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bratkook · 4 years

Text

like you used to. jjk

“So kill me like you used to...”

part two.

pairing. ex boyfriend!jungkook x reader genre. angst, mentions of smut, toxic exes warnings. very toxic depictions of relationships, hints at infidelity, drunken mistakes, they’re both very toxic for each other and just can’t stay away, brief mentions of smut word count. 2.9k note. this is just a lump of angst that my mind conjured at 1am last night, i just love angst and messy relationships that are destined to fail 😌(its not edited so if u see a typo no u dont)

It always started with a phone call.

Whether it was from you or him always changed. Sometimes he’d get the call at two in the morning, vision blurry as he brought the phone to his face and saw your name illuminated on the screen, that old goofy selfie you had together still set as your contact photo. He’d hesitate for a moment just to keep you on your toes before pressing accept, already getting up and putting pants on because he knew just what you were calling for.

Tonight was your turn to be on the receiving end, laying in bed comfortably as you scrolled through random posts to try to help you sleep, the flash of his face fills your phone, it’s a random close up photo of his eyes staring right into the camera, crinkled up in a smile. Even though his name is changed in your contacts, no longer having the cute bunny emoji tacked to the end, you know you’ll still pick up in a heartbeat. And you do.

The second you press accept you’re met with the familiar sound of his voice, slurred and thick as he speaks so jumbled up you would barely be able to understand him if you didn’t already know what he was saying. It was the same things he always said whenever he got like this, proclamations of love that only cut up your freshly scabbed over wounds, salt rubbing into them when he cries about how he misses you, promises to change.

They get cut off when the phone is yanked away from his grasp, the second familiar voice belonging to his buddy Yugyeom now speaking into the receiver. “You gotta pick him up Y/N.”

The annoyance is evident in his voice, the babbling of Jungkook still heard in the background along with the dull beat of whatever place they were outside of.

“He’s not my responsibility Yugyeom.”

He simply sighs into the phone, staring at his mess of a friend before rubbing his jaw, sore and aching from where he had just been socked after attempting to force him into an uber. “Yeah well he won’t let anyone else take him home, he’s drunk as fuck. I’ll send you the location.”

Not waiting for a response he hangs up and sends you a pin of where they’re at, thrusting the phone back into his friend’s hands before getting into that uber and leaving Jungkook alone while he whines against the dirty bar wall, crouching down onto the filthy sidewalk as the car drove off.

Yugyeom knew you would come to his rescue like you always did, never once saying no and letting Jungkook fend for himself because on the rare occasions where you’d call him drunk and crying he’d do the same.

Getting into the car still dressed in your pajamas, shoes thrown on without being laced up, hair still messy, it felt like routine now from how often it happened. Jungkook called you sober, text you while in a sane state of mind, but without fail at least once a month he’d get absolutely shit faced and call you, leaving you what he thought were heartfelt voicemails if by some chance you didn’t answer.

It was the same bar every time, a bar you used to frequent with him, knowing the location and all the small side streets to get you there without needing directions. Doing this felt like such a normal part of your life it almost made you forget that you and Jungkook weren’t together anymore. It’s been a year since you split and you still find yourself thinking if things could be different.

Would it have been best if you never confessed to each other, never admitted to the small inkling of a crush before it was able to fully blossom? It was hard not to wonder how different life would be now if you had walked away the first time things went south, if he had walked away after the first argument.

Whenever he called you, pulled you in with those drunken promises it was easy to convince yourself that your relationship was perfect, that it was worth all of the struggles. Your brain morphed each fight, each time you cried alone, twisted it around and molded it to make it easier to consume, easier to believe you were meant to be.

You thought you were soulmates, and maybe you were, two people destined to be together, meeting at the wrong time, under the wrong circumstances. What was meant to be perfect puzzle pieces connected had slowly turned into jagged edges that no longer clicked regardless of how hard you tried to jam them together, foolishly thinking you could spill your love into the gaps to mend the spaces, making the pieces whole once more.

Love was never enough.

Love made you stupid, made you blind and gullible, smiling through lies to avoid arguments, going to bed angry until he was hovering over you, coaxing you into forgiveness with soft kisses and gentle touches. It always went this way, regardless of who’s fault it was without fail he’d end up slot between your legs, the only time the puzzle pieces connected perfectly, allowing him to fuck you as if he’d never see you again. Murmurs of love and adoration were passed between panting breaths, sloppy kisses, shared moans to mask the empty promises you made every time.

Staying away from each other was a hard habit to kick, the two of you stuck on an endless game of seesaw, neither of you having the guts to get off and move on. All it took was a simple drunk phone call for you to go his way, the slur of his voice as he cries into the receiver about how much he loved you, missed you, needed you next to him, wanted to try again. It reeled you in so easily, winding you up until you were hauling your sloppy ex boyfriend off the dirty floor and into your small car.

He remembers none of this, he never did, not fully anyways. Small tidbits of words he said flash in his mind as he comes to, drool on his cheek and neck sore from the unfortunate position he had slept in, groggy and unaware of his surroundings.

He knew your apartment too well, recognized the green wall he had helped you paint, now holding endless pictures of you and your friends. None of Jungkook anymore.

All of those photos were gone now, not burned or shredded in some ritual to get over him, simply tucked into a box and shoved so far into your closet you hoped you would forget it. You never did of course, the way the box laid dust free made it clear how often you pulled it out and sorted through the photos whenever you had too much wine, whenever you had off days where you just felt so alone and wished you could go back to the times you had convinced yourself were better. They weren’t, you knew they weren’t once you sobered up and balanced out your emotions.

Jungkook doesn’t feel bothered that not a trace of him remained visible in your home, he knew his presence lingered in the cracks, buried so deep in the crevices of your mind he knew you would always think of him.

He groans softly as his eyes roam the interior of your home, the throbbing in his temples making him stop and shut his lids, not needing to analyze the place he was at less than two weeks ago when you had called him over. Jungkook briefly wonders if he should sneak his way out, not used to waking up on the couch instead of in your bed right beside you, maybe he had said something last night that crossed the line and landed him on the couch as a punishment.

As you finally emerge from your room his plan of escape is put to a stop, his eyes gravitating towards your bedroom door, seeing the way you cautiously step out. Having heard Jungkook wake up since you had already been awake for the past hour, your body not allowing you to sleep while knowing he was in the other room, it took a few minutes of courage before you were able to face him.

Spotting him on your couch shows how much he doesn’t belong, the pinned leather jacket he wore looking so harsh against the light coloring of your furniture, his dark disheveled hair contrasting with the tidy way you organized your apartment. He senses it, the skin crawling sensation that spreads the longer you stare at him, how he felt so out of place somewhere he used to call home at one point.

“Thank you for picking me up.” He chooses to break the silence, voice raspy, his internal self screaming at him for always doing this. His eyes are sincere, genuinely meaning it, knowing just how messy he got when he had too much to drink, how his friends could never handle him when he crossed the line and began to call for you.

Like always his words were routine so he expects it when you huff and say, “You need better friends Jungkook.”

“I know.” Because he did, he knew his friends enabled him, riled him up and once he became too much they pushed him onto you, knowing Jungkook’s grip on you was still too strong for you to ever say no.

“What if I hadn’t picked you up? Would they have left you on the side of the bar to fend for yourself?”

“Probably,” he shrugs, from past experiences he knows very well they would have. His friends had dealt with Jungkook crying over you far too much, their patience fully stamped out, no longer able to tolerate him when he became like this.

Not even realizing when he begins to smile as he thought of the nights you didn’t pick up, how he had ended up in the most random locations because he refused to go home to a place you weren’t, he snaps out of it when you scoff. “It’s not funny Jungkook, you could have gotten hurt or something.”

There it was, the reason you were upset. Not because he had called you and spewed the same bullshit he always did, no that you could tolerate. You were upset, and worried, that you’d get a following call from someone stating he had injured himself while calling for you.

“I know.”

You pause to breathe, his short responses not irking you like it should, arms crossed over your chest as you observe your ex boyfriend still sitting on the couch, looking like a scolded child.

“You can’t call me anymore Jungkook.” How you have the nerve to say that to him is funny, acting as if ten days ago you weren’t the one doing this to him, telling him you missed him, securing your anchor around his foot and dragging him back under with you.

This is the checklist you needed to go down, a formality of the morning after so he doesn’t mind it. Instead he frowns at the way you continue to say his name, the way it rolls off your tongue makes him wince, missing the way you’d call him Kookie, playful pet names like Bunny, something he swore he hated but secretly loved. Jungkook wished he could hear you say it again, humor you with that damned bunny eared headband he’d wear to hear you laugh, squeal as he posed and dance for whatever silly video you recorded as you shouted out the ridiculous nickname.

The last time he heard those words spill out of your mouth had been too long ago.

“I’m sorry.” he admits, he knew he had to stop, couldn’t continue to hold onto the past, knowing how wrong you were for each other but he wasn’t the only one. Those were the same words you told him ten days ago, apologizing with guilty eyes for asking him to come over when you were lonely, needing a familiar body to occupy the space next to you, wanting his hands to soothe you, make you feel whole again just for a night.

Once the sun came up it was back to normal, the two of you having the repeat conversation you had every time, the exact one you were having now. A formality. Nothing more, just mindless words that you would both agree to just to move along, to make you both feel better, more secure with yourself until the next time the phone rang.

Your heart twists in your chest as you look at him, the same toxic love you had for him brewing in your heart, spilling over and burning you but you ignore the pain, convince yourself you don’t feel it as you breathe in. That same rope latches around Jungkook’s ankle as you avert your eyes for a brief second before looking back at him with a small sigh. “Do you want breakfast? I know how you get when you have a hangover.”

He smiles for the first time, charming as always, looking up at you through the subtle waves in his hair. “I probably shouldn’t.”

You know this. He definitely shouldn’t because breakfast will turn into words exchanged, civil at first, flirty the next, a coin flipped to decide if a petty argument would begin or if you’d reminisce about the good times. Regardless of the outcome, what always followed ended with you moaning out his name as he rocked into you, those same empty promises spilling through his lips that you swallowed with a kiss.

A brief moment of bliss, a small dose of the past that only serves to hurt you further but you crave it, loving the small rush that came with arguing, the roughness of his hands as he pushed you around before sliding home, burying his face into your neck as he broke you down all over again.

Normally you’d try to convince him further, but as your mouth opens to protest you get flashes of the night before, how you had carried Jungkook up your flight of stairs, hearing him ramble about nonsense so slurred together you paid it no mind. You would have had him sleep in your bed beside you like you always did but when you fish his phone out and begin to slide his jacket off it buzzes to life.

Always being nosey you type in his password, smiling when you realize it was still your old anniversary but when you unlock it and see a flood of messages from a girl named Natalie, calling him babe, asking where he was, the smile falls from your face as you start to snoop.

It doesn’t take much scrolling through their thread of messages to easily discover she was his girlfriend, blissfully unaware that he was shit faced and calling you, confessing to his love for you while she laid at home and wondered if he was having fun with his friends. She reminded you of yourself, of the way you used to be with him and it left a sour feeling on your tongue.

“Yeah you probably shouldn’t.”

He stands up now, following you slowly as you approach the door, heavy boots thumping on the hardwood as he reluctantly steps closer to the exit. He doesn’t want to leave, wants you to try to convince him to stay, not knowing that you knew the dirty secret he was hiding buried in his phone.

You don’t decide to tell him you know, it was pointless. That was just how Jungkook was wired, so much love to give he had to spread it out, give everyone a fair share of it, choosing to pretend he wasn’t being selfish. It was naive to believe it, to think all the love he held was strictly for you, it was why he was able to pull the hood over your eyes so easily.

Even when you pull the door open and give him a tightlipped smile he knows you’ll still call him, forget all about Natalie when you’re lonely once more. So when you look him in the eyes and sigh, “Goodbye Jungkook.” He knows it’s not for long, maybe a week or so, maybe less.

He simply smiles, stuffing his hands into his jeans as he shuffles out, turning to face you as he steps backwards. “See you later Y/N.” And his words sting in a way he doesn’t mean, knowing just how right he was.

Jungkook would never mind how heavy the anchor you hooked on his ankle was because he knew you would forever be a sucker for him.

As you shut the door behind you it feels like a small weight starts to hang from your shoulders, the same tug starting from your chest, guiding you into your room until you’re pulling out the cursed box and sorting through those damned photos. With stinging eyes you flip through them for a moment, focusing on all the laughs captured on film, blurry vision moving to your phone beside you, hands already itching to call him again.

It’s as if he knows, still inside your building, lingering in the lobby to give you a moment and it doesn’t take long. Once his phone starts to vibrate he smiles, staring at the photo of you as you call him like clockwork. With a clear of his throat he answers the phone, barely saying hello before he hears a small sniffle through the speaker.

“I miss you Kookie.”

Jungkook lets his eyes shut as he presses the elevator button, loving the feeling of being needed by you, already knowing to head back up because this was routine.

“I know you do baby, I’ll be right up.”

And just like that you’re once again desperately trying to make those stupid puzzle pieces fit together, hoping that maybe this time love would be enough.

#ficswithluv #goldenclosetnet #heartsforbts #btsghostie #btswritingcafe #jungkook smut #jungkook angst #bts smut #bts angst #jeon jungkook #new

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palbabor-writes · 4 years

Note

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

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

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

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

Word Count: 11,800

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

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

Mise en Place

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Never seen you before.”

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

“You supposed to drink on the clock?”

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

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

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

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

“He doesn’t need to pay.”

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

The white shine of his hair always gives him away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh? Like the Hero Killer?”

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

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

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

“What toy?”

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

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

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

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

“Can I take a hit of that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

So, you hand in your written resignation.

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

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

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

“This doesn’t feel like you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

Then, Kamino happens.

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

Late one evening, your phone rings.

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

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

It takes you a minute to catch sight of him.

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

Now, to work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, you don’t.”

“Fine,” you say, biting your lip.

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

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About, well, you.”

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

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

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

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

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

So, you shove him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stand up,” he instructs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s worried he can’t do it.

He’s never been alone, not like this.

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

He needs to see this through.

He wants to, he has to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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rnisa · 2 years

Note

Could i get a death note mach up plz? I feel weird describing myself ngl XD

Im 5'0 (152cm) and i have shoulder length brown hair and eyes. I also have glasses. I love to read, draw, and ice skate. I think i can be quite a shut in, not really going outside much. But i do love to spend time with friends when their not busy. I think i can be kinda touchy when im around people i love (lots of random hugs, kisses on the cheek, and hair ruffling for my little brothers lol) i can be blunt sometimes. I never mean to be rude, but sometimes i dont think before i talk. Besides that, i often always put others first and can be very protective of them (i almost fist fought someone cause they pulled a knife to my dad. Iv never even punched anyone/thing but i was ready to throw down XD which is super dumb) i also do it with emotional issues, which i admit can be very draining. Im not the smartest person if u couldnt tell XD sometimes it takes me a minute to respond cause i cant focus, or sometimes ill just be really dumb, like when i thought new zealand was in the US for wayy to long. Apart from personality, i mainly like to dress punk or emo with ripped jeans, boots, lots of red and black. Or the complete oppisite and wear yellow sun dresses ang do a full cottagecore look, my style changes weekly pretty much.

Srry that was so long, i also ramble a lot XD

Of course you can, gorgeous! And thank you for being my first-ever Death Note matchup!!! Don't worry about describing yourself; it's definitely an interesting thing to do, though sometimes difficult. And no need to apologize for the length - the more you give me, the better! If all you gave me was "Hey I'm a cancer and I have brown hair," that wouldn't do me much good x,D So please, ramblings are always welcome <3 You didn't mention your sexuality so I cannot take that into account, I am purely going based off of personality and character alone. Hope that's okay! I got your message while I was at work, and I thought about it (instead of, y'know. Doing work) and I would match you up with...

Mello

While I don't have the greatest grasp on his character, I believe you two could be a good (and bad) fit for a few reasons. Mello wouldn't necessarily mind you being a "shut in", though he leads a semi-active lifestyle, as long as you'd be willing to do something with him here and there, you're okay. Doesn't have to be anything crazy - outings with just the two of you would be fine. Going for a motorcycle ride, a relaxing hike, or at a theme park once a month would be enough to keep him content. I do think he would want a more outdoorsy partner, but at the end of the day, he feels safer knowing you're home where the chances of you getting hurt are small. So it's not a deal-breaker if you'd rather be at home, just don't prevent him from going out when he wants to pop open a cold one with the boys, and you're fine.

I picture Mello as being very physically affectionate, so your advances would be welcomed. He enjoys showing you off and he loves coddling you, loves it when you cling to him or hold his hand/arm in public.

The main reason I think you two would be a good match, though, is how feisty you seem to be. If I'm reading into it correctly, it sounds like you're very passionate about your feelings, and you may be pretty emotional - which strikes me very similarly to Mello. Not to say people need to be identical to be a match, but I think when two people with that sort of energy come together it can be a beautiful thing. You're each others' ride or die, when you're on the same page everything is amazing and you feel on top of the world...but when you disagree, your fights are explosive. You might give each other the silent treatment. You might be petty and hold onto grudges, rather than talk it out in the first place. You both might joke about being a little toxic and crazy, though you are mostly only crazy for each other... In some ways, you may enable each other with your respective "bad" behaviors, but good things can come from it, too. At the end of the day, both of you know that he has your back, and you have his. And nobody is a better hype-person than he is for you, and you are for him. However, it would be nice if, at times, you are able to be the more "logical" person to help keep him grounded.

Sometimes he might tease you a little too much when you "say something dumb" ((A/N: You're not dumb. It took me two years to understand what 'irony' was.)) and your feelings may get hurt. But if you're able to communicate this with him, Mello will apologize and feel bad.

I don't think fashion/style is important to him (for a partner - Mello definitely loves fashion for himself) but from the description of how you dress, I think Mello would find it very attractive. I can see him liking the whole e-girl / e-boy aesthetic. Maybe it's just me but I feel like Mello is a simp. Like he has the capacity to be a simp for his partner... Maybe I'm just projecting but I also think he's into the whole bimbo / himbo thing, in a partner. But maybe that's just me speaking, as I love bimbos and himbos.

Thank you for messaging me, this was fun! I'm sorry if it wasn't a character you wanted - it's just what I think, and nothing here is at all factual! Secondary Matchups: Misa Amane, Touta Matsuda. I won't give an explanation for these here, but if you are interested to hear why for these two, just send another ask and say "Hey! I'm this anon [post link to this ask] can you explain why Misa and/or Matsuda?" and I would be more than happy to write them up for you ^.^ They just wouldn't be as long/detailed as I found Mello the most fitting.

#death note x reader #death note #mello #dn mello #mello x reader #mihael keehl #matchup

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kurtanaaa · 3 years

Note

if you don’t mind talking abt our friend puck ! what relationships/friendships would you have liked to see delved into for him? :)

MIST!!! HELLO!!!! I WOULD LOVE TO!!!!!!

oh my god, SO MANY.

first off, puck and santana. once again i am preaching my pucktana childhood besties agenda and once again i am Right. they def have a complicated relationship but thats all the more reason to explore it. we didnt even get one joke from santana about him being so bad at sex he turned her gay :/// someone was SLACKING! personally i think puck would find that hilarious

puck and mercedes: please the way mercedes didnt let him get away with any of his shit and immediately started making him bring her stuff... good for her. i like to think he just keeps doing that and every time he has money and he sees the coffee drinks she likes he gets her one. also remember how he stole a whole dog for her in night of neglect. he thinks shes awesome. she thinks hes entertaining

puck and kurt: crime bros. that is all love u @kurtdeservesbetter

puck and rachel: the stupid idiot and the one who pretends to not be a stupid idiot but is just as much a stupid idiot. the idiot and the enabler. it goes both ways. if rachel needs to do something wild and crazy rest assured puck probably supplied her with the crowbar

puck and artie: study partners partie study partners partie STUDY PARTNERS PARTIE!!!!!!!! fuck that bullshit about puck being dumb in season three hes just a math minded man not geography. and artie needs someone to ramble on about subjects to who will let him talk and occasionally ask questions. perfect.

puck and sam: ok my personal headcanon for puck is that he becomes a songwriter in the future (fuck that military jazz) and i think that sam would help him with the composing a lot just bc he has a different musical background and perspective

puck and tina: EVERYBODY SHUT UP THEYRE BESTIES. he makes dirty jokes and she pretends not to find them funny but inside shes cackling. also they skateboard together

puck and jake: they obviously had no idea what to do with him in season four other than make him the glee clubs weird uncle. but imagine if they did know and they actually built up a good brotherly relationship... had him actually give jake good advice... shown more of their moms hanging out and becoming a real family... giving both jake and puck the families they had always wanted but never got

AND ON THAT NOTE thats the main ones i can think of!!!! thank you SO SO SO MUCH FOR THIS ASK i loved talking about these hehe ur the bestest

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solipseismic · 2 years

Note

my friend, what is blue/fainn from? coz ur tags were very :eyes:

HOHOHO this is the ONE GUY that i will NEVER shut up about so thank you for enabling me!! this literally made my whole evening ❣ mentally i am kissing u on the mouth

blue is one of my ocs from as-yet unnamed space opera wip! the name his mother gave him is sepehr fainn which he occasionally uses for Official Business but everyone calls him "blue" (or "sek" which is blue in kahali) because he's had his hair (shaved short on the sides and back but long and in neat lil brads on top) dyed THE most Obnoxious blue in existence.

so re: the tags: "thinking about blue (fainn) and despite how long and hard he fought for freedom he will never truly belong to himself." short answer, he's a Man of the People and he will never escape his mother's legacy. long answer ...

so ok imagine there is space korea (sporea, if you will) and it is a planet called kahal. previously, it has been invaded by another colonizing race but got their asses kicked and sent on their way--after about a hundred and fifty years of occupation. in the wake of this, kahali society split into three main social castes--the noble ruling class, the military, and Everyone Else (artisans, farmers, merchants, etc). contrary to what many think, the military is not just at the bottom of this social ladder but perhaps six feet below it. the ruling class use and abuse their military for centuries, driving them to greater and greater heights yet all the while denying them basic human rights

about five hundred years of this goes by, and kahal becomes one of the most formidable planets in the system--not just for their exports, but because their military is unconventional but also the Scariest around (built on guerilla tactics with an emphasis on ending wars before they begin via assassination)

this is mostly just a Vehicle for me to insert themes about compressed modernity in a post-imperialism, post-invasion society (and the implementation of children / future generations to achieve impossibly high standards economically and societally that comes with this) into even MORE of my writing

so our guy blue is a soldier at the time of the five hundred-year mark. his mother, sikan fainn, is formerly the leading general of kahal's military and also his trainer*--and as a result, she pushes him the hardest out of anyone else. in a very bad way. his childhood is Brutal. at age 12 he decides he's had enough of this and runs off on his own to another planet, where he makes friends and heals from his trauma in healthy and fulfilling ways. at age 18, the socio-political climate on kahal is ripe for change--and this comes in the form of a revolution led by This Guy Right Here, who's been surreptitiously keeping tabs on the whole thing even though he left

blue and his cadre (closest friends, also all soldiers except for this one guy called formosa who used to be one of the ruling class) overthrow the noble elite and essentially upend the entire system and re-haul the governmental system top to bottom. it's all very fast and efficient and results in lots of executions, despite people (blue) trying to keep bloodshed to a minimum

after this, blue is known as the Revolutionary of Kahal, or just the Revolutionary, and now he is no longer his own person--if he ever really was. he's a representative of kahal and its people, formally or informally, whether he wants to be or not

"but sol," some might say, "you never covered his mother's legacy! also, how on earth is a child doing all this! he is a baby!"

WELL! kahali soldiers are known for hypercompetence from scarily young ages as a result of how they are trained and how society is set up--you don't go into the military, you're born into it. blue may be the most mentally healthy of my ocs (the bar is in the ninth circle of hell), but he does have mommy issues the size of at least half of alaska (for those not living in the states, this is Large). blue was never a child, he was a weapon. he was a tool in the hands of his mother and in the hands of the elite and though he may have freed his kin and repudiated his mother, he was stepping from one forge into another. if that makes sense.

*note on the training system: typically a one-to-one ratio of an experienced soldier training a Child from exceedingly young ages. these trainers are often one of the child's parents or legal guardian

fun trivia:

the elite are on average like 6'5 and the soldiers are usually in the 5'3 range. everyone else is somewhere between, but because of the social stratification that is more or less most rigid between the soldiers and nobility, the biggest discrepancy is There

blue is 5'7 because he's only half kahali, so he's considered Very Tall for a soldier

a cadre is essentially a squad of soldiers raised and trained together (sometimes) with whom one generally forms close ties with. blue's cadre was nine people strong, but two died in the Civil War--i talk about adeth del, zhelan nox, 27, and formosa fuyue a LOT as well, but there's also beran mire who's Just a Guy albeit one that is banned from 37 planets

#he's technically also a jedi oc but i do not let my sw content escape containment (the sw blog)#sepehr fainn #thank u SO much for asking about him u are the best ❣❣#pov u took a class on compressed modernity in korea and not only is that one of your problems but u are also now going to make it everyone #else's problem!#there's art of blue and hasseleh (blue's padawan) Somewhere floating around and im doing a peice with adeth del and formosa is next #on the list ...

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alexcabotgf · 3 years

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tag 9 people to learn more about their interests

TAGGED BY: @punishebe (thank u sm angel 🤍 🤍 🤍)

MUSIC

fave genre? rock of all kinds (classic/pop/indie/alt/punk etc)

fave artist? bands: fleetwood mac, the gits, counting crows, the 1975; solo artists: stevie nicks, joan jett, phoebe bridgers, halsey, lana del rey

fave song? you missed my heart by phoebe bridgers

song currently stuck in your head? male fantasy by billie eilish but also that our god is an awesome god gospel for whatever reason

5 fave lyrics? i have so many faves so these are gonna be the first ones i can think of off the top of my head

it hurts me to be angry / kills me to be kind — bob (cousin o) by the gits

you couldn’t have / stuck your tongue down the throat of somebody / who loves you more — moon song by phoebe bridgers

and she wonders is this real / or does she just want to be queen — the highwayman by stevie nicks

rulers make bad lovers / you better put your kingdom up for sale — gold dust woman by fleetwood mac

so you pull down the shades and you shut off the lights / because somehow we mixed up 'goodbye’ and ‘goodnight’ — possibility days by counting crows

BOOKS

fav book genre? mystery/thrillers but boy have they been disappointing me lately

fav writer? not to sound uneducated but i don’t think i have one. i haven’t read enough books from one singular author to consider them my favorite, the closest one would be gillian flynn since i’ve read and liked all of her books but idk

fav book? once again i don’t think i have an all time favorite standalone book, but the two favorites of 2020 for me were sleepers by lorenzo carcaterra and white oleander by janet fitch

fav book series? the millennium trilogy by stieg larsson

comfort book? probably something i used to read as a kid like the sisterhood of the traveling pants series

perfect book to read on a rainy day? either a hard hitting contemporary or a thriller

fave characters? i don’t have many favorite book characters but an all time fave would be miss lisbeth from millennium trilogy

5 quotes from your fave books that you know by heart? here are some that have stuck with me (even tho i haven’t read some of the books they’re from,,,,anyway)

for you, a thousand times over — the kite runner by khaled hosseini (leech rally haven’t even read this book but i think about this quote at least once a week)

for the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. they may allow us temporarily to beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change // what woman here is so enamoured of her own oppression that she cannot see her heel print upon another woman’s face? — the master's tools will never dismantle the master's house by audre lorde

always learn poems by heart. they have to become the marrow in your bones. like fluoride in the water, they’ll make your soul impervious to the world’s soft decay — white oleander by janet fitch

i’ll take care of you / it’s rotten work / not to me. not if it’s you — anne carson’s an oresteia ofc! a classic!! that i haven’t yet read lmao

a painful truth, and yet we must endure // he’ll have my hatred anywhere he goes — oedipus at colonus and oedipus rex respectively, transl. by david mulroy

TV AND MOVIES

fave tv/movie genre? drama, horror, thriller

fave movie? a few years ago i would’ve said girl interrupted but i’m not sure if it'd hold up at this point so i’ll have to go with my all time favorite franchise which is scream <3

comfort movie? anything that i have fond memories of watching (e.g american honey, empire records) or anything i used to watch as a kid (e.g lotr)

fave tv show? prison break. those bald men running around just make me feel a certain type of way

most rewatched tv show? probably house md but desperate housewives is a close second

5 fave characters?

gale weathers — scream

michael scofield — prison break

lisbeth salander — millennium trilogy i know i’ve already used her for fave book character but noomi rapace’s portrayal is chef’s kiss

tauriel — the hobbit

and of course i have to include my wife, the loml alex cabot — svu

tv shows or movies | short seasons (8-13 episodes) or full seasons (22 episodes or more) | one episode a week or binging (i usually binge older shows but prefer when only 1 episode is released per week) | one season or multiple seasons | one part or saga | half hour or one hour long episodes | subtitles on or off | rewatching or watching just once

TAGGING: @joanna-lannister @xavierdalon @retrodame @henry-cavill @hannahhunti @moonlight @sonosions @anyataylorjoy @simmonsjemma @anistonjen + everyone else who’s interested in doing this!

#tag games #punishebe #ro tysm for tagging me this was FUNNN #the only reason it took me this long to complete is because of book quotes #listen i might not be able to tell you what my five favorite book quotes are but i can easily tell you fifty fic quotes that made me want t #i have a separate folder for that with like 200 screenshots godbless #*made me want to lie down

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peachyteabuck · 4 years

Text

i’m a money symbol

summary: when ransom finds out he’s been cut from the will, there’s a different reason he flies into a murderous rage

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

words: 1655

trigger warnings: degradation, findom/sub dynamics, sex work,

notes: thank you to @helahades for talking to me about this concept when i was still debating writing it. ur an enabler but i love u very much

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

Ransom stares at you with eyes that rival that of pleading puppies - large and watery and a deep, deep blue. His clean-shaved face, tear-stained and reddened from the sobs that still riddle his body, is equally as pathetic.

“I-I promise I-I can pay you s-”

You cut him off with the raise of a single sculpted eyebrow, looking down at him as he falls to his knees - body folded and hands clasped together like a fervent believer praying for forgiveness after committing some heinous sin, or a servant begging their superior to let them keep their lowly position. Either analogy seems fitting given the circumstances, given his lack of inheritance and the slowly declining numbers in his bank account.

“One thing,” you hiss, lifting one of your expensive Louboutin heels so that it presses into the base of his neck, forcing his body into an even more unnatural position. He groans just a little at the pain - ass (and much more of him, probably) still sore from last night’s session. You ignore him. “I ask for one thing. It’s not hard. In fact, it was the one thing you could do quite well. Any now, what, you have none?”

Ransom gulps, nearly out of breath. “I-I have money it’s just that I-, I’m cut off right now I sw-”

The pointed heel presses further, his legs spreading underneath him to make room as his nose nearly touches the recently cleaned red oak flooring.

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss, practically spitting as you glare down at him. “Only good little boys who pay me to earn the right to speak to me are allowed to blubber like children.”

He whimpers as the sharp pain from your expensive shoe merges with the clumsy position of his limbs to settle in his blood – his whole body screaming like a banshee as his cock strains in his years-old designer skinny jeans.

“The worst part is,” you sigh, watching his muscles strain just as heat settles in your stomach. Slowly, but surely, it moves to your core. “I was looking forward to seeing you again. Can you imagine such a thing? Me, looking forward to seeing one of you stupid little pay pigs…”

A dry laugh fills the air that sense another wave of arousal through his nervous system, his muscles and brain screaming at him to get up and walk the Hell out of there while his cock pleads with him to stay in place.

“Now get naked,” you sigh, swishing the sweet cocktail in one of the glasses monogrammed with your initials you had gotten as a gift (again, not from Ransom) last year. “I know of a way you can be of use to me.”

Immediately he strips, your gaze heated and targeted as he peels that damned sweater he refuses to replace from his toned body. He sucks in a sharp breath as the air – cool despite the roaring fire – hits his bare skin, goosebumps erupting all over as he shivers under your heated gaze.

It’s amusing, to say the least, to watch his clothes hit the floor, kicked aside as if they were something worse than trash despite their designer tags. Money means nothing to Ransom Drysdale-Thrombey if it’s not being spent on you.

Without preamble, you kick him with a single heeled foot so that he’s knocked to his knees, hands strained at his sides as he desperately attempts to obey the rules that accompany punishments. As his eyes screw shut in pain, you take the few seconds to grab the worst thing you keep in the drawer of the small table next to your plush, deep purple velvet armchair. It’s the thing Ransom hates the most in this world – even more than his family or their stupid maid or being broke or even disappointing you.

Just as his eyes open, you lean down to lock his cock in the pink plastic cage with a wince-inducing click, depositing the key in the space between your chest and the baby pink fabric of your bralette. It’s simple, mostly sheer with embroidered flowers spanning over the length of each breast while barely concealing your hardened nipples. The matching panties show off your tummy and thighs – cutting you in just the right places so that you look even more heavenly than usual.

“Fu-uck,” he moans when he realizes what’s happened, what you’ve done to him. It’s almost cute in how pathetic it is, the sound he makes and the precum that gathers at the tip and how his stomach tightens with each breath. It’s cute how pathetic he is – how his face scrunches up and he bites his lips until they’re beautiful and plump. Ransom Drysdale-Thrombey may be a chauvinist asshole with an ego bigger than his trust fund (or, what he trust fund used to be), but damn can he be so pretty it hurts.

“Down,” is all you say, giving him a small hmm as he falls to all fours. His eyes remain focused on the ground as you haven’t given him permission to keep anything else in his eyeline. He doesn’t need to be told to keep his back straight, body barely flinching as you sit back down and plant your feet in the center of his spine, your authentic red bottoms a beautiful contrast to his milky skin.

“You like my shoes, baby?” you ask, rolling them back in forth against the ridges of his spine. “You got them for me when you had money—you weren’t as useless then…”

Ransom’s back is parallel to the plush white throw you’d placed on the ground for him, his palms, knees, and the front of his feet warming the fur as you rest your own feet in the center of his spine. He can’t see you as he faces your fireplace, doesn’t have the pleasure of watching you as you talk with other clients - other men with millions, maybe even billions more than him not only in their bank accounts, but in their futures. Your long acrylic nails, ones it pains him to think he didn’t pay for, taptaptap against your phone screen as messages are typed. Judging by the click he hears every so often (in combination with your shifting in your seat) Ransom assumes you’re also taking photos – but whether they’re of you to send to customers or of him to use as blackmail, he may never know.

It's painful in a plethora of ways – but the playboy can’t tell if the pit in his chest, the aching of his cock, or the sharp pain in his back hurts worse. None of these things improve with time, either, the hours marked by glasses of champagned downed and Venmo transfers made.

The only thing that makes it better is the familiar sound of your phone being locked and placed in the side table screen-down before your feet are planted back on the floor with two sharp clacks. Sounds that would normally make Ransom’s cock jump if not for the plastic that was locked around him.

“Get in position, you useless slut,” you hiss, your hand flying to this throat so you could squeeze a warning against his skin. “You’re going to pleasure me until I say you can stop.”

Ransom gulps, his eyes wide with fear and pupils blown from lust. He gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a way that reminds you of when he deepthroats one of your many, many straps, and bows his head in submission. “Y-yes Mistress,” he moans deep, his eyes fluttering shut as the sheer memory of your dripping cunt floods his mind. It’s been so long – too long – since he’s been with you, been inside you; and he’s desperate as you push your panties to the side to reveal your soaked lips.

Ransom waits for your nod of approval before he launches himself forward, placing wet kisses wherever he can reach. You’re sensitive already, little gasps falling past your lips when he takes your clit between his teeth and sucks.

You don’t do a lot of sex work that involves service clients – it’s exhausting, to say the least, requires a lot of set up and take down and the like. For a long while you did no contact work, but it was a few clients – Ransom included – that convinced you to break into it.

And, fuck does he make all the work worth it. His fingers slide into you with confidence and expertise, finding that special spot inside of you with ease, groaning into your dripping cunt each time you cry out his name.

“Jesus, baby boy,” you cry out between guttural moans. “You’re so fucking good for your Mistress aren’t you?”

He nods, flatting his tongue as his face moves up and down and that-

That is what breaks you.

You come on his face as your thighs nearly choke him – his hands digging into the insides of your thighs. Ransom himself can’t tell if he’s trying to pull him apart – desperate for air as his whole body goes cold from lack of oxygen – or if his arms holding them in place so he has the honor to die while experiencing pure euphoria. As your pussy pulses on his tongue Ransom wonders if he’s already passed over, if Heaven is the space between your legs and why he’s been allowed there despite his many, many sins.

It doesn’t take long before his movements slow for a moment, causing you to groan in frustration before grabbing his previously-impeccably styled hair.

“Did I tell you to stop, slut?”

He gives you a small whine before shaking his head, eyes large and jaw soaked.

You smile at his obedience. “Then get down there and eat me out until I’m crying.”

Ransom smiles before moving his head back down, returning to his position below you.

God, you think. This really is the best job ever.

#ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale/reader #ransom drysdale fanfiction #lukis writes stuff #ransom drysdale

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strangeradventuresofp · 4 years

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scarred part 2(firelord!zuko x reader)

requested by : @yepthatsame - Ahh I just read Scarred and it was so good! Do you think you do a part 2 where they meet again after years of his banishment? No worries if not!

A/N : thats such a good idea omg i cant believe i didnt think of it lmao but im so glad u enjoyed part 1 hopefully you enjoy this one too !!<3

part one

“All hail Fire Lord Zuko!”

The boy you had loved and missed, for so many years suddenly emerged right in front of your eyes. You couldn’t believe it; too stunned to notice that everyone was clapping. Tears threatened to fall as you wondered if he would remember you if you appeared before him. He seemed so different than when he left. He wasn’t vulnerable anymore, it was obvious by the way he held himself; straight back, standing tall, shoulders broad. He was a completely different person; the new Fire Lord. You were happy for him, of course. All he had ever wanted to do was serve and do his country justice, and now he is. It was just such a shock to you that after leaving you to capture the avatar, they now stood side by side, smiling genuinely at each other. It was very confusing to you, and you found yourself crying as you looked up at him.

Panicking, you frantically looked for somewhere to hide as the two began walking down the stairs to greet their guests. Suddenly, and open door into the castle caught your eye, which you dashed into, luckily without being seen. You didn’t know whether you were going to try to speak to him, you didn’t have a clue if he even remembered you.

“Can I help you?” You must have been thinking for a good while because eventually, a familiar yet very new voice called out to you. Frowning, you saw it was the Fire Lord, looking at you with confusion and concern. You tilted your head, not saying anything, just looking at him. He had more muscle than before, that was obvious. He had grown a lot taller. His hair was tied into a bun at the top of his head, instead of his signature ponytail, with baby hairs pulled out at his hairline. His eyes were a different shade of gold, they glistened and shone, even without the sunlight hitting him. You hadn’t seen his scar, and frankly, you never wanted to, but you really had no choice, frowning as you looked at it. “Um.. Are you okay?”

His words sent your mind into an emotional frenzy, and you broke down as you recalled the day he left you, falling to your knees, tears flooding down your face, sobs thick with sorrow. It took Zuko by surprise, not exactly knowing how to help. He knelt beside you and gently placed his hand on your shoulder, to which you flinched away, looking up at him. His heart ached at the sight of your tear stained face; puffy eyes, red cheeks and swollen lips. However, it wasn’t until he looked closer at your broken eyes that he saw. He saw that they were the same broken eyes , the same teary eyes that pleaded him not to leave. Gasping, he pulled you into a hug. You grunted, struggling in his grip.

“Get off!” Your voice broke as you pushed him away from you. Zuko didn’t know what to do. He thought you would be happy to see him after all these years, but then again his abrupt exit left you shattered, and he could clearly see it.

“Y/N..”

“Don’t you dare.” You glared at him, flames in your eyes. He sighed in defeat and shut his mouth, looking at you, waiting for you to say something. When you didn’t, Zuko sighed and opened his mouth once again.

“Y/N, please. Just let me-”

“Stop it.” You spat, venom thick on your tongue. “You think you can just leave me, your best friend, for three years, come back with the avatar as Fire Lord and I’ll forgive you? You’re stupid, Zuko.” He breathed when you said his name, sadness glossing over his eyes.

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, you’ll never understand.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix something like this.” Zuko dodged your gaze as you tried to lock your eyes with his. “I loved you. I loved you more than anything. I was there for you, through everything. And you left me, without a care in the world. Tch. Some Fire Lord.” The harsh words, and use of past tense, caused the boy to flinch, his brows knitting together in empathy.

“Y/N-”

“Stop saying my-”

“Can you just let me talk? Please?” You were hurting, and knew you deserved some sort of an explanation, so you allowed him to continue. “I’m sorry, Y/N. Truly. I can never, ever take back what I did. It breaks my heart knowing what I did to you. And I wish I could take it back. But, I just want you to know.. I never stopped thinking about you. I loved you a-and I still do. With all of my heart. I’m s-”

“Stop saying you’re sorry.”

“You’re why I changed my path. When I left, I thought my destiny was to capture the avatar and restore my honor, and come home, to you. To my family. But my Uncle got inside my head and I began to realize that you would hate me, if I enabled my father’s sick fantasy of superiority. So I had to do something about it. And that’s why I’m here, trying to make amends for what my family had done. I am so, so sorry, Y/N. And if you could ever find it in your heart to forgive me, I would be-” Zuko was cut off by you, pulling him into a tight hug. He sighed contently, happy to finally have you back in his arms, willingly. He stroked your hair as you sobbed against his chest. You felt safe in his embrace and gently leaned into him, smiling at his warmth.

“I never stopped loving you, Y/N.” Feeling too weak to say anything, you looked up to him and cupped his cheek in your small hand, smiling wider than you had before, tears staining your pretty face. Zuko leaned into your touch and smiled back at you, using his thumbs to delicately wipe the tears from your face. He pressed a light kiss to your temple before pulling you into a hug once again. You sniffled, before opening your mouth to speak.

“I forgive you, Zuko.”

“Thank you, Y/N.”

“Zuko?”

“Yes?”

“I never stopped loving you either.” Zuko smiled at your words, slowly leaning in before touching his lips with yours. You were both equally as happy to be back in each other’s arms. You loved each other, and you were finally together again. The Fire Lord finally felt like he was truly at home again, as did you, in his embrace.

“So... ‘Fire Lord Zuko’, huh?”

my masterlist (requests open!)

A/N : guys im SO SORRY i havent written for so long and i promise im getting to the other requests but it might take me a little while and im so so sorry but im suffering such bad writers block rn and ive been so busy the last few days too but anyway im so sorry this is short i hope u like it though and i also hope you have a fantastic day ilysm<3 xo p

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obaby-me · 4 years

Note

Your writing's really good! (~^-^)~* Can I get strong MC carrying their demon around bridal style?? (just an idea but imagine Levi being carried by MC in his favorite male character/ruri's cosplay :o, and for Belphie, maybe, him falling asleep during movie night or smth and MC just casually scooping him up to get him to his room?? For Mammon maybe rescuing him and running away from witches?) but u can think of smth by yourself ^^ can't wait :D

Thank you for the compliment anon. ♡

Manhandle the boys? I got ya covered. You had some great ideas, by the way. These turned into basically mini-stories.

Lucifer

“Chicken fight?” Diavolo asked you with a glint in his eye, always eager to learn more of the human world.

“It’s a pool game, where two people carry two other people and try to push the carried person off their person.” You explained, or rather tried to. Even for a mostly sober Lucifer, the explanation was a mess. A tipsy Diavolo found it impossible.

“Show me,” Diavolo asked. “Just show me.”

“It takes a minimum of 4 to play. And it’s done in a pool.” You laughed.

“You can’t do it outside of a pool?” Diavolo whined with a frown.

Never wanting to disappoint, you quietly considered it. “I mean…” Your eyes travelled to Lucifer, lighting up in a way the Avatar of Pride knew meant trouble. But with a shake of his head, knowing what was to come, he stood from his seat, and rotated his shoulders. Carrying you would be a simple task for him.

“If you can lift Barbatos, and I lift Lucifer, we could do a little demonstration. But we can’t actually play. Without the water it’s like, dangerous.” You suggest.

“Lift me?” Scoffed Lucifer, looking a little incredulous, while a delighted Diavolo barked out a laugh.

“Okay!” The prince agreed enthusiastically. His gold eyes flitting to the avatar of pride giving a silent, mortifying, order that sealed Lucifer’s fate.

Groaning into his drink, Lucifer quickly chugged down the last of his drink. You kneeled down to the floor, and Diavolo followed suit, as you instructed Barbatos how to climb on to Diavolo’s back.

“Like this?”

“Yes!” You nodded happily. “Lucifer, your turn! Hop on.”

The word no sat on his tongue but Diavolo’s expecting gaze wouldn’t allow for the word to pass his lips. “Perhaps I ought to be the one to—”

Suddenly one of his legs was yanked out from under him as you swung it over one side of you. You made no move to grab the other. “Stop worrying. I can lift you easy!” You assured him with a cocky grin.

“I don’t know—”

When you ignored his protests and attempted shift yourself between his legs to grip the remaining foot tethering him to the ground, in fear of losing his balance, Lucifer finally complied. He threw his leg over your shoulder, gripping on to your head and wrapping his thighs about your neck. He shot a glare at his liege. If you broke your neck, he refused to be held responsible.

To his surprise however, you stood straight up with ease, balancing him on your shoulders. He was rather impressed. Though that was sort of overridden by his unease at the sudden lack of control he had by being on your shoulders.

“Okay, now in a pool, Barbatos and Lucifer would have to shove each other off.”

A look of determination flashed across Diavolo’s face, and it took all three, Lucifer, Barbatos, and you to reiterate that this was not a game that could be played outside of the water.

Mammon

The witches call at the most inconvenient times. But Mammon knows he must answer.

“I’m sorry,” he grumbled in apology to you as he dropped the shopping bags he’d been carrying into your arms. “I’ll be right back,” he promised.

“Should we call someone first before you go?” You asked, waving a hand at the plaza that surrounded you filled with demons. Eyes flickered towards you occasionally, however they quickly averting upon recognizing the Lord of Greed.

He didn’t have time, but he also knew you were right. Groaning and grumbling he texted a request to his brother’s chat for someone to come and get you.

But there was no immediate response. Calls to several of the brothers also went unanswered—even when you made the calls. Mammon grew impatient—because he knew the witches were too.

“Looks like I’ll just have to take ya with me,” he sighed. “Ground rules, first.” Looking serious and he holds his fingers up, “Don’t say anything,” he begins, dropping one finger. “Don’t touch anything. Anything I say, ya agree with. Anything I tell you to do, you do—no questions. If I say run, run.”

You looked nervous—as you should be, so was he. It was a bad idea to take you. But it’s a worse idea to leave you alone.

Seeing the witches generally made Mammon a little queasy—but he can handle anything they throw at him. It’s you he worries about.

“Got it.”

“Don’t you worry, human. The GREAT Mammon won’t let anything happen you,” he said with a grin, trying to rid you of your worries. You give him a small smile in return and he throws an arm around your shoulder as he begins to lead you away.

Meeting with witches didn’t seem to terrify you as they invited the two of you in for tea and treats. Mammon however, declined for the two of you, getting right to the point of their requests. They made their demands rather politely, but the undertones of a threat obviously present.

The nature of their demands however, no matter how honeyed the language, were insane. Limos, and dresses, and jewelry, and tools used by witches, made of luxury woods and metals.

“There’s no way I can get all this!” Mammon shouted as he estimated the total.

“You can, and you will. We trust you’ll find a way,” one of them said sternly.

Another slid herself to your side, an arm drifting to wrap about your waist. “And while you do so, we’ll just enjoy some tea with—”

“Don’t you touch my human,” hissed Mammon. His eye flit to you, a dangerous glint in them, and he nods his head to the door in a silent order.

“Don’t you talk that way to us,” another witch hissed in return.

“Your pact is with me, not—” Mammon started to argue in return.

“Yes, it is.” One witch calmly stated, “and by our pact, I order you to—”

Before her order could be completed, she was thrown back, the literal rug ripped out from under her. Mammon’s eyes widened and turned to see the edge of the floormat sitting in your hands.

“Time to go,” you told him.

Suddenly laid out over your shoulder, hefted about like a sack of potatoes as you ran the two of you of the building.

Mammon wasn’t sure how to feel. He was surprised, that was for sure. Thankful to some degree, but humiliated as well—for being the one in need of saving, for the way he was being carried (ass up). And though he dared not admit, turned on. He could only hope you were too busy running the two of you out of trouble to notice him at half-mast.

Leviathan

A convention has come to the Devildom and ecstatic was a massive understatement. When the convention was announced months back, Levi was already including it in every conversation somehow. As the weeks grew closer, his fanaticism was getting so out of control Lucifer banned him from bringing it up in the group chat, the dining table, and specifically, in Lucifer’s presence.

“Today’s the day!” Shouted Levi, as was his morning ritual of the countdown. While he was not technically in the dining room, everyone could hear him from his room. Annoyed but relieved that finally the day had come that perhaps he’d finally shut up about it, the brothers gave a sigh of relief.

“Come on, come on, Normie!” He pounded at your door. “We have a very strict schedule to keep!”

“Levi, you sound like Lucifer. Give me some time to get dressed! Honestly, if you’re this excited you might accidentally transform.” You scolded him with laughter dancing behind your door—still refusing him entry to drag you out. “It’ll ruin your cosplay if you do you know. Have you even gotten changed yet?”

“I will once we eat breakfast. I don’t want anything to get stained. And you shouldn’t either! Come on out!”

“Levi, I’m already half into the costume. You want me to come out there half naked?”

Levi blushed at the thought. “N-no! Just take it off, normie. Get changed after! We need a perfect picture together as Henry and the Lord of Shadows! And we can’t have one if you’ve got food all over it.”

He heard you sigh and grumble, but he knew he was getting his way. You had been supportive of all his enthusiasm, despite the numerous reprimanding your received from his brothers for “encouraging” and “enabling” his behavior. You always had his back, just like Henry.

Why, you even agreed to cosplay as his Henry to his Lord of Shadows! He thought he was having the most blissful heart attack when you suggested it. You suggested to be his Henry.

He could hardly wait to see you dressed, but the reveal was something he would savor, dressed in his own costume. And it would be worth it. Additionally, once he got his picture of the two of you in your perfectly pristine cosplays, he would be posting it and using it everywhere. As his profile pictures, in his icons, framed in his room. He had it all planned out.

He rushed you through breakfast, through packing, and through the door. But you took it all with a smile. He knew you weren’t as excited about the convention as he was, but the fact that you had the patience to put up with him on this day meant the world to him. He’d already put some Grimm aside to buy you whatever you wanted at the convention as a gift of thanks.

The line was agonizingly long, even with his pre-purchased pass, and changing into your cosplays in your shared hotel room took a while more than expected. He missed an early morning panel and went hysterical.

“Levi, you’ll ruin your cosplay if you transform,” you warn him again from the bathroom as you adjusted make up on your face to get some details just perfect for your Henry imitation.

“We should have gotten here sooner!” He complained. “We should have-“

“Levi, I’m ready.” You called out, interrupting him before he could rant any further.

He swallowed hard, eager to see the result.

You looked perfect.

“Well?” You asked as you gave a small twirl for him to let him see it in whole.

“Every detail i-is, is—” His heart raced, his face reddened. It was not that your outfit was revealing, but you were cute. You were really cute. You were cute and in cosplay with him, for him. It was just an outfit, but the implications hit him like a ton of bricks. He was overwhelmed, practically in tears. Too overwhelmed, really.

He passed right out.

When he finally woke up, he realized he was slung over your back, carried through the convention halls. “W-what is happening?” He screeched in embarrassment into your ear.

You faltered and nearly dropped him. Quickly you adjusted him, bouncing him with your grip on thighs to get him balanced properly against you again. “Don’t shout,” you hissed your ear ringing painfully.

“The next panel was about to start and I couldn’t let you to miss it.” You explained as you trudged along to your next destination. “You’ve been looking forward to this one most of all.”

Touched by the sentiment, Levi tucked his burning face into your shoulder mumbling ‘thank you’s and praises that you were a perfect Henry.

Satan

The Devildom archive is massive, and yet given its size it is still overfilled with books and shelves that line the walls up to his high ceilings. Tall ladders that slide across the rooms on tracks in front of the shelves, to allow easy maneuvering are available, but not many.

“I can see it just there,” frowned Satan as he stared up at the dusty covered volume, embossed letters with faded and chipped gold foil labelling its spine.

On his tiptoes, reaching upwards, his fingers just barely above the shelf and his fingers graze the binding, only to push it further back on to the shelf and out of his reach. He cursed.

“I’ll have to fetch a ladder,” he spat, turning his from side to side to spot on. On the farthest ends of either side of him he could see a few unoccupied steps. The trek just to fetch the damned things was an exercise in itself. Why the hell was the archive this size with so few ladders between them? Or rather, why wouldn’t they restrict ladders to certain sections? Why did they have to make the process so difficult?

“Seems hardly worth the effort,” you commented, as you slipped your arms around his waist.

The action was sudden, but welcomed. Having you wrapped about him was instantly soothing, and his temper dropped immediately. He sighed, letting out the tension, and his hand came to rest on yours. “To get as perfect score on this essay, all efforts are worthwhile. This time I will be top Lucifer’s standing for sure.” He said with a nod.

With a light blush, he pushed his fingers between your digits in an attempt to hold your hand, but your hands instead tightened and gripped tight together, as if rejecting him.

Actually, your entire hold on him tightened. His eyebrows furrowed curiously.

Next thing he knew, his feet were no longer on the ground. His first instinct was to struggle as he was suddenly lifted into the air. “What do you think you’re doing?” He whisper-shouted, wide eyes trying to peer at your face behind him, rage rising with his embarrassment.

“I’m just helping!” You laughed, rubbing your cheek into his back in a reassuring gesture. “Can you reach your book now?”

“Ah, right,” he muttered, his face heating to a deeper red as he hastily tore the book from the shelf and patted at your arm to let him down. “A little warning next time,” he chastised with a small smile, his anger clearly evident in the way he punctuated his request.

You gave a quick “sorry” but your smile showed no real apology. Well, he’ll have to wretch a real one out of you in a bout of punishment later. He hoped you’ll be looking forward to it as much he was thinking of it.

Asmodeus

Your ball ensemble for Diavolo’s ball was magnificent, and Asmo, as your date wore its perfect match. He could not be prouder of his efforts to make you both look stunning for your evening out. He designed the outfits himself, weeks before, and today he’d spent all day preparing the two of you—hair, make up, nails, last minute tailoring. It had been exhausting, but it was well worth it.

All eyes were on the two of you the moment you’d entered the room, and he couldn’t have been more pleased. Not that it was unusual for people to stare at him—but tonight, you were on his arm, and he felt a sense of pride that was new to him.

Because I have you. And they can only dream to.

It took a few drinks to loosen you up to the idea of dancing.

“Just one song,” he begged throughout the evening.

You smiled and promised him just the one, and at three drinks, he had finally could lead you to the dance floor for at least a slow one. Having you in his arms was a delight, though you seemed so focused on your dancing that you were forgetting to have a good time yourself.

To lighten the mood, he made it a point to spin you, and then himself, rocking together with you before repeating the process. A spin for you, a spin for him. The two of you looked childish, almost ridiculous. The type of dancing a 5-year-old’s interpretation of a fairytale dance. Asmo, a man of allure and the pinnacle of sexy, was happy to play goofy if it meant making you smile.

It took another drink to get you on the floor again, but this time it was song that was much more upbeat. There was less concern in you now for your steps, a little sloppy, but full of joy, which is all Asmo wants. He gave you a cocky grin before lifting you slightly into the air and spun you.

Your laughter was the best song all night.

Much to his surprise, you locked your hands on to his waist and lifted him in return, mimicking his spin. Giggling in the thrill. Almost like a child, he asked for another spin and another, posing each time he was held up high for all to see until the song ended.

“Let’s see what else we can do with that strength of yours,” he panted, catching what breath he’d been losing in all his laughter.

“This one’s a bit of a slower one,” you commented. “Spinning might be—”

“Oh, no, honey. We’re done with dancing.”

Beelzebub

Beel’s a quiet guy but that didn’t mean he wasn’t affectionate. He was a hugger and he different types of hugs for different occasions.

He gave short but firm for hellos. He held a little longer for good byes. Thank you’s were half hugs and pats on the back. And I’m sorry’s were engulfing but gentle, never imposing. For comfort, he was

But this hug was a new one. It wasn’t one he’d ever given you before. And it wasn’t one his brothers had ever seen him do since he’d been down in the Devildom—not since Lilith.

He’d been gone for about five days—given some business direct from Diavolo to handle an incident on the other side of the Devildom with Lucifer in tow. Lucifer returned early, but Beel remained for two days more.

When Beel finally lumbered through the door relieved to be home. He was chilled from the rain pouring outside, hungrier than he’d ever felt in the past two decades, and in desperate need of some time to relax.

The first thing he heard was the patter of footsteps, running to meet his arrival.

“Beel, welcome home!” You shouted from the top of the stairs, laughing heartily as you came down to meet him quick as you could. Trailing behind you came Belphie, eager to meet him, but slowed down by his sin to reach him as fast as you did.

It was as if his exhaustion disappeared at seeing your smile, and your rush to meet him was so endearing, it warmed him—at least his face—instantly.

“Glad to be back,” he said with nod, opening his arms.

To his surprise you launched yourself into him, the momentum knocking into him. To keep balance, he gave you a spin, chuckling at your excitement.

“I missed you!” You shouted as he spun you about.

“I missed you too.”

He held you tight against him, and in response to his grip, you gripped him tightly back.

It’s an affectionate game of mimicry you two play often. If you tap a beat on his hand, he’ll tap it back with an addition. If you give him a kiss, he’ll give you two. Back and forth until one of you gives. It was a game generally played behind closed doors, but this was a special occasion—he missed you too much. Now it was game of who can give a tighter hug.

And he was determined to win.

He adjusted his arms around you to hold you just a little lower—and then lifted you off the ground. You giggled, pleased. It was only for a moment before he set you down. He grinned at you.

But his smile soon turned to shock when you in turn put your arms about his waist, lifting him and spinning.

Too stunned to respond, Beel lost the round.

“Never expected that out of you,” whistled an impressed Belphie, having finally descended down the stairs.

Beel could only nod, wide eyed in agreement.

You gave him a cocky grin, planting your hands on your hips and puffing your chest with pride. Beel too beamed with pride at his partner’s strength. He begins to invite you to workouts together, curious to see just how much you could lift.

Belphegor

Movie nights followed a very specific pattern. It was a scramble to get the boys together, and just when you think you’ve settled in, someone remembers something they’ve forgotten: popcorn, blankets, phones, chips, drinks, coasters, pillows. And of course, the matter of seating arrangements was always a battle. You had your designated seat, but the demons around you didn’t—each fought to take the seats beside you in some way shape or form.

“You had your turn last week!” Fumed Levi, glaring daggers at his younger brother Belphie.

It did little to persuade the seventh born who seemed to instead nuzzled his face deeper into your lap, a hint of a teasing smirk his only answer.

Grumbles and protests eventually died down as Lucifer threatened each one into settling in. Finally, they could all relax as the movie began to roll.

Lucifer fell asleep midway through. Mammon and Levi shouted out quotes in bouts of laughter. Satan shushed his elder brothers, and Asmo sighed and provided commentary on outfits and hair styles. Beel ate most of the popcorn and chips, munching away happily. Belphegor managed to last to its ending, but the minute the lights were brought back up, he went right to sleep, skipping the inevitable post-movie debates and commentaries by his brothers.

As it grew later into the evening, the boys slowly trickled out to their rooms to bed. You however, remained a pillow to the cat-napping avatar.

“I’ll carry him up,” offered Beel, the last of the conscious.

“No, I’ve got it.” You told him with a smile, a hand slowly stroking through Belphie’s hair as he slept. “I’m not quite tired yet. I’ll leave him undisturbed for just a bit longer.”

Beel nodded, and returned to his own room.

You browsed your phone for awhile longer, one hand mindlessly running through Belphie’s soft locks.

When you were good and ready for bed, you slowly sidled out from below Belphie. Carrying him was the easy part. The only difficulty you had was trying not to disturb him as you slipped your hands beneath him to lift him. You seemed to have succeeded, and Belphie was determined to let you believe it, amused that you were going to such lengths for him.

He’d been awake for some time, mostly from the time you started trailing your fingers through his hair. He didn’t dare move and let you know he was awake. He feared you’d stop if he did. So instead he laid and enjoyed your gentle petting him the way you might a beloved pet.

When you moved out from under him, he considered waking up to walk himself up, but the thought of you lifting him amused him greatly. He assumed you couldn’t, and to have you try and fail to do so would be the perfect time for him to wake up and tease you.

Much to his surprise however, you lifted him with ease, carrying him all the way to his room. He would be keeping this in mind for the next time he decided it was too much trouble to make the trip himself—play dead and he can get a free ride.

#obey me #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #headcanon #guess who's back #took me awhile to do this one #but it was a lot of fun #tryin' to come up with ways to have the boys lifted up #as well as get them some varied reactions was an interestin' challenge #i'm so sorry this took so long

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ankhisms · 3 years

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hi rey, im gonna enable u, also i rlly wanna know. what is ur fav thing abt wen ning!!? 💚💚💚

THANK YOU FOR ENABLING ME I LOVE YOU its so hard 2 pick just one favorite thing about him because he really is a character who means a lot to me as is probably. already clear from me never shutting up about him. but anyway i think if i had to pick one favorite thing about him its his loyalty and how brave and compassionate he is in that loyalty he loves the people in his life so much and is willing to do so much for them even when it might put him in danger like he didnt know jiang cheng very well at the time that he saved him from the lotus pier but he knew wei wuxian and knew that jiang cheng was his brother and so he cared and risked his own safety to save jiang cheng and then the other thing that i think of with that loyalty is his loyalty and admiration of his sister.. i really wish we actually got the chance to see him grieve for her after her death in the post 16 year time skip but god the golden core reveal scene where he tells jiang cheng ITS BECAUSE OF MY SISTER THE BEST DOCTOR IN THE WEN QISHAN SECT, WEN QING!!!! literally might be my favorite scene in the whole show because thats his big sister!!!!!!! thats his big sister she saved you jiang cheng!!!!!!! hes loyal to her memory and wants her to be remembered in that moment for how amazing she was. also of course his loyalty to wei wuxian is obvious i love their friendship so much theyre best friends and im going to have to stop myself here because im about to start writing 5 paragraphs about all the reasons i love wen ning

tldr im crying i love him so much thank u

#asks answered

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neerasrealm · 4 years

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I am enabling you

BAND AU BAND AU. SO GLAD I GET TO WRITE ABT THIS YEEEEEEE i kinda lost motivation towards the end but dfvsdgfhsd its fiiiiine. i got a couple more ideas for this au so...expect a couple more fics?? maybe??

Jason wasn’t sure if he could call the room a ‘practice room’. It felt more like a lounge. The walls were checkered with soundproof foam in places, as was the floor. There were also a lot of things hanging up on the walls. Posters of various rock bands and cult classic movies, all framed of course. The room was littered with instruments. Guitars, basses, a keyboard, a drumset, microphones- any instrument one could need, it was there. But there was also a lot of comfy furniture. Bean bags, a couple armchairs that had been dragged out of the trash, and of course, the old reliable sofa. It was stained and the springs were starting to break, but it was comfy, and Jason was quite happy lounging across it. He kicked his foot calmly in time to the beat of the music quietly playing from his boyfriend’s record player. He sighed and glanced over at the boyfriend in question. His name was Zalgo, and he had copper-brown skin and fluffy brown hair that was dyed red at the tips. Tattoos swirled up his arms and another stretched across his neck. He was covered in piercings too. His ears, his nose, a couple on his eyebrows, even a snakebite on his lower lip. His eyes were closed, and he was lounging in a big bean bag, a weed joint clenched between his teeth.

‘’They’re late again.’’ he murmured.

‘’Nnh?’’ the joint flicked upward as Zalgo grunted.

‘’The girls. We were supposed to have a practice session,’’ he looked down at the watch on his wrist. ‘’Twenty minutes ago.’’

‘’Mmmh…’’ Zalgo shifted in the bean bag, then abruptly jumped up in a startlingly quick movement. He stretched and groaned, then pulled the joint out of his mouth, smacking his dry lips. He looked over at Jason. He was wearing contacts again. These ones were golden and bright, and accentuated how...alluring, his gaze could be. His mouth curled up into a small grin. ‘’Just means more time for you and me.’’ he murmured as he walked slowly over to the couch where Jason sat. The redhead smirked at him as he leaned down toward him.

‘’...You’re getting old.’’ Jason murmured before shoving Zalgo’s face away. The other man groaned and swatted at him before breaking into laughs.

‘’I am not! I am just as cool and as sexy as senior year! Girls love me!’’

‘’You’re gay, Zalgo. And almost thirty.’’

‘’Hmph.’’ Zalgo puts his hands on his hips, pouting. Jason looked him over for a long moment. Zalgo had certainly kept his style from highschool. He wore a loose cut black tank top with a metal band’s logo on it. The neck was low, exposing his collar and the necklaces he wore around his neck. He was also wearing black ripped jeans with a studded belt with chains hanging off it. Almost every finger on his hand was decorated with a ring shiny ring. He was attractive, and carried himself with a confident flare only he could pull off. Jason could never pull that off. Showing so much skin, playing with makeup- it wasn’t his thing. He stuck with classic jeans, button-ups and ties with sneakers. Simple, yes, but it worked for him. And somehow Zalgo thought he was handsome enough to have dated him for over ten years. Jason smiled a bit and settled back in his seat.

‘’Do you...want to sit down?’’ he asked slowly. Zalgo looked down at him and grinned. He moved to lay down beside Jason, but the redhead put his hand on his chest and stopped him. ‘’...give me the joint first.’’

Zalgo huffed and rolled his eyes. He handed his boyfriend the joint and lay down, snuggling up against Jason as he took a drag of the joint. He sighed out, smoke blowing from his mouth. Zalgo looked up at him, watching him calmly. He reached up and caressed the other male’s jawline. ‘’...anyone ever tell you you’re fucking beautiful?’’

‘’No, my mother didn’t love me.’’

‘’PFFFFFT-’’ Zalgo wheezed loudly, bursting into loud cackles of amusement. Jason smiled and laughed gently. They were so distracted with just laughing on the couch like a couple of stupid dumb teens that they didn’t hear the front door being opened. They did however, hear it being slammed shut without warning, and it scared Zalgo so bad he fell off the couch with a yelp. The two stared at each other as they heard voices in the front hall downstairs. Zalgo grinned and rolled over onto his stomach, listening intently to the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs toward them. Zalgo skittered across the room and pressed himself against the wall beside the door.

Jason took a drag of the joint and watched the door, which was quickly and violently kicked open.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS UP KYLE?!"

He blew smoke out of his mouth. "Hello Natalie." He greeted calmly. Natalie was a short girl, with long caramel hair and tanned skin. Her eyes were bright and green, and she grinned wide at him. She was dressed in a denim jacket that hung off her shoulders, along with a white Guns N' Roses t-shirt and ripped navy jeans. As she waved her hands excitedly Jason could see the watch around her wrist glint in the light. A birthday gift he'd given her a few years ago.

"There you are!" Zalgo lunged out from behind the door and yanked his niece into a tight bear hug. She squealed and battered her fists against him, making the both of them giggle. Jason glanced over at the door and noticed a girl he'd never seen before, standing there looking around anxiously.

She had curly ginger hair and wore a simple green jacket with denim jeans. She was shorter than Natalie, who was short enough for a seventeen year old already. When she caught Jason's gaze she smiled nervously and waved a bit. Her smile quickly dropped however when she noticed the joint in Jason's hand. He glanced at it, then reached over and snuffed it out in the ashtray on the end table beside him. Zalgo would probably be mad about him wasting good weed later, but he didn't really care.

"This a friend of yours, Natalie?" The redhead asked as he sat up on the couch.

"This is Alice." Said a tall girl as she walked into the room and leaned against the doorway. Her name was Jane, and she was Natalie's girlfriend. She had dark skin, decorated with paler splotches in random places. She wore a long black dress with a leather jacket, fishnet gloves and tights, and platform boots that made a satisfying 'clunk' noise when she walked. Her hair was done up in braids, which were tied up in a pseudo ponytail. And she was also munching on a teacake that she'd definitely stolen from the kitchen. Jason glared at her.

"I told you to ask before taking those, y'know." He muttered. Jane shrugged and watched Natalie stumble out of the tight hug she'd been suffocating in. She turned to Alice with a grin and lunged over, slinging an arm over the smaller girl.

"This is Alice!" She said again. "She's part of the drama club in school. Really good singing voice!" She turned to the ginger girl. "Right? You're an amazing singer!"

"U-Um-" Alice rubbed at her arm anxiously. "I'm not...that good…" she mumbled, her head lowering. Jason softened as he looked at the poor, nervous girl.

"Nice to meet ya, Alice." Zalgo said gently. He walked over and crouched down, holding out his hand for her to shake. Alice stared at his arm.

"Your tattoos are so cool-" she blurted. She immediately slapped her hands over her mouth, wincing. Zalgo chuckled.

"Why thank you! I'm pretty proud of em myself." He said with a warm smile. "So you're Nat's friend?"

"I...guess," Alice rubbed at her arm again. "She uh- she said she wanted me to...join a band…? I-I dunno if I'm really cut out for that…"

Natalie shook her head and clamped her hand down on her shoulder. "Alice, I already told ya, your singing is incredible bro!" She leaned down and grinned at her. "Uncle Zalgo knows eeeverrryyythinggg about music. You just gotta impress him and you're in the band."

Alice looked at Zalgo. "You're...uncle Zalgo…?" She asked quietly, sounding even more scared. Zalgo nodded and stood up.

"Sure am." He gestured over at Jason. "That's Jason, by the way. He has a huge crush on me and sleeps in my bed. It's super embarrassing."

"Hey, you came out to me." Jason growled. Zalgo laughed.

"It's...nice to meet you, sirs." Alice murmured. Jason looked at her and smiled gently. He sat up on the couch so the others could sit down. Zalgo obliged, flopping himself down next to him with a soft grunt. Natalie was quick to join them, sitting on Zalgo's other side while Jane occupied the arm of the chair. That left Alice...standing in front of them. Like she was being judged. It reminded her eerily of an audition.

"How old are ya?" Zalgo asked with the tilt of his head. Alice fidgeted.

"Erm- fifteen." Zalgo looked at Natalie and arched a brow. Alice coughed. "B-But um- I've been singing since I was seven." She added. Zalgo gave a nod.

"Alright...think you can demonstrate?" He asked. Alice glanced away anxiously and he smiled a bit. "C'mon, you can't be any worse than Jason."

"Rude."

"I like Jason's voice." Jane piped up. Jason smiled.

"Thank you, Jane, you're the only person here who shows me any kindness…"

"Hey! I bring home pizza for you!" Zalgo said, pouting.

"You work at Pizza Hut, Zalgo. You get that stuff for free." Jason replied sternly. Alice laughed a little bit at the two of them. Jason turned back to her and smiled.

‘’So what style of music do you do?’’ he asked. Alice’s eyes widened.

‘’Oh- mostly showtunes, broadway stuff.’’ she replied. Jason nodded. She felt a bit more relaxed now. It just….felt like an audition. She’d done those dozens of times before. ‘’I can sing Defying Gravity- from uh- Wicked?’’ she suggested.

‘’Go ahead, girl.’’ Zalgo replied, leaning back on the couch again. Alice nodded and cleared her throat.

‘’Something has changed within me...something is not the same, I’m through with playing by the rules of someone else’s game,’’ she hadn’t had a chance to warm up, and she winced at how her voice sounded. But when she looked at the others they didn’t seem to notice. ‘’Too late for second guessing, too late to go back to sleep…’’ she took a deep breath, preparing herself for the high notes coming up. ‘’It’s time to trust my instincts...close my eyes...and leap.’’

‘’Stop.’’ Zalgo interrupted her. She stopped and looked at him, afraid. Had she failed the high note? Did her rusty voice really sound that bad…? ‘’You’re amazing girl!’’

‘’Wh-wha-’’

‘’Seriously! You sound like you could be on broadway!’’ Zalgo grinned wide at her as he spoke. Jason nodded in agreement. Nat hopped up off the couch and slung her arm around Alice’s shoulder again.

‘’So is she in?’’

‘’Well of course she’s in!’’ Zalgo stood up and thrust out his hand. ‘’Welcome to the band, Alice.’’

Alice smiled sheepishly and took his hand. ‘’Thanks...what uh- what do I get for being in it?’’

‘’Free music lessons and pop tarts. Plus vibing privileges.’’

‘’V-Vibing privileges…?’’

‘’You’re allowed come over whenever.’’ Jason explained. ‘’Though you probably have better things to do than hang out with two thirty year old men who do nothing but watch Netflix all day.’’

‘’Oh.’’

‘’Oh c’mon, we’re cool!’’ Zalgo pouted at him. ‘’In fact, I can prove it.’’

‘’Please don’t.’’ Jason murmured. Alice watched Zalgo scamper over to the corner of the room and grab one of the instruments. He held it up proudly. It was a red guitar, with two necks and a body cut into jagged shapes. He grinned and held it down to playing height, strolling back over to Alice.

‘’Pretty sweet, huh?’’

‘’Oh my god do you have to show that thing to every guest we get?’’ Jason called irritably. Zalgo shot him a look.

‘’How do you even play that…?’’ Alice asked in amazement. Zalgo smiled.

‘’Lots of practice and quick timing.’’ he replied, strumming a few chords. ‘’What instruments do ya play, girl?’’

‘’Oh uh- I- don’t. I just sing.’’ Alice glanced away nervously as she spoke. Zalgo arched a brow at her, surprised.

‘’I thought she’d be good for backup!’’ Natalie chimed in.

‘’I think she’d be good for my songs,’’ Jane added. ‘’Just like with Jason.’’ Zalgo nodded and looked at the ginger girl for a moment. He turned on his heel and put his beloved guitar down, then moved over to another part of the room and rummaged through a plastic bin he had laying around.

‘’I know just the thing for you then,’’ he murmured. Alice looked surprised, until he stood up again and held up a tambourine. ‘’This is exactly what we’ve been missing, and it’s easy to learn!’’

‘’...oh.’’ Zalgo strode over and handed the tambourine to Alice. She looked at it for a moment, then shook it halfheartedly. He grinned and clasped his hands together.

‘’Perfect!’’

Jason sighed quietly and climbed up off the couch. He dusted his hands off and glanced at Nat and Jane. ‘’You guys hungry?’’ he asked. Zalgo shot him a look.

‘’Wait what happened to practice?’’ he whined. Jason rolled his eyes and walked over to the door.

‘’You already showed off your guitar, Zalgy. And I’m hungry.’’ Jason muttered. ‘’And I’m sure the girls are starving too.’’ he turned and looked at his boyfriend. He knew Zalgo couldn’t say no to him, not when he pulled out that nickname. He eventually sighed.

‘’Fiiiiine.’’

#creepypasta fanfic #creepypasta fanfiction #creepypasta #writing #jalgo #jason the toymaker #zalgo #zalgo creepypasta #clockwork #clockwork creepypasta #natalie oulette #alice jackson #jane arkensaw #jane the killer #the band au #ask #clowningking

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