#the mar is the least pressed syllable

[bogkeep]

ok this is 100% an inconsequencial pet peeve this is not an indicator of the downfall of civilization. i could avoid a lot of annoyance by not listening to podcasts or essays that discuss the movie midsommar. and i will never judge anyone for saying swedish words wrong. i live in sweden and don't even Try. it would be largely hypocritical of me to demand perfect swedish pronounciation of people who do not speak the language.

but oh my GOD every time i hear people pronounce midsommar like midsomaaaahr i lose it a little. maybe i missed a memo. maybe it's a quirk of the swedish language i've been unaware of. maybe they pronounce it that way in the movie? i am never going to watch it. maybe im wrong. maybe it is pronounced that way. i thought it's pronounced almost exactly as the word midsummer in english with a slight difference in the vowels. because the swedish language is fairly similar to english in many ways. i don't think you need to drag the A out. it's a short A. i don't think swedish grammar is so different from norwegian grammar that it would be dragged out. am i losing my mind?

[acapelladitty]

chance encounter (Scriddler fic)

Summary: Based on this stunning artwork by @finzphoenix which asks what would happen if Edward and Jonathan stumbled across each other earlier in their careers as costumed criminals?

Fresh off an extended shift, his hours having been dragged out by a suicide attempt from one of the solitary inmates - a thoroughly selfish choice in his opinion since it had delayed his personal plans - Jonathan Crane was not feeling particularly forgiving as his feet trudged through the empty streets of Gotham while he made his way home.

His plans for the evening were simple; consisting of picking up a cheap dinner and locking himself away at his desk to refine the hypothetical formulas for his most recent compounds. Something was necessary to strengthen the molecular bonds and he had no doubt that a full belly, warmed by at least two fingers of gutrot whisky would prove the key components to assist him in finding success.

Distracted by his thoughts, he didn't see the other man pounding towards him on the sidewalk until it was too late to prevent disaster.

Colliding at the chest with matching grunts of surprise, Jonthan was only just able to maintain his balance as he swayed precariously for a moment before planting his left foot behind him to stabilise his frame. The other man was not so lucky as his grunt of surprise dissolved into a hiss of pain as he fell backwards onto his ass; the papers in his hands spilling out to the dry ground with a panicked flutter of movement.

Jonathan took a moment to catch his breath as the fallen man quickly switched positions, his legs swinging around to allow him to bend forward on his knees - his hands rapidly collecting up his disjointed documents.

"Perhaps a visit to the optometrist if you are unable to see where you are going."

Jonathan heard the words as clear as day from a voice which held a showman quality, a smug clarity writhing within each syllable, and his expression soured as shock quickly turned to dismissal as his gaze dropped properly to the fallen man.

Hair a rich shade of darkened brown, the shape of it was coiffed into a comfortable style that kept the strands free of his frowning forehead. A dull white shirt paired with a blue vest jumper and dark slacks spoke of a career in technology, probably some form of IT from the lanyard which hung around his pale neck and remained unreadable from this angle.

"By all means," the man continued with a scathing tone as he remained facing the ground and snatching up his papers, "continue to watch me clear your mess as you stand there doing noth- oh."

His knees cold and uncomfortable as they pressed against the uneven ground, Edward was uncharacteristically lost for words as he finally glanced up at the tall man who loomed over him like the night sky. His body blocking most of the limited light available, Edward had to squint to truly make out his appearance and doing so had momentarily robbed him of his silver tongue and scornful words.

A shiver ran down his spine and it had nothing to do with the cold evening air. Icy, dark eyes met his own and the intensity of them was not marred in the slightest by the wire-rimmed glasses which perched atop the proud nose which sneered down at him. Thin lips and jagged features paired with a similar frame but Edward found himself unable to draw his gaze away from those eyes - the darkness making them seem almost predatory as a glint of something sparked a warning from the gloom.

With clothing which appeared old-fashioned and almost frayed in places, Edward's keen powers of deduction told him that his man worked as a doctor, more likely some kind of psychiatrist, as his appearance and the vague scent of hospital which clung to him suggested a clinical air that was hard to disguise.

"You seem to have it covered." Jonathan spoke after a moment, the younger man's silence having hung in the air for an awkward moment. "Surely picking up some paper is a one man job that you're more than capable of." Meeting the verbal disdain in kind, Jonathan allowed himself to indulge in his own appraisal.

The face of the kneeling man was young, almost boyish, but beset with an older man's worries as something heavy hung across his brow; a weight which gave voice to unspoken stresses. His mouth was fuller than his own and hanging slightly agape, his surprise seeming to have robbed him of some of his dignity, as his fingers splayed across the ground. Bright, emerald eyes shone from behind his glasses, the dark frames only enhancing the sparkling green below and Jonathan felt the dullest twinge of arousal as he tilted his head like a hawk.

Both men stared the other out for a long moment. It wasn't lost on Jonathan just how interesting it was that the other man seemed content to remain on his knees before him, making no effort to get up and try to even out the playing field by placing them on equal footing. For someone so clearly prideful, it held implications that he couldn't help but consider. Hell, it felt almost natural and Jonathan surprised himself with the odd thought; such base considerations typically beyond him as he focused on the things in life which mattered.

But his mind wandered.

Even with their short meet, he could smell the arrogance rolling off the other man and the small, dark part of him that only seemed to grow with age wished to see it broken. He would find himself silenced, that smart mouth put to better use as it serviced him willfully - his knees reddened and bruised by repeated use as he was shown how best to meet his wants. And if the lessons didn't take then perhaps he would benefit from testing out one of the experimental compounds he was developing in secret within the asylum, a toxin which would bring fear to light in any who consumed it.

Half-hard and thankful that the dark slacks and billowing hem of his tenchcoat would be enough to distract from it, Jonathan pushed past his wicked thoughts and held out a single hand to help the man to his feet.

Edward, broken out of his reverie with a startled glance at the thin fingers, accepted without thanks as he placed his papers in his free hand and stood to his feet.

Without another word, Jonathan released his hand and brushed past the openly flustered man with a staunch pace that brooked no further interactions. His offer of assistance was one born of selfishness as the rapid adjustment of his body gave him the perfect opportunity to gaze at his lanyard with a hawk-like precision.

Edward Nashton. GCPD.

Cyber Crimes Div.

With a name and a location, Jonathan pulled his coat tighter against his chilled frame as he refused to turn as take one final look back at Mr. Nashton.

Edward.

Smiling against the darkness which was quick to envelop him as he slipped down a side-alley, Jonathan had no doubt that he would be seeing him again.

[endeavvor]

we are not out of danger.

DRAGON AGE: THE VEILGUARD PROMPTS PT 1

“Yep, I got that. Thanks.” His voice is strained, and he wonders when he became so winded. This planet’s gravity was similar to that of Earth’s, and what Jim’s body is used to; but a pressure on his thigh pulls his attention down and he remembers.

Gold is marred by splatters of red, but at least it isn’t torn. This was a new uniform, more fitted, less box shaped. A Captain should at least look like he gives a damn, he’d been told by his logistics officer that had shoved the packaging in his hands.

Jim grimaces.

He’s out of breath because he’s hurt - which is just typical, and explains the proximity of Spock to his person. There’s also a pinching happening between Spock’s brows. It is not his normal severity, but a rare glimpse into the inner workings of his mind.

Spock is not scared. He is not out of control. He is his normal, tactfully reserved self — but Jim can read between those lines. There’s a fractionally minimal downturn to the corner of his lips that tells him that Spock is concerned.

Jim wants to reach out, press his thumb in that space, smooth it out. He wants to smile and promise everything will be fine, but what good is a promise if it cannot be kept?

They’ve survived worse, and the cut to his thigh isn’t that deep. The flow of his blood between Spock’s pale fingers has already begun to lessen, but he doesn’t make the mistake of trying to brush his hands away, or reach out and offer comfort.

The Captain’s head just tilts back against the rock face he’s propped up on to stare at the expanse of blue sky. So similar to the color of his own eyes, he squints slightly as he thinks.

“Communications are down,” Naturally. Why Starfleet has yet to find a way to maintain their channels is beyond him. “And we don’t know where our lovely hosts have gone -," Jim hisses. "Damnit, Spock,"

Where his fingers had been curled into the dirt at his sides, he finally reaches one tentative hand out to lightly brush the back of Spock's knuckles. It exudes warmth and life, but his next stressed syllables are petulant, the blue of his eyes searching the brown of the others. "OW."

Fine, Spock is not just concerned. He’s angry. His grip had tightened to the point of pain against Jim’s leg. He knows the exact shape of the bruises that will be left in their wake.

“I get applying pressure is important, but if you snap my femur, we’re going to have bigger problems than the ambush. I'm fine.”

@fasciinating

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Into The Unknown, Part 10

First

Previous

Grocery store trips were weird. Tim had never taken them before, and now here he was buying food for the three of them regularly. He’d thought it would be harder, for some reason. But, no, it was just boring.

Tim rolled his eyes as Damian pointed to the nearest brightly colored object -- a bag of Not Cheetos… holy shit they were called Fritos this wasn’t allowed he has never been so vehemently against anything in his life.

He sighed as the baby yelled at him for the bag. This was his fault. He shouldn’t have gone in the chip aisle.

He looked down at the kid in front of him with an apologetic smile.

“No, kiddo. See, I would love to get that for you but, unfortunately, Mari said I can’t buy you any more random sweets. Blame her, not me.”

Damian was, apparently, too smart for his tricks because he banged his fist on the front of the cart and babbled at him angrily.

Tim sighed and leaned forward until his forehead touched the cool metal of the cart, thinking.

And then he got back up and handed the kid the bag of chips. Damian didn't know that it was food, Tim was pretty sure, and he had nothing against… ‘Fritos’ (outside of their name, obviously). So, why not? He could eat them. It was better than dealing with a tantrum in the middle of a store, at least.

Damian lit up and hugged the bag to his chest as if it was a soft stuffed animal and not a plastic bag filled with air and maybe a few chips.

Tim smiled faintly and pressed a kiss to the top of his head and then continued on his way, scanning over the list idly.

Oh. Marinette had added something. He squinted down at her messy scrawl, bringing it close to his face as if he could will the words to make sense.

And it worked. Ha. Take that everyone who didn’t believe in him.

Okay. So, she needed ‘pads’.

Sure. No problem.

He walked over to the aisle.

Hm. Okay. There might be a tiny little problem.

Why were there so many different brands? And sizes?

He stared around at them all helplessly. Sure, he had glimpsed the box a few times but he certainly hadn’t paid it much mind -- it wasn’t for him, why would he?! But now he was standing in an entire aisle full of products and there were way too many of them. And why did they all look the same? Shit!

He looked at Damian, who was biting the edge of the chip bag and giggling about the crinkling noises it made. But, once Tim turned his gaze on him, he looked up at him with wide eyes, attentive.

“Any chance you know what type Mari uses?” Tim joked softly.

Damian popped off the chip bag so he could babble at him. It was very helpful.

He considered, very briefly, just standing there in the aisle with the same helpless expression until some kind-hearted person took pity on him and he could avoid the embarrassment of calling Marinette at work to ask what types of pads she used… but, no, the idea of asking some random person for help was way worse. He had to just suck it up and do it.

He pulled out his phone and called Marinette. He was pretty sure it was lunchtime for her, anyways.

She picked up within a few rings, voice slightly muffled as she answered with a simple: “Problem?”

Tim didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or amused that her first thought when he called her was that something was wrong.

But he quickly alleviated her fears: “No, everything’s fine.”

He could hear the phone shift slightly as she assumedly went back to eating. “Right, then what is it?”

“Nothing bad, really…” Tim started awkwardly. His face reddened without his permission. “Just wanted to know what brand you used for, um, hygiene products.”

“... hyg --? Oh.” He heard her laugh at him and his face only reddened further. “What, the world's greatest detective couldn’t figure it out?”

“That’s my dad!” He mumbled a little huffily.

She snickered a little longer before finally saying: “I think the brand is called ‘Forever’ here.”

“See! You don’t even know!” He said even as he pulled down a box with the word written across it in elegant script.

“That’s because the name changed when --...” She seemed to remember she was at work -- or, at least, that there were other people around -- because she cut herself off suddenly before she could admit to being a dimension hopper in a world that likely wouldn’t even believe in the multiverse. “When… I switched brands! Yeah. Heh.”

(Tim swore he heard her mumble ‘technically not even a lie’ but he wasn’t quite sure.)

He started to put it in the basket but then he paused.

“There’s a lot of sizes.”

“Um… I think a four?”

“Yeah, no, they have letters here.”

“Fuck, right, hate that, um… D, I guess.”

He switched out the Cs he had gotten and smiled as Damian reached for him. He clearly wanted out of the cart -- Tim wondered, vaguely, if it was uncomfortable -- but that wasn’t going to happen so he decided to distract him:

“Want to talk to Mari, kiddo?”

The kid blinked up at him a few times before lighting up. “Mar-ree!”

He pressed the phone to Damian’s ear with one hand until the kid took it himself and then motioned for him to go ahead. “Takalam maeaha.”

“... marhaba?” Damian said, giving Tim a look that seemed to scream ‘you’re weird for making me talk into a box’.

Marinette must have said something back, because the kid’s eyes went wide. Damian looked around wildly for a few moments, clearly trying to figure out where Marinette was, before he realized that her voice was coming from the box. He gasped a little and pressed the phone against his ear even harder and started to ‘talk’ to her. It was a weird mix of Arabic and a few English syllables thrown together haphazardly, Tim was just glad he was learning.

Tim started on his way through the store again, sure he wasn’t going to get his phone back anytime soon.

He’d gotten all the necessities and they had money left in the weekly budget...

He headed to the kid’s aisle, head tipping from side to side as he considered what to get. Maybe a new book? Damian had taken a liking to them, though Tim was pretty sure that was more because he thought the English language sounded kind of funny rather than any real passion for stories.

He picked up a book about letters and looked down at Damian. He sounded annoyed now.

He looked at Tim with an annoyed expression and shook Tim’s poor phones a few times. “Mar-ree!”

Ah. She must have hung up because her break was over.

How was he supposed to explain how phones worked to a baby? Especially since he knew phones so intimately thanks to his time working on the model he was using.

He gently pulled the phone from the kid’s hands. “Mari’s at work. You can see her later.”

“Bu…” Damian pouted.

Damn it. How dare the kid be cute? Tim was about five seconds away from walking to Marinette’s job so the kid would smile again.

He hesitated before reaching behind himself and grabbing the first soft thing his hands landed on. He pulled it out and squinted at the stuffed cat. It was cute, he supposed, but he didn’t know why it was rainbow-colored.

Whatever.

He offered the plush to Damian and the kid seemed to instantly forget about the phone.

(And the chips. But the kid had put it in his mouth so it looked like Tim was buying that anyway.)

He pressed a kid to the top of his head and then continued on his way.

… and that was when he heard it:

Haha, someone got called a DILF.

… wait a minute… he was the only person with a kid around here…

His head whipped around so fast he would have gotten whiplash if he was old -- which he wasn’t -- to see two girls in their mid teens. And they were definitely looking at him. They even tried to hide behind the next aisle in order to avoid his gaze once they realized he had heard them.

Tim didn’t know what to do about this. Someone had actually called him...

He was 19! He couldn’t be that yet! How?! No!

And, sure, the logical part of him knew they were technically right. He was attractive (he hoped) and, when it came to the ‘dad’ thing… if Damian never got his memories back, then Tim would pretty much be the only dad that he had ever known. He would be a dad.

But, again, he was 19-years-old, he didn’t want to think about this.

So, to ward off the impending crisis, he looked around the aisle he was in wildly for some kind of ‘kid’ thing.

He found some marshmallow guns and grabbed two. Then he got some marshmallows because those weren’t included for some reason. Whatever.

He looked down at the basket, aware that he was now over budget, and eventually decided to put back the book. Who needs to learn?

(Besides, if Damian really wanted to just hear people talk, Tim could totally do that. He had so many random facts in his head thanks to random rabbit holes he had gone down while sleep-deprived, he could just rant about those if the kid wanted.)

So, he checked out, loaded up with all the bags and the baby, and started walking home.

… he was totally going to learn to drive. Even if Gotham streets were safer -- especially when he had a baby on him -- it was a pain to carry all the groceries even the few blocks to their apartment. Literally. The bags dug into his skin. He swore he could taste blood.

But he had an end goal in sight, so he went faster than usual that day.

He set up the guns, leaving Marinette’s on the kitchen table and then took a seat on the couch with Damian. They spent the few remaining hours playing games (Tim was pretty sure, he had absolutely no clue what Damian was saying but the kid seemed to have fun and that was all that mattered) and watching TV.

Tim heard his door click and looked up.

He quickly reached for the marshmallow gun and turned to point it at the door.

Damian watched him in silence, perfectly still as if he understood that this was something that they needed to be quiet for.

Usually, this kind of worried Tim. They always gave Damian to Kaalki and Tikki when they sparred, but Damian had always been… shockingly well-behaved? Not in the good way, either, he was far too still and quiet. Tim was starting to suspect that, at the very least, the kid remembered the first year of his life in the League. He hoped that the trauma would fade away with time. Kids forget things that they experienced as babies when they grew older, Tim himself couldn’t remember anything from before he was three, so hopefully this would be the same.

… but he really wanted to get Marinette with a marshmallow gun. So, he swallowed down the slight bit of anxiety rising in his chest and looked through the scope as Marinette finally managed to open the finicky door.

Damian’s eyes widened and he made a quiet ‘ah!’ sound.

Tim jumped at the sudden sound and pulled the trigger. The marshmallow gun made a fmpf sound as it fired off the shot.

The marshmallow bounced off of Marinette’s forehead harmlessly. Because, y’know, it was a marshmallow.

She blinked a few times and then knelt down to pick up the fallen marshmallow. She scanned it over a few times, eyes narrowed.

Tim hardly paid attention to her, looking over at Damian. The kid looked very confused, eyes darting between the gun and Marinette and the marshmallow on the floor repeatedly as if he wasn’t sure what he was seeing.

And then he flopped back on the sofa with a quiet whimpering sound.

Marinette and Tim frowned at each other. He could see confusion and concern knitting her eyebrows together, meanwhile all he had was dread coiling itself in his gut. Because… what if Damian did remember his first year with the League? Or, even worse, what if he would slowly regain all his memories? No kid deserved that...

Tim felt something hit the side of his head, snapping him out of his daze. Oh. Marinette had grabbed the other gun and promptly gotten her revenge.

Damian didn’t see this, at least, just staring at the ceiling with wide eyes.

Marinette sat on Damian’s other side, gently picking him up and nuzzling her nose against his cheek. Then, she sat him back down between them, sidling close so the kid could curl into her side. Tim, after a few seconds, scooted closer as well.

“Want some marshmallows? They’re yummy,” she tried hesitantly.

She shot one into her hand and, after tearing it in half just in case, handed it to Damian.

The kid took a hesitant bite, still looking a little put out, but then he gasped a little. He happily chewed away at the marshmallow, the event easily wiped from his mind in favor of the yummy thing in his hand.

Tim sighed in relief, reaching behind himself for the marshmallow bag so they wouldn’t have to shoot any more. Just in case.

“Quick thinking,” he said, which was kind of a compliment if you squinted.

She smiled and leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek. “It’s what I’m known for.”

There was a few seconds before she sighed just a little, gently combing her fingers through Damian’s hair. The kid reached out and gripped Tim’s shirt in his hand, surely getting it messed up thanks to the marshmallow on his hands but whatever, and tried to tug him closer. He obliged. Marinette rested her head on his shoulder absently.

“What would I do without you?” He mused.

“Probably starve on the streets,” she said bluntly.

He scoffed a little. “The minute this kid goes to sleep I’m going to shoot another marshmallow at you.”

“You can try. Only reason you even got me last time was ‘cause I didn’t know you were going to do it.”

“The element of surprise is a totally valid tactic!” He pretended to whine.

She grinned at him. “But it won’t work again.”

He wrapped an arm around her lazily. “We’ll see.”

~~~~~

Next

@unoriginalmess @hammalammadamdam @astrynyx @laurcad123 @927roses-and-stuff

[ratmonky]

Glory of Power

Word Count: 3.4K

Warnings: misogyny, dacryphilia, exhibitionism, public, manipulation

AO3 Link

From across the room, you could see him take small sips from his drink. Some petite server girl was filling his glass with a smile and the people surrounding him were all laughing at a story he was telling.

Charismatic and confident.

Everyone wanted to be him.

Everyone wanted him.

You wanted him.

You wanted to be one of those people who surrounded him. Desperately wanted to stand next to him and have his arm around your waist as he told those people his stories. You wanted to be owned by him and everyone to know you belonged to him.

However, no matter how much you wanted to approach him, you were quite out of your element tonight. A large gathering full of famous and wealthy people was as elegant as you thought it would be. There were servers, a pianist gracefully playing a tasteful piece and people were all chatting about things you couldn’t keep up with.

You had tried blending in with a group a couple of hours ago and grabbed a glass of champagne to join them as they were talking about politics but you realized that your views were clashing from the moment they opened their mouth.

Although you would like to call them out on their political views, the others in the group started to agree and nod with a laugh. Feeling lost, you sipped from your champagne instead.

Hours later the same champagne had gone flat and you were standing in the corner, watching the people around you socialize.

The atmosphere was smothering you and the pressure of wanting to make a good impression before everyone left was enough to give you a headache.

In the dark quiet of some of the people leaving the Zenin compound, you walked out to the balcony to get some fresh air after finally leaving your flat champagne on a table. The summer breeze made you shiver a little and you saw someone who had come here to escape the people just like you.

Naoya was smoking, leaning on a pillar, and watching the full moon with interest. It was just the two of you alone together here for the first time in the night. He hadn’t noticed your presence on the balcony.

Although you wanted to walk up to him and start a conversation like you had been wanting to all night, you hadn’t had enough to drink to have that much confidence but then why were you walking towards him?

Naoya turned his head to you when he took notice of you approaching him. A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I see my father invited the weaker link to a clan gathering.”

You forced a smile and awkwardly stood in front of him. A little too dumb to notice that he had actually insulted you. “He invited the head of my clan but since he was busy I’m here.”

“You came here all by yourself to represent your clan?”

A nod.

“Did you manage to befriend anyone?”

A shrug.

He chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “This is why women shouldn’t get involved in clan politics.” Naoya made a thoughtful sound, bringing his hand up to inhale his cigarette smoke.

“What about you?” you asked, beaming up at him. “I saw you chatting up a large crowd, any progress?”

“No.” He was quick to shake his head. “None of their clans are worthy of being the Zenin Clan’s ally.”

“Well, what about mine?” you asked playfully.

He scoffed.

You cocked a brow at that, frowning just slightly. “What?”

“Do you really wanna know what I think about your clan?”

“Are you always this rude?”

This time Naoya nodded with a smirk.

Grumbling under your breath, you looked at the view from the balcony. The large mountains looked breathtaking in the night sky.

It became silent between the two of you. But this time Naoya broke the silence.

“Wanna grab a drink?” he asked, flicking the ash off his cigarette.

You turned to look at him, and right away the intensity of his stare made you flustered. “I could use some.”

“I meant for me,” he replied and cocked his head to gesture inside the compound. “Go fetch something for me.”

“Oh, okay.” Like an obedient puppy, you went inside to grab the two drinks from one of the servers going around. You returned to Naoya’s side and he took the beverage from you. He wasn’t wearing his usual attire tonight, he was wearing a suit. It fit him well, almost too well.

“How crowded is it?” he asked out of nowhere.

You stumbled on your words. “Everyone is leaving,” you said, glancing at him for a second. This time, he was watching you. “I guess since you’re not there they don’t have a reason to stay.”

Naoya clicked his tongue and stubbed out his cigarette. “This was a waste of time.”

“It wasn’t.” You offered him a smile. “It was a good way to bring sorcerer clans together.”

“Then what’s the purpose of you being here?” Naoya raised a brow. “You’re not a sorcerer. You can’t find allies for your clan or bring me a drink.”

“I did, I brought you a drink,” you said, smile disappearing because of his change of mood.

Naoya turned the champagne glass to the side until he could pour out its contents down from the balcony to the garden. “Do I look like a champagne guy to you?”

You stared at your own glass in shame, “That was what they were serving.”

He held the glass to you and once you took it, he fished out his cigarette packet to put another cigarette between his lips. “Aren’t you a woman? Shouldn’t you be useful at least in some way?” He lit the cigarette and took a long whiff. “Why are you even here if you can’t be useful to anyone?”

“I-it’s my right,” you mumbled.

“What’s that? Speak up.”

“It’s my right as a member of my clan, I deserve the same respect my head of the clan gets.” Your hands holding the glasses were shaking.

Naoya watched your trembling hands with amusement.

“Stop looking down on me.” You managed not to stutter but your voice cracked. “We’re the same.”

“Same? Sweetheart, we’re not the same. Like any other woman, you can’t think with your brain. Don’t you understand? This is clan politics. Your head of the clan is a mighty man worthy of respect but you’re just some eye candy. You don’t have any rights or any worth to have anyone’s respect here.”

You could practically see the way his hand was trembling, as if unable to contain his anger. “You women are just a bunch of breeding holes if anything.” He took a drag of his cigarette to calm his senses, his eyes tracking your every movement.

Nevertheless, none of you were expecting you to splash your champagne in his face. Your body had moved on its own and you immediately regretted it when you saw Naoya glower down at you.

Taking a stuttering breath, you bit your lip, trying to find a word to say but you found yourself unable to utter a single syllable.

Naoya dragged a hand down his face and shook his hand to get rid of the excess liquid on his hand. His handsome face was marred with a fit of twisted anger when he noticed you had soaked his cigarette as well.

He was quiet. A little too quiet.

“I’m sorry.” You finally managed, taking a step back to put distance between the two of you. The shaking of your hands made your grip on the glasses loosen. The sound of something shattering came slightly afterward. You stared at the shattered glasses on the floor.

Naoya raised a brow, “Are you now?”

In the heat of the moment you had done something that could damage your clan’s reputation and worse than that… you did something Naoya would hate you for.

“I-I am. I’m sorry. I’m not s-someone s-special and I’m l-lame for even s-standing next to you but I-I am really h-honored to be at this party. I really am, I-I just got angry. I am glad I-I’m here. I… I’ve always loved you… I’m sorry.”

“What are you talking about? Are you apologizing or confessing your pathetic feelings?”

You couldn’t look at him, your eyes were on his shoes but you still had the guts to confess your feelings to him instead of apologizing.

Naoya stood still and watched you tremble. He could see how much courage you had to build up before coming here to tell him all this nonsense. You had to be madly in love with him or else why would you embarrass yourself like this?

“Are you done?” he asked, running a hand through his hair to prevent it from sticking to his soaked forehead.

Crack.

“Y-yeah.” There was no way you could hide how ashamed you were. The shaking wouldn’t stop, “I’m sorry.”

“You disrespect me, trash my house, and expect me to forgive you?” he hissed through his teeth. You started shaking your head and suddenly kneeled on the floor to grab the glass pieces.

“I’ll-I’ll clean it up, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of this.” Your eyes were glossy with tears, not wanting to cry in front of him you quickly wiped them away. Picking up the glass pieces in your palm, you crawled to gather the larger pieces first. Some of the broken pieces were next to Naoya’s feet.

While you were picking the glass pieces in front of him, the skirt of your dress got soaked on the floor by the champagne you had splashed on him.

“Get out of my house.”

Your hands were twitching as you struggled to gather any more of the glass pieces. You fought down another swell of panic. “I’m sorry, I’ll clean this-”

“You’re gonna apologize by cleaning?” he asked in a mocking tone, “Leave.”

You looked up to him, eyes wide and glossy. “Naoya, please. I’m sorry.”

The view of you on your knees and barely a second away from crying caught him off guard. Your lower lip trembling in fear only made it better.

“How much do you love me?”

The question sounded simple but you didn’t know his intentions that laid beneath it or how his cheeks were tinted with a faint blush.

“A lot!” Your choked-up answer was instantaneous. It made him grin. Obedient women were just his type.

Naoya’s eyes squinted and his lips curled into a smile as he reached his hand out for you to hold. “Drop the glass shards.”

You did as he told and reached to take his hand to stand up but Naoya had other plans. He grabbed your hand by the wrist and pressed your palm against his bulge.

Stunned, you froze in the awkward position he placed your hand.

He let out an annoyed sigh, “Come on, prove it to me that you love me,” he was inanimate. His hand moved yours over his bulge, causing you to rub it.

“B-but.” You looked around in panic. “We’re outside-”

“So you don’t love me, is that it?”

“No! I do! But… I think-”

“You’re in love with me, right?” He had a sickening smile on his face.

“Naoya, what if someone comes out.” If he persisted one more time, you would start crying. “We should go somewhere else.”

“Do you want me to forgive you or do you want me to cut all ties with your clan?”

Your blood went cold, eventually understanding where you stood on the clan politics. Not only your clan was nothing compared to his own, one word from him could send everything the head of your clan built down the drain.

“I can’t do it here,” you cried, cheeks wet with tears. “I have a reputation.”

“Your crying voice is more erotic than I thought.” Naoya ignored your pathetic begging and chuckled. You gasped when you felt his cock throb under your hand. “(name),” he cooed, pressing your hand against his growing erection. You lifted your gaze up to him once again, facing him fully. His half-lidded gaze was already on you. “Be a good girl and do as I say.”

You nodded slowly and he pulled his hand back from yours to unbuckle his belt. His fingers moved gracefully and smoothly, it was sort of hypnotizing to see him unzip his pants.

You had seen him in the dojo growing up, learning to swing the wooden sword to practice for the real thing. His calloused hands were large and rough, yet when his hand reached to hold your chin in between his thumb and index finger, they were being gentle. The pad of his thumb pressed on your bottom lip and pushed it inside, making you open your mouth.

“Open wide,” he snickered, his other hand pushing his pants and boxers down to release his aching cock. “Or it won’t fit in.”

You moaned at his words, tongue pressed flat against his finger. He let you suck his finger into your mouth and watched with delight when your cheeks hollowed as your tongue swirled around his thumb.

Pulling his finger out of your mouth, he held his cock over your face and slapped it on your cheek. “Don’t forget, no teeth.” He didn’t let you answer, instead put the tip of his cock against your lips and pulled the thin layer of skin to expose the tip more.

Without wasting any time, you lolled out your tongue and held his throbbing cock in your hands to run your tongue from the base to the tip, following a vein. You looked up to him through your lashes while sliding your thumb over the tip of his cock that was glistening with precum already. He was watching you intently, which made your thighs rub together in anticipation.

“(name).” He thrust against your cheek, his precum dripping onto your face, “Open your mouth before I shove it down your throat.

Naoya sighed when you took him into your mouth, your glossy lips wrapping around the girth of his cock were almost euphoric, it made him thrust into your mouth. He tasted as good as he looked. Mild but quite salty.

“Good girl,” he groaned, his hand landed on your hair and he carded his thick fingers through the strands. “I knew there was some use to you.”

The second you started to bob your head, his hand settled on top of your head and began moving you. You let him do whatever he wanted, all you had to do was suck in your cheeks and wrap your tongue around the girth of his cock while he was directing you as he pleased.

With a harsh thrust of his hips, his cock grazed the back of your throat. You gagged reflexively as he abruptly started to force his cock down your throat to fuck your face.

Drool and his precum gushed out from your mouth with every snap of his hips and you looked up at him lovingly. His smothering eyes watched you with a blank expression yet you could see a small trace of pleasure in them.

“You’re enjoying this way much more than I do.”

Your sloppy blowjob, the drool that was running down your chin, and tears staining your face, all of it made Naoya’s cock twitch in your mouth.

He grabbed the back of your head with his free hand and started to mindlessly fuck your mouth. Fresh tears pricked in the corners of your eyes and you tried your best to not ruin his moment of chasing after his relief. You reached down and under your skirt to your clothed cunt to rub tight circles over the soaked bud to get some sort of relief as well.

His hips staggeringly surged forward, he groaned and you felt him release his warm seed in your mouth. He kept his cock deep inside of your throat until he stopped cumming.

Once he pulled out he stared at your face, your mouth open and some of his cum stuck on your tongue. His face was leaning closer to yours, you puckered your open lips sluggishly to kiss him.

Instead of having his soft lips press against yours, Naoya spat in your mouth.

Your eyes widened in surprise while he laughed at your reaction.

“Did you really think I’d kiss you?” he scoffed. “You reek of cum.”

You stared at the ground in shame, speechless.

“Swallow it,” he ordered.

You shook your head slightly but he nodded rapidly while shushing you. A shiver ran up and down your spine because you were nothing but a desperate whore and you would do anything to please him. You glanced up at him before taking a deep breath.

“Come on, sweetheart.” he petted your hair lovingly, “Show me that you can at least be useful.”

Finally deciding to get over with it, you swallowed. Naoya gently put his hand under your chin and lifted your chin up. You were so obedient and you worshipped him more than anyone else did.

“What’s up with that face?” He raised a brow, frowning mockingly. “Show me a smile.”

You must be sick because you smiled, hoping to satisfy him.

“Good girl.”

Next thing you know, you’re up on your feet and being bent over towards the cement railing of the balcony.

Everything was happening too quickly for your head to catch up. You were already embarrassed about sucking him off in public and now when you were being bent over like this was off-limits.

“N-Naoya?” You sounded worried and in panic. Someone could walk in at any time.

“I haven’t gone limp yet.” Was Naoya’s reply. He focused on gathering the long skirt of your dress and lifting it up and over your ass. He whistled in amusement at the sight of your thighs being soaked with your juices.

“S-someone will see.”

“You didn’t worry about being seen while you had my dick in your mouth. What’s so different?” You felt your panties being slid to the side before the tip of his cock started moving between your folds. Naoya coated his cock with your glistening juices and lined himself up on your entrance. “Besides, you want to be seen with me, don’t you?”

You didn’t get to give him a reply as Naoya suddenly shoved his entire length inside your pussy. A sharp moan left your lips and you held tightly onto the railing, legs shaking in pleasure.

Naoya gasped audibly at your gummy walls taking the shape of his cock so nicely. He smiled to himself, pulling his hips back agonizingly slowly, and then slammed them inside your pussy until his balls slapped against your ass.

The panic that took over you disappeared as quickly as it appeared when Naoya started moving. “Aren’t you happy to be fucked by me?”

He slammed his cock into your cunt frantically and you found yourself nodding languidly at his question, you bit your lip to repress a moan.

His hand landed on your ass with a loud clap sound and you jerked forward, your grip tightening on the railing.

A moan finally escaped your lips when he grabbed you by your hips and forced you to arch your back so that he could mount you completely. His cock felt bigger and went deeper in this position, making you see the stars.

As you were nearing your end, your gummy walls clenched around him, making his already sensitive cock twitch frenziedly. Your hips started to move to meet his animalistic pace, soft sounds of pleasure escaping you without shame now.

Surprised by your body’s reaction, his cock throbbed inside you, spurting thick ropes of his seed inside your womb. He had been planning to pull out but you hadn’t let him.

Naoya continued moving his hips, fucking his cum deeper inside your pussy and watching it gust out from your hole. The sloppy sounds were pleasing to hear, at least to him they were.

When he pulled out, the skirt of your dress fell to cover your lower half. You could feel his cum ooze out from you as you tried standing up on your wobbly legs.

Behind you, Naoya had already tucked himself in his pants and fixed his suit. His blazer was damp from the champagne but since it was a dark navy color, it wasn’t visible.

He seemed in a better mood, his anger past forgotten but you still felt the need to apologize again. “I’m sorry for all of this. I ruined your night.”

Naoya smiled in response, tilting his head to the side slightly and taking a step to close the distance between the two of you. “Don’t worry, (name).” His hand snaked around your waist before he led you back inside the compound and to his room. “There’s still time for you to make it all up to me.”

[ohmightydevviepuu]

the part of a swan

for @cshistfic​ (an extension of one of my august prompts)

--

It should be clear that Emma did not, by any means, regret her ruination.  She did not miss the person she had been before that night; the eager, naive girl, brought up always to behave a certain way, to speak softly, to do as she was bidden, to be what she was told.

Emma no longer believed in allowing people to tell her who she could be.

But Killian Jones is not concerned with who she was--he's interested in who she is. And he might be the only one smart enough to uncover the truth.

AO3 part 1/? ~2.6k

--

Emma was twenty-eight years old when she stepped into a ballroom for the first time since she was ruined.  The first time she was present for the judging stares, the awkward silences.  For the public shaming and the elaborate ritual that surrounded it.

It should be clear that Emma did not, by any means, regret her ruination.  She did not miss the person she had been before that night; the eager, naive girl, brought up always to behave a certain way, to speak softly, to do as she was bidden, to be what she was told.

Emma no longer believed in allowing people to tell her who she could be.

Lady Emma Nolan—for that was who she was, though she barely deserved the descriptor and never claimed the surname—delighted in her ruination, and had done for years.  It had given her freedom.

It had given her Henry.

Emma had faded into the background as she was expected to after her fall, after her scandal—watched the man she thought she loved continue to live his life as the toast of the ton, the darling of his father, the scion of a powerful family—and swore to herself it was the last time she would do what society expected her to do.

Until tonight.

Emma stood before the crowd, acutely aware of all of the eyes upon her, assessing her, from the style of her coiffure—a ridiculous confection of curls and white feathers—to the tips of her shoes.  Surely, they were saying to themselves, surely it is her brother’s money that supports her.

Emma could read them as easily as if they were speaking.

But they were wrong, and that was her secret.

Still, they whispered to each other, muttered remarks hidden discreetly behind fans and glasses of Champagne, and their eyes followed her.  Judged her for her past.

And for her presence.

They knew why she was here, and they hated it.

(So did she.)

“Lady Emma.”

The voice was lush and warm with roughness at its edges.  Dry—acerbic—the syllables drawn out.  He seemed to appear out of nowhere and Emma could do nothing but hold his stare, watching him as he watched her.  Dark hair, blue eyes, sharp cheekbones unfashionably marred by unshaven shadows.

It suited him.

“Sir,” she said.  “We have not been introduced.”  It was both a rebuke and a lie, for she knew who he was.  Killian Jones, the son of no one of name, who had made his career in the navy, nearly cashiered out of the service but not before making his fortune in captured prizes; now the writer of several prominent newspapers.

More importantly, a broker in the most potent currency of all—information.

“And you are lurking in the dark.”

“Then do allow me to rectify that on both counts,” he said, stepped forward and bending low over her hand.  His breath tickled her skin even through the elbow-length gloves as he looked up at her through his eyelashes.

She pulled away.  “What need has Killian Jones for an introduction?”

His eyes glittered.  Blue, like the place on the horizon where the sky met the sea, made brilliant by sunlight; Emma held her breath and prayed he would not notice her slip.

Lady Emma Nolan was not the kind of woman who should know—or recognize—Killian Jones.

Finally, he said, “I see my reputation precedes me.”

Emma exhaled.  “Why should mine be the only one?”

He laughed, a short bark that seemed to escape him unwillingly, and Emma smiled.  It was a small, tight smile.  She gestured at the ballroom and said, “I should return to my sister-in-law.”  “How is the Duchess?”  His tone was conversational, his eyebrow raised.  “Not dancing, I hope?  In her condition?”

Emma’s smile tightened.  She shifted, uncomfortable in the ill-fitting corset her sister-in-law had pressed upon her, and started to walk away.

He followed her movement, his gaze traveling from her neck to her navel, and Emma blushed.

“Let’s not play games, Lady Emma,” he said.  “You’re here for a husband.  You’re here for your son.”

He leaned in, coming closer, and Emma held her breath.  Anywhere but here—now—she might have welcomed this battle, this back-and-forth—welcomed him, for he was devastatingly handsome—

But she had felt that way before, and fallen for it; left broken, and alone, though it had not been Neal who had destroyed her.  She had never said his name aloud since the day he’d left, never told anyone the identity of the man who had, however unwittingly, given her freedom.

Fathers’ sins, after all, never stuck.

It had been them—the gaggle, the gossips, the matrons.  The glittering ballrooms of the beau monde.  She had chosen not to play by their rules, and paid the price for it.  Emma’s scandal became both entertainment and a cautionary tale.  She’d been exiled by all save her brother and sister-in-law, the duke and duchess married in a scandal of their own, the stars of a different tale.

Love.

But even that had come at a cost:  The respect of their late father, and of the ton.

And now, ten years later, here she stood.  “Do not,” Emma said, stepping forward and nearly baring her teeth at him, “mention my son.”

He stepped back, slowly.  His eyes did not move, and neither did hers.  His tone did not change when he said, “Lady Emma, I understand your urgency.  With the duchess increasing—”

Emma did not answer, but she made no move to leave this time.

Because he was right, the perceptive bastard.

All of the joy she felt for her brother and sister-in-law did not assuage her suddenly urgent need to see that Henry was properly taken care of—by a father.  Someone with a title—someone who needed an heir, now that her brother no longer did.

“There are other dowries, Lady Emma,” he said.  “Why yours?”

Emma’s eyes widened.  Perceptive, and too clever by half.  Maybe that was she answered him honestly.  “There are none so large as mine.  And none that come with as much freedom.”

“Freedom?”  For an instant only he looked confused.  Then he spoke, softly.  “Ah.  You have no expectations.  No dreams of a convenient husband turning into a love match.  You’re awfully young to be so cynical.”  He chuckled, a sound utterly devoid of humor; his eyes once more took her measure.  “But then again, wounds made when you’re young do tend to linger.”

He, too, spoke honestly, as if he knew.  As if he, too, had wounds.  He lifted his hand as if he was going to touch her again—and if he touched her, she was going to like it.

“No one has ever done what you’re about to do,” he said, his hand falling.  “And I wish for you to succeed.  In fact, I want to help you.”

Their eyes locked.

“You do?” Emma challenged him.  “Why?”

Some of the scandal sheets that had delighted in her fall had, after all, been his.

“My reasons are my own,” he said.  “There is little love between me and Society.”

She should end this conversation, Emma knew.  She’d been away from the crowd, and from Mary Margaret, her sister-in-law, long enough to be noticed.  Another black mark for the record-keepers.

But Emma stayed.  Said, “You keep them entertained.”

He smirked.  “And you, Lady Emma, are the entertainment in question.”

—

Killian Jones stood on the edge of the ballroom and watched them.  Watched her.

Emma Nolan was every inch an aristocrat, born and bred into this world; a true diamond of the first water.  Everyone in this room should be on their knees at her feet and instead they whispered, waiting to pounce—waiting to destroy her all over again.

He shouldn’t care.  He should stay focused.  

“You should not have flirted with the girl.”

Killian did not turn.  “What do you want with her?”

The answering chuckle was dry and unpleasant. “Let’s just say I’m keeping my eye on young Miss Nolan.”

“Lady Emma,” Killian corrected, only to be granted with another chuckle that had him biting back a curse.

“Of course.”  Robert Gold’s words were soft, delicate—silk wrapped around a knife.  

“What do you want with her?” Killian asked again.

Gold tutted.  “So cold a greeting from my oldest friend.”

Killian had known Gold—now Lord Boyle, Baron Ross, Earl of Glasgow—for almost fifteen years, and hated him for every moment of it; one of the King’s most trusted advisors, with tens of thousands of acres that earned him close to thirty thousand pounds per annum.

The man was as rich as a fictional king, but that was never enough for him.

No amount of power was enough for him.

“I could kill you right here,” Killian said.

“You could,” Gold agreed.  “And you would hang for it.”

“At least it would be for a crime I actually committed.”

“Big words, Captain.  You and I both know that you are not in any position to move against me.”

Killian finally turned to face him, ignoring the shiver of fear that went through him as he did so; hating it.  “I won’t ask again.”

“And I won’t answer.  Your only concern is that she interests me.  It is so tiresome, having to threaten you.  You would do better to just accept our arrangement.  I command, you act.”

As though Killian could ever forget.

But Killian was not the only one with secrets—Gold had them, and deeper and darker than any one man should.  Secrets that would see Gold, not Killian, at the end of a rope.

If only Killian had proof.

Snarling, Killian backed away from the earl and made his way through the ballroom for the exit.

And found—

“We meet again, Mr. Jones,” said Lady Emma Nolan.  Her bright green eyes sparkled and her voice—somehow it brought light with it.  Killian was helpless to do naught but smile back as he inclined his head in greeting.

“My lady,” he said, and enjoyed the surprise in her eyes at the honorific.

The night was still young and they were the only two preparing to leave.  Emma’s maid stood discreetly behind and the duchess, her chaperone, was nowhere to be seen.  “Are you for home already?”

Her nod made the feathers in her coiffure tremble.  “Believe it or not, Mr. Jones, I am unaccustomed to this sort of evening.  I find myself quite exhausted.”

“I noticed you found the energy to dance,” he said, and wished he hadn’t.

She had stood up for every dance, had played her part brilliantly; Killian had noticed several of her brother’s titled friends called in to do a set with her in the hopes that all of their combined wealth and power might blind Society to the lady’s sins.

She was all anyone talked about, but it was neither her brother’s chosen champions nor her beauty that fueled the whispers in the ballroom.

If Gold wanted her—

“Did you?” She adjusted her wrap around her shoulders but could not hide her smile.  “And yet you never thought to ask me?”

“Lady Emma,” he said, affecting shock, “when we have not even been introduced?”

Her laugh seemed to reverberate; as if the street lamps themselves would dance to her tune, and for a long moment there was silence between them, neither of them moving to break the moment.  The sound of approaching hoofbeats and carriage wheels emerging from the neighboring mews was both an irritation and a welcome distraction as she made to leave him.

“The duchess does not accompany you?”

The feathers trembled again as she shook her head, still smiling.  “I’m for home, Mr. Jones.  I wonder, what shall you write about this evening for your Scandal Sheet?”

She meant the words to amuse, he was sure—a perfect combination of wit and boredom—but underneath it all, Killian heard something else.  Something, he thought, no one was meant to hear:  Sadness.  Loss.  Frustration.

“You don’t want it, do you?”

She watched him, weighing, calculating, as the carriage waited before them to take her away from this place and this life, if only for an evening.  If she was surprised by how easily he read her, she gave no sign of it.  “This is my bed, Mr. Jones.  I must lie in it.  And to do that—it seems I need you.”

The words landed, harder than she ever could have intended, his silly promise of social redemption echoing hollow.  It was cold comfort to know that the earl was already married and could have no designs on Emma’s dowry.

The man had a terrible track record when it came to his wives.

Killian thought that it must be her family—her brother—that interested him.  The young, golden-haired duke had clawed his way back from his sister’s scandal and his own marriage based, as best Killian could ascertain, solely on his charm.

“Lady Emma—” he began, but he did not know what else to say.

“Good night, Mr. Jones.”  She was already moving, down the steps to the waiting carriage.  

He watched her, the way she moved, fascinated by the way the pale fabric of her skirts seemed to swirl in the night air, the way her arm balanced as she smiled at the footman handing her in, a glimpse of ankle in a silver slipper before the door slammed shut and her outrider climbed onto his perch.

He imagined what he might write about her as his curricle pulled up to the mounting block and he took the reins, so lost in his thoughts of her that he did not realize he still followed the lady’s coach until they were well past the turn out of Mayfair and toward her brother’s town house.

He followed her down Bond Street toward Piccadilly and then St. James before he allowed his curricle to fall back, watching the lanterns on the carriage as they navigated the back alleyways behind Duke Street toward the men’s clubs of London.

Lady Emma Nolan, sister of a duke, with a dowry big enough to buy a palace, desperate for a restored reputation and a father for her son—that he had determined to secure for her—was in a parked curricle behind the most exclusive men’s club in Britain.  More than a club—the most expensive, high-class gaming hell in London.

Lady Emma Nolan, behind Killian’s own destination, behind his club, The Swan.  A club run by some of London’s darkest men on behalf of the club’s owner, who went only by the name Swan.  Killian had never seen nor spoken to Swan in spite of their years-long profitable relationship in the trade of information.

Of secrets.

Just the person, Killian had decided, to turn to in order to free himself from Gold’s yoke once and for all.  If anyone could access Gold’s secrets, it would be Swan, and Killian was willing to pay any price for what he desired.

Emma’s outrider—a giant of a man, Killian suddenly realized—was stood in front of the heavy steel door that marked The Swan’s back entrance, banging in a specific pattern to gain entry.

He should stop her.  He moved to, just as the carriage door opened and Killian strained for a glimpse of her pale slipper, her white skirts.

But that was not what he saw.

The slipper was high-heeled and dark—the skirts a silk the color of the purest red rose—a corseted bodice that put on display a décolletage of perfect proportions.  Painted lips, kohl-rimmed eyes, and a dark wig that hid every golden hair.

Killian Jones watched her disappear into the club’s back entrance and he smiled.

Here was a story.

And—just maybe—an answer to all of his problems.

--

@katie-dub @profdanglaisstuff @thisonesatellite @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @shireness-says @pirateherokillian @stahlop @onceratheart18 @kmomof4 @mariakov81 

[xiao-cafe]

drabble game — prompt 61

pairing: kaeya x gn!reader

tags: fluff, delirious confessions

prompt: “i told you not to fall in love with me”

wc: 1.8k

notes: please be patient with the characterization of the reader in this fic! also thank you to @genshin-ficpact​ for requesting this ^^

It was a bad idea to follow a certain cavalry captain to Dragonspine.

Anyone with a brain would’ve declined the captain’s offer to hike up the mountain but you were simply someone eager to prove yourself and also spend more time with your crush.

“How are you holding up?” Kaeya asked, turning his head to check on you as the both of you slowly made your way to the campsite where the both of you would spend the night.

“I’m… fine.” You managed to get out as you lifted your stiff legs from the snow and took another step forward. Your coat was heavy on your shoulders but you paid no mind and continued on with shaky breaths.

It was extremely cold so high up and you were beginning to feel a little unwell but stubbornness kept you from giving up especially when Kaeya looked as if he was worried about you. The man was frowning despite keeping an easy-going smile on his lips, his eyebrows furrowed as he stared at you.

The only thing that kept you from hating the cold altogether was its ability to keep your face flushed so you wouldn’t embarrass yourself in front of Kaeya. You let out a groan as Kaeya took another step further, gesturing for you to follow him.

“We’re almost at Albedo’s campsite. Here, hold my hand.” Kaeya held his hand out towards you, a smirk on his face as he watched you struggle to climb up the last few steps to where he was.

You gripped the captain’s hand tightly and allowed him to lead you the rest of the way while you focused on moving forward and how warm it suddenly became to have your hand in his.

“We’re here,” Kaeya announced, misty exhale floated in the air and you had never felt happier to see a campfire in your entire life.

“Thank god, my legs are about to give out.” You groaned, letting go of Kaeya’s hands before stumbling towards the fire and dropping to your knees before it.

Kaeya’s mirthful laugh echoed throughout Albedo’s campsite which was pretty much a hole-in-the-wall, but it was warm.

“How nice of Albedo to leave the fire going for us,” Kaeya stated as he plopped down next to you, his hand brushing across yours briefly.

You suppressed the urge to yelp just as the contact sent a shiver running down your spine.

“Are you still cold?” Kaeya asked, tilting his head to the side to get a better look at you. His ponytail curled around his neck, revealing only the slightest bit of tan skin under the thick garments which protected him from the cold.

You tried your best to ignore his cool gaze on you and instead focused on warming your hands by the fire. “I’m f-fine,” You told him, “Where’s Albedo anyways?”

You didn’t have the heart to tell him your trembles were because of him rather than the cold.

“Not sure, but he probably won’t be coming back soon.” Kaeya mused, resting his chin in the palm of his hand as he raised an eyebrow at you.

“Why’s that?”

“I suspect he just didn’t want to intrude… on us,” Kaeya stated calmly. Amusement danced in his eye as he observed realization dawn on you and you ducked your head down in embarrassment.

“But don’t worry, I would never do anything of that sort to you.” The man laughed, ruffling your hair as you stared at him with wide eyes.

It stung to hear an indirect rejection from Kaeya but to avoid looking childish you bottled your feelings up and gave Kaeya what you hoped was a convincing smirk.

“And if I fall in love with you?” You probed him with the question, ignoring the warning bells going off in your head that you would regret asking him that.

“You shouldn’t.” Kaeya answered almost immediately, “It won’t end well.”

His cryptic answers left you on edge but you decided it was best to drop the matter before you broke your own heart further.

Night fell and soon you and Kaeya were preparing to get some rest before the both of you set out again in the morning.

Having had a hearty dinner using the leftover ingredients in Albedo’s camp, both of you were full-bellied and tired from the long day.

The sleeping arrangements as set up by Kaeya was simple, you’d sleep in the warmest corner of the campsite where it was also the safest and he’d sleep a good distance away to protect you.

To say the least, you were disappointed.

You had hoped to be able to snuggle up against him, using the frigid cold of the night as an excuse and to also finally get him to see you as you were. Not a kid that he has to keep an eye on but an adult, who has been in love with him for years.

“Alright, light’s out,” Kaeya announced with a clap, a satisfied expression on his face.

“I’ve always wanted to try saying that.” He chuckled upon seeing your face scrunch up in distaste.

“I’m not a child, Kaeya.” You reminded him as you slipped into your sleeping bag.

“Yet, I still have to protect this youngster who had stupidly- I mean, bravely followed me to Dragonspine.” He said while slipping into his own sleeping bag.

You rolled your eyes at the cavalry captain and began to wriggle about, attempting to find a comfortable position to sleep in.

“You look like a worm.”

You let out an exasperated sigh but a smile still lingered on your lips as you turned to face Kaeya so that you could give him a biting retort.

“And you don’t?”

You clicked your tongue as Kaeya shrugged nonchalantly and rolled onto his back.

“Goodnight, Y/N.” He said with a yawn.

You hummed a response, sleep weighing heavily on your eyelids.

You weren’t sure how it came to be but your body felt hot and cold at the same time as you awoke to Kaeya pressing his palm to your forehead.

With bleary eyes, you watched as Kaeya loomed over you with a panicked expression, unaware that you had woken up.

“Kaeya?”

Your voice was weak and soft, you barely had the energy to talk but seeing Kaeya so distraught made you want to comfort him.

“Shh, you’re sick. You need to rest.” He said, gently brushing your hair out of your face.

No wonder you felt so terrible. Your immune system simply couldn’t keep up and now you were sick.

Your lower lip trembled as tears welled up in your eyes, you felt guilty for falling sick and causing trouble for Kaeya.

“Kaeya, I’m sorry.” You murmured.

The man was quick to respond as he wiped away your tears with his thumb.

“Don’t be. And please don’t cry.”

Perhaps it was the sickness that messed with your mind but you felt like hugging Kaeya after seeing a frown marring his beautiful face.

With all the strength you had left in you, you pushed yourself up and almost fell back down but Kaeya was there to support you, his hands holding onto your torso steadily.

“Why are you getting up? Go back to sleep.” The captain hissed.

But you shook your head determinedly and latched yourself onto him, wrapping your arms around him tightly.

“I want to hug you.” You started slowly, each syllable leaving your mouth with great effort. Kaeya smelled nice and he was also warm, so you pressed your face into his chest, basking in the feeling.

“Kaeya… Why is your heart beating so fast?”

Upon hearing your question, the man’s heart began to beat faster and you looked up at him, peering to see what was wrong with him.

“It’s nothing.” He said coolly, his eyes narrowed as your hands began to wander, pushing his shirt up and slipping under the fabric.

“It’s cold, you’re warm.” You murmured as you pressed your hands against the hard planes of his stomach. Despite owning a Cryo Vision, Kaeya was always warm to the touch and you were now appreciating the heat that emanated from his body.

“Jean’s going to kill me,” Kaeya muttered, his hands hovered above your head, reluctant to push you away especially since you were clinging onto him like no tomorrow. The captain blushed heavily as he tried to persuade you to return to your sleeping bag, “Come on, Y/N. I’m sure the sleeping bag will be warmer than me.”

Ignoring Kaeya, you continued to babble about how warm he was, letting the fever take full control over your lips until you accidentally let slip a secret.

“Kaeya, I like you.”

There was an undeniable hitch in Kaeya’s breathing as he stared at you incredulously. The initial shock of being confessed to died down rather quickly and Kaeya was back to being… Well, Kaeya.

The man easily pushed you down onto the ground, his hands wrapping around your wrists to hold you down as he stared down at you, an almost pained expression on his face.

“I told you not to fall in love with me.”

But how could you not?

Your lips moved on their own accord and you parroted your own thoughts, delirious about the situation you were currently in.

“How could I not?” You questioned him, tongue darting out to lick your chapped lips.

Kaeya let out a sigh from above you and dropped his head in defeat.

“I hope you’re prepared for the consequences of loving someone like me.” He warned, “This is your last chance to back out.”

You knew that Kaeya was only trying to scare you away, his face twisted into one that would’ve scared anyone away but you were out of your mind so his threats slid past you like water on a sheet of glass.

“I’m never backing out.” You blurted out, your mind clearing for a brief moment as blood rushed to your cheeks, turning them a shade of rosy red.

“Very well.” His voice was a soft whisper but his words reached your ears.

You grinned widely up at him, unable to contain your joy. Kaeya chuckled softly and let go of your wrists, unpinning you.

“Kaeya can you stay next to me?” You asked him, holding onto his sleeve.

“Of course.”

As joy bloomed in your chest, you were beginning to feel sleepy again. The last thing you remembered was Kaeya tucking you into your sleeping bag and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

You awoke the next morning, feeling better but warmer than usual. At first, you had thought that you were still feverish but the sound of Kaeya’s morning rasp right in your ear told you otherwise.

“Good morning.” He chirped.

Hazy memories of the night before filled your head and you curled in on yourself in an attempt to hide. You had confessed last night and even harassed him by putting your hands up his shirt.

Your face burned even more as Kaeya laughed. His deep voice sent tingles down your spine and raised goosebumps on your skin.

“Did you forget what happened last night?” Kaeya asked suggestively as he poked you.

Shyly, you uncurled yourself to peek at Kaeya. The man laid beside you, looking not the least bit bothered as he twiddled his fingers at you in greeting.

“Don’t be so shy now, you promised to not back down didn’t you?”

end.

[cal-kestis]

If I Could Never Give You Peace

(Javier Peña x Female Reader)

Gif by @pedropcl​ [original gifset]

Summary: Two years after resigning from the DEA, Javi finds himself in Los Angeles, haunted by glares of gunshots and blood-stained hands. He’d succumbed to the idea that he’d never have peace — doesn’t deserve it after everything he did in Colombia. Then, she moves in next door and maybe, he thinks, things could be different. “I hope this doesn’t scare you,” she whispers, her fingers still tracing shapes over his head. “But I care about you, Javi, a lot. I think I could fall in love with you someday...” She exhales, a quiet, shaky sound. “I think I’ve already started.” Word Count: 4,357 A/N: A Reader-insert one-shot with a nameless female reader. No “Y/N” or "you," but the reader can be anyone. Inspired heavily by Taylor Swift’s “Peace.” How many TS references can you find? Lol. Tags: Fluff, Angst (with a happy ending), Mentions of death (but no one dies, I promise), Alcohol, Cigarettes

[Read on AO3]

The rain is always gonna come if you're standing with me... All these people think love’s for show, but I would die for you in secret... Would it be enough, if I could never give you peace? — Taylor Swift, Peace —

When Javier Peña handed in his DEA badge and gun two years ago, he knew he couldn’t stay in Texas. Not forever.

Texas held too many familiar faces, old friends calling him a hero when he felt like a villain. It held too many ties to an old version of himself he’d rather not remember… muddied images of him with a beautiful woman, an abandoned altar, and a shattered promise. No, he couldn’t stay. Not even for his father.

So, Javier Peña and the unwelcomed overcast of his nightmares found a one-bedroom apartment in sunny Los Angeles.

In time, he realized he needed the city: constant motion, endless traffic, and hoards of busy people who would never remember his face. He could blend in. He could be alone.

He could have a clean slate.

But each night, glares of gunshots flashed behind his eyelids and invisible bloodstains marred his calloused palms as if to remind him:

He could never have peace.

Then, she moved in next door.

The first time he saw her, he only caught a glimpse. She and her boyfriend, he assumed, held towering stacks of brown boxes in front of their faces — sweating as they lugged the dusty weight into the empty space.

For a moment, he considered offering some neighborly help but decided against it — When have you ever cared about being a good neighbor, Javi? — closing himself in his quiet apartment with a glass of whiskey.

The second time he saw her, she came knocking on his door the next night.

“Hi, neighbor,” she smiled brilliantly. And for a split second, he swore he felt something foreign flutter in his stomach, but dismissed it as the after-effects of spoiled dinner. “I just moved in next door and wanted to introduce myself.”

He could not take his eyes off her. His gaze stayed glued to a small bead of sweat trailing a slow path down from her hairline, where she’d pulled it back with a makeshift scarf-headband. The droplet slipped down her cheekbone, over a smudge of dust that had settled in from her moving boxes. It drifted down the curve of her jaw, dipping into the slope of her neck until finally hiding away below her tank top. And by some miracle, she only needed to repeat her name for him once before he came out of the trance.

“Sorry.” He gulped, removing the cigarette dangling from his lips. “Javier.”

He extended his hand and she met him halfway. Soft. So soft.

“Good to meet you, Javier.” She smiled again. Flutter. “I’m sure you’re busy. Just wanted to say hi. I’ll see you around.”

And just like that, she swiftly turned on her heel to walk the few steps back to her door, bare feet strutting off, flaunting her daisy dukes, and — God help him, he’s a man and she’s beautiful — he stared.

The nail in the coffin?

When she opened her door and gave him one last smile over her shoulder, she winked.

No, he could never have peace.

—

After that, he hardly ever sees her.

Part of him feels relieved, unduly wary of the strange flutter he’d feel just thinking of her name. The other part, the traitorously curious part, dreams of catching another glimpse of her glistening skin or a quarter note of her honeyed voice. He’ll never admit it out loud, but he finds himself often wondering if her boyfriend gets to enjoy her sun rays and melodies. Lucky bastard.

He blames his roaming thoughts on the fact that it’s… been a while.

This is what you wanted, he’d remind himself when he’d wake to an empty bed — a stark contrast to his time in Colombia. This is the way things should be.

Just when he starts to believe those words, he finds her crumpled on the floor in front of her apartment — the contents of her purse strewn across the hardwood beside her, palms pressed firmly against her eyes. One tiny sniffle and a tremble of her shoulders, and he melts into a puddle beneath her muddy sneakers.

“Hey,” he whispers tentatively, voice raspy with cigarette smoke.

She jolts at the sound, immediately wiping her face with her sleeves and plastering on a saccharine smile.

“Javier,” she tries to say, but her voice breaks on the vowels. “Sorry, I was just— rough day. And to top it off, I think I left my keys inside. I tried Jerry but no luck.”

“Jerry’s a shit landlord,” he sighs, earning a nod from her. He takes out an old, faded receipt from his pocket and kneels in front of her, finding a pen amongst her spilled belongings. “Try this number. He’s usually fast. Can get you back in your apartment tonight.”

He hands her the scribbled receipt and she takes it with a real smile, albeit small. “Thank you, Javier.”

He nods, a tiny dimple forming in one tanned cheek, before getting up to unlock his apartment. The door clicks but he stands there for a moment longer, listening to her waning sniffles as she throws her things back into her bag. His eyes screw shut tightly, a silent war waging behind his forehead, his fingertips feebly trying to rub it away.

He sighs long and heavy when he realizes which part of him has won.

“Would you... like to come inside my place while you wait?” He mutters, mainly to the floorboards. “I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

“Okay.” Her smile is warm like the sun, despite the cloud of tears still glazed over her eyes. “But you don’t strike me as a cream and sugar kind of guy.”

“No,” he admits with an amused smirk. “But I’ve got some old whiskey, older milk, and a phone you can use, toll-free.”

“Thanks, Javier,” she sniffles. “Coffee sounds nice. But hold the booze and tainted milk.”

And that’s how she ends up in his apartment, sitting at his small dining table, slowly sipping from his coffee mug, using his landline to call the locksmith.

Maybe it’s the caffeine or the three (stolen) pink packets of sugar she found in her purse (“It’s not stealing. Diners offer dozens of them in cute little boxes, I mean practically gift-wrapped, and I modestly accepted three.”), but coffee gets her talking the way alcohol coaxes even the darkest secrets from iron-barred lips. She just broke up with her boyfriend. Or he broke up with her — found some younger, hotter-than-her aspiring actress in Hollywood and left her in the dust of the boxes she’d just unpacked.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “You’ve been so nice. Really, Neighbor of the Year,” she laughs, but he thinks it sounds off. He wants to hear the real thing. “And here I am, taking up your space, drinking your coffee, and dumping all my problems on the table. Tell me if I’m talking too much, Javier. I tend to—”

“Javi,” he says, furrowing his brows as if mildly stunned by the two syllables he just spoke. She looks confused. “You can... call me Javi, for short. And I don’t mind listening.”

“Javi,” she tests the name on her tongue, smiles. His stomach flutters. “A good name for a good guy.”

The argument dies on his tongue the minute he thinks it, even though she’s horribly, terribly wrong.

Sometimes you gotta do bad things to catch bad people.

If she knew...

“I should be out of your hair in 20 minutes anyway,” she says, breaking him out of his dark reverie. “Locksmith’s on his way.”

When she finally gets back into her own apartment, Javi jostles her doorknob, double-checks the lock, and knocks on wood for good measure.

“Find your keys?”

“Got ‘em!” She chirps, jingling her lost keys. “I’m gonna have to memorize that number.”

“I’m next door, too, if you ever need anything.”

“Me too. I can lend you some sugar for your sad-man, bitter coffee,” she jokes. “Thanks again, Javi.”

He sends her a tight-lipped smile and a short nod, a familiar weight settling in his chest as he turns back to his lonely apartment.

“Would you like to come in for dinner?” She asks, quiet and suddenly timid. “I’m no chef, but I’ve never made a spaghetti I couldn’t tolerate.”

He opens his mouth to refuse but she beats him to the punch. “It’s the least I can do after you helped me out. Please?”

And it’s the way she asks that gets him. The way “please” seems to fall from her lips like an unanswered prayer. He wonders, maybe she’s just as lonely as him.

So, he walks into her apartment, she smiles, and his stomach flips.

—

Months pass by with this new routine. He joins her for dinner at least once a week, if their schedules allow. If not at the local diner where she infamously loots sugar, it’s usually at her place. For one thing, although it’s usually pasta, she tends to have more appetizing (read: edible) groceries stocked up than him. But if he’s being honest, something about her apartment just feels more like… a home.

Framed smiles of her and her loved ones line the walls. With each visit, he finds himself studying a new one, imagining the story behind each snapshot. (He noticed after their first dinner, she’d thrown out the photos of her ex, replacing them with Polaroids of the city.) Piles of pillows stack up neatly on her couch, vibrant hues and patterns decorating the space. He adores the soft waves of music always floating around her space. She plays a different record each time, but somehow, each one compliments the sweet tones of her voice perfectly.

Her place feels brighter than his too, and he’s not sure if it’s the east-facing windows or if it’s just her.

Soon, he doesn’t need to decode the photos on the walls anymore. She tells him more than she’s told anyone before — about her hometown, her family, what she studied in college, her travels, her favorite books, her irrational fears, her dreams.

He tells her considerably less, especially when it comes to his time in Colombia.

For now, she doesn’t mind. She likes the way he watches her when she talks — brown eyes soft and warm, brows pinched together as he takes in each word, the ghost of a grin tugging at one corner of his lips when she gestures dramatically.

He realizes, one night after dinner, he comes home smiling now. And he thinks the nightmares have started dwindling, ever since that first dinner.

Maybe, he lets himself imagine. Things could be different.

—

He calls for you over and over, shouting until his throat burns and the echo of his frantic voice pounds in his ears.  

“Where are you?” He screams.  

The narrow hallway is dark, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. He crushes his body into the hard wall, arms sliding roughly against cold brick as he tries to keep himself concealed. The gun in his hand feels icy and impossibly heavy, and his arms tremble as they lift the weapon higher, rounding the corner.

“Llegas tarde, Peña,” a deep, gravelly voice sneers. “You’re too late.”

“Tómame!” Javier yells. “Tómame en su lugar.”

“You would die for her?” The voice chuckles. “Llegas tarde.”

The voice’s shadow moves, revealing a smaller shadow crumpled on the floor — lifeless.

“Javier! Javier!” A distant voice chants, accusing him. Boom! Blaming him. Boom!

“Javier!” Boom!

The pounding sound wakes him up with a jolt, and his sweat-slicked chest rapidly rises and falls as he reaches for the gun inside his bedside table.

Slowly, Javier creeps to the front door where the loud pounding started. But when he peers into the peephole, he only finds her — looking as tired and distressed as he feels. A wave of relief floods through his overheated body.

She’s wrapped up in a blanket, a worried look wrinkling her forehead.

He puts his gun down in a drawer and lets her in.

“What time is it?” He asks.

“Almost 4 in the morning.”

“What’s wrong?” He demands, suddenly worried about why she’d be waking him this early.

“You tell me,” she says, frown lines still etched by her eyes — mirroring his own tired marks. “I heard you yelling. I was worried, Javi.”

“It was...” he starts, squinting as the images flash in his mind again. “Just a dream.”

It only takes one glance into his eyes for her to reach out to him, pulling him in by his neck until he nuzzles into hers.

He breathes her in, holds her like he’s not sure she’s real, like she might be gone tomorrow. “It was just a dream,” he echoes, but he’s not sure who he’s trying to convince.

“It was just a dream,” she repeats after him.

She pulls him by his hand toward his couch, sitting down before patting the space beside her. And just this once, he allows himself to let his head rest in her lap, lets her drape her fuzzy blanket over him, lets her soft fingers draw slow circles in his hair, lets her lull him to sleep with mumbled whispers he can’t quite make out, and lets her ward off the lurking darkness like a nightlight.

He’s asleep before he can hear the quiet secret that spills from her lips.

“I hope this doesn’t scare you,” she whispers, her fingers still tracing shapes over his head. “But I care about you, Javi, a lot. I think I could fall in love with you someday...” She exhales, a quiet, shaky sound. “I think I’ve already started.”

She comes over to his apartment more frequently after that. Whether to bring him dinner or just sit on his couch in comfortable silence, she doesn’t like to leave him alone.

And maybe, she’d rather not be alone either.

—

He doesn’t remember how she convinced him, but here he is... sitting at a crowded bar drinking water, watching his tipsy neighbor bouncing alone on the small dance floor.

Every so often, some cocky drunk comes up to put his hands on her waist and tries to dance with her, but she plasters on a faux smile and shakes her head at them, muttering something while nodding in Javier’s direction. Each time, they sulk away and he chuckles.

Finally, she bounces over to him, tugging at the sleeve of his leather jacket.

“Dance with me, Javi. Please,” she draws out the word, an octave higher than normal.

And despite himself, he follows her voice like a sailor enthralled by a siren’s song.

She puts her arms around his neck, swaying her body against his. And then she shouts over the music, “I’m so glad we’re friends.”

And the heart on his sleeve falls straight to the floor, clanging loudly in his ears like metal.

‘Friends’ is more than you deserve, he reminds himself.

But then she continues, resting her head against his chest, her index finger coming up to tap a tantalizingly slow beat over his collarbone. “Good friends,” she sighs, lifting her gaze until her chin digs into his heart, her lips just inches from his. “Really… good… friends.”

She’s kissing him before he can even process the feeling. And despite his better judgment, he lets her. She’s everything warm and soft and good, with just a hint of alcohol — and he’s what you get when you turn those words upside down, jumble the letters, and crumple the paper into a jagged ball. But he craves the way her curves somehow fit perfectly against his cold, shattered edges. And he knows he shouldn’t.

So, when he feels her tongue trace along the seam of his mouth, he gently pulls away, hands rubbing soothing circles on her shoulders.

“You’ve had too much to drink, cariño,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

“Okay,” she whispers, smiling with half-lidded eyes, drawing her finger across his mustache then below his ever-pouting lip.

She’s passed out in his car by the time they’re back home. When he unlocks her apartment door for her, she stays latched onto his arm as he turns to leave.

“Stay,” she whispers.

“I—”

“Please?” She asks, in that way he knows he can’t fight. “I don’t want to be alone.”

And just like that, the door closes behind him and he stays.

He finds her an oversized shirt to change into, helps her wipe the smudged mascara off her face, and holds her until the sun rises.

When she wakes, the space beside her is empty but warm and indented, the shape of his body lingering in the sheets. A full glass of water, ibuprofen, and the phantom taste of Javi’s lips are the only other traces of her really… good... friend.

—

He’s not avoiding her… per se. But it’s a long, lonely week later when he sees her again, on an uncharacteristically rainy Sunday outside their apartment building.

“I just got home,” she blurts after standing there dumbfounded for a good minute. She nods to the soaked brown paper bags in her arms. “Groceries. Uh, obviously. Were you...?”

“Forgot my umbrella,” he answers.

“Same,” she chuckles awkwardly, droplets hanging on her lashes and the ends of her hair, only partially covered by her hood. “Obviously.”

“Here, let me help you.” He takes the bags from her, keeping the door open with his foot as he waits for her to head inside.

“Thanks, Javi-er.”

He follows her upstairs silently, his wet, squeaking shoes punctuating each slow and heavy step.

“I can—”

“Let me just—”

They fumble and dance around each other in her doorway as he sets her bags in her apartment. And, as if to torture herself, she decides to stand under her door frame when he leaves to grab his umbrella, waiting the longest minute of her life for him with a forced smile.

He waves his umbrella at her after locking his door. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah.”

He nods and walks back down the stairs.

“Javier, wait.”

He pauses, his back still facing her, drenched shoes balanced on two different steps.

“Can we talk?” She hates the way her voice sounds when she asks, tinny and trembling. Clearing her throat, she clarifies, “About what happened... at the bar?”

He sighs, screwing his eyes shut tight and rubbing his forehead.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he says, low and barely audible as the rain starts picking up outside. And he walks away.

She’s stunned still, watching as his figure shrinks with each step he takes away from her. He’s already out of the building by the time frustration fuels her feet to follow him into the rain.

“Like hell there’s nothing to talk about,” she yells over the downpour, hair quickly sticking flat to her face. “Javi, we kissed!”

“You were drunk,” he says, just loud enough for her to hear, still walking.

“I wasn’t drunk,” she argues to his back, remembering with perfect clarity exactly how his lips felt on hers. “Just a bit braver. Javi, stop! Look at me. Please.”

And like clockwork, he turns slowly but doesn’t move any closer.

So, she closes the distance to stand beside him under his umbrella, taking in his features without the obscurity of rain.

“What are you running from?” She wonders, reaching for his fidgeting hand. “I would never hurt you. I—”

The line between his brows looks deeper than usual, as if they’d been stuck in that pinched position for weeks. Shadows lay in rings beneath his eyes, accompanied by smaller lines that carry untold stories she hopes he’ll entrust her with someday. His mouth is parted just slightly, as if to say something he knows could change everything.

And it does.

“I have to go.”

Her hands are empty and wet when he leaves. And the rain buries his parting words into the pavement.

I don’t want to hurt you.

—

She doesn’t hear from him for two weeks. Doesn’t even catch a glimpse of him.

The rain sticks around longer than usual for Los Angeles, making her apartment feel cold and gloomy. But maybe, it’s just missing him as much as she is.

Then, while she’s folding her laundry one night, she hears his door rattle and practically bolts to her own. He’s there. Keys in hand, rolling luggage in the other, hair tousled like he’s been pulling at it with his fingers. He looks at her when she opens her door, just for a beat too long, before hiding away in his apartment.

She sighs, closing her door in defeat.

But just as she starts getting ready for bed, she hears two knocks at her door, heart beating rapidly as she slowly makes her way to open it.

“Hi, neighbor,” he greets her softly, and the sound of his voice after so long without it nearly brings her to tears.

“Where did you go?” She asks. But she really means, Why did you leave?

“Texas,” he says. “I... needed to see my dad.” But he really means, I was scared.

“Oh.”

“Can I...” he mutters. “Can I come in please?”

She hesitates for only a second before stepping aside and he looks around like he hasn’t seen the inside of her apartment hundreds of times already.

He stops near her bedroom, where a new picture hangs proudly: a goofy, blurry photo of him stashing three pink packets of sugar in his shirt pocket.

“It’s the only photo you’ve let me take of you,” she says quietly, standing next to him with a wistful smile on her face. “I miss our diner dates.” But she really means, I miss you.

He doesn’t respond, just silently walks to her couch and sits, fingers rubbing circles into his forehead.

Minutes roll by slowly as she watches him from the other side of the room, battling with some invisible hand covering his mouth, holding on until the end to keep the words locked up.

“I’m not a good man,” he whispers, so softly she almost doesn’t hear it. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of... back in Colombia. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to tell you. I think a part of me is still there, fighting some unwinnable war. Hell, even before Colombia, I—”

Muddied images of a beautiful woman, an abandoned altar, and a shattered promise flash in his mind.

“Fuck. I can’t shake it,” he says, looking up at her with red-rimmed eyes, waving the invisible iron shackles on his wrists to show her. “Any of it. The nightmares...” He recalls her shadowy body and a dark, menacing voice. “They’ve followed me for years. I—” he looks at her, eyes darting across her face. “I could never give you peace.”

His head hangs low and a wayward curl brushes against his forehead. Despite how much space he takes up on her couch, he looks so small, defeated —  the weight of his past crushing him into this tiny, torn, crumpled-up piece of paper covered in red-inked, scratched-out sentences.

“Javi,” she whispers, but he doesn’t meet her eyes. So, she crosses the room and kneels in front of him, her palms reaching for his cheeks and lifting his gaze to hers. “Javi, who said anything about peace?”

The wrinkles deepen between his brows as he studies her, tries to understand what she means in the cloudy orbs of her eyes.

“The past is the past. We’ve all done things we can’t speak of. And sometimes at night, we live it all again. God knows I’m far from perfect. But I know you’re a good man, Javi. I see you,” she tells him, stroking the curves of his cheekbones with her thumbs.

“I’m not—”

“Do you trust me?” She interrupts his argument. He stares at her, blinks, before nodding once.

“Then trust what I’m saying. You’re not perfect. But you’re good.”

His eyes close as soon as she sees water beginning to pool behind his lashes.

“I’m not asking for peace. As long as I get to be with you, it would be enough.”

And then his lips are crashing into hers, pulling her into his lap until he’s covered in her. The sound he makes when they touch is devastatingly beautiful, like she’s a balm soothing his freshest wounds and healing his oldest scars. It feels like his entire body has exhaled — lungs deflated, bones liquified, mind released from a decades-old straitjacket. If not for gravity, he could float from the way his stomach is fluttering. His shoulders lower and he sighs as if he’d been holding his breath for his entire life until this moment.

He’s drowning in her, submerged to the top of his head. But he can finally breathe.

“I’m sorry I ran,” he whispers into her skin. “I’m sorry I left, cariño,” he kisses just below her ear. “My dad said I was the biggest asshole on the planet for leaving. I’m sorry, baby. So sorry,” he licks the seam of her lips.

“Mi alma, you have no idea,” he sighs when she parts her lips for him. “How much I love you.”

And she captures the words on her tongue, kissing him with a ferocity that says, Yes, I do.

“Want to know a secret?” She gasps when his lips trail down her neck. Her voice is barely a whisper, as feather-light as her fingertip skating across his shoulder.

He hums, a soft, lazy smile stretching his lips wide, so wide.

“I don’t think it’s possible,” she says, staring into his deep brown eyes. “That I’ll ever love anyone more than I love you, Javi.”

Her finger stops, retracted to shield herself after such a heavy confession. His eyes blink slowly, head lifting off the couch cushion.

He doesn’t say a word. He only stares at her, the softest smile on his face — his edges blurring into gentle curves in front of her very eyes.

“You’re it for me,” she finalizes.

And then they’re crashing into each other again and again and again.

End Notes: Look, it’s been almost 10 years since I sat in a Spanish class and watching Narcos only restored 3% of my limited vocabulary. Here’s what I got from Google Translate: “Llegas tarde.” = You’re too late. “Tómame!/ Tómame en su lugar.” = Take me!/ Take me instead. “Cariño” = Darling, honey “Mi alma” = My soul P.S. Please let me know if I missed any tags/triggers!

[sentakushimasu]

if i can't taste your lips just let me taste blood

pairing: bakugou katsuki/kirishima eijirou summary: work studies are meant to be educational, not fatal, but bakugou and kirishima are trapped with a growing puddle of blood and no way to get out genre: hurt/comfort, whump word count: 2.6k warnings: blood, hospitals, bakugou trying to articulate emotions title from: we are the dirt - it's never enough AO3

When Kirishima came to it was with a lot of confusion and pain. The first thing he noticed was the searing pain emanating from his abdomen that blurred and subdued his other senses. The second thing he noticed was that it was really dark.

Dark to the point where he wasn’t sure if he was opening his eyes at all, unable to figure out where the hell he was or how he got there.

The pain, however, was very clearly not a fixture of his foggy and disoriented brain. It kept getting worse, the burning sensation reaching all the way down to his feet. In the haze of pain he couldn’t pinpoint any actual injury, only able to tell that there was something really heavy pressing down on his midsection.

The whine he let out was involuntary, but if he was alone he was going to make as many pathetic noises as he wanted.

Only, he wasn’t alone.

“Kirishima? Kirishima, are you awake?”

That was Bakugou’s voice, but Bakugou never called him by his name, and especially not with the worry that currently saturated his tone.

Kirishima grumbled and tried to push the weight off him. It was so heavy, borderline crushing him but he couldn’t get it to move. What he assumed were Bakugou’s hands swatted his away from whatever was pinning him down.

“Fucking hell, would you stop that?”

Kirishima squirmed again, trying desperately to get even a little bit of the weight off him. “There’s something on top of me-”

“Yeah, that’s me. You’re bleeding.”

“Hmm? Sorry,” Kirishima floundered until his fingers connected with Bakugou’s wrist, looping around the limb. “You can stop, I’m alright.”

“What the fuck? No. You’re fucking bleeding everywhere.”

Bakugou’s face came slightly more into focus as Kirishima’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. He kept looking between Kirishima’s abdomen and his face. He looked worried, and if Kirishima didn’t value his life he would dare say that Bakugou was scared. He was still in his hero gear, the stupid theatric spikes framing his head, a distinct trail of blood marring his features as it trailed down his face from his hairline.

“Are you hurt?” Kirishima couldn’t help but ask.

“What? No.”

“You’re bleeding,” Kirishima supplied helpfully.

Bakugou narrowed his eyes and turned back to the wound, applying more pressure. “Not as much as you.”

Swallowing the whine in the back of his throat, Kirishima decided to actually start a conversation with his friend. He had no idea how long they would be there and he wasn’t into spending that uncertain length of time in tense silence with Bakugou. “What happened?”

“Work study. Big villain attack so Endeavour sent us out as backup. One of ‘em cornered you in here so I came to tell ‘em to fuck off but you were on the ground and when I exploded the asshole, the fucking ceiling caved in.”

“At least I’m not stuck in here by myself, hmm? That would be unfortunate.”

It was supposed to have been a joke, something to lighten the mood between them but Bakugou’s expression remained firm as he offered no reply.

“How bad is it?”

Bakugou paused, the silence hanging heavily between them. “It’s fine, you’re gonna be fine.”

Kirishima just hummed. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Dark spots peppered his vision and he was beginning to realise how tired he felt. He knew Bakugou was fighting a losing battle.

“I’m not fucking lying, okay? You’re going to be fine.”

“It’s okay, Bakugou. Can I just ask you to do something before I die?”

“You’re not going to die, you asshole. Fat Gum is going to come for you, you know he’d never leave you here.”

The exhaustion was creeping in with the tingling sensation in his arms and legs. He was so cold. He had half a mind to ask Bakugou to set off some explosions and hopefully warm the air. But they were trapped with potentially limited oxygen and Bakugou was too smart to ever risk that. “Is he going to be fast enough? You said there was a villain, he’s probably too busy.”

“Shut up!” Bakugou snapped, his expression and tone immediately softening as the harshness registered. “You’re not dying today. Or tomorrow. Or any day that I’m alive to see. I won't let you.”

Kirishima closed his eyes, letting himself imagine what it would be like to die with Bakugou by his side. A cruel part of his chest tightened as he imagined asking Bakugou to hold him before he passed out.

The taste of blissful unconsciousness lay heavy on the back of his tongue as he spoke. “Will you stay? I don’t wanna go alone.”

“You’re not going fucking anywhere, and I’m not gonna leave you.”

“I think I’m dying, Katsu.”

Kirishima could see the way Bakugou flinched at the use of the nickname. He would have apologised for being so informal but he was tired and he didn’t have the energy to be sorry for trying to feel close to Bakugou in his last moments.

Perhaps the reaction had been to the idea of Kirishima dying, but that seemed less likely. Bakugou was persistent in reminding everyone that he didn’t care about anything or anyone other than becoming number one. Kirishima had always admired his determination but right now he just wanted to pretend that Bakugou cared about him.

Falling in love with Bakugou Katsuki was probably the dumbest decision of Kirishima’s life but he would never live to regret it. Not while Bakugou stayed with him, trying to staunch the flow of blood from a wound that was likely severe enough to render Bakugou’s efforts useless.

The older boy didn’t look at him. “You’re just delirious from the blood loss, you’ll be okay.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Because you’re fucking bleeding out!”

“Yeah,” Kirishima mumbled with the limited energy he had left, “but why is it suddenly a big deal? You've said repeatedly that you don’t care about anyone else.”

“I lied,” Bakugou hissed through his teeth, his jaw clenched with such force that Kirishima was worried the bone would shatter under the pressure.

Kirishima’s eyebrows pinched together in confusion. Well that made no sense.“Why would you lie?”

“Because I love you, goddamnit! So you’re going to stay awake and we’re going to get out of this and go on a date or some shit, but we can only do that if you stay awake, okay?”

Oh. Kirishima tried to speak, but his tongue felt like a lead weight in his mouth that he couldn’t lift no matter how hard he tried. The fog was pressing in on him much harder now.

Bakugou’s voice was muffled by the fog as he spoke again. “Fucking say something. I just confessed my feelings for you, you don’t get to fucking ignore me now.”

Kirishima was aware that he should be worried by the way it was taking more and more of his energy to keep his eyes open, but he couldn’t find the strength to care about anything other than the fact that Bakugou just said he loves him.

“Kirishima?”

“No- No, fuck, no, Kirishima you have to keep your eyes open!” Kirishima hadn’t even noticed they’d fallen shut, but he couldn’t seem to open them again, despite how much he wanted to stare into Bakugou’s red eyes forever.

Kirishima could feel something tapping on his cheek, shaking his shoulder. Bakugou’s voice was so broken and raw when he spoke his plea. “Kiri, please.”

That’s weird, Bakugou never says please.

As the last shreds of consciousness left him, Kirishima swore he could hear muffled yelling somewhere close to his head, he couldn’t make out the words.

But it didn’t hurt anymore.

-

Kirishima didn’t expect to wake up.

It was as simple as that.

He had been bleeding badly enough that Bakugou hadn’t even let him look, and had seemed genuinely worried and afraid for his friend’s wellbeing. So at that point, waking up was a feat on its own.

Waking up without being in excruciating pain was something else entirely. He just felt floaty and not real. But he definitely wasn’t dead because he was uncomfortable and the lights behind his close eyelids were way too bright.

“I would try to send you back to the dorms but I know you won’t listen to me even if I erase your quirk and drag you kicking and screaming out of here,” Aizawa’s gruff voice said from a place Kirishima couldn’t pinpoint. There was a lot of aural input that just dissolved into directionless static.

“I’m not leaving him.”

That was Bakugou’s voice, with its hard edge and underlying fire. It cut through the haze of Kirishima’s lingering unconsciousness, it didn’t have the same fuzzy edge to the syllables that Aizawa’s voice had.

Aizawa must have clicked his tongue before speaking again in his monotonous drawl. “You need to rest too. That concussion isn’t going to go away on its own.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bakugou bit back.

“Then, pray tell, what matters more than your health?”

“He does.”

He wanted to fight against the stupor, to reach out and smack Bakugou upside the head. His friend was concussed, and chose not to rest, in favour of keeping a bedside vigil. At this point, it was the only thing that was convincing Kirishima that he didn’t hallucinate what Bakugou said before he passed out.

Not that it made much sense.

“Kirishima would want you to take care of yourself.” Kirishima is going to shake Aizawa’s hand the second he can muster up the energy to do so.

“Kirishima also wanted to die of blood loss and traumatise me instead of just staying awake, so I’m not going to listen to what that asshole wants.”

“You know as well as I do that the doctor said he probably won’t be coherent until tomorrow morning even if he does wake up tonight. I can drive you back to the dorm and pick you up before visiting hours.”

Kirishima could practically hear Bakugou shaking his head. “I’m not leaving him alone.”

“He won’t be alone. Fat Gum and I will be here all night.”

Bakugou’s next words were haunted, hollowed out to fit an emotion Kirishima had never heard from the older boy. “He asked me to stay with him.”

“And you did, you saved his life,” a third voice added. Kirishima was cognizant enough to be able to recognise it as being his mentor.

“Go to bed, Bakugou,” Kirishima mumbled, scrunching his eyes up tightly as consciousness fully came back to him. He wished someone would turn the light off.

“Kirishima?” There was too much noise in that moment for Kirishima to figure out who had spoken, but he suspected that all of them had something to say about his return to wakefulness.

He tried to lift his hand, hoping to cover his eyes from the bright lights of what was undoubtedly a hospital room, only to find it pinned in place.

Opening his eyes to the onslaught of light revealed that his hand was being firmly held in Bakugou’s. Okay, forget his previous claims, he was definitely dead. Or, at the very least, having the best dream of his life.

Kirishima groaned. “You guys are loud.”

“Sorry, kid,” Aizawa said in his usual grumble. His chair was the furthest away from Kirishima, sitting all the way in the corner of the room. He looked the same amount of disheveled as he usually did but his posture held a weird tension that Kirishima wasn’t sure he had ever seen before.

“How are you feeling?” Fat Gum asked, he was out of his hero suit which, to Kirishima, looked very odd.

“Pretty okay, all things considered,” Kirishima said, directing his gaze towards his friend.

Bakugou was the most noticeably different. His hair was scruffy and matted with blood, a stark white rectangle of gauze taped to his forehead, a few little strips holding a cut on his eyebrow together. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t let go of Kirishima’s hand either.

Feeling particularly spontaneous, probably due to the bucket full of pain meds that were undoubtedly currently in his system, Kirishima gave Bakugou’s hand an experimental squeeze.

Bakugou stiffened but the tension quickly left his body as he squeezed back, turning to meet Kirishima’s eyes and give him a soft smile.

Their exchange was silent but they said all they needed to.

I heard you.

I love you too.

Kirishima tried to adjust himself, to get a better look at Bakugou’s injuries. Only to promptly collapse back onto the hospital bed as pain blasted through all of his senses.

“Idiot,” Bakugou hissed.

“Take it easy,” Fat Gum said, “you were in surgery for a long time, you don’t need to be pushing yourself.”

Still trying to breathe through the pain, Kirishima opened one eye to look at the pro hero.

“Surgery?” he managed to grit out from between his clenched teeth.

Fat Gum’s eyes softened as he looked at his mentee. “We found you both not long after you lost consciousness, but you were in rough shape. You’re going to need to take it easy for a while.”

Kirishima groaned. “That sounds boring.”

“Not as boring as an extended recovery period because you refused to take care of yourself,” Aizawa chided.

“True,” Kirishima said. “What time is it?”

Fat Gum was the one to speak this time. Bakugou stayed remarkably silent. “A little past midnight, you spent six hours in surgery and we’ve been waiting for you to wake up for about two hours now.”

“And Bakugou isn’t in bed?”

“Nope. We tried but he won’t budge. Better to let it happen at this point.”

Kirishima rolled his head to the other side, narrowing his eyes at Bakugou and the older boy’s stony expression. “Go to sleep.”

Bakugou met his gaze with his usual stubborn fire. “You first.”

“If you stay, will you sleep?”

Bakugou nodded.

“Aizawa-sensei, can he stay?”

Kirishima had expected Aizawa to argue, but he was just met with a soft “okay”.

Whether it was the cocktail of medication or the trauma his body had suffered, tiredness hit Kirishima like a wave. As his blinking slowed down, he swore he saw a soft smile grace Bakugou’s lips before his other hand reached up to brush Kirishima’s hair out of his face.

“Goodnight, Kirishima.”

Kirishima just hummed, too tired to speak.

-

Kirishima woke up the next morning with Bakugou wrapped around his arm that was free of tubes and wires, snoring softly.

Carefully picking up his other hand and ignoring the presence of the IV in the crook of his elbow, he began to thread his fingers through Bakugou’s messy hair. The older boy didn’t stir, a true testament to how exhausted he really was, especially considering on any other day Kirishima could breathe sideways and Bakugou would all but leap to his feet.

Instead, Bakugou’s hold just tightened slightly as he mumbled something in his sleep.

A quick glance around the room told Kirishima that Aizawa was asleep in his chair in the corner, his face buried in his capture scarf, surprisingly sans his usual yellow sleeping bag. Fat Gum was nowhere to be seen but judging by the empty chair with a blanket on the seat and jacket draped over the back, he couldn’t be far away.

There was a weird bliss to the quiet atmosphere of the hospital room. The soft morning light filtered in through the window as opposed to the harsh lights of the night before.

The pain meds took away from the discomfort of being in a hospital, and with Bakugou clinging to him like he was the most important thing in the world was something Kirishima could easily be convinced was a dream, a fantasy conjured by his unconscious mind.

He could get used to this.

[imaginethebeautifulworld]

hi (: could you do a blind!england x protective!reader during the events of hetaoni? preferably a one shot (:

(: No (: amount (: of (: smiley (: faces (: can (: rid (: me (: of (: the (: emotional (: trauma (: that (: game (: gave (: me. (:

I only vaguely recall plot specifics of said game, Anon, so I offer advanced warning that I took quite a bit of creative license with this one. Also a note that this ficlet is set in one of the many unexplored timelines as I'm certain our favorite sarcastic spellcaster outtaxed himself repeatedly.

The mansion was full of ghosts. The atmosphere was over-saturated with them, heavy with their presence, nearly overwhelming you from the moment you had first set foot into this thrice-damned place. You had no way of knowing at the time that the ghosts you felt- the phantoms lingering in each dark corner, the specters cloistered away behind every locked door- were your own.

Not until-

No.

You weren't thinking about that right now.

Yet again, you forced your mind away from the blood, so much blood-! and back to guiding Arthur through the corridor, wincing silently at the awkwardness of his shuffling, trying not to panic too much at how prevalent his limp had become.

The hand not resting on your arm clung to Feli's diary, and you tried not to think too much about the crimson stain visible on the binding, refusing to think about the room that-

A heavy thud from somewhere deeper in the house halted all train of thought.

Arthur stiffened beside you, his left ear pointing towards the source of the sound, eyebrows furrowed in worry, eyes wide in fear.

Both of you held your breath.

Waiting.

Listening.

Praying.

Another thud, now accompanied by an odd shuffling, sounds you knew couldn't belong to any of your friends.

Cursing under your breath, you unsheathed Gil's sword, opting to keep it on hand in case the Thing reached you before you found a room in which you could barricade yourselves.

Arthur's hand brushed against your forearm, a silent plea you obliged without question. Resuming your search, you guided him ahead, begging whatever deity or benevolent spirit that may be listening for just-

You sagged with relief upon finding an open door, leading to a small, empty room- likely a closet at some point in time. Arthur angled his head towards you- the question never needing to be spoken as you offered your confirmation.

"We should be safe in here for a bit."

He arched a brow towards you, even as he let you guide him through the doorway, helped him sit on the floor, soon joining him after ensuring the lock was secure, little protection as it was.

He was hauntingly quiet, had been subdued since the last-

You knew he blamed himself for Fran, knew that-

Dim light trickled in from outside, the windows layered with years of dust. You didn't bother trying to open it, nor did you waste your energy in attempts to break it. The Mansion was sealed tight, and nothing Mystic nor Mundane was getting out.

You tried to avoid looking at him too much, especially his eyes. It hurt too much; every time you glanced at him it was in half-hope that you would see that beautiful, familiar green once more. But you were near inconsolable; the vibrant green that always reminded you of the moors in his homeland had dulled, nothing now save the lifeless, brackish grey of the marshes remaining.

And what was worse-

What was so much worse-

It was your fault.

You closed your eyes for a moment, let the small warmth of intangible sunlight settle around you, let yourself pretend that you were both at home, sharing a spot in the parlor, simply enjoying one another's company after a long day with the family.

Perhaps some part of him was yearning for the same, as he never truly had relinquished his hold on you. It was more a gentle connection between his fingers and your wrist now, but he hadn't-

You released a shaky breath, hanging your head and opening your eyes once more to your bleak surroundings.

The thudding had disappeared, though the hope that the Thing itself had left was one immediately quashed. They had a capability for seemingly materializing out of thin air, taking you all repeatedly by surprise.

Arthur was resting his head against the wall, eyes focused somewhere near the ceiling. You instinctively went to look yourself, mentally berating yourself when you remembered-

You turned away, overwhelmed by the rancid bouquet of guilt, helplessness, and antipathy. And beneath it all, the fine thread weaving it all together, was your grief, your aching over the loss of-

Everyone, now, actually.

Everyone else was dead.

You had been holding out hope, held it out for so long, but when Kiku-

Then Ivan-

Felice told you everything, frantically, desperately, shoved the journal into your hands, begged you to try again, for your forgiveness, for-

Arthur's head falling to rest upon your shoulder snapped you back to attention, the movement reestablishing your awareness, grounding you in the present. His fingers were woven with your own now, the intimacy of it all so damned familiar and gentle that you could only stare stupidly.

"You should go."

Silence reigned for several moments following his proclamation, the words dancing aimlessly in the air until they finally registered.

Appalled, aghast, you angled your head towards him, aggravation coating your reply. "Once you're rested enough to come with me."

From your angle, you couldn't make out the shape of his scowl, nor could you quite determine the level of irritation surely marring his features, but it was clearly painted into his words. "How many times are we going to have this bloody argument? I can't-"

"I don't care," you growled out, refusing to hear him finish his statement. It was, after all, a point of contention he had been trying to claim victory of for near the whole day now. Sighing in partial defeat, you allowed your tone to soften. "I can't lose you too, Arthur. Pl-"

You turned, dropping your face into his hair, the conflicting scents of his mousse, blood, dust, and lingering Magicke all assaulting you for the effort. Your words fell out as a pleading whisper, eyes closing for the small prayer. "Please don't ask that of me."

"Darling, please-"

"Stop," you interrupted, sharp and desperate, every possible emotion bound to that single syllable.

Arthur, shockingly obliging, said nothing further, silence reclaiming you both.

You knew his logic was sound: without his vision, he couldn't read the spell correctly, wouldn't be able to reset the clock. And while Felice had assured you that the spell would heal all injuries, would reset everything-

Arthur's vision was taken by Magicke; there was no guarantee he would ever see it again.

If you had just-

If you had only-

"It's not your fault."

Arthur once again cut off your thoughts before they could spiral too far downwards, stealing your attention with those four words alone. You opened your mouth in hopes of offering a protest, but found you couldn't formulate one coherent enough to articulate. Instead, you sighed in resignation, relaxing incrementally against him. 

"You're incorrigible."

He huffed out the foundations of a laugh at that, humming quietly in agreement. "Would you have me any other way, luv?"

The exchange was so hauntingly familiar, so mundane, so perfectly ordinary that for one small moment-

Arthur seemed to sense the shift in your mood, his pinky brushing against your own, soon twining the two together.

Together.

You were leaving here, together, no matter how much a stink he may raise insisting otherwise. It was no matter how much of a self-sacrificial ass Kirkland could be; your determination was even more formidable an opponent.

He was an idiot if he honestly thought you would abandon him, if he truly thought you could leave him.

Your lives were interwoven together, bound through years of friendship and affections and sharing hopes and dreams and eventually even the most intimate of secrets. It was true you had been close to the Others, and losing each of them had been beyond devastating. But to lose Arthur-

You once again forced that train of thought away, refusing to even consider the possibility.

You had already lost so much. You couldn't lose him, too.

There was a hitch in his breath, a silent snore you would recognize anywhere. You felt the flicker of a smile, that familiar warmth that always seemed to strike whenever he fully relaxed around you. Gently lifting his hand to press a kiss to his knuckles, you turned once more to the door, free hand adjusting around Gi- your sword.

You'd let him sleep, for at least a few minutes.

Then you were both leaving this hellhole.

Whether he liked it or not.

[gallickingun]

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

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

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

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

LINKS: ao3 | masterlist | mobile | writing tag

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

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

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

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Some call him disfigured or discolored.

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

Marred flesh, crooked knuckles, gnarled bones.

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

Izuku Midoriya is a mausoleum of pain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

“I would be-”

“Without the paperwork.”

“Oh.”

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

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

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

Not that you’d want to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All better now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A complete set.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Touch me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I-”

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least then your bodies would match in their markings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This what you wanted?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bedroom. Now.”

“B-But, the pad tha-”

“Did I fucking stutter?”

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

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

“B-Baby, I-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Roll over.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You answer him with a resounding smack on his backside, making sure that your fingertips are curved just right, along with your palm, to make it sound much worse than it truly is, praying that you can manipulate his mind into believing that you’ve marked him for longer than a few moments.

The way the freckles on his skin trail from the top of his body to the bottom is nothing short of enticing. It brings about a certain innocence to him, something hidden that only you are allowed to know of. Your eyes can’t stop trying to put together a map of his body, begging to know just where the freckles begin and end. He is littered with them, his body darkening from time spent in the sun.

“P-Please,” his whole body is convulsing in pleasure. You can see his cock throbbing between his thighs and the mattress, his balls weighty with the impending excitement of his release. The bedsheet have a damp spot near the tip of his cock, most likely from his pre dripping at the sudden shakes of his body from your spankings, “I-I want more, Princess. Please!”

You smirk, hand hot from repeated spankings, “What’s your number?”

Deku pants, digging his nose into the mattress as if that might save him from having to answer. His hands are clamped around the sheets, nails threatening to rip into the thread count mercilessly, “I-I dunno, I don’t know!”

Your hand comes down over his ass repeatedly, unrelenting in your ministrations as you mark his backside bright red. You know that there will be little busted blood vessels to mix along with his freckled skin, purple lightning strikes that serve as a reminder to the way you broke down his resolve and conquered his body.

“P-Princess,” he whines, voice cracking in the midst of his sentence as he tries to beg for repentance, “I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

You curve your fingernails into his skin, uncaring to the way his body fully tenses, dips and curves of muscle and sinew on full display as he lays completely bare against the mattress. You want to strew yourself across him to feel the ripples of his muscles as he tenses under your touch, to know the reactions of his body as they are happening firsthand. A chill tremors down your spine at the thought of him, all dense and thick beneath you, and how you have complete and utter control over him. You hold his pleasure in your hands, he’s entrusted himself to you in this very vulnerable situation, and the reality of it almost brings tears to your eyes.

Instead you focus your energy into snarling around your teeth, sneering his name like slander, “C’mon, Deku, be a good little bitch and tell me what you think you can handle.”

He is verbally silent, the only thing you can make out from his face smushed into the sheets is mewling whimpers to match the way his body quivers. You teasingly stroke your thumbnail over the blushed skin of his backside, bouncing your touch from freckle-to-freckle as you scrape your nails into him.

Another couple of seconds pass by before you snatch your hand from his ass so you can slap him again when he spurts out an answer, “Th-Thirty!”

“Fifty it is,” you chuff, digging your fingertips into his buttocks in a massaging motion, preparing him for the next round of spankings. He pants, rutting his hips forward into the mattress for some sort of friction against his throbbing erection, balls weighty with his release as they slap between his legs.

You tap his hip, letting him know that you want him to readjust himself. Izuku bends at the waist, seething as the bruised skin of his bottom stretches with the motion. You resituate yourself between his knees, ass directly in front of your face. A gentle kiss is pressed to either of his cheeks, eyelashes daintily brushing over his throbbing flesh, and he jolts his hips back into you until your teeth graze his skin.

“Eager little thing,” you tut your tongue, grabbing him harshly by the hips.

You selfishly want to mark him up, to remind the world that he belongs to you no matter how much of himself he gives away every other moment of his life. When the sun goes down, when the bright sky bleeds into the night, he comes home to you and the both of you fall asleep under the stars, wrapped in one another’s arms.

Izuku’s tongue lolls out of his mouth, sweat dripping down his spine as you press up into him, “Such a slut for me, huh, honey?”

The next time he backs into you, you pinch his ass between your fingers on one side and on the other cheek you bite down hard into his skin. Midoriya bucks forward at the sudden jolt of pain, only worsening the scratches left behind by your canines. He grinds his face into the mattress, pressing the mix of his tears and sweat into the sheets, begging for a cool release from the heat of his body as he searches for it in the mattress. You swear that he sobs into the pillow, begging you for something, but you can’t quite make out all of the syllables.

You line up behind him, your lower abdomen flush with his round, freckled bottom, “You ready, baby?”

“Princess, please,” his voice is hoarse now, all jagged around the edges as he begs you for more, “I-I want you to be rough with me, please? I wan’ you to mark me up.”

On command, your fingernails dig into the flesh at the curves of his shoulders, raking down the length of his back in one elongated swoop. He cries out, throwing his head back so his green curls brush the piques of his shoulders, and he grinds his hips back into you. You can’t help the low growl that claws at your throat as you trail your index finger down over the ghostly sight that your nails have left behind. He seethes through his teeth at the burning sensation lighting his back on fire, but he still does not complain.

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ve got you handled, okay?” Your hands find purchase on the curves of his obliques, fingernails burrowing into the taut skin of his abdomen, crescent moon patterns left in the wake of you. “I’m gonna make sure all the other heroes know who you belong to.”

Your name bubbles from his lips, a prayer he’s pushing to the heavens, blessing the stars with his babbling. In the midst of one of his mutterings, you begin your next round of pert spanks to his ass. You give him little reprieve, counting in your head as you go along.

He’s a blubbering mess, all mismatched syllables and grunts and moans tearing his throat apart until he’s crying for you to mark him as yours, to claim him in a way that leaves no question as to who he belongs to. The echoes of please, please, please bounce off every wall, a cacophony of sound making the hair on your neck stand erect.

When you finish, your hands are stinging profusely, but you make sure to soothe your palms over his bottom, the flesh bright red and angry. His freckles look even darker now that his skin has been accented with the beginnings of purple bruises and crimson handprints left behind. You coo, leaning forward to kiss the center of his back, pressing your body into him so you’re flush with every inch of him that you can find, “What do you say, pretty boy?”

When Midoriya turns to look at you over his shoulder, his eyes blissed-out so his pupils swallow his viridescent irises whole, he gargles the words, “thank you,” in a cracked whisper. You nod, trailing a row over kisses down the dip of his spine, nudging your nose over his muscled body, silently telling him to relax.

“You want more?” you ask him quietly, your hands digging into any surface of him that you can find to try and release some of the tension built up from the time spent together. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

“Please, Princess, please,” he’s blubbering out the words, thick and heavy with the emotion pent-up in his throat, “I just wan’ be good for you, whatever you want.”

You tilt your head, brows furrowing in playful contemplation, “Whatever I want, huh?”

He’s nodding ferociously, his chin knocking into his chest with his enthusiastic actions. You know part of it is to make up for the lack of words that he can’t force through his teeth, so you merely chuckle and give him one final spank to his backside, “Roll over then.”

The speed with which he fumbles into rolling over onto his back is comical. You watch as a flurry of limbs wind together only to come apart again when he’s on his back. Izuku is wincing, the glassiness in his eyes reminiscent of tears and he’s trying his hardest to come across like he’s not in pain, although you see the way that he favors putting more of his weight on his shoulders instead of his ass so he’s bent at an odd angle.

“Whatever you want,” he is gasping the words out, puffs of exaggerated but necessary breath forcing his cheeks to inflate. “I’m yours.”

The words make your whole body puff up, heat starting in your core and creating steam that rises from your esophagus to your brain. It becomes muddled and you’re hazy now, drunk off of the power that he has given you with those five words. You reach forward and slide your thumb against his piqued nipple, licking your lips as you think of what you’re going to do to him not that you have him to use however you please.

“All mine?” you ask, your voice grating against the front of your throat harshly. You hum, “What do you want me to do to you then, baby?”

He’s breathing heavily through his nose now, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath, “I w-want you to use me, please, Princess, want you to use my pathetic cock to make yourself feel good.”

You reach forward and guide his scarred hand towards your cunt, “Touch me.”

Izuku is eager to please, so he’s fumbling forward until his thumb finds your clit, ministrations errant and disastrous. It’s adorable, really, the enthusiasm with which he seeks you out only doing further service to your ego. You feel your head grow dizzier as your core turns with tumultuous heat. You know that you do not want to drag this out too far as you already can feel the twitch of an impending crest of pleasure building from within you.

His thick finger slides up into your heated core and it takes all of your self-restraint to keep your moans between your teeth, holding the sounds captive like they might tell all of your secrets if you let them loose. You bite your lip, sucking the skin into the bite of your teeth, tilting your head back so you can close your eyes and enjoy the pleasure as it comes.

“Maybe if you touch me just right, I’ll let you feel my pussy on your cock, huh?” You have to face him, have to see his reaction, “How does that sound?”

Midoriya is bobbing his head, agreeing to whatever words you’re speaking, he can’t quite make out any one syllable with the way his brain is drowning with the sight of you straddling him. He’s not sure what it is about you, but he absolutely adores the idea of you holding your own against him, wrapping your body around him and denying him of whatever control he normally possesses.

And maybe that is what gets you wet too, because you know that he could fling you off of him with a simple flick of his wrist, and yet here he is, letting you demolish every last shred of his self-respect.

You can’t help it, with the way he’s already beginning to drool and the sight of his eyes drinking in your semi-naked body, you have to feel the soft heat of his mouth around your fingers. It is too quick, the way you jolt forward and press the pads of your digits against his soft mouth. He moans, realizing just what you’re trying to do because he’s done it countless times himself, and opens his mouth wide.

Your fingers slip inside the seeping heat of his tongue and cheeks, the muscle lapping at your digits until they’re soaked and knuckle deep. You lean down so you are but inches from his face, the squelching sounds that your pussy and his mouth make together doing little to still the erection pressed against your ass from behind and the absolute waterfall between your thighs.

Every muscle in your body is screaming at you to sink down on top of his twitching cock and let him have his way with you, to rock yourself along his length until you’re both finding that beautiful high together. But you know that if you wait, if you drag this out and force him to bend to your will, then it will bring you both to your knees.

“So pretty with my fingers in your mouth, Izu,” you murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth.

He attempts feebly to kiss you, turning his head, but your fingers catch on the corners of his lips and stretch the pink skin until it is pale. Your eyes flicker toward the bow of his mouth where a thin, white scar resides. You remember seeing this one when you first kissed him, and the memory of it makes you nostalgic, the years you’ve spent together built up much like his scars.

You lick a warm stripe up the column of his neck, feeling the muscles and veins throb underneath your ministrations. The heat of your breath combined with the slick of your spit makes Deku’s hips jut upward, his balls slapping loudly against your ass as he ruts into you painfully.

“Did I say you could move?” You are leant back now, your fingers still in his mouth but otherwise you are parted from him. Deku’s face pales, eyes widening in fear as he shakes his head, apologies tumbling in tandem with his spit from his lips, drool seeping down his chin until it is shiny.

The heel of your palm comes underneath his chin, so you have your hand wrapped around the lower part of his mouth, controlling his head with the simple turn of your wrist. You tilt his head upward so he can no longer see you, and pick up your hips to reposition yourself so you are hovering above him, just enough so you can start to tease the head of his cock against your slick slit.

He’s whimpering, “Please, Princess. I wanna touch you so bad, please, I wanna make you feel good.”

You let him beg for you, pumping your hand up and down his cock while you brush the angry red head over the gathering silver slick at your entrance.  You chuckle as his hips shuffle in the slightest, his discomfort obvious as he is practically vibrating with the desire to take over.

“What is it, baby? Eager?” You sink yourself down far enough to take the head of his cock within your walls, clamping down hard enough to make him whine. “I can’t wait to fuck myself on this pathetic little cock, Izu. I’m gonna fuck you so good, you’ll have to call in sick tomorrow.”

Another round of blathering drivel is boasted into the air, his words muffled by your fingers, but he still forces them out, nonetheless. His tongue continues to curl around your knuckles and lavish the pads of your digits, sucking on them in between heaving breaths. You let a small moan shake your throat, rolling your hips forward to take another bit of his dick but not all of it, not yet. The enjoyment you’re getting from his stuttering whimpers and moans only heightening your senses and arousal.

“Princess, please, I-I think I’m gonna-” An aborted rut of his hips dies when you rake your nails down the entirety of his chest. Your fingers catch on the rigid edges of some of his scars, but otherwise you turn lines of his tanned flesh red from your scratching.

Izuku whimpers, his body arching upward as he tries to take it all in stride. In doing so, he sheathes his cock completely within you, the base of his shaft now flush with your lips. You cry out at the sudden stretch, throwing your head back in pleasure as a wave of white-hot arousal makes your thighs glossy with a new wash of slick.

When you come to, you lean forward to place a palm on either side of his head, holding yourself up so you are loitering over him like a shadow, praying that you are as every bit as menacing as you’re attempting to be. You grit your teeth and roll your hips several times, unbending to even his hands on your body, relentlessly fucking his cock until he’s screaming for you to stop.

“C’mon, little hero, I thought you’d be better than this,” you take his earlobe between your teeth and tug, “I thought you’d have more will power. You’ll never be number one if you can’t even last this long beneath me.”

Izuku shakes his head, “I-I can, I can do it, I-I promise. Please, just let-”

“I don’t think you understand,” your voice is low, menacing as you nudge your nose against the bridge of his face, nuzzling the freckled skin. The intimate act is far more tender than your tone, and it gives Izuku chills that you can display such dual sides of yourself simultaneously. “I’m not letting you do anything.”

His eyes go wide as he realizes that there is nothing that he can do to change your mind, at least not in this setting. Deku’s hands still on your hips, his thumbs rubbing circular motions into your skin in a way that seems to be grounding him as much as it is stimulating you. You press a chaste kiss to his mouth before beginning to snap your hips upward and then back down onto his cock, clamping your walls around him when you feel the head of him press into that spongy spot hidden all the way in the back of your core.

You kiss all over his neck, finding clumps of freckles and stranded singular ones, lavishing the same amount of affection over each of them. Your mouth finds scars, both tiny, hairline fractures in the marble of his skin, as well as large, patchy ones that mar large splotches of his skin.

Even in these moments when you are the one doling out commands, you still find ways to appreciate his body. Your touch roams along the dips and contours of his torso, the rough ridges of your fingerprints searching for the matching ragged lines on his skin. You sigh into his throat and he slips a hand between your bodies to rub at your clit, begging for you to come undone around his cock, praying that you’ll let him please you.

One of your hands wraps around his throat until you hear him choke, and then you speed up the pace of your hips until he’s begging through wheezes for you to relent. You lean back and he hikes up his legs so you can rest against his thighs, your body on full display in front of him. His eyes do not know where to land and neither do yours as you map out the various textures and colors of his skin – from the pale lightning strikes of his scars to the darker scattered splotches of freckles.

Izuku Midoriya is a vessel for the travesties of the world.

But you will spend the rest of your life trying to make up for its mistakes.

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

One day it slips.

You don’t think much of it, because in the heat of the moment, with him buried at the hilt and you crying for release, the words don’t stick out very starkly against the other filth spewing from either of your mouths.

“Gonna stuff that pretty pussy full of my come, baby,” he bites your earlobe as he ruts into you mercilessly, “You’re gonna be so round and full of me.”

At the time, you thought he meant that you would be full of his cock and come, but after he starts to show particular attention to your stomach during sex, you wonder if there’s something else going on.

When he has you beneath him the next time, you drag his palm to your belly and look him in the eyes, “I want you.”

His freckles burn beneath his blush, much starker against his tanned skin thanks to the flush of warmth. Izuku tilts his head, the dark curls framing his forehead bobbing with the motion, “You have me, baby.”

You shake your head and whine at the lack of contact once he’s stilled. You bite your lip and push the heel of his palm into the gentle swell of your belly beneath your navel. He swallows, gulping so hard that his throat bobs. You lick your lips and take a short breath as he shifts above you, his knees digging into the mattress on either side of your body.

“I want you to come in me,” you murmur, tugging him downward with the gentle grip of your hand on his neck. You kiss him square on the mouth and his fingers reach to find your folds, middle and index finger parting you so they can slip inside to curl against your heat. You whine, the sound amplified as his tongue searches your teeth, “P-Please, Izu.”

Midoriya’s fingers thrust forward in you so intensely that he can feel his fingertips bulging your belly with the palm that’s pressed against your navel. His eyes widen at the sensation and it only spurs him into kissing you more fervently, teeth and tongue clashing as he tries to overwhelm every sense you possess.

You protest as he pulls his fingers from you, your eyes screwed shut as you whine. He tuts his tongue against his teeth, nudging his nose along the curve of your jaw as he places biting kisses along the bone, “Hush. Do you really think I won’t give you what you need?”

The authoritative tone in his voice brings you to silence, eyelids fluttering open so you can look him in the eyes as he leans back to balance himself on his thick thighs. Your touch is pulled from him as he goes further away, your fingers aching in midair for something to ground yourself with. Otherwise you just feel like you’re going to float away, your mind hazy with the effervescent bubbles of euphoria that travel up from your throat.

Before you have another moment to keen at the loss of his heat, he’s piercing your pussy with the head of his cock, butterflying your lips wide open so he can rut up into you with ease. The combination of his bubbling pre-come and your already slick arousal dripping from your cunt make the slam of his hips easier to take, easier to beg for.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart,” Izuku coos in your ear, dropping his head to your shoulder to suck on the skin of your collarbone.

The jut of his cockhead into your core makes it difficult to think, let alone form fully coherent sentences. Izuku seems to relish in this, though, because he does not slow the drag of his cock or the flow of his words. He continues to goad you into begging for his release, for what you truly want, and it’s maddening. Your eyes cross beneath your lids at the overstimulation of it all until you’re blurting out the first thing on your mind.

“I wan’ you to breed me, Daddy!”

Izuku falters for a moment at the brashness of your words, but you barely have time to feel bashful before he’s rolling his hips again, growling near your ear with a ferocity you’ve never felt from him before.

“That’s my good girl,” he mutters while trailing his lips down to your breast. He lavishes your nipple with the rough pad of his tongue, lapping over the skin carefully so you’re begging him for more. “How am I supposed to breed you, honey? Tell me.”

The patronizing tone of his voice tells you that he knows exactly what you want, but he would rather hear the request coming in the form of panting words and wanton moans from your lips. You sniffle, your eyes watering at the bruising pace he’s setting. His hands drift down the tops of your thighs, thumbs brushing against the innermost part where your skin is the most sensitive. Your cunt clamps down around him, fluttering at the ghostly feel of his tantalizing touch.

“P-Please,” you whimper, unable to think of something to say to fill the void. You bite your lip as his mouth works at your chest, tonguing your nipple before biting at the mound of skin to drive a yelp from your lips. “I want you to c-come in me, Daddy! I want you to stuff me full o-of your come, please!”

He pouts around your nipple, leaving the small space he’s just sucked a hickey into in favor of your pert bud, “I already come in you, baby girl, what do you really want me to do?”

You bite your lip and fist the sheets at your sides when you feel frustration and embarrassment wash over you. Izuku nudges his nose along the swell of your chest before leaning up to kiss your chin, hovering like a menacing shadow. His smile does little to quell the bubbling intensity in your belly.

“You can do it, sweetheart,” he’s gentler now, breaking his more dominating side so he can reassure you, “I know you can. Just tell me what you want.”

The shining in his irises makes your knees weak but bolsters your spine to force you into uttering the next words, no matter how uncomfortable they might sit in your belly. You take a breath and look up into his eyes, “I want you to put a baby in me, Izu.”

“Good girl,” he manages to muster out the words with restraining the growl that aches at the back of his throat.

His hips cant forward, fingertips now just under your knees. Your breath comes in shaking pants, your chest shuddering under your confession. Izuku kisses your cheek and then your nose, positioning his hands while he has you distracted. His mouth ascends down upon your own as his fingers dip into the supple skin and muscle of your thighs, bruising the underside with the ghost of his fingerprints as he pushes your knees back until they’re almost touching your chest or the mattress.

You gulp in pain as his cock stretches you out in a whole new way with your body flayed out like this. You look like a butterfly, your wings spread so he can smother you with his movements. Deku licks at the seam of your lips and you gasp, your mouth parting so he can delve his tongue inside. Your whole body shakes at the intensity of his thrusts, your irises swallowed whole by your pupils as they dilate at the feel of your cunt trying and failing to clamp around his cock to keep him still so you can adjust.

“Say it again,” Deku encourages you, his voice breathless as he ruts you into the mattress.

Your shoulders and the curve of your ass are pressed so deep into the cushion that you swear you might fall through to the floor. You curl your toes and try to angle your hips forward to no avail. He has you fully enraptured in the way he wants, his body practically controlling the movements you’re allowed to make with how he’s pressed and holding onto every part of you.

“I-I want you to put a baby in me, Izuku,” you whisper, your voice hoarse.

A pert slap lands on the outside of your thigh and you whimper at the thought you’ve done something wrong. Your eyes water and you look up at him, emerald irises glowering down at you with a mix of primal need and control.

His voice is nothing short of a growl when he commands, “Who am I?”

Your eyes go wide, forehead creasing at the realization of your slip up. You can’t form the words fast enough, scrambling within your subservient brain to find the right phrase. You bite your lip as his hips still upon your silence, practically begging him with your body to keep going.

The echo of another smacking of his palm against your leg resounds in the room, sending a shudder down your spine. A new wave of arousal coats his cock from where he’s buried within you. He smirks, “Such a sloppy pussy, baby girl. You’re so filthy, getting off on me smacking you around.”

He leans close into you, removing one hand from your thigh to frame your face, his thumb dug into the soft flesh beneath your chin so he can force you to look into his eyes. “Now, I’ll say it again, who am I?”

You gulp, your lower lip trembling at the sight of him, and your voice cracks when you speak, “D-Daddy, I-I’m sorry.”

Izuku kisses your bottom lip before showing the same affection to the top. His gentle ministrations are rather contrasting to the way your hips sting with the memory of his spankings. You blink slowly, taking him in from this close angle.

He’s so pretty, you know this even though your mind is hazy with subservient want. His freckles and scars stand out so pertly against his skin, showing you a roadmap to someplace you know you’ll get to someday. You reach up to frame his face with one hand, thumb brushing over the speckled spots along the bridge of his nose and cheek, marveling at the sight of his beauty.

Deku turns his face to kiss your wrist, “What’re you thinking?”

“You’re pretty,” you blurt, voice almost childish in the way you say it with such wonder.

The phrase stills his nose against your palm, his breath hot as it rolls down your wrist and forearm. You feel your pulse beat harshly within your veins at the change in temperature, emotion swelling in your throat until your neck bobs as you try to swallow it.

It’s not the stereotypical compliment that he might receive, however that does not change its weight. Izuku takes a short breath before he begins to kiss down the length of your arm, nuzzling your elbow once he’s pressed there. He looks up into your eyes and the absolute adoration that is settled into your irises, bejeweling them until he is wondering if they might actually be gems, gives him the effervescent sensation all over again.

Pretty.

The word plays on loop in his mind, until he has dissected all six letters of it down to their very essence. The combination of your tone and expression as you admit what’s truly on your mind causes his heart to tear into his rib cage with the speed at which it beats. He breathes in short, heaving gasps, the warmth of his breath spilling over your chest, nipples pebbling beneath him.

If you were to try and pin down his appearance, you might say it were bashful. You have seen several sides to Izuku, but the bright red tinge on his cheeks, creeping up his neck until his ears are burnt with the color, makes him seem much younger, much more innocent. It’s hardly innocent, the way that he’s bludgeoning your cunt with his cock, but you take this moment to remove yourself from that fact entirely, instead focusing on the wobble of his chin and the mist in his eyes.

In addition to the shyness, you also see doubt, conflict.

You push your fingers into the hair behind his ear, beckoning him closer so you can appreciate him closer. Your opposite hand presses against his cheek, the scar that runs along his jaw ragged under your touch. Midoriya’s lips part, the tip of his tongue hidden just behind his teeth.

“Pretty,” he echoes the word, unintentionally, you believe, by the way his face screws up once he realizes he’s said it aloud. Midoriya reels back from you, sitting back on his thighs, the tip of his cock twitching from within your core.

Your face goes bright red at the admission, your hand falling away from his face in shame. You gulp, readying yourself for another smack to your leg in admonishment at your confession. You wince, hiding yourself as best you can with him looking down at you in such an intimidating way by turning your face into the pillow, closing your eyes.

The wait feels like forever, as if he’s going to edge you with anticipation until you’ve gone blue in the face from holding your own breath. He surprises you with a gentle laugh parting his lips, screwing his eyes shut.

You take a chance and open your eyes, blinking slowly so you aren’t shocked at the expression on his face if it contrasts the giggle that sets off another round of arousal between your thighs. You lick your lips and bare your soul when you ask, “Y-You’re laughing?”

“You’re so cute, baby,” Izuku kisses your nose, his grip resetting to your thigh.

The bruising hold he has on you reminds you that even though he might come across as twinkling eyes and a mop of curls, he is the strongest hero alive, and he could crush you like a bug if he truly desired.

He tilts his head, “I think you’re pretty too.”

“Y-You’re not mad?”

Izuku furrows his brow and leans back so he can study your face in its entirety, “No, Princess, I’m not mad. Why would I be mad?”

“I-I just ruined the mood by calling you pretty,” you have the urge to ask him to put his fingers in your mouth just to get you to be quiet. Anything to staunch the flow of these ­superfluous words that won’t stop tumbling from your lips.

His thumb brushes along the curve of your jaw until his fingertip is pressuring your lip to stay open so he can study your teeth and gums, “Nah, you didn’t ruin the mood. Answer me this – who do you belong to?”

Instantly your thighs try to clamp together, knees wobbling at the statement and the firmness in his tone when he says it. You swallow, eyes blown wide, your tongue suddenly becoming very heavy in your own mouth. You want to whine, to cant forward and take as much of him as you can but he has you held still with a palm in the center of your chest, pinning you to the mattress as he waits for his answer.

Your hand covers his own, fingers slipping between his palm and knuckles so you can anchor yourself to him, even in this moment. Your middle and index fingers swipe back and forth over the back of his hand, finding the familiar triangular scars and tracing over them with purpose. They ground you, somehow, when your mind starts to flutter off into this subservient space and you can’t feel anything from your knees down.

“Y-You,” you manage to stutter, thighs wobbling with the stress of pinning him between your knees. Your eyelids prick with tears from the embarrassment you felt earlier, and Izuku tuts his tongue against his teeth, “Why’re you crying, pretty girl?”

You shake your head and he kneels forward to kiss you on the lips, chastely, “Or should I give you something to cry about?”

Before you can answer, he simultaneously lands a harsh slap to the inside of your thigh with one hand while pinning your neck to the pillow with the other, applying enough pressure that you wheeze. Izuku smirks down at you, watching as tears well up in your eyes and cause them to look like glassy marbles. He trails his fingertip along the inside of your thigh, your entire body quivering with the anticipation of when he will strike next.

His cock twitches within you and the movement makes your muscles jolt. Your hand smacks against his thigh as you dig your fingertips into the dense sinew. You breathe in heavily, your chest expanding, “Daddy, please.”

Izuku begins to rock back and forth slowly, dragging his cock salaciously along your inner walls, the veins and curves of his cock making your cunt flutter around his girth. You whine at the slow pace, your palms studying his skin as a distraction to keep your dirty mouth satiated. You want to beg him to go faster, to give you more friction, something, but you know better than to ask him for anything in this moment.

“If I’m Daddy,” he muses in your ear, his breath a hot wave of desire as it rolls down your neck to splay out at your shoulder, “then it’s only fair that we give you a name too, right, Princess?”

The suggestion he’s making sends a shiver down your spine and you clamp down on his cock as he slips all the way into you, the base of him flush with your lips. You grapple onto him for fear that he might pull out of you again, but you want him to be fully sheathed in you when he snarls out his next words.

In digging your nails into his skin, you find a new scar on his shoulder that you hadn’t noticed before. It is thin, just slight enough that it slipped from your radar. It is a single ridge of skin running from the back of his shoulder to his collarbone, streaking his skin with a pink color in contrast to his normally tan color. Your middle and index fingers focus on it, mapping out each bump like your life depends on it.

As his body tilts forward, your eyes catch along a patch of intense freckles at the tops of his shoulders, where the sun shines most concentrated. Your exhale, eyelids fluttering as you feel his weight press down into you the closer he comes. The palm of your hand travels to this smattering of freckles, digging into his muscles in a massaging way as you force your touch downward. Izuku’s breath hitches as you circle the pad of your middle finger tenderly over the flesh, eyelids snapping open so he can look down at you in something akin to shock.

He melts into your touch when your ankle digs into the dimples at the base of his back, yet another scar providing friction against your skin. You whimper as his hips buck forward on instinct alone, the pressure of your body pulling him forward.

Midoriya nudges his nose sweetly along the column of your throat, open-mouthed kisses placed against your main vein that leads him to your heart. He breathes slowly over your chest, nipping at the skin closest to your nipple, but far enough away that he won’t hurt you if he bites down too hard.

“Mm,” he hums as he dips his head further, curling his spine so he can kiss the top of your belly, above your navel. His palm pushes into the supple skin, thumb drifting over where your uterus sits beneath your skin, “I can’t wait to fuck you ‘till you’re full of me, Princess. Isn’t that what you want?”

You’re begging him silently with ferocious nods, dipping the pads of your fingers into his shoulder blades to pull him closer once more so he can rut into you with his strong hips. You feel the head of his cock brush against you from the inside, and that along with the added pressure of his palm pushing into you, makes you keen loudly, a whine rippling through your lungs.

At that sound, Izuku loses any and all control he might have had on his body before, one of his hands now holding your thigh up so he can dominate you from above, your ass not even flat against the mattress anymore. It’s a good reprieve from the suffocating heat beneath your back, but the only thing you can truly focus on is the way that his hips drive into you in midair, his knees bolstering him forward to fuck into you relentlessly.

“You’ll be so fuckin’ pretty with my come dripping out of this sloppy pussy,” Izuku’s voice is slurred with pleasure, his eyes closed as he ruts into you from above. You whine, your chin ducked into your chest at this angle, but it doesn’t matter that it’s slightly uncomfortable; the only thing you can pay attention to is the way he fills you up, stretching your pussy with his thick cock.

Pulling almost all the way out only to slam into you again makes your cunt clench when he’s fully sheathed to try and keep him captive. He’s too strong, though, and he pulls away easily, the added tension only providing the both of you with further pleasure. You both whine, Izuku’s head dropping so you can no longer see his eyes, forehead covered completely by dark curls caked with sweat and sticking to his skin.

Deku licks his lips and you watch as he tilts his head to gaze down at you, the primal need to see you full giving his eyes a deeper color, a green so dark it’s almost black. The sight of him so overcome with arousal makes your stomach turn, a fresh wave of heat coating your inner walls and slipping down his cock in the form of silvery slick.

He pants, his jaw hung open, “You want me to fill you up? Come in you over and over until you can’t take it anymore, until your pretty belly is bulging with my come?”

You don’t have the chance to respond when he bottoms out within you, stretching you out even further as his cock spasms with desire. It’s like he’s growing within you even more so now that he’s imagining your tummy swollen from his come. Your jaw hangs open even as you throw your head back, your hands flying to the comforter to snag what you can beneath your fingernails.

Izuku does not waste the sight of your neck, bare and open, practically begging for him to claim as his canvas. With his next stroke he is careening forward to latch his tongue and teeth onto the sensitive skin, your jugular pulsing beneath his mouth. Your hand flies upward to tug at the wild curls near the back of his scalp, your thighs held in place by his hips as he continues into you at a steady pace.

“I can’t wait to put a baby in you, Princess,” Izuku is panting in your ear now, the lewd sounds of his hips bucking into yours the only other sound you can make out. Your shoulders shudder underneath his weight but he is holding you like an anchor, so you know that you are safe in his embrace. You turn your head, so your cheek is pressing into his, leeching the heat from his skin until your own flesh is burning.

“Fuck,” Deku laps at your throat aimlessly, as if he can’t quite get where he wants, but he doesn’t know what else to do, “Gonna fill you up every time I get the chance, breed you until you’re begging for me to stop. Pump that pretty pussy full of my come until you can’t walk straight.”

Your cunt spasms around his cock and he knows that means you’re close to coming. He’s pushed off his own release in favor of coming in tandem with you, so he starts to pump into you faster, drifting a hand down to your clit to try and stimulate you closer to the precipice of pleasure. You’re whining, nails dragging against his biceps unforgivingly, “Daddy, c’mon, I want you to come in me. Please, won’t you come in me? Fuck me full of your come, please!”

The entirety of your mouth is sandpaper dry with your insistent begging. You lick your lips at the feel of his cock spasming within your core, the tip of him brushing against your cervix in a bruising manner. “I-I wanna make you a Daddy for real, please, won’t you put a baby in me?”

A feral growl parts his lips at your request, and your body clenches from head to toe at the sound. You can’t breathe, your entire being is suffocated by the essence of him – body, mind, soul. He is everything and it covers you like a hot blanket, searing into your skin until you’re branded for him.

“You want this load?” he asks breathlessly. “Want me to breed you up good?”

He is barely able to look at you when you whimper out your response. Goosebumps cover the expanse of his body as he thinks about what you’d look like, swollen with the imminent promise of his baby growing in you. Something digs into him at the base of his spine, something that makes him ache with the need to see you waddling around, unable to see your ankles as you rest your palm on the top of your tummy. Izuku squeezes his eyes shut so he can listen to your wanton desperation, sweat making the two of you stick together at every juncture.

Deku grunts one last time before all his resolve floods from his body, “Here you go, Princess, don’t waste it.”

The angle he has your body in, folded up like a pretzel, would usually make it hard for you to waste any of it, but the sheer amount of come being pumped into you makes you nervous. You feel the familiar seeping of his seed from your cunt and you reach down to try and sop it up, but Izuku beats you to it. He uses his thumb to collect the milky fluid, rubbing it over your clit to use as lubricant as his dick continues to pump the rest of his load into your abused hole.

“Good girl,” he whispers absentmindedly as he fucks you through his aftershocks, the pad of his thumb driving you crazy as you squirm beneath him. Izuku can tell by the sheer force with which you’re clamped down on him that you’re chasing your own high, your eyes squinted closed so you can focus on orgasming until you’ve coated his cock with your arousal.

Izuku fights through the bliss that’s clouding his mind to lean down and kiss over your face, “C’mon, Princess, come for me.”

When your eyes split open, the first thing you notice is the scar that cuts from his hairline down over his eyebrow, separating the tail of his brow from the base. You reach up to brush your fingertip over it, your heels dug into the curve of his ass to bring yourself closer to him, if that were at all possible. Your mouth hangs open as your thumb maps out the scar, ragged flesh the very opposite of the remaining smooth plane of his body.

“I love you,” you whisper, silent silver tears leaking from your eyes as the combination of all of your senses being stimulated pushes you over the crest, drowning you in the waves of pleasure he creates by rocking into you.

It has taken years for Izuku to understand that you paying attention to the jagged parts of his body does not mean that you would not love him if he were any less broken.

Your vision passes over each inch of his body, taking inventory of the markings on his body – freckles, blemishes, scars – as if they might have changed since the last time you looked. Your hands roam over his shoulders, finding the pale scars and dipping your fingertips against them to feel the ridges against the rough pad of your digits.

Midoriya melds his mouth against yours, lost in the taste of you as his cock spasms within your tight heat. Your entire bodies are coated in a mixture of tears and sweat and slick, but you don’t care as he lowers himself down on top of you until you’re flush with one another from shoulder to ankle.

His tongue is mapping the curvatures of your teeth when he responds in kind, “I love you, too.”

He slows once he realizes you’ve both been milked of whatever else you might have left to give. Your body is gently placed back down on the bed, hot sweat sticking to the cooled sheets. Izuku kisses from your jaw to your collarbone, lavishing each inch with the utmost affection, it could make you cry.

Your hands work through his hair, curls falling silkily between your knuckles. You lean forward and kiss the spot on his forehead where his brows are furrowed. At the feel of your affections, his expression softens and the creases on his skin soften into nothing but fine lines. Izuku smiles up at you, nuzzling your cheek, “You did so good, baby, you’re always such a good girl for me.”

“Mhm, you make it easy,” you croon into the shell of his ear as he tilts himself forward, still buried in you even as his cock goes soft. You tilt your head, curling a finger around a lock of his hair, “W-Were you serious?”

Izuku catches a glint of the diamond on your left hand, a proud grin bringing out his dimples, “You’ll know in, what, four weeks?”

The whole thing is too exciting, and you know that even though you’re still on contraceptives, it could happen. He doesn’t move to correct himself, instead waiting on your answer.

“F-Four weeks,” you nod, your tongue sitting heavy and dry in between your teeth.

Midoriya catches your hesitation, “We won’t change anything, except how many times a day I bury my cock into that pretty little pussy of yours. We’ll see if I can beat out the statistics on your medication.”

You know he’s talking about the one-in-whatever chance that your birth control doesn’t work, but the way he says it drags shivers up your spine. You curl both hands into his hair and swallow the thick emotion pent up in your throat, “You meant what you said?”

“Four weeks,” he echoes as if it should be an answer. Izuku knows better than to have a permanent conversation with you when your eyes are still glassy like this, your mind still submerged in that headspace he puts you in when the two of you fuck this way, rough and merciless. All he can do now is remember to talk to you about this once you’re both calm and rational.

Your eyes fill with a fresh set of tears and he leans down to press a gentle kiss to the base of your throat, “I’m gonna fill you up with so much come, baby. We might have to get you a plug.”

You tighten every orifice of your body, fingers dug deeper into the muscle of his shoulders. Your thumb catches on the curve of one of his particularly deep scars, slicing into him like veins on a marble slab. In your heightened state, it’s easy to feel like you’re floating in midair and might never come down, but the tactile reminder of his body beneath your fingertips gives you that anchor that you need to keep yourself from drifting too far.

Methodically, you drift the pads of your digits back and forth, a melody playing in your head that you play out against his body. The rigidity of his form, strong and barring as he loiters over you, only adds to the calm that you feel wash over your frame, settling into your bones like stardust. You feel lightheaded, but in a giddy way, the warmth of Midoriya’s body just as soothing as the patterns you’re marking into his body.

Two tears drip over the edges of your eyes and you look up at him, bringing a thumb up to brush his hair out of his eyes, “I-I wanna make you a Daddy. For real.”

You think back to the day you first met – how he stole your heart with one simple look. He has always been it for you, that you now realize. From the first syllable to now, he has reigned you in, held you beneath his thumb in such a captivating way that you don’t ever want to escape.

You want to give back to him what the world never could – a little hero of his own.

It’s a blank slate, a place to start anew. Something that the burdens of Izuku’s past can never bury under layers of scar tissue and regret. The giddiness that makes your heartbeat in a frenzy only gives you more confidence to reach forward and wrap yourself around him like an animal begging for comfort. You nuzzle your nose into his neck, “You deserve this, Izu, you deserve to be happy.”

“Hey,” he calls down to you, upturning your face with the gentle pressure of his thumb underneath your chin, “I am happy, here with you.”

Your face grows hot at his confession, and you wonder if you misconstrued your words. You swallow, rolling your hips upward to reconnect your bodies at the waist, trying to convey that you can give him so much more, that you’re offering up your body to be a martyr. Your eyes water as you link your hands around his neck, thumbing at the crest of his undercut.

“Please,” you whisper, voice broken but beautiful as your single syllable speaks volumes even in the quiet of your shared bedroom.

There is a growl that erupts in his throat and he lunges forward, sucking and licking at your neck. You whimper, falling slack in his touch as you try to keep yourself anchored to him with biting, blunt fingernails. Your jaw hangs open just enough that he can see the pink of your tongue if he leans far enough back.

As Deku reclaims your mouth in his own, the primal thing burning deep in his belly spurring his cock to go for round two, he can’t help but think to himself that he’s going to make you a momma, no matter how hard he has to try, or how long it takes.

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

“Why are you so enamored by them?”

You still your hand over his bare chest, your index finger tracing the ridge of one of his biggest scars – a rippling cut straight through his pectoral, the tip of it disappearing in the curve of his muscles as they meet in the middle.

When you don’t answer, Izuku swallows the lump in his throat and sits up a little straighter, leaning his shoulders back against the headboard. He looks down his nose at you, shallow breaths making his chest inflate quickly, “I guess I just don’t understand what could be so fascinating about them. Why do you like to touch them all the time?”

You turn so you are strewn across his abdomen, your chin rested in the seam of his pectorals as you look up at him, “I guess they make me feel things.”

“F-Feel things?” Izuku’s face scrunches up in confusion, the wrinkles of his nose making you smile.

Tenderly, you brush your thumb over the creases of his forehead until he relaxes, and then you start mapping out the scarred lines on his face and taking inventory of his freckled cheeks. You sigh, chewing on your lower lip, “It depends on what’s going on, but when I look at you, I feel any plethora of things – sadness, joy, horniness…”

“My scars make you horny?”

You let out a laugh and drop your forehead down and bury it in his chest to hide the blush on your cheeks. Your palm falls from his face to his collarbone, gripping his shoulder as best you can. Midoriya joins you in laughter, tucking his nose into the crown of your head so he can plant kisses into your hair. He is always so soft and kind with you, especially in these moments after you’ve been conjoined by the hips for hours on end, your heart beating in time with his as you lay pressed flush against one another. There are moments when you are a cage of limbs and you do not know where he ends and you begin, but you wouldn’t want it any other way.

“Seeing you all roughed up just does something to me, I dunno!” You tilt your head back so you can look him in the eye, “I like knowing that you can handle yourself, and each scar has a story and we’ve been together for years and I still don’t think I’ve heard them all.”

It looks like there is something on his mind, with the way his face tenses up as soon as you stop laughing together. You rub your ankle against his calf and force him to look you in the eyes with a gentle nudging of your knuckle against his jawline, “Hey, what’re you thinking?”

Izuku is not normally speechless or lacking in things to say. In fact, more often than not, you have to gently place your hand on his shoulder to remind him that everyone can hear his loud mutterings, or that sometimes there are more appropriate times to speak your mind. This time, his tongue lolls around within his cheeks as he tries to come up with the right thing to say.  The pattering of your heart grows faster the longer he is silenced, your pulse thudding like thunder in your ears as you anticipate what could possibly be plaguing his mind at a time like this.

Your thumb brushes against a scar near his ear and he circles his fingers around your wrist, “Would you still love me if I didn’t have them? If my skin was perfect, like Kacchan or Todoroki?”

“First of all, Todoroki has a big ass scar on his face, so jot that down,” you tease, pushing yourself up to kiss him square on the lips. You pull away from him but not entirely, still brushing your nose along the bridge of his cheeks, “And Bakugou has a stupid quirk that gives him great skin, so he’s an awful example.”

Midoriya rolls his eyes and shoves your hand away from his face, sitting up even further so you fall away from him, curling yourself into the sheets. His countenance looks overly contemplative, and it’s beginning to worry you. You sit up in the bed, grabbing his shirt off the nightstand to cover yourself with, tossing it over your head with ease. The fabric pools at your waist but it smells intoxicating, just like him, his warmth from earlier in the night somehow still sticking to the fabric to provide you comfort.

“You know what I mean,” he grits his teeth, unable to look at you as he poses the question, “I-I just…I wonder if you love them more than you love me, sometimes, is all.”

It does not take long for you to redirect his attention back to you, turning his face with a rough yank of your wrist. You look him in the eyes, and he is but a broken little boy in this moment, begging for you to piece him back together.

The thought that he is nothing more than patchwork put back together by the scars on his body makes you feel hollow inside. How can a man who has given up so much feel like so small in a moment of pure reflection? Does he not see all the good he brings to the world, and yet how little it ever dares to give back to him?

“Izuku Midoriya,” your voice is stern, and you watch as he bolsters his spine as if he were talking to a Pro Hero, “I would love you if your whole body was covered in scars or if you had perfect skin. Why would you say something like that?”

Before he can give you some long-winded answer, you throw a leg across his lap so you’re straddling him and he has nowhere to run to, nowhere to divert his attention. Your palms are on his face, cupping his cheeks and making sure to look him dead in the eyes as you give him a dose of the truth. Still, you fear your words may not be enough to satiate his wounded pride, his blistered ego.

“When I look at you, I see how much the universe has stolen from you, how much of your body the world has taken, and how everyone else just takes you for granted.” Your voice grows heavier with each word, the threat of tears sitting in your eyelids, making your face warm. “I see a man who, time and time again, gives everything up to save the world, and all it does in return is take.”

You intake a short breath, trying to calm yourself because this is his moment to ache until his heart feels like it might burst out of his chest. Now it is your job to soothe his burning soul with the salve of your reassurance, mending his inner turmoil with a metaphoric touch that you pray can seep into the cracks of his resolve until he’s full once more.

Brushing his hair away from his face, you lean in closer so you can speak softly, “You once called them ugly. I think that every single scar is a reminder of something that happened in the past. I love to hear your stories of how you got them, each heroic act displayed on your body like a little lightning bolt of truth.”

A sigh parts your lips and you drop your gaze to his chest, finding the familiar ridges of flayed skin easily. You lick your lip and trace your thumb over a few of them, relishing in the quiet moments before you have to speak again.

“I don’t love your scars, I love you.” You press your palms flat to his chest so you can cover the expanse of his pectorals beneath your hands, the heel of your palm against the swell of his chest, “I would ask you for all of your stories even if I never touched a single scar, even if I never saw one. I’d ask you because I want to know you.”

Your hands travel north towards his neck, delicately roaming over the thin skin of his throat before winding into the hair at the back of his head, “I’m so fascinated by them because I want you to know that I don’t think any less of you for them, that I don’t believe you to be weak just because you’re marked by your experiences. If anything, I think it’s beautiful, that you’ve been given this burden like Atlas, to carry around the weight of each on one your shoulders.

“But even though it’s beautiful, that does not mean that it’s right,” your voice turns cold, hard and jagged as you speak through your teeth, “How much more can you be expected to give? Does the universe not see what it’s done to you? What it’s asking of you to continue doing? I just can’t imag-oh.”

His mouth is on yours in an instant, his hands traveling up your spine beneath your shirt, palming at the skin of your shoulders. Izuku nips your lower lip and you are melting in his touch like always, “I love you.”

You tilt your head, gasping as he starts down the column of your neck, biting kisses in a warm, wet line as he descends. You echo out the sentiment in return, barely able to make out syllables with the salacious way his lips and tongue are working at your skin. Your hands twist in his hair and he pulls you flush with him so he can nudge the collar of the shirt aside to show your collarbones the same attention as your neck.

“Oh!” you pipe up, your voice hardly more than a squeak, “And I love your freckles too. They’re so cute and I love how they’re literally everywhere, even your dic-”

“Less talking,” Izuku takes you by surprise, tackling you back into the mattress, “more kissing.”

And you happily oblige.

Besides, you have the rest of your life to tell him how much you love his freckles.

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

a/n: all right. that’s it. never writing deku fic EVER again. phew. kacchan, please don’t be mad, honey, it was for a friend, i swear!!!!!

also it’s almost 4 am when i’m posting this so if the last section doesn’t make sense i’m sORRY!!!

taglist: 

@tui-lah @viviankennedy @bnha-homeroom @frogsmarch @anxietys-a-bitch @succulent-momma @albuquerquemalu @ali-on-reverie @iamthe-leaf @kamehamethot @hoe-biscus @ux-l3ee @lovelustdollsworld @bigbootyconnections @alexandria-selina @eianthedumbass @sanguinekeigo @desia2 @loveydoveythot @shoutosplaything @thatloserweeb @kittysocks20 @jayetheanimefreek101 @toastedpopsicles @riotfuckery @spidrskarma @panbaigel @unsafetypin @peltho @mes-bisous @ee-blue @mildlyman @moondust-and-starlight @ihaileysenpai @hijackedreese @vampiregirl70 @gwizzpanda @powderedjellidoughnut @salemthewitch​ @unknown-girlie​ @mea-100​ @crystal-is-in-the-digiworld​ @phantomjeans​ @lozmarton​ @bananayogurtbitch​ @wwhndsome​ @violeteyedkeith​ @pumapurman​ @stfucanunot​

[thepencilnerd]

Pasta and Dinner Parties

"Edamame," Theo says.

"The fuck did you just call me?" Blaise’s face contorted quicker than a shifting boggart.

Another eye roll. “The pasta, it’s made from edamame.” Theo pronounces it with a certain twinge of pomposity that would have Percy Weasley reeling. Too many syllables. Vowels too lengthy. “Type of soybean, I reckon.” 

"IT'S NOT PASTA!" Blaise’s roar shook the walls of the foyer.

Pansy snorts into her mug. “I don’t know about you, but I think this dinner will go swimmingly.”

Draco and Hermione have reached a domestic milestone. They've finally decided to move in together. Draco invites her over for dinner, but what would a little Slytherin hospitality be without some sugar and spice?

Rated M for language and discussions of heavy topics in future chapters

Full fic + updates on AO3

"Luna sent a box of these over, wonderful isn't she?" If lovesick eyes had a picture to accompany the definition, Theodore Nott’s face would be front and center. In his left hand, he held an empty cardboard carton with a sticky note adhered to the front flap. 

Simmer for 10 minutes with a sprig of rosemary and a teaspoon of salt. Keeps away the balfspracks. 

Blaise rubs his eyes. It’s half-past five and he’s already had it with Theo. Had it. Patience wore down to the bone. Basta. Finite incantatem. In all honesty, he’d gladly throw himself in front of a flying—

A shorter figure crept up from behind. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she gives her boyfriend a peck on the cheek, which seems to loosen the wrinkles settling over his forehead. 

"Ladies," Pansy jests, mediating the arguments between the two as always. "I'm sure there's more than enough pasta to go around." 

"Not pasta," Blaise muttered. He tried to concentrate on the lingering warmth Pansy’s lips left on his face. The poor bloke sounded like he was about to hurl.  

At this, Theo rolled his eyes and waved dismissively. “Yes, yes, yes, you can flaunt your Italian heritage some other time, now let me work my culinary magic!” 

Blaise takes a deep breath. High blood pressure, he remembered Pansy saying. Need to stay calm. "Mate, I love you, I really do, but if you don't tell me what those green things swimming about in my favorite crockpot are, you have another thing coming."

"You used a crockpot to boil pasta?" Pansy’s head popped up from behind Blaise’s shoulder. Her nose wrinkled like she’d caught a whiff of something foul. 

“Not pasta.” Blaise was a broken record.

Draco groaned from the living room. The headache from earlier evolved into a full-blown migraine by the time lunch was over. His eyeballs were absolutely throbbing. He jammed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets as if it would relieve any of the aching. To no avail. 

"Granger's coming over in half an hour and we’ve yet to transfigure a dining table." He verbalized his misery in as simple terms as he could. Sitting on the living room couch, he calculated the farthest distance from the kitchen and found himself just a few feet away. Problem with having a small flat. He couldn't find it in himself to raise his voice. Not with the demon baby currently going stir-crazy with a gavel in his skull. 

He questioned his level of sobriety when he agreed to this.

Meeting Hermione Granger’s parents had been less stressful than this. 

Introducing her to his mother was a Christmas tree full of Christmas presents compared to this. 

Sitting in a train compartment with 2nd-year Hufflepuffs sounded more bearable than this. 

Why, oh why, did he have to open his big mouth that night? 

“Seems proper that I’d at least get to share dinner with them before we move in together,” Hermione shrugged. Her hair was still damp from her—their—shower. Stray curls escaped, framing the curves of her face. Draco loved how her sheets always smelled like her soap. The scent of her shampoo was reserved for the pillowcases. 

“Come over for dinner,” he suggested. Quite impulsively, really. “Allow me to treat you to an evening of... Slytherin hospitality.” Draco’s trademark grin served him well. Resting on his side, Draco was propped up on one elbow with no shirt and sheet draped over his bottom half. She wanted to believe he was wearing briefs underneath. He looked absolutely wicked. 

Hermione scowled tentatively but surrendered with a smile. Her chest rose before she let out a sigh. “Well, I’d be lying if I said I’d experienced an inkling of that before.” Mirth graced her tone. 

The embers from the fireplace bounced off of her bare skin like rays of summer sun; warm and welcoming. Draco’s fingers fondled the strap of her bra, the only thing she was wearing, and earned a breathy giggle from her. Tugging the lace down, he sat up and started pressing a trail of kisses along her skin. Goosebumps erupted where his lips traced her flesh. The bath had stained her skin; she tasted of rosewater and honey. 

Hermione let out a hmph and tried to focus on the book she was holding. She developed a knack for knowing when he craved attention. Whenever Draco came over, he turned into a literal child. Always nagging and begging for her every time he got the chance. If she wasn’t superglued to his side, Hermione would bet a million galleons he’d throw a fit. 

“Turn around and face me instead. I don’t fancy being smothered by your hair while we sleep.” 

“How do you turn on the stove?”

“Granger, help me fix the antenna!” 

“Could you take a look at this spot on the back of my head? I might be balding.” 

“Granger, I think I nicked myself on the aluminium.” 

“If you weren’t wearing so many clothes, we’d probably warm up faster. Becoming a pair of popsicles isn’t exactly on my bucket list.” 

This time around, his demands were very clear. 

“Pay attention to me.” 

Hermione’s eyes shot up from her book. Shock painted her features like a splash of cold water. 

She blinks once. Twice. Three times for good measure. And then, her lips break into a blinding smile, pearly whites and all. The corners of her eyes curl into half-moons and her whole body shakes with glee. 

Sweet Merlin, he was fucked. 

Setting her book down on the nightstand, Hermione sits up straight and looks at Draco expectantly. He sits unmoved beside her. Staring. Admiring. Waiting. The cheeky grin that etches into her face is one Draco would give the world to see every day. 

Draco leans back against the headboard and stretches his legs out towards the foot of the bed. Scooting closer to her, she flips her leg over his awaiting lap. She’s straddling him in the span of two seconds. The feel of her bare flesh against his is utter bliss. 

Her arms wrap around his neck like a koala bear and her head nestles into the crook of his neck. Despite lathering him in her soap, he still smelled like Draco. All these years of dating and she still couldn’t put her finger on the bevy of aromas. 

Draco mirrors her actions like a reflection, one and the same. His arms make her feel so incredibly small when encased in them. Like a bear cub. Or a kangaroo in a pouch. Maybe mammals would be an appropriate term to generalize how warm and safe she felt in his embrace, but it wasn’t the most attractive or poetic—

“I thought we finished showering earlier,” he sighs into her hair. “Why is there steam coming off your head?”

She blows a puff of air into his neck and he jolts at the sensation. Ticklish. Draco knew that secret would die with Hermione and she was honored to keep it. Unless it served her in times of duress. 

“I was just thinking about how safe I am when I’m with you.” The tip of her nose brushes against the junction above his throat and feels his heartbeat, delicate but strong. 

Da-dum.

Da-dum.

Da-dum.

Pulling back, he slides his left hand along her cheek and she leans into it like second nature. Hermione raises her right hand and cradles it over his. The way it pales in proportion almost makes him break into laughter. When she presses open-mouthed kisses down his bare wrist, Draco resists the urge to take her right then and there. It’s too perfect of a moment to ruin. Not tonight. 

She’s even more tender when her lips reach his scar. The marred flesh that takes him back to his inescapable past. A reminder of everything wrong he’s been taught since childhood; everything bad in this world; everything wrong he’s done throughout his entire life. 

But more importantly, it’s a symbol of how much good was left in this dismal world. 

It’s a battle scar that reminds him that he lived.

Something that motivates him to keep trying. 

A reminder of how despite being swallowed by the darkness that plagued the world, he chose to hold onto light. 

A reminder of how above everything, he chose Hermione and Hermione chose him. 

He takes a moment to look at her, really look at her, and melts. 

Hermione is a vision actualized. He sees the dreams and aspirations swirl about her irises in flickers. Roaming freely and always there when you needed them. He wants to bask in them. Relish in them. In her. For as long as she’ll keep him, no matter how infinitely small or finitely large. He’d burn through galaxies if it meant seeing her happy and safe. Anything and everything he could provide for her was his to offer. She need only ask. 

Draco Malfoy was wholly and irrevocably head over heels for Hermione Granger.

Magic and might, save him. 

No really, save him.

What the bloody hell was that infernal yapping? 

"I, for one, thought it would be better to go to an Italian restaurant, but Blaise here," Theo quipped. “—wanted to dish out his non-existent cooking skills,” He paused to stir the pot. “At least Luna was kind enough to—”

Blaise stomped his foot on the kitchen tiles. Miracle they hadn’t cracked yet. There was no point in trying to hide his tantrum. “Just because my ancestors were Italian doesn’t mean I’m a master chef!” He narrows his eyes. “Honestly Theo—” The words die in his throat when Theo fishes out a noodle from the pot. Maybe it’s just his eyes playing tricks on him but he swears it flipping wiggles. “What in Merlin’s great magical kingdom is that abomination and why the ever-loving fuck is it green?” 

Pansy gave his cheek a pat. “Colorful, Blaise. Truly” 

"Edamame," Theo says. 

"The fuck did you just call me?" Blaise’s face contorted quicker than a shifting boggart.

Another eye roll. “The pasta, it’s made from edamame.” Theo pronounces it with a certain twinge of pomposity that would have Percy Weasley reeling. Too many syllables. Vowels too lengthy. “Type of soybean, I reckon.” 

"IT'S NOT PASTA!" Blaise’s roar shook the walls of the foyer. 

Pansy snorts into her mug. “I don’t know about you, but I think this dinner will go swimmingly.” 

A crash echoes from the kitchen and Theo lets out a screech that rivals grindylows. 

Pansy takes a long, calm sip. Likely pumpkin juice. Draco wouldn’t be surprised if it were laced with some pre-appetizer spirits. How she managed to deal with Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum was beyond him. Hell, he needed some right about now. At least to dial down the nerves. Not to mention the spike in blood pressure provoked by his flatmates. 

The remaining minutes pass like clockwork and before he knows it, the front door dings. Never has a bell sounded more menacing than now. Why is he so nervous? She’s met them a few times before and they’ve definitely shared rounds of drinks. No doubt, gone to Diagon Alley with Parkinson, Lovegood, and Weasley. The tolerable one. 

Did he clean his room? 

Theo promised to dust right after tea but the bloke was delusional about everything except Lovegood. A bit poetic, not that Draco ever cared to admit it. 

Pansy and Blaise stopped by the market yesterday and restocked the pantries and fridge. 

And then Luna dropped off her bag of goodies this morning. 

“She’s early.” Theo stuck his head out from the kitchen. Why was he covered in flour? 

So many questions. Draco didn’t even care to know the answers to half of them. 

“She’s always early when she’s excited.” 

The three stooges stand shell shocked and stare at Pansy. They just stare. 

She blinks like an owl and shakes her head. “Honestly, are you three just going to stand there or is someone’s boyfriend going to get the door?” 

Draco’s brain registers the words too late for his liking. He’s dead sober but his brain is all fuzzy. Just as she’s about to knock for a second round, Draco’s feet propel him to the door so fast a whip of apparition cracks. 

The door clicks open to reveal a dazzling frame. Hermione Granger is, to say the least, an unreal figment of everything good in the world. War heroine, member of the Order of the Phoenix, magical, academic, and practical genius, pure in mind and soul, and his girlfriend. His girlfriend. His. Donning a pair of black leggings and a flowing cream blouse, she’s bundled in a beige trench coat and blush pink scarf. Dark mahogany brown ankle boots boost her height by a few centimeters. Draco still overshadows her by a good head or two. Nevertheless, it’s a thoughtful effort. She’s holding a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine. 

“Hello—woah!’ 

Draco’s arms are around her instantly and she’s brought into the house. His broad shoulders envelop her into a cloaked embrace that lets his scent wash over her. He never wants to let go. 

Initially surprised at the abrupt shift in balance, Hermione relaxes into his hold within seconds. He still smells like her soap and Draco and… smoking?

“Blaise!” a female voice shrieks. “Don’t just stand there Theo, do something!” 

A cloud of smoke—contained by a bubble charm, thanks to Pansy—swirls above the stovetop, large and foreboding. The source? A deep green crockpot placed on one of the burners.

Wait. Why is a crockpot on the burner? Hermione wonders.

“I told you we needed to salt the water and add the rosemary! Now you’ve got balfspracks all over the bloody place!” Theo’s voice changed from panic to mockery. He turned his nose upright and growled in a nasal tone. “‘Oh, salt is acceptable, but rosemary? Unacceptable. A disgrace to all cuisine Italian. May as well—’”

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose. By the end of the day, he’d probably have to ask Hermione to heal his bruises. “Bloody hell…” 

“Oh, it’s my fault now, is it?” Hermione realizes Blaise’s name suits him very well. Almost too well. In any other life, he might have been sorted into Gryffindor with that fiery temperament. “Next time we have a guest over, we’re ordering take-out. From Hogsmeade!” 

“Someone help me get rid of this burnt pot of—whatever the hell pasta Theo was making,” Pansy gags while trying to contain the swelling bubble. The scent is overwhelming. Something between seaweed and polyjuice. Perhaps a vile mixture of the two. 

“EDAMAME!” 

“NOT PASTA!” 

Draco can’t tell whether he wants to burst into laughter or cry. Maybe he’ll do both. Hermione was there to wipe away the snot or tears, regardless of whichever it would end up being. 

Giving him a chase kiss, Hermione placed the gifts in his hands and made her way to the lounge. Draco was going to kill them. He was going to kill them dead.

She pulled out her want and raised it towards the giant orb of smoke, confidence igniting her eyes. Her wand moved as if it were on its own, guided purely by magic and intent with an undeniable essence of Granger. She draws a broad circle that covers the entire room and summons the wisps of smoke like a magnet. The ashy tendrils of burnt food claw their way out of the floorboards and ceiling cracks, latching on for as long as they can before they’re drawn out Aiming towards the ajar door, the coils of smoke and singe are thrown out the entrance with a deafening gust. 

A single strand of hair falls out of her ponytail. 

She blows it out of her eyes with a single, deliberate puff. 

The corner of her lip quirks upwards the slightest. 

It’s so fast you’d miss it if you blinked. 

If Draco wasn’t so overcome with the urge to skin his friends, he’d dive in there right now and kiss her numb. 

The flat has returned to an atmosphere of calm. 

“Fucking finally,” Draco mutters out loud. Not intentionally but he doesn’t regret it one bit. 

Pansy, Theo, and Blaise resemble owls; wide eyes, unmoving bodies, twitching necks that swivel side to side. 

Theo breaks the silence with something along the lines of a chortle. “Welcome to our humble abode, Granger.” 

“Pleasure to have you here,” Blaise adds. His hands are still clenched around Theo’s shirt collar. 

Pansy is still trying to catch her breath having inhaled a hefty amount of the fumes. Blaise and Theo had probably tumbled around the living room enough to avoid the thick of it. Still, she refuses to let it impede on her hostess abilities. 

“Hermione!” Pansy coughs. “Why don’t you and Draco check out upstairs while—” she pauses to glare daggers at the two boys covered in God knows what, “—we deal with the mess down here.” 

Hermione draws out the excess smoke from Pansy’s clothes and hair with a swish of her wand. The next thing she does makes the three boys’ jaws unhinge. They bring each other into a warm hug and laughter rings in the air.

“It’s good to see you too, Pans,” Hermione breathes. Draco was definitely going to have a fit over this later.

Hermione gives Theo and Blaise a shy wave. Hopefully, they’d understand. In any other instance, she’d be more than happy to rid their clothes of the stench. They wouldn’t even have to ask. But this was Pansy Parkinson and if Hermione knew Pansy Parkinson, she knew that the Slytherin would want to drag on punishment as long as possible before even thinking of succumbing to forgiveness. 

Hermione Granger’s stubbornness coupled with her Gryffindor loyalty? 

She’ll be damned if she lets either waver when surrounded by friends. 

Draco clears his throat forcefully and offers his arm. “Upstairs then, shall we?” 

Hermione loops her arm through his and grins. It’s contagious and Draco already feels his anger ebb into affection. 

She speaks almost as lightheartedly as the wand movement for a levitation charm. "We shall." 

[flowesona]

guess how much i love you - soft yandere! seokjin x reader

This is part of the MFEEU canon, written by the amazing and talented @worldwidemochiguy​. I hope I can do it justice :)

“What’s wrong, little Yoona?” Jin crouched down to see Yoona. She was sulking in the corner, having pushed away all of her pseudo-siblings until one of them finally resorted to asking Jin for help. Jin always had a way to make Yoona smile, yet even now as he pinched her cheek and gave her buckets of attention he could barely get a sniffle out of her.

Finally she gave some kind of reaction to him. As he continued to try to coax her into smiling, she finally pointed at something as the cause of her woes. Jin followed where her finger was pointing to the sofa, where Hanuel and Jihae were cuddled together with their Nintendo switches engaged in visiting each other’s towns in animal crossing.

“Why does Hanuel-eonni treat Jihae differently to me?” She whimpered. Her godfather smiled, turning her gently to face him.

“That’s because they’re in love. One day, you’re going to find someone you love like that.” 

“Really?” Yoona was looking at Jin as if he was some kind of prophet, enlightening her on the path to true happiness.

“Yes. You know that when I met aunty (Y/N) it was love at first sight?”

“Really?”

“Of course, Yoona. Of course, it wasn’t easy, but love never is.” Seeing how his discussion with Yoona had pacified her qualms slightly, he had an idea to make her happy.

“How about I tell you the story of how I met aunty (Y/N)? Should we find your Shooky and have a storytime?” He offered.

“I’m not a kid anymore!” Yoona had pouted, but eagerly climbed onto his lap with her round plushie in tow ready for his highly anticipated storytimes.

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

“N-no, stop!” Jin raised his head at the sound of the melodic voice. His focus switched from the seven takeaway coffee cups he was trying to balance to the source of the glorious sound. And it was love at first sight.

She was near perfect. Her skin glowed, her eyes were filled with an otherworldly mirth and her sweater hugged her body in just the right way. The only part of her that was marred was her arm, to which some unattractive boy clung. Not a hair on his body held any appeal, yet the girl seemed infatuated, giggling at every word he said as they waited for their order.

“(Y/N)? A cappuccino with a double espresso shot?” So that was her name? Jin watched as she took her coffee with a sleep-deprived grin. And he knew he had to have her.

He whipped out his phone and dialed Taehyung’s number quickly, still glancing at the couple as they waited for the vermin’s drink.

“I need your help.” He said quickly. “Fuck, she’s leaving.”

Taehyung quickly caught on.

“Follow her. See if she’s going home. Do you have her name?” Taehyung’s voice was background noise as Jin followed (Y/N) out of the shop. Snow was starting to drift down, sticking to his hair and dampening his clothes but in that moment his appearance was the least of his worries.

As he told Taehyung her name, her appearance, and the university he presumed she attended due to her sweatshirt being emblazoned with the name of a nearby establishment. 

“I found her. We’ll have all her details in a few hours. Come back to the offices and we’ll sort this all out, alright?”

It was only when he hung up his phone he realised that half of the various hot drinks he’d volunteered to bring back for everyone - planning to secretly use the outing as a opportunity to spike their beloved drinks with salt - had spilt onto the ground in his haste. But he couldn’t care less about his colleagues when fate had granted him a much greater design.

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

“We understand you applied for the assistant role last week?”

(Y/N) was hidden in the back of the university library, trying desperately to keep her voice down whilst attempting to quell the situation.

“As I said, you’ve got the wrong person. If you’ll excuse me…” 

“You are (L/N) (Y/N), correct? We have all your details on record.”

She didn’t respond.

“Well, if you want the position then come to our offices by 11AM tomorrow in business casual.”

The phone call ended, leaving (Y/N) with all sorts of unnerved feelings. 

Those feelings intensified as she stood outside the offices the next day in a simple blouse and trousers. Whilst the strange circumstances surrounding the offer were nothing to be ignored, she’d looked up the company name to find they were a reputable business, and their staff pay was nothing to sniff at. As a student barely able to afford a coffee in the morning, could she really afford to look a gift horse in the mouth?

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

The job was truly a blessing upon her life. Reasonable hours that perfectly coincided with her university lectures, decent pay and fellow employees who seemed to respect her.

She didn’t know why, of course. How could she know of the stranger pulling the strings behind the scene to get her into his arms?

“Sorry, could you drop this off with Kim Seokjin? He’s on the top floor. You can borrow my keycard to get there.” One of her colleagues asked, pressing a manila folder into her hand along with the keycard needed.

“Sure.” 

Her heart was pounding as she scanned the keycard to enter the new level of offices. Never before had she been around such high up executives, who could have her fired in a second if they so pleased.

(Y/N) approached the first man she saw.

“Excuse me, do you know where Mr Kim is?” She asked timidly.

“You’re speaking to him, darling.” He responded, turning to face her. (Y/N) resisted the urge to blush when she made eye contact with him, as he excluded an aura of attractiveness and wealth she could never compete with.

“Oh, right. This is for you, sir.” She handed over the folder, trying not to die from the embarrassment.

“Wait a second.” She felt a presence next to her. Standing by her shoulder was another man. To put it simply, he was gorgeous. From his clear golden skin to his sharp features, it was as if an ancient statue had been breathed into life.

“That was meant for Kim Seokjin, right? That’s me.” 

As if the situation could get any worse.

“Kim is a common surname, darling.” The former man commented as he passed the folder to the real Seokjin.

Noting the look of anguish on her face, Seokjin took one of her hands into his own.

“You’re new here, right? Don’t worry, it’s an easy mistake to make.” He offered her a warm smile.

“Thank you. I should go…” (Y/N) gently tried to pry her hand out of his hoping to end the whole interaction as soon as possible.

“Here, my card.” Seokjin pressed a rectangular business card into her hands, emblazoned with his name and number in stunning cursive. “Call me, and I’ll take you out for dinner sometime. As an apology.”

(Y/N) nodded, and he finally released her. 

The business card lay buried in her purse for days afterwards. She couldn’t bear to face him again to be reminded of her embarrassment. But her interia was only serving to anger Jin.

“It’s been three weeks, Jin-hyung.” Taehyung said cooly. “Maybe it’s time to try again.”

His office had become a second home for Jin, who would spend around an hour each day ranting and raving to his boss, who just took it all on board with a knowing grin every time.

“How?” Jin muttered. “How do I get her to talk to me?”

“If there’s a will, there’s a way.” Taehyung responded, tempted to return to his mountain of work but also not wanting to leave Jin to wallow in doubt.

Jin just kept pacing.

“You could give her a promotion? Or maybe you could turn up at her university and sit on a lecture or two. That way you’d have an excuse to see her when you like.” Taehyung pressed. “You’ve still got some holiday hours this year to spare.”

Jin didn’t reply, but his decision was already made.

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

(Y/N) was ready to go back to sleep. No number of espresso shots could cure her banging headache, as her hangover weighed down her body as if she was carrying a ten pound barbell on her back.

She didn’t noticed how someone new had slipped into the seat next to her in the lecture theatre. All that occupied her mind at 9am was the desire for sleep. The double life of being a student and office worker was wearing on her hard, and she was contemplating on handing in her notice. The only thing that kept her from so was the tantalising paychecks and the haunting beauty of Seokjin, the memory of whom which had remained in some unused part of her brain.

The professor had a droning voice. The monotone syllables were practically a lullaby, and surely resting her head for a few minutes wouldn’t hurt? Not when she was at the back of the theatre and was practically unnoticeable.

Jin smiled as he observed (Y/N) slowly drifted into a deep sleep. The poor lamb had overworked herself. If only she knew of how he wanted to make sure she would never lift a finger again. He’d bided his time, months of casual stalking building up the the moment he’d finally decided to sit next to her, and how fortune had smiled upon his to give him the chance to admire her without being ‘creepy’.

Her deep sleep remained uninterrupted as people started to leave the lecture theatre, and a daring plan started to form in Jin’s mind. It was dangerous to just take her in the middle of the crowd, but it wasn’t like anyone else was particularly attentive at 10am and besides, anyone who asked questions could be paid off without a worry.

Gently he scooped (Y/N) up under his arm. She didn’t stir, as he gently guided her to the exit amidst the groups of other lethargic students. Navigating the crowd with a sleeping girl attached to him wasn’t easy, but Jin managed to make it out of the building and into his car without her waking up. It warmed his heart to see her head loll against the soft leather of his car interior as he indicated for the driver to start the engine.

Halfway to their destination, (Y/N)’s eyes starting to peel open.

“Mmmm... where am I?” The confused words stumbled out of her mouth as (Y/N) rubbed at her eyes.

“We’re going home.” Jin responded simply.

“Home? Wait... why are you here? Aren’t you... you’re one of the bosses from work?” The gears in (Y/N)’s brain we’re starting to turn.

“Well... yes. We can call this a promotion, I guess?”

The warmth of his smile, the smooth feeling of the leather car interior against her back and the steady beat of her heart all worked to convince (Y/N) that she was alright. It wasn’t conventional, but the adoration in Jin’s eyes was like a dream.

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

Unfortunately, a serious event plagued their ‘honeymoon’ period.

On Tuesday morning, as Jin gently woke her up with a cup of coffee, he noticed something was wrong. Her face was hot to the touch, and she could barely open her eyes.

Evidently, the cold weather and her busy schedule had taken a toll on her health. For the day she was stuck in bed, Jin dabbing at her forehead with a wet cloth and feeding her spoonfuls of broth.

“(Y/N)? How do you feel, my love?” Jin posited as she was nestled up half paying attention to the TV he’d brought into their room.

Through her drowsy drawl, he could barely make out what she was trying to say.

“Why are you… so nice? No one has ever loved me, not like you do. It’s not normal, to have your boss slash kidnapper treat you better than your exes. I don’t know why I’m not fighting you like any sensible human should.”

Seeing tears start to well up, Jin wiped at her eyes, wanting to shush her but simultaneously wanting her to continue praising him.

“I’ve never had a boyfriend who cares for me like you do… this isn’t right. I must be dreaming.”

Jin gave her a soft smile, his heart drumming loudly in his chest.

“This is reality.This is love. And I love you all the way to the moon and back.”

Before he could go on to tell her of what lengths he would go to show her his love, she’d fallen asleep. 

He wanted nothing more than to stay by her side for the rest of the day, but the vibration of his phone in his pocket reminded him that he still had a job to do. He left the bedroom before answering it, closing the door with as soft of a click as possible.

“How’s it going, lover boy?”

“Shut it, Jimin.”

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

“You see, love triumphs all. When you love someone, you should stop at nothing to make them love you back.” Jin concluded. Yoona had been hooked onto his every word, Jihae and Hanuel long gone both from the room and from her mind.

“Yoona? Yoona, we have to go!” At the call of her father the young girl clambered out of her godfather’s hold.

“Do you feel better now?” Jin asked. She nodded happily.

“Will you tell me more stories next time?” 

“Yoona!” Yoongi finally found her next to her godfather. 

“Go find Mommy, she’s got your jacket.” Yoona nodded happily, rushing off leaving only the two colleagues.

“You’ve gone soft, hyung.” Yoongi commented.

“Show a bit more respect for your elders.” Jin snarked back, but he couldn’t hide his happy glow.

“Sure thing. Pass on my regards to your wife.” Yoongi said before turning on his heel to find his own family.

Now that he was all alone, Jin pulled out his phone to send a quick message.

‘Be home soon, love.’

(Y/N) responded about ten seconds with a gif of two dogs hugging, to which Jin chuckled.

‘I love you. All the way to the moon and back.’

[i-rely-on-you]

44!!!!!!!

Thank you so much dear! 

This is the 50 Ways To Say “I Love You” thingy so here you go @faytalepsy

My ask box for those is still open in case anyone is interested and you can find this prompt list here 50 Ways To Say “I Love You”

You don’t have to pretend with me

He found her sitting at her desk on this late September evening, still working on grading papers. Hunched over forms, an uncharacteristic hand to her forehead seemingly worried.  

He had come to check up on her as he had taken to doing since she had come back from the dead.  

It was hard for him to be parted from her for more than a couple hours at a time and he knew she felt the same.  

After she had come back and they had fought off Rosalind he had been adamant about not leaving her side, fearing their old mentor could come back to finish the job should he not have his fairy within reaching distance at all times.  

He had clung to her like his life depended on it when she had started breathing again after they had dug her up. Soil and vines of the surrounding flowers still clinging to her.  

He had carried her inside their school and up to her quarters and taken off her clothes, helped her shower and put her to bed, keeping vigil over her until she had woken up again several hours later.  

Her sleep muddled brain still in the throes of a nightmare of being trapped underground had not been able to discern dream state from the real world until he had slid into bed beside her, holding her to him tightly. He had soothed her gently, whispering sweet nothings and reassurances into her ear until she had fallen asleep again.  

Seeing her like this now, agitated him. She looked stressed and almost frail. A look he didn’t like seeing on his fairy at all.  

Looking up from her work upon hearing him enter she gave him a small smile. It was a genuine smile but strained nonetheless making it seem almost fake if he hadn’t known her better.  

Quickly closing the door behind him Saul strutted into the room, a concerned expression marring his features.  

“Farah what is it? Are you alright?” The questions tumbled from his lips without pause as he came to a halt by her side.  

Reaching for her upon coming to a standstill right next to where she was sitting he laid a hand on her shoulder, the other grasping her hand delicately.  

Leaning back a little in her chair the headmistress looked at the forms in front of her again, a big sigh escaping her lips.  

“It’s nothing, really.” Casting a warm glance up at him she closed her eyes for a moment before opening them again. Fixing him with a deep meaningful stare. ”I’m fine.”

Not believing her for a second the soldier stooped down a little and crouched next to her to be more at eye level with her.  

Sliding his hand to the crook of her elbow now he murmured softly, “What is it?”

Shaking her head the woman sighed again before loosening his hold on her hand. Letting her face fall into both of her palms dejectedly she let out another sigh.  

This worried the man greatly and he wound his arm around her back and took hold of her upper arm gently, his fingers encircling her biceps. Angling himself so as to see her more clearly he tried again. “Talk to me love, what’s wrong?” But the fairy just shook her head once more.  

Letting go of her back and arm Saul began to scoot back the chair in a way that she was facing him now and not the desk anymore. He then loosened her hold on her own face as gently as he could taking in her sorrow stricken face and the frown marring her beautiful lips.  

She had her eyes closed as he took in her features.  

Laying his hand on her cheek softly he made her look down at him with the words, “Hey, look at me.”, to which she obliged instantly.  

Her soulful deep brown eyes were pooling with unshed tears and it made his heart stop for a second.  

Taking all his willpower not to bundle her up and flee the realm all together right this second the soldier murmured instead, “Come on now, Farah. You don’t have to pretend with me, you know that. Tell me.”

Biting her lip momentarily she looked at him and whispered, “I’m worried, Saul.”

Now it was his turn to shake his head as he frowned up at her, clearly not understanding.  

Yes, they hadn’t defeated Rosalind completely and she was still out there but they were careful and had doubled their efforts to keep unwelcome guests from passing through the barrier. He had seen to it himself to have guards patrolling the building at all times.

But they also knew how powerful Rosalind really was and that scared the soldier too. More than he would like to admit.  

Standing up tall again he chanced a glance outside the window half expecting to see their tormentor standing at the edge of the training grounds looking up at him mockingly. But of course there was no one there.  

Turning back around to look at the headmistress again he wondered, “Did you see something? Was anything amiss today? Has something happened that made you believe something might be off?” He knew when to trust her instincts, as they had rarely ever been wrong. So he contemplated the possibilities that could have spooked her so while letting his eyes scan the training field again.  

Her voice shook him out of his observations gently.

“No, nothing was amiss. It’s just-…”, her voice trailed off slightly as if unsure how to proceed.  

“I’m just so worried for the children, Saul.”  

This he understood. They were under an extreme amount of pressure caring for all of these lives every single day, keeping them safe and away from harm. He instantly knew where she was coming from with this.  

“I would not be able to look myself in the eyes again if something happened to one of my pupils. I am so afraid she’ll come back and do something terrible to them like she did to us.” Halting as her words grew more shaky with each syllable passing her lips the fairy closed her eyes again in shame.  

Seeing her like this, all worried and frightened made his heart ache in his chest.  

Feeling the need to be close to her again he took the half a step towards her and enclosed her in his embrace.  

Her arms settled around his lower hips snugly and her head came to rest on the spot between his chest and belly. Pressing her face into the material of his jumper the mind fairy breathed in deeply as if for the first time today, treasuring the smell of him.  

Sauls arm snaked around her shoulders and his other hand came to rest on the back of her head where he began to rub soothing circles into her loosely braided hair.  

That was also something that had changed with Rosalinds attempt on her life. It seemed like almost losing her life had made her lose her grasp on this stern persona she had crafted so meticulously over the years of being headmistress.  

Her trademark hairdos pinning the golden brown locks high on top of her head had given to a more delicate style now.  

She had taken to wearing her hair in less strict but no less intricate hairstyles these past few weeks and he liked the look on her. It made her appear softer and slightly more approachable which the students had taken as an open invitation to get closer to her after she had come back.  

Hugs had become a daily occurrence now.  

Students seeking out guidance in the middle of the hall and after a quick chat grabbing her around the middle gently and letting go just as quickly, throwing her a timid smile in thanks and vanishing off to where they needed to go next.  

The first time it happened had been almost comical to say the least but she had taken it in stride and learned to cherish those moments.  

The student body was different now. They appreciated her more with each day passing and each and every single one of the pupils made sure that she was well taken care of at all times throughout the day.  

Be it juice boxes left at her desk before class had even begun or an apple sitting on top of her books intended for the lesson. It could be a muffin waiting for her on her desk in her office or pupils holding doors for her and accompanying her to her next lecture.  

The students made sure to take care of this second chance they had been given with her. Of having their beloved headmistress back.  

It was always rather simple things really. But they were greatly appreciated and didn’t go unnoticed by Saul. He was grateful for all these children being there for her.  

Rubbing at the base of her neck and sinking his hands into her hair more fully now he massaged her scalp gently, all the while being mindful of the few pins holding the strands up.  

He drew her nearer slightly before craning his neck down to whisper to her softly, “We will get through this Farah.”  

He knew it was futile to be making silly and unwarranted promises because he knew some things were just out of his control but he could promise her one thing.  

Letting his arm drag across her back gently and holding her to him tightly he vowed to her, “We will bring an end to this. She has caused us so much misery for way too many years and she will pay for what she has done to you, I promise you that.”

Feeling her nod into his belly and grasping onto his jumper more forcefully now he promised her one last thing.  

“And I will not part from you ever again until my dying breath. This I swear to you.”

He had been given a second chance too, he knew. And he would make damn sure to make this one count.  

He heard her sniffle slightly before pulling away from him a fraction to be able to look up at him. Her eyes shone brightly, tears still clinging to her lashes but her face was clear and open.  

Her hopeful look had him smile in return and lean down to press the softest of kisses to her forehead. Lingering there for just a minute breathing her in, he relished in the feeling of her warm and soft skin.

They stood like this for a while, never relinquishing the hold on the other. For how long they stood there they didn’t know. And it didn’t matter.  

It was Saul who broke away from her first.  

Taking in her sleepy look he held out his hand for her to take and pulled her to her feet slowly but surely.  

“How about something to eat? I’m famished.”

This made the woman giggle, a sound he would never tire of hearing for as long as he lived he was sure.  

“You are always famished Saul.”  

Pulling her around the desk he stopped by the coat hanger and helped her into her jacket, making sure to pull her hair out of her collar as he did so.

“Ah yes, that may be true. And you know what really helps with that? Spaghetti!”

The laughter this pulled from her lips made the specialist practically beam with pride at being able to make her forget the world around them even if only for a little while.  

Pulling her into his side he began leading her out of the room and into the hallway all the while keeping a firm grip on her side.  

To any other person it might’ve seemed possessive the way he was holding her to him but to her it was heaven. She felt safe in his embrace, surrounded by his scent and warmth. His strong arms banding around her, encasing her and holding her close.  

“Is it because it’s the only thing you can actually cook without burning down the kitchen?”

Chuckling at her jest he looked down at her and found her gaze seeking out his, her face glowing with mirth.  

Positively beaming now he gave back, “Maybe? Are you complaining?”

Shaking her head she whispered a soft ‘no’ before letting her head fall to his shoulder gently. A small sigh of contentment accompanied the movement as she let him lead her through the narrow hallways and dark corridors of their beloved Alfea.  

There was nothing they couldn’t get through together she believed that now.  

Always had, really.  

Because they weren’t just ordinary people. They were Farah Dowling and Saul Silva. A fairy and her specialist. A powerful unit and a force to be reckoned with.  

And as long as they were together, they would be fine.  

They would just have to make sure to hold onto each other tightly.  

Nothing easier than that.  

-fin

Thank you so much for reading ☺️ I hope you like it. Be sure to leave a comment to let me know what you think 🥰 kudos is also greatly appreciated ♥️

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[justthehiddleswrites]

The Reluctants | Chapter 2 | The Reluctant Tenant

Pairing: Adam (OLLA) x OFC (Charlie Bock)

Summary:  Charlie can’t believe her luck when she lands an apartment all to herself in Quincy, Massachusetts in a decaying triple decker. But life gets more complicated when someone moves into the basement. Specifically her landlord, Adam, who also happens to be a vampire. As life collapses around Charlie, these two forge an uneasy and unlikely relationship. But is their relationship as doomed as the building they live in?

This Chapter:   Charlie discovered the true identity of the man living in the basement through unusual means.

Warnings: Violence, Smut, Frottage, Dry Humping, Teasing, Coming In Pants, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex. Couch Sex. Kidnapping. Stalking. Non-Graphic Violence, Character Death

-

Charlie bounded out of bed that morning a half an hour before her alarm was set to go off. She hurried to the kitchen and slapped the coffee maker before popping a cinnamon raisin bagel in the toaster.

“Call on me, Call on me…” Charlie sang into her knife as she waited for the bagel to pop up ready to slather it with a generous amount of cookie butter. That ridiculous Eric Prydz song had wormed its way into her brain last night during her research. Now she couldn’t stop singing it. Or thrusting her hips.

As the coffee dripped and her bagel breakfast toasted, Charlie headed to the second bedroom. Or the room of requirement, as she called. She meant it to be her home office but instead stored all the bits and pieces of her life that had yet to find a place in her apartment. Charlie sighed and took a deep breath, twisting the brass knob and pushing the door inward. It stopped short about a third of the way. She slithered her way into the room to discover her collection of hockey sticks tumbled over, blocking the path of the door.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” she cursed mostly at herself as she righted the tub that housed the sticks. She surveyed the room, gingerly stepping around stacks of books and old stuffed animals crammed into banker boxes.

“I should sell all this on eBay.” she muttered while moving back issues of Real Simple and Martha Stewart Living Magazine.

Her Christmas present from her mother every year. Even though she never read them and would sooner read Guns and Ammo over that drivel. And Charlie never owned a gun. Just another way for her mother to comment on her inadequacies as a woman and a daughter.

“There you are.” She unearthed a pair of Bose stereo speakers. “Come here, my beauties.” She lifted them from their hiding spot, cradling them under her arm.

It took about an hour and two cups of coffee for Charlie to find the optimal spot to set up and then hook the speaker up to her phone. She laid the speakers face down against the floor at where she expected for Mr. Shelley’s living area. She adjusted the volume and clicked open the playlist she prepared last night.

“Let’s smoke you out, Mr. Shelley.” She pressed play on her phone.

Oh baby, baby

Oh baby, baby

Oh baby, baby, how was I supposed to know

That something wasn’t right here?

The speakers vibrated the floorboards, causing decades of dust and debris to sift up from between the cracks. Charlie’s nose scrunched up in disgust.

“Oh man, I walk barefoot in here.”

Her head snapped to the door as Britney continued to sing, expecting a knock at the door. But as Britney faded out and *NSYNC’s Bye Bye Bye, there was no knock. Not even when the Macarena clicked on. Charlie resisted the urge to stomp on the floor or yell. Anything for a sign of life. She shrugged her shoulders and headed to the kitchen to grab her dustpan and broom. The least she could do was clean the floors.

By the time the sun set that day, Charlie knew all the words of the entire Christina Aguilera catalog and all her books were organized by color and then alphabetized by title.

KNOCK!

She yelped and jumped in place when a solid knock hit her front door.

“About fucking time.” She picked herself off the floor where her record collection laid strewn about mid-collation and answered the door.

She had never seen such a beautiful face look so pissed off. Mr. Shelley’s striking features marred by what she could only describe as malice and murder.

“You look like Syd Barrett got caught in a lawnmower.” Charlie commented without thinking. Her thoughts often dropped onto her tongue like gumballs when she was nervous, and Mr. Shelley made her very nervous.

“Can you turn that fucking shit down?” He growled, his lips a tight line. “I haven’t fucking slept all day.”

Charlie smirked. “I just have a few questions…” He rolled his eyes and turned to head back to the basement. “I hope you like Disney!” She called out. He snapped around and leaned against the doorjamb.

“I’ll report you for noise violations.” He smiled back.

“Actually… Quincy city ordinances indicate that between the hours of 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. on weekends and holidays the decibel level shall not exceed 75dBA and then 65dBA after 5 p.m. That is slightly louder than a conversation and since you and I are conversing with ease. I think I am in the clear. Perhaps you should have soundproofed the basement before you moved in.” Charlie smirked.

“What are you, some kind of lawyer Ms…?” Mr. Shelley rubbed his temple, failing to will away the headache this conversation was creating.

“Bock. Charlie Bock.” She extended her hand. “Yes I am. I work at Legal Aid, Downtown. What do you do? Besides, own this home.”

He ignored her question. “Listen Ms. Bach.”

“Bock.” she corrected.

“That’s what I said, Bach.”

“No, Bock.” She clicked her tongue on the last syllable. “Hard ‘k’. Common mistake.”

“Fucking zombies.” he muttered.

Charlie pushed forward, ignoring the zombie remark, but cataloging it in her mind for later. She was wearing him down. “Listen, I just have some questions, agree to talk to me and the music stops. Plain and simple.”

“No.” he drawled, turning on the well-worn heel of his boots.

“Please?” she begged. He responded by shooting her the bird.

“Rude.” Charlie thought out loud as she shut the door. “Fine, you want to play, let’s play.”

-

Adam groaned as the music continued for most of the night after his run-in with Ms. Bock. As promised she switched from the 90s teenybopper trash to Disney and show tunes. He wasn’t sure what was worse, show tunes or the prospect of stepping into the sunlight and burning up. A tan sounded excellent right now.

Adam curled the pillow around his head to muffle the sounds of Julie Andrews gleefully singing for people to rot their teeth by ingesting sugar on its own rather in something sensible like tea. It didn’t work.

Matters were not helped by the fact he was hungry. He needed to drink, but he couldn’t with the infernal racket going on upstairs. Charlie Bock, the name sounded like someone ripped it from the pages of a noir detective pulp novel. Charlie Bock, private eye. More like Charlie Bock, bloody fucking annoying girl.

And why was she wanting to talk to him? He pondered pulling the pillow off his face and sat up on the edge of the bed. He never understood the zombies’ need to socialize with neighbors. Proximity did not equate familiarity. As Julie faded out and some song sung by a girl reporting that the “cold never bothered her, anyway” came on, Adam resigned himself to the uncomfortable task before him.

-

Charlie was ready to settle in for another night of reruns when another knock rang out from the door. She shuffled to find a robe to throw over her pajamas, flinging clothes around the room. Another knock and then the doorbell. Repeatedly.

“Is he fucking leaning on it?” Charlie groused as she padded to the door without a robe.

“I’m here.” she spat out, swinging the door wide. He leaned against the side of the house. If possible, his hair was even more mussed than before. The corners of her mouth twitched in satisfaction. “Ready to admit defeat?”

Adam rolled his eyes, arms crossed in front of his chest. His eyes narrowed towards her, piercing through her green eyes. His gaze dropped for a moment and he caught his tongue darting out of his mouth while staring at his bosom heaving. Her quickened breath gave away her fear. It hung in the air like stale perfume. Fuck, he was hungry.

Charlie shuffled her feet and tugged at the low scoop neckline of her top, doing little in the way of covering her assets. Her discomfort almost brought the slightest smile to Adam’s face. Almost.

“Tomorrow 8 p.m. Your place. Two questions.” He turned to leave.

“Ten questions.” Charlie countered.

“Three.”

“Eight. Ever heard Baby Shark?” She poised her finger over the phone screen.

“Six. Final offer.” He leaned towards her. Charlie acutely aware of his height in this moment.

“Fine.”

“Fine.” he snarled heading back down the porch steps and to the basement entrance.

“Can I at least get your real name?”

He disappeared around the corner. “Adam. That’s one!” he shouted into the night air.

Charlie shut the door. “Adam.” She had trouble falling asleep that night.

-

That night’s activities exhausted Adam, so he slept through the commotion of Charlie straightening up the apartment. Had he woken up, he would have been welcomed to the sounds of her doing two loads of dishes and rearranging both her kitchen and living room furniture.

“Oh fuuuuccck…” Charlie cursed as she yanked the armchair into yet another seating arrangement. She realized she cared what Adam thought of her home. A lot. “No… no… no… SHIT!” Charlie flopped in the armchair in disgust. At herself. For falling for her landlord.

“I don’t even like musicians.” she lied to herself, conveniently forgetting Mark, Tyler, and that guy from college who insisted on calling himself “Mick” after Mick Jagger even though his real name was Simon.

Charlie pushed the thoughts away when she grabbed her coat, keys and purse, heading out to pick up some drinks and snacks for later tonight.

-

Adam overslept the date, no appointment, with Charlie. He hadn’t needed to be anywhere at an appointed time in a century at least. So he didn’t set an alarm. Not that he had an alarm. Although looking back, Adam was certain he could have fashioned a suitable alarm clock from the bits and bobs of machinery in the cramped basement given the proper time and motivation.

But now time was at a premium. He needed to feed before heading upstairs. A mistake yesterday. Staring at Charlie in that ridiculous low cut top sent his body into a tailspin. If the conversation had gone on much more, she would have likely seen one of his fangs, threatening to make an appearance. He hated how his body couldn’t tell the difference between hunger of the flesh and hunger for blood, causing him problems more times than he cared to remember.

In his haste and quick movements, Adam tripped on the upturned corner of an ancient Turkish rug, the canister fell from his hands. With the cap already loosened on the canister, the blood formed a dark puddle on the ornate geometric pattern. He’d never get that stain out.

“Shit. Fuck!” A nearly full canister of the good shit, O-negative wasted. And to top it off, his supplier was indisposed for some time. He would have to figure out a way to make due with his remaining stash.

He grabbed an old towel from the unused bathroom and sopped up the mess as best he could. Adam gathered the now bloody towel along with other debris from the living area, cramming it into a paper bag as he exited the basement to toss all of it into the communal garbage cans leaning against the decaying siding. He didn’t notice the bloody towel fallen at his threshold when he stepped over it to get cleaned up, his mind on other things.

-

At fifteen past eight, Charlie stomped her foot and rose from the sunken futon.

“This is bullshit!” She marched out the front door. Charlie was already formulating her rant in her mind when she pounded on Adam’s door. She glanced down to find a towel stained red. Blood red. She picked it up and sniffed. Metallic.

Adam opened the door as he adjusted the collar on a charcoal gray silk button down. Their eyes locked. His an unnatural blue, Charlie’s a deep emerald green. And then Adam saw what was in her hand.

“Where d’you find that?”

“At your door. I KNEW IT!” she did a little dance in place, pulling the towel close to her. “You’re the fucking Mob or something! Oh, shit. I need to call the cops! You murdered someone!”

Charlie twirled in place like a top. She realized she was pressing the towel against her chest and threw it in the air in disgust. Adam with his supernatural speed grabbed the towel mid-air. Charlie stopped in her tracks, mouth agape.

“How did yo—” Her words cut short as Adam jerked her into the basement by her wrist.

The door slammed behind her and Adam released her wrist, walking away, huffing. This was not how tonight was supposed to go. He was supposed to answer some questions to appease her curiosity and then go on living their separate lives. And now Charlie stood in his home, his sanctum, smelling all kinds of… FUCK! he still hadn’t eaten.

“Listen, if you are planning to kill me, there are people who will—”

“No there aren’t.” An edge to his voice.

“I beg your pardon?” Charlie blinked before trailing after him. “I happen to have lots of…” Her voice trailed off. “Wow…”

Every square inch of the walls was covered in instruments hanging from hooks. Acoustic and electric guitars of all shapes and kinds. Several violins and a viola. Plus other stringed instruments she didn’t recognize. There was an upright bass in the corner behind a drum set. And a makeshift recording station in another corner.

“How in the hell? Who or what are you?” Charlie breathed the stale air of the basement as she continued to turn, taking everything in. How the hell did he even get all this down here without her knowing?, she thought. Her face pinched into a scowl. She stopped spinning and planted her feet facing Adam. “I’m waiting for answers.”

She placed a hand on one hip while the other one jutted out in a snap, causing her breasts to bounce. God, he needed a drink!

“It’s better I show you.” He left the room at a brisk walk. Charlie stepped to get a closer look at all the instruments. “Don’t touch anything!” He called out just as Charlie reached out to smooth her fingertips over the polished wood.

Like a child in a museum, she folded her hands behind her back. She walked the perimeter of the room, getting close but not touching. She could spy a fine layer of dust and dirt on tops of some, some looked freshly cleaned. Charlie winced when she recognized her stunt was the likely cause of the dust.

“I said no touching.” His lips pulled tight across his teeth.

Charlie waved her hands from behind her back. “You can’t touch with your eyes.”

“You can if you try hard enough.”

He placed a small crystal glass next to a tall metallic canister akin to a thermos. “Sit.” He barked like Charlie was a dog in desperate need of obedience training. In Adam’s mind, it wasn’t far from the truth. His mind wandered to all the ways in which he could break her. Make her whimper. His fangs made their presence known. He poured a small amount of the blood into the goblet and downed it. He had company. His fangs tinged pink as he fell back onto the wine red velveteen couch and for a moment he forgot everything except bliss.

After several moments, Charlie cleared her throat. Adam popped open one eye to find her sitting there, hands folding in her lap, making herself as small as she could.

“So…” she started, Adam popped open his other eye. “… you’re a vampire.”

He didn’t respond, instead rolling his eyes. He waited for reality to sink in and Charlie to go screaming into the night. Adam sighed and huffed, contemplating the fact he would need to move again. Packing up the recording equipment would be a bitch.

“Zombies. Shit.” Adam muttered under his breath.

“You’ve used that term before. Like…” She held her arms and moaned. “Brains… zombies?” It surprised him she was still here, her hands once again neatly folded in her lap. Like at church.

Adam huffed again. “That is about how humans act these days.”

Charlie crossed her arms and leaned back. “That’s an awfully pejorative term.”

“That’s the entire point.” His words sharp.

“Shouldn’t you use a nicer term for a being which you need to survive?” Her green eyes blinked, and Charlie remained unmoved.

“Shouldn’t you be running out of here in terror or disgust?” Adam snapped back.

Her nose scrunched up, and she shifted to face him. It was adorable. Adam hated adorable. And cute. And fluffy. The change in angle allowed Adam a view down Charlie’s sweater. A dark violet sweater with a deep v. All the blood he drank moved to a different part of his body. He stood to disguise his condition from Charlie.

“Are you saying that because I should be afraid of you or because you expect me to be afraid of you?” Her brows knitted together, marring her face.

“Is there a difference?”

“Yes, or else I wouldn’t have said it that way.” Her gaze followed him about the room. His torso twisted as though he was recoiling or hiding from her. “Communication is not your strong suit, is it?”

“I prefer to communicate by means other than words.” His long pale finger plucked a violin string. He didn’t elaborate on his comment.

“You haven’t answered my question.” She prodded.

“You’re awfully persistent for a zombie.” She winced at the word and Adam twinged for a moment with guilt.

“I’m a lawyer that is literally part of the job description.” She stood and smoothed down the sweater which Adam was now actively averting gaze from hoping to ward off the already painful erection or making a mess in his jeans. “Let’s try another tactic. I’ll answer your question first. No, I’m not running in fear or disgust. You are what you are and there is no changing that. And you have shown nothing but… well, I wouldn’t say kindness or respect…” She rambled, Adam shot daggers. “… but the fact is you have never tried to physically harm me. So you are okay in my book. For now.” There go those nerves again. Gumballs left and right.

She stuck out her hand, trembling. Despite her bold words, inside she was a puddle. Adam raked his eyes over her, searching for any sign of malice or guile only to find none. He took her hand and shook it. It surprised Charlie to find his skin warm.

“Thank you. Now if you excuse me, I have a precious amount of time left until sunrise.” He gestured towards the door.

“Apologies!!” Charlie startled.

She rushed to the front door, with him close behind. Too close. Adam collided with her as she turned for a final farewell, their chests colliding. She reached and steadying herself against him, her fingers burned as they skimmed across his chest exposed by his unbuttoned shirt. And Adam’s erection which had subsided came raging back. Adam shuffled back to keep it from pressing against Charlie.

“I also want to say sorry for the mess I made on your instruments. I didn’t know. And I want to invite you to use the interior stairs to the kitchen whenever you need to.”

Adam smirked, his confidence and swagger returning, or that could just be his cock talking. “Haven’t you seen the movies? It’s an awfully dangerous thing to invite a vampire into your home.” His eyes heavy, charm in full force.

“I have, but how else can I get to fix my bathtub?” She continued, unfazed. “It’s been leaking for a week.” Adam’s mouth fell open and Charlie disappeared from view.

Once she rounded the corner, Charlie took the stairs two at a time, her heart racing as she shut the heavy wooden front door. She ached in a place she shouldn’t ache when talking to her landlord. Her undead, brooding musician, hot as hell, vampire landlord.

“Fuck.” Charlie cursed, walking away.

Adam stood rooted, staring at his door, his body regaining control of itself. Did that go well? He wasn’t sure.

“Shit.” Adam walked away as that fucking violet sweater haunted his mind for the rest of the evening and in his dreams.

[ramblings-of-a-nervous-nerd]

Introduction ~ 1st Draft

This is the introduction to a story I am writing for my IBDP CAS Big Project. Constructive Criticism would be appreciated, but please be nice, this is the first piece of writing I will be putting online. This project will be ongoing for at least a few months.

Introduction

The golden light trailed fingers over the tips of amber spires, glancing off of glass and curved metal and delicate, filigree structures. A glow spread over the silent city, warmth coating the ground and hanging buildings, turning the long-settled dust silver in the dawn.

The dust was swept up in eddies and swirls of excitement in the force of a starship's thrusters, sending glittering sparks flying across planes turned beaten silver and struts gilded with liquid beauty under the sunslight. The starship dropped to the ground with a gentle thud and came to a standstill. A hatch slowly lowered itself from the belly of the semi-spherical capsule and two figures appeared at the end, the first visitors to this alien world in living memory.

BAM! “Hissssgh!” an angry hiss escaped the pores of the arthropod’s abdomen as his body hit the floor of the abandoned spaceport, legs nearly buckling from the effort of keeping upright. His companion roughly shoved his body aside with one foreleg as he stalked down the ramp, past where he had pushed his friend, striding further into the hanger with a disgruntled whistle.

“Stop here, Hiinto!” he mocked, irritation coating every hissing syllable as he pulled a satchel off over his thorax, gesturing wildly with his second pair of hind legs as he did so. “I’m sure there’ll be some people worth trading with here, sssee, ttthhey even hhhave a ssspaceport!” he continued, losing control of his consonants in his frustration.

His companion merely eyed him sullenly with his lamp-like gaze and said nothing. There was nothing to say when Hiinto got like this, and the planet really did look developed from above. Now that they were at surface-level though, it was obvious that something was very wrong. There were no noises. None. Not even the sounds of wildlife reclaiming an abandoned city broke a silence so dense it couldn’t even be called eerie, just oppressive and deafening enough that even Hiinto’s ranting was forced to end quickly, the weight of the noiselessness pressing down on him and locking the words back into his throat so as not to disturb the endless peace

The two traders gravitated towards each other as they wove through the sweeping tunnels of the abandoned spaceport, pearlescent and gleaming, throwing up the silver dust that lay, ankle-deep, on every surface. There were still no signs of life, or even death – no children running through the hallways and waiting rooms with weary parents having given up chasing them dozing in the chairs, no skeletons lounging on the benches or leaning up against the walls. There was no outward sign of what could have happened here, just the silence, the dust and the shell of a society that just seemed to have vanished.

The promenade they eventually exited onto was wide and impossibly long, stretching as far as the eye could see both left and right, with a balustrade held up by elegant, twisting columns. The whole structure was carved of the pure, white quartz of the mountainside they were emerging from and hung over the most elegant city that either trader had ever even dreamed of. The buildings were formed of smooth, curving planes and twisting helixes that blended seamlessly with the ground and one another, none of the mismatching peaks and flat roofs of most settlements. Every colour complimented and enhanced the building, the street, the city as a whole, a perfectly balanced palate of gold and silver and white and bronze stretching so far as to be beyond the limit of the imagination. An impossibly massive dome arched far above their heads, shielding the city from the elements and casting beams of light onto to scene through its soap-bubble exterior. Hiinto and Kanttho’s minds were filled with awe and respect for the architects of such a place, and terror for what could have brought such a people down.

No flaws marred the perfection of the silent city apart from the piles of dust that coated everything, their irregularity shocking against the uniform perfection of their surroundings. The dust piled heavier in some places, towering above head-height, and fell away sharply to patches of golden floor left completely clear of the glittering substance. It did not look as if it belonged here, in this perfect place, this paradise surely inhabited by a race so noble and brilliant as to be considered angels in the minds of others when considering their achievements. Kanttho found himself irrationally angry at whoever had caused it to be there, and bent to the floor in a flurry of movement, scooping some of the dust into his scanner-pouch in an attempt to track the origin of the culprits. His sharp movement caused flurries of the dust to swirl into the air, making Hiinto cough roughly as he inhaled the sharp larger pieces in his shock.

A tone rang out through the coughing, slicing through the silence before it could completely cover them again. A robotic tone followed.

“Analysis no.4,783. Two main components identified. First substance identified as organic material, most likely animal remains. Second substance is a form of airborne biological compound that appears to react with the structured identified in the first substance, and break them down on a macroscopic level whilst leaving individual cells and DNA intact. Likely classification – organic remains of an animal killed by a biological weapon.”

Kanttho froze, the anger draining out of him in seconds to be replaced by swiftly-growing horror. His primary stomach rolled, nutri-block threatening to make a reappearance as the remains of what could only be the people of this city continued to shift against his ankles. The ghosts of these incredible engineers seemed to be clutching at his feet, holding him rooted in place when all he wanted to do was turn tail and run. Run so far away that the ghosts could not find him and the beauty could not haunt his dreams. But he couldn’t move, could barely even think around the terror, the horror, the grief for the death of a civilisation so bright and wonderful. He turned his head and his stomach churned again, remembering the even thickness of the dust inside the spaceport, the number of people who must have died moving, trying to escape, in order to create that even layer, and his limbs finally started to cooperate.

He turned tail and bolted, ghosts howling at his heels, faces of beautiful creatures forming out of their swirling remains as he turned and ran, Hiinto hot on his heels. He galloped blindly through terminal after terminal, room after room, children and adults and adolescents and the elderly flashing through his mind as the irregularities began to stand out and become families embracing, the deeper piles on the steps of spacecraft becoming a desperate cram for shelter, for survival, the lights in that room becoming...

The what?

Hiinto hissed in shock and fear, crashing into the back of Kanttho’s abdomen at the sudden pause, but he saw it too – the light shining from the tiny space near the back of a room, half coated in a pile of dust that made their stomach turn at the image of people lying over their family or pets in a futile attempt to protect them. They crept forwards, the residual fear making their hearts beat double-time in their thoraxes, and peered into the class capsule, shot through with the ever-present gold of the buildings. Their breaths caught in their throats. A small figure lay, sleeping peacefully, cocooned in layers upon layers of wire and mesh and gel – impossibly, undeniably alive.

The two gaped at one another, at the pod, at the figure within. Their usual gruff common sense and rationally had been ripped out by awe and shot out of existence by fear. This shock had burnt the tattered remains to cinders and blown them off on the winds of hope. They stared around, at the ground, at each other, at the door, as a determination began to brew as a shadow within the shock. They nodded in unison.

The scavenger ship ‘Unstoppable 2’ tore away from the ghost-like planet like a bat out of hell. Or, perhaps, a sinner out of heaven. Its cargo was far from what had been expected upon landing – two scavengers, changed for the rest of their existence, the news of beauty and terror they carried, and one small stasis pod carrying the last member of a species that seemed to have managed to create utopia without their own imperfections destroying it.