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#I do and I can feel my body crumble to dust whenever I realize how long ago that was
carmypen · 4 years
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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Tsukumo Yuuma, Vector (Yu-Gi-Oh), Shingetsu Rei, Astral (Yu-Gi-Oh), Black Mist Additional Tags: Zexal Fanwork Marathon, AU Summary:
Fill for the fan work marathon prompt "AU parallel where Yuma and Rei/Vector are Number Hunting rivals and Black Mist is Rei’s Astral."
Can’t actually create anything today, but decided to pull out something from the old days to share with people. The prompt today is crossover/AU. This is an AU of the Zexal manga that rewrites the plot to include the Barian characters. It was actually written as a one-shot, but you’ll quickly notice there are lot’s of hanging threads in there that make it easy to believe this could have been a continuing story. Enjoy!
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nemeseos-noctua · 3 years
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Hello! It's nice to see a new genshin impact writer! I saw requests are open, and there's two I have in mind (if it's ok with you): One is for Razor, Albedo, Xiao, and ganyu (possibly Aether if you can) wherein Reader is scared of love. Like, they're scared of opening up and love someone in fear of rejection or being tossed away. But yet they still daydream having someone who'd love them making it more obvious how much they want to love despite their fears anyway--
With this information, how will they confess to Reader about their feelings? Or comfort/console them?
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𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: albedo, xiao, ganyu, (separate) x gn!reader
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: reader has a pyro vision, albedo and xiao story spoilers in their parts
𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: srry for cutting some characters off!! the character limit is 3! (but personally i would write for aether hehe hes so cute i love him)
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you just so happened to have a quest in dragonspine
you did not expect to see fatui—especially not fight them
and... you did not expect to get ganged up on! what is this? a bully session? what the heck?
Among the brawn and burly figures of the Fatui members, you didn’t fail to notice a streak of blonde and dazzling blue from a distance—your eyes widening as you prayed to whatever archon would dare to listen...
Please, please don’t be another stupid enemy. You thought with a grimace, your heart pounding in your chest as you could hear a voice—it was calm yet strong, like a endless waterfall or a river creek.
“Burst forth!” 
In a matter of seconds, a geo flower emerged from the earth, your form being lifted up on the tiny platform as shards of crystallized rock formed under you, nearly stabbing you in the gut.
Who? What? How? Who was this stranger? This vision-wielder?
Wasting no time, you plummeted down on a nearby Fatui—deeming this geo-user as ‘safe’, you summoned your own flames, charring the crystal snow black as you wrapped your arm around the blonde, barely taking any time to observe his features.
from then on, you never expected to grow close to this mystery man
turns out he was the chief alchemist of the knights! you weren’t personally associated with the knights... but being chief alchemist certainly was a grand title, right?
with the use of your pyro vision, you helped accompany—albedo—you learned his name was
at first, the two of you were just exploration buddies. but as time went on, butterflies began to form in your stomach, nervousness seemed to peak when he was around
love was like a poison—you knew it’d hurt, you knew it’d kill you to have a drop—
but you wanted it. you wanted love, you wanted to be held by albedo and to twirl his silky hair around your fingers...
but—would he want you?
You wanted to love Albedo so badly.
Yet you knew, you couldn’t. The alchemist just wasn’t the type for love, he was not the type to give kisses or reassurances, nor was he the type to confess with a rose in his hands.
It wouldn’t hurt to dream, though. 
The thoughts you had before you slept were of him, of how pretty his eyes were—you couldn’t even pinpoint a color for it. Sometimes, they were blue, sometimes, they were teal. 
With every shooting star that’d zip past the sky, every eyelash that’d fall and every fire that’d be lit with the palm of your hands... you hoped for a love. A love so grand it’d outshine the sun, a love so grand it could make you forget the past and undo the pain of before.
But, in the depths of your mind, in the wings of the butterflies that’d flutter in your stomach... you knew—
Albedo did not love you. 
albedo initially thought of you as a torch lighter.
LOOK, HE IS A LOGICAL AND RESOURCEFUL MAN. he does not see the world with a rosie-colored-lens like how many others do—he sees it as the facts
and with your pyro vision? combined with dragonspine, ooh, please... ain’t that a match lighter?
but as time went on, he started to see you in a new light
you were knowledgeable, you respected his views and even contributed sometimes! you were no prodigy of alchemy, of course, but you were well-versed in combat and oftentimes knew how to navigate dragonspine
(he asked you how you knew dragonspine so well. all you told him was “Pain”)
but... albedo is observant. he’s definitely aware of your feelings and nervousness, how you get overly sweaty near him and fumble on your words
it’s then he realizes—he likes you too
love is a foreign concept to him, uncharted territory and an unexplored region. of course, as an alchemist, it is up to him to discover the unknown
and love—love is unknown
how could one possibly dedicate their entire life to another? albedo always questioned this notion, for humans were free beings that wanted nothing more than to break free of their shackles
and yet—the moment the alchemist met you? all of those questions flew out of the window
he wished... he wished to love you. but to him, it looks as if you do not want to love him
It’s frustrating, really.
How Albedo would brush over your hand mindlessly, how he’d hand you an object and let your fingertips meet for two seconds too many, how his cold yet soft lips would curve into a smile upon seeing you return from your endeavors.
Why? Why? Why? Why did he do this? Was he aware of the way he made you go crazy? 
You wanted to love him, so so bad—but—
“[Y/N],” Albedo’s voice seemed to pierce through your thoughts as if he had heard them.
“Y-Yes?” You turned immediately, the rush of your heart not calming a bit, the nervousness of your leg that bounced up and down as a remedy that you wish didn’t have to be so obvious.
Averting his eyes from yours, you missed the pixie blush that dusted the tip of his ears. He was not aware of your insecurities—but he was aware of one thing.
That—that he liked you... a lot, in fact.
“Recently...” Albedo started, clearing his throat anxiously before continuing, “I have started to develop some... feelings, for you. It is okay if you do not reciprocate, but it feels wrong to think about you in such a light when you are not awa—“
“Yes!”
You winced.
And then, everything seemed to crumble. Was he talking about someone else? Was there someone behind you? Was this a mindless prank? As it had been all those years ag—
A hand rested on your cheek, bringing you back to reality with the mere touch of his fingers.
albedo... in all of his intelligent prowess... was not expecting for you to say yes
in the public, he is a genius— a prince, a prodigy, even. but to him, he is but a failed student who is trying his best in completing his master’s final orders:
find the meaning of life
what is life? life is broad, life is different, life is... well, life.
at first, albedo had assumed that his master was talking about living life, as in plants or animals.
but now—with you, with klee, with mondstadt, with everyone. 
the chief alchemist seemed to realize:
life, life was in you.
life brought joy, laughter, pain, excitement, happiness—
and sometimes, even love
“But Albedo I—“
“It’s okay, [Y/N]. Though I am not personally aware of what seems to be troubling you, I will do everything in my power to assure that you feel comfortable with me.”
Life was short, Albedo noted. 
So—he wants to enjoy it.
—With you.
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xiao does not fear rejection, but he does fear love
how pitiful... for a guardian yaksha such as him to fear such a trivial matter
love—love was scary. love could take control of him like how he was manipulated in the archon war, love could tug his arms and move him around like a puppet
he, adeptus xiao, did not want to love
but then, you came in. and it frustrated him tremendously. you were but a mere mortal, a fleeting life that came into his eternal one. you were someone who he did not deserve
and yet, he loved you
so much, so so so much, he can’t bear it. he can take on all those karmic binds, all those whispers and hatred—yet he cannot bear the love he feels for you. he cannot bear the way his heart races or leaps whenever he sees you, he cannot bear you
but—his heart does not like the fact that you feel the same
you had told him before, one night, a few months ago... you told him how you were afraid of love
you were afraid of getting tossed away, of being forgotten like the fallen archons in war, like a side character in a play of fontaine
and all xiao could do was scoff. whoever dared to throw you away would meet his spear, his rage. he could not fathom a world where you were hated, where anyone would dare to reject you—because, because—
you were his world, regrettably
Pacing up the stairs of Wangshu Inn, you ignored the gross feeling of your clothes sticking to your skin.
“[Y/N].”
Jolting up, your eyes met with that of the Guardian Yaksha—his piercing gaze and unwavering strength eyeing you down as if you were a pest.
“You’re going to get sick. Your mortal body cannot withstand such weather,” Xiao scolded, and on cue, a flash of light zipped through the air, the deep rumble of thunder following soon after.
Observing the way you flinched at the noise, Xiao merely wrapped an arm around your waist, teleporting you to the top of the inn and into your room.
“Dry up. I will return with soup,” The adeptus waved off your nervous gaze. He was not stupid, he has seen mortals succumb to sickness, and he hopes that you will not be one of them.
but as he heads to the kitchen, he cannot help but notice—notice the fact that you seemed to be... uneasy around him
was it something he said? was he perhaps too harsh with you? you of all people should know his words mean well, though...
and ugh, here it is again. the feeling of love that made even him overthink the smallest of things
yet after he brought you some soup and got you into bed, the question still ran around his mind like a halo. did you hate him? was this sickness bringing out your true thoughts?
well, yes and no
“Xiao...” You quietly murmured, wincing as the winds picked up inside your room, materializing a certain Yaksha out of thin air.
“What?”
“I’m sorry...”
“...?”
Rushing up to you, Xiao immediately placed a hand on your forehead, worried that you were on the brink of death.
“I’m sorry for liking you.”
“... What?” His eyes widened in disbelief, in shock. Sorry? Why were you sorry? Did you regret liking him? Was that why—
“I know...” You trailed off, in a drunken state of sickness, “That you don’t love me. But that’s okay. I just... wanted to let you know... because I’m afraid you’ll say no... but if you say no, I can at least move on...”
Staring at you fiercely, his breath hitched in his throat. No? No? He would never say no to you, ever, ever.
“Don’t move on,” Was all he could muster. 
Don’t. He wasn’t ready for love, no, he never was—but—
He did not want you to leave. 
This action of sickness was finally a catalyst, a catalyst for Xiao to confess to you properly when you were in the right state of mind.
And hopefully—when he does, you will say yes. 
xiao only confesses because he does not want to lose you
his karmic binds, the whispers, the screams. he does not want you to get tainted by them—so he is selfish, he is selfish for loving you and confessing to you... but he, he cannot bear to see you go
a double-edged sword, love is. it stabs his heart, skewering it as if it were nothing. it plunges his mind, clouding his thoughts as they fill with you and only you
can’t he just indulge in this fluffy feeling, once?
no—he doesn’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve you.
Under the rising stars and floating lanterns, the two of you sit. It is an unspoken love, you both share, it is an unwritten rule that paints the back of your minds like a canvas of colors. 
But love—is love. Love is the rainbow that forms in the sky when the rain is over, love is the sun that shines, washing away all of the coldness of the world.
Love is you.
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ganyu feels... alone
so when you come into her life like a prospering glaze lily, she wants nothing more than to love you!
but you, confuse her. she is 100% sure you return her feelings, so why do you not seem to be... excited, about it?
To an immortal like Ganyu—love changes. At first, love was for the world, but then it shifted for mankind, and then it moved to... you.
She was no strange to love, in fact, she welcomed it! Ganyu wants to feel as mortal as possible, so when you stumble in and make her fumble for words—she knows she has fallen.
Like a meteor or a person—she falls for you. Everything reminds her of you, every flower and every bird makes her want to talk to you and spend her time with you.
But lately—you have been quite... reserved.
at first, ganyu thinks she is the problem. that she has done something wrong and she is a terrible crush
but then, she hears rumors. rumors about your past loves and how they rejected you mercilessly, how they played you like a marinette doll and caused you pain
to ganyu—that is the lowest any mortal could ever go. but for now, that is not her problem. she wants to help you, to make you realize that you are deserving of love and that you—you make her feel love
she—of course, does not confront you about this directly. ganyu is far too experienced to bring up past conflicts
but, she will subtly make you realize her feelings. with morning and night walks around liyue harbor, with hangouts and ‘dates’ at liuli pavilion...
love... it’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?
“Ah, the food here is certainly marvelous,” Ganyu gushed, enjoying a nice plate of jade parcels as you spared a smile.
“Yes, thank you for this, Ganyu. I know you work a lot and—“
“Of course, [Y/N]. Everyone needs breaks,” The woman returned your kind gesture, eyes crinkling in amusement as your heart pounded so loudly in your chest.
“In all honesty, [Y/N]. I feel quite a connection to you, and though I am aware you are hesitant— I just wanted to let you know that you are loved... by many people, not only me,” Ganyu rested her chopsticks down, making complete eye contact with you as her blue hair framed her face. The black and red horns that adorned her head glimmered—the kindness and delicate features of her nose and lips, her eyes and smile—
Your breath hitched.
ganyu—of course— does not expect an answer right away!
in fact, she thinks it’s quite unorthodox to confess to someone who is afraid of love—but her instincts told her it was right
it was abrupt, she knows. you don’t have to say yes, she knows.
but still, love was a game of chance—just as gambling, betting, anything. love was a game for two
so she took it. she took the chance, hoping that maybe you, you’d say yes.
“I...” You trailed off. You didn’t know Ganyu returned your feelings, neither did you ever imagine she could... Ganyu was half-adeptus, a caliber above you and your mortal-ness! Why would she ever think of you as anything more tha—
“Do not be afraid, [Y/N],” Ganyu’s voice was gentle as she soothed you. She had been here before, she had seen you cry out of a yearning for something you couldn’t have, she had seen your heart shatter and your mindset retract.
“I... like you too,” You responded, you felt light-headed, like you were soaring in the clouds that not even Celestia could bring you down.
Love, love was a gamble. And sometimes, you’d get your heart broken, your soul broken...
But love—it wasn’t so bad after all.
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― constellations!
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90stvshowgoth · 3 years
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— BREAKING & ENTERING
—ch.1 —ch.2
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summary: dabi is on the run from the cops when you just happened to leave your window open.
tags: drunk sex, creampie, overstimulation, dubcon but not really,
wc: 6729
a/n: this is my first dabi fanfic so i’m worried i might’ve made him a bit too ooc but tbh i don’t care. soft dabi is what i want and soft dabi is what i will get. huge thanks by the way to @a-monsters-love who beta read this story and made it a lot less sucky!
my requests are open by the way!
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What woke you wasn’t the explosions or the screams, but the sirens. The mechanical moans echoed through the streets of Musutafu, and that sound pulled you up out of bed, looking out your window in a bleary state of half-asleep fear.
‘What was going on?’ Goosebumps ran up your arms as you peered out your alleyway view window, overlooking the fire escape to the siren that had recently been installed in your neighborhood a few months back. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes as you tried to recall when the Pro Hero Association had brought it, and that same chill sank to your bones as you remembered just what they were for.
A villain had attacked the prefecture. A dangerous one.
You tried to calm your breathing, slowly walking backwards from the window to think rationally about the situation.
‘There’s no reason for somebody to attack a random apartment building, they’re off fighting heroes,’ The reasonable side of your brain said.
Despite that the siren was still wailing across town and it began to set you on edge. You certainly weren’t falling back asleep any time soon. If you couldn’t go back to bed you thought you’d might as well make some tea to calm your frigid nerves. You smiled when you saw your well-loved cardigan hanging next to the door and hugged it close, otherwise wearing nothing but your bra and leggings.
When you stepped into the main room you breathed in the warm scent of the candle that you’d accidentally left burning. Cursing yourself for your lack of fire safety, you shrugged and used the wick to light your path to the counter. After filling up the kettle under the sink you left it under the lit stove to boil, taking a moment to admire how the burner’s low flames were almost purely blue.
From here you could see the small television beside the couch and with a press of a button it came to life before you. The harsh glare made your eyes wince before they adjusted to the unfriendly light.
You were drawn to the red index near the corner that blinked the words ‘breaking news.’ This made your sleep-addled brain finally connect the dots between the sirens and the reporter. The screen cut to a newsman outside of what used to be a ten-story building when all that remained was a smoking husk. Hesitantly, you increased the volume to hear what happened.
“—before fleeing the scene. We have reports that say the hero fighting him was put into critical condition following the attack, and is currently being taken to the hospital. A video was taken by a nearby woman who sent it to the authorities. We believe this clip to be of the suspects,” the journalist paused, and a low-quality film began to play. Whoever was recording had badly shaking hands so It was difficult to make out. Your eyes widened at the sight of the building you walked by every day for work, the Shishido hero agency, razed by a torrent of blue wildfire.
Escaping from the crumbling building were four or so figures, too far away to see with any accuracy, but each had an unmistakeable silhouette. The League of Villains.
They were something of a modern socratic dialogue. Whenever someone brought up their name or the hero killer Stain’s it was always just to be a contrarian towards whoever was on the opposing side. Fanatical opinions would spark heated arguments online but you tried to keep your thoughts to yourself.
Although, if you’d have to pick a side, you would choose the League’s. After Stain’s video had spread through Japan you dug deeper into the shady histories of some of the Commission’s most well-respected heroes. Whatever standard you held those pros to crumbled into dust under miles of ‘collateral damage,’ and omitted crimes that were swept under the rug by police. So when the faces of the league went up on the screen you couldn’t help but smile at their victory.
The whistle of the kettle pulled you from the television. You rushed to take it off the stove before it could get any louder, and routinely began to fix the tea just the way you like it. You hummed, smiling as the first sip of the warm brew spread down your body, fending off the cold.
You threw the remote onto the couch that sat across from the small kitchen. Moving back to your bedroom and getting cozy with the tea, you reveled in the way that the mug loosened the frozen joints of your fingers. But before you could relax and block out the sirens with some music, you noticed another chill rush through the small room. Groaning over-dramatically, you set the tea down to retrieve another blanket from your pile; but your eyes widened when you tracked down the source of the cold.
Your window was open.
That caught you off guard. You were absolutely sure you closed it before bed knowing how low the temperatures would drop, though with growing panic you noticed how you specifically don’t remember locking it. There’s only two ways it could’ve been open now. Either you simply misremembered earlier that night and forgot to close it...
Or someone else broke in.
The tea’s warmth was long forgotten as you reached shaking hands to close the window. But before you could slide the panel shut a calloused hand clawed itself around your mouth so you couldn’t scream.
Fear gripped your lungs as you struggled to breathe, thrashing desperately against the second arm your assailant had snaked over your waist to keep you still. Your leg banged painfully on the side of the windowsill as you struggled but it didn’t deter you from opening your mouth wide enough to bite down on the attacker’s hand.
“Fuck!” He cursed when your teeth drew blood around his thumb and practically threw you to the ground. As you were about to use your newfound freedom to scream for help, the man lunged towards you with one outstretched hand.
His flesh was suddenly engulfed in a hissing blue fire and you winced at the wave of heat that flared so close to your face. From here you could easily make out the assailant’s features from the illuminating glow of his flames.
He had deep scars circled under his eyes using what looked like piercings to hold the tattered skin together. His lips quirked after realizing he’d caught you for good, making his charred skin pull against the metal in his cheekbones. Panic hadn’t altered your memory, you knew exactly who was standing over you. Dabi of the League of Villains.
Before either of you could make another move someone banged on the front door. You turned to look towards the sound but the heat close to your reddening throat kept you from doing anything stupid.
“Ma’am this is the police, open the door.” You and Dabi stared at each other from the implications and you could already see a plan forming behind his eyes.
He leaned far too close, keeping his lit hand still hovering over your neck as he whispered his words into your ear, “Listen to me nice and close, doll,” you couldn’t bring yourself to breathe underneath the searing tension. “You’re gonna answer that door. You’re gonna smile and say that nobody’s home. And if you give away fuckin’ anything,” Dabi’s flames somehow stoked themselves, the heat so intense that your teardrops evaporated before they could leave your eyes, “I’ll set your hair on fire first. So you can feel your brain cooking.” He spoke with a dripping malice that made your blood run cold despite the flames creeping up his arm. You nodded, too terrified to form words as he pushed forward; telling you to get up.
The brief walk from your bedroom to the front door had never felt so long. Your legs felt like the static emanating from the television, all shaky and unstable. Once your hands curled around the handle you decided not to spare a glance back.
‘What do I do?’ You didn’t want to die, at least not by immolation of all things, so you’d have to play along. You cupped your feverish face in your hands and took an unsteady breath. ‘As long as I can fool these cops, I’ll be fine. I can do this,’ At least, you hoped.
Opening the door caused the hallway’s lights to flood through your darkened doorway. Once your eyes flinched with discomfort you saw the unmistakeable uniforms of two police officers, both middle-aged and looking much more disinterested than you would’ve thought.
“Is there a problem?” You could lie smoothly enough but your voice was still feeble from Dabi’s strain on your neck.
The one who had called out earlier answered your question, “A member of the League of Villains was seen climbing in through a window to this apartment building, but the witness didn’t remember exactly which floor or room. Is anyone else with you?”
You feigned confusion, going so far with the act as to tilt your head slightly to the side. “No, I’m sure I’m alone, sir.”
At that moment a painfully loud squeak echoed from your bedroom and your eyes widened at the audible gap in your story. There was a loose floorboard right beside your bookshelf that creaked under even the slightest weight. You’ve learned to avoid it over time but Dabi had no idea.
That bored expression on the cop’s face shifted and you scrambled to come up with a explanation. “I thought you said you lived alone?”
An idea popped straight from your brain to your mouth, “My cat! His name is—“ you thought of the old, lovable house-cat your family had kept while growing up, “Byron. He like to get into my plants.”
“...Alright then, Ma’am, just keep yourself safe.” It seemed to just barely convince them.
You almost couldn’t fight back the elation as you waved off the oblivious pair, heeding their words by locking the door behind them in a rush. Pressing your back against the wood, you tried to settle the adrenaline pounding through your chest. Unfortunately as soon as you started to calm down, Dabi strode from the bedroom with a curious look in his eyes.
“Not bad, lady. Didn’t think you’d give it your all like that,” he must’ve kicked himself for making that noise and thought you would’ve used it as a way to give him up, “especially for a villain like me.”
The tension in the air had noticeably lessened, and you started to think you had a good shot at surviving the night. “I mean, I didn’t want them to find you either.”
Dabi paced around the living room, turning on one of your floor lights in his path towards the couch, “And why’s that?” He asked, flopping unceremoniously onto the secondhand loveseat.
Sure, you were still half pissed at the guy for breaking into your apartment and threatening to kill you, but it was clear that everything he did wasn’t personal. He just needed to escape from the police, but since they were gone what would happen now?
“Because...” you wanted to find the right words to convince him, “because I hate heroes too.”
Under the dim glow of the lamp you caught a glimpse of a half-handsome smile from that answer. Now that there was none of the malice from before you could appreciate just what he looked like under the warm lighting. Especially his eyes, which turned out to be a truly stunning shade of blue.
He kicked his feet onto your coffee table and patted the seat next to him. You’d have to deal with whatever dirt or soot he’d tracked inside tomorrow morning, but for now you found yourself accepting his invitation.
“Lucky me, huh?” Dabi asked rhetorically, and you found yourself almost smiling back at him. The couch was still cold underneath you but you painfully realized that Dabi was emanating heat like a goddamn generator.
‘It must’ve been from his quirk.’ you thought bitterly, shivering despite yourself.
Dabi drew a pack of Newports from his coat pocket and slid a cigarette out with his teeth. Instead of using a lighter a thin blue flame ignited on his index finger. He held it to the tip and drew in a deep lungful of smoke.
“So, what’s your deal, anyways? You got a thing for villains or something?” He wondered out-loud, teasing another blush onto your face as you shook your head.
“No, I just— I mean not like that,” From the look on his grafted face you could tell he wasn’t convinced. “The Hero Commission is corrupt, I agree with the league on that at least. Stain’s video kinda affected me, you know?”
Another small grin graced his lips and a small part of you decided that you wanted to see that expression more often, “What’s your name, doll?”
The question put you at ease; When he repeated it back, rolling the syllables over his tongue, you couldn’t wait to hear him say it again. Wordlessly, he extended his hand towards you, offering the lit cigarette between his fingers. When you took it all you could focus on was how warm his hands felt against yours for those brief seconds.
Wisps of smoke danced in the air as you inhaled, coughing a bit after the dry tang started to sting the back of your mouth. He smirked at your reaction before taking the cheap cigar from your fingertips.
Dabi saw the remote you left laying on the couch and mindlessly turned on the TV across from you. The news station was once again playing, this time an interview with one of the heroes who fought at the scene. This hero in particular was an older man with a receding hairline and an honestly ridiculous outfit that looked somewhere between a scuba diver and a 70s golden-age comic book character.
Beside you, Dabi groaned at the sight of him, “This fuckin’ guy...”
“Were you the one that fought him?” He nodded without breaking his attention from the screen.
“His quirk was such a pain to deal with. He controlled all the oxygen in the room— made it hard to set his ass on fire.”
There were a surprising lack of injuries on Dabi as far as you could see, aside from a few scrapes alongside the bruised scars that crawled below his loose shirt. You couldn’t help but wonder how far down they went, but quickly turned your attention back to the screen to ignore those ideas. The hero he fought looked far worse for wear, skin marred with fresh burns that singed holes into the costume; His legs shaking similarly to how yours were just fifteen minutes ago. Dabi seemed to have that effect on people.
Before you could ask him how he’d won his fight he was off the couch and walking towards the kitchen. He casually searched through your apartment with a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips.
You sighed, a bit annoyed at how he helped himself to your fridge, “Dabi, if you’d tell me what you’re looking for I could show you.”
“Nah, already found what I wanted.” He dug open one of the drawers and smirked as he pulled a chill bottle of wine from the fridge.
Dabi tracked down two nearby glasses and a corkscrew before returning to your side and started to twist the metal tip into the pliant seal. It pulled loose with a soft pop and he filled each of your cups with the cherry wine you had been saving for a special occasion.
As you raised the rim to your lips and breathed in the fermented smell you paused. Were you really about to drink wine with a villain? A wanted criminal who broke into your apartment? His hand had been around your throat as he whispered about how he would burn you alive less than half an hour ago. There had to be something wrong with you to even consider it. Beside you he nearly emptied half the glass in his first sip before going back to enjoying his cigarette and you found your resolve crumbling at his lazy half-smile. Making possibly one of the dumbest mistakes of your life, you followed his lead and took a long swig from the bittersweet drink, intent on letting the alcohol relax your nerves.
The effects were slow to come, it was only wine after all, but as the night carried on and the two of you kept drinking you started to notice the effects taking hold. At the very least, conversation between you flowed easily, trading questions about each other that never grew too inquisitive. He didn’t try to pry too deeply, he didn’t even ask for your last name, and you were sure to never bring up his scars. You talked for what must’ve been hours, and as the bottle emptied, the space between the two of you grew smaller.
Dabi could handle his alcohol, but you couldn’t, clearly. To be fair, he was tipsy, but the way you unashamedly leaned your head on his shoulder when you grew tired was anything but sober.
“So, doll, got a boyfriend or something?” He asked, testing the waters. You leaned up and sighed at the question.
“No, nothin’ like that... I haven’t had the time.” You tipped your glass back but the wine never reached your lips. You groaned at the sight of the empty cup and leaned up to grab the bottle from the table. Unfortunately, Dabi’s hand held onto yours before you could reach the vice; You felt him pull you back towards the couch by your wrist until you lost your balance, falling back against his shoulder. If he minded he didn’t show it as his arm rested around your hip.
“I think you’ve had enough for tonight,” The condescending tone in his voice was annoying but it wasn’t enough to make you move from his comfortable grasp.
You scoffed, messing with your hair to avoid looking at his face, “God, who are you, my dad?”
A shit-eating grin stretched across his face, “Oh, so you’re into that Daddy shit, huh?”
The comment took you so off-guard that you broke into a fit of giggles that did nothing to temper the blush returning to your face. Dabi loved how much of an effect he had on you; the simplest words turning you into a flustered mess.
“Nah, not my thing-“ ‘Unless you’re into it,’ You barely kept yourself from saying that second part out loud. From this angle Dabi had the perfect view of your tits pressing against his chest and he stared shamelessly. You barely noticed, too focused on how warm he was while holding you close to his side. It almost looked like something a boyfriend would do, but you knew better.
It was a strange feeling, to be so under Dabi’s influence. Every lingering touch, every heated stare... It was driving you crazy. And he knew it. He was toying with you and you couldn’t believe how much you loved it.
Your thoughts were interrupted by a chill running down your spine, only realizing that you were so caught up in your time spent with Dabi that you forgot to close the very window he had snuck through. As the night carried on it somehow got colder and you cursed the thin cardigan you found yourself wearing that did nothing to shield away the biting air.
“You cold, doll?” Dabi was surprisingly perceptive, noticing the trail of goosebumps that ran down your arms. Although, perhaps it was the sensation of his hand trailing over your skin that caused it rather than the wind.
Nodding hesitantly, he wasted no time in wrapping his hands around your waist, pulling you onto his lap. You couldn’t have held back the relieved sigh that left your lips if you tried. Because when Dabi wrapped his arms around your back, pulling you to his chest, it felt like heaven to your frigid bones.
As you curled into the embrace he couldn’t ignore how you felt on top of him. The pressure of your ass sitting on his dick drove him crazy, and it took damn near everything in him to not push you down face first and take you then and there.
“Dabi, you feel amazing,” His eyes widened, your slurred words almost making him lightheaded, “so warm...” You trailed your hands up and threaded them through his coarse dark hair. The faintest of groans left his lips as you got comfortable and accidentally dragged yourself down the front of his jeans.
All at once he took hold of the skin of your thighs, stopping you from moving and damn near shaking with effort to keep still. “Doll... cause’ you’re drunk, I’ll ask you this one time—“
“—Please, Dabi,” You didn’t budge under his bruising grasp or struggle like before, instead holding eye-contact, resolve heavy in your voice, “I want this- want you so bad,” It was enough for him, and he didn’t hold back.
He was ravenous when he finally pressed his lips to yours, leaving you tongue-tied and moaning into his mouth. The alcohol only added fuel to your desire, easing the tension on your clit by grinding against him. He broke the kiss in a choked gasp, his hands cupping you around your ass and fondling you through the thin material. When he stood up from the couch gravity somehow felt heavier, but it must’ve been from the wine. His hands still held you by your thighs and while he backed the both of you towards the bedroom his lips never left yours, even when he went to rip your cardigan off your shoulders, leaving it behind along with his coat, you in only your bra and leggings.
The loud bang from Dabi kicking the door open startling a squeak out of you and he chuckled into the kiss, running a stapled hand through your bedhead and pulling hard enough to make you keen into his touch. Rather unceremoniously he threw you onto the bed, briefly disorientating before you could make out Dabi’s alluring figure ridding himself of his clothes. Once he pulled over his shirt you saw his maimed chest covered in taught muscles and scars. As he broke your gaze to turn his attention to his jeans, fumbling with the cheap zipper, you couldn’t help from crawling towards him slowly on your knees before whispering, “No—“ He looked up from his trance, wondering if you’d changed your mind before you quickly perished the thought by pulling him towards you by the loops on his jeans. He raised an eyebrow at your show but didn’t make a move to interrupt the adorable way you took care of him.
So you began, looking into his eyes as you kissed down his deformed chest. It seemed a miracle he was even standing before you, with haphazard staples barely holding him together. You couldn’t resist giving the seams of his wounds special attention, pressing light kisses to the metal as you made your way down.
You unhooked his jeans easily, eagerly reaching to feel him through his boxers. His nails dug into your scalp when you finally eased his shorts off, breaking your eyes away to look between his legs and—
You couldn’t’ve stopped the needy moan from your lips if you tried, too attracted and nervous about the shiny bridges of metal through his dick. “Fuck, Dabi...” he had the most cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on his face as he watched you salivate over him.
“What’s wrong, baby? Never had a guy with piercings before?” You didn’t even hear him, instead responding with a dazed shake of your head; far too tipsy on the sight of him towering over you, reddened head leaking against his stomach.
He pretended to come to a decision, “Guess I’ll have to take my time with you before fucking that cute pussy,” his words sent heat straight to your core, slick pooling in your ruined panties, “but then why am I the only one naked? You’re gonna make me embarrassed you know.” The amused look on his face put you at ease and you laughed a bit at the idea.
“You? You’re the most shameless person I’ve ever met.” The smile he brought out was enough to ease the nerves that came with being so vulnerable to a man like Dabi.
The foe-offended look on his face wasn’t any less ironic, “You wound me, doll,” when his attention fell back to your clothes he didn’t hesitate to snake his hand below your arched back and unclasp your bra. Before you could think of covering yourself he’d already raised your arms up and thrown the lace material into some corner of your room.
He was on you in an instant, biting and sucking on the plush skin of your tits with abandon, enjoying every small tremor it brought from your shaking lips. To him your body was a blank canvas just begging for him to bruise, and he would take his sweet time carving teeth marks into your chest.
But while he had his fun you had yours, running your hand along his collarbones and carefully worrying the stapled hem of skin. You weren’t sure how the stitches would hold up otherwise. But before you could worry about it too much you felt him pull away, a deep hickey left in his wake.
“You don’t have to be gentle with them,” he looked up at you with an unexpected sincerity.
With that there was nothing to hold you back from dragging your nails down his chest, the villain groaning as you felt his solid stomach beneath you. From a distance he looked like a patched rag-doll that was barely holding itself together but up close the wiry muscles that clung to his calloused body couldn’t be ignored. Dabi practically hissed when he felt your soft fingers wrap around his cock, only spurring you on further. The piercings weren’t as rigid as they appeared but they were scalding to the touch.
His breathing stuttered around you as you picked up your pace, the heat of his breath pulsing on your cheek as you took in every sinful expression on his face. He cried out, squeezing his eyes shut at the pleasure. You stared unabashedly, taking note of how peaceful he looked above you. Like for the first time that night his body wasn’t wrought with chronic pain.
When you pulled your hand away his eyes shot open. “I didn’t tell you to fuckin’ stop.” He sounded pissed but before you could lose confidence you shifted your weight to the side, locking your arms together behind his to roll him over, leaving you on top.
“I wanna make you feel good, Dabi,” Thankfully he seemed to be curious as to what you had planned, letting you stay on top for now. You crawled down his body until you reached his painful hard-on. Wrapping your hand back around him you gave him the most doe eyed gaze you could manage before taking him into your mouth.
“God, that’s fuckin’ good,” He cradled your head and set his own pace, not too rough but far from gentle as you fought the urge to cough. The metal of his piercings were hot against your tongue, the heat unlike any other experience you’ve had before. Wrapping your tongue around him you intentionally hummed, the keening moan it brought from him more than worth the burn. Tears crowded near your eyelashes as he chased his own pleasure, breaking his gaze to crane his head back in ecstasy. His neck bobbed with the effort and the sight made you almost proud.
It was over far too soon and once he pulled away you almost missed the weight of him in your mouth. “I’m gonna fucking ruin you, hear me?” His words made you all too aware of how badly you needed him, but he continued to run his mouth as he pushed you up the sheets and took his place back on top of you, “Gonna fill you so good, babydoll,” He caged you beneath him and you whined at the feeling of his slick cock heavy against your thighs.
His hand cupped your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “Tell me, which do you want?” His blue eyes looked black in the feint light, staring at you with such an amused intensity that you didn’t even register what he said.
“What?”
Dabi tucked a strand of hair behind your ear before leaning closer and whispering, “My mouth? Or my fingers?”
You normally wouldn’t have been able to look him in the eye after he said that but liquid courage still ran through your veins and you leaned forward until you could nestle into the crook of his neck.
“Your fingers, Dabi,” You groaned as you felt his grip around your jawline move until his left hand curled around your neck and his right tore off your leggings before slipping below the waistband of your underwear. As soon as he touched you his eyes widened, a feral glint in his eyes.
“Fuck— Doll, you’re so fucking wet,” He squeezed your neck experimentally and the rush of endorphins sent to your head felt divine. It wasn’t to be outdone when you felt him circle your clit with his thumb, rushing into such a fast pace from the get-go. The onslaught of pleasure made a scratchy cry slip from under the grip of his hand. Wrapping your hands around his shoulders, you were almost thankful for the immovable grip around your neck. It served almost like an anchor to ground you underneath him.
He pulled a startled squeak from your throat when his two fingers pushed their way inside. It barely hurt, but the maddening feeling of his long fingers curling and stretching your walls was one you wouldn’t forget. Dabi shushed your eager cries with an endless stream of filth whispered into your ear, “Can’t wait to fuck my cum into you, dollface. You want that? You gonna be my good fucking slut?” He was downright mean as he took his time stringing you like a bow. “You wanna feel me drip out of you like a street whore?”
“Yes, Dabi, I’ll be good, I promise just please—” You were too far gone at that point, grabbing fist fulls of dark hair to yank him to your mouth, the kiss muffling his groan from you pulling on your hair. His index finger curled so slightly into you, the pace on your clit turning soft once he added his third finger. The sound he brought out of you was somewhere between a dying choke and euphoric moan, each sensation coaxing you into his touch. Feeling him move so easily within you was almost enough to bring you over, your whimpers increasing against his lips, only for all of it to be taken away.
Dabi left you grasping around nothing when he took his hands away, no doubt enjoying the desperate way you tried to rock yourself back onto him. Only when you did, you were met with something far bigger than his fingers.
“Come on...” When he called you by your name it brought you back to earth for a minute, “I want you to beg for me,” looking to see his heavy length pressed against you as he rubbed the glistening tip onto your clit. “You’re gonna beg for a villain to fuck you,” The promise of pleasure was so enticing that it was worth lying to the cops, worth risking your safety, and enough to toss your pride out the open window.
Grabbing him by his hair, you forced him to look at you. “Dabi, please, I need you... Need you in me ‘til you cum,” desperation and lust coated every sinful word you said, but Dabi wasn’t satisfied. “I wanna be good for you, Dabi, want you to fuck me, fill me up, ple-“ your words were cut off by the intense stretch of your walls trying to take him in. You’d never screamed someone’s name so loudly before in your life.
“Oh, fuck-! Shit... your pussy’s so fuckin’ tight,” As each inch sunk deeper you couldn’t speak or even breathe.
He wasn’t wasting any time, mercifully toying with your clit as he filled you. The air felt thin in your bedroom, like you were hundreds of feet from the ground, drawing short, shallow gasps beneath him.
“Da-bi!” His hips ground slowly against yours and you were suddenly thankful for his prepping, unable to come to grips with just how full you felt.
An overwhelmed laugh fell from his burnt lips as he slowly pulled himself from your dripping sex, “What’sa matter, babe? Can’t take it?”
The pout on your face only made him grin, the childish indignity adorable to him. But his teasing was starting to push you to your limits. He might’ve been a powerful villain and you a civilian, but it didn’t mean he had to treat you like glass. Hooking your legs around his waist you forced him forward. Dabi’s eyes shot open and both of you choked at the sharp friction. Any trace of playfulness died then and there, his knuckles turning white from the grip on your hips.
He kept your legs tight around him as he surged forward, your mouth caught open in a daze. You weren’t sure what his piercings would’ve felt like inside of you but god, was it good. The metal spokes impressed into your body with fervor, constantly dragging against your sensitive walls.
Tomorrow you might say that the wine was what drove you so crazy for him, but you knew you’d be lying to yourself. He was by far the most intoxicating libation you’d ever tried. The sound of skin against skin was almost deafening, only broken by the dulcet groans from the man above you and the siren that still echoed outside your widow like white noise. In the back of your mind you wondered if they were still searching for him.
Dabi leaned his head into the crook of your neck, revisiting the marks he’d already made. His teeth bit down your chest all the while abusing your aching clit. It was all too much. You couldn’t help clawing at his broad shoulders, leaving inflamed tracks in your wake. When your nails made contact with the scorched seam on his back Dabi moaned, the loud whine in his voice got you to realize something crucial. The motherfucker got off on pain.
His touch turned ravenous after that, pulling you tight against him until there wasn’t any space between your bodies. The rough texture of his skin-graphs and the blistering heat of their staples pushing against your breasts just made his brutal pace feel more intense.
Your voice was higher pitched than you’d ever thought you could manage, squeaking out small moans with every quick pulse of his hips. Your ankles were sore and locked together— he couldn’t have pulled out if he tried. The legs that were still wrapped around him twitched involuntarily as you felt the string inside your core about to snap.
“Fa.. fuck, Da—bi I’m—“ you stuttered against him, crying into his shoulder when you felt his pelvis grinding so perfectly onto your clit while he railed you, screaming his name one more time as he pulled you overboard, being sure to scratch at his back as you thrashed futilely against him.
All at once his teeth were buried into your throat, digging in so hard that you mistook his spit for blood; his bite only sharpening the orgasm that sent waves of heat coursing through you. Against your dented skin he groaned and cursed, his voice coarse but dripping with pleasure as he cursed expletives onto your shining skin. The wetness of your climax dripped down your legs, making him somehow push faster against you, but despite the blinding orgasm he’d thrown you into he couldn’t stop until he’d finished and the overstimulation burned white hot through your entire body. Just as the drive of his cock bordered on painful, Dabi shoved you down onto him, stilling above you and choking on a groan.
Twitching inside your cashmere walls you felt the warm rush of his cum paint your insides as his hips jerked into yours. His heart beat wildly against his chest— you could feel it over yours, his eyes still glazed with pleasure. Dabi was sure to pull out slowly, through the dim glow of your room he could see his cum seep out of your glistening pussy, and he couldn’t help but push his fingers inside you one last time. He might’ve liked pain, but he was an asshole who enjoyed the uncomfortable keen it brought from your trembling lips.
Thin moonlight shone through your window, illuminating the maze of blemishes that razed against his alabaster skin. It might’ve been because of the bleary tears that still half-clung to your eyelashes, but above you, with a winded smile on his torn-up face, he looked half a corpse and half a god.
“Still with me, baby?” He noticed your staring, teasing you by waving his hand in front of your face.
You felt almost high, all drowsy symptoms included, only responding to his question with a feint grin. The wine and the rough sex both made you exhausted in more ways than one, but before you could complain Dabi had shifted his weight off the bed.
“Nooo...” Admittedly you felt a little childish but you couldn’t help but pout as he grabbed his briefs and went to leave your bedroom.
Through the open doorway he’d said, “Just getting a towel, stay put.”
His absence gave you a second to think, staring up at the ceiling with a thousand opposing thoughts bidding for your attention. You just slept with a villain— a murderer. You might side with what he stands for but Dabi was still dangerous. He could’ve killed you tonight, after all. And yet, the only thing you could wonder was what was taking him so long.
Soon he returned wearing his boxers, carrying a heavy towel that he ran under the sink with warm water and took to cleaning the dribbling mess between your thighs. You cooed at his touch, the afterglow of your orgasm cleaned away until Dabi read the alarm clock on your bedside table. 4am.
“You know I can’t stay, right?” He asked bluntly, and you nodded, trying not to let the disappointment show too badly on your face.
“Villain stuff, huh?” You shrugged, curling up into your pillow. Dabi had to continue hunting down the rest of his shed clothes while he mumbled some kind of agreement.
He flashed you a grin while he zipped up his tattered jeans, “Doesn’t mean I won’t break in some other time, doll.” Relief spread through your fingertips once he said that, the weight disappearing from your shoulders.
Your content smile followed him as he threw that thick coat around his shoulders, walking up to your bedside and leaning low. You grinned, leaning forward and trying to catch him for one more kiss, only to be interrupted by the sound of something below you.
Looking down, you saw Dabi slapping a handful of crumpled bills on your end-table, that smug grin from earlier evident on his face. Without bidding you some kind of goodbye kiss he made his way to the open window, sparing you a glance before saying, “Buy some plan B, alright?”
You hadn’t even thought of it, grinning and waving him off as he swung himself onto the fire escape. The sounds of metal clanging against his boots faded away into the distant echoes of the city, and you brought your hand to your throat. Softly you traced the deep blemish his teeth had left behind, your smile turning giddy as you thought about his promise of another visit, but unfortunately the wine was still simmering through you and without Dabi to keep you awake your eyelids started to feel heavy.
Under your plush covers, you continued to cup your hand over the mark he left as you faded off into sleep, the siren that still echoed through the streets acting almost like a lullaby.
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trash-writings · 3 years
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Master At Play 
Sukuna x Fem!Reader 
Another commission! If you are interested in commissioning me, send me a DM!
Warnings: master/sir kink, power play, 1 face slap, 1 pussy slap, nipple stimulation, degradation (like a lot), choking, thigh riding, vaginal sex, oral (m. receiving), mindbreak (if you squint), yandere themes, he threatens your life at one point ok just let me know if theres more I should add here! 
Word count: 4k 
Summary: Sukuna takes an interest in the maid who works in his private quarters, perhaps it’s even developed into a need to control her beyond her job description. 
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He didn’t like making a habit of staring too long at his servants. As time went on, he realized his presence alone made them nervous and mess up whatever they were doing, so he stopped hovering whenever someone was in the room to clean or act out whatever task they’d been assigned. In all his years he’d yet to meet anyone who could handle the pressure for longer than a month, the sheer number of humans who had failed him was too high to remember… rather, that he cared to remember.
Until you came along, with your soft features, bright smile, and steady hands even when he critiqued everything you did. He wouldn’t give you the benefit of saying he was impressed by you, there had been very few that he’d even consider worthy of that. However, something about you piqued his interest.
While your good work and apparent lack of fear for him was of interest, nothing interested him more than the jealousy he felt whenever one of his butlers would talk to you or order you around. Each time one of them spoke to you, his hand would twitch. Something about you being present and attentive to anyone else, enraging. You were his, and his alone, and he planned to remind you of it.
His presence never bothered you, which was surprising to you and everyone around the estate. All the training you had to go through just to enter his palace was harder than what you’d think it would take to get into an ivy league school. By the time you’d made it through to fill the open position in his private quarters, nothing bothered you anymore as you’d seen enough to frighten you for several lifetimes.
It wasn’t easy, of course, choosing to maintain your positivity when surrounded by so many cold people and curses. But you managed it well, and most of all you did your job well. The stories were the only thing that still kept you up at night, what he might do if you slipped up. All the seasoned maids and butlers had joked about the men and women who had once occupied your position, and despite your best efforts, it was hard to not think about them. That’s why you did your best to maintain your well-gathered manners and poise as you worked.
Sukuna’s presence was daunting, to be sure. There wasn’t a moment when he was in the room that you felt fully at ease, but you knew you had to work. He was rarely in his quarters when you first began working for him, never catching a glance at him until several months in. But now, he’s been home a lot more for reasons unbeknownst to you. Now, he was more of an annoyance when you worked. His eyes always following you around, making snide comments as you dusted, or even breathing too loudly made you want to break your tools and scream.
“You already wiped down that shelf,” his deep voice startles you, not realizing he had entered the room.
“I’m sorry, Sir.” You look to the ground as you were trained to do and move to the next shelf. Carefully moving the antiques from the shelf to the next as you dusted was the hardest part to do while he watched. If your fingers moved even the slightest, you knew you’d drop it.
Sukuna moves across the large room, sitting down on the dark brown armchair, leaning on the left arm. His cheek rests softly against the back of his fingers as he watches you continue to clean his room. The maid outfit he picked out centuries ago fits you like a glove, he notices. It’s hard not to watch you, the way you gracefully navigate between pieces of furniture and carefully ensure everything remains dust free.
“Don’t break that,” he says to provoke you. Knowing this, you extra carefully set back down the glazed vase back on the dark wood shelf.
“I won’t, Sir.” You tell him as it sets soundly on the shelf and you back away.
You’re always so polite, so pristine, and so innocent Sukuna realizes. He wants nothing more than to get under your skin, but you won’t let him. You’re not going to be like the others who’s rage, and outbursts couldn’t be contained. You want to please him most of all and being patient and perfect at your job is how you think it’ll please him most.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” You keep your head down, not daring to look up at his red eyes. You’ve only really looked at him from afar, always across the room and not getting close enough to see him. But, like everything else you know about him, you’ve heard stories.
“Come kneel,” he orders, and you set your supplies down on the floor to quickly cross the room in front of him.
Getting on your knees, you lay your hands on your lap and continue looking down. You catch a glimpse of his shoe-less feet, and notice the markings continue all the way to his toes. While of course it makes sense that they would… a soft giggle passes your lips and your body tenses with regret.
“Is something funny?” He leans forward, reaching one arm out to take your chin between his forefinger and thumb.
You oblige, letting him lift your face to where you’re staring straight at him. Trying your best, you manage to keep your face neutral. The corner of his lips upturns, frightening you. It’s not a smile, nor a smirk really, but instead an amused look that unnerves you to your core.
“N-no,” your voice trembles and his amusement grows.
He tilts his head and lets out a long sigh. “I don’t believe you,” he warns. “However, I’m feeling generous today, so I’ll let it slide just this once.” The desperate look in your eyes making his cock twitch under his robes.
“I-it won’t happen a-again,” despite trying to steady yourself, you can’t.
He’s frightening this close.
His face now just inches from yours.
He’s attractive in a strange way. Something you’d never consider of someone with two sets of eyes and all the dark curse markings displayed across his skin. Now you wonder why this fear is still bubbling inside of you but the burning in your stomach and racing heart are telling another story. It’s confusing and overwhelming the way you feel looking into his eyes, trying not to pull away or run from the room.
“I know it won’t,” he states releasing your face. “However,” you can feel your legs tremble as the word passes his lips. What could he possibly have issue with? “Your loyalty to me has been in question.”
“Sir, I would-“ a harsh slap to your cheek silences you and you drop your gaze to the floor. You know you shouldn’t have spoken without his permission. You know you shouldn’t have.
“Quiet!” His voice is so loud it rattles the different antiques around the room that you just carefully cleaned. “Look up at me.” You do. His hand reaches out, fingers latching around your throat and bringing you from your kneeling position to where you’re standing on your knees now.
Your hands instinctively grab his arm, his muscles flexing underneath your palms as you desperately hang onto him, scared he’ll bring you past your knees where you’ll have no balance but his hand around your throat. His thumb and fingers tighten, your air and blood flow restricted and making you panic. Your head feels so light, you’re clawing at his arm now to let you go.
“You look deliciously desperate, little one.” He coos, a hint of laughter in his voice. “I could easily kill you right now, you know. You’re barely putting up a fight. I don’t think it would even be worth my time.”
His fingers loosen their grip, and you fall to the ground choking and holding yourself up on your hands and knees as he leans back in his seat. Your arms are trembling, along with your legs. He’s barely touched you and you feel yourself crumbling here in front of him. Peaking up from your lashes at him, you see he’s back to looking unamused and leaning on his left arm.
“Stand up and come closer,” he orders you and you reluctantly push yourself from the ground. Did this really have to be your first true interaction with him? Having never said more than yes or no sir to him, you’d only nodded or gotten out of his way. His sudden interest on you in terrifying… but if it’s so terrifying, why do you feel your panties getting sticky underneath your uniform?
As you step as close as you can to him without touching him, he sits up in his chair and pats his right thigh. “Sit,” he orders. You go to sit across his thigh, but he stops you. “Not like that, dumb little thing. Straddle it. I know you’re aching for some pleasure.”
You don’t move, scared to do what he wants. Is this a trick? Why would he want you to ride his thigh after he threatened your life? You want to, he’s right. You’re desperate for it, truly.
“What good is a servant who can’t follow orders?” He scoffs, reaching up and taking your hips between his hand and pulling you down on him. Your cunt throbs as he forces you onto his thigh. His thigh is hard between your leg, and you know he’ll feel good against your clit, but you’re still to stunned to know what he will allow you to do.
“C-can I?” You stutter out, still irritated with how pathetic you must sound to him. However, he loves it. Watching you ask for permission for each and every step, your innocence begging to be torn apart.
He chuckles, “Show me how devoted you are to me.”
Releasing the tight grip on your hips, you’re able to roll them once and a soft cry passes your lips as your panties pull at your slit as you move on his thigh. His hands trails up your body, fingers digging into your sides squeezing your body as you continue your slow motions on him. You reach out tentatively, placing your hands on his shoulders so you can steady yourself to move faster.
“Good girl,” he praises, encouraging you. The two simple words go straight to your core, fueling your desire.
He impatiently tears your dress form the bust to your core, the fabric falling off your body and pooling around you waist and his thighs.  Your nipples perk up as he pulls your bra cups down, giving him full access to pinch your nipples and you cry out loudly, the pain turning to pleasure as you ride him.
“Look at how pathetic you are,” he chuckles toughly groping your breasts in his hands. “You’re gonna cum just from my leg aren’t you, little one? Like a good little whore.”
“Mhmm,” you whine unable to focus on replying as you desperately grind your cunt on his thigh. The stimulation from your panties tugging and the pressure form his though you’re so close. Another roll of your hips and you know you’re about to come undone.
“Are you going to cum already?” He chuckles lifting you off his thigh with ease; ruining your orgasm and making you whine loudly. “You’re a horny little whore, aren’t you? All you want is to get off and not do any work.”
You pout your lip out, hoping being cute will do something for him and let you continue… or do something else. Looking down at him as his eyes roam your body is torture, you have no idea what he’s thinking or what he might do.
“S-sir,” you whine, wanting him to do something other than just stare at you. He laughs, your pitifulness endearing to him; not something he’d ever voice aloud to you. “Want more,” you tell him.
Sukuna’s laugh shifts, something darker and demeaning in tone. He stands you up in front of him, your torn uniform falling to the ground around your ankles, leaving you in in just your underwear as he shifts his robe. Biting your bottom lip, you nervously wait to see what you’re going to have to take now.
Sukuna takes his cock in his hand, stroking the thick length once to relieve the tension that’s built up from teasing you for so long. The way your eyes devour him before he gives you permission to touch him thrills him. Your teeth holding your bottom lip between them makes his mind wonder, marking you as his becoming his only goal for the evening.
“Do you deserve this yet?” He asks you and you desperately nod, wanting nothing more than to sink down on his cock and let him fill you whole despite how daunting it looks now in front of you. You’re almost sure you can’t take him all. But you want to try. “Get on your knees and show me then,” he orders.
You’re quick to follow his demand. Timidly reaching up and replacing his hand on his cock. You admire the dark black lines that run up either side of him, his veins making it look uneven and rough. You shiver at the thought of him inside of you, tugging at your walls as hi thrusts in and out of you.
“Do I need to call another maid or are you going to do your job?” His irritation is seeping out of him, your body heating up and burning your insides. “I’m sure any one of those brainless girls would know what to do without hesitating.”
Opening your mouth, you decide it’s better to not make him wait any longer. The head of his cock is leaking precum and it tastes salty on your tongue as you take him until he’s hitting the back of your throat and grabbing your hair to hold you still. He groans as your tongue drags across the bottom of his cock and you gag on the head.
“Good fucking girl,” he groans pushing your head down further as his pubic hair tickles your nose and you choke on him, making the lewdest noises you’ve ever spewed.
Your cunt clenches around nothing as he praises you again. Each one leaves you wanting more and more while you suck him off. You find that as you tease his head with your tongue and massage his balls, he becomes increasingly louder and praises you more.
He pulls you back by your hair, a shining string of spit still connecting your mouth to the head of his cock. He pulls you in, your chest hitting his as he sloppily kisses you, his tongue massaging yours and invading your throat. It’s impossible to feel like he’s not consuming you whole, and even if he were, you know now you wouldn’t resist.
He pulls away from the kiss and speaks to you slowly, his voice commanding every ounce of sense you have to forget about everything else but his words. “If you like to toy with my balls so much, why don’t you suck on them like a good little whore.”
“Yes, Sir.”
You’re dropped back to your knees, and you spit in your hand to stroke his cock smoothly while you take his balls in your mouth. You lick between them once, teasing with just the tip of your tongue earning a deep grunt from him. It’s unexpected that he’s so patient with your teasing, but maybe this is his one sensitive spot where he’s okay letting you take your time with him.
He feels so heavy on your tongue when you suck on one side, desperate to hear him really moan. You struggle to take both in, your mouth so full you can barely move your tongue, but his tight grip on your hair lets you know he loves it. Popping them out of your mouth you give yourself a second to catch your breath and lick up the backside of his cock from the base to the tip. Leaving a small kiss on the top, your lip covering with precum.
“You taste so good, Sir.” Flattery, he has to like it. There’s no way the King of Curses wouldn’t like it, right?
His smirk confirms your theory.
“Wanna taste your cum,” you tell him looking up at him with the most innocent look you can muster. “Bet it tastes s’good.”
“I don’t think you’ve been good enough for that,” he laughs pulling you up onto his lap. “Plus, I haven’t gotten to use this pretty little pussy yet. Don’t you want me to fuck you?” His fingers creep between your thighs, middle finger dipping between your folds and teasing your throbbing clit.
“Please! Want your cock so bad!” The words come from your mouth without a thought. You feel you’re losing control of your instincts and letting yourself fall into a totally new headspace that Sukuna alone owns.  
He stands up and you wrap your legs around his waist, his cock nestled against your cunt and his stomach. He carries you over to his bed, dropping you on your back and shedding his robe on the floor. He grabs your right ankle, pulling you roughly down to the end of the bed, lining your ass up with the end and folding your legs into yourself. His hands squeeze the back of your thighs, the pressure sure to leave fingerprint bruises all over.
He slaps your cunt once, and you squeal loudly while he laughs.
“Look at you! You’re so fucking wet.” He rubs the head of his cock up and down your slit, while you close your eyes and dig your nails into the bedding. “I like good girls who don’t need prepped. So desperate and needy for my cock they do it themselves.”
The head of his cock slips in with ease, stretching your hole and making you cry out. He’s so thick you already feel like you’re being torn in two.
“Too much!” You cry out, feeling pathetic for the words.
“You can take it. You will take it.” He thrusts inside of you, and you scream. Your vision goes black for a moment and you try to pull away, but his hold on your thighs makes it an impossible task. “Open your eyes,” he tells you.
You open your eyes and see he’s parted your legs just enough to show you how you’re being fucked.
“Look at that, your pussy is devouring every inch of me.” He chuckles slowly dragging himself out to the tip before slamming back inside of you. “So fucking tight.”
You can’t speak, the pain fading as you adjust to his size and begin to feel it be replaced with pleasure. Each drag of his cock inside of you making you see stars and cry out for him. He loves every little whimper, gasp, and curse that falls from your lips.
Watching your eyes roll back into your head is his favorite part. You’re to fucked out already to even try and hold your composure he knows you’ve desperately clung to since starting to work for him. You clench around him so tightly he could cum now, but what fun would that be? HE releases your legs and pulls out of you.
Grabbing your hips and flipping you over he pulls your ass towards him, your legs dangling off the bed while you struggle to catch your footing. He’s inside you before you can, fucking you into the mattress and squeezing your ass so tightly you can’t move. His thrusts are rough, the head of his cock reaching new depths inside of you and beating against your cervix.
“S-sir please, it’s too much!” You beg, not sure if your body can hold up at this pace. You’re embarrassed by how good it feels to be thrown around like this, your body feeling lighter than air by the way he handles you. Drool runs down your cheek and onto the bedding, leaving a pool in its wake. He’ll surely make you change it again.
He doesn’t answer, slapping your ass in response. “You can take it,” he scoffs annoyed with your insolence.
You’re lucky, he thinks, there’s so much more he could do to you. He could be so much rougher. Breaking you down until you were nothing but a cute little toy for him to play with. It’s too soon to do this to you just yet. The process is the longest part, but the rewards he reaps are always worth it. Right now, he can see with your pliable body and beautiful cries that you’ll be the perfect toy for him to play with for the weeks to come.
“Sukuna!” You can’t help but use his name and hope he won’t hurt you. “Wanna cum!”
He can’t stop the way his body reacts to you using his name. It’s unexpected and not to his liking, but the way your cunt clenches around him he’s okay to let it slide just this once. “Cum then,” he spits gripping your hips and pulling your body into his as he fucks into you harder.
You have to let your body fall into the mattress with your face as you cum. It’s overwhelming euphoric and you let go. Sukuna continues fucking you through your orgasm, harder than before and you swear he’s tearing your insides apart.
“That’s it, let me have all of you.” With no resistance from you now, he cums grunting and holding your ass against him.
You’re so hot and full, you can feel his cum streaming down your thighs and as he pulls out you fall against the bed. Curled up, you can’t move, your muscles worn down from his demands. Sukuna looks unfazed, cleaning himself up with a towel and sitting on the edge of the bed next to you.
“Clean yourself up,” he tells you tossing the towel on your body. “I’ll send for some clothes for you. I don’t want you leaving this room. Do you understand?” You nod, sitting up and wiping the cum from your thighs and off the bed.
“Why can’t I leave?” Your words are slow, testing to see if he’s okay with you asking.
He smiles at you. It’s not sweet or comforting. Instead, it reminds you of exactly who he is, shaking you to your core. “You’re going to be my good little girl now. Do you understand?” He reaches out, balancing your chin on his forefinger and rubbing his thumb over your bottom lip.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Another thing… address me by my name without my permission again and I will make it impossible for you to sit or stand for a week.”
“Yes, Sir.” You bite back the tremble in your voice, and he walks away towards his bathroom adjacent to his room.
He disappears behind the door, and you’re unsure of what to do. Everything was so fast and in the moment that now you’re thinking straight it’s all the more confusing. A maid enters the room, and you cover yourself as she drops the clothing for you on the table by the door as you’ve done many times for Sukuna.
She gives you a sad look before scurrying out of the room.
“----!” Sukuna’s voice booms through the rooms, making you jump as you try to get changed. You realize this is the first time you’ve heard your own name in months.
“Yes, Sir?” You call back.
“Get in here and clean yourself. I want you fresh and ready for next time.”
450 notes · View notes
kokiseiko · 3 years
Text
Fleeting Touches and Unbreakable Bonds
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Shouta Aizawa x Reader; Hizashi Yamada x Reader
Song Recommendation: All I Ask - Adele
(Y/N) – Your Name
(L/N) – Last Name
Word Count: 1.8k +
Fandom: My Hero Academia | Boku no Hero Academia
Pairing: Shouta Aizawa x Pro-Hero!Reader; Hizashi Yamada x Pro-Hero!Reader
Rating: SFW
Warnings: Angst, Bittersweet
Summary: Is it possible to love someone so much that you can’t let go even after death?
Note: This is a special request made by my lovely fellow Aizawa simp: @nire-chann​.
Thank you for beta-reading this for me Ate Selene @yourgoddessselene​ | @saudade-mayari​
The events that had happened at the start of this fic are a few months after Aizawa became a teacher at UA.
A rush of sudden adrenaline that wracks your body, heart pounding, ears ringing, your entire system shaking with emotions you can’t even pinpoint. Walking towards the white-lined road of the city, the rays of the noon sun spilling all over the bent light posts, the once smooth grey cement on the sidewalks now cracked, malfunctioning traffic lights blinking and crackling, the aftermath: debris of the earlier commotion.
It was an explosion, a burst of dust-filled smoke that pained the eyes of individuals who unfortunately had it opened, then a sickening crash of building facades, window splinters raining throughout the area, injuring civilians from which you’ve catered immediately. Quickly healing wounds and giving directions for immediate evacuation.
You were Frantic. Desperate. Searching throughout the wreckage even when your quirk wasn’t for such. Continuing to move through the rubbles of building you spot the shine of the once yellow gear now cracked, broken into three, not far from it was a mass of black, crimson spilling underneath him, a shine of a bloodied band adorning his right hand.
You knew that it was near impossible even with your quirk to stabilize him, yet you continue, hands glowing in hues of emerald as you move his blood-soaked charcoal locks.
---
He feels lighter every passing second, but your presence grounds him. There’s so much more to say, to feel, to do. He sighs internally, he looks at you with such intent, he wants to let you know, to speak to you, but how can he, when his throat feels restricted. Even lifting his hand to touch your tear-stained cheeks to help ease the furrow in your brows had him use too much energy.
There was so much more, but having to look at you with all the emotions he could muster in his two light-grey orbs are what he could only communicate with. He can’t speak anymore, but he wants to at least taste your lips one last time.
To at least feel your heat and the cool contrast of your wet cheeks.
He’s barely noticing the tingle of nerves, that strange warm sensation he used to feel whenever you used to tend to his wounds, his injuries. His eyes wrinkle slightly when he remembers your pout during a rant a few days ago, your plump lips moving and going on about him being reckless.
He’s doing it again, but it has been too long since he had let himself fall through a never-ending well of questions, of replays, flashbacks, images, doubts, concerns. This may be the last time he’ll ever let himself tumble throughout the dark abyss of just him and his thoughts.
Was he content? He doesn’t know.
He just simply wants to remember your smile, your tears. You.
You were his anchor back then. Back when he was crumbling into a mess of a wanna-be hero who had his friend die during Hero-Work Studies.
You pulled him up when he was too tired to even recognize and register the warmth feeling in his chest that was being overpowered with guilt, regret, and frustration.
He never really accommodated these positive feelings, thinking that they would just be swept away with a whoosh of wind, only to return with a hard blow of hatred, anger, and pain.
He doesn’t want to experience that again, to go through that momentary shock and be hit with the sad consciousness of reality.
His throaty whisper was heard above the ringing in your ears: “Thank you…” for loving me, he wants to add, for being with me… I’ve loved you, tears cascading his cheeks
“I’m sorry…” for not acknowledging these wonderful feelings, for taking so long to let you know that, looking to your also wet cheeks, eyes pooling with tears from frustration? Sadness? Pain? Maybe a mix of three he guessed, “… I love you.”
He feels the gradual easing of his muscles all throughout his body. The blood rushing throughout his veins were subliminally slowing. The wet pelts of your tears dropping down his features would be a mere afterthought if he wasn’t focusing so much on you, but alas, his own mind was keeping him from doing so.
Even within his last seconds, his mind kept him prisoner.
His mind where everything was being played. His head spinning with the rapid successions of memories he subconsciously held dear. The majority of the replays containing you, your comforting touch when he needed an anchor, your soft kisses during those casual dates back in his favorite café, the hitch of your breath when you momentarily stopped the cute cooing noises you made whenever you petted the cats as you trailed your eyes on his kneeling form, your whispered ‘yes’ when he finally popped the question “Marry me?”, your wobbly smile when you walked down the red-carpeted aisle, the crack of your voice as your eyes that were holding nothing but love and adoration staring right at him as you began to state your vows began to pool.
Smiling.
He never thought that in his last moments he would be smiling. You’ve made him do things he thought he’d never do in this short life of his. And for that, he’s thankful.
You are truly something else.
***
Breathing was hard. His every inhale didn’t even feel like air, it’s akin to something much more condense. Black was all that surrounds him: a pool of nothing but midnight skies. A weird sensation constantly falling down to a never-ending night is what grounds him to- what exactly.
Though his throat was constricted, a single sound not able to flutter out his lips, his thoughts seemed loud on this vast plain of nothingness.
Where was he?
How can he even breathe?
“You’re still bound.”
What?
“You need to let go.”
Looking around him to at least locate the voice’s body was futile. Was this in his head?
“No. You’re in the middle. Stuck.”
Middle?
“Your time’s done, but you’re still tied down… by your bonds. Let go.”
Realizing what this meant he answered the disembodied voice in his head, I can’t.
A chilling gust of an unknown wind made its way throughout his existence.
***
It can’t be. He knows it can’t happen. He died. How can he still be standing- oh.
He doesn’t know whatever the wind did to him, but he at least deduced that it returned him to you.
You who was now kneeling in the mix of wet gravel and grass whilst staring into the distance with streams still flowing down your puffed eyes, cheeks streaked with layers of endless tears that managed to drip down your wobbling chin, your neck covered in his scarf that had splats of dried hazel-vermillion.
How long was he falling back there?
Two new sounds of weeping.
He sees that the usual gravity-defying golden hair was now instead streaking down the shoulders of a black leather jacket-clad voice hero. Mic. A figure kneeling down beside your form, hugging your side, whose body shook with great intensity together with yours. Midnight.
He aches. Thorns felt like they were encasing him within.
For a moment he wants to hold you, to comfort you, placing his hand to your other shoulder, placing the loose strand of hair behind your ear, but you don’t seem to sense him.
***
It’s been a long month of just watching, of just seeing but not being able to do anything. He hates the unfairness of it all.
He tries. Convincing himself that his touches were felt, that his hugs were warming your numbness, that his kisses were making the sting dwindle little by little, that him laying by the other side of your bed while you sleep with a pillow covered in his old shirt lets you know that he’s still there, that he still loves you, that he still can’t won’t let go.
His touches on your shoulder, which were supposed to reassure you just in turn made you shiver and look confused, bewildered even.
He wants to be heard, to be felt, to exist, but his traces no longer lingered, only a mere susurrate, a short-lived touch in your still graying ambience.
He wants to hold you while you cry and let all of the frustrations out of that head of yours, where he knows that like him you’re stuck, in your own scribbles of granite thoughts, that you too were deprived of the other’s warmth, that you too felt like a shell stuck with all of this sand you called your chaos, your blurring mix of feelings.
And as weeks turns into fleeting months. Months of winter blooming into a spring of years, left on autumn, in auto-pilot, watching, always nearby to see you recover. Recover from the debris and aching splinters that his existence left behind, while he still remains crumbling, pieces of him falling.
“Thank you Hizashi… you grounded me when it all felt like a dream.”
He should’ve been the one doing what Hizashi is now. It should’ve been black instead of gold that you were nuzzling into. It should’ve been his deep baritone rather than the smooth and gentle voice Hizashi uses whenever he encourages, supports, and anchors you.
He should’ve been the one holding your hand whenever you sit in a creaky wooden bench in a nearby park to admire the sunset.
“I know that it’s impossible to reciprocate what I’m about to say, but I at least wanted to let you know-”
“I like you too, Zashi’.”
He should’ve been the one you’re tending, taking care of. Your tears of frustration and aura of concern that was once reserved for him was now for another blond.
“Zashi’ you should start being much more careful you know?”
“I promise I will- ow!”, your smiles at his friend’s idiotic antics just adds jealousy to his mix of resentment and longing.
He should’ve been the only one who sees your gaze of fondness swirling in your beautiful solemn orbs.
But he can’t. He can’t anymore.
And to that he goes back to that midnight swirl, that feeling of falling, to that voice inside his head that was constantly questioning him, encouraging him to release the rope that was still bruising his slowly crumbling heart that he’s put at the back of his mind, not yet wanting to face the reality of the other side, a world without your soft hands holding his cheeks, an existence without your love.
“Surrender Shouta…”
It all felt like déjà vu. Your pretty face blurred with the sheer veil. Soft smiles and salty droplets of tears. The gold-lined red carpet. The people present. It was all like back then, but instead of that classic black tuxedo and a black bow tie, it was a white suit and a navy blue tie.
You’re smiling… at him. Looking directly at him.
It was a whisper, a message just for him; words that helped him to finally let go, to accept, and to be patient.
“Shouta… I hope that you still remember that you will forever be a part of me. Until the next life Shouta Aizawa. Wait for me, we’ll start again; continue what we can’t finish.”
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I hope you all liked this piece. My requests are (finally) open.
104 notes · View notes
blossom-hwa · 3 years
Text
You Look So Lovely, Darling (I’ll Love You for Lifetimes) - |BaL|
Kinda feels weird to be writing the proposal scene so early, but like? This drabble series is all out of order so whatever lmao :) enjoy some sweet nervous channie who just wants his proposal to be perfect <3
(and again, thanks to @deathbykpopboys​ for helping me work out this scene!! I LITERALLY owe you the world if you ever have ANY requests I'll be willing to write them :D)
Pairing: Chan x fem!reader
Genre: fluff, slice of life, single parent!au
Triggers: cursing
Word Count: 2.9k
Chan just wants to give you a picture perfect proposal - why is that so hard?
SKZ Masterlist | Breathe, and Live | Touching Stars (TBZ teacher!au)
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Proposing, Chan comes to learn, is no easy task.
It looks so simple in movies. One of the couple pulls a ring out of their pocket, kneels down in front of their significant other, and pops the question. There might be tears, but it always ends in pure joy.
Movies make it seem like a formula, a simple algorithm that Chan just has to follow in order to get this proposal right. In real life, though, Chan thinks he’s about to lose his mind.
Because movies don’t demonstrate how to act in front of an older brother very protective of his sister. They don’t show him how to talk to his children or hers, how best to ask them if they’re all right with gaining new siblings and a new parent. They don’t give him insight on how to pick the perfect god damn ring, something maybe reminiscent of the promise rings you both wear on chains around your necks, but also not too similar because what if you think he isn’t being creative?
And the worst thing is, they don’t tell him how to pick the perfect moment. They don’t tell him where to go, what ambience is right, whether or not little kids in the room will ruin the timing.
At this point, just thinking about proposing turns Chan into a stammering mess. Even though you’ve discussed marriage before, you haven’t made any large moves beyond that. Jisung and Felix have been calling you Mama for a bit, but Hyunjin has only just started calling him Papa, and mostly on accident (though each time he does, Chan’s heart fills with this overwhelming happiness that brings tears to his eyes). What if you decide now isn’t the right time? What if you decide you want to wait a little longer?
What if you decide Chan isn’t the right person for you?
That’s a question that plagues Chan every time his mind even brushes on the topic of marriage.
He loves you, though, he loves you so much. And he knows you’re the right partner for him, even if in the end you might decide he isn’t the right partner for you.
Patience, he tells himself, taking a deep breath. He really should be working on this new track, but instead, he’s staring into his hands, trying to map out the perfect proposal. Not too fast, Chan. Take it in steps.
The only problem is, step one scares him out of his wits.
. . . . .
Chan is a full year older than Minho, and then some. By all rights, he’s the elder, and he shouldn’t be as terrified of the younger man as he is.
Minho’s a scary person, though. He’s driven, concentrated, focused – it’s how he’s gotten so far as both a dancer and a father. Chan knows he’s hardworking, but Minho is just as much, if not more, than he is.
And he’s very protective of you.
(When Minho found out you two were dating, he told Chan, verbatim, “I won’t hesitate to take you to international waters, chop up your body, and toss the parts overboard if you hurt my sister.” Just thinking about the blank expression Minho had on when he spoke those words is almost enough to make Chan lose his nerve.)
But here he is, standing just outside of Minho’s studio, ready to knock. He’s sweating, not because it’s hot or anything (it’s actually pretty cold because Minho is weird like that), but just out of sheer nervousness. His heart feels like it’s pounding a mile a minute.
Oh, God. Chan raises his hand again to rap on the door. Stop thinking. Just do it.
He knocks.
A few seconds later, the dancer opens the door in all his sweaty glory. “Chan?”
“Yeah.” Chan tries to smile, but he’s pretty sure it just looks like a grimace. “Can I ask you something?”
A glint comes into Minho’s eyes. “Of course, come on in.” He opens the door widely, smiling in a distinctly cat-like fashion that is literally scrambling Chan’s brain.
Why does he look like he knows what Chan’s about to ask?
The door swings shut with a soft but audible click, and with the noise goes Chan’s last chance to run away.
“So?” Minho looks over once Chan’s inside the room. He’s enjoying this way too much.
There’s no way he doesn’t know what I want to ask.
“I… um, so I’ve been dating your sister for a few years,” Chan starts.
Minho actually snorts. “Yes, I’m aware.”
Chan can feel the tips of his ears turning bright red. “Right. Um, I just wanted your approval for – I’m planning to – well, with your permission, of course –”
The smirk on Minho’s face only grows with each stuttering word that comes out of Chan’s mouth. And in all honesty, he actually has no idea what he’s saying. All of the sentences he rehearsed in his head before coming here seem to have completely flown out of his brain, and from Minho’s expression, he just sounds like an idiot.
He keeps going anyway, because nervous Chan doesn’t always make the best decisions to make himself look good.
“Well – um, look, I just really love her a lot.” Chan looks down with the admission, knowing he’s definitely rambled too much already, but he needs to get on with it and ask the stupid question. “I… wantedtoaskifyouwouldbeokaywithmeaskingtomarryher.”
Minho leans forward, eyes innocently wide. “Sorry, I didn’t get that, can you repeat what you said again?”
Lee Minho, you are a grade-A asshole.
Face burning, Chan clears his throat. “I wanted to ask if you would be okay with me asking to marry her. Your sister, I mean.”
Silence. Minho leaves him in silence for five whole seconds which feel more like five millennia. Chan thinks he’s going to crumble into dust on the floor out of terror and embarrassment.
“Do you have a ring?” Minho finally asks.
Chan’s cheeks burn redder. “Not… not yet.”
“So you’ll need help picking one, then?” The dancer raises one perfect eyebrow.
“… Yes?”
“Beautiful. I’ll be there whenever you need me.” Minho smiles. “Anything else you wanted to ask?”
Chan just stands there, dumbfounded. “So… is your answer yes?”
The smile immediately drops off of Minho’s face, replaced by an eye roll and a sigh. “Yes, Bang Chan, you idiot.” He punches Chan’s shoulder. “No one’s ever going to fully deserve Y/N, but you’re the closest I think anyone’s going to get. You really thought I’d say no?”
Rubbing his arm, Chan smiles sheepishly. “You can’t blame me for being nervous.”
“What? Nervous, around me?” Minho laughs, sharp and loud. Even though Chan knows he’s teasing, it’s still a bit frightening. “Never would’ve thought that.”
“You’re just proving my point,” Chan says.
“No, I’m not.” Minho smiles, close-lipped and slit-eyed. It’s terrifying. “Now, off you go. And don’t come back unless you need help picking a ring!”
It takes Chan five minutes of sitting in the hallway, garnering strange looks from several people passing by, before his legs are stable enough to take him back to his own studio. Heart still pounding, he mentally crosses a line through step one.
Next comes step two. Chan purses his lips. Step two is a bit less scary than step one (mostly because it involves children and not Lee Minho), but no less challenging.
Well, he got through Minho. Chan sighs. He just has to hope that the kids will be as receptive to the idea of a new parent as Minho was to a brother-in-law.
. . . . .
The kids know that you and Chan are at least, in some shape or form, together. They might not understand the nuances, like how you’re technically dating but don’t always refer to yourselves as boyfriend and girlfriend (because it just feels so much deeper than that, somehow), but they understand that you two “like” each other (Jisung pretends to vomit every time he hears the word “love,” so Chan just uses the word “like” to avoid that) and thus live together.
They love it, most of the time. Hyunjin was a little put out when he found out he would have to share a room with two other boys, but after Minho moved out and Hyunjin realized he would get his uncle’s old (and slightly bigger) room, he happily accepted the new plan. Jisung and Felix were mostly just happy to live with their best friend.
(Children, Chan just thinks. They’re so easy and so hard to please.)
Of course, there are difficulties. Jisung’s sensitive and has more than once broken down when he thinks Chan isn’t giving him enough attention with a new boy in the household. Felix’s tantrums are rarer, but they exist, and Hyunjin is still getting used to sharing his mom with someone else.
They’re a family, though, a messy, mostly happy family that can pull together at the end of the day and whisper “I love yous” to each other before bedtime. And that’s something Chan values more than anything in the world.
Which is why obtaining his kids’ approval for officially tying the knot is something so important to him.
He gathers them together one day in the apartment with the promise of watching a cartoon show after he asks them something. Three pairs of big eyes stare up at him from the couch, and Chan feels his heart melting with love and racing with anxiety.
Chan takes a breath. “Do you know what marriage is?”
“Yeah!” Jisung pipes up. “It’s when a girl and a boy get together and kiss!”
The laughter spills out of Chan’s mouth before he can even think. “Well, not quite, Jisung,” he chokes out, trying to stifle his remaining giggles. “It’s when two people who love each other very much get together officially. Marriage can be between a woman and a man, a man and a man, or a woman and a woman. Any two people can get married.”
Three small heads bob their heads in understanding.
“I wanted to ask you three if you would be okay with me marrying Y/N.” Chan looks each of the boys in the eye. “Is it?”
Felix nods quickly. “Yes!”
Jisung furrows his eyebrows. “Are we still going to live together?”
Chan smiles. “Yes, Sungie.”
The other twin nods. “Okay!”
Hyunjin’s mouth pouts slightly. “Will I have to call you Papa?”
A little piece of Chan’s heart breaks, but he tries not to show it. “No, of course not, Hyunjin.” He smiles as brightly as he can. “You can keep calling me Channie or Uncle Channie or whatever you want. You don’t have to call me Papa if you don’t want to.”
Hyunjin’s round, dark eyes gaze into his with a solemnity Chan honestly didn’t know toddlers could have. “Do you want me to call you Papa?”
Oh, fuck.
What the hell does Chan say to that?
With a sigh, he decides to be honest. “I would love it if you did, Hyunjin, but like I said, you don’t have to. I’ll never force you to do something you really don’t want to.”
There are a few seconds of silence, then Hyunjin nods. “Okay. You can marry my Mama.”
A weight lifts itself off of Chan’s chest and he smiles, freer this time. “Thank you, kids. One more thing – don’t tell Y/N about this!” He looks into each of their eyes, trying to convey how serious he is but in a fun way. “It’s a secret, okay?”
“Like a spy mission?” Jisung bounces in excitement.
The smile on his face widens. “Yes, Sungie. Like a spy mission.” He looks at the other two boys. “Do you promise? Pinky promise?” He holds out his pinkie.
The three resulting shouts of “YES!” make Chan hope their neighbors won’t come knocking. But even if they did, Chan thinks, he wouldn’t care.
He’d go to the ends of the earth to defend these three kids, after all.
. . . . .
Step three goes by in a flash. Out of sheer anxiety, Chan actually takes a full day off from work and calls Minho for help in finding the perfect ring.
Miraculously, he finds something within his budget range – a silver band with a small diamond set in the center. It’s simple but elegant, and the diamond glints beautifully in the sunlight. Really, the ring matches the way Chan often finds himself summing up your existence.
So only the last step remains: the actual proposal.
Looking back, Chan has no idea why he thought each of the other steps was so stressful. This is pure stress, he thinks, waiting for the perfect time to pop the question. Should he plan something extravagant? Or should he just go with the flow? When is the perfect time, anyway? What constitutes “perfect” in your mind? In his?
Minho just tells him to wait for the moment he thinks is “right.” But what the hell does “right” even mean?
“You’ll figure it out.” The dancer gives Chan a bright grin, patting his shoulder. “And if you don’t, I’ll tear you limb from limb.”
Chan just puts his face in his hands and screams.
. . . . .
When Chan proposes, the sky is dark. The kids are already tucked in bed, and you’re sitting on the couch, leaning into his shoulder as you mindlessly scroll through your phone.
Absently strumming his guitar, Chan smiles down at your face, illuminated by your phone’s glow. As if sensing him staring, you look up as well. “Sing me something?” you murmur.
“Of course, love.” He leans down to kiss the top of your head. “What song?”
“Anything you choose,” you reply. “Anything.”
Chan thinks for a moment, then starts strumming the instrument.
Softly, with mood, tightly hug her
Use it once a day, every day…
When your eyes meet hers, smile.
The characteristic chords of one of your favorite songs make you relax even further into Chan’s body, a smile blooming across your face. He badly wants to stop playing and just kiss you good and full, but he keeps his fingers strumming the guitar.
Let her breathe under a different sky, a different wind,
Sometimes, kiss her without a plan…
Chan almost stops playing.
Without a plan.
He doesn’t have a plan. He doesn’t have any proper plan on how he’s going to pull the little box out of his pocket and ask the question. But now…
Maybe he’s got an idea.
The final chords die away, and Chan finally gets his long-awaited kiss when you sit up lethargically, pressing your lips to his softly. “Are you awake enough for one more?” he whispers when you pull away.
“Mm, one more.” You nod happily, snuggling back into his side. “Then sleep.”
Chan takes a breath. One chance, Chan. This is your chance.
His fingers start strumming a song very familiar by now to him and the boys. From the way your eyes light up, you recognize it too.
It doesn’t have words. It’s just a collection of guitar chords, hastily arranged in a sweet, rough melody. In the track version, it would have piano, but because Chan only has two hands, he has to make do with just the strings of the guitar.
It’s the first song he ever wrote for his twins, the song he created that day so many years ago when they weren’t even born, when they were still kicking in their mother’s stomach. They think of it as their family song, the song he plays when the twins are sad, when they can’t get to sleep, or when they just want to hear something nice.
The last strains of the song fade away and Chan looks at you to see a tear glittering on your cheek. “You play that when the boys are sad,” is all you say. “It’s your family song.”
Chan smiles softly. “But you’re part of the family too.”
When he pulls out the box, your eyes widen. “Chan –”
“Shh.” He presses a finger gently to your lips. “Y/N, the past few years you’ve been with me have been some of the best of my life, and I can’t ever thank you enough for staying with me all this time.” There’s a tear welling up in Chan’s eye, but he blinks it away. “I would love to spend the rest of my life with you, if you would marry me.”
There’s a moment of silence that nearly gives Chan a heart attack. What if you say no?
“You – you stupid romantic sap.” The tears are really sliding down your cheeks now, but your mouth is smiling wide. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you, Chan. I’ll marry you.”
Chan can’t speak as he slides the ring onto your finger with trembling hands. Throat choked, he can only pull you close, burying his face in your shoulder as your tears soak his shirt. “I love you so much,” you whisper.
He pulls back just enough for to see your eyes sparkling with love, so much love. Your touch intoxicates him, with your fingers pressing gently against his skin as you press your lips to his in a sweet, sweet kiss.
Yes, he thinks. You’re the right partner for him.
The perfect partner for him.
Teary-eyed, he smiles. “I love you too.”
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plush-rabbit · 3 years
Text
I Want To Hear You Say It
Chapter 4: Missed Comfort
Word Count: 3.8K
A/N: I just realized that this is my story and I can choose what happens
Prev.
Memories are fragmented, pieces of glass that has broken and shards that escape him and hide elsewhere, leaving his past broken, blurry and incomplete, painful to pick at and there has to be a reason why, there has to be a reason why whenever he thinks about who he was before he was found by All For One, that he scratches at his skin, tearing the flesh off from body, dirty blood that covers his hands and leaves him gasping for air, making him fear that he’ll suffocate before the memory grows clear. He can remember kind words, he can remember breakfast and playing, he can remember something soft under his chin, he can remember love for a moment, a moment that leaves him sick and broken, clasping his hands around his neck and hoping that he’ll die. He can remember the harsh stare, eyes that belong to a monster, eyes that are unforgiving with a hand that is merciless, the harsh feeling of the ground and the eyes that can only look away until he’s forced to face the monster in front of him, the monster that strikes over and over again and it fills him with hatred, it fills him clarity, the one moment where he can breathe and he stares into his reflection, covered in his own blood with red rimmed eyes, and he’s home.
Tomura Shigaraki stands in a room with few possessions, his body cold as he lays above the worn out bed, springs that dig into his back and a pillow that is far too flat to bring any sort of comfort. 
He grew up in the care of All For One, molded and cared for, the embrace clear in his head and there are flashes of memories that are clear, ripe for the picking and allowing him to view who he is now. But he brushes past them. He brushes past the dust on the floor and the tantrums, past the cold wooden floorboards under his feet, the weight of the hands on him are lighter and heavier all at once, lifting him into the air with the promise of love. The hands pinch around his body and threaten to drag him into the depths of hell, moaning out to him, his name broken and unsure, calling him something too different and too similar that leaves him retching and covering his mouth with his hand.
Tomura Shigaraki can remember Kurogiri. He can remember the wisp of a man, purple and black mixing, shades light in certain areas, mixing and swirling with the darker colors, creating a beautiful shade that disappears and is never shown, a shade that was never meant to be seen hides deep within the man. He can remember the apprehension, the choked up feeling, like something small was lodged in the base of his throat, uncomfortable and manageable. He can remember the soft words, the hands that touched him, defying physics and the vapor having actual feeling to it, actual touch that moves the hair across his face. He can remember the shared meals, proper and simple, the hatred in his eyes that soon turned into acceptance and silent compliance with every meal. 
People come into his life and they leave. So far, the League of Villains has remained whole. Kurogiri separated but for the good of the mission. For the good of the plan. For the good of him- Tomura Shigaraki. People separate and they come together. 
He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s developed a kinship with the team. He’s developed genuine emotions towards them. He doesn’t want to call them friends. It feels odd- heavy and foregin, the word unspoken of, even when he was just a child, he never spoke the word, flinching when he thought of it because he knew that he was alone. All For One was his sensei, his master, a father-like figure to him but never a friend. Kurogiri was … something. Kurogiri was something else, heavy and comforting, wanted and pushed away. The team right now, they are his comrades. They are the people that he cares about- their wishes and likes, their desires and wants- that’s what he cares for. He’ll spit at the idea of caring, deny it with a wave of his hand, but he cares.
He’s lived a lonely life. And in the blink of an eye, it became filled with people. And he was accepting of that, he can handle people following his bidding, he can handle people if they’re there to serve his cause. But then you come along.
You aren’t there to serve anything. You are nothing to him. And yet, you still fill his mind. He lets it wander and you come into view, the way you brushed his hair and dried it for him, offering to pick something that he’d like to eat. You called him a friend. You were lying. You told a lie to save your skin from a prying neighbor. It’s easy for him to believe that you told a lie. You did. You lied only to protect yourself. But then he can feel your hands again and the touch has faded, it’s nothing more than a ghost that caresses his skin when he’s falling asleep, his own hands crawling to hold the place where you held and his sleep ruined when his hands are not like yours. They don’t hold the same delicacy, the gentleness that made him feel at ease- they aren’t your hands. Your touch is fading and he hates it. He hates that he misses the way you cared for him, the way you let him into your home and cared for him. He is a wounded man, alone in a world with only a few companions, and it’s been so long since he’s felt a touch that wasn’t filled with malice, that wasn’t a rough, teasing punch or a reassuring squeeze of a shoulder, but one where it was focused on him and being gentle, treating him like he were glass. 
He doesn’t want to admit it to himself but he wants to see you. He needs to feel your touch again. He needs a moment where your hands are on him and then he can be satisfied, he can be fine without your touch that haunts him.
-
Learning your schedule is relatively easy. People don’t want to admit that they’re predictable, they want to remain a mystery, they want to be hidden from view and open up when they feel like it and you are no different. You stick to yourself. You don’t talk to people in your apartment complex- minus a few people who stop to chat, a forced smile that takes place on your face. Even at work, you give polite smiles, you eat alone in your car, watching a video on your phone and always peering outside the window, like you’re scared that someone is watching your every movement. You’re polite and you stick to a routine, you treat yourself to the bakery and leave with a white bag curled in your hand and you pass by the alleyway where you first met. And there’s a leap in his heart when you pause, and he can see your hand tighten around the paper bag and then you move on. You continue to walk, faster, a pace that catches the eyes of a few pedestrians and before you can reach the stairs, your keys are in your hands, and you’re inside your home and you’re out of view. 
It has to be a sickness that he has.  He has to be sick with the way that he always finds himself wandering into the alleyway, crouched where you found him and he hates that he can’t remember your scent, hates that he was too disorientated to focus on the important details that you had. He hates that he only realized that he wanted- that he craved and desired your touch when you were gone. He doesn’t bother lying to himself, he’s not in the area to clean any loose ends, the blood that had fallen from him has long since dried, fallen into the crevices of the ground, weeds that have bloomed and raised where he had squashed them. He’s here filled with hope, hope that diminishes whenever you don’t arrive at the same time that you once did. And he hates himself when he feels disappointment, the feeling coursing through his body and leaving him empty, leaving him with acid in his mouth and blood on his neck. 
It was fate then. You worked a late shift and you came to him. You had saved him because he was meant to continue on. You pushed him to live another day. He wonders if you know who he is. How would you react? Would you accept his views? Do you believe that society is damned? That everything within hero society is corrupted and needs to be changed? Would you accept him? 
He laughs to himself. It’s a short burst of laughter, bubbling past his lips and it’s short until he presses himself further into the brick. Of course, you’d accept him. Of course you would accept him. You did it once. You let a stranger into your home, welcomed him and brushed his hair, held him in your hands and let him live in your life for a moment- you’d accept him with open arms. 
-
It was a miscalculated risk. Heroes that were unaccounted for due to how close they were. He’s injured, face trickling with blood that mixes with his sweat and he’s unsure of where the wound is. His clothes are singed at the end, fabric crumbling and fingers painted in soot as he runs through the night, gasping for air. It’s cold and sharp, entering his lungs and chilling his throat, every breath painful and heavier, as he runs. Red ruins his vision and he swipes it away with the back of his hand, blood flickering onto the pavement, seeping into the cracks and leaving nothing but dark spots. He runs and he runs. His legs hurt, aching at the joints, muscles pulled taut, and he knows that if he stumbles, he’ll collapse. Father is held tight against his face, piercing at his skull, hands pulled taut around him, pulling him back and the hands on his neck choke him.
He knows where he’s going. He’ll deny it to himself, lie and say that it was his own moving on it’s own accord, leading him past the convenience store, hands ripped from his body and shoved into pockets, bulging and pale gray fingertips that peek beneath the pockets, stiff fingers intertwined with each other and he’s lying to himself, telling weak lies that even he can’t believe. He runs towards you, running and gasping, a burst of adrenaline spiking through his body and sirens are ringing through the air, colors flashing and you’re so close. He runs, sweat mixing with blood, a heavy red color that reminds him he is only human, he’s covered in his blood, he’s covered in people’s blood and ash, weighing him down and clinging to his ankles, dragging him to hell as the devils rush behind him. His steps are heavy, slapping against the stairs and he’s knocking at your door, pounding and there’s a moment of fear where he thinks someone else will awaken before you do and he’s begging, calling your name in a whisper that cracks and cuts through his alreadys scarred lips and he’s begging for you to open the door, a silent prayer that is echoed into the night and there’s nothing more than he wants to do than to touch you.  He’s close to touching the doorknob, desperate to find safety inside until the light turns on underneath he’s cursing you in his mind for being so careless, for letting the person outside- letting him know that you are home- and he steps away and the door opens and you stand him front of him with heavy eyes, a disheveled appearance with an annoyed expression that only lasts for a second, a moment where he has you entire attention and then you break and you call his name and he stumbles inside and he’s safe.
The door is closed behind him and the ringing stops. He’s inside your home, leaning against the wall, and he’s filthy, coated in grime and sweat, blood that runs down his face from an unknown wound, legs heavy and he slides down the wall and he can see you, standing away from him, a horrified look on your face and maybe this was a mistake. That you didn’t feel whatever he felt. That you were just trying to be nice. A hand reaches, fingers outstretched and he can imagine how soft you’d be, the look of horror frozen on your face as he’s the last thing you see and then you kneel down, and you’re shaking and your words are stuck in your throat.
Your hands are soft. Softer than he remembered, cusping his face and he’s grateful for it, leans into your touch until you grab at something foreign on his face, and Father is removed and held so tenderly in your hand. His eyes widen. He forgot to remove Father. Sirens grow closer and you look out the door and he’s weak and unable to stand as you lift and walk towards the door and there’s a shake of your hands, you clasp around the door knob and you seem to struggle with yourself internally before you latch on the locks and turn back to him. You call his name and he calls yours and he wants to lean in but he’s bloody and you are clean, and he sits against your wall as you hold Father and walk away. 
He sits on the floor and closes his eyes for a second and when he opens them, you’re crouched in front of him, Father beside him and he watches as you bring up a wet rag and whisper to him. “I’m just going to clean you up, okay?” Your voice is shaky, hands matching as they dab against his forehead, your other hand pushing his pale blue hair upwards. “Tomura?” He grunts in response. You pause, your lip is bitten and he wants to know what you’re thinking. “Why are you here?” You dab and the pale blue cloth in your hand turns into a horrible shade, sweat, blood and dirt standing the ruined piece of fabric. Realization has set into your eyes, the fear leaking off of you and yet your hands are nothing but gentle. 
“I wanted you to touch me,” he mutters and your hands still. “I needed it.” He lets his words hang in the air. He can feel the press of your palm against him, and you don’t respond. You clean him, cleaning the sin from him. “Do you know who I am?” 
“I think I can take a guess.” Your hands leave him and you turn from him, pulling out a pack of wipes, the white bright against your palm and then you’re cleaning at him again, discarding the wipe after wipe, the pack becoming thin as you clean him. “Are you going to-” you swallow nervously and you meet his eyes, unsteady and glistening with unshed tears- “you know.” Your eyes dart to his hands and then back to his eyes.
He laughs. It’s rich and filled with something indescribable and he leans towards you, peeling himself away from the wall and you stiffen when his forehead rests against your shoulder. Father has slipped and is on the floor. You’re still, faltering against him and he wants nothing more than to touch you. His lips brush against your neck and he can hear a sharp intake of breath, hands that react and grip the sides of his shirt, pulling him closer to you, and he wonders if you’re crying as he’s pressed against you. 
“I could never hurt you,” he whispers against your neck, nuzzling closer, feeling your pulse quicken. “You were so nice to me-” his hands are unsteady as they brush up your shirt and he hears you whine, and his fingers are pressed against the soft side of you, and he smiles, hidden from you- “I will never hurt you.” It’s the truth- a wholehearted truth that he will never use his quirk against you, he’ll protect you, watch over you and dig his nails into you. He won't ever hurt you, he won’t have you bleed because of him, he’ll keep you with him and protect you, have his hands wrap around you in the loving way that his do, remind you that he’s letting you live and giving you all his love- whole and innocent, twisted and pure. “I love you,” he murmurs and there’s a swell in his chest when you twist his shirt in your hands and your pulse beats against him. “Perhaps it’s too quick to tell each other that-” he hums into you, smelling the sweet scent of vanilla on you- “but I love you. And I’ll protect you.” His nails dig into your skin, red appearing, a pale shade that stings and doesn’t stain his fingertips.
Perhaps it was too quick to give each other your love. But when he pulls away and he sees you crying, hands still gripped against his shirt, a rise and fall of your chest and he smiles. His hands leave you and your shirt flutters and it’s covered in grime, sticking to your chest and it’s wrinkled. Tears fall from your eyes, tracing down the curve of your face, polling and dripping off your chin and you can only look at him with wide eyes and you’re doubling over, gasping for breath, your hands wrapped around you, trying so desperately to control your breathing and you look over, watching the door with hope that vanishes in a second. It’s quiet outside. There are no heroes around. You look back at him and he smiles at you.
“Shigaraki?” You ask him, and there’s a frown on his lips. You need to check if it’s really him, praying that this is a sick joke, exchanging your life for a moment of false reality, to be laughed at because this is some cruel, sick joke that doesn’t exist and isn’t happening before your eyes. “Tomura Shigaraki?”
“You can call me Tomura,” he coos, his hands bringing your face up, held so tenderly, so carefully, with poised and raised fingers, trying not to touch you and you’re crying and he’s shushing you. “You don’t have to cry,” he murmurs. “I mean it-” he leans in closer and your eyes shine with fear, colors mixing together to create a lovely shade of color that he has never seen before and when you cry, it glosses over and he tilts his head, smile stretching past his lips- “I would never hurt you.”
“Be-” your voice cracks and there's a soft pink that licks at your lips and he leans in. “Because I was nice to you?” You’re so hesitant and so scared, trembling under his palm and your tears pool onto him.
“Because you cared for me, yes.” He could never hurt you, never bring himself to cause you to cry. He’s so careful to pull away, hands fisted once he’s moved and he looks around and grabs at a wipe, brings it under your eyes and he shushes you when you flinch from him, his hand gripping at the side of your face, string and firm. “I hate seeing you cry,” he murmurs. You’re scared and new to these feelings. He won’t push you. He’ll stay by your side, faithful and patient, wait for you to come to him and profess your love, and he’ll wipe away your tears. “I love you,” he repeats.
He rises and pulls you up and you stand in the entrance, you stumbling into his chest, and his arms holding you up and he’s nuzzling into the crown of your head, and when you start to sob, shaking into his chest and clinging to the back of his coat, hands threatening to spill from the pockets, he pats your back carefully, run the side of his hand down your back in a comforting motion, slowly turning until his palm is against you and your sobs are muffled into his chest, with your tears staining his shirt. Your name is whispered into the room and you cry until you pull away and he stares at you patiently and you can hardly meet his eyes when you tell him he can use the shower and he stands alone, as you walk into your room, letting the door remain open.
He showers and he lets the water fall from him, dries himself with the same towel he had used from the other day. He washes himself free from grime and wears the same clothes, filthy and hanging from his body, sticking uncomfortably and he wears clothes that are his and he smells like you. His hair is wet and tangled and he brushes at the knots, and makes himself look presentable. He won’t have the first night that he sleeps here cognitive sullied by the outside world. He sits on the chair in your room, watches as you pull the blankets up to your chin and have your back turned to him. He comes to sit at the edge, his hand slowly coming down until he’s holding onto your neck, stroking it, feeling the way that you jerk and go painfully still, and he whispers your name. It's a gentle call, feeling you brush against his fingertips, calling out to you because he knows you’re still awake. 
“Yes, Tomura?” You respond and there’s a level of politeness that sticks to your words and makes him frown. 
“I’ll be back to see you soon, okay?” He has to leave for now. He needs to go before he can give in to his wants and touch you, to let himself bury into your chest and hold you, and sleep beside you. “But I’ll be back, okay?” He pulls away and the bed creaks as the weight shifts. He’s closing your door, and his eyes are on your body and he’s smiling to himself. “Don’t try anything dumb, okay?” He doesn’t wait for an answer- you’re smart, you know who he is. It isn’t a threat, it’s just a phrase that he knows will keep you in line from trying anything reckless- he’s viewed you, watched you and he knows that an empty threat will keep you in check. “I love you.” He whispers your name and it’s filled with love, enough to make him sigh and close the door, lean against it for a moment and let his imagination wander on how you’d welcome him into bed and hold him. The door to your apartment clicks shut and he’s walking out, Father holding tight against his face, and a strange calmness flooding throughout his body.
taglist:
@dillybuggg @gladiatorandroid @mrgorewhore @justanotherlifeff
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gureishi · 3 years
Note
A #14 with Saeyoung. I love your fics ❤️ Thank you
Thank YOU, dear! ♡
Writing this one was cathartic af. I don’t often write them fighting, because I don’t think they fight much—but the prompt was begging for it and I think a lot about the unexpected ways they find themselves grappling with their trauma.
fourteen: hurts like hell to be torn apart
SaeyoungXReader, T (referenced violence, angst with a happy ending), words: 2912
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・
Bang.
The sound reverberates off the cobblestones and the colorful storefronts. It’s as loud and dark as the street is cheerful and bright. You feel it in your bones.
And for some reason that you have neither the time nor the emotional capacity to explain, you take off running. Away from the blue-and-white awnings of the little farmers market. Around a corner. Down the alley. Toward the sound.
I know someone’s been shot, says your brain, and you don’t notice the general absence of panic in the crowd—don’t register that no one is yelling, no one else is running. Your sandals slap against the pavement, hard. Your blood rushes in your ears and your heart is in your mouth.
I have to find them, or else… Your vision blurs, your thoughts scramble. Or else.
You’re halfway down the alley, running straight into the setting sun, and you still can’t make out what’s happening at the end of the narrow, dark, trash can-lined street. You squint, expecting at any moment to see a body on the ground, blood pooling on the uneven concrete…
…and your line of sight is cut off as you run face-first into something firm and warm. Someone. You let out a muffled cry and try to pull away, but there are hands gripping your arms and you find you can’t move.
“What do you think you’re doing?” hisses a familiar voice, and although his scent hits you then, and you know you should feel safe, you continue to struggle—hands balled into fists, striking his chest.
“Let me go!” you yell, raising a hand to shove him. His long fingers wrap around your fist. “I have to…” you gasp.
“Nope,” he says. He wraps his strong arms around you and you give in, slumping against him. There’s literally no way out now—you know him too well. How did he catch up to you, how did he cut you off…? He’s not even out of breath.
“Saeyoung…”
“Look.” He’s still got you in his firm grip, but he lifts one arm so you can see through the triangle it makes with his torso. Now that you’ve stopped your insane sprint, you can see more clearly. The end of the alley is…empty.
Your throat feels raw. You realize that at some point you’ve started to cry.
“It was a car backfiring,” he says stiffly.
“A car…”
Rationally, you understand: why the sound was too quiet, why nobody else took off running. Why there’s no body slowly growing cold at the end of the alley. But you can’t quite think rationally. Your heart is pounding so hard you feel like you might throw up.
Saeyoung spins you around and half-drags you down the alley, back the way you came. You know you should feel relieved—comforted by his arm around you, thrilled that your instincts were wrong. But his grip on your shoulder is bruising and you feel yourself wriggling, trying to turn around, trying to check the imagined crime scene just one more time.
You turn a corner, back to the shopping center. Here, nothing has changed. There’s the same group of kids in brightly-colored outfits lounging on the steps to the ice cream place. There’s the same harried-looking mother struggling to get her three toddlers in a stroller. There are couples walking hand-in-hand and friends calling to each other over the crowd.
Why, you think, a bitter taste in your mouth, was I the only one who ran?
The dissonance between the cheery atmosphere and the way you are feeling makes your head spin. You sneak a glance at Saeyoung’s face—he has a frozen expression, unmoving, like a statue. His grip on your arm is growing painful.
“Saeyoung,” you say, forcing your voice into a semblance of evenness. “Will you please let go of me now?”
He jumps almost as if he’s forgotten where he is. He drops his arm and it swings aimlessly at his side. He’s not looking at you.
“Let’s go home,” he says at last, and his voice takes you by surprise. His expression is carefully arranged, stoic, but he sounds like he’s ready to hit someone. He takes off walking—away from the pleasant shopping center, down a quieter street, toward the garage. You don’t follow.
He feels your absence, pauses, turns. The sinking sun sets his hair ablaze. Beautiful, you think—if not for the hard look on his face.
He looks, to you, like he’s powering down, turning himself off. There’s no light in his eyes. On some deeply-buried logical level you know that he’s feeling the same echoes of the past that you are, riding the same wave of terror and remembrance. But you feel anger bubbling under your skin and you want to shake him and scream don’t look at me like that in his face.
He spins around and stalks toward the garage. You follow him in silence. Through the entrance. Up the stairs. He picks up the pace and, stubbornly, you slow yours.
He’s unlocked the car, opened your door, and gone around to his own side before you’ve caught up to him. You can’t explain why—just as you couldn’t explain the irrational bolt of horror that struck you when you turned and ran down the alley—but you feel like you could strangle him.
Still in silence, he starts the engine. You can’t stand it anymore.
“So,” you say. Your legs are shaking. “Are you not speaking to me?”
He pulls out of the parking spot. Your head is pounding. Answer me.
He pays at the automated meter. Inches the car down the driveway. Then, finally: “Don’t be so childish,” he says.
Something snaps inside of you.
“Childish? From the man who’s giving me the silent treatment?” You clench your fists, leaving little half-moon imprints in your palms. You look at him sideways; no reaction registers on his face. “Would you mind at least telling me why you’ve decided you’re not talking to me anymore?”
“You don’t—” For the first time, you see anger flash across his face; it disappears as quickly as it came. The car speeds up a tiny bit; he corrects it instantly. “You don’t know why I’m mad at you?”
You feel yourself crumbling—a chain reaction that began when you heard the not-gunshot moving on to its inevitable conclusion.
“If you’d tell me, I bet I’d know,” you snap.
He exhales slowly, as if willing himself to be patient enough to deal with you. You want to wipe that expressionless mask off his face.
“Why did you take off like that?” he asks. His face remains impervious but the anger is in his voice and it scares you a little.
“I thought it was a gunshot,” you say. “Obviously.”
“So did I,” he growls. “Which is why I’m asking you why you ran toward it.”
His words are like a slap in the face and, stubbornly, desperately, you want to hurt him back.
“You’re being condescending,” you say. Your voice shakes, giving you away. “I’m not a child.”
“Then don’t act like one!” Every word is like an icicle to your heart. “It was stupid. Do not ever do something like that again.”
It’s too much for you—the reprimanding tone, the fear you still feel in your bones, the anxiety in the pit of your stomach. You feel tears coming again and you hate yourself for it.
“Don’t speak to me like that!” you say, and it comes out every bit as harsh as you’d intended. He flinches.
“I need you to listen to me,” he says through clenched teeth. “I need to make it clear to you just how—how dangerous and idiotic—”
“So whenever there’s something dangerous—and there will be again, because this is our lives—I’m meant to, what? Let you take care of it and hope for the best?” You feel hysterical. Your throat is raw.
“Yes!” he yells, and it’s your turn to recoil, shrinking into your seat. “That is. Quite literally. What I was trained to do.” He’s tried to lower his voice but the quiet derision is somehow worse than when he shouted.
“You don’t trust me. At all,” you say. There are the tears again. You turn to hide your face, wiping them furiously from your eyes.
“No, I don’t,” he says. “Acting like you did today just proves to me that I shouldn’t.”
Your insides are caving in. You want to grab him by his stupid hoodie strings and make him look into your eyes and tell you he doesn’t mean it.
Your head turned, your forehead pressed against the cool glass, you spot a familiar exit. You pounce on a different instinct—because it’s there, because it’s easy, because you know it will would him.
“Take the exit,” you command. You’re shocked by how cold your voice is. How mean you sound.
“What?” 
“Saeyoung, take the exit. Right now.”
He does.
He drives in silence, slowing the car to a stop at a red light. You peek at him. There’s realization in his dark golden eyes—and hurt, too. Good.
“This is the way to Jaehee’s house,” he says. He sounds numb.
“Yes,” you say. “Take me there.”
“But…but we should go home,” he says quietly, and in that moment you feel so angry you want to laugh at the vulnerability in his voice. It’s so easy to hurt him. You can still feel the hot lava anger bubbling under your skin, can still hear the way his voice sounded as he told you he didn’t trust you.
“I don’t want to go home with you,” you say.
。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。
Jaehee opens the door, takes one look at your face, and ushers you inside without a word. You can’t help it—you turn as she closes the door behind you to watch Saeyoung’s headlights slowly pulling away. He’d waited till you were inside.
Right. Because I can’t be trusted on my own.
Jaehee doesn’t pry, and you love this about her. She ushers you into her warm, familiar living room. She gives you a blanket. She offers to make you a coffee.
It’s late, but you say yes anyway.
It’s only once she’s brought you a mug filled to the brim with foam and dusted with cinnamon that she folds herself onto the couch beside you and fixes you with a knowing look.
“Are you alright?” she asks.
And you have been—fine as you stormed out of the car without saying goodbye, calm as you watched him drive away, steady as you sat alone on Jaehee’s small-yet-squishy couch. But now that she’s asked it all crashes down around you and you burst into tears.
Wordlessly, she opens her arms for you—a bit awkwardly—and you slip into them, burying your face in her chest. 
“We never fight,” you sob, knowing you’re soaking her sweater. She runs a soft, small hand over your back—stiffly, like she’s not used to it, but gently, like she wants to be. “We never…and I don’t even know—w-why…”
Jaehee hums soothingly. She takes a deep breath and you follow her lead, choking a little on your own tears.
“Would you like to tell me what happened?” she asks softly. She adjusts you, tucking your head against her shoulder. “It might help.”
You sniffle. In this warm, comfortable room, with this warm, comfortable person, suddenly your actions feel so irrational. Why did you run toward what you assumed was a gunshot? Why did you respond to his concern for you with such unbridled rage?
You tell Jaehee about it—the sound, the alley, the way his face looked when he caught up to you. The things he said in the car. The things you said.
She listens patiently, steady as ever. She tucks your hair behind your ear.
“I’m not entirely surprised to hear that you had that kind of reaction,” she says when you’ve run out of words and are sniffling into her neck. “You’ve been through quite a lot.”
“What, today?” You wriggle into a sitting position. She hands you a tissue box and your coffee.
“Certainly today, but I was actually referring to the past year.”
Oh.
You blow your nose. Take a sip of the coffee. It’s delicious.
“You’re saying I freaked out like that because of, um. Because of what happened at Mint Eye?”
Jaehee looks down at her hands in her lap. “Obviously, I don’t know everything that happened,” she says carefully. “But I can imagine that what you witnessed isn’t something you’ll get over easily. It will take a lot more time.”
When she says it like this, it feels obvious. You can still feel it ringing in your eardrums: the gun, the shouting. The sound of a body hitting the ground.
“Yeah,” you say. Your hands are shaking again.
“Saeyoung should know this,” she says. She places a hand over yours; it stills them.
“He does,” you say. “But he has his own—things—to deal with. From that day, and also before.”
“Yes.” She pats your hands once and then rises. With your eyes, you follow as she goes to the entryway, retrieves your bag from where you dropped it. Pulls out your phone from the outer pocket. “As I suspected.”
She hands you the phone. The screen’s lit up—you’ve just missed a call. Several calls.
“I’m going to make more coffee,” she says, slipping politely toward her kitchen—out of earshot. Your cup is still almost full.
You hesitate for a moment—just a moment—looking at the rows of his name on your screen. The shape of it makes your skin tingle.
You call him back.
“Hello?” He picks up after a quarter of a ring. He sounds breathless. You wonder if he’s made it home already.
“Hi,” you say.
“You called me back.” He’s talking quietly. His throat sounds raw. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”
“Of course I did.”
He’s silent for a moment, and you can hear him breathing—hard, ragged.
“I’m so, so, so, so sorry,” he says, and you can tell that he’s been crying too, in the way his voice catches at the end of each word.
“Saeyoung, I—”
“I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that. I should never have spoken to you that way. It’s no excuse, but I was just so scared when you ran from me, I—I panicked, but I didn’t mean to…I never meant to—”
“I know.” He shuts up right away. He sounds miserable. You want to stroke his pretty head. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. You didn’t deserve it.”
“It’s okay. I did deserve it.” His voice is small and suddenly you want to be home, want to kiss his silly, perfect face and squeeze him till the sob is gone from his voice.
“You didn’t,” you say. “You were scared. I can understand that.”
“I was terrified,” he says. “I thought the same you did—you know, that it was a gun, and so I went to get in front of you, but you’d already taken off running toward it. I just—it felt like my soul was getting ripped from my body. I haven’t felt like that since…since—”
“Me neither,” you say. “I mean, me too.”
“I’m the one who’s supposed to run toward a gunshot,” he says, and he laughs a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. “You’re supposed to be somewhere safe and warm where nothing can hurt you. I can’t—if anything happened to you, I’d—”
“Me too,” you repeat. “I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you.”
It’s quiet. You breathe together. In, out.
“I love that you want to protect me,” you say. “But I need you to trust me, too.” He hesitates, and you know that a part of him wants to say so don’t put yourself in danger. Once, he would have. He’s grown up so much since then.
“I do trust you,” he says. His voice breaks. “I didn’t mean what I—I promise I’ll try to—you’re my whole world,” he finishes. Desperately, miserably. Hopefully.
“I want to come home,” you say.
“You do?” The optimism rushes into his voice and you want to bathe in it.
“Please.” You smile and taste your own salty tears at the corners of your lips.
The doorbell rings.
No way.
“No way,” you say into the phone. You cross the room, tug the door open. “No way,” you say to his face. His arms hang at his sides and his eyes are wide and bright as if he’s still not sure if you’ll slam the door in his face.
“I only drove like a block away…” he mutters, trailing off nervously. Sticking his hands in his pockets.
“Should’ve known.” You throw yourself at him and he tears his hands out of his pockets in time to catch you, a surprised laugh bubbling in his throat as you catapult into his chest.
“So you missed me even though I’m a sad, miserable excuse for a boyfriend?” he says into your hair. You stand on tiptoe and kiss his face till his eyes are glazed over and the goofy grin is back on his face. “Is that a yes?”
“Yes, dummy.” You kiss his throat and he shivers. “Take me home.”
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
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lovely-josuke · 3 years
Text
“you came back.”
— Anon : !! Spoilers !! Okay, so picture this. Dio with line 2. Reader can be a descendant of like Dio’s lover from back in the 1880’s and she looks just like her but Dio thinks it’s her?
Word Count: 1.2k
Warnings: Major spoilers for Part 3
Hi Anon! So sorry this came out late but I had much fun writing out the story! Hope you like it if you read it!
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“Hey Joseph?” The old man hummed at the question. You stared at the remaining pieces of Dio’s body, ready to be burned by the sun. Your lidded eyes and squatting position raised concerns in Jotaro. “Did you ever know anything about my great grandmother? Maybe Ms. Erina said something about her?” Joseph stroked his beard, watching the sun slowly arise.
And when watching Dio’s body crumble to dust, your heart ached. Could it have been what he’d said? His previous actions when meeting your face?
“No. She kept her life quite private.” Joseph fixed his hat, placing his other hand on his hip. A quick gaze to you and he continued, “And Granny Erina grew angry whenever I asked. Never knew anything major about her.”
“We should get going.” Jotaro stuffed his hands in his pockets, head lowered with a piercing gaze. “There are more important things to do instead of standing around talking.” You returned back to your previous pose, staring at the sky turning pink.
As quickly as you’d arrived at Joseph's side on the roof, you left. You were only in a state of panic seeing Kakyoin fly backwards after a hard hit to his chest. You cared deeply for him, even though you were six years older than Kakyoin. A screech of his name caught Dio’s ears. Your stand portals opened for you to the water tower supporting Kakyoin’s lifeless body.
You don’t remember the words he shouted, but only being held in Dio’s arms in the blink of an eye.
“How foolish could you’ve been in revealing your power to me.” Dio said, passing Joseph who failed at stopping you from jumping through the portal. Your portals were alive and warping. “Killing you now will give me an advantage. You could have become my most pesky rival besides Jo…” His words faded off at the sight of your face.
One hand reaching for Kakyoin, a terrified expression with tears streaming down your cheeks. Your teeth gritted, trying your hardest to grab him. But Dio knew that look. A look that made him regret his actions.
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“Dio, you’re insane.” She squirmed away from his grip on her wrist. “Let me go this instant!” Dio, in return, brought her closer. His eyebrows furrowed at her retaliation. She desperately wanted to find fresh air and flee from rotting corpses.
“Rule the world with me.” Dio held the stone mask in his hand. He’d acquired it once he healed from the first fight with Jonathan. “We can live eternally together. Away from JoJo and have all we ever want.”
She gave him a look Dio would never forget. She was frightened of him. She saw him as a monster. She no longer saw the Dio she planned to marry.
“Isn't that what we promised?” Dio’s grip softened, as well as his face. Her hand slipped through, rubbing her wrist. “(Y/N), isn’t it?”
“Not like this Dio.”
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Dio grabbed your reaching hand, pulling the rest of your stiff body. The man embraced you tightly, falling to his knees when time resumed. You gasped at the sobs coming from him. Even Joseph gave a perplexed look. Dio pulled you back, you seeing a rare smile on his face.
“You came back.” He said. Dio’s lips came up to your ear, “Tell me my love, how does eternal life feel? Are you prepared to have the life we wished for?” His aura felt heavy, and weighed you in place. You gave pleading eyes to Joseph, he too was in shock.
You could barely muster a reply, your voice shaky as you said, “Let go of me.” Your eyes screwed shut when he swiftly grabbed the back of your neck, forcing you to stare at him.
“Don’t tell me JoJo still has you believing in things.” His voice now sounded threatening. “Even in his death, the bastard can never leave us alone. I let you go once, but for you to realize the best choice. Side with me, and this time, we can win.” His face seemed to inch closer towards yours, a lustful appearance coming over Dio. Dio’s lips were a few centimeters away from yours.
They barely brushed when a loud explosion made his head shoot in the direction it came from. Kakyoin had sent one final attack to the clock tower. And while Dio was distracted, your stand portals swallowed your body, dumping you back to Joseph. Dio, still on the other roof, noticed your absence. Standing up straight, he made eye contact with you. While your lips tingled from the almost kiss, Dio began to process his lover no longer wanted him.
“I guess you’re right. The Speedwagon Foundation might know if Polnareff is awake already.” Joseph passed his grandson, deciding to check on the French Man. “Hurry you two. Let’s go see him.”
Jotaro staggered behind, waiting until his grandfather was completely out of sight.
“Dio’s last words.” He finally spoke up. You rotated your head, meeting his back. “One of Dio’s last words… Was your name.”
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For weeks, you began trying to pry out information from your family members. And you received just one. It was from your dad. When she died he, being the grandson of your great grandmother, named you after her. He grew angry with your antics and said a chest of her belongings was passed down before Erina died.
You quickly found it in the attic with a giant padlock. Rust covered the iron and you tried breaking it off. Once you gave it a couple of hits, you finally got to open it. The contents varied. Some were old letters, ink fading. A photo album, clearly stored away for too long. A small box, a white ribbon tied around that grew dirty. You pulled the photo album out.
The first few pages were filled of England, New York, some of Speedwagon, Erina and her, as well as new born baby Joseph. You examined each photo carefully, searching for clues. You flipped to the fourth to last page and chills ran down your spine, goosebumps rising.
In one photo, your great grandmother sat in a chair with Dio standing beside her. Dio wore a suit, fitting for the occasion. He had one hand placed on her bare shoulder and the other on the chair. But she looked just like you. Another was similar but in a mansion by stairs. Dio had his arm around her waist and they both smiled lovingly.
Some were even just Dio. One particularly, had “For my love, (Y/N).” written at the top left corner. And she looked so happy. You placed the photo album aside and began reading the letters. Each was written in the same handwriting. Each signed, “Your love, Dio Brando” at the bottom.
And finally, the white box. Untying the ribbon, you pulled the top off. Your eyes widened at its content. An engagement ring stuffed in it. The band was a bit thicker. You picked it up, noticing the diamond was kept well. On the side though, had the letters D and B carved into it. Slipping it on, you placed the hand over your heart, feeling your heart sting in return.
Back then, he truly believed you were her. And one part of you wished it was.
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Obey Me: The Brothers Accidentally Trigger an Abused MC: Satan (4/7)
Disclaimer: I’m not an expert on abuse or mental health. I’m not portraying how one should respond to these situations, only how I think the characters might. Abuse and trauma in particular are very complex topics, and people respond in all sorts of ways to them, and sometimes it gets really bad on all sides.
I can only draw from my personal experiences as well as those of people who have shared their stories or who I’m close with. There’s no one narrative of abuse and how it affects someone, so what I’m familiar with might not be what you’re familiar with. Let’s try and all be respectful of each other.
Content Warnings: Heated arguments, reference to past abuse, parental abuse, trauma response, breaking down in tears, this is quintessential hurt/comfort y’all, buckle up
It’s Satan’s turn! The fun thing about Satan is he’s super in control of himself until he absolutely isn’t, and then it’s terrible for everyone involved.
Lucifer (X), Mammon (X), Leviathan (X), Satan (you are here), Asmodeus (X), Beelzebub (X), Belphegor (X)
That one there is Satan, the fourth eldest of us. At first glance, he may seem like a responsible demon with a good head on his shoulders, but looks can be deceiving. [...] He may flash you a pretty smile like that, but you had better be careful because it is all an act.
MC had been warned about the Avatar of Wrath the day they arrived in the Devildom. While his brothers wear their sins on their sleeves, Satan keeps his almost entirely under wraps. His anger comes out like steam from the edges of the lid covering a boiling pot, hissing quiet but heated remarks, only exploding into something more dangerous if disturbed. 
But as they spent more time with him, MC found it harder and harder to associate Lucifer’s warning with the demon in front of them. Yes, Satan could be prickly if provoked, and he certainly has a fair share of issues to work through, but he wears soft sweaters, and reads trashy romance novels he hides under the jackets of more sophisticated looking nonfiction titles, and would turn the House of Lamentation into a cat shelter if left unsupervised. And so that warning became as serious to them as Mammon’s pitiful mugging attempt when they first met all those months ago. 
An easy mistake.
As it’s so unusual for Satan to express his anger in an obvious manner, MC is very concerned when they see him storm off to his room surrounded by the flaming aura of barely-contained magic. They chase after him without thinking, wanting to comfort their friend. 
Satan’s room contains more than a room of its apparent size should. A small tower bedroom should not be able to hold the sprawling library it does, but the looming bookshelves stretch far into the darkness nonetheless. Despite this, the books still spill out from the shelves and form piles all over the room and even circle overhead in lazy loops. Though today, their master’s wrath propels them faster and faster, moving more erratically and occasionally crashing into furniture when they fall too low.
MC forgets to knock.
Satan’s head whips around, eyes blazing. 
The books move before he registers who’s standing in the doorway.
Years of practice throws their body low to the ground to avoid the projectiles, but he has more, he has more and he’s still mad, mad at me mad at me my fault my fault still more still more don’t move don’t move-
Footsteps, a voice, he’s yelling, he’s yelling, yelling at me I did it again no no no-
A hand reaches out to them.
“PLEASE DON’T-!” their scream rips out of their throat and Satan freezes.
MC’s eyes shine with tears, open wide and-
Staring.
At.
Him.
Like a monster.
Satan’s tail wraps around his leg tight enough to draw blood. “Well? What are you going to do, MC? Leave? Run away from the monster?” 
They’re shaking, but can’t move from their position on the floor. “GO ALREADY! Or a couple of measly books will be the least of your problems!” 
They scramble to their feet, barely upright as they half sprint, half tumble down the stairs.
A loud THUD echoes through the House of Lamentation as, for the first time in countless years, all of the books in Satan’s room fall to the floor, lifeless.
Until they burst into flames, and the spire hosting the Avatar of Wrath’s bedroom ignites in the roar of a viridian inferno.
It takes the careful spellwork of Lucifer, aided by a frantic Leviathan, to keep the fires sequestered to Satan’s tower. Even still, seeing the entire structure ablaze like that is terrifying for MC, both because of its unprecedented scale and the knowledge of who is causing it. 
The brothers, minus Satan, congregate outside the House of Lamentation in a semi circle of annoyance. Levi, Asmo, and Mammon quickly get into an argument about whose personal items are more valuable and worth saving in the event of a house-wide fire, while the twins grouse about being pulled away from their very important activities of raiding the fridge and napping, respectively. 
Both Lucifer and MC are not listening to them, for very different reasons. Their gazes are fixed on the burning tower, Lucifer a cool mask of stoicism and MC vacant and nearly unblinking. They stay like this for a long moment, as the bickering of the others settles into a hum of white noise. 
“MC.” They start upon hearing Lucifer’s voice.
“You saw him just before this.” 
A fit of blinking, ending with a sniff and a nod.
“I-I didn’t mean to- He looked so ups-set, I just…” 
“Stop.” They freeze as Lucifer lowers himself to their eye level. He holds out his hand towards their shoulder and then pulls it back, thinking better of it. “I am not blaming you. Satan’s lack of self control is not your fault.
“What concerns me right now is your wellbeing.”
“O-Oh. Well, it was pretty startling, but I wasn’t burned or anyth-”
“What did he say to you that prompted such a strong response?” Silence. “This,” Lucifer gestures broadly to MC, “is not because of the fire. Something happened before, that upset the both of you. What was it?”
“SAAATAAAAAAAAAAN!”
Oh, that’s just who he needs to deal with right now. 
A couple of choice curses flicker through Satan’s mind as he continues to sort through his books, cataloguing which ones were completely destroyed by the fire and which were unscathed or can be salvaged. He pulls out a charred book from a pile of ashes and dusts off the partially melted cover. It’s barely identifiable, but…
One of MC’s recommendations, a murder-mysterty from the human world. 
He drops it like it was still burning.
Lucifer navigates through the scorched shelves and piles of wreckage until he finds his brother, curled in on himself in a crouched position and shaking, surrounded by the remains of the knowledge he holds so dear.
His lecture dies in his throat.
“Satan-” The demon in question cuts him off.
“Get it over with.”
Lucifer says nothing.
“Go ahead!” Satan’s voice wavers as he speaks, unfolding from his pose just enough to challenge his brother. “Let me have it: I’ve tarnished Lord Diavolo’s oh-so-sacred reputation, I’ve ruined the exchange program, I have no self control, I-” He compresses back into himself. “I’ve terrified MC and they never want to speak to me again.”
“No,” Lucifer says. “For one, I think you understand well enough the consequences of your actions this time.” 
When this provokes no response, he continues, “...and MC does want to speak with you.”
The expression on Satan’s face when his head snaps up to make eye contact with Lucifer reminds him of when the Avatar of Wrath was first born, all raw emotion and alert, untrusting eyes. 
The conversation is painful, but very much needed. After hearing MC’s story, Satan is almost glad he just burned through the majority of his energy in that fire, as if he had even an ounce of it, he would dedicate it to tracking down and slaughtering MC’s loathsome parents. But for them, he pushes the feelings aside. For now.
He apologizes (many times) in words, but even after MC repeatedly tells him it’s okay and they understand, he doesn’t quite stop. His apologies manifest in actions instead: soft, concerned glances in MC’s direction when his brothers get into a spat; an outstretched hand and an offer to go on a walk when they’re feeling overwhelmed; book recommendations with recurring themes of overcoming trauma and not necessarily forgiving those who abused you. 
He also adds something new to his room: a little enchanted tablet by the doorway displaying an unusual “weather” report. Thanks to special sensors placed throughout Satan’s room, the tablet can pick up the level of magical activity in the area and display an appropriate warning. Since he knows how volatile he can be when in an especially bad mood, Satan explains that the monitor will say what he can’t. Since it also measures the velocity of the flying books, it doubles as a pretty good warning service for incoming projectiles as well, he adds sheepishly. 
“I know how hard it can be to forgive someone who’s hurt you, even accidentally. I’m so grateful you’ve given me a second chance, MC, and I fully intend on never letting it go to waste.”
Lucifer doesn’t address the final part of Satan’s remark. He doesn’t need to. His silence says enough.
Satan has done it. He’s turned away the only person who ever saw him as a unique person. The worst case scenario, the unthinkable nightmare, realized. 
He’s fine. More than fine. He throws himself into his studies, marks higher than ever. While his smiles have never reached his eyes, they barely appear on his face at all. His mask is a fragile apathy that quickly crumbles into irritation whenever someone notices it. With his mood more volatile than ever, even his brothers distance themselves, unsure of how to approach him. He only shows up during mealtimes, and barely at that. 
Sometimes smoke drifts out from the tower his room is in. No one acknowledges this.
He respects MC’s wishes, gives them space and time aplenty. He can wait. He deserves to wait.
He deserves this.
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mydisasteracademia · 3 years
Text
Random LOV Headcanons
• Repeating something from my book “Did My Time”, due to the damage to Dabi’s body, he needs to use eyedrops multiple times a day. The amount depends on whether or not he uses his Quirk a lot; if he uses it more, he’ll need to practically drown his eyes with special medicated eyedrops to help with the dry-eye.
Adding onto this, due to his body’s natural affinity for the cold, he prefers cold things more than hot, because he has a worse reaction to hot/spicy things compared to other people (just like his mother). Yes, this means I HC him to absolutely never get brain freeze. The others are always jealous of him whenever he chugs a Slurpee in one go.
His burnt, scarred skin is extremely sensitive, especially to scents and scented lotions. He’s found that ointment works to keep things moist, but that also means he needs to be constantly re-applying it every time it dries, given that his Quirk is constantly drying out his skin to the point of damage. Every time his staples tug, even a little, it’s really painful and he’s prone to bleeding.
He does have a bit of a protective instinct, but only over those he deems weaker than him (and let’s be honest, he already has a lot of trouble with his own self-image, so that list might be shorter than you’d think). Definitely has an ‘irritated older sibling to hyperactive younger sibling’ relationship with Toga once they start to get closer. Gets unnecessarily competitive with others he considers stronger than himself, even if he himself doesn’t immediately realize what he’s doing.
Due to his Quirk being dangerous to himself, he can smell off, and he gets very touchy about it. Having grown up in a wealthy family, he can get very insecure at his bedraggled appearance and smell. He literally smells like burnt flesh all the time, and it lingers on his own body and his clothing. Due to this, he always hits up a laundromat to wash his clothes a few times a week, using money he’s picked off of wealthier victims of his. Really lays on the cologne to mask his natural corpse smell (and usually ends up smelling like pine trees, smoke, and something vaguely rotting).
Dabi is incredibly touch-starved, given that most people look at him and recoil in horror. He’s more like a cat, though. If you give him too much attention, he gets annoyed, but if he happens to rest his arm on your head or shoulder, that’s his way of subtly asking for positive attention. Depending on who’s doing it, he won’t immediately shove someone away if they decide to hug him. He’s a bit iffy with touch, and the fear of accidentally hurting someone he’s close to with his own Quirk messes with his head a lot. He can be a bit of an attention whore, given his fucked-up childhood, and when he gets praise it can put him in a good mood for a while. He really internalizes negative attention and can brood about not being good enough for a long time though. Won’t admit it, but he lives for headpats. Please give him headpats. He deserves headpats. Just watch out for the hair dye.
• Shigaraki’s Quirk does affect his body, though not by quickly decaying him like he does other things. Instead it’s more of a ‘slow-burn’ decay, and his constant itching is one side-effect of that. Since his body is constantly breaking down (his scratching gets rid of a lot of dead skin on the surface), his skin is incredibly sensitive and he can’t use most face/skin products because it damages him even more and he reacts horribly to it. So far he hasn’t found a brand that can help with his marred skin. Adding to this, he can’t stand spicy foods because it aggravates his decaying body.
Since his body is in a constant state of death and dying, this means he can smell off on even good days. It could be described as musty or ‘stale’, and since he’s extremely sensitive to scents and lotions/creams, he can’t exactly just use any old cologne to mask it.
Sometimes his throat gets super dry and he chokes on debris from his own mouth and throat. He needs to constantly hydrate to keep things from getting a bit too dusty. This means he prefers wet/moist foods over dry, and if he eats anything dry he’ll have a drink to go with it. At Kurogiri’s insistence, he always has a few bottles of water in his room at a time so he doesn’t have to get up in the night to go to a working sink for a drink.
This boy is so touch-starved. Whenever someone of the League hugs him, he acts huffy about it, but he doesn’t shove them off (unless it’s Dabi giving him a noogie, then he threatens death, much to the taller one’s amusement). He secretly craves touching other people. He’s terrified of accidentally dusting someone he cares about again (his family’s deaths haunt his dreams more nights than not), but if someone hugs him he just kind of melts into it. Someone please hug this boy. He needs headpats and positive reinforcement.
• Spinner absolutely loves sunning himself on rocks during summer. Whenever the weather is hot and it’s sunny, if he has a day off you’ll find him chilling outside on a rock just soaking up the sun.
Adding onto this, he really loves humid, hot weather. While the rest of the League (especially Dabi) is suffering, he’s just vibing with the weather.
And he sheds. Usually a few times a year, but it’s not uncommon to see large swaths of translucent white patches left behind. This can annoy the League, but to his credit, Spinner tries to keep it on the down-low. More than once he’s tried inconspicuously rubbing his arm or cheek against Shigaraki to try and help get the dead skin off. (He gets really irritated, but it helps with the itching a bit, so he doesn’t really complain unless he’s trying to concentrate on something.)
• Compress will casually swipe up random items that the League leaves around and later might give them back depending on what it is. The other members can get varying levels of annoyed at this, but they don’t get too beat up about it considering Compress’s Quirk and personality. (This is how Toga lost her favorite lip gloss. She didn’t stop pouting for a week until Twice bought her another one.)
When he gets anxious or bored, he often resorts to simple hand tricks to keep himself entertained: fiddling around with his marbles, practicing simple card tricks, or practicing magic.
• Toga loves horror. Almost any horror. Especially guro. During movie nights with the League, as long as the movie has some form of mutilation and/or blood, she’s giving it her full attention. Adding to this, she really loves anything written by Junji Ito and has read Tomie about twenty times. Despite this, she has a soft spot for cutesy things and her aesthetic is Gurokawa. She definitely has a Gloomy Bear plush or two.
She definitely has a fondness for beauty products, given that she’s still just a normal girl despite her Quirk. This fact can make her really insecure, and she’s prone to depressive episodes just like anyone else in the League where she does herself up real pretty just to try and feel more ‘in tune’ with her femininity and less like the monster her parents saw her as. Magne helped with this a lot in the past, but now that she’s gone she relies more on the others to help cheer her up.
She is not above forcing the other League members into spa days. Shigaraki is the only one who doesn’t have to get a facial, though she does insist on painting his nails and doing his hair.
• Kurogiri’s mist/fog can get blown away quicker than he can create more, but only by a very strong wind. It’s hilarious. Shigaraki can’t stop teasing him for it.
Is not above using his Quirk to forcefully separate two squabbling parties, especially in the bar hideout.
When he’s bored, he does bar tricks, much to Toga’s delight.
Since quite a few League members are under drinking age, he always makes sure to have sparkling cider on hand.
He carries snacks and a first-aid kit every time the League goes out on a mission -- especially when it’s Shigaraki heading out. He really does care for the man and will be the first to hand him ointment whenever his skin gets really crumbly or damaged.
Has come to reluctantly see the League as people he worries for. That’s the closest to “hm yes these are my children now I must protect” that you’ll get.
He misses Magne for how sensible she could be. He appreciates Compress’s overall chill vibe and his being the voice of reason among their little group of mass murderers.
• Kurogiri and Magne were the League’s parental figures. You can’t fight me on this. (Kurogiri reluctantly, Magne enthusiastically.) Compress was more like the outgoing uncle that has a sense of humor nobody can really understand at first and was definitely a theater major in college.
• Shigaraki and Dabi love chicken nuggets. Every time someone brings home fast food, you can bet your ass they’ll have ordered like a fifty-piece chicken nugget meal from wherever sells that. Constantly have to deal with each other trying to swipe the other’s nuggets when they finish their own.
• Twice loves Vine compilations and can recite a worrying number of them from memory. He gets a kick out of the “A Bagel, Two Bagels” one for how much he relates to it.
• Before she died, Magne loved when Toga begged her to help her with makeup. It helped with her dysphoria when Toga would doll her up.
She loved window-shopping and imagining herself wearing some of the stylish clothes in shop windows.
Despite her cruel persona towards her enemies, Magne had a soft spot for elegant-cute things, kinda like Toga but a little less bloody.
• Muscular always challenges the other League members to arm-wrestling when he’s around. He always wins. The others have learnt not to accept his challenges, lest they want bruises/sprains.
• Mustard is very childish in his tastes. He loves chicken nuggets and mac n’ cheese. Provokes people by pulling his lower eyelid down and sticking his tongue at them. I can definitely imagine him muttering “Eat my shorts” or “Don’t have a cow, man” whenever another member is angry about something.
• In this household we pretend that Moonfish does not exist.
• If the League had Switches, you bet your ass they play Animal Crossing on them.
Toga would go for a ‘Aika Village’ aesthetic, all gloomy and creepy but with an undeniably cute element to it. Definitely wears pastels and gothic-themed clothing.
Shigaraki models his after his favorite RPG and hunts down NPCs that fit the personalities of the various characters. His favorite characters tend to be dogs. Will not hesitate to kick out any animal who fails his ‘vibe check’. Surprisingly, this game can calm him down almost as well as an RPG. Joycon drift is the bane of his existence.
Compress uses only the most glamorous, expensive items on his island. Outright refuses to use dirt paths. Uses only Snooty villagers.
Dabi wants his island to look the best and is uncharacteristically stern about how his island looks. Everything is very neat and streamlined (and he has an outdoor gym near his player’s home). Will physically fight anyone who tries to ruin it by littering or messing around on it. He has a rivalry with Compress about whose island looks the best.
Spinner doesn’t really care about how his island looks. He just wants to max out his encyclopedias. Shigaraki once caught him up at 3 AM because he was trying to catch a spider crab.
Kurogiri doesn’t play it that often, so his island is fairly undeveloped. Doesn’t really care about it, considering his responsibilities to the League overpower a video game.
Muscular doesn’t care about it at all and doesn’t play.
Mustard made his island look like something out of Harvest Moon or Stardew Valley; a town area, a forest, and even a beach.
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cassiecasyl · 3 years
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to be or not to be hugged
prompts: whumpay day 2: touch starved/touch repulsed + day 11: don’t touch me/don’t leave me
tw: panic attacks, nightmares 
credit for the title goes to @official-wayward-fairchild <3
read on ao3! 
Peter knew something was wrong. He was reminded of it everytime someone hugged him, hell, he was reminded every night. It was in the way his mouth filled with this ashen taste that’s just a little too close to the rusty dust of Titan whenever someone hugged him. The touch infected him with dread and panic, with screams and battle sounds, with memories. His spider senses yelled at him in precaution and Peter tensed everytime, even though he knew that there wasn’t anything to be scared of. He was just overreacting. 
The first time it happened, he’d almost pushed May into a wall, had almost hurt her. He’d apologized profusely, his hands shaking, guilt rushing through his veins, but May had laughed it off. Yet, the worried glance she’d sent haunted him. 
Worst of all were the flashes—when a simple touch brought him back to Titan, more powerful than Dr. Strange’s portals could ever be, and he’s fading into dust, again and again, and Tony looked so broken and as scared as he was (though they’d both tried and failed to hide it), and he’s begging for his life, for Mr. Stark to fix this like he always did—I don’t wanna go—while at the same time, he’s in the supposedly safe arms of a loved one. It was twisted torture in its on way, and Peter couldn’t help but be reminded of one of the stories Loki had told about the time he had been under Thanos’s regime. 
They’d promised him might like he deserved, promised him everything he ever dreamed off, and then mixed it with obedience. Suspected him to pain and fire, sometimes ouf of fun—Loki said he got that—and sometimes framed as a test. His already shattered mind had been broken once more. There was a sense of belonging there, with the false love they gave him and the chaos they promised. The mind stone deconstructed and built him up again. Chaos was his element more than ever. 
Maybe, he was being tested too, Peter mused. He died, after all, and now he wasn’t sure whether he still belonged into this world, with everybody finding someone new and moving on. May had Happy, Tony had Morgan and Harley, even Ned and MJ felt aeons away. No. Peter chided himself for ever taking this analogy. His misery was nowhere close to Loki’s agony. 
Yet, Peter was living a paradox. 
He stopped hugging. It hurt too much and had the tendency to rip him from reality, so he just stopped. There’s a few raised eyebrows and concerned looks at first, but they eventually succumbed to normalcy. 
“Would you like to notify Boss or try any of the 173 tactics of falling asleep I've collected, Peter?” Friday asked for what must’ve been the upteenth time, shocking him out of his thoughts. He shook his head in a sigh. 
“No, Friday. I’m fine,” he answered, lamenting his dismissive tone. She just wanted to help, there was no need to be so rude to her. “Sorry,” he mumbled. The word got half-caught up in a yawn, and he wanted to kick himself for it. 
It wasn’t that he wasn’t tired. Peter knew it was late, and even his bones felt heavy with exhaustion, but he just couldn’t sleep. Not while he was at the Tower. He’d been successful in hiding his nightmares from May, but there was no way he’d be able to do so with Tony. Least of all when he had a perceptive AI on his side. Scratch that, two perceptive AIs. He’d almost forgotten about Karen, but he knew if he asked her for company, she’d eventually report him to Tony. Sleepy Spider Baby Protocol, or however it was called. 
Peter sighed. He was so tired. He just wanted to feel safe.  
~~~
Red sand tickled his throat, and the wind began nibbling at his feet as he stumbled forward. Soon, he’d join the sand, dust to dust, like it had happened countless times before. At this point, he was more scared than confused. He knew what would happen. He just didn’t know why. 
Peter looked up, his eyes scanning the battle field for his mentor. He had to be here somewhere. He always was. In panic, he turned around, ignoring how his toes disintegrated with the movement. Had he died? It happened before. Thanos’s stab always seemed worse in his dreams. But he couldn’t even find a body on the ground. He was all alone. Did he leave him? Did the wind already take them away, leaving him to die alone? He choked on a sob. 
“Peter?” A voice asked behind him, scared and tentative. Tony. The teen spun around, and more fell than ran towards him. The man was perched on the ground, holding his guts together. He was crying. 
“Mr. Stark,” Peter whispered in a plea. Tony looked up at him, but he was looking right through him, as if he was already mourning. His features aged momentarily, his hair turning grey and wrinkles closing in on pained eyes. A quiet, hopeful and sad smile adorned his face, the same one with which he sometimes watched Morgan. Peter could feel himself fading. 
The boy crumbled before Tony, reaching out to him in a desperate cry for comfort. “I’m sorry,” he said, right before his vocal cords left him. At the last moment, Tony’s fingers grazed his, and in horror Peter watched as the dusting didn’t stop with him, but extended to Tony, moved up his right arm and eventually his face. 
Peter lost his eyes before it was over. 
He woke up with a start, eyes wide but unseeing. They were still gone, dusted, he’d be dead again, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. The air escaped him between sobs and panic. “Hey, hey, it’s alright, breathe, Peter, I’m here, it’s alright.” Suddenly, there was comfort. Peter blinked, and instead of complete darkness, shadows started to emerge. 
“Tony?” he asked, hope tearing through his throat. 
“I’m here, kid,” he promised. It was all the invitation Peter needed, and he shot forward, latching onto the older man. He breathed in the scent of motor oil and iron that never quite left Tony, and he was home. His heart beat faster than normal, but it beat, sometimes stumbling in a familiar way, and that was all that mattered. Tony was here. For the first time in a long while, his spider senses remained quiet. They were safe. 
“Shh, it’s okay, kid,” Tony shushed him, gently rocking them as they sat on Peter’s bed. “I’m here,”—Peter tightened his grip at the words—”I’m alive, we’re both alive. We’re in your room at the Tower and it’s 4:14 am on a Saturday morning. It’s raining lightly outside, can you hear that, Pete?” 
The spider stilled, focusing his senses on the weather outside. He panicked slightly as Tony’s heartbeat quietened, but his hand fisted around the hem of Tony’s shirt, and Tony’s constant assurances of it’s alright grounded him. Soon, his ears picked up the light pitter-pattern of rain. Peter nodded. 
“Good!” Tony praised as if he’d just done the most amazing thing in the world. Without him noticing, his breathing had calmed. The air wasn’t evading him as it was before. Tony’s arms around him were warm and safe and Peter sighed in content. He missed this. God, how he’d missed this. 
Tony’s hand found his, the one that was hanging onto the neck of his shirt, and covered it. Peter’s eyes widened as he remembered a flash from his dream. No. He couldn’t infect Tony. He couldn’t let him die, not again. Never. Peter coiled away from the touch suddenly and violently, ragged breaths returning. There was already dust in his lungs. No. 
Tony followed him, but Peter fell to the ground as he hastily retreated, leaving his mentor standing there with raised hands signaling that it was alright. It wasn’t though. He’d infect him, and the dust would find him again, travel up his arm, take him away. It was in his name after all, wasn’t it? He petered out, faded gradually until there was nothing left, until his existence came to an end. He couldn’t spread that to Tony. 
“Peter?” The man crouched down before him, slowly as if he was a scared animal. Peter shook his head. “What’s wrong, buddy?” he asked, hands reaching out. 
“Don’t,” Peter pleaded, recoiling from his mentor’s safe hands. Oh, how he craved their warm embrace. But he couldn’t. He’d kill him. “Please don’t,” he cried, “I’ll infect you.” 
“Okay,” Tony breathed, “okay. Infect me with what?” 
“Dust,” Peter answered with a hiccup. At Tony’s puzzled expression, he elaborated: “I’m dust, and it’s gonna spread to you. It’s in my name.” 
“Oh, kid.” Peter could practically see how a part broke away from Tony’s heart and fell down. That’s how it started, he thought, reminding himself of videos he’d seen of mountains eroding under water. “You’re not dust, not anymore,” he said, searching the room for something, “I brought you back, remember? I wouldn’t bring you back half-baked, Peter. All or nothing, that’s the deal.” 
The kid nodded, still watching him with big eyes. He mustered the veins of scar tissue raking up his right cheek, and suddenly his dream made sense in a different way. Still, he wouldn’t wanna test it. He couldn’t kill Tony too. He wasn’t worth two of his father figures dying, let alone three. 
Tony stood up and fear gripped Peter. He had enough of him. He’d realized the threat he was and would get himself to safety now. Only, that meant he’d leave Peter behind. “I’m not leaving, Pete,” Tony promised against his anxiety spouting lies, “I’m just getting something. See? I’m not even leaving the room.” He held up the water bottle Peter always kept on his bedside table to show him. 
He came back. Peter almost wanted to smile, but his dust-infected body was way too numb to do anything but watch. “Now, could you stretch your arm out for me?” Tony asked. Peter sucked in a panicked breath. “I’m not gonna touch you, I promise.” Slowly, Peter nodded. 
Cold water touched his skin as soon as he did what Tony asked of him, shocking him back into reality. “See?” the genius asked, “You’re solid. No dust here.” Peter nodded, blinking and staring at his hand, wet and still in one place. He looked up at Tony, who was smiling assuringly. 
“Solid,” Peter repeated, the remains of the nightmare slowly leaving his body. “I’m solid,” he laughed. 
“That’s right, Pete,” Tony praised, his hands switching towards him. He still slightly shied away from the possibility of touch though. His mentor fixed him with that concerned gaze, the one with which he could read him like no other, that implied that he was trying to figure out what bothered Peter. 
“Can I hug you?” he asked. Peter shook his head. It was tempting, but he wasn’t sure whether he was ready for that yet. 
“Rather not. Sorry.” Tony nodded, quickly hiding the sadness. 
“That’s alright. Thank you for telling me.” He stood up, mindlessly extending his arm to help Peter up, but then taking it back with a scolding shake of his head. Peter chuckled. “Sorry, didn’t think. So, anything else you wanna do? Catch some sleep, watch a movie?”—he glanced at the time—”Oh, what about a hot chocolate? Rhodey should be up by now ‘cause he has an early meeting or something, and he makes the best hot chocolate in the Tower.” 
Peter stood up with a laugh. “Hot chocolate sounds great.” 
“Hot chocolate it is then,” Tony confirmed with a warm smile.  “Friday, warn Rhodey if he’s awake, we’ve got a spider baby to pamper.” He left the room before Peter could object, and Peter quickly followed him. 
tag list: (let me know if you wanna be added/removed!)
@starrynightdeancas @spookyscarykittycat @sherlock-who-mentalist @lost-lunar-wolf @aixabi
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Text
endless
oops my hand slipped and i wrote a very sad drabble that’s just tony missing peter, reflecting on it during the Blip, set pre-as if even now. read it on ao3 here, and if you haven’t, read as if even now (if only to get to their happy ending, i wrote an absurdly fluffy epilogue drabble for them damnit). preemptive tw that this fic reflects on a time where tony was suicidal, and thoughts and attempts are referenced. 
The kid had gotten under his skin, into every breath he took, inside his lungs and running through his veins and pumping through his heart, in ways he hadn’t realized until he’d clutched his body as it crumbled to dust. All he’d known was that he’d felt empty in ways he hadn’t since before he’d become Iron Man, back to Earth and spending his days and nights looking for ways to fill the aching chasm that was always threatening to swallow him whole.
Tony has always been, if anything, at least self-aware when it comes to his many and myriad faults. And the truth is that he is a greedy man, never satisfied with what he has, always reaching for the next thing and the next and the next, always wanting what he can’t have, even when (especially when) it’s not good for him. And he knows that this is the truth, even though Pep always just pats him on the shoulder and gives him one of her softer smiles and says that he deserves to be a little greedy, after all he’s done, after all he’s been through. He hasn’t quite figured out how to argue with that one, even though he knows in his gut that he should. At least he hasn’t figured out how to argue without revealing cards he’d rather keep hidden, even from (especially from) Pep.
Because he’d nearly died, had thought he was going to die, and was ready to die. Another of those things he hasn’t quite worked up the courage to tell Pep yet. Her favored narrative, for him and for the press, is that he held on, fought for life, fought to stay with them for her, for Morgan. Morgan—Christ. So how is he supposed to tell Pep that he’d been lying there, fighting for consciousness through the pain clawing its way across his entire right side, and in what he’d been certain were his dying moments he’d looked at the kid, really looked at him, remembered the way his hair had smelled of cheap shampoo and sweat and dirt when he’d hugged him tight, here, real, undeniably alive, and thought, Oh. Oh.
And that had been enough.
Tony scrubbed his hands across his face, harsh and hard, as if he could erase the memory of that moment, before he’d felt whatever oddball magic Strange had begun working. What he needed to erase were the memories of the five years before that—or, hell, maybe back further. As if Tony would ever—could ever—try to excise Peter from his mind. He wasn’t even sure that he could, now. The kid had gotten under his skin, into every breath he took, inside his lungs and running through his veins and pumping through his heart, in ways he hadn’t realized until he’d clutched his body as it crumbled to dust. All he’d known was that he’d felt empty in ways he hadn’t since before he’d become Iron Man, back to Earth and spending his days and nights looking for ways to fill the aching chasm that was always threatening to swallow him whole.
After Pep had gotten pregnant with Morgan, he’d once, in a drunken spat of extreme bitterness, accused her of convincing him to retire and have a kid as a replacement for Peter. She’d been so mad at him for that one that she’d just left the house and called Rhodey, told them to call her when Tony was sober again. He regretted what he said, but he noticed that she didn’t deny it.
At least, in her eyes, he’d stopped trying to kill himself by the time Morgan was born, so she could reasonably assume that maybe her plan had worked. Shamefully, not even the idea of leaving his baby girl alone in the world without a father was enough to keep him away from that particular ledge—in fact, what he hadn’t admitted to Pepper was that it made him want to run away more, because if Peter was superhuman and brilliant and good, the best of them, and Tony hadn’t been able to protect him, what could Tony hope to do for this little girl? No, it was Nat who got the credit for ending his run of attempts. Most of his attempts had been thwarted by past Tony, who had dreamed up what felt like a thousand and one protocols and alerts for just this scenario, but the last one it had been Nat to walk into his workshop at just the right (wrong) moment, in what if it had been anyone other than the Black Widow he’d have called a coincidence.
“You’ve gotta talk to someone, Tony,” she’d said once they were settled on the couch in the corner of the lab he slept on most nights.
“You don’t think I do? I’ve seen every shrink this side of the Mississippi and several on the other, I’ve gone to those stupid fucking support groups, and it’s—none of it works, Nat.” He’d been drunk—he was always at least slightly drunk, then—and it made him more open. “It’s all wrong.”
Whenever his therapists asked him to talk about what happened on Titan, he clammed up, spoke in the vaguest of terms. He told himself he was protecting Peter’s identity (even in apparent death) but he knew that wasn’t right. He’d considered that he was trying to avoid admitting just how culpable he really was, for dragging a teenager into this fight, for dragging the best mind of a new generation, the sweetest boy he’d ever known, brash and a bit impulsive but with a heart of fucking gold, and let him die on a godforsaken desert planet with a bunch of aliens, Strange, and a man who thought Footloose was a great movie—because he’d had plenty of experience avoiding admitting truths to himself, and this wasn’t his first therapy rodeo—but deep down he knew that wasn’t right either.
“Have you gone to the right ones?” Natasha had asked softly, looking at him carefully, and he had the unsettling feeling she, as always, saw more than he wanted her to see.
“I’ve been to the general ones, the ones for everyone who lost people in the Blip, to family loss, to the ones for first responders and others who felt helpless, I’ve even been to the groups for parents who lost kids.”
He had—at Pep’s insistence, he’d gone. And it was—better, than the others. The scope of his grief felt… more accepted, there. Less out of touch with the experiences of others. But it still wasn’t—enough. When they talked about the future they’d been robbed of with their children, it was a future they got to watch, moments in their lives that were gone—graduations, weddings, grandchildren. And Tony felt that, all of it, deeply—that he should’ve been there to see Pete graduate, valedictorian, go to college wherever he wanted (MIT, it would’ve been MIT), invent something that floored Tony with his brilliance—but that wasn’t quite it. More than all of that, he missed the time he should’ve spent with the kid and didn’t, missed the idea of years of weekends in the lab spilling out ahead of them, hearing him laugh and seeing him smile. He wished he’d just hugged the kid that time in the car, instead of making everything some joke.
“He was just… you know what he said to me, when I first met him and asked him why he was doing what he did? A broke fourteen year old kid, suddenly has superpowers and instead of being captain of the football team and stealing enough to set them up for life, he’s chasing down muggers in a onesie? He said, when you can do what I do, and you don’t do anything, and then bad things happen, they happen because of you. I mean, Christ, Nat. He was the best of us and I—I lost him, and I—and it feels like I can’t breathe.” He realized that his hand had gone, unbidden, to the shell of where the arc reactor had been, clutching at it desperately. Ripping his heart out would’ve maybe been less painful. Natasha had given him another penetrating look and then, whip sharp and faster than certainly his inebriated brain could keep up with, she’d grabbed him by the chin and turned him to look her in the eye.
“I actually like you, Tony, which is why I will say this. You loved Peter, you really truly did. And when you love someone, and they die, it fucking hurts and it never goes away. I like Pepper, I do, but the house in the country and hanging up the suit and the baby? Those won’t make it stop hurting. That pain lives inside you now, because so did Peter. So the only question is whether you can choose to live with it. Like I said, I like you, so I hope the answer is yes, and I think that’s the answer the kid would want for you. But if the answer is no, you call me. I’ll make it quick, and painless, and tidy, and Pep and the baby would never ever know what it really was.”
For once in life, he’d been speechless, left to stare at the spot on the couch she’d vacated as he considered her words, considered that Natasha had had a life, in Russia, before the Red Room had stolen it from her. Considered whether he’d want Pep to think he’d just… had a heart attack. Gotten old, put too much stress on himself. Considered the kid, wondered if there really was a place you went when you died, what he’d say to Peter.
He’d called Natasha once after that, at 3 in the morning a few months after Morgan was born, when he hadn’t been getting enough sleep and when the silence around the house had felt oppressive.
“Tony,” she’d said, quiet and gentle, the kind of tone she took when she was lulling the Hulk back to peace. “Is this the call we talked about?”
“No,” he’d gasped, scrabbling around the kitchen for the picture of Peter and him together, their fake internship picture. “No, I just… Thanks. Thank you.”
“You already had your heart-to-heart, Stark. Don’t think this is a regular thing,” she’d said, sounding more like herself. He’d snorted, clinging to the sense of normalcy.
“Yeah, yeah, I got it. Won’t put you on the list for talking about our feelings.”
“Atta boy. And Stark… you’re welcome.”
20 notes · View notes
rdmdani · 4 years
Text
Fading Love {Keiji Akaashi}
Tumblr media
word count: 4k
warnings: angst and ending is fluff, fading love
-- -- -- -- -- -- 
Things weren’t the same anymore. Waking up next to him didn’t give you a thrill, didn’t make your heart race like it used to. Bringing him coffee in the morning, kissing his cheek… his fingers never lingered where your lips pressed against his heated skin. Your laughter didn’t make his heartbeat skip, it just stayed still now. You both felt it, you both knew that things were different now… but never had the words been spoken out loud. They were there though, despite never being acknowledged. They were there when the two of you fell asleep alone, your bodies just mere inches from one another. Together but undeniably alone. 
“Hey baby,” Kuroo spoke from behind you, jolting you back into reality. You turned to the man you once loved, the one you wish you still felt the same for. You smiled up at him, a sad smile… but a smile nonetheless. 
“Hey,” you replied softly, holding back a small cringe at the feeling of his lips pressing against your forehead. A pang of numbness swirled in your stomach at the attempted affection. Pushing the feeling down your throat, you quickly changed the topic, “Do you have volleyball today?”
He nodded, stepping back from you. A rush of oxygen invaded your lungs, the suffocating feeling leaving you as the distance between your body and his grew, “Yeah we’re going to go practice with Fukurodani today. You want to come? Your bestie will be there.” 
You chuckled at his teasing tone, rolling your eyes, “Akaashi isn’t my bestie, he’s just a friend.” 
He reciprocated your eye roll jokingly, “Sometimes I think you like him more than you like me.” 
You knew he was meaning it in a joking manner, but you could read it all over his face. He actually thought that. He saw the way you and Akaashi spoke, how Akaashi smiles at you and you smile back. The two of you had grown very close over the years, but you never thought of it to the extent that your boyfriend did. 
“Don’t be silly,” you chuckled, your tone guarded. He was wrong, but not by much. You loved your boyfriend, you really did. But things were so different now… every movement, every kiss… they all seemed so forced now. The relationship you have with Akaashi is so easy. There is no questioning between the two of you. You could talk to Akaashi for hours and never once feel bored or like a burden. That’s not how it is with Kuroo anymore… honestly you’d never felt that way with Kuroo. 
“Sure,” he spoke numbly, taking in the way your body stiffened at his words, “So are you coming?” 
“Yeah, just let me go get dressed real quick,” you said sweetly, turning to head to his room to find some clothes. He went to reach for you, but you were already so far out of his grasp. In more ways than one. 
-
“Y/N!” Bokuto yelled as you and Kuroo walked in. Normally he would be holding your hand, walking in step with you… but today you trailed slowly behind him. He had his hands in his pockets today. 
“Bo!” you squealed happily, running into the energetic boys arms. He swung you around, nearly knocking Akaashi over but he was used to this. He ducked just in time, narrowly avoiding your tattered converses. A small smile was gracing his lips as he watched you laughing loudly, begging Bokuto to put you down. 
“You’re going to make Y/N sick, Bokuto,” Akaashi voiced, his usual monotone voice causing small butterflies to swarm your stomach. 
“Listen to ‘Kaashi,” you laughed, clinging onto Bokuto for dear life, “Pleaseee!” 
The boy grumpily placed your feet on the ground, but the constant spinning had caused your mind to go a little fuzzy. You stepped forward in an attempt to ground yourself, but you could feel your body tipping over. Steady hands gripped your waist, holding you in place so you wouldn’t faceplant. You assumed it was Kuroo for a millisecond, but then you felt the twist in your stomach. You felt your heart racing slightly faster than it should. You felt your skin set on fire underneath their touch. 
“Thanks Akaashi,” you mumbled, placing a hand on your forehead as the world slowly stopped spinning.
“Yeah,” he spoke, the words coming out slightly warbled. Confused, you turned to look at him. His cheeks were dusted over with pink, his eyes never once leaving the sight of his hands gripping your waist. 
“‘Kaashi?” he looked up at your eyes at the sound of your concerned tone and for a moment you thought time stopped. His lips parted slightly at the sight of your reddened face, but you knew better than this. You knew that Kuroo was watching and you felt sick because of it, so you spoke up, “You can let go now. I’m not dizzy anymore.” 
“Sorry,” he whispered, stepping away from you. That felt different. 
When Kuroo stepped away from you, sudden rushes of air plagued your lungs… but when it was Akaashi distancing himself. It was as if all the air in your lungs left with him. Ashamed of the feeling, you pointed towards the bench, “I’m gonna go sit down, have fun guys.” 
Akaashi watched you as you walked away, his hands curling into fists at their sides. He wanted to reach out to you, he wanted to hold you… but you weren’t his to hold. You were with Kuroo and of course he knew that. He just hated it. 
“Kuroo doesn’t look too happy with you,” Bokuto whispered to his best friend, breaking him from his trance. Akaashi looked over to Kuroo to see him glaring him down. Akaashi’s face remained stoic, but he felt irritation begging to express itself on his gentle features. 
“Let it go,” he whispered to himself, causing Bokuto to look at him with a small smirk. Of course Bokuto knew all about Akaashi’s feelings for you. He was also aware of the lack of feelings between you and Kuroo. 
“You two would be a cu-”
“Finish that sentence and I won’t set for you for the rest of the season,” Akaashi threatened as he walked away. Bokuto watched him with a knowing smirk, loving the sight of his normally stoic best friend starting to crumble over a girl. But he understood, you were one hell of a girl. 
“Let’s play!” Bokuto yelled as he chased after his best friend. -
For a practice match, it seemed a little serious. Normally the boys would be cutting up, but that was not the energy today. You could feel the brewing emotions between Kuroo, Akaashi, and even Bokuto. It only got worse whenever Nekoma won the first match, causing Kuroo to spin you around and kiss you. Surprised, you barely had time to to register what happened to kiss him back. Kuroo felt it, he felt you hesitating to kiss him back. He wanted to say he didn’t know why, it wasn’t like you were shy. The two of you used to do this all the time, but he knew the reason. What hurt the most is that he knew it wasn’t just because Akaashi was there… you just didn’t want to kiss him. 
Akaashi watched the moment between the two of you, but from his view he couldn’t see your hesitation. His fist curled once more, anger taking over his body in a fiery motion. The second set. That’s when he was going to kick Kuroo’s ass. “Calm down, Akaashi,” Bokuto said to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Akaashi didn’t mean to, but his body reacted before his brain did. He shoved the boys hand off of his shoulder in a huff. 
“Shut up,” he nearly growled, “I am calm.” 
“We’ll win the second set,” Bokuto said to him with a smile, giving him room to seethe. 
“I know we will.” 
True to his word, Fukurodani won the second set. He smirked at Kuroo as he finished the set with a setter’s dump. Kuroo glowered at him, using every bit of restraint in his body to not jump the boy right there. But Akaashi wasn’t done. He turned to you, giving you a thumbs up. You, unaware of the brewing battle between the two boys, gave him a giant smile and returned the gesture. 
“That’s it!” Kuroo yelled, pushing the net out of the way to get to Akaashi. Bokuto ran between the two boys, panic set in his features. 
“Calm down, Kuroo!” Bokuto said, his tone matching Kuroo’s. He spread his arms out, protecting the smirking setter behind him. 
“No,” Akaashi spoke with amusement in his tone, “Let him hit me. I promise to return the favor.” 
Bokuto looked at him in surprise, “YOU’RE NOT HELPING!” 
Now you understood. Silently, you marched over to the boys. Angry words spewed from each of their mouths like daggers being propelled across a battlefield. The teams were attempting to separate the two boys, but when they saw you walking over with a black aura radiating off of your body they all froze and stepped back. They knew you could handle this, and frankly they didn’t want to be in the mix while you did it. 
Kuroo continued to scream at Akaashi, who of course just stared at him with that snotty smirk on his lips. But that all changed when he saw your approaching figure behind Kuroo. His expression dropped, showing the slightest bit of guilt. Kuroo never stopped, his words echoing through the now silent gym. 
“Kuroo,” you said to him, your expression void of any feeling. He stopped mid sentence, his eyes widening in surprise. Everyone watched curiously as the tall boy seemed to shrink in shame as he turned to face the angered girl. Seeing that everyone’s attention was on you, you sighed, “Get your stuff. We’re leaving.” 
Without another word, you spun on your heels and headed out of the door. Kuroo winced, realizing what was about to come. He silently packed his belongings and followed you out of the building, his movements unbearably slow. 
“I guess it’s a tie?” Bokuto voiced, causing the entire room to stare at him in disbelief. 
-
The ride was silent. Kuroo didn’t even attempt to speak to you. There was nothing that he could say. He thought of apologizing, but he promised you that he would never lie to you. He wasn’t sorry and he wasn’t going to pretend that he was. It was the front door. The front door when it slammed behind you. When you shoved your shoes off of your feet. It was at the front door that the night really began. 
“What was that?” you practically spat at the boy while he struggled to undo the knot in his shoes. 
“I was protecting what is mine,” he mumbled, his fingers shaking around the skinny fabric. 
“Excuse me?” his hands paused, immediately realizing his mistake, “I am not your property, Kuroo. So don’t you dare start that with me, got it? I’ll give you another chance. What was that?” 
Kuroo snapped, standing to cower over you. His words came out lightning fast, he didn’t even know what he was saying until it was echoing the halls of his home, “What about you, huh? What about what’s going on with you and Akaashi? How about we talk about that? You think I didn’t see that little show the two of you put on when we got to the gym? You think that I’m an idiot? I saw it all!” 
He didn’t intend for it to come off as threatening, he was just tall. But when he saw the way you cowered slightly under his gaze and under the pressure of his words, he softened. His hand reached out to caress your chin, but you shied away from his touch, “You think I don’t know that you don’t love me anymore? I do. Trust me, I have noticed.” 
Pain. That’s all you could hear in his now gentle tone. You looked up to the boy, the one you used to love with your whole heart, “I do love you, Kuroo.” 
He shook his head, tears dripping from his beautiful eyes, “Baby, please don’t lie to me. We promised we would be honest with one another.” 
A sudden sob broke out of your chest as you clung to Kuroo. His arms instinctively wrapped around you, holding you close to him just as he did a million times. But, like most things these days, it was different. You weren’t warm anymore.
He wondered when your body stopped feeling like home to him. 
“I want to love you,” you sobbed into his chest, “I want to love you so much, Kuroo.” 
“I know, baby,” he sighed, pressing kisses onto the top of your head. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. But instead he just held you tighter, whispering his biggest confession, “I want to love you, too.” 
There it was. Out in the open. He felt the same and he had for a while. Today was just his final attempt at keeping you in his arms, no matter how empty it made his heart feel. 
“Please don’t hate me,” you whispered to him, causing both of your hearts to scream out in pain. His grasp tightened around you as tears began to flow freely. 
“I could never hate you, Y/N.” 
-
It had been two weeks since you and the Nekoma captain had broken up. It felt so weird to you to be without him. You were kind of thankful that you didn’t attend his school, you could only imagine how much more painful that would have made things. But it definitely was just as awkward at Fukurodani than it would have been at Nekoma. 
You hadn’t spoken to Akaashi since that day. Of course, you weren’t sure if it was out of anger or confusion. The anger option was the easier excuse. But you were confused. You didn’t know how to act now. Akaashi made it painfully clear for you that day that he was interested in you and you didn’t know how to handle that. Obviously you had your suspicions beforehand, but he practically wrote it in the sky. How were you meant to act around him now? Was it too soon to talk to him? Did you feel the same way?
That one was the worst question of them all. You honestly didn’t know if you had feelings for Akaashi. 
“Talk to him,” your friend prodded, nudging you backside with her elbow. Akaashi and Bokuto were on the other side of the library. Akaashi was attempting to study while Bokuto was trying to convince him to do anything but that. You watched the boys in slight amusement, but it quickly vanished when Akaashi’s eyes met yours. He seemed hopeful for a moment, but when you turned away from him, he felt his heart tearing in his chest.
“I can’t,” you whispered to her, pain evident in your tone. You walked to the other side of the room, attempting to find a seat where Akaashi’s gaze couldn’t burn your skin. 
“You’re killing yourself over this,” Hana complained, snatching a book off of the shelf as she walked by. “It would be a lot easier to just… talk to him.” 
“I told you,” you grumbled, placing your bookbag on the ground and sitting in the uncomfortable chairs. That was the price you had to pay to keep yourself from seeing Akaashi. Your body screamed out at you in protest. It had not stopped begging for his touch since that day in the gym. When his fingertips brushed against the exposed skin of your slightly raised top, it sparked so many things inside of you. Ever since, your mind and body have been calling out his name. You wondered if his was the same, but you couldn’t think about that long. When you think about his body begging for yours just as desperately as yours cried out for his… You shook your head, “I can’t. I told you I can’t.” 
“Why not?”
“What if I don’t actually like him? What if he’s just a rebound?” 
“You liked him before the breakup,” she said in a bored tone, spreading the spine of the book. It was new, your ears perked up at the sound of the spine adjusting to its new position. 
“It’s too soon.” 
“Even Kuroo said to try, didn’t he?” 
She was right. That night, Kuroo had helped you pack your stuff (you didn’t live with him, but no one would’ve known that with as much stuff as you had at his place). He zipped up your bag and went to hand it to you. Right before you grabbed it, he spoke, “I know you don’t want to hear this just as much as I don’t want to say it, but I do like Akaashi. I think he would be good for you.”
“Kuroo,” you tried to say, but he silenced you with a pained look. 
“Please,” he whispered, dropping the straps of your bag into your hand, “Don’t avoid love because of this.” 
You said you wouldn’t. You promised him that you wouldn’t. But here you were hiding in the library from the one person who can set your skin on fire and cool it down with a simple brush of his skin on yours. 
“Maybe I’m just scared,” you shrugged, trying to rid the air of this conversation. Hana sighed, dropping the subject. But even with her mouth shut and her eyes lazily scanning the pages in front of her, you knew every single thought going off in her mind. 
-
“Are you mad at me?” Akaashi asked from behind you. Your body froze at the sound of his voice, so calm yet you could hear the panic behind it. 
“No, ‘Kaashi,” you whispered, trying to walk away from him. Akaashi wasn’t sure what took him over at that moment. Maybe it was the fear that if he let you walk away now, you would never come back to him. His hand reached out, taking hold of your arm. His grasp wasn’t harsh, but it spread pain through your entire body. Longing. It sparked inside of you, causing tears to form in your eyes. 
“Please,” he whispered, letting his frozen facade crumble as he stared at the floor underneath him, “Please don’t leave me.” 
You turned to look at the boy, seeing a single tear drop from his eyes. Your fear was swallowed up by sadness, realizing it wasn’t just you who was breaking down. He needed you just as much as you did him. He just couldn’t ignore it any longer, “‘Kaashi…”
“I am so sorry for how I acted that day,” he struggled to speak, trying to force down a sob. He couldn’t let you walk away. His entire body trembled in fear that he would lose you before he even got to experience loving you. 
“I’m not mad at you,” you whispered, but your words meant nothing to him. Not when you’d been avoiding him for so long. 
“Then why won’t you talk to me?” he croaked, looking you in the eyes. Time froze around the two of you once more. You couldn’t help but notice how warm his gaze was on you, how inviting it made his body feel to you.  
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” his voice grew louder in the abandoned hallways. You had never heard him sound so desperate before and suddenly you were thankful school had ended. Akaashi’s grip softened to the point it completely vanished from your body, causing your stomach to twist. You already missed the feeling of his skin on yours. But what broke you even further was seeing Akaashi’s body sink to the floor, barely able to hold himself up on his knees. 
“I know that you and Kuroo broke up because of what I did,” he whispered, his fists clenched in his lap, “And I get it if you don’t feel the same about me. You don’t have to. But I cannot stand another day without you beside me. It’s killing me, Y/N.” 
The emotion in his voice was raw and painful. You couldn’t stand hearing him like this, and it was tearing you apart that it was your fault he was acting this way. So you finally broke, falling to your knees in front of him. Your hands, so desperate to feel his warm skin beneath your fingertips, reached out in front of you and held onto his face, forcing him to look at you. 
“I do feel the same way, Akaashi,” you admitted, your cheeks burning red at the confession, “That’s why I’m so scared. That’s why I’ve been hiding away from you. You were my only thought after I left Kuroo’s house that night. You have been the only thing I have thought about for the last two weeks. Every morning I wake up and look at the place Kuroo once laid and I imagine you there. I imagine your hands wrapped around my waist…” 
“I-”
“And it’s wrong,” you sobbed, causing his eyes to widen as your hands fell from his face. He wanted to question you, but instead he stayed silent, “I shouldn’t crave you this much.” 
Words were never Akaashi’s strong subject. So instead he threaded his fingers through your hair, gentle and loving fingertips brushing across your scalp. You looked at him, into his gunmetal blue eyes and suddenly you were no longer in the hallway of your school. You weren’t crumpled to the ground in despair, no longer fighting every ounce of your body to not fall in love with him. Suddenly you were in a field of cherry blossom trees, their soft petals gently cascading down from the sky and flowing down the soft edges of your skin. 
“Couldn’t we just try?”
And then you were flying. You were in the sky as fireworks bloomed around you. You were soaring above all of the hurt and pain you had been feeling for so long. That numb feeling in your stomach morphing into something so bright and beautiful that you were sure those butterflies people speak of were more than just an expression. Desperation took over your body as you flung yourself forward, wrapping your arms around Akaashi’s neck and pressing your lips to his in a valiant declaration of love. His response was immediate, pulling you closer to him with the hand in your hair. His spare hand wrapped around your waist, tugging you into his lap. He was tired of the space between your bodies. 
“Aka-” Bokuto went to yell as he turned onto the hallway. He stopped, seeing the sight in front of him. The two of you broke your lips apart, but remained together. He rested his forehead against yours, gazing up into your eyes with pure love. You couldn’t look away from them, they were intoxicating. Bokuto nodded approvingly before turning away, headed back to the gym to tell the team that Akaashi would be late to practice. 
“You know he’s going to tell the entire team, right?” you asked feebly, your voice barely over a whisper. 
A small smile fell onto his lips at your words, “That’s fine with me.” 
He didn’t give you another moment to respond before his lips found yours once more. This time much gentler than the last. He poured every unspoken thought he had trapped in his mind into the kiss, and you heard every last word. Every single confession of his love. Every single cry of longing he had felt. Every night he laid in bed restless, wishing it was you beside him and not an empty space. 
How your body was home to him. 
“I love you,” he whispered against your lips as they separated. You looked into his eyes, as if searching for any sign of doubt. Doubt. That’s what you were used to now. But when you saw his unbreaking gaze and felt the vulnerability of his skin… you knew he was void of any doubt. 
“I love you… I’m so sorry I made you wait.” 
He smiled at you, his body relaxing at the words, “I don’t mind, just don’t run away from me again.”
You shook your head softly, “I would never.”
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peanuts-and-pickles · 3 years
Text
Glitches, Candles, and Knifes   .............  Part 2  ...................
This is a part two. Find part one on my blog!
Summery: After Five gets trapped in the apocalypse again, this time with a stab wound, Sloane and family know its a race against time to find Five and rescue him.
Warnings: um... I guess some stab wound gore? but not much. Blood. Pain. the usual. Self harm?? 
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Five stumbled forward, landing on his knees, the dust and heat filling his lungs. He felt a wave of panic build in him, as he recognized his surroundings. 
No, no, no, no… 
He couldn’t do this. Not again. 
Five pitched forward, coughing, trying in vain to get the dust, the ever familiar and everlasting ash out of his lungs, but all that came up was sickly copper tasting blood. 
Something was wrong. Aside from the large amount of blood now dripping from his lips, he couldn’t feel any pain. That wasn’t good. 
His hand clutched his stomach, trying to feel something, anything, and yet the only thing he felt was the drip of blood, streaming through his fingers. His vision blinked in and out. 
The bleeding… he had to stop the bleeding…
His hands fumbled and his uniform shirt. Griping it in both hands, he ripped a long strip from the hem. He wrapped it around his stomach, as tight as he could, and with shaking fingers he tied it. Now he could feel it. He could definitely feel it. He gave a cry of pain as he yanked the knot tighter. His cry echoed off the walls that were still standing. As the fires burned around him, Number Five collapsed, unconscious, in the place he had only just escaped. The place that had haunted his dreams, and caught on his mind whenever he saw a collapsed building or a stray cockroach. The apocalypse welcomed him back with open, flaming arms. 
                                        .                                 .                                      .
Meanwhile, the Sparrow and Umbrella academies stood in front of Reginald. They were silent with defeat and grief. They had lost, not only the fight, but their brother, and now they had to tell their father. 
“They got away?!” Reginald demanded, walking up to Marcus, who couldn’t look him in the eye.
“We did are best, but then Five got stabbed and then-”
“I am not interested in hearing about your brother. I am interested in hearing about how you let two bank robbers, two nefarious criminals, slip through your fingers and escape into the  world, free?”
“It was my fault.” Diago stepped forward. He glanced at Klaus for support. His brother nodded. 
“I was the one who lost concentration and stabbed Five. we couldn't focus after that. But Dad, after Five got stabbed he-”
“Stop.” Reginald interrupted. “I blame all of you. For three main things. Number seven-” He gestured at Vanya, “You will name them.”
“Uhh..” vanya stuttered. “We.. um, stabbed Five,” She glanced at Sloane in  apology. Sloane stared straight ahead, her uniform covered in Five’s blood, her shoulders shaking slightly. “And then we let the robbers get away.”
“You are forgetting one, Number Seven,” Reginald intoned. “You let Number FIve lie there, bleeding out, and no one attended to him? Not one of you thought to bring him back to the academy? Is he still there? In all your fighting, in all the excitement, no one thought about how much of an asset he is to the team-”
He was cut off by Sloane’s shout. “We did! Of course we did. And he’s more than just an asset. But that's what we've all been trying to tell you. If you had actually listened to us, you would have known that we couldn’t bring Five back, and we couldn’t help him, because he disappeared. His body-flickered. Glitched. I don’t know how to explain it. He just- disappeared.”
Reginald's face took on an emotion that not one of the siblings could read. 
“Has this happened before? It is extremely important that you tell me if you have seen Five glitch like this in the past. Have you?”
Everyone was silent and still. Everyone but Klaus, who glanced at something behind him. 
“Ben has.”
                                                       .            .            . 
Later, both the academys sat in a circle in Marcus’s room. There were some sniffles, but an over all quiet sadness fell over the group. Reginald had retired early, saying he needed to think. 
The silence was broken by Allison. “He might still be… you know, alive.”
Everyone looked at her. She looked down. 
“She’s right.” Now everyone looked at Sloane, who hadn’t changed, and was still wearing the blood soaked uniform from earlier. “And I think I have an idea.” She looked up, excited,
“I know I have only ever been able to copy one power at a time- but if I can focus on two, maybe I can…” She sat forward. Leaning towards Fel . “Five disappeared to the apocalypse, or so we can assume, because of all the ash and stuff. That had to be one of the most traumatic points in his life. So maybe, that's what caused his power to go all glitchy. It brought him back to the place he feared the most. So this sounds crazy, but…” She trailed off looking just above Marcus’s shoulder. So did Klaus. He whipped his head back to Sloane, eyes wide. “No. You are not actually considering doing what Ben just said?! No way. nope.” 
“Look, It might work. I just need to use Fel’s power of empathy to tap into Five’s emotions, specifically the trauma of the apocalypse, and then, if I feel it enough, I can glitch there like Five did, find him, rescue him, and bring him back.”
Everyone was silent. And then they all talked at once. “Ok there are so many flaws in that plan,” Diego said as Luther shouted his objections. Only Fel was silent. She knew the power of empathy. She knew it might work. 
“How will you find him once you get there?” Vanya cut in softly. 
“Well he disappeared at the Cornerstone Bank, so maybe I, just, like, walk there? From here? Anyways it’s worth a shot.” 
No one moved. Before they could object, Sloane said “Here goes nothi- I mean Fives life.” Sloane closed her eyes. 
Everyone was silent, watching her. 
Sloane concentrated, tapping into Fel’s power, and focusing on Five. She felt a wave of emotion roll over her, anger and love and pain and turmoil- but she focused on only one. Fear. And there was a lot of fear. She was shaking, every cell in her body aflame, trembling with nerves. It was as if she was standing over a cliff, and it slowly crumbled, falling away under her, and no matter how fast she backed up, the cliff crumbled faster. With the fear, came the pain. She focused on that, picturing the apocalypse, letting Five’s emotion soak her. She opened one eye.
The others were gapping at her. Sloane reached up and whipped tears from her cheeks. 
“Is anything happening?” She asked with shaky breaths. 
“...its that bad?” Vanya asked softly. “Five… it's that bad? He feels that bad?”
Sloane nodded, biting her lip.  
“Anyway… how did five do it? I felt it… I felt how he feels but… nothings happening?”
Suddenly her eyes widened. “Diego, give me your knife.” 
“What?!” Diego shrieked, his handing flying to his belt. 
“Ugh.” Sloane held out her hand, and the knife flew out of his belt and into her hands. 
(“hey!” Diego protested)
Ben’s eyes widened with realization. “Stop her!” he shouted, jumping forward. “Someone stop her!” 
Klaus realized what he meant and lunged forward, too late. In one quick motion, Sloane brought the knife up, and plunged it into her thigh. 
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Do i do a part three? to be continued? up to you
(p.s. i would love feedback)
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baronessblixen · 3 years
Text
The Three Lost Children
This is my entry for the @xfilesfanficexchange Horror Fanfic Exchange. My words were lost and abandoned. Set in season 6.
The reason I’m posting it here as well as on AO3 is because this is also today’s Fictober story! Tagging @today-in-fic and @xffictober
Fictober Day 24
New England in autumn is a sight to be seen. Mulder drives them through the vibrant, popping colors and Scully watches, almost like a child, in silent awe. She can’t wait to stop the car, walk through the rustling leaves, take in the fresh air. Listen to the breeze of the nearby ocean. She hasn’t been to the ocean in so long and her soul aches for it. She chances a glance at Mulder. They’re both quiet, lost in their own thoughts. She wouldn’t be able to guess what he’s thinking about. Lately, this is all they’ve been; a long stretch of silence, of unspoken pains.
The longer they drive, the lonelier it becomes. She doesn’t know why they’re here, not really. Something about apparitions, something about a cold case. As so often, she just followed him, barely asking for an explanation, still trusting him with their work. Even after Diana. They’ve been inching back towards normalcy. But in her mind, it’s ever present. Before Diana, after Diana.
Mulder sets the blinker and turns onto a small, nondescript gravel path. She glances at him but he doesn’t say anything. They follow the path and Scully watches as the trees grow rarer, most of them bald, barely alive. She shivers involuntarily as a house comes into view, growing bigger and bigger. Mulder slows the car and parks at it what must have been a gate once.
“We’re here,” he says unnecessarily, turning to her. They get out of the car and Mulder stretches, holding his nose into the air, half a smile on his face. Scully watches him, half amused and, despite herself, a little bit in love with him.
“Mulder,” she says, looking at the house in front of them, abandoned and broken, “why are we here?”
“This house is said to be haunted.” Whenever he talks about haunted places, his face lights up. An enthusiasm she’s never been able to share.
“You already took me to a haunted house on Christmas Eve, Mulder.” And they almost ended up dead. Or so she thinks. The memories of that night are still hazy and untrustworthy. “I can’t keep doing this,” she says to herself but he hears her, throwing her a look she can’t decipher. They’re the only living things around here. Not a single bird is singing. The trees are watching on, dead und unmoving. Something is not right. She stops and looks around. The cold feeling is back, taking hold of her. As if someone were softly scratching her with long fingernails, making her shiver all over. She takes a step forward but the sensation remains.
Her eyes are drawn to the house. She squints, tries to see it for what it must have been once. The bricks are laid bare, the house a mere skeleton. It seems to be standing up by pure will. Part of it has crumbled to the ground, a big hole gaping in between the main house and a smaller cottage. They must have been a unit once. Now, they’re standing on their own sides, not touching, decaying by themselves, still in sync.
“Let’s go inside.”
“Mulder, wait.” He stops and turns around. “Why are we here? How is this an X-Files?”
“Just follow me.” He keeps on walking, pushing open the creaky wooden door. Scully huffs. So much for her New Year’s resolutions. There’s something about this house that repels her. She’s not going to admit it to Mulder. She barely admits it to herself. But she feels it all around her in the cool air, the eerie silence. There’s a presence here. Something rotten and evil.
“Scully?” Mulder asks from inside, his voice sounding obscured. She takes a deep breath, the smell of decomposition in the air growing stronger the closer she gets to the ajar door. She steps inside the damp, old ruin and looks around.
Mulder is on the stairs and they creak in pain with every step he takes.
“You still haven’t told me,” she says, walking through what must have been a kitchen once. There are a few cups on the table, on the counters. One day, someone walked out here and never returned. She doesn’t dare to look into the cups. One is chipped, another one has faded colors. There was life here, once.
“Told you what?” Mulder yells from upstairs.
“What we’re doing here.” Scully leaves the kitchen and finds herself in the main hall. She stares at the big, dark wooden grandfather clock in the corner. Her heart starts pounding as she realizes that it’s showing the right time. The hands are moving, tick tock, tick tock. How is it possible that this clock is ticking? How is it possible that anything is alive in this house?
“Come up here, Scully. I want to show you something.” She gives the clock one last look but it goes on steadily. It feels as if it were watching her with stern eyes, judging her. As soon as she turns around, facing away from the clock, she hears it. At first it’s soft, barely discernible. A laugh. She keeps on walking and there it is again. More laughter. It sounds like… like… children’s laughter. She turns back, gasping. There’s only the clock, mocking her with its precision. She takes a breath, reminds herself that perception can play tricks on your mind. There might be children outside, playing games. That’s what she heard. It must be.
As she ascends the stairs, the wood moaning, she touches the walls where yellow lines speak of picture frames that must have hung here once. Who lived here? She wonders. What happened to them?
“There you are,” Mulder says upstairs, his head peeking out of a small room.
“You owe me an explanation.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He touches her arm and leads her into the room. Gloomy light falls through the broken windows, fracturing this room, a child’s bedroom. Scattered toys, old and dusty, some gnawed on. Sadness engulfs her as she stands there, cold to the bone. She hugs herself but it neither brings her comfort, nor warmth.
“What are we doing here?” she asks again, the anger in her rising.
“One day in 1879, a girl named Lucy Monroe disappeared. No one expected fowl play. An accident, everyone said. The parents were devastated, left their house and moved away. No one heard from them again. Things went back to normal and no one thought about poor Lucy or her parents. That is until the next two children disappeared, a pair of siblings.” Mulder picks up a toy car and blows off the dust.
“Is this- did Lucy Monroe live in this house?” Scully looks around and her eyes linger on the wallpaper with colorful balloons and clowns.
“She didn’t,” Mulder goes on. “When Lucy disappeared, this house belonged to one Richard Watkins. His neighbors described him as an inconspicuous, religious man. He, his wife and their three children went to church every Sunday but liked to keep to themselves. Until a fire claimed the life of his wife and children. That’s when everything changed.”
“What changed?” Scully asks. Damn Mulder for knowing how to tell a story. He’s walking around in circles, still holding the small toy car. He turns to her, his face solemn.
“Richard Watkins bundled all his pain and his hate against God. He stopped going to church, stopped leaving the house altogether. People in town started talking about him. It became a dare for children to find this house and catch a glimpse of this ungodly man. The gossip started, as it always does. They said Richard Watkins turned his back on God, like he’d done to him, and worshipped Satan instead.”
Scully wants to roll her eyes, or laugh. She can’t. Mulder’s voice is mesmerizing. As is the story he’s telling. She stares at the three small beds, barely touched. She freezes. One bed, an old moldy mattress still in place, has an indentation. It almost looks like a child’s body. Scully looks away, focuses on Mulder and nothing else.
“What does this have to do with the case, Mulder?”
“Don’t you feel it, Scully? This house… it’s haunted.”
She feels it. She feels it in the strange scratching sensation that’s intensifying. She feels it in the heaviness of her bones. This house has memories and it is aching from them. She feels that same ache, too.
“I don’t feel it,” she lies. “Maybe you should have brought Diana. All I feel is a draft. I’m leaving.” She is angry with Mulder and angry with herself. Why does she continue to let herself be lured out to these places, into myths and folklores? This is not her job. She could be at home, she could be doing something of consequence. But here she is, in yet another haunted house, chasing ghosts and chasing Mulder.
This has to stop.
“I haven’t told you the rest of the story,” Mulder calls out but she’s already back on the stairs. She doesn’t reply, refuses to listen. She’s not as proficient in running away as Mulder is but she can manage.
Still on the stairs, she hears the clock in the main hall. Is that her imagination or has the noise increased? Drawn by an unknown force, Scully returns to the hall. Her eyes fall on the clock, the wood darker than she remembers it. Among all these broken, forgotten things, the clock doesn’t fit in. It doesn’t fit at all. Her eyes are trained on the hands. Maybe none of it is real, maybe she’s just imagining it, fueled by Mulder’s story. But they keep moving steadily.
The clock strikes the full hour and there’s a drawn-out creak that sounds as if someone were opening a door, but slowly. She stares at it, the clock, unmoving but for the hands. Tick tock, tick tock. The creaking stops and then everything else does, too. Scully holds her breath for a second, then lets it out. It’s all in my head, she reminds herself. She relaxes. There’s nothing wrong with this clock. Nothing at all.
Just as she’s about to leave, the clock-face crumbles, falls apart, and reveals a new face, half man, half not. Blood-red eyes meet hers for the flash of a second. An evil grin with sharp teeth, horns protruding from the forehead. She’s seen this face before. In stories, in her nightmares. It’s the face of the devil. Unable to look away, her shaky fingers search for her gun. She stops when she hears the soft, gentle sound of laughter close to her.  
Someone’s touching her. There’s pressure on her arm but as she looks down at it, there’s nothing there. Only laughter in the air. Happy, unabashed children’s laughter.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” a child’s voice singsongs. Scully makes a complete turn but she’s all alone. There’s only her and the big, dark clock that sits there unremarkably. The face, she notices, has gone back to normal.
“I’m losing my mind,” she murmurs, slowly walking backwards. She needs to get out of this room, out of this house. When her back comes into contact with something warm, something solid, she screams.
“Hey,” Mulder says, holding her by the arms. “It’s just me.”
“Did you hear it, Mulder?” she asks him.
“Hear what?”
“The children.”
“What children?”
“There was children’s laughter, there was-“ she stops. She sounds crazy. Mulder looks at her as if she’s lost her mind before he cracks a smile.
“So now you agree with me? This place is haunted.”
“Why did you bring me here?” she yells at him. All the anger and frustration she’s been feeling these last few weeks break out of her.
“I- the case, I-“ He’s stunned by her outburst. “I thought we could… I wanted to show you this house, tell you the story. I’ve been fascinated by it ever since I was a child myself.” His eyes grow soft and so does she.
“Tell me,” she says, feeling weak. “But not in here. I need fresh air.” They walk outside together, Mulder holding Scully’s hand. “I can’t believe I’m admitting this but this place is creepy, Mulder.”
He chuckles softly. “I know. Can I finish my story now?” Scully nods at him. “No one ever found out what happened to Lucy Monroe or the other two kids that disappeared. They were never found. But Richard Watkins was. The details are hazy but he slipped one night, fell down the cliffs and died. An act of God, it was later surmised. Because of what he’d been planning. They never found the kids but they found Lucy Monroe’s doll in his house, clothes that the kids had been wearing, too. They searched the whole place but no other traces could be found. It was said that Richard Watkins was planning to sacrifice the children to Satan the night he died.”
“The children,” she mumbles. She thinks of the laughter she’d heard and shivers. It can’t be. It just can’t be. There’s no such thing as haunted souls, a haunted house.
“You heard them.”
“I heard something,” she admits. “There might be children playing here somewhere that-“
“There are no children here, Scully. Listen. You heard the three lost children. That’s what folks around here call them. The three lost children. They’re said to be haunting this house. In early 1900, people tried to sell this house. Enough time had passed, they’d figured. No one has been able to stay here longer than a few weeks. The last recorded family that moved in were the Hendersons in the 50s. A newly married couple, just starting out. While Mr. Henderson never heard the children, his wife sure did. She thought she was going insane. They’d been trying for a baby and everyone, including her doctors and her husband, thought that unfulfilled wish was causing her audiovisual hallucinations.”
Is that why she heard them? Because of her own failure to conceive? She pushes the thought away.
“What happened to them?”
“They moved out. Their marriage was in shambles by the time they did. Mr. Henderson was so angry that this house, their dream house, was causing them so much misery that he destroyed half of it.” They both turn to look at the house, at the gaping middle.
“They separated?”
Mulder shakes his head. “They almost did. Their love for each other was strong though.” He stares at her, his eyes so green, so open, that she feels powerless. “They moved away. They worked on their marriage. They healed. Together. And then, not long after, Mrs. Henderson became pregnant. She gave birth to a healthy baby girl. The end.” He grins at her.
“How do you know all this, Mulder?”
“Because,” he says, taking her hand and leading her to the car. The more distance they bring between themselves and the house, the freer Scully feels. The tension leaves her body. “The Hendersons were our neighbors. That little baby girl? She grew up and used to babysit me. We came here when I was about 10 years old after I’d begged my parents. I haven’t been able to forget about this story ever since. Neither of us heard the three lost children though. But you did.”
“Mulder…”
“It’s okay. I know you don’t want to admit it. Most people don’t hear them. Only a few have reported the laughter and… feeling an evil presence in this house.” He touches her arm, strokes it gently. “Legend says only people who are pure of heart can hear the children.”
Scully snorts. “You had me until that last bit, Mulder.” He shrugs and smiles at her. “There is no case here, is there?”
“Oh, there is. But not here exactly. It’s further up north. I just wanted to take you here, share this with you. After… after everything.”
She bites her lip, but she can’t resist. “Have you ever taken Diana here?”
Mulder looks genuinely surprised. “No,” he says and she knows he’s telling the truth. “I never even thought about it.”
“Good,” she says and opens the car door. Mulder puts his hand over hers.
“I know it may take a while,” he says, his voice breaking. “But I want to win your trust back.”
“You never lost my trust,” she says. “And you and Diana… I know it’s none of my business and-“
“Of course it’s your business,” he cuts in. “It is your business. I want it to be. I thought I’d made that clear.”
“Clear, Mulder?” She raises an eyebrow. “When?”
“The hallway,” he says, his eyes fixed on hers. She blushes. “Taking you on all these adventures when we were off the X-Files. I mean it, Scully. I can’t do this alone. I don’t want to do it alone. I want you here by my side. If that’s what you want, too.”
She stares at the house, thinks about the Hendersons. He tore half of it down to repair something else, in a new place. Maybe they can too. She thinks of the laughter, of the three lost children, of the evil in this house. She doesn’t want to stay here in this place. She wants to move on, move past what’s holding her back.
Scully takes his hand and interlaces their fingers. They both stare at their hands as if they were a small wonder. Maybe they are.
“I want to be here, do this with you. I- I should probably tell you what I saw in there or what I thought I saw. Maybe there’s an X-Files here after all.”
“You don’t have to, X-Files or not.”
“I want to,” she says. “But not here. Let’s keep driving. Okay?”
He nods. “Just one thing before I lose my nerve again or before anything else happens.” He lowers his head, giving her ample time to move away. She won’t. She wants this. She’s been wanting it for so long. Their lips meet and everything around them stops mattering. It’s a soft kiss, a hesitant first. There’s still some rubble between them that they need to clean up.
There will be time to do that later.
“I’ve always wanted to make out at a haunted house,” Mulder admits when they disconnect. Her lipstick is smeared against his mouth, a bit on his cheek, too.
“Why am I not surprised?” she says with a smile.
“Let’s go. I think there’s something you wanted to tell me.”
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