vioxsoo

[vioxsoo]

Familiarity & Whiskey // Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader

Summary: Simon and Johnny get in a fight, which is how Simon crosses your path. Thinking your an easy mark for quick comfort and a quick fuck, he's not aware you're in the UK to meet your estranged father. Your circles running tighter with his than he thinks...

(Unedited)

Poor Simon can't catch a fucking break. Let this man nut and smoke a cigarette.

CW: feminine descriptions and pronouns used, alcohol consumption, making out, heavy petting, allusions to oral (male receiving), Simon's lowkey highkey manipulative, absent father!John Price, don't think too hard about age gaps i gave up

Request by: @i-live-in-spite

NSFW 18+ MDNI

"Go to hell, Riley. ‘S where ye fuckin’ belong." 

That had been Johnny’s direct words.

 Which was the first and only time Johnny had addressed by just his last name. Usually it was some irritating nickname, his callsign, or his rank delivered with the Scotsman’s usual bright eyes and mirth that somehow made it less annoying to Simon. And when it was his real name, in serious times, it was his first name, with a sincere look and genuine inflection. Never just ‘Riley’. 

But Johnny had spit his last name like it was a curse. Something that tasted bitter in his mouth, something poisonous. 

Hell, maybe it fucking was. And it had him craving something volatile- destructive. Alcohol, sex, a pack of cigarettes… and if he couldn’t get one of those to self-medicate this poisonous streak, he’d settle for bloodying his fists before the end of the night. 

A shit mission with a shit conclusion. A shit day. Fuck, a shit year.  Culminating in a clash between Lieutenant and Sergeant, Simon’s icy seething clashing Johnny’s explosive rage about a bad call made worse by Simon’s version of coping- cold indifference and colder jokes.  Actions had consequences, isn’t that what Simon always told his sergeant? Maybe that’s why Simon was stewing in the shitty pub close to base crawling with recruits after Gaz and Price had forcibly split up the confrontation right as it was about to get physical. 

Price had all but shoved him off base while Gaz took Soap somewhere to cool off- probably the gym or some equally shitty pub on opposite ends of the city. So there he was, sulking in a corner, nursing the only bourbon this bar offered, stewing over whether or not he needed to apologize.  

The thought of apologizing burned worse than the bottom shelf bourbon he was sipping. He was Ghost. The Ghost. He didn’t apologize. This was one of those times he would’ve actually appreciated Price’s usually unwarranted ’sage’ advice- but he was tied up, still on base and pissed off because he was trying to wrap up mission reports and now was cleaning up Simon’s mess. 

—

"Excuse me? Would it be ok if I sat here? I’m waiting for someone but the guys at the bar won’t leave me alone." You were biting your lip a little, trying your best not to look too awkward as you asked the tall, dark, and you assumed handsome but you couldn’t tell around the mask he was wearing. You felt nervous, but not to be talking to you, you were nervous for a laundry list of other reasons. Including and limited to meeting your father for the first time since you were barely three years old. 

When the pub had been suggested to you, you’d thought the closeness to his base was an advantage- casual, easy, public, nearby- what you hadn’t accounted for was the herds of young soldiers that would also be there.  Trying to buy yourself a drink to calm your nerves while you waited had resulted in four heinous pick up lines, three cocktail napkins with phone numbers scrawled on them, two vulgar gestures, and one marriage proposal. Like the 12 days of Christmas song, but from hell. The only place that wasn’t buzzing with sloshed young soldiers was a dark corner with an absolute behemoth of a masked man, two empties and a half drank tumbler of whiskey.  Despite (or perhaps because of) the nerves, jet lag, and shot of tequila you’d just took because of said nerves, you considered yourself something of a strategist. 

After you asked, narrowed amber eyes flicked up to you appraisingly, pinning you to your spot. Even slightly slouched over his drink, he was huge. Not just tall, but built like a brick house. He wasn’t wearing an actual military uniform, but everything about him just read military. He stared at you for a second, then a minutes, stretching into two. To your credit, you kept your chin high and your eyes level on his. Right as you started to say, "Never mind, sorry to bother-" 

" ’s fine." His voice was deep and kind of gravelly, low enough that his quiet tone was almost lost to the barroom chatter. His accent wasn’t one you’d heard before, a bit sharper and choppier than the accent John had on the phone. He scooted further into the booth, dragging his drink with him. As you turned back and slid into the corner booth, he scrutinized you again, like you were supposed to be familiar to him, "I know you?" 

"Doubt it." You smiled, a tight lipped but warm thing. You knew you didn’t know him considering this was the first time you’d set foot in this country. Not to mention you’d undoubtedly remember a character like this. So instead, you offered him your name and an outstretched hand. He nodded, neither returning the exchange or shaking your hand, just grunting to show he heard you. 

Still, he scanned you again. Simon was sure he’d never met you, but there was something about you that was eerily familiar. It was the feeling of someone’s name being on the tip of his tongue but slipping between thoughts before he could place it, or a song that as soon as he tried to think about it the melody slipped away. It wasn’t your physical features, as pretty of a bird as you were. That little smile, the way you carried yourself, the saunter in your walk, how your shoulder were held, the set of your jaw, you were young in the face but seemed older, the casual confidence so rare for someone your age… These were all things so familiar to him, but he couldn’t connect it to it’s match. Maybe it was the bourbon. 

"Y’not from ‘round here." He stated, and it wasn’t a question. Simon knew it as a fact. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why someone not from here would patronize a piss-poor pub like this, especially a bird like you- pretty and warm and put together. He rose an eyebrow that shifted the brow of his mask, "What brings you?" 

Blunt and to the point. Definitely military.  You leaned back against the booth, your finger tracing the glass rim of the wine glass you’d set down in front of you. White wine from a shit hole like this was one of the many clues that you didn’t belong here. 

"Meeting someone important." You answered vaguely with another one of those warm but tight smiles. Seriously, where did he know that from? "He’s late." 

"A date?" He pressed further with eyes that were somehow intense and disinterested at the same time. You couldn’t decide if his bluntness was a military quirk or social dysfunction, or possibly both. Of course he couldn’t know that this was the furthest thing from a date you could be doing tonight, which made you laugh, loudly and suddenly. The noise took Simon off guard, but not for it’s spontaneity or for how bright and beautiful it was , but because it tugged at that feeling a familiarity, bordering on nostalgia. 

"Oh, god no." You rushed, shaking your head and forming an X over your chest for good measure, still laughing a bit as you took a sip of wine. Still, you weren’t sure how you were supposed to describe John. "Not a date. I’m just meeting…. someone important." 

Simon doesn't know why this pleased him. Something about you being available and talking to him as opposed to the damnably flashy and obnoxious grunts wearing their dress uniforms to the pub on a fuckin’ Tuesday… Simon’s mouth quirked into a subtle smirk as he lifted his mask enough to take a sip of his bourbon, not missing how your too-familiar eyes followed the movement, intrigued and keen, “Who then?" 

"Nope, I’ve already answered, like, three questions. Your turn?" There was that casual confidence again as you turned the question on him with that little grin, legs cross under the table as your nails clicked against the sticky wood table, "What brings you here?" 

Simon’s expression under the mask soured again, eyes fixing on the lipstick stain on your wine glass. Pretty color… He wondered how it’d look smeared along his mouth. Or his cock. He shook that thought out of his head, bringing his eyes back to yours. Maybe it was the bourbon that loosened his tongue, or maybe those eyes of yours, “Got in a fight with a mate o’ mine. It was… suggested that we give each other some space.” 

‘Suggested' was nice was of saying Price manhandled him all the way to the guard station at the gate. Like a scolded dog being put outside. 

“So you’ve put yourself in the corner? Are you in timeout?” You quirked an eyebrow in another frustratingly familiar gesture, something that made him chuckle instead of bristle as you gestured to the dark corner he’d been lurking in. 

“Something like that.” He nodded, swirling the whiskey in his glass. 

“What was the fight about?” You asked casually, taking another sip of your wine. Normally so private, Simon would’ve bitten a stranger’s head off for such a personal question. But coming from you, between his desire to keep your attention on him and the ever present nagging sense of familiarity, he just sighed. 

“Hard week pushed some buttons. We’ve both got tempers. Mine’s worse.” He explanation was simple, both from characteristic standoffishness and the fact the mission that had provoked this fight had taken place in a country the British Military was not supposed to be. Another deep sigh like the confession took something wrenching from him, “He puts up with me usually, but I… said somethings’ I shouldn’t’ve.”

You nodded sagely, taking in the rather vague information with eyes settled on the far wall as if you were doing mental math, quiet deductions. He recognized this look from somewhere, this was the look of someone looking for answers and solutions. Your fingers tapped against the table again before your eyes slid back to him, “So you were both assholes to each other, but you were worse?” 

“Yeah. That’s the gist of it.” Simon scoffed as you boiled down his already barebones explanation even further. You nodded again, looking at him quizzically. 

“Have you thought about just apologizing?” You rose an eyebrow at him, your head cocking a little to the side. The most obvious answer in the world that for some reason he couldn’t wrap his hand around. He opened his mouth to protest, but you were quicker, voice chiding in way he’d heard before- but from where?, “No, let me guess, it’s not that simple, you can’t just apologize.” 

For a moment you dropped your voice a little lower and attmepted a half imitation of his Mancunian accent which would’ve been offensive if it wasn’t exactly what he was about to say. You huffed a quiet lap before returning to your normal tone with a roll of your eyes, “Believe me, yes, it is that simple, and, yes, you can just apologize. And if you truly think it’s not something an apology would fix, let him get one good hit in and get it out of your systems. Problem solved.” 

“Get it out of our systems?” Simon asked a little incredulously, despite the sampling of a sharp wit and the occasional hard glint to your eyes, he hadn’t expected someone as soft looking as you to jump to punching as a serious form of conflict resolution. Hell, you sounded more like his Captain Price than some random pretty thing in a pub, “that’s terrible advice.” 

“You telling me you would’ve seriously taken my apologize and talk it out advice?” Your eyebrows raised again as you leaned forward on your elbows onto the table- another frustratingly familiar look that would’ve distracted him if your now exposed cleavage didn’t distract him further. He swallowed as he stared, feeling the growing need to get something out of his system, and his fight with Johnny was becoming less and less forefront in his mind. 

“Not a chance.” He shook his head, sniper eyes locking in on the drop of wine that escaped your glass and slid between your breasts, quickly disappearing between skin and under your shirt. He could find it with his tongue, bet your skin made the wine sweeter… 

“Yeah,” You laughed again, setting down the empty glass, finding this intriguing masked character to be a wonderful distraction from the anxiety of this upcoming meeting. And if John was running late, you’d take advantage of the distraction, “Figured as much.” 

___

An hour and another glass of wine later, you’d continued to scoot closer to the masked man in the booth with you. He was first to initiate contact, throwing an arm over your shoulders in the pretense of keeping you close enough to hear over the rowdy group cheering on a rugby game, it was you who had leaned into his side. His hand had found your thigh first, but your nails were tracing little shapes and words against his forearm. 

“Who was it you were meetin' 'ere, sweetheart?” Simon asked again, his mask still rolled over his nose again as he took another sip of his bourbon, lips grazing your earring as his breath fanned over your neck. He wondered how you would react if his teeth tugged one of the pretty little earrings you’d picked out. You were distracted noticing how his accent minced certain letters in syllables in a delectable way, “Only a fool’d keep you waitin’ this long.” 

Two glasses of wine and jet lag had done away with your need for vague answers as you leaned into him, shivering as the smell of bourbon, cigarettes, and gunpowder started to overpower your perfume. You swallowed, eyes meeting his with a bit of nervousness he hadn’t been able to pick up on you until just now, “I’m meeting my father. We’ve been estranged most of my life. And he’s an hour and forty five late now.” 

“Shit.” Simon muttered under his breath, not thinking you could’ve said anything that could really surprise him. Meeting your estranged father and yet you’d spent the last two hours coaching and comforting him through a fight with his friend. That level of self sacrifice should’ve clued him into your parentage almost immediately, but he was busy staring at how your wide eyes were staring up at him through your lashes, teeth toying with the seam of your lips that your tongue kept darting out to wet. 

“I’m a little nervous.” You admitted, the nail that was tracing shapes on his forearm dropped down to his massive thigh to brace yourself. If you leaned any closer, you’d be all but in his lap- which wouldn’t be the worse thing, both of you mentally decided. You took a deep breath, sipping some of the water you’d ordered midway through your third glass of wine,  "A lot nervous, actually.” 

One thing about Simon, was that as a sniper, he was opportunistic. When he saw a shot, he took it. And you just lined him up to test his theory on how long it’d take to convince you to slip into the pub bathrooms with him. 

His arm around your shoulder adjusted so he could gently brush some hair behind your ear, thumb purposely grazing your cheekbone before he tilted your face up to meet his, “Well, you know the best way to get over your nerves?” 

The sudden closeness stunned any witty retort to silence as you hummed for him to continue, swallowing thickly in a way that brought those keenly sharp eyes to watch the bob of your throat. He chuckled lowly to himself, so sweet and perfect, he was about to absolutely ruin you. But he wasn’t evil, he’d put you back together again… 

“Gotta… work... it outta your system. Just like you said, sweetheart.”  His other hand was kneading into your thigh through the pretty satin of your skirt, such a good girl, with a skirt below your knees, and he looked forward to shredding those tights underneath with nothing but his teeth and bare hands. But… he wondered if he could make you cum through them before he ruined them, and with the way you tensed and then melted at his touch, he was betting the answer was a firm yes. “Gonna let me help you like you’ve been helping me?”

You thought he sure had a funny way of equating this heavy petting to the teasing and mild comfort you’d offered about his fight with this ‘Soap’ guy, but you nodded anyway. All the pent-up anxiety made it an eager motion as he chuckled, leaning forward and catching your mouth, so possessive and borderline aggressive at your compliance. He was a bit of a bully, using his bulk and his weight so you would bend underneath him like he was testing how hard he had to press for you to break, and when you whined at the feeling of him biting your lip, he only swallowed your sounds and laughed into your mouth. 

Lips smearing your pretty makeup, one hand tangling your hair into his finger and the other fisting your skirt so it started hiking up your legs, and one of his boots nudging your ankles out of their polite cross so he could start prying your thighs apart.  God, you were making out (bordering on hooking up) with a nameless, masked man with anger issues while you waited to meet your estranged father for basically the first time… What had your life come to? 

Actually, the absent father bit explained the masked stranger bit if you thought about it for more than three seconds. 

“Fuckin’ hell, you’ve gotta be taking the absolute piss, Simon.” A sudden and angry voice, familiar to both of you sounded from the front of your secluded little booth. You jumped back away from your paramour. Simon, apparently was his name, while he only turned in frustrated confusion at his captain interrupted him blowing off steam, just as he’d been instructed when Price all but kicked him off base for the night. 

Your eyes went wide in absolute mortification, like you’d melt under the table and just die there. Standing there, watching you sloppily make out with someone he apparently knew, was your father. John Price. Who hadn’t seen you since you were three years old and compulsively carried around a Kermit the frog stuffie everywhere you went… He looked older compared to your hazy memories of him and the singular picture your mother hadn’t burned, and the interesting facial hair only made him look older. You suspected he was capable of looking warm and kind, your mother always said you got his soft eyes and smile, but right now he looked pissed.

“Price?” Simon questioned, yanking his mask back over his mouth to hide the smears of his lipstick, wondering if this temper had something to do with the mission or with his fight with the sergeant and if so, why it was urgent enough to interrupt him right now. He’d noted how you went rigid underneath him, batting his hand out of the balmy soft canyon between your spread thighs before they clamped shut again. Shit, that door was rapidly closing...

You spoke at the same time as Simon, your voice somewhere between hesitant questioning and caught teenager, “Dad?” 

“Dad?” Simon immediately parroted, his respect for his Captain superseding the whiskey and lust as he peeled himself off of you quickly doing mental math Olympics to figure out genetics and age gaps, “Bloody Hell, John-“ 

You shrieked, as Simon didn’t get a chance to justify himself or even ask, how was I supposed to know the bird I was trying to fuck was your kid you’ve never told anyone about? Because your father’s face went red instantly, jumping across the booth and landing a scarily hard punch across Simon’s face, spilling wine and whiskey all over you in the process. 

So it was going to be a bloody knuckles kind of night, after all. 

____

Sorry I kinda changed up your request a little bit, I started writing and it kinda got away from me. I'm a slave to the little worm in my brain.

[vioxsoo]

shigaraki was cool

[vioxsoo]

[vioxsoo]

Bones Exposed

Chapter 1: Skin

cowboy tomura x gn reader

tags: tomura lives au, cowboy tomura, bar fight, tomura shigaraki referred to as tenko shimura, tomura-focused, reader is fully gender neutral however they are called a bitch at one point

synopsis: After the war, Tomura Shigaraki reverts to his previous name, Tenko Shimura, and flees to a small town in Texas, where he works as a farmhand. After defending you in a bar fight, Tenko grapples with his identity. Can Tenko really ever leave behind his old identity as Tomura?

wc: 3.2k

warnings: adult language, alcohol use, canon typical violence, graphic depictions of violence, gore, murder

a/n: This originally wasn't supposed to be so long or dark. My most emo work yet. Sorry if the Tomura/Tenko distinction gets confusing!! I also don't think this is that dark, but pls mind the tags!!

Chapter 2

Tenko was always happy to see you behind the bar, even if he wouldn’t admit it. You were one of, if not the only, bartenders that were kind to him. But you weren’t too kind. Any time he was a bit of a dick, said something too harsh, you always managed to find a way to throw his bullshit back in his face. It was refreshing to have someone who actually spoke to him beyond one word answers; Someone who didn’t judge him solely on his appearance. 

He knew what he looked like, covered in an intricate webbing of scars and missing a few fingers. He knew he looked scary, and that was without anyone knowing what he did. Who he used to be before he escaped to a tiny town in Texas, USA. The town was small, only composed of a few hundred people. Honestly, there were more cows than people. He thought himself lucky that most people were only wary and not downright hostile.

Tired after a day of tending to the cattle, a permanent layer of dirt and mud caking his boots and dusting his jeans, he trudged through the bar door and into the warm-lit room.

He hoped he wasn’t making up the way your face brightened as your eyes landed on him, a smile tugging at your lips. His cheeks warmed as you looked him up and down, inspecting him. “Hey,” you snapped, pointing at the worn mat at the entrance. “Wipe your damn boots. You know the drill.” Scowling, he followed your instruction before sitting in his usual stool.

He waited for you to finish shaking a drink for someone else at the bar, sneaking glances at your face as you laughed at something she said. He thought you were so pretty when you laughed, the way your nose and eyes scrunched. You slid the drink over to the woman, then walked over to him at the other end of the bar.

Even as you approached him, your smile never left your face. “You want your usual, Tenko?” 

“Yeah,” he rasped, before remembering to tack on a rushed, “Thanks.” No matter how long he lived in Texas, he knew he’d never get used to the whole “southern politeness,” thing. Digging his phone out of his jean pocket, he fiddled with it as you poured his drink before placing it on the counter before him. 

“So.” 

Looking up from his phone, his eyes narrowed to the smirk slowly building on your face. “Did you get stuck under a haystack again?” 

Tenko groaned as you snickered, “Fuck you. That was one time, five years ago,” he took a sip of his beer, pushing his hat further onto his head to hopefully hide his quickly reddening ears. Five years ago when Tenko first arrived in town, he made the mistake of pulling too hard on a hay bale, surprised when it quickly toppled over and fell on him. By the time he made it to the bar that evening, he was still pulling straws of hay from the fibers of his clothes. Naturally you hadn’t let him forget about it since. 

“I dunno,” If it was possible for him to become any as your eyes raked him up and down his body managed to find a way. “There could be hay where I don’t see it.” It was in that moment that he cursed his dirty mind, years of playing too many R-rated games as a teenager poisoning his brain as the words, “Wanna find out?” slid off his tongue. 

He stared at you, silent, watching your face darken, eyes widening as you processed what he said. Staring hard at Tenko’s beer, you watched the bubbles floating to the top, joining the mass of bubbles at the top of his glass. “Maybe I do.” He blinked as your eyes flickered to his before they darted to the door, your smile dropping to a scowl. 

“Get me a drink now,” a voice barked at you, loud and crude. Tenko rolled his eyes. He didn’t even have to turn around to see who was ordering you around. He knew it was Nathan, a farmhand at the dairy farm down the road who was notorious for being a drunk nuisance. Tenko sometimes wondered how he hadn’t been permanently banned yet, with the way he had to be kicked out every night.

He watched as you rolled your eyes, wordlessly pouring the other man’s usual into a glass and setting it on the counter firmly. “Here.”

The other man walked up to the counter before taking a sip of his drink, grimacing at the taste. “Y’all do this every time, quit fucking stiffing me,” he sneered, slamming the glass down, amber liquid sloshing over the sides and coating his fingers. He was angrier than usual- Tenko figured something must have gone wrong at work.

Your eye twitched. “Nathan, I know your ass watched me measure out your booze, you know I’m not giving you any extra. I’m not breaking the law for you.”

“Listen here you little shit,” you recoiled back as he lunged forward, boots knocking into the counter with a loud thump. “I pay your wages, with how much I’m here. Now pour me a double before I climb over the counter and do it myself.”

Slowly rising, Tenko pushed his stool back with the sole of his boot. He could recognize when a fight was about to break out, an energy in the air shifting further than if it was just a simple argument. 

Hands twitching at his sides, Tenko only had a moment to react as Nathan quickly picked up his glass, launching it at your head. As you ducked, the glass shattered into pieces against the wall of the bar, sending shards flying.

In the millisecond after the glass went flying, Tomura gripped the flesh of your attacker’s arm, swinging it up and using the angle of his body to flip his body over himself, slamming the other man hard into the wooden floor. He pinned his wrist to his back with one hand, reaching over to grab his face with the other. Tomura stopped, hand hovering a few inches above his enemy’s face, remaining fingers splayed. He stared at his hand, almost unable to recognize it as his own. What was he doing? Was he about to kill someone? His hand began to tremble with the thought. When did he devolve from Tenko Shimura, the quiet farmhand, to Tomura Shigaraki, The Symbol of Fear? 

The weight of a hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his thoughts. “C’mon, Tenko. Cops are here, you can let him go.” His head swiveled to look at you as you squeezed his arm. Releasing his hold on Nathan as if he were a hot pan, Tenko stumbled to his feet. 

“Let’s get out of here,” you grabbed his hand, the same hand he nearly used to kill someone, dragging him down the hall and out the back door. 

Tenko began to protest, “Shouldn’t we stay for-” 

“There are enough witnesses,” you replied, interrupting his train of thought. He looked down at where you connected, your grip on his hand tightening. “Cops can take their statements. I don’t give a shit.”

He didn’t phase back into reality until he was sitting in the passenger seat of your car, silent other than the noise of cicadas screeching in the background. You sat still in the driver’s seat except for your hands, which picked furiously at the skin surrounding your nails. In a sick, selfish way, he hoped that you were reeling in the aftermath of getting attacked, rather than Tenko’s display of long-forgotten power.

“Are you alright?” he asked. The question seemed to snap you out of whatever disassociative state you were in, glassy eyes wetting with tears and coating your lashes.

“I just,” you trailed off, wiping your eyes. He softened at the sight. “C’mon, I’m driving you home. Switch with me.” He held his breath as he waited for your reaction, relieved as you silently nodded and opened the passenger door. So you didn’t think he was a monster yet.

– 

His hands gripped the wheel as your car teetered over the asphalt, the low hum of the radio blending into the sound of dried leaves and pebbles shifting and crunching under the tires. It was pitch black other than the illumination from your headlights, a sea of trees giving way to a narrow strip of stars as they hung in the sky above the road.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, he parked your car in the grass next to your small home and stepped out of the car to walk you to your door, seeing that you made it in safely. 

He leaned on the porch beam as you fumbled with your keys, the dim rays of light from your porch lantern hardly illuminating anything. He blinked as you turned to him. “You can sleep on the couch, it’s too dark for you to be walking out there.” Glancing at the hand, he could almost imagine the blood that could be covering it if you hadn’t stepped in earlier. He wondered if you knew what he was about to do, would you have still invited him into your home? To sleep so close to you? 

“It’s okay,” he shrugged. “I’ll just walk home.”

Crossing your arms, you glared at him. “You know, I was really scared today. I’m glad you were there to protect me. Now I’m not going to let you get eaten by some coyote while walking in the dark.”

He smiled faintly, a rare expression for him. It was nice to have someone be concerned about him, even if that concern was misguided. “I’ll be fine, don’t you worry.”

Huffing, you opened your door, leaving it ajar as you rushed in your home with a shouted, “Fine, wait a sec though.” A few seconds later, you emerged, scribbling something in pen on the back of an old piece of paper. “Here, take this.” He stared blankly at the phone number you scrawled, “Your number?” You looked at him, deadpan. “No, the pope’s number. Yes it’s my number, dumbass.” His face warmed. “Oh. I’ll uh,” he shoved the crinkled paper into his pocket. “I’ll text you when I get home.” His face warmed even further when you seemed to beam. “Good.” With a wave, he began the trek to his home.

–

He didn’t mean for anything else to happen tonight. Tenko was lucky you had pulled him out when you did, as any questioning by the local police was bound to put him at risk of getting identified and subsequently arrested.

He was barely a quarter through his walk home. It was pitch black, save from the faint light from the stars illuminating the tops of the trees and the light from the flashlight he always carried on his belt. Hardly any cars were out, as most in town lived in the opposite direction. Which is why he was surprised to see white beams of light from a car behind him, blinding him temporarily and elongating his shadow. 

Raising his arm, Tenko winced as his eyes adjusted to the onslaught of light, the rapid change stinging his cornea. He recognized that truck, red and rusted along its edges. The same one in the bar’s parking lot earlier today. Slowing down, the driver of the vehicle rolled down the dirt-speckled window. “Surprised you’re all alone out here,” the man Tomura had fought not even an hour before sneered. 

Tenko glared, “Surprised you’re not rotting in a jail cell.” 

“C’mon,” he grinned. “It’s not like I did anything. That bitch you’re soft on was fine-” Tomura cut him off, racing to the drivers side of the vehicle, hand splayed along the cool glass of the window. In the split second it took to activate decay, the metal of the car door had disintegrated into dust, littering the road with fine particles that seeped into every nook and cranny of the asphalt. 

With one palm firmly shoved into the flesh of Nathan’s face, Tomura’s thumb and two remaining fingers sharply tugged on his seatbelt, pulling it down until the final notch sounded with a resounding click. As quickly as he pulled it, he released the seatbelt and pulled until it dug into the other man’s thighs and chest, effectively pinning the man to the seat. 

Tomura’s lips cracked as smiled,  “How would you like to do this, the easy way or the hard way?” His lungs filled with a euphoria that he hadn't felt in years. The rush of power combined with the pulsating sound of his heartbeat in his ears sang louder than the screech of the cicadas in the surrounding woods. He felt giddy, excited even.

“What the fuck are you doing you freak.” Tomura’s hand muffled the other man’s words as he clawed and scraped at Tomura’s arms and shoulders. Unfortunately for him, Tomura’s work on the farm kept him strong and allowed him to stand firmly in place. 

“I may be a freak,” Tomura rasped, “But you’re a stain on this town. Think about it, would anyone really miss you if you disappeared?” His fingers closed in on the man’s face, not yet activating decay. When his only answer came not in the form of words, but an angry fist to the side of his head, Tomura activated decay, watching as his face crumbled and turned to stone, leaving a pile of blood and sinew.

As quickly as he rose, he fell. As he grounded himself, no longer running off the air of adrenaline in his veins, Tenko remembered that he hated this. The wet, slippery sensation of the blood on his hands, the way it spread into the grooves of his fingertips and under his nails. He felt disgusting. Like a freak. It gave him the urge to scratch, to free the thing that lurked under his skin, what his former master planted in him. Grew like a seed until it sprouted. But the scratching only worsened it. The blood trapped under his nails was only driven further into his skin, creating an endless cycle of filth. He hated this killing, this destruction. 

He bristled as he heard the unmistakable sound of someone approaching from behind him, footsteps light as the grass flattened against the earth. Whipping around, he turned to face the last person he wanted to see. You. Still in your clothes from earlier, flashlight in hand.

Lowering his arms, Tenko couldn’t think of anything to say. Nothing would make this appear better. Blood soaked into the fabric lining of the truck, enhancing every crack and crevice as it dripped its way down to the mat on the floor. His hands were also covered in it, the rapidly cooling liquid flecking his arms, torso and cheek. Shit. 

He expected you to scream. Run even. He waited with a calm, bated breath. After giving Tenko a once-over, it was you who spoke first. “I heard yelling, what happened?” 

“He attacked me, so I took care of it.” His tongue felt heavy with the lie. 

But what was he supposed to say? I slipped up? Got caught in the moment? He called you a bitch and me a freak so I killed him?  The truthful explanation made no sense. 

He scratched at his neck as you approached him, surveying the damage, flashlight illuminating the crime scene.

“What happened to the door?” 

“Turned it to dust,” Tenko murmured. His head ached.

“Could you do it to the rest of the car,” you asked, turning to him with the cock of your head. 

Wordlessly, Tomura– no, Tenko placed his hand on the body of the truck. Almost instantly it crumbled into dust, mixing with the blood to form almost a sludge. Lowering his arm, Tenko turned to look at you. 

Other than the constant shrill hum of the forest and your breathing, it was silent. Your flashlight, which swept over the road, was the only source of light. He couldn’t see your face to grasp what you were thinking. He was sure that if you didn’t think he was a monster before, you would then. His desire to scratch grew, fingers twitching.

“Yanno,” he startled as you hummed, thinking out loud. “ I have a few long garden hoses that, if I tie together, will reach out here.” 

Tenko swallowed, rubbing his bloody hands on his jeans before pushing his hat firmly on his head. “Alright, let me help.” 

–

After using a generous amount of duct tape to fashion a few makeshift connectors, Tenko hosed down the crime scene, washing any remains into the grass next to the road as you stood holding the flashlight next to him to inspect his work. 

“What are you going to do now?” He glanced at you as you spoke, your eyes trained to the trickle of water over the asphalt. He didn't know the answer to that question, remaining silent.

“Technically,” you chuckled, “I'm your accomplice now.” He didn't know what was so funny about that, why you were laughing. He was sick. Something perverted, staining you with his filth.

“Just looks like some roadkill now,” you remarked, eyes scanning the now-cleaned road. “You’re lucky I don’t have neighbors.” Tenko remained silent, his head still spinning with a thousand thoughts. Why weren't you screaming? Running away? He would've let you go, ran and called the cops on him. Whether that was due to affection or something else, he hadn't figured it out. 

“I guess I gotta get out of here,” he finally huffed. “Find a new map to spawn in.” He hoped Giran was still alive, maybe he could get a burner phone to call him with. If he had the same number, that is. 

“Well,” you whispered, your smile not quite reaching your eyes. A pang of sadness bloomed in Tenko’s gut at the sight. “I hope it’s okay if I come with you.” Tenko blinked. He hadn’t had any partners since the league. 

“Sure,” the word flew from his mouth before he could think. As your smile began to bleed into your eyes, he could only think about how he hoped to make you smile more.

–

After cleaning up and gathering a duffel bag of necessary things, (clothes, cash, and various pantry staples), you and Tenko loaded up your car and set out on the road. It was decided that he would drive, since he knew a place a few hundred miles north that wouldn’t ask questions when he bought a burner phone. 

Breaking the air of silence between you, spit out the question on his mind. “Why weren’t you more freaked out? I killed that mob and you didn’t even blink.”

Your eyes remained focused on the road, hands wringing in your lap. Finally, you sighed. “Tenko, no one with no ties to that town goes there unless they’re running from something or someone.” You finally glanced at him, meeting his gaze. “Maybe I’ve seen more things than you thought.”

His hand on the wheel loosened. Satisfied, he hummed as his eyes returned to the road. Maybe you had more in common with him than he thought.

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King is back👑

Tip jar

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keep going Konig

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a/n: guys, sorry for letting you wait this long, but i'm back with the next update and what can i say, i started listening to lana del rey again so i will only be getting more dramatic from here on out

cw: we've been through this before, it's angsty, and maybe morally questionable

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5

over the course of the next week, you dodged bullets left and right. mostly in the form of stupid presents, flowers and tacky cards announcing how sorry simon was. every single one ended up in the trash.

it didn't get easier. especially with these constant reminders thrown at you. a few days ago, you had even considered taking off a couple days from work and just booking a flight to somewhere, anywhere really, just to get some semblance of peace. 

he'd probably still find you though. 

you snorted at the thought, how wonderful. would you be tortured by your ex-boyfriend for the rest of your days? 

you tried to clear your head, your feet dragging you towards to bar you were planning to meet a friend of yours. even though you'd rather just wrap yourself in a blanket and not leave the house for the foreseeable future, your friend had made a great point by dragging you out. nothing would get better by wallowing in self-pity. 

as you cautiously stepped into the bar, you scanned the room, there were a couple of groups of people already gathered around tables, but you couldn't see your friend yet.

so, you stepped over to the bar and decided to order a drink already, you certainly needed it. you ditched your coat and plopped down on one of the bar stools. 

as you waited, you mindlessly scrolled through your phone, watching the minutes slowly dragging by, no sign of your friend yet. maybe you should have just stayed at home after all. 

your thoughts slowly began to wander again, but just in that moment the door of the bar opened, and a cool rush of air enveloped you. a smile spread over your features as your eyes lifted to the door. but just as quickly as your expression had lit up, it dropped again. 

it wasn't your friend standing in the door. it was john price, out of all people. 

your eyes darted from him to the space behind him, barely able to see if anyone was behind him, his wide body nearly blocking out the whole view. you readied yourself to search for an emergency exit in the back or hide in the bathroom for the next hours. 

as he stepped through the door and it fell closed behind him, a breath you didn't realize you were holding escaped you. he was alone.

in the next moment though his eyes caught yours, surprise crossed his features before a sheepish smile dragged his lips upward. 

you didn't know what to do so you just ended up staring at him like some kind of idiot, while he walked over to you. he sat down at the bar, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of ease as he regarded you with those warm eyes. 

"'ello doll. fine seeing you 'ere, how have ya been?" his gruff voice wrapped you in a haze. 

you couldn't help the slight tug of your lips as you watched him. 

"are you stalking me? simon send you after me now?" your voice carried more anger than you had planned, it was supposed to be a bit of a joke, though when you thought about it, you wouldn't put it past him. 

"simon sending... - what? doll, i wouldn't stalk you or nothin' like that. i can leave, ya know, i'm sorry if i was bothering you." 

he made to get up, but before you could think about it you grabbed his arm. he halted immediately. your eyes zeroed in on where you had made contact with him. the soft fabric of his shirt and the straining muscles hiding beneath it. 

you barely snapped out of your haze, dropping your hand and regarding him with an apologetic smile. 

"sorry, i didn't mean it like that. it's just -" you let out a big sigh, were you really going to unload on your ex's boss now? "never mind, sorry again, i don't mean to drag you into this." 

price regarded you with a warm smile. he dropped back down on the bar stool and turned towards you. 

"don't worry about it, darling. i'm happy to listen, but you don't have to share. let's talk about something else, how's that cat of yours doin'?" 

you couldn't hold back the giggle that escaped you, internally smacking yourself for acting so out of the loop. 

but you quickly fell into the quiet hum of a conversation, staying far off the topic of him. john told you about the new plans for his house and you went on about the new plants and decoration pieces you had bought yourself in a rush of sudden self-care in the form of online shopping. 

your earlier worries, and even your plans were all but forgotten. the alcohol cursed through your veins and settled you in a hazy state. your laughs came easier. your walls lowering. 

maybe this wasn't all that bad. 

note: sooooooo, i hope i can update again more regularly, but i did wanna put out a lil warning, i'm starting a new job on the 3rd and i'm not sure yet how that's gonna affect my creativity and especially my availability to write. i hope you understand and i'll try to keep feeding you with this angsty goodness <33

taglist: @rafaelacallinybbay @fruitymoonbeams-blog @jdeclerc @valuyhh @galactict3a @etotruski @littlezarp @kentwos @strawberrygato

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If this pops up while you’re scrolling, I wish you unconditional love and massive success.

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butcher!simon x student!reader: after moving to a little town in the middle of nowhere to work on your studies and finish up your degree, you seemed to frequent the butcher shop. Not that you were a great cook or anything, but you were an anatomy student, and practicing on the slabs of meat was helpful for dissection practice and stitching and such, it just wasn’t the same on fake skin (even if taking the odd cuts did make a few patrons look at you funny). But the quiet butcher was always happy to help.

There was something about the town that made you feel uneasy walking down the streets at night. It was a relatively quiet town, nothing really ever happened, and if it did everyone knew about it. A quiet town in the woods, typically basked in fog in the winters and baking in the summers. Everyone knew everyone, and it wasn’t often someone new came to town–especially not for long. The old people of the town said there’s a beast in the forest, something big and angry. Snatching up those who didn’t respect it’s domain.

You thought it was silly. Nothing had happened to you yet, but then again, you didn’t disrespect it’s domain.

You assumed that meant littering.

You’d moved to the town 4 months prior, almost finished with your degree, opting for an online course, renting out a place just on the outskirts of town from an old woman’s daughter, who had recently moved the old lady to an inpatient care facility. She’d hoped you’d keep the place warm while they were gone.

You had agreed, and moved in later that month. It was a tiny place, two beds, one bath with a large living room, a backyard that had the forest behind the wooden fence surrounding the property. Two stories but a relatively short staircase, narrow too. It was definitely a house owned by a strange old lady–taxidermy littered the place, dark wallpapering, and an abundance of books. Not that you were complaining, you always took to the weirder decorations yourself. Although you did end up taking the screaming fawn off of the chest that was in front of your bed. Swearing you could hear it crying at night.

The whole place had just lost the mothballs and soup scent, when you’d first moved in it was almost overwhelming. You’d left every window and every door open for hours. Lighting candles and washing the bedding in the guest room about 5 times. Emptying a bottle of perfume on it and on the sofa.

But besides that, it was a lovely little place, the sun shone through the windows in the mornings, and it didn’t get unbearably cold at night. Not yet anyway. Many locals told you that the deeper into winter it got the worse those old houses by the woods held up.

You had a 65 year old offer to help you fight the chill your second week there. Causing a fit of laughter from you and some laughs from the others sitting with him. A waitress at the diners bar apologizing for his behavior. You waved it off, the old man was no threat and it had given you a good laugh.

After about a month in town the locals started warming up to you, making friends with the woman who ran the bookstore. She claimed it was nice having an intellectual in the building for once. She’d even ordered some new books just for you, spending time talking about the new ones on the shelves or whatever ran she’d end up going on. There was a cashier at the local grocers who seemed to be enamored by you. He would watch which line you’d go to and make sure he was checking on that one by the time it was your turn. The waitresses at the diners and cafes liked you as well, you tipped good and chased off crazies when they’d become a bother.

Not to mention the butcher. 

The big, meaty handed butcher who made his cleaver look small and swung with force to crack the wood cutting board. The butcher who wore a surgical mask when you’d seen him, shirt consistently blood splattered. Even with the leather apron he wore, the thick liquid managed to stain him. His eyes were sunken with dark circles and had a dead look to them. Shoulders broad and his back casting a dangerous shadow over his work as the dingy lights of his shop hit him.

You remembered the first time you’d ventured in. Nearing your first month there, your intrigue stroked when you overheard a conversation about the brutish butcher. 

“There’s something wrong with the boy,” one of the old women wandering the baking aisle had said. Shaking her head, “He’s like the dead I tell you, doesn’t speak much, big lad but he lumbers around…don’t think i’ve ever seen him outside of that shop! Just stares…”

You remembered how you’d nearly dropped the box you were holding, enraptured by the conversation behind you. Hastily steadying yourself and snapping forward as the two women glanced your way.

The shop wasn’t big, just a small tiled area for people to stand, the counter, and the meat display. It opened up more behind the counter, where some meats were hanging heavily from hooks, and knives were in abundance. The lights of the shop yellowish and flickered when someone closed the door too hard. It was cold, and smelled of flesh and smoke. Cigarettes and bloodiness. A glass display of meats. All thick and red.

Of course, the butcher was hard to miss. The first time you’d gone in, there were a few people already there, chatting mindlessly with each other or with the butcher. You stood with your bag slipping off your shoulder, coat zipped up, colorful scarf sloppily tucked into it, one end hanging out. Your shoes clicked on the tiles, and you couldn’t shake the faint buzzing sound that echoed in the building.

You remembered the weight of your bag on your shoulders, and how you’d nearly plopped it at your feet as you looked at the meats in the case.

Frankly, you didn’t know what they were, what cuts were what, hell you didn’t even know what animal they’d come from. It all looked the same to you.

Looking up, tucking some hair behind your ear you met eyes with the hulking man. Blank brown eyes that sat set and unmoving. Your own widening at the sheer size of the man. How silently he’d shown up. There was one other person in the shop at that point, but the bell rang as they walked out, muttering on the phone as they did.

A silence falling upon you two. Your eyes darted down to his rugged nose, crooked and strong, and then to the dry, cracked lips under it, a scar running through the top one that tugged at the skin slightly. A subtle peek of teeth under it. His mask pulled down and rested just under his lips. Brows pinched together as he stood there. His skin was pale and discolored under the light. But you were sure yours was as well.

“Um,” your voice sounded out of place as you spoke, breaking a sacred silence, “This is silly but, I don’t know anything about meats…what’s easy to cook?”

You tore your eyes away, almost painfully, and looked at the case in front of you. Watching a thin trail of blood drip down from one of the cuts, following the path that had already cut a red line. Stopping for a moment before it dripped down lower into the case.

Your question went unanswered for a minute, before there was a distinct breath in from the man in front of you.

“Pork tenderloin,” the voice startled you, almost drowning the lingering buzzing completely. Rough and deep, it fell from his mouth, “You can grill it or roast it, inna pan too. Just go’a season it.”

He leaned forward, easily leaning over the case, and pointing to one of the cuts, his thick arms resting against the glass. Looking up at you through his messy brows. 

“Oh,” you smiled at him, he smelled of blood and cigarettes, just like his shop. The scent was almost different when it came off of him, warmer, “Thank you. Could I have one of those please?”

He didn’t move, just looked at you, then licked his lips, standing back straight.

“Yea��,” he opened the case, the glass whining as it moved.

His thick hands grabbed the meat, the meat squishing under his fingers, a drip of blood leaking from it as he moved. 

Jerking his head over to the end of the counter, “Move over ‘ere.”

You walked over, shouldering your bag a bit, reaching into your pocket to grab your wallet.

His back was to you, the sounds of paper crunching filling the space. His back was wide, blocking out the light under him, not a trim V taper–but big. Thick and wide and obviously strong. You could see his triceps working under his t-shirt, you could see his lats flexing and his traps bunching in a strong mass as he reached up for twine. It was beautiful.

He reminded you of anatomy models you’d use, ones where you could see different weights and different levels of atrophy and hypertrophy of the muscle. You’d always favored the big ones, bulked muscle, rich with fibers and snapping with strength.

Almost being cracked out of a trance as he turned around, briefly noting his front looked just as strong, a thick chest and his stomach solid as it pressed against the shirt. It wasn’t really a tight shirt, you think he just filled it out. He was obviously well fed.

He placed the neatly packaged meat in front of you, the twine tied in a bow on top of it.

“You’re new in town, ain’t ya?”

Nodded, you gave him a tight pressed smile, “Yes sir, been here almost a month.”

He didn’t react to it at all. Just stared.

“Hm.”

You nodded awkwardly, shooting a glance off to the side, then back to him, “Thank you, how much do I owe ya’?”

Tilting his head slightly the butcher looked you up and down.

“$10.00.”

You pulled out a beaten $10 from your wallet, a voice in the back of your mind asking why it was so cheap. Maybe meat was cheap here? Maybe he got a lot of customers and didn’t need to jack up his prices. You handed it over and felt your stomach lurch when your fingers brushed his. 

He didn’t seem to notice, but you swore you broke out into chills the second you touched his cold hands. Like he lived in a freezer.

“Thank you,” you picked up the meat, and held it carefully in your arms as you put your wallet away, “It looks delicious. I hope I don’t ruin your good work with my bad cooking.”

You chuckled at your sorry joke, and felt your cheeks flush a bit when he didn’t react…again.

Before you could turn away he spoke up again. 

“Sear it in a hot pan an' finish cookin' in the oven for about 20 minutes. It’s ready when the internal temperature reaches abou’ 145°F…”

Nodding your head, you tucked a loose chunk of hair behind your ear, “Oh! Thank you, I’ll let you know how it turns out–if it isn’t too bad, might not say anything if I bomb too hard.”

He snorted a silent huff of air out of his nose, like it was supposed to be some sort of laugh at your even worse joke.

He didn’t say anything more, you slowly took a step back, the doorbell ringing as someone walked in.

“Thank you again,” you smiled kindly as you turned, the man on he phone was now looking at his screen and shaking his head, running a man through his hair.

You had failed to notice the way the butcher licked his lips again, brows pinching further and curling his lips up slightly before he turned to the man on the phone. Missing how he snapped at the man that he needed to come back in 20 cause the shop was closed.

Your meeting with him grew more frequent, bordering on once a week. He’d tell you how to cook the meat you bought, and you would. Rather poorly, but you were improving. Slowly but surely.

It turned into him having the meat already cut and wrapped by the time you got there, giving it to you with instructions. They were usually very vague but he’d hit all the important steps. He spoke more too, the more you insisted on having conversation with him, the more you two actually had conversations. It quickly became a highlight of your week, you almost got a smile out of Simon–he told you his name the fourth meeting, said it got annoying hearing you call him Butcher–when you had tripped coming in the door once, barely catching yourself.

He even offered to cook something for you sometime. You quickly took him up on the offer, since you still couldn’t really cook, and he was probably worlds better than you at grilling.

Never paying much mind to how blood he’d be sometimes, dried blood lingering under his nails, probably just came with being a butcher. Right?

Or that he’d charge you half of what he did to others, and always gave you the best cuts. The cuts were even better the next week when you’d come in in a tank top or a pair of shorts or anything low cut. He was taller than you, and he already had to look down to talk to you so you never noticed the lowered gaze, and you were too engaged with talking about anatomy and the cellular makeup of different tissues to notice he wasn’t listening.

Didn't matter anyway, just gave him more time to stare at you.

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IT'S SO MUCH BETTER THAN I EXPECTED

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Has anyone watched Super Crooks on Netflix? I need to talk about The Praetorian with someone. I NEED him so bad. He’s such a slut he makes me weak omg omg

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This concept is so good! It's all I'm going to be thinking about today 🤧

New rehab program - Pt2

~ You're the very last therapist that the law has sent to "help" Shigaraki Tomura. All Might is the one who recommended you but the thing is, you have to be roommates with the villain ~

Warnings: You have anxiety, skin picking problems (Not mentioned in this text but will be in next parts), emetophobia, angst? (Idk if that counts as angst) Author's note: So this part is VERY self indulgent, but you can enjoy it nonetheless!

In a month, you learned alot about his "schedule".

Shigaraki was quite the night owl. In the morning, you'd hear nothing coming from his room but by the time noon approached, you'd start hearing shuffling. He'd eventually come out, do his morning routine, probably, in the bathroom then sat down at the table to eat lunch with you. He never sat close to you though, always at the very opposite end of the table. You both never really talked either, well, you did try here and there but everytime he'd give you that one murderous look, that'd easily make you shut up.

Then he'd get up and watch TV while you did the dishes. Tomura was usually looking at Netflix or Youtube.

You were glad he felt comfortable enough to spend an hour or two on the couch while you were in the next room. You had tried to sit down in the living room to watch something with him, but he'd get up and watch the rest in his room. It always made you feel horrible. You knew you were unwanted since the very beginning but acting like that, right in front of you, was just painful. It only happened once and it was enough to make you stop trying to watch tv with him.

If he didn't watch TV after eating, he'd immediately go back to his room and not move from there until dinner.

Dinner was like every lunch, silent and awkward but he never seemed to find your food horrible as he always finished his whole plate or never showed any signs of disgust. Maybe he was just a good liar, but you couldn't help but feel glad that he liked your cooking.

You also picked up how much he didn't want help. Not just for therapy, but for everything else too.

One time he had lost "something", you figured it was important due to him rummaging around the whole place, so out of curiosity, you had asked him what was going on.

Surprisingly, he had answered. "Lost something"

"Would you like me to help? What did you lose?" You had genuinely asked.

By the look he had given you, you immediately knew that he was highly suspecting you. He probably thought that you had hidden his stuff. Tomura refused your help, and threw an insult so you never figured out what he was looking for. He eventually had stopped searching an hour later. Hopefully, you thought he had found it.

There was the time when his new gaming chair had arrived. He had installed himself in the living room to assemble it.

Half an hour later, you heard a thud and an angry Tomura swearing loudly so you ran to him. "Are you okay??" You had carefully approached him

Whatever happened that day, he only had stood up, looked at you dead in the eyes and went: "Fuck off" Before he locked himself in the bathroom.

But right before he did, you had spotted him holding his hand while he walked past. You figured he hurt himself and it hurt… You had only wanted to help since the beginning but he didn't want to. Of course you couldn't force him, but still.

There were other small events like these where you quickly learned that he preferred taking care of himself.

Little did you know, something would change soon

``` ```` Today was the only day that Shigaraki was allowed to go out that wouldn't require groceries or stuff like that. He could go out do anything he wanted! But under the eye of a pro hero, of course. Which, you couldn't help but observe, that it would get him more tense than usual.

Dabi and the pro hero, Hawks, had came to pick him up. The winged hero was in charge of the blue flame villain, like you were in charge of Shigaraki. He was also here to see how you were handling things with the crimson eyed villain.

When they walked in, Dabi went to Tomura's bedroom, while Hawks leaned on the kitchen counter in front of you. You were holding a warm mug of hot cocoa, unsure about this outing, but you trusted the heroes, didn't you? "Well, I'm not sure how it's going or what you're doing with him but he never had a therapist staying this long before"

You held a tiny smile before looking down and sighing. "Well, I honestly think I failed.. We didn't make any progress.. And sometimes it's.." You hesitated. He raised a brow but patiently waited for you to finish. "It's scary.. Whenever I try to do something, I.. He looks at me like I'm the worst thing on Earth and I immediately back off.. I- I don't think I'll be able to endure this for long"

The hero's expression softened even more than earlier. "Hm.. I get ya, it's not easy at all and it's even risky.. But hey I heard your quirk is quite useful for that, he didn't try to… Do anything against you, right?"

You nodded in agreement, your quirk was just enhanced reflexes. If something was thrown at you with no ill intent, you could easily catch it, like a ball or your keys. You could also easily climb up on a pile of books and if you had to fall, you'd easily land on your feet. But if someone wanted to attack you, you could easily dodge attacks. Though, it wouldn't work if someone threw a ball with too much strength or speed, or if you fell from too high.

"When are you thinking about leaving?" The hero asked.

You glanced back up at him. "Well, once the Director of the program knows, I think I should be able to leave next week"

Hawks nodded but as he was about to add something, Dabi and Shigaraki walked past you two. The purple-ish-scarred man giving you a respectful nod while Tomura didn't even acknowledge you before they entered Hawks' car.

The winged hero usually didn't need one but when he was hanging out with more than one person, he couldn't fly with them. Even though that would be more than hilarious. "Welp, time to go, I should bring him back around midnight"

You nodded, giving him an amused smile. It sounded like he was Dabi's dad telling you that he'll bring your "rebellious" child (Shigaraki) safe and sound.

You watched them leave with the "ex-villains". He was lucky that they were wearing those necklaces or else he would've been easily outnumbered. Now that they were "quirkless", he could handle them both with the strength of his feathers, if they even tried something that is.

You tried staying up all night to welcome them back but you ended up falling asleep on the couch.

The next morning, you woke up finding a little note on the little table in front of the couch.

'He drank a little bit too much, so he might be cranky tommorrow, sorry - Hawks <3'

Great

Now you had to deal with an hungover villain.

"I'm leaving soon" You sighed to yourself.

You got up, walked to the bathroom, brushed your teeth and all that.

You then decided to take a shower, but as soon as you were done, a towel wrapped around you, Shigaraki kicked the door open. You screamed and jolted. "W-WHAT ARE YOU DOING??"

The minute you saw his face, a cold shiver went down your whole spine, you KNEW what was going on.

Your brain was YELLING at you to run as far as possible to escape. But Shigaraki hurried past you and hunched over the toilet.

You had, by instinct, already covered your ears with your hands as your body started shaking violently and tears were forming in the corner of your eyes.

You kept your eyes, very anxiously, on the door.

Your brain was screaming at you, telling you to RUN, to ESCAPE, that it WASN'T SAFE to stay near him!

He was fine, he was fine! He didn't help-!

But he's your PATIENT-!

NO NO NO NO! RUN!!

Danger-! DANGER!!

NO, HELP HIM, he could CHOKE and DIE!!

You DIDN'T want to let someone die when you were RIGHT THERE, to help!

Shigaraki restarted gagging and, without being able to control your body, you stormed out. At this point, your shaking had increased. You clutched, holding it for dear life, the towel wrapped around you.

Once you had reached the extreme opposite of the house, which was a corner in the dining room, you had curled up in a ball. You silently cried, squeezing your hands against your ears, wanting to block EVERY little sound. But you had to calm down, you HAD to, you couldn't like this! He couldn't see you like this!

'What do I do? What do I DO?!' You wanted to scream.

You let out a whimper, you knew what to do but you really REALLY didn't want to get near him.

Your brain was screaming danger all over and over again. What a pathetic therapist you were, being mortified at the sight of vomit. Hell, you didn't even had a glimpse of it! And you were curled up in a ball, naked, in a corner of the dining room.

After what seemed horribly long, you very very carefully removed your hands from your ears and you surprisingly, and gladly, didn't hear any sound.

Though, it worried you, was he-

You quickly got up, the room spun a little, and headed to the bathroom. You, once again, very very carefully peaked inside and found him sitting on the floor, his back against the bathtub.

You shakily walked towards Shigaraki and carefully lifted his hair up a little. He flinched but never struggled against you, his body probably still felt too upset to try anything.

You were still shaking like hell and you never looked at him when you said: "L-Let's get y-your hair cleaned.." You didn't care about your very trembling voice, you just grabbed a small towel, poured water on it and gently rubbed his hair. You almost didn't look, not wanting to get a glance of anything that he had thrown up.

It slowly made you relax.

He was fine, you were fine, you weren't going to catch whatever he had because it was just a hungover, you cannot catch a hungover, you weren't hungover, you wouldn't get sick. You kept repeating those sentences nonstop in your head.

You grabbed his shirt, tugging it a little and he understood what you were doing. He raised his arms and you removed it. Then throwing it in the sink, as fast as you could to not touch or see anything that could trigger your fear more than it already was.

You had to take care of him, you had to, it was your job, wasn't it? You also kept repeating those in your mind.

You bent down next to him, your vision was a bit blurry but you felt fine, It was just not focusing on anything, which was perfect like that. Though, were you really feeling fine? No, not at all, you were still shaking, your heart felt like it was going to explode and your breathing also hadn't settled that much.

You didn't glance at him, you just put the back of your hand against his forehead, just making sure, but it was hard to keep it against him due to your trembling. He seemed fine though.

Your throat squeezed, you had to force yourself to talk. "A-Are you okay?"

Shigaraki looked so exhausted, almost zombie-like. Mostly with the state of his hair, it hid his whole face like a mop was thrown on top of him. He nodded before mumbling. "..Are you?"

You blinked, focusing your eyes again and you realized that he was looking at your hand who was still shaking against his forehead. You slowly removed it, trying to compose yourself.

You wanted to tell him that you weren't okay, but that would make you and horrible therapist, wouldn't it? You were the one that had to take care of him, not the opposite. Your lips quivered, and tears restarted to form in the corner of your eyes but you controlled yourself as much as you could. "Y-Yeah" Your voice cracked, of course, but you would keep lying if he kept asking.

He threw a quick glance at me. "Bullshit" He spat out, keeping his voice low though as he sounded more raspy than usual.

You showed him a weak smile before murmuring: "Yeah"

This would've been a good time to talk and have a little therapy session but the both of you stayed silent. Personally, you didn't want to push him, not after what he had gone through a few minutes ago. And him? He wasn't a therapist, what could he even say?? Not that he cared anyway. In all honesty, he felt so horrible that he didn't give a shit about you. He just felt like sleeping plus drinking water since his head and throat were killing him.

You eventually stood up and left to your bedroom. Though, you couldn't help but feel bad for leaving him in the bathroom.

Part 1