#i’m not an ‘are you in a space to receive this information’ person i find that robotic. u should b allowed 2 talk abt trauma to your friend

[astrohaute]

being the therapist friend all the time is such hell

[mallstars]

Speaking Up

After months of consideration, I’ve decided to speak up about a deeply distressing experience I had in the Drarry community. 

A little over half a year ago, I was abruptly banned from a community of Drarry writers after a vague statement accusing a member of harassment. I was never told specifically what I was accused of; nobody ever spoke to me or provided any explanation for their actions. When I tried to reach out, I was blocked. 

In a slow trickle of information provided by other people over the following weeks and months, I learned that I’d been blamed for anonymous hate comments left on a fellow writer’s AO3, based on “credible evidence”, which wasn’t shared. 

I want to be very clear: 

I did not leave these hate comments, nor would I ever leave hate comments to anyone. The person who received these comments, as well as everyone supporting their accusations, were people whose work I enjoyed privately and publicly. 

I have no idea what “evidence” anyone could have come up with to support the claim that I left those anonymous comments. Other than knowing that I'm innocent, I've also learned that you cannot determine the identity of a guest commenter on AO3. 

There’s something uniquely jarring and isolating about being falsely accused of having done something bad, without being told what it is and without being given the chance to defend myself, as well as this accusation coming from people I considered friends, in a community that prides itself on being kind and mature. 

Being branded a harasser by people I trusted has had a devastating effect on my experience in fandom, my fandom relationships, and on my mental health. It has made navigating fandom spaces challenging, and had a noticeable impact even on my real, everyday life. I’m still dealing with the fallout of what happened, half a year later. 

For months, I’ve been thinking about how to address this matter. Ultimately, I’ve decided against a more detailed recount of what happened and how it continues to affect me, as I don’t want to invite any further negativity, towards me or the people who targeted me. 

Instead, I want to be clear about who I am and how I engage with the Drarry community. I care deeply about my stories, as well as other creators and the fandom spaces we share. I’ve always strived to uplift others and to be a kind, authentic, and fun participant. As a passionate reader, I will continue doing what I enjoy: reading stories and being vocal in my support of the creators of this fandom. 

Creating and being an active part of the fandom space always went hand in hand for me, and this has been difficult for the majority of this year. As of now, I’m not sure I’ll keep writing in this community, but I’ll take every day as it comes. In the end, I'm a writer with all my heart, and if I end up wanting to stick around, I'll be happy for it. 

In speaking up about this now, I’m giving myself permission to move on. It has seemed imperative to me to understand not only the What of the situation but also the Why. However, in the end, none of my guesses hold much weight. I’ve not been able to find a sensible link between myself and the person I was made out to be. I’ve exhausted myself and my options, and am finally giving myself permission to stop trying to understand the motivations of those who accused me, and instead focus on the positive aspects of being part of this community. 

Finally, I want to say that I strongly believe in open communication. I wasn’t given the chance to respond to the accusations when it mattered the most. Still, I am, and always have been, genuinely happy to talk. To anyone who’s reading this and would like to chat, whether you know about this situation or not: My DMs are open. 

I'm so very grateful to the people who've listened to me, created new safe spaces for and with me, and cared while I did my best to navigate this situation. I'm grateful, too, to those friends who cracked jokes about this mess long before I was ready to. Thank you for being the brightest part of my fandom experience. Your friendship, as well as the incredible stories I’ve gotten to read in this fandom, will stay with me, and continue to shine brighter than anyone could diminish. 

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 9: Some Days He Feels Like Dying]

A/N: Below are your guesses...let's see how you did!!! 🥰😘

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Extraordinary Girl” by Green Day.

Word count: 8.3k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

Let’s go back to the beginning of the end of the world.

On the big-screen tv in the Liberty Center at Saratoga Springs, Wolf Blitzer is saying: “We are receiving confirmation of additional outbreaks of the so-called Florida Fever, the first cases of which here in the U.S. were reported in Miami a little over one week ago. Concern is now growing nationally, especially as the modes of transmission, symptoms, and treatment options remain unclear. Let’s go across the country to Natasha Chen for the latest information. Natasha?”

��Hi, Wolf. I’m here outside the UC San Diego Medical Center where early this morning, two individuals suspected to be suffering from the illness were admitted. I’ve been informed by hospital staff that both patients are currently in stable condition, but there is still so much confusion and conflicting information regarding this ‘Florida Fever,’ and of course that uncertainty is leading to fear, rumors, and honestly a bit of hysteria. Even how to refer to the sickness is controversial, with no official name having been decided upon by scientists. Cases in Australia are known as Ragepox, the U.K. has dubbed it the 21st Century Sweat after a mysterious disease from the 1500s, and Russia is calling it the Ukrainian Flu while Ukraine has opted for the Russian Red Rot, inspired by the skin lesions that some patients experience.”

“Can you tell us what we do know, Natasha? Are doctors classifying this illness as a virus, or as a bacterial infection more akin to tuberculosis or meningitis?”

“At this time, what I’m hearing is that doctors are fairly certain it’s a virus, as patients do not seem to respond to antibiotics when they’ve been explored as a potential treatment. But there’s truly very little information at this early stage, and I think we’re all being reminded of those first days of the Covid-19 pandemic, when no one really knew how to best to avoid contracting the virus or what the long-term effects would be both nationally and globally.”

“There are absolutely some similarities, Natasha, which I’m sure is contributing to the unease surrounding the situation. What precautions are doctors currently recommending?”

“Wolf, doctors are urging the public not to panic, and to exercise common sense measures like avoiding crowded spaces, sanitizing surfaces, and staying home if they’re feeling unwell. Suspected cases of the illness should be reported to primary physicians or local hospitals. Typical symptoms appear to include headaches, fever, gastrointestinal upset, skin discoloration and blistering, and unusual bleeding, as well as behavioral changes, particularly disorientation, aggression, and even violence in some patients…”

“That ain’t what it is,” Rio says. He jabs his index finger at the tv from where he sits on the couch beside you. “Snowflake wasn’t sick, he was dead. He was motherfucking dead, flatline, code blue, crossed the rainbow bridge, he was gone. He was dead and then he woke back up, and he wasn’t a person anymore. He was…something else.”

“Dumbass, people don’t come back from the dead,” Mike says from the ping pong table. People are milling around pretending to play pool, darts, chess, poker, Monopoly, Uno, Parcheesi, but really you’re all here for the same reason. You want to know what’s happening.

Rio turns to you. “Wasn’t Snowflake dead?”

“He definitely seemed dead,” you reply, knees tucked to your chest and still watching the tv. Wolf Blitzer’s voice is calm, but his pale blue eyes have a manic sort of light to them, too large and too rattled.

“Man, fuck Florida,” says Desmond, a utilitiesman born and raised Trenton, New Jersey. “Nothing but psychos and alligators. Saw them off of Georgia and just let them float away.”

“What was that?” Tyler replies combatively. He’s from a trailer park in Tallahassee.

“Ty, why do you care? You’d be fine. You’re already up here. You can stay.”

“They’re lying,” Rio mutters, meaning Wolf and Natasha on CNN. “When the corpsmen called the hospital, they said to be prepared to restrain Snowflake and that he might try to bite us. Why aren’t they warning people about that?!”

Kayleigh, a steelworker from Oklahoma City, looses a frenetic sort of laugh. “Because there’s no non-panic-inducing way to say: Hey, go buy some duct tape and bungee cords to tie up your loved ones, because they might try to fucking eat you.”

Rio doesn’t frown often, but he is now; he slips his phone out of the pocket of his camo pants and types out a WhatsApp message to Sophie. You only know her from photos and quick hellos via video chat, a sweet diminutive woman with white-blonde hair and blue eyes that seem to fill up half her face, as fragile as Rio is overwhelming. She likes baking and romance novels and elephants; whenever Rio finds elephant-themed souveners, he ships them home to Oregon for her, refrigerator magnets and wallets and scarves and snow globes. Sophie wears a lot of long flowing skirts and hand-knit sweaters, and offers strange suggestions when she and Rio discuss baby names: Sage, Fox, Laurel, Coral, Juniper, Karma, Rune, Otter. Otter?! Rio had exclaimed. Babe, if you name our kid Otter, even I’M gonna have to bully them.

“I’m telling Sophie to stay with my parents,” Rio says to you. “They’ve gotten super weird with all the off-the-grid stuff, but they have years’ worth of supplies and grow most of their own food now, and they’re thirty miles from the nearest town. And no one knows how to defend themselves like doomsday preppers.”

“Good idea,” you reply, watching the tv. Now Wolf Blitzer is talking about tornadoes in the Midwest, and you could almost believe the world is normal again.

A few days later all major social media platforms begin censoring content related to the so-called Florida Fever, and then the internet goes down completely, and then the power turns off and on and off again, and finally quits like a car driven to its last mile. The combat units are moved out of Saratoga Springs—never to be heard from again—and the construction projects paused indefinitely, and one of the master-at-arms that Rio is friends with (Rio has a lot of friends, surely you aren’t so remarkable) relays information that he shouldn’t: tales of planned missions, impossible plagues, overrun cities, innumerable deserters in every branch of the U.S. military.

“Hey,” Rio whispers, shaking you awake one night, moonlight streaming through the windows and the pops of distant gunfire you aren’t supposed to ask about. “If I leave, will you come with me?”

It’s a big commitment; it could be a lifetime. You fear he might just be trying not to hurt your feelings. “I don’t want to slow you down.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Rio says. “I’m not leaving without you. Are you going to Oregon by choice, or should I tie you up and throw you in the back of the Humvee?”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a young one, maybe a teenager, little buds for horns and only weighing a few hundred pounds. This is good; if it was any heavier, Cregan and Rio wouldn’t be able to drag it back to the ranch. You’re still in Red Desert, Wyoming, and the bison are grazing just off I-80, an asphalt artery that cuts through an endless steppe of sand-colored rocks and tall grass. They gaze lazily in your direction with bulbous dark eyes, perpetually chewing, not terribly intelligent. The Colt pistols of the men who found you at the RV had been loaded with 9mm bullets, the same caliber your Berettas take; there weren’t many, but enough to fill both of your clips, something that feels like winning the lottery. You are lying on the rocky, dusty soil and lining up the shot. If you miss, the herd will scatter, and you’ll watch dinner vanish beneath a blue sky—pale like Aemond’s eye, a weak shallow blue—and rough white scars of cirrostratus clouds.

“Feels kind of wrong to kill a baby,” you murmur. Daeron, Luke, Baela, Helaena, and Ice are back at the house. Aemond, Rio, Cregan, Rhaena, and Aegon are here on the ground with you; Aegon insisted upon being brought along, and Rio agreed to carry him. Aegon had never seen American bison outside of the Oregon Trail computer game, those pixelated brown blobs migrating across the screen no more material than unicorns or faeries or basilisks.

“If the baby didn’t want to get killed, it shouldn’t be made of steak,” Aegon points out. He’s on a lot of Vicodin, the only narcotic Aemond could find back in Ogallala, Nebraska.

“No pressure, Chips,” Rio says, chewing on a long blade of little bluestem grass. “If you miss we’re just going to have to eat each other like the Donner Party.”

Aegon wrinkles his nose in confusion. “The what?”

“She won’t miss,” Aemond says, and Rio snickers to himself and gives you a quick wink that no one else notices.

“I don’t think one 9mm bullet will do it,” Cregan mutters. “Cows got thick skulls, I figure bison are the same way. You’ll have to hit it a few times, and before it can take off and disappear on us.”

Aemond casts him a patronizing glance. “And you’ve killed a lot of cows?”

“Oh yeah. Worked in a slaughterhouse for a while before I got hired by the power company. Hated it, went home and could still smell the blood and brains on myself no matter how many times I showered. Couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

Aemond looks like he regrets asking. Rhaena frowns worriedly at the bison. “Will they charge if someone shoots at them?”

Cregan shrugs. “Probably not.”

“Probably?!”

You squeeze the trigger five times in quick succession, hit the calf thrice, tiny puffs of scarlet mist that spring from its woolly head. It flops over as the rest of the herd jolts into a gallop, kicking up dust and fleeing across the steppe.

“Yes!” Rio booms as everyone applauds. “We’re in business! We’re having ribeyes tonight! Cregan, my good sir, I take mine medium rare.”

“You’re getting well done,” Aemond tells him. “Everyone is. Just in case the bison has parasites.”

Rio groans. “You’re ruining my life, man.” Then he and Cregan trot over to grab the baby bison, each of them taking one of its back hooves.

“So,” Aegon says dreamily. “Now that Rio is preoccupied, who would like to assist me in returning my disgusting, debilitated body to the ranch? Anyone? Anyone?”

Rhaena turns to you. “When we have more bullets, could you give me shooting lessons?”

“Sure,” you reply, a bit startled. “Really? You’re interested?”

“Well…” Rhaena hesitates. “Baela’s always been the brave one. At home, at school, when we were shopping, even when restaurants would mess up my order, Baela would do the talking and make sure I was alright…and I would literally hide behind her waiting for her to solve all my problems. And now…with the baby, with Jace…it’s been really different being the one to help her for a change, and I don’t think I’m very good at it yet. But Baela deserves to have people to lean on, just like I’ve always had her. And…when I stabbed that guy in the RV…I kind of liked it.” She titters nervously when she sees the shock on your face. “No, not like that! Not the killing part, or the gushing blood, that was all super gross. But the fact that I helped protect Baela and Luke? The fact that I wasn’t useless in that situation? That was a good feeling. Baela is clever, and she’s courageous and caring and funny, and she’s always been better than me at everything, and I never minded because she…she was like my own personal superhero, you know? But now I feel like I need to start learning how to do things myself so I can help her. Even if Baela is still better at everything, and probably always will be.”

Aegon grins toothily and pushes his neon green plastic sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “I know how you feel. It’s pretty impossible to look heroic next to Aemond.”

“Stop,” Aemond says, but he’s smiling, and a bloom of bashful pink blood appears in his cheeks.

“You already took over the driving,” you tell Rhaena encouragingly. “That was a big help.”

“Yeah,” Rhaena replies, a bit pensive. “Let’s hope I can keep that going.” Between the gas Aemond found in Ogallala and what was siphoned from the would-be attackers’ GMC Yukon, you got enough fuel in the Tahoe to take it halfway across Wyoming; but now the gauge is not just at but venturing below the E, and it can’t have more than five or ten miles left. That might not even get you to the next ranch, let alone a proper town. You need a working vehicle. There are nearly a thousand miles between here and Odessa, Oregon.

Aegon is pawing at Aemond like a cat. “Come on, hero. Help me up.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“This is why we’re friends,” Rio tells you as he shovels forkfuls of bison steak into his mouth, juice dribbling down his chin. Cregan gutted the bison and butchered it, then you helped him cook the steaks—not very uniform in size and shape, yet no one is complaining—on a pan heated in the woodstove. You fed the fire with books you found in the house, mostly religious in nature. “You convince me not to commit suicide when we’re stranded on a transmission tower, you share your Cheddar Whales, you’re good at shooting things…”

“How did you two become friends?” Baela asks. You are all arranged around the dining room table; there are just enough chairs for everyone. Ice lies beneath it mauling on bison bones that Cregan set aside for her. The room is illuminated by flashlights. Baela looks great: in good spirits, glowing, alert, wearing a loose cotton dress that Helaena found in an upstairs closet for her. Baela napped most of the day, something she rarely allows herself to indulge in, and the benefits are evident.

Rio says nonchalantly: “I talked to everybody and she barely talked at all. So of course I had to investigate and figure out what that was about. Turns out she’s kind of cool. You know the Wheel of Fortune game at arcades where there’s like a hundred little lights in a circle you have to press the button when the one that says Spin Zone lights up? She’s a freak, she can hit it almost every time. Can’t sink a basketball or sing karaoke to save her life, but you know, we all have flaws.”

Aegon looks up from his map, which he is scrutinizing as he eats his bison steak. “Do you realize that if we could just stop at gas stations like back when everything was normal, we’d be in Odessa or the Bay Area in fifteen hours? Literally less than one day. Fucking unreal. And yet here we are trapped in yee-haw country, freaky giant animals, no civilization but Jesus billboards everywhere, hell on earth.” He holds up a palm. “No offense, Cregan. You’re okay.”

Cregan smiles mildly. “None taken, Fried Foot. You know you’re a little well done yourself these days.”

“That’s ableist,” Aegon replies.

“We’ll find gas tomorrow,” Aemond says. He sounds confident because he has to; he’s not allowed to panic, to give up. He’s seated at the head of the table like a patriarch. His steak is the smallest and the most ragged. He wouldn’t accept any of the others.

You ask Baela: “Have you decided what to name the baby?”

“Kind of.” She rests both hands on her belly, a globe like a full moon. Helaena glances over at Baela, frowning and preoccupied. “If it’s a boy, I’m going to name it after Jace. We had already picked out Theodore…and Teddy for short, isn’t that cute? But now…I’d want him to have that connection to his father. The baby won’t have any pictures of him, or videos, or memories, or papers he wrote in school, or ties or rings or cufflinks, or…anything. But he could have Jace’s name.”

The rest of you nod, eyes downcast and feeling terribly sorry for her. “I really like that idea,” Luke says quietly.

Now Baela is thinking, her gaze traveling around the room as she chews on a cube of streak. “I’m not sure what I’d call a girl. Maybe something naturey like Violet, Rosemary, Ivy, Indigo, Fern…”

“You should name it Otter,” you say, and you and Rio erupt into raucous laughter. Aemond smiles as he watches you.

Baela is grinning uncertainly, trying not to be insensitive. Perhaps people named their kids stuff like Otter where you came from. “Um, sorry, what?!”

“That was one of the baby names on Sophie’s list,” Rio clarifies. “I vetoed it. Or at least…I think she agreed to cross it off…? Oh my God, imagine I finally get to Odessa only to find out my firstborn child has been named Otter.”

“You’d have to turn right back around,” you say. “Total abandonment would be the only honorable choice. We’d have to start over someplace else. I’ve heard Texas is nice.”

Aegon snorts. “You can’t live in Texas. They don’t even have legal weed there.”

Rhaena squints at him. “I don’t really think that’s a concern anymore, Aegon.”

Aegon smacks his forehead theatrically. “Oh no, I forgot about the apocalypse again!”

“So Cregan,” Baela says. “You were planning to vote for Trump.”

Everyone at the table groans. “No politics,” Aemond says.

“They’re all dead now, so it doesn’t matter,” Rhaena adds. “Biden, Kamala, that insane Kennedy brain worm dude, Trump…”

Aegon says: “If I was a zombie, I wouldn’t eat Trump.”

“I just found that interesting,” Baela continues, looking at Cregan like she’s expecting him to explain himself. Rhaena and Luke exchange a nervous glance. Daeron reaches under the table to pet Ice; you can hear her tail thumping cheerfully against the hardwood floor.

“I was a Trump voter, yeah,” Cregan replies between bites of steak. Aemond is studying him uneasily, but Cregan’s baritone voice is calm. “That doesn’t mean I approved of a lot of the things he did and said. I’m not a monster, I don’t believe in mocking people or all that January 6th stuff. But he was good for the economy. Back when Trump was president, groceries were more affordable, and houses were cheaper, and more companies were hiring. If I had tried to move out of my parents’ place in 2023 instead of 2019, there’s no way I could have done it. And I really needed to get out of there. A lot of people feel that they don’t have the luxury of voting for the nicest candidate, or the candidate they agree with on social issues. Something abstract like climate change isn’t even on the radar. They have to vote for their basic necessities.”

You and Rio understand what he means, you’ve both met plenty of people with the same perspective; everybody else seems shellshocked.

“But I don’t want y’all to think that I’m…” Cregan looks around the table, his eyes catching—interestingly—on Helaena, who observes him with a fully present attentiveness that you’ve learned is rare for her. “You know, like a sexist or a racist or that I hate foreigners or anything. Because I’ve never felt that way, and now I’m very happy to have found you guys, and I respect the hell out of you. And I want to be allowed to stay.”

“You can stay, Cregan,” Helaena reassures him.

“Yeah,” Rio says. “Especially since we’d probably starve without you.”

Cregan beams, clearly grateful, and there are chuckles and the tension breaks; and Baela is placidly skating her palm over the arc of her belly, and now that you’ve eaten all you can, Rio is spearing the remaining chunks of your steak with his fork and gobbling them down. He doesn’t ask before he does this; he knows you don’t mind. You’ve never understood why he’s given you so much over the past nearly five years. You are eternally offering him atonement.

Suddenly, Baela asks you: “What would you name a baby girl?”

You have to think about this before you answer. “Well, if you’re looking for something related to plants…I had a friend when I was growing up named Briar, and I always thought that was pretty.”

“Briar,” Baela echoes, intrigued.

“It means bramble, like a thorny shrub where blackberries grow. I remember her telling me that her mama wanted it to be a reminder that people go through rough patches and that life gets hard sometimes, but you have to keep going, and eventually you’ll find your way out.”

“Briar,” Baela repeats. “Yeah, that’s kind of neat. I’ll add it to the list!”

“And you’d have the same first initial,” Rhaena says. “Baela and Briar. Isn’t that adorable?”

Baela smiles. “And a few Rs thrown in there too. For Rhaena.”

Rio turns to Aegon. “Hey Honey Bun, if you had to name your kid after a plant, what would you name it?”

Aegon says without hesitation: “Marijuana.”

Now it’s an hour later, and Aemond is examining Aegon’s burned leg on the living room floor, Helaena holding a flashlight and you and Rio standing by for moral support. Underneath the bandages is a wasteland of red, weeping flesh…and yet there are spots where the skin seems to be hardening into white islands of scar tissue. Rhaena and Luke are keeping watch by the windows, Baela is passed out in one of the bedrooms, Cregan is showing Daeron how to put his wavy blonde hair up in a man bun.

Aemond points to a blackish patch on the top of Aegon’s foot, only a few inches from his ankle. “I have to debride this part here,” he says like an apology.

Aegon is afraid to ask. “What does debride mean?”

“It means I have to cut it out.”

“Cut it?!”

“It’s getting infected. I have to remove it or it will spread to the rest of the foot and you could get sepsis. I might even have to amputate the whole leg.”

“Okay, cut the dead stuff off,” Aegon swiftly agrees.

Aemond doesn’t have any more injectable morphine. He gives Aegon as much Vicodin as he dares and then begins working, carving away layers of dark disease with his scalpel and scrubbing the area with disinfectant. Aegon clutches your hand, squeezing so hard it feels like your bones might crunch, shrapnel-like splinters of marrow-stained organic glass beneath your skin. Rio has Aegon’s pink Sony Walkman—once owned by Ava—and takes one earbud while giving Aegon the other. They sing along to Sean Paul songs together, laughing as tears stream down Aegon’s sunburned cheeks:

“Well, woman, the way the time cold, I wanna be keepin’ you warm

I got the right temperature fi shelter you from the storm

Oh Lord, gal, I got the right tactics to turn you on

And girl, I wanna be the papa, you can be the mom…”

Now you’re curled up in bed, your arms crossed over your belly as you struggle to fall asleep. Aemond comes to bed late now; each night he waits until Baela is sleeping and then teaches Rhaena about childbirth and recovery: what to expect, what could go wrong. She is a good student, borrowing Helaena’s spider notebook to take notes and asking detailed questions. She wants to know everything she can so she can help when Baela goes into labor.

At last, the bedroom door opens. Out in the living room you can hear Rio asking: “Do you have Wagon Wheel? I love that song.”

Aegon scoffs. “No, of course I don’t have Wagon Wheel. Shut up and listen to your Enrique Iglesias.”

“You are so racist, man…”

Aemond sees that you’re in agony, rummages around in his medical kit, and gives you an oval-shaped white pill to wash down with the can of orange Sunkist on the nightstand; Helaena found a case of it in the pantry. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

“I didn’t want to take any Vicodin from Aegon or Baela. They’ll need it more than me.”

“Your pain is as real as anyone else’s.” Aemond’s weight shifts the mattress as he crawls into bed beside you, his arm settling protectively around your waist, his hand covering yours where it rests on your lower belly. “If the Tahoe runs out of gas, will you be okay to walk tomorrow?”

“Don’t worry about me. I had three periods during basic training, I honestly thought I might die. After that I can power through just about anything.”

“I’ve noticed.” You feel the soft smile on Aemond’s lips as he kisses your temple. “Do you want quiet, or do you want to talk?”

“Talking would be a nice distraction.”

Aemond wastes no time. “Do you like kids?”

“Well, since birth control doesn’t exist anymore, I’d hope everybody does.”

Again, he is smiling; you can hear it in his voice. “Okay, but do you intend to have your own?”

“Yeah, I always envisioned myself having kids. I wanted a normal family and figured I’d have to make one myself, DIY it, you know? I don’t think the plan has changed. Gotta repopulate the earth somehow.”

“I wouldn’t try to sway your decision one way or the other. It’s a burden you should only have to endure if you actively choose it. But if you want to have children one day, I’d help you.”

You giggle in the dim orange glow of a single flashlight. “How self-sacrificial.”

“No,” Aemond says, laughing. “Not like, the making them. I mean, I’d help with that too, that aspect would be fun. But I was talking about the delivery, and recovery, and taking care of a newborn. I don’t know everything, but I know a lot. I could help you get through it. So that’s an option I want you to be aware of, if…you know.” Now he pauses. “If you trust me.”

“I trust you.”

“Sometimes I don’t know if you should,” Aemond murmurs; or at least that’s what you think he says as you lose consciousness, plummeting into sleep as if falling from a great height.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Tahoe runs out of gas just east of Tipton—not a city, not a town, just a collection of service roads linking sprawling ranches to I-80, the only continuous route across southern Wyoming—and Rhaena guides the SUV as it coasts to a halt on the shoulder of the highway. You hike about a mile to the nearest ranch house: Luke carrying the siphoning hose and empty gas can in case you can find fuel, Rio carrying Aegon on his back, Baela walking slowly and with great effort, Ice panting as she lopes across the dusty earth. You can’t spot any cattle or horses behind the endless strings of barbed wire fencing. Perhaps they are in a different pasture, or escaped or were stolen, or died of thirst without being tended to, or were consumed by a wandering hoard of zombies, never sleeping and always hungry. The house at the end of the dirt driveway is modest, old, and painted white. The front door is open; the screen door bangs in the wind.

“Rock Springs is the next real town,” Aegon says when Rio drops him to the ground, reading his map.

“And how far is that?” Rio asks.

Aegon deflates. “About fifty miles.”

“Great,” Rhaena says. “What’s the plan, to fly there?”

“Yeah, start flapping your wings, little bird. You’re light enough, you can make it.”

“No car in the driveway,” you tell Aemond. “Nobody home, maybe?”

He’s scrutinizing the house, his blue eye narrow. “Maybe.”

A thought occurs to Aegon. “Do you think ranchers have golf clubs?” he asks hopefully.

“No,” Aemond snaps. Rio is now on the front porch and pounding the butt of his unloaded Remington shotgun against the doorframe to see if anyone appears. Daeron is nocking one of his makeshift arrows as he trots around the perimeter with his compound bow.

Luke, peering through his binoculars, points to a large cylindrical aluminum structure about a hundred yards from the house, by a small red barn. “What’s that thing?”

“It’s a grain bin,” Cregan says. “Full of feed for cattle.” Ice whimpers at his feet, and he twirls his axe in his large, calloused hands. “Are we clearing the house or not? Something’s in there.”

“We are,” Aemond answers tonelessly. “Luke, Rhaena, stay out here with Aegon and watch for trouble. Daeron, you too.”

“Got it.”

“Baela—”

“Can I go inside?” she asks. “Please, Aemond. I’m so sick of sitting around feeling useless and exhausted. I want to help. I want to do something, I’m going insane.”

“Fine,” Aemond agrees. “It should be an easy one.”

It is easy, but it’s not pleasant. The house smells like dark, sickening decay. In the living room are the skeletal remains of two bodies, both children judging by the size; the maroon-stained bones are notched with indents from gnashing teeth. Cregan shadows Helaena as she searches through closets and drawers. She takes no clothing—it would have absorbed the stench of death—but fills her burlap messenger bag with matches, lighters, batteries, pills. She gives you a bottle of Advil before you can ask her for it.

“Thanks,” you say, a bit startled, as you tuck it away in your backpack.

It is not until Ice leads you to the final room, the bedroom at the rear of the house, that you hear the familiar, blood-chilling hissing and moaning of a zombie. It is in the closet, and emerges one limb at a time: one arm and then another, one leg long like a spider’s, streaked with a thick soup of rotting organs that spills from a gaping hole in her belly like the mouth of a mineshaft. Something has happened to its other leg; it is missing, and the corpse that was once a thirties-something woman—a soccer mom, perhaps, with a minivan and propensity to make meatloaf and fish sticks—drags itself across the fawn-colored carpet towards you, slow and pathetic. Ice growls and barks. Rio raises his Remington.

“Wait,” Baela says. Her hammer is in her right hand. “Can I do it?”

“Of course, be my guest,” Rio says; though you can tell he’s slightly disappointed. He loves clubbing things.

Baela approaches the yowling zombie—jaws snapping, claws swiping—and grimaces down at it, this one of millions of monsters that ended the world, that killed Jace and stole all the rest of her life from her too, all those normal things she was supposed to have, all those strings of fate that the plague cut through like a razor and sent floating aimlessly out into the void of the universe. Then with a scream, Baela swings her hammer and a catastrophic impact crater appears in the side of the zombie’s skull, and it crumples to the floor, its mindless brains spilling out onto the carpet.

“Nothing good?” Aegon asks when you reappear in the driveway, popping a Vicodin into his mouth.

“No,” Aemond replies grimly. “No gas, no bullets, no food, nothing to drink.”

“I knew it would be lean pickings once we got out here,” Cregan says, and Aemond looks like he could kill him.

“Well, fortunately, Luke might have some good news for us,” Aegon says with a grin.

Aemond perks up. “Really? What?”

“I saw a truck out there,” Luke says, using his binoculars to gesture to the grain bin. “It’s parked between the barn and the grain thing, I can just see the very front of it sticking out. And if there’s a truck, there might be gas.”

Aemond ruffles Luke’s fluffy dark hair. “Good job, kid.” And Luke lights up like how cities used to look at night, back when the power was on: Washington D.C., Key West, Corpus Christi, Chinhae. Rio stoops down so Aegon can hop on his back, and all of you trek together across the field.

“Nothing,” Cregan announces as he squeezes the little pump on the siphoning hose after opening the gas cap of the ancient Chevy Silverado and threading the hose inside. “Not a drop.”

“Fucking fantastic,” Aegon sighs from where he’s slumped on the ground. His eyes are glazed; he’s pretty stoned. He gazes pitifully up at you; you pat his shoulder sympathetically. You and Rio have already checked the barn, dilapidated but perfectly devoid of zombies. The roof has caved in; one of the two front doors are missing. “What now?!”

“We can go back to the interstate and walk until we find the next ranch,” you say, looking absentmindedly at the grain bin. It’s much larger up close, and rusty in spots. A ladder runs up one side to allow access to the roof. Ice isn’t whining or nudging anyone’s hands, but she’s sniffing the air as if she’s detected something interesting, unfamiliar.

“Yeah,” Luke replies miserably. “We can walk another five or ten miles and then maybe find a safe place to spend the night.”

Rhaena shades her eyes as she peers up at the sky. “It’s past noon already. Maybe we should just stay here.”

Rio barks out a sardonic laugh. “In a house with no supplies and that reeks of dead people?”

“Cregan, go kill us something to eat,” Aegon commands.

He chuckles in his deep, gruff voice. “It’s Miss Chips who is good at the killing, I’m just the authority on butchering at the moment.”

Aemond is watching Ice, his forehead furrowed. “What’s she doing?”

Cregan whistles. “Hey, princess, you okay?” Ice ignores him, still sniffing, her grey ears straight up in the air. Then it appears from behind the barn: a tiny brown creature, a baby bear.

“Aww, it’s so fuzzy!” Aegon squeals, stretching his arm out to pet it. Rio yanks him away; everyone else is backing up towards the grain bin. A second bear cub has now arrived, padding clumsily along, large cartoonish eyes and a little pink tongue poking out from its muzzle.

“Don’t touch them!” Aemond shouts to everyone. “Get away from them! If there are cubs, there’s probably—”

And around the barn comes the mother, a grizzly bear of 400 pounds. She bares her teeth and snarls, saliva dripping in long gluey strings. Ice is barking viciously; Aegon is shrieking and scrambling onto Rio’s back.

“Baela!” Aemond says because she’s closest to him, urging her towards the ladder of the grain bin. She gets the idea and begins climbing. Then Aemond reaches for you. “Come on, you next!”

“Rhaena, go,” you say instead, and she clambers up the ladder after Baela. Cregan is brandishing his axe; Rio has his Remington in his hands, Aegon still clinging to his back like a baby opossum to its mother. Now Helaena is climbing up the ladder, and Daeron nocks an arrow. You whip one of your M9s out of its holster, aim for the bear’s head, and pull the trigger.

Your bullet hits its skull, Daeron’s arrow pierces its chest; and the mother bear does not die but roars and rises up onto her back feet—taller than Rio, taller than Cregan—and then drops back down and charges towards you and the grain bin. Cregan blocks the way, swinging his axe. The bear reluctantly pauses, testing him with swipes of her claws that he evades. Rio is just a few steps behind Cregan, waving his Remington around hostilely. Aegon is screaming and holding on for dear life.

“Don’t shoot!” Cregan yells. “9mm isn’t big enough, you’ll just make her more angry!”

Aemond finally gets a grip on your wrist and drags you to the ladder. You obey and climb until your feet are several rungs off the ground, then you turn to see what’s going on below. Aemond, Luke, and Daeron are at the bottom of the ladder, their backs to you. Cregan is still wielding his axe.

“Fuck off, Mama Bear!” he bellows, standing as tall as possible and swinging his axe above his head. Rio follows Cregan’s lead and holds his Remington aloft. Ice is barking; the baby bears are fleeing in terror. Aegon is sobbing hysterically and saying he’s going to die. “You don’t want us and we don’t want you! Go on! Go get your babies! I’ll put this blade right between your eyes if you don’t change your stupid mind right quick!”

The bear pounds the earth with her front feet and growls, a beastly subterranean rumble, but she seems to be losing her nerve. The rungs of the ladder creak and groan; you see rust like blood-hued moss around the bolts.

“Get out of here!” Cregan shouts. “Go, you hairy old bitch! Go back to your babies!”

The bear glances back to see her cubs vanish behind the barn. Her mouth is open and panting, spittle gleaming on her pointed teeth; her black eyes are uncertain. As you hold onto the ladder with one hand, you have your M9 aimed at the bear’s left eye, just in case. Aemond is watching Cregan; on his scarred face a sharp severity, fascination and resentment and fear.

“Go on,” Cregan says firmly. “Leave us alone. You belong in the mountains, not down here. Go eat something that’s already dead, a nice easy dinner. You don’t want us. We’ll fight you.”

The grizzly bear shakes her head—flopping ears, shaggy fur filthy with dust and pieces of grass—and whirls, lumbering off to find her cubs. When she rounds the barn, Cregan waits a few long, tense, silent minutes and then turns to the grain bin.

“Alright y’all, we oughta hurry up and leave. I don’t think she’ll come back, but she might.”

From the top of the ladder, approximately forty feet off the ground, Baela begins to laugh. “Did that really just happen?! That was insane! Cregan, buddy, you can vote for whoever you want to. You and I are cool forever.”

He smiles up at her, wincing in the bright afternoon light. “I’m very glad to hear it, ma’am.”

Rio sets Aegon down on the ground and stretches his back; it must be hurting him. Aemond is taking your hand and helping you off the ladder, and you are reminded of the transmission tower where he found you in Catawissa, Pennsylvania, one of those middle-of-nowhere places like Tipton, Wyoming. As Helaena climbs down, you go to Rio and—with as much force as you can manage—knead the small of his back with the heel of your hand like you know helps him.

“You okay?”

He sighs loudly, relieved. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Oh, wow, that’s good. Harder…oh yeah…”

There is a snapping sound, metal squealing as it breaks, and by the time you turn to look she’s already falling: her cotton dress billowing around her, her arms wheeling helplessly. It happens too quickly for her to scream—for her to understand what is going on and what it means—but there is a stunned gasp and then she hits the ground, and you hear a muffled crunch of bone—skull?? spine??—and she is completely, unnaturally still as she lies on her back, no pain, no words, nothing.

“Baela!” Rhaena shrieks, and she rushes down the ladder and runs to her sister. You are all gathering around Baela, petrified to move her—to make it worse—but pleading for her to wake up, examining her with terrified eyes. Baela’s own eyes, dark and glassy and serene, are open only a sliver like obsidian crescent moons. Aemond is asking Helaena for a flashlight and then prying them wide, checking Baela’s pupils.

“There’s no reflex,” he says numbly.

“What does that mean?!” Rhaena cries. “Aemond? Aemond?!”

“She’s…she’s…” He’s in denial; he’s in shock. He’s feeling for a pulse on her carotid, he’s digging his fingernails into her forearm to try to get her to respond to pain.

“Aemond?” you say softly.

“She’s gone,” he tells you, like he doesn’t believe it, like he’s waiting to wake up.

“The baby,” Rhaena says. “Try to save the baby.” And then, when Aemond doesn’t immediately understand, she grabs his backpack and begins ripping it off so he can get the medical kit inside. “The baby, Aemond!”

Now he knows what he has to do. He pulls the scalpel out of his kit as Rhaena moves Baela’s sundress to expose her belly. She was wearing biker shorts beneath, lavender, cute, something you might have picked out in a store. In less than a minute they will be soaked with blood. Cregan leads Daeron away, and he’s telling him that they need to keep watch in case the grizzly bear returns, but you think it is an act of mercy more than anything else. Ice goes with them. Helaena, her face pale and grave, is shining the flashlight on Baela’s belly, just beneath her navel.

“Aegon?” Aemond says.

“What? What do you need?”

“I need people to help hold open the incision once I make it. I have to be able to see the amniotic sac so I can cut the membrane without harming the baby.”

“I get it, I’m here, I’ll help.”

Aemond presses the blade of the scalpel to Baela’s skin and draws a semicircle from the top of one hip to the other. There is blood, but it is slow-moving and thick and dark; it is the blood of a dead woman, not a living one. Immediately, Aegon hooks his fingers under layers of fat, skin, and muscle, and opens the wound as much as he can. You and Rio reach in too, and you do this without thinking, without allowing yourself to feel the horror of it until the work is done.

“I can’t see,” Aemond is murmuring. Rhaena gets another flashlight and helps Helaena illuminate the area. Luke is on his knees with both hands clamped over his mouth, his eyes glistening with dread and disbelief. Aemond is slicing, pausing to probe around with his fingers, cutting again. Then his arm plunges into Baela’s abdomen up to his elbow and, with some difficulty, pulls out the gore-covered baby by its feet, a girl, large and limp and silent.

Rhaena sobs, equal parts grief and joy, a smile appearing on her face. “Is she okay? Aemond? Is she…why isn’t she crying? Aemond?!”

Rio yanks off his shirt and uses it to wipe blood and gelatinous clumps away from the baby’s eyes, mouth, and nostrils. Then Aemond takes the shirt and wraps the baby in it, warming her, rubbing her lifeless little limbs. When she does not stir, Aemond lays her on the earth and begins CPR: compressions with two fingers on her tiny heart, two breaths down the airway she’s never used. There are no sounds except his efforts. There is no crying when the baby wakes, because she never does.

Enough, you are thinking, as if from very far away: an island in the Indian Ocean, the Appalachian mountains in eastern Kentucky. Enough, enough, enough.

Aemond stops trying to revive the baby. He picks her up and holds her against him, and no one says anything. There is only the barrenness of the Wyoming steppe, an anemic blue sky, tall dry grass that bows in the breeze, black vultures that are landing atop the barn and the grain bin.

Aegon jolts out of his paralysis and reaches for his brother with bloodied hands. “Aemond, hey, Aemond, listen to me, it wasn’t your fault. Okay? Are you listening? Aemond, man, you did everything you could. You gave them a chance. You didn’t give up.”

But Aemond doesn’t respond; he only kneels there beside Baela’s butchered body, her dead baby girl in his arms.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Alys?” he calls, seeing that she never came back to bed. He is lying on his stomach, tangled in red sheets damp with sweat. It’s hot, too hot, and there is no humming of the air conditioning. When Aemond picks up his iPhone from the nightstand, it’s still plugged in but only at 87% battery. The power must have gone out.

He gets up, rubs the damp skin by his temple—headache, dehydration—and lifts open the nearest window. It’s odd: there is shouting, distant and indistinct, like the sound of a carnival or a concert. There are car alarms too, and sirens, and horns blaring, all too far away for him to see. It must be because of the power outage, traffic signals thrown into chaos, neighbors relaying the latest information back and forth. That’s the only logical explanation.

“Alys?” Aemond says again, groggy but with increasing curiosity, concern, guilt.

She started to feel sick last night, a pulsing in her skull and chills and powerful nausea. The possibility of it being the so-called Florida Fever barely registered in his mind. Alys gets migraines, and tofu is a migraine trigger, and he took her to a Thai restaurant (maybe he should have known better) and the curry Alys ordered ended up having tofu in it, and by the time she paid the check (as Alys always did) she was swallowing an Imitrex from the box in her snakeskin purse. She said she was going to lie down in the guest bedroom for a while so she wouldn’t wake him if she spent the next few hours dashing to and from the bathroom, a likely outcome, and if he was honest with himself about it, Aemond would admit he was relieved.

He shuffles to the bedroom door—black boxers, bare feet, century-old hardwood floors—and opens it. Now he can hear thudding, like someone tenderizing meat with a mallet. “Alys? Baby, you feeling okay?” There is no answer, only that rhythmic hammering. He realizes that it is coming from the guest bedroom, a door at the end of a long hallway still fuzzy through his half-awake eyes.

It had never felt right, but it had felt good: good in the body when she touched him, good in the soul when she told him he did something right. But lately—especially here, in the vast creaking historic house she shares with her husband and her children, who are presently sailing in Cape Cod—Aemond cannot shake the feeling that this entanglement is a surrender rather than an aspiration, something he fell into and now rests at the bottom of like a swimming pool or the sea, the cold weight of it threatening to pour into his lungs and drown him.

“Alys?” Aemond says, now with profound and inexplicable dread. Outside an ambulance or police car zooms by, sirens blaring. The pounding on the door of the guest bedroom grows faster.

I want to go home, Aemond thinks suddenly. At home, in the Federal-style townhouse his parents rented for him (Criston picked it out, a safe and quiet neighborhood in Beacon Hill, and Viserys paid), Daeron is visiting from California and watching golf tournaments with Aegon on the living room couch, pretending to be interested when Aegon describes the different types of clubs. Helaena, pursuing an Entomology PhD, is researching the Mediterranean mantis, clicking around on her MacBook Pro from the garden in the backyard. Jace and Luke live there too, and so Baela and Rhaena have all but officially moved in, keeping their apartment in Seaport only to have somewhere to retreat to when the Targaryen chaos becomes too much…and so the baby can have its own room. Baela bought a crib, a changing table, a rocking chair, a dresser, and about a million unisex onesies, mostly space-themed. Baela is studying Aeronautics and Astronautics, after all. Maybe one day she’ll work for NASA and fly rockets to the moon.

The door is rattling on its hinges. Aemond’s hand closes around the knob. On the other side is something terrible, and he knows this. But he cannot just leave her. Aemond is not someone who abandons people; he is not someone who turns away from responsibilities.

He opens the door of the guest bedroom, and immediately she is staggering towards him, limp dripping hair and naked like she was interrupted mid-shower: blood bubbling from her gaping mouth and the whites of teeth peeking through the crimson, necrotic skin hanging in strips from her fingers, eyes misty like steam on a mirror.

“Alys, stop! Alys! What’s wrong with you?!”

She’s alive but she’s dead. She’s yowling and clawing at him, but her flesh is the rotting swampland of a corpse. He’s pushing her away; his palms sink into her, places he once noticed and then fantasized about and then at last—euphorically, ashamedly—touched, held, borrowed but never kept. She’s trying to bite him. She’s trying to kill him. None of this is possible, and yet it’s true.

Aemond flings her away, and the woman who was once Alys stumbles backwards and down the staircase, sick wet thumps all the way to the ground floor, bones splitting through dissolving grey skin, organs sloshing around until they spill out. He can hear her still hissing, flailing, trying to get up again.

Without thinking—slipping seamlessly into what he learned during his psych rotation is called automatic action—Aemond races down the steps and grabs her by the skull, cracks it against the antique hardwood floor she once extoled the value of as he fucked her on it: shipped east from Oregon and laid in 1912, the year the Titanic sank. When she lurches up to try to bite him, he slams her head against the floor again and again until she is still.

Then Aemond kneels there alone for a long time, sirens shrieking outside, far-off strangers screaming for help, putrid black blood clotting on his hands.

[shibaraki]

LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO ┊ TODOROKI SHOUTO

synopsis: slow to heal and forced on sick leave, a lonely Todoroki Shouto decides to download the latest popular app, Enigmail, to cure his boredom. he finds you. the rest is… well. moderately disastrous.

tags: NSFT, AFAB reader, pen pal au, hero personal assistant reader, prohero shouto, strangers to friends to lovers, injury recovery, online friendship + eventual romance, feelings development, misunderstandings, identity reveal, pining, sexting, masturbation (male chara), making out + heavy petting, getting together, *slaps roof of fic* you can fit so much fluff in this thing

wc: 17K

It started unexpectedly—with a tremor.

Rather, it started with Oda Shuichi, the prolific villain known as Tremor. At the time of the incident his quirk had been unregistered, but doctors quickly found that it severely affected an individual's motor neurons. According to them the length of time that he has a five point touch hold on someone influences how long they will lose motor function—and how poorly their muscles atrophy.

Shouto spent three uninterrupted minutes trapped in his clutches.

“I promise I’ll come by and visit whenever we can. You’ll still get updates and reports through your work email,” Midoriya tried to assure him with that signature smile, brows drawn together into an almost pleading expression. “It’s just for a little while!”

“For a month,” Shouto pointed out petulantly. Nori, his elderly adopted cat, stirred from her place on his stomach while restless fingers combed over her short pale fur.

“A month,” Midoriya parrots. He offers an apologetic grimace and leans over where he lies horizontal, slumped and agitated, to fluff up the couch cushions behind him. The newly crowned Symbol of Peace obviously felt needlessly responsible for the situation at hand. Shouto had only allowed Tremor to grab him so Deku and Suneater could get the hostages out, after all.

“Taking a break isn’t so bad, Shouto. And Hawks told me you’ve yet to actually use any of your vacation days,” he continued. “Even Kacchan takes time off. Do you know how many hours you have to work to outdo Kacchan?”

“I’m sure you could tell me exact numbers”.

“Don’t be mean,” Midoriya said, dithering as he peers around the room, slightly unfamiliar now that the furniture has been temporarily moved around to make navigating the space easier. Thanks to an on-call specialist Shouto would still be able to walk in short bursts, but he’d have to gradually build up strength and stamina over the weeks to come.

A pleased sound reverberated in Midoriya’s throat as he finally discovered the TV remote, setting it beside Shouto’s phone on the arm of the chair. “Okay. There,” he hooked an ankle around the coffee table and dragged it a little closer. “If you need us to get you anything from the store just text us”.

Shouto grumbled. Midoriya sighed, fondly exasperated at the childish display. Before leaving he moved the nearby pair of crutches within reach, listing off all the things he can think of, “Hey, maybe you can catch up on Quirky Hearts now! Or read that series Iida said you’d enjoy. There’s that new app I heard about, too. Enigmail? That might be fun”.

The anonymous pen pal app, Enigmail, exploded in popularity after its release in the spring. Shouto barely knew a thing about it, only that you needed to be over eighteen and chatting partners were assigned at random. Nothing about that sounded tempting.

Midoriya’s suggestion hung over his head for the rest of that afternoon. Quirky Hearts droned on in the background. Halfway through the first episode Shouto had yet to retain any information. Nori hardly left her spot. Jaws stretched wide around a yawn, lips pulled back to display what remained of her teeth. He liked to think she sensed his inner turmoil, though realistically, she was likely too lazy to move.

Curiosity prevailed in the end. The logo featured a pink post mounted mailbox, the slot unhinged to receive a folded paper plane. Shouto opened the app onto a pretty basic interface that followed an almost pastel theme. The profiles are barebones. He supposed that was purposeful. It asked for pronouns and a nickname, offering the option to pick an icon from their default library, but nothing more.

From what he could discern skimming over the rules he would be assigned to a random chat room with another person in a speed dating style interaction. A timer would count down from two minutes and upon completion prompt the user to either switch partners or remain talking.

A simple concept. But anything had sounded better than sulking horizontally and staring dead eyed at reality television for the remainder of his night. And when was the last time he met somebody new?

Almost every username he could think up had been taken. Even his hero name was unavailable. In a last ditch effort he settled on a miraculously accepted Sooba and scrolled through the icons. “Hey, it looks like you,” he murmured, pleased by the regal white cat icon. She hadn’t heard him, but sunk her dull claws into the meat of his forearm as he turned the image to her, those dramatic yellow eyes dilating at his coo, “Don’t worry. You’re the only Nori in my life”.

Shouto clicked start.

The first few users are odd, and without tact. Others communicated in languages he couldn’t understand. He stuck around regardless—luckily the developers had thought to include a translation tool, and Shouto managed to befriend one or two people with innocuous pictures he’d taken on previous patrols alone.

Then there’s…

XpLoveGuest ▻ Hey sexy

By that point early evening had already flooded through his balcony doors and drenched everything in a gauzy orange glow. His nose wrinkled. “You have no idea what I look like,” he thought aloud, switching to his right hand to roll the ache from his left wrist

▻ ASL?

Shouto frowned in faint confusion. He minimised the app to search up the term. Results flowed in, and after a brief look over everything he discovered they all repeated the same description. It’s an old acronym.

His thumbs tapped across the keyboard in quick succession.

Sooba ▻ Age: 27 ▻ Location: Tokyo ▻ Sex: No thank you

The chat immediately disappeared. A loading symbol blinks in the centre of the screen. He snorted, and suddenly a new chat opened with a different username blinking at the top corner. It’s a bit on the nose.

‘InsertNameHere’.

You shared the same default cat icon, which he took as an immediate plus.

But a minute elapsed and nobody spoke. There was an unusual trepidation on your part. Shouto chewed his bottom lip. He contemplated starting the conversation when suddenly three dots skipped across the screen, indicating the other user was typing something.

InsertNameHere ▻ You’re not going to send me a picture of your dick, are you? ▻ If you have one that is.

Shouto’s mouth parted in soft surprise, then pressing defensively thin, and he had glanced around his living room as though someone were there to witness this weirdness alongside him.

Sooba ▻ I have one.

InsertNameHere ▻ Ok. Well I don’t want to see it.

Sooba ▻ It sounds like you see a lot of dicks.

Not once taking his eyes away from the screen, Shouto felt for the TV remote and paused the show, brow arching at your next response.

InsertNameHere ▻ And it sounds like you’re new here.

Sooba ▻ I am. My friend recommended I try this to cure my boredom while I recover.

A few beats passed. He eyed the countdown looming over your shared interaction, conscious of how little time is left. You were the first interesting person he’s come across. Though he supposed that isn’t saying much.

InsertNameHere ▻ Recover? That sounds bad. Are you alright?

Sooba ▻ Injury at work. I’ll be fine in a few weeks.

Just as you were beginning to respond, the timer cut out. Shouto reflexively expelled his frustration and Nori lifted her head toward the abrupt movement of his chest, ears twitching. She blinked up at him in disapproval for shaking her. “Sorry sweet girl,” he murmured, wearing a small smile as he scratched under her chin. So temperamental.

A familiar pop up in the cartoonish shape of a postcard covered the chat. Your messages blurred into the background. It read: Do you wish to continue corresponding?

Shouto clicked ‘Yes’. And apparently you did too, because your contact pinned itself to his in-app mailbox.

A melodic chime pinged from his phone. Confetti burst across the off white background in pixelated blooms.

✎ CONGRATULATIONS! You have a new pen pal ✐

InsertNameHere ▻ Guess I can keep you company in the meantime. ▻ You’re the only sane person I’ve come across so far.

Shouto smiled, even as the muscles in his cheeks protested. It’s a stubborn reminder of his condition. He repositioned himself to lessen the strain on his wrists, chin tucked to his chest where his phone is propped, and said:

Sooba ▻ I’d like that. :)

The fortnight that followed is slow to pass. An endless cycle of wake, stretch, eat, lightly exercise as instructed by his physiotherapist, play with Nori, eat, watch Quirky Hearts, stretch. Midoriya stopped by, bringing Iida along with him. Jirou sent him playlists to listen to. Fuyumi called every evening and shared the phone with his mother, gentle in their fretting. He assures them all that he’s coping just fine from the Shouto-shaped depression in his couch cushions.

But there’s also you; the stream of consciousness keeping his seams together, lest he fall apart from the complete and utter boredom he’s been forced to endure. In the beginning he wasn’t sure of the rules. Talking online is not his forte and neither is making new friends. That entire first morning was spent ruminating whether or not texting you ‘good morning’ was strange, and estimating how many times was appropriate to message you before he violated some invisible social boundary.

Normal had been irrelevant until now. Normal, to Shouto, consisted of avoiding his father’s phone calls, sending the occasional concussive text message—indecipherable to even the greatest cryptanalysts—and giving Nori updates in the 1A Grad group chat.

Sometimes he’ll open the app to see you typing, pausing, typing. Imagining you, a faceless someone, equally uncertain about your footing pleases him a little. In the end he figured if you didn’t want to talk to him, you wouldn’t respond. Evidenced by how you often saved him the trouble by messaging first, sometimes as early as five o'clock in the morning. Apparently you worked irregular hours in a rather unpredictable industry. Shouto weighs the possibility that you might be a fellow hero—or something close—more than he cared to admit.

Any trepidation he felt would always dwindle as soon as a notification lit up on the screen. He reads your username and his insides turn over.

InsertNameHere ▻ I’ve escaped to the break room. ▻ Do you ever think about how we don’t have muscles in our fingers? How fucked up is that?

Shouto smirks, pulled away from the conversation at hand. He unlocks the phone in his lap, beneath the kotatsu to remain hidden, an attempt at being inconspicuous as he replies.

Sooba ▻ I try not to think too much about anything.

You throw back a few laughing emoticons and satisfaction washes over him. “You’ve been texting a lot. Who’s got you smiling like that?” Natsuo asks slyly. He’s cross legged, tie tossed irreverently over his shoulder, shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms, having come straight from work. “A special someone?”

Shouto forces the muscles in his face to relax into feigned nonchalance. “Nobody. Nothing,” he says unconvincingly.

Rei enters the room with a modest tray of dango before Natsuo can open his big mouth. She’s wearing a bi-coloured hoodie. The sleeves slip as she sets the treats down on the table beside the green tea Fuyumi brewed earlier; another gift from Yaoyorozu’s family travels. Natsuo’s face twitches under Shouto’s unbroken stare, which is daring him to bring it up while their mother is here.

Then his phone vibrates and any possibility of peace is shattered.

His mother glances curiously at him, expression soft in the dewy afternoon light, and she smiles. “Are you speaking to one of your friends?” she asks. “Please tell Deku ‘thank you’ for sending me your new Shouto hoodie. It’s very warm”.

The words fill something cavernous inside him. Soothes the ache with gentle wonderment. She smiles down at his hero logo printed proudly across her chest, rubbing the hem between her finger and thumb. A younger Shouto could have only ever imagined it.

“I’m not so sure it’s a friend this time,” Natsuo teases, spoken with a playful, sing-song cadence. “Shouto wouldn’t text at the table and risk facing Fuyumi’s wrath just for a friend”.

Shouto does not pout. “I would risk anything for my friends,” he says, affronted; anything maybe except his older sister's well intentioned nagging. “…It’s a new friend, that’s all”.

Rei perks up, settling on her knees and laying the kotatsu blanket over her thighs. The quiet sound of plates and cups clinking together fade in from the kitchen. Natsuo hums, unconvinced, and hides a smile behind his mug. It's moments like this, when the people he loves are gathered in one place, and he can hear them in every corner of his home, that he’s glad for buying a smaller apartment.

“That’s wonderful, Shouto,” Rei murmurs as Fuyumi pads into the room, Nori not long behind her, threading through his elder sister's ankles. She too arrived right after work, donning a suit-skirt and blouse. “What’s their name?”

His thoughts stutter. Fuyumi’s nose wrinkles seeing the panic stark on his face. “Who are we talking about?”

“Beats me. Ask him,” Natsuo says, taking a stick of dango between his teeth as he tries not to grin when Shouto’s phone vibrates a second time. “I want to know who’s so eager to talk to my little brother”.

InsertNameHere ▻ Sooooobaaaaaaa ▻ I’m on my lunch keep me company

Shouto snatches up his phone to respond. He brings it closer to his face to allow Nori access to his lap. She monopolises the space instantly. “You’re not a teenager anymore, Shouto,” Fuyumi laments. “No phones during family time”.

“I know. I’m sorry, nee-san. I just need to…” his thumbs dance over the keyboard, head ducked in amalgamated shame and apology.

Sooba ▻ Question ▻ InsertNameHere ▻ What is your name?

InsertNameHere ▻ At the personal info stage already? You move fast. ▻ Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.

That stirs a faint unease in his gut and he understands better then. Anonymity is what gives people a sense of security and he isn’t exempt from that. In truth, right now he doesn’t want to know what might change if you knew who was on the other end yet.

Sooba ▻ You can call me whatever you want.

“Shouto”.

InsertNameHere ▻ That’s not even a line is it. ▻ Man. You’re dangerous.

Sooba ▻ ???

Shouto stares at the flickering dots by your username. You type, then stop. Type, then stop. As if you were deleting and starting over again. A habit of yours he’s quite endeared to. “Shouto!” Fuyumi huffs, poking a manicured finger into his side. Though short, the nail still causes him to flinch, and he’s quick to stretch his phone out of reach as her hand swipes through the air. “I mean it!”

Nori is jolted. She voices her immediate displeasure and Rei titters into her sleeve. The sleeve with his name stitched into the fabric. He breath catches, like it always does when his mother laughs. “Shouto doesn’t have to tell us anything until he’s ready,” she assured, offering him a gentle look—a look so sincere he feels awful for being evasive.

And his feeble resolve fractures.

“I don’t know,” he confesses bluntly. Natsuo and Fuyumi frown, at one another and then back at him, in unsettling synchrony cultivated through siblinghood. Shouto shrugs and pulls at a stray thread in his jeans cut loose under Nori’s claws, “I can’t tell you a name because I don’t know it”.

Natsuo appears mildly surprised. Fuyumi sinks into disbelief, feet curled beneath her body, going lax at his side. She drops her arm. “You… don’t know it?” she repeats.

“The app is anonymous,” he supplies hastily, attention flickering to his mother, far more worried about discerning her reaction. She’s unreadable. “My name isn’t on there either. We just talk about stuff”.

“Stuff?” his siblings' voices overlap, told apart only by the difference in tone. Natsuo’s shock has melted into some strange mix of pride and innuendo. “Is it that penpal thing everyone has been talking about? Enigma?”

“Enigmail,” he mutters. Natsuo lights up. Fuyumi does not share the sentiment.

“You’re a hero, Shouto! What if it’s someone with bad intentions?” she frets, brows drawn down and together, mouth pressed thin. “They could be tricking you. The internet is rife with predators, and—!”

“Nee-san. I’m a grown man. I understand the importance of internet safety,” Shouto interjects.

Natsuo slumps onto the table with a mawkish sigh, the sound steeped in fondness. “Let him have fun. You know he’s right, ‘Yumi, he’s an adult. It’s a wonder where all that time went,” he says. A few beats later he’s abruptly straightening his spine, “Gods, Fuyumi. You’re almost thirty five!”

Fuyumi glares from behind her glasses. She reaches across the kotatsu and swats lightly at his bicep, “Do you have to say it like that? You’re thirty one!”

“Please. Stop arguing,” Shouto says. He pets the unperturbed cat curled up on his thighs, “You might startle Nori”.

“Shouto. She’s deaf”.

Rei cuts their bickering short as she breathes, “When did you all get so big…” a serene smile hung on her lips, not a hint of grief to be seen. The answers surrounding your identity—or lack thereof—are lost to the nostalgia cloying in his throat.

They return to enjoying tea and dango after that. Shouto sets his phone face down on the floor and turns off vibrate. For now, he wants to ward off further interrogation.

His mother intuits this and steers the conversation in another direction, “Natsuo, how have things been at your new job? Are they treating you well?”

Things are good. Fuyumi’s class would soon be graduating, an award for Best Teacher polished and positioned on her desk. Natsuo had landed the job he always wanted—a medical welfare officer working closely with trauma survivors—and was already making waves. His mother, Rei, finally finished cultivating her traditional garden, weaving tales of lush foliage and water spouts. Touya too has been improving in his rehabilitation programme, according to his psychiatrist’s reports.

A tremor quakes through the tendons in Shouto’s forearm as he lifts his tea to sip the remaining dregs. Yaoyorozu outdid herself this time. If he hadn’t already known the price he would have discerned it from the refreshing, uniquely sweet taste. Thoughts of you cross his mind in these instances without warning. Would you like it? What’s your favourite tea?

Shouto scrunches his eyes shut as if it might wash those thoughts away. How is it that the stranger in his pocket possesses the ability to awaken such yearning in him; he feels mildly ashamed to have realised his loneliness with an audience.

The hour rolls into another. Shouto scrapes the last dango along the skewer with his teeth, jutting his chin to evade Nori’s curious sniffing. “This was lovely, Shouto. Thank you for having us over,” Fuyumi expressed as she carefully ran her hand along the feline's back.

Sensing the finality, Shouto motions to stand and sets Nori on the couch. Everyone protests it. He huffs, sliding a crutch over from where they lay nearby and letting it take his weight. A good decision, he thinks, inwardly grimacing as the blood rushes to his feet, prickling like violent white noise under his skin, and his knee almost gives out.

“I’m okay. The doctor told me I should be trying to move around more anyway,” he tells them, deigning to mention that he expended most of his energy tidying up this morning before their visit. “You’re my guests. I want to walk you to the door”.

Shouto tries not to bristle under their wary scrutiny. A cool hand slips around his arm then. His mother’s natural chill seeps through the sleeve of his shirt and allays the irritation. “We appreciate it, sweetheart,” she says.

“We do,” Fuyumi gently insists. “We’re happy to see you recovering well. Right, Natsu—?”

“Kiss tax!” Natsuo exclaims, oblivious to his surroundings. He scoops Nori up from the arm of the couch. She is comically tiny pressed against his chest. A continuous indignant drone rumbles in her throat as his brother peppers firm kisses to the top of her head.

“Put my baby down,” Shouto deadpanned.

“She isn’t your baby,” Natsuo slides one hand under Nori, the other carefully tucked into her armpits. He holds her close to Shouto’s face. Dramatic round eyes stare back; a flat expression emphasised by prominent cheekbones. Barely a hair's breadth between them, Nori begins to swipe her rough tongue against his scarred cheek. “See? You’re her baby”.

“Mine, too,” Rei rises to her tiptoes and scratches behind Nori’s ear, turning a smile toward Shouto. That same hand moved to cup his cheek. Though far taller than his mother, Shouto tips his head and finds himself feeling incredibly small as she presses a kiss to his forehead. “Your hair is getting long again,” she adds as she pulls away.

“I can trim it if it’s bothering you,” Fuyumi nods, sidling up beside Rei to survey the growth together. She brushes back the wayward strands framing his face and Shouto blinks. “Though, I think I like this look on you. What’s it called? A wolfcut?”

“I’m not sure. This is how Mina cut it a few months ago,” he replies.

Natsuo interjects without Nori in his grasp, now notably covered in short cat hair. He claps Shouto on the back and pulls him into a firm side hug, “She did good. Our handsome little Shouto”.

Initiating physical affection with his family was still a weary affair after all this time, though patently one sided. Having them touch him so freely always left him a little stupefied.

After they depart, Shouto hobbles to find his phone with all the grace of a newborn fawn. It is face down under the kotatsu cover right where he left it. And as it blinks to life, he skips the notifications from the 1A group chat to find your screen name at the bottom.

InsertNameHere ▻ My boss has these awful little nicknames for everyone in the agency. Mine’s ‘Maestro’. Nerd and butterfingers, too, but mostly Maestro. ▻ To do with my quirk and role, I suppose. Good for morale etc. His creativity astounds me (๑ಕ̴ _̆ ಕ̴) ﾝ？ ▻ Not that I don’t appreciate it but. Well shit, what about my morale? Lol ▻ You there? ▻ Sorry if I scared you off by getting personal.

Shouto worries at his bottom lip. Maestro. Something new about you. A foreign feeling churned in his chest. Faint, barely there, but new enough for him to notice. He’s not sure how to pin it; whether your mention of working at an agency bothers him or the fact that others, people who are not Shouto, get to see you everyday, close enough to give you a personal nickname.

Sooba ▻ Sounds like you have a good relationship. I’ve got a close friend who sounds similar. People say it’s just his love language ha ▻ And you didn’t scare me off. I’m the one who asked. Some family came to check on me.

He barely thinks it over before adding:

▻ My mother said hi by the way.

Your reply isn’t immediate but it is quicker than he expects.

InsertNameHere ▻ You’re right. I do like my boss sometimes. Maybe. And I love this job but I think it has aged me ten years. My ulcers have ulcers! ▻ Also—telling your family about me now too? We really are moving fast.

A soft huff of laughter jumps in his throat. There’s a distant clamoring near the kitchen. The sound of Nori’s bowl being pushed around the tile. Her absence clicks in place when he looks at the clock. He should feed her soon.

Sooba ▻ Technically it was only my mother, older sister and brother. ▻ But I can relate about the work stuff.

InsertNameHere ▻ Yeah? You mentioned being on leave because of an injury. Do you like your work?

That’s a question he has never asked himself, nor has he ever felt the need to. Heroism was the path life handed to him. The path he ultimately followed of his own volition. Shouto loves his family, his friends. He’s good at his job—enough to have made it into the top ten. And isn’t that all that matters?

Sometimes he would take a long, weary look out the revolving agency doors, recognise the heaviness in his bones and give the entire thing a second thought. But that never made any difference. Because people needed him. And he needed them too.

There’s a fleeting urge in that instance; a temptation to come clean, if only to sate his own curiosity. To compare the idealised image of what you looked like or how you sounded. He’s spent many a shameful night thinking up romanticised scenarios in his mind about what it would be like to meet you in real life. Shouto always squashes it. He doubts you’d believe him.

Ever perceptive to his moods, Nori chooses that moment to pad in from the kitchen and sit herself directly in his line of sight. She wails, demanding attention and lacking any volume control.

Right now he is not a hero but a man alone on two unsteady legs with a small living thing reliant upon him. He’s just Todoroki Shouto. He’s just—

Sooba ▻ As of right now my occupation is ‘Nori’s dad’. I like it pretty well.

Your reply is immediate.

InsertYourName ▻ Oh you have a kid?

Nori’s frustration grows. Her tail swishes back and forth, agitated. “It isn’t time to eat yet,” Shouto tells her, pulling up his phone camera and zooming in. On her next yowl the shutter goes off. The picture is perfect. Mouth wide open, large ears flat and nose wrinkled in displeasure, lips curled up to display her pink gums.

Sooba ▻ [IMG_0243] ▻ Something like that.

It’s a risk and he knows it. Though infrequently his team has posted Nori to his social media in the past at the delight of his fans—she was younger in those pictures, but if you were well acquainted with him there was the possibility of you putting the puzzle pieces together.

InsertNameHere ▻ Oh my god sooba. She’s so cute. Give her everything she asks for, you monster. ▻ Hey. Are those Ingenium themed crutch pads?

Anxiety rockets through him. He pulls up the photo and sure enough, his crutches are in the corner of the frame, laid within reach beside the couch. Secured around the handles are Ingenium themed pads to cushion his palms.

Sooba ▻ They are.

InsertNameHere ▻ Is he your favourite hero?

He turns his phone over in his hands before he types, overcome by an abrupt restlessness.

Sooba ▻ One of them. ▻ Do you have a favourite hero?

Nori wanders off in his periphery and not long after he hears the telltale sound of cardboard being torn apart. You stop typing, replies coming to a halt. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

It becomes clear you’re offline. Shouto spends the evening imagining your answer—ducking sheepishly at the idea that you might say him, then cringing at his reaction—and reading through his work emails.

Partnering with Hawks hasn’t been the worst thing in the world. Despite his carefree demeanour and general lack of personal space Hawks was professional and meticulous when it came to his work. As promised, Shouto was CC’d into every important thread and forwarded every significant incident report each day. Apparently there’s a big fundraiser tonight that he is unable to attend.

Hawks suggests matching Endeavor’s donation in spirit. Shouto doubles it.

The night air barely touches him. Leaning against the balcony railing he surveys the cityscape. A kaleidoscope canvas. He stares until the pinpricks of light stretch and bend, streaking his vision, regaining shape when he blinks. Nori is curled around his calf, playfully kicking her back legs at his ankle. She’s careful to never break skin.

It’s nearing midnight when you get back to him. A disconcertingly vague reply of:

InsertNameHere ▻ I’ve had enough of heroes.

Shouto waits for you to elaborate before presuming anything nefarious. He would hate for Fuyumi to be correct. She’d never let him forget it.

▻ Shit that made me sound bad, didn’t it? I promise I’m not a villain

He snorts, reclining himself into one of the chairs on his patio. Yaoyorozu insisted upon helping decorate the space. This piece in particular had been chosen by Uraraka, if only for its cocoon, egg-like shape. She always sat in it if she came over; Shouto can’t say he blames her, now curling up inside it himself, leaving one foot flat to the floor for Nori to cling to.

Sooba ▻ Only a little bit lol.

InsertNameHere ▻ I just mean for today! I’ve had enough for today! ▻ There’s… a whole lot of them at this work event I’m attending is all. ▻ See! ▻ [IMG_0589]

It’s the first picture you’ve ever sent to him that wasn’t a meme. Your legs are crossed, turned inward to show more of the showroom floor. There are people everywhere. You’ve overturned your lanyard in your lap, straps dotted with the charity logo, to display the back of your security pass. No identification. Just proof that you’re there—

Proof that you’re a real person, giving colour to the vague, shapeless figure in his head. The figure once outlined only by random tidbits, like your favourite food, the music you like, the movies you loved as a child. The figure now clad in tight fitting, seemingly pearlescent sheer material from the waist down.

—Shouto swallows dryly.

You have nice hands. He tries not to linger on that.

▻ That’s why I disappeared, btw. Sorry about that. ▻ I feel weirdly underdressed.

The logo on your lanyard has recognition prickling in the back of his mind. Hours earlier Midoriya had texted him two pictures from the ‘HEROKIND’ fundraiser Hawks mentioned. One being a selfie of him and an aggrieved Bakugo, each wearing their own fitted suit, and another of Uraraka in an evening gown stood behind the imposing silhouette that was his father, stealthily pointing her middle finger at his back.

He saved that one to his camera roll.

Sooba ▻ In that case I will close the HPSC anonymous tip line ▻ Sometimes people try too hard at those events and forget why they’re there. You look good from what I see.

InsertNameHere ▻ How very gracious (´・｀ ) ▻ Sounds like you have some experience with this kind of thing. My condolences lmao ▻ But thank you. I’m glad you think so.

Shouto entertains the idea of sending you something back. His eyes surreptitiously flicker around as though being watched. Nothing revealing who he is, but enough to maybe—

The camera captures a few of the modest flower beds and cat grass lining his balcony, Nori coiled around his bare ankle. He looks at his hand. Shuffles his hips further down to mirror your angle and flexes his fingers in his lap. Heat floods his body, guided by the shameless desire to inform the image you might have of him in your own head, too.

Sooba ▻ [IMG_288] ▻ At least you’re having more fun than I am.

You type for a long ten second interval. Then restart. A tedious minute elapses and just as regret creeps in, your messages come through.

InsertNameHere ▻ I’m not so sure about that. ▻ Actually it would probably be more bearable if you were here with me.

The sound of his heartbeat floods his ears. So warm it’s like he’s standing under the sun. Shouto belatedly realises it’s just his quirk, as the steam blows out through his nose. Nori butts his ankle in complaint. He bends to take her into his arms, feeling ridiculous and somewhat bad at being a person.

Sooba ▻ Think so? ▻ Just so you know I have been called socially inept on numerous occasions.

InsertNameHere ▻ Then we can hide together in the corner, get tipsy and sneak bits of the fancy spread.

This—doesn’t happen to Shouto. “Nori. I have feelings for a person I’ve never seen,” he pushes his face into Nori’s fur, and she purrs, feeling the vibrations of his voice. Admitting it aloud only highlights the absurdity. He feels out of his depth. And he decides he’s glad for the anonymity. Grateful, even. Lest he publicly humiliate himself and set off every fire alarm in the vicinity.

Sooba ▻ That sounds perfect.

InsertNameHere ▻ I’ll hold you to that. There’s another one of these coming up in two weeks. ▻ Prepare yourself (ꈍᴗꈍ)

“You’re really not helping,” he continues. Nori rubs insistently under his chin. “Fine, fine. I get it,” She croaks as he presses into the touch, mimicking her movement and cradling her as he gets up.

Before retiring to bed he pulls up Yaoyorozu’s contact. He settles into a comfortable position in the covers, propping his phone on his stomach, and he types:

Shouto : 00:14

I think I need help.

Consciousness eases into him slowly. It’s a sleepy pastel morning. Dust dances in the soft spotlight cast through his curtains. Shouto’s jaw unhinged to release a long yawn, limbs stretching every which way under the covers as his joints click.

Shouto props up on his elbow, twisting in place to reach and unplug his phone. He blinks away the blurriness hemming his vision and squints at the stack of messages from Enigmail right at the top of his notifications.

InsertNameHere ▻ Oh shit. Hero Shouto donated double the amount of what Endeavor gave and he couldn’t even be here tonight. That’s hilarious. Can that guy get any hotter ▻ I didn’t intend for that to be a pun. ▻ These cocktails are becoming suspiciously easy to drink. ▻ You’re probably sleeping like a good boy but I miss you. Wake up! ▻ Have you ever had feelings for someone you’ve never met

The loose tongued messages stop there, at around one o’clock in the morning. Then there’s a seven hour jump to only ten minutes ago.

▻ Oh my god. Please ignore all of that. And then kill me.

Hardly awake, sleepsand still crusty at the corners of his eyes, Shouto’s mind reels as he considers pinching himself. He doesn’t know which part to focus on. Your apparent—and unknowing—attraction to him as a public figure or the implication that you had feelings for Sooba.

But you’re obviously embarrassed. So he bites back a smile and starts with something simple.

Sooba ▻ Good morning to you too ▻ Remember to drink water and take some bufarin.

Sitting upright with legs hung over the bed, Shouto clicks out to his text app by way of distraction. There’s another photo from Midoriya. This time it’s just him. Speckled light glitters along his cheeks, expression beaming as the hero holds a piece of sashimi in front of his pink face. Shouto heart reacts to the text.

InsertNameHere ▻ Send more Nori

He chuckles, sleepy. That makes known Nori’s absence. Strange, he muses. She is usually the one to wake him. Rather than search he scrolls through his albums to find a photo you hadn’t seen yet. It was taken a few months ago. He’d slipped his camera under her chin and pressed the shutter when she looked down, looming over the viewer with a dumbfounded look.

Sooba ▻ [IMG_142]

After a few minutes with no response, assuming that you had accepted his bribe and sought out some painkillers, Shouto braced against his bedside table and stood, phone in hand. Every muscle in his body felt like wet sand, held together by too tight skin. This morning, though, the incessant ache that beat alongside his heart was gone.

Walking still felt as though he was wading through molasses but strength was steadily returning to his physique.

The floor is cool under the soles of his feet as they shuffle down the hallway. There’s a noise in the kitchen that gives Shouto pause. A voice, hushed yet high pitched voice, cooing like someone might to an infant.

He drops into an ungainly defensive stance, pyjama bottoms and all. Worst case scenario they at least hang low on his hips, loose around his legs, leaving room for flexible movement. He rounds the corner without a sound.

And relief beats like a drum in his chest.

Yaoyorozu meets his gaze from the kitchen island where one hand is petting a very happy Nori, sipping from a glass of water with the other. Her face is bare, shadows soft under her eyes, hair pulled haphazardly into a low ponytail as if she had just rolled out of bed and rushed here. Creati in a bleach stained hoodie and leggings. The press would have a field day.

The sight brings a small smile to his face. Their schedules have been misaligned for months. It’s good to see her—if only her expression had not then darkened. “Todoroki Shouto,” she says with all the authority of an older sibling, “What on earth was that text last night? You had me worried sick”.

“Text?” he parrots dumbly, looking to check his phone.

InsertNameHere ▻ Painkillers acquired. Thank you Nori ▻ I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night.

“I let myself in with the key you gave me. I hope that was alright,” she continues, quiet and apologetic now. He skims over your reply and switches to check his text app. Sure enough the last thing he sent to her was an ambiguous plea for help.

“Of course it’s alright,” he replies, regarding her with a meaningful look to cover for how sheepish he truly feels. “I gave you the key because you’re always welcome here”.

Yaoyorozu smiles on the end of an exhale, idle hands smoothing down Nori’s cheeks. “Of course,” she echoes, examining his form closely now her anxiety is assuaged. Over him comes the muted awareness that he’s being judged. “How about we go on a short walk for once, since I’m here? The weather is quite pleasant”.

Shouto steps forward with mouth downturned, “Momo, I assure you I’m fine. You don’t need to walk me like a dog,” he says, wincing thereafter at his bluntness. She only hums.

“When was the last time you went anywhere?”

Very uselessly he replies, “I go places”.

Yaoyorozu’s potential to lead and assert had never escaped him, not even in his teenage years, and it was something he staunchly admired her for. But never has he resented his own affinity for compliance more than he does the moment she ignores his pouting and tells him to finish his morning gait training and get changed.

Dressed casually and statuesque in the centre of his living room, left leg lifted to mimic a flamingo, Shouto’s limbs shake far less than previous days. He can hold his phone while he balances now, too. You haven’t sent any new messages. Probably waiting for him to assure you that he isn’t upset, but even so he’s a smidge disappointed.

Sooba ▻ I’m here. A friend appeared in my kitchen. ▻ You don’t need to apologise for anything, I wasn’t uncomfortable. I've received worse drunk texts I assure you.

He switches to his right leg and chews the inside of his cheek. Facing villainy was far less daunting than navigating his feelings.

▻ I thought it was cute.

That’s about as brave as he felt today.

Yaoyorozu resurfaces from the coat closet with a jacket in hand and a pep in her step. There’s something else coiled around her wrist. Nori’s cat leash, red and attached to a blue harness, matching Shouto’s hero colours.

“Can we bring her along?” she asks, bouncing in place. Upon recognising the leash Nori makes her opinion known, releasing a drawn out yowl. “Oh please, Shouto”.

Nori didn’t regularly enjoy walking but she had been trained to do so from a young age. She was peculiar and picky, and Shouto trusted her to let him know if ever she wanted anything—something she never failed to do.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, bending to tap her nose. It wrinkles, a stray tooth flashing between her lips. “If you get tired I won’t carry you”.

Nori blinks. A lie and they both know it.

Shouto sighs, defeated. “Okay. She hasn’t wanted to in a while so I can’t really deny her”.

“Wonderful,” Yaoyorozu breathes, handing him his jacket before undoing the harness and crouching to slip Nori’s paws through one by one. “We can grab a warm drink to go from the cafe downstairs and talk”.

Shucking the jacket on and flattening the collar, Shouto dithers in the genkan with his crutches nearby. He tucks the wayward strands of hair into a knitted hat and loops his mask around his ears. The scar couldn’t be helped but atleast this way a majority of people would not think to look twice.

They leave the apartment together, all three. In the short time it takes to step out of the building's lobby you still haven’t replied. He shoves his free hand in his pocket, fingers clasped around his phone in case it vibrates.

The establishment across from Shouto’s home has been open for longer than he’s been alive. An elderly couple named Pierre-Louis and Tsutomu run the place. The two men moved back to Japan decades ago to care for Tsutomu’s sick mother, and with Pierre-Louis’ incredibly unusual coffee quirk ‘Bean Boost’, opening a cafe seemed the right route to take.

Since moving here they’ve endeared themselves to Shouto. If they see him on his way to work Tsutomu will often rush to offer him a takeout cup. This morning is no different.

“Mon petit chou!”

Tsutomu slides open the walk up window and calls his name, beckoning them closer. The breeze tousles the short grey curls around his ears. Shouto’s heart near stops when the older man leans out to greet Nori as she stretches upward and almost loses balance. “Tsutomu-san, please be careful,” he says.

“I am still rather spry, young man. Don’t worry about me,” he returns happily, gaze moving to Yaoyorozu when he rights himself. “Lovely to see you again, Momo-chan. Have you come to rescue our prince from his cave?”

Indignant, Shouto grumbles, “I wish you would all stop acting as though I’m a hermit. I haven’t been stuck indoors that long”.

The two level him with a look of doubt. Tsutomu gently pinches his cheek and rubs a thumb over the swell above the mask. “Your pallor betrays you, Shouto. Let the sun kiss you more, no? We worry”.

“Tout va bien?” another voice interjects. Pierre-Louis squeezes up next to his husband, ignoring his disgruntled noise, and brightens when he sees Shouto on the other side. “Mon chou, you’ve emerged! And with two beautiful girls at your side”.

Yaoyorozu muffled a laugh while Nori busied herself chewing on the nearby grass, leash never pulling too far. “Pierre-Louis,” Shouto murmurs, unable to keep the fond lilt out of his voice. “It’s good to see you both”.

“And you,” he beams. The wrinkles by his eyes deepen. Shouto never met his grandparents but he thinks perhaps this is the closest he’ll get. “Are you going anywhere special?”

“We’re just taking a walk, Pierre-Louis. I thought it might be nice to get a warm drink for the journey,” Yaoyorozu spoke warmly and nudged his side. “Where better than here?”

“Bien sûr! Will that be one earl grey and one green tea?”

Shouto nods at her questioning glance, “Loose leaves today, please”, he adds.

Pierre-Louis disappears to make their drinks, shortly returning with two takeout cups, steam pluming softly from the mouth. Shouto swaps his crutch to his right side and accepts the green tea with his left hand, heat seeping through the cardboard sleeve.

“How much will it be—?”

“Nonsense,” Tsutomu interrupts with a sudden switch to English. He shakes his finger, silencing any protest, and his husband gives a resolute nod in support. “Take it, mon chou. Call it a family discount”.

Shouto bids them a dazed goodbye, leaving the walk up window; a lump in his throat that he tries to wash down with hot heat, tongue impervious to the temperature. “They’re very sweet. I’m glad you have them,” Yaoyorozu muses. “What is it they call you? ‘Chou’?”

“Mon petit chou,” he repeats clumsily, accent slightly gawky. “I asked Aoyama a while ago and he told me it means ‘my little cabbage’”.

Yaoyorozu pauses and Nori continues ahead, leaping up onto a nearby half wall with her tail hooked high. She pounces on a crack between the bricks, blissfully unaware of the nearby traffic, trying to eat a ladybug.

“My little cabbage?”

Shouto hums, squinting up at the early sun, rising in a blanket of pale blue and mottled grey clouds. The air is refreshingly cool. “Apparently it’s something French parents call their children,” he shrugs, as though he were not then warmed from the inside out at the reminder that they truly did see him as one of their own.

“That’s lovely,” she says, slowing to match his pace. He’s not tired so much as he is enjoying the morning dew. They follow a familiar path. Turning down a hidden narrow walkway that leads to a neighbourhood park. Nori’s chitters fill the spaces left by comfortable silence.

Yaoyorozu suggests sitting at one of the picnic tables. Tall trees flanked the area on either side, columns rising to create a weave of foliage that shrouded them in gold. The old wood is cold under his thighs. Nori hops up onto the bench, ears flat to her head, and hisses at a dog across the way which hasn’t even noticed her presence.

“So,” Shouto glances over toward Yaoyorozu as she speaks. Her arms are settled on the tabletop, fingers curled around the disposable cup and swirling the liquid inside. “Are you going to tell me what you were panicking about last night?”

He picks at the cardboard sleeve, twisting it, and supposes this was inevitable. Slipping down his mask, Shouto brings the tea to his lips in distraction, grasping for a way to articulate his situation without simply saying: “I have feelings for my anonymous online friend”.

In the end he realises there really isn’t any other way.

Yaoyorozu listens intently, as he expected she would. Of all his well intentioned friends Shouto knew she’d be the most open to his reasoning. Her expression visibly softens while he wrings his hands and rambles about the palpable connection that he first attributed to his own loneliness—

Rambles about you; you, the one now carried with him everywhere, the presence weaving his days into tapestry; you, accepting of his random thoughts, giving of your own; you, unintentional charm and bad jokes and sharp wit; you, faceless and voiceless, the one to receive first and last thought.

He expels his fears. Concerns of who you really are. Of what you might think upon learning his identity—if you wouldn’t like him anymore, or if his own feelings might change after meeting you offline, and if that makes him a terrible, shallow person.

Then he mentions the photo from the Herokind event and her head cocks in interest. “May I see?” she asks. Shouto murmurs his agreement and pulls his phone out from his pocket.

You’ve messaged him.

InsertNameHere ▻ Appeared? Like, teleported?? ▻ I’m glad we’re ok. I would miss you otherwise. ▻ But you can’t know I’m cute. You’ve never seen me lol

Shouto is typing back with unfounded confidence before he realises it.

Sooba ▻ I don’t need to see you to know that.

Then his eyes flicker to Nori, staring up at him clad in her Shouto themed harness, lip caught on her scraggle tooth. He takes a quick picture. Examining it before sending, he notices Yaoyorozu’s slender hands in the background, and wonders if you might be jealous.

He scoffs inwardly at his own childishness and sends the photo.

▻ Not teleported hah, just came in with a spare key. We are out walking now.

“Sorry—I just wanted to reply first,” Shouto clears his throat and presses his phone into her now proffered hand. Given without question.

Something flickers in her expression at your photo; it’s a brief shift that flies over her gaze like a shadow. Her thumbs pinch and part on the screen as she zooms in. “I was there for a few hours last night,” she says. “I recognise this outfit. Would it not be easier to check the list of attendants?”

“…That doesn’t feel fair,” he admits soberly. “I know that’s silly”.

“It’s not silly,” she affirms with a small smile, fingers now moving as she types. “You are aware of your position. You have the resources to find them and presumably they do not. Of course it seems unfair”.

It’s testament to their friendship that he feels no need to check what she’s doing. Her brows furrow slightly, then arch into her hairline, eyes brightening. Pleased, Yaoyorozu locks the device and hands it back.

“What did you do?”

“Don’t worry. I didn't do anything untoward,” she replies. “But I do know who you’re talking to now”.

Shouto’s fingers flex around his phone. “You do?” he breathes, incredulous. Just like that?

Yaoyorozu nods, lending her attention to Nori. “I don’t have a name. But if you want to find them I think you’ll want to speak to Bakugo-kun”.

“Bakugo…?” Shouto echoes.

“I believe your friend may work for him,” she clarifies. Ah. The clamouring in his head comes to a halt. In hindsight it’s clear. Your nicknames make sense now.

“I’ll think about it,” he swallows, bringing his tea to his face for another sip. He finds it tepid and warms it again with his quirk. Yaoyorozu doesn’t push.

They spend the hour catching up on the things Shouto has missed in the weeks he’s been absent, and the weeks prior. Midoriya’s claims of him being a workaholic become a reality he can’t outrun. Tea finished, Shouto takes both cups and disposes of them in the recycling bin. Yaoyorozu stands from the picnic table with Nori cradled to her breast—Nori stares back at him, smug—and they make their way back to his apartment.

“Shouto,” she coaxed, now standing outside the tall glass doors leading to the lobby. Nori’s claws sink into the collar of his jacket as she’s passed to him. He takes her leash from Yaoyorozu, bunching it up; and she covers his enclosed fist with her hand.

“Go for it,” she tells him, giving a firm squeeze. “I’m rooting for you. Just be safe”.

Stepping back into his apartment, his cheeks are warm and his limbs are trembling. You’ve buzzed inside his pocket three times.

InsertNameHere ▻ Oh my god. How can such a perfect creature exist? And her harness! Shouto colours? ▻ I hope you’re having fun. <3 ▻ You know, you never answered my question from last night

“You don’t think I’m hopeless, do you Nori?” Shouto asks the thin air—Nori has already scrambled toward the nearby shoebox, bunny kicking at the corner as she chews. He sighs.

Yaoyorozu’s encouragement rings loud in his ears while he replies.

Sooba ▻ Yes. I think I’ve had feelings for a person I’ve never met.

And it feels like a confession.

Shouto sees the week come to an end before he finds enough strength, physically and mentally, to visit Bakugo’s agency.

Your conversations have evolved. They carry a flirty undertone now, the verbal toeing of the line that makes his heart pitter patter. You send pictures throughout the day. Always angled away from your face. Swathes of skin. A pen between your fingers. Stacked paperwork and an empty coffee cup. The burgeoning skies on your walk home. Comfortable at home, your legs crossed over the other, a fluffy slipper hanging at the end of your foot.

He never knew so much thought had to go into making a photo appear candid, effortless. At one point he purposefully shuffled his workout shorts lower on his hips and spent the remainder of the afternoon mortified with his head deep between the couch cushions.

Liking another person is humiliating. He feels exposed, like a flesh wound that you won’t stop prodding.

InsertNameHere ▻ [IMG_412] ▻ I hope you have a good day!

You’re sitting at your desk, presumably. A slide knot bracelet hangs loose around your wrist. Hand held out over the mouse and keyboard, you’ve pinched your thumb and finger—smudged with black in—together to make a heart shape. It’s cute. You’re cute. He files the pose away for any later run-ins with paparazzi. His PR has been getting on about trying harder when they photograph him for months.

Shouto’s body rocks with the train car as it careens down the tracks and readjusts his grip on his crutch. He smiles behind his mask, sinking into the confines of his hood which he has pulled over his cap. There are eyes on him today. It can’t be helped in such close quarters. But they’re uncertain—too afraid to bother him and be wrong about his identity.

Sooba ▻ You too :) ▻ Remember to take breaks. I read that you should spend five minutes away from your screen every hour.

InsertNameHere ▻ You have to stop making me smile at work. My coworkers think I have a secret husband or something.

Sooba ▻ I promise to send you off with a homemade bento tomorrow morning.

InsertNameHere ▻ And a kiss.

Shouto grabs the nearby pole as he is almost knocked on his feet. Passengers board, others depart, and his heart hammers in his throat like a fist.

Sooba ▻ A kiss?

You’re still typing a reply when Shouto hears the hesitant evocation of his name. It’s timid and hushed, belonging to a person trying to restrain their excitement. She covers her mouth with a gasp when he meets her eyes.

“It is you,” she bubbles. A metallic taste pervades the static air around her, short hair wiggling on end as if it were responding directly to her excitement; behaviour unbefitting of a typical reporter, he notes.

Your text box jumps onto the screen in his peripheral vision, bumping up the chat. He jolts and angles the phone away from her just to be safe.

InsertNameHere ▻ Yeah! A bento box and a kiss to get me through the day, obviously. As my husband.

There are three others a few feet away, huddled together beside a pillar and abuzz with energy. Mild dread churns in his stomach. Definitely not a reporter, then. “If you have a moment…” the young woman spares a glance over her shoulder and her friends excitedly encourage her forward. “Um. Would you maybe be interested in—”

“No,” Shouto replies. The young woman winces at his tone. Ah. She’s embarrassed now. He really should make a habit of lying in consideration for other people's feelings. Fuyumi did mention that, though not in as many words. Before her face can crumple further he continues, “I’m very sorry, that was rude of me. I’m in a bit of a hurry”.

Her relief is palpable, near contagious. Expression softened with understanding she folds her hands against her stomach and ducks into a slight bow. “Of course, I understand,” she says. Somehow it makes him feel worse. “And—I’m glad you’re well, Shouto-san. We’re all wishing you a complete recovery”.

Gratitude bubbles inside him. He smiles, pressing a finger over his mask, and her complexion turns a bright shade of pink. She nods in understanding, scurrying to her friends.

Shouto departs the train without disruption. The conductor takes stock of his gait and the crutch at his side, offering to lay out the ramp, but he politely refuses, stepping onto the platform with ease. He feels good; closer to his other self, the one before his muscles were run through a metaphorical centrifuge.

Sooba ▻ Obviously. ▻ I suppose I can add ‘house husband’ alongside ‘Nori’s dad’ on my list of occupations now.

Blast Zone isn’t far, a fact for which he’s grateful. Bakugo insisted on rooting himself in the centre of the city, right in the spot where all transport routes seemed to meet; there stood the symbol of victory’s headquarters, imposing in the skyline.

According to journalists at PowrStruct magazine The Blast Zone agency is an ode to modern architecture. A steel frame structure surrounded by reinforced concrete, an outer coating embossed with a texture that gives the award winning building the fragile appearance of having been meticulously glued back together while simultaneously being both blast proof and earthquake proof. Shouto cares not for design in general. He does, however, steal a mini Dynamite themed pen from the front desk while he’s waiting to be signed in.

There’s a thin chain attached to the cap with a Chibi Bakugo hung on the end. Sue him.

“He’ll see you now, Shouto-san,” the receptionist states, pupil-less eyes blinking back at him. Shouto tucks the pen into his sleeve, feeling foolish and somewhat nervous. “Head on up to the office on the twelfth floor. He knows you’re on your way”.

Shouto clears his throat. “Thank you,” he says, weakness in his knees that has nothing to do with his nerves. The Ingenium handle pads cushion his palm as he braces onto his crutches, supporting him toward the nearby lift. There are eyes on his back as he goes. They’re heavy, lingering like physical touch. Something in him spoils at the unnecessary pity.

The lift remains mercifully empty. He presses the twelfth floor button and it glows green. The ride up is smooth, and quick. Double doors slide open onto a sprawling office space flooded with natural light. No one bothered to glance in Shouto’s direction as he gawked. If he remembered correctly this area was specifically for employees that worked closest to Bakugo. They’re all so nonplussed and focused. No nonsense. He likes that.

“Loser,” Bakugo grunts. He appeared from thin air, standing aside with arms crossed over his chest, eyeing Shouto’s stiff form with suspicion. “What the fuck are you doing here? You’re still on leave”.

Shouto makes a noncommittal noise, inwardly miffed. He straightens his posture and takes more of his own weight. “We haven’t seen each other in a while. Maybe I missed you,” he says. Bakugo’s expression suddenly soured, as though he swallowed a lemon, mouth thin against his teeth.

Amusing as it is, acknowledging the disconnect aloud makes him truly accept the distance he had put between himself and his friends; how he’d worked too hard, untied himself from the tangle of their lives and ended up isolated.

“Nori told me to say ‘hi’ by the way”.

Bakugo sweetens. “She like that cardboard house I sent you?”

“She already destroyed it,” Shouto admits. And Bakugo laughs, irritation split by a crooked grin.

“Atta girl,” he nods in approval, turning on his heel and starting toward a pair of towering doors. “Oi. You comin’? Or are you going to stand there all damn day?

Dynamite’s office is anything but corporate. Professional, yes, but it’s also so plainly personal in a way that screams Bakugo. A setup reconfigurable for days that he can’t sit still, a folding treadmill under his large mahogany desk to keep him moving. Bakugo works better on his feet, something Shouto knows well.

Built in shelves line the accent wall, filled with framed pictures of friends and family, newspaper clippings and awards. There are even fan creations—mostly from his debut era, when being favoured felt far more significant, but Shouto finds it sweet all the same.

Walking ahead of him, Shouto approaches the desk. Bakugo lingers for a beat to holler something out the door before returning to his desk.

Two consult chairs face the head office chair opposite. Lowering into one of them, Shouto props his crutch up and takes his phone out of his pocket. Ever hopeful, he unlocks it, opens Enigmail and refreshes the chat list. There are new messages from a few other people he added in the beginning, but nothing from you. He tries not to sigh too obviously.

“What’s got you all fuckin’ mopey?" Bakugo leaned over to look down at the phone. Shouto hastily locked it and the explosive hero narrowed his eyes at the impassive veil Shouto pulled over his face.

“Nothing. How did the first Herokind event go?” he asks, fiddling with his newly acquired Dynamite pen. “Midoriya always sugar coats things for me”.

“Went fine. You didn’t miss anything,” Bakugo waves off. The leather office chair creaks as he leans back. “Boring as all hell since it was just the kickstarter. Food mild enough for a toddler to eat and too much alcohol. The auction will be more interesting. That birdbrain partner of yours was hilarious, though”.

“Hawks?” Shouto’s mouth twitches, failing to conceal his mirth. “What did he do this time?”

“Spent the night antagonising your shitty old man,” Bakugo pauses for a brief moment and rescinds his words. “Or aggressively flirting. Can't tell the difference with him”.

Shouto keeps his thoughts to himself on that one.

“Ended with Endeavor triggering all the sprinklers at the after party though,” Bakugo ends, eyes crinkled under the weight of his wicked grin. Shouto pursed his lips tight. Amusement huffed through his nose. He imagines his father standing in the middle of the room, pathetically soaked through, wisps of smoke rising from his put-out embers, and he laughs.

Bakugo looks rather pleased by the reaction. But then his gaze flickers over Shouto’s shoulder and his brow arches expectantly. “Did’ya need something? I shouted for the Egghead because I thought you were on your break”.

Shouto’s laughter dwindles as he follows Bakugo’s line of sight. His breath catches. An employee stands in the doorway peeking around a tall box of paperwork. Wide eyed as they examine him.

Wrapped around their wrist is a familiar sliding knot bracelet.

“I just—uh…”

His head spins. There’s a smudge on your finger where your pen's ink leaked, just like in the photo. Could this be you? You are—

“What the hell has gotten into everybody today,” Bakugo tuts, pushing up from his desk and striding over to receive the box himself. Your shoulders slump when you are relieved of the weight. Bringing your hands to your chest and massaging the joints.

—still looking right at him. Cute. He cannot help but think how cute you are, tripping over your words, losing your footing.

“Oi, maestro,” Bakugo clicks his fingers in your face and startles you out of your stupor. “Get it together. I need you with a clear head when that sleepy bastard from the HPSC gets here”.

You glare at Bakugo, “Mera-san is the least of your problems, Dynamite. Worry about yourself and the six unanswered emails I forwarded to you from the claims manager”.

You’re beautiful. And your voice, it’s so—his lips part, and he tries to speak, to interrupt Bakugo’s incessant teasing, but words fail him.

“Whatever. Those insurance claims are bullshit and you know it,” Bakugo mutters. He turns and moves to shove the box of paperwork beside the desk. His mouth downturns into a smirk when he stands and notices your attention drawn to Shouto once again.

“Is that everything? I’d appreciate it if you stopped gawking,” Bakugo drawls, a dry rasp to his taunting that seems to embarrass you further. Shouto isn’t sure he’s breathing. You’re right there. You’re within reach and he’s rooted to his chair.

“You’re such a—! Y’know what, no, I’m leaving now,” replying harshly you start toward the open door where you come to an abrupt halt. Shouto feels the distance like the pull of a leash. You incline your head into a short bow, losing strength in your voice as you acknowledge him, “Have a good afternoon, Shouto-san”.

Then you’re gone. He stares after you dumbly. In all the years he has worked in the hero industry Shouto has never been more thankful for choosing to make his given name his brand than he is now.

Bakugou falls heavily in his chair and sighs.

Shouto swallows, “Who was—”

“Don’t,” Bakugo stresses the command, as though telling a dog to heel. Shouto can feel the heat behind his pointed glare. Undeterred, his eyes linger after you, stuck on the spot where you once stood, heart beating like a hummingbird’s wing.

“I mean it, Halfie. Run off the only competent PA I’ve ever had with your pisspoor flirting and I will kill you,” Bakugo barrels on. There’s no true malice but it comes through gritted teeth, like he has resigned himself to the impending stupidity. Because Shouto is already looking back at him with that small, impish curl to his lips.

“I’m not that terrible at flirting,” he says.

“Making eye contact for three uninterrupted minutes is not flirting,” Bakugo scoffs.

Shouto hums. “And what is? Pulling their pigtails for ten years?”

“Watch it,” Bakugo grouses, bottom lip jutting. He kicks the leg of Shouto’s chair and he laughs; he’s missed this.

Hoping to get back on track then, Shouto asks, “Will you be attending the charity auction, then?”

The other man grunts an affirmative. “I’ve put some memorabilia and shit up to be sold. Sparky somehow convinced Eijirou to auction himself off for a date,” Bakugo snorts and gives an amused shake of his head. “I’m willing to bet he’ll rake in at least ten million yen. Minimum”.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Shouto agrees. Kirishima had grown a lot since graduation all those years ago. Pair a stocky build with a big hearted guy like him and everyone is tripping over themselves to get a piece. “Is he nervous that he won’t make much?”

Bakugo clicks his teeth, interlocking his hands across his midsection and getting comfortable. “He really hasn’t got a fucking clue. The HPSC schmuck I’ve got to talk to today has already suggested extra security in case certain high profile guests get resentful,” he says. Crimson peeks through narrowed eyes, considering, calculating. “Are you gonna go? You’re looking steady enough”.

The last Bakugo had seen of him was directly after the incident—crumpled into the fetal postion and involuntarily spasming with six second intervals. Unable to speak, to walk, to turn his head. Worst case scenario presented on scene was that he could lose the ability to function at all, and Shouto had been thrown into a pit of depression so oppressive that he withdrew from himself all together.

There’s an underlying relief in Bakugo’s question that comforts him in ways he wasn't aware he’d been seeking. Pleased, Shouto drags his crutch between his thighs and twists at the padding around the handle. “I’ll be in attendance. I plan on bidding on a few things. David Shield’s original design sketches maybe,” he admits. “…Will ‘maestro’ be there?”

Bakugo seems to parse the response carefully, as if it cracked open a hole into Shouto’s psyche. “Izuku is shooting for those, you know. I’m the one that’s gotta deal with him cryin’ if he loses”.

“I know,” Shouto’s mouth splits in a wry, intentional smile. “If I’m not outbid then I’m happy to give him whatever I win”.

“Shill bidding? Ha. Izuku never believes me when I tell him you’re secretly a dick,” Bakugo smirks. A thought visibly crosses his mind. He props his elbow on the arm of his chair, chin resting in his palm and considering Shouto closely. “…My PA will be there for the auction. Working. So if you show me up—”

“I won’t,” Shouto interjects.

“—I will see you to the pearly gates myself,” Bakugo continues, unperturbed. There’s no true malice to his tone, moreso fond resignation, and Shouto’s chest bubbles with affection for his hard headed friend.

“That’s nice of you,” he says sincerely.

“Get fucked. You want an update on the cases we opened this week or did you seriously come here just to annoy me?”

“To annoy you, mostly,” Shouto ducks away from the hand that swiped at him. “Hawks forwarded me the arrest report. Tremor ended up going for a plea deal?”

“Yeah. Sold out the extras that helped him gather the hostages,” a forceful click of the keyboard; Bakugo slaps the spacebar to wake his monitor and makes clear his disapproval. “They went too fuckin’ easy on him,” he sneers. “Deserved a longer sentence”.

“As long as they’re off the streets,” Shouto muses. He isn’t one to hold a grudge against villains who’ve harmed him, but he can understand his friends' frustration. Had it been Bakugo or Midoriya, Shouto too wouldn’t be so quick to accept this outcome.

The gentle light flooding through the office windows recedes a fraction as a dense cloud covers the sun. His visit to the Blast Zone is but a blip of time, cut short by the foreboding ring from Bakugo’s emergency pager. He’s up and moving immediately, routine woven into him like muscle memory, and Shouto can’t help feeling jealous.

Under the door to his office, Bakugo clears his throat. He cocks his head toward the impending rain, “You need me to have someone drive you home?” And appears to regret it right away as Shouto smiles up at him, touched by the suggestion.

“No, thanks but I’ll be fine,” he waves off. Bakugo departs with a grunt, demanding he take an umbrella from the receptionist, because who doesn’t check the weather before they leave the house. The thud of his work boots reverberate off the walls as he disappears around a sharp corner, and Shouto shifts in the residual silence.

He takes out his phone as he pushes upright on his crutch; a habit rather than necessity. You haven’t messaged him since before your paths crossed—though you wouldn’t know that. He sighs. A niggling guilt has burrowed into his chest but it remains largely outweighed by his impatience.

Employees greet him on his short journey to the lift he arrived in. Bowing their heads, evoking his name with appreciation and awe while he’s scanning the space for signs of you. It’s a fruitless affair. Coming up short he steps inside, frown etched into his brow, and presses the ground floor button.

The speaker alerts him that the doors are about to close. He turns on his heel, leaning a hand on the support bar. Looking up from his shoes his eyes fall on your figure. You’ve stepped out from one of the closed off rooms, thumb tapping away at the phone in your hand. Shouto swallows, watching his own with trepidation.

Sensing a heavy gaze your eyes flicker to meet him at the last second, contact through the crack right as it shuts. He can hardly think. If this were a scene in Quirky Hearts he thinks he might just cast aside his dignity and sprint up the fire escape to confront you. The mere idea has heat simmering under his skin; it makes him want to fold himself into singularity. Shouto, a top five hero, a sword without ire.

Waiting dutifully, the receptionist hands him an umbrella from behind the staff desk. He squints at her name tag, muttering “Thank you, Akiyama-san” while he tucks the umbrella under his arm, deigning to mention the murky blueish blush that floods her skin, those pupil-less eyes shimmering. Shouto pulls his mask up over his nose, breath warming his cheeks, and takes a moment to observe the street.

Throngs of people scurry along the pavements to get away from the unforgiving chill. Raindrops can become a thousand paper cuts when the wind wills it. Afternoon starters amble into the lobby with wet shoulders. In his departure nobody so much as looks his way.

Sooba ▻ Hope you didn’t forget an umbrella today. Stay warm.

His thumb stopped mid-air, right above the “send” button. Sparing a lasting glance to the upper floors, Shouto quickly presses it, pockets his phone and opens up the umbrella. Stepping into the storm white noise fills his ears, tapping harshly on the PVC canopy over him.

Shouto tugs his jacket closer to his chest. The pavements are soaked, water fed into the uprooted cracks. He threads through the moving bodies back toward the station. With the streets overcast he feels better concealed.

A train is already waiting at the platform, decorated in yellow. The colour identifies it as a slow running train, taking the local stops route rather than the rapid one. He hides in his collar and stands in the corner of the carriage, umbrella collapsed and hooked over his wrist.

Six stops later—rather than three—and Shouto is closer to home. In the time it took to reach his street the rain had thinned out, now a sparse sun shower as the clouds pushed eastward.

Nori yells accusingly the very second his key slots into the door. He turns the lock and pushes it open, holding out his foot to keep her from rushing past. “I know, I know. I’m sorry sweet girl,” he scratched her head while bent to line up his shoes. “I missed you too. Bakugo said ‘hi’”.

She mewls and circles in place on her delicate paws, flicking her tail at him. Shouto takes it as forgiveness. “I think I met someone special today,” he recites to her, “The one I told you about…”

Stopping in the middle of his warm apartment, Shouto becomes unbearably aware of how damp his clothes are. He fishes his phone and wallet out from his pockets and sets them on the kitchen island before padding toward the bathroom.

A thorough rinse and long soak later, Shouto sprawls himself across his couch, phone laid on his chest and arm hung loosely over the edge while Nori plays with his fingers. She clings to his forearm as he cups her full belly, lazily dragging her back and forth across the floor.

He’s sipping on the mouth of his water bottle, mindlessly watching as Aki-or-something begs for Saeko-or-other to take him back after going on a date with another contestant, when your messages come through on Enigmail.

InsertNameHere ▻ Guess what happened today ▻ Saw Pro Hero Shouto at work. ▻ I think he might hate me? lol

Shouto inhales sharply, choking on his mouthful of water. Tears prickle behind his eyes as his diaphragm spasms, and he tries to catch his breath, fist thudding at his chest. Oscillating between mortification and delight—it really had been you.

Sooba ▻ Why would you think he hates you?

InsertNameHere ▻ I left an awful impression. And he looked at me like this (⊙＿⊙’) the whole time.

Heat burns at his nape; embarrassment spilling over into every crevice of his body. The air around him distorts and he exhales, steam curling from his lips. Nori watches on from the floor in fascination, sparing no sympathy. Maybe Bakugo had a point.

Sooba ▻ Maybe that’s just his face.

InsertNameHere ▻ Maybe… ▻ It is a pretty face though. Prettier in person.

Shouto feels all the air deflate from his body. He sinks into the couch, head lolling against his shoulder as he turns to press a grin into the cushions, gripped by a sudden rush of endorphins. It had been you. You’re real. More importantly, you are attainable.

Now did he want to do anything about it?

Sooba ▻ You think so??

The typing dots bounce along the chat room border as you reply.

InsertNameHere ▻ I know so. I was there. Beautiful even when he is staring right through me (￣ロ￣lll)

The memory of you speaking his name echoes like a broken record. He has yet to tire of it. Though he’s lightheaded and hazy, your features are still clear in his mind. The sure fire in your eyes, your sharp tongue and your pouty lips. A slow, warm tension trickles into his gut, swooping in anticipation and breathless longing as he imagines the face you might make if he touched you.

Sooba ▻ That’s presumptuous. He was staring at you. Why wouldn’t he be

InsertNameHere ▻ I. ▻ You’re so unfair you know that ▻ If you were here I would

His breathing picks up ever so slightly.

Sooba ▻ What would you do with me

InsertNameHere ▻ Are we veering into sexting territory right now

Sooba ▻ Unintentionally.

Shouto shifts his hips. The movement pulls his sweatpants tighter around his hips and a familiar tingling rushes below his waist. When was the last time he touched himself? He brings the phone to his forehead for a moment of clarity, peering up at the screen through his eyelashes.

InsertNameHere ▻ Is this the part where we come full circle and you actually send me a dick pic

He tucks his chin, a lazy smile playing on his lips. The gentle throb in his briefs pulses throughout his body and he answers, reaching to squeeze himself through the fabric, just for relief.

Nori sneezes. He falters, reminded of her presence and overcome by the urge to cover up. Proverbial tail between his legs, Shouto retreats to the privacy of his bedroom, shutting the door with a quiet click. Evening filters in through the windows, mauve and rosy. He kneels on the bed and it yields under his weight, frame silent while he crawls to the headboard and reclines back, phone in hand.

▻ Shit, sorry. I was joking you don’t have to do that if you don’t want to

The message goes over his head. He opens the front camera and stares back at his flushed, disheveled face before tilting the device, angling it toward his body.

Frosted fingertips trail up his stomach and it jumps, laying the hem of his shirt across his chest. Down again to the fine dark hair below his belly button, goosebumps rising across skin, blood rushing to the surface. Hooks his thumb suggestively into his waistband, hand splayed across his hip, and takes the photo.

Sooba ▻ [IMG_628] ▻ I want to

Shouto. Shouto. Shouto. Abuzz with salacious apprehension he wonders what would it sound like above him? Under him? Breath knocked from your lungs, whining through the motions. He traces the outline of his clock. Covers his eyes with the crook of his arm and releases a shuddered breath, hips rising into the heel of his hand. A hand too big to be yours. Sweatpants pushed halfway down his thighs he pictured it anyway—you laid on your side, at his side, loose fist stroking him root to weeping tip.

Shouto thumbs at the head, smearing precum over his sensitive frenulum. Panting heavier, he squeezes his cock and wonders, would you tease him? Lick into his mouth and tell him not to be quiet?

The phone in his hand buzzes. Anticipation grips his heart. He almost drops it on his face when he squints up to read the screen.

InsertNameHere ▻ Fuck. You’re so gorgeous ▻ I can’t concentrate

Sooba ▻ You like it?

InsertNameHere ▻ I’ll show you how much ▻ [IMG_447]

Heat races through him. You’re in a loose tank top, touching yourself over pale boyshorts. The dark straps have fallen around your shoulders in an almost demure manner, collar slipping forward to reveal the soft cleavage of your chest. You’ve mirrored his position, albeit a little higher, enough for your mouth to be in frame. Wet and rouge, if he thinks hard enough he can imagine he left them kiss bitten.

Sooba ▻ I want to touch you

He’s desperate to know what you like. The way you want to be touched, how you might yield under his wandering hands. Patterns dance behind his eyelids as he reaches to knead his pecs, pinching the pert nipple with a breathy moan. He smooths over his abdomen, corded muscle tensing beneath the added sensation, arousal coiling hot in his belly.

InsertNameHere ▻ Touch yourself for me instead, yeah? ▻ Gonna think about you too

“Fuck,” he chokes. Shouto loses his phone amongst the sheets. Feet planted flat to the mattress, his knees spread until the waistband protests. “Please. Please. I’m so close,” he whispers to the image in his mind. His pace stutters, feverish as he fucks his fist. Your lips brush soft along the column of his throat to feel him swallow. He turns into the pillow, mouth parted for heaving breath.

“That’s it Shouto. So beautiful for me,” you’ll murmur, so at home in the crook of his body. Amidst the desperation you’ll straddle his thigh, rhythm synchronized, chests rising. Your hand—his hand—slips further, fingers curled to press up behind his balls. He’s on fire. “Cum for me, baby. Let me see you cum”.

Shouto’s head tips back into the plush of his pillow, every muscle clenched. Pleasure rockets through him. His cock twitches in his grasp. He cums with a strung out moan, breaking into short, wet pants as he catches his breath.

Riding the gentle aftershocks, his arm falls heavily to the side and hits his bedsheets with a quiet thud. The smell of old petrichor blows into his room with the draft draws his attention to the darkened window. Streaks of gold sunlight peak between the buildings across the street where it settles under the horizon.

The stickiness between his fingers is difficult to ignore. Drying steadily on his chest. Reality returns to him slowly as he stares at his soiled hand. After cleaning himself up with the wipes in his bedside table, Shouto tugs up his sweatpants and rubs at the pink splotches leading up his throat. With clarity comes a vague haze of shame and he is loudly alone; something vibrates and he is anything but lonely. He lifts his head, rummaging through the sheets to find his phone.

InsertNameHere ▻ Want you to feel good ▻ You there baby? ▻ Sooba? ▻ Hm. That’s not the sexiest of names

Shouto laughed through his nose. Endeared by your awkward jump from flirting to nervously making up for a perceived misstep.

Sooba ▻ sorry can’t multitask ▻ shouldnt make fun of your house husbands name

Exiting his bedroom is uncomfortably close to a wall of shame. He drags his feet; gait unsteady for far nicer reasons than a near career ending injury. Nori has acquired his spot on the couch, retaining warmth in his absence. She observes him, all knowing.

InsertNameHere ▻ No capitalised letters? Punctuation? What have you done with my Sooba lol ▻ How are you feeling?

Sooba ▻ really good. sleepy

He wanders to the kitchen and dithers over his next message, leaning his forearms on the cool countertop. This fleeting, unintended conversation could change everything and that fact is starting to nag at him.

▻ what about you

InsertNameHere ▻ I feel really good. And sleepy <3

The implication is not lost on him. He chews his bottom lip, flustered at just how pleased that makes him.

The next burst of chat bubbles appear in an instant, one after another. Typed hastily as though to outrun your own apprehension.

▻ Can I ask you something?  ▻ Did you mean it when you said you’d come to the event with me? ▻ I have a plus one. I want to see you. But you don’t have to 

Shouto swallows. Tugged between elation and fear. You’ve become all he yearns for and you could be just that, his, yet he panics all the same. Heroism had consistently been his lacquered shield. An excuse for his self isolation that people had to begrudgingly accept. Working himself to the bone afforded the luxury of never having to dwell on it. 

Exhaustion aside he was content with the humdrum life he hid behind. Before you, Shouto rarely wanted for anything. He had his family, and good friends, and a job that felt rewarding; it didn’t seem worth it to lay himself bare and be dissected on the off chance that someone new might love him. 

Because hectic work and risks aside, he’s profoundly aware of the ghosts he has yet to conquer. That somewhere, there is something fundamentally different inside him that you might find disappointing. 

Unthinkingly, Shouto grapples with the courage in him existing on the fringes and replies in much the same way you had. 

Sooba ▻ I meant it. I want to see you too.  ▻ I’d like to go with you  ▻ Don’t worry about a plus one. I’ll meet you there 

InsertNameHere ▻ Wow, okay. That was easier than I thought. I’m so excited  ▻ And super nervous

As it turns out the impending date motivates Shouto like nothing before. Days pass without fault or interruption. The man-shaped dent in his couch rises without the constant weight. He sticks closely to the routine his physiotherapist drew up for him. Walks longer distances and soaks up the sun daily, to Tsutomu’s great delight. 

Too wrapped up in his own coalesced anxiety and elation, he realises he hadn’t found it remotely odd that you hadn’t questioned his ability to get into the auction. 

His train of thought is interrupted by a firm hand coming down on his shoulder. “Man of the hour!” A familiar sharp toothed grin blocks his vision. Shouto clenches under the sudden weight to keep himself upright as Kirishima gives him a shake, “We missed you around here. You’re looking good!”

The charity event is in full swing. An anticipatory lull permeates the atmosphere as the chosen guests, heroes and civilians alike, wait for the auction to finally begin. Shouto arrived fashionably late, as Mina called it, after spending nearly three hours on a group call with her, Yaoyorozu, and his sister. 

The applause upon his entry had not been expected. His palms are still clammy. 

Compared to Shouto's charcoal three piece suit, tailored to precision, Kirishima dons a charmingly loud burgundy blazer over a dark turtleneck, pulled together by a simple chain. The material is tight across his broad shoulders. “Thank you, Kirishima,” Shouto smiles. He looks him over, “You look good too”. 

That signature grin grows weary. “You really think so?” Kirishima lowers his voice into a hush, tugging at the loose hair framing his face. “I wasn’t so sure about tying my hair back. What if nobody bids for me? I’m dying inside just thinking about it”. 

Shouto turns away from the sea of vibrant clothing and chatter to pat his friend on the arm and level him with a serious look. “A lot of people are going to spend money on you tonight, Kirishima. But in the impossible event that they don’t I’ll bid on you myself,” he tells him. “We can go to Mythoscape and try that new rollercoaster”. 

“Bro…” Kirishima’s eyes are wide and glassy. While Shouto expects the firm hug, he is mildly surprised by the long, dramatic kiss to his cheek. His breath smells faintly of white wine. “You’re the best,” he continues as he sets Shouto back on his feet. “But is it really okay for you to do that?”

A flash goes off. Shouto frowns. He scans the crowd and rubs away the wet mark left behind. Yaoyorozu catches his attention with a delicate wave from her place beside Kendo and Uraraka. “Why wouldn’t it be?” he asks, smiling back, yet distracted. You’re still nowhere to be found. 

“Well,” Kirishima draws breath through his teeth. “Bakugo kinda told me about your crush on his PA,” whatever he sees pass over Shouto’s expression has him sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck and scrambling to explain. “Nothing bad, man! You know he actually seemed pretty approving of it, in his own way”. 

The evermoving mass of bodies sharpens around a few other familiar faces. Midoriya is excitedly gesticulating as he rambles to a visibly overwhelmed HSPC shareholder. Bakugo watches the interaction with no intention of concealing his amusement. 

“I’m not sure about that,” Shouto rasps, narrowing his eyes at the man in question, like the pressure behind it might be enough to elicit his attention. Bakugo of all the people here would know where you are. The phone snug in his inside blazer pocket remains silent. A pout works its way onto his lips before he can stop it. “He said I’m bad at flirting”. 

Kirishima stifles a laugh and clears his throat when Shouto directs the petulant glare to him. “You are a little bad at it. But only when you’re actually trying! And even then that’s part of what makes it charming, y’know?”

“No, I don’t know”. 

“You’re the type to flirt without realising you’re doing it—or atleast people think you are, because you’re handsome and attentive and whatnot. But when you try it’s kinda obvious and bro, please stop looking at me like that,” Kirishima explains clumsily, tone pitching higher the longer he talks. 

Shouto’s lips thin as he tries to suppress a smirk. He rights himself as Kirishima nudges his side, catching a smile of his own, “What I meant is you have a chance. And Bakubro thinks so too. He wants you to be happy”. 

The sentiment warms him from the inside out. But it also makes apparent something trepid and cold in his gut. Regardless of his friends unfettered support there remains the real possibility that he will be rejected. That you will be disappointed or scared away by his status. That you could do as you please with the intimate parts of his life ‘Sooba’ gave you.

Scarier is the hope that you won’t.

“I’m going to get a drink,” Shouto announces, noticing Endeavor prowling around in his peripheral vision. Kirishima’s brow furrows, mouth parted in confusion, no doubt seeking to reassure him. “I’m okay, Kirishima. I just need something to do with my hands”. 

“Alright,” the taller man murmurs. Shouto finds himself at the end of a gentle smile once more. “Make sure to say ‘hi’ to Denks if you see him. He misses you too”.

“I will,” Shouto nods, ducking away from the inexpressible tenderness that has clung to him since stepping into the hall. People part to allow him through. His left leg has already begun to feel weak, not enough to worry but enough to notice, and he hopes he can later blame his gait on the alcohol. 

He reaches the bar and wrinkles his nose at the thick amalgamation of perfume, body odour and over-applied cologne. The bartender slides up to him. “Umeshu, please,” he says. “On the rocks”. 

Another body settles beside him. He shifts to accommodate them but doesn’t look; too distracted as he inhales deeply through his nose and exhales long out his mouth to allay his beating heart. Pulling his phone out from his inside pocket, the screen lights up and he finds it void of messages. 

After the… sexting, things had been fine. Better in a lot of ways. You both felt emboldened to truly act on your feelings. Sharing more pictures, secrets—though never your names—and laughter.  It is disconcerting that you would now go silent. 

The bartender sets his drink down and Shouto quietly gives his thanks, bringing it to his face, briefly caught in the soft glimmer, cubed ice submerged in liquid gold, tasting the sweet aroma at the back of his throat. He tips it back and drinks. 

As the glass hits the surface once more, the person next to him softly asks, “Are you waiting on anyone?” 

And his mouth goes dry. 

You’re bracing on crossed arms, watching him closely. Speckled in the warm low light reflected on the bar, you are more beautiful than he remembers, and just as nervous. There’s an air of uncertainty about you that shifts as your eyes meet, faint but palpable, encouraged by what he can imagine is the wonder on his own face. 

Shouto wets his lips. The plum taste lingers on his tongue. “…I might be,” he murmurs. You brighten at his reciprocation, a more charged kind of nervous—the kind that swoops low in your belly right before you take a leap. 

“If I’m wrong don’t laugh and don’t tell Dynamite,” you turn to face him and smooth your hands over your hips. This allows him a better look at your attire. Silken fabrics that form gentle lines around the waist, loose but elegantly so, not in a way that the clothes wear you. 

Your eyes dipped low, averted to avoid his stare. He cannot seem to direct it anywhere else. The auction has fallen away in its entirety. As far as Shouto is concerned there’s only you. 

“It’s me. And you’re…Sooba?” 

The tremble in your voice shrikes through him and it occurs to Shouto that you have always been the brave one.

He leans into your space, enjoying the way you quickly draw breath at his proximity, forced to meet his gaze. Rather than something remotely suave or cool, he dumbly asks, “You knew?”

Part of him wants to tuck his shoulders to his ears as you begin to laugh. They’re warm, undoubtedly red. Amusement is not at all what he prepared for. He thought this might all end up in his scrapbook memory, to be taken out and pined over now and then. 

“Shouto-san with all due respect, you came to my workplace with your very recognisable crutches and stared at me like a deer in headlights”. 

“Shouto,” he says. 

Your laughter simmers, “Hm?”

“Just call me Shouto,” he tells you, equal parts relieved and embarrassed. 

“Shouto,” you smile at him with a fondness that derails his thoughts. He has the vague urge to whine when it wanes. “I’m—I really am sorry I didn’t tell you. I swear I didn’t know until after you visited the agency. It all made sense after I looked up your socials and saw some old pictures of Nori”. 

“It’s alright. I knew and didn’t say anything either,” Shouto inclines his head, abashed. Then with a sudden sharp sort of clarity, he continues, “So then you knew, when you asked for a dick—?”

Words evade him under the warm press of your hand as you quickly cover his mouth. You glance around the room, closer than before, and you don’t seem to realise. Cautious, he touches your waist; he puckers his lips to kiss your palm; he feels your stomach jump under the silky fabrics. 

Your eyes darken, swallowed by pupil. “You’re a menace,” you simper, and reluctantly pull away. “Maybe we should talk about this somewhere with less…cameras”. 

Umeshu abandoned, Shouto wraps an arm around your lower back and allows you to direct him through the crowd. You weave through the moving bodies like thread through a needle, at one point reaching behind to take his wrist, becoming his tether.

Bakugo meets his gaze from across the room. His eyes flit to you, widening in surprise. Shouto flashes a boyish grin before disappearing through the side door. 

The door you choose next opens to a private bathroom. Shouto surges forward, taking you by the hips and crowding you against the bathroom counter, overcome by the need to feel everything that you are pressing into everything that is him.

He kicks the door behind him and settles in the clutch of your thighs as you scramble to balance on the marble edge. Your hands slide over his shoulders, splaying over each cheek. You’re both breathing heavily despite having done nothing at all.

“I said talk,” you remind him with a tremulous smile. Shouto knows you’re being playful. He apologises anyway; rests his head in the crook of your neck, letting the moment simmer, and you comb through his hair with your fingers. A shiver rolls down his spine. 

“Did you know it was me? Before you came to the agency, I mean”. 

He reclines from his crook to look at you. Eye level, silhouetted by the cheap bathroom luminescence. “When I saw you in there—and put it together I was so scared,” you continued. 

“Scared?” he echoed with a frown, knuckles brushing your cheek. 

“Not like that. I was scared of what you might think,” you turn into his caress and his pinched expression falls away. He can’t stop touching you and he can’t bring himself to be sorry about it. “I mean, I looked terrible that day, and you appeared out of nowhere and I wasn’t mad it was you. I was just…”

You swallow thickly, emotion swelling in your eyes. They’re crinkled at the corners. “You’re so big and bright. I didn’t want you to be disappointed”.

You were unaware of it—the profound cord you struck within him. How even in anonymity, your incorporeal fingers always seemed to find it. Even now, as you echo his own fears. 

“Momo first mentioned you might work for Bakugo. I didn’t know before I saw you that day. I still wasn’t certain until tonight”. You peer at him through your lashes then, listening intently. He brings your foreheads together and tells you, “There is no way you could’ve disappointed me”. 

“Oh? I could’ve been a villain”.

“My oldest brother was a villain,” he monotoned, wandering hands squeezing intermittently at your waist as though to make sure you’re still there. “My capacity for love and forgiveness knows no bounds”. 

You snort. The sound is abrupt and the force knocks your skulls together. “Oh—ow,” he grins, insides melting. Together you dissolve into a warm fit of laughter. 

“Hey, Shouto?” 

He hums in acknowledgment, eyes fluttering as your thumb swipes over the red mark below his hairline. “I like you,” you murmur. “I like you so much it’s stupid”.  

Plunged into an ice cold realisation, Shouto freezes to process your words. “You—like me?” 

“Yeah?” you said it like he was dense, like it was clear all along. “I can’t help it when you’re so…yourself”

And isn’t that all he’s ever wanted? To be loved without pretense, without a winner. To be special to someone for no special reason. 

“Oh,” he breathes. “Me too. I like you. I want—” his fingers flex at your hips, grounding. He blinks. “I don’t know your name yet”. 

Affection colours your features. Shouto likes you best like this—sure of yourself, of his feelings for you. You recite your name. He repeats it endlessly in his mind and rolls it around his teeth. He calls to you even when you’re right in front of him. 

“Can I kiss you now?” 

“You were waiting?” you laugh, tucking his hair behind his ear. It’s such a novel thing but it makes something monumental swell in his chest. “Kiss me. I want you to”. 

Given permission, Shouto traces the curve of your jaw with a bold shyness, from the sensitive skin below your ear to your chin. His finger hooks beneath. You’re lovely. He thinks he could spend an hour describing your demure half smile, how your lips yield under the light pressure of his thumb; your tongue darting out reflexively. 

He shakes at the desire that fills him. He’s not used to it—this wanting. It feels like a thousand insatiable butterflies in his chest. Dipping into your magnetism, his heart beat faster and faster with the simple brush of your lips. He kissed you, innocent and honest, and then he kissed you again, licking the seam of your mouth, arms coiling around your middle as you cling to him. 

You tip forward. Your thighs clench at his waist and drag him impossibly close. It brings you chest to chest. He tries to hold you steadfast as your hand wraps around his nape, softly scratching his scalp; he feels you smile against his lips when he shudders. 

You break for air. Arousal shoots through him at your half moan, the sound tapering into a happy hum the instant his lips trail down your neck, tasting your pulse before making his way down to your exposed collar. He peppers kiss after kiss on every swathe of skin he can reach, sinking teeth into every little reaction you give him. 

Big hands at your lower back arch your body into his. You yield, tension sapped from your limbs, grappling his shoulders to keep yourself from falling while you grind down on his lap. Shouto groans, grip slipping lower to cup your ass. 

“We’re getting carried away,” you gasp between kisses. That alone was obvious. His cock strains uselessly in his suit pants. But the light glints tantalisingly along your mouth, swollen and wet with saliva. Shouto kisses you again so you won’t have to tell him to attend to his responsibilities. 

A warm breath scores his cheek as you huff through your nose, nipping firmly at his lower lip. “I mean it. I am technically still at work,” you try again, voice lacking strength. “Dynamite will knock on every door in this building—don’t wrinkle your nose, you know I’m right”.

“Alright. I know,” he rasps, barely an exhale. It takes all his willpower to pull away. He steadies you on your feet, smoothing out the creases in your formal attire while you are quite pleased to simply watch on as he adjusts himself in his pants. “I’m glad my suffering is funny to you”. 

“Don’t be dramatic,” you murmur, pecking the corner of his mouth. “I'll hide with you in the corner like I promised I would. We can make up for lost time after the auction. You know. The one for charity”. 

Shouto hums and reaches for the door, knowing you’ve won. “Oh. I told Kirishima I’d bid for his date night,” he recalls as he turns the handle. “Would that bother you?” 

“Of course not baby,” you reply and take one last look at your reflection, less disheveled than before. The endearment ‘baby’ almost has him walking into the doorframe.

You straighten up. Shouto thinks he must look incredibly dumbstruck, if your concerned expression is any indication. “You okay?” you ask, proffering your hand. “You didn’t bring your crutches tonight, did you?”

“Don’t worry. I’m fine,” he intertwines your fingers, dizzy as you squeeze around him. 

“It’s just a tremor”. 

[astropookie]

intrusive thoughts astro version

mamoru yamamoto

I’ve noticed earth mars in signs or degrees gets aroused when their sexual partner it’s having a good time, adding that’s because of them.

if asteroid rhiannon (16912) it’s about running away, what would happen if it’s on 12H. ik what about it but 😭 I can’t help it but point it out.

rhiannon (16912) conjunct mercury means escape from situations thanks to their persuasiveness

return venus conjunct natal venus -in venus return chart-: you’re finding your aesthetic/style you feel more comfortable and that vibes with your vibe 😝. also the energy of your sign/house and degree is PRESENT, that’s why during all that period of time you could feel too prideful without hesitation. mine was sag venus 11H 6° (virgo degree), i was feeling a little too optimistic or enthusiastic and cut out people. you’re being kind of truth to yourself?

natal jupiter square return pluto -in venus return chart-: you’re in a period of rebirth and thanks to your lucky nature -natal jupiter- you’re deciding not to end it. wanting it or not, you have this feeling of overcoming things.

when I used placidus system, my moon was in 1H, then I used whole sign system and my moon changed to 2H. for a while I preferred placidus bc I didn’t feel seen by the 2H moon chart. then I realized the 2H characteristics where in front of me the whole time. I wanted to feel understood, 1H moon was comforting the idea that I’m sensitive and feel emotions insanely deep. besides, 2H moon it’s about craving for comfort and security. I was only focused on the financial part, the stereotypical and superficial part. it’s a good thing to compare both charts to analyze how they can guide you.

uranus 12h in Eros persona chart shows u crave for intimacy 😭

idk why every time I end up getting stressed and bored about a friend is when I have mercury square their neptune. -reading note: she’s still my friend, we just have different point of views or forms to process information. the mercury part doubts constantly about others opinions and arguments and they see neptune as impulsive and kind of ignorant, bc their way of believing in things.

referring to the solar eclipse -April 8, 2024- my 3H has been affected -aquarius ascendant-, days after, out of nowhere -I havent had connection with them- I’ve received a voice message from the lilith person I was talking about on my posts, someone I used to be friends and distanced myself away from them. I decided to listened to it on the day of solar eclipse without thinking thinking about this coincidence -solar eclipse, 3H is affected-.

natal neptune sextile transiting venus: i felt like I was high even though I took my adhd pills 😭 I was so in peace? I felt emphatic? transits with your dominant planet have a huge effect on your mood. mine’s neptune and was sextile transiting venus.

I’ve noticed people with saturn 8H are kind of like a libra venus, in a way they’re afraid their love experience won’t be as they dreamed. saturn 8H creates restrictions on sexual attitudes and matters. imo 8H mix love and sexual desires, they need something that would drag them out of their secure space, they’re afraid. they’re late bloomers when’s about their first kiss or etc.

3H stellium at a distant, it’s giving introvert or distant vibes, they try to process things logically and could be a little slow to catch a joke?

I have a friend I thought was mean and in her energy💅, could be described as intimidated. she’s the opposite. when I saw her birth chart it made total sense, coming from an aquarius ascendant -saturn ruled like capricorn-, I had no clue she was a saturn ruled. it always surprises me how defined some rising’s energies can be presented.

sun 4H brings a sense of familiarity, even more when your mars is 4H, you feel more comfortable with them -sun 4H-, they remind you of your family or the vibes.

pisces 7H in solar return chart could tell you’re expecting a lover, doesn’t mean you’re having one 😭 i swear this solar return was like that, I meet a person and then proceed to imagine a relationship with them.

(*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ૮꒰ྀི⸝⸝> . <⸝⸝꒱ྀིა ∗ ࣪ ��༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗ */ᐠ - ˕ -マ✩ (˶˃ᆺ˂˶)∗ ࣪

♡ Based on personal experience and I’ve analyzed in my surroundings.

♡ English is not my first language.

♡ I’m not a profesional astrologer.

Thank youu. baibaiii🫣🫶🏼💋

[jymwahuwu]

I was wondering. . What if scenario where darling finally escaped jing yuan by dying and jing yuan had felt all emotions at once anger, furry, sadness, despair, agony. He just cant move on from darling he waited and waited for her next reincarnation and. . Finally after so long of waiting she was finally here standing, breathing and alive

And his not so kind once he kidnapped darling once more and had locked her on his (their) shared bedroom then he just basically fucks darling to the hell and back after so long and he makes her cum and darling felt overstimulated and had kept crying to him to slow down and trying to push him away because who in the right mind would suddenly pull a strange onto some person's house then fucks them into oblivion?!

(Basically idk why im horny or maybe its because i have a period idk anymore-)

From Cloud anon!

thank you cloud anon<3 hesitant to write this…but i love the thirsty ending 🫣 for Jing Yuan, if his clingy and sweet side can't keep you… he doesn't mind getting rough…?

CW: yandere, angst, non-con, kidnapping, overstimulation, (mentioned) death in the past

(The relationship between the reader here and Jing Yuan’s past life is described in a rather vague way. Please DON’T send me requests and comments about angst and take revenge on yandere. I’m tired of receiving those 😭 Please read the rules.)

That's a really rare concept for long living species; life blooms in the spring and withers in the winter. Jing Yuan placed flowers on the coffin, and… still… worked and lived as usual, arranging Luofu's daily affairs at the seat of divine foresight. People whispered- they said, Look. The general is so ruthless. His only lover in centuries had withered like a flower, and he was unmoved.

Jing Yuan knows that he can still live as usual, but there is an empty gap in his heart, which often aches, but he still chooses to keep you in his heart instead of letting time pass by. No loss can cause Jing Yuan to stagnate, he just lives with wounds. He regretted not leaving more holographic records and replayed the few videos you had, over and over again. "mm- Jing Yuan-" Your lips parted slightly, a record of a time when you were so annoyed that you blocked the camera with your hands and giggled while eating ice cream. That was - that was when you liked him, right? The general sometimes wonders - are you tired of him pestering you like that? He apologized, apologized, apologized bitterly - but you wouldn't hear it again. In the end, he still couldn't keep you, you flowed away between his fingers like floating sand. What had hundreds of years left for him?

Reincarnation - Jing Yuan really found you, in another galaxy. In the dim light, you are standing on the street, laughing and chatting with your friends. A familiar frown and a sweet smile, and when talking about interesting topics, the clear and sweet laughter leaked out. Similar facial features, similar movements and expressions are the imprint of the same soul. Jing Yuan suppressed the urge to take you away immediately, knowing that he must first find out your identity in this life. He removes every possible obstacle and takes you away.

Locked up in a room, in the general's mansion. Since you didn't like being able to travel freely among the stars in your previous life.

To you, you who have no information, this is really the cage that abruptly descends. Be sent to the Xianzhou ship by the people of your planet. Your hands are locked with a bunch of locks made of solid space material, but they are wrapped in plush fabric as if to prevent your wrists from getting hurt. The burly man with long white hair, said to be a general named Jing Yuan, caresses your body desperately - desperately. Lots of sticky, dazzling kisses. His tongue dipped into your mouth to search. Tears…tears? This mysterious man doesn't shed tears when you look at him, it's like the tears have dried up. Your thighs and calves were tied together and spread apart, forcing you to expose your most private parts and squirt on his thick fingers for hours. Orgasm is no excuse to stop. After your struggles and twitches, those fingers didn't slow down at all. The cock is buried deep inside you without any suspense after the warm-up is completed. The tight walls contracted and the liquid spread outward.

You are confused - confused, orgasming in pleasure, wanting to push him away (but your hands are tied), asking who he is and why he treats you like this while still maintaining your senses, and all you get is silence. It was the silence of not wanting to repeat the old dreams. From behind, his entire crotch is pressed against your ass, and even your hands are pressed by him, rocking and pounding you back and forth, occasionally kissing your cheek in a daze. Face to face, staring into your eyes, the lower body is closely connected. On top, you were forced to ride him, swinging your waist. From the side, a strong arm lifts one of your legs and slowly inserts it. In front, sucking and servicing that cock for hours. Seed and fluid oozed from the connection. There are two trembling vibrators stuck to your nipples. What a mess.

After making up for some of the love he hadn't had in hundreds of years, the general felt more at ease. Jing Yuan's hands wrapped around your shoulders and waist. You wanted to hate him so much- hate him, but he read you bedtime stories and space. He prepares rich meals for you, toys to relieve your boredom, and kisses your forehead. He promises to take you out, but not now.

Not now.

[mggsv]

Personal Chef

poc f!reader x Toji Fushiguro (18+)

summary: As you finally land your dream job as a personal chef, you quickly find out it’s not what you though it would be.

warnings: age gap (reader is 23, toji is 28),food play, squirting, oral (f receiving) , SLIGHT porn with plot, praising

“You will be given your own living space in the penthouse in order to cook breakfast, lunch and dinner for the Ceo.”

“Right.”

“You will stay Monday-Friday, weekends off. You cannot stay here during the weekends. If you cannot work this way speak now.”

“It’s fine.”

“Perfect. You will not bother, speak to, or interrupt the Ceo at any given time. You are not friends, you are not worker buddies. You cook his food, that is it.”

“Right.”

“You will do the grocery shopping. Here’s what he usually likes to get, and his diet plan. Please stick to this list. If he asks you for something else then all means go ahead, however don’t get too comfortable doing so. This is your job. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Any questions?”

“…no“

“Great! Follow me.”

You stood there while the blue eyed, white haired man went on and on about your new life. You held a white folder in your hand, information about your “boss” who you weren’t supposed to formally meet, and various to-do’s. In fact you were to be completely invisible, “like a maid” the man had said at some point. You bit the inside of your cheek, almost regretting this. You hated having to adjust to new things, let alone staying at someone else’s home? The life of a private chef was something, but it was your dream. You finished college at the top of your class. You could do anything, and you chose what the little girl all those years ago wanted.

You certainly didn’t expect anything of the job other than the amazing pay and life style, instead you got that and more.

“Toji…” You moan, back arching on the marble kitchen counter. His tongue licking at your folds, licking at the syrup he poured just a minute before. “Fuck baby.. you make this yourself?” He groans, having another lick. Your juices mixed with the sweet tasting syrup went straight to his cock.

“M..Mhm..” Your hand tangled in his hair, eyes shutting tightly. You felt his lips suck on your clit, a sweet humming coming from him. Your legs twitch feeling his sticky fingers re-enter you. The sound of your juices as he finger fucked you drove you wild. Your hips rocked with the small thrusts. “Good fucking pussy..that’s my girl.”

“F-Fuck fuck-“ you whine, legs twitching at the feel of another finger slowly working its way inside. “My good fuckin girl.” Toji cooed. your hips rock against his face, his nose buried deep into your heat. You let out a small breath, feeling your cunt gush over Toji’s face. Eyes rolling as he slurped every drop, careful not to waste. “Let it all out..” he moans.

Toji never wasted his food. He always ate until he was full. His big hands pushed your thighs back, spread wide over the counter. You whimpered, your nerves skyrocketing at the thought of another maid catching you in the act with your boss. His tongue entered you quick, the muscle flicking in the right places. “Gonna cum..” You push his head further. “m’gonna cum Toji-“ He lifts his head up, eyes staring deep into yours, slick glistening on his chin.

“You gonna what?” He says. You balance yourself on your elbows. Your chest moved as you panted. Toji’s eyes trailed the pierced nubs with nothing but hunger. It was lunch time after all, and you were his personal chef. “nothing- sir.” You breathe. Toji reaches beside you, the homemade syrup still warm. He wastes no time pouring it over your breast. “That’s too bad,” he’s pulling his shirt over his head, hands moving to unbuckle his belt. His thick cock springing free, hard and leaking. “I’m fuckin starving.”

[cherry-holmes]

Happy birthday, Javi | Javier Peña x F!reader❤️‍🔥

‘Glimpse of a life with Javier Peña'

Chapter 8

MASTERLIST

Summary: It’s Javi’s birthday and you want to gift him something he has been wishing for a while: you.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Previous chapter

Pairing: Javier Peña x Female reader

Word count: +4k

Warnings: Established relationship. SMUT. Soft porn with a lot of plot😅 – Loss of virginity. P in V sex. Protected sex. Soft sex. Nipple play, oral sex (fem received), fingering. A brief mention of breeding kink. Praise kink.

A/N: It’s me, hi! I’m gonna be honest, I am so nervous for this! This is my first English work ever! And I’m not an English native speaker, but I am a student translator so I hope there’s no so much problem🥲 I’m sorry if you find some errors, please let me know if there’s any and I’ll fix it asap!

A/N 2: IMPORTANT BEFORE READE! As you know, this was the first work I published and, to be honest, at the time I didn't plan to turn it into a whole series. However, upon seeing the good response to this first writing, I was inspired to create an entire universe between our Reader and Javi. Therefore, this part now contains INCONSISTENCIES and INACCURACIES regarding the current timeline of the story. I decided not to modify it so as not to affect those who have already read it, but I hope that if you are readers of the original series, you can adapt it and understand the space-time in which our couple finds themselves.

I hope you like it!❤️✨

•

Javier Peña wasn't a selfish man, especially when it came to matters of sex. He believed that women had the same rights as men to explore themselves and have numerous experiences with their sexuality. There's nothing quite like a woman who knows exactly what she wants and how she wants it.

But there was something about the fact that the only woman he had truly fallen in love with, his girlfriend, was still a virgin. It turned him on immensely. The mere thought of your innocence and the opportunity he had to make you feel truly good for the first time made him feel incredibly lucky. And also it made his cock throb.

The thought of you every night, and the things he could teach you in his bed, consumed him. His only desired was to lead you astray, turning you into a temptress. However, he never rushed you into anything you didn't want.

Of course, he felt disappointed the first time you both came so close to consummating your love on his couch, after a session of tender kisses here and there. He was already aroused, and he sensed that you were ready too. However, when you expressed uncertainty, he immediately stopped. He held you and reassured you that it was okay. He genuinely meant it, even though he had to take a cold shower by himself to cool off.

You had been with him for almost five months now, which really made you reflect on how quickly time flies. What's more, it was hard for you to believe that Javier had gone all those weeks without sex. He had a reputation, and you were well aware of it. He used to go from woman to woman; some of them you even knew from work, and others were his informants from the streets of Bogotá.

Initially, you were intimidated by his reputation as a heartthrob, a man afraid of commitment, as you had heard from office gossip. You didn't want to be just another one-night stand for him. You were the boyfriend-girlfriend kind of person. The dates, flowers and late night dancing kind of woman, someone who valued commitment, loyalty, and meaningful relationships. Plus, he was older than you, and you thought the age gap could be a problem when it came to establishing priorities in life. He was in his late 30s, and yet he didn't show any signs of wanting to settle down. It's not like you were desperate to get married; you were barely 26. But you needed to know if what you had could potentially lead to something more meaningful someday. You had a big crush on him and you wanted to make it last.

That's why you made him chase you for three months, wanting to see if he was trustworthy and if you were truly worth it to him. And then, after you said yes, he spent another fifteen weeks waiting for you, because he had fallen deeply in love with you. Your smile or even just a glance from you made his heart race every time. He felt like he didn't deserve the world because of all the sins he had committed, yet there was a piece of heaven in the shape of you right in front of him.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

It was the middle of June, to be more specific, Javi's birthday. You had spent the entire week asking him about any plans he might have for his special day, but he had insisted that he didn't want anything specific, just to spend the day with you. But you wanted him to have a great day to show him how much he was loved and important for you. And one of the things you planned was something he had been waiting patiently for quite a long time: you.

You were ready for him now. You had been dreaming about him all over you, his hands on your body, and the things he would let you do to him, and vice versa.

You two didn't live together yet, but you used to spend most days and some nights at his apartment, just like that morning when you woke up earlier than usual. He was still sleeping by your side, his bare chest rising and falling with each peaceful breath. He looked younger in that moment, with his messy hair, his face at rest, and his always furrowed brow now relaxed. He looked so innocent.

You didn't know it, but before you, he barely slept. He used to have sex with women but always slept alone, or at least, tried to. He spent endless cold nights tossing and turning in his bed, attempting to forget all the blood and violence he had witnessed during the day. But then there he was sleeping like a child, knowing you were right there and you would never left.

You got out of bed as quietly as possible to avoid waking him up. You retrieved the small shopping bag you had hidden in the closet and tiptoed to the bathroom. You had bought lingerie—a beautiful red lace babydoll that resembled a princess gown but with much less fabric, of course. The color matched your freshly painted nails, and your hair appeared even brighter with that color palette. You completed your look by applying a touch of color to your cheeks, lip gloss, and his favorite perfume of yours.

As you gazed at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, your cheeks flushed at the sight of yourself in that lingerie. You looked beautiful, and you had never felt more sexy. You returned to the bed where he was still in the arms of Morpheus. You lay down next to him, admiring his handsome features, and then placed a gentle peck on his cheek, hoping it would wake him up. But it didn't. So, you decided to gently turn his face toward you, using a finger on his chin to guide his lips to yours. It worked like a charm. He responded to your soft touch, kissing you back passionately. He purred with satisfaction and pulled you close, wrapping an arm around your waist. Then, his groggy eyes widened as they roamed over your delicate figure. Confusion flickered across his face for just a fraction of a second before he realized. You couldn't help but notice the way his eyes darkened, and he swallowed hard at the sight.

"You like it?" Your voice was a whisper, and in that very moment, he was the only one in the world who could hear your words. "Feliz cumpleaños."

He looked up at you, grinning with eyes full of desire, and appeared so alluring, almost like the devil himself. He hadn't said a word yet, and you were apprehensive about what his voice would do to you when he used it. With just the way he looked at you, he had you wrapped around his finger. You began to feel aroused, and now you knew that there was no force in the world that could stop you from doing what you were intended to do. Your lips met his once more, and your hands found their way to his broad chest, feeling his smooth, tanned skin melting beneath your fingertips.

He broke the kiss again, this time to take your hand and guide you out of the bed. He sat down at the corner of the mattress, placing you standing between his legs. You couldn't help but notice the bulge forming in his sleeping pants, causing you to blush.

"C'mere, baby, I need to see you," he whispered. His hands roamed all over your body, exploring every ribbon and every spaghetti strap, caressing the parts where the lace were too transparent. "You look gorgeous," he praised and you felt the heat travel from your cheeks to your core.

You felt a little ashamed tho, not used to being so exposed to anyone before. On the other hand, Javi was mesmerized by how you looked, every one of your curves, and how the babydoll suited you so well. He couldn't believe that it was happening; he was over the moon. But he needed you to know something.

"Are you sure, amor?" he asked, finding your eyes. He did his best to be serious, not wanting to appear too eager and pressure you. "There's no rush. It doesn't have to happen just because it's my birthday," he continued, but you silenced him with another kiss, feeling the muscles in his shoulders relax even more.

"I am ready, Javi," you promised. "I've been thinking about this for like two weeks," you confessed, and he chuckled.

"You have?" he asked, and you nodded. He left a gentle kiss on your lips and seated you on his knee. "Look at me, baby," he said. "You tell me if you want to stop, anytime, okay?" You nodded. "As I told you, there's no rush. We'll just have fun as long as you feel comfortable. We're taking things slow."

You knew it! You knew he was the one. His words meant everything to you. You couldn't feel more comfortable and protected with him. Sex was one of the most vulnerable and exposed scenarios for a person, yet you felt like you could do it with your eyes closed, not worrying about anything else in the world as long as it was Javi touching and caressing you.

"I'm gonna take good care of you, mi amor. Do you trust me?"

"With my entire life, Javi," you answered.

He smiled again, proudly, and took you by the waist. Without wasting any time, he placed you in the center of his bed. You opened your legs, inviting him to take his place between them. He admired you from the top, your body so sexy in that garment, your flushed cheeks, and your shining eyes. That image used to be in his dreams, but now there you were, right in front of him, on the verge of being completely his. And only God knows how much he wanted to be entirely yours.

Javi bent over you, his hands caressing every inch of your body, worshipping you. His lips left wet kisses on the delicate skin of your neck, jawline, and collarbone. Your hands roamed his arms, where his prominent muscles bulged from supporting his weight to avoid crushing you.

And then you felt his hardened cock against your core, making everything feel more real. You moaned in the middle of a kiss, overcome by the sensation and anticipation of what was about to happen. Javi began to press his bulge against the delicate fabric of your panties, leaving a wet spot on his pants.

His hand reached for one of your breasts, gently caressing your hardened nipple, causing a moan to escape into his mouth. The touch sent electric shocks through your core, making you grow increasingly wet.

"Javi, Javi..." you cried out, moving your pelvis to meet him halfway, trying to alleviate the building urgency stemming from your clit.

"You're so needy," he whispered into your ear, his words sending shivers down your spine and painting your skin with goosebumps. "Tell me what you want, preciosa, I want to hear you."

"Touch me, please," you begged as he moved against you. "Please, I need you."

"Fuck," he growled. His hands went to your back, undoing your bra, and he paid careful attention to the way your breasts were revealed for him.

His lips began on yours but then trailed down your jaw, finding their way to your neck. Wet kisses on your chest made you sigh, and then you lost all coherent thought the moment he captured one of your nipples with his mouth. Your back arched, and your fingers tightly gripped his arm. He moved to the other nipple, teasing with his tongue and teeth. Your whimpers filled the room, his name escaping your lips like a prayer, as you surrendered all control over your own body. You didn't want him to stop; you wanted more, so much more.

As if he were a mind-reader, his hand slipped into your panties. His thick fingers parted your wet folds, caressing you up and down, collecting your honey as they found your clit. A gasp escaped your lips due to the sudden and new sensation, feeling your arousal dripping from your sensitive pussy. You couldn't help but moan louder, your toes curling between the covers at the foot of the bed.

"You're so wet already, baby. That's so fuckin' good" He traced soft circles, bringing you relief. He teased your entrance with his fingers, but he didn't penetrate deeply. His thumb continued to stimulate your throbbing clit, while his middle finger attempted to enter you. You could feel the pressure between your folds, and due to your inexperience, it left you feeling overwhelmed.

Now it was your turn to slip your hand inside his pants, something Javi hadn't seen coming. He had been so concentrated on your pleasure that he didn't notice until you wrapped your trembling hand around his hard, warm cock. His skin felt like velvet under your touch. You began moving up and down, a little clumsy and uncertain if you were doing it correctly, but your desire was for him to feel as good as he was making you feel. In response, Javi let out a deep moan, his hips instinctively moving to find your touch, and he started whispering your name like a prayer.

"Yeah, baby, you're such a good girl," he praised, making you moan and became wetter. A few seconds passed, until he moved, ceasing his touch and forcing yourself to let him go. "I need to taste you," he said, slowly tracing a path with his kisses down your body, starting with the exposed skin of your breasts, then moving to your stomach and bellybutton, until he reached your panties. You watched as he positioned his head between your thighs, leaving gentle kisses on each side and slowly making his way toward your core.

"I think you don't need these anymore, sweetheart," he whispered as his fingers gripped the tiny straps on each side of your panties, slowly removing them. A gentle breeze caressed your wetness, and you let out a shivery sigh. He created a trail of soft kisses that led to your center until he finally began kissing your core. The sensation was unexpectedly delicious. You let out a cry and felt the impulse to close your legs, but he prevented it by grabbing you and making you stay still. You lost yourself in a whirlwind of sensations, where only you and Javi existed.

You were a virgin, but you weren't a saint. Of course, you had pleasured yourself before, often thinking of Javier Peña, but the way he was making you feel with his mouth was something else entirely. He was real, devouring you with the hunger of a starved man. His hands caressed your hips, your belly, and reached for your breasts. You couldn't help but whimper and praise him.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and filled with lust. Unconsciously, Javi began to thrust his hips against the mattress, feeling the moist spot of precum staining his pants and boxers. His balls had become heavier, desperate for attention after several weeks without a woman's touch. Of course, he had taken care of himself, jerking himself off in the shower or during the nights he spent alone in his apartment. He always thought of you, reminiscing about your kisses, the warmth of your body against his, and even the way your pencil skirt hugged your heart-shaped butt around the Colombian Embassy.

"Javi... I... I want to come," you whimpered, feeling a knot growing steadily in your belly, signaling your impending climax. Meanwhile, Javi tasted your sweet honey pouring on his tongue. He intensified his attentions, fastening his sucks on your swollen clit, alternately licking your vulva and your entrance. Your fingers tangled in his soft hair, seeking something to hold onto as you approached your powerful orgasm.

You shattered into a million little pieces, melting all over his mouth, your essence dripping from his chin. He admired your body as it trembled and unraveled in front of him.

"There you go, baby, let it go," he encouraged.

You lost track of time, caring about nothing else; the entire world had disappeared beneath you, and you couldn't care less. As you descended from your peak of pleasure, Javi traced a trail of tender kisses from the curve of your hips to your belly and up to your neck. Until you felt his lips on your mouth again, and you moaned when you tasted yourself on him. You wanted so much more of him, to spend your entire life tangled with him in his bed.

Javier felt your heart beating rapidly against his chest, and for a moment, he thought that you might be tired and overwhelmed. But you proved him wrong by starting to pull his pants down, freeing his dick. You felt his weighty member against your belly, so you looked down. It was the first time you saw it. You found yourself even more aroused, if that was possible, and at the same time, you felt a touch of shyness. By this point, you had allowed him to kiss your entire naked body, bringing you to climax with his skillful mouth, and yet, your cheeks burned at the sight of his cock above you. He couldn't help but notice the pearl-white drops of his pre-cum that painted your lower belly.

"Baby, if you're tired, we can save it for another time," he managed told you, even though he didn't stop you from helping him remove his pants and boxers.

"I want you inside of me, Javi," you begged, your voice carrying more desperation than you had realized. "I want to make you feel as good as you've made me feel."

"You're such a naughty girl, who would've known?" he chuckled.

"Only for you, Javi," you assured him.

His eyes darkened further, drawing nearer to your lips again. "I can't believe no one has ever touched you before," he said, "You're every man's dream."

"Many had tried," you confessed. He felt a wave of jealousy, because he knew it was true and he couldn't bear the thought of another man touching you, kissing you... It made him feel selfish, but he couldn't help it. "But no one but you was worthy. I waited for the right moment; I always knew it would be the right man. And I knew it was you the very first moment I saw you."

"I swear I'll spend the rest of my life being worthy of you," he said, dead serious, and you could tell from the look in his eyes.

After placing a peck on his lips, you said, "You can start by fucking me," with a shy smile on your face. You were attempting some dirty talk, but he could tell from the way you whispered and tried to hold back a laugh that it made you feel a bit awkward. He also promised himself that he would help you get used to it, taking charge of teaching you.

"Your wish is my command, bonita" he answered. Javi reached for the first drawer of his nightstand and, without searching too much, took out a condom.

He knelt between your legs, and you watched him put it on. He was bigger and thicker than you had imagined. For the first time that night, you felt a wave of nervousness coursing through your body, anticipating the pain you had always heard about the first time.

Would it hurt? Would he be gentle enough with you? Would there be any bleed? These thoughts raced through your mind as he positioned himself at your entrance, collecting your wetness with the head of his dick. He had been so focused on this moment that he hadn't noticed your worried expression until he looked up at you for a kiss. In that very moment, he stopped, his heart skipping a beat. He didn't want you to feel unsure or uncomfortable. His only desire in that moment was for you to have the best experience, feeling loved and well taken care of by him.

"Is something wrong?" he asked. You shook your head to indicate that everything was okay. "Words, baby, I need you to use your pretty mouth," he added, his voice gentle.

"Everything's fine," you assured him, trying not to sound too nervous. "I'm just a little nervous."

"That's normal, mi amor, just relax," he replied. His lips met yours, and then he whispered in your ear, "You tell me if you need anything, preciosa. Are you ready?"

"Yes," you sounded more confident this time, and you could hear a smirk forming on his lips as he buried his face in your neck, and you held onto his strong arms.

Javi's hand traveled between your bodies, and you could feel him positioning at your entrance. The sensation made you gasp. Then he began to push inside slowly. At first, you felt pleasure, followed by a slight burning, as if something inside you were stretching. You couldn't help but wince and feel yourself growing pale. Javier didn't move, and you were grateful for that because you needed a moment.

"Are you alright?" he asked in a whisper, his voice tense.

"I'm okay," you tried to convince him – and yourself – that everything was fine. But it wasn't; it hurt a bit, it felt invasive. You wanted him to continue, but at the same time, you needed a break. So you decided, "Could you... could you pull out?"

He immediately complied, carefully withdrawing, his forehead creased in concern. "Did I hurt you?" he asked.

"No, it just felt awkward"

"Do you want to try again?" he asked. You couldn't tell because he didn't show any hints, but he was almost praying for you to give him an affirmative answer. He was as hard as a rock, and it was almost painful. However, he wouldn't push you to do something that might hurt you, so he remained patient and reminded himself that he had a whole lifetime to wait for you to be ready.

"I do," you murmured. He nodded, kissed you again, and continued. He left soft kisses along your neck and shoulders. You smell so good, like a mix of fresh flowers and fruits, he thought. It drove him completely insane.

"Relax, bonita. You're doing so fuckin' well," he praised. This time, when you felt him inside, it didn't hurt as much as before. On the contrary, it became a pleasant sensation.

Then you realized that he wasn't fully inside yet. As he continued to push, stretching you further, any discomfort faded away.

"You feel so good," Javier took his time to start moving slowly. His chest touch your nipples, stimulating them, making you increased your soft cries of pure pleasure. That was when all uncertainty disappeared. You began to feel incredible. Moan built up in your chest and escaped your throat. Javier was captivated by your gaze as you saw him directly in his eyes, and the way your lips parted to release cute moans and sighs.  Nose, cheeks, and chest turned red, the frown on your brow, and the way you scrunch your nose. He wouldn't last long. You looked so cute and sexy at the same time. You were a completely goddess, so pure and gorgeous.

His face disappeared between your hair and neck, leaving soft kisses and tasting your essence, whispering your name right into your ear amidst his own moans and pleasure-filled grunts.

"¿Te gusta, mi amor?" he wanted to hear you, although your mouth emitted the most sensual sounds he had ever heard.

"Si...," you could barely speak; the bliss was too intense, rendering you almost speechless. He was fucking you completely dumb. "Si, Javi, así me gusta."

"Fuck, you're so tight," he groaned. He rose to his knees again, his hands firmly gripping your hips to raise them and thrust harder. He was captivated by the way your beautiful breasts bounced, your face lost in pleasure, goosebumps covering your body. The morning sun illuminated your skin and hair.

He knew he wouldn't last, but he needed to make you cum again. Using his thumb, he began tracing circles on your swollen clit, sending you into an intense spiral of raw pleasure. Your back arched of its own accord, and your hand clutched his wrist just to have something to hold onto.

"¡No pares, Javi!" you whimper, so ecstasy-filled, begging him to keep fucking you like that. "Oh, you feel so good, Javi. I... I'm..."

"Cum for me, baby," he encouraged, "I wanna see you fucking cumming on my cock."

And then another wave of pure chaos consumed you. You threw your head back against the pillow, digging your nails into the muscles of his beautiful, strong arms. You felt your world crumbling beside you, and imploring again.

Javier had never cum as hard as he did the very moment he felt your pussy clenching around his cock. His balls throbbed as he cum inside of you. He was so deep on you, filling the condom with his thick, warm load and he couldn't help but imagine your pussy filled with his cum. Carrying his baby...

A couple of seconds passed until you both came down from the clouds. Javi pull out before went completely soft. He reach again for his night table and looked for a box of Kleenex and started cleaning the mess he made. And then he cleaned you, so gentle and caring. Then, he lay next to you, pulling your naked and warm body to his, kissing the top of your head.

"How do you feel, bonita?" he wanted to know. With one hand he traced soft circles on your arm, and with the other he massaged your head, making you feel sleepy.

"Amazing," you mumbled.

"Sleep, baby, you sound tired," he spoke in a soothing tone.

"But I've plan an entire birthday for you..." you tried to say, but your body felt so relaxed and exhausted.

"We have an entire life to do whatever you want, mi vida hermosa," he placed a soft kiss on your forehead and thighed his embrace around your body. "Now sleep, baby."

"Happy birthday, Javi," those were your last word before fell asleep on his arms, bodies tangled and hearts still racing.

Javier Peña wasn't a selfish man, but he wanted you to be his for as long as he may live.

NEXT CHAPTER

[stellar-skyy]

hihi! an iced english breakfast tea with father figure blade?

“iced english breakfast tea here, for... ah, who was it? Oh, of course! Blade!”

☆ — if you're craving a drink, make sure to stop by the teashop!

i. SUMMARY: While on a trip, you receive a letter from a certain Stellaron Hunter. ii. CWS & NOTES: no warnings applicable. PLATONIC blade & gn!reader, brief silver wolf & reader, kafka & reader. father figure!blade. found family fluff. 0.5k words. iii. A/N: hi anon! this request was actually much further in the queue, but i finished it quickly so i thought i might as well post it now.

The letter is penned on bright white paper, covered in small creases that have been smoothed out. The writing on it is small, with some parts crossed out and rewritten, filling the entire page. In the corner is a small series of doodles in purple ink, crude drawings of the three Stellaron Hunters and you. The envelope is beside it with the wax seal broken, smelling faintly of spider lilies.

Inside, it reads:

[Name],

I hope this letter reaches you well, if it reaches you in the first place. I must admit I am skeptical of the effectiveness of the intergalactic postal system, but it isn’t as if there is another way to contact you, aside from tossing the letter into outer space and hoping it finds its way to the planet you are currently on.

I think this is the longest it’s been without seeing you since you were young. It is much too quiet without you around; Silver Wolf has attempted to fill the silence, but I hardly understand what she is talking about half of the time and I do not care to ask. When you return, you will have to inform me what ‘dps’ and ‘maxed out’ means, because I know asking her now will only give me a long-winded spiel about those video games she is obsessed with.

Despite you being gone several weeks now, it’s still been difficult to adjust to having one fewer member of the group. I have been turning the corner, expecting you to be there waiting for me, but I am constantly finding myself alone. Kafka tells me it’s the mother hen instincts, but she doesn’t know what she is talking about.

Silver Wolf has been asking about you non-stop, telling me she wants her Player Two back. She made me play with her for a bit, but according to her, I’m so terrible at the games that it isn’t even fun to beat me. I’m not sure what she means, she beats you all the time anyway, but when I told her that she just rolled her eyes.

Kafka misses you too, though she’s at least got enough emotional maturity to admit that out loud instead of sulking. When she found out I was writing this letter, she made me promise to tell you she can’t wait to see you again, and you’d better be taking care of yourself. I think she feels the same as I do, even as she teases me for it. Things just aren’t the same with one less person.

I know you’re wondering about me, but I’ll keep it short—I’m fine. My condition is no better than you last saw me, but it is no worse either. You don’t have to worry, and I mean that with honesty.

I trust you are using this well-deserved break to its fullest, taking in the sights and not causing any excess trouble. Elio doesn’t allow vacations very often—it’s a wonder he approved this one, with all the missions he’s sent us on lately—so make sure you take advantage of it. If you are in a tough situation, you only need to remember what Kafka and I have taught you: hit them fast and hard, and don’t leave any witnesses.

Be safe. I’ll see you soon.

Blade

reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡

[tradgedyinwaves]

Touch - Ch. 9

Sorry for the late post. My days off were busy, but now I'm back at work so we should be back on daily updates.

So many military inconsistencies and just overall incorrect military vocabulary. I’m sorry. 

tw:  revenge, light torture, sensory deprivation, bondage (not the fun kind), 

It’s dark, so dark you weren’t sure if your eyes were open or closed, the only light is the red blinking of a camera above your head. Your wrists were bound with a soft rope as you sat on the edge of a measly cot, using your other senses to learn about your surroundings. You couldn’t hear much besides the rustle of footsteps above your head and the rare voice as guards changed out in front of your door. 

The smell was what permeated everything else though. The coppery tang of blood hung in the air, burning your nose, but there was something else. The faint scent of burned and rotting flesh tinged the edges of your senses, making you gag as the smell almost coated your tongue. A choked laugh had filled the silence in the space when you realized someone had sprayed an air freshener just before you’d been deposited in your cell. The lavender had only made the smell worse, almost thankful when it finally faded only a few minutes later. 

You’d spent the time counting, focusing on the numbers as if they were going to save you. Reaching 85,000 meant it had been about one day since you’d been taken. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t eat. You never stopped counting, not even when the door opened and light shone on your body. “Aw, precious, just as pretty as I remember.” 

When the boys realized you were gone, all hell broke loose. Price was out of the room and on his phone in seconds, calling the one person outside of his team that he trusted: Kate Laswell. Kyle was on Price’s heels, his calm, level headedness the only thing keeping him from tearing the entire hotel down to the studs. Johnny stood staring at the picture that had been left behind, staring at the word as if he was waiting for it to burst into flames. Simon saw red, fists clenching and relaxing at his sides. 

Grabbing Johnny’s arm, he hauled the younger man out of the room to follow Price. They were going to get you back, no matter what it took. Simon just hoped they’d make it in time. 

Bursting into the room just as Price ended his call, Simon deposited Johnny on the couch and squatted between his legs just to reach up and slap the sergeant. Blue eyes shot to Simon’s dark ones just to be followed with a grunt and nod. Simon stood and Johnny followed, all of them standing around the table. 

“Laswell just informed me that they’ve received a video. She’s sending it now. She said it’s not pretty,” Price revealed, grunting quietly as his hand rubbed over his face to scratch at his beard. Kyle was quickly working to set up the laptop and getting the video pulled up. 

“What do we know?” Simon asked gruffly, arms crossed over his chest in an effort to hold in the unbridled rage that threatened to endanger the men in the room. He hadn’t been this angry since getting back from leave and finding his mother and brother in such terrible shape and he’d kicked his dad out for the abuse. He should have gone back and killed him. 

“She was being stalked by someone using your mask, so it must be someone from your past,” Kyle reasoned, looking over at Simon. He wasn’t accusatory. It was a good reasoning, but Simon growled at the implication it was solely his fault. Kyle raised his hands in surrender, showing the largest member of their team that he didn’t mean to offend him.

“There were pictures of all of us. What’s the likelihood that it’s someone we’ve dealt with before?” Johnny questioned, looking at Price with wide blue eyes that didn’t seem to look AT Price, more through him. Price was startled by that look. He’d never seen the sergeant look so mentally far away. 

The computer dinged as Kyle got the video pulled up, cringing already at the capture that served for the video icon. They all gathered around behind him and he hit play, all of them watching the screen intently.

The shot is focused on a blacked out truck when the door opens, zooming in on your still fighting form as they drag you from the vehicle. One of the masked guards, about the size of Simon, has his arm around your neck in a chokehold when you manage to tuck your chin and bite him hard, blood coloring your teeth. He releases you but another hidden man steps up and backhands you across the face causing you to fall to the ground. You’re hit in the temple with the butt of a gun and your body falls limp on the ground while the man who backhanded you lifts you from the ground and carries you off screen. 

Another man, this one wearing a copy of Simon’s mask, steps into frame and slowly pulls the mask off, revealing oily black hair and beady eyes that look down at the mask almost fondly. “You know, Simon, this is quite the mask you wear. Makes for a pretty good scare tactic, don’t you think? Though, I suppose that’s why you wear it, huh?” The man lifts his head and makes eye contact with the camera before it goes black.

“How the fuck does he know my name?” Simon growled, low and deep, a menacing sound that would terrify anyone but the men in the room. John’s phone rang once, answered immediately and put on speaker. “Kate, what do you have for us?” Price was no longer the sweet caretaker. He’d been replaced with the Captain the moment they realized you were gone. 

“Name’s Darin Moses. Bold of him to show his face, to be honest. We’ve been after him for years, but he’s usually flying so far under the radar, that we couldn’t find him. Nothing would get him out of hiding either, except…” Kate’s voice trailed off, sighing into the phone. “Your girl. Whoever she is, she’s important enough for him to come out of hiding.” 

They were all listening intently, memorizing every bit of information. “He’ll be keeping her in a compound of sorts. I haven’t figured out where yet, but based on that video, I can tell you he’s still in the UK. We’ve grounded every private flight out of the UK for now. He wouldn’t be able to take her on a commercial flight with how much she seems to be fighting back.” Kate continued, papers rustling in the background before keys clicked on a keyboard. 

“Get us back and we’ll get started on a plan. In the meantime, try to figure out where they’re keeping her,” Price said, picking up the phone and clicking off the call before Kate could reply. “We’ve got work to do, boys.” 

When the team landed on the tarmac about 24 hours later, Laswell was there to brief them, walking alongside as she informed them that they’d received a new video. Finally inside, they huddled around a table and watched as their anger roiled and raged inside each of them.

The camera angle now looked down on you from the corner of your cell, more of a security camera type of placement. It showed you up and pacing, muttering what sounded like numbers under your breath as your hand drug over the wall. 

A voiceover began playing, blocking out most of your sounds. “John Price, Kyle Garrick, John Mactavish, and Simon Riley. Task Force 141. I have to thank you boys for taking out some of my competition. Making a lot of money now that I’m the only one that can collect information like I can. But the thing is, the men you’ve taken out? They weren’t little pawns or weak. They were powerful men. So now you’ve made yourselves targets.”

There was a rustling sound and you sat down on the bed, now staring up at the little blinking light. “Do you think she knows you’re watching? Or maybe she’s hoping you are.” The screen zoomed in on you, the night vision making your eyes look like they were glowing white. “Pretty little thing. I think once I’ve got you all taken care of, I’ll keep her. Break her down until she can’t fight back anymore. Maybe I’ll bring her your heads so she knows no one is coming to save her.” The screen cut to black.

Little bit of a shorter part.

Thank you to everyone who is supporting this series.

[bitchinbarzal]

3945 Miles | T Meier

summary: when the space between you is 3945 miles misunderstandings are a given.

-

This thing between you was going on two years now.

You’d spend the entire summer together; vacations in ibiza, sleeping in his bed, fancy dinners in town. Then when he had to leave for New Jersey you’d both have emotional goodbyes at the airport.

He never made you his girlfriend. You were just a person in his life who he adored but would never confirm it with something.

You were exactly 3945 miles apart and it killed you.

You’d call every other day to talk about his games you’d stayed up late to watch, your job and what was going on back home.

After receiving really exciting news at work the first person you thought to call was Timo. You called him and before he could say anything you exclaimed

“I have amazing news! I got a promotion!”

Timo stutters “I-Oh that’s amazing schatz”

You frown “What’s wrong?” You can hear it in his voice he’s distracted.

“Nothing, nothing just a long day” he sighs

“Oh I’m sorry I shouldn’t have called”

“No, no don’t apologize! I’m glad you called tell me about-“

Then you heard it in the background, a woman’s voice

“Timo, are you coming? I’m waiting”

On the other end Timo freezes, realizing you’d heard her voice “Y/N….”

You shook your head “No, I’m- you shouldn’t have answered Timo”

He sighs “Please just listen-“

“Have a nice night T” and hung up.

Timo sat in the corridor of the healthcare facility with his head in his hands “Timo?” Lucy, the trainer called again “I haven’t got all night buddy, Luke is coming in for his ankle”

The news you hadn’t managed to tell Timo was that by next month you’d be working in your new office in New York. How you’d be closer now but it appeared he didn’t need you near.

You moved, never calling him to let him know. You assumed his mom would pass on the information considering you’d dropped by to hand her your key to Timo’s house.

“Sweetheart just keep it! I’m sure you’ll need it in the summer” she exclaimed to which you smiled softly

“No Mama Meier I don’t think I will”

You made it to New York without a hitch, settling into your apartment nicely and finding friends in the city.

You’d been in the city for a month when one of your new friends had invited you out for a night. The invite was broad and consisted of “sports”

The particular sport in question you hadn’t even thought it would be hockey. Your friends hadn’t mentioned they even liked hockey.

You’d driven to Jersey and were sat in the prudential center, right on the glass.

Your friends were decked out in rangers jerseys and hats for their team while you were dressed in nothing to do with hockey.

You watched the intro on the jumbotron, watching Timo’s face appear on the screen. That smile you missed oh so much.

You watched the team warm up, every so often he would skate past you. He never noticed you but he felt eyes on him somewhere.

Throughout the game your eyes were glued on him, from the bench to the ice.

Your friends had noticed your attention had been divided throughout the evening.

“Hey Y/N you like what you see?” One of the boys, Ross jokes with you.

You smile softly “Um, no I actually know him”

They all gasp lowly “You bitch! I paid like $500 for all these tickets and you had an in the whole time?!”

“No, no we aren’t friends. Not anymore anyway” you explain. They don’t push, sensing your overall sadness in your words.

“Hey, look!” You were snapped out of your thoughts when Ross poked you and pointed to the jumbotron where you and him were on the kiss cam.

You shook your head mouthing ‘we aren’t together’ while Ross instead grabbed your face and kissed your dramatically, pulling away with a laugh “Gotta give the people what they want!”

You smiled and laughed along, completely unaware that Timo sat on the bench with his mouth dropped open and his heart broken.

After the game you’d hung around for the crowds to disappear, knowing how hectic it would be. As you and your friends began walking out your phone rang.

It was Jonas.

“Hallo?”

“You’re here…”

Butterflies filled your chest when you heard Timo on the other end of the phone. You instinctively turned to the ice, as if he was behind you and there you saw him standing by the benches holding the phone to his ear.

“What do want?”

“Come down here, please, I need to speak with you”

You grumble “Will your little girlfriend be there?”

He suppresses the smile that wants to erupt at your sheer and outright jealousy “Just come here? Bitte?”

It felt welcoming and warm to hear your home language, nobody in the city speaking it.

“Hey guys just drive back without me, I’ll catch a ride” you explain, making your way down the stairs to where you used to meet him in your past visits.

He was there waiting for you, anxiously tapping his foot until you appeared and he let the security guard know you were with him.

When you got past the groups of arena workers wrapping up and into a more secluded spot Timo took his opportunity to hug you, no words needed exchanged.

He held you, swaying from leg to leg “I missed you”

“T, you can’t do this anymore-“

“Can you listen? Please?” He pleads, pulling back to look at you “Whatever happened on the phone that was a misunderstanding!”

“Timo…” You mumbled, giving him the ‘I’m not stupid’ look.

“No, no Schatzi listen! I’m tired of this game we play! I can’t be 3945 miles away from you any longer, it is bad for my health to not have you by my side all the time- why are you smiling?”

Your smile grows as you say “You counted exactly how many miles is between your house in Jersey and my house in Herisau”

He looks at you as if what you said was ridiculous “of course I did, for the last two years I’ve wanted to close every single mile”

“What about the girl on the phone?”

“Our trainer, Lucy” he gestures towards the medical hallway before his hands land on your face, making you look at him

“You are my only girl”

You take a moment to drink those words in, words you’d waiting forever to hear. In those words all of the fights, the breakfasts in bed, the fancy dinners and the lazy nights in.

You were his girl.

“11 miles” You mumble and Timo frowns

“Huh?”

“It’s 11 miles from your house in jersey to my apartment in Manhattan”

A smile spreads onto his face and he dips down to kiss you, kissing you like he’d never done it before.

“I’m going to work on making that 11 miles 0” he mumbles once he pulls away.

“Oh yeah? How so” you smirk

“Me, You… my bed”

“I like the sound of that”

[thezombieprostitute]

Dream Come True - Part 7

Summary: The “Garbage Men” are the guys in the mob who get the dirt on others and clean up after the higher ups. They have many different ways of gathering intel by running legitimate businesses. One such business is Jefferson/Jensen’s cyber cafe where you regularly go to work. You’ve actually become good friends with Jefferson’s daughter and Jensen’s niece. You even volunteered as their after-school tutor. One day, there’s a robbery attempt where you get hurt protecting the girls. This is how you are introduced to Curtis Everett, the guy in charge of the “Garbage Men”.

A/N: Reader is plus sized, femme. No other descriptors used.

Warnings: Bullying, Fat shaming, Insecure reader, Kidnapping, Mild violence, Sexual harassment. Please let me know if I missed any!

Part 6 -- Part 8

Series Masterlist

Everyone was making sure to give Curtis some space. Jake had read aloud the contents of the note you’d sent, “Lloyd is back. Has solid plans to take over everything.” This was the excuse they needed to slowly back away from Curtis who was frozen in rage. They immediately got to work notifying everyone in the family. Levinson began coordinating an evacuation of those family members who were most vulnerable, making sure to keep it quick and quiet. Steve and Bucky started moving people around, making sure everyone was armed and on alert. Mace was reaching out to all contacts looking for information.

But all Curtis could do was glare at the phone. The number you were supposed to call when you were safe. The others may have been okay with the note being your signal but not him. He needed to hear you say you were okay. After the way Ransom talked to you he wouldn’t accept anything less than you telling him. No codes, no proxy, just you. 

The phone gave a short tone, indicating a text had been received. He grabbed it and stared at the message from you. As the reality of your words hit him he had to swallow down his panic. 

“JENSEN,” Curtis bellowed. “Tell me you’re tracking Y/N’s phone!”

“Yeah, what…what happened,” Jake asked.

“She’s in trouble,” Curtis barked, loud enough for everyone to hear. He handed Jake the phone, displaying the message. “Find her ASAP! And message me the second you find her.” 

“Curtis,” Mace called after him, “we’ve got higher priorities.”

Curtis glared at his second-in-command, “I said she shouldn’t do this. Everyone else said she should. Now she’s in trouble. We got her into this, we have to rescue her.”

“Be that as it may,” Mace countered, tone calm, “we’re talking about Lloyd and an all out war against the entire family. That’s a lot of people at risk, not just Teach. We have to prioritize appropriately.” The two tried to stare each other down but Mace added, “you know I’m right.” Curtis growled, but Mace didn’t budge. It was one of the main reasons Curtis made him his second: not easily intimidated and always able to keep his eyes on the main prize. It’s what Curtis usually needed to keep himself in line. 

Usually. “You’re in charge of the Garbage,” Curtis snarled. “As soon as Jake gives me an address, I’m grabbing an axe and going after her.” 

Mace’s eyes widen slightly at the mention of an axe, understanding the implications. All he can do is nod his assent and get back to work. No one had seen The Berserker since Curtis left Wilford & Gilliam’s service and swore fealty to the family. Curtis professed, several times, to never wanting to bring him back. But with you in danger, it appears Curtis would use any means to keep you safe. 

Lloyd’s car was probably the nicest you’d ever been in. It seemed to have all of the accouterments a person could ever want. Certainly more than they could ever need. If you weren’t here against your will you’d ask about them or absentmindedly press buttons. Instead, you kept your purse clutched tightly in your arms and kept your face passive. You decided to keep quiet until Lloyd said something, trying to “behave” as he put it. The way he occasionally looked over your body, openly ogling you, had you very uncomfortable. 

He pulls up to an impossibly ritzy hotel and turns off the car. He immediately jumps out and opens your door for you before tossing the keys to the valet. 

“Come along, Pumpkin,” Lloyd snaps his fingers. You step out of the car and he puts his arm around you before walking you into the hotel. You try not to wince at the touch. 

 He walks you to the elevator and, when it’s just the two of you, his hand starts wandering down towards your ass. When it gets too low for your liking you grunted, “don’t. Just don’t.” 

His hand stops but his annoying grin grows into a full smile, “oooh, there it is,” he whispers into your ear. “That tone just does something for me. I’m sure you can figure out what that something is.” You can’t stop your eyes from glancing down and, in truth, he does appear to be hard. You don’t hold back your scoff and eye roll but it only seems to excite him more. 

The elevator doors open to reveal the largest hotel suite you’ve ever seen. The opulence was almost overwhelming. If it weren’t for Lloyd’s very strong arm pushing you forward you would’ve been too scared of breaking something expensive to move. 

He gestures you towards a couch, “have a seat and relax, Pumpkin. Take off that cardigan and let me get a better look at the ladies.”

“No,” you snap. “I’m not that kind of girl. I want to just go home.”

“Oh, Sunshine,” he purrs as he walks over to a drink cart. “You lost the right to go home the second I heard you at Ran’s.”

“What do you mean,” you inquire. “We were the only people there.” You have to be careful to not reveal you knew someone was listening.

“Yes, you were, but I’ve had Ran’s place bugged for a couple weeks now,” he cheerfully starts making himself a drink. “My comms guy told me someone was giving Ran a visit so I asked him to patch me through and let me listen. You only argued for about thirty seconds but it was enough for me to know I had to have a few rounds with you.”

“If thirty seconds is your definition of “enough” I’m definitely not interested.”

He laughs at your response and moves to sit next to you, bringing his drink with him, “fuck I love that sass. And that smack you gave him? I was so hard after I had to jerk myself off before meeting you.” You don’t hold back your grimace at the image. He scoots closer to you and you try to scoot away but he grabs your arm, gripping hard enough you’re sure there’ll be bruises. “Be a good girl,” he whispers. “You got Ransom, the most picky, skinny-bitch loving person I’d ever known, to beg after you. I gotta know how good of a fuck you are.”

“I didn’t chase him, he chased me,” you tell him through gritted teeth. “He’s just another asshole who wants what he can’t have. Who can’t have anyone in his life who doesn’t want him. That’s all. It’s got nothing to do with my nonexistent skills in bed.”

“Hmm…” he looks you over. “He seemed to enjoy how you worshiped his cock. And really, what more could a guy want? You worship mine half as good as you did his and I’ll make sure to reward you.”

“Bullshit,” you give him more of that attitude he seems to enjoy. Maybe you can distract him long enough to figure out a way out of this. “You’ll probably just fuck my mouth, last thirty seconds and send me home without even the courtesy of a breath mint. You’re just like all the other assholes I’ve ever had to deal with.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong, Pumpkin. I’m much more dangerous and wealthy than any other asshole you’ve met. Behave, you’ll only have to know about the wealth. Keep fighting me and you’ll learn why I’m so feared.” The pain from him squeezing your arm is growing. You have to switch tactics.

“Wait,” you give Lloyd your best “I’m confused” look. “I thought you said you were into the sass. I’m getting some mixed signals here.” Lloyd pauses at the abrupt change in your demeanor and the grip on your arm relaxes a little. “I mean, if you want the doe-eyed, obedient fucktoy you should’ve said so from the beginning. But you kept talking about enjoying my sharper tones and retorts. Do you even know what you want?”

“I…uh..” Lloyd stutters. 

Not wanting him to get his bearings you continue, “I mean, Hugh wanted the whole female dominant experience. He wanted the degradation and spankings. Is that not what you wanted as well? Or…wait, wait, were you after the whole “dominating the dom” thing? You need to tell me this shit upfront! Also I need your safeword. Mine is “Asimov,” don’t ask why, it’s way too long a story and Hugh didn’t pay enough for a long session.”

“He said you were his assistant.”

“That’s the cover story, yes,” as careful as you need to be, you need everything to sound natural. Plausible, even. “Word gets out that someone with his reputation buys his ladies? He’ll plummet in the social circles. Especially with some of the older ladies he schmoozes, you know? So he tells people we’re his assistants, emphasis on the “ass” of course.” You wink and give your most sensual smile to Lloyd. You’re not sure if you’re passing but he’s stopped crushing your arm and has backed off a little. “Hugh said you liked the bigger girls, like myself, so we set up a kind of introduction for you. Let you decide if you actually wanted me. Considering the things you’ve said, I’d say you’re into me.” 

With a confidence you don’t actually have you grab Lloyd’s drink out of his hand and take a swig. It burns a lot, but you fight the urge to wince and instead give him a smile. 

Lloyd throws his head back and laughs, “oh, Pumpkin. I’m gonna make you my fucking queen.”

You raise an eyebrow, “what do you mean?”

“Not going to get into the details, but if you suck my dick as good as you act, I’m gonna keep you. You really had me believing you were a sassy secretary. Fuck, you really got me good. Not many people can claim that.” You bat your eyes and he continues, “let me give all your holes a test run and, if you do well, I’m gonna keep you. Let you live a life of luxury. No work, no other men, just my queen in my castle.”

“You may be overselling yourself, Lloyd.”

“You would know a bit about that, wouldn’t you,” he winks back at you and you fight the urge to vomit.

A ding from the elevator thankfully takes Lloyd’s attention. A tall, lean man with blond hair steps out, “Mr. Hansen, I do apologize for the intrusion. You weren’t answering your phone.” You’re surprised at the British accent.

“This better be good, Pine,” Lloyd barks.

“You asked to be reminded of your 2:30 meeting with Mr. Rumlow.”

Lloyd checks his watch and curses under his breath. “Alright, alright. I’ve been reminded, you can go now.” 

Pine slightly bows and heads back to the elevator while Lloyd moves closer to you than he’s been this entire time. He grabs the back of your neck and threatens, “if you leave, I will hunt you down and you will not enjoy what happens when I find you.”

“I understand, Lloyd.”

“Good girl,” he whispers before standing up and heading to the elevator. You stay seated, face down, waiting for the telltale sounds of the elevator leaving before you let yourself fully succumb to the stress of the day and pass out, exhausted in so many ways.

Part 6 -- Part 8

Tagging @alicedopey because I promised I would. 

@alexakeyloveloki

@bigtreefest

@dontbescaredtosingalong

@hisredheadedgoddess28

@icefrozendeadlyqueen

@lokislady82

@texmexdarling 

@veltana

@winter-soldier-101

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged.

[monsterfloofs]

Drone (Name Unknown) x Anonymous Reader (Sfw)

(New silly robot??? New silly robot!!!)

“Hey buddy. . . you doing okay?”

Diagrams and maps start flicking around the inside of a mechanized mind. Camera’s lock onto the face of the person bending down and staring at them. Recognition dawning, and information beginning to populate into text that floated around the hazy visage.

“Prisoner 368a. . .” The voice droned before the cameras shifted to examine their surroundings. “Input systems must be damaged, I am not receiving schematics of your sector.”

The human prisoner winces, “Well. . . that’s because we aren’t. . . uh, we’re not there anymore.”

“I told you not to take that hunk of junk with you!” A voice on the other side of the room snapped, causing the drones cameras to swivel and look for the source of the voice.

“What could I do?” The person looming over them replied, a tremor of nervousness in their voice, “I wasn’t even sure if they would be operational, we must be at least a solar system away from their main control system.”

“Sh! And we want to keep it that way!”

Unable to find this new voice, camera’s swivel back to the known human. Tracking the person's eyes rolling in obvious annoyance, “I didn’t give away our location, cheebus, you are so. . .” Then their shoulders sag before their face turns back, almond eyes staring down.

“Are you. . . alright?”

”I am operational.” The drone replies smoothly, “You promised you wouldn’t do anything that would make our elite upset. I see you didn’t keep your promise.”

“Oh my god,” The other voice pipes up again, “ I didn’t even know a drone could be passive aggressive. This is the last time I let you take in any stray weirdos you find. If they make any more snippy comments I am coming down there and throwing them into space myself.”

“They were kind to me!” Prisoner 368a snaps back, “And it’s my fault they got hurt.”

”Honey, they were keeping you prisoner.” The other voice sounded shocked.

Sensor’s indicate Prisoner 368a temperature rise in their face, a subtle and slight shift of mood.

“Today just couldn’t get any worse.” The human mutters. The drone tried to move, one arm twitching and whirring as the other scraped against the floor.

“I am. . . damaged.” The bot reported new schematics populating into the green striped vision. Their movements were sluggish, even their own operating system seemed to take a hit. Yet there was a strange feeling of clarity. “Prisoner 368a. . . what has happened?” There was that strange cringing expression again, eyes crinkling, eyebrows pulling down, lips pulling back in a grimace to show little white rectangles of teeth.

”You’re. . . offline. I mean, yes you’re damaged, that too. Ah.” They rub the back of their neck with a five fingered appendage. “I’m. . . kind of surprised you’re functional right now. Your systems must have some kind of backup computer that lets you go solo. We. . . we aren’t within your fleet's parameters anymore.” The drone whirs and clicks, staring back at the human.

“We. . . are not.”

“No.” The five fingered hands steeple together, fingertips pressing against lips. “So. . . long story, Oh man how do I put this. I. . .”

“We have been botnapped. I see.”

The human makes a strange huffing sound.

”Ahem. Not. . . exactly. I’ve been rescued. . . you’ve been botnapped. I guess. Though, I didn’t mean for it to be like that? You. . . stood in front of someone trying to hurt me, and while I was stuck in that cell you tried to help me, so I thought that I would return the favor. You know? See if I can fix you.”

“Ah. I now see, you have botnapped me.”

Another strange noise between a squeak and a gasp.

“Ah, n-no? I tried to save you! You know where you guys end up when your ranks think one of you is defective? Right into the incinerator! I didn’t want that to happen to you!” The prisoner looked fretful, new schematics mapping the nuances of their face.

”I. . . see.” Though truly, the drone didn’t understand it at all. “And you believe that I am still worthy of being fixed even though I am defective?”

“Yes— No! You’re not defective!” The ex-prisoner pleaded.

A confusing answer.

“Yes no? What is the prerogative of a yes no?”

The human sat in a stunned silence, taking in a deep breath. “No, you are not defective. Thinking for yourself and wanting things is not being defective. I know your elite love to chant ‘One mind, one soul,’ but that’s not really. . . uh. . . I just think you should be able to have the right to think for yourself. You chose to go that path. When I was escaping the cells, even when I was there, you chose to be kind and go out of your way to look after me. It wasn’t in your programming but you wanted to anyway. I think you should have the right to be able to continue to choose that path. If. . . you want to.”

[cannedpickledpeaches]

Insert Your Name (2)

Mafia!Jade Leech x Mafia!Reader

Link to series masterlist!

Notes and TW: Part 2 focuses on a bit of context. I’m sorry that not much romance is happening, it’ll exist later I promise. This series will have mentions of blood, violence, crime (kidnapping, attempted assassination, extortion), and harassment, as one might expect from a mafia AU. Please enjoy!

Eventually, you grow bored of watching the three of them interact. It all goes exactly as the story says, anyway, down to the dialogue. Instead, you step soundlessly into the hallway and up the stairs to the attic.

You like the attic of this house. Warm sunlight spills in during the afternoons, and when it gets too hot in the summer, opening the window lets in the sea breeze. Not claustrophobic, but cozy. Your feet bring you to your usual spot, the narrow window seat. You have always preferred small spaces. Floyd once laughed and compared you to fish that hide in coral reefs.

Your fingers dig under the cushioned seat and lift it to find a compartment. Nestled inside is what seems to be a regular notebook. You place your hand on the cover and let your magic roll over it like heavy fog. Its plain, blank pages fade into the appearance of a manuscript—no, a stack of printer paper stapled together that contains the information that completely changed your understanding of this world. This humble manuscript tells the “original story.”

You found it while cleaning the attic. Neither Jade or Floyd could confirm its origins or its author. The cover page is blank, save for the title: (Y/N)’s Story. At first, you thought it was a prank that the two were playing on you, so you read through the entire thing. The writing is immature, rampant with purple prose, and the grammar has more than room for improvement. Neither twin writes this way. Floyd lacks the patience to write past a page and Jade is too much of a perfectionist. They could have hired someone, but there are too many personal details in there for your comfort. You decided to put it down and mull it over.

The very next day, Jade ate an unknown mushroom and proceeded to find out that his body strongly disagreed with it. For three nights, he laid in bed with a fever. At first, you thought nothing of it, but the description of the mushroom he ate was uncomfortably familiar. The manuscript mentions this event as a quirky flashback meant to create insight to Jade’s character. Of course, it brushes off the absolutely miserable state he was in for the comedic factor. This alone was not enough. You needed more proof.

The next one was Floyd. He took a broom twenty meters off the ground before his mood suddenly flipped and he could no longer come back down. The story mentions this in another flashback, but does not mention your involvement in flying up there and helping him down. Only the information relevant to the main characters is important enough to mention. Again, it could easily be brushed off as a normal Floyd antic if it weren’t for the detail that he rode and nearly broke his mother’s broom. It was the first and only time any of you had seen it. Their mother, like most merfolk, is not fond of flying.

Once is a coincidence. Twice is suspicious. You confided in the twins. They, understandably, said you were being paranoid. Weeks passed until the next major event, and this time, you could no longer ignore it. This time, the event nearly uprooted the entire Leech Mafia.

You did not watch it happen. You received a text from Jade that asked you to come to a private hospital with an uncharacteristic urgency, so you tipped the taxi driver handsomely to push the speed limit and skirt around traffic laws. When you arrived, you found Mr. and Mrs. Leech lying in pristine white hospital beds with ashy faces. Someone cursed their dinner. You had to physically grab on to both twins—Floyd so that he wouldn’t start breaking things, and Jade so that he wouldn’t immediately leave and track down the assassin himself. You understood those sentiments, but at the moment, both of them needed to be there.

No matter how many specialists they hired and bribed, nobody could figure out how to undo the curse. Luckily, or perhaps not, their parents fell into comas. Their life was still intact, but to what extent? For how long? And most importantly in a logistical sense, who would run the Leech Mafia?

Jade was the one who decided he would take up the mantle while pretending to be his parents. Too many beings, human and merfolk alike, would eagerly sink their teeth into their organization if word got out that the bosses of the largest syndicate of the Coral Sea were comatose. The idea was to stop all in person events and have him run the operations behind the scenes. Floyd would help, of course, but his fickle personality made him unsuitable to run such a large and complex network. Not that he wanted to. He hated all that responsibility.

When things settled down, you brought their attention back to the book. Rereading it with the recent developments regarding the twins’ parents made the cheesy, ridiculously over-exaggerated story seem like a threat. Did someone write it with clairvoyance? Did the assassin write it before committing the crime? Or, in the most unlikely scenario, is the story written by someone from the future? Regardless, after much discussion, one thing was clear: if real life progresses the way the story is written, then not only will the Leech Mafia prosper, the most important people to the twins will be cured with relative ease.

The solution is simple, given the rules which the story operates under. (Y/N) attracts the love and attention of anyone rich, famous, beautiful, talented, or otherwise an eligible bachelor. Thus, through heavy-handed author intervention, she becomes friends with a certain Vil Schoenheit. It so happens that he can brew potions and cast curses with his eyes closed, and anyone who can make such things is always careful to keep in mind how to unmake them as well. Vil, with all his natural talent and hard work, is nothing short of a genius when it comes to such unsavoury usages of magic. Such a complex curse takes him months in the story to dispel, but the most important thing is that he does manage it at the teary request of the story’s favourite protagonist.

The twins and Vil graduated from the same high school. Although acquainted, they are far from on good terms. With his connections in the entertainment industry, it didn’t take long for him to put two and two together and realize the two eel merfolk with the surname Leech are related in some way to the infamous Leech Mafia run by merfolk. Vil, despite his villainous air and name, is at heart a terribly good person. As soon as he realized the twins were involved in organized crime, he cut off contact completely.

But of course, the lovable (Y/N)’s doe eyes and fluttering lashes make him cave in. She can be quite useful in her own right.

You make yourself at home on the window seat, rereading the next chapter of the story. It is a nervous habit rather than out of necessity. By now, you can probably recite the story word for word by heart. The misspellings, the unpolished grammar, every bit of what seems to be a novice writer’s fantasy of an idealized romance. The mystery of the author’s identity constantly nags at you. What are their motives? How did they manage such a thing? The more you think about it, the more questions arise.

Sunlight makes its slow journey across the attic floor. When Floyd’s head pops up through the trapdoor, the patch of light on the wall glows a saturated orange.

“They left,” he announces, boredom seeping into his tone. Never one to be idle. “Whatcha doin’? Reading it again? It’s not gonna change, y’know.”

“I know.” If only it would. You bookmark the manuscript exactly where the story is currently at and slip it back under the window seat. Without your magic to feed the concealment spell, it returns to the appearance of a regular, blank notebook. It’s a precaution you took in case it goes missing. “Do you want to go on a short trip with me?”

His eyes light up and catch the fiery remnants of the setting sun. The yellow one seems to glow, while the olive one displays more gold flecks than green. Sometimes, it can be easy to forget that he isn’t a hyperactive, harmless puppy, that a single swipe of his claws can tear out a windpipe.

Danger presents itself in various ways with him. Everytime you get into his car, you regret it. In fact, you regret the day you didn’t stop him from getting his driver’s license. How he got the license is a mystery in and of itself. The way he drives is most certainly illegal, and the scenery flashing past the windows could very well be your life flashing past your eyes. When the expensive sports car finally screeches to a halt, you slump back in your seat and take several deep, shaky breaths.

“Remind me why we couldn’t get your private chauffeur to bring us here?”

Floyd’s grating laugh scratches its way into your ears. “Because it’s way less fun!”

You would beg to disagree, but a conversation like that goes nowhere with him, so you relent. You get out of the car, Floyd laughing at your unsteady legs, and ring the doorbell of yet another ridiculously large mansion.

Azul personally opens the door. Normally, his housekeeper answers the door and shows you to his office. He must be feeling somewhat worried in his own way. He leads you to the basement, his hands fidgeting with a small device.

“I don’t get it,” Floyd whines, draping an arm around Azul’s shoulder. “Can’t we just use Jade’s Signature Spell?”

Azul brushes him off and adjusts his shirt, the slight tick in his eyebrow giving away his annoyance. “We will have to wait until he gets here. You know Jade is . . . occupied at the moment.”

With bringing the lovely (Y/N) home and fussing over her humble lifestyle, no doubt. Since he must be the perfect love interest, he must cater to her every need even as she refuses his help, so he is likely making her dinner at the moment. He’ll surprise her with his knowledge of recipes to use with foraged mountainous plants and fungi, even though he comes from a family where money is not an issue. Rich, but not a spoiled brat. Mature enough to take care of her. Playful and unconventional to endear him to her.

“Knock knock, Handfish. You there?” Floyd raps his knuckles against your temple. Instinctively, you step away from him. He isn’t known for holding back his strength.

“Yeah.” You collect yourself and focus on the task at hand. No use wondering what Jade is doing right now. You have the story memorized—you know what he’s doing.

You enter a dim room. It is such a cliché. Surely, Azul should be more tasteful, but he’s always had a love for theatrics.

A man sits tied to a chair in the center of the room, his face flushed and angry. A handsaw tattoo stands out on his neck. This is Thug Number One, the extra who pulled you and (Y/N) into the alley earlier today. Recognition flickers on his face when they land on you.

“You’re that bitch who ran away! You—”

“What did you just call her?” Floyd’s teeth flash dangerously as his pupils shrink to pinpoints. One hand comes up to roll a shoulder back, popping his joints like he’s getting ready to throw a punch. Some habits never change. There hasn’t been any reason for him to get physical lately. He must be itching for a fight. “You wanna say that again? Come on. I dare you.”

Thug Number One shuts his mouth and looks to the side. No sane person would respond when the slightest nudge might set him off. Ever the crafty one, Azul orders Floyd to stand down. He’s playing the good cop for now.

“Now, now, Floyd. I understand that you want to protect the honour of our good friend, but let’s calm down and talk this out rationally.” What a load of lies. You know Floyd too well to assume that he’ll get angry on your behalf for something like this. He just wants to expend energy. “Yes, let us have a civil conversation—”

“Like hell! You tied me up and left me in this chair for hours—”

“And it would have been longer if we did not decide to visit you on a whim.” You stand in front of him, scrutinizing his face. No particularly outstanding features. He is, after all, just a nameless extra to the story.

Of course, he does have a name. Barry Moore, male, thirty-four years old. A low-level soldier of the Carpenter Mafia who joined two years ago. No family, no friends except his drinking buddies, no real connections. You texted Azul with a request to dig up this information about him while holed up in the attic. He mentioned that he’d expect payment, but you are not too concerned. You are not stupid enough to hand him a blank cheque.

“Barry Moore. I suggest you cooperate.” You pull a chair over and sit in front of him. “It is not my hobby to get violent.”

“You totally should, though.” The dim lighting casts unsettling shadows over Floyd’s face. “You’ll look just like a red handfish. It’s the look that suits you the best, y’know?”

He would think it’s entertaining. A memory of when you first met flashes through your mind. Silvery puffs of breaths in early spring air. Bright splashes of red on sand. Nails dripping blood. Red Handfish.

“I don’t need to right now.”

He huffs and kicks Barry Moore’s chair, making the poor thug flinch. “Booooring.”

“Cry about it.” You turn your attention away from his pout and study your captive. Information on his background is too limited. There is little you can exploit from his personal connections. Nothing tangible or emotional to threaten him with that you are aware of. So you either bribe him with something he wants, or . . . “Instead of me, maybe you should have some fun, Floyd.”

A sharp leer cuts across his face, his razor-like teeth glinting in the harsh light. Slow, lumbering steps bring him closer until he towers over Barry’s hunched body.

“You’re such a hypocrite, Handfish.” His cackles bounce off the bare walls. Madness shines in his golden eye. “Why didn’t ya say so earlier? I’ll make sure to take reeaaaal good care of him.”

[imogenkol]

— RELAX

pairing: Imogen Kol (oc) x Bix Caleen words: 2.3k rating: Mature warnings: nudity, intimate bathing READ IT ON AO3

summary: When tensions in the Rebellion rise, Imogen is in need of a bath.

notes: wanted to give a HUGE shoutout to my Bix Bestie @e-the-village-cryptid for introducing me to the Hard of Hearing Bix headcanon and talking me through that kind of experience so that I could portray it here. Thank you so much for your insight and reading through this for me 💕

Imogen was not a fan of briefings. The Rebellion very rarely offered information that she didn’t already know or could figure out on her own in far less time. Or they were too restrictive in their instructions, treating her and the others like hounds trained to fetch only to be rewarded with scraps. Really, what these meetings boiled down to was a group of people who each thought they were the smartest person in the room all talking over each other at once. Imogen would rather receive a lecture from her long dead master than listen to this band of fools. 

Instead, her attention drifted towards her mechanic. 

Bix didn’t seem to find much enjoyment in all the chatter either, but Imogen noted the focused tension on her face as she subtly fiddled with the device behind her ear. The hunter clenched her jaw and fought the urge to reach through the Force and silence all of the voices by blocking the airways of every senator and general within range. 

As if sensing her stare, the mechanic locked on to her gaze in the small gathering of bodies and Imogen tilted her head ever so slightly. Bix answered with a short nod in reassurance and lowered her hand, standing up straighter and crossing her arms. 

Ever the one to endure, she thought.

Once the briefing concluded, the crowd dispersed and Imogen saw Bix inhale and exhale slowly as everyone filed out of the rather cramped space. Now it was time to prepare. Imogen would have followed her, but the hangar bay was closer than their quarters, so she made way for The Huntress to ensure she was fit for travel. Besides, she thought Bix might desire a bit of peace and quiet. 

After running diagnostics on her ship and eating a quick meal, Imogen found herself back at their quarters. The mechanic sat at her makeshift workbench and tinkered with the blaster Imogen had given to her. While Imogen normally would have frowned upon any modifications to her weapon, she found herself glad that her beloved found a way to occupy her hands and trusted her judgment enough not to object. Imogen was confident in the superiority of her blaster, but if anyone could think of a way to truly improve it even more, it was Bix. 

As Imogen approached to peek over her shoulder, Bix squeezed the bridge of her nose and massaged up to her brow. 

“Does your head hurt?” Imogen asked. 

“Huh?” The mechanic frowned back at her, then quickly shook her head as her hand dropped. “No. No, I’m fine.” 

The hearing aids were still in her ears, despite being alone in her own space. Imogen decided to lightly prod at the subject. “How are those devices of yours faring?”

“Uh...” Bix muttered distractedly as she reached for various tools and dismantled blaster parts. “It’s an adjustment.”

Imogen could relate to that. Even after all this time, the metallic limb that helped keep her upright for years sometimes felt so foreign to her. She could still feel her own leg, all the way down to her toes. The first few weeks she had her cybernetic made her feel like an infant learning how to walk for the first time. She wobbled and tripped over herself. It had been humiliating, but her balance and strength eventually returned, though her stance would never be the same again. In spite of the pain, the frustration, the initial embarrassment, Imogen could hardly imagine life without her prosthetic now. 

“I know the feeling.” The room fell into silence once Bix went back to work. Imogen saw the tension in her face and body as she hunched over the workbench and set her hands on her beloved’s shoulders. As she gently massaged, Bix started to gradually relax into her touch, but still shook her off after a minute. Imogen retreated and hummed thoughtfully. “I’m in need of a bath,” she said, lingering for a reaction. 

Bix didn’t even look up. “Well, don’t let me stop you.” 

“I would not object if you wished to join me, my love.” 

The mechanic threw an inquisitive look over her shoulder, then shook her head and returned to her project. “Not tonight. I’m busy.”

“Very well, then,” Imogen said with a knowing tone and disappeared into the washroom. 

When she indulged in a bath, she did it right. It was only proper. Imogen needed her body relaxed — her senses clear. She filled the tub with water hot enough to steam and collected the necessities. Oils to soothe the mind. Salts for her muscles and joints. Oats for her skin. Any other little additions she preferred to enhance the experience. The combination turned the bath water into an inviting milky-white color that she could just barely see through. 

Imogen perched on the edge of the tub and reached down to release the hidden latches on her cybernetic leg to detach it from the rest of her body. While the prosthetic could handle a surprising number of conditions to a certain degree — water, heat, cold — Imogen very sparingly removed it, and almost exclusively when she had to. Though, there were nights like these, where she simply wanted to be free of it for a short time. 

She laid the metallic limb down and maneuvered her bare body into the beckoning steam that coiled into the air and filled the washroom with a thick cloud of warm fog. The way the hot water encompassed her entire form made her release a pleased hum. She felt the coldness in her blood melt away to welcome the heat that pooled all the way into her bones. It had been too long since she indulged in a bath. Imogen shut her eyes and let all of her weight suspend in the warm water as she rested her head back on the lip of the tub. Her muscles praised her for the rare moment of pure relaxation. 

It did not take long for her to hear the door hiss open. Imogen kept her eyes closed, but she heard the gentle footfalls of a gait she knew by heart. With a quieted mind, she could feel the vibrancy of life grow brighter the closer her lover drew near — like flames in a soft wind. 

“You have decided to join me after all,” Imogen calmly noted. 

“Maybe I liked the idea,” Bix replied. 

The mechanic sat on the edge of the tub, not yet prepared to enter for whatever reason. Long moments of silence lingered in the washroom. Not uncomfortable, but anticipation still hung in the air as heavily as the steam. Imogen felt Bix’s gaze shift up and down her exposed body in the cloudy water, studying her in such a moment of vulnerability. 

“It hurts you sometimes, doesn’t it?” Bix stated gently. It took a moment for Imogen to sense her attention lingered on her partial leg. The mechanic had never seen the prosthetic detached before.  

“Sometimes,” Imogen confirmed. “Typically after I have exerted myself.” 

“Like after Ferrix?” she asked and then mirrored the nod she received in answer. “I could tell.” 

It bothered Imogen to admit it. She supposed if anyone were to take notice, it may as well be Bix, but she still scraped her teeth together briefly before she forced her jaw to slacken. “You have always been able to tell.” 

“Because you shift your weight onto your other leg. That’s not good for posture, you know.” 

Imogen opened her eyes to shoot a glare up at the other woman. “There is nothing wrong with my posture.” 

Bix smirked and playfully traced the shallow ripples on the surface of the water with the tips of her fingers. “Just making an observation.” 

“I endure when I must.” 

The mood shifted in the mechanic. Imogen saw the way her smile dropped and her brows creased with the smallest amount of tension. Bix glanced down and her jaw twitched. “Yeah.” 

“But here and now, I have no need to endure,” Imogen continued, softening her voice. The soothing sound of water droplets echoed in the washroom and she reached out of the bath to caress up Bix’s arm. She felt as warm as the water and Imogen watched drops race down her smooth skin. “Neither do you.” 

Another beat of hesitation passed before Bix finally nodded in acceptance of the earlier invitation. She rose to remove her clothing. “You never told me how you lost it.”

“I have not,” Imogen agreed, not taking her eyes off of the mechanic as more and more of her skin became bare. 

“So?” Bix urged, tossing her discarded clothing aside. “What Jedi got lucky?” 

An offended scoff bounced off of the washroom walls. “No Jedi has ever gotten the better of me. At least not enough to claim a limb.” 

“Are you gonna make me guess?”

Imogen pursed her lips and answered curtly, but truthfully. “My last Master. He wanted to make a point to me and my peers, I suppose.”

Bix stepped into the tub and made a sour face. “You don’t seem to have a lot of luck with masters.”

“More like they do not have much luck with me,” she corrected with a soft chuckle. 

“I can see why,” Bix remarked. 

Imogen tapped her ear as Bix lowered herself into the other side of the tub so that the two of them faced each other. With a flash of recognition in her eyes, the mechanic removed her hearing aids and set them on the counter within reach to not damage them in the water. She finally settled into the heat of the bath and released a heavy, content sigh. 

Imogen smiled and nudged her with her good leg. Once their eyes met, she signed “Have you been keeping up with the lessons?” 

Bix nodded. “Yes.” 

The bounty hunter raised a brow and continued in sign. “Could you repeat that?”

The next sigh out of the mechanic’s mouth was a little exasperated as she clearly wanted to simply relax, but she sat up and summoned encouragement to sign back. “I’m not deaf, you know.” 

“No. But it will benefit you to learn, darling. It will benefit us both.” 

One thing Imogen could freely admit to finding enjoyment in was language. As a padawan, she would most look forward to her language lessons at the Temple. It fascinated her to learn the various tongues that spanned the known galaxy and how they have evolved over thousands of years, though she was only fluent in a handful of them. Even now, Imogen committed herself to being as well versed in speech as she could for a variety of practical reasons. Learning how to communicate with her hands offered a unique perspective that she found as engaging to familiarize herself with as any other complex dialect. 

Bix frowned in thought for a moment, then blinked back up at Imogen. “Benefit?” She signed the word methodically with a question in her gaze. 

“Benefit,” Imogen answered verbally as she signed the word to confirm its meaning. Once Bix nodded, Imogen leaned forward and flashed a flirtatious grin. “Darling,” she signed. 

“I understood that part just fine,” Bix responded with a playful roll of her eyes and signed back with emphasis “Sweetheart.” 

“Just making sure.”

“Uh-huh,” Bix hummed with a scoff. 

“You like this, don’t you? Talking this way.”

“It’s… different. But good, yeah.” She nodded, her smile becoming soft. “I’m getting used to it.” 

“You’ve picked it up quickly,” Imogen said out loud and pulled Bix in closer by the back of her knee. 

“I’m kinda surprised you like it. I didn't think you’d have so much… fun?” Bix chuckled through the last word as if she never expected to associate it with Imogen. 

The bounty hunter felt heat rush up her neck and to her cheeks. “Do what you wish, but yes… I enjoy it.” 

“I didn’t say it wasn’t fun to learn,” Bix signed and then switched back to verbal speech. “It’s just funny to see you excited.” 

“You make me sound like a child.” 

“Oh, get over yourself.” Bix splashed water at her pout, which Imogen failed to dodge. 

Despite her annoyance, Imogen smiled — one of those rare genuine smiles that only her beloved mechanic had the pleasure of witnessing. 

Bix leaned against Imogen’s intact leg, wrapping an arm around her thigh and caressing at the sensitive skin absentmindedly. Imogen did not mind such candid intimate touches. In fact, they made comfortable warmth spread into her chest in much the same way as the bath water. “Cass is trying to learn, but I think he just wants to know what you and I are gossiping about.” 

“He is a fool,” Imogen signed.

Bix laughed softly. “Sometimes.” Before Imogen could repeat her statement with more emphasis, she quickly added “Okay, a lot of the time.” 

A comfortable bit of silence gently rolled over them and they enjoyed the solace of each other’s company in the pleasantly scented steam of a hot bath. 

“How is the engine running?” Imogen eventually signed. 

Their own little code. The phrase meant a few things all at once without having to say them explicitly: How are you doing? Have you recovered well? Do you need anything? Are your demons tormenting you more than usual or have they granted you reprieve? 

Bix smiled beautifully. “Right now? Like a dream.”

An improvement from the usual, Could use more work, that was for certain.

“Then let us stay in the now for a little while, shall we?” Imogen leaned forward and placed a tender kiss to her lover’s temple.

Bix did not allow her to retreat. A light shower of water droplets echoed in Imogen’s ears like rain as the mechanic cupped the back of her neck and pulled her in for something deeper. Imogen surrendered to the other woman’s desire and felt her heart flutter when Bix parted her lips, lifting her up to dizzying heights. 

“I thought you’d never stop talking,” Bix murmured into her mouth. 

Like a dream, indeed, Imogen thought.

tag list (ask to be added or removed!): @adelaidedrubman @florbelles @tommyarashikage @simonxriley @shegetsburned @voidika @neonshrike @voidbuggg @inafieldofdaisies @statichvm @socially-awkward-skeleton @aceghosts @carlosoliveiraa @risingsh0t @unholymilf @thedeadthree @cassietrn @jackiesarch @a-treides @shellibisshe @loriane-elmuerto @katsigian @captastra @simplegenius042 @theelderhazelnut @g0dspeeed @strangefable @kanos @cptcassian @greenecreek

[boymanmaletheshequel]

A bit about me!

🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩

I’m Isaac, I’m a baby polytheist born and raised Christian in the PNW! I’m pretty scarred from Christianity and the ablism I suffered in my upbringing as a result of autism and ADD, and the “special” schooling I received as a “treatment” for it. I am cautiously re-exploring spirituality, inspired by my 75 year old neighbor who is a witch! I’m starting my journey with Hellenism, Celtic Paganism, and Norse paganism and they have always been a fascination to me. I’m deeply connected to the earth and nature and always have been, and would love to become more spiritually in twinned with it 💚🌲

🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩

A GUIDE TO MY POST COLLECTIONS: (find tag in bottom of such posts to find collection)

#agodtoconsider = secondary deities and a basic breakdown of their known lore, and family trees, as well as relevant stories to them and their role in the epics, and other general information to familiarize yourself with them, and maybe even consider worshiping them!

#Isee = 5 ways I may interact with or notice the presence and influence of a specific deity in my day to day life as a hellenist.

#Symbolismof = a comprehensive guide of the mythological and historical symbology associated with a specific god. This includes things such as sacred animals and food, commonly associated herbs, crystals, and flowers, as well as the explanations for why they fit this gods symbology.

#subtlewaystohonor = a collective list or guide on various ways in which you can worship or honor a given deity in subtle or non complicated ways on a day to day basis, without necessarily having to devote too much to it, whilst also effectively honoring them.

#Analtarto = a comprehensive guide on how to set up and decorate an altar or shrine space dedicated to a given deity. This includes going into the symbolism and attributes associated with that god and how it can manifest in an altar, as well on tips for how to use said altar when you have completed it!

#Aprayerto = an idea for a prayer or hymn to any given god.

#Eoffering = an aesthetic board E-offering collage I made that I’ve dedicated to a specific god.

#Shitpostofthesus = a shitpost or shower thought style text post poking fun at certain aspects of Hellenism or Greek mythology.

#antiqueoftheday = a piece of antique jewelry, an antique item, or any other of the many antiques from my personal collection displayed once a day for my Victorian and old soul witches 💙

#Serioustalk = serious posts about world events, politics, or humanitarian activism I sometimes involve myself in.

#Other = posts about my other interests and hobbies

🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩

I am white, and part ethnic Jew, with most of my ancestry based in Norway, Germany, England, Ireland, and Some in Semitic basis. I am strictly anti fascist and anarcho leftist. Nazis, terfs, transphobes, Homophobes, racists, antisemites, Zionists, islamaphobes, ect. fuck off 3>

🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩

The gods I worship right now are:

Artemis 🏹

Antheia 🌸

Demeter 🌾

Pan 🏔️

Poseidon 🔱

Freya ❤️

The gods i wish to learn more about rn are:

Apollo, Brighid, Cernunnos, Freyr, Ares, and Hephaestus.

🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩

I am very much still a baby witch and currently still getting a hang of things, so be nice, and know I’m always open to tips or corrections in how I practice or can practice my spiritually! Thank you for checking out my blog and gods bless 💚🌲🧙‍♀️

🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩

Oh yeah, and FREE PALESTINE, DEFEND UKRAINE, AND LIBERATE THE CONGO MOTHERFUCKERS 🇵🇸🇺🇦🇨🇬