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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 years ago

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Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep? [Chapter 6: You Are In Battle]

Aemond is a fearless, enigmatic prince and the most renowned dragonrider of the Greens. You are a daughter of House Mormont and a lady-in-waiting to Princess Helaena. You can’t ignore each other, even though you probably should. In fact, you might have found a love worth killing for.

A/N: Hi all!! Thank you so much for your friendship, encouragement, emotional ranting, humor, compliments, questions, and love throughout this fic’s short lifetime. You better believe that EVERY! SINGLE! reblog/tag/ask/comment/etc I receive lights up my life like dragonfire. I also wanted to let you know in advance that the last 2 chapters of this fic will have a LOT going on, so it might take me a little longer than usual to get them published. I appreciate your patience! Hopefully they will be worth the wait. 💜

Song inspiration: “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys.

Chapter warnings: Language, violence, some sexual content, witchcraft (per usual), drama at brunch, Axel being a sore loser, Larys being a snake, Helaena being prophetic, Aegon being Aegon, time skips, childbirth, dragons, extreme fluff, extreme angst, y’all know I cannot help myself I am an angst monster and I will not apologize!!!

Word count: 7.1k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @crispmarshmallow @tclegane @daddysfavoritesexkitten @poohxlove @imagine-all-the-imagines @nsainmoonchild @skythighs @bratfleck @thesadvampire @yor72 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @loverandqueenofdragons @omgsuperstarg @endless-ineffabilities @devynsshitposts @vencuyot @ladylannisterxo @ariesbabycitlaly @cranberryjulce @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz @liathelioness @mirandastuckinthe80s @haezen @fairaardirascenarios @darkened-writer @weepingfashionwritingplaid @signyvenetia @abrielleholland @crossingallmine @burningcoffeetimetravel @yummycastiel @lol-im-done @lovemissyhoneybee @nomugglesallowed @witchmoon @yoshiplushie @torchbearerkyle @sweetashoneyhoney @quartzs-posts @lauraneedstochill @nctma15 @queenofshinigamis @rapoficeandfire @hinata7346 @curiouser-an-curiouser@meadowofsinfulthoughts @imjustboredso @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @myspotofcraziness @bregarc @mikariell95 @doingfondue

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He must be in agony, but he doesn’t show it; and hasn’t that been true all his life?

He declines offers of milk of the poppy. His right arm has been set—the bone snapped back into place with a wet, jolting click—and now the maester is sewing the wound closed. This serrated scar will join all the others he carries, scars of the flesh, scars of the soul. You sit to Aemond’s left, on his blind side, only so he can drape his arm around the back of your chair while the other is being repaired. There is a strange, hushed tranquility that has settled over you both here in Aemond’s chambers. He wears a ghost of a smile, soft yet victorious. No one can take you away from him now. No one can untangle all the strings that bind you together. With a damp cloth, you clean the viscous half-dried blood from his nose, his mouth, his cheeks, his forehead. His face is already bruising, mottled with shades of violet and blue. You remove his eyepatch so you can—with the most careful hands—wipe the crimson from the mangled remnants of his eyelid. He is perfectly at ease as you do this. He entrusts himself entirely to you.

“This is a gruesome task, princess,” the maester says as he stitches, and it takes you a moment to realize he is speaking to you. He is the first person to call you princess, but that’s what you are now; you are openly and legally married to a prince. “You need not subject yourself to such unpleasantness, especially in your…condition.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I can manage. My place is here.”

“She is a Mormont by birth, Maester Ordwulf,” Aemond says. Pride radiates from his voice like heat from a dragon’s scales. “She does not hide herself away from grisly things.”

There is a thunder of footsteps outside. Axel Hightower bursts through the door. He is red-faced and panting. You and Aemond look at him, but you do not rise, and you don’t say anything either. You do not grant him the dignity of a greeting. The silence is thick and laden and awkward. The maester pauses, then resumes his stitching.

“You will regret this,” Axel tells Aemond.

“You have lost, Lord Hightower. Go back to the Reach and do not return unless you find yourself in need of having your head separated from your body.”

“It is you who has lost,” Axel rages. “The great houses of Westeros will not forgive this slight. You will have to crawl on your knees begging them to support you in what comes next.” And of course, you know what he means, everybody does: the war against Rhaenyra and Daemon, the war of succession. It is the uneasy, swelling background music of every courtyard sparring match, every feast, every marriage negotiation, every piece of purred gossip, every candle lit in the sept. “You have damaged the Greens irreparably with your selfish, short-sighted lust, your notorious pride. You have ruined your family. You have signed your own death sentence.”

“Hm.” Aemond chuckles, low and contemptuous. He lifts your hand and kisses the back of it.

“But I will do you a courtesy,” Axel says. He steps closer. “I will make my offer one final time. Give her back to me of your own volition, and I will take her to Oldtown and never speak of this ugliness again. Then you will be free to marry someone who will be an asset when the time for armies and battles comes.”

“She is an asset.”

“She is a nobody!” Axel shouts, and he touches you. It is not malicious, it is not painful, it is not even especially intrusive; he simply rests a palm on your shoulder. Instantly, Aemond is on his feet. By the time his upended chair clatters against the floor, he has Axel pinned to the wall: his left hand closed around Axel’s throat, the right holding the point of your dagger to his throbbing jugular. The blade is still coated with Ivar Kellington’s blood. Axel, wheezing and croaking, gropes for the hilt of his own sword.

“Go on, do it,” Aemond seethes, his blue eye blazing maniacally, his sapphire gleaming. He is grinning. Blood drips from his swollen, half-stitched arm. The needle swings from the length of thread like a man from a noose. “Do it, Lord Hightower. Draw your sword. Give me an excuse to bury you. I have already killed one man today. I’d be happy to double that number.”

“Please…” Axel chokes out, flailing.

The prince’s grin widens. “Do it.”

“Aemond!” Otto Hightower roars as he strides through the doorway. Aemond steps back and twirls your dagger before tucking it away into his belt.

“Come fetch your kinsman, Grandsire. If you want him to live.”

“Go,” Otto commands Axel, shoving him. “Your reason to be in King’s Landing has expired. Leave immediately, before I lose interest in protecting you.”

Axel points at Aemond. “It is you who has lost,” he says again—darkly, ominously—and then storms out of the room. The prince returns to his seat so the maester can finish stitching his arm.

Otto sighs and rubs his forehead. “Aemond…” And for the second time in the span of a few short moments, a man speaks the truth about your lineage. “She is a nobody,” Otto says, almost apologetically, like he wishes he could change it.

“I have met my match in her. I will have no other.”

“This is supremely unwise.”

“It cannot be undone.”

Otto frowns at him. “You are lucky that Alicent has another son for us to barter with.”

“Lucky?” Aemond says, incredulous, furious, though he keeps his arm still for the maester. “You are lucky that I have brought to your side Vhagar, and swordsmanship, and wit, and this excruciatingly heavy, inborn burden of duty that Aegon so obviously lacks. I have never asked you for anything. I have never sought to build a future for myself that diverges from the ambitions of this family. This is the one thing I must have for myself. She is my restitution. She is a gift from the gods.”

“So there is no point in trying to negotiate with you.”

“No. None.”

“Very well.” Otto Hightower casts you a glare—dismissive, indignant—and departs.

As the maester mends Aemond’s arm, you dab at the streaks of blood drying on his temples, his jawline, his palms that are crisscrossed with lines of fortune. You can feel your throat tightening, scalding tears brimming up in your eyes. They escape down your cheeks when you try to blink them away. “I’m sorry that I’ve caused you so much suffering.”

“No, no,” Aemond murmurs. He whisks your tears away with his left thumb. It is rough and calloused, expert, practiced, precise. “You have not caused it. You have cured it.”

The maester applies plaster to the prince’s right forearm to keep it immobilized until the break heals. Aemond gives you a knowing glance, and you nod; tonight he will bathe in water cloudy with leaves of foxglove and sorrel and mint, ground cinnamon, crumbled snakeskin, crushed bloodstone, swirls of glittering clear quartz, pungent black tar rum, and blood taken from a living bull…courtesy of Sir Criston Cole. When the maester’s work is finished and he takes his leave, Aemond locks the door behind him. Then he stands in front of you wearing a hungry, mischievous smirk that tells you exactly what he wants.

“You must be in terrible pain,” you say.

“Oh yes. And desperately in need of a distraction.”

You grab his belt and pull him towards you. He drops to his knees and burrows under the layers of your bloodstained moonstone gown as you laugh wildly, and then gasp, and then writhe and moan as your fingers snag in his hair. You start in the chair, and then move to the bed; you start light and frivolous and giggling and then turn somber, intense. It is a reunion that in an only slightly different world would never have happened. You’ve both tasted the possibility of losing each other; you’ve both tasted the salt of spilled tears and sweat and blood. It is a long time before Aemond gets his fill of you. He tumbles headfirst into sleep with his hand resting on your belly; exhausted and satisfied, whole, you gaze up at the ceiling and wonder how it is possible to be so fortunate.

Aemond is still dozing when night falls, and you slink away quietly so he can rest. Beneath the heart tree, you light a blue candle, pulverize the dry ingredients, and mix them into a pitcher containing the rum and still-warm bull’s blood. Again, there is that intangible, menacing sensation of being watched. Again, you cannot find any proof of an eavesdropper. You do not mention this to Aemond. There is no sense in worrying him. You have afflicted him with enough worries already.

You tell the servants to prepare a hot bath and they listen, bowing low and addressing you as princess. As your husband soaks and steam fills the room, you sit on the rim of the tub and braid his long silver hair, tell him stories of your childhood on Bear Island, watch the violet-indigo bruises evaporate from his skin like puddles of rain beneath the sun.

“I’ll have to get an egg,” he says distantly, as if half-asleep. The bathwater that engulfs him is a sea of shimmering red. “A dragon egg. The most perfect egg there is.”

You are mystified. “Why?”

He smiles at you, a dreamy, content smile. “For the baby.”

When he wakes in the morning, his pain has vanished.

Within a month, and to the court’s amazement, his arm is completely healed.

~~~~~~~~~~

Larys is waiting when Queen Alicent retires to her chambers for the evening. He lives in the shadows like a nocturnal animal, a bat or a shadowcat or an owl with its talons hooked to a twisted branch. He collects secrets the way some people collect seashells from the shore, pieces of lives fragmented and in a million different colors. This particular secret is one that can benefit the queen greatly. Aemond’s bride has been a princess for several months now, and yet still the court yammers noxiously about her. They mock her family, her bloodline, Bear Island. They think her arrogant to have climbed so high above her station. They call her Lady Mormont and pretend it is an accident, just an old habit, just a harmless reflex. They claim she conceived a child too quickly for it to have happened within wedlock. They gossip about her “true” husband Axel Hightower, who is shamed and miserable in Oldtown; he has tried in vain to procure a replacement wife, only to be turned down again and again out of concern that the union would be deemed bigamy by half the realm. All in all, the marriage is considered quite the oddity, quite the failure. Alicent does not have the heart to deny her child—her favorite child—this woman who has brought him such happiness; but if circumstances transpired that compelled the removal of the much-maligned princess, surely Alicent would be relieved, would be…indebted to whoever had orchestrated it.

The queen has just come from visiting her husband. She smells of death and decay. Her eyes are rheumy. Her shoulders hang low and limply, as if they are broken. The room is illuminated only by the sickly ochre glow of candlelight. The way the flames dance across her skin is magnificent, tempting. Larys wonders if in a different world he could have been her husband. He wonders how sweet it must taste to own something so beautiful.

“Oh,” Alicent says when she spots him, and that’s all. She clutches at herself with her own arms; they wrap around her like a constricting snake. She stares at him, too depleted to be wary. Around her neck hangs a large, golden, seven-pointed star.

Larys will not give away everything he knows at once; he never does. He will bait her with the who and the what, but he will save the details—those essential steps of the how—until payment has been made. Some men deal in money or gems or land or power. Larys’ preferred currency is flesh. “I have discovered concerning information about someone very close to you.”

Alicent sighs. “Not now, Lord Larys.”

“But—”

“Not now,” she insists. “Please, just…just…” Tears begin to slither from her eyes. She holds up one hand as if barring an intruder. Her voice is a threadbare, shaky whimper. “Just leave me. Please.”

Larys bows. “As you wish.”

He disguises his panic and frustration in the same way he once disguised his lust for her. Now there is no need for masquerading; that particular secret is one that he unveiled long ago. He skulks through the hallways of the Red Keep and ponders the heart tree, a tower built by gods instead of men: the moon-white bark, the blood-red leaves, the mournful face carved into the trunk, the roots dotted with traces of candlewax. He examines it each day and keeps meticulous notes. He lurks in the shadows most nights in case the princess makes an appearance. He compiles evidence like a raven constructing a nest of stolen twigs, piece by piece by piece.

Have patience, he tells himself. The time will come very soon. Soon, soon, soon.

~~~~~~~~~~

You are beginning to show. Your gowns have high, generous waistlines and plenty of room for letting out as the weeks rolls by like waves, like wheels. The gardens of the Red Keep hum with bees and dragonflies and swooping, ungainly beetles. Butterflies like airborne jewels—rubies, emeralds, diamonds, turquoises, amethysts, opals, sapphires, moonstones—flutter before landing on leaves or blossoms. Some even land on Princess Helaena.

“Ah!” she sighs elatedly as she acquires another one; it clings to her hand like a living ring. “Look, Grandsire, look.”

Otto Hightower beams as he slices his ham. “Wonderful, my dear.”

“How far along are you now, darling?” Alicent asks you, nibbling on a strawberry muffin. Sir Criston Cole sits beside her and dutifully passes the queen butter or sugar or tea whenever she requires it. He looks at her in a way that makes you think of septons marveling at statues of the Mother or the Warrior or the Smith, gods they can speak to as often as they like but never meet. There is something hopeless and yet worshipful about it. There is something sacred.

“Four months,” Aemond answers before you can. You are between him and Helaena, on Aemond’s good side, the side where he can easily see you. He touches you often, almost absentmindedly—resting his arm on the back of your chair, grazing your cheek with the backs of his fingers, twirling stray locks of your hair, placing a palm on your thigh—as if to make sure you’re still there.

“And you are feeling quite well?” Alicent says. “I remember being horribly sick with Helaena. It lasted all the way through, right up until she was born. It was much worse than my pregnancies with the boys. That was the only trouble she’s ever caused me.”

“I’m very well,” you reply. “I was ill at first, practically bedridden, but…” You exchange a wily glance with Aemond. “Thank the gods, I recovered.”

Aegon appears, swaying and bleary-eyed. He pulls out the chair opposite of you and plops down. He winces and shields his eyes from the late-morning sunlight, groaning.

“You’re late,” Otto snaps.

“I’m here now, aren’t I? Don’t schedule things before noon if you’re so concerned with my punctuality.”

“Aemond was on time. Even his Mormont wife was on time.” Otto Hightower brings up the unimpressive house of your birth at least thrice per day; it is a ceaseless torment to him. He is not openly vindictive, and he does not exclude you from family gatherings like this one, but he has yet to cultivate any fondness for you. Perhaps he never will. You suppose that is a small price to pay for everything fortune has gifted you.

“Was she?” Aegon squints at you. “Are your people familiar with the concept of timekeeping? Don’t they all live in caves?”

You smile. He smiles back, then pours himself a cup of wine until it overflows onto the table. You drink your pomegranate juice; you have become rather obsessed with it.

“At least she turned out to be fertile,” Otto consoles himself as he chews his ham. And then, to Aemond: “I suppose you’re praying for a son. Any man would. But if not this time, surely many more children will follow.”

“Actually, I’m praying for a swift and easy delivery of whatever variety of child it is.”

“That’s a chivalrous thing to say, but you can’t mean it.” Otto butters a thick slice of toast. “I have sons. Viserys has sons. Aegon has sons. Rhaenyra has more sons than she’ll know what to do with once they come of age. I think I know you well enough to be certain you would feel cheated without your own.”

Helaena murmurs to her butterfly: “He waits in the lagoon, coiled, red.”

“Then again,” Otto adds, looking at Aegon. “Sons are not always such a comfort.”

“You are welcome to disown me, Grandsire,” Aegon says cheerfully. “I’ve always thought that I would make a wonderful brothel keeper. I have already acquired such extensive relevant experience.”

Otto snorts, disgusted. Aemond only drinks his tea and drums his fingers on the table. He tells you that he is not preoccupied with whether his firstborn is a male, but you aren’t sure if you believe him. Perhaps he is only trying to spare your feelings, like when he thought you could not bear children at all. You become anxious when you think too much about this. You are desperately afraid to disappoint him. He has already sacrificed so much to keep you.

Through the gardens comes an unexpected guest. Otto grumbles audibly. Helaena’s butterfly takes flight and deserts her. Aegon guzzles his wine; it runs in scarlet tendrils down his chin.

“Lord Larys,” Alicent greets him charitably. “How are you this morning?”

“Very well, my queen.”

Larys waits for an invitation to sit down. Everyone else waits for him to leave. At last, Alicent admits defeat. “Lord Larys, won’t you join us for breakfast? The servants can bring another place setting.”

“Yes!” Otto says with sudden enthusiasm. “Right next to Prince Aegon.” He grins at Aegon toothily. Aegon glares back, his face half-buried in his wine cup. The servants deliver the requisite materials in a flurry and Larys takes his seat. He helps himself to a few miniature muffins, but he doesn’t seem to have much interest in eating. He must have other motivations to stay.

Helaena is painstakingly cutting an apple into paper-thin slivers. “Moon on the water, fire in the sky, moon on the water…”

“Have you something to share with us, Lord Larys?” Alicent inquires.

“I do.” He chooses his words meticulously. “Her Majesty has been so…overtaxed lately. I have had great difficulty finding the opportunity.”

“The king,” Alicent offers in explanation, and cannot elaborate further. Sir Criston extends his hand towards her. She squeezes it as if grasping a precipice that juts out over an abyss.

“Indeed, indeed,” Larys says. “You have my deepest sympathies. And yet, it must be said…I fear that in the king’s absence, there has been a lapse in discipline here at court. A lapse in…morals.”

“How do you mean?” Alicent asks, perplexed.

Otto glowers at Aegon. “What have you done now?”

“No, no, no, my apologies, I am not referring to the prince.” Larys clasps his hands together, debating how to proceed. “This act that I have uncovered, this immoral practice, it is not a crime against men. It is more serious than that, more dire. It is a crime against the gods.”

Aemond—who up until now had been paying Larys no attention whatsoever—looks up at the Master of Whisperers. His blue eye widens, sharpens. Aegon catches this, his drunken brains wrestling over what it means; then it collides with him. There is a cold sweat breaking out on your skin. You can feel your gown sticking to the icy dampness along your ribs, your spine, your rounded belly. Larys Strong knows. He knows, he knows, he knows.

Alicent is bewildered still. “To whom are you referring, Lord Larys?”

Aegon knocks over his cup with a sweep of his hand, spilling red wine all over the table. “Oh no, oh dear, so clumsy, my mistake.”

“Aegon!” Alicent cries. Sir Criston begins mopping up the mess with cloth napkins.

Larys begins: “In fact—”

Aegon reaches for the wine pitcher, fumbles with it, and deposits the entirety of the contents onto Lord Larys. “Oh, there I go again. You should retire to clean yourself up, Lord Larys. And perhaps get lost if you attempt to return to us.”

“Enough!” Otto Hightower shouts, and the table settles. He turns to a dripping Larys. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

Larys’ eyes flick to you. “It seems…there is evidence that…the princess may have engaged in…well, a very forbidden practice. Witchcraft.”

Aemond stands and draws his sword. Otto’s mouth falls open; his eyes are not just shocked but skeptical, confounded. Helaena covers her face with both hands as if she can wish herself away from this place, this life. Aegon’s fist closes around his fork. But before anyone can move—before any violence can be committed, before further accusations can be made—Alicent speaks.

“I do not wish to hear of it,” the queen says. She is more resolved, more commanding than you have ever heard her before. “She is kind to my daughter, she carries my grandchild, she makes my son happy. And yet still people whisper spitefully about Axel Hightower and conjure up ways by which to banish her from our city, our family. It sickens me, this cynicism, this profound lack of empathy. I will not hear any further slanders against her. And that is exactly what these words are, Lord Larys. Slander. You mean well, about that I have no doubts. You have been an invaluable friend and ally since my youth. But tread carefully when you speak of my children. I count her as one of them now.”

Everyone watches Alicent. There is no sound but the wind and the leaves and the buzzing insects. Wine dribbles from Larys’ hair.

“How many…” Alicent’s voice breaks, and she pauses to compose herself. “How many of us must be compelled into marriages that strengthen our families, our treasuries, our armies but destroy our souls? How many of us must trade away our contentment for the sake of honor? Can the two never coexist? Can our humanity never emerge unscathed, or is that the true price we must pay for greatness?” Sir Criston’s dark eyes are shining, pained. “No, I think that love—uncomplicated, undutiful, unambitious love—can be allowed to prevail this once. If only this once.”

She stares at Lord Larys, daring him to contradict her. Soon everyone else is staring at Larys too, even Helaena. The quiet grows very loud. The Master of Whisperers yields, showing both of his palms in surrender. “Of course. I sincerely apologize. I collect secrets in service to the crown, but not all of them are equally trustworthy. I must have been mistaken. I will not broach the subject again.”

“Good,” Alicent says. Lord Larys stands, bows, and retreats from the table. Aemond sheaths his sword and sits back down. Aegon exhales noisily. Helaena catches a dragonfly on her wrist.

“That fucking ferret,” Otto mutters, shaking his head; and you find yourself able to laugh when everyone else does.

As breakfast concludes and servants begin clearing the table, you and Aemond leave to walk through the gardens. You find the trellis tunnel grown thick with ivy and roses and jasmine and wisteria, and you disappear inside, invisible to the sun and the court and maybe even the gods as well.

“I don’t think Larys will try that again anytime soon,” Aemond says. “Still, we must use your talent sparingly. If Larys Strong learned of it, so can others. And my mother cannot silence them all.” He threads your moonstone pendant through his hand, touches his forehead to yours. His voice is low and adoring. “I assume you have a protection spell in mind for yourself. For when our child is due to be born.”

“There is a particular spell for childbirth, but the way I was taught it requires blue winter roses. As far as I know, they only grow in the North.”

Aemond nods, placing his palm on your belly. “I’ll send a raven to Winterfell and have some brought to King’s Landing. When do you need them?”

“Shortly before I deliver. As close to the labor as possible. At the start of my eighth month, I’d say.”

“Alright. I’ll see that you have them.”

You hesitate, not wanting to offend him. He is the epitome of a Targaryen…minus the illustrious, silver-haired, incestuous wife, of course. “Can I ask you for one favor?”

“Of course. Anything.”

“It’s not that I don’t care for your brother, but…can we please not name our baby Aegon?”

He smiles. “I think Westeros has more than enough Aegons already. Our child doesn’t need the name of a great warrior. They will be one no matter what we call them.”

Them, you think. Not him. Aemond didn’t say him.

In the darkness, in the stillness, you kiss and taste the unabated craving on each other’s lips.

~~~~~~~~~~

“What troubles you, Silver?”

You are on Bearstone sharing a picnic of meats, cheeses, breads, honey cakes, wine, and—your personal favorite—pomegranate juice. The ocean is sparkling and serene, the wind calm, the grass thick and soft beneath you. The sun is hot, but you have taken refuge in the shade of a grove of crooked laurel trees. They remind you of your mother—they share her name—and that once caused you pain like the nick of a blade. Increasingly, you find solace in it.

Aemond peers solemnly out over the waves, his arms linked around his bent knees. You have difficulty touching your knees at all these days; Aegon jokes that your belly is the Eighth Kingdom. “They haven’t arrived yet.”

“What hasn’t?”

“The blue winter roses,” he says. “I haven’t heard anything from Winterfell. Perhaps the raven went astray, perhaps the message was lost. It is an arduous journey, after all. No matter the circumstances, the outcome is the same. You need them, and you don’t have them.”

“Has it been eight months already?”

“Yes.” He’s amused now. “Haven’t you been keeping count?”

“Not as well as you, apparently.”

He studies you. “I’ll go myself,” he decides.

“What, to Winterfell?!”

“Yes, on Vhagar. With stops for meals and rest, it’s about three days each way. I’ll be back within a week. There are plenty of noble houses willing to host me along the route. In fact, they’ll be delighted. They’ll probably start shoving their marriageable daughters at me.”

“Perhaps that’s what Vhagar can eat. Wealthy, yearning maidens.”

He chuckles, then strokes your cheek tenderly, reverently. “I don’t want to wait any longer. I don’t want to risk you not having every advantage available to you.”

“Are you afraid?” you ask, and then immediately you regret putting it into words. You don’t want to give this fear life. You don’t want to give it power.

“No,” Aemond replies; and you cannot tell if he is lying.

~~~~~~~~~~

You are pacing through the gardens when he finds you. Helaena and her handmaidens are chasing her children around the butterfly bushes—Jaehaera, Jaehaerys, and little Maelor too, who is now old enough to toddle around on unsteady legs—but you can’t summon up the stamina for that today. Your swollen feet ache when they touch the cobblestones. Your lower back is knotted with pain: it tightens, loosens, tightens again, and each time you think it could twist no tighter it proves you wrong. You hurt in too many places to number. It would be like trying to count stars or blades of grass.

Aegon gestures to Helaena. “How is she?” He is drunk, but only moderately. He sits down on the rim of a fountain and you join him.

“Thriving. Jovial. You could ask her yourself, you know.”

“That’s not how we do things.” He stares at his wife, his children, but always from a distance. He ponders them the way other people might observe foreign strangers in a crowded marketplace: a little fascinated, a little puzzled. “It’s not her fault that I don’t desire her. It is my shortcoming, in fact. It is a betrayal to my heritage to be repulsed by the act. It is just one in my long litany of failures.” He discards his gloominess abruptly. “But how are you today?”

“Awful. Everything hurts, especially my back. Walking helps some.”

“Let’s walk then.” Aegon stands and loops his arm through yours. His steps are off-balance and lurching. “And just think, you have another full month of this to look forward to. You don’t have a supernatural remedy for the discomfort?”

“I have one for childbirth. But an essential ingredient is currently in transit.”

“Oh, right. Aemond must be soaring over the Riverlands by now.”

You think of the prince, still two or three days away from King’s Landing, and how he is like two souls in one. When he is alone with you, he is kind and gentle and at peace. He is a better husband than King Viserys ever was, already a better father. And yet…when he spars with Sir Criston, when he hears Otto Hightower speak of alliances and armies, when he reads books about tactics of warfare, when he is threatened with losing you…you can see the red glimmer of wrath, of vengeance in his eye. You can see the egregiously wronged boy he once was. “Sometimes I fear I’m losing him to the past instead of joining him in the future”

“You are his future. You, and the baby, and this family. The Greens. That’s all that exists to him.”

“But he cannot conspire against Rhaenyra without remembering what she and her sons did to him. Each time he thinks of it, I watch the hatred boil up inside him.” You look at Aegon. He looks back with perplexed, dark-ringed eyes. “You have to promise that if anything happens to me, you’ll help him. You’ll support him, you’ll guide him. Otto will coax him towards blind revenge, but you must help him rise above that. You must be a good king, a good leader. You must become better than you are now.”

“What could possibly happen to you?”

You glace up at the clouds, at the heavens. “My mother died in childbirth.”

“That’s very sad, but you aren’t going to.”

“Women die in childbirth all the time. You only exist because Aemma Targaryen did.”

“She didn’t just die,” Aegon says with a sort of morbid intrigue. “When all hope was lost, my father had her cut open so they could try to save his son. You could hear the screams all through the Red Keep. Bloodcurdling, I’ve been told. The bed looked like a massacre had taken place there. And in the end, the boy died anyway. So he tortured his beloved wife for nothing.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“Oh,” he realizes, noting your face. “Perhaps I should not have told you that.”

“Your timing could have been better,” you say. “Do you promise?”

He sighs. “I don’t think I have it in me to be a good anything.”

“You do. I know you do. I can see it.”

“Oh, is there a spell for that?” he teases. “Flaying me alive until all my secrets are spilled?”

“Owww.” You stop dead and grab your lower back, squeezing your eyes shut. “Owwww…”

Aegon reaches for you uncertainly. “Are you alright? Are you sure this is normal—?”

There is a sudden gush of liquid that drenches the ground beneath your feet. There is a panicked look that flies between you and Aegon, colored with the knowledge that Aemond is still hopelessly far from King’s Landing. And then, when a new wave of twisting agony pierces through your spine, there are screams. It feels like jagged metal strings are tangled up inside you, shredding muscle, scraping bone. It feels like you are being ripped apart by iron claws. There is sharpness and pressure and tension all at once. There is no escaping it.

Helaena helps you to your bedroom and calls for the maesters and midwives. By the time they arrive, you are on the floor sobbing, gasping for air, trembling all over. Helaena cools your face with wet cloths and promises that you will have relief between contractions, but you don’t feel any break in the pain: it is bad, and then it is worse, and then it is unbearable, but it never vanishes from you. The midwives check you again and again, and although they speak to you soothingly and encouragingly you can see the bleak dread in the glances they pass each other like whispers.

Helaena does not leave your side except when she collapses—curled up on a couch in the corner of the room—to catch a few hours of fractured sleep. Aegon sits in the hallway outside and drinks, worries, drinks some more. Queen Alicent arrives every few hours to offer praise and advice, to assess your progress. Her face grows more grave with each visit. She consults with the maesters and midwives, positing suggestion after suggestion, positions and herbs and drinks and prayers. Nothing helps you. Nothing brings the child out of you, and after a while you can no longer feel them moving. I’ve killed them, you think to yourself. And now it’s my turn to die too.

At first, you fight to live. You are petrified by the knowledge that your mother died exactly like this, afraid and suffering and utterly defenseless despite her gift of magic. Perhaps she was not able to cast the spell for protection in childbirth before her labor began. Perhaps it simply didn’t work. Perhaps the Old Gods heard her pleas and denied them, silenced them, determined that her hourglass had run out. You don’t want to die. You don’t want to leave Aemond, Helaena, Aegon, Alicent, Sir Criston, this city, this world. You don’t want to abandon Aemond to descend into merciless, mindless fury. You don’t want to die, you don’t want to die, you don’t want to die.

As the hours pass, as the days pass, the fight bleeds out of you. Death would be an end to the pain. Death would be cold, silent nothingness. And, most vitally, death in this particular circumstance seems to be inevitable.

When the midwives announce with renewed exuberance that at last you are dilated enough to deliver, you don’t have any strength left. You cannot keep down food or water; you vomit up every drop of liquid they pour down your throat, raw from screaming and retching. You have not slept. You lie in the same bed where Aemond made love to you on your wedding night and let the contractions shred through you one after the other, accomplishing nothing, afflicting futile violence. You have nothing left. You are as empty as open hands.

When Vhagar is spotted flying into King’s Landing, Aegon sprints out to the beach to meet his brother. Aemond climbs down from the netting wearing a triumphant grin; in the satchel slung over his shoulder are twenty-seven blue winter roses, still relatively fresh. His smile dies when he sees Aegon, when he reads his face, when he smells the wine and sweat and desperation on him.

“It’s too late for that,” Aegon says. His words are strangled. His cheeks are ruddy and wet with tears. “But you might still have time to say goodbye.”

You know the instant Aemond enters the room; he changes it just like he always does. The floor shifts, the walls expand, the daylight grows brighter. “I’m here,” he tells you, kneeling at your bedside. “Shh, I’m here, I’m here. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but I’m here now.”

Your voice is less than a whisper. “I don’t want to die like my mother.”

“You are not dying. Look at me, look at me…” He grabs your face roughly with both hands. “You are not dying, I promise you that you’re not. You are in battle, but you are winning.”

Your eyes roll to his, glassy and vacant, wanting to believe him. Helaena sobs on the other side of the room. Alicent embraces her, comforts her, prepares her.

“I’ll help you,” Aemond says. “Alright? We’ll do this together. I’ll help you. I won’t leave you for a second. I won’t leave until it’s over.”

Until it’s over, he said. Not until our child is born. Because no one believes the baby is still alive. “Alright,” you agree faintly, the words of a ghost.

Aemond climbs onto the bed, sits behind you, rests his chin in the dip of your collarbone. When the midwives tell you to push, he kisses your temple and entwines his hands with yours and reminds you that you are almost there, nearly done, winning. In the midst of a contraction that feels like razors, and then crushing pressure, and then fire, the baby is born. And while sounds erupt through the room—cheers and chatter and gasps of relief—there is no cry. You expect this. You barely feel the grief at all. Later you will, surely, but not now.

“I’m sorry,” you tell Aemond, barely conscious, the room dimming to black. Blood flows in a torrent from your life-robbing womb.

“No,” he replies. You can feel the dampness of tears on his right cheek. “It’s not your fault. You have nothing to be sorry—”

And then there is a noise, a fragile little squeak as the midwives jostle her, your tiny wrinkled newborn daughter; and a reedy little cry follows. Alicent bursts into jubilant tears. Helaena rushes over to hold the baby. You fade away, away, away.

You sink into a deep, pitch-black sleep with no dreams. You deliver the afterbirth and the midwives massage your belly, and you are barely aware of these facts. You surface momentarily when you are given morsels of food or drink or milk of the poppy. You are cleaned and dressed and scrupulously monitored. A wetnurse is found for the baby; you could not nurse even if it was customary for a princess to do so, as your milk had not yet come in before your too-soon labor. You drift in the darkness. You gather strength; you heal. Aemond brushes the tangles from your hair and speaks to you in High Valyrian and waits for you to rejoin him in the land of the living.

After three full days, you are well enough for visitors. You lie in bed in a regal, celebratory golden gown and accept congratulations as your daughter is passed around, careful arms eagerly enfolding her: Otto, Alicent, Helaena, Sir Criston, various Hightowers, maesters, the highest-ranking nobles currently at court, Aemond always hovering nearby and impatient to take her back. Oddly enough, nobody seems disappointed that she is not a son, least of all your husband. Aegon bypasses all the cooing and admiring and sits down beside you on the bed, one brimming cup in each hand.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi. I brought you some pomegranate juice.” He hands you a cup.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d have much interest in this. Are you here to see the baby?”

“No.” He touches your forehead—feeling for fever—and then your cheeks. “You scared me.”

“Not as much as I scared myself, I assure you.”

“Don’t do that again.”

“He’s so in love with her, I think we’ll have to have twenty children.”

“That would be a new record, surely.”

“Why, do you only have nineteen?”

“You fucking bitch,” he says, smiling enormously, and clinks his cup against yours.

Otto Hightower parades your daughter around the room. She is obviously asleep, but he narrates every feature to her anyway: here’s the history of that tapestry, there’s the rug brought to the Red Keep from some exotic corner of the world. “What will you call her?” he asks Aemond. “Visenya? Alyssa? Alysanne?”

Aemond turns to you. “I think we should name her after your mother.”

“Yes,” you reply as you clasp your pendent. You had not considered it, but it’s perfect. It suits her. It breathes new life into something that was stolen from you.

“Laurel.” You love the way Aemond says it: hushed like a sigh, gentle like his hands.

“Laurel?!” Otto exclaims. “That’s not a Targaryen name!”

“Perhaps you will recall, Grandsire, that she is also half-Mormont.”

“Well…I suppose it cannot be helped at this point,” Otto concedes. Everything about him—voice, posture, eyes—softens as he gazes down at his great-granddaughter. You had thought that only Helaena was capable of having that effect on him. “She is a fine child. She looks like a Targaryen, at least.” And she does: she has your skin and your eyes, but her dusting of short, wispy hair is pure silver.

When you are able to walk long distances again, Aemond insists that there is one last introduction that still needs to be made. The three of you venture down to an abandoned stretch of rocky beach—Aemond carrying Laurel, stepping slowly and cautiously—where Vhagar is slumbering like an earthquake waiting to split the land. She unfurls when she hears you approaching, flares her nostrils, blinks sluggishly with those savage, muddy eyes.

“Fire,” Aemond says, laying his bare palm to Vhagar’s flesh. Then he smooths his hand over your daughter’s sparse, downy hair. “And blood.” The egg in her cradle is a pale, shimmering, off-white color with silver flecks. The feeling in your chest is nothing but open, fearless, shadowless joy.

Exactly eight weeks later—seeking to secure Lucerys Targaryen’s claim to Driftmark—Rhaenyra and Daemon set sail from Dragonstone, bound for the flourishing, golden shores of King’s Landing.

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond imagine #aemond x you #aemond targaryen imagine #hotd imagine #hotd fanfic #aemond fic

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baladric · 2 years ago

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i was just randomly scrolling through the tdt tag and i saw your post about the horrible treatment by supposed fans towards stiefvater and trc/tdt and i couldn’t agree more. things were always tricky and it was a sad sad day when she closed her tumblr and i remember a lot of it had to do with the treatment of kavinsky’s character. i’m not saying there weren’t problematic elements to her writing but she more often than not got criticised for all sorts of dumb shit but i truly hoped that the fandom had matured in the years following the release of the raven king but i suppose it was not to be. i remember when she did a reddit ama and got accused of being homophobic because declan and jordan got engaged but not ronan and adam. like ?!?!? did this person even pay attention to the story and their character arcs?? it would make very little sense for pynch to get engaged, not least because they are barely in the same place for most of tdt. anyway sorry for the rant but i just truly feel bad for maggie, for all the work and love she put into these characters and doing it all through a scary illness that nearly stopped her from writing and by all accounts would have killed her. i definitely think she wasn’t prepared for the level of fandom and attention she was going to receive for trc and it sucks that she’s had to reduce her presence from social media since. i can’t wait for her next books though especially because they seem to be more for adults. i think she has truly mastered young adult fiction so i’m curious to see what she does next, and it’s bound to be good if tdt is any indication

oh word, friend! honestly the vitriolic outlash re: kavinsky was sort of my personal first red flag about the rising of purity culture in fandom spaces (though there were, and are, valid criticisms of k obviously, like yikes re: the "face of a refugee" shit)—and now all this stuff about pynch in tdt is like... idk, people have lost touch with the concepts of nuance and also unhomogenized relationship arcs.

(THIS GOT SO LONG SORRY, I HAVE TOO MANY THOUGHTS)

idk how understood this is, but as a chronically ill person, i think about it a lot—ronan's entire arc in tdt, especially in cdth, is about chronic illness and the arduous, painful process of acceptance of one's disability and consequent limitations. like you said, stiefvater came into tdt after a terrifying illness during which she literally lost the ability to string sentences together, and very much had no idea if it was a skill she would ever regain. and she's still dealing with issues, i'm sure, because any serious illness leaves its marks.

being a dreamer has always had aspects of chronic illness, though one could argue that its original plot inclusions in trc aligned more with experiences of addiction and mental illness (with a soupçon of internalized homophobia, for Flavor™). but the way tdt starts off with ronan being very directly forced into conflict with his physical capabilities in regards to doing the things he needs to do for his own essential happiness (read: moving to be closer to adam, and his following inability to actually do that, as it took him too far off the ley line to be safe for him,or anyone around him) is a classic chronic illness narrative. and considering what stiefvater was coming out of, experientially, it's very clear that this is deliberate.

(i think she's actually talked about this somewhere, maybe in that reddit ama, but idr where! if anyone wants to follow-up with that, it would be lovely)

the thing is!!! navigating one's own disability is a grieving process—and grief is multifaceted, and comes paired with a lot of anger and railing at god/nature/reality/whatever. which, of course, can absolutely ruin relationships and push loved ones away. and even if it doesn't firebomb those relationships, it still complicates them intrinsically. a person can't help someone that's not helping themself, and it's hard to have space for helping yourself when all of your resources are going towards survival. and ronan is very much surviving. he is not helping himself—and he hasn't been for a long time at the start of tdt. we see that in the daily/weekly schedule declan had to force him to write so he wouldn't just waste away, and it continues apace into, you know. violent ecofascism. (which is a lot more destructive than your average joe can manage with their disability crisis, but you know, each to their own!)

meanwhile, adam's on his own self-worth/self-concept journey, spreading his wings at college and doing the very classic job of swinging oneself so far in the opposite direction of their old behaviors or the person they used to be, that it ends up being its own brand of personal disservice. he has put the adam parrish of henrietta in a box and shoved it to the back of his mind, and donned this very literal disguise (my boy! in a tweed fuckin vest and slacks! love that for him) of ivy league therapist friend!adam, and though we obvs lack adam pov to take the actual temperature of this, it's really clear that this shift isn't sustainable. you can't run from trauma, and you can't run from your past self, and he's making a valiant effort at doing both. it's gonna back up on him, if it's not already.

so ronan going off the rails? not something adam has the capacity to manage gracefully, even if ronan was letting him in—which he isn't, because he's grieving the simple fact of an inherent freedom he'll never be allowed. all of his friends have scattered on the wind like so many traumatized dandelion seeds, and he's stuck in the same place, unable to put the ghosts of their collective past behind him, because they live in his house. this is the driveway where he found his father, dead; this is the barn where he spent countless fruitless hours trying to dream a sweetmetal for his mother, only to have her die horribly before he could; this is the car in which he raced a dead boy, and these are the streets he drove with his best friend on long, sleepless nights when all they could do was try to keep each other from falling through the holes in their heads. the school he failed, the church in which he dreamed a crime worse than anything he'd dreamed before or since, the hummocks of disturbed earth, grown over with tall grass, in which he buried the things that wanted to kill him and who knows how many other corpses of his own physical self.

and he can't leave. he can never leave, so he's clutching at straws and alienating everyone who loves him and just McFreakin Losing It! which is fine, because he's nineteen and stranded and feels more alone than he ever has, in this void of anything like guidance, in the void of parental figures, in the void of any kind of traditional life path, and he has to work all of that out for himself.

so of course he and adam aren't getting fucking engaged. of course it's not a happily ever after—and it would be disinenguous for maggie goddamn stiefvater to give us that! because when has she ever been anything but a writer of complex, messy and wretchedly gorgeous characters? isn't that what drew us all to her in the first place? because fuck, y'all, the draw sure isn't her plots or her worldbuilding! (i love her worldbuilding, to be clear, it's just... aside from the dreaming, it's not super consistent)

stiefvater's appeal as an author is the very unique and complex way she understands her characters' minds, and refuses to ever play them as archetypes. gansey isn't just a nerd, or just a rich boy, or just a lonely person—he is all of them at once. he's a king of men, he's miserable, he's giddy with the thrill of being alive, he wants to get pizza with his friends and drive too fast and be allowed to go fuckin bonkers now and again and kiss the girl he loves.

gansey is a fucking problem. blue is a problem, henry is a problem—adam parrish and ronan lynch are PROBLEMS, and god fuckin bless stiefvater for not only allowing this in her characters, but for leaning into it. she lets them be messy, lets them be awful and fight and do the wrong thing, and—most importantly—she lets them find ways to come back together afterwards!

all this to say, it blows my fucking mind that people are surprised that this trilogy is doing anything other than absolutely wrecking shop. stiefvater wouldn't have written these books if there weren't things in her characters that needed to break in order to be patched back up, stronger than before. the entire raven cycle universe is built on the shifting nature of individual identity, and the ways we all have to create our own fulfillment, because the goals we set for ourselves are very rarely the point of existence that we want them to be. and if the first quartet was about gansey and adam, at their core, then this trilogy is about ronan and declan, building their fulfillment. finding their footing in the world as adults (which, you know, quick point, tdt is not young adult fiction, it's regular old speculative fiction, so uhhh yeah of course the material is gonna be even less fluffy homogenized shit than the first series) and that's fucking HARD and MESSY and just. jeez, y'all, have faith in stiefvater that it'll all come out the better, and find some peace that things are messy right now. (it's not HOMOPHOBIC for a queer person to struggle in fiction, and if you're thinking that, you need to sit down and examine that thought very deeply. i could say a lot about how declan falling in love and getting engaged is extremely meaningful for his personal development, where the same thing wouldn't be for adam and ronan, but uhhh idk)

we make a lot of jokes that stiefvater likes to hurt us, but does she? really? like, yes, her writing hurts, but as a person who was dragged kicking and screaming through his mid-20s by the nape of his neck and the slim hope of the brighter future shown in the raven cycle, i can say that her stories are actually, at their core, about healing and the awful paths we have to walk to reach it. and, with the advent of tdt, they're now also about the fact that healing is cyclical, not linear! there's no end point to growth. there's no happy ending—because there's no ending, short of death. life has ups and downs, and with every layer of ourselves we heal, another, deeper layer pulls back, demanding that same care and attention, those same tears and clawing for the light. it's hard. it sucks. but at the end of the day, we can get gelato with our friends. we can look at art. we can find our sweetmetals to carry us through our days, whether those be assistive devices, or people, or a favorite book.

;laskfjw idk TL;DR, these books would not only not be maggie stiefvater books if adam and ronan just... got engaged and were having a happy, fluffy time of it (and fwiw, declan and jordan are distinctly NOT having a happy fluffy time??)—they would also fucking suck. they would not be entries into this world. they would be doing these characters a fucking disservice. so just. everyone needs to calm down and realize they can just not read something if it makes them mad. what's that meme with the skeleton? you can just LEAVE!!! you can put the book down instead of harassing the fucking author, who is doing nothing but staying true to herself and her motivations in storytelling.

clearly i have a lot of feelings about this. if you read this far, blessings be on your funky little soul, you absolute legend.

#tdt #trc #the dreamer trilogy #the raven cycle #maggie stiefvater #this is so fucking long sorry #anonymous ask #ask

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eunoiaflow3r · 4 years ago

Text

hard 2 face reality // spencer reid x fem!reader

spencer reid x reader

aaron hotchner x reader

part one - part three

a/n: a lot of people asked for part 2 to “not ur friend.” omg i didn’t expect it to blow up like it did. sorry this isnt the fluff conclusion you guys wanted...but i’m willing to make this a series maybe? idk it’s up to you guys. thank you for your feedback and support. (see notes at end)

also i tagged all the people who commented on part one.

warning(s): language. angst. not proofread. will be mistakes.

word count: 2.9k wow.

request(ed): yes. very requested. thank you @yeah-just-ignore-me-thanks for this idea.

summary: after hearing something she shouldn’t have, she has to deal with explanations and tough decisions.

hard 2 face reality by poo bear ft. justin beiber and jay electronics.

—————————————&————————————

sometimes it’s hard to face reality...even though you might get mad at me.

It’s ironic sometimes.

The twists and turns of life and the paths it puts you down. Sometimes you believed in fate but right now it only felt like a pain in the ass. Whoever was controlling your strings you hoped they would just give you a break, but no. There was always something more.

Last night, you had a dream. There was a memory within the dream. You and Spencer were cuddling on the couch watching a movie and his fingers were combing through your hair. From where you were, it was more like you were witnessing it instead of actually living it. You were just watching yourself fall harder for the man behind you. You were content. Happy even. You forgot all about your issues and problems and conflicts. You forgot about what Spencer said and the things he had done. You just forgot.

You watched as he took his fingers out of your hair and pushed you away. The you that you were watching was confused and so were you. Why would he do that? What was wrong with him? This wasn’t the memory.

Dream Spencer got up, put his shoes on, grabbed his bag, and was halfway out the door. Before he left completely he said, “We’re just friends. You’re not enough for me. You never will be.”

Dream you just sat there and stared blankly.

Your eyes opened and you stared up at your ceiling in sorrow. The tears just kept coming and you tried to keep yourself quiet but it was so hard, and you were so tired. You hated to admit it but you were in love with him. You were in love with a man who didn’t feel the same way. A man who did nothing but play you and pretend you were nothing. A man who lied.

How did this happen?

How did you end up in a position where you were in a cold bed crying about a man who was unphased? Someone who didn’t find anything wrong with their actions? How could you love someone who would never find the way to love you back and treat you right no matter how hard you wished? No matter how hard you hoped?

How could you do this to yourself?

And to think - in a few hours you’d have to wake up and see him again. After everything you realized and have come to terms with you’d have to see the man who was responsible for the ache in your heart.

————————————&———————————

When Spencer woke up the first thing he thought about was work. How he didn’t really want to go but he knows he has to. He thought about how heart wrenching the case he’s been on for the last week has been. He thought about how today he might actually be able to solve it...and then he thought about you.

He’d be seeing you.

Hotch invited you to help with the case. He figured your skill set would be exactly what they needed to solve it.

And yeah, you there definitely was for the better of the case but was it for the better of him?

He had no idea what to do. You were mad at him. You weren’t answering his phone calls or his texts and he figured out that you heard the conversation and he gets that maybe calling you a grandmother was wrong, but really what did he do?

He knew he missed you. He missed being able to rant to you, and you consoling him. He missed the movie days you guys had...but he could watch them on his own...right? He could figure out his own problems...he didn’t need anyone to help him. Especially not you. Not someone getting upset about the smallest of things.

That was so rude of you. Why would you ignore him? Why wouldn’t you reply to his texts are calls?

He thought that that was pretty selfish of you.

And yeah sure, maybe calling you clingy was a lie but was that really something to ignore him over? To throw it all away for?

Should've been adjusted to my life, had the opportunity to stay away for the last time...now you’re standin’ right in front of me. It hurts me to know that I lied. Tryna protect your feelings... you read in between the lines Hope your heart has started healing

You arrived.

He saw you, bag over your shoulder, going straight towards Hotch’s office and ignoring him.

Not even a hello? Not a good morning? You hadn’t even looked at Emily or Morgan either. What had they done? What had he done?

From what he could tell you had been crying, but you covered it well. If it was anyone but him they wouldn’t have been able to tell but he could. Did you miss him too? Were you hurting?

———————————-&————————————

“Is something going on between you and Reid?”

Hotch was looking at you expecting an answer but you didn’t know what to tell him. According to Reid nothing had ever been going on.

“No. I’m really just trying to focus here.”

Hotch nodded. “Good.”

Truth is, it was very hard to ignore Spencer. He seemed so oblivious that it made you feel sorry for him. But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t feel sorry for him. He wasn’t the one crying his eyes out at night and cussing out rom coms when they came on the television.

And you could tell he didn’t feel the same. He didn’t look how you felt. He looked conflicted, but he didn’t look sorry or hurt. His normalcy pained you. Had you really meant that little? Maybe you were over exaggerating things. No. You deserved an explanation - but you weren’t ready to hear it.

A while ago...

“Okay Y/N cover your eyes!”

You giggled. “No, Spencer why?”

“Just do it! I promise you’ll like it.”

You were sat criss crossed on the couch and Spencer was behind you with something in his hands. Before you could look at it he told you to close your eyes and he hid it behind his back. You smiled and closed your eyes waiting for whatever the surprise was.

You felt his fingers move your hair out of the way and you felt a coolness along your neck.

A necklace.

“Okay open.”

You could feel him grinning. You opened your eyes and looked down at your chest. You nearly gasped. On the end of the necklace was a miniature glass sculpture. When you met at the museum you told him that they were your favorite.

He remembered.

You held it in your hand and turned around to kiss him. He was a bit surprised but held your face in his hands and kissed you back.

“L/N!” You were snapped out of your head. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Sorry.”

The necklace. You can’t believe you were still wearing it. It felt like the only thing holding you together which was strange since glass was so fragile. The metal necklace part felt like it was burning you. The happy memory burned you. You took the necklace from under your sweater and ripped it off your neck. You couldn’t wear it anymore. It hurt you, but you couldn’t hold on.

Reality is kinda hard to face, like actual facts is for flat-earthers. Rains a requirement for flowers to grow, and pains a requirement for power to grow. It’s a miracle how one can change, from one what was just hours ago.

When you got home that day you were happy and running on adrenaline. Yeah, you had to see Spencer...but you helped solve a case. You helped save someone. It was tiring, and gruesome just like what Spencer said but the feeling you get after helping someone? Unexplainable.

After changing out of your work clothes and into some jeans and a shirt, you’d thought you’d treat yourself to dinner. Maybe that would help you forget. Forget and move on. Besides, it was a nice little diner and you used to be a regular. You had wanted to bring Spencer but he never wanted to go. He never wanted to go out.

His loss.

When you got there the familiar scent of vanilla and cinnamon wafted through. You had missed this. When everything was so simple and uncomplicated. When you could be you. Not wondering if today was the day Spencer would decide to come over or not. Or to even call. You could finally breathe. You weren’t in your stuffy apartment. You weren’t in a Spence filled work place. You were where you considered home in a city away from it.

“Y/N, hey!” Em the waitress called you over. You would consider her a friend. You two had always talked when you came through.

“Hey!” She went in for a hug and you hugged her back.

“Where have you been?”

You sighed. “Busy.”

She nodded. She understood. From there she asked you where you wanted to sit. You were just going to request the counter since you were alone, but when a little boy came up to you yelling your name, and wrapped his arms around you...you didn’t have the time to answer. It was little Jack.

“Hey buddy!” You hugged him back.

You looked around for Hotch. What a coincidence. He smiled and waved you over. You and Jack walked over to the booth and Hotch stood and hugged you. “I’m so sorry about Jack.”

“Oh no, it’s fine!”

About two years ago Hotch hired you to babysit Jack every once in a while. You needed the money. You were making enough from the paintings you sold but you needed more to finish college and save up. You weren’t going to some big expensive college or anything but still.

A little while later you met Spencer and it just became and inside joke.

“Would you like to eat with us?” Hotch asked.

“I don’t want to intrude Hotch...”

“Aaron.” He corrected while smiling. “Please, join us.”

And you did. You ate dinner with Aaron and Jack and you were having fun. This past month you had been moping around feeling sorry for yourself but you were actually happy. There was still that pain in your chest, and a part of you that longed to call Spencer and talk to him - but you wouldn’t. You couldn’t.

After dinner Em invited you to go clubbing with her on Saturday. At first you were going to turn her down but you thought...why not? You didn’t have to stay up waiting for Spencer to call anymore. You didn’t have to cook or plan to order in in case Spencer decided to stop by. You didn’t have any plans.

“Sure Em, I’ll be there.”

“Great.”

She walked behind the counter and looked from you to Hotch. Like a suggestive look. Like a “ask him too!” look. And you weren’t ready for anything, and wasn’t even sure if you liked Aaron that way, and you still were in a gray area with Spencer...but you thought it’d be rude not to ask.

“Aaron...”

He nodded, urging you to go on.

“Do you want to go with me Saturday? I mean...I don’t really want to be alone..Em has a girlfriend and it might be fun.”

He laughs and scratches the back of his neck. “Yes Y/N I’ll go.”

When you got home and ready for bed you had this weight in your stomach. There was a lump in your throat, and your fingers tensed. You thought about Hotch and it made you feel like you were cheating on Spencer. But you weren’t. You and Spencer weren’t together. There was no need to feel guilty.

He didn’t.

———————————-&————————————

That Saturday came soon enough and you weren’t sure if you were ready. Physically yeah, you showered and got ready...but emotionally? Mentally? Was this a date? Had you asked Aaron out? Were you ready for that? Had you moved on from Spencer? No, of course not. But Aaron wasn’t a distraction either. You could never do that to him no matter how bad you felt. Never.

Your doorbell rang and when you opened it you were surprised to see Hotch...not in a suit. It fit him and you could admit it...he looked...really good.

“You clean up nice.” You said laughing a bit to yourself.

He looked you up and down. “So do you.”

He looked a bit taken aback and you could see he was a bit flushed and that made you a bit happy. You liked giving people that kind of reaction. It gave you just a bit of confidence you needed. Especially tonight, where you’d try not to think about Spencer.

When you got there you were glad it wasn’t too busy. The music wasn’t that loud either and you were glad because then you got to dance without immediately getting a headache. Your first dance was with Hotch but then he saw one of his friends from college (he’s a lawyer now) and then started talking to him. You didn’t mind. You actually kind of liked being alone. It gave you you time to think. But not about Spencer.

No. Not tonight you wouldn’t.

You wasted too many tears on him to be thinking of him while you were supposed to be having fun. He didn’t deserve your thoughts. He didn’t deserve your tears. He didn’t deserve movie nights, or cuddles, or sex, or kisses, or waiting, he didn’t deserve -

Spencer.

Spencer Reid.

You thought you were dreaming, but you weren’t. He was just a little bit away from you with JJ on his arm. “Just coworkers.” You wanted to say it didn’t hurt you, you did, but your heart broke. In a million little pieces. Had he not want to get serious with you because he was in love with her. It makes sense, everything about that makes sense but it didn’t hurt any less. It didn’t make the tears in your eyes stop, it didn’t make the ache in your chest dim but at least it made sense.

Know it hurts to see the truth in your face, circumstances bring you down to your knees. Go on and cry an ocean, but don’t drown in it. Enough to put your heart at ease. Oh don’t lose your self esteem. I apologize for being a man. It’s way harder than what it seems.

You grabbed your bag from Hotch and told him you needed to go outside for a minute. He asked you if you wanted him to go with you but you needed to be alone. You wanted to be by yourself to fight these tears. You couldn’t cry in front of him.

He gave you his coat which was much too big but still appreciated.

Once you were outside you took your phone out to check your face. Your nose was red but the few tears hadn’t ruined anything. You were fine. You were going to be okay. Everything was alright.

Until it wasn’t .

“Y/N?”

Fucking Spencer.

You turned around to see Spencer Reid walking towards you with a confused look on his face.

“Hey.” he said. Hey? Hey?? What the hell were you supposed to say to that? Hey?

He cleared his throat. “Things are weird, right?”

“Weird?” you scoffed.

“Y/N, it’s been a month! I don’t understand what I did! You just stopped talking to me even after I tried to apologize! What more can I do?”

He stopped for a second, “Is that Hotch’s jacket?” He stepped forward to take a look at it but you flinched away. “Don’t tell me that’s Hotch’s -“

“You were hiding me Spencer. You said the equivalent to hanging out with me was of visiting a grandmother. You never wanted to hang out unless it was on your terms and you called me clingy and suffocating when I NEVER asked you for more. I NEVER went out of my way to ask you for anything and you treat me like this? Like I’m replaceable? After everything we’ve been through? After all we’ve talked about and experienced? What’s your excuse for that Spencer? What could you possibly have to say that would explain that?”

He opened his mouth and closed it again.

“If I were to have called you and said ‘Yup, everything is fine Spence we can go back to normal.’ It would have gone back to normal! YOUR normal! A normal where I’m hidden like a side chick but you get to be in public with JJ on your arm! Fucking JJ! And yeah, we never put a label on it but YOU made it clear that we weren’t to fuck other people. That was YOUR decision! She was the girl you said I didn’t have to worry about and here we are.”

Spencer was silent. He looked to the floor, and said nothing. His fingers ran through his disheveled hair and his lip was quivering.

“So this is because of JJ?” he asked.

“Fuck you.”

————————————&———————————

He watched as you walked into the club and back out again with Hotch. Before you went in his car though you walked over to Spencer and put the necklace into his hand. Silently you walked over to Hotch and got in the passenger seat.

Spencer didn’t know what to do.

This was your necklace. He gave it to you. It was yours to keep. Yours to wear, cherish, and hold. Why would you give it back? It was supposed to make you happy and help you remember him. Instead it was in his hands unworn but the girl he had hurt. What was he supposed to do?

JJ found him outside but he said nothing to her the whole ride when he took her home. He was thinking about you. He was thinking about what you said. You were right.

When he got home he looked at the box of things you gave him. There were polaroid pictures of the two of you and he started shaking as he cried. What had he done? How could he have been so selfish?

You were right.

Truth was he did like JJ, and he had been hiding you. He had been treating you unfairly. He had been a jerk and he had done every single thing you said he did.

He was all of the names you were calling him in your head.

Every single one.

He held the glass sculpture necklace in his hands and could feel his tears running down his face falling on it.

Even though he fucked up, and had something weird with JJ, he realized...he was in love with you.

Sometimes it's hard to face reality.

—————————————-&————————————-

literally wtf is this. what in the love triangles - anyway. ik you guys wanted fluff so...part 3? idk. should reader have a thing with hotch? should she choose hotch or reid?

feedback always appreciated. it pushed me to write this.

taglist: @hotchsbabygirl @pinkdiamond1016 @thefemalestorywriter @sizzlingclamturtlesludge @samyilf123

comment tag list: @peculiarinsomniac @mgg-theprettiestboy @187-reid @realalpacorn @wooya1224 @minami97 @studywithrosie01 @yeah-just-ignore-me-thanks @meowiemari @thedaughterofhotchniss @reniescarlett @lovelyspencerreid @ashwarren32 @fantastic-fans @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @psych0crybaby @drreidsconverse @castbyfox

563 notes · View notes

wrathandgreed · 4 years ago

Note

(I hope requests are still open) So ive been thinking. How about the brothers reaction to MC taking a large step away from them when ever one of them raises their hand up. It could be as simple as a high five. MC used to be in a abusive relationship and is paranoid about getting hit

Note: (For the record, I don’t know if you sent me this on purpose - I’ve never done requests; I’ve literally just put out my very first OM headcanons. But I figured I could try. I’ve never been in an abusive relationship, but a number of my friends have. I really hope I can do this one respect - if anything about this is not on the level, please let me know! Also, if I missed a trigger warning in the tags, or tagged this wrong, let me know. Also, for the record, I tend to like soft!Brothers and I really wanted them to try and be better - not put the onus on MC to “get over it” or anything.)

Second note: After writing this, I’m not sure that most of these guys would be a good choice for an abuse survivor!

Third note: I am NOT good at keeping things short and, as usual, I went overboard with Asmodeus. Like, it should be its own fic at this point. But write what you want to read, right?

Warnings: references to domestic abuse, both physical and verbal. References to suicide baiting. Uncensored swearing.

~5K words

Lucifer

A strange choice; his perfectionism and exacting behavior sometimes make you remember how it was back in the human world; everything had to be JUST SO….or else.

And he’s threatened to kill you. Twice.

But there’s something inherently decent about him - and you live for the rare moments he laughs.

His perfectionism usually isn’t even about you, so you just kind of….ignore it.

You’re doing some of your RAD homework in Lucifer’s study.

It’s quiet there.

And, while he won’t do the work for you, he’ll definitely help when you’re stuck.

Also you can give him tea and soothing when he (inevitably) gets upset at his paperwork - Mammon’s bills, Asmo’s bills, Satan’s bills (hey, dark magic books are expensive).

You start hearing the shifting and muttering that herald the beginning of the rant.

You gather the tea and walk towards his desk.

“Devil’s sake!” Lucifer suddenly snaps out, slamming hand on his desk as he reads yet another ridiculous piece of paper.

It’s not at you, the anger isn’t at you, you KNOW it’s not at you, but you freeze anyway.

Slammed hands on desks, punched holes in walls, hands on you, always hands -

The cup of tea hits the floor and you’re out of the room before Lucifer can even look up.

He’s seen it all in your paperwork - the police reports, the restraining order, the lists of injuries - so he puts it all together before his study door closes behind you.

He knows better than to go after you immediately. You’ll want some solitude, some quiet on your own, to steady yourself a little.

If he goes after you now, it might frighten you more. Looks like hunting.

You need to know he’s calm, that he’s not acting or reacting out of emotion.

He takes his time cleaning up the spilled tea, straightening his papers.

When he shows up at your room, he has a mug of hot chocolate.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out before he can say anything. You made a mess in his study, and he’s such a stickler for everything being neat. He was angry before, but he’ll be even more angry now.

“No, I’m sorry,” he returns, and offers you the chocolate.

(You blink once. Has the Avatar of Pride ever apologized before? If so, it was never in your hearing.)

The two of you talk quietly for a time. He insists that you don’t need to apologize - ever. He insists that, while he appreciates the tea-and-break routine, it’s 100% not your responsibility to control his anger. It’s his. He says that his anger isn’t good for him anyway (just look at Satan) and he needs to take a break when that hot feeling starts.

Maybe he should start scheduling breaks; setting timers on his D.D.D. so that he no longer works long enough at once to let it all get to him.

He doesn’t want you afraid of him.

Mammon

Mammon is pretty much the only demon who HASN’T threatened your life. He often sounds irritated, but he’s never even sounded angry at you.

If anything, he’s a mush and an abuse victim himself. So he gets where you’re coming from, and tries really hard.

So you shouldn’t be afraid of him.

But….he moves too quickly. He’s constantly jumping from one idea to another, one topic to another, one emotion to another. And that’s just emotionally.

You can’t trust where his hands will be. Ever. And that’s not a sex thing.

Sometimes, his protection of you makes you feel safe. If anyone hurts you, Mammon will hurt them a thousand times worse.

He’s funny, and his hands on you are gentle, and once you tell him about your past, he tries really hard not to go back to his “stupid human” habit, because it hurts your feelings.

But sometimes, his protection feels like obsession. Why were you talking to that guy? C’mere, you’re MY human.

Then, inevitably, the tug on your hand or arm or waist, pulling you closer.

It starts simply enough.

You’re playing video games in his room. He’s not as much of a gamer as Levi, but he enjoys them.

Especially ones where you can be competitive or drive cars really fast.

He’s been getting more and more excited, coiled like a spring. And it’s from enjoyment, not anger, but that level of energy, in your experience, explodes at some point.

You get quieter, but that only makes him more boisterous. He wants you to join in the fun! C’mon MC, did you see that?! It was awesome!

After a really impressive win, he shouts in triumph and suddenly his hand is in front of your face for a high-five.

You recoil and hit the floor, crab-crawling backwards before you can stop yourself.

His look of complete confusion, in different circumstances, might be funny. He actually looks at his hand like he doesn’t recognize it.

He drops to the floor too, “Babe? What’s wrong? Y’okay?” And he reaches out a hand towards you.

When you flinch, he gets it.

He sits on the floor, stuttering out apologies, not even finishing one sentence before starting another. He makes sure he’s cross-legged, leaning back on his hands - non threatening, leaning away, hands not hidden, but not prominent, and in a position it would take him time to move from.

When you start crying, he can’t maintain that pose and crawls towards you, pulling you into a hug.

If you resist, you know he’ll let you go. And that’s why you just curl into him instead, crying out on his shoulder while he holds you close - but not tightly.

“I jus’ need ya to talk to me….let me know if I’m gettin’ to be too much. I know I’m loud. Just….. jus’ remind me, I’ll never be mad.”

Leviathan

Boy already has anger problems.

Envy’s kind of prone to it, you know?

On the one hand, he literally attacked you over a piece of TSL memorabilia.

On the other, he’s generally harmless the rest of the time.

He’s meek and shy and terrified of touching you - so, 95% of the time, you feel super safe with him.

When you wake with a nightmare, when something jump-starts your fear response, he talks you through it, easily abandoning whatever game or anime he’s involved in.

He’ll only touch you when you ask, or when you reach for him first.

But then there’s the MMOs.

You know you should leave when he starts getting mad. Not in a victim-blame sense, but for your own mental health it’s probably not a good idea to be around him when he raids.

He ALWAYS gets mad.

You’re sitting in his room, so involved in your handheld that you forget it’s his raiding night.

(Usually you make study plans with Satan, or shopping plans with Asmo on his raiding nights. You don’t want him to give them up; he enjoys them, but it’s not good for you to be around.)

After finally completing a tough level, you pop your headphones off just in time to hear Levi swear loudly.

You go still as a string of swear-filled trash talk fills the room. Things you’d never expect shy, needy Levi to say.

You know it really is just trash-talk - the threats of violence are just too absurd. Rip off their arms and use their own fingers to bowl their skull like a bowling ball? Really?

Also this is LEVI. Levi? The demon who needed you to taunt Mammon about his credit card because he couldn’t do it himself? He might be Admiral of Hell’s Navy and all, but he’s not exactly threatening.

You get to your feet, a little shaken but ready to just walk out of the room. It’s raid night, and this is why you don’t hang out on raid nights. You’re not comfortable around other people’s anger.

You’re halfway across the room when Levi suddenly shouts in frustration and throws his controller on the floor.

And you’re out the door.

Levi just glimpses you as he’s reaching to pick up his miraculously-unshattered controller from the floor.

“Henry?” He calls out, just a second too late.

With only one moment of hesitation, he logs out of his raid and goes to follow you.

You had less than ten seconds head start, but it takes him almost twenty minutes to find you, sitting out in the garden, gazing at nothing.

“MC?” He calls quietly. He doesn’t want to sneak up on you.

A single blink, and the tiniest flash of fear - he left his game to follow you.

Calculation: extreme concern - or extreme anger.

Conclusion: Undetermined.

So you wait.

“Are you ok?”

Okay, so not mad. “Aren’t you raiding?” You ask, instead of answering. You’re not ok, but you’re also not in the mood to talk about it.

“I, uh, h-had a, uh, power outage?” Even he doesn’t sound convinced, and you snort. Levi only has three modes: simple, stuttering, and verbose. Thankfully he goes with simple. “You ran out. I was worried.”

You debate brushing his concern off, but he deserves better than that.

“I’m not good with anger. Even if it’s not directed at me.”

“Oh.” Levi pauses as he considers. He knows the basics of what’s happened. “I - I mean, I could, you know, NOT - “

“No,” you say quickly and lean in to kiss his cheek. “You don’t have to change anything. Do your raids, make stupid threats to stupid players. Just….warn me to leave first?”

Levi nods, but he skips the rest of his raid to stargaze with you in the garden, arms wrapped around you from behind as he points out different Devildom stars and constellations to you. You get a lecture on how Devildom stars are used in Devildom sailing. It’s actually kind of interesting.

Satan

Okay, seriously? The Avatar of Wrath? Author speaking here, I literally can’t picture a worse combination than an MC who’s still recovering from domestic abuse to date the AVATAR OF WRATH.

Like, yeah, he has good control over himself, but he also loses his temper in a moment’s notice.

He has CANONICALLY tortured people for calling him strange.

He flips out with no warning and destroys parts of the house and his brothers just let him do it because he’s too powerful to control when he rages.

I can absolutely see MC falling for the quiet intelligence, the consideration, and so forth, but witnessing one (1) single rage should be enough to tell them that this relationship won’t be good for their mental health.

Let’s not even talk about the (again, canonical) desire for domination, power play, pet play, etc, that kind of defines our boy.

I mean, I love Satan. Out of all the bros, he’s the only one I could imagine legit dating in real life.

But I’m a little ball of rage myself, and I have no problem with anger, mine or anyone else’s.

And the fandom (including me) can totally play cute and love on their “soft little angy boi” all they want, and he definitely has soft, sensitive sides, and I may actively choose to ignore the whole domination/power play/etc when I fic or headcanon because I really love soft!Satan….. but he’s not.

I can’t even make a headcanon, because I cannot picture a situation in which this is actually GOOD for MC.

Because no matter how hard he’ll try and control it, and how much his rage probably won’t be directed at them, I just keep picturing “It won’t happen again” except it will, and it’ll just wind up being flashbacks to the number of times “It won’t happen again” ended in black eyes or an ER visit back in the human world.

And MC walking on eggshells for eternity to avoid setting him off, and how is that healthy?

Asmodeus

Another decent choice for MC, at least on the surface.

King of consent over here, at least how I picture him. Especially for someone he cares about.

Always accepts “no” about literally anything. Don’t want sex? We’ll cuddle. Cuddling a little confining? Holding hands is cool. Really don’t want to be touched at all right now? Gossip and tea!

You were coming to really care about the Avatar of Lust, and you believed what Simeon said about him - how much he desperately needed love and affection. You got it; you needed some, too.

I mean, even if he’d been a bit of a jerk, he’d warmed up significantly since the pact, so new that it still burned on your skin, was formed.

But even Asmodeus wasn’t without faults. However much he focuses on love, he can sometimes, really be….mean.

You’re standing on a balcony in Diavolo’s castle, having escaped for a few moments.

He’d always been catty, gossipy, filled with drama, but the genuine affection and likability of him sometimes made you ignore it.

His constant mocking of Luke you could put down to the whole angel/demon conflict.

His occasional snapping or poking at his brothers you could put down to being stuck in the same house with the same people for literal eons.

The only thing that might make up for your awful existence is if you just ended it.

The words haunt you as you stand looking up at Devildom’s endless nighttime.

How many times did you hear similar words yourself? How useless you were, how much of a burden, no way you’d survive on your own without him, and he didn’t even want you that much. Why didn’t you just go kill yourself?

Dammit, you think to yourself as Asmo steps out on to the balcony.

“Darling! Why are you out here all alone? Or are you waiting for some company?”

When he goes to put his arms around you, you just say “no.” Simply, quietly, emotionlessly.

Asmo circles around to look at you. “Something wrong, sweetness?”

You take a breath. Another. You consider swallowing it, again, don’t want to start a fight. Back down, put on a smile, ignore it.

But realize you can’t. You spent years dealing with this crap, and you’re not going to do it again.

“You’re mean, Azzy.” Your voice is quieter than you expected. You look up into the demon’s eyes. To his credit, he looks deeply confused and, as you take a step away from him, hurt. Before he can open his mouth, you continue, “How could you say that to Mammon?”

“Are you defending MAMMON?” He asks, torn between incredulity and anger.

“Right now? Yes. But also Luke, Lucifer, and everyone else you talk shit to. Or about. He’s your brother. Do you have any idea how much it hurts to hear that out of someone you love?”

Dismissively, “Oh, if it actually bothered him, he’d - “

“What? Beat you up? That’s not like him. So he takes it. And takes it, and takes it, until, because it’s all he hears, he believes it. And then why fight back? Why defend yourself, if you’re such a piece of shit? You deserve it, after all, right?”

You don’t even realize it, but you’re crying by this point. And you’re mad. All the mad you couldn’t fling at your abuser before is filling you now. You don’t even know if you’re talking about Mammon or yourself anymore. Maybe both of you.

“And even though he’s beaten down, you keep going. When he won’t respond to the usual anymore, when that doesn’t seem to hurt him, rile him up, you go worse. You told your brother, who you claim to love, to kill himself. We’re barely even friends. So what happens when I annoy you? Should I just go die now, save you the trouble of telling me to do it later?”

You step right up to him, into his personal space, almost nose to nose, and stare directly into his red-yellow eyes. “Is this who you are, Asmodeus?”

Asmo has gone from defensive; incredulous and angry, to baffled, hurt and worried in just a few minutes. But at your last, pointed question, he jerks his head back as though you slapped him. Not knowing what to say or do, he reaches for you again, but you dodge his hand and brush past him back into the castle.

You get Solomon, the only one who won’t ask questions, to switch rooms with you. (Luke is thrilled; teaching him to play gin rummy actually cheers you up a little.)

For a few weeks, you and Asmodeus pass each other in the House without speaking. Then, one evening, there’s a knock on your door and Asmo slides into your room.

He looks….well, not awful; he could never look awful. But the glow is gone from his skin and, unless you’re mistaken, he hasn’t bothered doing his hair. He looks like he’s missed some sleep.

You look up from your homework and watch him. Silently. It’s not your job to fill the silence anymore.

More than most of them, Asmo despises being vulnerable. But it’s fix this or not, and the pact is pushing him to be on good terms. At least, he blames the pact. It’s easier than acknowledging how much the weeks of silence have worn on him. How awful it was watching you walk to class with Mammon instead of him.

And no matter what, he values honesty in his relationships, no matter what kind of relationship. So he would be honest.

“I don’t know,” he says quietly.

Lean back in your chair, hands folded. Waiting.

“I don’t know….if that’s who I am. Maybe it is.”

“Why are you here, Asmo? What do you want?”

“I want you to stop ignoring me!”

Steady face. “I spent too many years having someone talk to me the way you spoke to your brother. The rest of it - the gossip, the side comments, the cattiness…. it’s not your best side. In fact, it’s pretty unattractive when it’s mean, but I could handle it. But I can’t handle cruelty. I don’t want to be around it anymore.”

A pause. “What is my best side then?”

Disgusted, you chuck a pen in his direction. “Fuck’s sake, Asmo. Get out.”

“No! Not, not that. If that’s my bad side, the **unattractive** part, then what’s the other half?”

You search his face, but he doesn’t seem to be fishing for compliments. If anything, he looks….lost. Confused. And you wonder if anyone’s ever said anything to him, good or bad, about who he was; not what he looked like or how he fucked.

It’s not your responsibility to psychoanalyze a demon, you think to yourself. But you’re not someone to walk away. You wonder how it’s possible for someone to be thousands of years old, and know less about themselves than you know about yourself in just a few decades. And you have nothing to lose by being kind.

“You can be wonderfully kind, Asmo, and generous. You want to see the beauty in everyone and everything. As nasty as you can be with it, I’ll give you points for honesty. You connect with people, and the times you’re actually genuinely interested in them is….charming.”

He’s silent for a few minutes. Then he nods, as if he’s made a decision. “Okay. Tomorrow, after RAD, do you want to go for bubble tea?” At your confusion, he just smiles and continues, “It’s like skin care, isn’t it? Attractiveness requires effort, darling, until it becomes habit. If I want to be attractive inside as well as out, I’ll have to practice the good things, so they outweigh the bad. I can’t do that alone. I need a practice partner who won’t tolerate failure, right? At least until it’s habit.”

You feel your entire brain have to reboot before you can give a coherent response.

“Tomorrow. One hour. I have papers due.” You wait until he leaves your room before you smile.

Beelzebub

Probably the best choice for this MC.

The most emotionally intelligent of his brothers.

Also the most sincerely kind and gentle.

But also, like Satan, prone to sudden outbursts and rages. They’re all food-related (or, rather, lack-of-food-related), but they’re there.

A smart MC always carries snacks while dating Beel. Phone, wallet, keys, fried bat wings.

Strangely, though, the food-induced rages don’t really bother you. It’s not anger, really, and it’s never once been directed at you. And, unlike back in the human world, there’s a concrete way to help: feed him.

Today you have a whole backpack full of snacks.

You’re with Belphie, watching one of Beel’s games at RAD.

(You’re not sure Belphie wants to be there, but you’re not allowed out alone, and Belphie decided to take you - keep you safe and support his brother. Two birds, one Belphie.)

Belphie tends to nap against your shoulder any time the ref goes to make a call, but he’s somehow always awake to clap for his brother.

(You stand on your chair and cheer, but that’s you.)

The game is a close one; double overtime. Even Belphie is too tense to sleep towards the end.

And at the end of double overtime, Beel manages the single extra goal that results in victory.

You cheer yourself hoarse for your demon boyfriend.

The whole stadium is crazy, so you hang back and wait. Belphie hates crowds and you’re not keen on them yourself. It’s going to take awhile for Beel to make it through the crowd to you anyway.

You’re standing in the aisle, scrolling through your phone, when suddenly there’s a loud shout and arms wrap around you from behind and lift you up.

You gasp, and your scream strangles in your throat so what comes out of you is nothing more than a squeak. Your phone goes flying.

You’re frozen for a moment as panic surges. You want to fight and you’re fighting your own brain to push the panic into your limbs so you can fight for yourself.

You vaguely feel a tugging and you hear someone - Belphie? - insisting that you be put down and then your feet are on the ground but there’s no such thing as your legs and you start to fall before the same arms help you gently sit. The ground is gross, but you’ll only care about the damage to your skirt later.

Everything is fuzzy and confusing; you’re not even sure of what you’re looking at until your vision is filled with blue and violet.

You know that swirl of color. That’s a SAFE color, and you start feeling your poor brain start to work again.

You blink into your boyfriend’s blue-violet eyes; you realize he’s cupping your face with his hands and the weird underwater noises start to sound like his voice. You realize, very belatedly, that what probably happened was Beel lifting you up in a victory hug.

“M’okay,” you say, but it sounds robotic. It takes a few more seconds - you don’t know how many - for all of your senses and brain to actually begin working in sync again. You start hearing the sounds of the crowd departing the stadium, and you hear Beel continuing to say your name and trying to get you to answer questions. You almost smile; but smiling wouldn’t make any sense.

“I’m okay,” you say, and you must sound a little more convincing this time because Beel looks relieved. He shoots a few more questions at you, and you realize they’re the kinds of questions people get asked when someone thinks they have a concussion or head trauma.

Your answers satisfy him, so Beel helps you to your feet.

“What was that?” He asks. “Low blood sugar? Are you hungry?”

You have to smile at his very-typical diagnosis. A little sugar wouldn’t hurt, though. For some reason, eating grounds you after something like this. You dig a chocolate bar out of your Backpack of Snacks (Snackpack?) and hand the rest to him.

He impatiently takes a bag of chips out of it but doesn’t open it. He looks at you expectantly and you realize he won’t eat until you do. So you take a bite of the chocolate and he looks more relieved.

“So what the fuck WAS that?” Belphie asks as the three of you move towards the exit.

“Later.” You haven’t yet found a reason to really tell Beel (and, by extension, Belphegor) about everything. You do later that night.

Beel swears he’ll never surprise you like that again. He’s a lot more cautious about touching you for a few days, but eventually things go back to normal between you.

Belphegor

Author note: Dude fucking murdered you, deliberately, in cold blood, and taunted you for your gentleness and desire to help as you died. But let’s say you can get past that - or try to. Probably the second-worst choice, after Satan, for this reason.

You started dating Belphie for the strangest reason: you could trash-talk the shit out of him.

He kept trying to be around you after you made the pact (which, let’s face it, you made so you could MAKE SURE he never hurt you again). Until, after politely dodging him wasn’t working, you told him to take his emo-boy routine and fuck off somewhere else.

You flinched, waiting for retaliation, but he just blinked at you and told you to stop being a brat.

And he was smiling.

But it wasn’t a mean smile - it was a smile that shared the joke.

Your lips quivered into a returning smile, and you threw another insult at him.

He topped it, and hurled one back.

Before you knew it, the two of you were screaming obscenities at each other in the middle of the common room and laughing like hyenas.

For some reason, Belphie calling you a dumb bitch wasn’t an insult. It was a mark of endearment. And it didn’t hurt your feelings or make you afraid.

It was empowering to call him a dickhead if he did something you didn’t like and have him simply laugh and amend his behavior. Nothing bothered him.

He didn’t move quickly; in fact he didn’t move at all if he could help it.

But you would remember, sometimes, the way his hands felt on your throat, or how cold his eyes had been. And you couldn’t say it was a momentary madness, because he’d planned it. He’d been imprisoned because he wanted to kill humanity.

You put it out of your mind. It was something you were good at, after all.

Until the two of you sat down to watch a movie one evening. A simple plot hole sparked a discussion that wound up being….not an argument, but definitely a difference of opinion.

As usual, insults were flying fast and furious when suddenly Belphie laughed and smacked you with his pillow.

It wasn’t an angry move, and it wasn’t hard enough to hurt. It wasn’t a hard blow at all! But the surprise had you falling back on the couch. And the fear had you curling into a ball, arms wrapped around your head protectively, legs curled up to guard your middle.

There is dead silence.

“Hey, Brat?” Belphie asks. When you don’t answer, he calls your name instead.

You slowly, very slowly, begin to uncurl yourself from your position. It takes time for the residual fear to leave, but enough is gone to leave room for embarrassment.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“I get it,” is the answer.

Cue awkward silence.

“I figured you were still afraid of me.”

“I’m not!” When he just stares blandly at you, you sigh. “Okay, a little. If you wanted to hurt me - again - you’ve had a ton of opportunities. So I don’t think you want to. But…..”

“It’s a hard thing to get over.”

“Yeah. And not just you.” Hesitantly, you start to tell him. You want to just give him the basics, but once you start talking, you can’t seem to stop. He doesn’t interrupt, barely seems to blink, just watches you. A blank vessel to help you empty the poison that fills you sometimes.

You see his jaw tighten as you go on, but you know the anger isn’t at you.

When you finish, he’s silent for a few moments. Then he gathers you up to him. “I’ll never hurt you,” he says.

You look up at him with the same bland look he gave you a moment ago.

“Again,” he amends. “I’ll never hurt you again.”

You let out a watery laugh and he hugs you a bit tighter.

“You’re still a brat, though.”

610 notes · View notes

gallickingun · 4 years ago

Text

stardust in our bones {constellations on our skin} || i.m.

SUMMARY: Izuku Midoriya is a mausoleum of pain, his masterpieces hung in the form of scars and freckled skin. Sometimes he is overwhelmed by the very public display of his failures, unable to be dismissed even from far away. But you are always there to remind him that even if he is a little damaged, he will always be beautiful in your eyes. And maybe he can come to learn that his scars are but reminders that even if you break, you are not broken.

This is essentially a few different scenes/scenarios all rolled into one fic about Izuku’s freckles and scars. I hope you love it!

PAIRING: Izuku Midoriya x Fem!Reader RATINGS: M/E+ WARNINGS: mentions of blood, language, smut, dom/sub scenes, scars, mild violence mention, breeding kink, daddy kink, etc. WORD COUNT: 28.4k+

LINKS: ao3 | masterlist | mobile | writing tag

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* TAG LIST *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ is in the replies of this post! message me to be added/removed!

AUTHOR’S NOTE: this is the labor of love that i have produced for my other half @freckledoriya ♡ i hope that this meets your expectations, as it is probably one of the only midoriya fics i will ever write lol. katsuki baby i am so sorry also big shoutout to @k-atsukidayo for making this beautiful header image for me and always reminding me that i’m not as garbage as i think i am ♡

if you like this, feel free to request more HERE!

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Some call him disfigured or discolored.

They focus much too heavily on the outer turmoil taking its toll on his skin instead of the implications of what is happening within his body – the struggle in seeing himself this way and coming to terms with all that he has lost, marked on his body forever in the form of scars.

Marred flesh, crooked knuckles, gnarled bones.

He relives his trauma every time he looks in a mirror, another cut turned to pinkened scar, another use of his quirk marking his body permanently with a plethora of the color red. He wonders for a moment if he will ever feel whole again, or if he will always see himself as this patchwork thing that the universe toys with by ripping apart just to sew it back together again.

Izuku Midoriya is a mausoleum of pain.

And yet, despite all his physical fallacies, you still find him beautiful.

You watched on in horror as his body took on the tolls of being a hero throughout his time at Yuuei. You were but a young, quirkless teenager, begging for a hero who reminded you of what hope used to taste like. Now, after All Might’s demise, your tongue turns sour and anything that might have resembled hope burns to ash in your mouth.

Then Izuku Midoriya became a Pro Hero at the very agency you’ve been working at and you felt that familiar warmth of hope starting to take root in your chest, driving out that darkness that settled once the world lost All Might.

Deku is kind, much kinder than the average man. Or hero, for that matter.

He stops by your desk at least once a week, with either coffee or something sweet, in addition to his paperwork. He’ll chat with you, leaning over your counter with those sparkling emerald eyes, and you start to realize you can get lost in him. He is a gentle reprieve from your otherwise mundane day.

And in the beginning, you saw sun-kissed skin littered with a dark sprinkling of freckles, like little constellations burned into him by the sun. His cheeks are like the expanse of the night sky and you wonder to yourself when he leans in close if you might could find some stars you recognize.

As you grow closer, minutes turned into hours turned into lunch outings, you realize that you truly misjudged how deep his scars run.

They are not just on the surface, but rather cutting deep into his soul until he is marked at the very essence, clouded eyes ever present when he recounts a tale that brought forth yet another scar. You want to reach out and brush his cheeks, but you must restrain yourself because he is a Pro Hero and you are but an office manager, quirkless and insignificant to him.

You busy yourself with memorizing the patterns on his face and neck. You allow your mind to wander from time to time, trailing your gaze down to his exposed collarbones or torso, depending on how rough a mission might leave his suit. When it’s torn at the thighs, you can’t help but to see the smattering of pale freckles against his otherwise tanned skin.

Izuku is kind, you remind yourself as he approaches you with paperwork tucked into his side. There is no other explanation for his long, drawn out talks at your desk, or the flowers currently adorning your countertop.

“Hey, sorry,” he unfurls the bundled package of papers and lays them flat on your desk, “this week has been insane, lots’a villains on the loose. Which I guess just means more paperwork for everyone, huh?”

You chuckle at him, thumbing through the first few sheets to make sure he’s got it all in order. There really is no doubt in your mind that it’s all laid out exactly how it should, that’s just how Deku is, but you want him stationary at your desk for a little while longer, so you check it anyway.

“And more bruises for you heroes,” you smile, tilting your head upward so you can catch the glint in his eyes. “How are you today?”

Midoriya begins to rattle off a long string of muttered words while you check the paperwork. You don’t mind that you can’t necessarily understand everything he’s saying, just to hear the sound of his voice is enough to satiate you for the rest of the day. You smile and nod when you think you should, the smell of the flowers on your desk more intoxicating now that he’s here.

“-I, well, you see, I guess that since I saved their shop, they said I could have unlimited meals, and I, uh, I was wondering if you’d like to go?”

You bite your lip, reigning yourself in because of course he just wants to go out for lunch. There’s nothing more to it. You have been to lunch with him several times, extended breaks thanks to both his hero status and your extra hours you work here and there.

“Sure,” you answer, “we can go over the new manual, I have a few-”

“No.”

You cock your head, brow furrowing, “B-But -I”

Deku shakes his head, green curls bobbing against his forehead, his undercut even more obvious now, “N-No, I mean, I want to go, but like, I want you to go with me.”

“I would be-”

“Without the paperwork.”

“Oh.”

The two of you share a look for longer than necessary and now the flowers’ perfume grows stronger, almost sickeningly sweet as your stomach flips. You rack your brain for the words to say, but each syllable dies on your tongue, sparking against a taste bud. You want to pinch yourself to ground your mind into this version of reality where Deku wants to go on a date with you is the current situation, but you can’t move, frozen in place by his expectant stare.

It must take you too long to respond because Izuku launches into another muttering rant, apologizing profusely as he blushes from head to toe. Your lips tug into a smile at the sight of his freckles against his reddened skin, and that little break from your psychotic prison allows you to reach forward and grasp him by the hand.

Deku’s jaw snaps shut, eyes widened as he looks down at you, gaze piercing through you as if he had slung a spear through your soul. He’s got a hold on you, he has since the day you first met, but now you know that he’s had you hook, line, and sinker and there was no way you could ever come up for air.

Not that you’d want to.

“I’d love to,” you tell him, voice soft.

His smile matches your own and he squeezes your fingers, the scars on his hands rigid against his otherwise smooth skin, “It’s a date.”

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As time passed, the bruised ribs and shattered bones multiple. The Pro Hero, Deku, is well-known for his gnarled hand, knuckles swollen, and scars carved into his body like veins in a slab of marble. He finds you after each mission, wrapped in gauze and taped back together, and you are the one left to mend the untouchable pieces of him once the surgeons have done all that they can for the surface wounds.

“You should be more careful,” you warn him, hands reaching for his face to palm over his cheeks in worry.

Midoriya laughs, but it is cut short by a wince as he grabs for his rib cage. You lurch forward to steady his frame, but it is of no use, his palm already outstretched to keep you at bay. The frown on your face only deepens at his motions, your brow furrowing together to wrinkle the skin of your forehead.

“I’m fine,” he reassures you once he can stand up right to his full height again, “thank you, for coming and picking me up.”

The pads of your hands find his face again, thumbs pressed into his cheeks, fingerprints grazing over the speckled skin. It’s as if you’re counting them to make sure that none of them have been wiped away from the last time you saw him; like you could keep track of them like inventory if you tried hard enough. The furrow in your brow tells him that he hasn’t done a good enough job at reassuring you, so he steps closer, a knee between your thighs, “I promise I’m okay. They patched me up! All better now.”

All better now.

The words seem shallow, like they can’t possibly touch all of the broken pieces between the two of you. Every time he bares his soul on the battlefield, he comes away changed, a different person than you last saw. He won’t show the world, but at least he will show you.

“Yeah?” Your voice is cutting, patience wearing thin, jaw quivering under the sheer force of the bite of your teeth, “And what about the next time, when they can’t fix you?”

Deku does not have an answer for you then, the question weighing between the two of you like the world caught between your shoulders. At least the answer he can think up is not one that he wants you to hear, let alone one you might take in stride.

Instead of trying to babble on about the efficiencies of agency surgeons and statistics and whatnot, he takes you by the wrists, circling his fingers around your pounding pulse. A gentle laugh bubbles in his chest and it makes you forget about the pain he has to be in for but a mere moment as he looks you in the eyes.

“I’m a hero,” Izuku answers, voice grating against his throat as his eyes bore into you like he’s telling you some enormous secret you must keep to yourself, “and the hero always wins. No matter what.”

As much as your bleeding, apologetic heart wants to believe him, to lap up every word that he’s spewing to you like syrup, your mind can’t quite agree. You’ve spent too many late nights lying awake, wondering when you’ll get the call that he has fallen prey to a villain’s decaying touch, or when he will have been captured and tortured to the brink of insanity, a shell of the man he used to be all that’s left when they find him. Every horror story has played out on the back of your eyelids when you fall asleep, and yet you know there will never be anything you can do to put him back in the little box you first found him in, to protect him and keep him safe.

You push all of those thoughts away, knowing that they will only dampen your spirit for now, and you’d much rather focus on his darling freckled face while you take your afternoon walk. He insists, despite his injuries, that he won’t miss an afternoon walk with you. And it appears that he’s healing even as more time passes, the lingering effects of Recovery Girl’s quirk in combination with quirk-laced drugs mending his body after he’s left the operating room.

Taking in the sight before you – this beautiful, Adonis-like man, with golden cheeks and an innocent sheen in his glittering green irises – you’re overwhelmed with the desire to kiss him, so you charge forward and do just that. Your hands find his neck, searching for the hairline lightning strike scars that litter his body from past injuries and fights.

Unbeknownst to him, you keep your eyes open so you can watch as his translucent lids flutter, orbs moving beneath the skin as he’s unsure of what part of you in his imagination to settle on. This way you’re able to see as the apples of his cheeks slowly start to burn deeper shades of red to match his ears and neck.

As you pull away, falling back onto your heels, you drink him in as the light glimmers down on his skin, making him look almost golden in the afternoon sunshine. There is a string connected to your heart that tugs whenever you see the man standing before you, and now is no exception.

“C’mon,” you slot your knuckles between his, tenderly brushing your thumb over the large expanse of scar tissue on the back of his palm, “let’s go.”

Izuku pulls you closer and it’s like another piece of him has fallen into place, your body slotting just right against his side, like you were made for each other. One to match the other, a balance to end all imbalances.

A complete set.

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The knock on your door makes you jump, shuddering beneath your fleece blanket.

You rub your eyes and stand to your feet, leaving the blanket wrapped around your shoulders. It’s late, so you imagine it’s most likely just a package delivery.

You’re beyond surprised to see a bleeding Izuku Midoriya slumped forward, using his forearm to hold himself steady in your doorway. You gasp, your blanket dropping away from your shoulders to pool at your feet, launching yourself forward to catch him before he can topple to the ground.

“Izuku,” you gasp, tucking yourself beneath him so he can use you for support.

He laughs, but it turns into a wheezing string of coughs. You help him hobble through the threshold towards the kitchen, sitting him down close to the sink so you can clean him up. Tilting his head back, you look into his eyes and pray that they dilate. When his pupils shrink, you let loose a breath held captive in your lungs.

It’s hard not to think about the reality that this will add another scar to his tally. His whole body seems like a counter, really, with strikes and slashes marring his skin, turning it pink and keeping track of every battle.

Midoriya reaches up to cradle your face in his palm, fingertips brushing over the smooth skin of your cheeks, directly contrasted with his own rough complexion, “I needed to see you.”

“No,” you shake your head and squat down in front of him, tears stinging the backs of your eyes as you try to take in every part of him that’s bleeding, “you need to see a doctor!”

Before you can protest him any further, Izuku leans forward to crush your mouth beneath his own. He whimpers in pain as he kisses you, but it doesn’t stop him. In fact, it almost stirs him forward, spurring him to cup your face with his hands as tears track down to cut through the crimson lines on his cheeks.

Izuku Midoriya is nothing short of an enigma. Here he is, bruised and bleeding, but he wrought his way to find you despite all of the pain. You wish you could burden some of it on his behalf, taking up the mantle of his own personal Atlas, meant to shoulder the weight of his existence so he can catch a quick breath.

His forehead touches yours as he pulls away, a sobbing gasp parting his mouth, “I’ll be fine. I just need you.”

You brush his hair away from his eyes, forcing him to look at you with the tender turn of your wrist. His right eye is bruised and swelling itself shut, blood caked from his brow to his jaw, pouring steadily from the wound he’s got split open on his head.

The only thought running through your mind, creating a path of worn ground against your cerebrum, is that this will be but another one to add to the collection; another piece of art to hang in his mausoleum. Judging by the amount of blood caked in his hair and brow, and the depth of the wound, it will surely leave a tattered scar of flesh behind.

An errant thought crosses your mind then – will he have such painful memories of this specific wound? Or will he recall this one to be the scar that brought him back to you?

You can’t help it when your lower lip trembles. You can never be surprised at the story of this scar’s origin – it will be engrained in your mind forever. Despite your adoration for the hero, you share in his pain, your own body wincing as a new trickle of crimson stains his temple. You tense your jaw, the muscles in your neck quivering under the strain of your ministrations. Even if he remembers this night fondly, you know that every time you glance at the healed section of his body, you’ll remember his tears, his debilitating pain.

“I’m calling Toshinori,” you grit your teeth, steeling your will, “you shouldn’t be here.”

“I let him know I was coming.” Izuku inhales in short bursts; it’s all his chest can handle before splintering pain streaks through his lungs like lightning. He winces as he shifts, one hand drifting to your hip. He dips his thumb beneath the fabric of your top, a shirt he recognizes as his own based on the size of it as it fully engulfs your figure. His logo is on the center, bright green text in stark contrast to the dark grey fabric.

A wave of pride swells within him, starting at the base of his back and building upward like effervescent champagne bubbles floating to the surface. He opens his mouth to set them free in the form of smothering kisses, his lips traveling to every available expanse of your skin he can find.

Deku is a force of nature, a whirlwind you cannot reckon with, so instead you succumb to him.

You allow him to swallow you whole for the first time, diving deeper into the eye of his storm until he is swirling around you and suffocating you. But you do not care. If this is how you have to go, with his tongue holding you hostage, hands like anchors on your hips, dragging you deeper until all you know is the darkness, then you are fine with that.

You’d gladly drown as long as he was the one holding you down.

But Izuku Midoriya is not the dark. He is anything but.

So, instead of burning your breath with his own oxygen, he fills you to the brim with light. He is a sunbeam incarnate, pushing through every crack in your bones to cement them with his kindness. His fingers, while biting into your hips, send a singing sensation up into your skin until you can’t help but smile into his kiss. They are rough with tattered flesh, scars of the past and present plaguing his body like a parasite, eating away at his skin until no longer has anything left to give.

Deku doesn’t wince when you sink down on top of him, settling your body against his thighs. Instead he wraps his arms around you to give you some kind of solace, palms searching your shoulders for the perfect place to rest. His fingers are warm beneath your shirt as his fingers seek out the curve of your spine.

The pure thickness of his body is not lost on you, not now. Your hands travel over his shoulders, his muscles rippling beneath the pads of your fingers. You shiver when he holds you closer, your chest flush with his, the tactile pleasure from his rough skin making your toes curl.

His shoulders are riddled with tiny, slicing scars, a light pink color in contrast to his standard tanned skin. You look for scar after scar, appreciating the damaged parts of him just as much as the smooth ones. You moan when both of his hands squeeze your waist, the pure size of him a gentle reminder as his palms engulf your ribs, his knuckles counting the bones as he runs his hands up and down.

“I thought I lost you,” he murmurs as he disconnects his mouth from yours, tears settled in his irises, making them glassy, “the villain I-I fought, th-they had a canceling quirk, and they almost got me.”

You know that got me is the safer, calmer equivalent of killed me. His kindness oozes like honey into every facet of him, filling the cracks like veins of marble. Your heart squeezes within your chest at the reality that he could have been lost to you, and suddenly the wounds on his body matter a little less.

No, now it is all about having him here, dense and hot beneath your body. Your fingertips tremble at the thought of him being a ghost of the past, something you once had a hold of, but now is nothing but a memory. You feel hot tears drip over your lashes, clumping up at the base of your eyelids as they flow freely. You sniffle, your hands finding the back of his head to cradle tenderly.

Izuku’s voice is soft, his cheeks gleaming red as he admits his next words, “You were all I could think about.”

Your voice breaks with a sob and you hold him tight around the neck, surging forward to kiss him soundly on the mouth. Izuku wraps his arms around your whole body, holding you snugly as he tilts his head for a better angle. You relish in the warmth he provides, his solid presence giving you comfort as you try to drink him in, pushing aside all the thoughts of potentially never having him like this again.

It’s not even about the way your stomach turns as his tongue licks at the seam of your lips, or how hot your body grows as he engulfs you like a flame. No, it is something beautiful and pristine, something that curls around your spine and bolsters it, holding you upright with confidence. Izuku has given you something you haven’t had in so long that you almost can’t put a name to it.

Peace.

There is an undeniable calm that washes over you whenever he is around, whether it be by distance or severe closeness. He suffocates you in his light no matter how far away he is; purely by knowing that he is alive, your heart quiets in your chest. You feel safer as you walk down the streets, the very notion that he will always be there, watching from wherever he may be, builds your bones stronger so you can walk with confidence.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you,” you gasp, coming up for air. You don’t go far, your nose nudging over his cheek as you pant quickly, your chest heaving. “I-I can’t do this without you.”

“Hey,” Deku’s voice is calm, his palms reaching up the back of your shoulders to cover you entirely in his heat. All you want is to coat yourself in him from top to bottom, let him claim you however he needs to, so you never have to let this go. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You open your eyes as he nudges his nose over the bow of your lips, kissing your chin tenderly. Your pupils dilate as you take in the smattering of dark freckles over the bridge of his nose and cheeks, painting his skin erratically so that you know he must be a work of art, a gift from the gods down to mankind. He is too perfect to be anything else.

Your forehead drops as you let out a shaky breath, steadying yourself with your grip on his shoulders. “I-I know, I just…”

Izuku repositions his hands so they’re beneath your top, the warm pads of his fingertips leaving a blazing trail of fire behind as he maps out the curves of your body. You watch as his ripped costume falls in tattered shreds on his shoulders, giving way to the pretty expanse of skin usually hidden beneath it.

The sight of his flayed skin, coated in scars and painted with beauty marks, makes your spine rattle within your frame. Your fingers drift to the bared parts of his body on instinct, a primal need settling in the pit of your stomach, and you trace over the white, lightning-like scars. Your thumb brushes over his collarbone, as if you could sweep away his freckles to leave behind unmarked skin.

Your mind wanders, thoughts branching out to wonder if there even is a patch of his skin that is pure, unmarred by any form of markings.

Izuku must follow your train of thought, because he peels his hands away from your body to tug his costume at the waist, unbuckling his belt and letting it fall to the floor before he pulls his shirt over his head, or what remains of it. The tattered fabric is in a bloody, dirty heap on the floor, but you barely have the wherewithal to notice when he is bared in front of you.

A gasp parts your mouth when you take in his nude torso. He is a plethora of contours and shadows, sinew holding his muscles together in a taut fashion. Your hands are hovering in front of his chest, darkened nipples piqued under the cool air blowing from the vent above. You have to force yourself to swallow, pent-up tension making your throat bob.

“See?” Izuku’s voice is hoarse, as if he’s holding himself back from tears, “I’m right here.”

Your eyes try to find a part of him that isn’t doused in speckles, the darkened patches of skin making him look even tanner. He has them sprinkled all over his body, clumps of them gathering together like tiny nebulas. Your gaze slowly drags down from his collarbones to his abdomen, the freckled dots like destinations on a treasure map, leading you to one central location.

When you make eye contact with the trail of dark hair that starts at his navel, thin and then growing thicker, you feel your stomach turn over. You lick your drying lips, a heat beginning to build up in your core. You would clench your thighs together, but the way you’re straddling him currently makes that impossible. Instead, you roll your hips forward so you can scoot further up his lap.

It’s like you don’t believe what you see in front of you – that he’s truly here, open and bare in front of you, vulnerable in every sense of the word. The wound on his head has stopped bleeding, but that doesn’t mean that he’s okay.

“Touch me.”

You tilt your head, confused by his forward command. Your cheeks burn bright with a blush and he chuckles at the sight of you so flustered. Midoriya takes you by the hands, guiding your touch to his chest first.

The tips of your fingers blaze when they find a ragged scar that stretches across the entirety of his pectoral, “I have so many of these ugly things.”

“How many?” you find yourself asking, the filter hard to find when he has you about ready to come undone like this. You feel yourself go lightheaded, hazy at the feel of his rough skin, his heart beating irregularly beneath your touch.

His voice is heavy when he answers, “I lost count.”

Your eyes snap upward to find the usual playful green color of his irises has faded to a pale jade shade, “Izu, hey-”

Deku swallows an emotional lump in his throat, eyelids fluttering at the pain of it before he inhales a full breath. His chest brushes up against yours and you have to withhold the whine that desperately wants to slip from your lips.

“I don’t understand why people are so fascinated with them,” his tone is teetering on the wrong side of angry, lips curled in a downward snarl. He glances south at the rest of his body, pale scars in stark contrast to the rest of his tanned body. “They’re just reminders of my failure.”

You are forceful when you pull his jaw upward, yanking him to face you before you kiss him harshly. Your intense kiss makes him gasp, his hips rolling up into you despite the pain he’s in. Your palms are bruising on his cheeks, but you don’t care because at least he’s kissing you. Deku’s fingertips finally make their way to your hips where he seeks purchase against your ribcage. His digits are tantalizing as he roams the expanse of your midsection.

“You’re my hero,” your voice is breathless and broken when you release him for oxygen. “Don’t you ever call yourself a failure again.”

Izuku’s throat bobs as he basks in your ferocity – eyes ablaze and fingertips harsh as you hold him in place. He finds himself nodding without really knowing what you’ve said, but he supposes that’s just the effect you have on him. You have taken root in his soul, the galaxy in your eyes blacking out everything else in his mind, allowing him not even a moment to let self-doubt creep in and steal away his faith.

After all, in his eyes, you are his whole world, shattered stars and all.

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“You picked dinner, so I get to pick the movie,” you wrap your arms around his waist from behind, your palms splayed against his chest as you press kisses into his shoulder blades.

You’re obsessed with his back, like some little secret you don’t get to see very often. Tonight the two of you were doing yoga before you ate dinner, so he’s currently clad in only a pair of compression pants that reach his mid-calf, leaving his entire upper body for you to appreciate with your gaze and explorative touches.

You nose over the curve of his spine, kisses open-mouthed as he washes the dishes in the sink. You hear his breath hitch and you wonder if now is a good time to start experimenting with how far you can go. Your eyes roam to the base of his spine, the two small dimples at the start of the swell of his ass making your mouth salivate. You relinquish one hand from his chest to dip your thumb into the cavity his muscles have created, brushing against a cluster of freckles.

It has been some time since you’ve seen him with his shirt off, and many times since then, but you’ve never been able to discover what’s below his belt. Your mind wanders as you suppress the itch in the base of your fingerprints, like the very code of you is designed to strip him down to nothing. You want to know how far his freckles truly go.

In your mind, you believe that he is sprinkled with stardust, paler patches of freckles sporadically placed along his body. He is a canvas, fresh and ready for the constellations to burn into his flesh. You want to swirl your hands over the galaxies imprinted upon him by the gods themselves; as if he were made of marble, ready to carve and curate however they may please.

You take a leap of faith when you dip your fingertips beneath the tight waistband of his joggers. The aborted stutter of his hips combined with the sharp intake of breath from his throat tells you all you need to know.

From here you can see clusters of freckles on the globes of his ass, concentrated mostly near the top, where sunlight can penetrate when he’s not in his hero suit. You have to catch yourself before you drip drool onto his curved backside.

The hand on his chest roams until you find his pebbled nipple, the crevices of your palm washing over the flesh until you hear a muted moan shake his throat. You lean forward, forehead tucked between the cartilage of his shoulder blades so you can feel the heat radiating from him even closer now.

“Can I-”

“Please.”

You’ve never heard him beg before, at least not like this.

It has been some time since your first date, since the first kiss, since the first confession. Your hands start to sweat at the thought of touching his salacious side, pricking with anticipation as you slowly make your way around his hip towards the bulge in his pants. Your tongue stills within your throat as you brush your thumb against the thick tufts of dark green hair at the base of his stomach beneath his navel.

His body is like a roadmap leading you to one desolate place, his skin singing with heat as you grow closer. You can almost make out a whine that he’s clamped his teeth down on to suppress, but that does nothing to deter you from finding a dozen other ways to elicit an infinite number of those same prurient sounds from his lungs.

When the outside of your palm brushes against the throbbing thickness held tight within his spandex, you feel your whole-body tense. Izuku gulps audibly and you have to hold in something that is a mix of a gasp and a giggle.

You reach your free hand down from his chest to pull at the band of his pants, freeing his cock from the confines of the fabric. You can hear the bob of it against his stomach and you let out a heated breath that spills down over his spine. He shivers and you think that maybe you have him just as captivated as he usually has you.

The thought is thrilling. It bolsters your confidence and allows you the audacity to lean forward and slowly trail your fingers along the base of his cock, tickling him in the most tentative way possible. He grits his teeth and you can feel his buttocks clench in front of you as he tries his hardest not to buck forward and ruin your moment.

You kiss the smattering of freckles near the top of his right shoulder, lavishing the area with your tongue as you trail your thumb up the base of his cock until you reach the tip. You can feel the bead of pre-come beneath the print of your finger and you collect it with the ridges of your digit before dragging it downward to coat him before you begin to pump your hand.

He is thick in your hand, unforgivingly hard as his cock pulses within your grasp. You can tell that it’s taking all of his restraint not to throw his head back and release obscene sounds from his throat, like his desire is caged within his chest, begging to be let out with each erratic heartbeat.

Your tongue licks over his shoulders and you know that he must be imagining what your mouth would feel like wrapped around his cock based on the mewling whimpers that leave his tongue. You can hear him panting, but you want to see him, desperate and whining, so you tug on his waistline with your free palm.

It takes him a moment, his eyes glistening with bliss and his tongue lolled out of his mouth, but you manage to get him turned so he’s facing you. Your eyes drag slowly down the entire expanse of his torso, catching on his pert nipples, bright and pink as they shrink beneath the stinging touch of your fingertips. You catch onto the constellations of freckles drifting along his torso – if you look hard enough, you swear that they move. Your eyes cross when you look too closely, so instead you allow your attention to drop lower.

Izuku’s mouth is wide open as your eyes fall to the vee of his hips, the paler freckles placed there making you smile. You lower yourself to your knees, semi-uncomfortable thanks to the tile of the kitchen, but you don’t care. Right now, your focus is singled in on one thing and one thing alone.

You lick your lips and the closeness of your tongue to his cock makes Izuku blush in expectancy. There is a little line of drool seeping from the corner of his mouth if you blink your eyes free of lust. You pump him another time in your hand, collecting the new wash of pre from his tip to lubricate his cock. As you do so, your eyes drift to the base of him where his green pubic hair collects in a dark tuft. You can’t decide which part of him to focus on because it’s all too much.

Somehow, he has a scar that runs from the innermost part of his thigh upward, just beneath his balls. You wince at the thought of what had to have caused that, and how much it hurt. You allow one hand to drift over the scar as your eyes come into contact with the patch of freckles hidden beneath the trail of dark, coarse hair that is usually hidden by his clothing.

As you pump your hand down to the base of him, you use your thumb to brush some of the hair away, curious as to how dark the freckles are there. Izuku is completely maddened by your touch, fallen under the enchantment of your hands. He doesn’t even mind that you’ve taken a break from dragging your soft hand around his dick, his mind already blitzed from the short burst of ministrations you have already administered.

You hum as you kiss along the taut skin of his lower abdomen, dragging your lips and tongue towards the thick trail of hair that leads you to his cock. It’s almost like the freckled areas taste different, although you’ve probably made all of that up in your mind. And yet, you don’t mind that it’s more of a fantasy instead of a reality, relishing in the sweetness, nonetheless.

“Fuck,” you hear from above you, one of his hands hung in midair, unsure of whether to grab you or the counter. The other palm grips into his hair and the scalp, tugging to keep himself grounded so he does not float away at the gentle caress of your tongue against his skin.

The bow of your lips purses as you kiss upward to the head of his cock, bright red and teeming with pre-come. The silvery, pearlescent bud of arousal makes your mouth water and you find that you can’t help yourself as you encircle your lips around the tip of him.

Izuku is immediately broken from whatever resilience he was able to gather, his hips bucking forward as he slams both hands into the counter. Little broken bits of marble fall into your hair but you don’t care, instead indulging yourself in watching his reaction to your movements. Midoriya’s pupils are blown wide, completely taken over his usually wide irises. The green bleeds black, lust like a cloud misting in his line of sight.

As his upper body tenses, you’re able to see every contour of muscle, every cord of sinew, and you can’t help it when drool dribbles down your chin onto the tile floor. You moan against the head of his cock, taking another inch of him in as you slide forward to get more comfortable. The sound of his nails creaking against the countertop makes your cunt flutter from within the cotton of your panties, clenching around nothing as you imagine the thickness of him in your mouth against your glutinous walls, squeezing him for all the come he can produce.

You trail one hand around the curling scars on his thigh, thumbprint finding the ridges of the expansive scar, the raised skin making your heart ache for a moment before you refocus on his dick. Your eyes almost cross as you try to focus on the freckles now hidden once more by the thick green hair at the bottom of his belly.

As you retreat backward, your line of sight continues down the length of his cock to realize that he has a littering of freckles of varying shapes, sizes, and colors, scattered all along the entire shaft of his dick, and even a few on the tip. You can’t help it when you smile, licking at them as if they could be removed if you lapped at the skin harshly enough.

It is the small things such as this that make your time with Izuku Midoriya so enjoyable. You are learning something about him every day, something even more interesting and exciting than the last.

Before you can slip your lips further down his length, his hand reaches up to clean the debris from your hair, a broken apology parting his lips momentarily. You look up at him, the tenderness in his touch making your heart go soft.

“H-Holy,” his hips buck forward when you blink up at him, the base of his throat bobbing as he curses, “shit.”

As you pull away from his cock, Izuku’s chest shudders as he tries to regulate his breathing. He shifts his feet on the tile beneath you trying to keep himself from pushing up onto the balls of his toes so he can keep some semblance of control as you pleasure him.

Izuku turns away from you and you whine, your tongue licking the underside of his cockhead before you ask, “Why won’t you look at me?”

He can barely force the words out of his throat as he gazes down at you briefly, the sounds coming forth berated and bedraggled, as if he’d dragged barbed wire across the syllables, “I can’t, damn it. I-I’m gonna-”

You take advantage of the line of sight he has on you, opening your mouth wide and taking him in one fell sucking motion.

Midoriya chokes on his own drool, a little silvery string of it falling in midair until it creates a droplet on the crown of your head. He can’t even find the focus to apologize, his knuckles white as he grips the countertop to keep himself sane.

The word he squeaks out next makes you smile, your teeth grazing his dick: “-come.”

You take it as a challenge, gripping his thighs with your nails, digging crescent moons into his pretty tan skin, adding the shapes to his star-like freckled skin, creating a whole galaxy with a simple bruising touch. Izuku can’t help it as his hips stutter forward, the tip of his cock bucking into the back of your mouth to make you gag.

He’s not sure how you do it, with his cock jammed all the way into the back of your throat, but somehow you have the wherewithal to cup his balls in one hand as the other uses his leg like an anchor to stay hovering on your toes. You never cease to amaze him, even now as you’re on your knees and worshipping his cock like your life might depend on it.

“Touch me,” you whimper as you come up for air, “if you won’t look at me, touch me, please.”

Izuku licks his lips and barely has it in him to pull his hand from the counter, but somehow, he manages it. His hand threads through your locks, fingertips buzzing with a mixture of adrenaline and desire. The lust has his whole being singing with anticipation as you bring him to the precipice of arousal. He knows that he won’t last much longer, especially not with you drooling around his cock and bobbing your head in perfect rhythm. And now that he can feel you beneath his fingers, he’s not sure if he’ll even be able to speak coherently when this is all over with.

His hands are exploratory in your hair, dipping in and out of your tresses like waves, finding your scalp to scratch lightly, eliciting a husky moan from your throat. The vibrations of your sounds make his cock pulse, twitching against your tongue as you suck him deeper. Izuku isn’t sure how there is anymore of your throat for him to fuck, but when you hollow out your cheeks, he slides further in, and the pleasure starts to coil around the base of his spine as he’s worked towards his high.

“Baby, I-I’m close,” Izuku manages to blurt when he’s coherent enough, your tongue sweeping down the vein on the underside of his dick. He gasps for breath, his head hanging forward, so his dark curls sweep over his lashes to hide his pretty orbs from you. He grunts, as he ruts up into you, “Real close, hell.”

You take it as a challenge, stiffening your posture so you can force your head up and down, spit dribbling from your mouth and onto your pants, but you don’t care. The way his hands grip into your scalp and the quivering of his thighs as he holds off his own release are but a war cry for you, begging your body to go further, to force that release from within his body.

“Come for me, Izu,” you whimper against his cock, the words muffled by the thick skin of him. You try your best to pout, looking innocent with eyes blown wide, “Please, I wanna taste you. So bad.”

His jaw falls slack, and you know that he’s close, his tip is practically rock hard against your teeth. You hollow out your cheeks and moan as you slowly suck him as hard as you can manage with your jaw starting to ache from the stretch of him. Your pussy clamps around nothing, begging for his girth within your walls.

A few heaving breaths stretch his chest, the muscles of his pectorals rippling in strain as he tries to hold himself back, to respectfully come undone instead of sputtering out like a teenager. You nod with his cock still in your mouth, your tongue padding over the sensitive underside. A wuthering whimper breaks within his throat and you feel his thighs clench one final time before he’s coming apart between your cheeks.

You try to breathe through your nose, his cock buried all the way in your mouth so his come hits in spurts against the back of your throat. You use your hands dug into the plush flesh of his ass to steady yourself, his body uncaring to the pain as long as he’s bucking up into your mouth. His hand in your hair goes tight before falling slack, gentle fingertips wafting through your tresses aimlessly.

You tilt your head back as he begins to soften within your lips, trying to keep his come from dribbling out the corners of your mouth. You catch most of it, the slightly sweet taste of it helping it to go down smoother. You suck him one more time, trying to pull the rest of the arousal from his slit, and a high-pitched whine breaks through the calm of the air like shattering glass.

“S-Sorry,” he moans as his eyes screw shut, one of his palms latching onto the countertop again.

A content laugh turns your lips upward and you kiss the head of his cock before he helps you rise back to your feet. Before you’re upright again, he bolsters forward to kiss you square on the lips. His tongue delves between your teeth, mapping out the curves of your gums as he tastes his spend in each crevice of your mouth.

The moan that reverberates from his chest makes your toes curl, your hands curling to fists against his chest as he presses further into you, trying to be flush with your entire body. You can barely breath as he suffocates you lovingly, bringing stars into your vision as you squeeze your eyes shut. Your hands spread out over the plane of his chest, the tips of your fingers searching for his scars, the placement of them burnt into your mind like a map.

Deku pulls away with a panting string of apologies mixed with appreciation, his irises overtaking his pupils now that he’s come down from his high. His hands search your face and then your arms, taking in every inch of you as he kisses all over your face.

You giggle, wrapping your fingers around his neck to play with the sharp hair at the nape of his neck, the undercut style making his locks dense and coarse up to his ears where the straight line runs.

“What movie do you want to watch?” you ask breathlessly, scrunching your nose as he kisses the tip of it.

Izuku is winded when he nudges his nose against yours, a laugh on the tip of his tongue, “I don’t fucking care.”

You roll your lips together, pushing yourself up on your toes to kiss his mouth chastely, “We might have to do that more often if I’m going to get whatever I want each time.”

The thought of you going down on him makes his heart stutter within the cage of his ribs, stars spread out and blinding against the backs of his lids. He can already imagine the sight of you on your knees, your lips around him as you moan and writhe while he holds your hair tight within his fist…

“Earth to Izuku?” you pat his cheek playfully. “You with us?”

His voice is stuttered as he answers you, a blissful glassiness still coating his irises, “Y-Yeah, I’m right here. Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

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“C’mon, Princess, you can take it, I know you can,” he murmurs into midair, voice stern but breathy, sending a shiver down your spine.

You lick at the head of his cock, engorged and bright red, beads of pre-come bubbling out of his slit, awaiting you to catch them with your tongue. You lap over the taut, pinkened skin, eyes fluttering closed at the taste of him – a fine combination of salty and sweet. You can’t help the draw of your attention to the tanned splotches covering him like stardust, mapping out what would seem to be a different set of constellations every time you look too long.

Izuku’s hand is woven into your hair carefully, so he does not pinch your scalp, but he can still hold onto the makeshift ponytail he’s created with his fingers bunched around your tresses. You whimper, eyes torn from his freckled skin, as he guides your mouth closer to his cock, the head of him brushing against your closed lips.

His voice is thick with restraint, his throat bobbing at the sight of your pretty, jeweled irises looking between him and his cock, wondering how you’re going to take the thick of him between your plush little lips. Your eyes are almost crossed as you try to count his freckles, as if you could pay that close of attention when he’s got you on your knees.

“Gonna be a good girl for me, Angel?” Deku is patronizingly kind as he brushes his knuckles over the curve of your jaw. Your eyes zero in on the scarred stripes along his palm and forearm, your fingertips reaching up to slowly drag across the pale lines that tell a story you’ve heard a dozen times. Izuku makes an audible noise of consideration at your marveling, “You were just beggin’ me for my cock, and now you won’t even open your mouth for me?”

He sounds like he’s pouting, lower lip jutted out just enough for it to look convincing. You swallow your inhibitions, throat bobbing when he brushes his cock along the hollows of your cheeks, the head of him smearing what remains of his pre onto your skin. He chuckles as you gasp, your jaw hung open just enough for him to rut up into your mouth.

You gag around him, lurching forward as tears coat your lashes. You whimper, looking up to him like he might save you from what’s to come. But no, you asked for this. You begged him to let you taste his cock, to have him spill his fullest load onto your tongue and force you to swallow.

“Such a pretty girl,” his words turn to a moan as you take him to the base, forcing yourself to breathe evenly so you won’t gag around him again. His hand in your hair tightens and you take a deep breath, the short, stubbled pubic hairs surrounding his cock doing little to hide the freckles on his smooth skin.

You’re not sure why you love them so much – the freckles.

They are such a distraction that you don’t notice Izuku yanking you by the ponytail until you come off his cock with a loud pop. You whine, keening forward to try and lick at his tip, “I-Izu-please.”

“Uh uh,” he cinches his hand around your hair even tighter, tugging your skin backward until it burns. A smirk lilts his lips, “What’s my name, baby girl?”

Your eyes go wide, pupils swallowing your irises whole. Deku almost misses the color, if it not for the fucked out look that takes their place, telling him exactly what he’s done to you. He bites down on his lower lip, half-hooded lids considering you, “You’re already a mess for me, aren’t you baby? I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“Your cock,” you whine, squinting your eyes so you don’t have to feel his authoritative penetrating your very being. Your thighs tense, pussy clamping down around nothing but thin air, wet with arousal and begging to be full of him. Before Izuku can tell you to correct yourself with a simple syllable, you repeat yourself, “Your cock, Daddy.”

A satisfied expression smooths his features, the red of his cheeks doing little to hide the smattering of freckles to match those littered across his cock and thighs. You brush your nose against his navel, kissing the gentle swell of muscle beneath it. Izuku licks his lips, hips rolling forward so his cock brushes over the length of your throat.

“That’s’a good girl.” Deku purses his lips as you kiss down his shaft, your tongue lapping over every inch of him. Your eyes are level with his pubic bone, searching for the tanned droplets of sunshine incarnate on his skin, hidden beneath dark tufts of jade hair curled around the base of his cock.

Before you take him between your lips, you lick a stripe from the underside of his shaft up to his navel. You can’t help yourself as the dark smattering of freckles call out to you, a reminder that even though he is tainted by the war of the world, you still have these small victories to come back to. You worship his taut skin with your lips and tongue, the muscle parting your mouth to lick at his body.

Izuku’s fingers weave into the hair at the base of your head, eyes watching you closely as you pay special attention to the various patches of densely packed freckles. You nose over his hipbone, breathing slowly, the wash of warmth prickling his skin and forcing him up on his toes as he reacts to it.

There is a large part of him that wants you to stop. Not because he’s selfish enough to force you to pay attention to the throbbing heat between his legs, but rather because your praise is something that makes him feel even more unworthy. He is self-conscious of his body, both the discolored spots that he’s never able to be rid of in tandem with the ragged rips in his flesh that you seem to love so much. He has never understood your fascination with his body, but you are relentless with your affections.

It comes in many forms. At times it is the way you run your fingertips over his shoulders when you’re laying together, and other times it is your mouth finding his knuckles when you think he’s asleep. You are unashamed to lavish his body with unending passion, and even the smallest of deformities that he believes are his secret, you manage to find.

You loll your tongue out to let the collected spit pool over his length, sucking at the head when you get to it. Deku rubs his thumb against your neck, fingertips searching your hair for purchase. He’s taken aback when you hollow out your cheeks, sucking him deep into the heat of your mouth. His eyes go wide, but he’s thankful you can’t see with the way his head is thrown back.

“Fuck, baby,” his hand twitches against your scalp, “fuck, this mouth.”

He starts rolling his hips forward, pumping himself in and out of your mouth like he might your pussy. You feel drool seeping out of the corners of your lips but you don’t dare break away, because that would bring forth a punishment, and your cunt is already sopping wet with the anticipation of his cock buried deep within you. Deku grunts, his chest vibrating with the sound, and he holds you still with the hand against your head.

You reach up to find his free palm, lacing your fingers together at the knuckle, using him as some sort of an anchor to reality as the subservient headspace begins to take over. It washes through you like a balm, a warm sensation that feels like home. Your eyelids fall over your irises, hiding your expression from him, but he can tell the way you feel by your ministrations against his hand and on his cock. You are desperate for him, one hand clutching his thigh until your nails dig in and leave tiny crescent moon prints behind.

You like to think of his freckles as stars, your marks making him more like the night sky with each grip. You moan as you hold yourself at the base of him, tongue lapping around his length from within your mouth. Your thumb finds a familiar scar on the back of his hand, knuckles marred from battle and bravery.

It’s times like these that you want to cry for him, for what his body has endured. It’s the reason you want to worship every inch of him, to give him what he deserves because god knows the world will never give him back what he’s due. So here you sit, perched in front of him like a little dove, eyes blown to hell and your metaphorical wings spread wide as you take him for all he’s worth.

Izuku can’t take it any longer – the tenderness of your touch mixed with the obedient look in your eyes. It’s all too much, making his head spin at your sincerity.

“C’mere,” he whispers, tugging you by the throat, gently but firmly.

And you follow him, like you would follow him anywhere.

You step forward dumbly, blindly going wherever he tells you. He guides you to the bed, turning you over so your face is pressed into the coolness of the sheets, your bright red cheeks thankful for the change in temperature. You angle your ass upward perfect, round globes ripe for his hands to lay into.

“Such a sloppy little pussy, baby,” he murmurs against the skin of your lower back as he kisses down your spine. His middle finger runs up and down the length of your slit, collecting the silvery strands against his digit, “All this just for me?”

“All for you, Daddy, all for you, promise,” you’re whimpering out, cunt desperately clenched as you try to trap his finger in your heat. “Please, I want you so bad, need your cock, Daddy.”

Izuku pushes his finger into your core, curling it up towards that special spot that it seems only he can find. His finger is thick, knuckle curved in just the right way that it drags along your walls salaciously, eliciting a loud, careening moan from your mouth. You muffle your sounds into the mattress, but Midoriya is having none of that.

He yanks you by the throat, fingers digging deep into your skin until you’re sure that you’ll have bruises, “Nah uh, little one. I want to hear you scream for me.”

Midoriya pumps his finger into you mercilessly, your arousal coating him down to the palm, making your thighs slick. You whimper, your lewd sounds echoing off the walls. You can feel the tip of his cock against your ass, throbbing with heat, and there’s nothing you can do to stop yourself from imagining it in place of his fingers.

“I know you can be louder, slut,” Deku pinches your neck tighter in his grip, “I want the neighbors to know my name when we’re through.”

You try to protest but it’s cut short when his finger rams into you, two knuckles deep, a sharp cry splitting your throat wide open. The sound morphs into a whimper, tears stinging in the corners of your eyes.

Deku leans forward to kiss between your shoulder blades, his voice hoarse with want when he speaks, “That’s my girl. Do it again.”

He relinquishes your throat to start slapping your ass, his eyes unable to fall away from your pretty skin marked red from his ministrations. You grit your teeth together so you can better withstand the pain, giving yourself something else to focus on besides his unrelenting spankings.

“Daddy, harder,” you whine, your ass stinging but not so much that you can’t follow through on your plea.

A dark chuckle reverberates throughout the room, Midoriya’s smirk from earlier returning. If you could see his eyes, you’d notice the way his pupils have completely overtaken his emerald orbs, giving way to the parts of him that want to make you hurt only so he can be the one to soothe you all better.

He indulges you, palm stretched wider so he can land harder smacks to your cheeks. Now he’s got two fingers in you, filling your cunt with his knuckles, the scars against them giving you friction that makes you see stars. He pumps you in time with his spankings, slow but merciless. Deku is careful not to go too far, no matter how difficult that might be with the lust that clouds his vision, painting his sight bright red.

“Good girl,” he rewards you by stopping, grabbing your plush ass in his fingertips, digging blunt nails into your skin so it stings even harsher.

You rut your hips back against his hand at the sudden jolt of pain, tears dripping from your eyelids to the mattress, staining the sheets a darker shade. You whimper, your mind unable to focus on any one stimulation – your ass, your cunt, or your throat.

“You think you’re ready for my cock?” he asks, although you know it to be rhetorical.

You’re nodding your head anyway, desperately begging inaudibly for him to stuff you full, your cunt suffocating around his cock as he pounds into you. Deku slowly drags his hand from your pussy, words dripping just like your core, “What was that, Princess? I couldn’t hear you.”

Now you’re foaming at the mouth to force syllables from between your teeth, blubbering around tears. You sniffle, frustrated with your own headspace and timid with the thought of punishment for not answering quick enough, “Y-Yes, Daddy. I-I’m ready.”

“Hey,” he runs his hand, searing from the spankings, up the length of your spine, fingertips mapping out each vertebra, “you still with me, baby?”

You turn to look over your shoulder when he brushes his thumb over the little blooming bruises on your neck, evidence of his fingers claiming you for his own, “Yeah, I-I’m right here.”

A smile tugs on his lips, his fingers finally pulled from your sopping heat to coat his cock in your slick. You whimper at the loss of contact, cunt fluttering around nothing as you beg for him to fill you up again, any way he chooses.

And he obliges you, bottoming out within the first stroke.

You can’t help it when a fresh set of saltine droplets track down your cheeks, your head thrown back in pleasure as he holds himself steady, his pelvis flush with your ass. It still burns, the stinging of skin-on-skin doing little to quell the ache from his spankings. You lick your lips to try and soothe yourself in some way, your throat already crackling from use.

Licking your lips, you gently move back against him, encouraging him, “Daddy, I want you to fuck me. Please, won’t you fuck me?”

Deku sounds like he’s trying to hold back some sort of salacious sound, a strangled noise caught in his throat like barbed wire. You look back at him, chin pressed against your collarbone. It’s the sight of you that does him in, that wants to claim you for every ounce of what you’ve got to give. He wants to mark your body until there is no color remaining but bright purple and blue and red, bruises and scrapes alike adorning your pretty body, letting the whole world know exactly who you belong to.

The thought of sinking his teeth into every available spot of skin that he can find makes his fingers curl tighter around the supple skin of your thighs until you’re crying out for him. You writhe beneath him as opens his eyes, baring even your soul with his stare. His body squirms as he withstands the desire to launch himself at you, feral and promising with his teeth finding your pristine body and marring it for his own selfish cause.

At least then your bodies would match in their markings.

You’d be his own little galaxy; he muses as his hands massage into your thighs to keep himself busy, so he doesn’t follow through on the yearnings rolling around in his mind. He can see you stood next to him, your body littered in affections – hickeys that are blown out all around your body, little nebulas and planets with their swirling colors of purple and blue; long lines of bright pink scratch marks that streak forward like shooting stars curling around your muscles; pierced tooth marks that scatter across your body like stars.

Even though he’s the Number One Pro Hero, Izuku has never felt so whole until he’s balls deep in your pussy, the tip of him tucked up against your cervix so much so that you swear you feel him in your spine. He takes one palm to gently brush over your stomach, the bulge of his cock making his pride swell almost as much as your belly. You are his whole world, whether or not you are just as bruised and battered as he is. He will bear the burden of the scars if it means he can have you like this forever.

“Take me so well, Princess,” he murmurs into the skin of your shoulders, leaning forward so his chest is pressed flush with your back.

He is hot, but not unbearably so. Almost in a way that reminds you he is still there, an anchor for your soul to latch onto in the darkness of the room, holding you firmly to tether you to this version of reality. You grasp the sheets in your hands, desperate to feel him but unable to from this position, so you settle for the thread count instead.

“Please, Daddy, I want to feel you,” you beg him again, whimpers bubbling up into your chest like champagne bubbles. The effervescent feeling is almost too much, too overwhelming, as it rushes to your head quickly. You have to close your eyes, so you do not get dizzy. You see stars as your lids come down over your pupils and the sight of them reminds you of Izuku’s body. So much so that you want to look up at him again, begging him with your words, “Want to touch you.”

Deku obliges you, slowly pumping his tremoring cock in and out of your heat, coating himself in your slick before twisting your body around so you can peer up at him through half-lidded eyes, “Look at this slutty, sloppy pussy. Such a pathetic little mess for me, aren’t’cha?”

“Yes, Daddy, all for you.” You nod, blinking repeatedly to try and keep your eyesight clear so you can make out his beautiful travesty of a body. Despite the absolute adoration held in your pretty orbs, Deku notices that it is not his face you seek out when you first are turned to look at him, instead your eyes drift to the bared parts of his body that he hates most.

It would seem that each time you find him this way, with your hands mapping out his torso underneath your touch, you find a new part of him, a new marking that you don’t remember being there before. Your breath shudders from your lungs and it feels like thunder erupts in your chest when you breathe, “Please, Daddy.”

You are pouting as you start to run your touch up his arms, starting at his wrists where his palms are pinning your hips into the bed. You swirl your thumbnail around the familiar scars of his hands, those old marks from his time at Yuuei, pushing himself to be the best young hero-in-training there ever was. You recall watching the Sports Festival in his first year, the fight with Todoroki Shouto like a burnt ember settled in the back of your mind. You see the fire and the ice, the shuddering arena shaking with the imminent power of the teenager prodigies.

A hum buzzes in your throat as your fingerprints map out the way to his elbows, finding lengthy scars that make you shudder. Your tongue lolls out against your lips as you wish you could patch his body up with your kiss. You know that he does not marvel at the sight of himself in the same way that you might; you put him up on this pedestal, scars and all, and yet he only sees them as a weakness.

The rough patch of tarnished skin on his right bicep has begun to lose its rigidity as time passes. It was one of his first scars and has been worn down with time. Your hand still finds it, though, even as your eyes are screwed shut and he is angled away from you. It’s like you have a map of his body burned into the back of your eyelids, memorized from all of the times that you’ve fallen apart beneath him or comforted him with your touch.

He is patronizing when he speaks next, eyes blown to hell at the sight of you so far gone for him when he hasn’t even brought you to your first orgasm. He can feel you spasming around him, cunt flexing to try and coax him closer to the edge. He is nowhere near the precipice, holding himself off for your sake, wanton to see you come undone around his cock.

Your pupils try their hardest to focus, begging to be drawn to his bedraggled skin, the stark contrast between tan skin and pale scars heightened even further in your blissed-out state. Your palm flattens against the marking on his bicep, the flayed spot even more expansive than your hand in its entirety. You gasp as he ruts up into you painfully quick, your fingers digging into the rugged flesh, nails biting against the ridges.

When he stills within you, it gives you a moment to slacken your hold and trace the corners of the scar, pretending that he is a patchwork quilt, an antique that you’ll never be able to get enough of. You take a breath and use your free hand to find his chest, a lightning-bolt shaped scar that runs from his collarbone down until it fizzles out into a small scratch near where his taut pectorals meet.

Midoriya trails his thumb downward to your clit, brushing the rough pad of his finger against your sensitive bud. You mewl into the mattress, face turning sideways into the pillow as you no longer are able to hold yourself upright. You beg him to fuck you harder, faster, with something more that you know he has not given you yet.

“What do you want, baby girl? Tell Daddy exactly what you want me to do to this pathetic, slutty little pussy.”

You gasp out words, but he cannot make sense of them as they’re lost in the fabric of the sheets. He slams into you once before dragging his cock outward, slowly skimming the tip between your folds, “Louder. Or else I’m spanking you again.”

He thinks for a moment, tilting his head to consider you as he looks down his nose at you, “And I’m flipping you back over.”

“N-No, please, wanna-” You are begging for breath, your inflamed lungs burning with the lack of oxygen, and you can’t make syllables coherent enough for him to understand. You whimper, squeezing your eyes closed as the brunt of his hand comes down hard over your ass repeatedly until you’re screaming.

Izuku is holding you by the ass, both hands dug deep into the plush skin, “Did I fucking stutter?”

You are able to behold one last gaze of his ethereal body, skin marked like the night sky, before he has you with your face dug into the pillow, his cock and hips jackhammering into you from behind. He does not give you but a moment to breath, the fabric of the pillow stuffing your throat as you try to inhale through your mouth. You cough and it causes your cunt to squeeze around his dick. Deku stutters forward, a choking sound echoing in the back of his throat.

“Holy hell,” he mutters, leaning forward to drape himself across your back, reaching around with his hands to pinch at your nipples. “So fuckin’ tight, little one. Such a good girl for me, yeah?”

You whimper out something that sounds like a response, so he takes the lead and starts rutting into you again, the obscene sound of his hips slapping against your ass echoing off of the walls. You can’t help the drool that spills from your tongue, wetting the sheets and sticking to your chin. You’re practically in tears as he abuses your pussy with his cock, it only growing as you feel the buildup of his power starting to swell from within him.

The air turns electric, but not nearly hot enough for you to know that he’s turned his quirk on. You force a glance over your shoulder, mewling out something that sounds like a pleading cry for him to turn you back so you can gaze up at him again.

“But I like taking you like this, Princess,” Izuku runs his thumbs over your ass, using the cusp of his power to strike small lightning bolts of seafoam color against the skin of your backside. You jolt at the pain, bucking your hips back into him and he moans, “There you go, baby.”

You whine, curling your toes against his hips from your position. He chuckles at the sign of desperation, sweat glistening down your back from exertion. His hips slam forward again, and you’re sure he’s bruised your cervix this time with how deep he has buried himself into you. There are ridges of scar tissue around his hip bones that you can feel even as he fucks into you from behind, the raised skin making your ass burn from where he has slapped you with the strength of his quirk.

“Daddy, I wanna,” you are panting like a puppy into the sheets, your pussy dripping onto the mattress beneath you. You huff out a breath and squeal when he splits your pussy open again with a particularly rough thrust forward, “Daddy!”

Deku pinches your backside with both hands, the biting touch of pain making your eyes water until tears are coating your lashes and staining the pillowcase, “What, huh? What more do you want, Princess?”

You know that Izuku is a sucker for your needs. If you whine hard enough, he’ll give you anything you want. So, with that in mind, you pout to give your demeanor an even more innocent aspect, “I-I wanna kiss you, p-please.”

As expected, he stills his hips from where he is bruising your ass with his scars and bones alike. You wonder for a moment if the imprint of his marred skin will leave an impression on you if you could carry around a little piece of him always.

However, this time when he yanks himself from you, a squelching sound echoes throughout the room in tandem with your mewling whine at the loss of heat, and he does not reenter you immediately. You are about to stutter out something akin to a protest, but you feel his fingertips dip into your sides and instead you let loose a yelp.

Deku takes you by the hips, easily yanking you upward and flipping you around so your back is flush with the mattress, the sweat on your spine making the sheets stick to you. Your eyes are wide, hands gripping into his marred biceps like claws sinking into his skin.

“What?” he is smirking as he nudges his nose against yours, the heat of his cock pressed into your folds but not penetrating just yet. “I like this angle better.”

He nips at your skin before pulling himself back, his hand groping your breast with purpose. He is tweaking your nipple under his touch while his other hand runs his cock against your slick heat, teasing you mercilessly. He watches the lips of your pussy tense when he gets close, wavering at the anticipation of his cock dredging into you with force.

“Plus,” Deku tilts his head, palm reaching up from your chest to grab your face between his fingers, “you never answered me.”

His thumb finds your clit again, dick teasing you by resting between your thighs, throbbing and dripping with a mixture of your arousal and his pre. His fingers are intense as they squeeze your cheeks together, lips ballooned out pertly. Deku chuckles at the sight of you, red in the face and begging him for more with the subtlety of your eyes.

Something twinges within him as he can’t keep your focus on his eyes, but rather on his body. He should feel pride swell in his chest at your adoration of his finely tuned body from years of hard work, but he knows that you are focused on the scars of his body and it gives him a sour taste in his mouth.

The thoughts in his mind flee from your pert chest and smooth stomach and instead he wonders what it is about his skin that you find so enticing. You run your fingertips over each ridged scar, finding the different colors of worn skin beneath the pads of your hands, showing them immense affection with just a gentle touch. His whole body shudders at the feel of you appreciating him with massaging motions and tracing, but he wants to ask you the questions he’s been begging silently for months, years even.

You are trying to form words, but the only thing coming from your mouth is spittle, drool seeping through the cracks of your lips until it coats your chin, cool beneath the air conditioning. Slowly your eyes roll forward so you can look into his darkened pupils, the middle of his irises resembling the darkest beauty marks that he has littered throughout his body. You smile at the sight of his intense irises seeking you out.

Midoriya laughs as the heel of his hand sops it up, smearing it back against your lips before cleaning his palm on the bed sheets. He leans forward, his cock sheathed fully within you as he grows closer to your face. Your palm reaches out to cup his jaw, the tips of your fingers finding the familiar pale lines of his skin to trace like it were a nervous tick.

“C’mon, now,” he kisses your nose, an innocent gesture in stark contrast to the intense motions he’s administering to your clit. “Tell Daddy.”

Your mouth splits wide open with the three words, a confession you know that he’s heard you utter before, but it does not come any less lascivious from your lips the more you beg, “One for All.”

He does not respond immediately, pupils dilated as he glances down at you. Your body squirms beneath his lack of movement, begging for some sort of friction on any part of you. The skin of your ass tingles as he presses you down firmer into the mattress, and you want to cry out but all you can blubber is those three words, again and again, as you plead for him to use his quirk on you.

“I’ll be good, I promise,” you swear to him, nodding your head enthusiastically, “I want it so bad, Daddy, please, I want you to-”

Your begging is cut short by a sizzling in the air, the familiar popping of his quirk activating making your skin pebble with goosebumps. Your mouth runs dry at the sight of his skin lighting up with those familiar red lines, power coursing through his veins and making his hair stand on end.

Reaching up, you run your fingers through it, nails scraping at his scalp so you can feel the heat of his energy sparking against your fingertips. You arch your back upward to try and catch some of the wayward sparks, the salacious stinging of your skin only furthering the copious amount of slick between your thighs.

Deku tilts his head up to look you in the eyes, pupils shrunken down so his sea green irises can shine bright, glowing in the darkness of your bedroom. The entire room is aglow with his power, the very strength and resilience that has allowed him to build up so much intensity a conduit for your pleasure. His cock pulses against your thighs and you find yourself clenching around him, your body begging for him to stay close, too frightened at what might happen if he were to pull away.

“This what you wanted?”

His voice is deeper now, a rumbling timbre in his chest that makes your toes curl. You are panting at the expectancy of it all, sweat trickling down your temples and spine from the sudden change in temperature. The heat rises the longer he uses his quirk, so much so that you wonder if you could burn from it. The thought excites you, lights up your eyes until you cannot hold it in anymore.

You lean forward to kiss him on the mouth, slotting your lips between his. Pops of electricity stem from his entire body, sparking in midair before fizzling out with a gentle wash of ash. Deku licks at the seam of your lips, pressing his tongue between your teeth to map out every bump of your gums.

“Please,” you whimper against his tongue, “fuck me, hero.”

You have no more than spoken the words when his cock slips into your heat, coated with your arousal as quickly as he can rut forward. He grits his teeth to keep his composure, body trying to crumble between the use of his quirk and the feel of your tight cunt. You can’t help but notice the way he stretches you out even more so now than before, and you know that it’s in part to the fact that his girth has widened even further after he’s summoned his dormant power.

Deku reaches forward to press his glowing palm to your chest, rolling the bud of your breast between his fingertips as he starts to fuck into you. Your body is racked with effort, practically a ragdoll beneath him, all weak joints and jellied bones. And yet he is as powerful as ever between his mouth and his hands and his dick, every part of him built for your utmost undoing.

Lines of electricity fly from his body, bright green lightning strikes making the air pop all around you. Your tongue lolls out of your mouth when the first one stings your skin, lighting up the room in a flash of intense voltage. Izuku pauses, his hips stilling, “Baby?”

“Again,” you are panting, eyes half-closed as you revel in the pleasure from the shockwave. “Please.”

Deku has to focus on the electric side-effect of his quirk, closing his eyes so he can control the power radiating from his body. He starts to roll his hips into you slowly, once he feels settled with the coursing energy brought on by One for All.

You peel your lids back so you can watch as energy rushes through his frame, lighting up his body in such a way that reminds you of the pure power that he keeps hidden from the world most of the day. The light coursing just beneath his skin only serves to further draw out the beauty of his marred skin. His freckles are stars painted against the bright red and green patterns of electricity surging around his body like lightning bolts. You reach up to brush your thumbs against the apples of his cheeks, sucking in a breath at the sheer heat he’s radiating.

The reality that you have the very universe under your touch does not go unnoticed by you. You marvel at the constellations splayed out before you on his skin, giving you a small drop of the milky way right here in your home. It is overwhelming, the thought of it all dizzying as the heat thuds against the back of your eyes. And despite the boulder that sits on your shoulders at the burden of having to hold up his universe, you feel a jolt of exhilaration with the responsibility settling in your belly. You will be the one who he can crumble into when he’s tired of shining out for everyone else.

After all, a star can only be born after a nebula collapses.

Deku’s arms are strong around you as he holds you in place, cock sliding deep into your heated core, collecting your slick and his pre for easier lubrication, the thick vein on the underside of his shaft making you shiver as it drags against your walls. His biceps flex with the use of his quirk and the effort of holding you in midair to keep you snapped up into him and your hands are drawn to his bulging muscles all over again.

There is no doubt that he could keep you safe from any harm – one flick of his fingers, and a villain is rendered to a helpless annoyance.

The notion makes you shiver, reaching your hands up towards his shoulders, caressing his arms to feel the protruding cords of muscle rippling under the stress of his quirk. Your fingerprints find scars, puckered pink and marring his pretty tan skin. Other people might think that these markings make him weak, proving that he is fallible, mortal. But you think that every line on his body is a visible reminder that he has given so much to those who might not ever give it back. He has been beaten, bruised, and broken, and yet here he still stands, tall and proud in the face of danger.

Izuku knows that look in your eyes – wonder, awe, respect.

It swells his pride even further, his chest taut as he puffs himself up at the sight of you with adoration like stars in your irises. His thrusts are more intense now, guiding you closer to the cusp of pleasure, begging your body with the pulse of his cock to come undone.

“I-Izu, please.” You’re pushing your face into the pillow now, the burning hot pool building up steam in your belly becoming too much. He doesn’t even care that you’ve slipped up, not when he’s got you wrapped around him like a coil, working you from the inside out to drag the licentious sounds from your throat.

“Please what, Princess?” His hand sparks electricity around your chest, your nipple now pert with the fizzle of electricity as it creeps beneath your skin and into your veins. “Look at me, c’mon.”

He smacks the side of your breast, watching as the round flesh ripples under his ministrations. He breathes heavy, his chest inflating rapidly as his hips drill mercilessly into you. You clamp around him, quietly pleading with him to stay buried to the hilt so you.

When you don’t respond by turning your head, Midoriya grabs you by the cheeks, dominantly forcing your vision back to him. He’s almost regretful when you whimper, a shining trail of drool spilling from your mouth to pool into the pillowcase. The damp spot draws his attention and his cock twitches within your pussy, brushing up into your cervix and making you cry out, throat so hoarse that your voice cracks.

Izuku blinks hard, pulling his eyes away from the dark circle on the pillow to focus on your face, slipping his thumb into your mouth to press down on the center of your tongue. He smirks, his free hand holding you by the ass now, digging blunt nails into your flesh to create a conduit for his electricity to flow straight to your backside.

You whimper around his digit, the sound muffled by his finger, “G-Gonna come, Daddy.”

“Are you now?” he asks proudly, tilting his head to consider you. “Did I say you could come?”

You’re shaking your head as he grabs your ass harder, bringing tears to your eyes at the immense pressure combined with the raw feeling from his spankings earlier. As if to challenge you, Deku starts jutting forward, driving your hips deeper into the mattress until you feel like you might fall through.

The use of his quirk makes him so much stronger, his corded body trying to restrain from using its full power on you, despite calling all of it forward. He grits his teeth down so hard that you think you hear his jaw creaking, but you hardly have time to notice before you’re having to ward off your own pleasure. Using every ounce of One for All, Izuku bruises your cervix with the engorged head of his cock, the quirk enlarging every part of him.

You beg him with blurred words and hazy vision, whining and keening, until he’s leaning down close to your face, his hand now moved from your mouth to your throat, wet fingers wrapped around your neck.

“Good girl,” he murmurs with his nose against your cheek, lips dancing along your jawline to place feather light kisses, much in contrast to the otherwise bludgeoning intensity of the rest of his ministrations. “Such a pretty little thing.”

Your eyes find his face as he leans back to look down at you, the freckles dusted over his cheeks stark beneath his bright red streaks symbolizing the use of his quirk. You reach upward to tuck your palm against his cheek, cupping the skin burning hot with the coursing energy of his power. Your thumb brushes over the roundest part of his face and his eyes shudder closed at the feeling.

He kisses your wrist, bottoming out into your cunt with a harsh thrust forward. Deku turns his gaze to you, electric irises finding your soul through way of your pupils, “You gonna come when I tell you?”

“Yes, yes,” you’re practically foaming at the mouth, little spit bubbles at the corners of your lips at the thought of coming around his cock, your arousal mixed with his seed as he fills your core with his come. “Please, Daddy, I wanna come for you.”

Izuku nods, kissing your wrist again before falling back on his thick legs to grab you by the thighs, lifting you up off the mattress. It is just a display of his strength, his biceps bulging with effort, but it does what he intends for it to do when he feels your dripping arousal slipping from your slit down to drip onto the mattress.

“Fuck, look at your sloppy little pussy, Princess,” Deku moans at the sight of your silvery slick pouring out of you. He runs his thumb against the curve of your backside to catch what he can, running it over your clit before sucking his digit between his teeth.

Using his damp fingertip, Izuku begins to work at your clit, his other hand still pinning your thighs up in midair. He licks his lips at the sight of you on the cusp of pleasure, your body begging to come undone with the way your pussy clamps around his cock.

“C’mon, baby,” he coaxes you with a kind voice, electric pops crackling in the air like fireworks. “Come for me.”

You quit holding back, letting your body rush with a mix of adrenaline and pleasure. Every part of you is on fire, from his touch mixed with the searing heat of his body and the green lightning that strikes your body to leave tiny pink pucker marks. The sight of you marked up by his teeth and tongue and quirk bring him to his own heightened arousal, unable to hold back when he feels you gush with come from within the confine of your walls.

The glowing iridescent light making the room fluorescent fades into the dark with every spurt of his come into your cunt until he is no longer using One for All.

“Good girl,” he kisses your cheek, “now let’s get you cleaned up, hm?”

:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:

You’re not sure what flips the switch within you – whether it’s the tight look of his uniform showing off the peaked buds of his nipples and the engorged head of his cock, or if it’s the blush on his freckled cheeks, making him look so much younger than the twenty plus years old he is now.

Whatever it is, it makes your mouth water and your fingertips buzz.

“Bedroom. Now.”

“B-But, the pad tha-”

“Did I fucking stutter?”

Izuku’s thighs spasm at the authoritative tone of your voice and suddenly he feels about two inches tall despite towering over you no matter the situation. He tucks his head downward as he walks past you, down the hall towards the bedroom the two of you now share. Usually he is the one speaking those words as he stands over the top of you, his hand stinging red from spanking your ass as he orders you around, but the way they sound from your tone of voice makes his entire body quake.

The soft click of the door as it slips shut makes goosebumps rise on his skin, the stubbled hair on the back of his neck standing as upright as possible. There is a grunt from your mouth and a shuffling of your feet on the carpet as you kick off your shoes.

“B-Baby, I-”

Somehow you have shoved your foot into the crook of his knee, toppling him over onto the bed so he’s face first into the mattress, his ass perked upward as he tries to balance himself so he does not fall over. The globes of his backside are stretched tight within the spandex of his uniform, and you know the beautiful expanses of freckled skin that lay beneath the material.

Izuku looks over his shoulder, attempting to protest or ask you what is wrong, but you don’t want to hear it, so you lean forward and press your palm against his cheek, “You don’t speak unless spoken to, do you understand?”

He’s whimpering under your harsh touch, but the way his pupils dilate tells you that he’s enjoying it at least enough to test it out. You shove yourself backward, centered between his ass cheeks as your knees dig into the edge of the mattress. The tips of your fingernails run over the plush flesh of his backside, digging in to make him gasp and writhe beneath you.

Your heart hammers in your chest at seeing the up and coming Pro Hero wriggling like a frightened animal under your ministrations, and you’ve barely laid a hand on him yet. You run your knuckle up his spine, “Take your top off.”

The way he balances his head on the mattress and grapples with his shirt in an attempt to take it off is almost comical, so you crack a smile, thankful that he can’t see you. You lick your lips and drag your hand back down his back to rest at the base of his spine as he scrambles to take the shirt off, but he’s too flustered and it ends up bunched up around his neck and shoulders.

Finally, he gets so frustrated that he rips the fabric in half, shreds of thread falling against his skin and the sheets. You feel heat flood to your core, your spine white hot within your body, the tingles of heat spreading from the center of you outward until your fingertips and toes are blazing with fire.

You hum in appreciation at the sight of his rippling shoulders and trap muscles, his body shifting to dip back into the mattress, balancing all of his weight on his forearms as he leans forward. Your touch drifts from his shoulders to his obliques, the bumps of muscle corded beneath your digits. You watch as his body ripples with a shiver, every one of his muscles tensing as your fingers pad over his freckles, finding patches of darker skin to administer affection to.

It must be the pure anticipation that has his frame tense and quivering, the smallest of muscles twitching as you work your hands around his body. You settle your palms at his hips, flattening your hand against the expanse of skin at the center of his torso, “Baby, relax.”

You lean forward and kiss the dense smattering of freckles between his shoulder blades, “Now be a good little hero and take off your pants.”

The way you say it sends another wave of pleasure straight to his cock, the already throbbing organ about ready to bust from arousal and you haven’t even disrobed him yet.

Your feet pad against the carpet as you find your way to the edge of the bed, stripping out of your outerwear until you’re left in only a dark lace set, the filigree bringing out the beauty of your skin. Izuku goes dumb at the sight, turning his head just enough to get an eyeful of your chest area. His eyes about bug out of his head, wide and blown with lust as his tongue lolls over his lips, dripping a silvery string of drool onto the bed sheets.

“C’mon, Deku,” you force the word to come out in a patronizing tone, “strip for me.”

He swallows, his throat bobbing, but somehow manages to push through the aroused haze clouding his judgment to wriggle himself out of his tight-fitting hero suit. The bright green fabric is left in a pool on the floor, tattered clothes just the start of your destruction.

The head of his cock is bright red and there is a part of you that falters, wanting to beg him to take control and absolutely demolish your pussy with his harsh, controlling movements and his filthy mouth. It lasts but a moment, and yet he can still see it. There is a shift in his eyes, the way he considers you, and he leans forward to say something, but you’re grabbing him by the face, cheeks between your fingers, before he can speak.

“Roll over.”

Izuku does as told with little hesitation, flopping his shoulders around so his ass is once again in the air, primes and ready for your palm to lavish with spankings. Your breath shudders from your lungs and you lock your thighs in place by tensing them, centering yourself between his knees. The balls of his heels come into contact with your hips as he sways slightly, his mind dizzy from the promise of pleasure.

“How many?” you ask, your voice low and sultry, surprising even you with the depth of it.

A choking noise can be heard, but it’s muffled by the pillow. You chuckle, patting his ass prospectively, feeling the flesh ripple beneath your complacent prodding. Dipping forward, your chest falls flush with his back as you press feathery kisses over his midsection, finding the freckles like little gold pieces, adding each one to your treasure chest as you kiss it.

Izuku manages to spit out a number, something reasonable, and so you add a few more on top of it in your mind, smirking even though he cannot see you. You run the pads of your fingers down from the tops of his shoulders to the globes of his ass, the perky, round muscles making your stomach flip. You can’t wait to see the way his bruised ass mixed with the dark brown freckles of his skin – how beautiful the colors will be, how it might actually look more like a galaxy with shades of purple and blue as an accent to the brunette freckles dotting his skin like the night sky currently.

You reach your hands back and start to lay into him, counting the spankings in your head without keeping track of them aloud. You stop after you’re satisfied with his whimpering cries, his face buried deeper into the pillow with each endearing smack.

An errant thought crosses your mind and you can’t help but to dwell on it. If Izuku is already blubbering, how much farther can you take this before he’s crying into the pillow? The idea that you can bring one of the strongest men in the world to tears sets off a string of dynamite in your heart, the fuse triggering something akin to pride in your chest. You feel your whole body swell at the thought and you know that you must make it a reality tonight.

“How many was that?” you ask patronizingly, digging your nails into his ass to hear him squeak.

Your hands are already raw, burning at the feel of slapping his muscled backside repeatedly. Still, you knead your hands into him to elicit a pained whine. He writhes under you, his hands curling around the sheets until they’re beginning to rip under his tight grip.

“I-I dunno,” he blurts, a curt sob breaking his words. “I’m sorry!”

You chuckle and it comes out much darker than you originally intended. You release his ass, the thick of it jiggling as you let go. The pads of your fingers are gentle as you wash your touch over him, appreciating the way the redness of his freshly spanked cheeks brings out the deep color of his freckles, the splotches even more prevalent now that his body has been momentarily abused.

“Oh, you’re gonna be sorry, baby,” you kiss each of his ass cheeks, flicking your tongue out to tease the heated skin, “you better start counting.”

Just as you punctuate your sentence with a sigh, your hands begin to strike him repeatedly. You struggle to keep count, desperately wanting to listen to his moans and whimpers as he gasps, mewling with both pain and pleasure as you lay into his backside. Midoriya is already misty-eyed, the feel of your domineering touch just enough to bring him to a subservient headspace, his spirit wallowing in the pain that your hands are doling out.

You barely have time to stop before he’s blurting out the number that matches the one you’ve counted. You smirk, leaning forward so your nipples scrape against his skin, “Good job, baby.”

The heels of your palms are what is stinging the most, so you can only imagine how his ass feels. You have a momentary relapse in thought, wondering if maybe you shouldn’t be doing this, if maybe you’re going to push him to an edge he can’t come back from.

Although, when too much silence has passed and he is turning to gaze up at you over his shoulder, every inhibition you have flies directly out of the room through the crack in the door. His eyes are blitzed, lust making his pupils swallow the color of his irises, forehead crinkled in desperation as he attempts to form words to beg you back to him.

You rub at the pert skin, brushing your thumbs over the smattering of freckles on the roundest parts of his ass. Deku is whimpering beneath you, calf muscles fully flexed as he rocks back and forth in anticipation of your next slap.

“Such a good little hero,” you murmur, massaging your hands into his glute muscles. “You want to be good for me, don’t you?”

Izuku whines, toes curling up beside your hips. He huffs but you can’t see his face to notice how fucked-out his eyes have become. You dig your fingernails into the flesh of his ass, and he preens, eyes bulging out of their sockets at the sudden stinging sensation.

You answer him with a resounding smack on his backside, making sure that your fingertips are curved just right, along with your palm, to make it sound much worse than it truly is, praying that you can manipulate his mind into believing that you’ve marked him for longer than a few moments.

The way the freckles on his skin trail from the top of his body to the bottom is nothing short of enticing. It brings about a certain innocence to him, something hidden that only you are allowed to know of. Your eyes can’t stop trying to put together a map of his body, begging to know just where the freckles begin and end. He is littered with them, his body darkening from time spent in the sun.

“P-Please,” his whole body is convulsing in pleasure. You can see his cock throbbing between his thighs and the mattress, his balls weighty with the impending excitement of his release. The bedsheet have a damp spot near the tip of his cock, most likely from his pre dripping at the sudden shakes of his body from your spankings, “I-I want more, Princess. Please!”

You smirk, hand hot from repeated spankings, “What’s your number?”

Deku pants, digging his nose into the mattress as if that might save him from having to answer. His hands are clamped around the sheets, nails threatening to rip into the thread count mercilessly, “I-I dunno, I don’t know!”

Your hand comes down over his ass repeatedly, unrelenting in your ministrations as you mark his backside bright red. You know that there will be little busted blood vessels to mix along with his freckled skin, purple lightning strikes that serve as a reminder to the way you broke down his resolve and conquered his body.

“P-Princess,” he whines, voice cracking in the midst of his sentence as he tries to beg for repentance, “I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

You curve your fingernails into his skin, uncaring to the way his body fully tenses, dips and curves of muscle and sinew on full display as he lays completely bare against the mattress. You want to strew yourself across him to feel the ripples of his muscles as he tenses under your touch, to know the reactions of his body as they are happening firsthand. A chill tremors down your spine at the thought of him, all dense and thick beneath you, and how you have complete and utter control over him. You hold his pleasure in your hands, he’s entrusted himself to you in this very vulnerable situation, and the reality of it almost brings tears to your eyes.

Instead you focus your energy into snarling around your teeth, sneering his name like slander, “C’mon, Deku, be a good little bitch and tell me what you think you can handle.”

He is verbally silent, the only thing you can make out from his face smushed into the sheets is mewling whimpers to match the way his body quivers. You teasingly stroke your thumbnail over the blushed skin of his backside, bouncing your touch from freckle-to-freckle as you scrape your nails into him.

Another couple of seconds pass by before you snatch your hand from his ass so you can slap him again when he spurts out an answer, “Th-Thirty!”

“Fifty it is,” you chuff, digging your fingertips into his buttocks in a massaging motion, preparing him for the next round of spankings. He pants, rutting his hips forward into the mattress for some sort of friction against his throbbing erection, balls weighty with his release as they slap between his legs.

You tap his hip, letting him know that you want him to readjust himself. Izuku bends at the waist, seething as the bruised skin of his bottom stretches with the motion. You resituate yourself between his knees, ass directly in front of your face. A gentle kiss is pressed to either of his cheeks, eyelashes daintily brushing over his throbbing flesh, and he jolts his hips back into you until your teeth graze his skin.

“Eager little thing,” you tut your tongue, grabbing him harshly by the hips.

You selfishly want to mark him up, to remind the world that he belongs to you no matter how much of himself he gives away every other moment of his life. When the sun goes down, when the bright sky bleeds into the night, he comes home to you and the both of you fall asleep under the stars, wrapped in one another’s arms.

Izuku’s tongue lolls out of his mouth, sweat dripping down his spine as you press up into him, “Such a slut for me, huh, honey?”

The next time he backs into you, you pinch his ass between your fingers on one side and on the other cheek you bite down hard into his skin. Midoriya bucks forward at the sudden jolt of pain, only worsening the scratches left behind by your canines. He grinds his face into the mattress, pressing the mix of his tears and sweat into the sheets, begging for a cool release from the heat of his body as he searches for it in the mattress. You swear that he sobs into the pillow, begging you for something, but you can’t quite make out all of the syllables.

You line up behind him, your lower abdomen flush with his round, freckled bottom, “You ready, baby?”

“Princess, please,” his voice is hoarse now, all jagged around the edges as he begs you for more, “I-I want you to be rough with me, please? I wan’ you to mark me up.”

On command, your fingernails dig into the flesh at the curves of his shoulders, raking down the length of his back in one elongated swoop. He cries out, throwing his head back so his green curls brush the piques of his shoulders, and he grinds his hips back into you. You can’t help the low growl that claws at your throat as you trail your index finger down over the ghostly sight that your nails have left behind. He seethes through his teeth at the burning sensation lighting his back on fire, but he still does not complain.

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ve got you handled, okay?” Your hands find purchase on the curves of his obliques, fingernails burrowing into the taut skin of his abdomen, crescent moon patterns left in the wake of you. “I’m gonna make sure all the other heroes know who you belong to.”

Your name bubbles from his lips, a prayer he’s pushing to the heavens, blessing the stars with his babbling. In the midst of one of his mutterings, you begin your next round of pert spanks to his ass. You give him little reprieve, counting in your head as you go along.

He’s a blubbering mess, all mismatched syllables and grunts and moans tearing his throat apart until he’s crying for you to mark him as yours, to claim him in a way that leaves no question as to who he belongs to. The echoes of please, please, please bounce off every wall, a cacophony of sound making the hair on your neck stand erect.

When you finish, your hands are stinging profusely, but you make sure to soothe your palms over his bottom, the flesh bright red and angry. His freckles look even darker now that his skin has been accented with the beginnings of purple bruises and crimson handprints left behind. You coo, leaning forward to kiss the center of his back, pressing your body into him so you’re flush with every inch of him that you can find, “What do you say, pretty boy?”

When Midoriya turns to look at you over his shoulder, his eyes blissed-out so his pupils swallow his viridescent irises whole, he gargles the words, “thank you,” in a cracked whisper. You nod, trailing a row over kisses down the dip of his spine, nudging your nose over his muscled body, silently telling him to relax.

“You want more?” you ask him quietly, your hands digging into any surface of him that you can find to try and release some of the tension built up from the time spent together. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

“Please, Princess, please,” he’s blubbering out the words, thick and heavy with the emotion pent-up in his throat, “I just wan’ be good for you, whatever you want.”

You tilt your head, brows furrowing in playful contemplation, “Whatever I want, huh?”

He’s nodding ferociously, his chin knocking into his chest with his enthusiastic actions. You know part of it is to make up for the lack of words that he can’t force through his teeth, so you merely chuckle and give him one final spank to his backside, “Roll over then.”

The speed with which he fumbles into rolling over onto his back is comical. You watch as a flurry of limbs wind together only to come apart again when he’s on his back. Izuku is wincing, the glassiness in his eyes reminiscent of tears and he’s trying his hardest to come across like he’s not in pain, although you see the way that he favors putting more of his weight on his shoulders instead of his ass so he’s bent at an odd angle.

“Whatever you want,” he is gasping the words out, puffs of exaggerated but necessary breath forcing his cheeks to inflate. “I’m yours.”

The words make your whole body puff up, heat starting in your core and creating steam that rises from your esophagus to your brain. It becomes muddled and you’re hazy now, drunk off of the power that he has given you with those five words. You reach forward and slide your thumb against his piqued nipple, licking your lips as you think of what you’re going to do to him not that you have him to use however you please.

“All mine?” you ask, your voice grating against the front of your throat harshly. You hum, “What do you want me to do to you then, baby?”

He’s breathing heavily through his nose now, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath, “I w-want you to use me, please, Princess, want you to use my pathetic cock to make yourself feel good.”

You reach forward and guide his scarred hand towards your cunt, “Touch me.”

Izuku is eager to please, so he’s fumbling forward until his thumb finds your clit, ministrations errant and disastrous. It’s adorable, really, the enthusiasm with which he seeks you out only doing further service to your ego. You feel your head grow dizzier as your core turns with tumultuous heat. You know that you do not want to drag this out too far as you already can feel the twitch of an impending crest of pleasure building from within you.

His thick finger slides up into your heated core and it takes all of your self-restraint to keep your moans between your teeth, holding the sounds captive like they might tell all of your secrets if you let them loose. You bite your lip, sucking the skin into the bite of your teeth, tilting your head back so you can close your eyes and enjoy the pleasure as it comes.

“Maybe if you touch me just right, I’ll let you feel my pussy on your cock, huh?” You have to face him, have to see his reaction, “How does that sound?”

Midoriya is bobbing his head, agreeing to whatever words you’re speaking, he can’t quite make out any one syllable with the way his brain is drowning with the sight of you straddling him. He’s not sure what it is about you, but he absolutely adores the idea of you holding your own against him, wrapping your body around him and denying him of whatever control he normally possesses.

And maybe that is what gets you wet too, because you know that he could fling you off of him with a simple flick of his wrist, and yet here he is, letting you demolish every last shred of his self-respect.

You can’t help it, with the way he’s already beginning to drool and the sight of his eyes drinking in your semi-naked body, you have to feel the soft heat of his mouth around your fingers. It is too quick, the way you jolt forward and press the pads of your digits against his soft mouth. He moans, realizing just what you’re trying to do because he’s done it countless times himself, and opens his mouth wide.

Your fingers slip inside the seeping heat of his tongue and cheeks, the muscle lapping at your digits until they’re soaked and knuckle deep. You lean down so you are but inches from his face, the squelching sounds that your pussy and his mouth make together doing little to still the erection pressed against your ass from behind and the absolute waterfall between your thighs.

Every muscle in your body is screaming at you to sink down on top of his twitching cock and let him have his way with you, to rock yourself along his length until you’re both finding that beautiful high together. But you know that if you wait, if you drag this out and force him to bend to your will, then it will bring you both to your knees.

“So pretty with my fingers in your mouth, Izu,” you murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth.

He attempts feebly to kiss you, turning his head, but your fingers catch on the corners of his lips and stretch the pink skin until it is pale. Your eyes flicker toward the bow of his mouth where a thin, white scar resides. You remember seeing this one when you first kissed him, and the memory of it makes you nostalgic, the years you’ve spent together built up much like his scars.

You lick a warm stripe up the column of his neck, feeling the muscles and veins throb underneath your ministrations. The heat of your breath combined with the slick of your spit makes Deku’s hips jut upward, his balls slapping loudly against your ass as he ruts into you painfully.

“Did I say you could move?” You are leant back now, your fingers still in his mouth but otherwise you are parted from him. Deku’s face pales, eyes widening in fear as he shakes his head, apologies tumbling in tandem with his spit from his lips, drool seeping down his chin until it is shiny.

The heel of your palm comes underneath his chin, so you have your hand wrapped around the lower part of his mouth, controlling his head with the simple turn of your wrist. You tilt his head upward so he can no longer see you, and pick up your hips to reposition yourself so you are hovering above him, just enough so you can start to tease the head of his cock against your slick slit.

He’s whimpering, “Please, Princess. I wanna touch you so bad, please, I wanna make you feel good.”

You let him beg for you, pumping your hand up and down his cock while you brush the angry red head over the gathering silver slick at your entrance. You chuckle as his hips shuffle in the slightest, his discomfort obvious as he is practically vibrating with the desire to take over.

“What is it, baby? Eager?” You sink yourself down far enough to take the head of his cock within your walls, clamping down hard enough to make him whine. “I can’t wait to fuck myself on this pathetic little cock, Izu. I’m gonna fuck you so good, you’ll have to call in sick tomorrow.”

Another round of blathering drivel is boasted into the air, his words muffled by your fingers, but he still forces them out, nonetheless. His tongue continues to curl around your knuckles and lavish the pads of your digits, sucking on them in between heaving breaths. You let a small moan shake your throat, rolling your hips forward to take another bit of his dick but not all of it, not yet. The enjoyment you’re getting from his stuttering whimpers and moans only heightening your senses and arousal.

“Princess, please, I-I think I’m gonna-” An aborted rut of his hips dies when you rake your nails down the entirety of his chest. Your fingers catch on the rigid edges of some of his scars, but otherwise you turn lines of his tanned flesh red from your scratching.

Izuku whimpers, his body arching upward as he tries to take it all in stride. In doing so, he sheathes his cock completely within you, the base of his shaft now flush with your lips. You cry out at the sudden stretch, throwing your head back in pleasure as a wave of white-hot arousal makes your thighs glossy with a new wash of slick.

When you come to, you lean forward to place a palm on either side of his head, holding yourself up so you are loitering over him like a shadow, praying that you are as every bit as menacing as you’re attempting to be. You grit your teeth and roll your hips several times, unbending to even his hands on your body, relentlessly fucking his cock until he’s screaming for you to stop.

“C’mon, little hero, I thought you’d be better than this,” you take his earlobe between your teeth and tug, “I thought you’d have more will power. You’ll never be number one if you can’t even last this long beneath me.”

Izuku shakes his head, “I-I can, I can do it, I-I promise. Please, just let-”

“I don’t think you understand,” your voice is low, menacing as you nudge your nose against the bridge of his face, nuzzling the freckled skin. The intimate act is far more tender than your tone, and it gives Izuku chills that you can display such dual sides of yourself simultaneously. “I’m not letting you do anything.”

His eyes go wide as he realizes that there is nothing that he can do to change your mind, at least not in this setting. Deku’s hands still on your hips, his thumbs rubbing circular motions into your skin in a way that seems to be grounding him as much as it is stimulating you. You press a chaste kiss to his mouth before beginning to snap your hips upward and then back down onto his cock, clamping your walls around him when you feel the head of him press into that spongy spot hidden all the way in the back of your core.

You kiss all over his neck, finding clumps of freckles and stranded singular ones, lavishing the same amount of affection over each of them. Your mouth finds scars, both tiny, hairline fractures in the marble of his skin, as well as large, patchy ones that mar large splotches of his skin.

Even in these moments when you are the one doling out commands, you still find ways to appreciate his body. Your touch roams along the dips and contours of his torso, the rough ridges of your fingerprints searching for the matching ragged lines on his skin. You sigh into his throat and he slips a hand between your bodies to rub at your clit, begging for you to come undone around his cock, praying that you’ll let him please you.

One of your hands wraps around his throat until you hear him choke, and then you speed up the pace of your hips until he’s begging through wheezes for you to relent. You lean back and he hikes up his legs so you can rest against his thighs, your body on full display in front of him. His eyes do not know where to land and neither do yours as you map out the various textures and colors of his skin – from the pale lightning strikes of his scars to the darker scattered splotches of freckles.

Izuku Midoriya is a vessel for the travesties of the world.

But you will spend the rest of your life trying to make up for its mistakes.

:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:

One day it slips.

You don’t think much of it, because in the heat of the moment, with him buried at the hilt and you crying for release, the words don’t stick out very starkly against the other filth spewing from either of your mouths.

“Gonna stuff that pretty pussy full of my come, baby,” he bites your earlobe as he ruts into you mercilessly, “You’re gonna be so round and full of me.”

At the time, you thought he meant that you would be full of his cock and come, but after he starts to show particular attention to your stomach during sex, you wonder if there’s something else going on.

When he has you beneath him the next time, you drag his palm to your belly and look him in the eyes, “I want you.”

His freckles burn beneath his blush, much starker against his tanned skin thanks to the flush of warmth. Izuku tilts his head, the dark curls framing his forehead bobbing with the motion, “You have me, baby.”

You shake your head and whine at the lack of contact once he’s stilled. You bite your lip and push the heel of his palm into the gentle swell of your belly beneath your navel. He swallows, gulping so hard that his throat bobs. You lick your lips and take a short breath as he shifts above you, his knees digging into the mattress on either side of your body.

“I want you to come in me,” you murmur, tugging him downward with the gentle grip of your hand on his neck. You kiss him square on the mouth and his fingers reach to find your folds, middle and index finger parting you so they can slip inside to curl against your heat. You whine, the sound amplified as his tongue searches your teeth, “P-Please, Izu.”

Midoriya’s fingers thrust forward in you so intensely that he can feel his fingertips bulging your belly with the palm that’s pressed against your navel. His eyes widen at the sensation and it only spurs him into kissing you more fervently, teeth and tongue clashing as he tries to overwhelm every sense you possess.

You protest as he pulls his fingers from you, your eyes screwed shut as you whine. He tuts his tongue against his teeth, nudging his nose along the curve of your jaw as he places biting kisses along the bone, “Hush. Do you really think I won’t give you what you need?”

The authoritative tone in his voice brings you to silence, eyelids fluttering open so you can look him in the eyes as he leans back to balance himself on his thick thighs. Your touch is pulled from him as he goes further away, your fingers aching in midair for something to ground yourself with. Otherwise you just feel like you’re going to float away, your mind hazy with the effervescent bubbles of euphoria that travel up from your throat.

Before you have another moment to keen at the loss of his heat, he’s piercing your pussy with the head of his cock, butterflying your lips wide open so he can rut up into you with ease. The combination of his bubbling pre-come and your already slick arousal dripping from your cunt make the slam of his hips easier to take, easier to beg for.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart,” Izuku coos in your ear, dropping his head to your shoulder to suck on the skin of your collarbone.

The jut of his cockhead into your core makes it difficult to think, let alone form fully coherent sentences. Izuku seems to relish in this, though, because he does not slow the drag of his cock or the flow of his words. He continues to goad you into begging for his release, for what you truly want, and it’s maddening. Your eyes cross beneath your lids at the overstimulation of it all until you’re blurting out the first thing on your mind.

“I wan’ you to breed me, Daddy!”

Izuku falters for a moment at the brashness of your words, but you barely have time to feel bashful before he’s rolling his hips again, growling near your ear with a ferocity you’ve never felt from him before.

“That’s my good girl,” he mutters while trailing his lips down to your breast. He lavishes your nipple with the rough pad of his tongue, lapping over the skin carefully so you’re begging him for more. “How am I supposed to breed you, honey? Tell me.”

The patronizing tone of his voice tells you that he knows exactly what you want, but he would rather hear the request coming in the form of panting words and wanton moans from your lips. You sniffle, your eyes watering at the bruising pace he’s setting. His hands drift down the tops of your thighs, thumbs brushing against the innermost part where your skin is the most sensitive. Your cunt clamps down around him, fluttering at the ghostly feel of his tantalizing touch.

“P-Please,” you whimper, unable to think of something to say to fill the void. You bite your lip as his mouth works at your chest, tonguing your nipple before biting at the mound of skin to drive a yelp from your lips. “I want you to c-come in me, Daddy! I want you to stuff me full o-of your come, please!”

He pouts around your nipple, leaving the small space he’s just sucked a hickey into in favor of your pert bud, “I already come in you, baby girl, what do you really want me to do?”

You bite your lip and fist the sheets at your sides when you feel frustration and embarrassment wash over you. Izuku nudges his nose along the swell of your chest before leaning up to kiss your chin, hovering like a menacing shadow. His smile does little to quell the bubbling intensity in your belly.

“You can do it, sweetheart,” he’s gentler now, breaking his more dominating side so he can reassure you, “I know you can. Just tell me what you want.”

The shining in his irises makes your knees weak but bolsters your spine to force you into uttering the next words, no matter how uncomfortable they might sit in your belly. You take a breath and look up into his eyes, “I want you to put a baby in me, Izu.”

“Good girl,” he manages to muster out the words with restraining the growl that aches at the back of his throat.

His hips cant forward, fingertips now just under your knees. Your breath comes in shaking pants, your chest shuddering under your confession. Izuku kisses your cheek and then your nose, positioning his hands while he has you distracted. His mouth ascends down upon your own as his fingers dip into the supple skin and muscle of your thighs, bruising the underside with the ghost of his fingerprints as he pushes your knees back until they’re almost touching your chest or the mattress.

You gulp in pain as his cock stretches you out in a whole new way with your body flayed out like this. You look like a butterfly, your wings spread so he can smother you with his movements. Deku licks at the seam of your lips and you gasp, your mouth parting so he can delve his tongue inside. Your whole body shakes at the intensity of his thrusts, your irises swallowed whole by your pupils as they dilate at the feel of your cunt trying and failing to clamp around his cock to keep him still so you can adjust.

“Say it again,” Deku encourages you, his voice breathless as he ruts you into the mattress.

Your shoulders and the curve of your ass are pressed so deep into the cushion that you swear you might fall through to the floor. You curl your toes and try to angle your hips forward to no avail. He has you fully enraptured in the way he wants, his body practically controlling the movements you’re allowed to make with how he’s pressed and holding onto every part of you.

“I-I want you to put a baby in me, Izuku,” you whisper, your voice hoarse.

A pert slap lands on the outside of your thigh and you whimper at the thought you’ve done something wrong. Your eyes water and you look up at him, emerald irises glowering down at you with a mix of primal need and control.

His voice is nothing short of a growl when he commands, “Who am I?”

Your eyes go wide, forehead creasing at the realization of your slip up. You can’t form the words fast enough, scrambling within your subservient brain to find the right phrase. You bite your lip as his hips still upon your silence, practically begging him with your body to keep going.

The echo of another smacking of his palm against your leg resounds in the room, sending a shudder down your spine. A new wave of arousal coats his cock from where he’s buried within you. He smirks, “Such a sloppy pussy, baby girl. You’re so filthy, getting off on me smacking you around.”

He leans close into you, removing one hand from your thigh to frame your face, his thumb dug into the soft flesh beneath your chin so he can force you to look into his eyes. “Now, I’ll say it again, who am I?”

You gulp, your lower lip trembling at the sight of him, and your voice cracks when you speak, “D-Daddy, I-I’m sorry.”

Izuku kisses your bottom lip before showing the same affection to the top. His gentle ministrations are rather contrasting to the way your hips sting with the memory of his spankings. You blink slowly, taking him in from this close angle.

He’s so pretty, you know this even though your mind is hazy with subservient want. His freckles and scars stand out so pertly against his skin, showing you a roadmap to someplace you know you’ll get to someday. You reach up to frame his face with one hand, thumb brushing over the speckled spots along the bridge of his nose and cheek, marveling at the sight of his beauty.

Deku turns his face to kiss your wrist, “What’re you thinking?”

“You’re pretty,” you blurt, voice almost childish in the way you say it with such wonder.

The phrase stills his nose against your palm, his breath hot as it rolls down your wrist and forearm. You feel your pulse beat harshly within your veins at the change in temperature, emotion swelling in your throat until your neck bobs as you try to swallow it.

It’s not the stereotypical compliment that he might receive, however that does not change its weight. Izuku takes a short breath before he begins to kiss down the length of your arm, nuzzling your elbow once he’s pressed there. He looks up into your eyes and the absolute adoration that is settled into your irises, bejeweling them until he is wondering if they might actually be gems, gives him the effervescent sensation all over again.

Pretty.

The word plays on loop in his mind, until he has dissected all six letters of it down to their very essence. The combination of your tone and expression as you admit what’s truly on your mind causes his heart to tear into his rib cage with the speed at which it beats. He breathes in short, heaving gasps, the warmth of his breath spilling over your chest, nipples pebbling beneath him.

If you were to try and pin down his appearance, you might say it were bashful. You have seen several sides to Izuku, but the bright red tinge on his cheeks, creeping up his neck until his ears are burnt with the color, makes him seem much younger, much more innocent. It’s hardly innocent, the way that he’s bludgeoning your cunt with his cock, but you take this moment to remove yourself from that fact entirely, instead focusing on the wobble of his chin and the mist in his eyes.

In addition to the shyness, you also see doubt, conflict.

You push your fingers into the hair behind his ear, beckoning him closer so you can appreciate him closer. Your opposite hand presses against his cheek, the scar that runs along his jaw ragged under your touch. Midoriya’s lips part, the tip of his tongue hidden just behind his teeth.

“Pretty,” he echoes the word, unintentionally, you believe, by the way his face screws up once he realizes he’s said it aloud. Midoriya reels back from you, sitting back on his thighs, the tip of his cock twitching from within your core.

Your face goes bright red at the admission, your hand falling away from his face in shame. You gulp, readying yourself for another smack to your leg in admonishment at your confession. You wince, hiding yourself as best you can with him looking down at you in such an intimidating way by turning your face into the pillow, closing your eyes.

The wait feels like forever, as if he’s going to edge you with anticipation until you’ve gone blue in the face from holding your own breath. He surprises you with a gentle laugh parting his lips, screwing his eyes shut.

You take a chance and open your eyes, blinking slowly so you aren’t shocked at the expression on his face if it contrasts the giggle that sets off another round of arousal between your thighs. You lick your lips and bare your soul when you ask, “Y-You’re laughing?”

“You’re so cute, baby,” Izuku kisses your nose, his grip resetting to your thigh.

The bruising hold he has on you reminds you that even though he might come across as twinkling eyes and a mop of curls, he is the strongest hero alive, and he could crush you like a bug if he truly desired.

He tilts his head, “I think you’re pretty too.”

“Y-You’re not mad?”

Izuku furrows his brow and leans back so he can study your face in its entirety, “No, Princess, I’m not mad. Why would I be mad?”

“I-I just ruined the mood by calling you pretty,” you have the urge to ask him to put his fingers in your mouth just to get you to be quiet. Anything to staunch the flow of these superfluous words that won’t stop tumbling from your lips.

His thumb brushes along the curve of your jaw until his fingertip is pressuring your lip to stay open so he can study your teeth and gums, “Nah, you didn’t ruin the mood. Answer me this – who do you belong to?”

Instantly your thighs try to clamp together, knees wobbling at the statement and the firmness in his tone when he says it. You swallow, eyes blown wide, your tongue suddenly becoming very heavy in your own mouth. You want to whine, to cant forward and take as much of him as you can but he has you held still with a palm in the center of your chest, pinning you to the mattress as he waits for his answer.

Your hand covers his own, fingers slipping between his palm and knuckles so you can anchor yourself to him, even in this moment. Your middle and index fingers swipe back and forth over the back of his hand, finding the familiar triangular scars and tracing over them with purpose. They ground you, somehow, when your mind starts to flutter off into this subservient space and you can’t feel anything from your knees down.

“Y-You,” you manage to stutter, thighs wobbling with the stress of pinning him between your knees. Your eyelids prick with tears from the embarrassment you felt earlier, and Izuku tuts his tongue against his teeth, “Why’re you crying, pretty girl?”

You shake your head and he kneels forward to kiss you on the lips, chastely, “Or should I give you something to cry about?”

Before you can answer, he simultaneously lands a harsh slap to the inside of your thigh with one hand while pinning your neck to the pillow with the other, applying enough pressure that you wheeze. Izuku smirks down at you, watching as tears well up in your eyes and cause them to look like glassy marbles. He trails his fingertip along the inside of your thigh, your entire body quivering with the anticipation of when he will strike next.

His cock twitches within you and the movement makes your muscles jolt. Your hand smacks against his thigh as you dig your fingertips into the dense sinew. You breathe in heavily, your chest expanding, “Daddy, please.”

Izuku begins to rock back and forth slowly, dragging his cock salaciously along your inner walls, the veins and curves of his cock making your cunt flutter around his girth. You whine at the slow pace, your palms studying his skin as a distraction to keep your dirty mouth satiated. You want to beg him to go faster, to give you more friction, something, but you know better than to ask him for anything in this moment.

“If I’m Daddy,” he muses in your ear, his breath a hot wave of desire as it rolls down your neck to splay out at your shoulder, “then it’s only fair that we give you a name too, right, Princess?”

The suggestion he’s making sends a shiver down your spine and you clamp down on his cock as he slips all the way into you, the base of him flush with your lips. You grapple onto him for fear that he might pull out of you again, but you want him to be fully sheathed in you when he snarls out his next words.

In digging your nails into his skin, you find a new scar on his shoulder that you hadn’t noticed before. It is thin, just slight enough that it slipped from your radar. It is a single ridge of skin running from the back of his shoulder to his collarbone, streaking his skin with a pink color in contrast to his normally tan color. Your middle and index fingers focus on it, mapping out each bump like your life depends on it.

As his body tilts forward, your eyes catch along a patch of intense freckles at the tops of his shoulders, where the sun shines most concentrated. Your exhale, eyelids fluttering as you feel his weight press down into you the closer he comes. The palm of your hand travels to this smattering of freckles, digging into his muscles in a massaging way as you force your touch downward. Izuku’s breath hitches as you circle the pad of your middle finger tenderly over the flesh, eyelids snapping open so he can look down at you in something akin to shock.

He melts into your touch when your ankle digs into the dimples at the base of his back, yet another scar providing friction against your skin. You whimper as his hips buck forward on instinct alone, the pressure of your body pulling him forward.

Midoriya nudges his nose sweetly along the column of your throat, open-mouthed kisses placed against your main vein that leads him to your heart. He breathes slowly over your chest, nipping at the skin closest to your nipple, but far enough away that he won’t hurt you if he bites down too hard.

“Mm,” he hums as he dips his head further, curling his spine so he can kiss the top of your belly, above your navel. His palm pushes into the supple skin, thumb drifting over where your uterus sits beneath your skin, “I can’t wait to fuck you ‘till you’re full of me, Princess. Isn’t that what you want?”

You’re begging him silently with ferocious nods, dipping the pads of your fingers into his shoulder blades to pull him closer once more so he can rut into you with his strong hips. You feel the head of his cock brush against you from the inside, and that along with the added pressure of his palm pushing into you, makes you keen loudly, a whine rippling through your lungs.

At that sound, Izuku loses any and all control he might have had on his body before, one of his hands now holding your thigh up so he can dominate you from above, your ass not even flat against the mattress anymore. It’s a good reprieve from the suffocating heat beneath your back, but the only thing you can truly focus on is the way that his hips drive into you in midair, his knees bolstering him forward to fuck into you relentlessly.

“You’ll be so fuckin’ pretty with my come dripping out of this sloppy pussy,” Izuku’s voice is slurred with pleasure, his eyes closed as he ruts into you from above. You whine, your chin ducked into your chest at this angle, but it doesn’t matter that it’s slightly uncomfortable; the only thing you can pay attention to is the way he fills you up, stretching your pussy with his thick cock.

Pulling almost all the way out only to slam into you again makes your cunt clench when he’s fully sheathed to try and keep him captive. He’s too strong, though, and he pulls away easily, the added tension only providing the both of you with further pleasure. You both whine, Izuku’s head dropping so you can no longer see his eyes, forehead covered completely by dark curls caked with sweat and sticking to his skin.

Deku licks his lips and you watch as he tilts his head to gaze down at you, the primal need to see you full giving his eyes a deeper color, a green so dark it’s almost black. The sight of him so overcome with arousal makes your stomach turn, a fresh wave of heat coating your inner walls and slipping down his cock in the form of silvery slick.

He pants, his jaw hung open, “You want me to fill you up? Come in you over and over until you can’t take it anymore, until your pretty belly is bulging with my come?”

You don’t have the chance to respond when he bottoms out within you, stretching you out even further as his cock spasms with desire. It’s like he’s growing within you even more so now that he’s imagining your tummy swollen from his come. Your jaw hangs open even as you throw your head back, your hands flying to the comforter to snag what you can beneath your fingernails.

Izuku does not waste the sight of your neck, bare and open, practically begging for him to claim as his canvas. With his next stroke he is careening forward to latch his tongue and teeth onto the sensitive skin, your jugular pulsing beneath his mouth. Your hand flies upward to tug at the wild curls near the back of his scalp, your thighs held in place by his hips as he continues into you at a steady pace.

“I can’t wait to put a baby in you, Princess,” Izuku is panting in your ear now, the lewd sounds of his hips bucking into yours the only other sound you can make out. Your shoulders shudder underneath his weight but he is holding you like an anchor, so you know that you are safe in his embrace. You turn your head, so your cheek is pressing into his, leeching the heat from his skin until your own flesh is burning.

“Fuck,” Deku laps at your throat aimlessly, as if he can’t quite get where he wants, but he doesn’t know what else to do, “Gonna fill you up every time I get the chance, breed you until you’re begging for me to stop. Pump that pretty pussy full of my come until you can’t walk straight.”

Your cunt spasms around his cock and he knows that means you’re close to coming. He’s pushed off his own release in favor of coming in tandem with you, so he starts to pump into you faster, drifting a hand down to your clit to try and stimulate you closer to the precipice of pleasure. You’re whining, nails dragging against his biceps unforgivingly, “Daddy, c’mon, I want you to come in me. Please, won’t you come in me? Fuck me full of your come, please!”

The entirety of your mouth is sandpaper dry with your insistent begging. You lick your lips at the feel of his cock spasming within your core, the tip of him brushing against your cervix in a bruising manner. “I-I wanna make you a Daddy for real, please, won’t you put a baby in me?”

A feral growl parts his lips at your request, and your body clenches from head to toe at the sound. You can’t breathe, your entire being is suffocated by the essence of him – body, mind, soul. He is everything and it covers you like a hot blanket, searing into your skin until you’re branded for him.

“You want this load?” he asks breathlessly. “Want me to breed you up good?”

He is barely able to look at you when you whimper out your response. Goosebumps cover the expanse of his body as he thinks about what you’d look like, swollen with the imminent promise of his baby growing in you. Something digs into him at the base of his spine, something that makes him ache with the need to see you waddling around, unable to see your ankles as you rest your palm on the top of your tummy. Izuku squeezes his eyes shut so he can listen to your wanton desperation, sweat making the two of you stick together at every juncture.

Deku grunts one last time before all his resolve floods from his body, “Here you go, Princess, don’t waste it.”

The angle he has your body in, folded up like a pretzel, would usually make it hard for you to waste any of it, but the sheer amount of come being pumped into you makes you nervous. You feel the familiar seeping of his seed from your cunt and you reach down to try and sop it up, but Izuku beats you to it. He uses his thumb to collect the milky fluid, rubbing it over your clit to use as lubricant as his dick continues to pump the rest of his load into your abused hole.

“Good girl,” he whispers absentmindedly as he fucks you through his aftershocks, the pad of his thumb driving you crazy as you squirm beneath him. Izuku can tell by the sheer force with which you’re clamped down on him that you’re chasing your own high, your eyes squinted closed so you can focus on orgasming until you’ve coated his cock with your arousal.

Izuku fights through the bliss that’s clouding his mind to lean down and kiss over your face, “C’mon, Princess, come for me.”

When your eyes split open, the first thing you notice is the scar that cuts from his hairline down over his eyebrow, separating the tail of his brow from the base. You reach up to brush your fingertip over it, your heels dug into the curve of his ass to bring yourself closer to him, if that were at all possible. Your mouth hangs open as your thumb maps out the scar, ragged flesh the very opposite of the remaining smooth plane of his body.

“I love you,” you whisper, silent silver tears leaking from your eyes as the combination of all of your senses being stimulated pushes you over the crest, drowning you in the waves of pleasure he creates by rocking into you.

It has taken years for Izuku to understand that you paying attention to the jagged parts of his body does not mean that you would not love him if he were any less broken.

Your vision passes over each inch of his body, taking inventory of the markings on his body – freckles, blemishes, scars – as if they might have changed since the last time you looked. Your hands roam over his shoulders, finding the pale scars and dipping your fingertips against them to feel the ridges against the rough pad of your digits.

Midoriya melds his mouth against yours, lost in the taste of you as his cock spasms within your tight heat. Your entire bodies are coated in a mixture of tears and sweat and slick, but you don’t care as he lowers himself down on top of you until you’re flush with one another from shoulder to ankle.

His tongue is mapping the curvatures of your teeth when he responds in kind, “I love you, too.”

He slows once he realizes you’ve both been milked of whatever else you might have left to give. Your body is gently placed back down on the bed, hot sweat sticking to the cooled sheets. Izuku kisses from your jaw to your collarbone, lavishing each inch with the utmost affection, it could make you cry.

Your hands work through his hair, curls falling silkily between your knuckles. You lean forward and kiss the spot on his forehead where his brows are furrowed. At the feel of your affections, his expression softens and the creases on his skin soften into nothing but fine lines. Izuku smiles up at you, nuzzling your cheek, “You did so good, baby, you’re always such a good girl for me.”

“Mhm, you make it easy,” you croon into the shell of his ear as he tilts himself forward, still buried in you even as his cock goes soft. You tilt your head, curling a finger around a lock of his hair, “W-Were you serious?”

Izuku catches a glint of the diamond on your left hand, a proud grin bringing out his dimples, “You’ll know in, what, four weeks?”

The whole thing is too exciting, and you know that even though you’re still on contraceptives, it could happen. He doesn’t move to correct himself, instead waiting on your answer.

“F-Four weeks,” you nod, your tongue sitting heavy and dry in between your teeth.

Midoriya catches your hesitation, “We won’t change anything, except how many times a day I bury my cock into that pretty little pussy of yours. We’ll see if I can beat out the statistics on your medication.”

You know he’s talking about the one-in-whatever chance that your birth control doesn’t work, but the way he says it drags shivers up your spine. You curl both hands into his hair and swallow the thick emotion pent up in your throat, “You meant what you said?”

“Four weeks,” he echoes as if it should be an answer. Izuku knows better than to have a permanent conversation with you when your eyes are still glassy like this, your mind still submerged in that headspace he puts you in when the two of you fuck this way, rough and merciless. All he can do now is remember to talk to you about this once you’re both calm and rational.

Your eyes fill with a fresh set of tears and he leans down to press a gentle kiss to the base of your throat, “I’m gonna fill you up with so much come, baby. We might have to get you a plug.”

You tighten every orifice of your body, fingers dug deeper into the muscle of his shoulders. Your thumb catches on the curve of one of his particularly deep scars, slicing into him like veins on a marble slab. In your heightened state, it’s easy to feel like you’re floating in midair and might never come down, but the tactile reminder of his body beneath your fingertips gives you that anchor that you need to keep yourself from drifting too far.

Methodically, you drift the pads of your digits back and forth, a melody playing in your head that you play out against his body. The rigidity of his form, strong and barring as he loiters over you, only adds to the calm that you feel wash over your frame, settling into your bones like stardust. You feel lightheaded, but in a giddy way, the warmth of Midoriya’s body just as soothing as the patterns you’re marking into his body.

Two tears drip over the edges of your eyes and you look up at him, bringing a thumb up to brush his hair out of his eyes, “I-I wanna make you a Daddy. For real.”

You think back to the day you first met – how he stole your heart with one simple look. He has always been it for you, that you now realize. From the first syllable to now, he has reigned you in, held you beneath his thumb in such a captivating way that you don’t ever want to escape.

You want to give back to him what the world never could – a little hero of his own.

It’s a blank slate, a place to start anew. Something that the burdens of Izuku’s past can never bury under layers of scar tissue and regret. The giddiness that makes your heartbeat in a frenzy only gives you more confidence to reach forward and wrap yourself around him like an animal begging for comfort. You nuzzle your nose into his neck, “You deserve this, Izu, you deserve to be happy.”

“Hey,” he calls down to you, upturning your face with the gentle pressure of his thumb underneath your chin, “I am happy, here with you.”

Your face grows hot at his confession, and you wonder if you misconstrued your words. You swallow, rolling your hips upward to reconnect your bodies at the waist, trying to convey that you can give him so much more, that you’re offering up your body to be a martyr. Your eyes water as you link your hands around his neck, thumbing at the crest of his undercut.

“Please,” you whisper, voice broken but beautiful as your single syllable speaks volumes even in the quiet of your shared bedroom.

There is a growl that erupts in his throat and he lunges forward, sucking and licking at your neck. You whimper, falling slack in his touch as you try to keep yourself anchored to him with biting, blunt fingernails. Your jaw hangs open just enough that he can see the pink of your tongue if he leans far enough back.

As Deku reclaims your mouth in his own, the primal thing burning deep in his belly spurring his cock to go for round two, he can’t help but think to himself that he’s going to make you a momma, no matter how hard he has to try, or how long it takes.

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“Why are you so enamored by them?”

You still your hand over his bare chest, your index finger tracing the ridge of one of his biggest scars – a rippling cut straight through his pectoral, the tip of it disappearing in the curve of his muscles as they meet in the middle.

When you don’t answer, Izuku swallows the lump in his throat and sits up a little straighter, leaning his shoulders back against the headboard. He looks down his nose at you, shallow breaths making his chest inflate quickly, “I guess I just don’t understand what could be so fascinating about them. Why do you like to touch them all the time?”

You turn so you are strewn across his abdomen, your chin rested in the seam of his pectorals as you look up at him, “I guess they make me feel things.”

“F-Feel things?” Izuku’s face scrunches up in confusion, the wrinkles of his nose making you smile.

Tenderly, you brush your thumb over the creases of his forehead until he relaxes, and then you start mapping out the scarred lines on his face and taking inventory of his freckled cheeks. You sigh, chewing on your lower lip, “It depends on what’s going on, but when I look at you, I feel any plethora of things – sadness, joy, horniness…”

“My scars make you horny?”

You let out a laugh and drop your forehead down and bury it in his chest to hide the blush on your cheeks. Your palm falls from his face to his collarbone, gripping his shoulder as best you can. Midoriya joins you in laughter, tucking his nose into the crown of your head so he can plant kisses into your hair. He is always so soft and kind with you, especially in these moments after you’ve been conjoined by the hips for hours on end, your heart beating in time with his as you lay pressed flush against one another. There are moments when you are a cage of limbs and you do not know where he ends and you begin, but you wouldn’t want it any other way.

“Seeing you all roughed up just does something to me, I dunno!” You tilt your head back so you can look him in the eye, “I like knowing that you can handle yourself, and each scar has a story and we’ve been together for years and I still don’t think I’ve heard them all.”

It looks like there is something on his mind, with the way his face tenses up as soon as you stop laughing together. You rub your ankle against his calf and force him to look you in the eyes with a gentle nudging of your knuckle against his jawline, “Hey, what’re you thinking?”

Izuku is not normally speechless or lacking in things to say. In fact, more often than not, you have to gently place your hand on his shoulder to remind him that everyone can hear his loud mutterings, or that sometimes there are more appropriate times to speak your mind. This time, his tongue lolls around within his cheeks as he tries to come up with the right thing to say. The pattering of your heart grows faster the longer he is silenced, your pulse thudding like thunder in your ears as you anticipate what could possibly be plaguing his mind at a time like this.

Your thumb brushes against a scar near his ear and he circles his fingers around your wrist, “Would you still love me if I didn’t have them? If my skin was perfect, like Kacchan or Todoroki?”

“First of all, Todoroki has a big ass scar on his face, so jot that down,” you tease, pushing yourself up to kiss him square on the lips. You pull away from him but not entirely, still brushing your nose along the bridge of his cheeks, “And Bakugou has a stupid quirk that gives him great skin, so he’s an awful example.”

Midoriya rolls his eyes and shoves your hand away from his face, sitting up even further so you fall away from him, curling yourself into the sheets. His countenance looks overly contemplative, and it’s beginning to worry you. You sit up in the bed, grabbing his shirt off the nightstand to cover yourself with, tossing it over your head with ease. The fabric pools at your waist but it smells intoxicating, just like him, his warmth from earlier in the night somehow still sticking to the fabric to provide you comfort.

“You know what I mean,” he grits his teeth, unable to look at you as he poses the question, “I-I just…I wonder if you love them more than you love me, sometimes, is all.”

It does not take long for you to redirect his attention back to you, turning his face with a rough yank of your wrist. You look him in the eyes, and he is but a broken little boy in this moment, begging for you to piece him back together.

The thought that he is nothing more than patchwork put back together by the scars on his body makes you feel hollow inside. How can a man who has given up so much feel like so small in a moment of pure reflection? Does he not see all the good he brings to the world, and yet how little it ever dares to give back to him?

“Izuku Midoriya,” your voice is stern, and you watch as he bolsters his spine as if he were talking to a Pro Hero, “I would love you if your whole body was covered in scars or if you had perfect skin. Why would you say something like that?”

Before he can give you some long-winded answer, you throw a leg across his lap so you’re straddling him and he has nowhere to run to, nowhere to divert his attention. Your palms are on his face, cupping his cheeks and making sure to look him dead in the eyes as you give him a dose of the truth. Still, you fear your words may not be enough to satiate his wounded pride, his blistered ego.

“When I look at you, I see how much the universe has stolen from you, how much of your body the world has taken, and how everyone else just takes you for granted.” Your voice grows heavier with each word, the threat of tears sitting in your eyelids, making your face warm. “I see a man who, time and time again, gives everything up to save the world, and all it does in return is take.”

You intake a short breath, trying to calm yourself because this is his moment to ache until his heart feels like it might burst out of his chest. Now it is your job to soothe his burning soul with the salve of your reassurance, mending his inner turmoil with a metaphoric touch that you pray can seep into the cracks of his resolve until he’s full once more.

Brushing his hair away from his face, you lean in closer so you can speak softly, “You once called them ugly. I think that every single scar is a reminder of something that happened in the past. I love to hear your stories of how you got them, each heroic act displayed on your body like a little lightning bolt of truth.”

A sigh parts your lips and you drop your gaze to his chest, finding the familiar ridges of flayed skin easily. You lick your lip and trace your thumb over a few of them, relishing in the quiet moments before you have to speak again.

“I don’t love your scars, I love you.” You press your palms flat to his chest so you can cover the expanse of his pectorals beneath your hands, the heel of your palm against the swell of his chest, “I would ask you for all of your stories even if I never touched a single scar, even if I never saw one. I’d ask you because I want to know you.”

Your hands travel north towards his neck, delicately roaming over the thin skin of his throat before winding into the hair at the back of his head, “I’m so fascinated by them because I want you to know that I don’t think any less of you for them, that I don’t believe you to be weak just because you’re marked by your experiences. If anything, I think it’s beautiful, that you’ve been given this burden like Atlas, to carry around the weight of each on one your shoulders.

“But even though it’s beautiful, that does not mean that it’s right,” your voice turns cold, hard and jagged as you speak through your teeth, “How much more can you be expected to give? Does the universe not see what it’s done to you? What it’s asking of you to continue doing? I just can’t imag-oh.”

His mouth is on yours in an instant, his hands traveling up your spine beneath your shirt, palming at the skin of your shoulders. Izuku nips your lower lip and you are melting in his touch like always, “I love you.”

You tilt your head, gasping as he starts down the column of your neck, biting kisses in a warm, wet line as he descends. You echo out the sentiment in return, barely able to make out syllables with the salacious way his lips and tongue are working at your skin. Your hands twist in his hair and he pulls you flush with him so he can nudge the collar of the shirt aside to show your collarbones the same attention as your neck.

“Oh!” you pipe up, your voice hardly more than a squeak, “And I love your freckles too. They’re so cute and I love how they’re literally everywhere, even your dic-”

“Less talking,” Izuku takes you by surprise, tackling you back into the mattress, “more kissing.”

And you happily oblige.

Besides, you have the rest of your life to tell him how much you love his freckles.

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a/n: all right. that’s it. never writing deku fic EVER again. phew. kacchan, please don’t be mad, honey, it was for a friend, i swear!!!!!

also it’s almost 4 am when i’m posting this so if the last section doesn’t make sense i’m sORRY!!!

taglist:

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the-peachpit · 4 years ago

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How I Fell In Love Three Ways

Ship: Shorter / (Y/N)

Warnings: None

Summary:

Of course it decides to the first day on your vacation to cap cod. Shorter as always shows you how to make the most of any situation. You remember all the times you've fallen in love with the mafia boss.

The thunder rolled over the hills; the air was full of static. You knew it would rain since yesterday, you could feel it in your bones with the chill of the wind that raced through the grass where you laid. Cape Cod was the first place you felt the change of the weather so strongly. In New York it felt like it was either summer or winter. You had missed the subtle divides of the world as it spun and changed. Spring was making a mark you’d never smelled before. Laying in the grass you waited watching intently as the clouds darkened turning the late afternoon into an early evening.

Another long roll of thunder shook your core as a hand reaches over warm and reassuring. Turning your head to the side you’re greeted with glittering dark eyes slanted in the corners pulled into a bright smile. Suddenly the sun was back.

“Trust me,” He whispered through the tall blades of grass.

You trust him with your life.

You nod unable to say just that.

Shorter Wong was one adventure after another, a gang leader who you’d never guess had the stomach for it. Though it wasn’t for him, but for the good of China Town, at least that’s what he told you and himself. When he asked you to come with him and his friends to an old house you didn’t even hesitate. If he asked you to jump from the cliff you just might.

“Here it comes,” Shorter’s voice was raised in excitement.

You braced yourself as the first drop fell, it was warmer than you expected on your skin. It started gradually before becoming a blanket of rain falling steadily against your body. Shorters laugh cut through the thunder as it growled low. His face towards the sky, his eyes closed as his chest raised towards the angry clouds above taking it all in. He was beautiful, and this was it, the fourth time you’d fallen in love with Shorter Wong and his patience with the world. Letting it all fall as he embraced it rolling with the waves. The rain itself couldn’t drown him, or quench the fireworks blooming in your chest.

The first time you had fallen in love with Shorters patience was simple. Getting home from work you saw Eji pacing around the kitchen while Shorter sat at the table in the corner looking intently. Eji was upset about something wringing his hands together as he talked quickly about his bad day at work. Slipping back into Japanese on occasion until he noticed you standing in the doorway shocked. Seeing Eji agitated wasn’t a normal occurrence. Sheepishly you closed the door and walked past while Eji groaned and rattled on. You paused on the stairs straining to listen.

“Now she’s going to think I’m” he paused huffing, “Damn it what’s the word? Not all together?”

‘Crazy,’ was the first word to pop into your head. You noticed Shorter hadn’t said a word as Eji worked it out before snapping his fingers.

“Crazy!” Eji shouted.

“(Y/N) isn’t going to think that,” Shorter assured him, “You had a rough day, it happens.”

As Eji continued on his rant you noticed Shorter never just fed him the words he wanted, never interrupted. Eji was free to express his feelings with no rush. You smiled as you continued up the stairs to your room. It was the first time you took note of Shorter’s firecracker personality taking a back seat. He was careful to listen thoroughly to Eji, giving genuine responses. That night while you laid on the couch playing on your phone, you didn’t miss the way Eji hummed while cooking dinner.

The second time you fell in love with Shorters patience was a rush six months later. The end of a roof party. The stars were sparkling while you dimmed the string lights strung along a small section of the roof patio. People were starting to filter out as midnight was on the horizon minutes from striking. The atmosphere had changed and Shorter who had controlled the music most of the night- playing all of his personal favorite party mixes- played something soft and slow. You yawned starting down the stairs with plates in your hand telling yourself you’d let them soak overnight and worry about them in the morning. Reaching into the pocket of your summer dress you realized you’d left your phone upstairs on the table. With a loud groan you trekked back up the stairs pausing at the top.

A wimped made you freeze holding the door open praying it wouldn’t creak. Sitting on the couch looking out over the city Ash’s golden hair was squished against Shorter’s shoulder. Shorter had his arm loosely draped over the back of the couch.

“I still think about it,” Ash said before swigging a beer, “Worried it’s not over, that we’re not really safe.”

“It’s been four years,” Shorter replied.

“Then why am I not over it!” Ash sat up straight.

Shorter’s hand moved to the middle of Ash’s shoulders rubbing gently, “No one expects you to be over it.”

You knew Ash had a rough past, something everyone but you seemed to be around for, for the most part. He doesn’t talk about it, basically pretends it doesn’t exist. You’ve seen Eji rewrite stories from the past on the spot when Ash is around to erase any bad events. Listening in felt wrong, but your curiosity of Ash had skyrocketed for years.

Ash screamed pulling you from your thoughts making your body shiver. His voice was broken as he shouted into the night sky over the honking of cars below. Shorter was a quiet comfort.

Feeling as if you had intruded slowly you let the door click close. It wasn’t supposed to rain, you could go without your phone that night. You never said a word to Ash or Shorter about what you saw that night. Keeping it to yourself felt right, but the next morning when you woke up with your phone next to you and Shorter doing the dishes with a goofy smile your heart did a flip.

The third and most recent time you’d fallen in love with Shorter was right before the trip. Sing wanted to go; Sing always wanted to tag along. No one was against him joining and you assumed it had been decided Sing was coming. Until you heard a familiar groan while you were taking a basket full of laundry to the basement. Peeking around the corner of the doorframe to the kitchen you saw Sing with his head down on the table.

“I have no idea how to write this,” he groaned.

Shorter was slicing an apple at the counter, “Tell me the prompt again, and we’ll think of something.”

Sing had recently started going back to school letting the whole gang thing take a seat on the back burner. It wasn’t easy and took a whole lot of convincing on Shorter’s part. The discussion had taken place on day on accident- it was totally your fault and Sing wouldn’t let you forget it.

Shorter and Sing came home early from the restaurant and caught you dancing in the living room. Shorter joked about your terrible dance moves and you rolled your eyes.

“Ha ha, Sing can tell you these moves are in. He probably sees them at school dances all the time.”

“As if,” Sing scoffed.

You put your hands on your hips, “I should have known you weren’t a school dance guy.”

Shorter put his hand on the back of his neck looking towards the floor, “Sing uh doesn’t go to school.”

“Oh,” You felt your cheeks flush in embarrassment.

“Why would I need school?” Sing snorted, “I’ve already got a job.”

You shrugged, “You don’t need it, you’re a smart kid Sing. You’ve had great mentors, and the restaurant is great work. It does open more opportunities though, just in case you find yourself wanting to do something different.”

Sing pulled the juice from the fridge, “Sounds like a waste of time to me. I don’t plan on getting too old.”

“Sing,” Shorter’s voice was deep and gruff.

Sing took a long chug from his glass.

Later that night Shorter paced around the bedroom biting his nails as you brushed your teeth peeking from around the frame.

You spat the toothpaste into the sink, “You doing okay?”

Shorter sighed laying back across the bed, “I’m bummed out about Sing. He’s fucking fourteen.” He ran his fingers over his face, “He’s a hot headed know it all who hasn’t realized he’s in over his head. I hate the way he said he didn’t plan on being around long. What kid acknowledges death at 14?”

You walked to the bed sitting next to Shorter gently lacing your fingers through his, “Then talk to him about it. Tell him he should seriously consider doing more.” Shorter kissed your knuckles gently, “I can’t go all authority on Sing, we’ve always been equals.”

“Maybe it’s time to be a different kind of role model for him.”

Shorter looked at the ceiling his dark eyes on focused and his brow wrinkled in thought. You didn’t bring it up again.

A week later Sing was upset with you calling you names accusing you of brainwashing Shorter. Shorter ran into the living room making Sing leave in a stern tone you didn’t hear often from Shorter. It was official Sing was going to try going to school and Shorter was going to help him all the way.

Shorter’s determination to give Sing a better life that didn’t revolve around violence seemed like a no brainier, nothing to get mushy over, but you knew it was a cycle. It was so easy to keep gangs as a family business. Had Shorter not been Shorter Sing could have inherited the gang, if he lasted that long. There was too much bloodshed in New York they didn’t need to add to it much longer.

“(Y/N),” Your name slid off Shorters’ tongue as graceful as the wind snapping you back into this moment.

You were captivated the purple mohawk now flat laying to the side drenched in the spring rain. This moment could have lasted for eternity, and you would accept your fate, to never leave the gaze of a lover that swallowed your heart whole.

“Shorter! (Y/N)!” An outside voice cut through the storm, “You two are going to catch a cold!”

Shorter rolled his eyes dramatically before sitting up, “That’s a myth Eji!” He called back towards the house.

“We shouldn’t worry him,” Your voice sounded small stolen away.

Getting up you attempted to wipe the grass off your ass as if you weren’t drowning standing up. The storm had picked up the wind threatening to rip you off the ground. A warm arm slung across your shoulders, warm and grounding. You let yourself lean into Shorter as his other arm wrapped around the small of your back pulling you into a hug. It felt like nothing could shake you.

Lifting your head you looked up at Shorter smiling as if he’d never known a pain or struggle, as if he’d never feared or hurt, smiling for you. Standing on your tip toes you kissed Shorter surprising the man who always surprised you knowing that you would find new reasons to love him for the rest of your life.

#shorter wong #shorter x reader #banana fish #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #ash lynx #ash x eiji #haikyuu!!

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legends-live-in-memories · 4 years ago

Text

“How Did All This Happen?”- A Memoire by one Marinette Dupain-Cheng 5

hi. im back. after slightly longer than usual (my usual was like everyday, not happening again) i have returned. :) this update is also slightly longer than usual too but who complains about that?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 6

without further ado

Did Marinette Miss Her Own Wedding? I

Constantine was having a horrible time, as far as Marinette could tell. His phone kept ringing, which he was pointedly ignoring, and he looked more and more frustrated as he skimmed through one of his many grimoires. He was also very sober. Maybe that had something to do with it.

After Marinette’s little excursion out with Plagg the previous night, Constantine joined her and her grandfather and explained the lore behind the Renlings and what they were capable of. Marinette was already over it. It’s one thing to be magical guardians of one set magical gods, but animal spirits that transform the wielder into the respective animal is borderline ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. And Constantine wants her to find them. Why not the Justice League? Or their team of proteges? Well, apparently, Constantine has a healthy distrust of the Justice League and magic they are unfamiliar with. Something about a mystical house no longer existing because somebody was suspicious. They fucked around and found out, as Plagg so eloquently put it. She didn’t know how she felt about aiding Constantine in his paranoia.

Anyways, Marinette was now Constantine’s go-to whenever he wanted to keep things away from the JL. She would have said no like a reasonable person, but she was at least getting more magical training and could actually use some of the spells in the Miraculous grimoire. Speaking of which, the grimoire that Constantine was hunching over was supposed to help them in finding the other Prodigiouses. The Kwamis were surprisingly unhelpful as they have never heard of the Prodigiouses or Renlings.

After what could have been hours of grueling translating and spellwork, Constantine had finally figured out the location of the eight total Renlings and what their prodigiouses looked like. While Marinette and Master Fu began scheming appropriate retrieval plans, Constantine went to answer his many missed calls.

“What?!” Well that sounded concerning. Constantine looked ready to pull his hair out from scalp with tweezers. Whatever news he just received must have been awful for him to lose his composure like this. Good.

“You lot are planning to do what now?” Oh, was this JL business? Should Marinette be listening to this, albeit one-sided, conversation?

“And why do you all need to do this?”

“Don’t give me that attitude. I’m working on something important.”

“Yes it is important, Zatanna. Please don’t let that group of League Juniors do this.”

“You even got me saying ‘please.’ No I can not tell you why”

“Well what do you mean you can’t trust me?!” This was starting to sound serious. The popcorn that Wayzz brought was also making this ten times more entertaining.

“Zatanna-” Oh he got cut off. Serves him right.

“Fine, be that way.” Constantine forcefully ended the call and was pouting like a child.

Marinette didn’t know if she should ask anything but she had the feeling it was related to the prodigiouses and tracking them. Were the League getting involved? It would explain his desperation to not have them interfere.

“I can’t believe them.” Looks like Marinette didn’t have to make the decision after all. He was going to rant about it.

“What can’t you believe, Constantine?” Her grandfather appeared equally as curious.

“The Team are going to try and track down the prodigiouses. Luckily, they only think there are five rather than eight.” He paused to run his hands through his already disheveled hair. “I don’t know which five they’re tracking. Also, they probably know you have the Snake’s Fang.”

“Pardon?” Marinette doesn’t know what she would do if she was on the Justice League’s most wanted.

“Zatanna didn’t outright say it, but Kobra probably told them it was taken from him. That’s probably how they knew about the others too. Thanks for that.”

“First of all, I didn’t even know what these things were so don’t blame me. Second of all, this could have all been avoided if you just told them!” Marinette did not appreciate the blame being put on her for the League’s involvement. She wasn’t done ripping Constantine a new one yet either. “Especially considering the fact that you knew that their secondary team had a mission there. UN rules or not. But no! You wanted to keep all your magical secrets to yourself. So don’t blame me for the consequences of your own actions.” She was fuming at this point, probably overreacting, but she was tired of cleaning up after people who won’t so much as thank her.

The ensuing silence was deafening and eyes that weren’t on Marinette were on Constantine. He looked rather surprised at Marinette’s show of spine, probably forgetting that she was born and raised in the League of Shadows. He never will again if he keeps pushing his luck.

Fu cleared his throat, probably clogged from the awkward tension. “Well, now that that’s all dealt with, do you know what your next move is Constantine? Do we actively hinder the League for the sake of your own peace of mind or do you talk to them and work collaboratively with them?”

Constantine, who was still doing his best fish impersonation since Marinette—no, Mei Fu—dragged him for everything he’s worth, tried to string together an answer.

“I still think it’s best we don’t involve the Justice League with this. We should try to intervene and cut off their attempts of retrieving the prodigiouses.” He sounded like a child trying to convince their parents that they didn’t break the expensive vase. Very pitiful and very unconvincing.

“Fine.” Pardon? Did her grandfather just agree? “We’ll help you keep the prodigiouses and the Renlings away from the Justice League.” Wow. Okay. So he’s just agreeing with him. Three guesses as to who will actually be the one to retrieve them. Wonderful.

Groaning with the weight of a thousand suns, Marinette also voiced her consent. The Kwamis were silent throughout this, not expressing their opinions. Except for Trixx, who had periodically rolled his eyes so hard Marinette would have been concerned he had popped a few blood vessels, if he had any.

They spent the rest of the week planning and convincing her parents that she wasn’t in danger with her grandfather. They agreed that Marinette would retrieve the Dragon’s Claw first. Despite Brazil being closer, the Monkey’s tail would be harder to find in the dense forestry so they didn’t want to waste time on an extended search until much later.

If you were to ask Marinette, the week was not enough to prepare. She made arrangements to stay with the Tsurugi family and convinced Kagami to help her in the mission. Her mother would be providing them with non-miraculous weapons as a back-up. Lady Tomoe was too understanding of her daughter being a magic-wielding superhero in Marinette’s opinion. Not one to look a gifted horse in the mouth, Marinette did not make any comments about the very impressive artillery of weapons. She chose a pair of double broadswords while Kagami stuck to a katana. Kagami also had the Dragon and the Ladybug prepared while Marinette stuck to the Tiger and Horse. Plagg didn’t want to miss out on the action and planned to tag along again. Wayzz made an off-handed comment about Plagg’s sixth sense for chaos and his recent desire to accompany Marinette on these missions. Overthinking whatever that was supposed to mean had cost Marinette six hours of sleep.

While everything had been physically prepared, Marinette had yet to cope with the whole ‘going behind the backs of the Justice League because Constantine was paranoid’ thing. But this will not be the worst thing she has done. She also has the godsend, Kagami, to pull her out of any impending mental spirals. Now all that’s left is to actually get the Dragon’s Claw.

According to Constantine, the Dragon’s Claw was located inside the dojo of a martial arts master, O Sensei. Kagami, to be referred to as Tonbo, meaning Dragonfly, was to guard the perimeter for any individuals who could get in the way, while Marinette, codenamed Tigerlily with this combination of miraculouses, was to find the Dragon’s Claw, camouflaged by the tiger miraculous, and teleport them both back out. It was simple enough in planning and should be simple enough in execution. Even if the sensei of the dojo was to be made aware of their presence, They were expecting the element of surprise to give them an advantage. You know, outside of Marinette’s assassin training. So, yeah the plan was simple.

Except for the part where a group of the young Justice League heroes were already there negotiating with whom she assumed was O sensei. She recognized Kid Flash, Robin and Nightwing. The two women with them were unfamiliar. She also found the Dragon’s Claw in the sensei’s hand. She was positioned on a tree branch looking into a window in the room. If she timed this right, she could grab the necklace and portal out of the room to Tonbo and then portal back to the Tsurugi residence. That plan carries the risk of being seen but the pay-off should be worth it.

Poised to leap from the branch, Tigerlily steadied her breathing and prepared to call on the Horse’s Voyage. Still camouflaged, she jumped through the window and summoned the portal, about to grab for the necklace. Except she grabbed nothing and was suspended in the air.

Who she knew now was Ms. Martian was using her telekinetic abilities to suspend her. Kid Flash sped his way over and quickly tied her, the contact breaking the camouflage charm. They must have figured she would appear at one of the locations eventually and planned a contingency plan for her appearance. The martian hasn’t read her mind yet, so maybe they thought she was non-hostile. That thought wouldn’t last long however as Tonbo emerged from the portal and, using the Flame Dragon, took down Ms. Martian. Tigerlily used the distraction to undo the bindings and get in a fighting stance. Nightwing and Robin were protecting O sensei while Kid Flash and the other woman charged at the two.

Kid Flash was circling the two faster and tighter, corralling them together. Tigerlily drew for her broadswords and slashed the old floor boards. Kicking them in Kid Flash’s path, she knocked him off balance and thumped him the back of the head with the butt of her blade, knocking him down. Tonbo called for her Storm Dragon to subdue her opponent, who was also knocked down, then strung up both with the Ladybug yoyo. Tigerlily began a steady approach to the two batboys. She was ready to attack first but Nightwing got the upper hand. He drew his escrima sticks and swiped for Tigerlily’s head. She blocked with one sword and jump kicked to his chest, missing him entirely as he had crouched to sweep her legs from underneath her. Rolling out of the fall, Tigerlily slashed for his rising back but he intercepted with his other stick. He turned to face her and barrelled his full strength into her. They crashed into the nearby wall and at a standstill.

Tonbo was caught in a clash of katanas with Robin, neither side giving way to the other. If Tigerlily was more conscious of their fight than her own, she would have noticed familiar fighting techniques that were ingrained in her since birth. Alas, her attention was on the blue bird in front of her. Using his force that kept her against the wall, She double kicked him in the chest, forcing him away. Robin and Tonbo had broken away from each other and Tonbo aimed to stab Nightwing in the leg. Nonfatally of course, she wasn’t an ex-assassin as far as Tigerlily knew. Right?

Anyways, her attack switched up the fight as now Tigerlily tried to dodge under Robin's incoming blade. Sliding on her knees, she reached to where O sensei was situated with the Dragon’s Claw. Frustrated with the night’s turn of events and forgetting all sense of pleasantries, Tigerlily tried to grab for the necklace. The business end of a katana was swiftly placed under her jaw. One wrong move meant game over.

“What do you want with the Dragon’s Claw?” Robin sounded like he was holding back from saying something.

“An acquaintance of mine wishes for you all to not have it. I am merely doing him a favor, Tweety Bird.” Where did that nickname come from? She must have been internally catastrophizing more than she thought she was if she was actually trying to flirt her way out of this. Tonbo’s exasperation was made loud and clear with that answering sigh.

“Flattery gets you nowhere, Mei.” Robin’s arm twitched at that.

“Wait, you know her?” “You know him?” Nightwing’s and Tonbo’s voices overlapped but Tigerlily registered none of it as her ears were ringing with spiked emotions she thought she had buried years ago. Only a few people knew her by that name. Kagami, Chloe, Luka and Adrien were the only people outside of the League of Shadows who knew her by that name. Even then, there was only one person her age with the Shadows who knew her. But it couldn’t be him. He was supposed to be dead. There was no way in hell that the Boy Wonder holding a katana to her throat was—

“Damian?!”

Taglist:

@deathwishy @neakco @virtualreading @f-rget-lt @your-resident-chicken-nugget @nathleigh @toodaloo-kangaroo @irontimetravelflower @trippingovermyfeet @t1dwarrior-of-earth @tip-tap-tired @fidget-eep @thenillabean @officiallydarkgeek @mystery-5-5 @moonlightstar64 @just-an-observer-ignore-me @nightstarblue @certainmuffinbagelcalzone @fan-written @jjmjjktth @vixen-uchiha @zorua-adorable @nnon-it-up

#maribat #mlb x dc #daminette #badass!marinette dupain cheng #maridami #hdath #if you asked to be on the taglist but arent there let me know #hehehehe #i forgot to proofread oops #no beta we die like jason

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cozy-the-overlord · 4 years ago

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Dances and Daggers

Summary: The Summer Festival is upon Asgard, as is the tradition of the dagger ceremony, where each unmarried gentleman chooses a lady to bestow with the honor of carrying his dagger for the night. As Prince Thor’s betrothed, Teki’s only goal is to accept his dagger with grace and hope that her violent stepfather doesn’t find fault with her in the process. But Prince Thor is unpredictable, and when he ignores his engagement on a whim Teki finds herself in a desperate situation. Luckily, Thor isn’t the only prince in Asgard…

Pairing: Loki x Original Female Character

Chapter 14: The Reckoning

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Word Count: 2,438

Chapter Summary: With Loki gone, Teki finds herself reaching a breaking point.

A/N: I’m sorry.

This chapter includes depictions of violence.

Thanks for reading!

TW: Graphic violence, child abuse

Tags: @lucywrites02 @gaitwae @moumouton4 @berriemalfoy @whatafuckingdumbass

if you want to be tagged, feel free to just send me an ask/message! :)

Read it on Ao3!

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Somehow, Teki managed to return to her rooms, although she didn’t remember how—she was fairly certain the Queen had offered to escort her back, but she wasn’t sure if she actually had or not. Perhaps she was in shock, or perhaps her mother’s training to keep a mannerly expression was rooted deeper than she realized, but some way or another Teki made it back to her bedroom before she completely fell apart.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. She sobbed into the front of her dress, the words circling her head in an endless chant. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair.

He was the only person she had, the only person she could talk to, the only person who would listen. He was the only place were she could smile, where she could stretch out and actually breathe instead of suffocating all alone laced into a crimson dress. He was the only person in her life that didn’t have to care about her and somehow the only person who did.

And they had taken him away.

It was clear that her mother and Osvald had known about it. The dressmaker debacle made sense now—it was all planned, to keep her and Loki from protesting until it was too late. That night, Teki face down on her bed, hiccupping into her pillow, listening them whispering outside her door.

“It’s a good thing,” her mother was saying. “Even with her throwing a fit about it. I’m glad the King agreed. He was just mucking everything up.”

Teki turned her head to the wall, staring but not seeing. Empty vials of poison danced across her vision.

Was Daddy mucking everything up too, Mama?

She was still sniffling that night when her door creaked open just a crack.

“Teki?” Brant’s voice was hushed, uncertain. “Can I sleep with you?”

She quickly wiped her cheeks, humming in quiet affirmation as she grasped for her responsible voice. “Did you have a bad dream?”

Ever since he had learned to walk, Brant had been sneaking into her room at night, fleeing his bed and the snarling creatures he was certain lurked in the darkness. He had only stopped this a few months ago, after Osvald found them curled up together one morning and spent breakfast ranting on about how Teki was turning his son into a recreant.

But tonight, Brant shook his head as he crawled under her covers.

She frowned. “Then what’s wrong?”

He stared up at her with wide eyes that glistened in the faint moonlight coming in from the window.

“You’re sad,” he said.

Oh, Brant. Teki pulled him close, and he hugged her back. She rested her cheek against his sandy hair. It was nice to have somebody to hold on to.

“Yes, I’m sad right now,” she murmured. “But it’s going to be okay. I promise. I’ll be fine.”

“I have to take care of you,” he whispered solemnly. “Prince Loki told me I’m s’posed to.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Prince Loki?” she asked. “When did he tell you that?”

“He came while you and Mama were gone. He said they were sending him away and he had to talk to you. He said he’d be learning more magic things, so when he came back he’d be able to give me wings.”

Teki bit her lip. She wondered what he would’ve said, had he managed to get to her before they sent him off. She thought of the day of the Games, hidden away in the healer’s tent.

I don’t want you to marry my brother.

Next to her, Brant inhaled.“Teki?” he asked slowly, as if he were afraid to put the thought to words.“Do you think you could maybe marry Prince Loki instead?”

There was a lump in her throat as she pushed his bangs out of his face. “No,” she sighed. “It has to be Thor.” Saying out loud only made the cords around her heart pull tighter.

“I like Loki better,” he whispered, barely a breath.

Teki stared into the nighttime shadows. “So do I.”

Suddenly, Brant grinned through the darkness. "We could run away!” he hissed excitedly. “Prince Loki says there's secret tunnels all over Yggdrasil. We could go through one and meet Loki in Vanaheim!"

"Brant." She hadn't heard that one before, but it sounded like something the prince would tell her brother. Teki felt very tired. "That's just a story. They're aren't any secret tunnels."

"Yes there are! He told me where— I put them on my map!" He sat up, readying to crawl off the bed. "I'll show you!"

Teki pulled him back. She wished she had his steadfast belief in everything-- in magic wings and secret tunnels and happily ever after. As it was, all she could do was hold him closer. "It wouldn't work," she said. "They'd follow us and take us back. It wouldn't work."

For a moment, Brant seemed completely deflated, but then he perked up once again. “If I change my wish, do you think he could make it happen?” he asked excitedly. “Instead of the wings?”

Something about his face, the way hope seemed to radiate from his smile, crushed her even more.

“No,” she whispered. “Nothing’s going to change.”

…

The next week was less of a continuous period of time and more like a string of actions that looped over and over again. She dressed. She played piano for Frigga. She picked halfheartedly at her food. She waited for Thor to ask her to dance, then waited for him to move on once he had. She fell asleep to the empty throbbing of her heart.

Rinse and repeat.

Sometimes at night, she’d pull Loki’s dagger from its sheath and stared at her reflection in the polished blade, running her hands over the golden snakes on the hilt and wondering what he was doing. He had said he had always wanted to study in Vanaheim. She wondered if he was enjoying it. She hoped he was. Somehow, the thought that he was just as miserable worlds away from her as she was here made Teki feel even worse.

Her mother tolerated her gloom for a bit, but by the end of the week it was clear she was ready to move on.

“I had an idea!” she announced one day after barging into her room without warning. Teki had barely any time to shove the dagger into her nightstand drawer, but luckily her mother didn’t seem to notice her scrambling. “You know those little white cakes you love, that they make for the Winter Festival? I was thinking that perhaps we could convince the chefs to make an early batch. We’re nearing fall after all, and I can’t imagine that they’d refuse a request from the Crown Prince’s bethrothed!”

Teki mumbled a nondescript reply. Speaking to her mother—even looking at her—had suddenly become one of the most difficult tasks throughout the day. She avoided it when she could.

“Or, perhaps the three of us could take a day trip to the countryside! Remember that little cove we visited when Brant was a baby?”

When Teki didn’t even bother to answer this time, her mother huffed indignantly. “Tekla, I am trying here. You can’t just sit and mope in your bedroom forever.”

“Why did you marry Osvald?” Teki asked suddenly. It had been a question that had clung to her like a shadow for the last few days, Loki’s words rattling in her head. Your mother had a plethora of other options. Why Osvald? Of all people?

For a moment, her mother was stunned into silence. She laughed nervously. “Well, your stepfather and I met, and we got along very well, and we felt that we liked each other very much—”

“I don’t believe you.” The Teki of last month—the Teki of last week—would have fainted at the thought of such bitter words, but now she didn’t even flinch.

Her face darkened into a deep scowl. “What do you mean you don’t believe me?”

She should’ve stopped there, but the simmering resentment that had been bubbling within her for so long had just found a vent.

“Why did you really marry him?” she snapped. “What did he do to get you to marry him?”

“Stop!” her mother snapped. “I’ve had enough of this from you! You’ve had your time to sulk, now we have appearences to maintain.” She stormed from the room, only pausing briefly in the doorway to spit one threat. “If you won’t listen to me, then perhaps you should have a talk with your stepfather.”

The door slammed as she left. Teki sat in silence as the vibrations echoed in her eardrums. She had the sudden urge to scream—just to scream, at the top of her lungs until the windows shattered and the very foundations of the palace shook—but she swallowed it.

…

It came to a head the next day. She had just taken Brant for a walk in the gardens—his idea, as he insisted that looking at flowers always made people feel better. It had been sweet sentiment, and Teki tried her best to smile for him as they strolled past the lake, hoping that her brother didn’t realize that the sparkling water only reminded her more of Loki.

When they returned to their apartment, Osvald was waiting just inside. His cold glare immediately screamed trouble, but it wasn’t until she realized what it was that he was holding that Teki’s chest turned to ice.

“I found your little hiding spot.” His voice was low and dangerous as he tapped her father’s journal against his other hand.

Teki didn’t say anything. She watched the journal swing up and down against his palm, hypnotized by the soft beat of worn leather against skin. Besides her, Brant whimpered, gripping her hand more tightly. She didn’t move. Something kept her frozen in place, but it wasn’t the usual chill of fear. No, a single thought broke through the fog in her mind as she watched her only physical memory of her father dance in Osvald’s hands.

How dare you.

“You stole from us,” he continued. “You went through your mother’s things and you stole from us.”

“I didn’t steal anything.” She felt Brant stiffen at her words. You didn’t talk back to Osvald. They both knew this. They both knew what would happen if you did. But the fire blazing within burned through her caution.

Osvald was seemed taken aback by her bitterness, but he recovered quickly. “No?” He stalked closer to her, waving the journal in her face. “You’re lying to me now? Is this what I’ve raised? A filthy, lying little thief?”

“I didn’t steal anything,” she repeated. Every instinct in her body was screaming at her to drop her gaze, but she held her glare into his glittering eyes. How dare you. “That book is my father’s. It belongs to me.”

His scowl deepened. “I am your father. And I will not tolerate this behavior—”

“You’ll never be my father.”

She cried out when his fist crashed into her abdomen, doubling over as pain exploded across her ribcage and air rushed from her mouth. Her stepfather grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her backwards, slamming into the door. Colors splashed across her vision as her head smacked against the wood. Before she could completely lose her balance, Osvald yanked her up by the front of her dress.

“You think you’re tough, don’t you?” he hissed, throwing her back to the floor. Somewhere in the background, Brant was sobbing. “Brave little bitch.” His boot collided with her chest. Teki’s pained scream almost drowned out the sickening crack from her ribs. His foot came down again.

Her chest was on fire.

Teki coughed as she struggled to shield her abdomen, the taste of blood metallic and heavy on the back of her throat. He kicked her again, crashing against her lower back. When she gasped for her next breath, it felt like burning coals rushing down her airways.

“You never seem to learn, do you?” he snapped. She braced herself for the next blow, but instead her stepfather cursed.

Painfully, she craned her neck just enough to see her little brother pulling at Osvald’s arm. “Stop it!” he cried, tears running down his cheeks. “Get away from her!”

No—

Teki fought to get up but her limbs weren’t working properly, everything was throbbing, she couldn’t move, she couldn’t breathe—

Brant shrieked in pain, a horrible screech that cut Teki to her very core. The room shook as a body hit the floor, Osvald growling words that she couldn’t hear over the pounding of her heart.

Get away him from Brant—get him away from Brant—

Her brother lay lifeless on the ground, Osvald towering over him like some malevolent spirit about to feast. Teki wasn’t sure how she made it to her feet, but once she did, she flung herself at her stepfather with the last shreds of strength she could muster.

He must not have been expecting her to move, because when she collided with him her meager effort was enough to send both of them tumbling to the ground. Her body howled as they hit the hard wood. She had barely enough time to gulp for air before Osvald had her pinned to the floor.

“Is that the game you want to play, you fucking cunt?” he snarled, his hand a vice around her neck. Teki thrashed against his grasp, but he only pounded her head against the floorboards. “Is this what you fucking wanted?”

She couldn’t breathe. Teki clawed at his hand in a panic as she battled for air, scanty gasps that were rewarded with a tighter grip.

She couldn’t breathe!

“Please!” she choked as his wild eyes bored into her. Her vision was going white around the edges. “Please!”

Osvald didn’t budge.

He’s going to kill me.

Tears flooded the corners of her eyes, running down the sides of her head.

Dead dead dead dead dead dead—

Please! she screamed in her head, for her voice no longer worked. Please! Mama! Norns! Somebody!

But it was only Osvald, panting down at her with eyes as black as Hel—

I don’t want to die!

Only Osvald, sneering mouth twisted in laughter because he knew no one else was coming—

… please …

But there was nothing. Even her stepfather dissolved into a million bits of sparkling glitter as Teki faded away into the white abyss.

#loki x ofc #loki marvel #loki fanfic #dances and daggers #dances and daggers chapter 14 #the reckoning

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the-most-slytherin-hufflepuff · 4 years ago

Text

Open your eyes (Chapter 1)

And the madness begins Here you go peeps chapter 1. I’m posting it now because I probably won’t have time during the weekend. I loved writing this one and I hope you enjoy it. Credit for the characters goes to @lumosinlove.

There are mentions of blood and injury in this chapter

@clearsuitcasecookienerd I think you asked me to tag you but i can’t remember so I’m tagging you anyway :))

Masterlist

Remus was going to murder Finn. He read over the letter one more time to check if he hadn’t missed anything, he knew he hadn’t. Remus had probably read and reread that letter about a hundred times since Heather had handed it to him three days ago. It’s contents always saying the same thing. Finn was getting married. His best friend had been courting the crown prince of Hufflepuff for a year and now they were getting married, and Remus was just finding out.

He was happy for Finn, his friend had had his eye out for the blonde prince for years now. That, however, didn’t take away from the fact that Finn had conveniently forgotten to mention he had started courting Leo in any of his letters during the past year. If he thought that would stop Remus from threatening Leo Knut with death if he ever hurt Finn he clearly didn’t know him as well as he should.

Remus put the letter down and picked up a piece of blank parchment, dipping the tip of his quill pen in the black ink. He thought about how he should respond, if he should respond at all. Maybe he should just go home and congratulate Finn in person, right after strangling him for being a complete idiot. Before he could decide on what to do he heard the door to the physician's chamber open, he didn’t need to see who it was to know Sirius was there. He was the only person stupid enough to come into Minerva’s working space without knocking.

“Remus, are you here?” There was a pained edge to his otherwise casual tone that made Remus’s eyebrows furrow in worry.

“One second.” Remus put the quill in the ink pot carefully and stood from his chair. Sirius was sitting in one of the stools when he came out of his room, his left shoulder was bleeding. “Snape needs to calm down”, Remus said in an irritated tone, “that’s the third time he’s injured you this month. And before you say something stupid about how injuries happen, or whatever other nonsense I’m sure is about to come out of your mouth, I want to point out that the injury is on your back and Snape has absolutely no business pointing the sword at your back.” During his rant Remus had gathered what he would need to clean, possibly stitch, and bandage Sirius’s injury.

Sirius flinched when Remus pressed a wet rag to his bleeding shoulder blade. “How did you know it was Snape?” Remus made a noncommittal sound before answering. “Every time you come in here it’s either because you decided it would be ok to not stay up all night to do work or because Snape got aggressive during training.” He paused for a second assessing the damage now that the blood was gone. “And since you aren’t being carried in here passed out cold in Sir Pascal’s arms my guess is it was the latter.” Remus went silent, concentrating in threading the silk string through the needle. He didn’t like stitching when the person was conscious to feel it, but maybe he could do something to help with the pain. He knew using his magic on Sirius was risky, but he didn’t want to cause the prince any extra discomfort.

“You need stitches, just so you know.” Sirius groaned, he hated getting stitches. “Just nod when you’re ready.” Sirius took a deep breath, then nodded slowly, bracing himself for the feeling of metal piercing skin. He winced slightly, but was surprised when he noticed it didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would.

“How come it doesn’t hurt that much?” Remus stayed silent for a moment, concentrating on the repetitive pattern of knitting Sirius’s skin back together, before answering.

“I’m not sure. Maybe the pain from the original cut is numbing this one a little.” Sirius hummed, trying to relax as much as he could. He winced every now and then, but barely felt anything. When Remus was done Sirius let out a heavy breath. “Be careful until that’s healed”, Remus ordered in a stern voice.

“Of course my lord. Anything else.” Remus raised an eyebrow at Sirius, he didn’t appreciate the mocking tone.

“Yes actually. You’re banned from training till further notice.” He took incredible satisfaction in seeing Sirius splutter in indignation.

“You can’t do that.”

“I can and I will.” Remus crossed his arms over his chest and met Sirius’s eyes. “No harsh movements with your shoulder means no training. I will strap you to your bed if I have to, you are not training for at least three days.”

“Fine”, the prince grumbled.

Remus beamed at him. “Great. Now, you’re not dying and I already took care of you so, please leave. I have matters to attend to.”

“Trying to get rid of me, huh?” Sirius feigned hurt. “And here I thought you liked me.”

Remus hummed. “You know I do, But right now I’m trying to stay angry and you being here is not helping.”

Sirius gave him a confused look. “Angry. Why?”

“Because.” Remus threw his hands up in frustration. “Finn sent a letter saying that he’s getting married and I didn’t even know he was courting someone. And since I don’t really have an excuse to go to Gryffindor right now I have to make do with screaming at him through a letter.”

A look of shock crossed Sirius’s features. “Wait. Finn, as in Finn O’Hara. The prince.”

“Yes. My father is a member of the King’s council.” Now it was Remus’s turn to look confused. “He and I grew up together. I thought you knew that.”

“You never told me. How am I supposed to know, I don’t read minds.”

“Obviously”, Remus’s tone took on a bitter edge. “If you did you wouldn’t be standing here right now.”

“What do you mean.”

“Mind reading is magic, Sirius. You would be exiled or worse, dead.”

Understanding settled over Sirius like a cold blanket. He didn’t get why Remus sounded so bitter, maybe he didn’t agree with his father’s laws, maybe he knew someone with magic. Sirius did not want to think about sweet, intelligent Remus anywhere near magic or it’s influence. He couldn’t stand to see his boyfriend be corrupted.

“Right. Well.” The silence that followed was uncomfortably tense. Sirius was the first to break it. “Well maybe you could come with the party that’s going to Gryffindor at the end of the week. Minerva has been really occupied with the illness that has taken over the lower town and she won’t be able to go.” Sirius relaxed when he saw the small smile that formed on Remus’s lips. “We need someone that knows their way around medicine.”

“You do know that Gryffindor has physicians, right?” Remus asked, though the smile on his face told Sirius that he was going to go with them regardless.

“I know that.” Sirius rolled his eyes. “Father doesn’t want…” he trailed off. Remus got what he wanted to say anyway, the smile slipping from his face. Orion didn’t want the physicians that had magic. The irony almost made Remus snort.

“Right. Magic.” He made sure to keep the bitterness out of his tone this time. “It’ll be nice to go back home. I haven’t seen Jules in three years.”

“Who’s Jules?” Sirius was starting to realize how little he knew about Remus’s life before he came to Slytherin. It made his chest ache.

Remus’s face softened. “My brother. He should be turning sixteen this summer.” His smile turned a little sad. “It’ll be nice seeing him again.”

Sirius didn’t know what to say, or if he should say anything at all, he didn’t know what not having his brother around was like. “It’s a pity Reg won’t be coming. I’m sure he and your brother would have gotten along.”

“They would probably tear the kingdom to shreds, Julian is very chaotic.” Remus’s honey colored eyes shone brightly. “Gryffindor already has to deal with the chaos that is Finn, and I.”

“I want to meet all your friends.”

Remus narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Why?”

“What? Can’t I want to meet your friends without any ulterior motives?”

“No”, he responded simply.

“Ok fine it’s because I want the embarrassing stories.” Remus rolled his eyes. “I need teasing material Re. I have nothing on you.”

“Maybe I just don’t do anything embarrassing.”

“That is a big lie and you know it. You trip on air all the time.” Remus glared at him.

“Must I remind you that I can leave you out of knight training for a month.”

Sirius’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Remus crossed his arms, a mischievous smirk appearing on his face. “Try me, sire.” He somehow made the title sound disrespectful, Sirius still didn’t understand how he did it.

“Ok ok. I’ll behave”. Sirius raised his arms up in surrender.

“Good.” Remus grinned at him, leaning on his toes to kiss Sirius, nipping at his lower lip. “Come on.” He grabbed Sirius’s hand and dragged him out into the hallway, dropping it once they could be seen by someone else. They spent the afternoon together. They were joined by Logan at one point. The other knight was excited to go to Gryffindor, apparently he and Finn had become friends during the week leading up to Sirius’s coronation, and had been sending letters back and forth for about a year and a half.

After night had fallen Remus retreated to his room, the letter a distant memory. He passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow, his soft snores the only sound in the room.

~*~*~*~*~*

Two days later they were riding toward Remus’s home country. He was nervous, he hadn’t seen Jules and Thomas in years and last time he saw Finn was two years ago, when Sirius got crowned as heir to the throne. The trip passed him by in a blur. They reached the entrance to the citadel a day and half after departing from Slytherin. By then the nerves had worn off, replaced by a burning excitement. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he had to be careful, but that rarely mattered when he saw his brother, clad in knights armor standing besides Finn and Alex.

He saw Julian’s hand twitch, his caramel colored eyes, darker than Remus’s own, lighting up when he saw him. His face remained stoic, but Remus could tell he was trying to not smile. Besides him Finn studied the crowd, eyes narrowing slightly when he looked at Orion. The King walked down the stone steps to welcome the guests.

He and Orion exchanged pleasantries and soon enough the Slytherin party had entered the palace. A group of maids and servants took care of guiding the guards and knights to where they would be staying for the week, some of them nodding towards Remus or saying hello. Julian waited for the crowd to thin before rushing to hug his brother. Remus gave a startled yelp, wrapping his arms around Julian and holding him close. There were tears shining in the younger’s eyes when they broke apart.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were just an apprentice for Minerva.”

“I am”, Remus answered, “but she couldn’t come. There’s an illness taking over in Slytherin’s lower town.”

Julian frowned slightly. “That’s awful”, he smiled brightly again, Remus keeping up with Julian’s constantly changing emotions with ease. “I’m glad you’re here though.” He pulled Remus in again, hugging him tightly.

Remus heard Finn yell behind them. “Jules, don’t be a Remus hog.”

Julian looked up to where Finn was and yelled back. “He is my brother O’Hara. I will hog him however much I want.” He placed his head just under Remus’s chin, sighing contentedly.

Remus heard footsteps coming up behind him, Finn appearing on his field of vision. “I would hug you. But I think your hands are full.” Julian glared at Finn, grumbling under his breath before settling into his brother’s arms again. Remus chuckled at his baby brother’s antics.

He gave Finn a look that promised trouble. “Finn.” The other man visibly paled. “We’re discussing the letter later.” Finn relaxed a little at the small hint of excitement he could hear in Remus’s voice.

Julian squeezed Remus tighter before letting go, saying he had to get back to training and that he would see his brother at home. Remus looked at Finn who was watching the brothers’ interaction with a fond smile.

“He looks up to you a lot you know.” Finn said. “The little idiot wanted to use daggers. He got so frustrated when he found out that wasn’t his thing.”

“What is his thing then?”

Finn thought about it before answering. “He’s a natural at shooting. Crossbows, knives, bow and arrow.”

“That’s great”, Remus said, a proud glint in his eyes. “He spends a lot of time with you I’m guessing.”

“Yeah. He’s gonna be better than me soon.” Finn sighed. “How do you handle all his energy? I swear even the puppies are less active.”

Remus chuckled. “I don’t handle it. I just let him do his thing until he passes out from exhaustion”, he shrugged, “works like a charm.”

The two of them turned when they heard a squeal. Lily Evans stood near the entrance, her hands covering her mouth. She snapped out of her daze and ran towards Remus. He caught her when she jumped at him, her legs wrapping around his waist. She buried her face on his shoulder, trying to hide the tears that were flowing down her face.

“What are you doing here? When did you get here? Has Jules seen you yet? How long are you staying?”

“I’m here because the Slytherin visitors needed a physician and Minerva couldn’t come. I just got here. Yes Jules already tried to strangle me but your giving him great competition.” Lily let her feet drop to the floor soundlessly, but kept her hold on Remus for a little longer. “Probably going to stay for a week.”

“Gods, that’s not nearly enough time.” She looked up at him with shiny green eyes, moving to be at arm's length with him. “I missed you, the castle isn’t as fun without you to help me pull pranks on everyone.”

Remus laughed, he had missed his friend. “How’s James doing?”

“Oh you know”, she waved a hand around, “the usual. You just missed him actually.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “He went back to Ravenclaw yesterday.”

“Maybe that’s for the best. I can’t imagine what would happen if he were to cross paths with Sirius. That’s either going to be a dangerous friendship or they’ll hate each other.”

She hummed, grabbing his hand and dragging him towards the training grounds. “Come on.” He and Finn followed behind her. When they reached the grounds they saw a small group of knights fighting with blunt weapons. Remus noticed that all the sorcerers were conveniently missing from the bunch.

She guided Remus to the armory. “Go get your things. You owe me a fight after last time.” She had begun strapping leather gauntlets on her wrists. He looked around the armory to where he usually left his personal stuff, everything was where he had left it. Someone, probably Lily, had kept his daggers sharpened and polished.

After they put on all of their protective gear, Lily and Remus headed out of the armory and went to the sparring square. “Hey Finn”, everyone stopped what they were doing when they heard Lily’s voice, “mediate for us will you?”

Finn nodded, a grin appearing on his face, and walked to the edge of the square. “You know the rules. One round. First to draw blood wins unless the other yields.”

The rest of the knights had gathered around to watch the fight. Remus stood at one end completely relaxed, Lily mirrored his stance. They studied each other for a moment, waiting for who would strike first. Tense silence had fallen over the square, everyone held their breath, until finally, Lily moved.

The only sound in the clearing was the loud clashing of blades. Lily’s steps were near silent, almost like she were floating above the ground. Remus matched her pace perfectly, able to predict her every move like a well practiced dance. Remus punched her in the stomach making her lose balance, falling to the ground with a small thud. He pointed his dagger at her throat. “Yield”.

Sirius and Logan watched the battle going on in front of them with wide eyes. They had heard the clashing of steel while walking through the castle and went to investigate only to find Remus fighting a red headed girl. His control with the daggers was almost flawless. The girl, who had a knife in her hand and three more strapped to her hips and thighs, battled with deadly precision. She would’ve made a worthy opponent to either of them. She looked at Remus with steely determination, she refused to let him win so easily. If Logan hadn’t been paying such close attention to the battle he would have missed it. Quick as lightning, the red head swiped Remus’s legs from under him, making him fall backwards, his dagger skittering across the ground.

She stood up, holding two knives now, and lunged at Remus. He got up, stumbling over to where his blade had landed. He felt the brush of Lily’s blade against his back, it was nothing but a feather-light touch, but it was enough to warn him of what would come next.

He grabbed the small knife that he kept hidden in his boot and turned, quick enough to meet Lily’s blade. There was fire in her gaze, barely suppressed magic burning under her skin. Remus felt the familiar buzz of his own magic trying to get out, but he kept it down with practiced ease. He felt Lily push harder with her blade, saw her other hand move back to slash at his stomach. He jumped out of the way, landing far enough away that the blade didn’t graze him.

Sirius watched both fighters as they assessed each other with sharp focus, the silence in the grounds was absolute. Remus looked between his dagger laying on the ground and the redhead, he twisted the knife he was holding and smirked. The girl smiled brightly, eyes sharp. Sirius couldn’t figure out who would win, Remus’s usual clumsy self was gone and in its place stood a skilled warrior.

They met in the middle of the square, the girl’s twin blades blocking Remus’s attack. She pushed back with enough force to make him stumble, before he could get too far she jammed the butt of her knife into Remus’s ribs making him double over in pain. She tripped him, making him fall back again, pinned his hands down at his sides with her knees and put the edge of her blade to the base of his neck. “Yield.”

Remus’s glare in that moment would have made any man tremble, but the girl seemed unaffected. She put a little more pressure on the blade. “Yield, Remus.”

He looked at her face for a moment. Whatever he was looking for he must have found, all the fight left him in a gust of air. “I yield.” The crowd erupted into cheers.

The girl nodded, sheathing her knives and standing up. Remus took her offered hand and stood up, punching her shoulder lightly. She said something to him that made him laugh brightly, the hostile energy between them seemingly gone as fast as it had appeared.

Remus locked eyes with Sirius from across the field, a teasing smirk pulling at his lips. He tapped the girl on the shoulder and pointed towards him and Logan. She said something to him and he nodded before walking over, the girl and another red headed boy walking behind him. Sirius recognized the other man as Prince Finn O’Hara.

“Did you know Remus could do that.” Logan sounded as surprised as Sirius felt. Sirius shook his head, unable to form words.

“Hey guys.” Remus sounded a little breathless, but seemed otherwise unaffected by the fight.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us Re?” The girl’s tone was teasing, but her eyes were looking at Sirius like she was trying to figure out his next move.

“Right. Sorry.” Remus coughed loudly. “This is Lily. Lily this is Prince Sirius Black.”

The girl extended her hand in greeting. Sirius shook it. “Please, call me Sirius. No titles unless we’re in my father’s presence.” Lily looked at him with an unreadable expression. She nodded and squeezed his hand lightly before letting go. Sirius felt like he had just passed some sort of test.

“And this”, he pointed to the other red head behind him who was smiling at Logan, “is Prince Finn O’Hara.” He looked at Logan. “I believe the two of you have met before.” Sirius thought he saw a small blush appear on Logan’s cheeks.

Finn’s nose scrunched up. “It’s so weird to hear you using my title.”

“That was a great fight”, Logan praised, “why didn’t you tell me you could do things like that. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been wanting a sparring partner.”

Sirius made an indignant sound. “I’m standing right here Tremblay.”

“Yeah, but you don’t know how to use daggers. You almost cut your hand off the one time you tried.”

Remus looked at Sirius with a disbelieving look, while Lily and Finn tried not to laugh. “You did what?”

“He’s exaggerating.”

Logan glared at him. “Really? Because the way I recall it you cut your palm open when the grip slipped.”

A few giggles escaped Lily before she could stop them. She took a breath to try and calm down before speaking. “Let me guess, he tried to handle the dagger like he would a sword.” At Logan’s nod she sighed disappointedly. “Typical.”

“He never bothered learning how to use them properly afterwards.”

Remus looked at Sirius, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Well, there’s no time like the present.”

Sirius made a distressed noise. “No. Remus I can’t.”

“Don’t worry”, Finn interjected, “Remus and Lily are the best. Besides, Jules will probably want Remus to teach him the basics. You can be his sparring partner.” As if on cue, Julian appeared at Finn’s shoulder, startling him. “I’m putting bells on your feet.”

Julian giggled, “Sorry.” He moved to stand besides Remus and leaned against his brother, eyes shining with excitement. “You’re going to teach me?” Remus nodded, giving Sirius a look that made him cave in.

“Alright”, Sirius’s shoulders slumped in defeat, “I’ll try the daggers out.” Sirius smiled weakly at Julian, who was beaming at him and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Finn grabbed Logan’s wrist and guided him inside to explore the castle, leaving Sirius and Remus with Lily and Julian. Remus chuckled when Lily looped her arm through Sirius’s and dragged him away, he turned back to look at his boyfriend with a pleading expression. Remus shrugged, leaving Sirius to his luck and Lily’s mercy.

“Is he going to be ok?” Julian asked.

“Yeah.” Remus answered dismissively, putting his arm around the younger boy’s shoulders. “Let’s go home.” The two brother’s walked away from the training grounds and headed to the citadel, laughing and shoving at each other playfully. They were both gasping when they reached their house.

They walked in, Julian signaling for Remus to stay quiet and go hide before announcing his presence. “Hi mom.”

“Hey honey. How was your day?” Came Hope Lupin’s from the general direction of her office followed by the soft sound of footsteps.

“It was great. You’ll never guess who I found.”

She came into the room and Remus had to hold himself back from coming out of his hiding spot and running into her arms. “Are you going to tell me who it was or am I going to have to start naming people?”

A soft gasp escaped her lips when she saw Remus emerging from where he had been hiding. “Surprise”. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tightly, resting his cheek on top of her head. She smiled brightly when they separated, a fond look on her eyes. His father entered the room a few moments later, pulling him into a tight hug. There was bright laughter and teary smiles that left a warm feeling in Remus’s chest. They spent the afternoon catching up, laughing and joking like they used to before Remus left for Slytherin.

Hours later, after Jules had fallen asleep with Calliope curled around his shoulders, Remus went into his old room. Everything was the same, the bed sheets had been cleaned and his mess had been organized, but everything else remained the same. His eyes flashed gold, lighting up the candles and stirring the stale air of the room gently. He sighed tiredly, crawling into bed and burying himself under the soft covers, a content smile on his face.

He thought about Sirius, he wanted to show him everything. All the places where he had spent hours reading or spending time with Finn, the place where he had met Thomas, where he and Lily used to spend time practicing their magic. He knew Sirius couldn’t know about his abilities, maybe someday he could show him, but for now he wanted to share his home with him. Home was everything Remus loved.

Home were his friends, his family, his magic. Sirius.

*~*~*~*~*

Two days later Remus found himself alone with Sirius back at the training grounds. Sirius frowned in frustration, trying to make some sense out of what Remus had told him to fix about his technique. He looked to the side, where his boyfriend was standing, staring at him with an amused glint in his eye. “I don't understand why I can’t just use my sword”, Sirius whined, “I’m already good at that.”

Remus gave him an exasperated glare, Sirius still caught the amused twitch of his lip. “Because, weapon versatility is one of the most important attributes a warrior could have.” He grabbed Sirius’s hand, a small smirk tugging at his lip, and pulled him close. “And, daggers are better when it comes to close range fights.”

“Is that so?” Sirius raised an eyebrow at him. “And, do tell, why would I want to use a weapon that requires me to get that close.”

Remus shrugged, using the motion to slip the small blade from the sheath at his thigh and letting his hand hang at his side, the point of the dagger clutched lightly between his fingers. “I guess you’re right, but what if you don’t get to choose your range, m’lord?”

Before he could answer Remus flicked the blade into the air and knocked Sirius feet from under him in one smooth motion. He straddled his hips, catching the dagger, the leather grip landing on his palm, and pressing its razor sharp edge to the side of Sirius’s throat with barely there pressure.

“Like say, someone catching you unawares and pointing a very sharp deadly object to a very”, he leaned in to whisper in Sirius ear, making a shiver run down his spine, “very vulnerable part of your body.” He took the dagger away from Sirius’s neck replacing it with his lips in a feather light kiss that made Sirius melt a little under him. He stood up gracefully, offering his hand to Sirius who was still slightly dazed. “Come on”, he pulled him up with a grunt, “let’s get back to work.”

Sirius stared at him, heat spreading through his neck up to his cheeks. “You expect me to concentrate. After that.”

Remus looked at him with an innocent expression. “After what, sweetheart.”

“N-Nothing. Work right. Let’s get back to work.”

Remus giggled, shaking his head fondly and walking to the other side of the training grounds, ignoring his boyfriend’s questions. He had asked Lily to come help him with Sirius’s training, she had a talent for teaching even the most stubborn students. Ha saw her coming out of the armory with her knives strapped to her legs and a pair of blunt daggers.

“How’s my student doing?” She asked, walking besides him back to where Sirius was watching them with a weary expression.

“He’s fine. I was just showing him why he should learn how to hold his own with short range weaponry.” She gave him a skeptical look. He just batted his eyelashes at her in faux innocence, she shoved his face away with her palm making him laugh loudly.

“What did you do?” They were close enough that Sirius could hear their conversation.

“I just did the same thing you did to James when he tried to show off. Back when he was a pining mess and trying to win your affection.”

She hummed. “Good”.

“I learned from the best.” They stopped in front of Sirius. Remus gave him a kiss on the cheek and walked back to the entrance that led to the palace. “He’s all your Lils. I expect him back in one piece.”

“Yeah yeah”, she waved dismissively, “I won’t kill your man. Now go, you’re distracting him and Jules is waiting for you.”

Lily turned to look at Sirius, a smirk on her lips. He swallowed nervously, back straightening slightly. “Now the real fun begins.” She tossed the blunt blades at him, he fumbled with them for a moment, looking at her with pleading eyes. “Don’t look at me like that Black, I’m not torturing you.”

“Remus couldn’t teach me how to do this properly. I’m no good.”

She grabbed his face between her palms, staring into his eyes with a steady look. “Don’t say that. I’m here because I’m the best at this and because you’re my friend.”

“But what if that’s not enough?” He sounded defeated, shoulders dropping.

“I’m the one who taught Remus how to aim a knife properly. And I can assure you he was much worse at that than you are at this.” Her hands dropped to his shoulders, pushing them back gently so he was standing straight. “Chin up, your highness. Everyone has to start somewhere, and there’s no time like the present.”

*~*~*~*~*

Logan walked to the library with his heart in his throat. Seeing Finn again after so long had been wonderful and painful at the same time. It hurt to know that the man he loved had fallen for someone else, but it was worse, because Logan had also fallen for the man Finn described in his letters.

Leo had no face for Logan, no body, no voice, no features. And yet he had crawled into Logan’s heart and settled there, at least the idea of him had. The man that Finn described with such love and adoration was someone Logan wanted, he wanted Finn, too.

He wanted to put a face to the idea and see if he could still love Leo the same. He at least wanted to put a face to the man that had won his affection without uttering a single word. Logan didn’t know Leo, he knew of Leo, but that was enough. Enough for him to fall so deeply so fast, the problem was that there was no one to catch him when he eventually met the ground.

He opened the doors to the library soundlessly and walked inside, halting when he saw Finn, lying on one of the vibrant red couches, fast asleep, book clutched to his chest. The sight made him melt a little, he wanted to kiss the other boy awake, wanted to wrap him up in a hug, but he knew he couldn’t. So he settled for taking the book from Finn’s grasp, draping one of the blankets that were kept there over him gently, watching him shift to nuzzle the soft fabric with his cheek before settling again.

He ran his hand through Finn’s auburn curls softly, a small whisper of I love you leaving his lips in a breath, and then he was gone. Leaving the library and part of his heart behind.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

On the third day of their visit to Gryffindor Snape came into the physician’s chamber looking like he had lost a fight with a rabid animal. He had cuts going down his left arm and a bruised collarbone. Remus had seen Snape trying, and failing, to flirt with Lily a few times during their stay at the palace and it appeared she had gotten fed up with his attempts. Remus barely suppressed a laugh and motioned for the night to sit down, turning around to look for the things he would need and so that Snape wouldn’t see him grinning.

Remus had to fight down a smirk when he heard Snape hiss, the pressure of the wet rag making his arm sting. The cuts from Lily’s knives were still fresh, but no longer bleeding. The knight muttered an insult under his breath that made Remus rub the tender skin none too gently. The man winced, shoulders tense, but remained silent.

A servant approached them cautiously, eyeing Snape like one would a wild dog. She lifted her gaze to look at Remus, a little of the apprehension leaving her eyes. He finished bandaging Snape’s arms. “I’d suggest you lay off training for today.” The knight rolled his eyes, but nodded anyway, leaving Remus alone with the serving girl.

Once they were alone she spoke up. “There’s a messenger from Slytherin at the entrance asking for King Orion.”

A crease of worry appeared between his eyebrows. “Did they say why?”

The girl shook her head. “He just said that the King needed to head back immediately. I suppose he’ll explain more to his highness than he did to me.”

“Lord Orion is in the Council chamber discussing some things with the king. Can’t it wait until that’s over?”

“I don’t think so”, she answered, “he looked worried. I don’t think they would send someone if it wasn’t urgent.”

“Thank you for telling me.” She bowed her head slightly. “Please tell this messenger to wait for me outside the Council chamber.” She gave another small bow and walked out the door.

Remus followed behind her, turning to go to the library where he knew Logan and Sirius would be. He tried to think of any reason why the council would send someone to retrieve the king from such an important trip, but he came up with nothing. The only thing he could think was that someone had tried to take over, but that didn’t seem like it was it.

“If you think any harder your brain is going to melt.” Remus jumped at the voice, he hadn’t heard someone approach him, too lost in thought to sense his surroundings.

“Hey, Alex. Kasey.”

The man fell into step besides him, his manservant following a few steps behind them, listening to their conversation in silence. “Something’s worrying you.” Alex looked at him with an unreadable expression. “This has something to do with that messenger right?”

“How do you even know about that already?”

Alex shrugged. “I have my ways.” He looked at Kasey with a smile. “So.” He turned back to Remus. “What’s wrong.”

“I'm not sure”, Remus sighed. “Something happened. Bad enough that the council decided to call the king back knowing he could be about to enter into an alliance with your father.” They reached the entrance to the library. “That’s all I know. I need to get Logan and Sirius to the council chamber, the other knights are probably being notified and should be preparing to leave.”

Remus pushed the doors open, silent chatter feeling his ears. “Sirius”, he walked inside, “are you here.”

“At the fireplace,” came Sirius’s voice from deeper in the room. “The others are here too”

He sighed, walking to where his boyfriend was sitting, surrounded by Lily, Finn, and Logan. He looked at them with a weary expression, motioning for his friends to follow him. “We have to go.”

“Why”, worry seeped into Logan’s tone, “what’s going on.”

“A messenger arrived earlier today asking for King Orion and his party. He says that they’re needed back in Slytherin.”

Logan looked at the redhead. “I’m sorry, but who are you and how do you know that?”

“Apologies, my name is Alex. I’m Finn’s brother. And, like I told Remus, I have my ways of knowing things.”

“Stop smirking like a smug idiot and lead the way,” Finn stood up, the rest following behind. “We have somewhere to be.”

They all walked down to the Council chamber where a boy was standing, looking at the doors with terrified eyes. He nodded nervously when he saw them, stepping back and vowing deeply. The guards bowed to Finn and Alex and opened the doors, cutting off the conversation going on inside the room.

“Father”, Alex bowed, “an urgent message was sent to King Orion.”

“And who has sent this message?” Orion’s voice was ice cold.

Alex held the man’s piercing stare. He motioned for the boy to step forward, encouraging him to speak up. “I did, m-m’lord.” The boy bowed. “There’s a s-situation that requires your immediate attention.”

“And this situation”, the king’s voice remained calm, the boy shivered at the cold tone, “it couldn’t wait?”

“No, sire”, the boy’s voice shook. “I-It’s prince Regulus.” He took a deep breath. “He’s gone.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The ride back to Slytherin was quiet, tense. Orion hadn’t said a word since they had departed and it didn’t seem like he would. Something had changed about him. His face betrayed no emotion, as always, but everyone could tell something was different.

They reached the Citadel in the evening two days later. The King strode inside the castle and into the Council chamber, leaving his horse behind for some stable boy to take care of.

Sirius stared after him with an unreadable expression. Remus took his hand in his, making sure no one was looking at them. “Let’s go.” He nodded, squeezing Remus’s hand before letting go and walking through the palace entrance, his boyfriend following close behind.

The prince fell into Remus’s arm, silent sobs racking his body and making him shake. He held him until Sirius was too exhausted to do anything more than walk to his bed and letting himself drop on the soft mattress, pulling Remus down and hugging him tightly, burying his face in the soft fabric of his boyfriend’s shirt.

They said nothing. It had been two long days of unsaid words and silent reassurance when they were alone. Sirius stayed in his boyfriend’s arms, trying to ignore the pain in his chest. Trying to ignore the fact that his brother was gone, missing, and no one knew what to do. “What do you think about everything?” He asked softly, words muffled by Remus’s shirt.

“It was a targeted attack. Someone knew we would be gone.”

Sirius nodded. “I don’t want to jump into conclusions”, he took a steadying breath, “but is it possible this was done by a sorcerer?”

Remus wanted to say no. That there had to be another explanation, but he couldn’t find any. Regulus had disappeared without a trace, his room was completely intact, there was no sign of struggle anywhere and no one had seen him going out or anyone coming in. “It’s possible”, was the only answer he could give him. It seemed to be enough for now. They lapsed into silence, night had already fallen. No one came looking for Sirius, there was no reason to disturb the prince when they didn’t know anything.

Remus ran his hands through his love’s hair, eyes flashing golden. The other man gave a small content humm, falling asleep minutes later, an almost peaceful sleep. A small trick Leo had taught him, if the mind feels safe it’s easier to fall asleep. So he let his magic flow through his fingers, let it envelop Sirius in as much warmth and love as he could muster. It was dangerous, he knew that, but when the love of his life was suffering he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Another flash of his eyes and all the candles went out. Remus almost felt sorry for whoever had dared take his friend, hurting his boyfriend in the process. Almost.

#Open your eyes #logan tremblay #remus lupin #sirius black #finn o'hara #julian lupin #lily evans #orion black #regulus black #lumosinlove #cw: mentions of blood and injury

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