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#also sometimes fighting the urge to burn all that paper down
cosmal · 1 year
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𝐇𝐨𝐭 — 𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐮𝐬 𝐋𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐧
day three of my christmas drabbles advent calendar
summary — you bring remus home to visit your family for the holidays. he grows to love spending christmas in summer.
warnings/tags — fem!afab!reader, she/her pronouns, reader goes swimming, reader has hair long enough to be tied back
note!! — this is a totally self-indulgent fic. and for all my aussie/kiwi marauders fans!!
“This is weird,” Remus murmurs, handing you a tray of prawns. Along with the water dish.
“They’re gross, I know,” you giggle. “My dad loves them.”
Remus shifts in his seat, “No, not that,” he’s smiling, “It’s hot. It’s Christmas. It’s Christmas and I’m in a t-shirt.”
"You can take it off if you want," you giggle over the top of your bottle, sitting back in your chair.
"I will not," he gasps.
You love this look on him. He's been here for a week and he's all sunkissed and glowy. If you weren't spending the holidays at your parent's house, you'd have already jumped his bones.
"You'll go swimming with me, though?"
The backyard is full of your family members. Cousins running around with sticky, red iceblocks in their hands - your aunty's chasing them in turn, with wet paper towels. They're loud. Really loud and they really love Remus.
You're not surprised, he's perfect. You think they might love him more than you do. Impossible, obviously. But your dad had sat down with him in the lounge room and seemed genuinely interested in whatever Remus was telling him about his work. Your father has never read a book in his life, but for your boyfriend, he'll listen to him ramble about writing processes and workshops. In turn, your dad will force him to watch the boxing day cricket match tomorrow because Australia's playing England, so Remus must know a thing or two about cricket test matches.
"I told your mum I'd help her with the desserts," he leans over to kiss you on the cheek. His lips a burning heat over your already warm skin. It feels nice.
"Then you'll come for a swim?" you ask hopefully, lips pouting. You know he will, he'll do pretty much anything to make you happy. Sometimes you despise him for it in a totally loving girlfriend type of way. He's already in his swimming trunks. His legs looking fucking lovely.
He gets up from his seat at your outdoor table and it scrapes along your deck, "I'll be 20 minutes," he says with one more kiss. Quicker than the last but still as fond. You think maybe, even more, when he presses his fingers into your scorched skin.
You let him and your mum dish up trifles and a pavlova that always seems to be bigger than the year before. Remus says something really stupid and it makes your mum laugh. A full-on, hearty chuckle that is usually only produced at the cost of your own father. You smile all the way to your room.
Once in your swimmers, a set that you know Remus loves, modest enough in your own backyard, surrounded by your own family, but enough that you'll expect to be stuck to your boyfriend's side for the rest of the day. You walk back out to your backyard to find him in the middle of your lawn.
A cousin wrapped around his leg, another climbing their way up his torso. He's laughing, you're not sure how, because they both keep kneeing him in bruisable areas as they climb him like a jungle gym. Eventually, they pull him to the soft grass and it ends up in a sort of tickle-fight. It's more giggling than anything.
Your chest fills with as much warmth as you think it can allow without you feeling the urge to cry. Watching him get along with your family so well is more than you'd ever expected. He keeps surprising you and then he doesn't because he's Remus. Your boyfriend Remus, and he treats you with so much love and respect that you know that's just him. It's second nature to him and you'd expect nothing less for the people he knows you love also.
You know you're staring, you can't help it. Your cheeks ache with how wide you're smiling. Remus walks up to you once he's toddler free and pokes you in the cheek. You snap out of the little lovesick bubble you'd found yourself in.
"He's strong for four years old," Remus laughs, kissing you on the cheek again like he can't help it. You know he can't because you kiss him just as often.
"My aunty thinks he'll be good at rugby," you giggle.
"Or wrestling."
You lean in to wrap your arms around his waist, he doesn't let you. You startle, confused.
"I've never seen this before," Remus can be smug when he wants to be, sliding a finger under the strap of your swimmers, snapping the tight material against your skin.
"Yes, you have." You go too shy under his loving gaze. His eyes droopy but still full of mirth. You can feel a heat eat its way up your chest. If he makes fun of you for it, you'll be sure to blame it on the sun.
"Right," he runs the material between his fingers, distracted.
"Remus, stop it," you mumble. Completely melted.
"Stop what?" Still smug.
"Just take your shirt off, please. I wanna go for a swim."
Remus doesn't have to be asked twice. He takes his white button-up off, a gift from your family, and you try to ignore the feeling you suddenly have to stare more than would be acceptable in your setting. You also ignore the wolf whistle your uncle let's out.
Remus genuinely blushes.
"I think my family really likes you," you tell him, tracing a scar in the hinge of his elbow.
"I'm really happy they do," Remus pulls the hair tie from your wrist, moving to tie your back from your face. His fingers tickle your neck and you shiver despite the temperature. Remus grins. "I didn't just spend fifteen minutes decorating a Pavlov for no reason."
You snort. "Pavlova."
"Hmm?"
"It's a pavlova."
"Right..." he chuckles.
"Pavlov was the guy with the dog theory."
It's Remus's turn to snort. "Dog theory."
"Yeah."
He traces a knuckle down your cheek, "You're adorable."
"Stop it."
"Really."
"Remus..."
"That's why I'm really sorry." He says. Suddenly serious.
"For what?" you ask. Also suddenly just as confused as he is stern.
He doesn't respond.
"For what, Remus?"
The squeal you let out when Remus throws you over his shoulder is loud and pretty, in his own opinion. That's why he has no problems when you tug at his hair to stable yourself. You're suddenly dizzy, blood rushing to your head. Remus feels worse when you giggle in his ear.
"Remus!" Your protests are broken up by peels of laughter.
"I said I'm sorry!" he laughs.
"Don't! I'm serious."
He jumps in the pool, pulling you under with him and you both come up, smiling like idiots. Your family roars with adored laughter and your smile widens.
You swim towards him where he's standing just before the deep end. His laughter dies down as you pull him down so the water's up to his neck.
"I hate you."
Remus lets you wrap your legs around his waist. Content with holding you up. "No, you don't."
"We're breaking up."
Remus gasps, "Don't tell your dad."
"I think he'd die," you giggle.
"I think I would too."
You press your face into his wet chest, "Don't die."
"Never," he sighs. He has zero problems with kissing you over chlorine-soaked hair.
Christmas in the summer is better, Remus thinks. But only if he gets to spend it with you.
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darling-i-read-it · 10 months
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Party Outfit
Homelander x supe!fem!reader
Word Count: 2.7k
Warnings: the reader basically dies, grief, maybe some ooc homelander, canon type violence (death/gore is descriptive), I think that’s it but please let me know if there are more! 
Author’s Note: I gotta admit, I struggled with this one a bit! I wasn’t sure how to start and it isn’t my best work so I may come back to it again later but I didn’t want to make you wait! I hope you enjoy it regardless love! Homelander is such a tricky dude. Love him though. He’s so crazy. I love that in a man. 
Requested by anon: May I request a slow burn homelander x superhero! Reader, who has basically super healing powers like wolverine, so she’s probably the third strongest compared to homelander and Maeve. Homelander and reader are friends, because reader is one of the few people who took the time to care about him enough to look past the mask, and isn’t afraid of him. Something happens in a fight with a new supervillain, who’s power weakens everyone else’s around them. Reader saves homelander from a kill shot, but is killed themselves, and homelander just shatters and breaks down sobbing and clutching their body, after killing the villain. The Seven don’t know what to do to make him let go of the reader’s body, when she suddenly coughs and gasps back to life, shocking everyone and especially herself. It seems reader’s healing ability is stronger than anyone ever thought.                                                        I feel like homelander would be the clingiest person after all of that, lol.
I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director/creator
(not my gif)
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“Are you ready?” 
Your voice sounded suddenly very close. Homelander turned around and jumped a bit at the sight of you. You were standing just beside him in your ‘party’ outfit. Vought thought it was better if you had two costumes, one of ads and one for actual fighting. It allowed them to continue the belief that they were all in on feminism while also marketing off your more ‘easy on the eyes’ outfits. Homelander only had one. Sometimes he wanted to have two, just to get some sort of diversity. Plus, you looked oh so nice in your party outfit. 
“Yup!” he exclaimed. You smiled briefly, taking a deep breath. After he and Maeve had broken up in the public, everyone had been hoping the two of you would finally call it and start dating. It would be perfect. The two most powerful supes in The Seven, a sublime situation for marriage and kids. The perfect American dream with the perfect American boy. 
You knew Homelander though. You knew that wasn’t exactly who he was. 
You also knew that he was your friend. 
“Is the President gonna be there?” you questioned, adjusting your corset. You looked at yourself in the mirror of Homelander’s apartment. His practical penthouse had become like a second home to you. You even helped him decorate it with some things he liked. You had to veto the baby bottles on the fire mantle and he agreed, it was in poor taste. 
“Likely,” he admitted. 
“Well then I’ll hide behind you. That okay?” 
“Always.” 
“Did they tell you about that new guy causing a fuss? The guy they sent The Deep after?” He rolled his eyes. 
“I’m sure a lot of killing happened then and no octopuses were assaulted.” You scoffed. “No. What guy?” Usually he tried to stay in the loop but there was a lot going on. A lot being, so many superheroes and not nearly enough Homelander in his opinion. 
“Apparently he can weaken everyone else's power around him,” you observed. You stayed beside him, adjusting his cape. He looked down at it, observing you. 
“Well he hasn’t met me yet.” You hummed, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. You put your hand on his arm. 
“The car will be here soon. Ashley still thinks I’m in my room and if she sees me in here then our engagement is gonna be all over the papers,” you joked. He nodded, taking your hand off his arm and squeezing it. 
“Prepare for the President to ask to see your power.” 
“He can catch it on the news,” you grumbled. “See you downstairs.” He nodded once and let you go. He watched himself in the mirror, allowing himself to think about you a bit longer than your presence required. You knew him more than anyone else in the world. He wondered if it would be so bad to spend the rest of his life with you. He could’ve done it with Maeve, he could have made it look good. But with you, he might be able to be happy. Be himself, whatever that was. 
He turned, adjusting the cape as he walked out the door. He had a banquet to attend. 
-
“It’s better if just you two go. I’d send Maeve but I know you’ll just end up fighting and it’ll be on the news and we can’t handle another goddamn media break!” Ashley was standing in front of you in her office. You had never actually seen her sit down at the desk, she was always so stressed. Homelander stood beside you.
“That was one spat,” you argued. “We’re over it now. I like Maeve.”
“I don’t wanna risk anything,” Ashley said. “After the…incident with The Deep, I expect full obliteration of this guy.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Homelander stepped in. “We’ve got him.” 
You both knew that the best chance of a win was the two of you. You were the strongest of The Seven. Homelander could pack the punch and you could be the shield. You worked together well. 
“Any advice on how to dim his light a little?” you questioned. She shook her head. 
“Didn’t exactly get the best information from the guy who fought him before,” she grumbled. “But it was near water and we all know who lost the fight. Be careful. If either of you die…I mean it would make for a great swing of the media’s likeness of us but I would rather not have to deal with the funeral proceedings.” You rolled your eyes. 
“Thanks Ashley.”
“I’m also sending Noir and Starlight 30 minutes after you land. Just in case.” 
“That’s insulting,” Homelander said. He had his hands folded behind his back, ever the good soldier. “We don’t need them.”
“Then they’ll just be your extraction. Now go.” Neither of you moved. She made a waving gesture with her hands. “Go. Go!” 
-
“I can’t stand the show outfit,” you muttered. You adjusted your neck in your soldier outfit, which wasn’t exactly comfortable either. It was too tight in the wrong places but at least it provided you more protection from oncomers. Homelander was walking in front of you, scanning the area with disinterested eyes. Another job. At least he was with you. 
“It’s easy on the eyes.”
“And this one isn’t?” He shrugged. “I like your outfit. It’s bold. It’s iconic.” He smiled a bit, awkwardly, at the compliment. “I need a cape.”
“It’s a nuisance.” You narrowed your eyes at him. 
“You love that cape.” The cape was his thing though and you knew he didn’t want you to stumble onto his territory. “But I digress. Do you want to get dinner after this?” 
He always had food by himself, on the road, going from one meeting or killing to another. Dinners with you were sacred and special to him. You always asked and you watched a silly movie he pretended to hate and he could tell you about his day and you listened. He couldn’t remember any other person who listened like you. 
“As long as there are no noodles.” He always got them stuck in his throat. It was embarrassing. 
“No noodles. Duly noted. We could always-” Your sentence was cut short by you keeling over. You clutched your stomach. It felt like you were being drained, like all of the sudden you were far more tired than you had been in years. It reminded you of being run ragged, like you had run a marathon you weren’t prepared for. 
“What? What is it?” Homelander grabbed your elbow, holding you up. It was like you hadn’t even seen him, let alone felt him touch you. You stood up straight, giving him a pained look. 
“He’s here.” 
Homelander turned around, searching the warehouse the two of you had entered. It was abandoned by city records and vast. Not many hiding places. Homelander’s eyes turned red with anger and concentration. 
“Come out, come out wherever you are!” He called. He let you go, not being able to focus on your pain. You stood up straight, trying to allow your body to adjust. You tried to keep up with him but he was walking with purpose. You looked around, a blur of pain around your eyes. You had never felt so weak. 
“John,” you murmured. He didn’t turn around. 
“What? Scared?” 
There was a crack behind you. You turned on your heels, watching, waiting. The pain was getting bearable as your body started to adjust to it. Perks of fast feeling. High pain tolerance. 
Homelander shot his lasers at an abandoned car. It exploded into fire. You fought the urge to roll your eyes. 
“I don’t see anything!” he exclaimed. He turned to you. Just as he turned around, you saw someone come from behind the car, a gun in hand. Your eyes went wide. “You see-” 
You shoved him aside, taking the bullet intended for his head. 
It hit yours. 
It was like slow motion. He was stumbling and then you were down, a bullet between your eyes. The blood started to trickle down your forehead as you fell over onto the ground. He watched you fall backwards, eyes open in surprise. There was nothing going on behind them. 
He rushed forward to grab you before you hit the ground. 
On the bottom level of the warehouse, Starlight and Noir walked in. Ashley had sent them in only 10 minutes after the two of you. She was nervous, understandably so. Didn’t want to lose all four of you if you were separated and she knew that sending them afterwards was better for Homelander’s ego. 
“Do you hear that?” Starlight asked. She slowed to a stop as she listened closely. Some kind of whimpering. “It’s above us.” 
Noir looked up. Starlight started forward quickly, being followed by her Noir. 
When they reached the top floor they found a decapitated body at the feet of the stairs. A man with a gun was dead, two red dots between his chest burned through the skin. He still had his spinal cord dangling from his neck, clearly removed with force. 
In the middle of the room Starlight could see Homelander’s cape, sprawled on the ground. She could see your limp legs from behind him. He was shaking.
Annie had never seen him cry before. 
Noir approached before she even thought to. She wanted to call Maeve and ask her to come down in case Homelander decided to lash out but realized there was no time. If he hadn’t taken you somewhere…there was no pulse. 
She shared a glance with Noir. This was unsafe. 
“What happened?” Starlight asked quietly. There were tears streaming down his red cheeks. She wasn’t going to get a coherent answer. “We need to get help,” she said, even though she didn’t mean it. She just needed to say something. 
She had never seen The Homelander so broken. She thought about all the times before she saw him on the TV screen when she was growing up. Even now that she knew what he was, she held onto that shred of hope that he was like he had been on TV. She had never seen that in person, genuinely, until that very moment. When his shoulders shook and he was holding his only friend in his arms, wondering if she was really gone, if she was going to leave him alone. 
Annie never felt for Homelander until then. 
She shared a glance with Noir. He gave her nothing, he never did. 
“It should’ve been me,” he whispered. As Annie slowly approached she saw the bullet between your eyes. Your expressionless face was haunting. Annie saw dead people but she never saw those she cared about. She was reminded of Hughie. Homelander was holding his Hughie. “It was meant to be me.” 
Annie could give him no solace. She worried he would level the city for you. Maeve would try to remove him completely but she wasn’t strong enough for that. She would just have to let him stand there until your body got cold or he came to his senses that you weren’t going to wake up. 
Then you woke up. 
It was subtle, a slight breath. He hardly noticed it over his own drama but Starlight saw it. Her eyes went wide. Then you coughed, the bullet falling onto the other side of your head. Your head had healed itself, just like that. You squinted up at Homelander, unable to remember what had happened and why he was holding you. 
Your movement startled him. He tried to find a clear vision in his eyeline, something to blur away the tears. You brought your hand up and wiped them away. 
“I’m okay,” you said, voice dry. “I’m alright.” 
“But-but you-” he stumbled. 
“I’m okay.” It hurt, sure. You could feel the remnant of pain in your head, like your nerves hadn’t quite got the memo you were alive. You sat up and he threw his arms around you. The superstrength almost suffocated you but you were content with putting your arms around him too. 
You saw the big bad dead on the  other side of the room, between Annie and Noir. You shared a look with them. Annie was wiping tears from her eyes. You must have been dead for longer than you thought. 
“I’m okay,” you said again, this time for the two of them. Annie nodded. Homelander needed a moment. She gestured for Noir to follow her out. They collected the remaining body parts of the villain and left. 
Homelander let you go just enough to see your face. 
“I thought you were dead.” 
He cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure. 
“Can’t get rid of me that easily big guy,” you whispered. He wanted to cry some more, now that the floodgates were open. But he took a deep breath, allowing himself to even. You were still in his arms and that’s where you wanted to remain for the moment. It was safe here. “Are you okay?” 
“Fine,” he promised. He stood up, much to your dismay. He helped you stand, which took some wobbling. It was like you had just been born again. 
“Can you fly us out of here? I don’t know if I can walk,” you admitted. He nodded, quickly. 
“Of course. Hop on.” You made a sly smile and he rolled his eyes. You let him pick you up and carry you away, through the sunlit sky. 
-
Vought confirmed that you were okay. They triple checked your vitals but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. You had sacrificed yourself for Homelander and you had lived. It was a curious thought, one not many people understood. They wanted to test your limits further but you vetoed it for the moment. You would rather not die over and over for the sake of science. 
Homelander decided he wanted to be on every mission you were on here on out. He would make up for that mistake time and time again. 
Sitting in his apartment, a place you were used to and practically lived in, was homey. Your ‘recovery’ was spent here. He had brought you some blankets from your room. The kindness from him was uncharacteristic but welcomed. 
He vowed if he couldn’t protect himself from Vought he would protect you. 
He would protect you and your silly movie nights and matching banquet outfits. 
He would have his life with you, Vought or not.
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bucky-munson · 2 years
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What's Hidden in the Shadows | 5
Summary: Bullies are everywhere. They manifest as a group of jocks at school who think you're fat and want to make sure you know. Sometimes they even manifest as your own father. But can they manifest as the love of your life? No probably not.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7
Words: 1.3k
Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Plus Sized!GN!Reader ; Steve Harrington X Plus Sized!GN!Reader
Warnings: Bullying, abuse, swearing, mean ass Billy obv
a.n: I think i hate this chapter other than the end tbh.. But here we go LOL
Taglist: @harringtonfan4 @jubilee40 @cevans-winchester
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Look natural, just hand over the math answers like you always do and he'll take the cassette with it. You try to remind yourself that this is only a thank you and not an invitation for anything more but there's an unspoken fear of what you could be opening yourself up to. 
What if he shows the others? What if he laughs right in your face? What if–
"Got the math homework for me?" His voice rips you right out of your thoughts, the moment arriving faster than you hoped. 
"Y..Yeah, Billy, here.." You reply shakily, shoving your hand out in front of you. The bustle of the students around you is all but nonexistent as he snatches it away from you, gripping both the paper and cassette. Flipping his hand over, he looks at the plastic rectangle for a moment then cuts his eyes to you, but just quietly stalks off like he normally does. 
You release a sigh you didn't know you were holding as a different pair of footsteps approach you.
"Y/N, are you okay? I saw him over here, did he mess with you?" The gentle eyes of Steve meet yours as he tilts his head. 
"Huh? Oh no no, he just forces me to do his math homework," you sigh, but give him a slight pout. "Can we talk though? I… Want to apologize.." His lips twitch and you can tell he wants to object but he simply nods, letting you continue. 
"I'm sorry for Saturday.. I was having a good time but I guess everything got a little overwhelming. I totally understand if you think I'm a weirdo or some–" The words fall out in a jumbled mess as you try to explain yourself but he quickly cuts you off, resting his hand on your arm gently. 
"Hey, it's okay.. I don't think you're weird or anything like that, it was probably just a lot to handle.. We can try again if you want to! Go somewhere not so busy or crowded? I was.. Having fun too.." A smile dances across his lips and you can only give a small nod in response. 
The bell brings both of you back to the present as the other students scurry to get to their classes but Steve just fixes his bag on his shoulder. He offers a nonchalant "we’ll talk later" before heading off to his class as well and it's only then you notice the blue eyes of Billy piercing right into you. Surrounded by Tommy and a couple other members of the basketball team, there's no chance he'll approach you so you take the moment to press a hand to where Steve's was on your arm, trying to remember the warmth of his touch for a second longer before heading into the class yourself. 
Returning to so-called normal seemed to be a thought left in the past and within days you find your thoughts being almost controlled by the idea of the two men. Fire and Ice you called them, in a poem submitted for a quick English grade, which earned you the stage you now regretted being placed on. 
“It’s beautiful, y/n, read it aloud for us, the rain will set such a perfect mood” Ms. O’Donell urged, thinking she was just showing off a prized pupil. Little did she know you would have rather withered away in the hard desk chair, but since there was no fighting here you stood, essentially pouring your heart out to the class. 
“Fire promises freedom with a smile. One that burns so deep you unknowingly fall. There’s a row of ash following his touch, will you also fall apart in his wake?” You start, staring down at the paper clutched in your grasp though you’d remember the words in your sleep. A hush falls over the class, allowing you to take a slow breath before continuing.  
“Ice craves a warmth to melt the frigid exterior built by a tundra surrounding him. Will you give yourself to the crystal eyes who watch from afar? Even if it takes everything from you?” 
A couple students clap softly and Eddie showers you in compliments about how “Fire and Ice could totally be the name of a novel,” but you can’t stop the knots twisting into your stomach when Billy suddenly stands and storms out of the classroom. An unusual outburst from the otherwise cool exterior he kept up, but with the lunch bell ringing not long after it’s soon forgotten. You try to forget too until you hear the back door of the school shut as everyone is stampeding the opposite direction towards the lunchroom. So with a sigh you decide that if there was ever a time to bite the bullet it was now and before you let yourself back down, you’re following the figure out of the school. 
There’s a moment of hesitation when you lean around the corner but Billy is already there waiting, seemingly banking on the fact that you would follow behind him. He grabs your wrist tightly and forces you behind him, heading deep into the hazy woods; Uncaring that both of you were going to be completely soaked.
“Is this some sort of game to you? Am I the ice waiting to be melted, some sort of mystery for you to unfold?” He spits angrily once you’re far enough away. But he doesn’t bother letting you get more than a weak whisper of his name out before continuing. “I don’t even know what it is about you that has me so worked up, you’re just another nobody here at this hick school!”
“Billy,” you try again, but he just keeps letting everything come out.
“And this note?” Reaching into his pocket he pulls out the crumbled scrap, reading it verbatim as he ignores you asking why he’s carrying it around. “ ‘Thanks for everything, Billy. You didn’t have to save me, but I appreciate that you did. Even if your driving is shit.’ Do you think you’re getting anywhere by being cute? I just know what happens when people see those bruises.”
Both of you watch the other silently, Billy’s shoulders tensing as he realizes what he just admitted to you. 
“Billy.. What do you mean you know what happens..” And without thinking you’ve pulled the pin on a hand grenade. The glassy look from the car ride before returns in his eyes but his voice remains steady as he breaks completely.
“What do you want me to say, y/n? That my dad hits me? I’m not a pussy like you, I can handle it. Do you see any bruises on me? No and you won’t”
“Hey, I didn’t–” 
“And hell, I’m a fucking rockstar around here! Everyone falls at my feet and begs for attention! From whiny little bitch boys like Tommy all the way to housewives looking to relive their glory years! So the old man must have done something right!” He’s trembling now, looking everywhere but at you as you cautiously step closer to him. “Don’t even think about pitying me, especially not you.” 
You expect him to jerk away when your hand rests on his forearm but he doesn’t, almost relishing in a touch that wasn’t expecting the fake Billy everyone thought he was. 
“I’m not pitying you, Billy. But you helped me so I just wanna know how I can help you,” you keep your voice soft, the rain pattering down around you. For a moment he doesn’t say anything, tears streaming down his cheeks, but then he peels your hand off his arm to hold it shakily. It’s almost unbelievable to see him like this, the confident facade gone, but if it was silence he needed, you would give it to him. 
His arms snake around you and he holds you to his chest firmly, content to stand in the pouring rain for as long as you’d let him. 
“What did we do to deserve this?” He mutters softly, hiding his face in your shoulder but you know there’s no response you can give that will suffice. 
“Nothing, Billy.. We don’t deserve this..”
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tragedykery · 2 years
Text
my heart overflows (on paper)
also available on AO3
summary:
@maileeweek2022 day 7: free day
A letter Mai writes to Ty Lee, and one Ty Lee writes to Mai.
tags: unsent (love) letters, fluff
word count: 740
———
Dear Ty Lee,
I wish I could tell you how you make me feel. How your smile makes warmth blossom in my chest, how, when your hand brushes mine, I have to fight the urge to reach for it. (It happens so often I’m getting the idea it isn’t always an accident on your part. Or is that self-absorbed of me to think?) I wish I could tell you in a way other than ink on paper, but any time I try, I fumble, and the words lodge themselves in my throat. (I’m afraid, I think. Afraid you will reject me, even though I suspect that fear is ungrounded. I’m afraid of opening up.)
Yesterday you told me a secret, in the garden, with the sun shining on your freckled cheeks, but the mischievous look in your eyes sparkling even brighter. It was more a secret for the sake of telling me one, I think, but your words still made me blush. Of course people have complimented me before, but no words have ever felt as genuine as they did falling from your lips, warmth in their simplicity as you spoke. I think you look beautiful, Mai.
The moment made my fingers itch to write a poem about the constellations of your freckles and the stars that twinkle within your eyes, about how, even against the light of the setting sun that spins your hair into gold, your smile still shines the brightest. It was like all those years ago, how this all started with one simple poem. Oh, how I wanted to burn it. (Or I didn’t, but I felt like I had to, and back then I didn’t know the difference.)
That was how it started, these letters, written in secret and hidden from the person they are addressed to. I wish I could give them to you, tell you what I feel. Tell you how I want you. Maybe one day I will be brave enough.
———
Dear Mai,
You’re sleeping as I’m writing this. The sunlight is starting to filter through our bedroom windows, but I’m being as quiet as I can, opening the drawer slowly so it doesn’t creak as much while I get my pen and paper out. You look beautiful like this, so peaceful. I’d try to describe it, but I’m no poet, not like you are. I can’t spin words into a tapestry in the way you do, coherent and beautiful and making you feel so much with so little. I ramble, over-explain and use too many words where only a few would suffice. (Maybe there’s some irony in that sentence.)
Your hair looks so soft. I could ask how you get it like that, but it’s more miraculous to wonder. I want to tuck a strand that has fallen in your face behind your ear, or press a kiss to your forehead, but I don’t dare disturb this gentle peace. The book you gave me years ago lays on my nightstand. I’ve read every letter and every poem in it, but sometimes I run my fingers over the spine as a way to calm myself. I open it and marvel at the craftsmanship, the time you must have put into it. Bound by hand, stitched together with the careful work of needle and thread, the curling script, the pressed flowers tucked in between every page.
Most of those flowers don’t grow here, to my knowledge, so I wonder where you got them. Did you send letters to our friend in other parts of the world and ask them to pluck every beautiful one they saw? Or did you spend hours walking through the forests of the island, discovering places I’ve never been, to find this beauty in nature and take it home with you? It’s a silly thing to think about, I know, but I can’t help but wonder.
You’re starting to wake up. I’d better finish writing, so I can tuck this letter away before you see it. Maybe I will give it to you, once, together with all the other letters I’ve addressed to you over the years. Just like you did to me. I tell you almost every day, but there’s something different about writing it down, seeing it black-on-white in front of you. But I love you, dear Mai, and I hope you know, even as we get older, that will never change.
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nocek · 4 years
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so yeah... I meant first panel as a bonus doodle I meant to add to a reply to some wonderful asks in my inbox but than things escalated...
(and now I need to go back to my inbox and try really hard answering while not feeling bad for not answering earlier/with doodle/something >.< I’m so sorry! All those super nice messages are making my day. I’m just bad at idk? socializing and also estimating how much I can realistically doodle)
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lolita-lollipop · 3 years
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Hizashi and Aizawa kidnapping a young teenage girl, and her bonding and quickly finding comfort with Hizashi, leaving Aizawa to awkwardly attempt at being super soft and all the more gentle to his sensitive little girl, his heart panging with pain every time she flinches or cowers away from him. “You don’t need to be scared of me, kitten.. please”
your little acts of favoritism weren’t necessarily intentional, you hated both of them. they were your brothers teachers, and whoop dee doo, they kidnapped you. but... you liked hizashi more.
it was just something about him that made you believe he was some form of comfort item, probably because he wasnt brooding, and didnt have a mean face, and he was the first human yud ever seen in this place, that all combined into one and he became your rock, your shoulder to cry on. he was just... so nice, although his quirk was loud, somehow he managed to speak softly with you. it was such a bright contrast to at home where two firey blondes always scream at each other, and your father tries to calm it down.
on your first night ever here, you had tried to jump out the window, and were captured by the thick scarves you once admired, hed lectured you, yelled at yiuu even, all you could see were those red eyes of his, and hear his voice. and he scared you, he scared you so much. i guess it justtranslates to now, first impressions are everything, and to you, he looked like a big scary man who would yell at you.
eventually, you stopped caring about how you hated him, or how you wanted to leave, as you clearly never were. so, instead of glaring at them, or crying, you accepted the fact that he was taking care of you. hizashi, hizashi was taking care of you... aizawa though? no way in hell, he was just so... you'd never seen him with a smile, he never tried to talk to you, he just kinda watched you, and it freaked you out, at some point you started believing he was trying to kill you, don't even ask how you came up with that conclusion.
you just couldn't manage to warm up to hi as you'd done so quickly with hizashi, and it showed. you were always tense when alone with him, like he was going to jump out at you any second and stab you, you didnt talk to him , sometimes you felt so anxious around him that you would outright start crying, shaking in some form of fear, or hide yourself under a blanket. although hizashi was proud that you loved him so much, he knew that this was hurting his husband, that his own little girl was scared of him.
so he would always try to coax you into doing things with him, saying things like "can your papa come and help" or "how about we have papa do this with you while I make lunch?", just trying to get him included so you would feel just as comfortable around him as you were with his own self. Sometimes he just left the room to let you have alone time with him. He’d even lectured his husband about how he always looked angry, and that he has to smile form time to time, and not the creepy “I’m gonna kill a villain” smile.
And so Aizawa started trying, not trying to be like hizashi, even that was too much for him, but trying to be nicer, he was a gentle person when he wanted to be, so this came with ease for him, he would tuck you in at night, read you stories, hold you if you cried, feed you, help you bathe (which you usually liked hizashi to do, and in general, inserted himself as a gentle roger in your life. You would expect taht this would work, that because he was so nice to you, because he was so sweet like hizashi, you would accept him as your father.
But nope! Again, first impressions are everything to you, and now, he was written off as the villain of you story, now, you jsut ran off to papa whenever he was around, and didn’t even give him the chance to hang around you, it just made it worse honestly, because now, not only did he look scary, but he also looked fake, which is never good. Every time he would try to if you, you would clutch onto hizashi for dear life, acting like his hand would do nothing but burn you.
Tears would cloud your vision, and he would pulle back, not wanting to cause you any more pain, and jsut stare in. Pure jealousy at his husband, who cooed and gave you a hug.and guess what? You hugged him back, and hid yourself in his chest, willingly, without a fight, without a tear, instead with a smile, most of the times mic wouldn’t interfere, wbatigg ns this to everyone a safe space for you, a place where you should naturally do things, but sometimes, he would give you little bushes int he right direction. Like disappearing completely for my he house so you’ll be forced to talk to Aizawa.
This is one of those times.
Yo been wandering the house for about ten minutes now, waking up form a nap, to find mic absent from his usual place in the rocking chair at your bedside. It was a little after lunchtime, and they’d only given you a small cup of fruit for breakfast (intentional, from mic), you were fairly hungry, and usually he was there to give you food, but you had no idea where he was, you had heard the… other one on the phone in their shared office, but you did not want to talk to him right now.
Aizawa could tell you were awake by the fact that all of the cats were meowing like crazy, and little pattering footsteps had followed his hearing around, mic had left abruptly, probably some little plan of mischief again, he was hizashi after all. He was just waiting for you to either 1: go back to bed, or 2: come to him for help. Mic had specifically told him to follow these rules for after nap time, so he did. And grew progressively more worried as over twenty minutes, trying to read through his students grading work, too distracted by the urge to go find you to accomplish anything.
His worries dissipated though when he saw your little head poking through the door, cat in hand, confused and tired looking, small tears beginning to prick th corners of your eyes, little sniffling sounds left you. His wha specked up form the desk, you’d given up walking around the whole house, your restarting had slowly pent up, you couldn’t manage to find him, and you were so hungry.
“Oh- hey honey, I didn’t know you were up. Do you need something?” He questioned, smiling intently at you, you just inched back into the door frame, breathing heavier by the moment, your hands shook and your head felt like it was going to explode at any point. Youbcontenoajted runnign back to your room and waiting till mic came out where you could hear him, but your stomach grumbled, reminding you how hungry you really are.
“I’m- im looking for daddy. Where is he.” You spoke, a very hushed tone overtook your words, making them almost inaudible for him. His face sunk slowly, he tougher you were actually gonna come for him, but the he remembered taht patience is key, and that he shouldn’t get mad, because it is t your fault taht you’re just a little sensitive, too fragile to handle more than one attachment, he gets it. He jsut at least wanted you to look at him, instead did your little feet, I’m Ayer if you could meet his eyes the. You would see how much he loves you.
“Oh, he left a. Little while ago. Is there something you need from him? Your papa can give him a call if you want, you could even talk to him!” He exclaimed excitedly, plastering that happy smile across his face to seem more inviting, liek mic had told him to do. He stood out of his chair, rounding up the papers and putting them in his file folders.you tried to sink back furthers, almost disappearing behind the doorway, you shook your head aggressively, almost running off, then yet again, your stomach made another noise, and forced you to stay.
“I- no. I’m- im hungry-“ you spluttered, not caring if it was embarrassing that you were stuttering so much, you just wanted food. And calling mic would just get you a lecture on how you could’ve just asked your papa, the same thing would happen whenever you went to uncnecesary lengths to avoid the man, your daddy would make sure you knew that it made him feel bad, while you’d at there bored. Not caring, at all.
“Oh- well you should’ve told me sooner kitten, if I’d known I would be up already. Cmon, let’s go to the kitchen, your daddy made you some food earlier” he spoke, rising from his chair slowly, you cowered slightly as he walked over, clutching the little kitten right to you for comfort, he mewed and snuggled closer, completely asleep. The man sighed when he saw you backing away from his grasp, he knew you were still scared. But he was just so impatient… he was tired of waiting, he wanted to hold you, even if it was jsut foena few minutes. He needed it feel you there with him.
Is he acted quickly, moving in a matter of seconds, he swooped his arm under your leg, and hooked his other around your torso, pulling you straight up into his grasp. Youu huh froze, his hands felt cold as ice on your skin, like they were burning you, immediately after he started walking, it snapped you out of it and you threw a fit. You dig your fingernails into his skin, and kicked and flailed in a panic, still trying to keep the little kitten in your lap safe. A full blown panic washed over you, clogging all your senses.
The dam holding back tears form your eyes crashed, and immediately you were sobbing, biting at his shoulder to let you go, he tried to rub your back to calm you down a bit, but just made it worse, as his hands felt like living anxiety creeping up and down your spine. He didn’t know what to do, let you ride it out, andkk no possibly have you get sick because of how much your crying in an empty stomach? Or let you down and go straight back to square one.
Your veined felt like pure ice had flooded in them, and it felt liek someone was repeatedly jabbing you in the head with tiny needes, fear was jsut so prominent in your sense, it overcame you, and made you whimper and scream.
“Whoah, breath for me alright? I just want to hold you. I’m not going to hurt you okay? I would never hurt you. Kitten… you don’t have to be scared of me” he spoke, trying to keep a proper computers, he wanted to cry with you, he wasn’t a very soft or emotional man but honestly, he was so upset with himself already, this was jsut pushing him for the edge. You cried, and cried, at some point you weren’t even crying and screaming at him, more with him. He held you close, you’d stopped the struggle almost five minutes ago, letting him hold you. It was odd. It almost felt… nice.
“I-I’m sorry. I’m being stupid again” You alien through your remaining little hiccups, shove my your face into his shirt, smelling the woody scent he carried around with him. He cooed, letting you hide yourself from him, savouring this soft moment was of top priorirty in his head… you jsut looked so sweet, so different from those harsh cries that would sound usually whenever he came around.
Who would think, shouts aizawas hand couldn’t feel nice? The same ones that had just been burning you, the ones that made you scream, felt like a breeze on a spring day, he actually felt warm, he felt like happiness, like contentment.
“No hon, it’s not stupid. Your scared. I know that, we all get scared and it’s not a bad thing, I love you, I really, really love you kitten. Just know that” he continued on with his little speech, leaving down to kiss you in the forehead, Jsut to be suprised when you didn’t flinfh, you were too tired to be scared; and too hungry, plus, he was really warm, the cat had pretty much snuggled up to him already, who says you shouldn’t.
“I- um- I love you… to?” You spoke, more of a question than anything, you’d spent so long Harding him that you didn’t know if you even could love him, it didn’t even feel possible, then again, you litterally cling to hizashi like a koala, and your mental state has relaly said “swoopity swoop” and scattered itself everywhere. Maybe having two comfort items was actually better than one… huh.
“Well, let’s go eat then. All taht crying probably made you tired, I’ll let you watch a movie in my office, you can watch pinto again, I know you love taht one. Cmon, let’s go” he spoke, and started walking again, you cuddled closer to him as he did, smiling slightly at the warmth. Hizashi was very extravagant, exiting, and hyper, this man felt very cool, calm, it was such a dark contrast, but it worked so well. You jsut… you Jsut liked it.
Well… now we’ll just have to wait and see who’s the favorite
———————————————————————————————————
Thank you for requesting! It was super fun to write and had me feeling super happy when I finished :)
I’m thinking about doing yandere todoroki family asks, because I’m litterally in love with @i-cant-sing one… so, requests are open for those if you want to put them in (please do I’m begging)
Anywho, have the most wonderful to days today! Goodbye!
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apocalypticgargoyle · 3 years
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I read the edgy!karl, I’ve just finished reading the alt!dream, WHEN IS GEORGE GONNA BE NEXT 😩😩
*cracks knuckles* the hcs that everyone has provided me with has hella prepped me and I'm ready. this is dedicated to 🍭 anon, whose fanart always steals my entire heart. i love u babe
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𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐌𝐄. ᶤ 𝐩𝐮𝐧𝐤!𝐠𝐧𝐟
± pairings: punk!Georgenotfound x fm!reader
± word count: ~3300
± warnings: smut (18+), language, tattoo work, sadism, pain kink (if you squint), domination, mentions of needles, asphyxiation
song recommendation: Cent Fois by Alice et Moi
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George’s mind wandered to his curiosity of the shop across from his tattoo parlor; bright neon signs advertising the local psychic. It was a stark contrast to the dark, wet city housing the businesses. Each night he locked up, he found himself standing on the other edge of the street, staring at the signs and draperies peeking from behind the glass windows and considering shedding his skeptical nature just for one night.
While your business was alluring in and of itself, his true draw to the place came after he had spotted you moving into the apartments above. Your clean appearance completely juxtaposed the business you ran. In his opinion, all natural healers and psychics were born scam artists only focused on the quickest way to pinch a penny.
Yet day after day, he found himself having to tear his eyes from your business just to get home or he would actually venture inside. He was rather subtle about his fascination when it came to his co-workers and regular customers, but each day he prayed you would wander in, requesting some kind of tattoo in a place hidden from outside eyes.
A place he’d like to see again in a less professional setting.
You flipped the textbook page after finishing your paragraph, highlighting a date you were looking for before leaning towards your notebook and scribbling down the fact. You gnawed on the end of your pen absent-mindedly, positive you still didn’t know what your professor had been rattling off about in class a few hours prior. Your sights drifted up to the incense burning across the store from you, the stick on its last few centimeters of wood as the smoke went stale.
You chew on the inside of your cheek, debating if you should light another or wait until morning. You capped your marker and stretched your back, the bell over the door letting out a telling chime as a man peeked in.
You leaned over the counter, closing your books. “Good evening! Welcome to After Life. Can I help you find anything?” You rambled, your mind flashing to the sheet of paper tucked into the frame of your bathroom mirror so you didn’t forget the basics of customer service.
The man stepped further into your view, stuffing his fists in his jean pockets as he walked closer in a cautious motion. His dark t-shirt advertised a band you had vaguely heard of, but couldn’t think of a song even if your life depended on it. What really drew your attention were his tattooed arms; branches from a grand tree twisting every which direction to peek out from beneath his sleeves; bright floral designs and litters of birds decorating the dark wood limbs. You bit back a smile at the small mushroom tattoo near his wrist that seemed to be out of place.
The laces of his Chuck Taylors grazed the floor before he was standing in the middle of your store, looking around briefly. “I actually co-own the parlor across the street. I realized I never welcomed you officially,” he stated, hints of nervousness reflecting in his tone. His accent was calming and husky from the season change.
At the mention of the tattooist across the street, your memory flashed to the various walks of life that found themselves in your store after getting work done. You also thought of the fact that you had seen the man before you break up fights in the street stretching between your properties. The tall muscular people seemed to have no effect on him as he’d pull them apart like school children on the playground.
You pushed your books further to the side. “Oh yeah, that’s right! I should have come over and introduced myself, so don’t worry about it,” you eased, swatting the air of his comment.
He chuckled softly before reality seemed to snap into his head, making him step forward and extend a hand to you. “I’m George, by the way,” he introduced. You took his hand, muttering your own name and hoping your attention span would hold for long enough that he would be entered into your long-term memory.
His hand was calloused in yours, something that you wondered came with the job or if he was some kind of carpenter in a past life of his. You gently pulled his hand closer to you, slipping your hold out of his to look at his palm. He tittered nervously, peering at the flesh with you. Your finger traced along the mounts in his hand, finding Jupiter to be the most prominent. “That checks out,” you mumbled to yourself, nodding softly.
His eyebrows perked up. “What? Am… Am I gonna meet a tall dark stranger and take a trip across the sea?” He joked, making you smile as you looked at his Sun line.
“I didn’t peg you as an Outlander fan,” you chided.
His brows flattened for a moment, chewing the inside of his lip and playing with his snake bite piercings. You found it hard to look away from him. “Honestly, I wasn’t. A girl I was fooling around with really liked it. I don’t know…” he trailed off, making you giggle.
Your nail grazed along his heart line. “You guys were just fooling around?” You quirked, eyes meeting his. His expression narrowed smugly as if urging you to continue. “Your heart line begins below your index finger. You’re not the fooling around type.” He let out a snort. “You fall in love easily too.”
He sighed with a slight sparkle in his eyes as he looked at you. You couldn’t tell if he was amazed or mocking you again. “Well, yeah. That’s…” He paused with a swallow, biting back a grin as if he was uncomfortable, but didn’t retract his hand from you. “... That’s why we’re not anymore,” he admitted. He leaned his elbows on the counter as you sat in your chair. “What else does it say?”
Your lips curled into a soft smirk, his curious eyes trailing over your face as if to watch your brain work. “You have a fire element hand which indicates that you’re confident and passionate. Maybe a bit cocky sometimes,” you teased, making him chuckle with you. You could feel his eyes on you, sending heat to your cheeks as you tried not to focus on the mount of Venus under your touch.
You wanted to ask him about his sexual indulgences, mainly because of the prevalence of Venus in his palm. “You have a mount in Jupiter, which means you’re a natural leader, and rather dominant.” You looked up at him again, watching as he bit back a smirk, seemingly understanding the subtle innuendos behind your statements.
George seemed to have some kind of effect on you, your thoughts clouding with the idea of what his snake bites would feel like against your lips. He smelled like cigarette smoke, but there was no discoloration to his skin to suggest he was the one smoking. He watched you through the hair threatening to dangle over his eyes, his gaze hinting at an attraction he had for you below his collected form. “Go on,” he murmured, voice soft and wispy as the space between the two of you seemed to warm.
You made a conscious effort to keep your sultry thoughts at bay as your thumb brushed over the area you had been avoiding telling him about. “You’re driven by desire,” you answered, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re… very in touch with your sexuality and you thrive on your indulgences.”
You couldn’t help but meet his eyes, the dark irises swimming with some kind of cocky smugness at what you had just told him. He pulled away from you, gently standing up. Part of you wished the counter between the two of you would vanish just so you could be pressed up against George at the mercy of his driven mind. “I feel it's only fair I tattoo you now,” he quipped, making your eyebrows raise. Your confidence shriveled yet you swore you wouldn’t let him know that fact.
You chewed on your lip, looking up at him with a hint of suspicion. “Oh, I’ve never been tattooed,” you avowed, voice carrying the slightest bit of your coaxing nature.
He smirked. “I’ll take care of you, I promise,” he cajoled, teeth playing at his piercings again as you were sure he was already undressing you with his eyes. “You read me, I’d like to do the same.”
And how could you refuse such an appealing offer?
You leaned back on your elbows, your skin sticking to the leather chair beneath you as you watched him pull back his hair, elastic band dangling from his white teeth. Despite securing back his locks, bits of his bangs still hung over his forehead. You liked the interior of his parlor, maybe because it was only the two of you.
George began to fill small caps of dark ink. “I think you should get some crystals in here,” you teased, making him smirk. “I could hook you up.”
“What, like a salt lamp?” He joked, pulling on a pair of dark plastic gloves.
You snorted, lying back and looking up at the ceiling. “It might be good. Lighten the place up a bit.” George swiveled his chair closer to you muttering some kind of line about only getting them from you, but his words fell silent on your ears as his hand pushed up your shirt. You were silently thanking whatever divine force above for swaying you towards slinkier lingerie earlier that morning.
You knew he could see the lacy edges of your bra by the way his eyes nonchalantly flashed up to you before laying out his template on your ribs. You could feel hints of his warm breath against your skin as he studied it. “You can look at it if you want,” he stated.
You shook your head, wanting him close to you as long as he could be. “I trust you,” you muttered, your eyes meeting his again. His tongue pressed against his cheek as he struggled not to smile at your statement. He had promised to cover a small scar for you and by the way he explained it, you were ready to be in his hands. You wet your lips as he adjusted the speed on his tattoo gun. “Will this hurt?” You asked, tucking one of your arms behind your head.
The look of unadulterated lust that he gave you made your toes want to curl. “Probably a bit. It feels good sometimes, though,” he answered. He came closer to you, resting his forearm on your stomach to angle himself in the right position. At the feeling of his skin pressed against yours, you swore your body was on fire. It took everything in your power not to moan. It could have been the adrenaline pulsing through your veins, but his soft breath and the anticipation of the needle made you feel like a junky. “I’ll be gentle, darling,” he leered, his accent muddy and low. He let the needles drag against your skin and you bit your lip, trying not to hiss at the pain. His eyes met yours. “See, not bad.”
You let out a breathy wheeze. “Shut up, you sadist,” you quipped, his chuckle coming out rather roguish as he focused on the work in front of him. Your nerves were more focused on the way George’s hands were barely caressing your body as if teasing and hinting at what he could do to you.
You drew in a sharp breath as he hit a particularly sensitive spot. “Shhh shh. It’ll be over soon,” he cooed, his voice sending goosebumps spreading across your body as his lips tugged into a light smirk. By your palm reading, you knew he was enjoying having this much control over you.
Part of you found it almost torture when George would look at you with soft and lusty eyes for merely a second before his gaze jutted back down to his work, murmuring soft praises about how well you were taking the pain. You would go under the needle anytime he asked, just to receive the sultry treatment he gave.
He was so close, you could have driven your fingers into his dark hair if you wanted. “How did you get this scar?” He asked, cleaning off some of the ink before continuing.
“A knife fight,” you answered without missing a beat, making him scoff. “Actually, I fell into my grandma’s glass table one time. My cousin was teaching me the Electric Slide,” you corrected, making him laugh, shaking his head slightly as he filled in a spot.
He let his tongue dart across his lips. “That’s so cute. Did you ever get it figured out?” To this you shook your head, the both of you laughing. You let out a groan as the needle dug into another area on your ribs, the sound making his eyes dart up to you. He leaned off of you, slipping one of his gloves off. “Wanna hold my hand, sweetheart?” He joked, but you took his offer, squeezing his hand in yours when it got painful enough. You held it close to your chest, hoping he would feel your heartbeat quicken each time he looked at you.
As he finished up his work, his thumb brushed against your hand absent-mindedly. You could tell by the way he gripped your hand as well that he enjoyed that the tattoo hurt you. Most of your mind was excited by how easily he was stirred up by you, while the rest was completely unsurprised and even threatened to bite out that he was a cliché.
When he was finally satisfied, he cleaned you up and stuck on a SecondSkin, biting back a grin at his work as he pulled you up by the hand he was holding onto you with. You couldn’t help but smile at how excited you were to see, swinging your legs over the side of his hair and walking towards his mirror. You held your shirt up, chewing on your bottom lip as you grinned at the ink. George rested a hand beside the mirror, watching you beam at his work.
All of his lines were flawless, your scar completely disappearing within his shading. You’d pitched the idea of an ode to the Creation of Adam. While it was cliche, what better to fit in the space below your breast and give George the impression that you were cultured. Yet you told him he could do whatever he wanted to it, resulting in one of the hands resembling a skeleton and the other holding a sucker. As you praised him, he shrugged off your comments, murmuring about it being his pleasure. He reached out his free hand, letting his thumb smooth over one of the edges of this bandage, which brought you closer to him.
Your cheeks warmed at the close proximity to him as his eyes grazed over your body before meeting your own. His hand moved from the bandage to your back. You leaned on your toes, pressing your lips to his. The tension between the two of you dissipated as he hungrily reacted, pulling you against him and savoring your moans as his tongue slipped into your mouth.
George’s hands moved down your body, swiftly hooking around your thighs and wrapping your legs around his waist to bring you back to his chair. Your hands moved into his hair, letting it loose and wrapping the band around your wrist. The leather was cold as your back pressed to it. George leaned back to pull his shirt over his head, revealing more of the tree painting the expanses of his skin.
If you weren’t so eager to be touched by him, you’d be studying the work of art.
As his lips met yours again, you ground your hips against his, eliciting a moan to vibrate through his chest. You raked your nails down his back, trying to further draw out reactions from him as his hands attentively played with the lace of your bra, fingers ghosting over the skin pressing against the cups.
His lips left yours only to travel the length of your jaw and inch his way toward your waistband. Your pants were discarded with a swift tug from him before he pulled your thighs flush against his, grinding his hips against yours, hands gripping onto your sides to keep you in place. You tilted your head back, relishing in the friction as your body screamed to finally feel him take advantage of you.
You reached between the two of you, tugging at his zipper as your hunger for him escalated. His tongue flattened against your collarbone before his teeth pressed into your skin. You could feel his arousal through his jeans at the sound of your whimpering.
He pumped himself in his hand before pressing into you, the feeling of him inside of you making your head spin as if you were on some kind of ecstasy. Your moan came out needy and desperate as he thrust into you, gripping the edge of the leather seat as his breath hummed against your skin. Your fingers threaded into his hair, raking your nails down his neck as he groaned in your ear at the feeling.
One of his hands grasped your wrists together, pinning them above your head while the other wrapped around your throat. His eyes burned into yours as he leaned back, leaning his weight on your wrists and squeezing your throat, the lack of oxygen making each of your senses more heightened as he pounded into you.
Your moans of George’s name were grated as they slipped through your mouth, his relentless pace and intense hold nearly making you drool from the stimulation. By the practice of his actions, you wondered how long he had been stewing on demolishing you in this way.
He loosened his grip on your neck, leaning down to press his lips against yours, dragging his teeth along your bottom lip just to hear you groan from the rough action. You rolled your hips against his, letting him slow his pace to reach deeper within you. A sadistic grin spread across his face as he rubbed a thumb across your cheek, wiping away the makeup smudging around your eyes from his antics and the heat between the two of you.
He pressed his lips to your neck, wrapping his hand around the edge of the chair again to drive himself into you, the new angle muddling your mind and vision as your body ached to come undone. You sank your nails into his back, earning his low, raspy whispers of your name.
At his praises, you came, tugging on his hair as he bit into your shoulder again, basking in the feeling of you clenching around him.
The next day, George stretched his shoulders, peering through the front window of his shop. His mind sparked with the feeling of your legs around his waist and the softness of your skin beneath his fingertips. He could practically hear you whimpering his name in his ears as he went back to touching up a fading tattoo on his friend’s arm.
“OW, George,” Clay rumbled, thigh flinching at the jab from George.
George snorted, his mind still on the high he got from your pure trust in him as you laid out on his chair. “I’ll give you something to bitch about,” George grumbled, releasing just how gentle he was during your tattoo. The way your voice got soft and quiet when he rolled over a spot that was rather tender already would most definitely be a guilty pleasure of his.
Clay barked at him again as George jerked his hand, fulfilling his promise. “I’VE BEEN NICE TO YOU ALL MORNING.”
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jackrrabbit · 4 years
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Runaways /// Dabi x f!Reader (18+)
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Summary: You were like an older sister to Dabi back when the two of you were teen runaways together; now that he’s found you as an adult, it’s not going to be so easy to get rid of him.
A/N: I could write a term paper on all of Dabi’s pathologies in this fic...I forgot how much I love writing smutty angst. Good shit 👌
I was planning on making this a ficlet so it’s kinda structured like that even though it ended up a full-length piece. Also, Dabi says some bullshit about sex work that I absolutely do not agree with or condone so please keep that in mind.
➠ see also: [homeowners association]
Tags/warnings: Dabi victimizes you, noncon/dubcon, light yandere, threats, cheating, NTR kinda?, mentions of past sex work, degradation, rough sex (breath play, impact play, crying), mild violence, very brief mentions of past child abuse in the Todoroki household, sad stuff/angst idk lol, *Daddy Issues by The Neighborhood plays in the background*
Dabi would know you anywhere.
You’re different now, which makes sense. It’s been years. Your old uniform of raggedy denim and hand-me-down leather has been replaced with a prim linen dress, designer label at the collar. You used to dye your hair religiously (it was neon pink when he saw you last) but now it’s styled back to your natural shade, a color he only saw back then when your roots grew out. You smell good, expensive. It does take him a second to recognize you without smudged pencil eyeliner drawn under your eyes like in the old days, but once he catches your gaze the realization is immediate.
It’s you. You. You.
You recognize him too, but your reaction is different—shock, then panic; you tug the arm of the man at your side, urging him to walk faster so you can pass Dabi on the sidewalk. The rejection stings for a second, but he isn’t too surprised. You did abandon him, after all.
Dabi doesn’t let it bother him. You’re not going to get away that easy. He pulls you into conversation, grinning when you reluctantly introduce him to your companion (who is, apparently, your husband) as an old friend from school. You didn’t go to school—Dabi knows that, and you know that, but your husband doesn’t. Which means your husband isn’t aware of your sordid past as a runaway.
This is going to be fun.
Once he knows you’re in town, he doesn’t have much trouble finding you. Your husband is a very wealthy man, well-known in this city now that he’s moved here. So this is what you’ve been up to all these years? Shacking up with some ugly motherfucker who’s at least 20 years your senior because he can afford to dress you up in pretty things and take you on overseas vacations? Dabi has to admit, he wouldn’t have thought it of you. Back when he knew you, you were so sincere, such an idealist, even in your darkest nights.
Then again…you always were willing to get your hands dirty in exchange for a warm meal and a place to sleep. Maybe you haven’t changed as much as you think.
Dabi comes to your house in the middle of the day when your husband’s at work and you’re stuck at home because that’s what you are now, a housewife. From a cocksucking whore to a pretty housewife with a dirty little secret. He’s getting hard just thinking about it as he watches your internal debate on whether to let him in or not. Eventually guilt wins out and you usher him inside, hoping the neighbors didn’t see a known villain lurking on your doorstep.
You make Dabi coffee (and aww, you remember exactly how he likes it). He gets you to talking, and you don’t seen surprised to learn about his current line of work; when he presses you, you admit that you’ve been following him in the news. Your life, in comparison, has been wholly uninteresting: you met a man, he proposed, and you married him. Very little has happened to you since. After a long silence you timidly apologize to Dabi for leaving him behind when you two were teenagers, and he tells you he understands.
He doesn’t forgive you.
Overall, things are good, he tells you. But you know, sometimes he misses the old days. Being on the run with you, stealing food from gas stations, breaking into fancy summer homes and pretending the two of you lived there. Stitching up each other’s cuts, because one of you had always gotten in a fight in the past few days. Sometimes he still has dreams about the smell of the balm you used on his fresh burns…and your cool hands, smoothing gently across the tender skin on his face, but he doesn’t say that.
You look down into your monogrammed coffee mug and tell him you know what he means.
When you turn your head like that, Dabi can see the tiny dots running up the side of your ear where your old piercings have scarred over from lack of use. Do you remember when he gave them to you? You did his first, running a needle through the lonely flame of your lighter (he offered to use his quirk, but it was still hard for him to control then so you declined) and then threading the metal through his ear. You promised it would only hurt for a second, and you were right, so he let you do the others.
Then you offered to let him do yours. Just one on each ear—you already had an impressive collection of piercings, but you wanted to let him return the favor, so he did. You were older and more experienced and had lived on the streets for longer, so when he held the needle in his hand and heard your voice saying you trusted him, it was the first time he ever thought of you as fragile, something delicate, something that he was capable of harming.
He chose twin helix piercings for you, cresting the shell of each ear, silver band rings to match his. When they were done you pulled him to a mirror and asked him what he thought. It hadn’t been long since he got the worst burns on his face (the ones under his eyes, wrapping around his chin and down his neck) and he was still getting used to the knowledge that the ugly, wrinkled scars were never going to heal. “I look like…” he started.
A monster. A freak. A victim.
“A badass,” you said. “You look fucking cool. Any asshole who wants to pick a fight with you will take one look and know you’ve been through worse shit than whatever they can dish out, and that’s something to be proud of.”
Now that Dabi thinks about it, he probably wanted you even then.
…But the longer he reminisces, the more nostalgia’s going to distract him. He came here for a reason, and it wasn’t to have coffee with you and talk about the good old days. What he’s about to take from you—what he’s about to make you give—is long overdue.
You’ve still got a little fight in you. Dabi likes that. But you’ve gone soft, filling out and losing muscle in places where you used to be lean and hard from the constant running and fighting of your old lifestyle. Besides, even if you were as strong as you’d been back then, he’d still be stronger than you—he’s a man now, and it’s incredible how small and weak you seem now that he can look at you as a man.
Were your punches always this light? No way…and your wrists couldn’t have always been this delicate. It’s really no trouble at all for him to wrestle you down to the couch and pin you there so he can tear off your stupid little housewife dress and tug your panties down past your ankles.
Once he’s got you fully naked, though, you pretty much give up trying to fight him off. It’s sad, really—like you’re remembering the past, remembering all the times you let other men hold you and fuck you just so you could have enough money to take yourself and Dabi to McDonalds for a few days. And now look, you’re plenty well-fed, but Dabi’s the one holding you down against your will. Funny how things change like that.
He does appreciate your submission, since it gives him the chance to get a decent look at you. The years have been kind—you look so much healthier than you used to. No more visible ribcage stretching out your skin; no more unhealthy pallor from going outside only at night. Your hands are as soft and manicured as if you’ve never done a day’s work in your life, a far cry from the bitten nails and bloody knuckles of your youth. It’s good to see you like this, and he lingers for a second, drinking in the sight of you and committing you to memory.
Dabi’s pictured this moment for years. He used to think he’d savor it, be sweet with you, slow and gentle to show you what you were missing with the trashy guys you used to hang out with. But now, hey—he’s the trashy one, he’s the one who wants to hurt you and own you and ruin you. May as well act like it.
Your husband doesn’t fuck you like this, does he?
You’re unbelievably tight for a former whore. Dabi can barely hold out when he first pushes into you, licking the tears off your cheeks when apparently it hurts too much for you to keep up a brave face. It takes real effort to fuck himself all the way into you, pushing past the tense squeeze of your muscles while you…well, you’re not exactly wet, but he’ll get you there. As soon as his hips are grinding up against yours, he’s hitching your legs up on his shoulders and pounding you into your stuffy antique couch so deeply that he thinks it might splinter into pieces underneath the two of you.
God, you’re so, so, tight. Dabi feels like a virgin with his cock buried inside you, biting his lip so he doesn’t cum in thirty seconds and thrusting into you with a rhythm that comes from nothing less than pure animal instinct. And you’re getting into it too. Can you tell that your pleading and begging him to get off you is turning into moaning? Can you feel your hips bucking weakly back against his, reverting to the position of the submissive bitch your body remembers even if your mind has tried to forget?
It’s perfect, right and good and perfect, everything Dabi’s been waiting for since he first knew what it was to want someone—no, not just someone. You. It’s always been you. A person never forgets their first love, right? It’s perfect, except—except you won’t look at him, you keep looking off to the side and sniffling, and that’s not going to cut it. So he slows down and wrenches your head back to center and makes you kiss him, sliding his tongue over yours and trying to see if he can feel the place where you used to have a piercing there, too. It’s kind of thrilling, actually—wondering whenever his face dips into yours if you’re going to bite him, if he’ll come back from you with blood in his mouth.
He’s only got to thumb over your clit a couple times before you’re clamping down on him, your body begging to be used and abused. Your husband hasn’t been treating you right, though Dabi doubts the old bastard can even get it up without a blue pill. Sure, you look like a sweet little doll, so darling and delicate and breakable, but Dabi knows you better than that. You’re strong, you can take it. He knows you want it rough, so that’s how he’ll give it to you—and hey, hey, he can feel your cunt quivering around him—you’re cumming, aren’t you? So you like it. You like it.
He knew he wasn’t going to last long before, but when you cum and tighten and squeal so high he thinks you could lose your voice, the tension in his abdomen rises up and he digs his fingers into your hips and—shit, you’re saying something, what are you saying? You’re pleading, begging him not to cum inside—but, ohhhhhh fuck he can’t help it, he can’t, he can’t, he’s cumming all the way deep into your tight little snatch, cockhead jutting up at your cervix, fucking his semen all the way through you until your slit is smeared white from top to bottom.
Stop crying. Dabi’s sick of hearing you cry.
You’re still pretty nimble, even though your current exercise regimen probably doesn’t extend beyond periodic jogs around your neighborhood and weekly pilates with all the other bored trophy wives. He’s kind of surprised when as soon as he lifts himself off of you, you have the strength to roll off the couch and scramble around on the floor for your clothing.
You don’t say anything, which he wasn’t expecting. You don’t scream at him, demand that he leave, or ask him how he could do this to you after everything the two of you went through together. You probably still think of yourself as an older sister when it comes to him.
When you’d first met the scarred kid trying and failing to live off the streets, you knew he wasn’t cut out for this. He’d known pain before, plenty of pain (icy-blue fire roasting the skin off his face—spiral fracture from callused hands twisting his arm behind his back—cold, aching muscles after what he thinks is the fifth hour spent locked in a closet), but he’d never known hunger. Hunger was a different kind of beast, one that would chew the kid up and spit him out and leave him broken if you didn’t take him under your wing, so you did.
It wasn’t like you had much of anything to spare, but you made it work. For a few years. He didn’t talk at first, but he took what you gave him, so you gave him what you could: food, if you had it; a place to sleep at night; the knowledge you’d gathered in your own years as a runaway on how he was supposed to survive in a world that didn’t care whether he lived or rotted away in a gutter. You cared.
Until you didn’t.
‘Going to be traveling alone for a while. Don’t wait for me. I’m sorry,’ your note had read. You left it in his backpack along with $43 in cash—not much, but he knew it was more than you could afford. It was all you had.
And now you have all of this! Don’t you feel lucky? You have the rich husband who barely looks at you, the big house with so many empty unused rooms it makes him sick, more food than you could possibly eat in one lifetime. All of that, and you also have Dabi’s semen leaking out of your cunt. It’s a real rags-to-riches story, he thinks.
Dabi picks a cigarette out of his jacket and you stop fixing up the buttons on your dress to ask him not to light it inside. How will you explain the smell to your husband? Every move you make, every syllable that comes out of your mouth, is weighed down by despair. You look like you’ve been beaten.
He lights the cigarette anyway.
///
Before he had you the first time, Dabi thought once would be enough. Pretty naive, huh?
He makes it his mission to fuck you in every room of your husband’s gluttonously enormous mansion (what with your history Dabi has a hard time thinking of the house as yours, and considering the way you tiptoe around and seem like you’re afraid to move so much as a vase, he suspects you feel the same). There’s a lot of rooms.
When he shows up at your door again you don’t even bother to hear him out, instead just trying to shut it on him, but he forces his way in. You wouldn’t want to make him mad, would you? Not when he’s got such a filthy secret hanging over your head? Will your husband keep paying for your designer shopping trips when he knows you’re a street rat who used to steal everything she wore? Will he still kiss you goodnight when Dabi tells him you used to wrap those pretty lips around strangers’ cocks for money?
If you want Dabi to keep quiet, you’re going to have to convince him the best way you know how. A cockwhore is a cockwhore. That’s not the kind of stain you get to wipe away with time and distance and expensive clothing.
In the kitchen: standing up, your back to his front and your hands barely holding you up on the counter, so hard and rough and deep that the dishes are rattling in the pantry. One of your teacups falls out of the glass china cabinet and shatters into a million fragments in a four foot radius over the tiled floor. Neither of you notice until after. Blunt red lines press themselves into the tops of your thighs where he’s shoving your body into the edge of the counter and there are bruises on your tits from how hard he’s groping you.
In the dining room: sitting on the edge of the table, one of your legs hiked up beside you and the other on a chair while Dabi kneels on the ground in front of you, his head between your thighs and his tongue flicking over your pussy. You start off thinking that you’re going to have to sanitize the entire mahogany surface before you can eat off it again and then he licks his lips and sucks on your throbbing clit and you don’t really think about anything else after that.
In your husband’s study: doggy-style on the floor in front of the fireplace, facedown, his body folded over yours, pressing you so deep into the tacky lion-skin rug that you can taste it. He sighs in your ear—actually, you’re not sure if it’s a sigh or a growl—and his hand comes up to cover yours. You feel the metal stitches and the rough burned skin scraping on your own and it reminds you that it’s him. It’s Dabi.
(A few days after his 13th birthday, the Dabi you used to know told you that he was going to dye his hair—he wanted to be unrecognizable, and you understood, so you found some old scissors and stole hair dye from the pharmacy and you spent three long hours chopping his hair into rough spikes and painting it black. When you washed the dye out of his hair in the sink, your hands were stained inky black too. When he saw, he looked worried and weaved his fingers in with yours and asked if the dye would hurt your skin if it stayed on too long.
And you looked back at this kid—small for his age then, burned by his own quirk, trying so hard to look older and tougher than any 13-year-old should have to be, and you thought to yourself, I would die for you.)
Now you hear Dabi growling out your name and squeezing your hand as he reaches his climax and you think, I would kill you if I could.
///
Dabi saves the master bedroom for last.
Your husband is hosting a party at your house. Dabi knows because you begged him not to come today, looking up at him with those doe-like eyes, offering things you never would have offered if it weren’t important to you that he stay away on this particular evening. But he still comes to crash it. He arrives just minutes before your husband does, and you have barely enough time to tuck him away on the dark bedroom balcony and pull the curtains closed before your husband is opening the door and greeting you.
Dabi settles himself into one of the tasteful Adirondack chairs on the balcony and listens to your voice, or at least what he can hear of it through the sliding glass door. You’re sweeter with your husband than you are with Dabi, and he should’ve known you’d be, but it still makes him hate your husband more than he already did.
On the other hand, there’s something strained and high and nervous in the way you’re speaking. Probably because your husband is standing about twenty feet away from the man you’re cheating on him with.
It takes a while for the two of you to dress for the party, but finally Dabi hears you tell your husband that you’d like to take a little longer to get ready and bid him goodbye. “Love you,” you say to the old man as he leaves the room, so casually Dabi might not have heard it if he wasn’t listening.
Then you’re opening the door and ushering him inside and telling him anxiously that he has to get out before anyone sees him. But, oh, you look nice like this, dolled up in your evening gown and makeup and diamonds, trying to pull him to the door even though you must know by now that he’s not going to leave it there. Instead of following, he backs you up onto the bed and peels down the straps of your dress and slides his hands up under the skirt, and all the while he can’t stop thinking about what you said to your husband.
You used to say that to Dabi.
The first time it was an accident—you’d mentioned it off-hand during a night when it was snowing and his unnaturally high body temperature was the only thing keeping the two of you alive. “God, I love you,” you’d said, draping your arm around his shoulders and pulling him in close to share his heat.
It had stunned him and you could probably tell. Maybe the next few times were just you taking pity on a kid who had never been told so casually and so simply that he was loved. But eventually you meant it, the little love you’s before you went to sleep or when one of you went off to do something alone for a few days—a familial love borne of mutual reliance. For the years Dabi was a runaway with you, you were the only person he could trust, and he knows the feeling was mutual.
Now he wants you to tell him you love him again.
It would be hot, wouldn’t it? You telling Dabi you love him while he forces you into a mating press on the bed you share with your husband. Isn’t that hot? You’re never going to be able to sleep on these sheets again without remembering his hands on your body, his tongue in your mouth, his cock filling you in ways you haven’t been filled since you were 19.
How are you gonna lay next to your husband in this sad cold bed? ‘Cause that old fuck isn’t touching you, Dabi knows that much—if he was, he’d’ve noticed by now that you’re always covered in bite marks and hickeys that he didn’t give you. How are you gonna sleep at night knowing what a nasty slut you are, telling another man you love him?
So say it. Say you love him.
Oh, you’re going to be like that, aren’t you? What did he tell you about being a fucking brat when he’s talking to you? See if you’re still so defiant when he’s got his hand stroking the length of that pretty throat and then sealing down on it, squeezing gently on the veins running up the sides of your neck, not too hard, but enough that you’re probably getting a little dizzy while he continues to fuck into you. Does it hurt? Your face is turning pink. Uh-uh-uh, don’t try to pull his hand off, or he’ll show you just how good he is with his quirk these days.
You’re trying to choke out the words but you can’t quite make them make sense. There’s something endearing about the way your whimpers vibrate through the skin of Dabi’s palm, how he can hear you as well as feeling you. Oh—could you say his name too? He knows you’re feeling all fucked-out and wet and sloppy, every moan rising and falling in time with his cock stretching your pussy open, but can’t you give it a little more effort? He’s sure you can get his name out if you really try.
And if you’re not going to cooperate, Dabi may as well just dig the heel of his knuckle into your windpipe, because you really do tighten up so deliciously when you cough and sputter like that. Fuck, if you keep doing that, he’s going to cum, gonna cum right here in your syrupy pussy and spill it all over your marriage bed—but no, he wants to hear you say it first, so when you’re gagging and turning red and your eyes are watering he finally stops choking you, loosening his grip just enough that his hand is resting on your neck in a lover’s touch. It takes you a second and your voice is so hoarse he can barely hear it, but then you’re speaking and something jumps in his chest—
“I…I love—love y-you, Touya!” you sob. “I love you! I—love you, Touya—Touya—Touya—!”
And ah fuck it’s almost exactly right, your voice saying you love him, saying his real name, a name he hasn’t heard for years because you’re the only one who really knows it anymore—but you’re crying, real heavy sobs while you gulp in frantic lungfuls of oxygen. Your ribcage is heaving underneath him and—god, fuck—your guts are clenching, sucking down on every inch of his cock, every vein—
—oh shit fuck fuck he’s cumming, and he presses his face into your neck, into your hair, kissing you and thinking I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you—
—please stay, forever.
///
When he’s done, he goes for another round just to make sure you’re going to have cum dripping down your thighs when you go back to the party. No panties, unless you want him to walk through the grand foyer with all the other guests on his way out.
You don’t look at him as you fix your dress and your hair and wipe at your smeared makeup. With your eyeliner rubbed down to the bottom of your eyes, Dabi’s reminded a little of how you used to look—and the reminder is doubled when you slide your legs across the side of the bed and limp over to your vanity, walking hesitantly, your hips rocking from side to side. Damn, did he fuck you that hard?
Reminds him of the old days, you shuffling back to the hideout with that same awkward pain in your gait, purple marks around your neck, and a dim smile decorating your face—for his sake. Oh, and cash in your pockets. You’d tell him that the two of you were going out to eat that night and refuse to let him look at the injuries. God, it made him angry, it still makes him angry just thinking about it—angry at the men who bought you for treating you like that, angry at you for letting them. Angry at himself for not being old enough or strong enough or rich enough to stop them.
Anger, yes…and other things too. There had been a sick, insidious part of him that wanted to be in their position. He’d hated himself for it back then, until you left and the desire to punish you for abandoning him got twisted up with the desire to own you and keep you his. Maybe if he let himself think about it, he’d still hate himself for what he’s doing to you.
By now, you’re too good at covering up the bruises. A sweep of foundation and powder passes over each hickey he left on your throat and it’s like he never touched you. You have to push him off the bed so you can strip the sheets and replace them. When you’re done, you tell him to wait a few minutes after you leave to sneak out the back and he makes another half-joke about joining the party and introducing himself to your old man—
—and you shove him up against the wall with all the strength left in you, wrap your hand around his neck, and dig your fingernails under the line of piercings in his cheek. If he even looks at your husband, if he even thinks about it, you’ll rip his goddamn face open, you tell him in a low snarl.
It’s an empty threat (you and he both know who would win in a physical altercation) but there’s real hatred behind it. Dabi hasn’t seen that kind of fire in your eyes since he found out you became a trophy wife. It makes him want to have you again so he does, pulling your arms away from his face, standing and holding you up against the door to your bedroom, forcing you to wrap your arms around his neck and cling to him to keep from falling.
He’s lubed up by his own cum, and the wet squelching of your pussy just reminds him what a mess you’re going to be when you return to high society tonight. Maybe your husband will be able to smell it on you—the cum, the sex, the other man who’s been keeping his darling wife warm while he’s at work.
Well, probably not. If that stupid fucking cuckold hasn’t figured it out by now, there’s not much of a chance he’ll get it on his own. As Dabi sinks into your tight, gummy cunt again, he decides that he might just have to help the process along. A man deserves to know if his wife is being unfaithful, right?
///
Your husband’s office phone number is written on a post-it note that’s tacked to the desk of his study. It takes Dabi 40 minutes and $30 to buy a burner cell phone, leave a message on the man’s voicemail, and toss the burner in the kitchen trash at your house while you’re in the shower.
The message is short and straightforward. Dabi introduces himself as ‘the man who’s sleeping with your wife’, describes the floor plan of your husband’s house and what position he fucked you in for each room, and finally finishes it off with the evidence—the precise size and location of every hickey he’s left on your body that will still be visible by the time your husband returns from work.
Dabi almost wishes your husband had picked up the call—he’d’ve had a good time explaining in pornographic detail the way your tits look under those too-formal dresses, the way you moan when you cum in his mouth, the way you told him you loved him while he choked you out—with your husband in the house, no less. But this is fine too.
Besides, it’ll be so fucking funny if someone else at your husband’s company hears the message before he does.
///
Whore. Your husband called you a whore.
You’ve been called a whore a lot, actually. More than most people. You should be used to it by now. But it’s different when your husband says it. Your husband, the man who rescued you from a life of poverty and starvation, the man who has given you everything you own, the man who slid a ring onto your finger under a wedding arch and promised to love you in good times and in bad. The man you’ve almost convinced yourself you love back.
He called you a whore and slapped you when you tried to explain yourself and shoved you out the door and locked it. You can still hear his voice telling you the only place he wants to see your face again is in a casket.
So that’s why when Dabi comes to collect you, you’re hugging your knees to your chest on your front porch in your shiny lace-edged slip nightdress, hair in a mess around your head and your lip bleeding onto your chin. Your feet are so cold—your husband didn’t even give you time to put shoes on before he threw you out.
The night is cool and dark but the porch light buzzes on for half a minute when Dabi climbs up the steps to come crouch next to you on the doorstep. You try not to look at him, but he tilts your face toward his, electric-blue eyes skimming over the red mark and blue-black discoloration blossoming across your cheekbone; the blood drying on your split lip.
Dabi asks calmly if your husband hit you, and you nod.
Good, he tells you, and his body lights up blue in a roiling cloud of flames. He’s been waiting for an excuse to kill that old fuck.
The fire is like lightning, bright and ghostly in the darkness. The crackling of the flame eats away at the heavy silence of the night and you crawl back from the dry heat of it, sure you can feel your eyebrows singeing from being near. Dabi looks different backed by the inferno—bigger, crueler. Frightening. He reaches at the door but you shout at him to stop.
Why? Don’t you think he should suffer, after what he did to you?
But your fists clench by your sides and you set your teeth and you tell Dabi that if he’s going to kill your husband, he may as well set himself on fire too, because it’s his fault in the first place. And he’s done a lot worse to you than one slap.
Dabi waits a moment, searching your alarmed expression for something, but whatever he’s hoping for you don’t give him and the flames go out. The air smells like smoke and his hands are hot—not burning, but uncomfortably hot—when he kneels in front of you and rubs a thumb over your bruised cheek.
“(Y/N)—” Dabi starts, and then he can’t find a way to finish. So he just gathers you up in his arms and carries you bridal-style down into the lawn and to the driveway, where he’s got a car waiting to take you guys back to his place. You don’t resist, which surprises him again. He thought you’d push away at him, scream, get angry—he thought he’d have to convince you. Or force you, like he usually does. But you just let him deposit you in the seat next to the driver’s.
Before he gets in, he asks you if you need anything from your house. He can go get it for you. See if any balding motherfucker in his forties can stop him. But you just shake your head.
“There’s nothing,” you say blankly. “I have nothing. I…have nothing.”
Just like back then.
“Not nothing,” Dabi tells you, turning forward to the road so you can’t see the look on his face. “You have me.”
///
In the end, he does understand. He understood it the second he held that goodbye note in his hands and knew you were lost to him.
You were 17 when you met him and 19 when you left—hardly older than a child yourself. You barely had enough to provide for your own needs, much less a teenage boy’s. By the time you left, Dabi was more than capable of surviving on his own and already falling into ugly crowds, gangs and syndicates who saw money in his quirk, people you’d sacrificed a lot to keep him away from. He no longer needed you, and it was time for you two to go your separate ways. Dabi understands that.
But now you need him. Just like you needed him when you were fucking strangers for food money; like you needed him when you ran away; like you needed him when you got trapped in this mundane, sparkling-clean life, a life that was never going to fit you. Only this time—this time, Dabi’s old enough for you. He’s not a kid anymore, he’s a man. He’s got an apartment and a good job (well, kind of) and he’s got money. He can provide for you the way you’ve always needed him to.
Dabi’s going to take care of you, and you’re never, ever going to leave.
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sketcheydyslexic · 3 years
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Don't mind me asking yet I got curious :3
What about some spicy headcanons for the star sanses ?
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Okie dokie, thanks for the ask!
i swear, to everyone who has sent asks- im working on them! im not ignoring you guys u^u (writing request are closed, but art request are open!)
also- please know that my headcanons often times dont link together into a character build up thing, think of each post as its own little timeline ;P
SPICY headcanons for the Star sanses (+ cross)
⚠️sugestive/mature content under the split!‼️
Blue (swap):
he gets a little annoyed by the ‘hes so sweet and innocent’ misconception a lot of people have with him and dream- he is a grown skeleman damn it.
he is a ‘good guy’/‘nice guy’ but dont take his cheer and kindness as him being childlike or nieve. Blue knows his way around things, you dont need a lot of experiance to know just what to do.
your his first time around with a human, or anyone really. He’s never had the option or time to get close and intamate with somone else in between his time before and durring being one of the star sanses.
you both ALWAYS talk about things before you hop into them. nothing to wild and meticlus, there just has to be some level of cumunication. and you have a sturdy safeword system inplace.
he is more dominate leaning, thats mostly due to the intinctual part of him- so if rolls were to be reversed, he wouldnt mind, not one bit.
most papyri and sanses very much so love thigh highs, and just thighs in general.
Swap is no exception for this- he will burry his head in those tighs if you let him. he might grovel if you want hi to.
no need to really worry about breathing with him, of course he needs to breathe- but perks of being a monster skeleton are, that he can suck in oxogen through his rib gaps. youve asked him about it before, and he dosent knoe either, so being a smartass he says ✨magic✨
he keeps a lot of his fantacies in his mind untill the right time to talk about them, he knows most of what you are and are not comfortable with- he will always put your heath and comfort over satisfiing a want brought to him by wandering thoughts durring his heat.
he was damned determined to go through the proper steps of a relationship, he wouldnt shoot you down if you offered to move a little faster though. or if you wanted to move slower than the ‘standard’ pace.
hinting at things you want to happen or like dont go over his head esily. he is hyper attentive to you, he aims to be the best date-mate youll ever have. he also enjoys the wandering mystery of trying to figure out all your levels, like a complex puzzle and his rewards for copleteing every level to unlock your soul are neverending.
the way these events play out with him very heavily on who you are and how your relationship came to be. if your his soulmate, if you are a friend who turned his interest from plationic to romantic, if you are a rival turned lover, if you were somone who he saved, if you saved him... the posibilitys and timelines to go down are endless.
he swings two very difrent ways at the same time. he can really get into and apriciate a heavy kink scene, but he also loves the wild romantic slow burn pace. he needs love and true connection, in a sexual setting or otherwise. he wouldnt be able to do the whole ‘one time fling’ or ‘friends with benifents’ thing, he just isnt built like that.
he really really really likes intercural sex (thigh-fucking). its one of the first things he brings up when your have your little talks.
also. durring his heats, he is super into the Bukake side things. not other people covering you, he wants to cover you all by himself. could it be a way of fluffing his feathers for how much longer he cccan go and how much more he can give than human men or just anyone else? yeah, probably.
actually bukake might not be the right term for it in his case, a form of breeding kink probably fits more. he dosent just want to paint you with his magic, he wants to fill you full of it. of course you wont run the risk of pregnancey without two mutal intents to make a child, so less than normal worry there.
heat or not, he understands ‘no’ and wont push it.
He's always been a you get yours before I can chase mine kind of monster
He doesn’t really like extreme rough stuff
He likes to hold your hands
He likes to massage you, sexual leading or not. He loves your skin and how the tension leave your very soul as he works loving circles with his thumbs.
Ink:
well. he is a grey-asexual. so building up to the point of having sexual atraction for you will either take a while for him to notice or be an unexpected sudden for him. and there is even the posibility he just wont feel sexual attraction at all.
at first, he wont tell you about his urges for you, fearing it might be his body medically wanting to relase the magic buildup. he woulsnt forgive himself for misleading you into beliving it was anything more than that. he wouldnt be able to finish if it did stear down that path, his mind racked to his very soul that he was using you, even if you assuer him he isnt.
its when the thoughs of you plague him after his heats, after he is certain it isnt a magic buildup, durring when his mind isnt blank in foucus on medical releif- but his date-mate.
he isnt ignorant. he knows very well why its happening- he just dosent want to confuse things and act on inpulse like he always does. you were the one thing he would feel for if he lost you.
He is either on his freaknasty shit or he wants some nice soft, sweet, love makin’.
He is the type to rail you on a bathroom sink in the middle of a party, making direct eye contact in the mirror.
Experimentalist, he is available to try anything (within reason) at least once. He especially enjoys indulging your fantasy- it just hits different to be able to make them come to life for you.
Try to embarrass or make this man feel shame. I dare you. He can feel it, but you either gotta work at it or know just the right cords to pluck that day.
He really likes to service you. In anyway. If he feels like he is useful to you, helpfull, making your life easier, or even relieving a little bit of stress.
He likes to keep one hand under your head and one on your hip or around your waist, he likes to feel connected to more than just one half of you.
Dream:
He isn’t childish, he has seen some shit, and been through some shit. He just chooses to be positive, kind and caring. His aura doesn’t really help with the misconception but he is an adult with all the adult tendencies.
Intent sharing really does him in. Not sex but love making.
He really, really likes finishing at the same time. Something about it just hits different and will leave him thinking about it for days
He kind of wants to test out his nasties fantasy- the ones he gets when it's late a night and you are away, not a soul around to hear his thoughts
Pro gamer move: if he is worn out/drained from a long fight... Give him time to heal and rest just a little, then have some fun while he actually can't do anything himself. That's something that will pop in his head at random times in the day, just to make him blush and need to take a break from what he was doing.
He loves tummy and thighs! All of them, every shape and size.
So... A garter belt and some thigh highs... That's a surprise tool to help you later ;)
He likes to run his hands through your hair.
He likes a little rough sometimes.
Wear his crown, I dare you.
He likes to praise you- not the way he lifts other people up, but in a very special, only you get to hear way.
He eats it for his pleasure. He gets off because you are, and that is not linked to him being powered by your good feels.
Cross:
He’s a bad guy, but he’s also,a good guy?
He will either always make sure you are okay with something or have a safety system in place.
You guys have a code word/signal thing, to communicate silently When you are out together.
He will love you, but knows how to make sure you still feel that love when he is railing you.
Nobody is perfect, our skin has little freckles, scars from accidents and maybe not accidents in some cases, this list goes on.... But that's why he love yours so much. Marks along your skin that tell your story. He loves to pay close attention when he is laying with you in afterglow, massaging your muscles and recalling the stories you told him about how you got each one.
All the Booty rubbs you could ever dream of.
Pretty vanilla most of the time, but mans can get his freak nasty on. It's the first time in a long time that he's had someone where sex wasn't just a coping mechanism, or a going to help in his heats....
He is more than aware of himself and how he is, so he is trying to keep himself in check for every little thing that he doesn't need to- so basically he dotes on you.
Again- he can get into some kinky stuff. He is pretty open and would be willing to try just about anything if you talked to him about it. - this is part of the reason why sex is on the tamer side, he wants to talk about more spicy things before you guys try them.
Being a brat or teasing him has a weird side. He isn't patient, he just has good enough self-control to not snap but you'll have to wear at it for a while. when he’s a little jealous? Nope. His patience goes from 6mm of solid steel to a wet paper bag.
He won't hide his intent all when he's jealous. Does he not have any control over it or does he want you to feel how much he loves you and wants you to only love him?
He not one of the worst at communicating his feels but he is still a bad guy with some trouble- so non-verbal ways of communicating are the best way for him I truly explain what's happening in his soul. Like intent sharing.
Anyways- he would thoroughly enjoy it if you sat on his face. Suffocate him darling, he wants to drown in that ass and thighs.
He likes to finish with you, your hand, or your lips wrapped around him. Seeing himself smeared across your chest is pretty nice too.
He likes to cup your face in his hands or hold your home close to his.
He knows you like his coat, and wear it without a shirt because of the soft inside... He's thought about fucking you into a pure bliss while in his coat, and he really likes that visual.
He likes taking you out on a date or something nice before sex. Not every time is planned but if he know to expect it he will make sure to have a gift or a day out with you planned. He just wants you to have a nice day, and a nice experience outside of sex- you put up with a lot for him.
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latte-fairytaekwoon · 3 years
Text
𝑻𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒓'𝒔 𝑷𝒆𝒕 (𝑱𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒀𝒖𝒏𝒉𝒐) 𝑹𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅
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𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐘𝐮𝐧𝐡𝐨× 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞)
𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐒𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞 𝐀𝐔
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 𝟒.𝟗𝐊
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐘𝐮𝐧𝐡𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞.
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐃𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐞𝐱𝐡𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐦, 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 (𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠), 𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐱 (𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧), 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐃𝐨𝐦! 𝐘𝐮𝐧𝐡𝐨/ 𝐒𝐮𝐛! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫.
𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭: @yunhoiseyecandy @multidreams-and-desires @galaxteez @hanatiny @deja-vux
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"Miss L/N? May I please have a word with you?"
While others would have already been sweating nervously at having their journalism professor single them out after they had just turned in an essay 2 days ago, the called out girl had a smug grin on her face that she did not care to hide as she practically strutted over to her teacher's desk. Looking over to make sure all the other students were gone and door was closed, she immediately pushed away some of the books on the edge of the desk before perching herself on it, one leg crossed over the over. Taking out the cherry tootsie pop from her mouth with a loud pop, she asked him:
"How can I be of service?" With a wink she put thr candy back in her mouth, making sure he could hear the sucking sound she made as she wrapped her lips around it.
He shook his head as he recognized the all too familiar tone in her voice that meant she was up to no good again.
"Don't start with me Y/N, you're already pushing your luck. First off......."
He tapped her exposed thigh with the tip of his pencil.
"You know I don't want you, or anyone sitting on my space. Second..."
One of his hands reached out and took away the lollipop from her mouth and dumped it in the trash bin under his desk.
"I've already told you no more eating in my classroom." He reminded her.
With a pout on her lips, she whined softly.
"But I was hungry! And besides.......I saw you staring at me in class as I sucked on it."
Clearing his throat, the black haired male adjusted his tie nervously, not thinking he got caught.
"You're very distracting at times." He excused himself.
Letting out a giggle, she scooted close to where she was sitting right in front of him, legs spread out enough that if he bent his neck, he'd be able to see right up her short plaid skirt and gaze at her bold choice of the pink lace panties he loved seeing on her during the nights she went over to his house. But he resisted the urge, instead keeping his face up and away from her lower bottom.
"Maybe you're just having trouble focusing cause you're too stressed......but I can help with that Yunho."
Feeling bolder than other days, she slipped off his desk and straddled one of his thick and massive thighs, her lips attaching themselves to his neck as one of her hands rested in between his legs, groping at his now hardening member that was bulging out of his khaki dress pants. Yunho bit back a moan, one of his hands instinctively reaching over to caress her thigh, drawing out circles before going further up her skirt, eyes scrunching together in confusion when he did not feel the material of the safety shorts she was supposed to wear. Feeling something soak his thigh as she slowly grinded down on it, his large hands gripped her thighs and got her off him, placing her back on his desk with a loud thud. She gasped softly when he lifted up her skirt and saw the familiar flower pattern covering her now soaking core, a visible wet patch in the middle of it. Yunho looked back at her with a disgruntled gaze.
"Surprise?" She batted her eyelashes at him rather innocently.
Letting out a huff, he pulled her skirt down before rummaging through his bag.
"Not only do you belatedly disobey dress code and wear a uniform skirt that's much too short, but you don't even wear your safety shorts?" He was beyond annoyed at this point, and Y/N knew it. Wanting to poke fun at him, she snorted.
"What? Afraid I'll bend over and someone else will see?"
Although she meant it as a joke, she immediately stopped laughing when he slapped her thigh.
"Yes."
She gulped as he stared her down. She could see the jealousy burning in his eyes, could also see the lust hidden behind him. He wanted nothing more than to bend her over that dammed furniture right then and spank her for even thinking about pulling off such a daring thing. But then he remembered where they were, the prestigious university he worked at and she studied in and calmed himself down, refusing to give in to her fantasy of having him fuck her in the very classroom where they met a year ago.
Taking a deep breath, he handed her a spare pair of shorts he kept with him.
"Go to the bathroom and put these on right now." He ordered her.
Looking at them, she chuckled.
"And just how did you know to keep a pair with you?" She inquired.
Smiling softly, he leaned down and brushed his nose against hers.
"I'm dating possibly the brattiest and most mischievous vixen in this school. I have to be prepared for anything."
With an innocent peck to her lips, he ushered her off his desk again.
"Now run along and do as I say. You're already on enough problems as it is, especially after you did utterly horrible on your last essay." He picked up a tiny stack of papers and waved it in front of her face.
Grimacing, she looked up at him.
"Does this mean I'm failing the semester?"
"I don't know...what do you think?" He questioned her.
Knowing she was screwed, she put on the cutest and most innocent puppy eyes she was capable of making and began playing with the tie across her teacher's neck.
"Please professor, don't you think you could be a little nice and give me a chance to make up for it?"
Leaning in, she whispered in his ear.
"Perhaps with one of those sloppy and messy blowjobs you love getting?"
Gulping slightly, Yunho gently pried her hands off him.
"Nice try Miss L/N, but if I'm going to be a fair teacher, I have to treat you the same as the others in these situations."
Her mouth dropped as he nonchalantly began packing his things to go have lunch in a teacher's lounge and hang out there until his next class.
"Seriously? Not even if I promise to do better or even bake you a cake?" She scoffed.
"Nope. And I'll remind you the last time you tried to bake me a cake, you nearly burned your eyebrows off." He let out a soft, deep laughter as he brushed past her to leave the room.
"But I'm your girlfriend!" She complained.
"And precisely because you're my girlfriend is why I want you to do better, even if it means failing you to get you to straighten up your act. Seriously princess, just because you're practically an heiress, doesn't mean I'll allow you to do as you please let alone give in to your every whim."
With a kiss to her forehead and a pat on her head he reminded her to behave and to follow his previous instructions of going to the bathroom before leaving her alone in the room.
Feeling fury rise up in her body, Y/N stormed out of the classroom and headed straight to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Hating the fact her stubborn and hard headed boyfriend practically called her a spoiled brat, she locked herself in one of the stalls and proceeded to dip her hand inside her folds, rubbing furiously at the clit, desperately trying to get some relief from all the pent up sexual tension she'd been accumulating. Inserting a finger inside herself, she tried to imagine that it was one of her boyfriend's long fingers penetrating her, even though it was no where near the real thing. Sometimes she'd get wet during class from him just tapping his fingers on the whiteboard, picturing all the times he'd buried them deep inside her and had her squirting all over his arm.
She imagined him laughing in her ear, calling her a dirty little girl and teasing her for making such a mess of herself as his thumb continued to abuse her sensitive little nub. She released long and deep moans, not giving any fucks about if someone came in and found out what she was doing.
Frustrated at not being able to get herself off like she wanted to, she simply tore the lace panties off herself and threw them in the trash can. Stepping out of the stall, she reached for her bag to get the shorts she'd been ordered to put on, but suddenly stopped. Still upset and not getting her way, Y/N zipped her bag back up and adjusted her skirt. With a little shrug, she calmly walked out the bathroom and headed to her next class. On her way over, she accidentally dropped her phone which sent her panicking for a moment.
"Please don't be broken." She was screwed if she broke the third phone her parents bought her in less than a month.
Bending over, she flipped it over and let out a sigh of relief as the screen was intake and still working. Standing upright, she stuffed it back in her bag and continued along as if nothing was the matter, as if she wasn't already late to class....
As if she totally didn't just get caught in her little scandalous lack of clothes.
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Yunho calmly picked up some of his lunch on his fork, ignoring the usual snickering and gossip of his seniors who were seated on the table next to his. He had to fight back the urge to roll his eyes or groan dramatically at their nonsense.
"It was so hot." Seonghwa, the social science teacher laughed.
Hongjoong, who was the visual and performing arts teacher, leaned in to whisper, not so discreetly since Yunho could still hear him perfectly.
"I know. I nearly dropped my books when I saw her ass on display. I wanted to go over there and smack it." He admitted unashamedly.
"Oh my God did you catch a glimpse of her pussy? I'm pretty sure it was soaking and fuck.....I just wanted to have a taste."
Yunho cringed when the older male swiped his obnoxiously long tongue across his lips.
"I bet she tastes so good and I bet her pussy is so fucking tight. I'd totally fuck her if I got the chance."
Seonghwa agreed with Hongjoong's words.
"She'd probably let you. I mean.....if she bold enough to come to this oh so holy school with those extremely short skirts and not wear underwear, I'm pretty sure she'd fuck around with a teacher or two." He added.
"Wasn't there a rumor circulating last year about her hitting on a teacher or something?" Hongjoong tried to remember.
Seonghwa shrugged.
"Wouldn't surprise me if it was true. And it wouldn't surprise me if any teacher accepted her advances. L/N Y/N is a seriously gorgeous girl, I don't think anyone could resist her."
Yunho dropped his fork when he heard her name, his blood boiling now as he replayed all their words now in a different light as he realized they were talking about his girlfriend. Grabbing his lunch, he quickly stood up and threw it in the trash, suddenly not feeling hungry anymore, but instead feeling angry and furious. Checking his time, he knew she was about to come out of her next class any minute now, so he waited for her outside his classroom, arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently.
When she finally turned the corner, his eyes narrowed in on her, more specifically on her skirt. Sauntering over to her, he caught her off guard when he gripped her wrist harshly and dragged her inside the classroom, leaving her confused and wondering what had gotten into him. Making sure to lock the door behind him, Yunho pinned Y/N to the wall and in a flash lifted her skirt up, his face reddening as he confirmed it indeed was her that Seonghwa and Hongjoong were gushing and lusting about.
"Did I not specifically instruct you to put on the safety shorts?"
She shivered at the harsh tone he was speaking to her with.
"I...well, yes but-"
She let out a squeal when his fist banged on the concrete next to her face.
"Then explain to me why not only did you disobeyed me, but you actually went off parading around the school with absolutely nothing to cover that drenched cunt of yours."
She was absolutely speechless at his demeanor, she had never seen him this angry before and she wasn't going to lie, it was quickly arousing her.
"Yunho...Yunho I'm-"
He cut her off by pressing his lips against hers, one hand gripping her jaw as his tongue poked out to invade her mouth, as his other hand hiked her skirt up, a finger sliding across her folds.
"Don't fucking tell me you're sorry. We both know whores like you aren't build to feel regret."
His mouth silenced the sounds that came out if her as a result of him slipping one of fingers inside her, the very thing she had been craving all day.
"Oh fuck..." She breathed out when he gave her no chance to adjust as he shoved a second finger inside, circling them around to stretch her walls out.
"Hmmm yeah. That's all you think about don't you? Your head is just filled with thoughts of getting fucked."
She couldn't resist it as she began rolling her hips, wanting him to fuck his fingers deeper inside her.
"Is that why you allowed Professor Seonghwa and Hongjoong to see you like that? Did you purposefully bend over to let them see your filthy hole? Hmm? I bet you did it on purpose."
She opened her eyes and gasped harshly when he then added a third finger, the wet noises her pussy was making now becoming louder.
"Wh-what?" She managed to get out a single word.
Yunho grunted as he shoved his fingers deeper in her, almost tempted to shove his entire fist inside.
"Don't play dumb. They saw you bending over and saw your lack of underwear. I had to hear their bullshit talk of wanting to eat your pussy and fucking it." He let out a low growl as he recalled their lewd words, sending him into an angry mode once again, prompting him to move his lips from her mouth to proceed with an attack to her neck, sucking on all her sensitive spots.
"Did you want that? Did you want fucking Park Seonghwa to eat out that pussy of yours? Or did you want Kim Hongjoong to hit it from the back as he slapped your ass red?"
Before Y/N knew it, she was releasing such erotic noises as she threw her head back, gasping out as an unexpected orgasm took over her. Yunho also couldn't believe how unbelievably fast she came, and he was beyond pissed as he realized that he helped her get off to the thought of someone who wasn't him. Pulling his fingers out of her, he squished her cheeks, the remnants of her cum now plastered on the sides of her face.
"Did you seriously just cum at the thought of those two assholes?!"
Without a warning, he lifted her up and roughly sat her on his desk.
"Do I need to remind you who you belong to? Who this pussy belongs to?!"
Spreading her legs as wide as they could go, Yunho dropped to his knees and buried his face in her heat, tongue poking out to suck off all the juices his hands had her spilling out from before. He had no shame as he spilled out almost animalistic sounds as began slurping hungrily at her heat, paying close attention to her clit.
"No one but me gets to eat your pussy out. No one can make you get you like this but me." Pulling away, he spit onto her clit before diving back in, moaning erratically to send vibrations into her mound.
Y/N's chest began rising up and as her breathing became more labored. Her hands tried reaching for his head to try and grind herself against his face, but he harshly slapped them away.
"Keep them up or I'll tie them up." He hissed at her.
Wanting to keep herself from being tempted to move them back to his head, she opted to place them on her chest, kneading at her breasts as Yunho continued to devour her, tongue flicking in and out of her core. She felt herself ready to burst at any moment, and Yunho knew it too. He waited til she was a mere slurp away from cumming before removing himself, earning a frustrated groan from her.
"Yunho!"
She sat up to complain, but his hand wrapped around her neck and pushed her back on the desk, causing a choked gasp to get caught in her throat.
"Shut up you slut. You'll get and take what I decide to give you and you're in no place to complain. I'm still upset at you failing and livid at you being a slutty exhibitionist."
Pulling her up by her hair, he got her off the desk and shoved her to her knees, placing himself in front of her. He had a sadistic look as he began undoing his belt.
"I believe you offered to suck me off a few hours before......well I'm taking you up on that offer. Suck me off and I'll let you cum. Show me what the mouth of yours can do."
She was nearly drooling when his red tip came out, brushing against her nose. It was painfully erect and leaking precum. Wrapping her hand around it, she made sure to spit on it and coat it generously so her hand could stroke him more easily. She looked up at him, sending him a mischievous smile as she began taking him in her mouth. Her eyes never left his face as she sunk his whole length into her mouth, gagging a little when she reached the base, Yunho inhaling deeply as she proved yet again that she was more than capable of stuffing him down her throat. She began bobbing her head, swallowing around the head while her hand worked on the rest of his dick.
Yunho let her do as she pleased, wanting to get her as relaxed as possible before he commenced his plan. Silently, he removed the belt completely off his pants, making move as if he was going to place it on the desk behind her. While she was distracted, he suddenly removed her from his length, a trail of saliva dripping down her chin.
"Ok.....since you obviously can't seem to do it, let me give you a few private lessons."
Y/N slightly panicked when he wrapped the belt around her neck, using it as makeshift leash and collar. He harshly pressed her back into him.
"Open that mouth of yours."
Following his orders, she opened up as wide as she could. Wasting no time, Yunho slammed his cock back inside her mouth, hips moving at a fast pace as he began to fuck her face, hand never letting go of the long strap. Y/N hollowed her cheeks out, gagging and releasing choking sounds every time he hit the back of her throat. Yunho snickered amusedly as he watched drool pour out of her mouth, prompting him to go even rougher on her.
"That's it, just like that-fuck!"
He shut his eyes tightly, eyebrows furrowed as he began chasing his own release. The girl underneath him moaned uncontrollably as he tightened the belt around her, feeling his spurts of cum flowing down her throat.
"Swallow it all you slut. I don't want you spitting any of it out."
Holding her head in place, he made sure he had emptied himself completely before pulling out of her, her lips red and swollen as she gasped for air. Inhaling deeply, she stuck her tongue out to show she had indeed swallowed all of his cum, prompting Yunho to caress her cheek affectionately.
"Good girl......."
Cocking his head to the side, he easily lifted her up into his arms.
"But you're not off the hook just yet."
Y/N stuck her hands out to keep her face from slamming too harshly into the desk, cheek pressed on the cold surface as she felt Yunho lift her skirt higher to expose her ass. She looked over and noticed him loosing up his tie, tearing it off him before grabbing both of her hands and placing them behind her back, wrapping the tie around them and rendering them unable to move. "Look at you, looking so small and pliant...... like you aren't some filthy little whore."
He began to slowly tease her, slapping his massive cock onto her cheeks and then sliding it across her slick folds. Y/N pushed her ass more out, wanting him to just shove it inside her.
"Oh, are you desperate to cum little one? You want my big fat cock inside you to fuck you dumb?" He cooed at her.
She immediately nodded.
"Yes! Please Yunho! Fuck me dumb!" She begged him, wiggling her ass for him to give in.
She began whining when he still made no move to give in.
"Yunho! Would you please-Ahh!"
With no warning, he tore right inside her, hips setting a rough and fast pace. Y/N tried to grip the desk but was reminded about the fact her hands were bound behind her back. Frantic and staggered moans came out of her mouth as Yunho kept hitting her g-spot, making her previous ruined orgasm suddenly spike up once again. He noticed it too, feeling how her walls began squeezing around him.
"Go ahead. Cum, I know you want to."
Needing no further instruction, she came all over his cock, a long drawn out mewl of his name all she could say as she panted heavily as she was coming down from her high. She had no time to relax though as Yunho simply sped up his thrusts, taking advantage of her sensitive state.
"Y-Yunho no! Please! T-too much!" She cried out, earning her a slap on her ass.
"Shut up! You wanted to come so badly? And I'm happy to deliver."
His grunts and her piercing screams could probably be heard all the way across the hallway, but neither of them cared, Y/N because she got him to finally break and him because he got to claim her as his own. Taking a hold of one of her thighs, he lifted her leg up to rest on the desk, hitting even deeper inside her. Letting out ragged and hoarse grunts, Yunho slightly pulled Y/N up using the belt around her neck.
"Tell me who's fucking you this hard? Who's making you feel this good? Hmm? Answer me!" He smacked her ass once again.
Y/N tried to answer, but all that came out was incoherent gibberish, unable to form any words. Yunho couldn't help but release an evil laugh at the state she was in.
"Awww. I really did fuck you dumb. You can't even remember any words. Let me help you refresh your memory."
She let out a shriek when his hand came down to slap her ass.
"A."
He smacked her once again.
"B."
A third slap resonated through the room.
"C."
She had tears falling at this point from her eyes due to the overstimulation and from the seering pain on her bum from how hard his hand was slamming down on it as he continued to say the alphabet out loud for her. She knew he was definitely going to leave more than a few hand prints on it. He was barely getting to the letter 'N' when she began spasming underneath him.
"Yunho! Stop! I'm-fuck!"
She couldn't control herself as she began squirting from how hard he was thrusting in her, a pool of her liquids forming on the floor. When Yunho saw, he let out a groan of accomplishment, feeling smug at getting her to burst out of control. He wasn't satisfied though, he was nowhere near done with her. Not changing his pace at all, he continued his relentless attack on her throbbing and swollen pussy, one hand holding her down in place while the other went to stuff his fingers inside her mouth.
"I know how much you love my fingers. Such a slut for them. You get horny just by watching them during class."
He felt her muffled moans on his fingertips, followed by a choked out grunt when he pushed the deeper in her mouth.
"Tell me? Do you even remotely think Seonghwa or Hongjoong can compete with me? Can they?!"
Whimpering pathetically, she shook her head as she felt another spurts of liquid drip down her thighs. She was beyond worn out at this point, but wanting to push her past her limit, Yunho began untying her hands.
"Look at you making such a mess on the floor. Tell me if anyone can make you drip as much as I do? Can anyone make you cum for yet a fifth time?"
He took out his fingers from her mouth to let her try and talk.
"Please! Yunho! I c-cant! Can't!" She wailed.
Her pleas fell on deaf ears as he flipped her onto her back, holding her legs up onto his wide shoulders and quickly slipping inside her once again.
"Yes you can and you will. I know a little cumslut like you can give me one more, just as messy as the last two."
At this point, her nails were raking along the wood underneath her, her vision blurry from all the overwhelming pleasure she was enduring, her thighs aching from how hard his fingers were gripping on them, prints no doubt were going to be left on them, evidence of all that happened in those 4 walls. She was no longer aware of anything around her, the only thing she could hear was the sound of their sweaty skin slapping against each other and the squealching sounds coming from where they were connected. She muttered something incoherent which she could not even understand herself, but Yunho knew what she was trying to say.
"Come on. Give it to me. Make a mess all over me and then I'll fill up your dirty little hole with my cum."
His thrusts were erratic and sloppy at this point, hand coming down to slap her throbbing and reddened clit, causing her to jolt and squirt all over him once again, her body thrashing and quivering as she tried to move away from him but he just held her in place. With a few more thrusts, he shakily came undone, his hot and thick cum coating inside her walls.
"Fuck! Shit!"
His body collapsed on top of hers, breath hitching as he wheezed slightly. After a few minutes, he got up, bangs sticking to his forehead, sweat trickling down his cheeks and nape of his neck. She was in no better state than him, hair all disheveled and too dazed out to even think. Pulling out of her, a light trickle of liquids came out, falling onto the puddle that was already there.
"Oh my god." Yunho was astonished by the mess they created, unable to stop the shy giggle from escaping his mouth.
Pulling his pants back up, not caring about the wet stains all over it, he turned his attention back to his girlfriend. Bending down, he cupped her cheeks and began peppering kisses all over her face, fingers moving the hair away from her forehead.
"You ok my little princess?" He checked on her.
"Tired......can't...move." Through labored breathing she managed to answer him.
"Don't worry my tiny doll. I'll take you back to my place and take proper care of you."
Grabbing her limp arms, he wrapped them around his neck before lifting her up as if she was nothing more than a piece of paper. Y/N mumbled something with a whiny tone as she buried her face in his neck. Yunho chuckled as he processed her words.
"Well......ok. Just because I kinda feel bad at the state you're in, I'll give you another chance to redo your essay. But I want it turned in before the week is over ok?"
She nodded softly, arms clinging tighter around his neck as they walked through the empty hallways.
"And you say you're not the type to have a teacher's pet." She poked his chest slightly.
"Ya, behave or I'll punish you little pet." He gave her a halfhearted warning, that he knew he'd never follow through on after her heard her fussy little whine.
As they were nearing the exit, they were caught by none of than Seonghwa and Hongjoong, who were talking amongst themselves and stared in shock when they saw them together. Yunho protectively moved one of his hands underneath her thighs to press her flowing skirt to her body, not willing to allow them another glimpse at what was rightfully his. With a completely calm demeanor, he smiled at them.
"Hey guys. Don't mind us, we're just going home so if you'll excuse us."
Walking past them, he tried so hard not to laugh at their shocked and bewildered expressions.
"Oh! By the way, if you see the custodian, tell them I'm sorry about the mess."
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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years
Note
Meng Yao manages to follow Nie Mingjue after the whole torture incident and it results in sad frantic banging where Mingjue is actually at a physical disadvantage and they both know it.
ao3
Meng Yao didn’t know why he was here.
It was dangerous, approaching Nie Mingjue now – the man had very nearly killed him in the hall of the Sun Palace just the day before, life-debt or no life-debt from saving him from Wen Ruohan, and it was only Lan Xichen’s timely intervention that had stopped him from killing Meng Yao and then himself. To come here to his rooms now, in the late evening, when Lan Xichen was asleep and could not act as a shield was unbelievely stupid.
It was also pointless.
There was nothing more he needed from Nie Mingjue: he had already achieved all of his desires, his father having promised him a new name, the private ceremony welcoming him into the Jin family scheduled for the week’s end, and he had already traded the life-debt Nie Mingjue owed him for the man’s agreement to swear brotherhood with him – that ceremony, too, would be in only a few days, following right after the one with his family, but public, their oaths to each other be sworn for all to see.
Meng Yao had no illusions that Nie Mingjue’s agreement meant forgiveness, or even fondness – he hadn't yielded at all to Lan Xichen's excited suggestion, and Meng Yao had been forced to 'graciously' offer up that life-debt when he really would've preferred to keep it in reserve for a later time – but it didn’t matter; the man was honorable, painfully so, and having given his word he would fulfill his oath in the spirit in which it was meant. Having Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen as his backing would give Meng Yao the foundation he needed to be secure in Lanling City, to make himself valuable enough so that his father wouldn’t have him conveniently murdered the second they were out of sight.
So, being as coming here was stupid, pointless, and dangerous – why was he here, lingering outside Nie Mingjue’s door in restless anticipation?
Before he could talk himself into leaving, the door abruptly jerked open, and Nie Mingjue’s tall form filled the entranceway.
“Either come inside or don’t,” Nie Mingjue said, voice harsh as always. “Lack of resolve was never one of your faults.”
Implying, of course, that Meng Yao had others. Which he supposed was fair – he had many.
He followed Nie Mingjue into the room he had been given.
A few lanterns still burned, their light low but enough; the table was messy with papers, suggesting that Nie Mingjue had fallen back on the bad habits of cannibalizing his sleep to carve out sufficient time to run his sect. It was such a familiar sight that Meng Yao briefly felt the urge to go and arrange the papers, to gently scold Nie Mingjue for letting them, and him, get in such a state…but of course such inclinations were mere nostalgia, as demonstrated by the way Nie Mingjue swept the papers away into a box. Nie Mingjue would not allow Meng Yao to touch his sect’s secrets now.
Meng Yao was no longer Nie Mingjue’s trusted deputy, nor his friend or even his lover – not even, yet, his sworn brother. He had no role here, no purpose here.
And yet it seemed that Nie Mingjue was not surprised to see him there.
He finished arranging the papers, closing the box, and then started to remove his clothing.
Meng Yao started, surprised.
“What?” Nie Mingjue asked over his shoulder. “Don’t pretend that this isn’t why you’re here.”
Meng Yao supposed he deserved that.
The last time they had been intimate was before he had departed the Nie sect’s base camp at Hejian, heading towards Langya – or perhaps more accurately, that had been the last time they had had sex. There was a certain intimacy in the way Nie Mingjue had rushed to save him, even after he had seen him murder a man in cold blood; an intimacy in the way Meng Yao had used the affection of the lover he had had to work hard to coax into bed despite his reservations to his own advantage, to cut off his spiritual energy using the same technique Nie Mingjue had himself taught him in order to protect himself from any among the armies he led – many of them imperfect men, Nie Mingjue conceded, but war against a larger, more well-armed foe was not a time when they could afford to be picky – that might think themselves permitted to take liberties.
There was intimacy, too, in their interaction in the Nightless City just the day before, when Meng Yao’s hands had run across Baxia in implicit threat, knowing that he was verbalizing his lover’s worst fears, the ones that tormented him in his darkest nightmares.
He had come here –
Yes, he supposed he had come here for this.
Nie Mingjue’s body had always been beautiful to him, strong and powerful – muscles meant for use rather than show, skin and sinews toughed by the power of his shining golden core, cultivation so strong that Meng Yao sometimes imagined he could feel the very heat of it radiating out of him. It had always been a thing of wonder to him that Nie Mingjue entrusted him with his body, that he let him have whatever control he wanted in order to feel safe – and Meng Yao craved control, craved power, with the endless greed of a man who would never be satisfied.
It was still beautiful now, even – as it was.
There was a bruise in the center of Nie Mingjue’s chest, still purple; Meng Yao did not need to measure it to know that it matched the size of Wen Ruohan’s foot, from when he had stepped on him, crushing him to the floor, the mark burned in deeper over the mark of Wen Ruohan’s fist – perhaps somewhere in that mess of tortured flesh there was even the mark of his own foot, which had first kicked Nie Mingjue down. There was a cut on his collarbone from where he had been hit by one of the pieces of the sword Meng Yao had tried to stab him with, which Nie Mingjue had shattered in the nick of time; all up and down his torso there were the marks of how Wen Ruohan had dragged him across the floor of the throne room.
Beneath those injuries, there were still more.
The marks of Yangquan: the frenzied battle fought to a loss, Wen cultivators throwing away their lives by the dozen to bring Nie Mingjue down alive. The transit back to the Nightless City afterwards, with Nie Mingjue bound and gagged and blindfolded, a helpless prisoner for any of the survivors to abuse as they would – Wen Ruohan had pretended to be above it all, both as they traveled and in the throne room, but Meng Yao had been his right hand; he had seen his erstwhile master disappear late in the night, only to return with blood on his hands, radiating satisfaction, and he had known the blood was Nie Mingjue’s.
The Sun Palace had only been the day before.
Even with Nie Mingjue’s strength, he would be a long time healing these wounds – and his strength was nowhere in evidence, still exhausted from the battle, from his rage, from everything that had happened. His bright and shining golden core was dull from strain and over-use; Nie Mingjue had used reserves that should not be touched to fight Wen Ruohan, drawing recklessly upon his future life, undoubtedly thinking that if he didn’t act at that time then he wouldn’t ever get a chance.
He was as weak now as he had been on that day in the battlefield in Langya, when Meng Yao had sealed his spiritual energy and frozen his body, when he had left him behind, left him kneeling there, utterly helpless before any enemy that might have found him.
Meng Yao had never found him more beautiful.
“Do as you will,” Nie Mingjue said once he was naked, even though Meng Yao was not – Meng Yao had liked that, before; he’d liked having Nie Mingjue unclothed and vulnerable before him while he remained garbed. It’d been a game they’d played.
This wasn’t a game.
Meng Yao stepped forward and reached out a hand, and Nie Mingjue did nothing to stop him. Might not be able to do anything to stop him, even if he wanted to. Maybe he did.
His hand hovered above the dark bruise in the center of Nie Mingjue’s chest, not yet touching. If he did, it would hurt.
“Are you sure?” he asked. He didn’t know why he asked it – Nie Mingjue had been the one to start this. And yet…
“Do it or don’t,” Nie Mingjue said, and his words could almost be said to be indifferent if it wasn’t for the agonizing pain apparent beneath them. Lack of resolve was never one of your faults.
Meng Yao suddenly became aware of a sudden feeling in his chest: that there was a choice ahead of him, but he couldn’t see what the options were. Couldn’t use his logical brain to decide between them, to coldly weigh the options both good and bad, the gains and the losses – he didn’t even know what the choice was, only that whatever that choice was, it was why he had come here tonight.
He let his hand touch Nie Mingjue’s chest.
The bruise was hot under his palm. Boiling blood, running through Nie Mingjue’s body – he’d choked on it during the battle, coughing it up in spurts.
The Sun Palace had been only the day before.
Meng Yao wondered if he would still taste the blood when he kissed him.
He didn’t get a chance to find out until the very end. Nie Mingjue allowed him to do as he liked to him, allowed him to touch him and move him, to fuck him and be fucked by him; he didn’t close his eyes once the entire time, and even when Meng Yao put him on his hands and knees to get away from that too-intense gaze, he only turned to regard him over his shoulder – but he didn’t lean forward to kiss him, not once, even though that had always been the thing that Meng Yao had always let Nie Mingjue take the lead on.
It was only at the very end, when they were both drained, that Nie Mingjue rolled over and leaned down and kissed him.
It was a softer kiss than Meng Yao had been expecting.
Maybe if it had been earlier it would have been different: more teeth, more passion, wet and sticky and filthy. Love and hate, rolled up into one.
This was gentle. A press of Nie Mingjue’s lips to his, neither questioning nor demanding – a stolen breath shared between them.
And then Nie Mingjue pulled away.
“I’ll see you at the ceremony at the end of the week,” he said, and got out of bed, starting to dress himself.
Meng Yao rolled over and looked at him, the ruined body that was so damaged that he had been unable to leave any further marks disappearing underneath clothing that left him looking as composed as he’d ever been. The cuts from the injuries to his head were hidden by his hairline, and the rest – torn lips, bruised cheek, marks on his neck in the shape of fingers – were easily overlooked as the unfortunate sequelae of battle and little more.
“Mingjue-xiong,” he said, a closeness he'd only allowed himself to use when it was just the two of them. He did not know what he meant to say after that.
Nie Mingjue didn’t stop. He always used to stop when Meng Yao said his name like that, intimate; he would always look a little soft, a little vulnerable – he would always listen intently.
He wasn’t listening now.
He was getting dressed, and once dressed, he picked up his box of papers and his saber and he slipped out of the room without a word, as if he’d been the one who had come to Meng Yao’s room rather than the other way around.
At the end of the week, Meng Yao got the name he’d always wanted, the sworn brotherhood oath he’d schemed for, the position in the Jin family that had been the pinnacle of his ambitions.
Nie Mingjue’s gaze went straight through him.
There hadn’t been a choice after all, he realized. By the time they got to that night, the choice had already been made.
It had only ever been a goodbye.
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Text
Writing Prompt AU: Childhood Best friends to Lovers
PART 1: Age 6 
Percy doesn’t realise he’s in trouble until the girl he’s sitting by has gotten up to her feet, her face as red as the curls on her head. 
“You’re too close to me!” She cries at him.
Percy frowns at the space between them, which in his opinion is quite enough but he mutters a sorry and backs away a bit more, bringing the tools he’s playing with closer to him. Sand flies towards him as the girl throws a fistful in his direction. 
He sputters and scratches at his eyes trying to stop the stinging, but all it does is irritate it more. 
“Hey that was mean,” he says, careful not to raise his voice too much. His Mom always taught him that raising your voice is only meant for emergencies and final warnings.
She keeps glaring in his direction until the force of it is so strong that Percy is compelled to get up and leave the sandpit, even though he’s been working on his sandcastle since the beginning of the break.  
He mutters another sorry and goes to the monkey bars, where his friend Grover has been hanging by his legs. 
Percy is trying not to cry as Grover prods him in the shoulder asking him if he’s okay. 
“The girl in the sandpit was a bit mean,” he finally answers and shrugs his shoulders as if it’s not a big deal. But it feels like one.
“You should tell on her,” Grover says with a frown. Instantly Percy shakes his head. 
“No way. I’m not a snitch. You know what happens to people who snitch.” 
Grover sighs and drops from the monkey bars, watching as Percy climbs precariously over the tops of the metal rods. But Percy isn’t worried, he’s a pro at the monkey bars. 
“Mean people should get in trouble,” Grover points out, but Percy shrugs again. 
“Maybe she’s having a bad day, my step-dad Gabe has bad days and sometimes he’s a bit mean, but it’s not all the time. She’s might not be mean all the time.”
~
Percy’s words come back to bite him in the ass later in the year because it seems as though Nancy Bobofit is always having a bad day when it comes to Percy because she’s always in the corner of his eye glaring at him. 
Sticking her leg out when he goes past her to get to the coloured pencils, causing him to trip, and pointing and laughing at him with her friends while he tries to stand up. Grover is by his side, pulling him up and urging him to tell on her but Percy shoots him down each time with a firm shake of his head. 
It’s when Percy is reading something out loud in class that he finally reaches his limit. 
“An o-owl is a brid...bird,” he feels his face heat up as he hears hushed giggles from the back of the class. He refuses to look up but he knows that it’s Nancy’s group. He straightens and focuses on the words on the page, even as they swim and squiggle. 
He continues through the passage, gripping the paper tightly. He hates reading in front of the class more than anything. More than anything in the world and he wants this to end now. 
“They sleep at night, make-making them,” he squints at the sheet, and his hands shake as he struggles to read the word. 
“Take your time Percy it’s okay,” his teacher said from the front of the room, a smile on her face. 
He looked up at her and nodded before looking back at the page, but tears had started pooling in his eyes, making it even harder to read. 
“Noc..Nocter..Noc…” He sighed deeply and scrunched the paper in his hands a bit. 
“Oh my god, he’s so dumb. He can’t even read.”
The voice was perfectly clear in the silent room and Percy finally dropped the paper and sat down, crossing his arms and putting his face in his hands. He heard Grover whisper his name softly but he shook his head, still not lifting his face. 
Percy could hear his teacher speaking from the other side of the room, “Nancy that wasn’t very nice, please apologise to Percy.”
There was a scoff and then the sound of a chair scraping against the ground. 
“Percy, Nancy has something she’d like to say to you.”
Percy lifted his head but didn’t raise his eyes to Nancy keeping them trained on his scuffed shoes and the bright colours on hers.  
“I’m so so sorry I hurt your little itty bitty feelings, Percy. I hope you learn how to read soon.”
Percy clenched his fists and pushed his head back in his hands. He kept his mouth clamped for the rest of the day, and refused to even talk to Grover when he called out to Percy. 
He just wanted today to end, but Nancy had other plans. 
He was leaving the school building when she popped out from the side, a wide grin on her face. Another girl and boy flanked her sides as she stared him down. Percy felt a pit in his stomach and tried to back away.  
They continued walking towards him, like a predator approaching their prey. Every instinct in Percy’s body was screaming at him to run, but he felt frozen on the spot. 
“Look it’s Percy ‘I can’t read’ Jackson. He’s so dumb.”
Nancy’s words were poison in Percy’s ears, and he felt his face burn in shame. Percy hung his head, avoiding Nancy’s eyes as she and her friends made a circle around him. He knew he wasn’t dumb, he knew that, but hearing her say it, and remembering that moment in class. It was hard not to believe it. 
They didn’t step any closer but Percy still felt like he was being suffocated. 
Nancy pressed closer and got in his face until he backed into one of her friends. He tripped over his feet and fell to the ground. He tried to stand but the boy pushed him by the shoulders, forcing him back down. 
Percy tried to push them off but the girls grabbed him by the arms and held him in place. Tears pricked his eyes as he struggled, but three against one wasn’t a fair fight and he was shaking with fear. Too many hands were grabbing at his clothes, tugging on his backpack, and jeering in his ear. He stopped trying to get away and instead tried to cover his ears and face as their voices grew louder. 
“I think he’s going to cry. What a baby.” One of the girls drawled as she laughed in his ear. He turned his face away from her so that she couldn’t see the tears that started to fall. He wanted to leave. He wanted to leave NOW. 
“I’ll give him something to cry about,” Nancy said, and Percy looked at her in fear. Her lips were curled in a cruel smile as she pulled out a can of coke and started shaking it. 
“Please just leave me alone,” Percy whispered. Nancy paused as if to think about it then shook her head firmly. 
“I don’t think so.”
She aimed the can towards him and began opening it. 
An arm shot out from behind her, grabbing her by the shoulder and shoving her to the ground. In doing so she also aimed the can away from Percy’s face. Instinctively he pulled free from the people holding him and ran for the gap in the circle he was trapped in. 
He didn’t turn back until he was safely out and watched as a girl, around his age with wild curly hair ripped the can from Nancy’s hands and pulled the tab aiming at her face, letting the drink explode in Nancy’s face. 
Nancy screamed as she tried to get away from the explosion, but the girl stood out of reach and emptied the can over her head. When Nancy tried to stand up, the girl stepped closer and pushed her back, forcing Nancy to fall onto her butt. Percy’s eyes widened in awe, but he slapped a hand over his mouth to stop from making a sound in case the girl turned on him. She aimed part of the drink towards Nancy’s friends as well so that they got caught in it, but Nancy got the brunt of it, leaving her red hair soaked through and her face sticky with brown liquid. The can rolled to the side as the girl dropped it and she stared at Nancy’s friends as if daring them to come forward. 
When they didn’t make a move to oppose her she smirked. 
“If I see you messing with him again I’ll find you,” she said and promptly turned on her heel leaving Nancy and her friends staring at her in fear.  
Percy closed his mouth, realising that he was watching her and started to follow her even though she made no move to check on him. He scrambled to his feet and fell into step with her. 
“Thank you,” he breathed. She shrugged and blew a curl from her face. Her cheeks were pink as Percy kept pace with her. He had a bus to catch and he was going in the opposite way that he needed to, but he needed to know who this girl was. 
“Whatever.” 
“I’m Percy,” he said, holding out a hand. She stared at it for a moment, before pausing her quick pace and shook it firmly. Her hands were a bit sticky with the coke, but she was very strong. 
“I know, we’re in the same class.” 
“Who are you?”
“Annabeth. I can be your new best friend.”
This made Percy frown. He already had a best friend, and Grover was awesome. When he told Annabeth this her cheeks darkened but she didn’t back down. 
“A person can have more than one best friend. I have Thalia already, but I can be your friend too.”
“Why?” 
“Because it looks like you need it. Any more stupid questions?” This time it was Percy who felt his face warm-up, he wasn’t allowed to use bad words, Annabeth was already infinitely cooler than him for doing so. 
“That’s a bad word,” he pointed out, but he didn’t really care. 
“Do you want to be my friend or not?” Annabeth repeated. Her grey eyes were like a storm and Percy found himself nodding without even thinking about it clearly.
“Yeah. Okay, I’ll be your friend.” Percy decided and nodded again to reaffirm it. Annabeth was a little scary but she had helped him when no one else had. 
“Good.” Then she smiled, and Percy felt his steps falter a bit. She was kind of pretty when she smiled. 
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sidespromptblog · 3 years
Text
They Let Him In
Summary: Logan dwells in the aftermath of his plans being pushed to the side once again.
Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, and Negative Self-talk.
Word Count: 1,491
AO3 LINK
Logan had known that the honeymoon period would end. 
Of course it would end. 
As strained as things were between Roman and the other sides after Janus had done his big reveal, things had almost been nice for a while afterwards. Patton seemed to walk on eggshells around both him and Roman, and just for the extra measure he had been extra nice around Virgil as well. He wouldn’t lie, it had definitely hurt when Patton had skipped over him, and it had hurt even more so after that when not a single person had seemed to notice that Janus had taken his place. 
The dishonest side had definitely gotten a lot better in impersonating him, even if it hadn’t been for that long of a time. 
Regardless of that, it had been going well for a time. Logan was allowed to make his schedules in peace, he hadn’t entirely gotten around to talking freely with the others just yet, but… he had been making progress. He had been trying to trust them again, and he had been trying to make himself not so annoying for them to listen to. He hadn’t even brought up his schedule that much, so that he wouldn’t bore them to tears. He had honestly been trying to do better by them, and now…
Now it might as well have been all pointless. 
It shouldn’t have hurt him the way that it did, really it shouldn’t have. 
He was supposed to be used to their remarks by now, he was supposed to be used to how he was at the very bottom of the pecking order when it came to everyone else's wants and desires. Whatever Patton wanted he got, whatever Roman wanted he got, and whatever Virgil wanted he got as well. Not Logan, he had to fight and beg just for Thomas to even consider his schedule, even if he’d constantly had to make sure that Remus didn’t butt in too much and make Thomas even more anxious than he already was. So much progress that could have been had…
His schedule may as well be entirely useless now.   
He had even found himself actually being annoyed with the way that they just acted as if nothing was wrong, it was different than the anger that Remus had brought out in him. But it still surprised him nonetheless with how it burned indignantly in his chest, and how it made his hands clench until his palms were stinging. 
His anger felt almost good, in an odd kind of way. 
As if it was telling him that something was wrong about all of this. 
He could still remember the way that the others had practically brushed him off when he had voiced his upsetness and worries, Virgil hadn’t even looked at him… neither had Roman. Patton was the only one who even attempted to try and look at him, but the moral side hadn’t looked at him for long. Instead looking everywhere but Logan, as he glanced at Virgil for a split moment and then back at Thomas where his gaze had stayed even as he talked to Logan.
He knew what he was doing, Logan reckoned that the others did as well.  
They had all known just what this had meant to him, how ignored he had felt by all of them and how.. how he had started to feel like he wasn’t useful anymore. 
They knew… they had all known…
He supposed that’s why it hurt so much. 
Standing at his desk Logan looked down at the elaborate schedule he’d made for Thomas, right down to the minutes and seconds. He had thought that it was perfect for someone like Thomas, who excelled when he had a set routine. Of course he’d been wrong, in the same way he had been with a lot of things. He had thoughts that the others liked him, or at the very least tolerated him to some degree. He had been wrong about that, after all when you spend enough time around the wrong people… it's only natural that you’d start to hate them a little bit. 
A part of him was glad that it was him that they hated, and not Patton, Virgil, and Roman. He wasn’t sure if any of them could handle being hated like this, so.. so passively that there were sometimes that he wasn’t even sure if it was there or not. He definitely wasn’t sure if Virgil could take being the outcast again, even though he could tell that the anxious side was comfortable where he was at. And to go back to all that… when he had been so used to this softness from all of them…
Logan couldn’t bring himself to wish that on anybody, except for himself. 
Looking down at his schedule, Logan felt the irrational urge to tear it apart. To burn it so that he nor anyone else would ever have to look at it again, to see it slowly but surely turn to ash would be nice. Or to see it run through a paper shredder until he couldn’t even read the words that he had written down over and over again, he’d lost count of how many times he’d written out the specifics of each day. He could remember his hand cramping so bad that it almost felt numb in some places, and to destroy that… it would make all that pain and hard work worthless.
It wasn’t worthless… was it? 
Running a hand over his tired face and under his glasses Logan groaned into his hand, “I’m too exhausted to even be thinking of this.” He was right, unfortunately. It was beyond late at this point and he had let his thoughts spiral until he’d heard even Virgil heading on to bed. “I need some sleep, and..” And hopefully things would make sense in the morning, and hopefully the thoughts of his friends hating him wouldn’t seem so consuming, and hopefully… he wouldn’t hate himself either when he woke up. 
There was a lot of hoping as he pulled off his tie and clambered into bed, just barely remembering to kick off his shoes and take off his glasses. The softness of his bed almost made him want to whimper, as the feeling of his blankets wrapped around almost felt like a comforting hug coming from a good friend. Shoving his face into his pillow, Logan finally let his tired eyes shut as he almost too easily felt his mind start to fall into a deep slumber that would leave him well rested and rejuvenated. 
It was on that cusp of sleep that he felt it. 
A gentle hand, and fingers carding through his messy hair, smoothing it out. Unbiddenly, the image of Patton’s thoughtful and caring nature came to him, like a rain cloud soaking the sunbaked earth. The idea that Patton had waited up for him to go to sleep just so that he could comfort him in a way that wouldn’t make Logan feel uncomfortable made something inside his chest warm up with delight, and his body relaxed even more as he unconsciously tilted his head towards the direction of the hand. It was so nice being touched… and it was even nicer to know that it came from someone who cared about him. 
“Thank.. You…” He mumbled into the softness of his pillow, wanting Patton to at least know he appreciated this. Even if he likely wouldn’t remember this in the morning, the other side could at least know now that Logan appreciated and cared for him. “I..I…”
He never wanted this to end, this.. this softness. 
With his mind still gripping onto the final words he still wanted to say but also free of worries for now, Logan fell asleep.
“Shhhh, shhhh.” Those caring fingers smoothed his hair down, “Hush now...” The person sitting next to him whispered hushedly, running his fingernails along the logical side’s scalp. Almost mocking that of the other fatherly side who should have been doing this instead of him. “All will be well…” A sharp smile curved onto his face like a knife, as he looked down at Logan’s sleeping form. His orange eyes glimmering with a kind of demented delight as the logical side’s body laid against him. His hand carefully trailed down from his hair, and onto the other side’s cheek feeling the lingering warmth. In his own way, it was almost too easy to feel as if Logan trusted him at this moment, as if Logan trusted him enough to fall asleep right in his lap. 
Just like how Logan had trusted him enough to take over, if even for the tiniest second.
Logan had let him in.
The other sides had proved to him more than enough times now that they didn’t want their logic, but he did…
Oh, he did. 
“I promise…”  
It was his turn now. 
91 notes · View notes
after-witch · 3 years
Text
Yandere Ransom Imagine
“That's some heavy-duty conjecture.”
Word Count: 2700ish
notes: unhealthy relationships, emotional and physical abuse, financial abuse, yandere
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Imagine being a struggling adult working a full time job plus freelancing gigs just to get by in your one-bedroom apartment where the ceiling always leaks when it rains and you have to perform a complicated maneuver to make sure the door doesn’t jam up on you and you’re constantly worried about your landlord raising the rent.
Maybe a well-meaning friend gets you a gift card to an upscale bookstore because they know you haven’t had a new book on your shelves in years, or maybe you find $20 on the street like a veritable Charlie Bucket but instead of buying a Wonka Bar you head into a this fantastic artisan coffee shop on the rich side of town, a place that everyone always raves about on Instagram, just so you can try an expensive latte with hand-ground beans and flavors you’ve never heard of before--because don’t you deserve a treat, for once?
Whatever it is, wherever it is, Hugh Ransom Drysdale is waiting inside and sees you there.
And oh my God is it obvious that you’re out of place right off the bat. I mean, what the hell is someone like you doing in this part of town?
With your worn out clothes that are worn from necessity and not from being fashionably thrifted and your ratty purse stuffed with papers and candy wrappers that spill out when you dig in for your card or cash and your winter boots that you’ve probably worn 5 years in a row, ripped in the hell and patched with black tape that you hope people don’t notice.
It becomes even more obvious that you’re out of your element when something goes wrong. The gift card isn’t activated. The $20? A fake, probably a movie prop that blew in the wind. Whatever goes wrong, it means that you’re suddenly at the register, impatient people with real money tapping their expensive shoes behind you, unable to pay. You’re left standing there like a deer in headlights, unsure of what to do or say.
Normally he might just roll his eyes and remind himself that people like you ought to stick to your own shops, your own place. But something about the way your eyes go all downcast and you seem to shrink down in embarrassment makes him take pity on you. Like a stray cat in the alley hoping someone will toss it some scraps.
So he strides up and flicks out a card and hands it to the cashier, dropping a friendly greeting to them because he spends like crazy and they probably know him by name at this place, and he’s the one who hands you your coffee or your bag and your hands touch ever so briefly during the exchange.
He leads you away from the register--don’t want to piss off the spoiled debutantes and assistants on lunchtime coffee runs--and you stammer out a thank-you-thank-you and you promise you’ll pay him back as soon as you can and Jesus Christ, isn’t that just adorable? Someone like you, some lost kicked puppy who can’t even afford new boots, promising to pay him back?
He doesn’t care if you pay him back, but he finds that he would like something out of this exchange, so he says that instead of paying him back you can do him the honor of going to lunch with him. His treat. 
He insists. And you can’t really say no, can you? You are hungry and he did just pay for your things and it’s the least you can do to oblige his request.
He’s not stupid. He doesn’t take you to some razzle dazzle fancy restaurant where you’ll feel embarrassed and out of place. Instead he takes you to a quiet diner, classy not greasy, where you can have an easy conversation and tell him all about yourself.
It’s funny. Normally he brings up his family name, his grandfather’s books, to women he picks up, to get them impressed and hooked and pliable. Something about you, though. Something about you is making him want to turn this into more than a lunch date and pressure for a quickie in the car to repay him. 
So he holds back to see what he can do with you on his own. No quickie in the car, but instead before he drops you off--at a bus station, you insisted--he brushes his hand over yours. Can he get your number? He swears he can feel the heat coming off your cheeks as you fumble for your phone and let him put his number in your contacts.
He waits a day, then asks you out again. Dinner, this time. He asks you if you know any good places and you recommend a dive bar that you can go to after work (because 1) schedule and 2) cheap) and shit, he’s all for it. There will be time in the future to impress you with restaurants that have dress codes instead of sticky floors. You sit close on the stools and you buy him a drink (real cute, real real cute) and just for you he keeps the baggie in his pocket there all night instead of heading to the bathroom to liven things up.
Your relationship develops with an almost shocking speed. He knows just how to reel you in. I mean--look at you. Working your ass off at some dead end job, living in an apartment so shitty it takes you almost a month before you reluctantly agree to let him see it.
He can understand, though. Because you’re not that stupid and you know he’s wealthy, even before he casually brings up his family in a “it’s no big deal but I don’t want to keep things from you because we’re getting serious” sort of way. 
You pretend to be casual about it all, but he can tell you’re suddenly wondering: why the hell would someone from this wealthy family want anything to do with me?
It’s a question Ransom asks himself a lot. He asks himself this when he’s snorting coke off another woman’s stomach (hey, you’re dating, but he’s got needs and they aren’t met with hand-holding) or when he’s eating another greasy burger at a shitty bar because you refuse to let him buy you a nice dress to wear so he can take you out somewhere fancy.
You’re not the type of person he normally goes for, not at all. He has strings of girlfriends and flings, but they all tend to fit that same cookie cutter mold: wealthy do-nothings with their parent’s credit card who want someone else to spoil them for a while, without caring who it is or what they’re like. They’re easy pickings that Ransom can burn through and then toss aside when he’s bored of them. Some of them cry but a few days later he’ll see them on someone else’s arm, it’s the circle of life.
With you, though, there’s more. You don’t expect him to pay for dates or anything at all (even when he wants to spoil you a bit) and you have actual conversations and you seem to actually give a shit about what he says and does. You argue with him, too, when he wants you to do something (just let him take you shopping, for Christ’s sake!) or he asks you to move in (again) and you say no (again). I mean, you really fight with him, spitting words and all.
And unlike his previous girlfriends, you don’t come crawling back a few hours later because you want to buy a new purse with his shiny credit card. Instead, you make him apologize first. Fuck, that’s hot. It’s also something he tucks away in the back of his mind to work on later--but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t admit that he sometimes has the overwhelming urge to push you against the wall and fuck you for the first time right after a good argument. 
But he knows that would destroy your image of him entirely, so he holds back. He’s good at crafting a version of himself that appeals to others when he has to, and you’re maybe the first person that’s been worth all the effort he’s put into you so far.
But you need a push, a push that makes it so you can’t go running back to your shithole apartment when you fight or when you question whether or no you two have a future. You do, you’re just too naive--too inexperienced with money, to say it charitably--to realize it.
So he tips off the fire marshal about your apartment building’s shoddy fire escapes and well, damn, in the process of the investigation all the little corners that your landlord has cut come crashing down. At least they were discovered before it was the building that came crashing down.
But the evacuation of the building leaves you--and countless others--high and dry. You don’t have any family in the area, and your only half ass-decent friend in the city lives in the same building but her parent’s aren’t going to let a stranger move in.
When you finally realize you have no options and call him, voice tentative and embarrassed, he knows just what to say to get you to pack your meager belongings and wait for him to pick you up. He’s no-nonsense about it. 
He knows how to avoid deflating your pride, how to keep you from deciding you’d rather stay in a shelter than take his charity. You’ll pay him back, he says, you’ll figure out a rental plan or whatever. He even teases--he’s not the best landlord, but he won’t take 2 weeks to change the toilet if you submit a maintenance request. It makes you crack a smile and bam, just like that, he knows he’s gotten in.
That night, after takeout and wine and a Netflix movie neither of you paid attention to, you fuck for the first time on his expensive sheets on his expensive bed and afterwards, when you’re both sweating and cuddling and reveling in the afterglow, he makes a note to buy you some new lingerie. 
It’s all very homey, for a while. He could do without you leaving for work and working your ass off, with your freelance shit, sometimes staying on the computer until two, three in the morning. But it’s nice to have you close all the time, available to him whenever (almost whenever) he wants. He brings home takeout and you snuggle on the couch and he finally even convinces you to go out with him to a nice restaurant wearing something he’s bought and hot damn, do you look good, head-to-toe in the clothing he’s chosen for you. Especially, later that night, in private, in the lingerie. 
Does he love you? The word hasn’t left his lips yet, hasn’t crossed yours either, but he can feel it underneath the surface. No. It’s more than love. He wants you. He wants to have you. And not just for the afternoon or the summer, but forever. 
He spins daydreams about how he’ll clean you up nice and introduce you to the family. Probably to Harlan, first, because everyone knows that’s whose opinion really matters. Harlan will like you--he would probably like you without any primping or fixing, actually, which is more than he could say for his parents or anyone else in the family. Then once you’re in, you’re in--you’ll come to family dinners and vacation retreats where people always end up in ridiculous arguments, and you two can exchange snarky comments about the family on the ride home.
And yeah, sure. You fight sometimes.
He throws out your old clothes and buys you a wardrobe befitting someone he wants to integrate into his family. You fight about that.
He makes comments about you how you should quit your job or at least try to get a degree--he’ll pay, as long as you agree to go to a university within driving distance--to work somewhere more respectable than a chain restaurant. You fight about that.
He gets pissed when you want to meet some “friends” at a bar without him, because why would you need to go anywhere without your loving boyfriend in tow, unless you were trying to flirt with someone else? You definitely fight about that.
And, okay. Maybe he’s hypocritical.
Maybe he goes out late at night when you’re stuck doing your “freelancing work” and he’s in a rotten mood about it, and he ends up on the floor of a swanky club with drugs in his system and lipstick on his neck. He doesn’t come home until the next morning and you’re pissed and red-eyed and arguing with him, accusing him even, but you have no shitty apartment to stomp back to anymore so you’re stuck. 
Until you’re not stuck. Until he casually snoops through your phone and sees that you’re looking up cheap-ass apartments and hey, you’ve already booked a few interviews already. The thought of you slipping through his fingers makes him more sober than he’s been in a while. He’s got to do something. Not to himself, of course. But to you. To keep you with him.
It’s easy enough to get you fired. He’s a ‘Thrombey’ after all, and some nice crisp bills anonymously sent to the right hands is all it takes for you to come home one night, cheap mascara (he notes: buy you some better quality makeup soon) running down your cheeks. Your freelancing isn’t nearly enough to get you into an apartment.
He assumes that you’ll give up on the idea after losing your job, but you’re nothing if not stubborn (one of the reasons why he likes you) so you start the job hunt the next morning, fresh mascara in place. 
Damn, do you keep him busy. Anonymous calls. Cash in nice white envelopes. Rejection after rejection. You get so sad, so depressed. You don’t even want to go out to restaurants, so he orders in and you snuggle in his lap while he feeds you bites of orange chicken and rubs your back. It almost brings you two closer again, starts to mend the rifts that began when you refused to get over his occasional late night out.
But then you break the uneasy mending by snooping and woah, you don’t like what you find on his phone. 
You fight. 
Damn, do you fight. This time there’s no pretense of potential forgiveness as you begin wildly throwing your clothes into your ratty duffel bag from the back of the closet, telling him to fuck off fuck off fuck off, telling him he’s crazy, telling him that what he’s doing is fucking illegal and--
It’s the shock that hurts you the most.
The shock you feel when he grips your wrist hard and pushes back on your shoulder when you try to yank away, pushing you against the wall with a hard thud. It’s like having a rug pulled out from underneath your feet when you feel a slight ache in your back, on your shoulders, when you tell him to Let go, goddamn it and he only pushes back harder to keep you in place. It’s Ransom. It’s Ransom who’s doing this.
His voice feels unrecognizably cold when he leans in and hisses in your ear.
“You think you can just leave me? After all I’ve done for you? Let me tell you something--you won’t get another job within one hundred miles of here, within one thousand miles of here, unless I say you can. So just put your clothes back in the closet, chill the fuck out, and stop being such an ungrateful bitch.”
It’s the shock that makes you numbly hang your clothes back up in the closet, fold them again with shaking hands, and sit on the bed until the dam breaks and you cry.
And oh fuck, he’s sorry. Really. He wraps his arm around your shoulders and then he’s the one who’s crying and confessing that he didn’t want you leave him because yeah, he knows he’s a fuck up, he knows he’s got a drug problem, but he loves you. 
It’s the first time he’s ever said it out loud. He loves you. “I love you,” he says, again and again, half-laughing.  And he tells you you’re the only person he’s ever dated that made him want to be a better person but he doesn’t know how.
You don’t know what to say because maybe you do love him--but he hurt you and got you fired, but the tears on his face seem so genuine and he tells you he’ll never, ever hurt you like that again and fuck, he says, if you want to go get a job he’ll drive you to the interview right now just-let-him-blow-his-nose-first-please.
You make him sit down and then you’re the one apologizing and the rest of the afternoon is a shaky truce between you two as you drink hot chocolate and order in takeout and watch a movie together.
It’s not until you’re both under the sheets, satisfied and then showered, that you think about what he did to you in a clearer light. The thoughts weigh heavy on your mind, pulling and tugging. You think you might love him. He hurt you. He took care of you when no one else would. He cheated on you. 
I love you, he tells you, when your mind is starting to tug itself into sleep.
He hit you. He said he was sorry.
He hit you.
314 notes · View notes
hey-hamlet · 3 years
Text
BNHA AU Ideas : Your blessings are your curses.
Also on AO3
TL;DR:
Dead All Might acts as a guardian angel to this heroic quirkless kid he runs into. Izuku gets put into a dangerous situation and turns out – DNA wasn’t needed to pass OFA. Just intent. Izuku gains the ability to see All Might along with the ability to use his quirk.
Sadly, AFO notices.
Now Izuku is on the run with a ghost for a guardian after AFO’s goons kill his mother.
Your blessings are your curses:
TL;DR: Dead all might, acts as a guardian angel to this quirkless kid he runs into. Izuku gets put into a dangerous situation and turns out – DNA wasn’t needed to pass OFA. Just intent. Izuku gains the ability to see All Might along with the ability to use his quirk.
Sadly, AFO notices.
Now Izuku is on the run with a ghost for a guardian after AFO’s goons kill his mother.
So – In the fight between All for One and All Might six years before canon, All Might loses.
Not horribly. All for One is still left almost dead and retreats into hiding, but All Might falls unconscious never to open his eyes again, later dying of sepsis in the hospital. His eyes may never physically reopen, but he does awaken – translucent and noncorporeal.
For a while he doesn’t know if it’s a latent quirk, or maybe something All for One did as a final blow, but no – it’s One for All. One for All has a mind of its own and refuses to disappear until Yagi has found a successor. Not that Yagi knows that.
His old haunts are too painful to hang around, the whole nation is grieving for him and seeing that pain on his old friend's faces burns something fierce. So he does what he’s always done. He helps.
Midoriya Izuku is nine when his favourite hero dies. He sees how the nation is grieving and his desire to be a hero only burns brighter. The bullying he suffers worsens, hate crimes against the quirkless and those with ‘villainous’ quirks uptick. Japan isn’t a pillar of safety and security anymore – crime rates have risen to match or overtake worldwide averages.
Still, he feels almost, safer? He gets luckier – the book his classmate stole shows up in his bag by the next period, bullies trip more often, and sometimes as he runs from villain attacks or classmates with their quirks popping against the nape of his neck, he feels a broad hand push him forwards, giving him an extra burst of speed.
He decides it must be the All Might charm he bought the day before the news of All Might’s death broke. A small solid plastic charm meant for a phone with a bright yellow bell attached, along with a tag reading “I AM HERE”. He fills the bell with scraps of paper so no one can hear it ring as he holds it tight in his hand when he gets nervous.
Midoriya Izuku is nine when he is almost killed.
With All Might gone, organized crime spikes. Quirk trafficking rings spring up – very rare, but no less real. It’s one of these such rings that kidnaps Izuku on his way home from school. He awakens, sore and blurry-eyed in a warehouse with a half dozen other crying children. One by one they are forced to show off their quirks, to gauge their value.
Izuku has no quirk to show. He has no value to these people. They growl at him to stop playing around, to stop pretending to be a hero (his All Might charm is almost cutting into his hand from how hard he holds it. He needs his luck more than ever please all might save me one more time - ). He can't bring himself to shut his eyes as a flaming hand reaches towards his face.
For a moment it feels like he's being held. He feels safe.
A shockwave levels the warehouse, leaving he and the other children untouched, the villains buried in the rubble. Green sparks sink into his skin, dancing over the rapidly purpling bruises decorating his arm. He runs.
He comes back to himself in a park, sobbing and shaking, arms wrapped around his shaking form and an oddly familiar voice murmuring apologies and praise as a broad hand runs gently through his hair.
It seems One for All never needed DNA, only intent, to pass itself along. With the passing of the quirk, Yagi should have dissipated, but he refused, clinging to the child he’d accidentally burdened with his legacy, the same quirkless child he’d been playing guardian angel for all this time.
When Izuku sees All Might he freezes. It’s not All Might as he knew him, rather – this is the All Might that died. He’s translucent, faded around the edges, with a tattered and bloodstained costume, thick padded bandaging over his stomach hiding stiches staining to close infected wounds, doing little to stop the blood oozing through. Still – All Might’s eyes are bright blue and kind and his smile is as it always was. Izuku throws himself onto his hero and sobs.
All Might – Yagi, as he insisted Izuku call him – led him to the nearest police station, as he tried to explain what had occurred. It wasn’t easy considering Yagi didn’t seem to be sure himself, but Izuku was pretty sure the quirk he’d been accidentally gifted was sentient.
Izuku held his arms up to the sky, stretching his fingers to the pinpricks of light in the night sky. Sparks of glittering gold, green, white, blue and red jumped across his skin, like the static shocks he’d get when he wore his wool socks in bed, but less painful. They almost felt playful.
“What are they called?” Yagi looked at him, confusion clear on his face. One of his spikes of hair drooped, and if Izuku could ignore the dust and blood that ran through it it would almost be funny.
“They? My boy, do you mean the sparks? If so, they don’t have a name.”
Izuku frowned, letting his hand drop. He could feel the sparks gently brushing his injuries, almost soothingly. “No, I mean your quirk. They should have a name, they’re so nice to me.”
Yagi coughed, dark blood spilling from his mouth, never to hit the ground. “One for All. It’s called One for All.”
Izuku’s frown deepened.
“All Might, mama says it’s rude to call someone an it.”
Inko is reunited with her only mildly injured son, now excitedly gushing about a quirk he’d somehow manifested. She privately thanks whatever spirit finally decided to smile upon her son, even if it took so long.
Their happiness doesn’t last long. Days later Izuku receives a summons to the head office. He freezes when he sees the police officer, Yagi’s comforting hand on his shoulder the only thing that keeps him from running.
It was a villain attack, the officer says with kindness so forced Izuku wants to cry. Yagi looks angry. If you’ll just come with us so we can get you to the safehouse with your mother –
Yagi almost growls with rage. “She’s lying.” He whispers, habit enforced despite the fact Izuku is the only person alive that can hear him. “Follow her out of the school then run” Izuku does exactly that, quirk sparking up his legs and pushing him forwards, down the familiar path to home. He takes the stairs six at a time, quirk chipping the edges of the concrete as he hurls himself forward.
Their apartment is in shambles, bookshelves tipped, small objects laying scattered on the floor, a pale arm laying limply from a half-open bathroom door.
Yagi pushes him out of the apartment and confirms the identity himself. He urges a sobbing Izuku to say his goodbyes to his mother’s corpse as they quickly gather all the money in the house, a few spare clothes and whatever food and water Yagi could knock down from the pantry shelves for him. Izuku crams it into his backpack as he sobs, Yagi guarding the entrance as he boils with rage and guilt.
He didn’t think All for One would find Izuku. He didn’t think he would even be looking. He was wrong and now his boy was paying the price.
So starts his time on the run.
He meets Shinsou first, saving him from some rubble in a villain attack. He meets him again later, battered and bruised – not from a villain, but from his foster parents. Shinsou joins him, no matter how Izuku explains hes in danger. Shinsou wants to be a hero, and if the only way he gets to be a hero is stubbornly keeping Izuku out of trouble? That’s not a bad trade-off, considering izuku was the first person to save him.
A little while later the two run into Shouto feverish and badly burnt and try to nurse him back to health as best they can. A few days in Touya and Toga run into their little camp guns blazing, expecting them to have kidnapped Shouto only to see Izuku patiently trying to feed him rice porridge with a veritable pile of ‘liberated’ fever reducers on the floor beside them.
They apologise but Shinsou and a still feverish Shouto refuse to talk to Touya or Toga for like three days bc they made Izuku cry.
They refuse to leave no matter how Izuku explains he has a centuries old villain after him. These kids are ride or die. So Hitoshi, Shouto and Izuku are like 9 and trying to learn what they can from libraries and newspapers, never settling down for too long. Toga (12) and Touya/Dabi (14) try and keep them all alive by working or stealing what they need to live. It doesn’t take long for them to evolve into a mini vigilante group.
Aizawa becomes familiar with the messy group of short vigilantes that seem to bounce from prefecture to prefecture every second day, to the point that the force is pretty sure one of them has a teleportation quirk because they don’t seem to have any kind of home base. He’s completely uninterested in trying to arrest them in the beginning – they aren’t hurting anyone and are not half bad at what they do.
That changes when he meets them.
Battered and bleeding out in a rainy alley with a villain looming over him with a knife, Aizawa is pretty sure this is the night he dies. The knife swings back, glinting in the streetlights as he tries in vain to scramble backwards with heavy limbs. It never connects. The villain jerks back as a brilliant blue plume of flame cuts him off, burning the tips of his hair. Not expecting backup the villain bolts. Aizawa feels small hands helping him into a sitting position – his stomach starts to sink. When the short masked figure with curly hair speaks he feels his heart turn to ice. The figure couldn’t be older than 11, probably closer to 10.
He wakes up in the hospital and he makes it his mission to save these kids.
Ghost All Might is having a rough time. His boy is in danger and the best he can do is rattle windows and trip sprinting villains. He can’t help them enough.
He has a plan though.
He warns Izuku that he’ll be gone for a while and to keep safe without him and he goes out scouting. Being invisible and impermeable is normally a curse but when trying to find a paranoid 200-year-old super villain? It’s pretty damn useful. It takes months but eventually he’s not only tracked down All for One’s main hideout he’s also memorised his schedule. It’s nothing impressive considering the man is still mostly bedbound after what All Might did to him, but he won't be a pushover. It’s a start, though.
Izuku cries tears of joy when he sees All Might again and cries even more when he shares what he found. It’s do or die time. He offers every one of his friends the chance to split now because there is a good chance they’ll die, but none of them wants to leave him. With that, he starts planning.
They’ll need Eraserhead, no bones about it. Without him, there would be no way to strike the final blow. They spend a few weeks refining their stealth then they seek Aizawa out.
They knew he’d have a price for helping them, but they never expected it would be so high, but simultaneously so kind. In exchange for his help and a vow of silence he wants each child to let him help them, to find them a safe place to live, a school to go to – a future. Izuku has spent his whole life being told he doesn’t have a future, from when he was diagnosed quirkless to the almost 2 years spent on the run from Japan’s most dangerous villain. He’s still not sure he’ll have one, even with All for One dead, but he knows he wants his friends to grow up happy and safe.
He accepts.
With Aizawa’s help, with Dabi and Toga clearing the way and Shinsou standing in the wings as the last resort, Izuku kills All for One as he sleeps. Nothing flashy, nothing fancy, just quiet footsteps, a sharp knife and shaking hands.
Aizawa is horrified this child just killed someone in front of him, but Izuku is sobbing and All for One is notorious in underground circles so he keeps his quirk up until the blood stops flowing from his neck. He takes the children and flees.
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Shadow of the Sea: Chapter 1
Summary: Kylo is used to being alone. It's how he's survived this long, in the cold ocean depths. He can take care of himself. Other creatures--other merfolk--are dangerous; he has the scars to prove it. Humans, however, are the worst of all. But one day, Kylo finds he has no other choice but to turn to one for help. The human he meets is nothing like he expects, and all he knows is he wants more. Is he willing to pay the price?
Word Count: 4,394
Warnings: fem!AFAB!reader, plot set up, kylo ren needs a hug confirmed, non-graphic descriptions of violence & bodily harm, brief mentions of blood & wounds, very vague medical descriptions lol, minor character death (happens off screen), oh but there's also one that happens on screen but it's brief, big time ocean nostalgia from your dear author— let me know if I need to add anything else!
A/N: Thank you @paper-n-ashes for beta reading! Icon behavior tbh.
Prefer AO3? I gotcha!
Kylo prided himself on his independence—his ferocity, his ability to fight his way out of every corner. His body was scarred and battle-hardened, but that didn’t matter. It was proof he was a survivor, and it’s not like he had anyone around him to care about his appearance. Most creatures he saw took one look at his massive form and ran.
He was intimidating, all muscle, his fins torn from previous fights. While his skin was pale, his scales were an onyx color; it made blending into the ocean depths easier. He couldn’t understand why merfolk’s standard of beauty was a brightly colored tail; didn’t it make camouflaging more difficult?
He guessed most merfolk didn’t care about that. They lived in large groups, colorful and cheerful and busy amongst other plant and animal life. Not many delved into the cold, murky areas Kylo had made his home. But he’d been there as long as he could remember, and there was no sense in changing things. He wouldn’t be welcome in the warmer waters anyway. They didn’t want him, and he didn’t want them.
So he kept away, and no one dared bother him. Those that did quickly learned not to. He had killed many creatures, and while it was all in defense, his reputation still preceded him. After all, he’d once fought one of the most dangerous predators the ocean knew, and he’d won.
He’d killed a human, after they’d captured him in their net. He’d overpowered them easily, yanked them from their boat into the water; he hadn’t even flinched when their little fishing knife plunged into his side. He’d watched with a furious gaze as the air left their lungs, their pathetic struggling eventually ceasing. Then he’d calmly cut himself loose from the netting. The knife wound had scarred over, but it was just one more to add to his collection.
Yes, Kylo prided himself on his abilities. He had no fear, no weakness; he never ran from a fight.
He was running now.
He’d been foolish. He should have realized why his normal hunting grounds had been so devoid of fish for the past few days—he should have seen the signs, should have been more careful. But hunger makes you desperate; makes you stupid. He hadn’t been paying attention, too focused on the singular fish he’d found.
It seemed to happen all at once. A sudden blow to his head that left him reeling, pain shooting through his skull as he whips himself around in attempts to find his attacker. A searing burn in his side the exact moment he feels a sharp pinch at the back of his neck. His head starts to spin with confusion, the scent of his own blood in the water.
He spots a figure out of the corner of his eye, and his heart leaps into his throat. It was a human, and they had some sort of weapon pointed right at him.
Kylo doesn’t think—he just bolts. They don’t seem to follow him at first, and he doesn’t understand why until he starts to feel the first symptoms of whatever they’ve injected him with. It makes him dizzy, makes his vision start to blur as a sickening metallic taste fills his mouth.
No, he thinks. I won’t let them do this.
He pulls strength from deep within and pushes himself to swim faster, farther. He hears a muffled shout from behind, and oh, they’re pursuing him now.
He swims frantically, skirting around rocks and through kelp forests, desperately trying to lose them even though he thinks he might hear the dull thrum of a boat motor over the thudding of blood in his ears. Kriff, he was so tired. It would be so easy to let the human magic overtake him, to sink to the ocean floor.
Was this death? A dreamless sleep that crept over your senses until you had no choice but to succumb to it? Kylo doesn’t want to die, not like this. Not where they can get to him, at least.
He doesn’t know where he’s going, doesn’t even know where he is until he catches a quick glimpse of a familiar rock formation. His mind is in shambles, drugged and panicked, lacking oxygen as his gills burn with the strain of his labored breathing.
A cove. Not too far from here. Too shallow for a boat, too rocky for humans. A cave to shelter in. Go, swim, fast, now, now, go.
The voice in his head doesn’t feel like his own—it’s frantic, urgent, thoughtless. Usually he was so composed, controlled. The threat of death had turned him into nothing more than an animal; he’s never felt so small.
He ducks and weaves as he swims towards the hidden cove, trying to convince himself he’s doing it on purpose and not just fading in and out of consciousness. If he can just stay awake a little longer, if he can just make it to that kriffing cave, he can die with dignity. Alone and cold, drugged and bleeding, but away from the humans trying to hurt him.
Kylo nearly loses his speed when he breeches the shallow waters of the cove, his mind wanting to shut down now that he’s made it. He forces himself to keep going despite his nausea and lightheadedness. His lungs are screaming, muscles aching; he scrapes his tail against the rocky outcroppings as he searches frantically for the mouth of the underwater cave.
It’s here, it’s here. I know it’s here, I’ve seen it, I mapped it. Where is it?!
His hands snag against an opening, just barely big enough for him to squeeze through, and he darts into it. It’s a tight fit, and for a brief second Kylo is terrified he’ll get stuck and pass out from whatever the humans hit him with—he’ll die, trapped, never to be found.
But then, quick as a flash, he’s through to the other side. The small tunnel opens up into a larger cavern, protected from the elements and decorated with several pools of varying depths. He’d explored it once, curious, thinking it would be a nice place to hide. It was a little too close to humanity for his comfort, but then again he’d never seen this area very populated. He’d figured he’d keep it in the back of his mind for later.
Turns out later was now.
Kylo pulls himself to the edge of the main and deepest pool, looking around urgently through spotty vision. There was a pool in the corner, half hidden by rocks—it looked shallow, but just deep enough to be submerged. Exhaling fast, he hauls himself up and out of the water, coughing and choking as his body tries to adjust from using his gills to his mouth and nose to breathe. It was never an easy transition, and he hated doing it, but right now it was what he needed.
He growls to himself as he pulls his heavy body along the rough stone cave floor, his normally nimble tail a dead weight. If he wasn’t about to faint, he thinks he’d be a bit more graceful. By the time he rolls unceremoniously into the shallow pool, his palms are all scraped up and bleeding. He doesn’t care; barely feels the sting. He’s not really feeling much of anything at this point, head spinning out of control.
Laying like this on his back, head propped up against the ledge of the pool, Kylo gazes up at the jagged rock ceiling. His lungs crackle as he heaves in breaths, heart still pounding loudly. It’s hard to hear anything else, and he wonders again if his attackers are closing in on him. Does it even matter? His dying mind questions. He doesn’t have an opportunity to think of a retort before his body finally breaks, and he succumbs to the drug induced sleep.
—————————————————————
You wake to the familiar sounds of distant crashing waves, whistling wind, and calls of seagulls. After years on the island, the noise was a comfort.
You’d grown up here, in this same cottage by the sea--been raised fishing, hunting for mussels, searching through tide pools. You and your siblings would bike into town to sell your wares at the local market before heading down to the pier to watch the boats come and go. It was a simple life, sometimes a little isolated, but it was good nonetheless. You loved the island and the ocean, and held great respect for them both. If you honor them, they will honor you--at least, that’s what your mother always said.
Your siblings grew up and moved to the mainland, but still you stayed. Got yourself a little apartment in town above the local grocery, worked at the marina as a clerk, and visited your parents on the weekends. When your mother passed, your father followed just weeks later—a broken heart, everyone said. Suddenly, your beloved little slice of heaven—of home—belonged to you.
So you moved back into the cottage you grew up in, a place haunted by the ghosts of memories and the sounds of the sea. If you’re being honest with yourself, you wouldn’t trade it for the world, no matter how many times you pretend to entertain your siblings’ urging to rent the place out. Think of all the money you’d make. It’s the perfect vacation spot.
Maybe so, but you don’t care. You don’t want strangers in your home—not those tourists who come to fawn over the village, who eat up the landscape with cameras without really seeing it, who gawk at the fishermen, who laugh at the prices at the market. They would probably call your cottage quaint and cute. You could picture them tittering over your family photos on the mantle, over the door frame where heights had been marked over the years.
Tourists, who both long for and pity an isolated life on the ocean. Oh, they have it so easy here, away from the stress of the city. Oh, could you imagine living this way, barely scraping by?
No, you didn’t want them in your home, a place so sacred. You didn’t care what money you were missing out on—you got by fine with your pay from the marina, and picking up shifts at the local cafe. You loved your cottage—savored every creaky floorboard, every leaky windowsill. The drip of the bathroom faucet, the howl of the sea wind through the chimney—these were the sounds of familiarity, of safety. No one would appreciate them like you did.
Twisting around in bed, you turn your gaze towards the open window that was letting in a fresh, salty breeze. It was early, the light still dim and grey, the air a little chilly. It makes you want to curl back up under your covers, catch a couple more hours of shut-eye. It was your day off, after all; you could afford to sleep in.
Except.
You sigh, scrubbing your hands over your face as you remember what your yesterday brain had planned. You’d told yourself you’d get up in order to gather mussels at low tide. There were plenty of tide pools around, especially in the caved area of the cove. It was your family’s little secret—the hidden grotto was all but invisible from the outside. The only reason you even knew about it was because your brother had been too adventurous for his own good as a child, always getting into places he shouldn’t.
Mussels, clams, seaweed, probably fish in the deeper tide pools—maybe some sea urchin you could sell at the market. Your stomach growls.
Well, that’s that.
Groaning, you haul yourself up and out of bed, wincing at the cold hardwood on your bare feet. You bounce on your toes, shivering, goosebumps appearing on your skin as you pad over to close the window. Despite growing up here, you were always surprised at the temperature. You stubbornly let in the breeze at night, all bundled up under your covers, pretending when you woke it would be nice and warm.
But nope, not here; even in the dead of summer the mornings were chilly. Sometimes you dreamed that you lived on one of those big, luxurious, heated beaches—hot sun and white sand as far as the eye could see, no craggy cliffs or rocky shores. Eh. You probably wouldn’t like it much anyway, too used to your own environment.
Glancing at the clock, you quickly throw on some warm clothes, half-assing your regular morning routine before grabbing your tide-pool hunting essentials: a flashlight, knee-high waders, a large bucket, and your trusty fishing knife. You take a deep breath at the front door, bracing yourself for the chill. Just think of the feast you’ll have later. And you can reward yourself with a hot bath and long nap.
It’s not too long a distance from the cottage to the rocky shoreline, and while the low tide has revealed the tempting sand leading towards the rolling waves, you head towards the jagged outcropping to the left. Years of following the same path means it doesn’t take you long at all to find the hidden entrance and carefully make your way into the cavern.
In the middle of a sunny day, light shone in through various cracks in the ceiling, glinting off the water and creating flickering reflections against the stone walls. Sometimes you came here just to think, or to take a dip in the largest pool. The water was always warmer here, protected from the full power of the currents by the rock face.
Now, however, it was dark—only the dimmest bit of grey morning light trickled in. You flick on the flashlight, humming softly to yourself. The melody echoes off the stone walls, and you set your bucket down at the closest tide pool, readying yourself to hunker down and get to work. The beam of the light scans the various pools as you turn to get your knife from its holder, and something catches your eye. It’s not much, and honestly if you weren’t so familiar with the cave you probably wouldn’t have noticed the dark shape in the far corner pool.
At first, you do a double take, eyes sweeping over the little red-tinged puddles on the floor. Blood. You grip your knife, mind racing with possibilities. Was there someone in here with you? Surely not. No one ever came out here. Swallowing hard, you take a couple steps towards the corner, torch in one hand and knife in the other. As you get closer, your gaze tracks the diluted blood trail into the pool, and at first all you notice is the black scales and fins of a fish. The grip on your knife loosens just a little, the fear of a possible threat fading.
It's a big animal, you can tell that even as you make your way over, and you wonder idly how it got in. You knew, logically, that the cave connected to the ocean somehow, but you can't imagine the tide being so high for a fish as large as this one to find its way into the back corner. You’re focused on this conundrum as you round the ledge that’s been shielding the animal from your full view--so much so that it takes you more than a couple moments for your mind to compute just what it's seeing.
The tail is thick and muscular, decorated in obsidian scales that lead to delicate looking fins at the bottom. There were smaller, fan looking fins on the sides of the tail--they were all ripped up, as if they had been torn in previous fights. Your brain clocks all of this in seconds but doesn’t dwell, because it’s focused on the top half of the animal--creature--merman.
Merman. A fucking merman.
The ebony scales at the waist fade seamlessly into pale skin and lean muscle, revealing a long, firm torso. If you weren’t so aware of the tail, you might--might--think he could pass for human. Well, except for the webbed fingers and razor-sharp nails adorning each of his hands. He’s half submerged in the water of the pool, dark hair covering part of his face so you can’t see it.
You stand there, frozen, staring, not quite knowing what to do. You weren’t… scared; weren’t even very surprised aside from the initial shock of seeing him. You’d grown up hearing stories, traditions, tales—it was more than folklore here on the island. Some of the elders believed in merfolk more than ghosts, more than aliens, more than god.
Mr. Mackenzie told tales of mermaids luring in his shipmates as prey, drowning them. You always thought they were just stories designed to scare children away from dangerous tides—and maybe they were. But other accounts, you weren’t so sure of.
It was the wonder on Ms. Fraser’s face when she recounted the long-ago memory of swimming along sandbars with a girl who could breathe underwater. It was the quiet reverence of Mr. McDougall’s voice when he whispered about removing an old fish hook from a merman’s tail. It was the tears in Mrs. Buchanan’s eyes when she insisted merfolk rescued her husband from a fishing boat wreck.
You believed them. You always had, even if you’d done it silently, bashfully. You knew those who still made offerings to the ocean and to the beings that dwelled within the depths. Your island community believed in things not seen, but passed down through generations of storytelling. It was your history, kept alive despite first hand encounters becoming few and far between.
Except, here it was—your own little slice of history, right in front of you. If you took a couple more steps, you could reach out and touch it.
Is he breathing?
The little voice in your head brings you back down to your body, and a sudden fear overtakes you. You can’t let him die—if he was even still alive to begin with. You glance nervously at the pinkish trail of blood leading to the pool; the sight makes you reach some sort of resolve.
Hyper-aware of the claws on his hands, you kneel down beside him, hesitating only briefly before you settle your hand on his large bicep. He doesn’t stir, and your stomach twists unpleasantly. Your hand slides down to his wrist, and while you can admit you aren’t an expert on merfolk anatomy, surely you’ll be able to feel a pulse from the spidery blue veins under his pale skin.
Relief washes over you in a wave when you do, indeed, find a pulse—slow, but strong. Okay, not dead then. Still, he doesn’t move, so you take it upon yourself to move his damp hair out of his face, curling it behind his prominent ears.
He’s handsome.
You feel yourself flush, immediately chastising yourself for the thought. This was—best case scenario—a complete stranger who was wounded and in possible danger. Worst case scenario… you didn’t want to think about. Needless to say, it was no time to be thinking about his level of attractiveness.
You force yourself back into action, cupping his head as you hold your hand under his nose. His breathing is steady, and you gently lay his head back where it rested on the rock ledge. Your fingertips brush against something, and you frown as you realize he has a lump on the back of his skull—as if he’s been hit. You can only hope it hasn’t done too serious damage; it wasn’t like you could really take him to the hospital.
Your attention moves down his body, and you make yourself bypass the gills in his neck in order to properly gauge his wounds. Minor cuts and scrapes littered his skin; from the number of scars decorating his form, you figure these aren’t a big deal, no matter how nasty they look. Not compared to the gash on his side, at least.
You wince when you see it, the delicate flesh torn open and ragged. The cut makes you think it’s from some man-made weapon, and you shake your head in disbelief. Who would want to harm a merman? Around here, it would be blasphemous to do such a thing.
Blood no longer seeps from the wound; you hope that’s a good sign—and that the salt water has somewhat cleaned the area. You think it may have needed stitches, but you’re no doctor with the ability to do such a procedure. If you're being honest with yourself, it’s probably far too late for stitches anyway. The wound would be another nasty scar, likely similar to the one marring his face, but the area isn’t red with infection. That’s a good sign, right?
You sigh, feeling helpless. You want to do something for the creature. There’s only one thing you can really think of. Chewing on your bottom lip, you study his face again. He still seems unresponsive, and you can only hope he stays that way a little longer.
The short trek back up to your home feels the longest it’s ever been, and your legs and lungs are burning by the time you rush through the front door, having run the entire way. You heave in breaths as you pack some supplies into a bag. It wasn’t much, but you should be able to use the waterproof gauze and antibiotic ointment to dress the nasty-looking scrapes on his hands and chest.
You hesitate for a moment before going into your bathroom and grabbing the waterproof pillow you had in the tub. Maybe it was silly, but you hated thinking about him lying on the hard ground for fuck knows how long. You almost grab some food for him—maybe the fish currently thawing in your fridge—but you decide not to. You weren’t sure what he ate, and there was no telling when he’d wake up anyway.
Your breathing has just settled back to normal by the time you’re jogging back to the cave, careful not to slip on any of the wet grass and rocks. The sun starts to peak out of the morning clouds, letting pale beams of light warm the grey morning. The cavern is illuminated slightly better when you enter; you find you can lay the flashlight at a distance and see just fine.
The merman is still asleep, and you feel a little relieved. You aren’t exactly sure what will happen when he wakes up—for all you know, you’ll return later in the day to find him gone. As it is, you plop down next to the pool he was in and get to work patching him up the best you can.
Taking the towel you brought with you, you dab at his scrapes, trying to dry them a little before applying the ointment and then carefully using the gauze to cover the wounds. His palms are so torn up that you wrap them completely, your brows knitted the entire time. It must hurt, but still, he doesn’t stir.
Finally, you’re left with the gash in his side. You debate with yourself as to whether you should cover it or not—if you even can. The front of his torso was out of the water with the way he was laying, but that could change at any second, and any real pressure on his body would cause him to sink into the pool.
Your urge to help him wins out in the end, and you decide you’ll try to bandage it to protect it from any further irritation, despite knowing water would seep in regardless. You lean forward, extra careful not to lose your balance as you pat at his pale skin with the towel once more. It’s an awkward angle and slow work, you trying your best to be gentle with him.
You add as much ointment as you dare to the bandaging, not wanting to put too much onto an open wound, before fixing the gauze to his torso with some waterproof medical tape. There. Sure, it wasn’t going to work a miracle but at this point you weren’t sure what else to do.
He’ll be okay, you tell yourself. He’ll be okay.
You take a moment to watch the rise and fall of his chest, reassured by the movement. Your gaze again drifts to his tail in fascination—you hope that, maybe, you’ll come back later and he’ll be awake. Maybe he’ll be friendly, maybe the two of you can talk. It’s illogical, you know. This wasn’t some fairytale, this was real life. You honestly just hoped he didn’t try to rip you to shreds on sight.
It’s with this thought in mind that you shift away from him, telling yourself you can’t sit and watch him all day. You have several other pools to collect mussels from, breakfast to cook, chores to do. You’ve done enough, and you have to trust that his body will do the rest—you refuse to entertain the idea that he might not make it.
Sighing, you pull yourself further away, but then remember the pillow you’d brought along. You grab it quickly before shuffling back towards him. He’s got a large lump of seaweed shoved haphazardly under his head in what you assume was a desperate attempt to soften the rock face underneath.
His damp hair is surprisingly soft when you gently lift his head to clear the ground of debris. You can’t help but run your fingers through it gently, brushing it behind his ears, almost trying to soothe his subconscious. You settle the small foam pillow in place, and slowly let his head and neck rest against it. You hope it makes some sort of difference, though you know it might be a childish thought.
Your task finished, you force yourself away from him once more, even though you suddenly ache to continue touching him. Picking up your things, you continue on your mission of prying mussels from each tidepool. You move slower and quieter than you normally would, shooting the merman furtive glances every few seconds.
By the time you’re finished with the last pool, you can’t find an excuse to linger any longer. He was as safe as he was going to be. The only thing left to do now was wait. You spare your new charge one last lingering look, then grab your things and head back to the house.
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