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babygirldabi · 2 years ago

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Runaway Part 6

CW: MDNI, smut with some plot, implied PTSD, mentions of abuse, mentions of past abuser, female reader, implied kidnapping, Daddy kink, creampie, Dabi is a dick but it’s fairly justifiable, I wrote this in short bursts in the past four months so the editing is probably rough, I think that’s all, let me know if i’ve forgotten anything- also this is my first time back writing so it’s not as long as I’d like it to be but I wanted to give y’all SOMETHING

I also want to say thanks for your patience, I haven’t released any writing since my friend’s unexpected death in February and I appreciate everyone who waited so kindly for me to get my shit together. It’s taken me a lot to pull out of this funk and start writing again but you all make it so worth it and ily much

Tags: @kierewrites @osamusriceballs

“Should have apology fucks more often,” he murmurs into your hair, and you roll your eyes.

“I thought you said you’d never make me mad again?”

“Oh, I’ll definitely make you mad again at some point, baby. I’m a fucking idiot.”

You start giggling, quietly at first before wheezing out a breath, and Dabi’s shoulders shake as he laughs with you.

He nuzzles your cheek, plants a soft kiss on your temple. “But I promise, I won’t mean to.”

“Appreciate that,” you whisper, feeling him settle against you as his breathing slows, drifting off. And then, impulsively, “I love you.”

Dabi’s eyes fly open.

“What?” His voice is a hoarse whisper in the dark.

“You don’t have to say it back,” you rush to say, almost at the same time. “It’s okay if you don’t say it back-”

“I…I-” You can feel him hesitating, stiff and uncertain before he sits up. You rise quickly with him.

“I’m sorry, I just needed to say it.” In the shadows, you can just barely make out his eyes, wide and staring at you.

Dabi is stunned. Nobody’s ever said this to him. Maybe his mom, when he was a little kid, but even if she did, he doesn’t remember. He’s not even sure he knows what love is. What he feels for you is strong, absolutely- but love? Does he love you?

“I… can’t?” He whispers miserably, gaze sliding down to the sheets. “...Know that’s probably not what you want to hear, I don’t wanna make you sad-”

“I’m not sad,” you say, almost too quickly, but you reach out and touch his arm softly. “It’s okay. Really. I just needed you to know.”

Dabi is silent for a few seconds, trying to discern the truth in your voice, assuming you’re just trying to make him feel better for being an emotionless piece of shit, but when he raises his eyes to face you again, he doesn’t see any sadness, or anger… no sign that you resent him.

Of course you don’t. You’re a goddamn angel.

You tug his arm downwards gently. “Let’s lay back down. Really, it’s okay.” You sink back down into the sheets, waiting for him to join you. Dabi swallows hard but follows your lead, slinking back down and pulling you towards him so that your back is to his chest. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and you stroke his arm gently.

“I promise it’s okay.” And it is. You knew this was a 50/50 shot, given Dabi’s mysterious background and intolerance for sappy things. You know how he feels in other things that he does for you, the way that he treats you. And that’s enough for you.

Meanwhile, Dabi is once again feeling like a piece of shit, thankful for your graciousness, but a piece of shit nonetheless. He knows you wanted to hear it. He just couldn’t bring himself to say it.

Anything he’s ever thought he’s “loved” has left him. He feels like the words are almost a curse, ensuring his perpetual loss. He doesn’t want to feel like that again, if you decide to walk away. Dabi lays there, considering all this, until your breathing slows and deepens. Only then does he close his own eyes, and gives in to sleep.

He can worry about it tomorrow.

You wake up earlier than Dabi the following morning, slipping out of bed as quietly as possible so that you don’t disturb him. Dabi mumbles in his sleep and snakes an arm across the mattress in your direction, but otherwise doesn’t wake up.

Tiptoeing, you gather some clothes and slip out the door, heading for the shower.

The League’s bathroom used to be a fucking nightmare before you were hired. Dust and dirt had filled the drafty space, the checkerboard tiles, clawfoot tub, and outdated toilet all going unwashed for who knows how long…long enough to be a biohazard. In your “Bitch Duty” days, you scrubbed the everloving fuck out of it, and have made it a point to reclean at least once a week. Dabi insists you don’t have to, but you’ve explained to him- several times- that if a bathroom isn’t shiny, you cannot bathe in it.

How can you possibly feel clean if you’re bathing in a dirty tub? You’d asked him, when Dabi argued that your weekly ritual was ridiculous. He’d shrugged and muttered something about how it didn’t matter to him. Well, it matters to me, you’d responded primly. He’d rolled his eyes but smiled, and never brought it up again.

The room begins to fill with steam as you crank the hot water up, stepping out of your clothes and hopping in. If it weren’t for Toga, you truly believe there would only ever be a single bar of soap and maybe a two-in-one bottle on the shelves. Shaking your head at the thought, you reach for the strawberry-scented shampoo you share with Toga and begin to wash your hair; the most taxing part of your shower. Your hair is long and thick and takes a long time to work though. Somewhere in the middle of this, you think you hear the bathroom door open and then quickly shut again.

“Hello?” You call, praying you’re not gonna have to have a conversation with one of the boys about using the toilet while you’re in the shower again.

Yeah, it happened. You don’t want to talk about it.

It was Shigaraki.

Getting no response, you shrug and go back to what you were doing. You’ve just reached the ends of your hair when the shower curtain flies open and Dabi jumps in, making you shriek.

“Baby!”

He grins at you wickedly. “You didn’t wake me up.”

“I wanted you to get your rest!”

He shrugs, still smirking. “I’d rather be in here with you.”

“Well, if you’re gonna be in here with me, the least you can do is help me with my hair,” you sniff, feigning annoyance. Dabi chuckles, swiping one big hand across your soapy scalp.

“Looks like you already took care of that, sweetheart.”

You huff. “I still have to rinse it and then condition it. Make yourself useful, damn it.”

He snorts. “Whatever you say. Lean your head back,” he instructs, and you comply, closing your eyes as the warm water, accompanied by Dabi’s careful hands, rinse the suds from your locks. When he’s done, Dabi pulls the conditioner bottle down, squirts some in his hands, and smoothes it gently through your hair, humming absentmindedly.

His hands are so gentle that you shiver despite the warm water. “That feels nice,” you half-whisper, and Dabi chuckles.

“Any time you want, doll.”

You turn to wind both arms around his neck and pull him in for a kiss. After a long minute, he breaks the kiss and steps back, only sparing your pout a passing glance.

“Sorry. It’s my favorite part.” His eyes gleam as he squirts body wash into a washcloth, rubbing it into a foam, and steps back towards you. Gently, his hands push against your shoulders, encouraging you to lean back against the tiled wall.

You allow yourself to relax completely, melting under Dabi’s touch, warm cloth roaming the expanse of your skin, rubbing you into a lather. You practically purr with content. “D’you do this for all the girls?” You tease him lightly, cracking an eye to gaze at him.

Dabi cocks his head, genuinely considering. “Nah. First time, actually.” He sounds surprised. “It’s almost like you’re turning me into a fuckin’ simp, or somethin’,” he adds in a half-grumble, making you snort.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He stoops his head briefly to kiss your sudsy shoulder. “Should,” he mutters, then directs you under the stream of hot water and begins to rinse you.

You close your eyes and lean into his chest, relishing in his long fingers running through your hair, washing away the conditioner, then skirt down your body, assisting in washing away the soapy trails. His cock twitches against your hip, and you hide a smile as your lips drift up to kiss his neck. Dabi inhales sharply and responds by abandoning his task to grip your ass with both hands, massaging your plump cheeks as his cock hardens against you.

“Fuck, doll,” he breathes, as you give him a devilish grin and turn to press yourself against the wall, offering your ass. His hand trails down your spine, pushing on your back to force you to arch higher for him. “Are you sure? Last night…”

You glance behind you, biting your lip at the sight of his lust-blown eyes sliding down your back. “Please?” You ask, so sweetly he groans in response.

“Yeah.”

With that, he seizes your waist, pulling you back against him and grinding his hard dick against your damp folds, teasing. You sigh, pushing back against his hips, encouraging him.

As you feel him lining up with your entrance, you brace your hands against the wall as well as you can, then close your eyes as he sinks into you. You’re still so sore from the previous night’s three rounds, but Dabi just…does something to you. The ache and the stretch feel delicious.

“Oh, fuck,” you moan, just as he sighs a quiet “Shhhhit.” Gently, carefully, you begin to push back against him; small, tentative pushes that only sink him in deeper. You are rewarded by Dabi’s quiet gasps, the feel of his fingers pressing into your waist so hard, you know he will leave bruises. You don’t mind.

In response to your little pushes, Dabi begins to match your thrusts- how can he not, with the way you’re sucking him in? “Goddamn, baby,” he breathes, pushing one hand into your back to keep you arched as he begins to fuck you harder. “Doin’ such a good job for me, sweetheart.”

“F-feels good,” you whimper, allowing him to take over, his thrusts nearly pushing your face into the wall.

“Yeah? You feel good, baby? Whose pussy is this?” He demands roughly, digging his fingers painfully into your hip.

“D-Daddy’s,” you whine, scrabbling against the tiled wall, trying to hold yourself up against the relentless pace. “Daddy’s pussy.”

“Yeah,” Dabi groans, pumping still harder, “Daddy’s tight little pussy, creamy little pussy…suckin’ me in like this- f-fuck, gotta cum soon, sweetheart, I’m not gonna last-”

Hearing that you’re the reason Dabi’s so unraveled only tightens the coil in your belly, and you begin to push back against him in earnest, feeling yourself climb higher and higher as he whispers filth in your ear. You don’t feel your orgasm coming until it hits you like a train.

“Fuck-!” You cry out, knees buckling as you cum.

“Good fucking girl,” Dabi gasps, catching you before you can fall and holding you against him so he can fuck you through your high, chasing after you seconds later.

“Fuck- ah-ahhh,” he moans, loudly, hips stuttering against yours as ropes of cum paint your walls. He pumps once, twice, three more times before he carefully pulls out, chest heaving as he turns you around and lets you nuzzle into his shoulder, both of you still shaking. You remain there, wrapped around each other, until the hot water runs out. Before it can change to ice cold, Dabi swiftly leans around you and shuts it off, then reaches outside the shower to grab a towel.

“C’mon, insatiable beast,” he teases, helping you step out of the tub before he begins toweling you down briskly. “Can’t stay here all day.”

“I wish we could,” you grumble, and he barks a laugh, handing you a smaller towel to wrap your hair in before grabbing one to tuck around his waist.

Once you’re both dried and dressed, you head to the kitchen for breakfast.

Spinner and Shig are seated at the table, Spinner reading the newspaper and Shig digging into a box of sugar cereal. Beyond them, Toga stands at the stove, scrambling eggs. The coffee maker pops and sputters and steams, filling the room with a fragrant promise of caffeine. You blink in surprise at how domestic this feels, how cozy.

“Good morning!” Toga sings, turning to beam at you and waving the spatula. “You’re just in time. Sit down.”

You obey, sitting down across from Shig, who throws you a brisk glance before digging into his Froot Loops.

Dabi plunks himself down in the seat next to you, snatching a section of newspaper from Spinner, who rolls his eyes but otherwise doesn’t complain.

“What’s going on in the world today?” He questions mockingly, scanning the headlines.

“Maybe more of the country-wide reach for the missing ex Hero?” Shig grumbles, casting you an irritated look. You stiffen as Dabi sighs.

“We talked about this,” he reminds Shig, in a tone that could pass as a warning if he wasn’t talking to his boss.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re a homeless shelter now. Got it.” Shig snorts and digs a spoon into his cereal.

“Shut up and eat your breakfast, Shiggy,” Toga interrupts cheerfully, setting a cup of coffee down in front of him. “Y/N is staying and we are better off for it. That’s just the way it’s gonna be.”

“Or what?” Shig snarls, but takes a sip of coffee anyway, malice fading from his tone.

“Or I leave with her. And, I suspect, Dabi leaves too.”

Your head shoots up to stare at Toga in amazement. She throws you a wink over Shig’s shoulder. Beside you, Dabi raises a singular eyebrow, his lips twitching into a smirk as he stares unblinkingly at his boss, a challenge.

Shig’s already-grayish face blanches at this, opening his mouth to respond before thinking better of it and drinking more coffee instead.

“Now.” Toga claps her hands together expectantly and beams at you. “How do you like your eggs, angel?”

* * *

After breakfast, Dabi announces that Shig is sending him on a day mission. Seeing you scowl at this, he chuckles, ducking down to kiss your cheek.

“I’ll only be a few hours, I promise. I’ll be back before nightfall.”

Your scowl remains; you had wanted the whole day with him. You wanted every whole day with him, but after your hiccup last night, expressing this doesn’t feel comfortable in the moment.

“You’re pouting extra hard today. Why?” Dabi sits on the end of the bed in front of you, reaching out and tugging at your hips until you shuffle between his knees, arms crossed.

“I’m not pouting extra hard.” You raise a hand to your neck, scratching a nonexistent itch, avoiding his eyes.

“Yes, you are. Use your words,” he teases, sapphire eyes peeking up at you between long strands of black hair.

You sigh. “I just hate it when you go on missions without me. I never know if you’re safe.”

He rolls his eyes at this, pulling you down into his lap. “You really don’t need to be worrying about my safety, Princess. I can handle myself.”

“No, I know. I just wanna go with you. I don’t like when- when we’re apart-” for some reason, this admission, despite everything else, makes your face flush with heat. It feels vulnerable, soft.

Dabi smiles and reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before cradling your cheek. “It won’t be long.”

You sit on his bed and watch despondently as he pulls on his coat and his boots. “How long?” You finally ask, dressing the answer.

“A few hours, tops. I have to go uptown. I’ll be back before sunset.” He leans down to kiss the crown of your head. “I don’t know who else might be here today, so you might get bored, but you can watch tv or read any of my books. Make yourself at home.” You lift your face so he can kiss you properly before you go back to pouting. “It’ll go by fast, doll. I’ll be back soon.” With one last lingering look, he’s out the door and gone. You hear his faint footsteps cross the front room to the front door, and then that closes, and there is silence.

For a while, you try to stay busy. You really do.

You fold some laundry. You flip through a couple books, and watch tv listlessly. Finally, you wander around the house looking for Toga, or Spinner, or anyone- but the house is empty. Everyone is gone, out and about, to do whatever they need to do. Everyone but you.

You heave a sigh, padding back to your own bedroom, and throw yourself across the comforter. This is the price of the manhunt, the cost of staying with the League, and you get why they’re worried, but you’re just so bored.

I was a hero for years, and they act like I can’t take care of myself, you think resentfully.

Inspiration strikes.

You get up and hurry to the closet, rifling through soft clothes to find the hoodie you were wearing the last time you saw Hawks. Finding it, you seize it and plunge a hand into the pockets until you find what you were looking for.

Ah, there it is. Hawks’ number, neatly written on the folded piece of paper. You’re glad you left it in your pocket, you think vaguely, or else Dabi probably would’ve found it and burned it.

Flipping open your burner, you type the numbers into the message bar and shoot off a quick text:

Hey.

The response comes quickly, quicker than you expected.

Hawks: Who’s this?

Damn, I can’t believe you forgot about me so quickly. You JUST gave me your number.

Hawks: y/n?

The very same (: everyone’s gone and I’m bored.

Hawks: heard. I’m off patrol. wanna go get something to eat?

You begin to type a response, oh, no, I couldn’t, I’m not supposed to leave the house- - and find yourself erasing it just as quickly. You stare at the screen, chewing ferociously at your lower lip, considering.

This could be a good way to show the League that you’re okay on your own. Plus, you wouldn’t technically be leaving the house by yourself- you’d be with Hawks, and he’s working with the League.

But Dabi? A little voice whispers in the back of your head, causing you to hesitate, but only momentarily as you quickly shrug it off.

Hawks is my friend. He’s gonna have to get used to it at some point.

You open the burner and rapidly click out a response: sounds great. Can you meet me here?

Hawks: see you in twenty.

Hawks is positively beaming as you shut the front door, his wings ruffling excitedly at the sight of you.

“Nice disguise,” he teases, scanning you and taking in the black leggings, oversized black hoodie (Dabi’s), baseball cap, and sunglasses. “You look like an undercover celebrity.”

He’s one to talk; a black baseball cap covers his thick honey hair, and dark sunglasses have replaced his usual translucent yellow ones.

“That’s kind of how it feels,” you sigh, your tone expressing just how much you don’t want to be a celebrity. Ever. You switch to a lighter subject as you begin to stroll down the street together. “What’s the plan?”

“Well, I was thinking about a restaurant, somewhere nice, sit-down, but…that’s not really safe for you. So if you’re okay with some street cart food, I have the perfect place.”

You frown. “Sorry.”

Hawks looks surprised. “Sorry why?”

“You should be able to sit down and have a meal if you want. I make that impossible.”

Hawks snorts. “Please. Restaurants are a heroes worst nightmare, anyway. Everyone scrambling and scraping and asking for autographs. I’d rather do something lowkey, anyway.”

You’re not quite sure you believe that, but shut your mouth regardless and follow Hawks up several side streets, coming into a more populated area. People of every age fill the streets, laughing, arguing, chattering. Several food carts steam here and there on the sidewalks, releasing tantalizing scents into the air. You tilt your face back and inhale deeply, mouth watering. Hawks laughs.

“What do you smell?”

You consider this, sniffing more intentionally. “Dango…Korokke…Onigiri?” You look to see him nodding in approval, smiling.

“Which sounds best?”

“Onigiri,” you answer immediately, and he chuckles and leads you over to one particular vendor off to the right.

“Wait here,” he mutters, and you nod and step back as he approaches the vendor and places an order. You take the spare minutes to take in the street scenes before you, people watching nosily. You’re so focused that you don’t notice Hawks approaching until he’s right in front of you; you jump at his voice so close to your ear.

“Lunch!” He holds the rice balls up as proudly as if he made them himself. Handing one to you, he leads you to a bench a few feet up and pulls you down next to him to eat.

It’s nice to sit in a public space with a long-time friend, something you certainly thought you’d never get the chance to do again- and just talk. Hawk tells you about his work with the League, his working relationships with Dabi and Shigaraki, his unexpected fondness for Toga. You lose yourself in hours of conversation before your phone starts ringing.

Oh, shit.

You don’t need to glance at caller ID to know who it is.

Hawks doesn’t see your anxiety and smiles wryly. “Are you past curfew?”

“Well…the thing is…curfew is kind of nonexistent.” You swallow hard, still staring down at the burner.

Hawks looks back at you blankly, not understanding. “Meaning?”

“Meaning…I’m not really supposed to be out of the house, and I decided to go, anymore.”

“Aw, shit.” Hawks sighs. “You’re gonna get me in trouble, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be silly-” You go to answer the phone, but the ringing has stopped. Within two seconds it begins to ring insistently again. You gulp, then flip the phone open and hold it up to your ear. “Hi, baby.”

“Where are you?” Dabi’s voice is frantic, and a wave of guilt washes over you. You should’ve told him.

Hawks laughs easily in the background. “Sorry, man. We lost track of time.”

There’s a long silence on the other end, and when Dabi speaks again, his voice has gone cold as ice. “Where are you.”

“We aren’t far,” you say hastily, nearly tripping over yourself in your haste to stand up, handing Hawks your trash and watching him amble away to discard it. “A few blocks up. We had lunch.”

Silence again. “You weren’t supposed to leave Headquarters.”

You sigh. “Baby, really-”

“Stay where you are,” Dabi instructs, and then the call ends, abruptly.

Fuck.

You turn to Hawks as he approaches, and he frowns. “You’re white as a ghost. Guess that didn’t go so well?”

“We need to get back,” you say shortly, turning on your heel and heading back in the direction you came. Hawks catches up easily, ducking his head and trying to read your face.

“Y/n, he can’t keep you in the house all day. That’s like…prison.”

“It was for my own safety. I shouldn’t have just left, I should’ve at least let someone know-”

“Y/n, hey, hold on-” Hawks catches one of your hands and turns you to face him, holding both of you up in the crowd. “Is he-is he hurting you?”

“What? No!” Yanking your hand out of his grasp, you stare at Hawks in horror. “He would never hurt me. Never.”

The winged Hero hesitates. “Then why are you acting so afraid of him?”

You open your mouth to answer, but you’re interrupted.

Hawks has finally been recognized.

Cries of, “Hawks!” “Hey, Hawks!” “What’s up, Hero?!” Begin to rise from voices in the crowd, a sea of eyes turning on you both slowly but surely. Hawks utters a curse under his breath, takes your hand, and pulls you away. “We need to go, now.”

Already, people are holding up cameras and cell phones, flashes going off in every direction as the crowd becomes more excited over spotting the high-ranking Hero in public, doing civilian things. You put your head down quickly, pulling your hood up and walking as fast as you can behind Hawks as he pushes through the crowd.

This is why, you realize. This is why Dabi didn’t want me to leave. Someone-anyone- could recognize me. Report it to the authorities. Report it to Inferno.

That’s as good as a death sentence.

By now, the paparazzi have joined the fray, clattering after you in the crowd, calling out. “Hawks, is this your new girlfriend?” “Who’s the pretty lady, Hawks?”

Hawks only moves faster, yanking you down a short alley and into another around the back of the first. You have tears in your eyes, just short of giving into a panic attack, huffing as you struggle to keep up with his much-longer strides. You open your mouth to ask him if there’s any way he can just fly you away when a burst of blue fire comes so close behind you, it warms your back.

You jump as the crowd screams and begins to scatter, fleeing in every direction. Dabi stands at the head of the alleyway, blasting blue fire from his palms towards the crowd. A distraction. Granted, a messy one for Hawks, but-

“Fuck, man,” Hawks groans as Dabi turns and strides towards you, his face cold and stiff with anger just lurking under the surface, “Now I have to handle this-”

“Then you should handle it, Hero,” Dabi spits out, not even looking at you as he grabs your arm and yanks you away. “Do your job, protect civilians after you’ve put her life in fucking goddamn danger.”

Hawks looks stricken, opening his mouth to argue and then faltering as Dabi’s words settle in. He’s right. You know it, Dabi knows it, and Hawks knows it.

“I’m sorry,” he mouths to you, and then turns to check in on the still-freeing crowd.

Your only choice is to turn around and try to keep up with Dabi.

“Dabi- I-”

“Not here,” he says shortly, not slowing his pace. “Home.”

“How did you find me so quickly?” You think to ask, still measuring his tone.

“Your burner has a tracker.”

“A tracker-”

“Yeah. In case you were in danger-” Dabi’s voice is sharp as razor blades, “and needed to be found.”

You don’t say anything else.

Breathlessly, you allow Dabi to lead you down the maze of streets that bring you back to Headquarters, not saying a word until he pulls you inside and shuts the door, locking all four of the locks silently behind him. You stand behind him, panting from the near-run he kept you at, and pull the hat, sunglasses and hood off your head.

“Thank you,” you finally begin, “I-”

Dabi whirls to face you, and you’re instantly alarmed at the anger on his face. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I-I was bored, nobody was here, I-”

“Do you understand the panic I was in when I got home and you were nowhere? You never told anyone you were leaving, you just left, if Shig finds out, he’ll kill you- I know you’re not this fucking stupid-”

You feel your heart drop into your stomach at the last part. Dabi watches the pain cross your face but doesn’t back off, plowing ahead.

“I thought you were dead- someone could have seen you, someone MIGHT have seen you, for all we fucking know, Inferno could be on his fucking way here right now-”

“Stop.” Your voice is small, but steady. Dabi doesn’t listen.

“...Do everything I can to keep you safe and you’re sneaking out behind my back to have a lunch date in public with a goddamn Hero-”

“STOP!” You finally shout, your anger waking you up at last. “Don’t speak to me like that, okay, I’m sorry that I made you worry, but-”

“OH, SHE’S FUCKING SORRY,” Dabi shouts, laughing mirthlessly. “I have all of one rule in this house and it’s-”

“Stay at home, cook and clean, obey,” You spit back, just as furious now.

“I never said you had to cook and clean-”

“You didn’t exactly stop me, either, did you?” You yell back. “Do you know how unhealthy it is to just keep me here, stuck inside all day- I’m lonely, I’m alone, I’m-”

“Alive.” Dabi’s voice is burning. “You are alive. But you would rather go risk it all, put yourself at risk, put us all at risk, because you’re fucking bored-”

“You can’t just keep me in the house all day!”

“Oh, would you rather go back to being Inferno’s punching bag, huh? Because if you pull this shit, that’s what you’re gonna be. That, or his first fucking charge.”

A silence falls heavy into the room. You stare at the floor, blinking back tears as hard as you can. Dabi’s chest heaves, trying to catch his breath over an anger he can’t quite get a gasp on, and he realizes it’s fear, fear is making him so hateful and mean and he can’t stop because you could’ve died-

Until you shove past him, making your way to the door.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

“I’m going to see Hawks. Since I’m apparently too much of an issue for you,” you hiss, unlocking the locks with trembling hands.

“Yeah, you go and fucking do that,” Dabi snarls as you swing open the door and step out. “Go see if he can protect you better than I can. See if he can save you. I’m fucking done.”

You don’t answer, just shut the door behind you, and then you’re gone.

Dabi stands in the open room, panting, staring at the door, and then sinks to the floor as his legs give out.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Hawks asks, sliding the card into the door and letting you into the hotel room. “I’m sorry, I wish you could stay with me but the paparazzi are always watching my place- there’s a lot of windows…”

“This is great, really.” You step into the room, setting a small bag down on the single bed, and immediately go to the windows to close the blinds. The hotel is a smaller skyscraper, and you’re pretty high up, but you don’t trust that there aren’t camera drones out there in the dark, somewhere. “You really didn’t have to do all this, Hawks-”

“I did,” he interrupts quickly. “I did. I got you into this mess.”

“No,” you sigh. “I got myself into this mess.”

After leaving Headquarters, you’d turned the GPS location off on your cell, then called Hawks. It had taken a few hours to find a hotel that was discreet, blending in with the city, and offered extra privacy. Hawks had brought you a small bag of women’s clothes- probably pieces saved and set aside from a number of one night stands, but they were clean, anyway- and paid the hotel extra in cash to ensure nobody would keep a record of him checking in with an unknown civilian. The hotel manager, probably thinking this was a lowkey hookup, had been all too happy to wink and smile and accept the wad of cash you caught Hawks palming him at check in.

You weren’t sure if this was a forever thing, or just for a few days to clear your head before you tried again with Dabi. You weren’t even sure if you wanted to see Dabi again after everything that had gone down this afternoon, but the small ache in your chest that you hadn’t yet allowed yourself to process gave you the idea that you would be giving him a call sooner rather than later.

“So.” Hawks follows you into the room, firmly locking and bolt-locking the door behind him before turning to face you. “I’m on duty tonight. Will you be okay by yourself- do you need anything, food?”

You shake your head. “I’ll be fine. Go to work, please don’t worry about me, I really appreciate all your help-”

Hawks rolls his eyes but smiles gently at you. “What are friends for? Hey, also- there’s some snacks in there, some bottled water, brought you an extra phone charger if you need it. Toothbrush, toothpaste, you should be covered for the night. Tomorrow I can bring you breakfast and we’ll figure out what more there is to be done, okay?” Quickly, he strides across the room and wraps you in a feathery hug, ducking his head down onto your shoulder. “I really am sorry. I should’ve been more careful today.”

You return the hug gladly. “It’s okay,” you say sincerely. “It really is okay. Accidents happen. Thank you for all your help.”

He smiles at you, then slips through the blinds covering the glass door that leads to the balcony. You follow, leaning against the door to watch him ruffle his wings and put his yellow glasses back on. Tossing you one last smile over his shoulder, he nods. “Lock that door, too. I’ll knock in the morning.” With that, he takes off in flight. You watch him swoop gracefully into the night, towards the upper district, and then pad back inside, sliding the door shut, locking it, and covering it with the blinds again. Then you turn to face the large, empty room with a sigh.

For white noise, you click on the TV, but nothing on any channel seems to interest you. You take a quick shower, brush your hair and teeth, and settle into bed, plugging the charger into the lamp on the bedstand, and click off the lights, filling the room with the blue light of the TV. Impulsively, you grab your burner and flip it open, checking for any texts or missed calls from Dabi.

Nothing. Radio silence.

Tears fill your eyes as you gaze at the empty inbox, thinking back to the harsh words and violent emotions from both of you earlier in the day. Processing now, you accept your part, you shouldn’t have gone out, it wasn’t okay- but Dabi’s anger, Dabi’s harsh words, so like Inferno when he was disobeyed- it was triggering for you. You don’t regret standing up for yourself, but you wished you’d just taken space, not left entirely. If you had, you might have been in Dabi’s arms right now, made up already.

After today…you’re not sure you want that.

But you miss him.

Dashing the tears from your eyes in frustration, you toss your phone back on the bedstand and snuggle under all the covers, burrowing deep, and wait to get warm. You force yourself to drift off, before you do something reckless, like call him.

You wake up an indiscriminate amount of time later, confused. It’s still dark- too dark. Did I turn off the TV before I went to sleep? The monitor is off, it’s screen black and dead. There’s a breeze-

You turn and realize with abject horror that the sliding door is wide open, the blinds fluttering against the wind. What the fu-

A hand covers your mouth so that you can’t scream, something heavy and blunt hits the back of your head, and everything goes black.

#dabi #dabi smut #dabi x female reader #dabi x you #mha smut #league of villains x reader

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humanitys-strongest-bamf · 1 year ago

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tagged by @postwarlevi!!! i wanted to reblog but it got long so i'm making a new thread 😅

this is so cute 🥺🥺 any chance to talk about katvi i'll take it (✿◡‿◡)

1. who is the better cook?

him for sure, although neither of us are too big of a fan of cooking. i think he just tolerates it more than i do, although i do think there are some recipes he legitimately enjoys

2. who takes longer showers?

me. idk if its the adhd but i tend to forget how much time i spend in there and before i know it, he has to poke his head into the bathroom as a passive aggressive way of telling me that i stole all the hot water 😭

3. who is more organized?

him for sure. a point of contention with us is that i'm way too messy and it drives him through the roof. some boundaries had to be established and while it still makes him grumpy sometimes, he respects my space

4. who generally spends more money?

neither? technically me because if i get fixated on something, i'll tend to impulse shop but usually limit it to small-ish things or wait until they're on sale! he likes buying specialty teas and coffees and sometimes those can get kinda pricey, so i think we roughly break even

5. who likes sleeping in more?

hmm. i think this is difficult to answer because we both suffer from pretty bad insomnia. i think if it's who ends up sleeping in for longer, it's me. i'm the type that'll take like 4-5 hours to fall asleep but i can stay asleep once the sun rises (which is incredibly annoying) his insomnia is the type where he can get shut-eye for like 20 minutes at a time, which usually translates to him getting out of bed as soon as the sun starts to rise regardless of if he slept or not

6. who is the better driver?

im a passenger princess (✿◡‿◡) but also because driving gives me anxiety because i've gotten into accidents before, so he just does it for me, so it's levi for sure

7. who is the most stubborn?

hard to say. i think me. he usually gives in first because he gets way too irritated and is just like "whatever".

8. who is the most romantic?

neither 👁️👄👁️ at least not in the traditional sense. maybe me because i'm a sucker for romantic sunset walks (✿◡‿◡) but also him because sometimes he'll leave cute little notes around the house for me and it makes me melt (i have a little collection of them :3)

9. who is more laid back?

me. i think he's overall more extra or particular than i am. and this isn't in regards to him needing clean spaces. that's fine. i'm talking about the extra amount of work he constantly puts into every little thing, especially when it comes to house projects or even picking out toys for the cats. whereas i'm just kinda like...as long as it's not doing harm, convenience is king

10. who is more likely to ask for directions?

me. and it's a silly reason. like yes, i'm directionally confused a lot but i think levi would want to just. wander around and hope we get unlost and i'm not interested in doing that.

11. who is the blanket hog?

also me 😅 i get very fitful when my insomnia acts up, which usually translates into me wanting to hug something (why, you ask? no idea), whether it's him, a pillow, my plushie, or (in most cases), the blanket.

12. who is more likely to lose their phone?

him. he's technologically confused, which translates him to just not really using his phone unless he has to. it also means he's shit at answering texts on time >:(

13. who initiated the first kiss?

him because i was too shy 😅 i still thought it was some kind of joke as to why he was even interested in me, so i never really made a move.

14. who fell in love first?

hard to say. probably me since i was crushing on him forever, but he was the one that reached out and started stuff soooooo who knows

15. who planned the honeymoon?

him, mostly? he decided what we wanted to do. he was very extra about it, wanting to make it worth our money and get like the maximum amount of r&r with the least amount of stress, which i lowkey appreciated sm 😭 i was the one that did all the booking and reservations tho lol

#: @romantichomicide95 @luvjiro @leviismybby @jayteacups @lucysarah-c @whoami-72 @sixpennydame @wyvernslovecake @stygianoir @einnyl @nube55 @svftackerman @roseofdarknessblog @bita-bita @averysmolbear @youre-ackermine @thevelria @crazychaoticizzy @littlerequiem @notgoodforlife @bloompompom @ackermendick @sad-darksoul + anyone who wants to join! if you don't partake in self-shipping, then please ignore! ＜（＾－＾）＞

#tag games #selfship #katvi

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itsahotminuteinbetween · 1 year ago

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I lowkey (highkey) reeeaaaaallly wanna see Nice Eclipse's Moon come to our dimension.

It's probably gonna be an episode, and I can only see it going to ways: he backs down, or he doesn't.

Just think: Solar's (calling him Solar like @ayy-imma-ninja [tthey're at this tumblr so go check'em out if you haven't already {you prob already have tho let's be honest}, I'll probably just end up calling his Moon S.Moon cuz I'm lazy, sorry for the terrible formating of this by the way, I'm terrible at organizing my thoughts...this is why I type in the notes guys] does because it gets very confusing for me, I hope they don't mind if they see this, not gonna tag them cuz I don't wanna bother anyone with my dumb lil ideas) Moon stumbles through the ballpit and rights himself after the initial disorientation, eyes zeroed in on his kill. He scans the Daycare and identifies his target at the security desk. But guess who else is there...?

That's-that's him, right there, talking to Eclipse.

Of course, it isn't really him, he'll probably reason. That's this dimension's Moon, the one Solar seems to be so enamored with. He doesn't talk to Solar, not unless he has to, not after what he did to Sun.

But watching some version of himself talk to him...they're both at at ease with each other, or as relaxed as they can be with whatever seemingly serious hushed conversation going on is about. Still, they're civil with each other, actually bordering on friendly, familiar, even. And seeing that, S.Moon realizes...

This Moon is so much happier than he is.

But of course he's happy. He still has his brother, even after everything they've been through. His brother was lost before they had ever hoped to have gained anything, dead before their lives together even started.

Why does this Moon get to be happy? Why doesn't he deserve that same fate that S. Moon has suffered through? They're the exact same model, the exact same person.

But we're not the same, a quiet voice whispers in the back of his head.

He hates that it sounds like Sun.

I don't think S. Moon is really impulsive enough to actually start a fight. I do think, however, that he has quite a temper, so he probably wouldn't back down if the pair were to suddenly notice him in the ballpit and call him out (yes I'm using this as a way to continue the situation hush I am weak). So. I think the scenario would probably play out as Solar seeing S.Moon in the pit and going 'oh shit I'm gonna die' in that hardly surprised drawl of his, and then our Moon comes out and goes 'uh NOPE not gonna happen'. Which means we've got a battle of the Moons. Yippy-ki-yay. S.Moon probably confronts our Moon, argues with him. ('Why are you defending him? He's the reason our brother's gone!') Cue Solar feelin guilty while Moon goes 'nah dude this guy's different this guy's in my house so back off'

smalll scuffle to continue the plot cuz I HAVE A POINT WITH THIS I PROMISE-

Small scuffle, almost gets into a full-on fight, but who should come to his brother's aid but Sir Sunrise himself. He'd rush in, probably try to calm down this stranger who's he's trying very hard to ignore because it reminds him of the Old Moon so much.

(Remember, S. Moon's not the only one to go through the loss of a brother...)

And S. Moon just...stops. He's still, save for wobbling optics that quiver as they take this Sun in with disbelief.

He hasn't seen his brother in so long. He looks-he looks so different-tired and worn out and far too anxious, more so than he used to be. S.Moon reaches out...

...and then pulls back.

This isn't right. It's him but it's not, it's not him. This Sun has a brother, a family, friends, a life. This Sun has been broken, but he's healing in a way S. Moon never will. And with that all, there's something else he senses...

This Sun is happy.

...S.Moon wonders if his brother would be as happy with him as this one is.

He forces his optics of of the yellow animatronic in front of him and the orange one eyeing him warily.

He then walks back to the ballpit and teleports away without a word.

Solar observes quietly. Another careful prompt from Moon, asking if he thinks S.Moon will come back. It's a soft attempt at reassurance of a presence caring for him at the same time as it serves as a cautious probing at his feelings. He doesn't say much of anything, just shrugging, telling the blue animatronic that he doesn't know what his Moon'll do next, if he'll come back.

But he does know. He knows that there's one thing about every Moon that never changes regardless of the dimension: he always honors his word. And he knows his Moon won't come back.

He can piece together why pretty easily. Seeing this perfect little family that Solar has found and somehow earned a place in further confirmed his cut ties with him. It also cemented something else: S.Moon may never know what family is like. He had that chance with Sun, then Solar, and he blew it. Seeing that bond here, something he can never be a part of...

He knows that he's the outsider now.

That silent staring match between them said it all. S.Moon won't come back. The one and only kind thing he'll ever do for Solar. He'll go back to his dimension, silently aching for a future that he can't have, a world that isn't his. He'll work on his Sun. It's not Sun anymore, either, really, just an empty shell. Moon's no fool. He's probably realized that Sun's gone for ages, he won't come back. He knows that what he works on tirelessly, slaving away at night after night, skipping charges and sacrificing anything, perhaps even the metal plating on his endoskeleton if it comes to it, it's all for the sake of nothing but a hollow corpse, a husk of a brother long gone.

Moon doesn't have anything left to work for.

A part of Solar wants to go back and help him, save him. Maybe he will, someday. But he's making his own decisions now, choosing his own happiness. So he lets Lunar drag him away from the Daycare and his messy thoughts with a question of if he wants to watch more cartoons or maybe play Minecraft if he's not up to it?

Tired optics soften at the gesture and allow the smaller animatronic to lead the way.

He's home now. He's let go.

Eclipse moves on.

Well that accidentally became a drabble instead of an analysis. Oops.

...also I'm gonna tag @sunnyinajar because you seem to like my lil blurps abt tsams? I mean I'm sorry for tagging if you don't you don't have to like it I hope you do but if you don't uh that's okay um I'm gonna save this before I lose confidence and delete it-

#sorry to bother #don't mind me #uhh how do I tag this #uhhh #tsams #drabble #um that'll do for now I guess?#I dunno I've never written anythin for tsams before #I blame this on sue #it plagues me at 5 am this morning and I've been turning it around in my head all day #I am a mess at talking to people in case you didn't notice btw #minute wastes time

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aprillikesthings · 11 months ago

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I had originally promised msyelf I wouldn't live-tweet or live-blog my rewatch of she-ra (mostly bc it will make it take FOREVER to watch the whole thing) but...fuck it

THIS IS A REWATCH. I've forgotten plenty of it, but I still remember plenty too, and that's all going to bias how I react to things, and obviously there will be spoilers, and also I don't plan to react to EVERYTHING bc it would just take too long okay? okay

Edit: ....yeah this took me nearly two hours for one episode oops

First of all let me point out how hilarious it is to me that when scrolling back through my tags I found myself posting MULTIPLE TIMES that I wanted to write the kind of fic I'm working on but knew I'd need to rewatch the whole series to do it right and now FOUR YEARS LATER I'm finally giving up and doing it.

why am i like this lol

ANYWAY

NETFLIX IT HAS BEEN A COUPLE OF YEARS and I know he's legally changed his name WHY is Nate/ND's old name still on here

THat's....that's Angella. That's a terrible propaganda poster of Angella. I'm cracking up how did I not notice that before

Okay the very first time Adora says Catra's name I lol'ed bc I've watched this fanvid (which came out after s2) a truly bananapants number of times and it's just what I immediately thought of

youtube

I started reading a fic recently that I couldn't get into and gave up on, but it pointed out something that seems OBVIOUS NOW: the reason the Horde is all children/teenagers is like, the whole "destroying the villages of Etheria" thing. Just slaughtering the parents and stealing the kids.

Then again maybe they said that in canon and I forgot. Dumb shit like that is of course why I'm rewatching.

Someone pointed out that both Adora and Catra obviously have ADHD and I cannot unsee it

I mean yeah that's...that's her entire motivation

(I mean not quite in the way Adora means it here but)

I will never, ever be over how fast this show started baiting them as a pairing. I remember the first time I watched the first episodes saying "the people who made this came from fandom and they know exactly how to get us."

Catra nails Shadow Weaver's motivation--"She's just mad she doesn't have any real power that doesn't come from Hordak and everyone knows it." And then calls Adora a "people-pleaser." She's not wrong.

Like, Catra understands the motivations etc of everyone but herself

(...something something abused children something C-PTSD something hypervigilance)

Catra's tail swishing just like a real cat's does when angry is A+

Re: stealing the skiff: Catra's supposed to be the one with bad impulse control but Adora is just as bad!! (it's the ADHD)

...pulling a random pretty sword out of the ground that's lit up like a quest in a video game is also poor impulse control lollll

I still crack up at this one and am still surprised I haven't read a fic that makes a big deal out of hair-pulling

Bow folding up random laundry on the floor and asking where it goes while talking to Glimmer is some nice early character-building. "This boy is not a sexist douchebag."

I mean the outfit helps too lol

Okay so on the one hand I know character age wank is fucking stupid, but also I get why people were like "...are these all minors or what" considering Glimmer's being grounded and then arguing with her mom like a high-schooler. My own parents (who were more controlling than most) stopped actually "grounding" me once I was 18--they just forbid me from using the car for anything but work or school because they owned it. Which is why they owned the car. Anyway.

(True story: that was their punishment for me getting bad grades at community college, and my response to this was to quit school, buy my own car, and move in with my then-boyfriend's family)

I wonder if Adora running off to do things on her own in order to attempt to protect people she cares about without asking them if that's even something they want her to do will be a continuing theme for her 🤔

omg the way they did her eyes/face makes Glimmer look so fucking creepy here

SO MUCH HAIR-PULLING poor Adora

I FORGET WHAT THIS SAYS I know it's an actual "alphabet" and people get tattoos and shit

(so, SO many tattoos of the failsafe...)

(okay but let's be honest a tattoo of the failsafe from the last episode is a really great way of finding other nerdy sapphics, they'd be the only ones to recognize it)

This is kinda heavy-handed ("don't just believe everything authority figures tell you, kids!") but also this show was aimed at like 12-year-olds so

Yeah this absolutely reminds me of conversations I've had over multiple decades about LGBT people and how people who know us as friends, coworkers, neighbors; realize we're Just People and are less likely to be dicks to us--not always, but often. Adora has never met a princess, so it was easy for the Horde to convince her they're all evil.

OH MAN this scene reminds me SO MUCH of the one in Arcane where Ekko is talking to Caitlyn about how Piltover/the Enforcers are fucking over the people of Zaun/the Undercity

Yeah good lord I could do a line-by-line dialogue comparison.

"Woman who has always been on the side of what she thought was The Law finds out everything she's ever known is a fucking lie and actually, she's been part of a force oppressing and destroying other people and immediately wants to fix things"

*squints at Caitlyn and Adora*

We never do find out who Grayskull is, but that's because Netflix doesn't have the rights to the He-Man stuff, and I admit this was probably the best way to keep She-Ra's signature line without getting into that

OKAY FIRST EP OVER omg

#april rewatches spop #there I have a tag #Youtube #the sword pt 1

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atmilliways · 2 years ago

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Part Three: Shame On Me

(part one) (part two) (part four) (part five) - complete as of 4/4/23

Rating: Mature Word Count: 2183 Ships: Steddie Major Tags: Jealousy, Casual sex Additional Tags: Pining, Slutty Steve Harrington, Pre-relationship, Landline phones

Author’s Note: Banner by @xirayn.

Read it on Ao3

“—And he’d been pissy about something the whole way here. I mean, if he didn’t want to walk me home, maybe don’t let the bartender take my fucking keys? So that’s on him, not me.”

”What was he mad about?”

“Fuck if I know, man,” Eddie sighs, then takes a long hit off the joint in one hand and jams another chipped-off spoonful of not-at-all-thawed strawberry milkshake into his mouth with the other. The room is still dark—the entire apartment is, the only light he’s bothered with since coming home was the one that automatically comes on when opening the freezer—so the only illumination to see by are the streetlights filtering in through the windows and the cherry end of the roll-up. “He’d barely talked to me all night, too busy rubbing his ass all over half the guys on the dance floor.”

Nancy hums. “Didn’t really need to know that about my ex, but thanks.”

Swallowing down on a mouthful of brain freeze, Eddie smirks bitterly into the phone where it’s pinched between his face and shoulder. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you think the chicks Steve flocked with in high school were the only slutty ones in that equation? I thought you were a feminist, Nancy. Equal opportunity and all that shit.”

“Asshole,” she retorts, but with a hint of amusement. “So, everything was totally normal until you had your . . . encounter. . . .”

“Hookup, Nancy. Say it with me: hooook . . . up.”

“Shut up. That was the only thing out of the ordinary though? And he’s never acted like that before? And then he called you Munson, and slammed the door.”

“Yes, no, yes, and yes.” Another hit, another bite of ice cream. “So, you tell me. What does it all mean? Translate for me the mystery and enigma that is Steve fucking Harrington.”

“I don’t know, but I can tell you that Steve hasn’t moved out,” she says, not unkindly. “Robin said he turned up on the early morning bus and didn’t even bring a change of clothes.”

“That doesn’t mean he won’t decide to later,” Eddie points out.

“No, but it does mean that your kneejerk worst assumption wasn’t actually his first impulse, so maybe take your own catastrophizing with a grain of salt.”

And there it is: that razor-sharp slice into him that Nancy is so good at. He’d never imagined that he would end up genuine friends with Nancy Wheeler of all people, but she’s good at calling him on his bullshit and doesn’t know how to take fuck off as an answer.

“Fiiine.” Eddie sighs dramatically, but . . . okay, she has a point. Expecting the worst is kind of his thing, because that way the surprises he does encounter are usually pleasant ones. (He’d gotten even better at it since the spring of ‘86; perspective’s a bitch, and the worst he can imagine is now pretty damn terrible. Bad news first, always.)

But this? He can’t imagine he’s going to be pleasantly surprised by any of this. That would go completely against his own personal Munson doctrine. He’d told Steve fuck you very much and sent him off like an errand boy, for fucks sake.

“What am I supposed to do though, Nance?” he asks, voice low because he’s running out of steam. It’s been a long thirty-six hours, and a long ever since he met the real Steve Harrington. “First of all, I can’t take back shit I said or did while I was drunk off my ass. Second, am I just supposed to ensconce myself in a non-horny chrysalis to eternally preserve my virginal integrity? All while watching Steve slut it up with every eligible bachelor across town except me?”

And Nancy—perfect, practical, prissy Nancy Evelyn Wheeler—has the audacity to laugh at him. “Oh my god. Eddie, think about it. This is Steve we’re talking about here. He’s kind of a show-off when it comes to . . . matters of the heart—”

“Matters of the dick,” Eddie mutters through a heavy exhale of smoke.

“—And he doesn’t always think things through. He likes for people to see what they’re missing out on by not being with him. I didn’t even realize I had a crush on him until I realized I was jealous of Laurie W. of all people—do you have any idea how embarrassing that was?”

“Uh, not as embarrassing as the Freak having a crush on the King of the Jocks. Sorry babe, that trophy has my name written all over it.”

“Well, still. There you go,” Nancy says, as if that proves anything. “Everything he’s been doing has certainly got your attention. So?”

Maybe he’s smoked too much, because that makes no sense. Eddie blinks, frowns, and asks, “What? Why would he be pissed that I got laid when he didn’t and want my attention?”

Nancy sighs. “So close,” she mutters, and then refuses to explain what she means.

“Eddie?! Eddie!!”

This is how Eddie wakes up, reeling and flailing into a crablike crouch because where the fuck is he (fell asleep on the couch) and why is it fucking dark (never actually turned the lights on) and why is Steve fucking Harrington yelling his name like the building is on fire (it’s not; there would be more light, or at least smoke).

Stumbling footsteps come to a halt in front of the couch, and he hears a shaky exhale, a possible muttered there you are.

At a more normal, inside-voice volume, Steve says, “Oh, uh. Eddie. Hi.”

“Wha’ time’s it?” Eddie asks blearily, sounding and feeling like he’s gargled sand.

“It’s two,” Steve replies, leaving Eddie’s sleep-addled brain to wonder two what. “I took the late bus back from Robin’s,” he adds, which is only just barely helpful, context-wise. Flicking the lamp on the side table next to the couch on—and temporarily blinding Eddie, who hides behind his hair with a hiss—Steve leans over the couch by Eddie’s feet. However much of a rush he’d been in when leaving the other night, he’d still taken the time to change into one of his dorky polos and jeans that do his ass slightly less justice (and yet, in Eddie’s opinion, he could still qualify as a walking wet dream).

There’s a sudden plastic click followed by the curious absence of a background noise that, until now, Eddie had tuned out. Which . . . huh.

Fell asleep with the phone still on the couch, and the sound had been that funny little frantic beep of a handset left off the cradle for too long. Right. He must have kicked it off in his sleep or something.

Eddie rubs at his eyes and tries to stretch surreptitiously, but it’s hard when Steve is still standing over him, staring at him with wild eyes and hair that’s been tugged out of its usual expert coif into something the Bride of Frankenstein might be proud of.

“What?” Eddie grumbles petulantly, stifling a yawn and easing slowly into more of a sit than a crouch.

“The line was busy,” Steve replies. The tone is weirdly at odds with how he looks, sounding even and surface-level calm.

“So?”

“The last time a line was busy for multiple calls, El got arrested and the Byers’ house in Lenora got shot to Swiss cheese by a goddamn military strike force,” Steve reminds him, almost pleasantly. It’s eerie.

Eddie processes that for a moment, then screws his face up in something between chagrin and incredulity. “So did you think I got arrested, got shot, or just ripped the cord out of the wall so I wouldn’t have to talk to you?”

“Yes,” Steve all but shouts at him.

It’s way too fucking early for this.

Grumbling under his breath, Eddie clambers off the couch and snags the empty milkshake cup on his way to the kitchen, rinsing it in the sink and filling it with water that he gulps down and immediately refills. He’s desperately thirsty, but it’s also something to do while he tries to jumpstart his brain into dealing with everything—Steve being here, yesterday, the night before that, the tangle of emotion in his chest that he doesn’t know how to begin to unwind.

And Steve follows, because of course he does, and blinds Eddie again by turning on the kitchen light.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Eddie grumbles. “You’re something else, you know that, Harrington? All this concern for my well-being, suddenly. Where was this when you canceled movie night last week because of some guy you wanted to ‘hang out’ with?”

The words echo weirdly in the paper cup that Eddie is staring fixedly down into. He wishes he could have just been left on his own for longer—he’s taken the first step in trying to get over Steve, and it hasn’t gone very well so far, but it’s a start. It’s something, and shouldn’t he get credit for trying? Steve isn’t exactly making any of this easy, with his bitchy yet dogged hovering.

Complaining and distracted but still walking him home, getting him his favorite flavor of milkshake just because he asked for one while wasted, rushing back from Robin’s in an apparent panic to make sure he isn’t dead or something. . . .

“I, uh,” Steve says, and when Eddie looks up he’s surprised to see that the guy is blushing. He’s blushing, all the way down to where chest hair peeks out of the top of his polo, and it’s unfairly attractive because Eddie can’t catch a fucking break apparently. “Yeah, Robin kind of bitched me out for that.”

Eddie has the sudden irrational urge to either tear all his own hair out or call Robin to snap at her for getting involved, because this . . . thing he has for Steve is supposed to be a secret. If she sniffed it out like some sort of lesbian truffle pig on the hunt for gay secrets and then decided to barrel in and do something about it, he thinks he’s well within his rights to do a little yelling.

“Great,” he replies flatly. “Glad you had someone to point that out to you after approximately—” he makes a show of checking his watch “—the twentieth time you’ve done it.”

Steve runs both hands through his hair. “Fuck—I know, man, I’m sorry.” He sounds a little hysterical, which, okay, really seems unnecessary considering Eddie is the wronged party here. “I fucked up, Eds! I didn’t mean to but I fucking did, just like I always—” Stopping, he shakes his head like an Etch-a-Sketch, hands still on his head. He drags them down over his face and groans into his palms. “What did Nancy tell you?”

“Uh, no, I think we’re still on what Robin told you,” Eddie challenges.

And Steve—Steve fucking Harrington—drops his hands, looks him directly in the eye with a despairing expression on his stupidly handsome face, and answers, “She told me that you can’t kick me out for being an asshole while my name is still on the lease. But I was an asshole and it was bullshit the way I treated you last night, so if you want me to go I’ll, I’ll go. I can still kick in on rent until . . . if you want to find a smaller place, or a new roommate.”

‘Your kneejerk assumption wasn’t actually his first impulse, so maybe take your own catastrophizing with a grain of salt,’ Nancy’s voice reminds Eddie. Because his first thought, when Steve offers to go, is to call her back with a vicious didn’t I tell you, but.

But.

It’s an offer. The guy looks like a kicked puppy, like this is the absolute last thing he wants to be saying but necessity is dragging the words out of him. And describing his behavior as bullshit, which. Which. Eddie has heard the Halloween party story, hiccuped into his shoulder once at the end of a long evening of smoking it up in their new apartment. ‘Bullshit’ isn’t a word that Steve uses lightly.

The prospect of Steve actually moving out makes Eddie feel like he’s been gutted, completely hollowed out. It’s not worse than watching Steve with other guys . . . but it’s not better, either.

“I’ll probably leave my bed and the rest of the big stuff, at least until I can figure out where I’m going—”

“Steve,” Eddie interrupts, louder than he’d meant to, and Steve’s mouth snaps shut. “Just. . . . You live here, man. You don’t have to worry about that. Relax, okay?”

Steve hesitates, watching him carefully, then softly says, “Okay.”

In the uncertain silence that follows, Eddie turns back to the sink and refills his cup again. After a moment he hears Steve shuffle around in the background, the fridge open and close, glass clinking on the kitchen table. Eddie doesn’t even turn around before gathering up their standard midnight snack fare: a jar of peanut butter, two table knives, and an unopened sleeve of Saltines dangling from between his teeth.

It’s an olive branch, just like the second beer Steve has waiting already open for him on the table.

#i meant to post this earlier but it's been a long day and i still have (checks watch) 4 minutes in it #stranger things fanfiction #steddie #steddie fanfiction #eddie and nancy are friends and no one can take that away from me #my fanfiction #stranger music anthology #lie one more time come on fic

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monstersinthecosmos · 2 years ago

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When you rbed my vampire psych post, you tagged something about Armand’s “trauma hole.” I must know - what is Armand’s Trauma Hole? Devastate me, Kacy.

I WANNA SAY BEFORE I START btw if I had money and wasn’t in the US I’d go to college for psychology strictly to write vampire meta lmfao but yknow what, I don’t have a formal education and I just listen to a lot of psych podcasts and I AM, MYSELF, SOMEONE WITH A TRAUMA HOLE so that’s my qualifications here LOL.

So I have sort of a running headcanon called The Trauma Hole Theory and like it’s not completely solid so don’t take my word on this but it’s a fun thought experiment.

It comes down to two questions: Do vampires have neuroplasticity? and: Does The Blood know to fix neurological differences? *

*(This point in particular is a whole separate topic because I’d said that the vampires’ neurobiology IN ITSELF makes them neurodivergent, as in, operating differently from the average human. But neurodivergence isn’t a thing that needs to be healed or cured, simply a difference in structure, but I wonder if The Blood categorizes differences in brain structure due to trauma as an injury?)

And the thing is like, we’re never going to have an answer because it’s not something Anne planned around. Even like starting with the Mayfair books and going into all her weird cosmic questions in her later life she always talked about biology & medicine like it was magic LOL so who knows. I wish I’d had the chance to ask her this!

But to be more specific, I need to know: Is the Blood able to cure what’s wrong with your brain, or does it freeze your brain exactly how it is?

I can make arguments for both because there isn’t an answer in canon and if you start fine combing you’re going to find a lot of conflicting evidence. We can also handwave this away as “the Dark Gift is different for everyone!”

Claudia is one of my favorite examples to look at, because we have to ask: Is she a monster because she doesn’t remember being human or is it because her brain development got frozen where she wasn’t awesome at empathy yet? A lot of studies say children have empathy by the time they’re 4, so maybe she’s in the clear! But how much of her early life and development were stunted by malnourishment?

This also gets into the canon that some of the vampires who were turned younger are a bit wilder, less impulse control, etc. Lestat, as an example of a permanent 20 year old with poor decision making faculties, vs. Marius who although sometimes cruel, has the patience to play the long game. In canon it often gets framed that it’s about the deeper experience of being human but I wonder a lot about how it interacts with brain structure. I’d also ask how much of this is simple behavior that they can learn to correct if they want to. Like, is CBT effective for vampires if there’s nothing physically wrong with their brains?

(Anyway I need a psych degree to understand more about how brains work and like, the nuances of how undead vampire brains work where they still clearly FUNCTION but like, I need to know which parts are frozen, how their emotions work, why do they have super photographic memories and telepathy and new powers but we assume their prefrontal cortex is stuck at their mortal age of development how does that affect the overall brain function!?!?! I'm making shit up to fit my angst headcanon needs to don't @ me LOL.) ((Hekate you in particular should weigh in with your headcanons bc you're smarter about this stuff than me!!!!!! I'm just a lowly angst headcanon troll!!!))

So anyway like, trauma causes neurological damage/structural changes to the brain. It reshapes your ability to see logic. I’m sure if you’re having sort of acute panic in the moment of being turned, and your amygdala is poppin and your brain is full of cortisol, maybe the Blood takes care of that because it’s temporary. But when you look at someone like Armand, who had endured years of trauma before he was turned, I wonder how much of that more complex/long term trauma is just wired into his brain.

SO THE TRAUMA HOLE AND THE QUESTION ABOUT NEUROPLASTICITY IS:

If the Blood fixed Armand’s brain where it was, can he ever truly heal from it?

There’s a thing in real life with HUMANS recovering from trauma that sometimes we are so unable to accept that Things Are Okay that we’re constantly on guard or create problems. If Armand permanently has that space in his head telling him that it’s dangerous, that something is wrong, that people are using him; is he always going to find ways to fill that hole and create drama?

Living in squalor for 300 years in a cult felt like a way to stay with this feeling, to not allow himself to even try for safety and happiness. In the Theatre, even trying to be better, he still allowed himself to partake in atrocities.

And with Daniel? Gradually allowing himself to feel things even though he’d been reckless with his pet? But really trying?

Even after finally turning Daniel it became a self-fulfilling prophecy; he believed he wouldn’t be a good maker and I have to wonder if he actually tried or if he just allowed that anxiety to dictate his behavior.

In Trinity Gate it’s like he’s doing his best to be domestic but still takes this role of running the household and keeping everyone safe. He’s got these crazy secure crypts in the basement. He’s the only one who wants to kill the replimoids.

Marius tells him that he has the ✨savage & ignorant soul of a child✨ AND ?????? HE’S NOT WRONG? EXCEPT IT’S SUCH A SHITTY WAY TO PUT IT. He’s just still very much his wounded inner child trying to navigate danger at all times.

CBT could still work on vampires, I think, in terms of teaching them a set of rules to follow. It wouldn’t be unlike teaching them to mask. But if it’s not something that can be healed, we can always assume that if Armand is behaving, he’s just going through the motions for the benefit of the people he loves, and not that he’s less hurt and uncomfortable on the inside.

#trauma hole theory #vampire chronicles #armand #i'm sad about armand again good morning!#deep ass thoughts about vampires #anne rice #vampire brain science

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scuttle-buttle · 3 years ago

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Chapter 11

WC: 2077

Rated: E

Chapter Tags: full on angst, discussions of emotional trauma, mild depictions of blood/gore, mentions of self h*rm & su*cide, mentions of child abuse, discussions of physical disabilities, institutionalization, some dialogue & plot canon to TV show, hurt/comfort

🧠

The rest of the conference went by much like the first day did. Both you and Laszlo bought a few books for your collections. An ease had settled over your conversations with the help of Sara and John's presence; you spoke more freely with each other. You tell yourself it is not because he's going soft on you or vice versa, but rather that you have found yourself in this imaginary bubble where you happen to get on well. It's inevitable that it will pop once you’re back at school and Laszlo will revert back to his usual callous state.

Laszlo. It still felt odd to think of him like that, rather than by his title. You couldn't lie, it gave you a sort of thrill. Even in your dreams you had only called him by his honorific. Thankfully you didn't have another dream after Friday. You couldn't escape the feeling that you'd said something incriminating in front of the man in question. So you chose to pretend it didn't happen.

Monday morning came and you headed to the train station. Once again he had secured a private cabin for the journey. This time you came prepared with a book since you had yet to replace your broken phone.

"Thank you again for inviting me to this, I really enjoyed myself. It was really nice of the department to foot my travel expenses, the hotel was really fancy. I may have helped myself to a mini-bottle or two," you joked.

"There is no need to worry about the department's finances; they were not involved."

You pause. He paid for you? Laszlo did say he would take care of the arrangements; but the four-star hotel, the private compartment train tickets, the admission to the conference, and every meal? Shit, that must have been a fortune, hundreds of dollars at least.

You don't know what to say, so you settle for an awkward "oh." A moment passes before you add "I appreciate that, um, I can pay you back. Might take some time but I can."

The professor is flippant in his reply. "There is no need, it was well spent for the research and knowledge acquired." He opens his book signaling the conversation is over.

You lick your lips. Fine then, I'll just consider it payment for emotional suffering and damages of the last eight weeks.

The first few hours of the journey were spent reading one of the new books you picked up at the convention. Occasionally you would peek over the pages at the professor. He was engrossed in his own selection; sometimes he would pause to write down a thought.

Around the seventh hour of your journey you had given up on reading anymore in favor of looking at the fields outside. The silence was comforting.

Laszlo had trouble concentrating on the book in his hand. He saw you as a conundrum. One minute you could be sociable and teasing with your comments, then next you were biting at his throat with your quick wit and fierce ideals. He decides that he wants to know what made you into who you are today. Now is as good a time as any.

His eyes on you cause a tingle up your spine but you ignore it. Laszlo breaks the silence; "may I ask a personal question?"

"You just did," you answer, still peering out of the large window. He huffed once, amused. At his following silence you face him. You raise your eyebrows to signal him to go on with his question. Curiosity grows at the thought of what he intends to ask.

"Twice now you have made implications of a traumatic past," he begins.

Bubble popped.

Interrupting, you snark "is this the part where you psychoanalyze me, doc? Because trust me, I've been through enough of that." You pick at the lint on your jeans.

Laszlo tries to choose his words more carefully the next time he speaks. "What I mean to say is, the first afternoon in the classroom where you defended that student you implied you had been witness to a trauma. You then displayed signs of anger and embarrassment before leaving prematurely. Yesterday you mentioned having entered a psychiatric facility. As an alienist I can't help but find myself curious about your experiences."

You slide your eyes to meet his from across the cabin. Your face is devoid of any emotion. "We all have our demons. Even you can't argue with that."

Your jaw clenches. Everyone had warned you. They all said he would try to worm his way into your head to figure you out. All the reviews, the gossip, everything. It was a big fat 'I told you so'. You give a pitiful laugh at the situation. "You know, everyone told me that you would pull this stunt."

He seems confused by your statement. "And what is that?"

"That you'd get inside my head and try to figure me all out or whatever. You already know I googled you beforehand, what everyone says about your methods. By now I assume you've done a little research yourself. I promise you there is nothing exciting here," you scoff and point to yourself.

"You would be correct in your assumption." You chew at your cheek as he starts. "I do know some of what happened in your past. Yet I also know that society likes to dilute the truth into something either more palatable, more entertaining, for people to consume greedily. What I want to know is what you have faced. How you have not allowed the experience to overcome you so much so that your humanity is erased like the characters I lecture on."

Eyes closing of their own volition you are thrown back in time to that night so many years ago. You didn't talk about it anymore. Bitsy knew of course, but that was the extent.

Laszlo waits. He knows this is likely to push you over the edge if your history with him means anything. Quite frankly, anyone would be tossed to their limit at his interrogation had they gone through what you had. John always told him that he needed to work on his bedside manner; that he had a habit of coming on too strong in his pursuit of learning the intricacies of the human mind. But your earlier comment about being sent to a so-called 'nuthouse' rubbed him the wrong way. It left a bad taste in his mouth. He needed to know. He needed to understand.

Laszlo can imagine the reprimand that he would receive from John and Sara for this. Just as he considers apologizing for his intrusion you open your eyes.

"She was fine. None of us suspected anything was wrong. I came home from having dinner with some… boy, and she had locked herself in the bathroom. She- she must have started over the sink and moved to sit on the side of the tub. She was hunched inside it when I got the door open. I pulled her out. Blood was… everywhere." Your voice is clinical as you explain.

"After, I shut down. So I checked myself into a psych ward a few days later when I couldn't get the feel of her blood off my hands. It's slippery, you know. And it smells. You wouldn't think so but it does." You clear your throat. "I did the therapy, took the meds they prescribed, all the standard treatments. Later I started watching true crime documentaries. I'd heard about exposure therapy so I figured the more I saw the gore, the less the image of my dead roommate would bother me. And it did help. The nightmares stopped after a while, I came back to school. I was better, just not the same.” You had watched the passing landscape as you explained. Turning to face him you speak again. “That's why those pictures didn't bother me. They weren't anything I hadn't seen before."

He contemplates you. The discovery and subsequent loss of your friend in this manner would no doubt cause lingering effects to your psyche. A stain that would forever remind you. "I offer my sincerest condolences. I do not presume to know what that would be like to experience, but I am glad you sought help afterwards. To make the choice to alleviate yourself of your own suffering where possible.”

As he says this he realizes that your anger towards the idea of being enslaved to unconscious impulse makes perfect sense. It explains why you focused so much energy on defending your belief in free will. That you have the power to choose how you carry your joy, your anger, your healing. It reminds him of how he held onto his own guilt and hurt, ignoring how it festered within him for so long. He feels as though he needs to share a piece of himself with you.

“I played piano as a child, quite well too. My mother hoped I would someday make a career of it. I vividly remember playing Mozart’s Concerto for Piano No. 20 in D Minor at a holiday party when I was seven years old. It was my favorite to play.... It requires two hands." You finally look at him. "My father...” He pauses to gather himself.

Now it is the doctor that cannot meet your eyes. As you listen you feel your confusion grow. How could he have been a talented pianist if he only had full use of his left hand? Unless..., the realization dawns on you just as he continues, his words slow.

“My father had two sides. One loving and the other brutal, the two often coexisting. It was something as trivial as putting me to bed, I recall... A game of tug of war. We were laughing…” He inhales a sharp breath. Already you can feel the tears begin to blur your vision. “I don't remember if he was drunk or if I said something that offended him. He must have pulled my arm behind my back.” Laszlo exhales shakily. “In small children, fractures can often affect…” he trails off, unable to finish. You can hear how he barely holds himself together.

Your heart aches for the broken man that sits in front of you. He never let on how much his arm bothered him, at least not within your presence. Suddenly you don’t see him as this rude, insufferable, obsessive man, but instead as someone that spends his life trying to protect himself. He projects his own anger and hurt so that he may, just for a minute, forget about his own demons. He wants to help others even when he feels he cannot bear to help himself.

But unlike you, he has to live with the physical reminder of his past every day of his life.

You stand and move to sit on his right side. Before allowing yourself to think too much of your actions, you place your hand atop his own, curling your fingers around his palm and squeezing delicately. You don’t bother wiping away the tears on your cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Laszlo;” the whisper is barely heard above the sound of the train. A second passes where you fear you have overstepped and offended him by touching the affected limb. When his thumb tightens against the backs of your fingers you know he is not. He holds you in place.

“You asked me how I kept my humanity. How does anyone really? We learn to take what we get and we carry it in a bag. Sometimes you have to drag the damn thing behind you. But eventually the weight gets less and less if you allow yourself to move forward, even if it’s still there with you all the time. I dealt with what happened years ago and it does still haunt me. It’s easier now than it was, but… I- I suppose I’ve learned from you too. Sitting in those lectures and hearing you talk. We can either let it haunt us for the rest of our lives… or we can accept it… and use the memory of our pain to help ourselves and others.”

“I’m not sure the choice is entirely in our hands.” His tone is mournful.

You turn to smile at him through your tears. His own eyes are bloodshot. “I disagree. If it weren’t, if we didn’t have the freedom to choose that, we’d all be murderers.”

Tag list

@hardlyinteresting @lorna-d-m @livvyshmiv @somethingthatsaysbubbles @greeneyedblondie44 @unbeatablecurlgirl @apparrio @marchingicenotes7 @anteroom-of-death @bruhidaniel @lemairepstuff @thehuiabird @zemosimp05 @alindeluce @iamnotthecatladynextdoor @laura-naruto-fan1998 @trelaney @boneheadduluc @i-am-dead-inside-666 @fictionlandslanddreams

#the interpretation of dreams #laszlo kreizler x reader #laszlo x reader #laszlo kreizler #the alienist #the alienist angel of darkness #daniel brühl #daniel bruhl #laszlo kreizler fanfic #laszlo kreizler daniel bruhl #scuttle-buttle #tw self harm #tw suicude #tw child abuse

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cgspirl · 2 years ago

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i'm polluting this tag with my headcanons and there is nothing any of you can do to stop me; some of them are nsfw i'll mark as such also these are all about the film(s) and they are in no particular order okay okay cool here we go:

deacon is trans. there i said it i said it out loud and none of you can make me take it back. pronouns are he/it

both quinn and mercury are nonbinary; mercury is afab they/she while quinn is amab he/they. literal mirrors

(nsfw)^all three above are fucking. it's all like. extremely unspoken but they are fucking and no one brings it up because why the fuck would they? none of their business. also mercury pegs. she just does; damn good at it, too

deacon is something of a vampiric cannibal; i (personally) have never watched the vampire diaries or whatever but i've stolen that blood-drinking from another vampire is an extremely intimate, yet extremely taboo, act; deacon, however, is not a purveyor of sanctity and will drink from whoever he damn well fucking pleases

^addition to the one above but it's specifically taboo in the house of erebus (the one that frost belongs to in the film), the other houses have their own policies and procedures about it but it's essentially Gross™️ to do/frowned upon in erebus

blade is autistic. no i will not elaborate.

scud is trans. no cis person dresses Like That, nor names themselves 'scud' as a nickname. i refuse to believe he's cis. i refuse

^yes i know his actual name is 'josh' but my point still stands

vampires are actually quite animalistic when given the opportunity; most of them just sorta. Don't. they want to blend in (as stated in canon), and those who refuse/choose to act on their impulses are seen as 'wrong' or 'defiant' (like frost); because of this, most vampires in power are massive hypocrites, only acting on these compulsions in private and/or with others of similar power status

vampires can actually drink other types of blood; it just. doesn't have the same nutritional value as humans. so yes, a squirrel can be a juice box if so desired (pro tip: they don't taste great)

certain vampiric powers like hypnosis, super strength/speed, etc., etc. are still common, but manifest differently in each vampire (i.e. deacon being as 'charismatic' (if you wanna call it that) as he is can actually be attributed to having mild verbal hypnosis that is, yes, affected by his emotions sue me, quinn being able to take a beating like we see in the film due to having abnormally high durability/a faster more effective/durable regenerative healing factor, and mercury having abnormally high speed/stamina)

deacon was a familiar before rising through the vampire ranks (possibly dragonetti's before being turned and letting his ambition take precendent over being a subordinate)

deacon can cook, but not particularly well; can use the blender like a motherfucker though. quinn is banned from the kitchen. mercury is the only one with any sort of cooking prowess/skill that can actually make something edible

scud can't cook. you look at him and tell me he can do more than use a fucking microwave, and even that's a stretch on a good day

blade can, but usually whistler takes care of meals and yes blade will forget to eat and have to be reminded he's got a lot going on alright cut this man some slack

blade dissociates from time to time, and if you could hear his thoughts during these points it would 100% sounds like the tetris theme

^he also laughs at dad jokes. only when whistler tells them, though

scud is also autistic. i don't think i need to elaborate

had scud lived, he wouldn't have lived long enough to do anything particularly meaningful for the vampire nation, probably being fed to any experiment failures had damaskinos succeeded in his plans to harvest blade's blood (i swear i don't hate scud i just don't think they would've like. needed him for a whole lot? after figuring shit out and i wouldn't put it past eli to pull some bullshit like that tbh)

blade has had to hose scud multiple times due to the latter forgetting to shower (like that picture from wikihow you know the one)

if i think of more, i'll reblog this but also please feel 100% free to add onto this with your own stuff i wanna know what the hell goes on in y'alls brains let me in please i'm begging a lil

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write-nerdy-to-me · 3 years ago

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Hi. I found your "anti repressed Bi Dean" fic and wanted to thank you! You tagged it as "crack taken serious" so I hope I don't offend you cause I did in fact take it serious! Even separated from deancas that's a thing I will never understand.

I used to agree with all those "Dean is repressed meta" posts. And for me it was/is a language barrier issue.

In my language "repression" translates to refraining/stopping yourself from doing sth. So I agreed - and still kind of do - that Dean was repressing his wants/feelings. But I think everyone, Sam also, do in a hunting community.

You are afraid to form relationships and deep bonds cause people die. That's natural (😉). And especially true for romance.

But at one point I saw the repression thing being used to explain "he doesn't know he is gay/he doesn't know what this feeling is" and omg. I had to look up the word and still didn't get it.

I think there is a difference between repression coming from a place of knowing yourself and actively denying yourself sth and repression as simply denying yourself knowledge about yourself and so also denying yourself everything.

It's still confusing to me language wise but I do subscribe to the idea that Dean knows himself and his wants. He was just repressing/not going after a serious relationship because of his dangerous life style.

Thank you again for the fic - the snark was awesome!

ahh thank you so much, anon! your ask made my day when i was going through a tough time, and oh my gosh, i'm definitely NOT offended! your takeaway is actually what i was hoping for others to notice. thank you for taking my crackfic seriously, i mean it.

i'm sorry this reply took so long. i have a lot of Thoughts & FeelingsTM about all this, and i wanted to make sure you got the response this ask deserves 💜 (more under the cut with tl;dr.)

okay, since there still seems to be a bit of confusion, which is totally understandable, i’d like to cover a couple of things that way we’re on equal ground, anon. repression is an unconscious mental process by which distressing thoughts, memories, or impulses are locked away from the conscious mind. a person who’s experiencing repression isn’t even aware that they’re repressing something, let alone what that something could be.[x] (to put it more plainly, my guy doesn’t know shit about fuck.)

in contrast, what you’re describing is suppression, which is defined as “a conscious effort to put disturbing thoughts and experiences out of mind, or to control and inhibit the expression of unacceptable impulses and feelings.”[x] though they are not the same thing, suppression and avoidance are related in that one avoids things that cause distress, so a suppression of negative feelings about a situation so one avoids thinking and/or processing said situation at all. these are things we’ve seen dean do a lot in the show, and sam even calls him out for sublimation. (“ignoring your trauma doesn't make you healthy.” “sure it does.”) it’s not that dean is unaware of his feelings, the problem is that he’s too aware, but what’s the point of feeling sorry for himself when he has work to do? in 3x13 after spruce asks him a personal question, dean says, “yeah, it’s complicated. a while ago, sam… no. no. no. i’m not gonna whine about my [bullshit] problems to some [bullshit] reality show. i’m gonna do my [fucking] job.” my dude wants to talk, but he feels like he can’t or that it doesn’t matter — it’s his job to take care of other people, not the other way around. (like the way he gets shut down by sam or bobby, and then they go on like, “omg dean, why don't you talk about your issues?” and dean’s like, “bruh i tried but y’all are dicks. it’s not happening now, we’re done.”) like, you’re right, anon. dean was denying himself Good ThingsTM for a long time. (“good things do happen, dean.” “not in my experience.”) the thing is there’s more to dean’s denial than the fear of losing someone because of The Life. it comes from a place of self-doubt, and we’ll get to that in a bit.

while dean typically suppresses thoughts/emotions, let’s look at a few canon examples of dean repressing something. a great example is Purgatory: Early Years, how dean’s memories of his and cas’s parting are of him abandoning cas there. that was easier for dean to process — of course, of course he’d failed cas, that he’d messed up again. he only remembers what actually happened because cas shows him the truth — like that right there is repression. then there’s the whole emotional arc he has with his mother over the anger he’s had for her all these years, the resentment, and disappointment, “i hate you. and i love you,” that bleeds into forgiveness and understanding. so it’s not that i believe dean never experienced repression in his life — absolutely, he has, all of tfw have. however, there are some glaring differences from fandom’s perception of what dean’s repressing versus what he’s actually repressed.

it’s a largely adopted headcanon that dean is going about his life unaware (and simultaneously hyperaware) of his Gay ThotsTM, he has too much internalized homophobia to ever act on his desires, etc. etc. to me, there’s not a lot of evidence in the show to support this read, but the true issues are in the conversation surrounding it and the reasoning behind it. fandom discusses the headcanon with this reductive and mocking tone, if not hateful at times. dean’s being made fun of constantly for not understanding himself or his feelings for cas. he’s emotionally constipated, he’s too dumb to figure out he likes men and needs his college-dropout brother to tell him— well no he knows he likes men but he represses his desires— no wait he doesn't know he likes men… and on and on. what i mean is, when it comes to dean, his queerness is treated as a punishment. he’s condemned for being emotional, for not doing things the way fandom wants him to, and because he doesn’t ~act the way he should~, of course something reprehensible happened to him as a young man to make him forget all about his attraction to men. and the root of all that homophobia was bestowed upon him at an impressionable age by his “raging homophobe” father (which is another headcanon by fandom that has little evidence either). so, with all of that, even if dean did only figure out his sexuality later in his life, he’s mocked for it? he’s not Out and Proud enough because of a tragic traumatic gay experience made him fearful? he doesn’t announce his bisexuality at every given point like, “my name is dean winchester, i’m bisexual, prepare to die,” so this means he’s repressed and closeted? (is there even a right way to be queer?) this obsession with wanting dean to have had a violent experience because of his sexuality... it's like fandom can't even envision dean's queerness outside of trauma. dean’s life is tragic enough on its own without having to make his queerness tragic, too.

so you mention dean’s dangerous lifestyle being why he keeps himself from what he wants, and that’s totally a part of it — like, he didn’t want lisa and ben getting hurt again because of him, so he cut off ties with them and even had their memories erased of him. on a deeper level, dean’s struggling with self-doubt. my dude doesn't think that he's worth the clothes on his back, and he believes that the best ending for him is to go out in a blaze of glory. he's nothing more than a grunt — never stray from the mission and be ashamed if you do. not to have you do even more reading, but @curioussubjects wrote a great analysis about dean regarding emotional vulnerability and how he experiences queerness (“probably think you’re overcompensating”: perception, masculinity & queer!dean). miss liv puts things more eloquently than i ever could. (hi, liv. ily and your brain.)

what stops him from just asking cas to stay isn’t this shame or that he doesn’t recognize what he’s feeling is love, it’s when has anything worked out for them ever? would cas even stay when he always leaves? (he will, just ask, dean.) dean knows what he wants and his feelings for cas; he was ready to tell cas in purgatory! (“cas, i need to say something.”) i keep repeating myself at this point, but it’s not cas being dude-shaped that gives dean pause, it’s that dean thinks of himself as poison and unworthy and the reason everyone he loves dies. and that’s what makes cas’s confession all the more significant for both of them. it isn’t only cas finally giving himself permission to be happy, he had something to say dean needed to hear: you are not your worst enemy. you are more than a blunt instrument. you deserve more than to die bloody. you deserve the same love you give out selflessly. you are worthy. you are not a killer. and we see dean internalize this. when they confront god, dean says, “that is not who i am.” he knows! he deserves love! he wants it! he wants that beach vacation and that dream bar. he wants out of the hunting life, he wants to retire. he wants rest with his family.

and now, dean isn’t repressing his sexuality: a list

charlie — she and dean are paralleled quite a few times and are shown to have a closer bond than what charlie and sam share. dean flirted with a guy for her because she, a lesbian, didn’t know how to. now it could be argued that he knows what a man likes, since he identifies as a man, but then… sam could’ve done it, right? why was it dean? (because dean’s bi, jot that down.)

jesse and cesar — they’re deancas coded. it’s not even subtle. anyway, dean says, “you guys argue like brothers.” and cesar corrects him, “more like an old married couple.” dean doesn’t freak out, instead he asks, “what’s it like settling down with a hunter?” he wants! to settle down!!

gunnar lawless — dean’s crushing HARD, and his interaction with gunnar is paralleled with sam’s crush on rico. (also dean does? the hand thing? that mildred did with dean? like just an episode or two before?? subtlety? don’t know her!)

lee — just. the whole episode. 15x07 my beloved. lee is literally dean’s ex-boyfriend (and john liked him! even after catching them ~drunk on a hunt). dean is totally comfortable with lee the whole time (until, y’know, he finds out lee's murdering people). (who hasn’t killed their ex-boyfriend out of desperation and the need to save others, amiright?) repression internalized homophobia where?

the meat man — “that doesn’t mean what you think it means.” “yeah it does.” dean knows what it means.

thelma and lousie — “so, what — i’m themla and you’re lousie and we’re just going to hold hands and we sail off this cliff together?”

bert and ernie — “let me tell you something. there are two things i know for certain. one, bert and ernie are gay. two, you are not gonna die a virgin. not on my watch. let’s go.”

doctor sexy — both the time meeting doctor sexy, “it’s him, it’s doctor sexy.” / “really? because i swore part of what makes dr. sexy sexy is the fact that he wears cowboy boots. not tennis shoes.” and then later doing that “doctor” “doctor” with cas.

donna’s cabin — the dark-haired cowboy posters on the walls. “well, donna certainly has a type.” a type that seems to line up with dean’s type, funny that. i just. SPARKS. FLEW.

the mixtape — are you telling me dean “referential humor” winchester doesn’t know?? what giving someone a mixtape means?? and that when he gave that to cas (who’d just almost DIED) it was a confession of his feelings?? with the very band his parents fell in love to?? “you talked and he was cute and he knew the words to every Zeppelin song.” (please tell me how someone that’s repressing their gay thoughts would give a mixtape that had the band their parents fell in love to.) fellas, is it repression to give your buddy pal a mixtape of the songs your parents prolly fell in love to after he nearly died in front of you and told you he loves you.

dean comes out to his dad — john: “i guess that i had hoped, eventually, you would… get yourself a normal life, a peaceful life, a family.” dean: “i have a family.” john: “yeah. alright. what’s next?” dean: “we eat.” my dude just told his dad that this is his family. it’s not with a wife and a white picket fence. this is enough.

purgatory redux — “cas, i need to say something.”

the entire widower arc — do i need to say more. he grieved cas, he wrapped him in a shroud, he lost his faith, i’m. the number of times dean loses hope when cas is gone… i think the guy would’ve figured out by some point in the past decade that his feelings for cas run deeper than “this dorky little guy i saved the world with a couple times.”

if you've reached this far, this was my very longwinded way to say:

tl;dr: “repression” is an unconscious defense mechanism, meaning the person isn’t aware they have done/are doing it or what it is that’s locked away from their conscious mind. while there are things dean repressed in the past (i.e. his anger at his mother, his father; his memory of cas choosing to stay in purgatory, remembering it as abandoning cas there), he is not repressing his bisexuality or feelings for cas. if dean didn’t know or understand the extent of his own feelings up until cas’s confession, then why mixtape? why widower arc? why purgatory redux? why 15x07 last call? dean is pretty insightful and self-aware of himself and what he’s feeling, he just doesn’t always talk about these things with sam because he doesn’t want to burden him. my crackfics are my oh-so-subtle way to point out the rather, well, insulting takes that have gained popularity: “hehe dean’s too dumb to know he has gay feelings, he needs sam to tell him.” my dude’s not stupid. please give dean a bit more credit than that, okay? thanks for coming to my tedtalk, i’ve been very tired, and that's my time.

(this is my) disclaimer song: at no point am i trying to imply dean couldn’t have had any hangups in the past regarding his sexuality, nor am i saying he’s the most well-adjusted queer to exist therefore he could never have prejudice. please do not twist my words. i disagree with the opinion that dean’s this deeply repressed, closeted gay man with so much internalized homophobia he’d give cas a right hook for daring to touch his hand or whatever (and that the cure for what ails him is a good fuck, i guess). that take doesn’t line up with what we know about dean and his growth throughout the show. not to mention, spn is from 2005 when “haha that’s gay, ew” jokes were the norm. it's not free of its writers’ biases (sera gamble, meet me in the pit) and it’s not one of the cvv’s pandering Dare to DefyTM lgbtq+ pieces. the network execs saw spn as it used to be (a show about two brothers fighting monsters), not what it irrevocably became (found family and queer love), and it’s because of this oversight that the finale suffered. kthnxbye.

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piscadilly · 2 years ago

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can i call you something? syssy, perhaps? /j

long ass rebuttal with the original text included for references and transparencies sake. @justanothersyscourse

So apparently none of these things are up for debate because no one can reblog or comment

Nice

[I didn't tag my post as anything because I very specifically did not want any input, whether or not people agree with me. I do not like to engage in discourse outside of when I have something to actually say or on impulse (which has been said and can be found on my pinned post on my blog). I do not owe people debate, my time nor energy, nor my spoons. this includes you.]

@/amaranthis

Go ahead, "make an example out of me," but only after I make one of you.

[cringe.]

First, I swear to god, the only ones making #miserablyDID a thing are people like you. What people like me are trying to tell people like you is that dysfunction is a fluctuating label, and the DSM entry for DID explains that dysfunction can be minimal to non-existent and you can still be disordered, and that's okay.

[as I said in my post that you are ""referencing"" from is that if you do not think what I said happens, happens ever, then you have not seen what I have, and I hope you never do. I have known I was a system since I was 12 years old and I have been both on the pro-endo camp, and the critical/neutral camp of them (as I am currently, the latter.) I have seen a ton of shit both from the Astraea's web truthers and the people I call did elitists, who actually do not believe that you can be functional as a system unless you stop being one by achieving final fusion. and that any variation from their own personal experiences of being a system puts into question their validity at all. they also believe that you HAVE to have amnesia and blackouts or you are faking. you cannot know you are a system because it is a covert disorder or you are faking. you cannot have healthy and consistent communication with your alters, or you are faking. these are all things I have seen people around me online say over the years. perhaps you should do your own research?]

Disordered isn't a bad word and it's not synonymous with dysfunction, and the DSM explains why and how. You just don't want to listen and instead continue to spread the idea that you have be miserable and struggling every day if you're disordered. As if people don't live fulfilling, happy lives with all kinds of disorders.

[i'll take things I never said nor implied for 500 alex. I desperately want you to learn and practice reading comprehension and critical thinking skills because you are sorely lacking that here. I specifically pointed out ONE definition that did elitists use to mean disordered, I never said I personally believe in that, nor that everybody does. I know of other anti-endo or endo-neutral people that I am either friends with or have an acquaintance with that do not think like that. lol.]

No, DID is definitely the exception, right?

You ignore that the DSM allows for someone to reach final fusion and still have DID based on their ability to split later in life.

[the people I am calling did elitists disagree with that idea and will not hesitate to actually say so, because to them final fusion means you no longer have OSDDID, meaning you are no longer disordered.]

You ignore that the DSM explains that a disorder doesn't mean need for treatment, and you silence and hide voices trying to explain that under the guise of protecting endogenics from "hate", meanwhile, the misinformation you're pushing is actively harmful to DID systems.

[again, shit I never said, thought, or intended. you are also CATACLYSMICALLY missing the entire point of my post and that it was that harassing endogenics is not helping traumagenics! when people harass endogenics around where i can see it, I do not feel more validated or safer. I feel uncomfortable and worried because what's to stop them from going further and creating abstract rules on how to be a system, that I may or may not actually fit into, thus in turn causing them to fakeclaim ME as well? fakeclaiming traumagenics is harmful to traumagenics. endogenics can shrug that shit off if they're serious about going around being a system, because that's just par for the course of the kind of shit they get. majority of traumagenics are not actively faking so to accuse them of such is an act of violence against them. sorry you cannot grasp that concept.]

You ignore when we explain that the DSM states that you can be trans without dysphoria, and that in most cases, dysfunction in that case comes from failures on the side of medical practitioners and deniers. Transmeds go against the DSM and current research, and comparing syscourse to that is hugely dismissive of the fight trans people have fought.

[SHIT I NEVER SAID AND THIS IS WHY I SAID YOU WERE INSINUATING I WAS A TRANSMED. was it because I used the term transtrender? was it that? i was hoping that what i said came off as satire-esque and that i genuinely didn't think like that, because i DON'T and it's EXTREMELY obvious when you take a glance at my pinned post. i am mogai, nonbinary, and trans myself and i did not make the comparison lightly, and it is well within my right to do so. i also, in case you missed it, explicitly said that i do not agree with the usage of the terms sysmed or traumascum, but i can understand why and how they might have gotten started and why they are still used by some people.]

In terms of DID/OSDD, the DSM explains that it IS a trauma-based disorder, but no one bothers to read beyond the criteria (which also mentions trauma? The and/or doesn't mean trauma is optional, but go off I guess). Sysmeds support the DSM and current research.

[so are you against or for the term sysmed then? also please take note of your own language here, Current Research. we do not fully understand the brain, once again, and that includes how trauma affects it and that also includes dissociative and trauma based disorders. we have an IDEA, not a full understanding. i am eager to read about groundbreaking ideas and research into the phenomenon of being plural, both from a traumagenic and endogenic viewpoint because i value knowledge over what others may think exists or not. i'm not a sheep that follows the herd, i formulate my opinions based on what is available to me in the form of facts or peer reviewed opinions, and my own experiences, and my ability to have common sense and critical thought. also why are you saying "go off i guess" like what part of anything i said or am saying is implying that did/osdd are not trauma based. are you conflating me for some other shmuck i saw briefly on your blog? that person and i are not the same person. i do not subscribe or have a rhetoric outside of wanting people to shut the fuck up about how endos are singlehandedly ruining the lives and community of traumagenics.. you guys sound so fucking silly to me honestly. that and stop fucking fakeclaiming systems. period.]

The fight isn't comparable, and you're basically denying science and history at this point in favour of an argument that doesn't actually apply.

[you are lying abt what i said and believe in. would be funny if i wasn't so fucking exhausted.]

You ignore the very real damage that IFS has done to the treatment of DID/OSDD, and you ignore our concerns when we say we see the same things coming with endogenics if the language used isn't changed and the line clearly separated.

[i have like, zero idea about what IFS is or what it means because, in case you didn't read between the lines, i stay out of the way of the greater community because you guys are exhausting. i don't like syscourse. i do not like talking about syscourse, and i especially do not want people to fakeclaim me for some extremely arbitrary reason, like me having good communication with my alters, or me being frontstuck, or me being a little/mid ageslider when i am both fronstuck, AND the shell/main fronter, or, fuck, i dunno. spin a wheel, dude! I've been called fake in the past for all sorts of reasons, i cant even remember them all tbh.]

You ignore that we have answers to all of those questions you asked in the tags. We know why and how the cut off age works, and how autism can increase that age to about 12. From the writers of the DSM.

[MY understanding was that it was just a rule because of the CURRENT understanding of the brain and how it works when people age, also that's great to know because about a year ago when i went looking for stuff related to autism and did/osdd there was basically nothing for it. that's great actually thank you for informing me. :) ]

Image In b4 hypothesized, because we can see it now, and the DSM 5 TR has been updated to reflect this new understanding.

[i cannot see the image because of the format of the text editor i am using but i'll look at some point soon.]

You ignore that we already understand how and why those with DID have alters and how trauma plays into that.

[no, not ignoring, issuing a challenge and a call for new information that either solidly confirms or puts into question stuff that's already known. again, i value knowledge. i like to know things, especially related to psychology. it's a SPIN. i am not in a position to be able to conduct my own research and talk about my own findings because i am not in a psychology course at this point in time. but i definitely want to be able to fully understand the brain, the mind, and the related mechanisms, both from a spiritual and scientific point. am i weird for that? maybe.]

You ignore that this means that: those biomarkers, or injuries = DID/OSDD, and that if someone is apparently a system without those injuries, it is completely, 100% different. How can it not be? Those injuries affect every aspect of our lives-- the way we retain, recall, and manage memories and information, our emotional reactions to things. Someone without them isn't going to understand it, but people like you demonize people like me for pointing that out, despite the fact that it's kind of obvious when you think about it.

[i am assuming biomarkers is related to the image i can't see at this exact moment. no, again, not ignoring. i do not spend every waking hour studying did/osdd and committing everything to memory. my mind does not work that way and it sounds tiresome. i look things up when my interest is piqued. like now when i am dealing with you. call me lazy if you want, idk. i do things the way i do things because again, i am a spoonie. i do not demonize you for pointing it out, in fact part of my original post was also about how educating endos and people new to being a system is infinitely more helpful and meaningful than just gatekeeping them and directing vitriol to them. please do reread my post a few times, i find it may help.]

You ignore that the DSM is quite clear about what kind of cultural experiences are excluded and why and how, and it's not for teens on tumblr, and saying it is, is denying the long, hard fight to keep spiritual and religious practices out of the DSM, because they're not the same things.

[personally i find it extremely weird how you are discounting endogenics, pro-endos, and endo-neutrals to only being teens on tumblr and that there aren't any on other sites, irl, or that some of these people may also be adults of varying ages. i never mentioned spirituality anywhere in my post that i know of, as that wasn't the cusp of the matter i was speaking on. if i did then i forgot, so my bad! but i do think i didn't. that is a whole 'nother can of worms that i do not want to talk about because my opinions on the matter are conflicting and complicated.]

We already have the answers, you just don't like them, and you just proved on this post that you don't actually care about education, you care about silencing people who disagree and try to point out that you're misreading and misunderstanding things.

[where the fuck am i silencing anybody? i am not forcing you or anybody else to agree with me and stop harassment of people, both endogenic and traumagenic (who get caught in the crossfire, like i have been by you) i am just inviting people to maybe rethink the way they approach shit and go for education or ignoring them instead of any harassment or bullying. stop using buzzwords lol.]

my text now:

anyway, you in fact did NOT know i was prof dx'd until i said so to you, all it says on my blog is that i have did/am traumagenic, you could've assumed i was lying or that it was a self dx. i can tell by your language in this post that you suspected i was an endogenic by the way you said "people like you" and "people like me"

we are the same. we are both traumagenic systems. you do not have to backpedal and insist you knew all along and that i was wrong in my skimming and understanding of what you said prior, you can admit that you were wrong about something. like i did when i mentioned the cut off age in relation to being autistic not being known. i didn't actually know they figured it out! so again, thanks for informing me. if you have a link to the study(ies) on it i'd love to receive it.

#systems dont look #in case u want to postblock/tagblock this #IM NOT TAGGING THIS OUTRIGHT AS WHAT IT IS BC I DONT WAN TO INVITE MORE PEOPLE TO ENGAGE WITH ME im running out of spoons

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paper-n-ashes · 4 years ago

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The Late Shift

Characters: Paul Sevier x Female Reader

Words: 2k

Warnings/Tags: There’s actually none (I hope). I know. I’m surprised too.

Authors Note: This is so dumb. I’m aware. Look, I’ve been dealing with a horrendous writers block and shattered confidence and I made Paul Sevier gifs to ease my pain. It turned into this. I just wanted to try something a little cute and fluffy to get back into the swing of things. So... here it is.

It was going to be a long night.

Stuck on the Wednesday evening shift for the third time this month, you mindlessly fiddled with the pen in your hand. Twirling it between your fingers, your mind drifted away from the present moment, wondering why your boss seemed to dislike you so much to keep you here past 6pm in the middle of the week. He’d always been adamant this was prime selling time for this boutique suit store, with corporate clients needing to do their shopping outside of normal business hours.

You, however, knew keeping this place open was senseless, barely seeing more than a few unenthusiastic customers in these agonizingly slow stretches. Working on commission also made you all the more bitter about being paid minimum wage to stand behind a counter and doodle sketches of imaginary clients dressed in the outfits you personally tailored. This isn’t where you thought a Bachelor of Arts in Fashion Design would take you, that’s for sure.

“H-hello,” you heard a deep voice quietly greet you, startling you into focus. “Are you busy? I… think I need a little help.”

Eyes flickering up from the notepad, you were sure your pupils blew wide at the sight of the man in front of you. Standing at an imposingly large height, his hair a severely murky shade of black, with honeyed irises shining brightly behind delicate spectacles.

A human personification of tall, dark and handsome. Well, except for the clothes.

The stranger wore the layered combination of a grey tweed jacket and argyle patterned sweater, arranged over a particularly heinous, mustard-coloured button up. While the ensemble made you internally cringe, it gave him an air of intelligence, like the kind that hangs around stuffy, old college professors who have more academic accolades than you have fingers and toes.

“Me?” you coughed out, knowing full well you were the only other person in this tiny little shop. “Uh, yeah. I mean- No, no I’m not busy. What is it you need help with?” Even when you stood, the man towered above you, making you silently begin to calculate the high-numbered measurements you’d need to fit him in something.

“I have an important meeting scheduled for Friday. You know, the type you need to wear a suit to?” Evidently the thought of it made him nervous, as you noticed his cheek twitch slightly, his eyes scanning momentarily at the garments filling the space. “I’m… uh… not so great with clothes.”

Clearly, you chuckled inside your head, holding the word from your tongue. “You want me to pick out something for you?”

He took a defeated breath, his mouth twisting into an awkward yet wonderfully endearing smile. “Would you mind? Only if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble!” you burst, maybe a little too excitedly. “It’s my job!” Bounding out from behind the counter you’d been imprisoned by, you moved directly to the section of classic navy business suits. Slim line. Something to accentuate his well-built frame, rather than hide it away. You had to pause, swivelling back around to the dumbfounded man. “Is price an issue… uh…?”

“Paul,” he answered for you, slowly moving to where you stood. “And… I suppose not. Probably should spend the money on something that will last. If you think it’s a good idea.”

Oh thank god, you mused without showing the relief on your face. He’s not some rich asshole trying to flash his cash. “A good suit can last you five years, if you treat it right.” Your hand reached over to graze one of the deepened blue sleeves of a jacket at your left. “And a classic colour will never go out of style.”

Paul let out an embarrassed chuckle. “I think you’ve already noticed how lacking in style I am…” He glanced to your nametag, murmuring your name with a goofy smirk curling his lips. You’d never seen a grown man, especially not one of this stature, appear so adorable. It was horribly distracting.

“I’m sure you have expertise in other areas,” you stumbled, realizing only when the words came out how offensive they might seem. Yet Paul conceded to your comment, his rumbling laugh making your chest feel tight.

“Debatable,” he shrugged. “I’m just glad I found some qualified personnel to help me in this instance.”

Oh boy. Humble and charming? You were in so much trouble. Surely someone as sweet as this had another waiting for them at home. “I’m sure your partner could help you pick out something nice too.”

“Not an option in my case.”

Shit. Single too. You were truly fucked.

You turned, trying to calm your erratic heartbeat by focusing on finding an outfit that would contain his longer limbs. Plucking out a matching jacket and trouser set, with an ivory, collared button-up, you offered them to Paul, his features having melted into a sweetened look of intrigue. “Go and try these on. There’s a changeroom just behind the counter. See how they feel, and we can go from there.”

He nodded, taking the pieces with both of his large hands and shuffling away to where you’d pointed to. No sooner than the latch had locked were you dashing to where your phone was sitting at the register, flitting out a rushed text message to your favourite co-worker.

There was rustling you heard emanating from the changeroom stall, doing your best to ignore the urge of picturing Paul, a man you’d met only minutes ago, gradually slipping off his clothes to reveal the toned muscles underneath. You grimaced at yourself, shaking your head to banish the imaginations. God this was unprofessional.

Finally, a response lit up on your phone screen.

You laughed softly through your nose, about to type a reply when you heard the lock click open again. The breath in your lungs was stuck as Paul made his way out, the expensive textiles draping over his burly frame in a way that made your whole body tense.

He rustled a hand through his hair, looking up to you while fidgeting with the starchy material stretched over his chest. “Does it look okay?”

After all these years working this job, the enticing novelty of attractive men in well-fitted suits had slowly worn off, especially when most of them treated you with about as much respect as the used gum they spit out onto the sidewalk. Suddenly, all those preconceived notions were gone. On Paul, this ensemble instantly became the most captivating thing in the entire universe.

The inside of your mouth flooded with saliva, having to swallow hard before speaking again. “Great… it looks… great.” You did your best to conceal a settling exhale. “What do you think? How does it feel?”

Paul shifted to look at his reflection in the mirror, pupils trailing up and down, flexing his limbs in an attempt to get a proper impression of the new apparel. “It feels really good. Makes me look… sophisticated.” He turned to you, his expression unsure. “Right?”

Your smile was sparkling, nodding to his question. There was a small amount of work to do, noting how in your effort to make sure everything complemented his physique, you’d oversized him. The waistline of the jacket needed to be taken in, the shoulder lines sitting slightly off, and the trouser length needing to be taken up slightly. “A couple of adjustments and it’ll be perfect.”

“You mean taking it to be tailored?”

“No need.” You pulled out the wheel of berry pins from your pocket, kneeling down on the floor next to Paul’s feet. “All our tailoring is included in the price. Done completely in house.” You began to fold the bottom edge of his pants, pinning it to an adequate length. “I can have it ready for you tomorrow, all ready for your Friday meeting.”

“You do all the tailoring yourself?” Paul asked as you slinked another pin through the fabric.

“Sure do,” you chirped, moving onto the other leg. “3 years at a design school taught me a few things about cutting and sewing.” With the hemlines in place, you straightened in front of him, plucking out a roll of measuring tape from your other pocket. “I just… need to take a few measurements to properly alter the jacket.”

His cheek twitched, the line of his jaw seeming somewhat strained. “Sure. F-fine. Do what you gotta do."

You went with determining his arm length first, feeling out the boney point of his shoulder and striping the lined tape all the way down to his wrist. Then, after taking a deep inhale, you curled your arms around his hips, focusing hard on the little black numbers to ignore the fact Paul’s breath had started to skate over your skin with this close proximity. It was when you were lining up the thickened stripes indicating his chest circumference that you made the mistake of peering up, finding his alluring stare fully concentrated on you.

There was a moment. A spark to waiting kindling. Where impulse could have led you to do a dangerous thing. You’d never been the hasty type, never acted without considerable thought. Usually so shy and composed, never making the first move. Although right now, you could scarcely hold yourself back, desperate to know the sensation of Paul’s lips, how they’d move over yours, what they tasted like.

No. This was so inappropriate.

The compulsion was about to wither away when you felt a hand skim up your waist, the lightened touch shooting a thrill over your skin.

“Excuse me,” a gruff voice called from your side. “How much are these dress socks?”

You immediately stepped back, smacked into reality again. “$12.99. Exactly what it says on the box.”

The older gentlemen scrutinized the packaging, lids narrowed until he finally saw the numbers plastered at the border. “Oh, right. Eh, a little expensive for my taste. Thanks anyway.”

Flustered, you began to coil the measuring tape into its resting spiral, forcefully glaring at the floor. “I’m all done. You can get dressed into your own clothes now.”

In your periphery you saw Paul regarding you with a gentle nod, walking back into the changeroom without another word. Every part of you wanted to sink beneath the wooden floorboards, so horrendously embarrassed you could feel a smoldering heat prickle at your cheeks. Only to relieve some of the nervous energy, you ran to your phone.

Again, Paul was exiting out of the stall just as you were going to submit your reply, placing the neatly arranged garments over the counter. It was difficult to look directly at him, having to summon all remaining shards of your courage to drift your eyes up to his face. “Was there anything else you needed?”

His mouth parted, only to quickly snap shut, scratching at his hairline in the seconds it took for him to give you a response. “No. Nothing else. Unless there’s something more you think I need.”

You shook your head, wishing you could give another answer just to keep him here. “You’re all set.” The full price of his items flashed on the monitor in front of you, spouting it to him as your fingers flicked across the keyboard to finalize the purchase, with a personal discount that wouldn’t show on the receipt.

“When should I come by to pick it up?” he queried, passing you his credit card. “Oh, but there’s no pressure. Whenever you have the time is just fine.”

An idea flared. “If you give me your number, I can text you when it’s ready.”

“That works for me.”

Erasing all evidence of the conversation you’d been having, you brought up the number pad, handing your phone over. Paul swiftly typed in his details before placing it back in your palm. ‘Paul the Suit Guy’ the contact read, unable to stifle your laugh.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” His eager expression made your heart quiver through a beat.

“Y-yeah,” you stammered. “I’ll see you then.”

Paul waved his hand in an awkward flourish to signal his goodbye, eventually moving far enough from your vision for you to finally take a full, relaxed breath. In a dazed hurry, you keyed in your returning message to your co-worker.

It was the precise moment your thumb had pressed into the ‘Send’ button that you realised your recipient wasn’t the one you’d intended.

You’d sent this message straight to Paul.

Fuck. Oh fuck. This was bad.

While you were scrambling to formulate a believable excuse, a new message popped up onto the screen.

Tags for my lovelies who might tolerate this nonsense: @tlcwrites @roanniom @princessxkenobi @hopeamarsu @blowthatpieceofjunk @mariesackler @leatherboundriot @foxilayde @modernpaw @cornmousequeen @direnightshade @safarigirlsp @blackberries45 @mylifeisactuallyamess @caillea @jynzandtonic @beskarbabs

#paul sevier #paul sevier x reader #paul sevier x female reader #midnight special #adcu #adcu fanfiction

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missinghan · 4 years ago

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aria of an assassin ⤖ lee minho

❖ genre : assassin au; fluff; angst

❖ word count : 6,2k.

❖ warning : mentions of blood & violence, explicit language

❖ summary : minho hasn’t been fazed for decades throughout his bloodied career until the next target happens to be a black cat and he’s suddenly incapable of pulling the trigger.

❖ note : okay, so it’s been a year? this tiny, stupid blog is turning one year old today? yea I couldn’t believe it either. this is to all of my mutuals and readers out there, I don’t say it enough but I truly appreciate each and every one of you 🖤 I wish I could have written something longer but due to school, this random piece will have to do for now.

❖ the sequel : with felix is out!

one.

“Shit.”

Minho grits in a hushed tone although all that has been accompanying him is the pitiful moonlight and icy breeze dissolving into every fiber of his skin. Every minuscule movement suddenly becomes too irritating to his eardrums. The hustle and bustle life of the city at night. Terrible traffic. Even the sound of his own inhales and exhales.

What is that thing?

He thinks to himself, proceeding to expand his eyesight with the pair of scopes; confusion soon flares into curiosity, then faint anger and dead silence. He swears his heartbeat just paused awkwardly like a broken record for a split second there. Such strange, or odd targets are no stranger to him; nor do they stir something inside the coldness of his rib cage.

Not an easy kill, they say. And not easy it is.

Because whatever he’s watching with his very eyes is a cat. A goddamn cat with a coat as sleek pitch as the dark canvas upon his head and piercing golden eyes. The peculiar animal walks with its head held high like it’s lording over everyone else—such self-reassurance, such radiance some humans cease to possess.

It’s dangerous, they say. But it’s a fucking cat! Irritation bubbles up at the back of his throat, makes his skin crawl, and causes a bark of profanity to leave his lips once more. Has it not occurred to his client that he doesn’t kill children and animals? When it’s clearly been written on the contract? In bold, underlined, and everything?

They could have at least given him more details on what he’s getting himself to this time.

An exhale. He packs up his things, pulls his black cap down a little, and leaves the top of the building without looking back. If he did, he would have seen those starry eyes boring holes onto his back.

two.

The road Minho is walking through is more than familiar. For one, he takes the same path every day to grab a drink at his go-to place—a vending machine near an old, plain high school.

It’s fair to say he knows every corner of the neighborhood like the back of his hand—from the dark alley where bullies beat up their classmates to the small stall of lemonade of a middle school girl who waves at him every morning. He never reciprocates though; it doesn’t feel right. The amount of apathy in his heart isn’t enough for him to act normally when taking lives is what he does for a living.

For two, he used to have a part-time job at that particular high school for an old request. Due to his conscience, he did go out of his way to take the kill outside of the school—causing a catastrophe in such an environment makes him uncomfortable.

Just then, he stops. His brow raises. Isn’t that…

The black cat slinks through the crowd of nosy students in the direction of where he too is heading. It raises its nose and gives the air a rough sniff, making a face as though the general stagnant with exhaust fumes stench of the city disgusts the entirety of its existence.

Watching it take a slight dip to avoid being hit with someone’s bag, Minho holds back every urge to come running at the creature and wrap his arms around its small figure. He wonders how long it’d take for the cat to reach its final destination because it’s definitely taking some sweet ass time to stride through the front of the main gate like a supermodel. Meanwhile, he’s stressed to the core as if the harmless high school filled with teenagers is nothing less than a battlefield.

Is it testing him?

Something is oddly unsettling about an animal staring straight into his eyes. Paranoia fuels the forgotten irritation inside his chest, sets out to make him actually think those golden eyes are memorizing every inch of his feature. Then, they soften with what seems to be exhaustion, its tiny head turning and its tiny feet take it skipping gently away from the scene.

Minho finally acknowledges the knot inside his stomach and the breath he’s been holding. With a harsh gulp, he no longer takes notice of the fact if his cap is hung low enough or if he’s walking too quickly. For the first time in long, a rush of adrenaline hits him hard enough to make him speed walk through the herd of chatty teenagers.

Questions naturally pop up as his shoes kiss the ground, his shadow sprinting into a dark, though familiar alleyway. Was he hallucinating? But he’s been getting enough sleep and eating well. What makes him so certain that it was the same cat? Instincts or some sixth sense bullshit perhaps. If it was the cat that’s assigned to be killed off in a week, what’s so dangerous about it? And how long has he been running for? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? And to where?

“You.”

Half-way through trying to keep his thoughts off of his face, Minho stops himself when a rather feminine voice echoes through the narrow space. Unsure of whether the voice was reaching out to him, his legs stop moving while his eyes are peering through the dark. Much to his heart’s dismay, shivers run up his spine when something comes in contact with the warm flesh of his neck.

“What’s your name?”

Slowly, with his hands on the back of his head, he turns on his heels. “Excuse you?”

You retract your gun-shaped fingers into the pocket of your jacket, phlegmatic eyes gazing at him through the thickness of the night. “I want to know your name,” you try to make your point clear, utterly unfazed.

Minho stares you down for a good five seconds. Neatly dressed in the school uniform, an oversized jacket thrown over your body but no backpacks. There’s a name tag being embroidered onto the fabric in red “Shin Yuna - 1A”. Whoever you are, he’s certain that isn’t your name. That name doesn’t even suit you. That isn’t your uniform.

“What’s the point?” he questions, hands dropped to the sides in slight relief.

You tilt your head, expression neutral. “I have a habit of collecting names of people who tried or are trying to kill me. It’s quite relaxing to write it down on a list actually. You know, easier to keep track.”

He’s trying hard to not let any impulsive urges overthrow the rational side of his brain. Everything suddenly twitches in slow motion. His silence seems to bore you. Your eyes are more dead than angry, more done than irritated. Like you’ve been through this shit one too many times already to care.

“At least say why you’re sent to kill me.”

That, Minho can answer within a blink of an eye. “They sent me because I don’t exist.”

Your gaze glistens with a glaze of boredom. “Everyone said so.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock. Where’s your house, kid? I’ll walk you back. It’d be a pain in the ass if your parents found out how you’re wandering alone after school,” he brushes it off like you’re a slight nuisance (which you are). His heartbeat spikes up once at the mention of family, one that you’ve acknowledged with ease.

Your arms are folded over your chest now, to cover up the sudden stab of sympathy inside your chest. “There’s no need. I don’t have a place to go back to nor do I have parents who will nag me for staying out late.”

His mind automatically blackouts along with his senses, blurred with such peculiar feelings swirling at the pit of his stomach. You make it sound like it’s not that big of a deal like you’ve utterly been numb for so long. It’s tragic but understandable. This isn’t the first time he has witnessed a story like yours—your parents, dead or alive, he does not know; by the sound of it, you’re an orphan. Another unfortunate being to graze this planet like himself. This means you can’t afford school, so that uniform really doesn’t belong to you.

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

“It’s Lee Know. Call me Lee Know.”

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.”

You didn’t mean to expose anything about your life to a total stranger, or specifically an assassin. However, nothing matters when you most likely won’t meet him again nor will he succeed in taking your life. Even the fact that he chose not to give you his real name amplifies how much shit he does not give about you. You don’t expect anything more honestly.

“Alright, we’re done here,” you feign enthusiasm before clasping your hands together. “Go home. The sun is already going down.”

Strangely enough, Minho can only watch as your shadow shifts to the outline of a black cat before dipping into the depths of the starless night.

three.

To Minho it’s always just another day in the office. Except his office is a windy rooftop overlooking the mark’s exact location. His tools—rather than a computer—is a state-of-the-art rifle with a telescopic lens. A silencer isn’t very important since traffic and people are more than enough to drown out any suspicious noises. Most will mistake it for a back-firing van. He takes aim with no more qualms than one would gossip about a colleague, then pulls the trigger while thinking about what to order other than Chinese for lunch. When the work is done, he carefully packs everything up into an inconspicuous rucksack. And leaves the scene, like a phantom.

It’s always been the same boring, bloodied cycle.

Yet something’s changed since Minho met you.

He used to maintain a cool detachment to his targets. His conscience prefers not to think of them; whenever he does, it’s as if they’re already dead, mobile meat bags waiting to be laid on a cutting board. He doesn’t like to think merrily of his job, he doesn’t see it as helping them meet their destiny. None of that bullshit. To put it more nonchalantly, everyone will die one day. Minho considers it as a good way to go. Oblivious and in pain for one moment before completely gone the next.

Simple. Convenient. Much less agonizing than this brutal world.

Although that doesn’t mean he isn’t traumatized by the amount of blood that has stained his hands. On good days, he might get three to four hours of sleep. Bad days, few minutes to none at all. Terrifying nightmares gnaws at his soul every night, the ugly scar like a reminder of every single one of his sins. He can’t force himself to lose his sanity like any fools out there going down the same path.

“Shit…” Minho mutters, running a rough hand through his hair. He didn’t sleep well last night—like every other night; hence the bad temper and bitter taste at the back of his throat.

After a deep breath, he stares at his Hecate II with mischievous eyes—those of a hunter framed in the expressionless face of an executioner. His blunt hands are steady as they lift the shiny weapon over the concrete of a rooftop, drawing out a dry shot in his mind.

Through his scope, he watches as you’re crossing the road in your human form before stopping abruptly in front of a random tree. You then proceed to squint your eyes and look up in the opposite direction. Minho unknowingly holds his breath, waits for you to release your iron gaze, and move on with your life. But his expectations don’t prevail.

“What the fuck?”

Without much patience, he curses before shifting his scope to the same direction only to find another shadow creeping around on the balcony of a nearby building. No time to think of a rational solution—killing them is an ideal one—Minho feels his palms growing sweaty when a small, peculiar object comes flying toward his way. His head quickly moves away before the bullet pierces through his scope, shattering the glass completely.

“Son of a bitch,” he lets out a shaky breath. Crimson starts to drip down on the side of his cheekbone, but he can care less.

Because that’s the least of his problem right now.

Another subtle ‘bang’ can be heard in the distance, like a broken record scratching against his eardrums. Kid…! Minho’s heart collapses in realization.

four.

It’s not hard for Minho to do research on quite an amount of vital information about you. When he saw your body dropped to the ground lifelessly and an ambulance immediately drove by to pick up your body, he knew things weren’t going to end just like that.

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.”

He isn’t a believer, has never been one. Yet when he managed to take out your kidnappers in that ambulance, your weak breaths startled his heart and shook his mind into awareness of how serious the situation is. After that, he tracked down the hitman who delivered the hard blow, put a bullet through his brain, and found an USB full of detailed information about your existence. Which just makes things a whole lot more complicated to understand.

Apparently, you’ve been ‘killed’ one too many times before—there are photographs of your supposedly dead body in a bag, thrown into the deep, dark woods, other times into a nameless river. The thing about you is that you were once an experimental subject to your own biological parents who are sickeningly vile scientists. At the age of nine, you fell down the stairs and had a big gash on your head. They never knew because your wounds were quick to heal themselves. However, your whole life was flipped upside down when they saw you shapeshifting into a black cat while running around at the playground.

From then, your life became a living hell behind cold metal bars with needles stuck in your arms and strange pills being forced down your throat almost every day. Their sudden change only nourished resentment through time until you managed to cut down the laboratory’s power supply and fled from your own home.

You have no one to lean on. No place to go back to. No nothing. And you’re just a teenager.

Minho feels awful.

Usually, he isn’t the type to be empathetic nor does he have the energy to. It’s very out of character for him to let his emotions linger on a homeless kid with some supernatural abilities that will make his life that much more dangerous. Because to him, more often than not, people tend to give their condolences only to forget after brief moments of grieving. At the end of the day, it isn’t their own problem, it isn’t their own life. But now when it comes to you, Minho feels a strong sense of responsibility that if you end up dying, it’s on him.

It’s stupidly conflicted, it really is. His job—blowing people’s brains out—is the sole reason why he makes a six-digit amount of money for every job. Therefore, he isn’t sure what picking a random kid up from a fake ambulance and bringing her back to his shabby apartment is going to do him any good.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

You hate the fact that you can recognize that voice.

Just then, you wake as if it’s an emergency, as if sleeping has become a dangerous task. Your heart is pounding loudly inside your ears, the sound echoing listlessly to the pit of your rib cage. It’s always like this. It takes you some time to calm your nerves before gathering what exactly happened the moment you blacked out.

Right, you think to yourself, groaning slightly while pushing yourself up. You were shot right in the chest, and your body was probably discarded somewhere. After that, you’d grab a hitchhiker so they’ll drive you back into town. Like always. The only difference, this time though, is Minho placing your limp body on his bed with a blanket to warm you up.

His face appears within your eyesight when you’re done adjusting your vision to the bright room—you’re not used to this much light around. “You look calmer than I expected,” he mentions.

Minho grabs your face and scans it over. “Let me see. Did your wounds close up properly?”

The tender action, which has become weirdly natural to him although this is his first time, accidentally triggers something inside you. Your hand automatically slaps his away. It is an upfront refusal, but it doesn’t surprise him. He only offers you a comfortable moment of silence before placing a tray on the wooden nightstand.

“Eat up. I’m not going to feed you,” he cocks his head toward the bowl of porridge with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

You glare at him in suspicion. “Bringing me home. Giving me a bed to sleep on. And even food to eat. What are you trying to get at?”

“Nothing. I didn’t kill you only because you’re too young for my moral code,” he pretends to roll his eyes, voicing monotonously.

A frown adorns your tired features. “So you’re going to kill me when I get older then?”

“Probably,” Minho smirks faintly with a cock of his eyebrow. “That depends if you still remember my name, Y/N.”

One thing after another, this assassin only continues to baffle you. He was just going to shoot you the other day and now he’s giving you food? Preposterous! To put it simply, you’re unprepared for such kind actions, such gentleness from someone who takes lives for a living. You’re unprepared for dealing with people in general because they detest anyone who’s different from them—your kind, the kind with supernatural abilities and all. Hence, you’re left unwilling to befriend anyone and would rather be alone for the rest of your life.

Until such twisted moira pushes you to—what was his name again? Not his real name, the made-up one that he uses in the underworld.

You speak up softly after feeling safe enough to let your guards down, “Lee Know, was it?”

“It’s Lee Minho.”

“Pardon?”

He only smiles, “My real name. It’s Lee Minho.”

five.

“Y/N! A little help over here?”

“Coming.”

“Y/N, go check the fog machine!”

“Got you.”

“Y/N, can you put these boxes over there?”

“Alright.”

That’s all you’ve been doing for the entirety of your boring day. Getting yelled out at, having people ask for help nonstop, and responding with a two-word answer at max. You’re not complaining—they pay you well enough, the job is more on the down-low side because you’re nothing but a mere stage crew for an above-average theatre studio. So you simply hoist the three final plastic boxes into your arms with a jerk of your knees and place it where they asked you to. Thanks to your parents, their experiments along with skeptical-looking substances have efficiently enhanced your general strength and agility.

Another crew member perks up when you plop the heavy stack of cardboard boxes down with a loud thud. “Oh, can you carry those lights to stage left too?”

“Sure.” You could have pretended to pick up one box at a time and to drag your feet across the stage with difficulties to avoid being used. But you’re too lazy to repeat the same cycle two more times, so you really don’t have any other choice here.

Nevertheless, you suppose it’s not entirely bad to do all of this heavy handiwork. Because it keeps your mind off of unwanted things, such as Lee Minho for example. Lee Minho, the assassin, not the actor—you’d gladly fangirl over that certain celebrity rather than admit that you actually enjoy the hitman’s abrupt presence in your life.

The fact that you know he will find you even if it means traveling to the ends of the Earth and back doesn’t help to ease your insomnia. So for the past few days, you’ve been working extra hours along with picking up a job at a florist in hopes of not bumping into him. Stupid. You know it is. But how can you deal with a self-esteem crisis because the idea of being a burden just irks you so much?

It’s like you’re hopelessly proving that you don’t need anyone when you, in fact, want that kind of unconditional love that every other human yearns for.

After helping your colleagues out with the lighting, you simply sit behind those thick curtains until the show is over. Then, you head out, find a place to sleep, and head to an old lady’s place to pick up new clothes to change into for the next day. Since she’s been treating you with nothing but kindness, you’ve tried to pass by and helped her out at her son’s antique store too.

Your routine is supposed to go that way and stay that way. You won’t die because you don’t like overworking yourself. You’re doing just great.

“Hey, Y/N! Your brother is here to pick you up!”

Throwing your crewmate a blunt wave, you find your way out of the school’s theatre through a back door without shifting the expression on your face. You don’t have any siblings. And your colleagues don’t know anything about your family background either. So it, unfortunately, boils your guesses down to one.

Despite knowing who it is and why they show up, you open your mouth to speak, “How did you find me again?”

Minho shows up with a more casual version of his working attire—instead of the fully black, monochromatic outfit, he’s changing it up with a leather jacket, white t-shirt and jeans. He leans on his shiny motorcycle smugly like he knows something that you don’t, in which you very much dislike.

“Young lady, I’ll have you know that being an assassin helps me appear at places to do things I’m not supposed to do,” he ignores the fact that your question was purely rhetorical and chimes.

You attempt to throw him a glare which isn’t intimidating enough. “Call me ‘young lady’ one more time and I’ll put my foot where it’s not supposed to be.” Who are you kidding? He’s a hitman when you’re just a kid. Pigs would be flying by the time you managed to physically shoo him away.

“Am I supposed to guess where that is?”

“Enough. Go to work. Get out of here. Leave me alone.”

“I’m sorry, are you encouraging me to kill people?” Minho gasps, acting shocked and appalled. Clearly, he’s not good at it despite sharing a name with a well-known actor.

You can only retort harshly, “Don’t put words in my mouth, you ass.”

“Come on, kid. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“Why?”

His hand automatically reaches for your forearm. “Don’t people eat for pleasure? What’s wrong with you?”

Your heart leaps in, anger perhaps, pupils shaking when he closes in on you. Upon your reaction, Minho retracts his arm immediately. He should have thought better of it; you’re probably too traumatized to be dealing with him right now.

At that, your eyes round at the remorse on his face and you could have glared him off right then and there. But somehow, your basic human manners overcome your usual snappy self, letting you think that maybe he means no harm. Maybe he’s checking up on you one last time before going on about his life. You shouldn’t be too riled up about it just because he tried to kill you once.

Minho catches the familiar anxious gaze and sighs, “Okay, we don’t have to get something to eat. I’ll give you a ride back. Do you have somewhere to stay the night?”

It’s rotten work, whatever he’s trying to do. So you shake the harmless tingle inside your chest away before pushing past him. “No,” you answer dryly and leave.

six.

You go to work sick the day after because you couldn’t find a place to sleep in and had to make do with napping in front of a tattoo place. Yes, napping; because when you finally shifted into your cat form and allowed your eyes to rest, the sky started pouring waterfalls. The rain had soaked into your shiny black coat, making it frizzy and luring the sickness up your spine the moment you tried finding a different haven.

No one notices. No one.

Not even the mask, the extra layer of sweatshirt nor your hushed coughs every now and then. Despite downing the cold pills early in the morning, you’re only burning up harder by the second. Oh, you know! Maybe they just don’t care, that’s it. Because calling in off for work due to a minor cold isn’t a valid reason. However, you’re still shivering on the inside and burning on the outside. Enhanced genes or any of that bullshit isn’t enough to prevent you from getting sick like any other student. Perhaps something wasn’t complete, or they’d messed up somewhere. Perhaps that’s why they’re trying to get you back.

How foolish of you to think somewhere deep down, they still want you back. With a reason as blunt as you being their child.

Drowning in deep thoughts, you almost crash into a pile of boxes filled with equipment when your foot gets tangled to a random cable. Your eyes automatically screw shut as you wait for the impact but it never comes. Only a gentle pair of hands on your shoulders did. From that point on, you can’t hear or see properly. You don’t even have enough stamina to register who’s holding onto you so reassuringly. Whatever is happening gets hazier by the tick of a clock. It’s either you’re hallucinating or Minho is giving you that mirthful scowl of his.

Yep, you’re definitely hallucinating.

“Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“That’s a stupid fucking question.”

A frown adorns his perplexed features as his glassy eyes skim your face. He has a really pretty smile, he should smile more, you think. His hand latches onto your burning forehead, slides down on the side of your cheek with such grace as though he’s caressing you. A grumble leaves his lips at your dreadful state. This is why he should have never let you go in the first place.

“Come on, kid. Let me help you,” Minho says before giving your arm a light tug.

You don’t like what you just heard. “I don’t need your help.”

“You can barely walk.”

“Who said so-” As if on cue, he lets go of your arm bluntly. Caught off guard, your legs go weak without any remaining strength. You stumble and would have most likely fallen on your face if it weren’t for his grip on your arm. A gasp comes out inaudible when he hoists you upright, not planning to let go any time soon.

Minho scratches the tip of his nose with his ring finger, sniffing lightly. It seems like he’s arguing with a younger version of himself. He now knows how it felt like for those caretakers back then.

“You did,” he says with the same smirk when you woke up in his apartment for the first time.

seven.

That’s the only time you’ve ever allowed someone to help you with something. But Minho had to constantly check on you every two seconds, not wanting you to fall asleep on his bike while it’s speeding down the highway like a gust of wind. For a moment there, he really thought you would slip away into the night as he tried to find his keys because that’s just how you are.

Minho is no doctor, but he doesn’t go to one for a cold or a really bad fever. He can manage, he tries to convince himself.

After testing your temperature and giving you something new to change into, he slaps a cool gel patch onto your forehead before heading off to the kitchen to cook up something. You need to be full to be able to take your medicine anyway.

In the act of resting on his bed, you decide you can’t take staying in the same spot anymore so your body perks up in a sluggish manner. The aroma of home-cooked food wakes your senses almost immediately, causing you to look over at his busy figure by the marble counter. You think it’s endearing how he hasn’t bothered to change into something more comfortable. But he instead threw an apron over his working attire and dived right into the cooking process.

You have always felt like you were missing out on something whenever you looked at Minho. Perhaps it was how his striking eyes stared at you, whether mischievous or else. Perhaps it was how his lips were turning down most of the time with less than affectionate words.

Or it’s plainly how he has been trying to hide that he actually cares.

“Hungry?” He tilts his head to the side playfully once his sixth sense starts kicking in.

You can only nod. “Yeah.”

It takes Minho a lot of convincing yet you won’t let him feed you. Like hell, you would. Therefore, with helpless eyes, he watches you from across the table. He doesn’t laugh or get annoyed when your shaky hand drops the spoon and splatters the soup all over the table. His hand simply reaches for a piece of paper towel to clean up the mess, tossing it into the trash bin later. The same cycle repeats in comforting silence until you finish the entire bowl. The soup definitely wasn’t five-star worthy. But it’s enough to warm you up inside and out. Of course, Minho chooses to let the dishwasher do the job—his hatred for doing dishes is always at its finest.

Then, like the other night, he has already passed out on the table with a blanket draped over his body when you step out of the shower. Instead of plopping the weight of your exhaustion onto his bed this time, your legs stay frozen like cement on the floor while your eyes take in his reclined figure under the thin fabric. Minho is sleeping with his head buried in his arms, his glasses and messy files abandoned to the side. He’s definitely not a heavy sleeper because he doesn’t snore; only feather-like breaths can be heard through this endless beat of silence. The faintly blinking light from his laptop makes you feel exposed so you push yourself toward the balcony.

A hiss comes out hushed and quiet when your feet come into contact with the cold tile floor, bringing you across the studio apartment with small tiptoes. You peer over your shoulder, gazing at the only available source of light. Unconsciously, you ball your fists.

With a soft sigh, you slide open the glass door and step out to bathe yourself in the comfort of the moonlight. Despite the chilling air of the night, something warm fills up your lungs like an overflowed cup of wine. It suffocates you a little until the knots in your muscles and mind loosen; a sense of relief washes over you—you haven’t felt that in years.

Nothing makes sense.

A hitman hired by your parents shouldn’t be putting a roof over your head, tucking you into bed nor feeding you. Minho barely knows you; and your knowledge about him as a genuine person isn’t enough to convince you that this is reality. Because after years of wandering the streets, being tossed around like trash with plenty of a series of unfortunate events, you’ve made it a habit to sink into yourself.

So the longer you stay here, the more you’ll get attached to him. And the more you get attached, the more he takes away your default instincts to turn your back on everything.

Guilt wells up inside your chest as though it’s an old habit, a setting by default. If you ever try to go over the moderate line, you will break.

Holding back a croaked sob, you know that once you let it go, tears will only start flooding. With a push of your muscles, you effortlessly hoist yourself up the metal railings in one go. The wind combs through your hair like an empathetic hand but you ignore it, Minho’s sweater closing in on your skin.

You should leave, you try to urge yourself. You should jump off and dive into the depths of the night, let the allure cradle you in its emotionless arms.

Because after all, despite all those eyes on you out there, you’re ultimately alone within.

A foot dips out into thin air once the slump in your shoulders goes weightless. Immediately after, an incredible force pulls you by the ankle, and to the ground with a loud thud. Minho falls onto his back harshly, groaning slightly with you on top of him.

He knew what you were trying to do, he saw it the other night with his own eyes. Even under the knowledge of your capabilities, Minho still feels a rush of panic rising inside his chest. It’s only until his arms fully have a hold of you does his racing heartbeats slow down. Supernatural abilities or none, you’re still sick. And he’d be losing his mind if he woke up to an empty bed tomorrow morning.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he speaks with trembling vocal cords, in a tone you’ve never heard before. Strict but mellow. As though there’s a race inside his mind but he’s desperately trying to keep his cool. It’s fear. The moment he’s introduced to the idea of losing you—it’s genuine fear.

“Minho, I can’t die. Didn’t I tell you—“

His grip squeezes you in a breath tighter, cutting you off completely. “The fuck were you thinking? You can’t just jump off the balcony like that!”

“I already told you. I can’t die. Minho, I’ve done that plenty of times before,” you furrow your brows in a troubled manner, unsure of how to react.

Minho widens his eyes at you in sheer disbelief. Shock riddles his senses and gets the best of him. So now he’s fussing with his hands, incoherent profanity leaving his lips non-stop within the next thirty seconds or so. He’s usually very calm, collected, calculating, and cold. This is very unlike him. It makes you wonder why he’s acting this way. He knows that you can’t die from jumping off a building. So what’s there to worry about?

“You’re such an idiot! Try doing that again and I’ll kill you with my own-“

You truly don’t know how important you are to him. Frankly, he hasn’t even realized that yet.

“I’m sorry,” you say, pulling him closer. Since you’re bad at resolving any kind of conflict, you opt for the most rational solution—going with his flow until he’s calmed down. “I won’t do that again, promise.”

His lips fall agape at your words. He wasn’t expecting that. And even when you see how he’s reacting to your sudden change, you decide it’s no time to back down. This might be the only time you could show him that you’re at least grateful for everything he’s done.

He’s quieted down now. And when he manages to speak again without tripping over his own words, his voice comes out as a whisper. “Hey kid,” he looks down at you, wanting to stroke your hair but drops his hand in sheer defeat. “You didn’t answer my question earlier. Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“Who would do my job when I’m gone? Isn’t that irresponsible?” You exhale deeply before fluttering your eyes close, finding odd peace within the rhythm of his heart.

Minho says pointedly, “Well, you could have asked someone to help you with it.”

“No one would help me.”

“How’d you know? Have you tried asking them before?”

Your eyes shoot open and flicker around your surroundings, you’re at a loss for words for a split second there. Heat rushes to the apples of your cheeks in shame, your head hung terribly low. “I’m not used to asking for help. I’d hate to be a burden,” you confess.

Innocence glimmers in your eyes when you look up at him, waterlines threatening to break any second now. Your lashes are slightly damped and how lost you’re looking right now can physically draw crimson on his heart. At the end of the day, you’re just a kid. You had to grow up the hard way, with no one by your side telling you what’s right and what’s wrong, even simple things like how to react to non-verbal affection.

Don’t let her go, Minho. Not now. Not ever.

“Then fix it now.”

“What?” You pause.

“If you need help, ask for it. If things are hard, say it. I’ll be there to give you a hand.”

Tears well up in your eyes, croaked sobs shake your body, only prompting him to pull your closer. It’s warm. Damnit, why is it so warm? “I-I can’t sleep. Sing me something?”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Minho just knows that he would bleed with you even when the rain pours and the sky falls one day.

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bi-naesala · 3 years ago

Text

Demonstration

Fandom: Yakuza Rating: E Warnings: / Relationships: Kasuga Ichiban/Zhao Tianyou Characters: Kasuga Ichiban, Zhao Tianyou Additional Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Established Relationship, Rough Sex, First Time Bottoming, Nonbinary Zhao Tianyou Summary:

Ichiban demonstrates to Zhao how he felt about him the first time they met.

(Also on AO3)

Every time Ichiban and Zhao have been intimate, they’ve always kept things quite simple, gentle even.

They never thought about it too much; it’s just that they enjoy each other, nothing more, and they don’t really care about what they do, as long as they are together and have both a good time.

It’s almost weird considering how their first meeting went. Of all things, Ichiban would’ve never imagined that he was going to end together to the person who threatened to kill him with a smile on their face, but so is life, and he couldn’t be happier about it.

“Oooooi earth to Kasuga-kun!”

Contrary to what Zhao might believe, Ichiban doesn’t jump hearing their voice calling out for him. Nope. Not at all.

“H-Hey! Zhao! What is it?”

Zhao shoots him an unimpressed look. “You haven’t been listening to a word I said, haven’t you?”

“Huh…” Ichiban smartly replies. “Sorry?”

“You’re unbelievable,” Zhao mutters, shaking his head, but despite their words, there’s a smile on his face, finding Ichiban’s behavior endearing. “And what were you thinking about that was so important that you’d stop in the middle of the street like a lunatic?”

Oh right! They went out grocery shopping for the barkeep. And here Kasuga was, lost in his thoughts…

“Oh, nothing much, really…”

“C’mon, I’m curious now. Pretty please tell me?” Zhao insists. Oh hell, Ichiban can’t resist that tone of his.

“Just… Wait,” he mutters, taking Zhao by the arm and guiding him away from the main road, entering in one of the smaller streets. If he truly has to answer to Zhao, he’d rather do it in a place where they can get a modicum of privacy, which would usually be at Survive, but this is close enough. At least there’s nobody there for the moment.

Zhao hasn’t said anything about Ichiban’s behavior, not even a little word of teasing, for which he’s grateful for.

“Should I get worried?” he asks though. Considering how Ichiban’s acting, it would be safe to assume that this is something serious.

“Oh? Oh no! Not at all!” Ichiban’s quick to reassure him. “I was just thinking about… well… about us.”

Now Zhao looks extremely curious. “Us? And what about us were you thinking about?”

“About how funny it is that we ended up together, considering how we met and what I thought of you…”

“Ooh?” Zhao perks up. “And what did you think of me?”

Were their relationship still in its early stages, Ichiban might’ve felt so embarrassed about what he’s about to say that he would’ve tried to find an excuse not to reply, but now he replies calmly, accepting the challenge hidden in Zhao’s tone: he uses his bigger stature to tower over the other, reveling in the shiver Zhao isn’t able to suppress at the motion - though they don’t look intimidated at all.

“That you needed to be put in your place,” he growls then, voice low and gaze dark.

“Ohohohoh~” Zhao’s voice sounds more like it did when they first met: dangerous. “That so?”

Ichiban nods.

“Well then…”

Zhao stretches a hand towards their partner, cupping his cheek. “Feel free to put me in my place anytime.”

Oh, he’s into it. Ichiban can tell. Those glasses of theirs can’t hide shit from him, not when he knows them so well; there’s no other way he can interpret the shine in his eyes.

After that revelation, of course, Ichiban hasn’t had a way to clear his mind enough to think about anything else that isn’t him putting Zhao right where he wants to and taking him the way they deserve.

How are they supposed to do it, though? They share a room with so many other people that they can't possibly put themselves in a situation where they would most likely traumatize someone!

This requires a solution, because as much as Ichiban could easily let this go and wait for the proper occasion, he has no idea how long that would take, and he wants it so bad. Usually, in the bedroom, Zhao’s the one leading, so changing things sounds very interesting, and Ichiban can’t deny that he’s curious to see Zhao’s reaction if he lets him get away with what he wants to do, so no, he can’t wait at all.

Mmmh what to do…

Wait! He's just got an idea that might work!

It’s harder than he thought having to save money, since he’s an impulsive buyer, but he manages because this is too important for him to ruin everything. Thankfully he makes enough as Ichiban Holdings’ CEO that in about a month he’s managed to get enough so that he can finally put his plan into motion.

What does his plan consist of? Renting a room at a love hotel, of course! Yeah, it doesn’t sound that fancy, especially considering that Ichiban’s been saving for this, but hey it’s not like he swims in money! Neither of them does!

At least like this they can be as rough and loud as they want to and, especially, they won’t have to be quick, because nobody’s supposed to walk into them when they least expect it.

It takes him nothing to convince Zhao. They’re on board as soon as he mentions the love hotel part.

“Oh yes please,” they say, and is Ichiban dreaming things, or does he sound very eager? Eh, he supposes he’s been waiting for this for a while - though if they have, why hasn’t he ever mentioned it?

During their ride - there’s no way they were going to walk all the way there, so they’ve taken a cab - Zhao hasn’t pulled away from Ichiban not even once, holding his arm tightly and whispering pure filth in his ear.

“I bet you can’t wait for it, can’t you? Are you going to make me scream? Are you going to make me beg for it? How long ‘till I’ll be able to walk again?”

On his part, Ichiban does his best to ignore what they say, even if the more time passes, the more difficult it becomes, especially when Zhao begins to lavish at his neck, like they’re not sitting inside a taxi and there isn’t a clearly uncomfortable driver.

“Z-Zhao… Please, not here…”

In response Zhao looks at him with such an innocent gaze that it almost makes Ichiban believe that he truly doesn’t know what they’re doing wrong. Ass.

At least after that they calm down, not trying to rile Ichiban up anymore. Not that they needed to continue, since he did manage to get Ichiban going, even though there’s nothing he can do about it at the moment. Once they get to the hotel, though…

Ah. So this is why Zhao’s been acting the way they were acting: getting Ichiban so riled up that as soon as they were alone, he was going to explode.

Well, if that’s what Zhao wants, then Ichiban will give it to him, and with interests…

Ichiban might be moving things along a bit too fast once they get to the love hotel, to the point that once he gets the key to their room, he almost runs towards it. He doesn’t only because he doesn’t want to appear too eager, though by the way Zhao’s looking at him, they must’ve caught it either way.

Once they’re inside, they take a moment to study their surroundings. Huh, classic love hotel stuff: tacky pink everywhere, enormous bed, even bigger mirror, cabinet with lube and condoms… yes, the usual. Not that Ichiban has been to many love hotels…

He gets distracted when Zhao presses against him, circling his back with their arms. “Soooo Ichi, how are we going to do this?”

Seeing that Ichiban doesn’t reply, he begins kissing up from his neck to the corner of his mouth. “What? Cat got your tongue?”

Before he can react, Ichiban grabs him by the waist and throws him on the bed, making him land with a loud oof.

“Hey, what the hell?!”

Before Zhao can complain further, Ichiban has found his place between his legs, pressing him against the bed.

“This what you wanted?” he asks, grabbing Zhao’s chin with a hand, sending a shiver across their spine.

“Huh-huh,” Zhao nods, looking at Ichiban with feverish eyes.

Oh god, they’re already get going… and Ichiban would lie if he said that this isn’t having an effect on him as well.

He kisses Zhao hard, forcing their lips open with his tongue. The objective is to be as overwhelming as possible and, judging by the way Zhao is holding onto him, he must be doing a good job at it.

When they pull away, Zhao’s already panting hard, and his face looks even more debauched with the glasses that are threatening to slip off at any second. Ichiban takes hold of them and puts them aside, so that they won’t risk bending or breaking them - that would certainly be a mood killer.

He licks Zhao’s lips, taking then their lower lip and sucking, before biting it. Zhao gasp, body twitching against Ichiban.

“That all you thought about when you saw me? Kissing me?” they provoke Ichiban then, even though his voice doesn’t sound as confident as they’d like to appear.

In response, Ichiban grabs Zhao’s shirt and rips it open, making the other gasp as buttons come fly all over the place. Zhao doesn’t think he’s ever been so wet in all his life.

Ichiban’s so glad Zhao didn’t feel like binding today; that thing is always a bitch to take off.

Like this, instead, he can already hold Zhao’s chest in his hands, squeezing it. His fingers are rough when they find Zhao’s nipples, twisting them in a way that makes Zhao whine.

“I-Ichiban…”

This is so different from what Ichiban usually gets to see, or hear, but he’d lie if he said that he doesn’t like it.

He lowers himself so that he can take one of Zhao’s nipples in his mouth, licking and sucking at it like he’s never done before, but when Zhao grabs onto his hair he pulls away, grabbing Zhao’s wrists and forcing them on the sides of their head.

“Stay still,” he orders then, but even after Zhao nods and Ichiban goes back to what he was doing, he still keeps his wrists in his hold. It would be easier to use some rope, or handcuffs - there must be plenty of those in here - but Ichiban has always preferred holding them down with his body, no need for anything else.

“Fuck…” Zhao moans when Ichiban bites down on his nipple, his whole body jolting at the sensation.

Ichiban raises his gaze towards him, and Zhao has to bite his lips to stifle a moan having that heated gaze on him. That, and also he looks so fucking hot while sucking on his tit like that.

If only Ichiban wasn’t between his legs he would try to rub them together, anything to dampen the wet sensation he feels between them. On his part, Ichiban doesn’t seem to care at all, at least for now, focusing only on their chest.

They test Ichiban’s hold by trying to move his arms, but the other doesn’t budge.

“What did I say?” he scolds them. He usually sounds so gentle and careful, but Zhao hears nothing of that now. How much was he holding back all the times they’ve had sex?

“Sorry…” they mutter, though they don’t really sound that sorry.

Ichiban scowls, but apart from that it seems that Zhao’s apology is enough for him, because he begins kissing a line up to Zhao’s mouth, capturing his lips once again. He at least stops holding Zhao down, but just because he begins slipping his now thorn shirt off, and then going to their waist, thumbs caressing the exposed skin.

At the soft moan that leaves Zhao’s lips, however, they don’t stay still for long, and soon Zhao’s pants and leggings say goodbye as well, getting thrown on the ground with the shirt.

They pull away again, and god if Zhao doesn’t feel like a piece of meat from the way Ichiban’s looking at him. So hungry…

“You’re overdressed,” he points out, instead of saying anything about that.

“So?”

Zhao rolls his eyes. Ichiban has never defied them so much, but he supposes this is what’s fun about what they’re doing today. “C’mon… pretty please?”

It seems that his act does convince Ichiban a little, because he sheds his jacket, and then his shirt, so that Zhao can admire his body. Unfortunately, however, they don’t have enough time to stretch their now free hands to cup his chest because Ichiban drags him forward by the hips so that he’s resting on his knees, open and exposed.

Ichiban looks down at them, and then a smirk appears on his face.

“Wow, you’re really into this…”

“Huh?” Zhao mutters, confused, but then they realize that there’s must be a pretty big damp spot between his legs. He nervously chuckles then. “Yeah… I am.”

Besides, it’s not like he can’t feel Ichiban getting hard against them. He’s into it as much as he is, and Zhao reminds him by grinding their crotches together, making Ichiban hiss.

It doesn’t last long, however, because soon Ichiban takes back control and pushes Zhao down, holding him still with a hand on their stomach, while with the other he travels down on Zhao’s body, until he reaches his pussy.

The fucker teases his clit just for a moment before lowering his fingers further, down to Zhao’s entrance. At first, he slowly gets only one inside, but seeing how wet Zhao is, he easily slips another one.

He doesn’t bother with being gentle, and thrusts his fingers in and out, in and out, getting the wettest sounds out of Zhao as he does. Holy fuck.

“Yeah… fuck! Ichiiiii!”

“Something tells him you’re liking it…” Ichiban grins, slowing down his movements. “But I bet there’s something you’d like more.”

“God, yeah,” Zhao moans in reply, knowing what Ichiban’s talking about. “Fuck, I need it…”

“Do you? ‘Cause I can keep going like this.” Ichiban twists his fingers up, and Zhao arches his backs against him as a loud moan escapes their lips. Oh yeah there, right there.

Ichiban doesn’t stop, making Zhao edge closer and closer to the orgasm, and all they can do is to hold onto him, scratching his shoulders with his long nails, unable to stop him - not that he wants him to stop. Holy shit it’s so good.

“I’m gonna… Ah!”

They try to warn him that they’re close, that they’re gonna come if he keeps going like that, but Ichiban doesn’t give him the time, going so fast that Zhao reaches the orgasm before he can even finish that sentence. His body tenses up at the sensation, arching and twisting in order to get it to last longer, just a moment longer but then, just like it started, it’s over.

Ichiban pulls away, and Zhao already misses the feeling of having something inside him, though from the hurried way Ichiban’s unfastening his pants - he doesn’t even bother cleaning his fingers, the idiot - they suppose it won’t be for long.

Indeed, once Ichiban’s as bare as Zhao, he grabs their ankles and pushes them down, on either side of his head. He takes a moment to admire his lover under him, so pretty and flexible, at least until Zhao speaks.

“Again already?”

“You don’t sound upset about it,” Ichiban points out, and he can’t help but to smile, before remembering that he’s not supposed to do that, at least not during this particular occasion.

He distracts himself by kissing Zhao so that they can’t speak anymore, except for a few moans they can’t hold back when he begins to grind his cock against his pussy, getting it wet with all their juices.

He wouldn’t mind getting off like this, if he has to be honest, but he knows how good it feels inside Zhao, and he wants to get back there once again, so he temporarily lets go of one of Zhao’s ankles in order to better guide his cock, holding it as he begins to slide inside. Zhao hisses at the sensation, but otherwise he clenches around Ichiban, almost like he wants to suck him in.

“H-Hey, slow down!” Ichiban exclaims at the sudden stimulation, and he begins to thumb at Zhao’s clit in spite, knowing that it’s still oversensitive.

As predicted, Zhao shouts, body instinctively trying to pull away, but there’s nowhere they can go with Ichiban pressed against him like that, and it’s not like he’s giving him any mercy.

“Fuck! S-Sorry!” they try to apologize, but it still takes a while for Ichiban to stop, leaving Zhao a mess. They feel like a puddle, unable to move a muscle on his own.

Only when Ichiban begins moving, Zhao manages to get partially out of the state of drowsiness that has been taking over them, body jolting awake at the pounding they’re receiving.

Ichiban’s going completely all out. He even makes the bed rattle with them, hitting the wall countless times. Had they been more coherent, Zhao would’ve wondered if they were going to make a huge hole in it, but with things being as they are, they don’t really care if they do, as longs as Ichiban doesn’t stop.

Usually they’re pretty quiet in bed, but this time they are unable to hold back his voice, moaning and screaming each time Ichiban sinks in. He swears he can feel him get deeper and deeper at each thrust; it’s like he’s drilling him open.

Their vision is cloudy, though it’s hard to tell if it’s just because they’re not wearing his glasses, or if there are some tears that are threatening to run down his face, but Ichiban’s close enough that he can see him pretty decently. He looks focused in a way that Zhao doesn’t think he’s ever seen him.

Despite the fact that they’ve come recently, Zhao can feel another orgasm building up inside him. Once Ichiban notices - he always begins to tremble when he’s close to coming - he reaches down between his legs again, rubbing his clit with the same roughness from before, but at least it’s had some time to recover, so even though it still hurts a bit, it’s the kind of hurt that Zhao likes.

They feel a bit of drool trickling down their chin, but they don’t have enough strength to lift a finger and do anything about it. Besides, they barely have the time to think about that when Ichiban captures his lips again. It’s obvious by the erratic way he’s moving that he’s close as well.

“Zhao… Can I come inside?”

Zhao almost laughs. Really?

In a way, though, it’s sweet that he still asks.

“Please,” they say then, because he needs it, he needs Ichiban to come inside him so bad.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for his wish to be granted.

God, it feels like Ichiban’s never stopping coming, which in turn tips Zhao well over the edge too, coming with a last shout.

Everything feels intense and not enough at the same time, and Zhao wonders if they've hit their head somehow for him to feel this way. He almost feels feverish.

Soon Ichiban begins to slow down his movements, until he stills completely. He takes a moment to catch his breath, forehead gently pressed against Zhao’s, then he pulls out, making the other twitch at the sensation of sudden emptiness.

“Fuck…” he very eloquently says then. It makes Zhao chuckle.

“Indeed,” they reply, lazily dragging Ichiban in another kiss, this time softer and much slower than the ones they’ve shared until now.

When they pull away, Ichiban looks at them with badly hidden concern. “Are you okay? Does it hurt anywhere?”

“You fuckin’ destroyed me,” Zhao chuckles, but before Ichiban can begin fussing over them, something they’d frankly hate, they continue. “But that’s exactly what I came here for.”

“So it’s fine?”

Zhao nods. “More than fine I’d say.”

“So… You liked it?”

Zhao raises an eyebrow at him.

“What do you think?” he asks, instead of replying.

After a moment of silence, Ichiban sighs. “Yeah, alright. Dumb question.”

He lays down close to them, and immediately they drape themselves over him, holding him close. Ichiban hums contentedly, and returns the hug.

All that rough stuff is fine and all, but if he has to be honest, he prefers this “mushy shit” - that’s how Zhao would call it. This is simply how he is as a person, and nothing can change that.

He begins to idly caress Zhao’s back, fingers barely brushing against their naked body.

“Hey,” he says then. “Shouldn’t we take a shower?”

“Gimme a moment,” Zhao replies, voice a bit strained for the effort from before.

Ichiban nods, and waits until Zhao feels good enough that he can get up, because Ichiban knows that’s the problem. He’d offer to carry him, but Zhao would say no and maybe even get offended, so he stays silent.

It’s not a problem, he can wait a bit.

Actually, with Zhao so close to him, he can wait more than just a bit, as long as they remain here.

“Yeah, take all the time you need.”

#yakuza #spicy #ichizhao #ichiban kasuga #tianyou zhao #my fics #mine

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