#once i get the ick i can’t shake it and they lose all of their attractiveness to me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

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

530 notes · View notes

finastrashcan-blog · 5 years ago

Text

— i need you.

member: jeon jeongguk

genre: smut + angst + college!au

word count: 1.6k

warnings: cheating / jeongguk is kind of an asshole

parts: 01

soundtracks: love$ick, mura musa ft asap rocky + sidelove, astrid s

+++

gukkie (02:24) – you up?

You shouldn’t respond to his texts. You know you shouldn’t. But the bright light emitting from your screen has you rolling over, blurry gaze drifting over the message, a strange feeling sinking into your stomach. You were meant to be sleeping, but sleep had recently become virtually impossible lately. And it was all because of the name flashing across your screen. You don’t know why you do it but you sit up, elbows digging into the pillow that was once beneath your head, and reply.

you (02:27) – yeah. why?

gukkie (02:27) - can you come out? wanna talk

He wants to talk. That’s rich coming from him. Especially because he’s been blatantly ignoring your texts. You quickly flick through them now, cringing at your desperate multiple texts that were all left on read. It makes the vein in your temple twitch, how quick he was to ignore your attempts at communication but here he was at ass o’clock in the morning, demanding you come out to hear him talk. If had asked you to do that a week ago you would have given in, trotted out neatly like an obedient pup. But you’re sick of this cycle now. He was always pushing you away when you needed him most and dragging you back in when you thought it was finally over. He’s not going to get what he wants – not anymore.

you (02:30) – no.

gukkie (02:30) – what why?

gukkie (02:31) – y/n please i really need to talk to you

gukkie (02:31) - ?

gukkie (02:32) – y/n

gukkie (02:35) – can i come in? im at the door

You jolt up at that, the sheets you’d cocooned yourself in tipping towards the floor. There’s a beating in your chest that makes your throat close up, palms clammy as your fingertips swipe furiously across your keyboard.

you (02:36) – why? leave. i don’t want to talk to you.

gukkie (02:36) – can we talk please fuck don’t make this difficult

you (02:37) – me? i shouldn’t make this difficult? you can fuck right off jeongguk you have no right to say that. leave me the hell alone.

gukkie (02:37) – im sorry i know i fucked up please im trying to fix this let me in please

The sorry takes you by surprise. Jeongguk was not a person to say sorry. Ever. He usually found a way to apologise without ever uttering that word. It was one of the things about him that you hated. His lack of concern about how his actions affected others. That air about him because ever treated him like he was above apologising, like he was perfect. In a weird way he was. You should know, you’ve been friends since kindergarten. You’d watched him bloom into the person he was today; from a shy quiet kid who hated losing at anything to the tall confident athlete he was today. You don’t know when he developed that particular god complex – maybe when the girls in your class realised Jeongguk was pretty cute and his locker became stuffed with love letters and marriage proposals. You didn’t expect him to get any worse in university but somehow did. That arrogance of his landing practically all the girls on campus into his hands, like putty. You never expected to fall for that person, the person he became. But you did, like every other girl in this school, swooning over his buff arms and stupidly boyish grin. It was the tattoo that did you in though. The ink looked delicious over his skin, swooping black marks that curled from his shoulder into his bicep. It was so pretty, bold against his sun-kissed skin. Maybe if you had never seen it, you wouldn’t have done what you did (you know that’s a lie, you would have landed in Jeongguk’s bed regardless).

You want to push him away, forget what happened that night despite being incapable of doing so. But your heartaches too much, the sorry making your eyes swell, hot with tears. It’s what makes you roll out of bed and pad to the front door, glad that Chaeyoung was gone for the weekend.

You don’t expect to see him like that when you open the door.

His eyes are red, dark marks beneath them. The sight alone, makes your heart drop to your gut, an unsettling feeling resting in your chest. It’s an oddity, to see that much raw emotion in his eyes. Triumph, glee, joy – those were common. But Jeongguk is staring at you with such wide doe eyes, an emotion you’re afraid to identify buried in his brown eyes. He blinks like he can’t believe you’re right in front of him.

“Hi,” He croaks out, voice uncharacteristically soft.

“Hi.” You whisper it, terrified by how run down he looks. Jeongguk cares about his appearance, deeply. To the point of vanity if Park Jimin didn’t exist to take that title. But he looks haggard, hair a tousled mess instead of its neat style and a ketchup stain on his white hoodie. He’s holding it around him like a child clinging onto a blanket, back caved in on itself instead of the usual self-assured stance.

“Can I come in? He kicks his scuffed sneakers into the ground. “To talk.”

“To talk,” You repeat, trying to sound firm. Your early morning calls with Jeongguk usually never ended in just talk.

He walks in carefully like he’s stepping on glass. You would sympathise with him if he hadn’t stomped all over your heart already. You watch as he sits down on the couch Chaeyoung had stolen from her sister’s place and then pick the seat furthest away from him. When you sit, the shirt that you’d tossed on to sleep in rolls up your thigh, revealing a lick of skin that has the air growing cold around you. Something in you wants to crawl closer, nearer, on top of him. Any position that brought your skin together.

You yank the shirt over your bare thighs, acutely aware of his trained gaze on the ground.

“So,” You hiss out. “Talk.”

“Eunbi dumped me.”

You freeze, skin prickling at the revelation. Kwon Eunbi. His long-time girlfriend. The girl you absolutely abhorred because she hated you for no reason. Until there was a valid reason to hate you.

“Oh.” You said, clamping down hard on the questions rising in your throat. Jeongguk wasn’t your best friend anymore – why should you care about the details.

“Yeah,” He mumbles, pathetically really, fingers picking at the rips in his jeans.

“Sorry. You’ll find someone else.”

He looks up at that, eyes sharp. “You’re not going to ask why?”

“Why should I?”

“Why should you – fuck! Please, stop making this hard for me.” His gaze is hot, frustration making his jaw tick. You want to punch him.

“Why is it always about you?” You retort, voice rising out of your control. “Why should things be easy for you? You’ll be alright, Jeongguk. You’re fine – stop being dramatic.”

“I’m trying to fix what I fucked up! You’re not helping with that attitude! I know I messed up and I came here to make it better. Please, I don’t want to fight with you.”

You pause at that, chewing your bottom lip because he looks wounded. You don’t want to fight him with either but you’re still so angry. You can’t help the words that fly out of your mouth

“What do you want me to say, Jeongguk? I’m sorry your girlfriend dumped you. Here’s my pity. And then what, I roll over and let you fuck me?”

It’s so quiet you can hear the blood roaring in your ears. Your cheeks feel wet and there’s a ringing in your skull. He just stares at you, mouth a hard line.

“Why’d you say it like that? Was that all it was to you?” His voice wavers and it makes your heart seize up. Why was he acting like the victim? Who was the one who was played with here? Tossed around like a ragdoll? Called upon only when he had a use for you?

“That’s all it was to you,” You bite out, shaking slightly from how furious you feel. “Why would I treat any differently?”

“That’s what you thought?”

“That’s what I know.”

He pauses, brief shaky, his hands clasped together tightly. “I put my relationship on the line for you. I lied to her for you. You weren’t just a quick fuck, y/n. You weren’t.”

“But you acted like I was,” You murmur, voice small. Jeongguk exhales loudly and then he’s on you, squeezing you so tightly that you’re paralyzed for a moment, the press of his firm chest against yours making the air in your lungs vanish.

“Why the hell are you so difficult?” He whispers into your skin, shifting around to pull you into his lap. You don’t like how your body melts, finally getting what it’s been craving for weeks now. Your brain can’t formulate an answer to his question, focusing on memorizing the curve of his muscles beneath your fingertips. His skin felt warm, eliciting a tingly feeling across your own skin, leading straight to your core. You can feel his eyes on your face, his hands cradling your waist gently like he’s afraid you’ll bolt. You want to make a home in his hold instead, a place for yourself only. You hope he can’t read the desperation in your eyes. You need him more than you want to admit.

“Can I tell you why Eunbi broke up with me?”

You nod, heart skipping in your chest. He waits for you to look up, his gaze steady on you. A determination in his eyes that makes you shiver. Then he says it, the words you’ve been aching to hear since this all started. Since the first night that you’d stumbled into bed together, too drunk to care about the consequences.

“I told her I didn’t love her anymore. I told her I loved you.”

#jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #bts smut #bts x reader #jungkook angst #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic

148 notes · View notes

angelofthequeers · 5 years ago

Text

Hold Me By Both Hands: Chapter 37

Disclaimer: I don’t own ML.

Why yes, as much as I love Lady Noire with all my heart, I’m slightly creeped out by the fact that her outfit is a leather suit that’s so skin-tight that it makes her boobs pop and her belly button visible. When she’s FIFTEEN. (Or 14. I don’t even know their ages anymore).

Chapter 36 | Chapter 38 | AO3 link

His lady. Marinette. His lady is Marinette. How had Misterbug never seen it before? The same pigtails, dark as night; the same angular eyes that shine with a determined ferocity that’s always struck him as familiar, even if he’d never quite figured out why. Even though those eyes are now the cat-like green of his when he’s Chat Noir and her black hair falls down her back in a loose braid, she’s still recognisably Ladybug. And she looks utterly incredible in her suit: a cropped, long-sleeved black qipao top with bright green lining and two small slits up both sides at the bottom, over what looks like black gloves and a tight black suit with thin green lines down her sides and outer thighs. She’s also got a thin black belt with a green paw print on one side around her waist, along with knee-high black boots with green trim around the top and soles that appear to be green with black paw pads if Misterbug looks closely as they run.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng is stunning, no matter what guise she’s in. How did he get so lucky as to fall for the same girl twice? All his feelings for Ladybug, died down to background noise since being with Marinette, are rushing back to him in full force, filling his veins with jittery little ladybugs instead of blood and warming him better than any expensive heating system ever could.

Of course, it’s not a hundred percent certain. But honestly, who else could it be? Marinette trips down the stairs and hurts her left arm (although he’s got doubts about that being an accident, after her recent run of bad luck), and Ladybug’s left arm is hurt so badly that she can’t be Ladybug? And every single time Marinette’s been around, Ladybug hasn’t been, and vice versa? The way she’s been odd every time he’s brought up Marinette? How she was conveniently out on a secret mission when Evillustrator was targeting Marinette? No; now that Misterbug’s mind has connected the two girls, there’s no way he can see Marinette and Ladybug as two different people.

But what’s he supposed to do? He can’t just up and tell her. She’d flip out if she knew. And…maybe he’s just a bit scared. Maybe, after Marinette’s confession about the ways in which she used to pursue Adrien, there’s that fear that she’ll not want to be with Chat Noir if she learns that they’re the same people, especially since she’s confided in him without the knowledge that he’s the boy she was talking about. And considering that Marinette is one of Misterbug’s best friends and he’d kill everyone in the room and then himself if anything happened to her, there’s no way in hell he’s going to do anything to risk losing her.

“Um, excuse me, what the hell?” says a familiar voice, cutting through Misterbug’s thoughts. He and Lady Noire have finally made it outside, where there are vines and tendrils covering almost every inch of the place, plunging the courtyard into the quiet, breath-holding atmosphere of the heart of a forest. What the hell is this akuma annoyed about?

“Oh, hi, Honeybee!” Lady Noire says. “Chat and I decided to try switching our Miraculouses for a bit, to get accustomed to each other’s powers.”

“We – did! Yeah!” Misterbug says. “Misterbug and Lady Noire, at your service!”

Honeybee wrinkles her nose. “Eww. Ladybug looks way better in spots than as a mangy alley cat.”

“Luckily for her, she doesn’t have to give a fuck about what you think!” Rena Rouge says brightly as she lands beside Honeybee, while Carapace skids to a halt next to Lady Noire. Honeybee flips Rena Rouge off in response.

“Guys, focus!” Lady Noire easily slips into her role as the team leader. Another sign that Misterbug had missed! Marinette is class president; she’s a natural leader! “What are we up against?”

“A hacked-off gardener, I think?” Rena Rouge says. “Called himself Tangleweed before he ran and got his plants to try and strangle the hell out of us.”

“How do we find him, then?” Misterbug says. “With all these plants, he could be anywhere.”

“Just follow the leafy green road, dude,” Carapace says. Huh. Now that Misterbug looks closer, the vines and other plants do seem to be trailing from a common source outside what he assumes is the school gates, not that he can make sense of what’s up and down in this place.

“Well,” Misterbug says, “everything will be just vine once – ow!”

“Leave the puns to the clown, bugaboy,” Lady Noire says with a charming little smile, retracting her baton after bopping him over the head with it.

“Okay, I take it back,” Honeybee blurts out. “Lady Noire is just as hot as Ladybug, and feel free to stomp my head into the ground whenever you want. I’ll totally thank you for it.”

Lady Noire snorts at that. “I’ll remember your offer. But let’s take down Tangleweed before I go stomping on heads.”

Following the road of plants leads them out of the school and into the streets of Paris, which have also been overrun and choked just like the courtyard. Once they’re out of the school, however, following the plants is unnecessary to find Tangleweed. Unless Misterbug’s sorely mistaken, the massive flower bud on the tip of the Eiffel Tower is most certainly the location of this akuma.

“If this is another Horrificator pod person thing, he better not be slimy,” Honeybee says with another nose wrinkle. “Ick.”

“I’d comment on that, but I’m afraid Lady Noire would hit me next,” Rena Rouge says dryly.

“Damn right,” Lady Noire says with a shit-eating grin. Fantastic. Is Plagg’s bastard energy rubbing off on her? “Well, bugaboy, what’s the plan?”

Misterbug blinks when his teammates turn to stare at him expectantly. “M-Me?” he stammers. “Aren’t you the brains, milady?”

“Sure, when I’m Ladybug,” Lady Noire says, twisting the tip of her boot on the ground coyly. Misterbug’s heart nearly gives out at the sight because this is his gorgeous girlfriend Marinette he’s talking to. “Come on, milord, I’m sure you can think of something.”

“I’m gonna be sick,” Rena Rouge mutters.

“Payback’s a bitch,” Lady Noire grins.

“Well, you don’t have to watch me make out with my boyfriend! And ew, Ladybug watches me lock lips. I’m gonna make myself sick now.”

“Guys, focus!” Misterbug whines. Lady Noire falls silent, though her green cat eyes continue to glitter with mischief. “D’you think we can get to Tangleweed ourselves? Or should I Charm it?”

“Not this early,” Lady Noire says. “At least get closer and gather information. The Lucky Charm doesn’t just give you what you want. You have to make do with what you get and figure out how to win the battle!”

“May I just repeat,” Honeybee says, “please crush me into the ground.”

“Come on!” Lady Noire spins her baton. “Let’s go yank some weeds!”

“Hey, that’s my line!” Misterbug complains as he leaps after her, followed by Rena Rouge, Carapace, and Honeybee. It’s easy enough to make it to the Tower; the problems start when they try to scale it and a thick root appears out of nowhere and literally slaps Honeybee out of the air.

“Ah,” Misterbug says. “Yes. Because this was going to be easy, just for me.”

“You know, putting on this suit is probably the best thing I’ve ever done,” Lady Noire says cheerfully and bats a massive tendril of grass away from Rena Rouge with her good arm, wincing as she does so.

“Stop being a bastard and help me figure this out!”

“Fine, fine. Let’s try a distraction! Rena, Honey, keep him occupied. Misterbug, Carapace, and I will try and sneak around.”

“I grow gayer every time you call me Honey,” Honeybee says, then spins her trompo and leaps out onto a massive pink flower. “Hey! Planthead!”

“Look at Honeybee in her natural habitat!” Rena Rouge grins, stabbing a tendril with her flute. Honeybee shoots her a death glare.

“Come on!” Misterbug says. He, Lady Noire, and Carapace take off up the Tower, although Lady Noire noticeably winces every time she’s forced to put weight on her injured arm. Oh. Shit. Misterbug had forgotten about that!

“I’m fine,” Lady Noire huffs when she catches him staring. “Seriously.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe that,” Misterbug says. “Look, you can stay on the ground and –”

“Like hell! I can still fight, bugaboy!”

“Uh, am I missing something, dudes?” Carapace says.

“I just don’t want you to hurt yourself even more!” Misterbug says.

“I don’t need you to coddle me! I can – ah!”

Tangleweed seems to have finally clued in that he’s getting a surprise visit from the rear. A vine lashes out and Lady Noire’s forced to dodge with the reflexes of, well…a cat. But she’s unprepared for the follow-up attack, especially as she hisses and cradles her arm to her chest, and she’s knocked off the beam that she’s clutching, hurtling towards the ground with a shrill scream as her staff clatters just out of reach.

“I got her!” Carapace says and dives after her before Misterbug can devolve into a panic attack at the sight of his lady plummeting off the Eiffel Tower. “Shellter!”

No. Focus! She can take care of herself. That’s why you love her. Focus, Misterbug!

Right. New plan. He drops to scoop up Lady Noire’s baton from the stray beam and then continues scaling the Tower, until he’s at the tip and right next to the massive pink flower bud. This close, it looks like it’s pulsating…wait, no, it is. Ew. Good thing Honeybee’s not up here or she’d be pitching a fit.

“Right,” Misterbug says, and takes advantage of Lady Noire not having her baton to add, “Time to nip this in the bud!” He shakes the baton to lengthen it, then jabs at the bud with a bellow…only to be grabbed by the ankles by a vine and hoisted into the air.

“Misterbug!” Lady Noire cries from on the ground as another tendril starts snaking towards his ears. “Use your Lucky Charm!”

Right! “Lucky Charm!” Warm power rushes through Misterbug as he bends up to toss his yo-yo, so unlike the cold energy of Cataclysm, and he’s so preoccupied with this warmth that he almost misses the summoned item that floats back towards him. It’s – “A feather? What am I supposed to do with this?”

Before he can start to think of a plan, though, there’s a low groaning sound that splits the air. The tendril around his ankles loosens, almost as though in shock, and he drops off the creaking, leaning Tower like a stone and is forced to whip his yo-yo off and toss it back at one of the beams to arrest his fall.

“Well? What did it give you?” Lady Noire says once he’s on the ground and can see the reason for his release: the bottom of the toppled Tower is corroded, just like whenever he uses his Cataclysm as Chat Noir. In response to her question, Misterbug holds out his hand to reveal the feather.

“I don’t know what to do with it!” he says. “I mean, I thought of tickling it, but you’d do something totally different! It can’t be that easy!”

Lady Noire hums and looks back at the collapsed Tower. “Well, I’d come up with some convoluted plan, but you’re a simple, straightforward guy,” she says. “Maybe it is that easy. But you can’t just get up there and tickle the akuma without coming up with a plan, which is the whole point of the Lucky Charm.”

“And we have to do it fast, dude,” Carapace says. “I’m gonna change back in a few minutes. And so’ll Lady Noire.”

“Well, the obvious thing would be to have Rena keep it occupied with Mirage while I tickle the flower and Honeybee paralyses Tangleweed,” Misterbug says slowly. “But it can’t be that simple…right?”

“Why not?” Lady Noire says with a small grin. “It’s still a plan. Carapace and I can help Rena Rouge keep him busy until our timers run out. Nice thinking, milord.”

“Alright, let’s freakin’ do this.” Rena Rouge twirls her flute and raises it to her lips to play a little tune. “Mirage!”

Birds. Her illusion is birds. Hundreds of them, flapping around Tangleweed’s vines and vanishing in orange light when the vines touch them, but they seem to do the trick of keeping his attention focused away from the superheroes, as his vines start to lash out at them.

“Let’s go!” Misterbug takes off running for the fallen Eiffel Tower with Honeybee, ducking and weaving through vines and flowers and leaves, batting them away when they react to his presence and try to grab him once again.

“Ew,” Honeybee grimaces when she and Misterbug finally make it to the pulsating pink bud. “Gross.”

“That’s what I said,” Misterbug says. “You ready?”

Honeybee steels herself and nods. “Venom!” she says and catches her throbbing trompo. Then she wrinkles her nose. “Ugh. I’m never gonna be able to look at my weapon the same way again.”

“Get ready to pollinate this plant,” Misterbug grins. Honeybee gives him such a venomous look that he’s surprised he doesn’t drop dead on the spot. “Fine, fine, I’ll lay off the jokes.”

“Just tickle the damn thing already!” Honeybee says. Sticking out his tongue – because okay, Adrien’s technically not yet friends with Chloe again and she doesn’t know he’s Misterbug slash Chat Noir, but it’s so much fun to mess with her – he steps up to the bud and starts to tickle it with the little red feather. The bud quivers, then shivers, then thrashes wildly and falls open to reveal the green-skinned man inside. Honeybee’s on the case straight away, jabbing her trompo into Tangleweed’s arm to freeze him on the spot.

“Nice,” Misterbug says. “Where d’you think the akuma is?”

Honeybee raises an eyebrow. “Probably the shears he’s very obviously holding in his left hand?” she says. Misterbug squints at Tangleweed. Oh. Right. That…would make sense. Biting down on a scathing retort, he grabs the shears and snaps them over his knee to release the evil purple and black butterfly.

“Don’t forget to capture the akuma!” Lady Noire calls over from the base of the ruined Eiffel Tower.

“Hey, I’ve always wanted to do this!” Misterbug swipes open his yo-yo and tosses it at the akuma, capturing it and reeling it back in. “No more evildoing for you, little akuma! Time to de-evilise!”

“You are a massive dork and I hate that I’m in your presence,” Honeybee says. Misterbug grins at her as he releases the now-white butterfly.

“Bye-bye, little butterfly!”

“Nope. Ladybug does it better. Don’t even try.”

“You could be just a little more encouraging, you know,” Misterbug says.

“That would imply that I approve of you being a gigantic loser.”

“Hmph. Don’t be such a hater.” Misterbug throws the feather into the air before Honeybee can retort, and when he calls, “Miraculous Misterbug!” the ladybug swarm surges around Paris, restoring the Eiffel Tower and other damaged buildings and vanishing any trace of Tangleweed’s plants.

“Did you seriously just –?”

“Hey, you told me not to try and be like Ladybug,” Misterbug grins. Honeybee’s eye twitches.

“Not bad for your first time as Ladybug, milord,” Lady Noire says as she bounds over with Rena Rouge and Carapace. She holds out her good fist, and Misterbug, Rena Rouge, Carapace, and Honeybee follow suit and the five of them cry, “Pound it!”

[8:33 pm] miraculass

ladyBIrd: nice job today, guys

what does the fox say: wait why is your name still that

what does the fox say: you’re lady noire now right

ladyBIrd: only temp

catitude: yeah we thought it’d be good to try each other’s powers

catitude: in case we ever have to swap and realise we’re fucked bc we don’t know how to use the other

mess w turt u get hurt: makes sense

honeybeetch: just pls hurry up and switch back

honeybeetch: i can’t stand to see ladybug like this

honeybeetch: i mean

honeybeetch: she’s hot but i can’t handle misterbug

honeybeetch: he’s a giant loser

catitude: :(

mess w turt u get hurt: omg chloe????

honeybeetch: !!!!!!!

ladyBIrd: caRAPACE NO

honeybeetch: FUCK IVE BEEN EXPOSED

what does the fox say: welp

catitude: f

airhead: Plot twist

airhead: Did I get that saying right?

mess w turt u get hurt: SRY

mess w turt u get hurt: i just

mess w turt u get hurt: the timing of honeybee esp after queen bee

mess w turt u get hurt: and how she’s a bitch here but like

mess w turt u get hurt: not nasty

mess w turt u get hurt: and chloe’s been better since mal

mess w turt u get hurt: even said congrats to marinette n adrien at school that day

mess w turt u get hurt: idk how chloe and honey were together after mal but prob rena

honeybeetch: only ladybug can call me honey shellhead

mess w turt u get hurt: only rena can call me shellhead fuzzhead

what does the fox say: aww i didn’t know we were at that stage in our relationship

mess w turt u get hurt: stfu don’t make a big deal of it or anythin

what does the fox say: 0:)

catitude: dw honey we’re not taking the miraculous

honeybeetch: good bc like fuck i’ll give it

ladyBIrd: Honeybee

honeybeetch: ugh fine

honeybeetch: only for u lb

honeybeetch: but thanks for not taking it

ladyBIrd: just

ladyBIrd: stop figuring each other out

catitude: pls

catitude: idk who milady is

catitude: now i feel sad :(

ladyBIrd: ugh

ladyBIrd: you’re a dork

catitude: eat me ;)

honeybeetch: ew get your kink away from me

airhead: Is it too late to give back my Miraculous?

ladyBIrd: yes

catitude: yes

mess w turt u get hurt: yes

what does the fox say: yes

honeybeetch: yes

honeybeetch: anyway later losers

honeybeetch: late night massage calling my name

airhead: My mother will be expecting me

honeybeetch: mine won’t

honeybeetch: not since i told her to gtfo back to new york

honeybeetch: don’t think she wants to talk to me for the next century

what does the fox say: yeah i should start on my homework

mess w turt u get hurt: SHIT FORGOT STUDY DATE WITH GF

what does the fox say: loooool

catitude: f

catitude: let’s take this to dms milady

ladyBIrd: such a gentleman

[8:39 pm] direct messages

Chat Noir: so um

Chat Noir: how’s the arm

Ladybug: sore as hell

Ladybug: freakin broke it

Chat Noir: oof

Ladybug: yep

Ladybug: prob gonna be out of commission for a few weeks

Ladybug: least the cure fixed any damage I did to it when I was transformed

Chat Noir: just treat plagg well

Ladybug: same with Tikki

Ladybug: I miss her already

Chat Noir: same with plagg

Chat Noir: even if he’s a gremlin

Ladybug: he told me to tell you he’s super offended

Chat Noir: let him be

Ladybug: um

Ladybug: ty

Ladybug: for having my back like that

Ladybug: don’t know how I would’ve managed with my arm

Chat Noir: of course bugaboo

Chat Noir: we’re a team

Ladybug: <3

Chat Noir: <3

Chat Noir: hate that i can’t go and see mari

Chat Noir: even if she’s out of the hospital she prob needs rest time

Ladybug: Chat

Ladybug: you’re her boyfriend

Ladybug: why the heck wouldn’t she want to see you

Chat Noir: i mean

Chat Noir: true

Chat Noir: i’m gonna go see her now

Ladybug: good

Ladybug: I’ll have fun with this homework

Chat Noir: ew

Ladybug: yep

Ladybug: thank god it wasn’t my right arm

“It’s really nice of you to do this, Adrien!” Tikki says as Adrien double checks his schoolbag the next morning to make sure that he’s got everything.

“Well, why wouldn’t I give Marinette a lift to school?” he says. “Someone’s got it in for her. They broke her arm! I mean, it was an “accident” that someone tripped and caused a domino effect just as Marinette happened to be on the stairs but come on. I’m going to stick by her and be her ‘lucky charm’.”

“Mhm.” Tikki’s mouth droops. “She doesn’t deserve what’s been happening to her. Uh, from what I’ve seen of her…”

“You don’t have to pretend.” After a night of tossing and turning, Adrien’s realised that this is the right thing to do. He can’t just sit back and pretend that he doesn’t know, especially since he’s got Ladybug’s kwami for the time being. “I know Marinette is Ladybug.”

“Eep!” Tikki claps her little paws over her mouth. “I didn’t mean to –”

“No, no, it wasn’t anything you said!” Adrien hurries to say. “I figured it out yesterday. Ladybug just happening to have the same injury as Marinette? And then everything clicked.”

Tikki sighs and lowers her arms. “I’m just surprised that none of the others figured it out,” she says. “You are one of the least observant lot we’ve had.”

“Hey,” Adrien protests, though he can’t find it in himself to take offence at something that true.

“When are you going to tell her that you know?”

“I don’t know. I want to but…I’m afraid, Tikki.”

“Adrien –”

“She likes me, right? Adrien? Even though she’s choosing to focus on Chat Noir?”

Tikki slowly nods.

“I know I’m just being silly but, like…part of me is terrified that she won’t want me anymore if she knows I’m Chat Noir. What if she decides that she likes Chat Noir better than Adrien and she wishes I’d never told her? That she’ll lose interest because it’s been me all this time and – and I’ll lose her.”

“That won’t happen, Adrien,” Tikki says firmly. “Marinette most definitely will still want you even if she knows you’re Chat Noir.”

“But –”

“Adrien, I’m her kwami. Trust me when I say that she won’t be disappointed at all. Knowing you’re Adrien would probably make her happier because then her heart won’t belong to two different boys when they’re the same person.”

“Right. Right. Just…give me some time? I still have to wrap my head around the fact that I fell for the same girl twice. Of course she’s Marinette! Who else is as brave and funny and gorgeous as Ladybug?”

Tikki giggles. “How about telling her when you give me back? That should give you enough time to sort yourself out.”

“This isn’t fair,” Adrien complains. “I got stuck with the gremlin kwami. Of course Marinette would get the sugary sweet one.”

Tikki laughs again. But at the sound of footsteps outside Adrien’s bedroom, she dives into the pocket of his green hoodie, just in time to avoid being seen as Nathalie opens the door.

“If you’re insistent on giving this Marinette girl a ride to school, you have to leave now, Adrien,” Nathalie says.

“Right.” Adrien grabs his bag and follows her. “Thanks, Nathalie.”

23 notes · View notes

kelah-ooc · 6 years ago

Note

“Your mother put me in the hospital.”

Kren would find the clinic suddenly barren. Despite the chill and howling wind; the rain pelting the windows and the ominous clashes of thunder followed by lightening all the staff, and the few patients who were around had simply relocated. Left. Got up and walked out. Leaving him there on the bed, alone. The door to the clinic banged open, flung hard and fast because of the wind that rocked the building. Illuminated by a flash of lightning stood Illy; and for the briefest moment it looked like she was murderous, but as she stepped forward into the light, pushing her sopping red hair from her face she looked far from. Worry wrapped her features. “Kren!” Pulling her bag in from the cold and the rain she would close and…Lock the door. “Kren we’ve been so worried! The girls are just sick with fear over your health!”

She rushed to his bed, and even as he was sitting up she was pushing him down. Peppering kisses along his features. “But I told them, I said ‘Mama has to go see daddy first.’ And like the little angels they are, they went with Fin so I could be here. Well…Not here.” She sat down on the bed, pulling her bag close. “First I stopped at mothers you see. You simply told me she put you here, you didn’t tell me why.” The woman removed some metal chain from the bag and smiled down at Kren, the look feral. “Ah ah ah don’t try and sit up on my account. You know, you shouldn’t trust kisses. Concentrated dose. I didn’t want you squirming while we had our fun.” Patting his cheek, her nails dragging along his cheek, tearing at the flesh the woman stood up. “Now. Why did you think it would be wise to kiss my mother.” She dragged the chain along his bed, moving to secure his arms to the metal frame. The metal was just tight enough to dig into his flesh, but lose enough that he wouldn’t lose circulation. Well not fully. “Joke. or no joke. That doesn’t really matter now does it. Ya could’ve kissed her cheek, or ya could’ve kissed her hand. Hell ya could’ve kissed her feet. But you chose her lips.” She hummed to herself, the song lacking warmth, lacking passion. Illy like the song was dead.

The humming turned to a whistle as she grabbed another length of chain from her bag, the links clinking together as she restrained his legs. “Here I was thinking that I loved you, and that you…That you loved me. That you wanted me, that you were committed to me. That at the end of the day while you may find yourself someone to keep you warm. A different flavour for a change that you would return to me. Was I wrong to assume this? Probably.” Once she was sure his legs were restrained, the chain pulled tight to the corners of the bed so he couldn’t move she finally smiled.

It lacked the warmth, the passion that Illy expressed when she was around the man. “Now. Now the fun can begin. By kissing her in public in such a manner you’ve disrespected her. And you’ve disrespected me, and our children. You made me look like a fool. I picked you, and this is what you do.” While she spoke; the words lacking passion, the tiny red head grabbed from her bag two notable items. A wooden block, long enough to be placed between his ankles and a sledgehammer. “I’ve been informed that if I kill you, which we both know is well within my right. I claimed your life long ago. It would mean that my mothers rag tag group of dogs would make an attempt on my life.”

Illy sighed, shaking her head. “We both know she can’t afford for me to end their lives or her own. And if I should die. Well who would watch my children. Fin would be on the run then, with two small babies. I don’t wish that upon her.” While she spoke, Illy set the bar between his legs, making sure that it was lined up correctly. “So, I’ve chosen instead to cause as much pain as possible while maintaining your life.”

Illy walked to the right side of the bed and watched him, waiting for the wiggle of toes. “Mmmm, good its wearing off.” The paralytic she had poisoned him with was beginning to wane. His screams and shouts would no longer be bottled up. “Take a deep breath, and don’t bite your tongue now love.” She lined up her shot, brought the sledgehammer back and then swung it forward. A sickeningly delighted smile curled her lips as the crack of his bone mixed with the crash of thunder, and his screaming began.

Licking her lips the woman walked around the bed, her fingers trailing along his mangled foot and down along the block of wood to the non mangled foot. “Such pretty little screams.” She positioned herself once more to swing the sledgehammer back and bring it forward into his other foot. “Mmm. Perfect. Now you can’t run.” She dropped the hammer into her bag, grabbing the wooden block to do the same. “That should take a few months to heal. Give you time to think on the choices you made.”

She rummaged around in her bag before pulling a kit free. Holding the kit in one hand she moved to sit astride him on the bed. Whistling her macabre song. She didn’t pay attention to his screams, or the slight struggles as she grabbed hold of his left hand. “Now now, don’t struggle Kren. It’ll make everything worse.” She snapped his ring finger, smiling down at him. “Didn’t you always walk around begging for death, wanting this? Maybe I’m just finally giving you what you want. Hmm? Can you be mad at me for that?” She snapped his middle finger then. “Listen to those snaps.” Snap. Snap. Snap. The other fingers went in succession. “I know. At this point you’re regretting your choices. You don’t want to die. You have so much to live for.”

From the kit Illy removed a vicious looking dagger. “Well maybe you should have thought of that before you went and kissed my mother.” With a single slash the dagger came down his chest, tearing the hospital gown in two. His skin, for the moment remaining unharmed. “Did you ever consider how I might feel if you kissed her? Did I even cross your mind?” Calloused fingers ran along his chest as she leaned towards him, the movement sensual, a lovers caress. “Do you think about me? I think you wont be able to forget me after this now. Hmm?”

Sitting up she brought the dagger down, right over his heart, carving into his flesh. She took her time, making each stroke deep enough that it would leave behind a scar. She didn’t speak again, his grunts and the clash of thunder the only sounds. As she finished the last stroke she pulled her hand away to look at the bloody mangled flesh over his heart, her lips curling into a vindictive smile. “No. I don’t think you’ll forget me again Krenador.” She put the dagger away and removed a pouch of water and a cloth from the kit. She dumped the water onto him, washing the blood away and then patted the new carving dry with the cloth. Her name would forever be scarred onto his skin. She slid off of him, patting his cheek. “There there my love.” The rogue would wipe away the tears on his cheeks. “Shhh, rest now. Tomorrow will be a new day. When you feel up to talking. Tell Lyli. She can send word to me.” She kissed his cheek once before she poured the contents of a small vial down his throat. The toxins that she had plagued him with would dissipate rapidly now. “Don’t try and stand though. You’ll get more hurt.” The woman returned to silent work, removing the chains from his body, dropping them into her bag.

She stepped away from the bed then, pulling her hood over her head and taking her bag to leave. At the door she unlocked it and looked behind her. She knew Lyli was around, squirreled away somewhere. “If anyone chooses to use magical means to heal him. I will know, and I will find them. This was mild in comparison to what I can do. He is to heal naturally. By all means set his bones, give him pain killers. But do not use magic to numb or speed up his healing.” Once sure she was heard the woman stepped out of the building, shadows wrapping around her and she was gone. Leaving the howling wind; the piter patter of the rain, the clashing of the thunder and Krens pained groans to keep whomever lingered company.

][ @arrogance-and-steel @wolf-queen @lylithiumwhispers @sublime-debauchery ][

#{ PRINCESS }#{ HER MUTT }#She isnt a kind character #this is a man she loves #TW:Violence #TW: Torture #arrogance-and-steel #Lovers quarrel

6 notes · View notes

renegadesrpg · 4 years ago

Text

Searching. Paladin: Part 9. Twila

Once Rehn hung up the call I slipped on my shoes, pocketed my phone and some cash then went out into the night. #Dalin was always a punctual fellow whether phoning me or meeting me somewhere. I was not happy thinking he was taken as part of this new fight club bullshit. If one hair is out of place, someone will pay.

"Balls!" I head out to visit #Dalin's usual haunts. First up, the airport. As I clear the hangar doors and sneak into the back where food carts are stored I hear voices coming in from outside. "G said we should expect more company any minute now so get the Hum ready for them." Skunk #1 said pacing like a strumpet waiting on her pay.

"It's already here waiting, he think we're stupid? Outta look in the mirror if he's looking for an idiot. Sure wish we could get a better gig than waiting, driving, and opening doors. This is boring as fuck." whined skunk #2. I peek around the cart, listening as they talk, and see skunk #2 was a big, beefy guy with black hair. I look over at Skunk #1 as he coughed, apparently dust wasn't his friend. He had whitish blonde hair and was super tall and thin. Course everyone is super tall compared to me but this guy rivaled Gigantor in height. The dynamic dunderduo rifled through the boxes near them before deciding nothing was good enough. Then they whined again. "When's the next shipment gonna be 'ere? I gotta date with a female." "A date? You mean take ole one-eye to an optometrist?" Skunk 2 was laughing so hard it smelled like he peed himself a bit. "Where the fuck do you come up with that shit?" "I read unlike your dumb ass." Skunk 1 explained. I think my eyes rolled and stuck to the back of my head for a few seconds. I'm losing brain cells watching these bootlickers. Finally, they head back outside as a plane descends. I'm stuck until it's all done so I quietly grab a bag of gummy bears from the cart and munch as I watch.

The plane door opens, stairs lowering, and a moment later two crew members walk down, one in front and one behind ten transitioned females. They looked stoned. Their clothes were slightly disheveled either from the flight or, well let's not go there right now, and they walked awkwardly too. If I were a betting female, and I am, some of them weren't used to high heels and all of them were drugged. Fuck me running, gonna have to let Gigantor know. I watch them pile into a Hummer. One of the Dunderduo riding up front with a crew member while the other gets in back with the females and the second crew member. Guns still out and pointed towards the girls as the doors close and the engine roars to life. As soon as it's clear I walk to the opening and demat to another favorite haunt of #Dalin's. This time it's the underside of a bridge that is on the other side of town. He's not here either but his friend #Jeebs is. #Jeebs is human but doesn't know what we are. Even if he did, he wouldn't care. His mind is muddled by years of drink and stink. "#Jeebs, have you seen #Dalin today at all?" "Who you?" "Twila, #Dalin's pal. You see him?" "Gal pal Twila, I 'member you. You Ick mouth but good peeps. #Dalin gone, not here in 3 days. Go now #Jeebs busy." "#Jeebs, you hear any scuttlebutt about missing folk? #Dalin was looking into it for me." "Some missing but they not take me. Said too dumb, no fun. Took #Dez and #Fallon. They'd good peeps too. Leave now. I busy." "#Jeebs, who took your friends?" "GO 'WAY. BUSY. White hair man and big, stupid man wouldn't leave either. #Fallon told them go...they took her. #Jeebs know no more. GO! Not like you no more if don't." " Alright, I go. Thanks. Here's food for ya #Jeebs." "Ok ok ok bye now, busy." I leave food that I pilfered from the airport carts on the crate near him and demat to #Dalin's last favorite haunt, an abandoned restaurant near the edge of town. This place is not the safest structurally but he loves it nonetheless. As I enter the side door the scent of blood reaches my nose faster than the smell of rot. "#Dalin? Its Twi, you about?" Nothing stirs but dust and dirt as I slowly work my way to the small, special event dining area where he preferred staying. The scent of blood is really strong now and a growl comes rolling out from my throat.

In the center of the room, on his makeshift bed, holding onto a paper lays #Dalin. Death surrounds him and I know I can't do shit about it.

"#Dalin, what did you do? I'm sure I didn't tell you to go get yourself hurt you foozler. Let me feed you."

He coughs and turns to me, the pale gray color of his skin says time is not on my side. I lean down and roll up my sleeve but he weakly pushes it away.

"No, Twi. I'm done for, those airport guys found me looking 'round. Lost my touch I guess, sorry. Leave me in the sun, I want to see it as it burns me up. Wanna see the blue sky as I enter the Fade. If I'm lucky my #Thelma will be there waitin'." He coughs hard, blood leaving his mouth. "Nope, you feed and stick around, I ain't got many friends and I'm not losing one now." "Let me go Twi. We all got a time to leave and it's mine. Promise you'll let the sun take my body? Promise Twi!" I shake my head and a shaky sigh escapes my mouth, "I promise my friend. You'll be with #Thelma soon." He sighs, closes his eyes, and drops the paper that was in his hand. His life ended and someone will pay.

I don't do death well. I want nothing to do with emotions that make me feel that way, that sadness. I hate it with a passion, I refuse to accept it. But right now as I read over the paper he had it all bubbles over and I scream. I scream until my voice can't do it anymore. Then, I keep my promise and take #Dalin outside to a quiet, secluded spot behind the restaurant. He won't be seen by anyone but the sun. In his hands I place his sole earthly possession, an old black and white photograph of his mate, #Thelma. "May the sun send your ashes quickly unto the Fade and may #Thelma be waiting to hug you when you arrive."

I walk away reading the paper, it is a list of missing people. Some names I recognize, some I don't. Some vamps, others are human. All gone, according to the paper #Dalin wrote on, within the last 2 weeks. "I've gotta go see RobinHood then talk to Gigantor." I say to no one in particular. I look back at #Dalin's body, the sun just starting to rise. "Toodles my friend" And then I was gone. #TBC #Paladin #Searching #Renegades #RRPG #BDB #AU #Wolven #Reapers #Vampires #Witches #Ghosts #Angels

0 notes

forged-through-trials · 4 years ago

Photo

It was a new day, and the first order of business, was drinking away the depression and existential dread left by the last job. Second order of business, was talking to Ongnar once more, and trading him some hot goods! Had to do so quickly, and early in the morning, before Ruin woke for the day and wondered where I’d gotten off to. While we did business, I asked Ongar about the word around town. He had this to say: Ongar: “Heard of Arnora and Jorundr? They were once a happy couple but that’s over now. I hear that he took all of their money and stashed it after he committed a robbery.” Trials: “...’stashed money,’ you say?” Ka-ching! Ongar: “You’ve got that look in your eye. Like a lizard after a payday, you are. She lives in the south end of town. Go talk to her and see if she’s offering any kind of reward for help.” Arnora will be step four for today. Step three will be checking on Ruin, just to let him know I’ll be taking care of some business in town and he can just chill for the day.

When I found him again, he had a strange grin on his face. Trials: “What’s got you so happy this morning?” Ruin: Ruin smiled broadly, obviously amused by my question. “You ask me why I am so cheerful? I will tell you; I have been meditating much on morality of late, and how, somehow, I have regained mine. “As you know, I was once lived in a society--” Trials: “--Bottom Text.” Ruin: “...” Ruin rolled his eyes briefly, before continuing. “--of wickedness. I witnessed much depravity, but kept my objections to myself. “Perhaps if I had voiced my objections, I could have prevented suffering. Or perhaps, I would have suffered along with the victims. I’ve agonized much over whether or not I should have stood up.” Trials: “You were just being cautious. You can’t help anyone if you’re dead.” Ruin: “A very pragmatic analysis. Perhaps I have been too idealistic? “Yet, I cannot help but feel that in remaining silent, I ultimately condoned the cruel actions of my kindred. I wanted to put an end to the suffering caused by my fellows, but I was afraid.” Trials: I raised a brow at him, and crossed my arms. “Why would that thought make you so cheerful?” Ruin: He smiled a little more broadly at that. “I would have thought the answer was obvious. Yesterday, helping the Lirrian Widow find justice, things like that have helped to bring morality into focus, for me. Whereas before, everything blended into a mush of gray, I’m beginning to see the world in the appropriate shades of black and white; good and evil. “I am cheerful because, for the first time in a long time, the world feels as though it is making some sense. Properly divided into black, white, and the gray in between.” Trials: I clicked my tongue, meditatively, and scratched my chin. “...which color do you think you fall into?” Ruin: His brow furrowed in surprise at that pointed question. “I’m... not entirely sure, just yet... though I’m starting to get an idea. Now that I’ve established a firmer moral scale, I can begin to determine where I reside on it. And I suspect some aspects of your moral shading will rub off on me, if we continue to travel together. “By my reckoning, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” I blushed at that last statement, and Ruin gave a chortle as he managed to get under my scales. He thanked me for my time. Now that Ruin had spent the morning practicing his Speechcraft on me, I asked him if he’d be willing to take an easy day off while I looked into what we should do next. He was more than happy to kick back and drink the Fighters Guild’s mead while I did the legwork, which freed me up to look the rumor Ongar fed me about this woman, “Arnora.”

It took a little convincing to get her to open up, but that was accomplished easily enough. People always seem to open up to me after a little talk, a little pie, and maybe some greased palms. Arnora: “I’m sure you’ve heard of the details I’ve leaked; about Jorundr and his run in with the law. Well that may not necessarily be the whole story.” Trials: “So what is the ‘whole story’?” Arnora: “If you want to know that, you’ve got to agree to my scheme, first. Until then, all I can say is, there’s a lot of gold in it if you’re willing to do some work for me.” Trials: “...sssounds legit.” Arnora: “Smart answer. “Jorundr is, to put it succinctly, a thug and an ass. He’s dragged me all over hither and dither, helping him with his petty crimes. “I wouldn’t say we’re thieves . I mean, we’ve stolen things.” Trials: “As one thief to another; that is the literal definition of a thief.” Arnora: “Okay, we’re thieves. But we’re not, like, super greedy. We only take enough to get by.” Trials: “Oh, I can understand that. I only take enough to get pie.” Arnora. “...” She blinked. “Well, to put it in your terms, Jorundr kept wanting more and more ‘pie’. Then, last year, he took way, way too much pie, and--” Trials: “--Got a tummy-ache?” Arnora: “...” She groaned and rubbed her forehead. “Killed. A. Guard.” Trials: “...the analogy kind of breaks down right about here.” Arnora: “We’d waylaid a tax shipment, and Jorundr, mad with greed, killed a guard before he’d realized it. “I was mortified. We stashed the gold and hid out. But while I was off gathering food, the Bruma City Guard found our camp--” Trials: “Wow! They actually did something!” Arnora: “I know. Amazing how they can actually manage to get away from their desks and do some real work when someone messes with the Emperor’s gold, isn’t it? “Jorundr was captured--and served him right--but he’d moved the stolen gold without telling me, that fetcher! “So what I need you to do is go to Bruma Castle’s dungeon, and speak to him for me. Convince him to tell you where the gold is, and then we split it.” And that was my new job. To get some thug to spill the beans about where he stashed some stolen gold. Sounds simple enough.

In the dungeon, I was stopped by the Jailor, “Greeban.” He wasn’t too happy to see me. Less so to hear that I wanted to visit a prisoner. Jailor Greeban: “What a bother. Don’t be too long. I gotta stay with you so there isn’t any funny business.” Trials: “No funny business?” Jailor Greeban: “None. And no tomfoolery, either!” Trials: “What about mischief?” Jailor Greeban: “No mischief! And no horseplay, no shenanigans, or chicanery! No devilry, no deviltry, no pranks, japes, or jigs, and absolutely no naughtiness!” Trials: “...what about a little razzle-dazzle?” Jailor Greeban: “...” He frowned harder at me, sticking out his lower lip. “...Okay, a little razzle-dazzle, because I wanna see it. But just a little!”

Geeban followed me into the dungeon. Jorundr was easy enough to spot, having a large cell to himself. I approached the bars, and spoke to him. Trials: “You’re ‘Jorundr’, right? I’m here to ask you about the Tolen-say Old-gay.” Jorundr: “...wat?” Trials: “The Tolen-say Old-gay. Tell me what I want to know, and maybe I’ll slip you a Ock-lay Ick-pay.” Jorundr: “...whatever you just said, you can forget it!”” Trials: I grit my teeth, balled fists shaking. “Listen, Upid-stay! Tell me about the Tolen-say Old-gay, and I’ll give you a Ock-lay Ick-pay, so you can Eak-bray out of the Ungeon-day!” Jailor Geeban: He knocked on the wall next to me. “Hey! That’s sounding an awful lot like horseplay over there!” Trials: “It’s more like ‘wordplay’.” Jailor Geeban: “No ‘play’ of any sort while you’re down here. Hurry it up!” Jorundr: “Look, I don’t talk to outsiders. No way to know if the guards put you up to this. So you might as well just blow away, because you’re not getting anything out of me.” Huh. So, the trick here is to convince him I’m not in league with the guards. I considered the problem, sizing up the imprisoned Nord, and the jailor. I grumbled, knowing one quick way to get on the Nord’s good side, but being unwilling to do it. Turning to the guard, I sighed and grumbled to myself; “Think of the gold, Trials. Think of the gold.” That decided, I held up both hands, palms open, reminding Geeban about how I’d promised to show him a little razzle-dazzle... then I quickly balled a fist and punched him right in the nose. He managed to shout: “You’re under--” before the sucker-punch took effect, and he flopped over like a cinder-block, crashing through a table on the way down. Jeez, it’s gettin’ so that a lizard-gal can’t even get arrested properly around here! About an hour later, he finally woke up and arrested me, throwing me into lockup, next to Jorundr. ...I’m beginning to think this wasn’t such a good idea. Plans that involve me ending up in the dungeon rarely go good places. Plus, how am I going to explain this to Ruin? “Hi, Ruin, I kind of got arrested. Bring bail-money.” He’ll never let me live it down!” But, I’m here, so there’s nothing to do but try to charm the info about the gold out of Jorundr.

Before I could, however, a guard approached his cell. From what I could pick up of the conversation, the guard was named ‘Tyrellius Logellus’ ... or possibly ‘Horse’s Ass’, as Jorundr called him both. Tyrellius: “Ready to talk, yet? You’ve got nothing to lose, so why not just tell me about the gold and save us both a heap of trouble?” Jorundr: “Yeah, sure, and I suppose I just end up rotting while you spend it all? Forget it!” Tyrellius: “You’re gonna end up rotting here anyway, you idiot!” Jorundr: “I never trusted city guardsmen. Never. So I’m definitely not going to start trusting you!” Tyrellius: “Suit yourself. Enjoy your stay.” Tyrellius stormed off in a huff after that, clearly quite butt-mad that Jorundr wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear.

Trials: “...did he just not even offer you any kind of deal? Maybe it’s just me, but I’ve personally never found ‘just tell me, bruh’ a persuasive argument.” Jorundr: “It wouldn’t matter if he did offer me a deal. I’d never cut one with that Milk-Drinker. You, on the other hand, hehe, I can tell you’re no friend of the guards. Not by the way they chucked you in here for that love tap you gave Geeban.” Trials: “FIN-ally! Okay, let’s talk about that Tolen-say Old-gay.” Jorundr: “...listen, I’ll talk to you about the Stolen Gold, but knock it off with the Pig-Imperial, will you?” Trials: “...you understood me this whole time?” Jorundr: “I did. I just didn’t trust you. Also--” He proceeded to punch me right in the snout, knocking me on my tail. “--that’s for calling me ‘stupid’ earlier.” I awoke an hour later in a daze, but Jorundr helped me up, and explained to me what he wanted. Jorundr: “I want you to kill Arnora for me.” Trials: “...I’m not really an assassin. Can I just give her a strongly worded letter from you instead?” Jorundr: “Only if you stab her with the pen.” Trials: I paled a little at that. “Why do you even want her dead so badly?” Jorundr: “Because she sold me up the river! Can you believe it? She killed a guard, and had the nerve to pin it on me, selling out our camp to the Bruma City Watch!” Trials: “Huh. She said you’re the one who killed the guard.” Jorundr: “That treacherous witch would say something like that! Everyone is willing to believe I’m violent, just because I punch people who annoy me!” Trials: “...” I rolled my eyes at him. “Yeah, who could possibly get that impression about you? “Now, I don’t suppose you’d take something else in trade for the location of the gold, would you?” Jorundr: “No. And I want proof that she’s dead. Like that amulet she’s always wearing. You bring me it as proof she’s dead, and I’ll tell you where the gold is.” Gentle-reader, I don’t think I need to tell you that I ain’t killin’ nobody in cold blood. But this scheme has effectively hit a wall, so I will need to talk to Arnora and try to figure out what we’re going to do next. ...after I get out of the dungeon. There’d better be a lot of gold in that stash to make up for this indignity. Thankfully, nobody here really likes Geeban, so punching him in the face only holds a maximum sentence of ‘cool your heels for a day’. I was out and about shortly there after, and I rushed over to Arnora’s house to fill her in.

I arrived in time to interrupt her Destruction Practice. I stepped in front of the target to get her attention... and got zapped for my trouble! Arnora: She gasped. “Wh-why would you just walk in front of my spells like that!?” Trials: Still crackling with shock-energy. “Hehehehe, it kind of tingles.” Arnora: “...well, no one ever said I was a good wizard.” Trials: “Anyway, we have a problem. Jorundr says he won’t tell me where the gold is stashed unless I bring him proof that you’re dead.” Arnora: “...y-you’re not actually going to do it, are you? Kill me, that is...” Trials: “Relax. I’m coldblooded, but I’m not a murderer.” Arnora: She sighed with relief. “Good, because otherwise I’d have to defend myself!” Trials: “What? With your puny shock-magic? Feel free to do it again. It tickled!” Arnora: “...” She groaned and sat back on the chest behind her. “I admit it, if you really wanted to kill me, you could. But maybe we can just make Jorundr think I’m dead. Just long enough for him to tell you where he stashed the gold. “What did he want as proof?” Trials: “He said he wants ‘the amulet she’s always wearing’.” Arnora: “Ugh! Of course that pig would ask for that. It’s a family heirloom!” She proceeded to retrieve a red-gemmed amulet, completely separate from the blue one she was actually wearing, from a nearby chest. “Here, take it!” Trials: “...so, I tell you he wants the amulet you’re always wearing, and you give me one that you weren’t actually wearing.” Arnora: “What? They’re both family heirlooms. Besides, Jorundr likes to play mind-games like that. Trust me, this is the one he wants.” Trials: I rolled my eyes. “Fine, but if he punches me again, I’m passing it on to you!”

From there, it was a quick trip back to the castle dungeon. Geeban was... not happy to see me again, but kept his distance as I went in to visit Jorundr. Jorundr: “Did you take care of Arnora?” Trials: “Oh, yes, she’s totally dead. Dead as a door-nail. Dead duck. Dead meat. Dead, dead-dead! She is no more. She’s ceased to be! She’s expired and gone to meet the Nine. She’s now the late Arnora. She’s a stiff! Bereft of life, she rests in peace! If not for all the snow she’d be pushing up daisies! She’s pulled down the final curtain and joined the Choir Invisible. She... is your EX... girlfriend!” Jorundr: “...guess I’m single, now!” He rubbed his hands together. “Okay, now show me the proof.” Trials: I retrieved the red amulet from my pack, and showed it to him. Jorundr: “Wow, you got the one she keeps stowed away! She must really be dead because she’d never even pull that one out of her trunk!” Trials: I rolled my eyes at him. “Yeah... never... anyway, let’s talk about the gold!” Jorundr: “Right, right. The gold is buried outside the walls of Bruma, near the North Gate.” Trials: “Neat! Pleasure doin’ business with you.” Jorundr: “Goodbye. I don’t expect to be seeing you anytime soon. If I were you, I’d get out of Bruma fast before the guards catch on that she’s dead.” And there we have it. A bit more complicated than I would have preferred, but I have the info. That gold is as good as mine!

#the elder scrolls #oblivion #modded #let's play #roleplay #ask blog

0 notes

carolineasweet-blog · 4 years ago

Text

Adult friendship

I have anxiety today. Maybe it’s the coffee or maybe, just maybe, it’s because I know the subject I’m about to delve into. Whenever someone goes through a breakup, I am there at the ready to help them through. There’s an unspoken rulebook, bring ice cream, sappy movies, junk food and get ready to talk trash. Burn a candle, maybe even burn some photos? But what do we do when the breakup isn’t romantic? What about when you break up with a friend? There’s no rulebook in sight.

We’ve all had friend breakups. I know because every time I bring this up to someone, they nod, clearly relating and offering up a “that sucks”, and that’s where it ends. There’s no clear way to get over them or what to do. There’s always an awkwardness around it like we lack the vocabulary or there's too much shame and embarrassment surrounding friendships gone awry. More so than a romantic relationship. Why? Perhaps because the relationship itself is not as clearly defined, but it’s just as painful when one ends. It’s hard to tell when a friendship has started, when you’ve entered that unspoken contract, because it is just that - unspoken. You don’t sit down to have “the talk” or define what “we” are: the inner circle, the best friend, an acquaintance? Yet it’s alarmingly clear, spoken or not, when it’s ended.

My first best friend was Katie Bunn. As children, we were inseparable. Once, we locked ourselves in Katie’s bedroom when it was time for me to go home, and our parents had to call a locksmith after hours of trying to coax us into opening the door. We threw our pet mice down the laundry shoot because they “wanted to go on a rollercoaster” and once took a hose and shampoo bottle to her basement because it “needed a cleaning.” We were the closest of friends and developed our senses of humor with each other often sharing a made up language only the two of us could understand. Yet somehow, perhaps inevitably when you meet your twin flame at the age of three, our paths diverged. I can’t put my finger on it, but by high school, we were barely close at all. When I see her once a year at the summer vacation spot both our families still frequent, it’s not the same. There’s the odd feeling being near someone you used to know that rivals that of running into an ex-lover. There’s a deep yearning-like sadness for a time that once was. The thing is with friends, it could still work out, couldn’t it?

Then, there’s April Brawn. We’d known each other since elementary school but became particularly close during high school going to N’SYNC concerts together and begging our parents to drive us to the under 18 club so we could enter the “big booty contest”. What better bonding is there than shaking your ass live on stage with each other while judges vote on whether you have a big booty or not. I did, April did not, but man could she move. She knew everything about me, and I knew everything about her. We spent every weekend together, so when she relayed a rumor about me to the rest of the school instead of coming straight to me and asking the truth, it was the particular kind of hurt that comes from betrayal. We attempted to talk it out. She said her peace, “I was just trying to protect you by getting to the bottom of it”, and I said mine,“you talked about it more behind my back, I wish you had just stuck up for me”, and we tried to smooth things over. But my trust was broken, and we were never the same. We never had a conversation about the state of things after that, we just slowly phased out. I guess I couldn’t get over it. I hear about her occasionally from my parents, but I feel nothing, which makes me feel guilty.

I suppose an argument could be made that we just grew up and changed. But this happens in adult friendships too. In my late twenties, I had a roommate who became a close friend, in retrospect, because she clung to me; it was clear I’d made the “inner circle” tier. Her brain was wired for conflict whereas mine was wired for solutions - that should’ve been my first clue. She once told me her therapist said it was good for her mental health to hang out with me. That’s not a compliment, by the way, that’s a lot of pressure. So after she moved out and no longer returned my texts or phone calls, I shouldn’t have taken it personally, but I did. It was a weight off my back to not have to calm her down or reason her through life, but it was also a huge blow to my ego. I knew she took ordinary things people had done and made them unacceptable, worthy of trash-talking to other people, and now I was the one who was cut out which could only mean that I’m the bad person! I never heard what she was saying behind my back, but to know she cut me out, it had to have been bad. Was I the bad person all along? Am I toxic?

That’s the heart of all my fears and anxieties, that I am somehow a bad person. And nowhere is that more evident than a friend deeming you so. So recently, when I lost two close friends in the midst of a pandemic, it really struck a chord. I must be bad. Many people are losing friendships during this time, or so I see from pithy Twitter tweets. But mine don’t seem to be specifically pandemic related, it’s all just timing. Maybe all of them worldwide are, but no one is delving any further - maybe it doesn’t fit into 140 characters. One friend, let’s call her Susan, stopped talking to me a month or so before lockdown. It took me a few days to notice because the nature of the relationship was her initiating communication. She texted or called with decent frequency. After a few days of of not hearing from her, I texted something innocuous to feel out the situation. It took her a day to get back to me, highly unusual, so that confirmed it - she was mad at me. “Oh come on,” other friends would say, “nobody is thinking about you but you. It’s never about you, she’s probably busy or going through something,” which is what I would say to anyone in my situation and normally would be true. But I knew her, and I knew this was about me. But why? What had I done? To my knowledge, it was business as usual. When Susan finally responded, she said a lot of things that boiled down to we are not always good for each other and sometimes enable each other. She’d decided she needed to take a break from me. I had known it was coming, on some level, but hearing it as on another plane of pain. Wow, we’re really never going to talk again. She had been such a mainstay over the last few years, so it felt like a world shift the way breakups do. What is even more remarkable is I had no idea what she was talking about. My behavior had not changed, our level of communication had not changed, the only thing that changed is her need not to talk to me. My ego was bruised. I felt shame and embarrassment. Here it is, that old familiar feeling of being a bad person. The more I unpacked it, the more I realized that what hurt was the idea of explaining it to all our mutual friends.

With romantic breakups, the end is quite clear. There is a decided end, a period to it all and a sensical reason why whether we understand it at the time or not. Unless someone cheats or harms the other person, it’s understood that sometimes these things just don’t work out. But with friendships, it’s much more complicated and harder to understand. There’s usually not one definitive thing to point to that ended it. It doesn’t matter if one of you wants kids and the other doesn’t. It doesn’t matter that you want to raise your kids Jewish or live across the country. Friendship, truly, has no bounds. And that’s what makes it harder to separate from who you are. It’s harder still to separate what is really hurting, me or my ego?

I would love to get some clarity around why these things happen, or better yet, I would love to have clear vocabulary around why these things feel a unique kind of icks. Until then, if anyone needs a bad rom com, a pint of ice cream or a light-hearted gabfest, I’m your girl. And who knows, maybe it’ll be the start of a beautiful friendship.

0 notes

ntaos · 5 years ago

Text

Soft

Aziraphale stood in front of his mirror in nothing but his boxers. It wouldn't usually take this long to get ready, typically it was done in a literal snap, but Aziraphale figured heaven was mad enough at him as it was without frivolous miracles, so he opted to get dressed the 'normal' way. The longer he looked at his reflection though, the more he wished he had just snapped his fingers; perhaps if he just said bugger to being 'frivolous' he could have spared accidentally catching his form in the mirror and stopping in his tracks. A few seconds turned into a few minutes of just staring, every minute more discouraging than the last. He turned his body to look at it in different angles, he lifted his arms to see the skin droop heavily, like a thick batter. I could always...use a miracle He thought. He could picture it now, one snap, an illusion, a glamour of sorts, and he could be thin, toned, he could look strong and tall, visually perfect in every way Like an angel should look...like Gabriel looks.. He held his hand in the air his finger and thumb delicately pressed against each other, but something held him back. It wouldn't be him. He couldn't shake the knowledge that even with the illusion of a perfect body, underneath he would still be soft and blobby. He sobbed quietly, insecurities spinning in his mind so callously and quickly it made him dizzy.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door that made Aziraphale jump out of his unfavorable skin. "Angel? you good in there?" Crowley asked impatiently from the other side "S'been half an hour" he added. Have I really been in here that long? Aziraphale wondered unable to believe he got so wrapped up in this. A glimmer of hope, a bit of self-love tried it's hardest to squeeze through the crack in doubt's stone walls. Now now Aziraphale, your fretting. After all it's what's inside that those around you truly care about isn't it? He attempted to reassure, wiping his tears. "Oh, and lose the gut" The memory, Gabriel's words, his voice, brought wet cement to his brief light source, and tears kept falling. "Angel?" Crowley said again, sternly but concerned, reminding Aziraphale that he was still there and he had yet to reply. oh dear the last thing he wanted to do was concern Crowley. "in..a m-minute dear" he tried to sound composed but it failed miserably, the warble in his voice was clear and miserable. This did not ease Crowley's concerns for a second, his heart rate shot up like a cannon at a circus. There was something wrong with his angel. He didn't bother to ask if he was decent, they were married for someone's sake, though he had never seen Aziraphale undressed before, Aziraphale had seen him that way so it couldn't be that big a deal, right? He walked right in. Aziraphale went to critically look at himself once more when he caught his husband in the reflection of the mirror, he let out a squeak of surprise "C-Crowley! get out!" he demanded, quickly covering his stomach with his arms and bending forward slightly to further cover the area which caused him the most grief. Crowley ignored his request "What's the matter?" Crowley asked trying to mask the hurt he felt seeing his angel upset like this.

"Nothing is the matter I'm indecent, now shoo!" his still present tears contradicted him.

"Don't lie to me" he closed the distance between them and brought his hand to the angel's cheek, making him look into his yellow reptilian eyes; they said tell me with a powerful persuasion his tongue could never muster.

"....look at me" Aziraphale broke into full sobs, sending daggers into the soul Crowley wasn't supposed to have.

"I am looking at you..and I see you crying, what the hell happened angel?" he still didn't get it

"NO!" he suddenly and accidentally raised his voice. "Look at me..." he moved his arms out of the way and held the weight of his abdomen in his hands; when he let go it fell and jiggled about, and it didn't make Aziraphale feel any better. "Angels are supposed to be beautiful, bodies molded into perfection as if God herself sculpted each one..but she messed up on me...I'm hardly attractive, not like...not like Gabriel."

"Gabriel??" Crowley scoffed "Ick. Gabriel.." he sounded annoyed even uttering the man's name. "Let me tell you all the things I like about Gabriel" He holds up his hand to count but raises up 0 fingers. He looks at his closed fist then back at Aziraphale "Speaking of Gabriel- Oh look! a weapon!"

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, he's not in the mood to joke. "You on the other hand.."Crowley began. "I love your nose" he places a gentle kiss on Aziraphale's nose. "Your neck" a kiss on the neck too. "I like your cheeks" he kisses both cheeks. He pinches Aziraphale's bottom with a smirk "I like those cheeks too~" "C-Crowley!" Aziraphale became increasing flustered. "And, I loooove this" he wraps his arms around Aziraphale's belly, Aziraphale expects a kiss like with the other parts of him that were named and instead gets a Rasberry, he can't help but laugh "Hahahahahaha! Crowley stop!" he demands between boisterous giggling. Crowley meets Aziraphale's gaze again, resting his forehead against Aziraphale's "But, my favorite thing about you is your smile..so please stop crying" he almost pleaded.

Aziraphale kisses his lips and gives him the smile he so desired "Thank you.."

#good omens #ineffable husbands #bodypositivity #hurt and comfort #soft #crowley #aziraphale #cute #ship #gay #demon #angel #Fanfiction

0 notes

searchforthescars · 8 years ago

Text

Little Beast - Chapter 2/?

“Are you going-” he almost says “home” but that word wouldn’t taste right under her tongue. “Are you going back?”

“Back where? To Virginia?” She scuffs her shoes against the floor. Her fingers drum against her leg, quick and rhythmic. “There’s nothing for me there anymore.”

“Come on. You have to stay somewhere.”

She gestures to a bench near the boardwalk. “Look. A bed,” she says drily.

“I have a perfectly good couch,” he counters. “It’s better than nothing.”

Chapter One

Also on Ao3

History repeats itself. Somebody says this.

History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,

over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.

I know history. There are many names in history

but none of them are ours. -Little Beasts, Richard Siken

Murphy wakes up from a three-month-old dream about a brown-haired girl illuminated by the diner’s lights. He doesn’t remember her name. He doesn’t know if she ever told him what it was. He doesn’t remember if she laughed.

He hasn’t seen her since the dark night at the diner. He misses her. Is it weird to miss someone you only met once? He has a feeling she was different. He thinks he wouldn’t have hated her.

The clock reads 5:45 a.m. Murphy hates himself both for waking so early and for no reason in particular. He also hates his ringing phone for waking him and lets Raven know when he picks up on the seventh ring.

“I knew you’d be up,” she chirps in response. Murphy swears again. “Oh shut up, Murphy. You sleep in every day. We’re going to do something fun.”

He can hear her walking across her bedroom. Her brace scrapes against the floor. He shuts his eyes against the sound. “What are we doing?”

“We all planned a beach trip yesterday,” she says. “If you opened the group chat, you’d know. And before you say you’re not coming, know this: there will be booze.”

Murphy will never admit it but he wants to belong somewhere, and belonging with Raven and Bellamy and the others is as good as anything else. Hardly believing himself, he gets dressed and meanders across town to Bellamy and Octavia’s apartment building. Raven’s truck and Bellamy’s ancient van are idling out front and Monty appears to be trying to slam something large and unwieldy into the trunk of his mom’s compact car.

“I won’t even ask,” he grumbles, sidling past Monty and Harper and going to find Raven. She’s is in the kitchen with Octavia trying to convince Bellamy to invite Clarke. He gives Murphy a save me look over Raven’s head, which he ignores in favor of raiding the fridge for a leftover can of Coke.

“So that’s how you take your caffeine,” Octavia says with a laugh. “I always thought you liked coffee.”

Murphy pulls a face. “Ick. No thanks.”

Bellamy laughs. He ignores him and takes the cooler outside. It’s a five hour drive and he wants to sleep as much as possible before the noise starts so he climbs into Raven’s truck and stretches his legs out over the back seat.

Lexa sits next to him and reads a book while Luna gives directions and Raven races Bellamy along a deserted highway. Murphy dozes with his head against the window but his thoughts keep flitting back to the girl from his dream. It feels stupid to think of her like that but what else is he supposed to call her?

She said he’d see her around. He hasn’t seen her since. Freaking figures.

The mystery object Monty had been attempting to cram into his trunk is a beach umbrella the size of a small house. When they stake it into the ground, the wind whistles around it but it doesn't fall. Murphy kinds of hopes it will. The image of Bellamy chasing after it is almost entertaining.

The girls strip down to their swimsuits and the boys rid themselves of their shirts, shrieking as they dive into the cold ocean waves (save Luna, who just walks in. Murphy doesn’t know how she does it, but she’s not even shivering). He thinks about sitting in the shade. He thinks about sleeping in the car all day. He thinks about his dream girl.

Once Raven starts ignoring him in favor of limping into the cold waves, leaning on Bellamy’s shoulder for support, Murphy starts walking.

He makes it halfway down the beach before tripping over a small pile of rocks that leads to an even larger pile of rocks that becomes an entire outcropping of nothing but rocks. And on the rocks sits a girl, and he’ll be damned if that girl isn’t the diner girl.

He reaches for her name and when he still can’t recall it, he clambers over the rocks until he gets to her. He stands over her awkwardly, not sure what to say since he doesn’t know her name, but he knows the sound of her laugh and the way she smiles and he figures that might be pretty damn close.

“John?” She squints up at him. “I don’t believe it.”

She’s wearing a ratty t-shirt and stained jeans. A crescent-shaped scar curved below her right eye (did she have that before?) and a dark tattoo swirled over her left cheek and over her eye (he’s almost certain she had that tattoo when they met). Her smile is a smudge over her lips and when she finally grins the sun dims just a fraction.

Or maybe he’s just a poetic sap. Either way, he’s immensely relieved when she scoots over and lets him sit beside her.

“Where have you been?” He asks. Her restless right hand moves from her hair to her sleeve to the holes on her jeans. She stares out at the sea as if it will give her a good lie.

“Away,” she settles on. “I’m sorry I never came back.” And then, after a deep breath, “I would have liked to.”

Maybe the warmth in his chest is premature but Murphy lets it bloom there because he really has nothing else to lose. “Are you coming back now?”

She frowns. Her eyes are pretty, he notices, a dark brown that fades to clear amber in the light. “There’s nothing for me there anymore.”

“What about your family?” He asks. The way her face tightens tells him he shouldn’t ask. “Never mind. Sorry I brought it up.”

“It’s fine.” She pushes her palms against her thighs. Her left hand is wrapped in some kind of dirty cloth. He runs a light finger over the wrapping, half-expecting her to slap his hand away. She doesn’t, but he feels her skin twitch under his touch.

“Do you want to see?” She asks, her voice bitter, and he thinks yes but he says “if you want” instead. Apparently she does because she rips the wrap from her hand, face a twisted mask of resignation and bitterness, and he’s face-to-face with long fused fingers and a little nub where a thumb is supposed to be.

“I wouldn’t cover it up,” he says after a moment of inspection because he wouldn’t, because it’s cool in a weird way and because it fits her somehow. “I think it’s pretty badass.” A thick scar, red and angry, wraps around her wrist like a rope, like a noose. He wonders if she tried to strangle the life out of the part of her she seems to hate the most.

She lets out something between a laugh and a snort. “Liar.” But she’s smiling even as she tucks her hand away. “I’m hungry,” she says to nothing in particular (or maybe, he hopes, to him) as she jumps to her feet and extends her normal hand to him. “Buy me lunch?”

“We have food over there,” he points down the beach to his sort-of-friends. Miller and Bellamy are sneaking up behind Clarke, a bucket of water between them. Monty and Raven are standing somewhere near the shore collecting seashells from the sand while a speck in the distance formerly known as Luna dives beneath the waves. “If you don’t mind my friends.”

“Well, if they have food…” She gestures. “Lead the way.”

The friend group greets her with mild surprise. Miller and Raven vaguely recall her face and Jasper makes a comment about her tattoo before Harper shoves him to shut him up.

“Did we ever get your name?” Is all Bellamy asks while passing out sandwiches and chips.

Her eyes shift from face to face. She tucks her chin ever-so-slightly before she speaks. “Emori.”

“Nice to meet you,” Bellamy gives her a friendly smile. Murphy turns her name over and over in his head. Emori. He wants to try it out on his tongue. He wonders if it would feel as familiar as when she called him John.

They eat sitting shoulder-to-shoulder and listen to the gulls and the waves and his friends. She eats her sandwich methodically, one calculated bite at a time. Murphy waits until she finishes hers before he hands her the other half of his.

“I’m not that hungry,” he says to her almost-glare. “You eat it. I want you to.”

He can feel Bellamy and Raven’s eyes on him but he focuses on Emori, the dream girl that now has a name. He catches her smiling at him when she thinks he’s not looking and he’ll be damned if he isn’t falling in love with this girl.

She saves his sandwich half and her chips for later, pocketing them when no one but him is watching. There’s something hollow in her eyes, something tired and a little sad, that creeps forward when she carefully wraps her food so it won’t be crushed. He wonders how many times she’s gone without a meal and he tries not to let it break his heart. He fails.

“So I’m curious,” he starts and he can already tell by how she looks at him that this is going to be a bad idea. “Where’ve you been these past three months?”

She sidesteps a hole in the boardwalk. A seagull squawks at them both as a dark cloud obscures the sun overhead. “It wasn’t my decision to leave.” She stops walking and looks at him, and it feels like her eyes are piercing into the darkest parts of who he is. “I was taken and punished for stealing from another thief.” She laughs, dark and wry, and her face twists into resignation, hatred, pain. “And now I’m here.”

“You got away?”

She shakes her head. “They left me here. Took my brother’s body with them. Who knows where they’ll dump it.” Her voice is dismissive but it catches in her throat the same way his does when he talks about his mother.

“Why would someone come after you? Theft isn’t that bad...all things considered.”

She shrugs. “We did bad things. I still do.” She looks up at him and he swears he can see the hope dying on her face. “You should just walk away.”

“Maybe,” he shoves his hands in his pockets because the only other option is to brush away the wayward hairs sticking to her cheek and he really doesn’t want to do that. “Then again, I might surprise you.”

She steps a little closer, bumps his shoulder with hers. “You already have.”

He wants to tell her something to ease the sting of her brother’s death but he’s not so great at words in general, so comforting ones are out of the question. She weaves her good fingers through the holes in her shirt while he tries for words.

“Come on,” he says, tugging her by the cloth-covered hand toward a thrift shop on the corner. “I’m getting you another shirt.”

She frowns, looking down. “What’s wrong with mine?”

Murphy reaches for her good hand, extracting her fingers from the holes. “It’s a mess. And I’m guessing these are the only clothes you have right now.”

She finds a massive long-sleeved shirt with sleeves that fall over her overlarge hand and drown her normal one. Murphy pays for it despite her protest and watches in amusement as she wraps herself up, curling her larger hand into the fabric.

“This is nice,” she murmurs. “Thank you.”

It occurs to him that she is not used to being comfortable. He feels protective of her somehow, maybe because he knows what it is to feel unsafe.

“Where are you going now?” He asks, his voice low under the music playing in the store. “Are you going-” he almost says “home” but that word wouldn’t taste right under her tongue. “Are you going back?”

“Back where? To Virginia?” She scuffs her shoes against the floor. Her fingers drum against her leg, quick and rhythmic. “There’s nothing for me there anymore.”

“Come on. You have to stay somewhere.”

She gestures to a bench near the boardwalk. “Look. A bed,” she says drily.

“I have a perfectly good couch,” he counters. “It’s better than nothing.”

She appraises him, clever eyes sweeping over his face. “You live alone? Are you old enough?”

He frowns. “I’m eighteen,” he defends. “I was an emancipated minor.”

“The state couldn’t be assed to take care of you, huh?” She asks, laughing slightly.

“My mom, actually, but yeah.” He half-expects an I’m sorry. He’s grateful when it doesn’t come.

After a long, slow moment, she sighs out an “okay.” She pulls her shirt aside to reveal the crude knife strapped to her belt. “If you try anything,” she begins with a wink so he knows she’s teasing, “I will kill you in your sleep.”

Murphy can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. “So you’ll come?”

She searches his eyes for something, and she must find it because she smiles. “Yes. I’ll come.”

When they leave the coast, Murphy expects a fight over whether or not to bring Emori home. To his surprise, the only dissent is from Bellamy, who questions the safety of allowing a stranger who admitted to theft into his apartment.

“What would she steal?” Murphy counters, fighting the urge to smack the worry from Bellamy’s face.

“Your heart!” Harper calls from down the boardwalk, her hands cupped around her mouth. Raven guffaws. Miller claps him on the back. When he looks over to meet Emori’s eyes, she’s grinning, carrying a cooler with Lexa and talking to Luna about something he can’t catch over the wind.

Emori rides in the back of Raven’s car on the way home, her back to the door and her head tilted back against the window. Murphy watches her in the rearview mirror from the front seat. Raven keeps her eyes carefully on the road, but a smirk slowly spreads across her face with every glance Murphy steals.

“Lover boy,” she sings sarcastically under her breath.

“Fuck you,” he sings back, following the same tune. Raven chuckles. In the mirror, he sees Emori smile even as her eyes drift shut.

“Should I ask why you invited her home?”

Murphy shrugs. “She needed somewhere to stay.”

Raven snorts. “Since when are you so benevolent?”

“I’m not,” he grumbles. “I just…”

“She compels you,” Lexa chimes in from the backseat, carefully moving Emori’s legs over so she can spread out on the seat.

“That’s one word for it,” he concedes. “Now shut up and let me sleep.”

He dozes until Raven pulls over near his apartment complex and reaches back to shake Emori awake. She wakes instantly, eyes wide and a little frightened, but seems to have calmed by the time they reach his front door.

“This is not what I was expecting,” she tells him as she roams the tiny living area, home to a small kitchen and a threadbare couch.

Murphy tosses his keys onto the counter. “What were you expecting?” He shrugs off his jacket, tosses it on top of the keys.

She flops onto the couch. “Something...sadder.”

Murphy thinks his home plenty sad, but he says nothing. He toes off his shoes and lets Emori stack hers near the door. “You can take the bed,” he tells her, raking his hands through his hair, trying not to think about her curled under his blankets.

She shakes her head. “I’m fine out here.” The way she plants herself on the couch tells him she won’t listen to an argument.

He goes to give her an extra blanket from his room, but she’s already asleep when he returns. He drapes it over her anyway, watching in something like awe as her fist wraps around the blanket’s corner. She looks soft and safe like this, and it calms him to watch her chest rise and fall, hearing her soft sigh when she shifts.

A few hours later, he hears her let out a strangled cry. He bolts from his room, flinging open the door, and sees her sitting up, knees to her chest, looking vulnerable and shaken and scared.

“Emori?” He asks carefully, turning on his bedroom light, squinting in the sudden brightness. She doesn’t look at him, can’t without squinting, so he crosses the cold bare floor and kneels beside her. “You okay?”

She shudders, swallows her tears, and turns toward him. “I’ll be okay.” Her voice is low. He sees the wrap unraveling from her hand and takes the liberty of finishing the job.

“You really don’t mind?” She asks softly.

“Like I said, I wouldn’t cover it up.” He caresses the palm once, twice. “I think it’s pretty badass.”

She laughs once. “Liar.” But when she curls back into her nest of blankets and pillows, he can see that she’s smiling.

He sits next to her, resting his hand on her leg. She doesn’t flinch away. He doesn’t know if he’s expecting her to or not. “Want to talk about it?”

She nestles into the blankets, turning so her face is obscured by shadow. The tattoo arching over her face captivates him. “My brother… He was shot in the head. In front of me.” She sniffles. A tear rolls from the corner of her eye to her hairline. “It’s my fault.”

“No,” Murphy breathes. “No, Emori, it’s not.” He wants to gather her into his arms, wants to shield her from whatever it is she carries, but he doesn’t. Self-restraint has always been his strong suit.

“How would you know?” Her voice trembles. “You weren’t there.”

“Did you pull the trigger?” She shakes her head. “Then it wasn’t your fault.”

“None of this would have happened if I didn’t have this.” She let her hand thump on the blanket as she sits up to face him. “Our mom would have wanted me. Otan would have stayed home too, and none of this would have happened.”

She’s trembling. One tear rolls down her cheek, then another and another, until she’s making awful quiet sounds in the back of her throat that sound like stifled sobs.

“Come here,” he murmurs and she curls against his side, her head against his shoulder. He runs his fingers through her hair and they both fall asleep like that, soft and safe and trying very hard to be okay.

#dailymemori #lindseysfandoms #bombshellsandbluebells #memori fanfic #memori fanfiction

21 notes · View notes