catch your attention.

“That’s one hell of a right hook!” Twice yells to you and you can only muster a small smile, tired out from the spar.

“Thanks. We can call it here, right?” you ask and Toga nods, the smile never leaving her face.

“Yeah, and your swing is pretty good.” She compliments, hopping off the boulder she sat on and walking towards you, guiding you back to the meeting area Kurogiri tells you all to gather. “You should ask Tomura about a support item. I think you’re almost ready for one.”

The portal opens before you and it's a relief to see that you were one step closer to heading to bed for the night. Training really drains your energy.

“You think so?” It's a feeble question, one to merely fill the air as you all walk through.

Toga nods, already making her way towards the door of the bar, no doubt ready to head to bed herself. “I do! You’re pretty strong, little bird.”

And she’s gone, leaving those words to echo in your mind as you stop in your tracks.

You’ve never thought of yourself as strong. Not when you’ve lived the way you have for so long. Your first instinct is to deny, but you fight it — instead opting to push the compliment to the back of your mind.

You should find Shigaraki.

It's late, but not too late. He should still be awake, and you would like to at least mention the idea of a support item before your confidence slips.

The strength stays with you as you trudge the tunnels, making your way to Shigaraki’s room.

You’ve never been there, and there has never been a reason to, but you knew it wasn’t very far from yours. The nerves you’ve been so confident stomping out have returned in full force as you approach his door. The worse he could do was tell you to go away.

So, with your solid reasoning, you inhale and knock at his door, waiting for a gruff reply, but when there is nothing, not even movement, on the other side you debate knocking again.

Against your better judgment, you try it again and are met with the same silence.

It feels eerie and your brain is screaming at you to turn tail and go to your room, but curiosity eats at you.

You bring a hand to his doorknob, pausing as you debate opening his door.

The worst he could do is tell you to go away.

You turn the knob and…

It's locked. You should have known. Shigaraki doesn’t seem like the type to trust others enough to have his bedroom door unlocked and open for all to explore.

With a sigh you move on, not to your bedroom, but back to the bar. Shigaraki was absent there as well, but you believe Kurogiri may have a clue of his whereabouts.

The apparition is exactly where you assumed he would be — behind the bar, cleaning a glass, expression impossible to guess behind the wispy shadows that cloud his face.

“Kurogiri,” you start, glancing around the bar once more for good measure, and sure enough, there was no sign of your leader. “Have you seen Shigaraki anywhere? He wasn’t in his room.”

There's a beat of silence between you two, you can only assume Kurogiri is scanning his own mind for places Shigaraki may have gone, but his response surprises you.

“Have you checked the roof?”

Your brows furrow at the mention.

The roof?

There is a ladder you have to climb to get to the roof. It's not very high and it's through the red curtain behind the bar’s counter, but it’s there.

Once you’ve made your way onto the roof and dusted yourself off, you take a look around.

Lo and behold, there he is, his form relaxed as he looks out onto the city of Kamino, drink can in hand and distinct lack of hand dawning his face.

“Fancy meeting you here.” you announce as you approach, cringing at your own words, but knowing you had no other greetings in your arsenal.

He doesn’t spare you a glance, only taking a sip of his drink as his eyes are lost in thought.

But he doesn’t tell you to go away, so you take that as a good sign — slowly making your way to where he’s sat and taking your own seat. Not too close, but near enough that it’s not awkward to have a conversation.

You decide to follow his gaze, looking out into the city of Kamino as the sea of buildings light up the area.

You wish they were stars instead.

The thought makes you look up and see the gray sky above, murky as the fog settles onto the city. You wish there was more to look at, but from this angle you can barely make out the silver glow of the moon through the clouds.

The naivety in you wishes there was more up there, like a meteor shower or some other natural occurrence you’ve read about in books.

But there's nothing here.

Nothing but light pollution and fog.

“So,” you begin, words eager to leave your mind, “training with Toga is going well.”

“Good.” His eyes are far away as he responds, sipping more of his drink as his thoughts swim through his mind.

You wonder what he’s thinking about, but forgo asking.

Instead, you opt for a nod, excitement showing in your small smile as you go on, “Yeah, since Twice has been with us he’s made clones of her to help me train. They say I have a pretty good swing.”

This time Shigaraki does look at you, interest piqued and it makes you feel warm that he’s at least a little interested in your training progress.

“Yeah?” He asks and you nod again.

“Mhm, Toga said I should ask you about a possible support item soon, but I'm not sure what would fit me best.”

“I have a few ideas.” He takes another sip of his drink and from this distance you can tell it's an energy drink. Odd choice for a late night snack. “I’ll check in with you by the end of next week.”

Your eyes widen, a little shocked from how fast you’d be able to have something to help you, it makes your previous excitement grow as you bite back more of your smile.

“Thank you.”

Shigaraki hums in response, sending the space between you into a lull. It is not unwelcomed — the wind whistles and the breeze is nice as you both watch the city from above. You’re beginning to understand why Shigaraki would want to be out here in the first place.

It’s peaceful.

The quiet stretches until the nagging voice in your head begins to catch up with you once more, drawing attention to your earlier struggles.

You want to apologize.

“Hey, Shigaraki.”

His eyes cut to yours and his red gaze feels intimidating. You hate to admit it, but it’s the truth, even more so in this vulnerable moment.

So you divert.

“Have you heard any updates about my father?” you get the words out and now that the dam is broken you cannot stop. “It’s been on my mind a lot lately and I've stopped seeing articles. It’s just making me feel uneasy.”

You pause, your heart is racing and you feel a familiar sense of panic in your veins. The same panic you felt at home when you would mess something up in front of your father. Even the mention of him shakes your core.

You move to speak again, but Shigaraki stops you.

“No, he’s probably done with the charades.” He takes the last sip of his drink, leaning his head back and you watch as his adam's apple bobs with each swallow.

Once he finishes the drink, he presses one, two, three, four, five fingers down on the can — disintegrating it into ash before your eyes.

You’ve never seen his quirk with your own eyes, but it happens quickly — the bottle fading into dust and then nothing, swept away by the winds as if it never existed at all.

“Besides,” he continues, the hint of amusement in his tone makes your heart clench for reasons completely different from before. “If he looked any further he’d only build a case against himself.”

He looks at you again, hint of a smile on his face, “and I don’t think he’s that fucking dumb.”

You look at him and you feel light, the worry from before dissipating in the wind just like the drink can before. You bring a hand to your chest, an old habit that made you feel as though you could heal your own heart — stop it from racing out of your chest and far away from you.

“Yeah,” you finally respond, a small uptick of your lips calming your nerves, “yeah, he would have to be insane.”

Shigaraki is satisfied with your answer, moving to stand and you follow suit.

There’s the booming sound of rolling thunder falling over the space between you both.

It’s going to storm soon and neither of you wanted to get caught up in it.

—--------------------------

They’re sending you on a mission soon.

It’s somewhere further out and in a different city, so it should be nowhere near your father’s jurisdiction. It’s being led by Dabi since he is just as strategic as Shigaraki and well within his rights of intelligence. They tell you something about it being a part of a larger, more important mission to come along soon.

You’ve been improving in fighting everyday — the support item Shigaraki gave you really helps. He believed a bat would be a great help in your combat and so far it has.

They don’t expect you to fight but they do expect an altercation and it’s best to have a healer where they are needed instead of somewhere not within reach.

“It seems we have some rats in our ranks.” Shigaraki told the group at the meeting, carmine eyes shining in delight at the idea of a challenge to his goals, “and I think it’s time we take care of it.”

It makes you nervous since there's been no reason for you to leave the base beyond training with Toga. As much as you would like to go out and see more, this mission makes you feel uneasy.

It feels like once you’ve done this you truly are a villain and there is no going back from that.

The images of your father’s reaction and raging face makes you shiver, but you steadily remind yourself that you are no longer there. That is not your reality anymore.

However…

You will be on a mission with Dabi. The same man you’ve barely interacted with. The one who is hardly around to get a read on.

He paid you no mind as Shigaraki explained the details of the upcoming mission further — even going as far as staying behind once the discussion was finished to delve deeper into more details. He was nothing if not thorough.

You’re not sure what to expect and the thoughts plague you all the way to your room.

It’s difficult to find sleep, but you try, giving in to the tiredness you feel and slipping into the welcoming feeling of nothing.

You wake with a start.

Your chest heaves as you look around your bedroom and realize its only you. Nothing is out of place and everything is quiet.

It must have been a nightmare you were having but the memories are hazy. The dream is already fading away as you blink the sleep from your eyes.

All you know is that the nightmare was unsettling. It left a pool of dread deep in your gut and you needed to get out. So, making your way out of bed, your feet move to the one place you believed could be relieving at this hour.

You’ve gone up to the roof a few times before, Tomura is always there. Always silent. Always with a drink of some kind.

You don’t speak much as there isn’t much to say, but you find comfort in it. The silence is calming and it comes with the lack of pressure from either side to say what’s on your mind.

Shigaraki never tells you to leave.

He’s told you before that you’re free to do what you want and you suppose this is included. As long as you don’t bother him during his quiet time, you were fine to share the space.

It’s three in the morning and you hope he’s gone to bed for the night. The roof has become some kind of safe haven but you’ve never been up alone. You would like to see what it’s like.

But he is there, and you can’t really bring yourself to be upset.

You actually feel a little relieved — the hazy remnants of the nightmare still had you a little shaken, the lack of company would only make you feel worse.

“Do you ever sleep?” you wonder aloud as you slowly approach. Tomura has another energy drink tonight, but this one is unopened. It looked to be long forgotten by his side as he watched the city below.

“Sometimes.” he responds, voice low, but you were close enough to catch it.

Shigaraki is wearing his gloves, the black partial ones that you never see him sport inside the bar. Only up here.

Only with you.

You haven’t gathered the nerve to ask him why that is yet.

(You’re not sure you will be able to, either.)

So instead you sit — it's always a respectable distance away as you both look out into the city. The calming feeling of the open night feels freeing. It's unlike anything you’ve felt before. Especially not in recent years.

You wonder if he has nightmares, too. If he’s plagued by visions at night, if they keep him up the way they keep you up.

Excessive energy drinks in the middle of the night aren’t really good at helping you sleep.

You wonder what he’s running from — your leader in the League of Villains.

You stay like that for a while, comfortable silence stretching between you both and you don't mind it — until Shigaraki starts shifting and draws your attention. He’s shuffling around in his pajama pockets and piques your curiosity.

It's only when he pulls out a gaming console that you tilt your head in confusion. It's small and portable, but he’s never brought anything like that up here in the short time you’ve joined him.

Your confusion only grows as he extends the device to you.

“What?”

“Take it.” He offers, and you cannot help the way your brows furrow and frown deepens.

Why would he offer you this?

You meet Shigaraki's eyes, deep red and passive, then down at the console — even through the partial gloves he wore, Shigaraki still held the system in an odd way. It’s black and holds a few scuffs and scratches. Well worn. Well loved.

“What’s this for?” you ask, no longer worried to question the man.

He only scoffs, look of confusion now painting his own features. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what a gaming system is.”

“I do!” you shoot back, embarrassment bringing heat to your cheeks. It's gone as soon as it’s arrived — your confusion dissolving into curiosity. “I mean, why are you giving this to me?”

He looks at you like you’ve asked what the year was, “You said your father took your console away.”

Your eyes widen at his words, shock evident in your movements as you take the device from his hand. He’s quick to pull it away as well, but you don’t think about it further. You only look at the scuffed gaming console and ponder why Tomura Shigaraki of all people would give it to you.

“It’s old and I don’t really use it nowadays,” he starts, causing you to meet his eyes once more, “Sensei said the games there were good for learning to strategize. It helped, but I don't need it anymore.”

You stare down at the device — scratched and worn, no doubt played for hours.

Although it seems like a half thought of an offer, there’s still a vulnerability to the situation that makes you warm. A genuine effort that makes you want to be genuine in return.

“He’s not my real dad.” You start, shaking Shigaraki out of whatever thought he may have been lost in. “My real father skipped out on us. And he married my mom when I was young. Then… we lost her.”

You’ve never had a chance to talk about your past. To open up. Growing up he had always drilled into your mind that he was your father, then your only guardian after your mom passed.

His behavior became weird — he became obsessive after the loss of her.

Said that you needed no one but him, and he needed you too.

Only you.

Shigaraki says nothing, and you continue, “Sometimes, I like to pretend my real dad is out there, somewhere. Maybe lost at sea or something.”

You laugh, a sad huff of breath. “I don’t think anyone like him could be a father, even though that’s all I know him as.”

It feels weird talking to someone you barely know about your innermost thoughts, but it’s a faint relief off of your chest.

“That sounds awful.” he starts, “Being at sea for months on end. I would probably get seasick.”

Now you laugh, genuinely. “Have you ever seen the ocean?”

An innocent question, but one that makes him ponder. “No, and I don't think I want to.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs, nose scrunching at the idea. It's cute, you have to admit. “Too bright, too noisy and it probably smells bad.”

You smile, light and innocuous. What a negative nancy. “I’ve never been either. I would really like to. I had planned to, but…” you pause, mood souring. “But he wouldn’t approve.”

You don’t know why you're still talking, but the dam has burst, contents of your heart spilling over and out.

“I'm an adult, you know? Twenty! It sucks seeing all my friends move on and do other things with their lives. But I was stuck.” you pause, looking at the ground, “I told him so, too. That’s where it all went wrong that night.”

That night.

You remember.

You remember it clear as day.

The argument happened during dinner.

A night like any other, so you hadn’t seen the escalation coming. Your friends had been telling you about a program, a little study exchange in a small beach town where anyone could go to research and learn about the animals in the area.

You didn’t have many friends, but the few you held dear would be going. It would be a shame to be left behind — to have to spend another year in this house.

It was a simple thing, you brought the idea up to your father, told him about how good of an opportunity it would be for you.

That’s where it all went downhill.

He got so angry, furious at the idea of his only daughter running off to some beach with god-knows-who doing god-knows-what. He told you to go on and forget it — it wasn’t happening.

Not on his watch.

This was it, the final straw. You couldn’t possibly spend another minute at a table with someone who was so deadset and keeping you down and caged.

So, you do something you never had.

You yell at him. Tell him he’s being ridiculous, that you should be able to go out and do your own thing. All your friends were able to.

By the time you realize you’ve chosen the wrong words it’s too late.

Your father stood to his feet, the screeching of the chair ringing in your ears as he stomped his way over to you.

“Where did all this energy come from?”

You felt your heart sink as he stopped in front of you, his form towering over yours as you regret even opening your mouth.

“Was it a boy?” he hissed and you wished then and there you could take it back. The outburst, the trip, everything. But it's out now and in the open. You would have to face the consequences. “Have you met a boy and he’s gotten into your head?”

You shake your head, desperately denying the claim, but he didn’t want to hear any of it. You move to stand as well, feeling powerless from your chair and he grabs your wrist.

“You’re not going.” He spits, voice stern and grip achingly tight, “you won’t be some back alley whore as long as I’m around.”

“You’re being ridiculous!” The panic is evident in your eyes as you try to pull away and talk some kind of reasoning into him. “There’s nobody, I’m telling the truth!”

The struggle you put up to release your wrist only makes you lose your balance, dropping to the dining room floor and landing on your elbow. The pain is pushed to the back of your mind as the towering, angry man before you drops with you, pinning you to the ground.

You feel frozen as he continues, too far gone in his anger to hear you out any further.

“What does he have that you need so badly, hm?” There’s the strong odor of liquor on his breath, he’s always had a problem with drinking. Even more so after your mother passed.

“You’re being crazy.” Your voice is a whisper, trembling in disbelief at his actions. It’s never gone this far.

“Oh, I’m being crazy? Look at you!” His eyes are wild and you’re sure he’s lost it. “My little girl would never raise her voice at me.”

His tone lowers and the alarms in your head start to go off as your panic swells, spilling in the form of apologies and pleads for forgiveness. Anything you could think of to end this fight and go to your room.

He doesn’t listen to you, only murmuring odd comments about your appearance. How much you look like your mother.

It made you feel sick. So, so sick as you realize the apologies will not work. There are no heroes coming to save you and your guardian has gone off the deep end.

All the lingering leers, all the not-so-casual touches in the past have led up to this. Your breathing feels heavy as your heart beats relentlessly against your chest while you try to make sense of your situation. He finally tells you that you won’t leave him. Even if he has to break you, he’ll make sure of that.

Your brain kicks into overdrive as he reaches for his belt — the chiming sound triggers your fight or flight to kick into action.

Adrenaline pumps through your body as put all your strength into a punch that lands right against his jaw. It's not much, but it's enough to knock him off kilter as you kick — successfully knocking him off of you and shakily stand to your feet, wasting no time running for the living room.

It’s naive to think you could make it, but you try, only to have hope crushed as he grabs the back of your shirt in his fist, keeping you locked in place and the door well out of reach.

It couldn’t end this way, you wouldn’t let it.

You reach for the closest thing to you and it’s a potted plant in a vase. A glass vase. You don’t think, just grab the object with all your might and swing—

It shatters and he’s down. There's blood pooling below his head, but everything is quiet. You can’t believe what you’ve done. You reach your hands out, your natural instinct to heal has become muscle memory for you, but you pull them back.

He’s out like a light. He’s done.

You look around the silent home and realize it’s only you. No bystanders, no prying eyes. Just you. So you do the only thing you can at that moment.

You run.

You run as fast as you can and as far as you can.

Your first steps to freedom.

The air is crisp. It's the only thing you can think of as your short inhales shake your body. You can’t remember where you are, what you were doing who you were with—

Until… until there's the crack of a can, the fizz of its contents bubbling and you can smell the sugary sweet soda inside.

Tomura is in front of you, he’s still sitting and his expression is as neutral as you’ve ever seen it, but he’s holding something out to you. His energy drink.

You blink once, twice, three times as you look from his carmine eyes back down to the can again. He’s shoving it towards you again and you can only assume he wanted you to take it.

So you do.

You’re careful not to touch his fingers, even though they remain gloved, and bring the can to your lips. You chanced one last glance at Tomura, worried that deep down this was some kind of test that you were sure to fail, but he had already turned back to the open city.

The drink is sweeter than you thought and you wonder how he could even drink these — in the middle of the night, no less. But it grounds you. It gives you something else to focus on.

You turn back to the sky,

“It’s getting cold out.” You speak, wanting nothing more than to fill the silence.

“Yeah.”

The sun is starting to rise over the horizon, the tiniest peek of light through the dark, and the buzz from the energy drink was starting to rouse in your veins.

It’s a fleeting feeling — temporary, like the hazy memories of your nightmares.

“Do you think I did the right thing?” The question falls from your lips before you can catch it, but you don’t regret asking.

You liked to hear Shigaraki’s opinions.

“Yeah.” He looks off into the distance, mind as far away as his gaze. He is deep in thought and you wonder if it’s about his past. “I do.”

You wished the sky looked different — a little less gray and a little more bright.

Like there were actually stars looking down on you both. They’re not visible with all of the light pollution of a busy city, but you wished they were. At least it would be something to keep your eye on while you sat out here with Shigaraki.

Something to distract you from the gnawing feeling in your chest. The one that screams at you about how close you were to danger.

It’s easy to ignore. Shigaraki makes it easy.

He is stoic by nature, but there are little actions, small things that show you he listens.

You’ll have to prepare for the mission soon, but right now moments like these are nice.

Fleeting, like ash in the wind.

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