#of what mourning would have looked like both for the upper class that owned the house | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mooncleaver · 5 months ago

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Love Is The Reason

ღ pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader, familial fushiguro megumi x fem!reader

ღ warnings: MAJOR JJK268 SPOILERS. pls don't read if you don't wanna know!! slightly cannon divergent

What the hell.

His ears didn't stop ringing as he brought his body up from its position on the surprisingly soft surface, feeling every ache known to man throbbing all over. Megumi felt the cosmic numbness ebbing away like a flash, and suddenly, he could discern the warm cotton wrapped around his upper body along with the linen sheets that lay beneath him. The three—out of many—scars on his face pulled his skin tautly, so close to his eyes where that devil's face wore his for however long this limbo period was. It hurt to open his eyes. Well, it hurt to do anything, but he's thankful that he can see the world through his own view.

Megumi's ears perk up to the sound of poorly attempted hushed arguments. The sound was so familiar that for once in his life, he was relieved to hear it. To feel that irritation ticking in his chest, the mindless crease that's fully starting to make itself known on his forehead and that growing scowl—he could truly cry at the return of bodily autonomy.

Nobara was trying to fit herself inside a present-shaped cardboard box while Yuji stood next to the thing, pushing down the lid on top of her head, which ruffled the strands like crazy. Of course, the girl would not stand for this butchering of her beauty. She spent a lot of time trying to look presentable. Not that this pink-haired fool would understand.

Megumi is hit with a deep sense of dejavu as he sits up against the headboard, looking back at the memory of Gojo doing the same exact surprise tactic to announce that Yuji was, in fact, not dead after his literal heart got ripped out of his chest. The boy can feel a smile forming on his lips, and he makes no move to try and stop it.

"What are you two doing?"

He sees Yuji and Nobara freeze in their spots, both eyes widening comically. A second passes before the two let go of whatever it was they were contending about, rushing forward to stick their faces into Megumi's. The former vessel looks—well, he looks like he's had better days. He's thankfully clean of all the blood oozing out of his skin when he fought Sukuna for the last time, his usual uniform with the red hoodie looking incredibly pristine, absent of any rips or blood. Still, some are sticking onto his face, notably a darker shade cutting down across his eyebrows as the dried blood clings onto his wounds. Nobara looks happier. God, he thought she died. He was ready to mourn her with all the losses he'd suffered, but for once, Megumi was glad to hear her voice. He welcomes it. She's wearing a black eyepatch on top of the eye that she lost fighting Mahito, and her uniform is equally as clean as Yuji's—Megumi can tell that she's relieved by that fact.

Finally, they're back together again. The trio of first years with lost dreams who've gone through horrible, terrible things now have found hope again—hope that never died within each other.

"Fushiguro!!" The two yell in unison, going in to hug him despite knowing he didn't usually like that kind of thing. But to their honest surprise, Megumi returned the gesture, fully and truly, closing his eyes and letting out a breath. Yuuji and Nobara didn't hesitate to tighten their arms around the spiky-haired boy, be damned the near-death exhaustion clinging to their bones. They may be battered and bruised, but they survived.

After a quiet moment, the momentum was back again as Nobara looked at the two boys with a disgruntled expression, her exaggerated self on display at the lack of reaction to her return. "You know, the class's Madonna, who everyone thought was dead, by the way, turned out to be alive?! You two should be either wetting yourself or crying with joy!"

Megumi didn't even bat an eye, unlike Yuji, who was scrambling out of his mind, replying to her in his usual stoic and flat voice. "I see. My bad."

"So, the bastard is dead then." The Fushiguro didn't phrase that like a question, more so stating a fact. The fact that he was here in his own body, alive and breathing, undoubtedly meant that the curse was dead. It was still surreal to utter, knowing that this was the one thing they'd all been fighting for since forever. Maybe now, everyone who was gone didn't die in vain.

Nobara sounded like she was still in disbelief, shaking her head slightly while she grinned and exclaimed, "Ha! Yeah! Itadori beasted that guy like it was a piece of cake!"

"Eh.. well, it was pretty tough, I'm not gonna lie. I cried a little when resonance was hit." Yuji himself could only scratch the back of his neck at the rare praise, his eyes crinkling into thin lines as he admitted his own emotions. It was kind of daunting to be the one who killed Sukuna with the fact that he used to be the curse's vessel. But out of everything, making that final blow was something he didn't once hesitate on. Yuji was going to finish all this madness. It all started with him and ended with him—the way it should be.

Megumi didn't sound too surprised at the boy's admission, only giving him a look in response. "I know. I saw everything happening inside Sukuna."

"Ugh... don't even remind me. Well, at least you two have the shared experience of being a vessel now." No matter how sour the fact was, it was true.

Breaking his thoughts, Yuji suddenly lit up as he shifted through his pants pockets, haphazardly pulling out the crumpled pieces of paper in his hand. "Oh, wait guys. I have something for you two. It's from Gojo-sensei. Gojo-san, too, I think."

The pink-haired boy grew incredibly sullen at the mention of both his teachers. He'd miss calling out to the two Gojo's, mixing the couple up despite your previous urgings to the students of simply calling you by your first name. Of course, your husband would not absolutely have that, sneakily going behind your back and basically forcing his students to call you Gojo, too. If he couldn't get the second years to follow, he'd make his own kids do it. The man would not pass on the chance of hearing people call you by your shared last name.

"A letter.." Megumi looked shocked at the fact. His sensei (and self-proclaimed dad who stepped up) never did this kind of thing—seriously, that is.

Growing up with Gojo and his wife, Megumi knew the white-haired sorcerer never strayed away from being lighthearted and childlike. Despite witnessing the lanky heir change from the bratty 18-year-old who approached him as a child in the streets into the mature, married man he was the last time, it just wasn't in his nature to be doing some sentimental things like this. That was more like something you'd do. From the daily lunch notes, deep-meaning gifts (that he still kept to this day), and the affectionate texts you'd always send, he would wager that you might've been the one to drag your husband to write the letters. But, knowing that Gojo probably had a feeling that he wouldn't make it out of the fight, it's not impossible that this truly came from him.

Nobara chuckled at his tone of voice, silently agreeing with his disbelief. Gojo was definitely not the type to do this.. it unsettled her.

"I feel you.. this is totally not like him. It's slightly gross to even imagine him writing letters.."

Though, after reading, she crushed the piece of paper in her hand, pursing her lips. Yuji noticed this, facing her to ask what it said. With slight hesitation, Nobara revealed that it contained information about her mother's whereabouts. To be honest, she wasn't sure how to feel. Some part of her still longed to feel her love.

"Oh, did you even want to know in the first place?"

She shook her head as she looked down, leaving no room for the topic to be continued. "Not at all."

Suddenly, they heard the very, very rare sound of Megumi's laughter ringing out from the bed. Gojo would've bawled knowing he made his son laugh. It took a moment for them to snap out of the shock, seeing the fresh face of their friend's smile. He looked like a brand new person—content, young and carefree. It was refreshing.

Megumi hasn't felt this happy in a long while. He expected that the message wouldn't be some deep, meaningful thing, but out of everything, it was a joke about how he killed his biological dad. He wasn't sad, surprisingly. Megumi never really knew the man that left him and his sister to fend for themselves, and the memories he had of him weren't great. At least he found some closure. The boy shook his head, reading the familiar and large handwriting of his father figure. You'd think that it'd be messy, but as the former heir of the Gojo clan, Satoru was a trained guy in the art of handwriting. He wouldn't be caught dead with scribbles.

Unfortunately your father isn't around anymore!! Cuz I killed him!! Sowwy!! :P

Short, simple, and kind of foolish.

He bit back a grin. Even in death, the man couldn't take anything seriously.

Beneath it was a softer and more serious note. From you, of course. Megumi did not doubt that you wrote this to make up for your husband's short message, writing a heartfelt one that he could sense even before reading. The two of you must've known that this was not a fight you would come out of. And as much as that hurt him, Megumi was glad that he was in your last thoughts. It meant a lot to know that you and Gojo believed he, Nobara, and Yuji would live through everything.

Firstly, don't take this idiot too seriously. If you're reading this megs, we're probably gone, but hey, you're okay! Live your life fully okay? Don't forget that you're still a kid in the end. We're always looking out for you, sweetheart. ♡

There was a chibi doodle in the bottom and a sweet greeting that said,

— Love you beyond infinity, mom & dad

Megumi could tell that this was Gojo's handwriting. It was meant as a joke (the boy didn't call Satoru dad very often, despite calling you mom. It was kinda cringe.) but he accepted that sincerely. You two were his parents, biological or not. He loves you so much.

And he'd promise that for you. For Satoru, too, to be honest.

To live life fully.

Ever since he knew what living meant, he never intended to live a proper life. The absence of his biological father and the death of his mother left an untreated wound in his heart, altering his mind in a way that left him isolated—a recluse from the world, almost. The only thing that used to keep him going was his sister, Tsumiki. Now she is really gone. But then, everything shifted when he first saw Gojo Satoru.

It was a big change to have people to look up to. To have a mother. Megumi called you mom way before he even considered Satoru as his father figure, and it was one of the most precious things in life. You never took that for granted, always spoiling him and treating him like he came from your own womb. You knew you'd never take the place of his biological mother, but you wanted to be someone the boy could rely on in such a cruel world. It was a bit strange when Satoru first brought up the idea of raising the Fushiguro boy. You were both still 18, barely even adults with so much pressure and responsibilities. But you knew, from the moment you saw this poor boy getting dragged home by your boyfriend, that you'd love him like no other.

You and Satoru gave him and Tsumiki a home. An unlikely one, but a home nonetheless. You gave him a love like no other, an unconditional, wholehearted, and absolute kind of love, even when the two of you were struggling. It was a type that couldn't be described by words and only felt. That, along with the friendship and true family he found within Nobara and Yuji, made him realize that even if he didn't live his life for himself, there were others in the world. Other people, whether that'd be a mother, a father, a sister, or a brother could give everything meaning. A reason to keep going.

At first, he only lived for Tsumiki. To use everything he had to save her. But then he found himself living for you, for Satoru, for Nobara and Yuji. Once more, he would try again. This wasn't a chance he'd take for granted.

Reading the note made Megumi feel a kind of warmth he hadn't felt in a long time. The kind that he last felt when you hugged him tightly and kissed his forehead before everything in Shibuya happened. That was probably the last time he saw you happy and alive. The world was dull when you died. A victim of that son of a bitch curse Mahito. That was a loss like no other, so incredibly painful and numbing.

At least you died in an honorable way.

After that, he didn't know how to function. Tsumiki, Nobara, and now you. The boy felt half of his soul chip away.

Your husband was even worse. Inconsolable. Watching his wife die in front of his eyes before getting sealed the second after. When the man came out of the prison realm, anyone could tell he wasn't the same. There was no chance the old Gojo would ever return. And sure, he was still lighthearted, but Megumi could tell there was a weight in his gait—the heavy burden of the loss of his darling wife dragging down every word that came out of his mouth. He saw the sadness, longing, anger, and pure vengeance in his eyes. It never did go away. Not even when Sukuna butchered the man in half. At least now, the two of you were together in the afterlife. Megumi truly hoped that. He didn't believe much in that kind of stuff, but for his mother and his father, he prayed for a final peace to be granted.

That hope—along with the one amongst the living pushed Megumi to go on. To not just survive but to really live. Even beyond that, there were others too. His cousin, Maki, who was thankfully alive, and even Toge and Panda.

This was love. That unanswered purpose of life. It's to give love and find love in others. Love is why people do crazy things: to sacrifice the world, to sacrifice themselves. That's why he kept living even when his own dad disappeared or why he kept fighting to keep his sister alive. Love is why, despite the grief, Satoru still fought for you, for your memory, and for your efforts. Love is the reason he's alive.

And if anything, Megumi learned that when you have people in your life, you'd do anything to keep them in it. That's what you and Satoru taught him. Waking up in his own body again and greeted by the sight of his best friends—that was one of the biggest blessings he has ever received.

For his family, he would do anything.

i'm fucking crying. like actually. 3 chapters to go until this manga ends and i still can't fathom everything happening bruv

btw, this is what i imagine the letter would look like haha. half cannonical cuz it's the panel translation!! excuse my handwriting um

also sorry this isn't really proofread lol, i really wanted to post!!

dividers @cafekitsune @i-mmaculatus

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raphaelasal · 1 year ago

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Folklore in Fargo

Spoilers ahead, Sailor.

One of the things I loved about Fargo this season so far, is the incorporation of Folklore, suberstition and God. We meet Ole Munch (Sam Spurrell) in the first episode. He seems to be a regular hitman of sorts at first, who is set to kidnap the main character Dorothy (Juno Temple) He comes across a bit excentric and the way he talks and dresses seem very anachronistic. We also quickly learn, that Dot is not the regular homemaker and loving mum, she seems to be. Munch and his handyman set out to kidnap Dot, but fail miserably, because Dot is setting up traps and generally fights back, like a tiger. Munch's handyman gets killed in the process. We also get to know Roy Tillman (John Hamm) who was the one who sent Munch on his mission. We're not sure yet why the right wing cowboy goes through so much trouble just to kidnap the young mother. Because Munch failed the task, Roy is refusing to pay him, which sets off a rather bleak storyline in which Roy and his son Gator (Joe Keery, my love) try to put an end to Munch and vice versa. The most intriguing thing about Ole Munch is the ritual he performs at the Tillman Farm. He kills a goat, covers himself in it's blood and leaves a message for Roy over his Daughter's beds. The whole shebang is very occult and seems heathen. And then there is also the flashback to Wales in 1522. See now, this is where it gets really weird. And where I had to start googling some stuff.

In the flashback scene, we see a character, dressed in what seems to be clothes of the lower class, entering a house full of upper class people who are in mourning, dressed in black and weaping. We have a funeral on our hands here. The poor person looks like Ole Munch. Is it him? Is it an ancestor of his? We dont know! On the belly of the deseaced man, which is laid out in the house, a plate with food is situated. When Munch enters the house, there is a tense energy in the room. Munch walks up to the dead body and consumes the food offered on the plate in an almos animalistic fashion. The people in the room gasp, some of them disgusted, some of them afraid. Or both. Before Munch leaves, he gets two silver coins. Which must have been a lot of money back in the day, I did not research that. But we clearly witnessed some sort of ritual happening. It turns out, sin eating was a practice rich people took part of in Wales, Ireland and England in the 1600s. A willing poor person was invited to literally eat the sins of the deseaced person, so they could be welcomed at the pearly gates, with a clean record. All the sins are transferred, to the person who ate the food. A grewsome fate for people at the time, but hey, a mans gotta eat. The world is bleak, so I don't go with the rational reason in fiction, ever. I like to think that Ole Munch ate so many sins, that he became a spirit, that can not die, who is forced to wander around the earth forever, and for some reason chose america. His very beautifully written monologues would suggest that. They almost sound shakespearian.

But how does this play into the bigger theme of Fargo S5? Well, if you think about it, the whole season is about unpaid depts and consequences. Dot ran away from Roy and the farm, because of the ongoing domestic violence Roy inflicts on her. In Roy's book, she owes him, because she made a pledge to him, when they got married. Even though it's very clear, that Dot wasn't so much older than his own son Gator, when the vows were exchanged. Ole Munch sees a debt not paid, because he didn't receive paymant for "eating the sin" of kidnapping Dot. Dot's mother in law, who is a very rich lady played by the brilliant Jennifer Jason Leigh points out "What is the point of being a billionaire, if you can't get someone killed.", while on the phone with an ex-president, apparently Bill Clinton, if I remember right. The show tries to say, we never got over the sin eating, because with money and power, you can pay your way out of any circumstance, be it kidnapping or murder. There is always going to be someone who needs the money more than their soul. And there is always going to be someone who takes advantage of that.

Roy Tillman, quotes the bible a lot. He thinks of himself as a right and just man, as a leader, even though he likes to bend the law to fit his own agenda. He does not give a flying fuck about the law of the land as it is "dictated by washington" and funds a right wing militia with taxpayer money, to actually kill democracy from within. He is the law of the land. These scenes sent shivers down my spine and reminded me vividly of January 8th.

Anyway. All of the storylines in this show are so amazing and worth writing about. Go watch it, you won't regret a second.

#fargo #fargo season 5 spoilers #fargo s5 #dot lyon #gator tillman #joe keery #blocksberg writes #fargo fx #john hamm #juno temple #fargo spoilers #ole munch #sin eating

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likeawolfatthemoon · 1 year ago

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a couple years after high school, one of our classmates who was bullied very badly committed suicide.

a few months leading up to this, i had been having a very nasty gut feeling and had tried reaching out to a few people to see if i could get in touch with him just to see how he was doing. like we were never really friends, but we were kind to one another and both bullied, so there was a camaraderie in that. but i was never able to reach him, then that happened, and i carried a very heavy survivor's guilt for not trying harder despite drowning in my own depression and traumatic circumstances.

but i've processed that, it's beside the point.

our high school was a small ~christian~ school that fancied themselves a community which...i'm sure you can imagine exactly the dynamic there. all white, upper middle class, conservative on the outside - judgemental, hypocritical, insidious to the core. and all of those families showed up to the funeral. with their kids (i guess technically adults, but i still saw myself as a kid, so they were too). the same kids that i watched day after day, relentlessly beat down the spirit of someone who tried so hard to still find joy and kindness in the world.

and i took such a great, personal offense to the fact that they were even allowed to be present. to share the same space as people who were mourning a loss they undoubtedly had a hand in. and i don't pretend to know what any of them were feeling, whether they were repentant or bored or were secretly joking with each other in texts between the hymns. but that is the exact feeling i carry with me to this day. that people who were raised thinking they deserved grace have absolved themselves of every sin before the effects of it even touch another person.

but even that is beside the point.

the point is, my Significant Blurred Line Codependent Teenage Best Friend With Whom I Would Eventually Have a Very Dramatic Falling Out made me promise her to not let shitty people into her funeral. like, in a very serious way, a way that young girls teetering on the precipice of a lifetime spent in therapy have.

well over ten years since i've seen or heard from her, i still think about that. how i'm not going to fulfill that promise, nor she for me, and in fact either of us may very well be on the shit lists. but i also think...i don't want to see her, or hear her, or talk to her ever again...but i don't think i would begrudge her mourning me. actually, i hope she mourns me and our friendship presently and has been for a decade. she's been a ghost to me longer than i knew her, but i would mourn if i knew of her passing. because even though she's someone i don't know anymore, she still contains all the parts that i do know.

the weird 15 year old wearing shoes with cat ears in bible class. that i got in trouble for holding hands with in the hall. the 16 year old that took me on my first date on valentine's day. that introduced me to my favorite band, that i would fall asleep listening to. who i would send letters back and forth to in the mail, so we would have something to look forward to, always spinning a preposterous web of stories - usually containing dr. phil and this week's list of hilarious vocabulary words from her little sister? the first person i told i was attracted to girls. who "needed a break" after i told her that. the person who inspired me to start looking deeper into borderline personality disorder because it sounded like her (the irony lovers out there waiting for me to hit MY diagnosis 5+ years down the line). the first person (besides my mother) that promised me unconditionally, unequivocally that they loved me. the person who showed me old gregg (and the fact that i could still piss myself laughing over "easy, fuzzy lil man peach"). the person who chose other people over me time and time again, literally *leaving* hanging out with me to go hang out with other people. who cried and screamed when i hung out with people without her. the person with whom i shared a weird obsession with conan o'brien. the person i talked down from hallucinations in my kitchen after she smoked laced weed. the 20 something woman who accused me of being in love with her like a betrayal of her trust. who of course took her customary-by-then several months break after this accusation. and as always waltzed back when she needed someone to listen and be there for her. and i did. until something finally snapped and i just...didn't have the emotional bandwidth anymore. and one unanswered text turned into three, which turned into a voicemail, which turned into a wall of text, and then days and days and days of constant alerts. hundreds of calls. sobbing crying voicemails, threats of suicide, screaming, accusations, name calling, then more sobbing and crying. and it seemed like i never stopped receiving texts. and this entire time, i felt like the person in the wrong, but i just wanted it to stop. i responded one time, the first day, after the first threat of hurting herself. and the tone shift upon my response from desperate and pleading and hopeless to pure anger...solidified my resolve. but it didn't absolve the guilt i felt from every notification. it was months before they finally stopped completely. sometimes i still feel a zap of anxiety when i see her name written out on someone else's social media somewhere, it's a common enough name.

it's a strange burden to bear, a mourning for a person who existed but doesn't now, whose status on the earth is actually unknown to you. schroedinger's grief.

to mourn someone you could've helped, but didn't. or might've helped, but couldn't.

and i wonder how other people seem to not carry grief with them so wholly and ever-present.

and i don't mean the kind you would expect, like for my mom who died long before she took her last breath, or the child i could have been if x, y, and z were different.

i mean the constant grief, for every moment you leave behind and every person you can't content. and maybe that's not grief, maybe that's guilt. and the razor thin line all of these feelings walk over love. maybe love is an accusation of guilt. maybe it's okay to be guilty.

#tw suicide #leanne.text #brain said sunday night introspection time

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solomonish · 4 years ago

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say my name like it’s a bad word (solomon x reader)

sometimes, when Solomon hears others speak his name, it feels more like they're spewing curses than addressing him.

ao3 link: here!

I. Anger

He could see the peak rising above the horizon much sooner than he could the day before. That pleased him - though he wouldn’t let those graciously lending him their powers know.

As he walked into his unfinished temple, he had to dodge a few of his flying demons who passive-aggressively swooped too close to his head. He enjoyed the noise the solid ground made beneath his feet, opposed to the soft earth outside the entrance. With a purposely blank expression, Solomon strode over to a corner of the temple, where one of his more outspoken pacts stomped down clay.

Asmodeus looked up at him as he approached, his brows furrowing. If he wasn’t already out of breath from the strenuous work Solomon had ordered him to do, he probably would have groaned loud enough to halt the progress around him. His hair, stuck to his brow with sweat, still managed to look perfect and keep its style. Keeping his voice level, Solomon said as much.

“Oh, thank you!” Asmodeus chirped, wiping away his frustration for a moment to flash a faux grin. “Honestly, for someone like me, it’s hardly a feat to maintain such exquisite looks, but I certainly appreciate you noticing!”

“Someone like you…..” Solomon responded, trailing off as he held his chin in thought. Asmodeus, bound by the command of his pact, kept stomping the clay beneath him, but his upper half seemed completely at ease. There was a sudden fluidity to his movements, one that always warned Solomon to up his guard and covertly cast some safeguards against Asmo’s charms.

“Yes, someone like me! The most bewitching creature in all the realms - but surely, you don’t need a reminder of that,” Adding a purr beneath his words, Asmo leaned forward. Something glinted in his eyes as they slowly bled into a fuchsia hue, and Solomon felt a faint tug at the spell he just cast. “You know, I wouldn’t mind reminding you in other ways. Surely, this has been a test to show how much energy I truly have?”

Solomon perked up, and he could see Asmodeus rejoice, certain his plan had worked. “Really? After all of this, you still have energy?”

“Of course!”

With a hum, Solomon let his hand fall from his chin and smiled sweetly at the demon before him. The pact mark on his hip tingled lightly, a side-effect of the new method of command he was testing out. “Very well. I’ll double your quota and, naturally, expect you to exceed my expectations in a day’s time.”

“What-” His eyes widened and jaw dropped for just a second, wondering both how his plan had been foiled so quickly and how Solomon managed to command him with zero authority in his voice. Against his will, Asmodeus’ stomping quickened, forcing him to lose his theatrics and focus his entire being on his task. “Solomon!” He shouted indignantly, the only word he could get out before his pact holder turned and walked away.

II. Formality

“Solomon,” the voice said, a stiffness around its edges. Stopping in his tracks, Solomon had to squint in the shadows to even see the sorcerer he was meeting. In his opinion, hiding in the shadows beside the comically large bookshelf was a bit overkill for their meeting. While technically a forbidden one, Solomon was confident that, if caught, he would be able to leave unscathed.

"Irin," Solomon returned, hoping his own casual tone would ease away that stifling formality in his acquaintence's voice. "You said you needed to meet with me?"

Tentatively, like a distrusting stray cat, Irin stepped out from the shadows while peering down both ends of the hallway. They were ever the cautious soul, though it stung to see that hesitancy aimed at himself. "Keep your voice down. We don't want to get caught."

Solomon raised an eyebrow. "Why could we not have met elsewhere, then?"

"I only just found it. I wanted to make sure I could hand it to you in person before I found out why you were banished."

The glare Irin leveled him in had his heart sinking. Perhaps hoping that word of his fallout had yet to spread - or that he would not be held in contempt for accusations he could never address or recover from - was too big an ambition, even for Solomon. But the shadowed leaders of the Sorcerer's Society were prone to gossip. That was,after all, part of what demanded such secrecy in this rendezvous.

Glancing down, Solomon saw Irin handing his wand over to him, his lips grimly pressed together in a thin line. Ah, so that's why I couldn’t find it. The drama of the past few weeks had been enough to scramble his mind, and in the chaos of his banishment, Solomon must have dropped his wand as he was forced out. That, or it was stolen and he was never meant to have it back in his possession. Ah, well. Why bother with the semantics of rules he was no longer bound by?

Without a word, Solomon took the wand and tucked it in his waistband,, hidden behind his cloak. To see such solemnity in the exchange of such a ridiculous thing would have been a humorous sight if the atmosphere were lighter. But the air around them hung heavy, heavy enough to have Solomon itching just beneath his skin and craving an exit. As much as the thought hurt when it struck, he realized that there was no call for niceties or a proper goodbye. The icy glare he was leveled in wouldn’t be remedied with an amicable goodbye.

As Solomon made his way down the hall, a second pair of footsteps that were far too light to be Irin’s approached from behind him. He didn’t bother to cast a glance behind him to see who it might be - whoever it was didn’t want to see him, and Solomon was quickly losing interest in the affairs of the society in their entirety.

III. Distrust

“But is that really a good idea?”

“Do you not agree?”

Two voices floated down the corridor as Solomon approached, one like a softly tinkling bell and the other deep and soothing. It seemed that his two companions had started the conversation without him. Either that, or he was hearing part of a conversation that was never meant for his ears.

“It isn’t that, it’s more…” The lighter voice trailed off for a moment. “Are we sure it’s best to throw a newborn lamb in with lions who know far more than they do? Even ignoring how they’d be your only true subject of this exchange program, wouldn’t they have more luck bonding with someone as familiar with this world as they were?”

“Two humans who have no idea what is going on wandering the Devildom? That isn’t the best idea I’ve heard,” Solomon interrupted as he rounded the corner. He had no interest in eavesdropping on a conversation for information he was owed, anyway. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Diavolo reassured, uncrossing his legs and leaning back in his chair. He gestured towards the assortment of small pastries and tea on the table between the three of them while Simeon picked up his own cup, if only to have something to focus on.

“Nice to see you, Solomon,” Simeon answered cheerily, masterfully hiding the suspicion Solomon knew should be biting at the greeting. Biting the inside of his cheek, Solomon held back any questions he had of Simeon trying to butt him out of the Diavolo’s project. Instead, he nodded in a silent ’nice to see you, too,’ and made himself comfortable on the unoccupied chair in the room.

“Now,” Diavolo started, ignoring the chill hovering in the air, “How are we feeling about this exchange program?”

IV. Annoyance

An indignant shriek filled the dorm as a menacing cloud of violet smoke rose from the pot. Luke watched it in horror, jumping back as the sparks started to fly out of the pan.

“What did you just do?” He yelled. Solomon merely watched in awe, impressed at the show he had created and completely shutting out Luke’s exasperated yapping. Perhaps such marvelling should have waited, because he couldn’t hear the panicked shouts as some of the sparks fell on the ends of his cloak. It took the brunt of Luke’s bodyweight as he pushed Solomon out of the line of literal fire and ran to get the fire extinguisher to snap him out of his daze.

Glancing at the bottom of his cloak, Solomon sighed and snapped his fingers, putting out the fire immediately. Begrudgingly removing the cloak of his shoulders, he lifted the hem to eye level and mourned his loss silently. Moments later, Luke came barreling in the room, letting loose with the fire extinguisher without even looking to see if there was still a flame.

When he was convinced that the fire was out, Luke held Solomon in his best attempt at an upset glare. He ended up looking more like a slightly upset puppy, but Solomon knew when to hold his tongue around the young angel. “Solomon, I told you to stay out of the kitchen! What part of that translated to you as ‘come add ingredients to the pot’?”

Before Solomon could make things worse in his attempt at a defense, Simeon walked in the room, looking like the most graceful being in the world. With his current company, though, it wasn’t such an accomplishment. “Now, now. I’m sure Solomon just wanted to help, right Luke?”

Luke didn’t look convinced, but the practiced smile on Simeon was a clear indication that he should agree. “Yeah, I guess.”

Gently guiding Luke out of the room, Simeon gave that same smile to Solomon. “And he will help by cleaning up this mess while we grab some more ingredients for dinner, right?”

“Yes.”

“Great!”

With that, Simeon ushered Luke out of the room. When they stopped to grab their jackets, Solomon heard Luke whisper, “I thought you were watching him, Simeon.”

Unlike his roommates, Solomon had the wisdom to wait until he heard the door shut to sigh in displeasure.

V. Contempt

At this point, Solomon wasn’t sure whether his repeated showdowns with Lucifer were proving his tenacity and value or deepening the hatred that seemed to run between them.

Still, it was unusual for Lucifer to summon for Solomon in the middle of class, only to stare at him in silence as Solomon fought the instinctive urge to shift where he stood before him. The student council room was empty, save for the spread out papers on the table in front of Lucifer and the two of them. It wasn’t often that Solomon felt unnerved, and certainly not by Lucifer after he heard your tales of how he behaved at home, but that was the closest word he could think of to describe how he felt.

“I needn’t remind you of the perils the Devildom has to offer?” Lucifer asked, his voice cold as ice. “I am not pleased with the state in which you brought MC back the other day.”

What, in once piece? Solomon had to bite his tongue. Lucifer really thought he could lecture his way out of everything, didn’t he? “I apologize,” He lied. Then, more truthfully, “If I could have brought them back with no injuries, I would have.”

Lucifer narrowed his eyes, weaving his fingers together in thought and resting his elbows on the table. “If you are to be so irresponsible, perhaps I should put a stop to these outings?”

The indignation burning in Solomon’s gut made him grimace; he hated feeling like a child, but Lucifer had a way of belittling everyone that way. His protests all sounded like an upset teen arguing with their parents - They were only scrapes and bruises! It was an accident! You can’t dictate everything MC does with their time. You can’t dictate anything I do with mine! - but he held them all back. “I will make sure MC does not get hurt next time they are in my care.”

Lucifer’s eyes flashed red, and Solomon suddenly understood why the horror movies of his realm used that as an indication of evil. “Of course you will. But a little incentive wouldn’t hurt.”

With that, Lucifer stood from his seat, towering over Solomon by at least a foot. He wasn’t in his demon form - RAD rules to accommodate the exchange students - but he didn’t need to. Solomon could feel the threatening aura around him, promises of the harm that would come to him if he went against Lucifer’s wishes surrounding the two like the wind in a firestorm.

This was where Lucifer always lost Solomon’s interest. He wasn’t able to be threatened by promises Lucifer was always too busy to fulfill.

“You may not have much of a life to gamble, Solomon,” Lucifer hissed, and the only indication Solomon gave of his flinch was one quick blink, “but MC is not yours to toy with. Remember that.”

Unwilling to back down in their staring match, Solomon kept his mouth wired shut for a few moments. Lucifer, living up to his sin, also refused to back down, and Solomon realized it was a losing battle.

“I have to get back to class,” Solomon lied again, and they both knew it. But there were no more words to share between them, so Solomon left it at that.

VI. Affection

Hearing his name come from your mouth like that gave him the same sensation of watching someone put a piece of a cactus in their mouth.

You hadn’t even entered his room yet. The moment you entered the dorm, you called out his name, stretching out the last syllable in a sing-song voice. He could hear the rustle of plastic bags, the ingredients for his latest cooking lesson tucked inside. When you knocked on the doorframe to his room, he didn’t answer, and you peeked inside to see him staring directly at you with a dumbstruck expression on his face.

“Are...you okay?” You asked, not truly concerned. It was enough to quickly snap him back to reality, and he tried to play off his surprise with a smile. You stopped him from speaking before he even had a chance to tell you he was fine. “Don’t give me any crap. What was that look for?”

How could he express what he was thinking without sounding entirely unbecoming? “It’s...just weird to hear my name said like that.”

“What, to the tune of the Devildom’s next hit of the summer?” Your cheeky grin did nothing to hide your arrogance. Solomon only hummed, standing from his desk and stretching his arms above his head.

Realizing he wasn’t going to explain himself any further, you led him to the kitchen and explained the dinner you had planned. He listened halfheartedly, rummaging through the bag to eye the ingredients suspiciously. It all looked so...predictable. Boring. He was already connecting ideas to add his own pizzazz to the dish.

“Are you going to yell at me when I mess it up?” He asked in an attempt at jest. Something in his tone was off, though, and it sounded much more like a genuine question. Uncomfortably clearing his throat, Solomon avoided your confused gaze. “I mean-”

“Have Simeon and Luke been on your case about your cooking again?” You asked. He could practically hear your exasperation at their antics, and almost jumped to their defense. They were angels. Confronting people directly about their shortcomings wasn’t their strong suit. “I promise, I will not yell at you. Seriously. I will, however, whip you into shape with this spoon.”

To prove your point, you picked up a wooden spoon and hit him on the arm. Your own strength surprised you, however, and the sharp snap that sounded through the room made you freeze in your spot. “Oh my goodness, I am so sorry-”

With a grin that could only be described as shit-eating, Solomon burst into theatrics, bemoaning his injured arm and worrying over how dark the bruise would definitely be. In between your apologizes and insistences that you didn’t hit him that hard, you tried to place a gentle kiss where you hit him. He made sure to pull away, swearing he could never trust you again after you’ve hurt him so severely.

He decided then that hearing his name interrupted with your laugh was the best way to hear it.

#tagging this on ao3 was kinda hard because #gonna be honest #a whole lotta nothing happens here LOL #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me swd #swd obey me #obey me solomon #swd solomon #solomon #solomon fics #mine #solomon fluff #solomon x reader

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palbabor-writes · 4 years ago

Note

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

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

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

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

Word Count: 11,800

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

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

Mise en Place

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Never seen you before.”

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

“You supposed to drink on the clock?”

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

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

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

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

“He doesn’t need to pay.”

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

The white shine of his hair always gives him away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh? Like the Hero Killer?”

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

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

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

“What toy?”

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

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

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

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

“Can I take a hit of that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

So, you hand in your written resignation.

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

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

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

“This doesn’t feel like you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

Then, Kamino happens.

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

Late one evening, your phone rings.

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

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

It takes you a minute to catch sight of him.

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

Now, to work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, you don’t.”

“Fine,” you say, biting your lip.

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

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About, well, you.”

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

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

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

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

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

So, you shove him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stand up,” he instructs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s worried he can’t do it.

He’s never been alone, not like this.

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

He needs to see this through.

He wants to, he has to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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imaginedhaven · 4 years ago

Text

Give In and Get Away

a smutty Rowaelin oneshot

Link to Hot Professors Collection Masterlist

Summary: Aelin observes one of Rowan’s classes, but pays more attention to him than to the content of his lecture. Afterwards, she proceeds to show him exactly what she knows.

Rating: E for Explicit- not intended for readers under 18!

Contents/Warnings: College Professors AU, Enemies With Benefits, Semi-Public Sex

Here we skip back in time a bit, before even the first oneshot, though of course as always this is intended to stand completely alone with no comprehension of the rest of the ‘verse needed. Enjoy!

~*~*~

Aelin smirked from her position in the rear of the classroom, chewing on the top of her pen as she pretended to take notes. It was the first day of classes at Doranelle University, and as the newest teacher in the psychology department she had been assigned to sit in on one of the upper-level seminars to observe.

She understood, of course, that the department wanted to ensure she was comfortable with teaching a more advanced class in her first year and as well-prepared as she could be. After all, in her previous position she had only taught larger introductory lectures. It was perfectly reasonable to observe a class before she went to teach her own that afternoon.

She had been infuriated to learn that the course she would be observing was Professor Whitethorn’s early-morning seminar on cognitive psychology, but she felt she was making the best of it.

She had been off-kilter the day she’d first met him, and she was sure he’d known he was at an advantage with the way he taunted her. She was less certain why she’d snapped and dragged his face down to hers by his stupid tie when they’d run into each other again near the copier, but she’d assumed it was something they would bury and never speak of again.

Then he had found her in her office three days ago, and the smirk he’d worn as he let himself into the room had told her he was absolutely not going to let her forget it. The things he’d done to her—the things he’d made her feel—had only confirmed it.

And so she’d made a decision that she was going to make him as uncomfortable as possible today. It was only fair, really.

She’d woken up extra early to make certain that she was perfectly presentable, dark pencil skirt perfectly paired with a white blouse and hair neatly braided back. A stop by the campus coffee shop had granted her a large iced coffee with a truly obscene amount of whipped cream, and she’d made sure to pack a notebook and one of her favorite pens as well. To anyone else in the department who’d happened to see her, she would be the epitome of professionalism.

Five minutes into the lecture, though, she’d unbuttoned the top two buttons on her blouse, making eye contact with him the entire time.

She was carefully toeing a line; if anyone other than Whitethorn looked back at her, she needed to appear professional. Similarly, she couldn’t actually disrupt his teaching without getting herself into trouble. But she could deliberately purse her lips around her straw as she sipped her coffee, or lean forward and chew on the end of her pen in a performance of concentration.

By the end of the lecture, Whitethorn was looking thoroughly annoyed. Luckily, she’d checked out his ratings on various websites beforehand and this seemed to be par for the course based on the words of his former students. No one else would have to know.

She casually crossed her legs as students began to file out of the room, feigning innocence when irritated green eyes found hers. Instead of saying anything, she took another sip of her coffee, deliberately ensuring some of the whipped cream lingered on her lips before grinning at him.

As the last student left the room, he walked to the door, closing and locking it before openly glaring at her. Perfect. He was exactly where she wanted him.

She met his glare with an innocent smile. “Do we have a problem?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know what you were doing.”

She finally stood, slowly sauntering toward him with swaying hips. “I was paying attention to your overview of cognitive functions, of course. What else could I possibly have been doing?”

He met her by the lectern at the front of the room, hands resting on either side of her and effectively pinning her against it. “I think we both know you didn’t actually write a single thing down. I’ve had a lot of practice watching how students pay attention, and you decidedly were not.”

“Oh, I was paying attention,” she replied, letting her voice drop to a low purr. “I just may not have been paying attention to what you were teaching, per se.”

Before he could say anything she wriggled away from the lectern, flipping their positions and reveling in the fact that his gaze immediately went to her partially-open blouse. His brow was still furrowed with annoyance, but a closer look revealed a pink tinge to the tips of his ears and his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. Yes, she had him now.

Or, rather, she was going to have him.

She licked her lips and watched as his eyes tracked the movement, then arched her back slightly as she undid another button of her blouse. The movement allowed the fabric to slip off of her shoulders, revealing an edge of red lace.

He growled, though he was openly staring by this point. “What on earth are you doing, Galathynius?”

She smirked. “I think you said it best. Don’t act like you don’t know.”

Without another word she dropped to her knees, watching as he gripped the edge of the lectern with white-knuckled hands. The position put his belt at roughly eye level, and she immediately got to work on undoing it.

He inhaled sharply as she freed his cock from the fabric that had been restraining it, and she grinned as she wrapped her hand around it, carefully weighing her options.

Given their previous interactions and the fact that he had to know she was looking to even the score, he probably expected her to toss him over a desk and ride him into oblivion. The thought was certainly tempting, but if she wanted to really catch him off guard…

Aelin smirked. She knew what she had to do.

Slowly, she leaned in and let out a slow exhale, lips parting a mere inch away from the head of his cock. When she saw him grip the lectern more firmly with a hissed fuck, she gave herself a point and glanced up at his face. His head was thrown back in a way that she couldn’t quite see his expression, though she imagined it was somewhere between shock and arousal. At least, she hoped it was. She’d have to wait in order to find out.

That was all right, though. She could be patient when she needed to be.

Finally he looked down at her, brow furrowed in confusion but green eyes hazy with lust. Aelin winked back at him before slowly extending her tongue and laving it over the tip of his cock, never once dropping her eye contact with him. His jaw dropped in a sharp intake of breath before he bit his lip, and if she had to guess he was torn between growling at her to get on with it and waiting to see what exactly she would do.

Luckily for him, she didn’t plan to make him wait any longer.

With one final smirk, she slowly lowered her gaze to the cock before her and wrapped her lips around the tip of it, tongue flattening against the underside. She hummed as if pondering her next move, awarding herself another point when he hissed at the sensation before getting properly to work. They didn’t have long, after all.

Aelin gave him absolutely no warning before sucking him further into her mouth, lips descending as far as she could reach. Once there, she paused for a moment of begrudging delight at the way his cock filled her mouth—just as well as it had filled her elsewhere the last time they had met. The thought made her shiver, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing her moan, not when she was the one meant to be tormenting him this time.

His hips twitched in reaction, as though he was trying and failing to hold himself completely still, but Aelin was already pulling back. Before long, she was grinning up at him again with the tip of his cock resting against her lower lip as her hand wrapped around its base. A flick of her tongue against the slit earned her a muffled groan, and when she looked at his face he was staring back down at her, teeth gritted and lip red as though he had been biting it.

Good. She had him exactly where she wanted him now, and she pressed her thighs together against a wave of arousal at the knowledge that she had undone him so easily.

Knowing that time was short, she got back to work, gently sucking and working her lips in tandem with her hand. Her free hand slid its way under her own skirt, and she pressed a fingertip over her clit through her panties with a gasp. She couldn’t do much to herself in her current position, but that didn’t matter in the slightest, not when she was already so aroused from the situation alone.

A tug on her braid pulled her off of his cock, and she glared up at him to find him doing his level best to glare back down at her. “What are you doing?” he hissed. “You realize we’re in a classroom, I take it.”

She smirked. “Come on, Whitethorn. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“If someone sees—”

“You locked the door, didn’t you?”

“The door has a window, Galathynius.”

“And we’re not in plain view of the window. As long as you’re quiet, I don’t see the problem.”

He growled, but finally relaxed his grip on her hair, and for a dizzying moment Aelin mourned the loss of the sensation. She didn’t stop to allow herself to examine the feeling, though; there would be plenty of time for overthinking this later. Instead, she took his cock back into her mouth, sucking and licking in earnest now as she worked to get him off as quickly as she could.

Soon enough, he was tugging at her hair again, this time more gently. She looked up at him as best she could with a mouth full of his cock and lifted an eyebrow, only to find he was staring at the ceiling. “Shit, I—”

Oh. Oh, he was trying to warn her. She wasn’t sure whether to be oddly touched by his consideration or offended that he thought she couldn’t take him coming in her mouth. She supposed it didn’t matter one way or the other right now, though. All that mattered was proving to him exactly what she could take.

Determination renewed, she focused her efforts on the head of his cock, sucking firmly as she moved her hand up and down his shaft. Within moments he let out another muffled groan, hand cupping the back of her head as the taste of him flooded her mouth. She swallowed around him a few times, using her hand to coax the last few drops out of him before neatly tucking his cock back into his pants. A few moments rearranging his clothing and soon enough it would’ve been difficult for anyone else to tell anything had gone on to begin with.

Aelin knew, though. She could see it in the way his fingers still gripped the edge of the lectern, in the pink tinge to his neck and the wildness in his eyes.

It was easy enough to button up her blouse again and straighten her skirt once she stood up, and a quick smoothing of her hand down her braid told her he hadn’t yanked any of her hair out of place. She was as put together as she reasonably could be, though she was sure that her lips would be red and swollen and that she would be wearing a satisfied flush. She was unbelievably wet, too, but her clothes were concealing that readily enough and she could take care of that momentarily.

For now, she simply shot Whitethorn another lazy wink. “You’re welcome.”

Before he could muster the brainpower to reply she was already sauntering out the door, closing it behind herself with a grin and a triumphant sip of the last dregs of her coffee. Yes, that had gone even better than she’d hoped.

~*~*~

Tagging:

@ireallyshouldsleeprn @queen-of-glass @fangirlprincess09 @sassys-world @morganofthewildfire @superspiritfestival @perseusannabeth @sis-it-dont-add-up @jlinez @julemmaes @emilyoftheshadows @thegoddessofyou @mymultiversee @swankii-art-teacher @rowansfirebringer @livsdriverslicense @courtofjurdan @danibutterr @woollycat22 @rowaelinismyotp- your tag isn’t working! Sorry! @sleeping-and-books @acciowests

#haven writes #rowaelin #hot professors #see look I can post smut at a perfectly reasonable hour local time

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lovelyirony · 4 years ago

Note

Could I get number 30 "Why is arson always your first answer?" With winteriron?

England wasn’t necessarily Tony’s favorite place to be. For one thing, Pepper always asked for some sort of collection of Burberry scarves, and Tony would rather die than step foot in a store, but Pepper is the one who makes sure he gets out of countries and into countries as discreetly as possible.

For another, England usually means either expensive art or expensive jewelry, and art is a bitch to get out of an event if you haven’t worked up a back story for the last year, and jewelry is...well. People are bound to notice if it’s famous enough.

This go-round, it’s art. A rare miniature of a high-society woman, someone Tony doesn’t at all care about. He has a buyer from the middle of nowhere Montana, and he’s not sure why a cowboy from Montana cares about this so much, but he offered a pretty steep salary for Tony, so here he is.

The thing is this: Tony Stark is not known as a thief. No. He is known as a reclusive billionaire who only comes out of his house, like, once a year to mourn his parents.

Except he doesn’t do that, that’s just the yearly walk that he lets them notice and take pictures of.

Anthony Carbonell is known as an elusive thief who likes to make fun of every single agent of any organization that attempts to track him or the works that he’s stolen. It’s cute, honestly.

Agent James Barnes is the newest hire at SHIELD Protection, which moonlights as an insurance agency.

His newest job is one that no one else has managed to complete: capture Anthony Carbonell, and protect the newest artwork.

It’s sending him to England. He has to wear a suit and everything, and he’s not exactly excited about it.

All they know is that he’s dark-haired, is shorter than six feet, and has a penchant for playing practical jokes on the agents when they end up not capturing him.

Barnes touches down in England, follows one of their British agents to a safe-house, and gets out the tuxedo.

God help this night.

Tony usually isn’t thrown for a loop when it comes to guests at high society auctions. Most everyone is publicly known, or at least known when they should be known.

There’s a new man in town.

Tony can’t deny that he has the nicest looks he’s ever seen. A jaw that won’t quit, eyes that seem to observe everything, and a tasteful bun drawn at the back of his head. He also fills out a tuxedo quite nicely.

Something about him screams danger. Tony smiles to himself in his cocktail; he’ll keep his eyes on that man, so far as everything goes to plan.

Bucky can feel eyes on him, but he can’t tell if it’s because he’s technically new to all of this, or if it’s because Anthony is here and he already knows.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew as soon as he walked in that Anthony would be here, and he would be aware. But he’s not really going to focus on the people milling about. He sticks close to the miniature, observing the security measures.

Or lack of.

The security measures are barely there. If Bucky could cause a distraction in the room, or maybe pull a fire alarm, he could easily abscond with it.

He assumes that’s why the band is in another room. He had read the reports that Clint had managed to nick; the band was supposed to be playing in the room, but an anonymous guest had suggested that the acoustics were better in a room adjacent.

He’s pretty sure that Anthony had recommended that, wherever he was. It’s not like any of the rich people would have had common sense enough to call ahead and ask about the placement of the band, and take into account the arch of the room with the acoustics of a violin.

It’s smart, honestly. Everyone is dancing, they want to notice what other people are wearing so that they can either discreetly copy them later or make a laughing stock of them in about six minutes, give or take, and no one will notice if someone who wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place slips out.

He’s not exactly wrong.

But Tony has been working for an exclusive catering company for two months. Very fun stuff. He learned that he will never want to eat another crab cake again, and he learned how to improvise descriptions for food that is essentially chicken fingers and ketchup.

Barnes is looking for someone who looks like they fit in. And Tony does, just...not in the way that he actually knows how to do.

If he was high society, he’d be recognized immediately; everyone still knows how Howard smiled, how Maria moved around the room with the practiced grace of someone raised to be a fun little accessory on your arm.

Tony has both of those attributes, and if people actually noticed others, they would clock him easily.

He got bold.

Too bold.

He was serving appetizers, and he offers one to the new guy on the block.

“Care for one?” he asks, eyes timidly looking up, energy nervous.

“Thank you,” New Guy says, and he looks at Tony directly in the eyes. “I appreciate it.”

No one thanks you at events like these.

And no one looks at you.

This was the mistake.

His features are umistakable, Bucky decides. The way his head tilted when he offered the food, the way his eyes look at his, and they’re not used to being looked back at.

It almost fooled him. Almost.

But most who work for the upper class learn early on from someone or another that you don’t look, even if you know that they won’t spare you the time of day.

He’s tempting the odds, and he’s exactly the kind of person who would do it.

Bucky has Anthony Carbonell’s face memorized, from the surprisingly warm brown eyes to the way he walks away.

Tony has blown this mission. He knows it. He fucking knows that SHIELD knows who he is right now.

He texts Pepper, incorrect grammar and everything:

tell guy job is over. i can refund him for inconvenience.

what do you mean, over?

been had. :(

i don’t like that that’s your reaction. but get out of there, whatever means necessary. i can’t get you out of there until tomorrow morning, or i lose the deposit on your room .

srsly???????

yes, seriously. the woman who let us rent it was very specific about two-day-stay. in the mean time, maybe grab a bottle of wine or something. how are you going to escape?

well...

don’t you dare

Arson is an art that has to be carefully done, if you were wondering. You can just decide to do it, but you need to have some experience for it.

Tony has. Kind of.

He has a matchbook from a local hotel that he went into, and it’s been tucked into a pocket of his pants, and he is currently debating if he can actually finish the job or not.

“Is arson always your first answer?”

Shit.

“Uh, smoke break?” Tony asks, knowing that it’s a Very Stupid Excuse because he doesn’t have any cigarettes.

“Be real with yourself,” Barnes says. “You also have a very unfortunate British accent, as in it sounds terrible.”

“My apologies if I didn’t work on it,” Tony says. “I’ve been too busy with...other things. Speaking of which, you’re new to SHIELD, aren’t you?”

“You’re my first mission.”

“How unfortunate.”

“And why is that?”

Tony smiles at him, and it’s disarming how genuine it looks. How genuine it is. (Bucky’s been able to spot a fake smile since he was seven and his mother let Mormons into their house. He knows a lot of things.)

“Well, darling dearest, I’m going to make my escape.”

“And you’re saying I can’t find you?”

“Oh, you’ll find me. You’ll see me everywhere.”

Tony then proceeds to kiss the ever-living hell out of Barnes.

It is probably the best kiss of his life, honestly.

And it leaves him dazed.

Dazed enough that Tony only has a light jogging-pace as he makes his escape, stealing one of the various Rolls Royce cars that is parked underneath a brilliantly-lit lamp.

Bucky keeps thinking about that line, about seeing him everywhere.

He doesn’t know what it means. He describes Anthony Carbonell to a sketch artist, they ask around, and then there’s Friday.

Friday.

It’s the day everything becomes clearer and yet infinitely more complicated, because Anthony was right.

Tony Stark is dedicated to a more “transparent’ image for his company. He’s stepped into the limelight, and all the attention is on him. Everyone in the world is stalking his every move.

It’s smart. Bold and risky if any former clients have seen his face, although Bucky has no doubt that he has enough money to make sure they go away quietly.

It means that he can’t be touched. For at least one year, maybe two.

God, it’s smart. Be so well-known that even the secret agencies would be found if they even attempted to reach you.

Pepper thinks Tony is God’s Given Idiot.

Arson probably would have been the better choice. It’s not like the building didn’t have insurance, and it’s not like the fire would have lasted for that long.

Instead, Tony has decided to make himself internationally known and request a meeting with the guy who could have ended his career, and still could if he talked to the right people.

Sam thinks knows that Bucky is God’s Given Idiot.

He agrees to the fucking meeting.

It’s a well-known, public restaurant. It means that Barnes is going to be well-known, or at least photographed from an angle that’s unflattering.

He should’ve debated, should have fought for a secluded place, or at least somewhere on their turf. God, that would’ve been an iota smarter.

They both sit down. Peruse a menu that neither are interested in.

Bucky is wondering what the procedure is on leftovers. And if he’s paying for his own bill in this. He was invited, but with everything going on, he’s not sure.

Tony sits across from him. Tony, with a now-distinctive goatee, an easy elegance, and a satisfied look in his eyes.

“You amaze me, James.”

“Bucky.”

“I refuse to call you that out of respect for humanity.”

“I don’t answer to James.”

“Then what about another nickname, hm?” Tony asks.

“Like what?”

“Take your pick. You could be honey, darling, or love. Or something more creative, although if it’s kinky, I’d like it in writing before I refer to you in public with that, so-”

“James is fine.”

“Knew it would be,” Tony says smugly. “So. Let’s talk about the fact that you know my dirty little secret.”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘little’, would you?”

“It’s a hobby.”

“Rich people steal shit as a hobby?”

“Usually not with my methods, but yes,” Tony says. “They usually do it with the careful guidance of the IRS or some shit.”

Bucky does a little laugh at that one.

Their waiter comes out, jovially asks how their day is going.

“Oh it’s going magnificently,” Tony says, peering up through violet-tinted glasses. “How is yours...Lincoln?”

“Brilliant,” Lincoln responds with a large smile. “What can I get you to drink? Our seasonal cocktail is to die for, and if you’re not in the mood for a cocktail, the cider is simply divine...”

It’s mundane conversation.

Tony Stark is a thief who goes by (went by?) Anthony Carbonell, and he’s listening to Lincoln the Waiter talk about seasonal drinks and desserts.

It’s kind of...grounding. Also odd.

“And for you?”

Bucky fumbles with the menu.

“Uh...water? With lemon?”

“Refreshingly good choice,” Lincoln says, grinning. “I’ll be right back with those, you two catch up on whatever you need to catch up.”

Bucky nods, turning to Tony with an eyebrow raised.

“So, what do we need to catch up on?”

“Well for one, you need to use my name. It’s Tony, and I’m betting it sounds heavenly coming from you.”

Bucky’s eyes widen a fraction.

“Alright. Tony. What do you need to talk about?”

“Keeping our little secret a secret.”

“I’ve already told others about you.”

“Who?” Tony asks sharply.

Lincoln comes back with their drinks, asks if they need more time to decide.

Bucky just goes for it and orders a plate of mini quiche-things that he’s not exactly sure he’ll like. Tony orders something with a perfect accent, because of course he does.

“You do this often?”

“Go out to eat? On special occasions, and every other Friday.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“Touchy, touchy,” Tony says, unfolding his napkin. “But I...have a deal for you.”

“And why should I take it?”

“Because it’s going to benefit SHIELD in the long-run,” Tony says. “And they’re all about benefits, if the rumors hold up against them.”

“And what rumors have you heard?”

“I’ve heard plenty, although I seem to recall one about a flooded pipeline and a Broadway performance being improvised.”

Bucky shakes his head.

“Not true? Damn...”

Tony looks around the restaurant before his eyes meet with the captivating ones across the table.

“I have a secret identity. So do you.”

“And we’re against each other, aren’t we?”

“Only sometimes,” Tony says. “I essentially steal shit because it’s either random or has a purpose.”

“And the miniature job you pulled was what, part of a scheme?”

“Hell no,” Tony says. “A farmer in Montana wanted to see if I could do it because the face vaguely reminded him of his great-grandmother. I also, as a principle, try to steal as much shit from England as possible.”

That’s funny, so he laughs.

“And what do you want from me?” Bucky asks.

“Oh my darling dearest, I want a lot of things from you,” Tony leers. “I only want one thing from SHIELD. I want them to keep my identity secret without any strings attached.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”

“Well, it is what it is,” Bucky says. “I’m not gonna get you what you want, but I think you knew that. That’s why I’m out here dining with you, and I’ll be in the magazines for what, about a week?”

“And notoriety for all time,” Tony says. “Your face is known, or at least on the internet. You should be prepared for people to ask you to model, by the way. God knows that you could kill it on the runway.”

Bucky is amused.

“Aw, you think?”

“Of course I do. No one is gifted with that amount of shock in their eyes and goes on life being normal.”

“My, how flattering you are,” Bucky says.

Lincoln brings their food. Tells them that they can take their time, but there’s the bill.

“You know who I need to talk to,” Tony says.

“Maybe I do,” Bucky answers, evasive as possible.

“I know you got hired for skills, but if it was for lying, then this is child’s play,” Tony says.

Bucky rolls his eyes.

“It wasn’t for lying. It was because if I was about two hundred feet away, I could shoot your right pupil out and you wouldn’t even know.”

“You think I don’t have my own tech encircling the city?”

“No,” Bucky answers.

Tony stops sipping on his cider.

“Explain yourself, blue-eyed wonder.”

"Because if you’re found out, it destroys every single reputation you’re going to have to build from the start, and the climb to the top is too delicate for that.”

Tony sits back.

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be,” Bucky says. “But you’re going to want to meet my boss. I’ll take you to him some time this week, if you need. Or he can meet you.”

“I doubt he’ll be able to.”

Okay so maybe Tony shouldn’t have said that, because there is a man with an eye-patch and a truly impressive trench-coat sitting in his office chair.

“If that’s supposed to be an intimidation tactic, that’s what I learned for my ninth birthday with dear ole’ dad,” Tony says. “Literally none of them work on me.”

“Then change your ‘visitor’ chairs, they’re damn uncomfortable,” the man says. “My name is Director Fury.”

“Any first name?”

“None that you need to know. Barnes told me that you wanted to talk to me about a deal.”

“I don’t do deals.”

“And yet you run a business.”

“Noted,” Tony says, leaning on the window. “So. I want to keep doing what I do, and I want you guys to butt out of it.”

“And why would we do that?”

“Because it’s technically only making rich people sad,” Tony says. “And the occasional museum, but oh well. And, I can easily make your life worse.”

“You think I haven’t been threatened before?”

“Oh I know you have, what with your sparkling personality and charm,” Tony says. “But I’m threatening the whole of SHIELD. I have been in the dark for a long time, Fury, and as much as you hate to admit it, you don’t know half of what I can do.

The only thing people really know is that I’m a genius and so was my father, but nothing else. Neat, isn’t it?”

Fury doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“What’s your deal?”

“Glad to know you know what I can do for you,” Tony says. “I can provide security and make sure that every single person has the latest technological updates. I have one stipulation: I get to make Barnes a new arm.”

“That’s your only condition?”

“Oh, you’ll be grateful it’s the only thing I’m asking for,” Tony says. “Believe me, I’ll still be annoying. I can promise you that.”

Fury looks at him carefully. Tony Stark is still a mystery, although he seems to overestimate himself. Or how much Fury can actually see about people.

“Why Barnes’ arm?”

“Why not?” Tony asks. “After all, he deserves an arm that looks as nice as he does.”

“No in-work relationships.”

“Consider me not an employee,” Tony says.

“Then you’re not on the payroll.”

“I don’t have to be paid to get what I want to get,” he remarks.

Fury gets up from the chair (he’ll make a note to Maria: he needs something like it soon) and gives Tony a pointed look at the doorway.

“You sure about this?”

Tony’s eyes gleam.

“Are you sure you’re ready?”

Director Fury is not ready. Tony shows up in floral-printed shirts and makes sure to blast rock music wherever he goes, or worse, metal.

Barnes has never had a good poker face, which is why he’s the sharpshooter. Damned man turns to goo whenever the billionaire struts onto their property.

But he’s happy about his office chair.

#lovelyirony writes #this one was FUN i enjoyed it #thief au #kind of #bucky barnes #winteriron #tony stark #director fury #pepper potts

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crazy4myself · 5 years ago

Text

No Harm List Pt.2

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: Violence or threats of violence, explicit language, charicter death, implications of murder, mentions of blood, mentions of nudity, blow job jokes,

Summary: You live in a city where crime runs rampant. One day, you save a young boy’s life, not knowing that he is the most powerful crime lord's heir. And you have just been put on the no harm list.

a/n: sorry for the tragic backstory I didn’t mean for Hobi to get that dark, but whoop here we aree

--------

To both your relife and dismay, your life immediately returned to normal after receiving the shoes. While you were a bit wearier about walking home from work, you found no reason to hang on to the adventures of that night or the three charming men you encountered, so you told yourself to forget about it and put it behind you. And you did.

Until a few days later, when you met your best friend Hoseok for lunch.

"What the hell happened to your face" he demanded in the way of greeting.

You sighed, knowing you were going to have to tell him sooner or later, but in defense of your face, it was only peppered with a few scratches and a small yellowing bruise from when you fell. It was otherwise fine.

"You should have seen the other guy," you teased as you set your backpack down in the spare seat. Hoseok already ordered your usual for you like the angel he was, and you immediately shoved a bite of the sandwich in your mouth.

"No," he snapped, swiping the plate from you, "explain first, eat second."

"Hobi, please, I've been in class all day I'm starving," You whined in protest, reaching for your plate, but he set his lip in a firm pout, his dimples framing his upper lip and you lost the battle before it began. With a sigh, you caved, giving him a thorough retelling of the night with all the details you dare give him without, in turn, giving him a heart attack.

"He called you Cinderella and bought you new shoes," he asked with a smile brighter than the sun stretching across his face.

You groaned, "Please don't romanticize this. I'm never going to see him again, and can we mourn the fact that I have to find a new dealer. Mid Terms are around the corner, and Organic Chem is kicking my ass."

"I'm not mourning any of your bad habits."

"Oh my gosh, you're the one who told me about it," you defended in disbelief.

"At the time, I didn't think your ass was dumb enough to go for it. I had a high opinion of you back then," he huffed before handing you back your plate.

Your argument died on your lips as you stuffed your lunch in your mouth and ravaged it. Hobi watched you eat an expression of disgust and mild fascination on his face as you near deep throated a 6-inch sub.

"Stop acting like a hoe in Subway. I think the cashier is about to pop a boner," he chastised.

You looked up to see the man was, in fact, staring at you as you ate. You shot him a flirtatious wink as spinach fell out your mouth. "Let him."

"Why do I hang out with you?"

"Because I make a great company and have hot friends," you responded cooly as you licked your fingers clean.

Both were very true, but not the reason for your friendship. You were roommates with Hoseok's little sister, your freshman year of college. She took you under her wing since you were an international student, and you met Hobi that way.

Your weekends were often filled with the smiles of the Jung siblings and mischief that always came with it. You and Dawon grew incredibly close, she even offered to let you stay with her and Hobi over the summer while you were still apartment hunting come the end of the spring term.

Dawon's friendship was that one in a lifetime bond you can only get from enduring college together. The two of you were going to watch each other grow into badass boss bitches after graduation, stand in each other's weddings, be the godmother to each other's children. It was a friendship written in the stars, so you were devastated when she passed before the spring semester even ended.

The authorities claimed that Dawon was shot in a robbery gone wrong. A loss of life over something as petty as a chunk of change in her wallet. The murder wasn't caught the night of the attack, and for a time, the lack of closure ripped you apart.

You didn't even know the first day after it happened. She was shot during finals week, you were nearly camped out in the library the whole week. When she stopped responding to your texts, you just assumed she was buckling down on studying like you were. You were so caught up in your own life that you didn't get worried enough to reach out to Hobi until 18 hours after her death.

You don't remember what happened after ending the phone call or what you did, you went into shock and next thing you knew you RA was letting Hoseok into your dorm room after she received the news.

What you didn’t know what that the call never ended.

Hoseok never hung up.

Hobi stayed on the phone with you the whole time, murmuring gentle reassurances, not knowing if you could hear him or not, but knowing he could only hear your shallow breaths. He stayed on the phone with you even as he arrived on campus and entered your dorm, asking for the person on duty to find someone to let him in.

He stayed on the phone with you as he explained to your RA what happened, and watched her shed tears over his sister and struggled to give her condolences. He didn't hang up until he was in your room and wrapping his arms around you. Gently removing the phone from your ear as you stood frozen in place, before he sat you on the carpet.

The dam of emotions had burst at his touch, the feeling of comfort confirming the reality that your best friend was gone. He rocked you like a child until you nearly exhausted yourself and stayed with you through that night.

You don't remember much about the days following. You were a ghost of yourself as you finished your last two finals and packed up your belongings along with Dawon's to move out of your dorm.

There was a small service you attended that was filled with mostly strangers. Which only reminded you that you were only in her life for 10 months, a small fraction of the time she blessed this world. It only took a week for her to become one of the most important people to you, but to everyone else that ever knew her, you were just her roommate.

You do remember that summer, though. Hoseok honored his sister's wish and allowed you to stay with him while you looked for a place to live. You were a comfort to each other. The first two weeks you spent most nights sitting out on his balcony and letting him tell stories of him to his sister. On occasion, you exchanged one of your own; each seemed to paint the picture and make it seem like she might have been there sitting with the two of you.

Then something changed in Hoseok, the authorities got a lead on the identity of the murderer, a member of the notorious gang the Razor Gulls. After that, Hobi started going out at night and not coming back until early in the morning. You didn't know what he was up to, you never asked.

You got worried when his boss reached out to you because he stopped going to work for a week, you covered for him and told him that Hobi needed some time off to mourn. After that, you started to insist you eat dinner together each night before he went out. You prepared a decent meal and sat at the table and talked about mundane things. He smiled for you, but you could see the light dimming in his eyes. You could see the mask he put on for his family and friends who came to mourn her weeks ago, who still called on the occasion to check in on him, start to crack.

You began to put off your apartment hunting to prolong your time with him simply so he wouldn't be alone. Simply, to make sure someone knew he came home safe each night. What you should have done for Dawon. The only thing you could do for her now.

You don't know what happened that night on June 13th, you never asked, but you had a good idea. It was a hot and humid night, like most summer nights in the port town, but this one was especially miserable.

You couldn't keep the sticky feeling of the sweat off your palms, no matter how many times you wiped them dry. You were sitting in the living room watching shitty TV, hoping maybe this would be one of the nights that Hobi would come home early when he stumbled through the front door. At first, you thought he was drunk, but as you got closer, as you saw the blood on his clothes, you knew it was something different.

You called his name repeatedly before you got any kind of response. When he looked up at you, his eyes were vacant. There was no joy, no smiles. It made your chest tight how he seemed to look past you. It stirred up memories of the night he came to the dorm to check on you.

"Hobi, wha-" you took a look at the blood on his clothing to make sure it wasn't his own before leading him to the bathroom. You started the shower for him and stripped him of his shirt and pants leaving him in his boxers with small but firm orders to get cleaned up. You put the soiled clothing in a full trash bag shuffling around the take out containers and to shift it closer to the middle of the bag before taking the trash out to the apartment complex's dumpster.

When you got back inside, you went to his room and grabbed some boxers, sweats, and the first t-shirt you could find before heading back in the bathroom.

Through the marbled glass door of the shower, you could see that he somewhat followed your directions. He was standing under the running water of the shower, still dazed. The drained water was still tinged a slight rust color from the filth on his hands.

With a sigh, you pushed back the door and crawled in the shower with him, your shirt immediately sticking to your back as it went under the jets stream. If Hoseok was aware of his company, he remained unphased as you soaped up a loofa and began scrubbing down his back and arms and squatting down to get his legs. This was not the first time seeing the man naked, you skinny-dipped with him in the hot springs outside of town more than a few times this past winter.

Still, you kept your eyes high as you turned him to get his chest and neck as well as gently rub at the flecks of blood dried on his cheek. The toned muscle of his body showed that dancing used to be more than just a hobby for him. And you admired the careful strength wrapped in his unblemished golden skin.

It wasn't until you lathered your hands with shampoo and reached your arms up to wash his hair that a broken sob escaped his chest.

"I know," you murmured to him as you massaged his scalp with your fingers, his entire body rocking with his tears. You didn't know, you didn't have a clue, but Hoseok felt himself clinging to confidence in your words. You weren't dismissing his cries you saw and felt each one.

He tilted his head back at your gentle guidance and focused on breathing as the warm water washed through his hair.

He nearly composed himself as you conditioned his hair, quickly only letting out soft whimpers by the time you turned off the water. You toweled the two of you off quickly, dressing him in his sweats before deciding you needed the shirt more than him and traded your soaked tee for his. It fell just above your knee, and you wore shorter things in the club, so you deemed it an appropriate nightgown for the night before leading Hoseok to his room where you joined him in bed.

The silence was only broken by small sniffles as he hugged you before you finally asked in the darkness, "Do you want to talk about it?"

His body shuttered with another sob as he let out a broken no in response. You didn't push after that; you only began stroking your fingers in his hair, pushing it back from his face, like he once said his mother used to.

"Do you want me to go?" you asked softly, he shook his head buried in your shoulder, and that was that. You stayed with him, letting him mourn and process and slowly reel himself back together again as he desperately tried to fill the void in his chest. You held him as his sobs became sniffles and slowly drifted into soft snores, and even when your own eyes drooped, you held him through the night.

The next morning you woke up alone in Hobi's empty bed to the smell of bacon. When you wandered out of the room, you saw him dressed and smiling as he placed a plate of food on the table.

"I thought we could eat breakfast before I head into work," he offered as an explanation pulling the juice out of the fridge.

You tried not to be too thrown by his sudden change in mood and instead basked in the glow of his smile, as you joined him for the quiet meal. You insisted on doing the dishes so he wouldn't be late, and he thanked you before hurrying out the door.

You turned on the TV as you scraped the grease from the pan and into the trash, hearing the morning news drone on until something caught your attention. The reporter went on explaining how Kim Martin, the robber responsible for Jung Dawon's murder, was found dead in an alley in the 7th ward last night.

---

"So when is your next day off?" Hoseok asked as he stole a kettle chip from your bag, pursing his lips at the salt and vinegar. It was his least favorite flavor, but the fucker insisted on eating your food.

"Umm today might be the only day for a while, I'm scheduled for like every day this week, why?"

"You didn't take off for a while to lie low?" he questioned in disbelief.

"No, why would I? They aren't after me or anything they're after Bambie," you said, choosing to stick with the code name you gave Jungkook.

If he wasn't going to reveal your identity to his friends, you wouldn't tell yours, besides you were fairly certain Hoseok was involved in some gang shit and you were not about to give him the motive to dig into anything deep. Especially when people were getting assaulted for it.

"Y/N, you don't know how guys like this work they hold grudges," he warned.

"Look, this was nearly 5 days ago, I technically did lie low. And besides, I'm trying to take off for Mid Terms next month, I need to be able to pay my rent to do so,"

His face fell immediately "Y/N, you know if you ever need help you could always-"

"Hobi, what is rule number one of living in Alcor?"

"Don't eat the chili fries at Dax's."

You gave him a knowing look, and he slumped in his chair with a sigh, "Don't borrow money from anyone."

"Exactly, those were the exact orders you gave me my first week of living here, and I intend to stick to it,"

"Yeah, but I would like to think I'm different, that you could trust me to not hold that against you,"

You turned away from the hurt in his eyes with a sigh, "Look, I'll be extra careful, and besides, I should be done with the night shifts by the end of the month if the scholarship for med school goes through," you said with a smile. At the reminder, Hoseok immediately lit up.

"We need to plan your graduation party."

"Hobi, I don't want a-"

"I was thinking I could maybe rent a private room at the new club in BP" he continued ignoring your protest.

You graduate undergrad in 56 days. Then the two weeks later, you immediately start summer classes for Medical School. Alcor University's medical program was intensive, and one of the best in the world. And while the tuition for your bachelors was covered entirely by scholarship, you were still scrambling to afford the cost of living in the city.

Medical School was a whole different story, you just got your acceptance letter for the fast-tracked program last month. This program took your four years of schooling before residency and shoved it in about two and a half years of non-stop classes, no summer or winter breaks the only school.

You can't imagine having to work while going through such intensive studies, so you have been applying for scholarships and grants non-stop since your acceptance. Hoping you can scramble enough money to meet your living needs, so you only have to work weekends at 929. You even debated on moving into an apartment with a few more roommates just to lower your rent a little more.

Hobi continued to lay out his plans for your graduation party, it started sounding like a 3-day event. Still, maybe you were in need of a little fun before you entered your academic hell.

---

Min Yoongi parked his bike on a side road, securing the helmet to its lock before making his way down one of the main streets in the 6th ward. After reviewing some of the footage on the few surveillance cameras in the area, he found that the two thugs who snuck up on Jungkook that night were members of the Black Tips, a gritty gang from the 6th ward itching to expand their territory.

It was likely the thugs just saw Jungkook and decided to act out on their own to help pull them up the ranks, but to be safe, Yoongi has Jin, their best spider after Taehyung, keeping an ear out to make sure it wasn't a direct order from their higher-ups.

The city of Alcor was the large and filthy port city that served as the capital of Kros, a small merchant nation that was ruled by capitalism. In Kros, the market was more powerful than any politics making the two interchangeable when it came to state affairs.

Alcor is formally split into 11 wards, but most would say the city is clearly divided in two, the East and the West. The scumball that is the West was made up of Wards 4-9. The 4th and 5th warehouse districts make for a slow gradient through the ghettos and underdeveloped, impoverished areas, until you reach the 9th ward. The Pleasure Ward. A place of gambling halls, raunchy street vendors, and brothels.

No single gang owns the massive tumor that is the 9th ward, but neighborhoods and territories could be claimed. While BTS's stronghold lay firmly in the 7th ward, they had a handful of investments in the 9th, the most prominent being The Bulletproof Casino, the largest and most successful gambling hall in the Westside.

Bulletproof had undergone three expansions since its opening seven years ago. And thanks to the smart guidance of the founder and the gang's leader RM, it has quickly put a handful of half-assed lesser halls out of business. One of them being the Golden Drop, the Black Tips old club. Things have been tense since they sold their business to a Mr.Kim Namjoon two years ago, only to find the businessman had turned around and immediately sold the plot of land to BTS. The poor bastards didn't have a clue that the whole transaction was done by RM the entire time. He's done well to keep up his alias in his upcoming years.

Suga wished that Jungkook would do the same.

It sure would keep him out of a hell of a lot more trouble, incidents like the other night wouldn't have happened if the runt knew how to keep his head down, but the younger generations were not fond of street names.

Only Taehyung, who went by V, kept his because RM required that dealers have them to make it harder to get busted by cops in case some doped up idiot ever gets caught. But Taehyung has nearly grown out of the name as he's proved himself to be much more than a dealer.

The boy was cut from the same cloth as his cousin Jin and proved himself to be an excellent spider. A position not too far from being a spy, a collector of secrets and information from any person around the city. Possibly an even better one as Jin continues to slowly become the public face of The Bulletproof Casino, dealing with investors and stockbrokers of higher society has made it harder for him to blend in with the lowlifes of the West Side. Taehyung, however, has found himself able to worm his way in and out of the upper and lower class seamlessly and always dug up the dirt BTS needed.

What sets RM apart from the other scum of the lower West was he had an eye for all the currencies in life and invested in each of them; coin, knowledge, talent, and secrets. It was the secrets he held on nearly every big name in the city that slowly made BTS untouchable. Helping them live to their claim of being bulletproof.

Maintaining the dignity of the gang was how they ensured they lived up to that claim. That was why Suga was here to track down the two punks that tried to take out one of their own.

A member of their inner circle no less. BTS's civilian network was massive, every employee at every business they owned or invested in was loyal to BTS either willingly or out of obligation.

RM was known for helping relieve people from their debts, give them a second chance at life and allow them to pay him back at a much reasonable pace than any collector would allow. And they could do it financially, through their labor, or their services. Taking small jobs offered by a darker clientele. Slipping poison in a cup, being a lockpick in a heist, cutting the breaks in someone's car. These risks helped clear a large portion of the debt they may owe.

BTS also had members, their Army, people who would take the tattoo on their arm knowing it acted as both a shield and a target, but it gave them a place and a family to belong to when they lacked either. Being an Army of BTS ensured you a job, shelter, and a full stomach all luxuries on the west side.

Finally, within the members was their inner circle, people with titles who sat at RM's round table, because the corny bastard actually had a round dining table for family dinner which was scheduled to take place once a week, but happened most nights organically because his brothers liked to stay together.

Suga has been part of the inner circle since BTS was born from a gang raid gone wrong. He and Namjoon were just two bastards who came out of the rubble fighting and built the empire they had now over the past 7 years. He served as Namjoon's second before there was even an option for a third.

And if the day ever comes when Namjoon is ready to step down and hand JK the reigns, a thought he entertains with Yoongi and Jin on quiet nights at the Den, Yoongi supposes he will serve as Jungkook’s second too. If the little brat would have him. He can't imagine himself walking away from the life he lives now.

He holds nothing against Jin and Namjoon for wanting to leave. Holds nothing against them for wanting to live a quiet life with their partner, where they don't have to put their life, or someone else's on the line. Yoongi just can't imagine himself doing the same. BTS has always been his purpose; he loves his brothers and the world he's built for himself. He even likes it on days he has to clean up after snotty-nosed bunny teethed brats.

Jon Waters was such a mundane name. Suga had to believe that the man covered himself in tattoo's to compensate for it. Especially as he entered the rundown pawnshop with bars on its windows and door to see how tacky they were in person.

"You got a lotta nerve comin' into my shop," Jon growled the moment the bell alerted him of Suga's presence.

"You have a lot of nerve coming after my kid in the middle of the night. Tell me did you cry when you got your ass handed to you by some college girl," he mocked

Jon's eyes narrowed as his hand reached under the cabinet for his gun, "I'll kill you."

"1421 Lilac Drive" was his Dull response. Jon's eyes widened in shock.

"That's your sister's address, right? I gotta say you did well when your mom ditched you guys, joining a gang to provide for her. Quite noble. Sending her off to university, she didn't graduate, though," he sent a taunting smile. "Who needs your masters when you can get your Mrs. I'm sure it was easy for her to marry rich with an ass like that."

"Watch it," he snapped.

"Oh, it's hard not to. But not for long I hear she is carrying, things tend to sag after having a baby." Suga mused lazily.

"What's your point, you think knowing who my sister is, is going to scare me?"

"It should. Especially since I have someone stationed outside her house right now, and if I don't walk out of here. Hell, if I come out with my hair a little ruffled, they have orders to shoot."

"You're fucking bluffing."

"Do you really want to test me?" Jon's lips became a thin line as he made a point to take the magazine out of his gun and set them both on the counter between them.

"Goodman," Suga taunted as he locked the door of the shop and flipped the sign to close. "Now let's talk,"

---

Your day was much less interesting after your lunch with Hobi, you had one more lab before you dragged yourself to the library to get some studying done.

You were returning to your mundane struggling college student mindset as you stepped onto the elevator to take you to the fifth floor, the quietest and therefore, your favorite floor, in the library.

You were so caught up in responding to a friend about going to see her art exhibit in a few weeks that you almost didn't notice someone standing in front of the elevator doors as it stopped on the third floor.

You glanced up mindlessly and locked eyes with a familiar set of brown, doe eyes.

Which was fitting since Jungkook very much looked like a deer caught in headlights. He stood in front of you, wearing all black, which led you to think that was his usual attire. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, and you noticed the hand that gripped it was bound in a black brace.

You were his mirror as you both gaped at each other, for an unreasonably long amount of time, not knowing what to do.

You opened your mouth to break the silence when the doors began to slide shut, seeming to break Jungkook from his trance as he backed away from the elevators and sped towards the stairs deciding he could use the cardio anyways.

Jungkook felt a myriad of confusing emotions as he descended the stairs to the library. But he knew he sure did feel stupid.

He felt stupid for trying to board an elevator with the up arrow lit up when he wanted to go down to the first floor. He figured his lazy ass would ride it up and back down a few minutes and save himself the effort.

He also felt stupid for walking away. Getting in the elevator with you would have been awkward, but now that he walked away, he probably made himself seem like a creep. You seemed a little suspicious of him the night you met, but now you were definitely going to think he was in some sketchy gang shit.

And of course, he was, but he didn't want you to know that.

Jungkook also felt stupid for being worried about what you might think of him. While he was now charged with making sure your life was never at risk in the 7th ward, he wasn't supposed to ever really see you or talk to you again.

On a campus of 15,000+ students, he was certain he has never seen you in his life, but of course, he sees you now. In the library of all places.

But most of all, Jungkook felt stupid for being excited to see you. To see that the bruise on your cheek had faded to a healthy yellow and that your leggings were tucked comfortably in the black boots, he got you.

Either you didn't have a lot of shoes, or you actually liked his gift. He smiled to himself at the second thought.

Jungkook's thoughts were filled with you as he made his way back to the Den. He wondered if he might happen upon seeing you on campus regularly, or if he blew his one time chance.

He would like to think that he would say hi next time he stumbled across you. He wondered if you were graduating soon and leaving town or if you would be in the city for a while longer. The part of Alcor you were in wasn't the nicest, but he liked the thought of you getting to move uptown some after you graduate and maybe seeing you in your favorite coffee shop.

You were kind and funny and didn't completely freak out at the fact that Jungkook was mugged, and that they tried to chase you and possibly kill you for helping him escape. He liked the thought of having a friend outside of BTS who didn't care about what he did like you might.

Jungkook was thinking about you even as his phone buzzed with a text from RM with orders for a family dinner tonight.

a/n: So this isn’t quite what I wanted to be, but I really wanted to get something out for you guys to read. I already started pt.3 and have BIG plans. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. Please comment and let me know if you want to see more. and what you liked, loved, or hated about it. I can only learn from feedback :)

-> pt. 3

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cadykeus-clay · 4 years ago

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Would you mind sharing your thoughts about vex and Beau being cross campaign foils?

so!!!! first things first: apologies for taking weeks to answer this, finals + having adhd sometimes makes my brain turn to mush and forget every ask ive ever recieved. second of all, i’m assuming you sent me this bc of what i said in my vm vs. m9 how they view the world meta. and i’ll be real with you. i have exactly 0 memory of what was going through my head when i wrote that line, so i am simply going to type out a bunch of thoughts that i have on the similarities and differences between beau and vex and i hope that lives up to what you were expecting jsdflksjdksld

I'll detail some specifics in a moment, but overall, I think beau and vex share a very similar kind of trauma of exclusion in their formative years, that's caused them to have a lot of similar traits that manifest in different ways - for vex, she maintains control through her material posessions and beau finds an emotional control in her asshole-ness. I've broken this down into 5 points on which I think comparing the two really emphasizes that claim:

1. daddy issues: both beau and vex have awful no good terrible very bad dads. both syldor and thoreau can suck my ass. they both raised their kids with little love and impossible-to-meet expectations, alientating them and leaving them with lifelong feelings of inferiority and unbelonging. If beau and vex were to meet, i think they would have a very friendly toast to shitty dads, and then have a good drunk vent about it an hour later.

but, at the same time, the actual minutae of their trauma and the ways it manifests are nearly polar opposites. syldor wanted nothing to do with vex, or else wanted her to somehow become a full elf. her issue was that she would never be able to belong, despite her desire to, and as she grew up it lead to her being overly protective and even possessive of the people she found who DID accept her as she was.

With beau, rather than exclusion, her father created an environment of toxic inclusion. He created a role for beau to belong in, disregarding her distate for actually fulfilling it. And, as such, she ended up making herself into someone who could have no expectations and pushed away anyone who tried to set them up for her. In the end, they both came to love themselves by abandoning the woman their father wanted them to be but for vex it was the laying down of an impossible dream and for beau it was the picking up of a mantle she had feared to wear.

2. brothers: now, on the topic of family, I also think its really interesting how their interactions with their brothers play out. We've got vex and vax, tied at the hip til the very end and then some; and then we've got beau and TJ - decades apart and with beau barely acknolwedging TJ's existence. But, even that distance between beau and TJ didn't stop her caring for him when they actually met. She gave him lucky Jade, and she entertained the idea of kidnapping him to get him away from her stinko dad.

And I'd espeically like to talk about what she said outside the hag's hut - "I think Luc and TJ could be best friends", in comparison to the way Vex reacted when Vax told her was going to Zephrah with Keyleth for the year break. There's an aspect to the way they interact with their brothers that lets them slip back into those bad habits they formed growing up (NOT that i'm claiming vex and vax were like toxic for each other. but even good relationships can have unhealthy moments).

With Beau, when she offers to give her happiness so TJ can grow up safe, she's trying to take on the role she's ""supposed"" to fill - the big sister, the protector - because she failed to fill the one her father set out. And with Vex, when she grows jealous of Vax, it's because she's afraid that his leaving with keyleth is a sign that she no longer belongs in his inner circle, and she falls back on that childish, desperate desire to do anything to be accepted unconditionally.

3. romance: spoilers for 5 or so most recent m9 eps (115-120) if you haven't watched them ahead!!!! at this point, both vex and beau have an endgame romance - percy and yasha respectively. Obviously as the m9's campaign is still playing out, that could change, but like. yasha wrote her a love letter and they're officially going on a date so i'm counting that as at least endgame-track rather than just random flirting. What's interesting to me is that they both seem to flip between the SAME roles between their (in-game) general perception and their actual pursual of romance.

Vex gets characterized as a pretty big flirt, right? She's got the winks, the casual "darling". She's flashed grog her boobs on multiple instances with little prompting. Beau, similarly, has easily the most game out of anyone in the m9. She's slept with two guest characters and at least one more npc in the events of the game. Caleb made her a fuck mirror in her room in the mansion. And yet, in both of their actual romantic endeavors, they became the shy, uncertain type.

Vex only confessed her feelings when Percy was laying dead before her, and not an hour of game play before percy kissed her in the woods, she had a talk with vax about how she was pretty sure he didn't like her that way and she didn't want to pursue it. Beau, similarly, spent a very long time convinced that yasha wasn't looking for love after zuala, especially not in anyone like her, asked everyone in the party if they thought yasha ACTUALLY liked her, just to be safe, and then still terrified to ask her out after recieving a literal love letter. I'd argue this shift comes from that same sense of unbelonging - they're very good at pretending they fit a role but doubt their actual right to take it when the opportunity is presented. This time, the role is the lover rather than the daughter.

4. authority: Both vex and beau grew up shunned by the upper crust of society, and grew to mistrust those kinds of people. And yet, both of their arcs result in them assuming such a position. Vex, thrown out of high society gets her place as a baronness, and Beau, running from leadership of her father's business ends up a top member of the Cobalt Soul. There's not a lot here, but I find it interesting how both of their stories involve them shedding their baggage regarding authority and power and assuming it in a way that they feel comfortable in - invitation by someone she trusts for vex, and a promise of freedom of will and control for beau.

5. their deadliest sins: this is the point at which their similarities culminate and transform to a fundamental difference. despite everything they share - shitty childhoods, the small piece of family that's still good, flirtiness masking shy love, and a mistrust of those in power - vex and beau are such different characters because of their biggest vices. Vex, both in game and out, is "the greedy one". She's stingy with money, she haggles for everything, she mourns the loss of physical objects. Beau is "the mean one". She cares little for people's feelings if they're not in her immediate circle, she focuses on her tough guy image, she laughs at things she knows she shouldn't.

And, over the course of the campaign, as they find unconditional acceptance, they grow away from these traits (I won't say they grow out of them) because they heal from the things causing these vices to begin with. I've always been vocal about vex's greed being a manifestation of her class insecurity, and beau's asshole-ness stemming from her fear of being forced back into another position of complacency. And I stand by that now - all the similarities in their backstories are what tally up to these different women.

Despite her careful tally of party funds and her reflexive bargaining, vex is not cruel. she is not angry on her own behalf. She saves two boys from the market in the city of brass at great personal cost, she relinquishes an entire dragon's hoard to the devastated city of Westruun, she took the time to save a baby bear from a cage when she could have just cut and run after escaping her own. She's the first one most people go to when they need a shoulder to cry on, and she's devastated when they don't (thinkin about when Scanlan left). She carved "forgiveness" into the bow she stole from a man after killing him by proclaiming how much she loved someone, because she knew anger had no place in her heart.

And Beau, Beau is a bitch and she's harsh, but she doesn't hoard or protect like vex did. she spends her money without much of a second thought. She pitches in to help her friends buy a ton of glowsticks, and she loves to indulge in material desires like drink and good food and the nicer inn room. She's a member of an organization that's about making knowledge public rather than guarding it. And, though this may be controversial, I think her position with bowlgate of "its not our problem what cali wants to do with it", her long-standing mistrust of their alliance with the bright queen and and more recently with the tomb takers of "i want to go in and talk, rather than assuming they're antagonistic, even if it puts us at a disadvantage" are both examples of this non-possessiveness too - she has no need or desire to get involved in controlling what other people are doing.

so, i guess the general conclusion here is: vex struggles to let go of things, of money, of people. beau struggles to let herself be known in case she gets wrongly interpreted again. they both fight feelings of inadequacy, they both fight the feelings of not belonging, of 'doing it wrong', they fight the perception of them as shitty people because of the shells they hide in despite their absolute hearts of gold. but at the end of the day, vex's story is one of having to lay down what could never be hers so she can carry what is, and beau's story is one of allowing herself to be known so a place can be made for her.

#hope this is what you and that other anon were looking for jdsflkdsajfsaldfsa #critical role #vexahlia #beauregard #long post

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frickyea-guacamole19 · 4 years ago

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Also, just to add: Leaving them alone implies that the royal family cares about what others say. I doubt that. And I highly doubt the royal family uses tumblr.

Thank you for making it clear in your previous ask that your distain was not directed at me. I appreciate it. And the same goes for you. I’m just mourning the loss of a leader and I apologize if my comments or any part of my response comes off as harsh or biting. I also apologize if I’ve misquoted anything from the New York Times in my response. I’m just writing this response to explain why I do not view the late Prince Philip as evil or the Royal Family as uncaring. And, for clarification, I never said Prince Philip’s death was shocking. He was 99, and has been hospitalized on multiple occasions in recent years. Of course it was expected, you’re absolutely right.

In addition, as far as the references to his life are concerned, please feel free to refer to the article on Prince Phillip’s death, published by the New York Times. The history channel also published an interesting piece on his involvement in the Invasion of Sicily. They were truly very informative. Before I read it the other day, I was also one of those people who wrote Prince Philip off as a bad person.

I completely agree with your points, save calling the late Prince Philip evil. As a child he was smuggled out of Greece in a fruit crate during the Turkish attacks on Greece. He lived in poverty, having to keep his identity a secret for years, keeping in mind he was in line for the thrown in Greece and came from the Royal Danish bloodline.

Throughout his youth, he was sent to various schools across Europe. And while most royal children were home school, the schools he was sent to were to harden him. You can fact check me on this but at the schools he was given a bed with no mattress of any kind (if you’ve slept on hardwood alone for even one night, imagine doing it for an entire school year at boarding school), and the only kinds of showers he had access to were cold. In his five years at a particular school of which I do not remember the name, his family never came to visit him. They just dropped him there. I can’t imagine how difficult not seeing your loved ones for five years must’ve been.

As he grew older, he chose to take part in World War II. He was the outstanding cadet in his class at Dartmouth and fought on several ships including the USS Missouri, the battleship that was the final stone cast leading to the Japanese surrender in World War II.

Prince Philip spent a lot of his time and resources having playing fields and other amenities built for impoverished youth in Britain and always put his wife first. Even though she was descended from Queen Elizabeth and Victoria, he still was in a position where he could have taken power from her and claimed responsibility for changes she made, but he didn’t.

The late Prince was also the reason for success in the allied invasion of Sicily during World War II which, at the time, was overrun by Germans. He was the one who identified their Italian ships in the dark.

Moreover, when it came to Buckingham Palace, he modernized it. He was the reason intercom‘s were installed at Buckingham, so they weren’t running messengers ragged to the bone day in and day out. He had a kitchen installed in the Royal Suite and bought a washing machine, encouraging his children to partake in normal activities such as cooking for themselves, doing their own laundry, etc. Prince Philip was always seen opening his own doors, carrying his own luggage, and doing other day-to-day mundane activities himself.

I am unsure to what you are referring when you call him “evil“. But doesn’t everyone in their lifetime say it and do things that are neither respectable nor kind? Obviously there is record of him being unkind or too brash with his words. For some people, that is just their personality. And yes, it is rude and harsh, but there’s always room for forgiveness. And look at all the good he did.

There were problems in his marriage early on, yes. But he remained loyal to Queen Elizabeth II for all 73 years of marriage. He sent prince Charles and maybe prince Andrew, if I remember correctly, to the same schools that he attended. He subjected them to those environments so they wouldn’t become comfortable with having everything handed to them on a Silver Platter. So that they learned to work for themselves and not take advantage of the prerogative of status. He wanted his children to remain grounded and self-sufficient. Though none of them wrote their own speeches, as he did.

All of us as humans are products of our circumstances. It’s really a miracle that he didn’t become harsher or colder as a father, considering what he went through.

Now, to address leaving Buckingham palace alone. The Royals are celebrities. This means that most likely they have managers for certain aspects of their lives. People to control what exposure is given/received. I would certainly be shocked if the Royal Family didn’t have employees who kept eyes on every social media platform for content regarding them. regardless of whether or not they are actually used by members of the Royal Family. This includes Tumblr. Every upper level celebrity has people to do that for them. It’s how rumors and scandals are handled in modern media. With grace from those receiving the backlash, with the help of mediators and the like. So the odds of the Royal Family or someone working for them seeing these comments and remarks about the late Prince Philip are high.

Also, at the most basic level, someone has died. A man well loved by a good part of his country, a husband, a father, a grandfather, a friend. It is out of place and rude to assume the Royal Family doesn’t feel anything. We are all human. And, whether we like it or not, it doesn’t feel good when people have things to say about us that aren’t good or kind. Goo Hara and Sulli were both incredible women who committed suicide, overwhelmed by the hatred and criticism they received from the media and thousands of people every day.

Hatred is pointless. It’s not fair to say that someone who you perceive as mean or evil is impervious to unkind words. Never judge a book by its cover. The royal family appears standoffish and cold on occasions because of the image that is portrayed. But that is only what people are allowed to see. We are all human and it is unfair to say that the royal family doesn’t care about the comments based off of what you see of them. There is no one on earth who’s ever lost a loved one and not been deeply wounded by that loss.

Prince Philip was a good man. He had his downfalls, like any other human word. We can’t extrapolate those moments of unkindness over someone’s entire character. If we did that, no one would have any friends and we’d all be perceived as evil. On that same token, it is equally as unhealthy to deify anyone, or perceive them as perfect or without flaw. I’m sure there are things that Prince Philip has said and done that I have not heard of that are less than savory, unkind, mean, and any other negative adjective you’d like to use. regardless, again, at the most basic level, someone has died. It’s disgusting and repulsive to be so mocking of someone’s death.

A man just died. Let’s show some human decency and respect, please.

#prince philip #royal family #rest in peace

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atths--twice · 5 years ago

Text

Soulmates

Soulmate: a person to whom you feel an immediate connection. A connection so strong and powerful, you are drawn to them in a way you will never experience again. They are your perfect other, the missing half of you, and no love will ever compare. No matter the distance, soulmates will find their way back where they belong. ________________________________________

The long believed alien invasion of 2012 never occurred. Since that fated night, Mulder has searched for answers to questions, but has come up empty handed. Scully has been standing by watching brokenheartedly, as his obsession has begun to tear them apart.

A heart can only stretch so far before it shatters and the pieces left behind must be put back together. Sometimes a shattered heart (or two) needs extra care, love, time, and help.

Sometimes it needs guidance from someone who understands grief and pain. Someone who will not give up or back down. Someone who will see a broken heart and not declare it unfixable, but grab the tape, glue, or whatever it takes, to fix it and make it whole again.

________________________________________________________

Okay.... I have posted about this before, but as I’m a bit, just a small bit mind you, more savvy with Tumblr, I am going to post it again. Before I only posted the link to AO3 and not chapter by chapter, as I had no idea how to do that at all. I have figured it out and all I can say is... get ready...

I have recently had the pleasure of meeting two incredibly wonderful and supportive fellow Philes, @prichan7 and @scullybuck, and their encouragement and love for this story has filled me with such a sense of pride and happiness, I am so thankful to have met them. Ladies... your kindness means so much to me, you truly don’t know.

I am going to post the first three chapters today and then one, or sometimes a couple, the next day.. and so on.

This is my baby and the one I am the most proud of... I hope you like it.

Chapter One

The Origin of Maggie Scully

Maggie had been a romantic all her life. When she was younger, around 10, she began to read from the “grown up” section of the library, the young adults area. She was always an advanced reader and devoured books. She discovered Anne, the orphan girl adopted by a brother and sister. She learned new, big descriptive words reading about Anne.

Maggie fell in love with Gilbert, a sweet, romantic, caring boy who was “fathoms deep” in love with Anne upon first meeting. She yearned, despaired, and was elated when Anne and Gilbert were finally joined together in marriage. She read of Anne and Gilbert’s children. Of Rilla, their youngest who was in love with a family friend. He went off to war and her heart was broken. She cried and mourned along with all her beloved characters. When she finished the books, she began again. She became obsessed with the love the characters had for one another.

The words she read were poetry to her young soul. She needed more. The librarian observed how often Maggie was borrowing the same books. On one of her trips to the library, when she was 12, the librarian, a “kindred spirit,” showed Maggie to the literature section. She suggested a few new books she may find interesting and Maggie’s eyes lit up. She borrowed Emm a and Sense and Sensibility.

Oh … being lost in the stories of yearning love, hardships, misunderstandings, broken engagements, and true love realized, made her heart soar. She wished that she could live in her books, to know these characters, to attend balls and dance through the night.

She felt a thrill when she discovered the word ‘soulmate.’ A soulmate. It was a word she fell in love with immediately. She rolled it around and around in her mind. To think that there was someone out there destined for her, her other half, made her stomach do flip flops. She read when true soulmates had found each other, there was an unspoken understanding between them. They would feel unified to have finally found the one they had, wittingly or not, been searching for. They would be together in unity and no other happiness or joy could ever compare. Oh, how those words and thoughts had thrilled her, down to her very soul.

Reality came calling, however, no matter how a person may romanticize the world around her. Her father felt reading, especially books far beyond her age, was a waste of time. He found it “foolish for a girl to be doing, especially the books she was reading. Stories about love and romance filing her head full of frivolous unattainable things. A handsome man racing up on a horse to save her, or dying for one's true love.

Try as she might, there was no reasoning with her father. Her mother was a meek woman and she complied with her husband. Maggie’s trips to the library became obsolete. She was told to focus her attention on other things.

Her parents were devout Catholics and her time for confirmation was approaching. She was to attend the classes and study what her faith would prepare her for in her future- a life devoted to her faith, husband, and a family.

Although she obeyed, she felt that a part of her was gone without the chance to read her books and become lost in their stories. But after her confirmation, she began going to parties and meeting people. New girlfriends to gossip with, share lipsticks (of which none of them were allowed to even possess), even try out smoking, and laugh about which boys they would like to kiss.

She loved the thrill she felt being in a group of boys and girls, seeing if she might feel a spark with of them. She had not given up that she had a soulmate out there somewhere looking for her. There were boys she felt an attraction to, but it was not the same as that deep desire for a soulmate.

Then when Maggie was 20, her mother passed away. She was left with an empty hole in her life. Her father took her mother’s death extremely hard. He began to drink heavily. He was moody and depressed. But at times he was kind and emotional. During those times, he spoke of his love for his wife. How beautiful she had been, how she could light the room with her smile, how much he missed her, how lost he was without her, how he loved her from the moment he saw her, how he wished he told her more.

Maggie sat in shock. Of course she knew her parents loved each other, she was not stupid. But this ... especially from her father, left her speechless. He was tough, quiet, closed off. She had no idea he was capable of feeling that way. How naive she was, how childish in her thinking.

She was an adult, but she was still much like a child, believing love was something a person longs for, pines after, or has to suffer a huge loss to find. She saw and learned of true love, of actual soulmates that day. Not the silly little girl version she had imagined with music sounding and “happily ever after.” This was a love that ran deep and true and real.

She was emboldened by this revelation. She made a firm decision. She would not let her father drink the rest of his life away. Her mother’s memory did not deserve that disrespect. His love for her needed to be stronger than the ease at which he grabbed the bottle for comfort.

It was not an easy task, but she got him to quit. She learned things about herself during this time. Patience, understanding, and extreme empathy. Her grief was raw, but her father’s was devastating. Spending time with each other, expressing their grief, had brought them closer together. She always felt a disconnect from him, as though he did not care for her as her mother had. As they learned from each other, her heart warmed with the discovery that his love was simply quiet. He was proud of her, loved her, and wanted the very best for her. He did not say it with words too often, but his eyes and his smile told her every day.

When Maggie met Bill, she knew right away he was a good man. He was somewhat like her father-quiet, serious, stoic. Under his outward presentation, though, he was sweet, funny, romantic. He was rational and cool headed. He would be a good husband, provider, father.

She loved him, immensely, but it was not until she had Bill Jr. that she realized how much she needed and relied on him.

She was sick throughout her pregnancy, never truly gaining much weight. She could not get the baby to feed very well once they were home. She was not sleeping, had not showered, the house was a mess, and she could not stop crying. She felt like a failure as a wife and a mother.

One day, a knock sounded at the front door. Bill Jr. had just spit up all over her last clean shirt and also managed to soil his last clean diaper. Maggie felt like lying down and giving up. She did not care about the person at the door, she just wanted to sleep, cry, or scream. Maybe even all three.

The knock sounded again and a muffled voice called out, “Mrs. Scully? My name is Evelyn McCreary. Your husband works with my husband. He asked if I could look in on you. He wanted to be sure that you were okay and didn’t want you to be alone.”

Maggie began to cry. From exhaustion, embarrassment, but mostly from the caring her husband showed by asking for help for her. She would never have asked on her own. She was a navy wife now and needed to keep that stiff upper lip. As she cried, she caught a whiff of both herself and the baby. It was not a good combination.

Her pride worn down, she walked to the door. She did not look at her reflection in the mirror by the door. She knew she looked like death warmed over. If this woman was truly here to help, she was going to see how big her job would be.

Opening the door, she found not a young woman, but an older one. White hair set in a fetching style, clothes and makeup perfect. She even had a pair of gloves in one hand and her purse in the other. This woman? She was going to help?

Maggie almost closed the door in her face. Close the door before she ruined the clothes of this poor well meaning woman. She had probably thought that Maggie was simply bored and was looking for someone to gossip with and drink some tea, maybe something stronger. Well, Maggie thought, that sure ain’t the case. She stared at this immaculately dressed stranger with a look of defiance.

The eyes looking back at her were soft and understanding. She took in Maggie’s spit up covered shirt and could smell the baby’s soiled diaper. She smiled kindly at Maggie and put her gloves in her purse with a snap as it closed.

“Well,” she said with a square set to her shoulders. “It looks like we have our work cut out for us. How about you invite me in and we can get started?”

Maggie was completely floored. She expected this woman to be aghast and walk away. When she did neither, she could not do anything but allow her in the house. Evelyn set her purse down on the crowded dining room table and turned to Maggie.

“First things first,” she said with determination in her voice. “You need to get cleaned up and I will take care of this adorable baby.”

“No,” Maggie said with more force than she actually felt. “First things first. You tell me who you are and why exactly you are here.” Evelyn smiled at her, just as kindly as before, and clasped her hands together.

“My husband and your husband have become friends. They have recently worked together and have taken a liking to one another. Your husband mentioned that you had recently had a child. My husband, Philip, had asked how you were doing. Bill was honest with him and said it had been hard. My Philip told me, and I knew I had to come right over. You see, Mrs. Scully,” she said with a brief pause as she took a breath. “I know how hard it can be. How you can feel ... alone and no one understands. I have had six children and I was unprepared for each one of them.” Maggie balked at her. Six children? God. That sounded exhausting.

“My husband and I married young,” she continued. “My mother had passed when I was a girl and I never learned about ... well many aspects of marriage.” She laughed and her cheeks flushed. “When I discovered I was with child, I was terrified. I had no idea what I would do.” She smiled at Maggie kindly and reached out to touch the baby’s foot.

“My husband was wonderful to me the entire time. He was tickled that we would be having a baby. He boasted to everyone how happy he was to be a father. How he loved that I would be giving him that honor. But then the babies came ...” she became quiet for a second, lost in her memories. Maggie shifted uncomfortably, aware once again how terrible she smelled.

Evelyn gave a little shake of her head and then smiled at Maggie. “Mrs. Scully,” she said kindly. “I would love to tell you my story when you have had a chance to clean up a little. I can imagine you don’t feel so wonderful at this moment.”

Maggie’s eyes filled with tears at the kindness in her voice. “I can’t get cleaned up,” Maggie said with a sob. “There is so much laundry to be done, and I don’t have any more clean shirts.”

Evelyn reached for the baby, and this time Maggie let her take him. She brought her hands to her face as her tears began to fall faster. Evelyn tucked Bill Jr. into her side and drew Maggie to her with an arm around her shoulder.

“My dear,” Evelyn said softly. “Please lead me to the bedroom and we will get you sorted out.”

Maggie tearfully led Evelyn toward the bedroom. She set the baby down in the bassinet that sat in the room. Evelyn walked into the bathroom and started the shower. When it was a comfortable temperature, she turned to Maggie and told her to take her time and get cleaned up. Maggie sobbed and began to unbutton her shirt. Evelyn walked out and closed the door behind her.

Maggie left all her clothes in a disgusting heap on the floor and stepped into the warm steamy shower. She let the water wash over her and cleanse her body and soul. She was so bone tired and this shower was the best experience she had in days. She stayed under the spray and felt her muscles relax. She cried and cried. Let all her anxiety out in that shower. Felt it wash away down the drain.

She washed her hair and body twice, exhilarated by the feeling of being clean. Erasing the stench of milky baby vomit and soiled diapers. She stayed in the warm cocoon until the water began to cool. Finally she had to turn the water off and return to real life.

A towel had been placed out for her and her disgusting clothes were gone. She had not even noticed Evelyn return to the bathroom. She grabbed the towel and wrapped herself in the fluffiness. God, she felt like a new person. She dried her hair with an extra towel until it was just slightly damp.

Maggie walked into her bedroom and found that Evelyn had put some clothes on the bed for her. A button down shirt of Bill’s was laid out beside a pair of pajama pants. She slipped them on, no underwear available to be worn. She did not care and she doubted Evelyn would either.

Once she was dressed, she walked out to find Evelyn in the dining room. She had cleaned up the clutter on the table and changed the baby. He was laying in the bassinet that she had moved from the bedroom.

She looked up and smiled as Maggie came in the room. She walked toward her and put her arm around her shoulder, leading her to the table. Maggie sat and Evelyn disappeared into the kitchen. She came back with a two cups of tea and set them down.

“Do you take cream and sugar?” Evelyn asked kindly. Maggie shook her head. “I was able to find one last diaper for the baby, but he will be needing more. I placed a call to a friend of mine and she will be dropping off some items for you as soon as she can,” Evelyn said as she sat and drank her tea. “I have also started washing some clothes in your washing machine. Such a wonderful invention. Things took longer in my day. Once those clothes are done, I will hang them for you and start more clothes.”

Maggie was silently crying, looking down at her teacup. She was overwhelmed by everything, but especially by the kindness this woman was showing her. She did not know her, but she was here and she was helping. She had already done so much in the short amount of time she had been here.

She lifted her eyes to Evelyn. She could not talk around the lump in her throat. She shook her head, trying to fight back her tears. She took a deep breath and opened her mouth to speak.

“Before you say anything,” Evelyn said softly, setting down her cup and taking Maggie’s hand. “Let me tell you my story. Drink your tea and just listen.”

Maggie took another deep shuddering breath and nodded. She did not know what she was going to say anyway. That she was fine? She clearly was not. She did not need any help? It was obvious that she did. She just needed to say something. Instead she took a sip of tea and waited for Evelyn to speak.

Evelyn placed her hands on the table and folded them together. She told Maggie of her hardships with her babies. How she had been wholly unprepared for caring for them. She did not know anything about children and she felt like a failure every day. She cried more in that time than any other time in her life. When the babies cried, when they spit up, when dinner was burnt, when her husband’s shirts were not ironed, or worse, when they too were burnt.

But through it all, her husband had been there for her. He was always encouraging, always positive. He ate the burnt dinner, smiling through every bite. He hid his scorched shirts beneath jackets, kissing her goodbye and thanking her for seeing that he looked respectable and loved. He was her champion, her cheering squad and she loved him immensely for it.

They moved to a new base when she was pregnant with their fourth child. Two of the children were in school during the day at that time, so she was home with only the youngest child. She was thankful for that because the fourth pregnancy had been her worst. She was sick almost throughout. She could barely eat, she was not sleeping and the housework began to suffer.

There were not scorched shirts anymore, there were simply none ready at all. Dinners were late as they had to wait for her husband to cook them and he worked late shifts. She would cry as she sat holding the youngest one and her husband served the older children soup and toast, grilled cheese, eggs. Whatever was on hand and easy to make. He would make them laugh with silly voices and songs he made up. Then they would help him clean up and head to bed.

He would come to her and wipe her tears. Tell her he loved her, she was the only person he would ever love in this lifetime and the next. He would take the little one and bathe her, put her to bed, and come find Evelyn still on the sofa, crying. He would take her to their room, help her get her night clothes on, and brush her hair. He would sing to her as he did, telling her how beautiful she was. How her hair was like spun gold and it shined brighter than the sun. He would hold her as she cried when they went to bed.

It had been two weeks and this had become their routine, until she heard a knock at the door. She opened it to find a dark skinned woman with the biggest smile she had ever seen. She told Evelyn that her husband had run into her, literally, and helped her pick up the items she spilled.

He struck up a conversation with her and found she was looking for work, but no one wanted to hire her. He said that was ridiculous and he hired her on the spot. Said he needed someone to help his wife because he loved her so much and seeing her breaking down the way she was, was breaking his heart. He cried for his wife, cried for her suffering, and asked, begged, for her help.

Her name was Tanzie and she was a godsend. She helped with anything and everything. She washed, cleaned, cooked, ironed, and cared for the children. But most important, she became the friend that Evelyn needed. She cared for her. Cooking bland foods that she could hold down, offered up advice her mama had for pregnancy, remedies that were a wonder for Evelyn.

Tanzie helped her get back to herself and her family. She was the best friend Evelyn ever had. They shared secrets, dreams, and their lives.

“Mrs. Scully, without the love of my husband, and the care of others, I would have crumbled. I would have given up. I am a lot older than Tanzie was when she showed up that day, but I would like to be here to help you as she did for me.” Evelyn said kindly, looking into Maggie’s eyes.

Maggie sat in rapt attention, tears running down her face, through the whole story. Listening to Evelyn’s story of love filled Maggie with hope, with happiness and such immense love. She read of soulmates, saw it through her father’s eyes, knew she found it in Bill, but Evelyn’s story ... it was pure love and devotion.

And now Evelyn sat there, in a dirty house, with clutter and laundry piling up, offering her help because Philip heard about her need from Bill. A loving heart reached out to another loving heart. As a result, without hesitation, Evelyn came to help Maggie. To offer what she could, however she could.

Through her tears, Maggie smiled and nodded. “Please, call me Maggie,” she said as she grasped Evelyn’s hand, reaching out for the lifeline that had been sent to her.

I had posted all of this story here, chapter by chapter, but now… I’m not sure how to find it. So, I am posting the link to it on AO3. Happy reading… with perhaps some tears along the way. 💕

#Soulmates #The X Files #XF Fanfic #From the breakup to their reunion #What happened in the interim?#Sadness #Angst #Separated #Love and Caring #Taking care of each other

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