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#even though i feel like you are asking me for mercy while twisting the blade you hold through my heart
kidelune · 1 year
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TW: Mature themes, death, violence, blood, all that jazz. Read at your own discretion.
(Part 5/?) | Part 4. Part 3. Part 2. Part 1.
[ LOCAL ITAEWON BAR & CLUB Le Sanctuaire, OWNED BY PRESTIGED CHAIN BUSINESSMAN LEE GUN-PYO CAUGHT UNDER FIRE THIS EVENING, LITERALLY. Further investigations by the KNPA are soon to come. ]
/
At this point in his career and idles alike, spilled blood was either akin to spilled milk or merely a holy measure of sacrament. Kijun spends his second full day back in Seoul where only crows flock towards; plucking knives of all variants out of corpses haphazardly strewn at sunset's mercy. Twisted limbs and gaping mouths revere his return and echo his demise all in the same spell, and among their reach he threads, baptized by blood.
Stained digits quiver ever so slightly around the cigarette he collects in his mouth at long last, at the edge of the day's concluding sunset and Le Sanctuaire's polished floor-to-ceiling windows. Light takes him a few tries, with the zippo failing and slipping on a crimson thumbpad and winter's dread in his bones until he finally produces a competent enough flame against patches of blood. A thick smokescreen clouds his short-sight then, as early evening clouds skirt among appearing stars, painting the walls in the back an innocent shade of grey. And that helpful grey, hiding death.
It's a few hours since the club had been sieged and ransacked by three van-fulls of naïve men and boys in wrinkled suits. Many years of effort trashed in broad daylight from top to bottom and all the way around by overconfident lackeys with spiked bats and blades–despite it's already abandoned state. This had been their only stop for the day, likely, and Kijun could instantly tell by the way everything in sight had been severely damaged and shattered to utter smithereens– could still feel the raw malice and hear triumphant screeching bouncing off walls that had been beautiful just hours before, as they destroyed millions upon millions worth of won and earned livelihoods, all under three hours tops. So easily had the sanctuary he once helped build yield to the enemy's carnage, falling apart at the greedy hands of man.
A bleeding suspect writhes and chokes on the brief slit tucked at length in his throat by Kijun's left foot, the blade that'd bled him out abandoned on his right; close enough to be in his reach, but still too far for the bastard to make it to alive. His weakened hand scrambles for the hem of Kijun's pant leg in a desperate attempt anyway, leaving messy red prints on washed denim, like little footnotes. But Kijun remains rooted and caliginous in his gloom as though he's parked amidst a field of weeds in pouring rain, columns of his indulgence plummeting onto a forehead, an arm, a palm. And no trace of compassion hangs in his cold, hooded gaze as he silently listens to life violently swallowing around itself like a serpent in madness, for his smite engulfs all potential feelings of guilt with an echo so overwhelmingly in tune with death he can only be, and embrace it.
This was not his doing, anyway. Notwithstanding him having had the luxury of slowly drawing out the weapon from the neck which could scarcely clench and release around the blade plunged in it before, let alone the answers Kijun had been insisting on all the while, until there was nothing left to keep him but the blunt unforgiving eyes of his inquisitor. One who may as well have been the executioner from the start.
The actual culprit stands across the desolate dancefloor to his left, meticulously wiping caked hands clean with a cotton cloth produced from his pocket. The ever so loyal superintendent, Lee Yunho, who silently clicks his tongue in annoyance with himself.
"Are we finished now?" Kjiun levels through the silence between them as he grows slightly impatient near the irony, blood soaked end of his cigarette. "I only came to talk like you asked, but instead ended up with all this dirty fucking blood on me and still not a single word from you. 's about time you started don't ya' think?"
"And I'm thankful for your participation, Kijun-ah." Yunho responds flatly, flicking away the bloodied cloth in favour of plucking leather gloves he were supposed to be using from his back pocket. His soft eyes land as an unamused pair on the younger, "Brilliant, as always."
Kijun rolls his eyes, and it's only shortly after the hand at his ankle falter and life deserts the room does he finally approach his comrade in peace, shoes crunching loudly on broken glass.
"You know what this—" He gestures with a hand he hadn't bothered to wipe himself at the mess encompassing them, "—means for me and all the rest who'd been workin' here for the past few years, right, hyung? That's why you'd brought me here?"
Yunho sighs profoundly, "I do."
The blackout curtains are gone, violently torn off into opaque pools of velvet that plague each corner of the large room. Though the glasses are tinted, telltale signs of the sun's novel absence could still be found on the horizon from this point of view, and they briefly cast whimsical shadows on Yunho's youthful face. Awe provoking in and of itself, if only circumstances allowed for a more savoury atmosphere. Instead Kijun pauses in front of the elder, half a head taller, and delves an exsanguinated palm into the hyung's jacket pocket to fish out a crushed pack of smokes he knows is always there.
"I have nothing now that this place is gone. Nothing."
"I know, kid. And I'm sorry, but I'd warned you beforehand. Not to count on it."
"Are you fucking shitting me? Do you take me for some kind of fucking idiot? No, I know you're not sorry." Kijun crudely spits between Yunho's feet, his fury causing him to clench his jaw around the fresh cigarette he'd just plucked from the hyung's packet, "The least you can do now is finally explain to me what the fuck has been goin' on all this time, and why the hell I have to be caught in the middle of it."
He completely expects Yunho to strike him for his blatant provocation, something all the elder men in his life have been doing more recently for reasons he can't fathom. But much to his chagrin, or contrarily his relief, Yunho pauses, holding tightly onto silence and only considers his opponent for a calculative moment. No doubt weighing the consequences for whatever urges he quietly forces down, before he lifts a hand to collect a smoke.
"Fine." His expression shifts ever so slightly, losing tension and gaining a hue of indifference in its place, as if to convey his refusal to take up the weight of any faults. With evening between his teeth he lights up the cigarette and finally yields. "If you repeat any of what I'm about to tell you, even to Gun-pyo, I'm afraid you'll never have another chance out of this life once and for all. It'll persist, until it kills you. That's a promise."
Kijun squares broad shoulders and rolls his neck as though preparing for a bloody fist fight. The apprehension which suddenly mounts him then is blamed on the thick, stickiness in his palms, as he refuses to acknowledge it in any other context. He'd waited far too long for this to back out now. "Okay."
Yunho draws out his following drag for as long as it takes him to get to one of the open windows near them, where he speaks nicotine into the passing wind in attempt at erasing secrecy out of existence as soon as he speaks it into it, "This isn't some random issue that'd started in the past year with Kang Dongwook, as Gun-pyo may have otherwise lead you to believe. It's been going on behind the scenes since you've been in the Philippines all those years ago."
Kijun scoffs irritatedly at the mention of his patron's name, "Yeah, no shit..."
"Remember when Gun-pyo 'randomly' brought in that group of guys from prison back then? Caused a huge uproar among you lot, but you could do nothing about it but listen to him—me included. But they weren't just convicts and it wasn't just happenstance. Some were veterans from the military, and it was a sacrifice. He needed them for something else he never told any of you about."
"Why?" Frowns the younger deeply, ball of his shoulder pressing to the window frame as he leans over and succumbs to Yunho forcefully prying open the annals of his memory. "Why didn't he tell us the truth? I thought we just needed more men."
"Because he thought the truth would've distracted you from work. You knew we couldn't afford any distractions, didn't you? I remember you saying it yourself. We were constantly in so many tight spots we hardly had enough wiggle room to slip out of. Business was good, but it was absolute hell for us."
It was. "Mm, I remember."
"He didn't want to lose any more of you boys, so the seasoned lot were brought in for something like a suicide mission, if not that. Back then it'd come to our attention that there was someone else on our tail, a rival on the market who'd been waiting for the opportunity to strike us down and take our place. The normal everyday occurrence, except it wasn't a bluff and they weren't doing everything on their own... They were backed by the Chinese and some Filipino police."
At mention of the Triads, Kijun's usual darkness pales against the moonlight like a flake of snow. The dots in his head begin to connect towards a fate worse than he could've dared to imagine for himself before, and he breaks out in cold sweat because of it. He recalls the day of his arrest like it had been yesterday; the morning sun bouncing off his naked back, bare feet slapping the ground so hard in his heedless sprinting that it burned and bled profusely against concrete and dirt and then concrete again. Hollering at the top of his lungs, so loudly his voice had fled him for many days. All to no avail as in the end, he'd still been caught.
Deep octaves climb a tone as his heartbeat simultaneously takes off with reckless abandon, just like that day. "Holy shit...! So that's how..."
"Mmm.." Yunho hums, a strange, collected contrast of peace, in the same breath flicking the lingering column of ash of his cigarette off on the side. Flecks of blood sully his white dress shirt cuffs, but he doesn't seem to mind. "By the time we got to them back then, it was too late. Our hubris had costed us a fortune– and Gun-pyo's reputation."
"That's how the grand scale of arrests went down... They reported us. None of the shit that happened in Manila was coincidence at all."
"No, the pigs were actually useless and in cahoots with them from the start. They were operating off a good tip and somehow managed to hold the upper-hand, because there weren't that many of us in the Philippines after all. They knew exactly where to strike us, and you were just collateral."
Kijun had spent many lonely nights in confinement blaming himself for what had happened on that day. For failing his team and Gun-pyo simultaneously, in just shy of an hour. All their hard work and sleepless nights gone because of him. Perhaps if he'd done so-and-so earlier, or pushed his colleagues around a bit harder, or took a different turn during the chase–if only twenty year old Kijun had known what twenty eight year old him did now: that none of it was any of his fault. That he'd been just a pawn all along.
"Fucking bastards..." Kijun curses colourfully under his breath, sharp brows under constant tension throughout his attempt at processing all the information all at once. He absentmindedly brushes bloodied fingers through curt black locks, soothing himself out of incredulity, only briefly. "So did you not feel any inch of fucking remorse for us who got caught in your fucking mess? Didn't you think you could at least tell us the truth after we got out?"
"You think that would've changed anything, Kijun?" Yunho grimaces as the earth exhales ice on them through the window, "Guys we sent in never came back, so we had no way of retaliating without getting our asses into more shit. Were too busy swimming in the copious amount of losses already. They took out multiple dens of ours all at once, not just yours. You're lucky you were out and only got arrested. It was nothing short of brutal. They'd been showing the same patterns again recently. It's their strategy, the fuckin' cunts." The elder curses in distaste for the first time tonight, "Their patience makes them dangerous, but luckily we were more than prepared this time around. Managed to fend off most of the attacks here. Come, help me finish."
Yunho abruptly straightens, as though he'd just come to again, abandoning the window and his recollections for the few canisters they'd brought on the way in, earlier. Gasoline canisters, which the elder soon uncaps and begins ceremoniously pouring and splattering all across polished marble flooring, the deceased, and a sea of broken glass. Kijun burns the rest of his smoke from a distance away, then joins him shortly.
"I'm gonna miss this place. Do we really have to put it to the torch, though? I thought all our personal info and shit had already been retrieved beforehand by you lot."
"They have. Both staff and clientele data, gone, to protect all your identities if the stalwarts ever decided they'd dip their toes into this one. Gun-pyo thought we should burn it just to make sure, though, 'specially the bodies. It's his building so I guess he can do whatever the fuck he wants with it, I'm just following orders. Says he doubts anyone will catch whiff of it anyway, except maybe the local news."
Kijun hums, making sense of Yunho's words, though he finds no existing shade of consolation in them, nor in the careless pouring of kindling. The horrors of an eight year old bawl weigh down much too heavily on his shoulders, adding laden to his steps and leaving little room or nor energy left to properly puzzle within himself his nearing fate, even after emptying a third canister within the very room he always served guests in. Dressing precious memoirs in what would be their last breath. In ruin.
The tangy pungency of gasoline begins to permeate the air and congest their throats as it soaks between the club's cracks and fissures, coiling under fingernails, and fallen curtains. Kijun grows equally as speechless as the dead until they finish, and finally, lamentably, Yunho acknowledges his solemn absence with a nudge in the rib as they conclude under the arch of the entrance hallway.
"Listen, kid..." Yunho muffles from behind the constrains of his mask, sounding so painstakingly apologetic at a crime scene that Kijun would have laughed, if he had the heart for it now. Much like a guilty older brother, if he ever had one. "I know you've done a lot of bad shit in your life... Even tonight, you've added to that tally once again. But remember, that does not make you a bad person. Not nearly as bad as you're trying to convince yourself every new day that you are... Try doing the opposite for once, see how that changes you."
Kijun sighs exasperatedly, eyes pirouetting in his skull as he begins to pat his pockets for his lighter, "You don't have to lecture me, hyung. Really. It won't fix anything."
"Oh, but I do, if it's important. You know the story of how I started working for Gun-pyo at the same age as he'd recruited you, already. Now I'm almost forty, yet still belting out the 'Yes, sir''s like an old, obedient dog. I've killed more people than you can ever imagine, for Gun-pyo alone. But I, too, was once in this dilemma you're facing today. 'I can't go, but I can't stay either' and you can guess my choice." The elder says, seemingly sporting a humourless smile in the dark, "I was a fool for choosing comfort over logic in this case, but I'm glad now that I can at least attempt at preventing someone else from making the same mistake... You, although at this point, it may not mean anything." A throttled moment passes between them, one during which Kijun openly displays his discomfort in the from of refusing to look at his steadfast hyung in the face. He who searching for a gaze he never finds from below.
But it still does not deter him. Kijun had never been able to thwart this man once. His determination was really something extraordinary. Gun-pyo would perish would him, Kijun always thought. "Walk away while you still can, Kijun. Like Junseo—"
Alike flickering on red lights in a room, Kijun immediately swells with rage, somehow growing even taller than he already was within the brief distance it takes for him to have Yunho cornered. Everything about him condenses into a taut heap. Much like a ferocious cat raising its back, it's tail fluffed out.
"Don't you fucking talk about my father in a place like this." The younger viciously hisses between the teeth, his eyes as round and dark through the afront as two bulbs with burnt out cores.
But still, unfathomably, Yunho does not falter. The only indication of his annoyance echoes through his lowering verbiage, "You will suffer for all the shit you've done so far once you're dead. That surely comes later, but now, do as he did and I didn't. Be wise and quit while you can. You'll thank yourself for it in a few years."
Kijun realizes a heartbeat too late that he'd merely been baited into meeting Yunho's steely gaze again, when the hyung hooks his mask under his chin and pops a quick, mischievous grin up at him. Embarrassment blasts through the tension gathered in his muscles as an overheated furnace would into remote winter skies, and with sharp, knitted brows he stumbles back, now just inexplicably irritated. Yunho triumphantly straightens his leather jacket, and his spine. "Smile. This is your freedom."
"Whatever..." Kijun rasps at length, pulling down his own mask and plants the last ever cigarette smoked in Le Sanctuaire between chapped lips. "Let's just light this bitch up and never see each other again."
Yunho only raises a simple gesture between them, urging Kijun onwards, like he knows they will. "After you."
To this Kijun responds in kind, by flicking at the zippo only once this time, dried blood catching in the brass creases as the cigarette catches light and burns. He takes a long, healthy drag that bottoms out his lungs with a delicious cloud of warmth. The very last pleasure this place will know for a while. Then, with a flick of a deft wrist, flicks it into the start of a bittersweet bonfire.
"To secrecy, blood and Lee Gun-pyo."
"To gutting oneself, and twisting the blade."
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bridgyrose · 2 years
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May I ask for another sequel based on your post with Summer losing her cool on RWBYJ, please? Summer returns to check on the group, but finds Neo attempting to attack the group. Knowing why Neo’s doing this from her talk with Yang, Summer attempts to peacefully stop Neo. The girl refuses, violently attempting to attack Summer and get to Ruby. Eventually, Summer realizes that this girl can not be convinced to stop with this much hatred in her, so Summer breaks Neo’s weapon and effortlessly defeats her. Normally, Summer’s easy take-down would’ve made Neo deathly afraid of Summer. However, Summer realizes that due to the island, Neo’s hatred has changed her too much...both physically and mentally. Summer once again attempts to help her in desperation, but it’s not enough. Summer sighs with frustration, dragging Neo over to a tree and restraining her to it, while the group look on in shock. Yang walks up to Summer and tells her that she needs to help Ruby quick. Summer agrees, worried that Ruby might end up in the same situation... Especially since Ruby had just witnessed what happened to Neo...and is now beginning to lose herself again because of it.
Summer placed a hand against a tree as she walked back to the familiar beach. Even though she said she was going to let her daughters and their friends be, there was still a feeling of something that was going wrong that kept at the back of her mind like an unscratchable itch. Something she felt she may have overlooked. She paused as she watched her daughters and their teammates fending off an attack from Neo. 
Summer rushed out to the group and put herself between Neo and RWBY. “Stop this!” 
Neo glared at Summer with red eyes, black markings ran across her skin as she rushed at the older woman and thrust her blade at her. Just as quickly as Neo moved, Summer grabbed the parasol and snapped it in half. 
“Stand down!” 
Neo looked between Summer and RWBY and took a step back, hatred and revenge ran through her mind. She rushed once more towards Ruby, only to be dropped to the ground by Summer. 
Yang, Weiss, and Blake slowly lowered their weapons as they watched Neo struggle on the ground. Yang was the first to speak, her voice shaking. 
“W-when you said the island could change us, I didnt… think this is what you meant.” 
“As I’ve said before, this island is more of a trial over anything else.” Summer held the struggling Neo to the ground and shook her head. “It takes your fears and your anger and twists them into something different, clouding your mind until you succumb to your worst desires. For this one, it seems as though she couldnt let go.” 
“I’m… going to go check on Ruby. I’m sure she needs me after an attack like this.” 
Summer nodded and picked Neo up and dragged her to a tree once she realized the girl was too far gone to talk to. With Weiss’s and Blake’s help, she restrained Neo until she could figure out something to help her. 
Weiss sighed and put her weapon to the ground as she waited for Yang to come back with Ruby. “It’d almost seem like a mercy to put her out of her misery.” 
“As much as I want to, you’ll all need her help to get off this island too.” Summer sighed and started to walk off. “Though, for her sake, I hope she can finally let go-” 
“Mom!” Yang yelled out as she rushed back to the group. “Ruby needs help!” 
Summer started to rush towards the direction Yang came from. “What’s going on?” 
“I… I dont know. When I went to check on her she started muttering to herself but then she tried to attack me!” 
Summer stopped Ruby, her eyes widening as she looked her daughter over. Black markings had started to form on her arms and legs. She shook as she held her scythe, her hands tightly gripping the shaft. Summer slowly moved closer to her daughter. “Ruby?” 
“S-stay back!” Ruby swung her scythe and took a step back. “You’re… You’re not really my mother! You did that to Neo!” 
Summer took a step closer to Ruby as the rest of the group finally caught up. “I am your mother. What’s happening to Neo is all on her own and it’ll happen to you if you dont calm down. Now please, take a few breaths and try to relax.” 
Ruby nodded and slowly took a few breaths as she lowered her weapon. The marks on her arms and legs started to shorten and she dropped to her knees. 
Summer sighed as she watched Ruby’s team rush to her and hug her once she calmed down. With slow steps, she made her way to Ruby and gently put a hand on her shoulder. “I promise, I’ll find a way to help you.” 
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yanderenightmare · 3 years
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can we have another yandere bakugou bully? i have nothing unique maybe the common on where he likes to bully the girl severely all throughout highschool and then when they are abt to graduate that’s where he kidnap. If u want to add smut it’s okay but i don’t really mind i kinda just like the fear when u write like that little scared feeling THATS ITTTTT OMG I LOVE UR FICSSSSS
yandere bully ! BAKUGO KATSUKI
TIP-JAR
goodiebag WARNINGS: nsfw, dubcon/noncon, jealousy, stalking, obsession to the extreme, manipulation, blackmail, sexual harassment  angst, bullying, trauma, threats, death/near death of a third character, slut shaming
BAD GUY
How long had she known Bakugo? 
All her life. 
That was the short answer. 
He’s made himself known. Without fail, without break, without mercy. 
Childhood friends? 
Neighbours... 
That’s what she’d say.
As though there was nothing more to it. Like he wasn't a stain on her life. A stain no amount of bleach or vinegar-and-soda or peroxide-and-dish-soap could ever hope to remove.
Come to think of it, he was more like a scar than a stain. Or really, more like an open wound refusing to heal.
Which was why it felt like a rusty blade being twisted in her gut when she opened the door to find him the one who’d rung her apartment’s bell.
“I guess... what I’ve been trying to say- what I wanted to say... was... I’m sorry.” 
He’d been scratching the back of his neck throughout the entirety of what jumbled, struggled, sorry excuse for an apology he’d forced from somewhere unknown in the hard clump of ember he had for a heart.
Something which unsurprisingly made for an insulting effort to erase what effects he’d had on her childhood.
One staggering sentence after the other of frustrating confessions, wishes gone to waste, things he hadn't meant, things he would have done differently if only he were fourteen years younger, and he could start again right when his quirk manifested before he turned into a self-righteous narcissistic prick of human waste. One dedicated to making everyone revere him by fearing him.
“For everything.” 
He put his hands in his pockets, but she could still see how they twitched inside the hoodie and bet they were weeping with sweat, adamant about starting fires.
“For all the years I put you through hell.” 
He was taller now, she noted. While calculating how she’d have to call the police if she were to stand a chance of making him leave if he decided to do what he always did and make himself comfortable.
He was bigger as well. Probably thanks to UA, making him look like a true right and shining Hero... but all she could see was how it was as though he’d swelled like some blister or bruise, like some boil ready to pop and leak its nasty contents all over her life. 
“Well?” He urged, ripping her from her heavy train of thought.
She blinked. 
“Well, what?” She bit out. Still holding the door. Ready to close it if he were to try and step inside.
“Do you accept the apology?” He asked, leaning forward. Where, on pure survival instinct, she immediately drew back. While the gap between the door and frame became slimmer as she pulled it like a shield in front of her.
Her brows dipped. Eyes not daring to close. Not allowing him a single second of rest under her justified judgment.
“No.” She barked, only barely managing to avoid the scoff that wanted to follow, yet surprising herself with the strength her voice carried.
“W-what-” He started, but she wasn't feeling particularly eager to listen to any more of his dumb excuses or half-hearted regrets or too little-too-late so-called apologies.
“You fuck with me for eighteen years...”
It was strange looking directly into his vermillion eyes, watching him be the one to shrink away, him be the one to switch his footing, tense like a shamed pet under his owner's harsh, scolding voice. It almost wouldn't even have surprised her if he'd whimpered just a little with how round his eyes were, looking just like a kicked pup. 
“And you think some half-assed apology is just suddenly going to make everything okay?”
“W-” He tried, his gaze shifting to look down at his feet.
“No.” She stopped him.
Opening the door to its original cavity. She struck a dominant pose even though he was a full head taller, her eyes narrowing in something that could only resemble disgust. 
“You’re the reason I went through all of middle-school scared and alone.”
His ears drew back meekly. Feeling small under what look she was giving him. 
“I left classes early in fear of meeting you in the halls. I made sure to look around the corners before walking down them. I ate lunch in the bathroom and listened from behind the door in case you were out there waiting.” She confessed, her eyes still maintaining contact with his, firmer the more he shrunk away. “I ran home unless you hadn't already caught me, I cried myself to sleep, I lied to my parents every single fucking day because I was afraid that if they got involved with your parents, you’d have to face the wrath of your mom, and I didn't want that for you.” 
With water welling in her eyes now, she looked to the ceiling. Taking a breath, she clenched her jaw and almost chuckled at the absurdity of it. Not caring how Bakugo’s eyes seemed to widen even more. 
“I was afraid to play on our block ‘cause I knew you would come out and make me regret it.” 
She bit her lip, looking at the guy that would yank her hair to pull her inside his locker, leaving her there for entire periods.
Make her listen as he beat Deku up in the hall, his friends like goons on his side, laughing as Izuku snivelled. 
“People were afraid to be seen with me.” 
Knuckles were white and hot from how hard she clenched her fist at her side, the other gripping the door with nails marring the wood. 
“Not because I’m quirkless, but because of you.” 
Her hard gaze met him like daggers. Plunged right between his ribs into that thing that seemed to only beat faster the more she spoke. 
“You had me think that was my fault.”
A tear slipped its confinement and went dripping down her cheek, a thin stream following it.
Her breath shuddered on intake. 
“You made me think- you made think being quirkless was- was -a curse -a crime -a fucking abomination.”
Her shoulders grazed as she looked down to the ground and let more tears fall while Katsuki stood there frigid and so very rightfully uncomfortable. 
“You made me feel like I didn’t deserve to breathe.”
He opened his mouth but quickly swallowed it as he realized he would only be repeating what dumb unsatisfactory words he’d given her before. 
“You made me hate myself.” 
She couldn't possibly hate herself more than she hated him, he thought. 
“And if it wasn’t for Izuku... I wouldn’t be here.”
His thoughts flashed back to seeing her help the green-haired geek up off the floor each time he grew bored picking on him. After the halls had filled with enough smoke, it’d stain the walls grey, the scent of burning sugar a lingering reminder of who there runs the school.
“Still, you had the nerve to go about making him feel worthless too.”
She would shove him aside at once when he’d unlock his locker. She'd push at him to let her drop to her knees and tend to the green-eyed fucker who’d had the breath knocked from him. The twerp wheezing like a pathetic runt on the dirty school floors. So shamelessly unaware of how lucky he was to have someone like her tend to him.
Katsuki cleared his throat.
“I’ve talked to him too. We’re... working it out. Just tell me what I need to-” 
“I’ll accept your apology when I stop waking up in the middle of the night because I think I feel you breathing down my neck.” She cut him off again. “When I stop looking over my shoulder because I think I hear you coming. When I stop hearing your voice in my head telling me that I’m useless, that I'm worth nothing, that I'm better off dead.” 
Her eyes sized him up. Or, rather, took in his seemingly beaten state. Finding somewhat pleasure in the fact that there was at least one thing she could deny him. 
“Until then, all you need to do is leave me alone.”
At that, she shut the door and locked it.
Her back pressed against the wood almost immediately as she drooped like drying paint. Sliding down to the ground, she listened while bating her breath for the retreating steps of the boy on the opposite side. Fearing that her speech hadn't slapped him hard enough for him to go home and lick his wounds.
Katsuki stood there for a moment, and years seemed to pass.
Hood lifted over his head, his body slouched with the terrible looming weight that pressed down upon him. Feeling so fucking tired and worn and defeated as he lifted his boot to saunter back down the stairs and make his way home.
A home, which was now not right across the street like it was back when they were kids, but a whole car ride away. Seemingly lives away. A beaten track of heavy regrets and loud, blinding, bitter disappointments.
All to be blamed on him.
~~~
It had been quiet lately.
A few comments were hurled at Deku here and there. Though they were dismissible in their dynamic as rivals.
But, as surprising as it was to admit, Bakugo had kept to her wish.
Where, overlooking those times she could feel his red stare lingering on her and searing notches into her neck, he had left her alone.
He would even give her a smile when their eyes locked gaze. Nothing like those blood-dripping battle grins but soft toothless quirks playing at the corner of his lips. Pleasant and weirdly hopeful, as though she’d come over and talk to him. Like they were friends.
Suppose she should believe Izuku when he told her Kachan was better. That he’d actually gone and grown up. That the hero course was succeeding in grooming him to become a fine hero, with the merit someone talented as him should have. That even they had a fighting chance at moving on, going back to how they’d push each other on the swing set back when they were four. 
She doubted it. 
She bet he’d be strung in his rightful and true colors not before long. Just red on red in red. Slipping right back into his ugly habits of making the world his playground and the people his toys.
This was just an act.
Those smiles he gave her were nothing but bait. Nothing but lies that would ensnare her in yet another decade of living under his boot.
But time is a funny thing. Where as much as you try fighting it, it always passes.
And paranoia is a difficult plant to grow during droughts.
And with months flying by, summer break being sweetly perfect for once, she’d soon enough discarded the notion that it was a trail bound to error or the calm before the storm.
In fact... she’d more or less let it fade like normal memories should. The open wound that used to be Bakugou’s sinister grin keeping her company at night had stopped bleeding.
And in the healing and pleasant quiet, she’d allowed herself to... let loose a little.
Or perhaps she’d just forgotten to be cautious when she was swept up in those ocean-blue eyes and that diamond-bright smile.
Maybe the warm, fuzzy feeling purring inside her gut was worth forgetting and even forgiving Bakugou in favor of getting lost to something else, someone else. Something a little warmer than hatred and a burning way more welcoming than what explosions Bakugou could offer her.
.
Meanwhile... Bakugou was going insane. 
He’d been wrong. 
He thought quitting his torment on her would be easier than with Deku, but Deku proved to be the least of his worries. In some form or way... they were actually getting closer. Going back to their roots and almost amounting to something he could only call brotherhood.
But with her...
It seemed he was only drifting farther and farther away.
He saw her hold hands with some blue-eyed fuck at lunch the other day. Heard her laugh, which pushed him with such force, thrusting him back in time. Retrieving some faint yet precious memory of her and him drying in the sun after bathing in the quarry on a warm summer’s day, back when no one and nothing could be more important than hearing that sound.
A laugh so light. So fluttering and blooming and beautiful. Followed by a snort that stuck in her nose.
It was enough to make his eyes shimmer and his ears burn while hanging onto every sound, trying to ingrain it, memorise it. Trying to ink down how it made him feel. 
He made the mistake of finding her face in the crowd of what table she was seated at. Her small frame held inside the arms of the jerk she was pulled inside the lap of. A bright smile on both their faces, so bright he almost didn't even recognise her. 
But it was her.
It shouldn't have surprised him.
He’d already seen the pictures on social media when going about his normal routine of checking up on all her different forums. Already fully aware of how the bastard was some summer fling she was the poor victim of. 
He should have been prepared for it, but fuck....
It had hurt.
It had been loud and violent and jagged, like falling down a cliffside, yet so deathly silent as he sat safely in his room.
Kirishima and Denki were about halfway through their third or perhaps even fourth spliff. Laughing like clueless fucking morons without a shred or lick of issues and consequences. Having always just been nothing but laughs and smiles.
Fucking hell... He envied them so much sometimes. To be that dim. To be that careless and big-hearted and good-natured and... 
It doesn't really matter. 
Jealousy gets him nowhere.
He’s him, and they’re them, and fantasy is just that.
He knows this, and still, he finds himself fantasising about her smiling at him and giggling with him. Sitting in his lap. Whispering sweet little mischievous nothings in his ear and kissing him and talking to him and touching him and loving him.
He was so fucking frigid lately. So uncontrollably bothered and provoked and uncomfortable.
He’d even asked Deku who the fucker was. Had him spill all her dirty little secrets. How she’d been seeing the blue-eye fuck for a short while. How she thought he was really sweet and kind. How he made her happy. 
And the more he let himself think about it, let it fester like acid bubbling and foaming on his heart, the more blinding the pain became. 
And so following the pain, like it always does and always had with Bakugou...
Came rage.
She’d betrayed him. Broken his good will. 
He should have known...
Give a bitch some lee-way with her leash, and she'll take a fucking mile.
He’d been so fucking good. So fucking perfect...
Leaving her be, allowing her friends, letting her prance about in her short school skirt without any comment, not even as much a curt whistle.
And this is how she chooses to repay him?!
Fucking with some fucking fucker right in front of him?
Right in his fucking face?
Fuck, he wanted to bash his brains out. Wanted to burn him from the inside out, watch his stupid blue eyes melt like runny rotten eggs.
He snapped the cafeteria chopsticks as easily as one would a toothpick in one hand. His eyes twitched while his nostrils flared, burning the wooden splinters in his white-knuckled fist as he watched them flirt.
Her in her thigh-high socks and tight white shirt, rubbing down against his slacks. Where he bet something was struggling to stay down. Stay hidden inside the fucker’s boxers.
But looking at his face and that bright, innocent smile shining as though he wasn't a disgusting man with ulterior motives, he could see why she chose the guy... instead of him.
.
He couldn't defend why he had him pushed into the wall behind the gym.
He could try and fool himself and the scared boy by saying he had responsibilities as her eldest friend. Alike a brother has responsibilities for his sister.
But that would be the dirtiest fucking lie.
Bakugou had no right, and he knew that, he really did. He felt it in his hands as they balled up the collar to the guy’s uniform. Had the poor sucker lifted off his feet with his bright baby-blue eyes freaking out when levelled by his own deadly red stare. 
It wasn't done due to something noble like responsibility.
It was done out of pure toxic white-hot raging jealousy.
“Bakugou, man, what the fuck-” The guy tried, but the hero-course student was like a bull that saw red. Seething as he snarled into the poor boy’s face.
“Stay the fuck away from her.”
His knuckles whitened in their death-grip. Steaming with heat. Singing the fabric it clutched.
The poor boy kicked against the wall. Trying his best to reach down to the ground with the tips of his toes.
“Calm down- the fuck you talking about?” He screeched. His voice an unstable choked pathetic thing as he cowered in panic by the heat simmering close to his neck and the maroon slits that had him pinned.
“Quirkless.” Bakugou answered curtly. “Keep your fucking paws to yourself, shit-stain.”
“Quirkless?”
Split-second confusion narrowed into reliazation at the remembrance of what little information she’d given him about what strange relationship transpired between her and the loud hero-course student. 
“You mean-” He started, but was once again pulled and slammed into the brick wall behind him. Knocking his head with a wince.
“Just stay away from her!” Bakugo barked again.
“Me?” The boy objected. Though, not really in any position to further anger the fire-wielder. “What about you? You’re the one she can't stand.”
Bakugo swallowed. Stopping.
“She said what?”
His grip loosened a pinch. Allowing the guy to drop down the wall to stand on his own. Though he still remained close.
His head hung slightly. Looking at his shoes. Put-out and thoroughly ticked off.
Dangerously so.
Nose flaring as he felt his eyes sting. Wanting to break something.
Preferably bones.
Meanwhile, blue eyes widened in realisation.
“Man... you... you like her, don't you?” He asked, or rather accused. His ears drawing back and hands rising in defence.
“Shut up.” Katsuki voice grumbled from a place the other kid couldn't see. Only the wild ash-blonde bush of hair that seemed to shake with either seething rage or a building sob.
He made the mistake of thinking it was the latter.
“You’re too late, dude... years too late.” He scoffed. Unsure if whether his disbelief outweighed outrage or amusement. 
“I said-”
Bakugo lifted his head again. This time seemingly radiating with heat as sickeningly overwhelming as the scent of burning sugar. 
“Shut the fuck up!”
Though with the threat of being charred into a crisp, the boy still hadn't the smarts to know when to quit.
“Should have thought about that before treating her like shit." He mocked. "She will never forgive you, Bakugou.” 
Katsuki’s vision went blank at that, and the poor bright-eyed boy couldn't see anything but prickly spots of white in an otherwise sea of black.
Having had his head banged against the wall for one final time as he slumped down in a pathetic sack at Katsuki’s feet. 
“Beating me up won't help your case.” He coughed. Groaning in pain.
A crisp chirp was heard and Bakugou snatched the phone that had slipped from the guy’s pocket.
Reading the label of a sweet nickname which made his stomach churn and head burn.
The text doing little to ease his building fuming boiling rage. 
“She invited you to her apartment, did she? Tch- To watch Netflix.”
He put his fat military boot to the guys throat. Keeping it there with building pressure. Squeezing the air from his windpipe. Grinding him into the coarse bricks. Disregarding the weak hands that clutched to the fabric of his pant-leg desperately. 
“If the little slut wants cock, she shouldn't be asking someone like you.” He sneered. Typing something back.
“Sick-fuck, leave her alo-” 
The sweat boiling against his palm simmered in heatwaves, melting the phone before he finally ignited. Bits of glass and metal flying everywhere. Nicking his skin. Before he dropped the thing to the ground.
Unrecognizable. 
A good reference to what the boy at the end of his foot would look like once Bakugou was through with him.
.
He could hear every little thump of his heart in his head.
Pumping in the tips of his fingers. Hot and numbing.
Tongue heavy in his throat as his jaw strained. Teeth grit in his mouth.
Fist clenching at his sides. Stained with crimson.
Eyes blood-shot as they focused on placing one foot in front of the other. Counting the steps while lifting his legs.
Boots sounding heavy and substantial in their echo as he climbed the stairs to where she waited ever so unknowingly.
Ever so excitedly. With a heart hammering quite similarly to how his was pounding. For much of the same reason.
Yet hers with an entirely different person in mind.
A person that was currently struggling to breath behind the gymnasium.
He bet she was getting ready with every virginal anxious thought running on replay in her head.
If she was sexy and sultry and smooth enough? Yet, not too much, because then she'd seem like a slut. But perfectly cute and shy and girly. Timid but lustful, precious yet wanton.
She was probably practicing batting her eyelashes and pouting and biting her lips. And how she would run her hands on his skin. How she would touch, when and what to touch. What to say, what not to say. How she was going to say it. What tone of voice. Like a whisper or a moan or a needy little whine.
Wondering if she smelled good. If he liked her perfume or if it was too pungent. Maybe he doesn't like her signature scent of fresh apples.
Pondering whether her hair was nice or not. If her skin was smooth enough. If her outfit was the right choice or if she should make a quick last second change.
She's probably hid her plushies. Taken down some childish anime posters she didn't want embarrassing her. Changed the sheets. Cleaned up the kitchen, cleared out the bathroom. Tidied up so he wouldn't know what a complete clutter-head she is.
She was probably getting all hot and bothered waiting for that blue-eyed shit-stain.
Rubbing her thighs together. Letting her hand dance down between them as she lost herself to the softness of the mattress. Letting the cool air nip at her fiery hot skin, kissing her blushed red cheeks. Eyes drifting to a close. Slight soft smile on her face. Legs spread on top of the sheets.
He bet she had lighted candles. Bet she had pre-picked a handful of movies. The soundtrack to what she would be losing her virginity to. Bet she had bought sweets, and cider, maybe even wine.
Bet she was planning to make the night perfect.
Too bad he was going to ruin it.
Just like he was going to ruin her.
Just like he had been ruining everything else for the past eighteen years of their life.
Just like he was going to continue ruining her until the day they die. 
He banged on the door. Or rather, tapped a playful tune he thought would be similar to something the guy he’d bashed into a pulp not even half an hour ago would do. Something similar to what the girl behind the door was waiting to hear.
He heard her pad across the floor. Quick gleeful feet hopping to the entrance to swing it open with a great big goofy smile on her face.
Only to stop dead in her tracks.
Bakugou was taller. Bigger compared to what lean frame she was expecting.
Her eyes levelling at his chest, where she was expecting to see a familiar friendly face. Familiar pretty blue eyes.
Gaze rising to find him towering at the threshold to her home instead.
His sharp eyes looking every drop worth of red. 
“Happy to see me?” 
He pushed himself inside. Her along with him. Ever so rightfully in his stride. Stomping, like the floor beneath belonged to him. Like everything belonged to him.
“What are you doing here, Bakugou?”
Her tone was the same it always was when she addressed him. Annoyed and ugly. Like he was just another jerk. Just another face. Just another problem. 
“I heard you were serving up your virginity...”
Her face grimaced. 
“So... I came to have first take.”
Only now did she notice the blood.
Though not dripping from his fists anymore. The thickest parts were still glossy in texture. Still fresh. Whereas all else had turned sticky. Coating him like a second skin.
Her face shed its disgusted features and drained. Paled, chilled and tightened.
Scrutinising eyes turning wide like skies. Little flecks of shimmer flickering like starlight within the glossy pools.
Her mouth parted and hung open to let a gasp out as she eyed the blood-splatter on his jacket. Gaze glitching as she struggled to take in the maroon colour of his fists.
“Whu- what did you do? What did you do to him?”
She shook. Hands raising to level with her chest. Forming some type of feeble shield as she stepped away from the menacing man.
Bakugo simply followed. His dominant footing naturally succeeding hers. The space between them shortening quickly.
“Worried about your lapdog?” He laughed.
Stalking forward. He trapped her further into the apartment. Watching her petrified moves clumsily try and keep the distance.
“Don't think about it too much.”
“Get out, Bakugou. I'll call the cops.” She tried sounding strong even as she whimpered.
That made him crack a smile. And by All Might did it feel like it was the first time in such a very long time that he could finally breathe again.
“Why so hostile?” He barked out with another laugh. A growl like thunder behind that wide sharpened grin. “We’re friends, aren't we?”
His red-eyes gleaming. Just like they did all throughout primary-school. Just like they do when he’s about to beat the shit out of someone. Just like how they do when he can taste that addictive bitingly sweet flavour of victory on his tongue. 
“Besides...”
He tilted his head to the side and looked at her like he was admiring something. 
“You’ll never make it to the phone in time.”
She should have run towards the bathroom instead.
Granted, that’s why he’d made the comment.
Make her think that the phone was of importance. Where it laid blank and black on her bed. The exact destination he wanted her.
It was of no use to her smashed against the wall.
Nor was she ever in reach of it anyway. Not with Bakugo and his blood-stained hands keeping her down.
“I've wanted you our entire fucking lives.” He seethed.
Strong dedicated hands curled around her wrists. Pressing her down into the mattress. 
“I’m the only one who deserves you!” He roared into her ear. His words hot on her cheek.
Her eyes scrunched closed. Her face tight as she felt the heavy weight of the brute on top of her. 
“And no one-”
His grip tightened as his voice turned so gruffly dark it made her heart stop.
“No one is going to take you away from me.” He growled. “Especially not some blue-eyed shit-eating waste.” 
Greediness got the best of him this time as he dived in to take a kiss. One hungry, open-mouthed, wanting, lustful, desperate, raw and wolfish kiss. Where in all her fuelled panicked adrenaline, driving purely on blind instinct, perhaps also due to Bakugo not being used to handling something so much smaller, she managed to angle her legs in a way that gave her permission to knee him right in the groin.
Second chances are only given once. But she was a smart girl and knew she wouldn't make it to the door in time. Knew that her best hope was to lock herself in.
And if being quirkless had taught her anything, it was to hope for a hero to come to her rescue.
That her only chance was to pray for her blue-eyed angel to come and save her.
The bathroom was the safest bet for now.
He had to laugh as he grabbed his aching ball-sack through the slacks of his uniform. Torn between being impressed and pissed off.
He'd only barely missed grabbing her ankle before she slipped through the door and pulled it to a close. The click of a lock sounding off soon after.
“I was never good enough for you.” He growled. The sound muffled into the floor where he lied.
His fist clenched as he banged the shoddy faux-wood paneling.
“All our lives! Didn't matter what I did... you were always gonna hate me.”
She fumbled around the bathroom in a shaky frenzy. Eyes spiralling. Trying to find anything sharp. Anything at all she could use as a weapon if the door proved too weak to withstand the force of Bakugou. 
“You were always gonna fear me.” He scoffed. "Weak and quirkless- heh... heck... it wouldn't even matter if I was quirkless too. You'd fear me either way."
Her heart beating like a galloping racehorse. Mind reeling in on the fact that he was taking his sweet time. Just like predators do when they’ve already caught their prey.
Playing with her.
“More than Deku ever did... But I guess I fucked with him differently from how I fucked with you.”
All she found was an old nail-filer. Not exactly sharp and not really at all that long. But her best and only option.
She knew it wouldn't do shit in the end though.
And then it was quiet again.
And she shook as she held onto her tiny weapon. Tears burning down her damp aching skin while every shuddering breath she dared supply her lungs with felt like it would cause her to combust as though she was made out up of thin glass.
And yet, in the chaos of fear, it was still so dreadfully painstakingly quiet. 
Until he decided to break the silence again.
“He’s bleeding out where no one’ll ever find him...” 
His voice wasn't haunting. It wasn't amused, but dead and had the ability to make her feel dead as well.
Blood freezing over. Heart eerily sinking like a block of led inside her. Skin crawling. Cold and raw and naked.
She shook. Looking back at the door. Admitting the flimsy wood was as much defence as paper to the hellhound on the other side.
Though, in the light of his taunt, her safety seemed miles away from her biggest worry.
“He’s dying, Quirkless.”
She knew then all she could do was watch.
Watch the tacky white paint-job flake on the planks.
Watch the door and wait for it to come splitting and splintering to oblivion. Like there was no door there at all. 
But it hardly mattered...
What happens to her hardly matters. 
Just like running to safety when Bakugo caught Deku and her in the school-halls wasn't ever what she did. No matter how much Deku would plead for her to run. She wouldn't.
She would do anything to switch places with him. Anything so he wouldn't be the one limping home with a cut on his cheek and a broken rib. 
“And it’s all your fault.”
She whimpered at that. Nail-filer held tightly in her hand, but only for a couple more seconds until it went clattering to the cold tiles by her feet. 
“You know how this works...” He said calmly. “You come out here... and I'll make sure he survives.”
She took a step closer to his voice. Knees numb and weak yet steady. Her hand reaching out to the doorknob. Blood prickling where it rushed about. 
“You unlock the door. Step out in your pretty little dress... and I’ll go fetch the wine.”
She swallowed. Burning fingertips touching down on the icy metal of the knob. Trembling as she drew in a shaky breath, and pulled the trigger. 
He heard the click of the lock opening and scoffed out a curt chuckle. Lips curling into a smile that showed off his teeth as he watched her small bare-foot step out.
Shiny leg following. Knees then after. The hem of her skirt that frilled loosely around her thighs. Up and up to the swell of her breasts and her chest. Her collarbones and neck.
And that pretty defeated little face. 
He sauntered over to the kitchen nook where he’d spotted the wine. Washing the blood from his hands first while thinking it weird and silly and slightly shameful that he’d imagined this so many times.
Her in a pretty dress. Thin summer fabric, easily torn. Silky and form-fitting. Leaving just her natural silhouette.
Drinking red in a dimly lit room. The taste still on her tongue when he kisses her.
“Drink.” He commanded. His hand shoving the open bottle to her lips. Tilting it up and spilling it over her chest.
She gasped but did nothing to stop him. Not so much as backing away even.
She just stood there and bowed her head as the maroon liquid, strong in scent, stained her skin. Seeping through her clothing. Spilling down the valley between her breasts.
Making her shift uncomfortably as the stream trailed down to drip between her thighs. Soaking her underwear.
And then she sniffled. Biting her bottom lip, with brows curled into such an adorable woeful look it made him want to lick the tears off her precious little face.
He lobbed the empty bottle into a cushioned armchair. Hand returning to raise her chin with his knuckles. Pushing down on her lip with his thumb, hooking it onto the bottom row of teeth, making her gape as she looked up at him.
He had the thought of spitting. But, found that he didn't really feel like it.
“You never dared put a word to it.” He stated instead.
His red eyes somehow seeming so cold, so lifeless. His lips a stern firm line. Features blank beside the tension in his jaw. 
“You’re afraid to acknowledge it.”
Thumbing her lip a second time as he licked his own. He brushed her hair behind her shoulders with his other hand. Knuckles gliding over the spaghetti-straps to her dress. Amusing the idea of how easy they’d be to rip loose.
Then acting on that very same thought. 
Torn fabric pooled around her ankles as she stood there bleating. Still not daring to move a single muscle. Not with his thumb still in her mouth and the wine spilled on her skin still dripping down her legs making her shiver on a coat of goosebumps.
He licked his lips again with his eyes drinking in the sight of her glowing dewy skin. Looking to her face and how the hot streams of tears ran down her cheeks as silently as she could muster.
Removing his hand from her mouth. He turned around with a scoff.
Walking off to her bedside table. He sighed as he begun removing his rings. The ones that made it easier to split skin open upon impact.
She guessed she should have seen it as a relief. But, she couldn't bring herself to it. 
“You'd never say anything, but you knew.” 
He threw his grey blazer to the floor. Un-cuffing his sleeves before rolling them up to his elbows. Arms flexing while unbuckling his belt. Ripping the leather out through the reims and dropping it to the floor with a sharp clatter. Tugging loose his red tie to free his collar so that he could pop open the first three buttons of his shirt.
Getting comfortable.
“Shit- you must’ve known.” 
He returned to where she still hadn't dared move a muscle. Her eyes only skittering around as he preformed his rituals.
The wine drying to a sticky thick sheen on her skin. Tinting her with pink. 
“You never cried either.” He stated.
Though, it wasn't true. 
“Deku would fucking wail like a kicked bitch, but you’d just stare at me... So much fucking hatred in your eyes...”
His hands dropped to his sides and her eyes anxiously trailed the thick veins running like lightning across his bulging muscles. 
“No tears. No rage. Just hate.”
A tiny whimper sprung form the confines of her tight chest as he fingered the thin silky material of the lacy racy red panty at her hip.
Knees shaking as she bowed her head some more.
Toes curling into their own comfort. Trying to escape the threat of being crushed beneath his big heavy combat boots. 
“But you cried.. when I touched you in ways I really shouldn't have.” 
One time, she'd dared fall asleep at her desk. So tired from a night spent crying because she couldn't get Bakugou to stop dunking Izuku’s head in the nasty toilet bowls of the school bathroom.
Only to be woken up by Katsuki’s thick warm sluggish tongue gliding up her sore cheek as she hugged the desk.
Finding the video in her inbox of someone jacking off right into her unsuspecting sleeping face. Knowing it was Katsuki but having not a single way to prove it. 
“When it was just the two of us and I said things and did things, touched things-” 
He’d sweet talk with her mother. Acting so trivial with his handsome charming smile that would easily have any of the girl’s panties dropping if only he’d use it more often. Were it not for him wasting it on manipulating and arranging it so that he would be the one driving her home after school when he turned sixteen.
Brand new car and everything. Meant to impress her.
Perhaps she would have let herself fall for it if he hadn't put his hand on her thigh. If he hadn't locked the doors and trapped her in there with him.
Maybe she would have thanked him for the ride home if he hadn't made her beg him to get off her. Only allowed to go after he’d marked up her pretty neck and twisted a nipple or two once or twice until they were left sore.
“Made you do things, say things, give me things.” 
He’d bargain with her often.
Give him her panties and he’ll leave Deku alone at lunch. Give him a minute in an empty class-room with just the two of them and he’ll leave them both alone for a grand total of a day. 
And to no ones surprise. Feed greed and greed will grow like a weed. 
Soon small exchanges turned to threats.
Telling her to stop hanging out with Deku or else he’ll beat the nerd within an inch of his life. Come to his house after classes or suffer the nastiest of rumors being spread about her all around school. Send him a pretty picture and he won't leak what other pretty pictures he’s taken when she wasn't looking.
“I thought you’d call me out on it...”
She felt the puffs of his breathing hit against the top of her head. Her eyes dead-set on watching the movement of his hands that now had taken ahold of her waist. His thumb messaging around the hipbone. Pulling her closer before he stepped to her side. His large palm laid flat on her belly. The other gripping her midriff as he stopped behind her. Hot air running down her neck and spine where his breathing turned rugged. 
“Went over battle-plans in my head-” He chuckled. “How I’d say you'd become just as fucking obsessed with me as Deku. How you shouldn't flatter yourself. How fucking desperate you must be to be falling in love with your own fucking bully.” 
He wasn't always bad.
In all their years. In all fucked-up relations. He’d never let anyone else ever pick on her.
Where after fights. Sometimes drunken and other times not. He would never fuss when she rinsed out his wounds and patched him up. Instead always giving his thanks in the form of leaving in peace.
Sometimes she wonders if that was the reason he started getting into fights in the first place...
To have her stitch him back up again.
But she’d always deemed the thought foolish. And if not that then... scary.
She stopped at one point. After the time he’d fucked Deku up so badly, she hadn't enough bandages for the both of them. Favoring the freckle-faced one and his second-degree burns above the ash-blonde and the minor gash he got when she pushed him away and he fell to the ground.
But... still...
He wasn't always bad.
In fact, be it a brief moment. Sometimes she would even forget he was bad at all.
Sometimes he’d crack a few jokes when driving her home. Cackle out a laugh that somehow seemed to warm her gut. His eyes gentle as he peeked over at her from the driver’s seat. One hand held lazily on the wheel. Sun glowing on his face. Making him look like a dandelion in its prime.
So soft and so childishly happy.
Until and unless, of course. He’d lock the doors with her inside, and refuse to take her home. Sometimes leaving her on the side of the road when she wouldn't repay him for his kindness.
He’d come back though...
Sometimes.
He wasn't always bad.
Which is what made it hurt so much more when he was.
Sometimes he’d be sweet. Leaving cupcakes outside her home for her on her birthday. Offering her his jacket or hoodie on cold days.
So sweet. He’d ask her about things.
How her day was. What she’ll be doing once she gets home.
And seem truly genuinely interested each time she’d offer him an answer.
He’d even be cute on some days too.
When she’d ask him in return.
He’d talk up storms of ambition miles out of her reach. Of his hopes and his dreams and pursuits.
And she’d almost believe that the reasoning behind his quirk was passion and not violence.
He wasn't all bad.
Even when he’d forced her into yet another study-date at his house. He’d still provide much better tutoring than anyone else ever managed.
Patient and determined. As though he truthfully cared. Even with his hand drawing greedy circles on the fat of her thigh. With his fingers tickling over the thin fabric of her undies as he made her sit on his lap. 
He wasn't only bad.
Because when she cried. When he’d make her cry. He’d always stroke the tears away with his thumb.
He would hush and coo at her. Tread loose locks of hair behind her ears and put her head against his chest.
Squeeze her until she felt like a human being again. Until her breaths would calm down to let her settle fully into his embrace.
He isn't evil.
But...
If he thinks she would or could ever...
Fall in love with him...
Then he must be...
Insane.
She placed a small hand over his knuckles once the grip he had on her waist become more like a pinch than a caress. Soundlessly asking him to loosen up.
But, only succeeding in making him even more rowdy.
Her small body was pulled harshly back into him. Her back pressed firmly against his stiff warm chest as he nuzzled his chin into the nook of her neck.
Letting his nose run along her jawline. Rub against her ear.
His thick arms coiling around her like an overbearing hug. One that had his heart thumping brutally against her spine when beating out of his ribcage.
And dick growing warm and heavy and pointy against her ass.
“You never said a thing though... you just looked at me, with so much... horror.”
She winced.
Her hands ever so gentle. Laying themselves on top of his arms.
Feeling like toothpicks against steel.
But she couldn't very well do nothing when he was squeezing her lungs free of air. 
“You fucking hated me.” 
It almost sounded like he was crying. Like he was sorry. Like he was pained and in regret.
His head rubbing against her shoulder. Trying to hold her even closer. Lifting her to her toes as he hunched over her small breakable frame.
And she thought she heard a sniffle before he spoke up again. 
“So, I’ve been thinking...”
His tone was steadier now. Hot against her ear.
And even hotter as he flicked her lobe with his tongue. Making her cringe out a fearful whimper. 
“You want me to be the bad guy?” 
Everything stilled. 
“Fuck it- I’ll be the bad guy.” 
At that she was thrown to the bed.
Weak knees carrying her staggeringly. Receiving the edge of the foot-end with her hands.
Though not left slumped against the mattress for long as strong hands once again imposed on her being.
Pulling at her by snatching the band of her underwear and yanking her up to be placed on the bed with no hope of scurrying away.
“Please-” She whimpered.
Her tiny hands gripping the bedsheets for support. Trying to soothe the ache of the wedgie her childhood bully was giving her a great nostalgia trip with. 
He smirked sadistically down at her before dropping her down with a bounce on the bed. Pulling her arm to flip her over on her back.
“Is that the only word you know?”
He quickly got on top of her. Fitting almost immediately between her thighs. Kneeling whilst looming above her half naked vulnerable self.
His hand placed at her throat. Keeping her down.
Whereas the other stroked tentative fingers down the smooth skin of her stomach. 
“I think you know my name too, don't you?”
“Please, Bakugo-”
Her hands clutched onto his arm. Legs kicking though having no target to hit where they were spread out on each side of his torso. Looking like a ladybug on its back.
“No-” He clicked his tongue while his hand closed in on the elastic band to her perfect red lace-panties.
Ones that seemed entirely picked out for him. 
“That’s not what you used to call me.”
“Katsuki-” She sobbed. Wiggling beneath his touch. Trying desperately to shake him off like he was some bug leaching off her blood. “Please stop.” 
“Wrong again.”
Her efforts where ignored by the ash-blonde looming above her.
His hand utterly unbothered by her squirming. Brushing warm digits over the fabric to her pretty lace bottoms. Feeling her warmth seep through the thin silk as his fingertips ran up and down, dipping slightly into the squishy sensitive flesh. Almost as though he was cuddling with her tender sex. Coaxing for a reaction.
“Kachan, please.” She whined and he closed his eyes for a brief second to enjoy the sound of the nickname.
Such potent nostalgia making his heart fuzz and stomach warm. Pool with something sticky and sweet.
An appreciative soft hum slipped from him. Pushing his otherwise stiff lips into a small smile.
“There we go.... Perfect. Just like the good ol’ days.” He mused. His hand still rubbing abrasively large fingers between the space of her thighs.
Thumbing at where he felt her little clit wake up. 
“Keep begging. You’re good at it.”
Her throat buzzed with warmth beneath the weight and simmering heat of the hand wrapped tightly around it. Successfully keeping her down and pushed into her pillow with no hope of shimming away from the other dangerous venturing hand.
She blinked away more tears. Felt them trail down into her hairline by her temple, itching on her scalp. Whimpering at the feel of his teeth nip on her collarbone, his warm tongue licking at the bittersweet dried wine, and the surprisingly pillowy lips kissing at her shoulder.
“You don't have to do this...” She attempted when the hand around her throat moved slightly to grip her cheeks instead. His fingers pushing into each their cavity of plush flesh, making her pout like a fish. Her lips pushed into a makeshift kiss.
To no surprise he chose to ignore whatever pitiful plea she’d wasted her breathe on. Too focused on drawing patterns into the heat between her legs. 
“Fuck- I’ve missed this face.” He moaned. His breath hitting her lips as she shook beneath him. “This fucking adorable crybaby face.”
He licked his lips again, and his shameless wanton eyes stared lustfully down at her own glossy ones. 
“You look so fucking pathetic.”
His mind couldn't help but stray as his heart clenched with fear for a split second. Getting lost to the unsavoury memory... Wondering if that was what he had looked like when the sludge-villain had him neck deep in despair. When he couldn't breathe. And how the whole experience had left him wanting for a type of comfort he in no way deserved.
Where in the self-loathing...
Being a villain had never seemed quite so inviting.
She didn't expect the kiss to be so soft.
She thought he was going to bite and chew and swallow.
But he brushed his lips quite smoothly against hers. Swiping his tongue over her bottom lip before pushing gently through to taste her.
With it she forgot to breathe. And in that darkness and stillness of having her lifelong fiend kiss her with the care no one she’d ever kissed had given her, she was left listening to what soft hums left the brutish male on top.
Wondering why he so suddenly sounded like he was nothing more but a boy kissing his crush for the first time.
And perhaps she would have forgotten who it was completely...
If only it weren't for the greedy hand that had finally decided to push aside the flimsy lace and push through the tender neatly-shaven lips of her drooling virginity.
“Aww-” His voice scraped mockingly. Gutturally low and sadistically gleeful. Hot on her lips. “Did you get yourself all nice and ready for me?”
She winced out a whimper as he pushed a thick muscly finger into her hole, playing with the tightness for a moment before filling her up with the entire length of his large long-reaching digit. 
“So wet-” He commented, much to her embarrassment.
Though in her defence she had been awaiting someone else in silly thrill for the past hours, preparing like a little girl before the first day of school. 
“All hot and bothered, waiting for me to come?”
She sobbed in disgust as he started pumping and messaging her aching needy arousal. Her thighs trembling at how much the sticky warmth in her gut seemed to hum in utter betrayal by the blissful pleasure. 
“You. Little. Fucking. Slut.” He whispered.
A haughty smile carved on his face as he watched the way her cheeks pooled with red and the shaky intake of breath on her lips, while feeling her tightness clench and pulsate on nothing more but one measly lonesome finger. 
“How does it feel? Huh?” He panted against her cheek as she still ever so foolishly tried squirming away. “How does it feel to cum on my fucking hand? Same hand that’s been pushing you around your entire fucking life?”
She tried winding her thighs shut, but every shift had him sinking his finger in deeper and hooking it cruelly into her tightness. 
“I bet you like it. No, I know you like it.”
He sunk a second one in and she cried out a wince, biting her lip to try and suppress the terrible treacherous moan that wanted to bloom from her throat as her pussy clenched, sucking happily on the new digit taking up the taunt space inside her. 
“I can feel it plain and simple. Your slutty cunt clenching my fingers like your fucking life depends on it.” He snickered, knowing exactly what he was doing as he slid and slotted the two thick digits in and out while having his thumb pressing evilly into her clit, making her back want to arch off the bed as he kissed at her jaw, whispering his cruel words. “Fuck... I can even hear it.” 
She wanted nothing more but to twist away, thinking things wouldn't be half as bad if she didn't have his lips on her cheek and his words tickling her ear and his eyes watching her every move as he made her cum on his hand with that sick twisted smirk on his face.
All she could do was count her blessing that he didn't have the ability to read her mind, because then he’d also know of how the growl in his throat still somehow managed to make the adder in her gut coil and purr with pleasure and how it made her cry in disgust of herself.
But then she was there.
Lips parted to gasp out the last moan yet caught by his and locked in yet another soul-sucking kiss that she now had not the strength or the mind to fight because all she could do was think of the fluttering rippling from the little pressure point found beneath his coarse thumb, and how with every little flick it sent blitz shooting through her core, zipping along her thighs, making her back lurch off the bed and into his chest, where his heart was panicking like a fucking madman with a hammer on an anvil.
His stomach warming at the sight of her all silken and soft and coming undone on his brutish hand, with her lips caught between his teeth as he kissed her like he was pouring his soul down her throat. 
Until she woke up, after only a few passing seconds, a fleeting moment of bliss.
“You- you’re a fuck-king monster.” 
Pained bleary oceans looked up into scarlet bloodbaths, yet couldn't see the amount of awe found in them, or saw it only to feel a deep shudder of disgust on the account of it.
The hand around her throat, kept there like a noose or a collar, didn't take kindly to her words.
Far from happy at how she chose to rob him of his satisfaction a moment too soon.
And if there’s one thing people know about Bakugo, it’s how if one indecent desire isn't satiated, he’ll gladly indulge another.
The strong trained hand made to squeeze frail fragile pipes.
His lips turned grim and stiff. Bloodthirsty eyes beholding what he’d always wanted to call his. Spiteful and desperate to make his wishes come true by any means necessary.
“This is how easy it would be, Quirkless.” He commented while listening to her choking.
Scarlet eyes watched, seemingly indifferent to the sight of her hopelessly trying to gasp for the air his hand wouldn't allow passage through to her burning lungs. 
“It’d only take a minute and you’d be gone forever.” 
He squeezed tighter and listened to her squeak.
Her little useless hands loosening their hold on his larger paw. Giving out, before his fist detached and she sprung back to life.
Coughing and gulping for air. Her hand soothing her throat as she tried curling up into herself, though not allowed to go anywhere but where Bakugo wanted her. His hands finding new purpose in holding her by the hips.
He pulled her naked body closer to his, which had her tender slick-soaked mess brush against the rough fabric to his pants, and her sensitive nipples, perky from the cool air, rub on his cotton-shirt. 
“If I were you, I’d try figuring out ways to stay alive.” 
Her lips quivered. Brows furrowed as she looked at him, thinking she’d never seen him quite this stone-cold.
Feeling that little ounce of hope she still had left for the boy in her heart flicker with its last will. Snuffed out by how he dragged her off her back and made her sit on his lap.
His harsh fingers burying themselves in the dough of her hips while his erection laid like a large bump of scratchy material against her clit, making her cringe as she trembled with tears falling silently in thin streams down her cheeks. 
“Remember what you said to Deku when the shrimp tried fighting back?”
She closed her eyes and bowed her head. Feeling a hand leave her hip, and soon after the rip of a zipper being pulled. Her shoulders sinking as her breath shuddered. 
“He’s not worth it.”
She felt his thighs shift beneath her, but she didn't dare open her eyes.
All she could do was swallow and feel the cold air brush against her naked flesh as she heated up by the fact that Katsuki was pulling his dick out with the intention to sink it inside her.
“I slapped the old hag that day when she asked me what was wrong. Square across the face. She had burns for months.”
She whimpered when she felt his breath on her cheek, and recoiled back, though held firmly and painfully by the large hand on her hip. 
“You want me to slap you?” His voice was weirdly sweet whilst a knuckle went sliding against her cheek to pull the curtain of hair out of her face.
His lips soon pressing against her cheek as she choked on her own whimpering shallow breaths. 
“No, right?” He whispered and that’s when she felt it.
Plush like velvet, squishy and warm, burning, thick and rounded, bobbing against her clit, being pushed to slide through her folds, make her squirm on top of him. 
“So be a good slut and ride my fucking dick.”
He added pressure to the small of her back.
The slight inclination of heat and sweat in his palm telling her to move closer until she was hovering above something else that was radiating heat between her thighs.
Brushing up against her opening.
Her breath hitched in her throat as she felt it push, and she opened her eyes to look at him with the most pleadful expression she could muster.
Her lips trembling to their complete own accord, and brows joining the same dance of tremor.
“Kachan-”
But there was nothing staring back at her.
Nothing she could call human.
Not kindness nor mercy.
Not even pity.
“Come on, Quirkless. Show me what you were gonna do with that blue-eyed fuck.”
He didn't make a single move, as though he was waiting for her to do it for him. 
“Don't be shy. Come on, slut.”
His fingers dug into her hips and she knew, by the burning cold in his eyes, he was dead-set on making her feel every lick of his hatred. 
And it was hatred.
She couldn't allow it to be anything else.
She couldn't bare the thought of it being anything remotely similar to love as she lowered her hips slowly for him to fill her up inch by thick inch, sliding inside her wet virgin walls, all the way to the hilt, until his bulging head kissed sweetly into her screaming cervix.
It couldn't be love.
She didn't get a second to think before his hand once again grabbed ahold of her face.
His sandpaper fingers mushing her soft cheeks, making her stare into his bleeding-red look with those moon-wide tear-soaked horrified pretty eyes.
“Is this what it takes for you to notice me?” He puffed. “Huh? Can’t fucking focus without me threatening your life?”
She still flinched at the sharpness of his words. Feeling cold and tense and so very dreadfully alone, even with him twitching inside her. 
“Am I only worth it when I got my cock balls-deep inside you?”  
She closed her eyes but it was a mistake.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, fucking bitch!” He barked. Spit flying into her squished face a mere half-inch away from his teeth. “You want me to fuck you like one? Bend you over, make you take it from behind, on your knees with your face down, like a good for nothing cum-dump whore?!”
His other hand pulled her even closer, made her tits hug against his chest where he still hadn't bothered removing his shirt. Buttons sharp and abrasive against her flesh as she shook at the feel of his cock warming and stretching her out. Weirded-out with how it sat lodged so well inside the comfort of her pussy, and how she was unwillingly clamping down around the girth of him, sucking on him gratefully, happily and passionately like how they used to huddle for warmth at nap-time on playdates.
He kissed her again. His forehead pushing achingly into hers. Noses hugging. Lips strutting forward and pressing into hers like letting go meant dying, where even his breath shuddered as she could swear his eyes seemed a bit more glossy then than before. Though it could easily have been brushed off as just a trick of the light in the dimly lit bleakness of her apartment in the night.
"Do you-" He whispered in a voice like from a complete different person. “Remember our first kiss?”
It had been back when they were only four and having only the slightest clue what kisses even were, but she could never forget it. 
“You told me I sucked.” He added.
“I- I told you not to use so much teeth.” She whimpered. Voice weak and blubbering like it had been back in kindergarten. Soft and sweet and shy and only barely above a whisper.
“Guess I never learn...” 
He didn't pull away. Their foreheads still seemingly glued together. Noses bumping. Breaths cohesive. 
“You haven’t changed much since then either.”
That broke her heart. 
His hands tightened against her flesh.
“Now ride. Or next time I fuck you, blue-eyes rotting head will be watching us.”
TIP-JAR
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illusionsofdreaming · 3 years
Note
would it be okay to request headcanons with the main trio from TCF who aren't in a relationship with the (fem) reader yet but they like each other, the guys get hurt or something and the reader is so scared of losing them or was so anxious that she ended up kissing them? You can edit a few parts if you'd prefer! thank you, i know you have a lot of requests but you're the only one who writes x reader for them-
Notes: It took forever+forever but I finally gave up trying to perfect it- y'all just going to have to deal with these half baked potatos as I sob in the corner for my lack of functioning writing braincells.
+ 'nonny I know you asked for Fem reader but I'm just so used to writing gender neutral nowadays I actually forgot to write Fem reader in. Uh. I mean it's gender neutral so it should work regardless?? I'msorrypleaseforgivemeforthisblunder
Ft: Cale, Alberu, Choi Han
Cale Henituse
He’s covered in blood.
Again.
He glanced down at his shirt, once white, now completely soaked and rapidly losing warmth. The icky feeling of sticky cloth stuck on skin caused goosebumps to break out all over his arms. The lethargy that weighed on him was hard to ignore, but expected after using his ancient powers-
“Cale!”
He turned just as the full force of you barrelled into him and he staggered, unbalanced and would’ve fallen had you not pulled him back. He barely had time to protest at your rough greeting when you began frantically patting him down as if scouring him for weapons.
“There’s so much- where are you hurt?” you demanded harshly, your tone pitched higher than normal. “Raon call for Saint Jack and the others, medics- anyone that can help!”
“Y-yes! I-I will! Weak hu-human you better not die or I will destroy the kingdom!”
“Wai-“ his protests were ignored as the dragon flew off, leaving Cale dumbfounded with his jaw hanging down in disbelief. “Wait you don’t have to find the others, I’m fi-“
“Cale Henituse, if I hear you say ‘I’m fine’ I’m going to sock you to kingdom fucking come.“ you seethed. His lips snapped shut obediently, swallowing the aforementioned phrase down as a foreboding chill crept down his spine.
But I am..?
“How could you..” your voice shook even as you clung onto his soaked shirt so tightly your knuckles turned white. “You’re always doing stupid things like this…”
Cale frowned, feeling a bit indignant. Sure his plans weren’t the most thought out at times, but to call them stupid…
“If you waited for us to come, then you wouldn’t have to- why do you keep sacrificing yourself like this?”
That triggered an alarm in his head. What strange things were you talking about? The act of sacrifice were done by martyrs and selfless heroes and Cale Henituse was neither of those. He wanted to correct your misunderstanding but you were worked up and hysterical and it was with horror that he realised you were crying.
“________-“
“Don’t talk! Please, just conserve your energy- I won’t let you die, I promised the kids and the others- I won’t let you-”
The alarm bells in his head rang even louder and he fought to be heard over your rambling, “_________- no one’s dying, I’m fine-” it felt as if his heart had leapt to his throat as he stopped your fist before it could make contact. You really weren’t joking when you said you’d punch him. He tightened his hold on your wrist when you tried to twist out of his grip and swallowed nervously. “I’m not hurt _________,“ he emphasised, willing you to meet his eyes.
“Stop bullshitting me Cale- how much of a fucking idiot do you take me for? How can anyone be fine after losing this much blood-“
“It’s not mine.”
You stilled in his grasp.
“…W-what?”
He frowned. Was it really that hard to believe his words? “The blood’s not mine.” he repeated and made sure to meet your disbelieving gaze head on so that you could verify the truth in his words. “They were cut down before they could harm me. None of this blood is mine. I was not hurt.“ It was a partial lie. He did cough out some blood after instinctively activating the shield for protection but he felt that that was knowledge you’d be better off not knowing.
The coiled tension in you leaked out and Cale slowly released his grip on your hand and took a cautious step back - just in case. It was a good thing he managed to deescalate the situation before the others arrived. Just convincing one person was hassle enough and from experience alone, he knew the others weren’t as merciful when it came to learning about his injuries, regardless of severity or his protests otherwise. Cale shuddered. He really didn’t want to be on the receiving end of Ron’s cold smile again. He glanced up and saw Raon’s flying figure and he waved lazily to the dragon hoping the young one would understand that the healers were no longer necessary, it had only been a false alarm.
“..ot.”
“Hm?” He looked down, hearing you mumble but didn’t quite catch what you’d said.
He was not prepared to be yanked forward and for your lips to mash against his. There was a brief sting where your teeth had caught on his lip and the uncomfortable sensation of having your teeth clack against each other, noses in the way. He froze, like a deer caught in headlights, thoughts reeling but before he could think of acting, to push or pull you in even closer-
You let him go just as abruptly and he staggered, breath stolen, mind in absolute disarray.
Then you slapped him. Which definitely cleared his thoughts. “You idiot!”
Stupefied, he watched as you stormed off, stuck in a daze as he cradled his face where his cheek and lips tingled for different reasons.
“…What..?”
Choi Han
Choi Han didn’t know what Cale saw in you back then, a complete stranger whom they saved by chance and nursed back to health with utmost care. You, who Cale insisted was the final key to their masterplan and then asked Choi Han to act as your escort.
There were many things Choi Han didn’t understand when it came to Cale-nim’s decisions. But that wasn’t so unusual and he’d never made it a habit to question Cale’s reasoning, having learned to be patient, knowing the pieces would eventually slot together in the grand picture. So although initially wary he was of your unclear history and affiliation, he stayed by your side and did his duty without question.
And perhaps after weeks of accompanying you, he’s beginning to see what Cale saw. Though powerless and weak, you were righteous and passionate, holding true to your belief even in the face of adversaries. You were the perfect replacement for the tyrannical ruler of the country, someone capable of salvaging the crumbling system of a neglected, abused society and lifting it to new heights and glory.
With the flames of revolution ignited, everything hinged on getting you safely to Cale on the final stage. While the revolutionaries fought and acted as distractions above ground, he escorted you through the abandoned waterways.
The undergrounds were dark and cramped, incredibly disadvantageous to a swordsman such as himself. When assassins leaped out in an ambush; Choi Han didn’t hesitate. Without time nor space to draw his sword, he pushed you behind him and raised his arm to block the strike.
As the momentum of the assassin’s blade stopped, it became simple matter to quickly disarm and finish them. Having checked and affirmed that there’s no forthcoming attacks, he urged you to hurry, now worried as they weren’t expected to be discovered so soon.
Something must’ve happened, we should hurry to Cale-nim’s side-
He was halted with a firm grip on his other hand and was pulled back as he was met with your stern, unwavering gaze and declaration that you will not move another step from this spot until his arm got treated first.
Which was a ridiculous request considering they were running on a tight schedule. He frowned and his fingers flexed against the hilt of his sword as you pulled him to the side.
When none of his objections were being heard, he tried reasoning with you. The wound may look horrible, but he’d assured you he’d angled his arm just so that the blade would’ve caught on his bone rather than tendons. It was a strategic move that not only blocked momentum but also kept damage to his non-dominant arm at the minimum. He would not have bled to death nor would he be crippled from it, something that barely needed the emergency care you insisted on.
“It’s not necessary, we need to get to the tower room first.”
“The room is not moving anywhere, I’d rather not risk having you develop an infection because you neglected to care for your wound.“
He flinched when alcohol was poured on the cut and Choi Han breathed out slowly, his frustration mounting as precious seconds passed. Something in his chest stirred uncomfortably. He’s not accustomed to having others care for his wounds, having spent so many years caring for them himself whilst hiding his weaknesses from monsters in the Forest of Darkness.
“I will attend to it after I’ve brought you to Master Cale’s side, we must-“
Your eyes flashed with anger as your grip tightened painfully around his arm. “So many things have been lost to reach this stage, I’d rather not lose more on the way there.”
“Cale-“
Perhaps you’ve had enough as well as the next thing he knew, your fingers dug into his arm and he found himself yanked forward and you pressing a hard, determined kiss that stole whatever he was going to say from his lips.
“Cale Henituse,” you said sternly when you parted and picked up a roll of bandages, “can afford to wait a bit longer.” you glared at him as if daring him to argue otherwise.
Not that it was necessary, considering he’d doubt he’d have the coherency to answer anything with the way all the blood in his body was rushing to his face.
Alberu Crossman
He didn’t feel anything upon the moment of impact. Only the shocking cold of metal being slid into his side and the vicious gaze of the perpetrator pressed up to his front.
The pain ripped through a moment later and he gritted his teeth, red spilling down his lips. It hurts.
Activity bursted around him, screams of fear echoed through the ballroom as guards rushed to his side. However one voice in particular caught his attention and he looked up to catch your horrified expression, lips parted in a desperate cry.
His forehead furrowed as a strange sense of guilt washed over him- he didn’t want you to see this- but he didn’t have time to explore the feeling as his hand latched firmly on the hand which still held the weapon in his side, preventing their escape.
His smile was red, “Caught you now, rat.”
═════☩══♛══☩═════
He tousled his hair dry with a towel as he read through the reports in his hand.
Alberu was exhausted, the fight to rid his side of his enemies’ spies had always been an ongoing and tedious project. His enemies were cunning and always played things safe however their impatience this time would cost them. Now that one of their own has fallen into his hands, they can start pulling in the net.
A knock sounded on his door and he didn’t bother looking up from his reports as he gave permission. “Come in.”
“Did you manage to find any new information from them?” he asked immediately as the door opened. Anything gleaned from the assassin would be beneficial to his cause. Not that he truly expected any confessions to be given this night. Any hired killer worth their salt would know not to betray the mastermind behind a hit. But there were more than one way to find credible information aside from words torn directly from the lips of a captive.
When no answer came, he looked up and immediately dropped the papers he was reading.
“___________…”
In the aftermath of the attack and the capture of the assassin he’d been immediately escorted to the healers for first aid. With the bare minimum done he’d left quickly to take control of the situation, calming the aristocrats and giving orders to assign all guests to be escorted to a room in the palace to rest from the unexpected development - the smarter ones would know this was just a way to keep all suspects in one place, stalling for time so that his trusted aides may work to narrow down the most likely suspects. He had been meaning to find you and explain once everything settled but this time you took matters into your own hands.
Your eyes glanced at the documents he dropped. “Am I disturbing your work?”
“No,” he replied instantly, fighting back the urge to shuffle the papers behind him. “No, you’re not.”
The room lapsed into silence once more as neither of you seemed keen to address the elephant in the room.
“About tonight…” he started slowly, “they had to believe I had my guards lowered.”
The truth was, though he believed you would not have been behind the attack, you had to be tested all the same. Should it be known you’ve been partial to this plan, it would’ve given the real culprits leverage to use.
You approached him and he wished you would say something. He noted the redness in your eyes and felt a stab of guilt lodge in his chest. “It had to be believable.”
You didn’t meet his eyes and your hand hovered over where his wound had been.
He lifted the edge of his shirt up to reveal the pink scar tissue underneath. It was ugly and badly healed due to the rush he had been in. “I wasn’t in any real danger.” he said softly, staying still and resisting the urge to shiver when your fingers traced the scar.
“You’re picking up bad habits from Cale.” You said so softly he would’ve missed it had he not been paying attention.
“The padded shirt under prevented the blade from going too deep.” he explained, hoping you’d understand that he hadn’t been reckless. Everything had been planned carefully. He slowly tucked his shirt back in as you withdrew your hand, already missing the warmth you brought to his skin just moments ago.
“__________…”
You leaned in and placed a small kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Don’t do that again.” you whispered against his cheek.
He could only watch in astonishment as you turned away and exited his room.
“..Okay..” he said hoarsely to the empty room.
184 notes · View notes
mypoisonedvine · 3 years
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Hii!! First, thank you for letting us enjoy your writing, I absolutely love it!. And for tonight's sleepover (sorry if it seems a bit off, I'll understand if you dont want to write it) but... What about one of Daniel's characters discovering a knife kink, like they love the way reader can defend by themselves, he admires that and can't help but thinking about reader being so dominant, slashing his clothes or their own clothes teasing him. How would they react once reader notices that?
this just SCREAMS sub!zemo at me and hhnng you know I can't say no to that! knife kink obviously but no blood, oral m receiving, premature ejaculation, mention of anal, and lots of teasing c:
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Say what you will about EKO Scorpion, but you were a dedicated unit of soldiers. Maybe it was because most of the squadron came from intelligence first, but there was a discipline a lot of other boots-on-the-ground seemed to lack. While they spent their leave in bars and brothels, you were working; all of you were. Training, specifically. Some of the others were training with weights, a few more with guns; but you and the Colonel were on the other side of the barracks, running drills with a much more ancient weapon.
He was there first, you saw him sparring against a dummy with his sabre and you stopped to admire his form for a moment before he caught you watching.
"What a sad little blade you've got there, Lieutenant," he smirked, "it's nothing compared to my broadsword." He waved the weapon in question just for emphasis, and you had to admit he looked pretty good holding it like that.
"It is little, isn't it?" you admitted as you observed the dagger in your hands. "I'm just using it to compensate for my huge dick."
He scoffed but you knew the comment threw him off a little bit. He did a better job than the other men in the unit at ignoring your female-ness, but apparently thinking about whatever was in your pants-- huge dick or otherwise-- wasn't how he expected this conversation to go.
"Spar me?" you suggested.
"Sure, where's your sabre?" he asked.
"No, I'll use this," you clarified, and he seemed both shocked and amused (again).
"Against this?" He waved the sword again.
"Yes! Now will you just get back into form? And try not to stab me too hard?"
He cleared his throat quickly and squared himself up. "No promises," he mumbled.
You made the first move, and though his sword started to come down over you, you were able to catch it in the divot of your dagger's hilt, blocking him so swiftly that he never had a chance to stop you from twisting around and pointing your weapon at his neck, just under his jaw.
He dropped the sword and raised his hands, taking a step back and pressing himself against the wall as you followed him with a raised brow. "Well, that was a bit anti-climactic, huh?" you smirked.
His wide-eyed expression made your heart swell for no good reason at all: here was your Colonel, your commander, someone you looked up to and obeyed without question, looking uncharacteristically submissive-- and not just in general, but to you. The thought hadn't even crossed your mind before, but you liked the rush it gave you.
His gaze glanced down for a second, at himself, and you instinctively followed it; you weren't sure what you were expecting, but it definitely wasn't an obvious boner pressing up against the inside of his uniform trousers. That's what it had to be, right? What else would have that shape, with the ridge of his head visible through the dark green fabric? It looked thick, too... were you drooling already?
"Okay, maybe not anti-climactic for all of us..." you mumbled.
"Exciting, sure," he awkwardly countered, "but I wouldn't quite call it 'climactic'... yet..."
You grinned and stepped even closer, delicately running the blade over his jaw; he had just enough stubble that you were more likely to give him a sudden shave than to actually cut him. Not that you'd ever want him to shave the stubble, because you secretly loved it. "I can fix that," you whispered. "What was it that got you excited, then, Colonel? The blade, the fight, the way I casually walked in here and kicked your ass?"
"A little bit of everything," he decided after swallowing thickly. "H-how sharp is that, anyway?"
"Really sharp," you promised, moving the blade down lower to run over where his neck met his shoulder. "I could cut you. I should stop then, right? You don't want me to cut you."
"Don't stop," he whispered.
You moved the dagger lower again, this time to the collar of his shirt where you slipped it underneath and started to slowly slice your way down, right through the standard-issue cotton fabric. You mainly just focused on your work but caught a glimpse of his mouth falling slack above you.
You'd seen him shirtless before, you end up seeing your comrades in various states of undress when you're in the field together this long, but it looked different with his chest rising and falling every time he panted, with a thin layer of sweat over the highest point of where his pecs were dusted with blonde-ish-brown-ish hair.
You dropped to your knees in front of him, ghosting the side of the cool metal over his fly and watching him tense up. "Y-you're not gonna cut me there, right?"
"No," you answered, suddenly sliding the shining tip of it right between his legs, where his balls must've been turning blue waiting for you to stop teasing him; he started to creep up onto his tiptoes to avoid getting pricked as you continued, "not if you behave."
You looked up at him expectantly.
"You're going to behave, right?"
"Yes, Lieutenant," he nodded quickly, and it was so odd to hear him say that as if you were his superior. You liked the feeling, though, it made you want this more than ever.
You sliced the button of his fly clean off; you hooked the tip of the blade into the end of his zipper and carefully pulled it down.
"Fuck," you heard him mumble as his cock was freed, looking so lonely and achingly hard. You couldn't even stop yourself from leaning forward and swallowing up the tip of it, hearing him moan and feeling his hands grab at your hair right away.
"Hands to yourself, Colonel," you stopped to correct him quickly, and he slammed his hands back against the wall with all the desperation of a man who would do anything to get you to keep sucking his cock. Thankfully for him you did, running your tongue up under the base of it before suckling at the head once more, going just a bit deeper with each bob of your head.
"Oh god," he groaned, "s-so good, it's so good... please don't stop."
It was the sadist in you that had to stop right then, though you gave him a little mercy by stroking his cock slowly with your free hand while twirling the knife with the other. "How long has it been since somebody got you off, Colonel? Other than yourself."
"Can't even remember," he admitted with a sigh, "even just by myself. You know we can hardly ever get a moment alone in a unit like this. But I know the last time I got off, I was thinking about this."
"This?" you repeated, bewildered.
"Exactly this," he confirmed.
"That's funny, cause the last time I got off, I was thinking about you, too," you grinned.
"Really? You thought about me when you touched yourself?" he smiled.
"I never said I was alone the last time I got off, Colonel," you reminded him. "No, I was with somebody... and while he was fucking me I was imagining how much better you would do it."
"Oh, fuck," he sighed as his head fell back against the wall; you kept stroking him as you started sucking again, bringing the side of the blade up against the crotch of his pants again just to see how he squirmed with his cock still in your mouth. "I'd fuck you so much better, Lieutenant, you know I would... let me show you."
You had to pull off of him before you smiled too hard to keep going. "Oh, Colonel, I don't think that's a good idea. I think I should just keep sucking you off until you come-- shouldn't take you very long, you're already trying not to come all over my face as we speak-- and then leave you be. Keep it simple, you know."
"N-no, I need more, fuck," he hissed.
"No, you definitely don't," you chuckled, "you can come right now, just from this. Is that what you wanna do? You wanna come down my throat right now?"
"No, I wanna see you," he explained, "wanna touch you-- I need to make you come, Lieutenant, it's all I've been thinking about for months."
"Okay, let's make a deal then," you offered. "I'm going to keep sucking your cock and if you can keep from coming for fifteen seconds, you can do whatever you want to me. You can fuck me right here on this floor, you can eat my pussy until I pass out-- you can put it in my ass, if you really want. Whatever you're into, whatever you've been thinking about when you get yourself off."
His eyes were so wide as you said that, you worried they'd just fall out onto the floor.
"But if you come, all you're getting is the memory of this afternoon as material for your pathetic little spank bank of fantasies. Deal?"
He could only nod weakly as he stared down at you.
"Count for me, Colonel," you demanded, hearing him start with 'one' the moment you wrapped your lips around him again.
He almost lost count right away, because clearly he hadn't been expecting you to pull out all the stops-- you sucked hard, you bobbed your head and twisted your hand over his spit-slicked length, you trailed the blade slowly down his thigh through his trousers. "Two, th-three, four, five..." he breathed, whimpering a little when you looked up at him and made a moment of eye contact. "Fuck, uh, six, seven..."
You pressed your tongue against his slit and felt his hand jump up to grab your hair instinctively. You kept sucking and stroking as you circled it with the tip of your tongue, moaning around him even though you hadn't even really meant to.
"Eight, f-fuck... ni-- oh, god!" he groaned, and even you were surprised as you tasted salty, warm come beginning to coat your tongue. He held you down with his grip on the back of your head, cock twitching as streams of come shot to the back of your throat. You almost gagged, but managed to keep it together until he was done, at which point you pulled back and showed him your full mouth before closing and swallowing it in one go.
"Not even ten seconds, Colonel, that's a shame," you grinned, loving how embarrassed and flustered and exhausted he looked, "I was really looking forward to being all yours, however and whenever you wanted me... oh well."
You shrugged and stood up, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
"You don't last very long in a sparring match, huh?" you chuckled, tossing the blade to him and seeing him fumble but managed still to catch it. "Better luck next time."
You left without another word, though his dumbfounded expression proved he had plenty to say, just no wherewithal to do so. You could only hope that he'd find a chance sometime soon to get his revenge on you, because you were really looking forward to losing your next bet with him.
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omiscurls · 3 years
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hi! (this request is heavily inspired by a kdrama i just watched called sweet home lmao) could i request a childe x gn reader fic where childe and the reader r both severely injured and the reader had to kill someone for self defense and as theyre running away the reader feeling super guilty is like “i’m so terrible i killed someone” and childe is trying to comfort them and they find a place to rest while being both on the verge of death and the reader is like “i killed someone, i’m so scared that it’ll be my last memory”and the childe is like “try to forget abt it it’s ok” and the reader is like “u don’t think abt either too” (yk implying like oh don’t think abt the ppl you’ve killed before childe, bc im assuming he’s killed a lot of ppl) and he’s like ok with a sad smile and they die together in each other’s arms holding hands?)/?:))2 help this is wayyy to detailed i’m sry but if u want the reference scene it’s from this video , they show the specific scene in time stamps 0:57-2:56 again i’m so sorry if this is too detailed or if u don’t wanna write it!!! tysm <3
memory
a/n oh my god that is just my kind of angst, thanks for the request and i hope you'll enjoy!!
prompt: honestly? dying with tartaglia (that sounds like a creepy tv show's title and i'm proud of it)
contains: tartaglia
warnings: angst, death, blood, major character death, self-blame, murder, more blood, really a lot of dying and bleeding, please do not proceed if you're not comfortable with the topics
adrenaline was probably the last string that had your body moving and functioning in any way. the blood in your veins made you deaf, only capable of noticing the sounds of it pumping behind your ears, head pulsing like a bomb about to explode.
your whole body shook, and you felt a metallic taste on your tongue, covering your mouth with your hand to prevent throwing up, which you predicted would happen in a matter of seconds.
"hey!" you finally heard childe yell, sounding distant even still, when you lifted your gaze away from the body before you and noticed he was standing fairly close. "come on, move, or his buddies" he said pointing to the lifeless man beneath you "might just come to get revenge"
with that he took your arm by the waist and pulled you along with him.
you stumbled over your own feet, and almost fell down every couple of minutes. your lungs started to burn after mere seconds, and you couldn't even find breath to tell him to slow down. you also knew he couldn't, having better self-preservation instincts than you, he understood the situation you two were in better.
fuck.
you looked behind you, to the spot where blood painted the grass red under a pile of dead bodies, some of your allies, some of your foes, but from this kind of distance, you couldn't even make out which one was which. your gaze fell down to your hands, covered in sticky redness as well.
you just killed somebody.
it wasn't even the consequences that frightened you, it was the sheer act of life leaving his eyes before he fell down, of his pupils staring at you in one last beg for mercy before freezing like that for the eternity ahead, for how his body seemed to have gained weight in a matter of seconds, almost pulling you down with him. the ringing in your head got more intense as you choked on a strained sob.
"they're dead" you breathed out, making your partner laugh sarcastically.
"good guess" he answered, his grip on your arm loosening as the both of you climbed up a hill.
"no, you don't understand, they're- dead dead! i- i didn't think i-" you stumbled over your words, panic settling in your eyes as you tried to comprehend the situation.
"what, you didn't think that if you pierce a person through with a blade they're gonna die?" he asked rhetorically, back almost slamming against a tree, sliding down to the ground with a breath of relief. "fuck, looks like i got pierced, too" he noticed, looking down onto his side, the grey material of his uniform getting dark and sticky. he hissed, trying to lift it up, and gave up on his attempts, instead opting to look at you.
you didn't sit down, but kept staring forward with the most frightened expression he had ever seen you wear. eyes wide open as you searched for answers in thin air, hands shaking, moving up to cover your mouth.
“hey” he whispered way gentler than before, urging you to sit down in front of him “it’s okay, it was only self-defense. you did kill them, but you didn’t murder them or anything, it was kill or be killed”
his words held so much confidence in what he was saying, you almost felt comforted. he really did master the art of bending the truth to his liking, didn’t he?
“i did it, what if he was someone’s father, or brother, or whoever else, what if i just destroyed someone’s world? he was a human being just as much as i am, i had no right-“ you started relapsing into panic, hands gripping on your hair, head moving down to hide between your legs.
only then did tartaglia notice the huge wound right across the back of your thigh, and several others. fuck, he instantly thought, whoever did it knew what he was doing, cut you in a very specific place, with intent to kill.
he couldn’t even fight back the wave of anger coming crushing at him, but bit his lip instead of saying anything. there was no way the both of you could get to a safe place in time.
he used to be so passionate about continuing to live, normally he would’ve just throw you over his shoulder and run, until his legs gave out, but now, he didn’t even have the energy to stand up. he barely could move his hand, and the more he tried to fight it, the more tired he became.
the feeling of helplessness was eating him alive, both from not having any way of providing you safety, and for not protecting you earlier, not to mention how he couldn’t find the right words to say to you now.
“listen” he started carefully, waiting for you to stop sobbing. “it’s painful, killing someone. it leaves a hole inside you that you don’t know how to cover. it makes your thoughts twist and fight back against you, it makes you want to leave your own head for how bad you feel. it sucks, believe me, i know. you didn’t deserve to have to feel this shitty. i’m- i’m sorry. for not shielding you well enough.” he said bluntly, not a hint of comfort or the usual beating around the bush that he used every time he intended to coax you. just pure, brutal truth. for once.
“it’s okay” you mumbled quietly. your head felt heavy on your shoulders, and you felt how it started to fall off its support. the numbness in your legs, this sort of stressful feeling of being constantly out of air- “i don’t want to die, though”
the sentence felt like a whimper, a cry of help, but tartaglia knew there was exactly nothing he could do.
“am i gonna die?” your voice felt a little stronger, laced with fear, and you lifted your eyes back onto him, in search of a “no” that you knew you wouldn’t find. “i’m gonna leave this world with killing a man as my last memory” you laughed bitterly, before laugh became a cry, and tears mixed with sweat on the surface of your cheeks. “that’s the worst fucking death i could ever imagine”
“baby, look at me” he asked calmly “come here”
when you moved to sit on his side, his hand, sticky from blood, intertwined its fingers with yours, and squeezed tightly.
“look. we’re sitting on a hill, under a tree, the sun is high up in the sky, a meadow below us, it’s a perfect date!” he laughed so authentically, you almost believed it was true. “we’re on a dream date, isn’t that amazing? and look.”
with that, he tilted your head towards his, and kissed you softly and shortly.
“i love you.” he said in the calmest manner he could force out “is that a better memory?”
you placed your head on his side, attempting to hug him even a little bit, tears staining his uniform even more.
“i don’t want to leave you.”
“i’ll be right behind you. guarding your back, like i always do. after all, i promised to always protect you, right? death won’t change my plans.”
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benevolentcalamity · 3 years
Text
Be Our Guest
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So uh.
This is a thing. That I am doing.
Anyway.
Alcina Dimitrescu x Female! Listener
Just so we’re clear this is too long to get to much so this’ll have a smut chapter next time. Just FYI. This is just implied smut but nothing happens, so enjoy.
Enjoy you stunning pomegranates
“Mother, I found her first - I should taste her blood!”
“No, me, I’m the one that said she was pretty!”
“Daughters, please. There’s plenty to go around, so don’t lose your heads.”
Through the throbbing pulsations in your head, you pry your eyes open enough to peer through your lashes. Three black clothed figures are in a perfect line, bickering amongst themselves until the towering white behind them reprimands them, patting them on their heads. It pushes through them, approaching you, until you can make out the figure.
A woman, undeniably tall, dressed elegantly in a white gown and hat, black gloved fingers fiddling with the cigarette holder with almost disturbing dexterity. Her red-painted lips stretch into an amused grin too big for her face, clearly noticing you rousing from unconsciousness. Kneeling, she reaches for you, patting your cheek.
“Wake up.” Her voice is more playful, like a mother ready to torture you with a day full of work. “Come now, wake up.”
Her patting grows harsher, and you blink a few times until she’s clear. By instinct you put your hand up in defense, and she backs away, her only objective having really been to wake you. Turning a bit to cough into your fist, you push down on the floor to sit upright, rubbing your eyes.
“She looked cuter passed out,” One of the black trio pouts, prompting one of the others to shush her.
The tall woman’s hand extends toward you, beckoning you. More confused than afraid, you take it, and she pulls - more like yanks - you to your feet. You feel a bit wobbly and maybe cold; a reminder that you are in fact alive, and here you are. 
“Name?”
You blink, wrenching your attention from your momentary hunger pangs back to the woman. “E-excuse me, ma’am?”
 “What is your name?”
Swallowing, you interlock your fingers to stop them from shaking. “[Name]. [Name] [Last Name].”
She nods. “Well met.” Almost flamboyantly, she puts her cigarette hand to her chest. “Alcina Dimitrescu - but you may address me as ‘Madam,’ ‘Ma’am,’ or ‘My Lady,’ understood?”
“Yes.” You don’t know what to do.
“... Well don’t stand there pouting, daughters, introduce yourselves.”
With visible glee, the black haired girl steps forward, giving you a somewhat snobbish grin through red-stained teeth. “Cassandra,” She sings, bowing her head.
Then the redhead. “Daniela.” Her smile is more... seductive, but one that signals to you her type of seduction isn’t the kind you’d want.
The blonde is last, her smile a Cheshire cat grin - one that simply says ‘danger’. Nothing more, nothing less. “Bela.”
“Good daughters.” Lady Dimitrescu grins in satisfaction, putting her hands on her hips. “Now, the moment we’ve waited for.” She then raises her hands, snapping her fingers. 
“Yes, Mother!”
Cassandra and Daniela move to either of your sides, gripping your arms. They’re too strong to fight against, rendering you motionless in seconds. On your right, Daniella flashes you a smile, before gripping your wrist and slicing your palm with a curved blade.
You cry out, prompting her to move her lips to your ear. “Shhh... Plenty of time for screaming,” She purrs, stretching your arm out as Lady Dimitrescu approaches.
Wrenching your wrist from Daniela’s fingers, she leans down, pausing for a moment before dragging her tongue across your wound. Almost ravenously she does a few more strokes, sucking on it to get as much blood as she can. Fear and confusion bring nausea at the sight - you swallow whatever vomit threatens to wrench itself from you.
She pauses again, eyebrows raising, before her lips open into a red-stained grin as she stands straight.
“Sweet and succulent!” She declares, prompting the trio to close in on you more, holding onto your arm and partaking as well. “Now, now, daughters, we mustn’t be so hasty. This is just too good to disappear into the cellar.”
“String her up!” Bela grins. “Store her and we’ll drink from her when we wish!”
Daniela’s arm goes around your waist, her free hand holding your chin. “But she’s so cute - would it be fair to treat her like a pig?” “What do you say, Mother?” Cassandra asks.
With a quick onceover of you - why that includes an elevator look at you you’ve no idea - Lady Dimitrescu takes a drag from her cigarette, blowing a smoke ring toward your head. “Whether this girl has somewhere to go from here, it doesn’t matter,” She hums. “Her blood is some of the best we’ve had in a good while - she’s worth keeping alive.”
You swallow, Bela and Cassandra backing from you, Daniela moving behind you to keep cuddling you. “As of right now, she is a guest in our home,” Lady Dimitrescu continues. “I will deliberate as to what to do with her; Mother Miranda won’t need to know so long as she’s not making trouble. Daniela, show little [Name] where she’ll be staying.”
“Yes, Mother.” Daniella grips your arm, thrusting you outward as if dancing with you, before wrenching you back to her. With a sultry giggle she lifts you bridal-style into her arms, the other two waving at you as you’re sped away as though flying on a magical carpet.
It’s a smooth ride, one that’d easily repeatedly trick you into thinking you’re gliding instead of being carried, but a glance at Daniela’s grinning face reminds you that you’re indeed welcome - you’re not home.
A second passes, and she stops, putting you down onto your feet. However, her arms wind back around you, but around your shoulders, leaving you at the mercy of her teeth.
“Here we are!” She giggles, throwing her arm out, inviting you to look around the room. It’s large and... definitely more Versailles than any you’ve seen, but comfortable had it not been for the fact you’re here with women that could spell your demise.
Releasing you from her hold, Daniela circles in front of you, flashing you a smile alongside a tilt of her head. “I hope you enjoy your stay. And if there’s anything we can do to make your stay more...” She pauses for effect, running the blunt edge of her blade down your face. The cold steel freezes your spine, and your palms grow clammy. “Don’t hesitate to ask.”
She replaces the touch of her blade with her hand, forcing you to look in her eyes. “And I’m warning you~” She sings, “You’d better not do anything to make Mother regret her well-placed mercy. You understand me, little one?”
Quivering, you nod. “I-I understand.”
Her smile grows to show her teeth, and her blade snakes around the back of your neck, forcing you to lean forward to avoid being cut. Mischievous, she leans forward as fell, planting a kiss on your cheek before retreating, dispersing into locust-like insects before leaving, the door somehow closing when the swarm leaves.
Stepping away from the door, your lips purse and release with emotions and sounds that crash against each other, creating a practical thunderstorm in your chest. Everything’s still spinning a bit; your head still has a nasty bump from when some smelly hairy man with a hammer jumped you in the village. Your brain’s foggy, but your memories are still intact. How long, though, is the question.
Deciding to examine the room, you walk around, taking your shoes off and holding them to avoid staining the rug. The first thing you notice is the vanity, gilded and polished to perfection. Sitting down in front of it, you comb your fingers through your hair, more to calm yourself down than anything. Eventually, your hands fall still in your lap, and you stare into the eyes of a girl powerless to stop whatever will happen to her in this castle.
Dread slowly twists your stomach, and you stand, meandering to the window. The snow falls swiftly, nearly obscuring the view; a telltale sign a snowstorm is brewing. No sense in trying to escape and risking frostbite.
“I guess... I just wait now,” you mutter.
Helpless, you head over to the bed. Shedding your coat, you fold it neatly and put it on the nightstand, crawling into the layers of blankets. It smells like linen that, though clean, hasn’t been touched in years, not even by the faintest speck of dust. What’s there instead is an oddly comforting aroma, like grandma’s house but if she were rich.
Reaching into your pocket, you tug out your phone. No signal.
You’re isolated, locked away, with no one knowing where you are.
The knowledge brings tears to your eyes, hanging over you as you tug the covers over your head, eventually curling up and drifting softly to sleep.
___
What rouses you from sleep isn’t your alarm clock as you’d have hoped, nor is it the chirp of the birds or your phone ringing asking where you’ve been. Rather, it’s your nose being, for lack of a better word, jiggled. Someone or something is poking the tip and wiggling it in circles.
Jerking your head a bit, you swat with your hand, opting to cover your nose, furrowing your brows.
Then a hand grips your wrist, and your eyes open. With black hovering above you, you’re thrown into perfect alertness, the red hair skirting over your cheek sending your palms down as you attempt to sit up properly.
Daniela grins maliciously at your reaction, licking her lips. “Mother needs you.” 
As she says that, a swarm of bugs burst through the door, clouding around you for a moment. Their buzzing almost seems to mimic your cries, some landing on you to wrench more screaming from you, before they pull away from you, concentrating at the foot of the bed, eventually forming Cassandra, Bela eventually sauntering in as well.
“Y-Your mother’s asking for me?” You near-squawk.
Cassandra snorts. “Of course. What else?” She asks. “Mother really likes you. Now, upright.”
You’re so spooked by the intrusion and the presence of all three sisters that you hurriedly slide away from Daniela and onto the floor, sliding into your shoes. Swallowing, you jolt at the sisters approaching you, a bead of sweat falling from your brow when their hands raise.
“Oh shit.”
They each grip you with both hands, suddenly turning into insects aside from them and holding you in the air, and just like with only Daniela you’re gliding. Only this time, you’re screaming horrendously, but the sound is so drowned out by the triplets’ sadistic giggling you’re unsure you’re making a sound. One hand crawls up your leg, causing you to squirm, and for a moment their faces materialize just so you can see them laugh at you for a moment.
Through sharp turns and whatever else, you’re eventually unceremoniously tossed to your feet, standing in front of a door. Whirling around, the girls materialize again, waving at you before dispersing into their swarms, swirling around you to make you squeal before flying off, likely to get to their own duties. Biting your lip, you turn back around, raising your hand to knock on the door.
“Enter,” Lady Dimitrescu’s voice calls. As you do, she continues, “Very good. At last, someone else around here with any sort of dignity and manners.”
“You... wanted to see me?” You ask, closing the door behind you.
“Sit.”
Peeking, you note the bench near the vanity where she’s sitting, avoiding eye contact with her reflection as it applies overwhelmingly red lipstick. Softly, you sit down in it, folding your hands on your knees.
“As you’re most definitely aware, I’ve had a discussion with my daughters as to what to do with you, and I’ve come to understand you’re certain to meet a grizzly demise if you attempt to leave this place.” The calm in her voice and the way she momentarily looks at you through the mirror twists your stomach. “... Ah. Dear girl, your heartbeat - I can hear it. It’s music to my ears.”
Pausing, she wipes some stray lipstick from the corner of her lips. From here, she looks normal sized, but you’re a good stretch from her. Swallowing, you try your best to remain composed. With no one coming to save you or even knowing you’re here, your best hope of survival is appealing to this giant of a woman.
“My daughters and I both adore you - and I mean adore you.” At first she cranes her neck, but then decides to turn her chair around, gesturing at you with her lipstick. “Look at you, my dear! Delicious blood, yes, but such pretty looks - it’d be a waste to just toss you down into the cellar.”
“So... what are you going to do to me?”
She throws her head back to laugh. “To you, the four of us can agree anything’s possible. With you, the decision itself is clear.” Her smile falls into a straight, business-y line, and you gulp. “You’ll become a resident of my castle, and you will not die a horrible, painful death.”
Relief at not dying washes over you, but then she stands and approaches you in what feels like a blink, and you flinch.
“However.” She uses a gloved hand to lift your chin. “You are not to leave, disobey, and you will repay us by allowing us to drink your blood. That is our condition. If you decide you don’t want to stay, then out of the good of my heart, I can promise you right now that your death in this room will be quick and painless.”
Your face grows cold. So you can be a personal bloodbag for all four denizens of the castle, or you can die. Splendid.
“Think about it. No one’s going to live to even see your face if they try to save you, and you’ll have the pleasure of being in my care as opposed to that fool Heisenberg,” She hums along with a chuckle deep in her bosom. “And if you want my personal opinion, you’d be far better off.”
Do you really have an option? “... O-Okay. I’ll stay in the castle.”
Her face brightens with that signature smile. “Ah, good girl!” She leans down and her hand reaches to pat your cheek. “We’ll find ways to take your blood that won’t leave scars, don’t you worry.”
Ring! Ring!
With a roll of her eyes, she straightens up. “As if there’s any more ways to take up my time...” She beckons you to follow as she returns to her vanity, and you awkwardly stand at her side as she sits back down, picking up the phone.
A moment passes, and she composes herself. “Mother Miranda, I regret to inform you that something unexpected has happened, and I’ll be a bit late for the meeting.” Glancing at you, she beckons you again, scrunching up her nose at your confusion. Lifting her free hand, she pats her lap twice, and beckons you again.
You blink. Does she want me to sit in her lap or something?
“Are you... asking me to sit?” You ask, and she nods. As you begin the motion she guides you the rest of the way with her hand around your arm, and you awkwardly shuffle so you’re comfortable.
Through her dress and your clothes, she’s cool to the touch, but not to imply she’s a walking corpse or something. Glancing at her reflection, she gives you an almost cheeky smirk as she adjusts her arm to keep you balanced.
“No, Mother Miranda.” Who is...? “Yes, of course, I understand the importance of this meeting. This will take me about fifteen minutes at most... Yes, Mother Miranda, I swear.” Then she nods, her hat gracing your forehead. “Very well.”
Then she hangs up the phone, letting out an exasperated huff. “So demanding.” And with no effort at all, she lifts you below your arms and stands, putting you on your feet like a toddler, patting your head. “You’ll have the pleasure of dining with us tonight. Since she seems to like you so much, Daniela will be responsible for ensuring you know where to go and what to do.”
Trying not to protest or show nervousness, you nod, to which she gives a satisfied upward nod.
“Now then, you’re grown enough to remember where your room is, yes? But feel free to explore the castle - but allow me to warn you, the cellar is off-limits. Do you understand?”
You nod. “I-I understand, Madam.”
“Very good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have matters to attend to. When I return, I expect you’ll be well accustomed to the castle.” She flashes you a smile, her hip gracing your shoulder as she passes you. “And [Name]?”
You turn to face her, some sweat dripping down your neck. “Yes, Madam?”
Her eyes narrow, but her smile doesn’t drop; a look that says you’re in for something when she returns. “Enjoy your stay.”
Then she leaves, and the door shuts behind her, leaving you to listen to the sound of her footsteps fading away. Swallowing, you meander towards the door yourself, pushing it open.
And just as you do, the buzz of the insect swarms fill the air, and you clench your fists to stay calm even as the sisters materialize. With playful yet sinister smiles, they approach you, with Daniela going behind you to hug you just like before.
“Mother’s left for her meeting,” Cassandra points out.
A crazed look in her eye, Bela reaches and pokes your face. “I haven’t cut open a pretty girl in a while!”
“No, no~!” Daniela near-whines. “I’ve always liked the cute ones - I say we play with her a little.”
“And Mother made us promise not to leave scars.” Cassandra reaches out, cupping your chin, grinning at your face losing color from the dread twisting your stomach. “So don’t worry. We’ll be gentle.”
“We promise,” Daniela purrs.
264 notes · View notes
cryptiql · 3 years
Text
riptide
pairing: dabi/m!reader
warnings: smoking, some mildly suggestive flashbacks + detailed descriptions of drowning. as always, please do not read forward if any of the listed warnings might trigger you in any way, and stay safe <3
words: 4.9k
a/n: welcome to the sequel of smoke signals. perish :)
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dabi made a mistake. the knowledge sits in the bottom of his stomach like a lump of lead; his innards twisting into a knot whenever the memory of you crosses the expanse of his sleep deprived mind. the burns under his eyes might as well be bags, but they aren't large enough to bear the weight of his guilt. it isn't much better sitting on his shoulders, but the repercussions of pain are what keep him from letting it go, and that's exactly what he wants. no—it's what he deserves. he deserves the feeling like his head is going to burst; the ache in his spine from too many hours spent hunched over himself with a bottle clutched between his shaking hands; the burning intensity from overuse of his quirk. the extra inches of marred skin serve as reminders of what he did, but it's not half as satisfying when the pain doesn't last.
he wants to scratch at the wounds until they ooze that bitter garnet liquid; until he's suffocated by the metallic scent and forced to endure as the taste of blood engraves itself on his tongue when he chokes on it. he wants to suffer—the slower the better—because not even the strongest alcohol can cleanse his sins, nor the stench of his regret.
dabi made a mistake. it won't be the last time, he's able to admit, because his ego is too shriveled from the lack of your warmth, and his heart yearns for the passion of your kiss that still lingers on his lips. when the loft echoes with fragments of the city's ambience, drowning him in an incessant racket, he longs for the lighthouse. this place is infested with selfish ingrates, scuttling about in search of the next outcast to torment, and it makes him wish he still had that safe space at the shore. your siren song was a drug to put him at ease, and now he is without it, and the withdrawal has taken effect.
he knew this would come to pass. dabi overdosed on your love; your affection; your everything; all while watching the consequences unravel at a snail's pace, almost as if he were being teased by the inevitable end. he let it happen. he did this to himself, so he won't shake his hands at the sky, cursing gods he doesn't know exist; as if they would concern themselves with the faults of men like him.
he knew this would happen.
but then, so did you. you had to have known by the empty space in your bed where he used to lay; by the dates that kept getting postponed and the meaningless promises made to make up for them; by the shortage of visits, even just to say "hello" before he dropped from the face of the earth once more. if this were true, it meant that you were suffering just the same—nay, more than him, by forcing yourself into a state of compliance whenever he told you it was time for him to go. dabi could pretend like he didn't see your fingers twitching; resisting the urge to reach out for him; just as he could pretend like the rivulets of tears on your cheeks did not exist, though they begged to be swept away by him. god, he wants to hold your face again, noses brushing together and your dreamy sighs melding with his raspy laughter.
he had told himself that you wouldn't deter him from his goal, but even that seems like a pipe dream now. he feels like an underachiever, chasing a future that can't be set in stone when he already had you, which should have been enough. dabi realizes that the flames of his own passionate desire for freedom have burned you in the process, and it hurts more than he can put into words. you were always better with words, he reminisces, tracing the coffee stained parchment sitting in his pocket.
dabi has long since stopped reading the letters you sent, but he still carries them with him wherever he goes. they anchor him to both earth and sky; the reality that he's lost you, threatening to swallow him from under his feet; and the hope that he'll find you again, one day, after all this is over. "and just what do you think you're doing?"
you can see his reflection in the stove's glass sheen, his mouth drawn up into a devious smirk as he leans on the bedroom doorframe, clad in nothing but his briefs from the previous night. the purplish burns scaling his collarbone and abdomen give him a roguish look that—if you possessed no self-restraint—would normally have you lunging at him like a starved beast. you manage to smirk back at him, subtly shaking your hips while opening the stove door to pull out the doughy mound of bread inside. to your delight, you hear him grumble something not-so family-friendly before he snakes his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. you had never once thought that the feeling of staples against your skin would feel so good, but now you can hardly imagine being without it, and you immediately melt into dabi's touch.
he breathes softly in your ear, chuckling when you flinch in response, goosebumps stippling your flesh. by the way your cheeks puff out in embarrassment, he should take that as a sign to stop, but fuck, your pouting is just too cute for him to resist, especially when your worship-able body is basking in the afterglow of dusk. you keen when dabi starts peppering your shoulder blades with kisses, but nearly dropping the pan causes your senses to return, and you whisper a plea. luckily, he appears to be in a merciful mood, because he relents his onslaught of affection to rest his chin in the crook of your neck.
when he finally notices what you're making, he can't help but squeeze you tighter.
"is that a cake?"
you turn to give him a peck on the nose, which is rewarded with a halfhearted snap of his teeth just millimeters from your mouth.
"that'd be right. though, i'm astonished you know which way is up after last night." your sing-song tone of voice spurs him to squeeze your thigh, and you would have shooed him away if not for how much you liked it. dabi murmurs something unintelligible, the vibrations shooting straight down your spine, and proceeds to remove himself from you in order to better observe the baked delicacy.
"mm. what's it for?" he asks, discretely swiping a bit of the pink colored icing from the bowl to his right. sweet, but not sickeningly so.
you are none the wiser when dipping a spatula into the contents and smoothing it over the cake, a soft smile playing at your lips.
"you never told me when your birthday is, so i'm taking a wild guess. figured i'd whip this up as a surprise, but you woke up earlier than i suspected." dabi swears that his heart is about to burst from behind his ribcage, and all because you're too goddamn perfect. you may as well be a priceless work of art in museum that he's been prohibited from touching. however, the fading marks on your skin signify that he's done more than just touch, and he takes pride in the fact you can't seem to move further than two steps in any direction without faltering.
"i know angel food cake is your favorite—" dabi silences you with a kiss; bruising and passionate; and takes the spatula from your hand, blindly setting it aside on the counter. your protests are short-winded as he lifts you from your behind before promptly turning the oven off and spinning on his heel. he's memorized these halls well enough to not bump into anything during his trek back to the bedroom. you pull away, albeit with a hint of reluctance, just to glare at him.
"what about the—" dabi kisses you again, and while you don't seem too happy about being interrupted twice in a row, the shared heat between your bodies distracts you from being upset.
"you're off by about two months, doll. besides, i think i'd much rather have you as a late birthday treat."
dabi clenches his jaw at the memory, his knuckles whitening with how tenaciously he grips the tattered fabric of his jeans. the league's new base is just as rundown and close to crumbling as he feels, but his despair is masked by the rage that overpowers it. why couldn't you have been a normal couple? why couldn't dabi have grown up with a father who loved him; with a quirk that didn't gradually destroy him and without the resulting scars that made him a hideous monster in the eyes of all who saw him? why couldn't he be as beautiful on the inside as you said he was on the outside? why couldn't he just be happy, after all this time?
why? why? why?
dabi finds his answer hidden in the ashen battleground strewn with rubble and remnants of burnt remains. he finds it in the fear of his victims' expressions before the snare of death claims them in a flourish of blue inferno. it's written there in bold, ichor dripping from his fingers as they smear the message with red.
the privilege of living a normal life is, and always will be, beyond his reach. murder does not warrant mercy, and the only person willing to give it to him is miles away, still desperate for him to come back.
as fate would have it, you and dabi lived worlds apart, but you still look at the same sunset; the same array of stars forming constellations that told stories of your life shared together. they replay in his head like a record stuck on repeat, and only when the song ends does he find himself back in the clutches of his childhood trauma, rather than your embrace.
"dabi? dabi!" his trademark scowl automatically takes place when a finger prods and pulls at his cheek, the familiar voice of twice shaking him from his deep contemplation. jin has been so unfortunate as to suffer minor scorches from the ravenette's flames, on account of him being too bothersome at the wrong moments, and so he instantly backs away at the first indication of danger brewing in the air around him. with how on edge he's felt lately, he really should have gone on a walk to relieve some stress, but the looming knowledge that he can't go to the lighthouse would only ruin the trip.
dabi is fully prepared to smack jin's hand away until he sees what he's holding. he'd recognize that handwriting anywhere, and even without it, the scent of saltwater and freshly baked bread clings to the paper, altering him of yet another one of your efforts to communicate with him. dabi feigns indifference towards the object; quite the contrary to his thinning patience as twice waves it above his head excitedly.
"you've got mail! who's is from? probably a useless nobody! or maybe a secret admirer? but who would admire you?"
to his dismay, the commotion has grabbed toga's attention, and she veers over to their location with a giddy grin on her face. she all but drapes herself over dabi as he snatches the letter from jin, and it doesn't help his struggle when she clings to him like a koala. after a bout of kicking and shoving, he manages to break free of her grasp, grimacing at her lengthy, high-pitched whines of disapproval.
"and can you believe hawks was the one to deliver it? i didn't take him for a carrier bird. . ."
dabi doesn't hear the rest, nor does he intent to, because he's already making his way to the nearest exit with haggard breaths. whoever calls out for him and whatever they say are the last of his concerns right now, and they're abruptly cut off when he slams the door behind him. the summer heat wills beads of sweat to paint his forehead, but he soon finds comfort under the shade of a tree, cicadas buzzing noisily overhead. he would sooner keel over and die than thank the birdbrain hero for catering to him—and by extension, you—but now that the note is there, begging to be read, he can't help but feel some sort of gratitude.
"i need you to do something for me."
the bristles of hawks' feather hover over dabi's pulse in a threatening manner, but he feels no more in peril than he would at the cruelty of a baby chick. he knows the number two hero won't harm him, at least not without regretting it later, and this is the perfect time to use that to his advantage. hawks narrows his eyes at him, nose wrinkling in accord.
"why would i do anything for you after that stunt you pulled?" he snarls, and dabi almost has to laugh at the drastic switch in personality. the way he presents himself to the public is a true contrast compared to the persona only he and the league have had the pleasure of seeing.
"because if you don't, everyone will know you've been fraternizing with the enemy, and we wouldn't want number two falling off his high pedestal, now would we?"
this time, dabi audibly laughs when hawks' guise wavers. the other grits his teeth, slowly withdrawing the feather and allowing it to fall limp at his side. he revels in his victory, short though it be, and reaches into his pocket to procure a letter marked with your name and address. putting your location at the disposal of a hero isn't something he's proud of doing, but it's all he has left, and he doesn't have the resolve to tell you directly.
coward, his conscious mocks as he holds it out for hawks to take. the winged man stares at it with befuddlement, his movements stalling here and there when he seizes the paper between his thumb and pointer finger. dabi tuts lightly but menacingly, yanking hawks towards him by the wrist and igniting his quirk to leave a faint mark there.
"you're gonna deliver this for me, no questions asked. don't you dare open it."
despite the clear uncertainty, hawks took heed of the ominous demand and carried it out later that night. he had not expected a young man with tear-stained cheeks to greet him at the door, much less the endless babble of 'thank you's as you took the letter with shaking hands.
dabi hadn't wished for you to send one back, but the ongoing stream of them was considered fair, after he'd left without much of a trace. still, he had promised himself that he would never read them, for fear of it opening the wound inflicted by having to say goodbye.
dabi can't understand the sudden change of mind for the life of him, and yet, he finds that he doesn't care whether it opposes every rule he set to keep you safe—to keep himself safe. he tears open the envelope and slumps against the tree trunk, bark and leather grating together as he hesitantly unfolds the parchment, briefly shutting his eyes as a last act of resistance to the helpless cry from within; longing for the familiarity of your poetic words. instead of the delicate precision that was to be anticipated, dabi stared down at your messy scrawl, a carnal fear rising from within and causing his throat to clamp up. the memories begin to flash at a faster rate, like an old-timey picture film. dabi has just finished putting the kettle on to boil when hears the floorboards creak, followed by the sound of your slippers shuffling across the floor. he snickers, remembering that the only pair you have is the one he bought you; a well worn match that looks oddly like cloud bunnies. you've made sure to exemplify how much you love the gift by wearing them around the house on rainy or lazy days, all paired with a wistful smile. this morning is no different as you worm your way under dabi's hold and press your face into his chest, a satisfied groan escaping you when he cards his fingers through your hair and scratches the scalp.
the robe you wear is half-hanging from your shoulders, which makes for an enticing view from where dabi stands, but he simply kisses the crown of your head and continues waiting for the pot to simmer.
"did you hear that noise?" you slur, just barely discernable over the kettle's shrieking. dabi quirks a brow in question as you rub the leftover grogginess from your eyes, tiredly nodding at the back window.
"little past midnight, i think. coulda sworn i heard somethin' rifling around in the trash." dabi squints at this new information while eyeing your appearance. the dark circles and intermittent yawning indicate a lack of sleep, and if he weren't there to keep you steady, you might collapse onto the floor as a snoring heap. if it really disturbed him, he should have woken me up, he thinks, pulling you closer with an ever-deepening frown. you snuggle up to him as if it's second nature, sleepily giggling away when his digits stray too close to your side.
"s'probably raccoons, but if you're worried, i can stay longer just to make sure." you look up at him with nothing short of pure, unbridled adoration, cupping his face and squishing it gently, to your own entertainment. after a moment of consideration, you shake your head.
"nah, you're probably right."
the feeling hits dabi like a tidal wave, dragging him below the raging surface; far below where the light of day cannot touch. it suffocates him and brings rise to the sickening taste of bile on his tongue, but he doesn't have time to spare in throwing it all up, so he swallows it. withered patches of grass crunch under his feet as he peels himself from the tree and breaks into a dash, sparing your letter the flames fueled by his anguish as to let it drift in the breeze, the single sentence written on it already engraved in his mind.
it wasn't raccoons.
dabi doesn't care what shigaraki will have to say about this when he gets back. the only thing he cares about is that you'll still be alive to say anything to him when he reaches you, and that whoever has invaded your home is willing to die for what they've done, or what they're currently doing, and fuck—he isn't even sure if this is you calling for help or not, but he can't risk being right.
the distance between the base and the lighthouse feels lightyears apart, yet simultaneously at arms length when dabi is running at speeds he hasn't ever been able to achieve before. if he stumbles at any point during his sprint, or if he happens to bump into an unsuspecting civilian on the street, he doesn't notice. the resonant thumping of his own heartbeat is all that he can hear as he thanks the gods for the flow of traffic being so spaced out, otherwise it would be near impossible for him to reach you in time.
in time for what? he has to ask. dabi doesn't even want to think about the repercussions, but the scenarios arrive in rivulets despite the mental trapeze he goes through to push them down, and they only continue to grow into oceans; darker, colder and harboring thoughts too gruesome for even someone of his caliber to handle. he won't realize until much later that he'd forgotten to put on his disguise, but the way people ogle at him with fear and disgust does not suppress the need to protect you.
even now, he can sense the pressure building behind his eyes, though it's more painful that it used to be. dabi hasn't cried in months, and it shows by how unabating the rivers of blood trickle from his skin grafts, despite his feverish attempts to stop them. look at yourself, holding together by a thread and weeping in public like a child whose lost his mother in the crowd. it wouldn't have come to this if he had stayed.
something shifts in the scenery; a distinct line drawn between the city and its neighboring countryside; but it makes no difference to the impending peril that looms ahead. the closer he gets, the sooner he'll find you waiting for him, dead or alive. dabi staggers, his breath hitching at the thought, as well as the harsh sting of pain that erupts when his knee collides with the gravel below. he pushes himself forward in little time, a strangled yell ripping his throat raw as his vision settles on the top of the lighthouse, peeking over the hillside. you have to be there—you just have to. he isn't done with you yet, and you're sure as hell not done with him.
the earth is damp beneath his feet, and it soaks through the canvas of his shoes whilst he darts past the boulevard and onto your property, crying out to you. surely, you must hear him. surely—
dabi practically hurls himself at the front door, his blood running cold when it opens for him effortlessly and swings ajar to reveal the living room, upturned and scattered with broken bits and pieces of furniture. there's no sign of you or whoever did this. the oakwood flooring groans under his weight as he barrels down the hall, peering into every room, beneath your bed and any other place where you could be hiding. nothing. his search ends in vain at the front doorstep, where he stands hunched over and dry heaving. no, no, no. you can't be gone.
"y/n!" he shouts. his only response is the crashing of waves against the shore and the incessant cawing of seagulls. for a moment, dabi forgets how to breathe, and then the ability returns to him; his legs aching horribly as he rushes to the beach. the arrangement of rocks is sporadic at first, but they gradually form large clumps the further he carries on, urging him to squeeze between the narrower openings. it comes with some difficulty, but at last he is able to hobble onto the sandy coast and rest his sights upon the vast sea. he can recall when seeing its murky blue sea would have put him at ease, but now it only causes his senses to be clouded with distress.
"y/n!" the once calm ripples rise into rolling billows that drench the shoreline in frothy heaps of algae, wreckage and blood. it curls and disbands within the ocean to pollute its cerulean hues with ones of scarlet red, and just like that, dabi's heart sinks like the titanic. he'll never forget the sight of you, face-down in the water; your favorite shirt slashed to shreds, clinging to your body as nothing more than a tattered mess. dabi wades into the water until it reaches his ankles, completely numb to its freezing temperature as he sinks down to hoist you up. he rests you on his thighs and presses his lips onto yours with urgency, shortly pulling back so that he can thrust his palms upon your chest and push. he doesn't care to remember how many times he repeats this, but when he finally sits back on his haunches to release a stifled curse, the feeling of dread has only just begun to take control.
you've never looked so pale.
a guttural sob wrenches itself past his grinding teeth as more tears arise, dappling your cheeks like raindrops. it wracks his body and sends forth a surge of agony to course through his veins. dabi cups your face with a shaking hand, the other secured around your waist while he kisses you, his erratic pleas falling upon deaf ears.
"come back. . .come back." his bawling ceases to end, no matter the abrasive pain blossoming in his gullet.
"c'mon, doll. where's that sweet voice of yours?" his thumb strokes your bottom lip as though beckoning you to speak. when nothing follows, he makes a pathetic sniveling sound mixed with something broken; a blubber or whine, he does not know. the burden of your lifeless form causes the reality to set in; a dagger piercing his insides and twisting as to drag the most blood-curdling screams from him.
dabi loved you, and he wishes he had the strength to say it when you were still there. it was only within the presence of his own demons that he was able to utter his affections; curled into himself and waiting for a reply that would never come, carried on the wind that bit his skin. he loved you because you held him like a child when his father hadn't even the heart to acknowledge him as his own. you spoke his name—his real name—as though the blood on his hands was not there; like you had washed it away yourself through acts of tenderness that he did not deserve.
and now you're gone.
you're gone, and—
dabi's entire body jolts with a start, a familiar heat dancing across the grafts of his marred skin. a faint blue glow radiates from his fists, which are tightly fastened the weighted blanket that lays crumpled atop his legs. he lets go with a shuttering gasp, observing the black smudges that reside where his flames once were, then blinking owlishly at his surroundings. the room is shrouded in darkness, all save for the bedside table to the left of him that is dimly lit by a flickering oil lamp. that, and the spaces illuminated by the moon's brilliance, showering the floor with multicolored spots as it glistens through the stained glass window. something slots into place, but all it does is send dabi's mind into overdrive.
where is he? where are you? are you really dead? everything hurts.
his nails drag down the length of his arms, seeking some sort of comfort in the pain that blooms there. it doesn't last long, however, when the bed suddenly dips, and a soothing warmth is placed on the small of his back.
"touya?" you croak, your words lingering with the remnants of sleep. dabi—no—touya, swears that he could cry again, right then and there. his eyes flit over your torso, where several scars in varying sizes have desecrated the skin. as he idly traces the pink lines, one final memory surfaces from the depths of his subconscious. him, desperately pounding your sternum; the last threads of denial snapping in tune; and you, coughing and spewing both curses and whatever seawater that had clogged up your lungs. touya held you in that same position for hours, listening as your ragged wheezing turned into hiccupping sobs. hauling you inside had been no easy feat, and having to hear your muffled groans while he stitched you up by the crackling hearth was no better, but the evening after had been pleasant.
you could not recollect the face of the intruder, and with such little information to go off of, touya was left to wallow in self-loathing for love he had almost lost. no amount of therapy could prevent the following nightmares and panic attacks, but in time, the rekindling of your relationship was proved successful, and dabi was prepared to repay you for the moments where you consoled him.
it wasn't just a dream. it had all happened, and yet here you were, alive and well.
a pensive look crosses your features when you note how quiet touya is, and you take it as a sign to break the tension with a tried-and-true method from the past. he doesn't resist as you coo softly, pulling him under the covers and wrapping yourself around him, a garbled tune fleeing from past your lips before you press them to his shoulder. you trail the faintest of butterfly kisses along his neck, his jaw, his cheeks and so on. the anxiety coiled in touya's chest starts to untangle, leaving him as a trembling bundle of nerves in your arms as you shush him, your nimble fingers carting through his hair.
if he weren't so tired, he would have laughed at how the tables have turned; with you cradling him in the way he's so used to doing. still, not even he can deny that it feels nice to be held like this.
"s'alright sweetheart. i'm here. . ." you whisper, and the effect is instantaneous. touya stills as he inhales the scent of buttercream and fresh pine that wafts into the bedroom, his eyelids fluttering shut. all he can hope for is that your presence will drive away any nightmares that foreshadow his well-needed rest, and that when he wakes up in the morning, you'll still be at his side.
dabi made a mistake, and thousands more will come to pass, because underneath the grit and grime that makes up his callous exterior, there is a human being; struggling to survive and struggling to please, just as much as the next. but he'll never leave you again. he had promised you as such with the band of gold now encircling your ring finger, and as long as he lives, he'll never break it.
219 notes · View notes
weirwoodking · 3 years
Note
I feel like that if Jon was a girl, she'd be hated so badly by the fandom for everything she was loved for as a male
Oh, yeah, of course. Jon (and the other male characters) gets away with feeling emotion in a way that none of the female characters do or would ever be able to do.
I was going to do this in a separate post, but your ask gave me the perfect opportunity to do it right here. I took the liberty of compiling a few Jon excerpts, and switched the name “Jon” to “Dany” and the male pronouns to female pronouns.
And then she heard the laughter, sharp and cruel as a whip, and the voice of Ser Alliser Thorne. "Not only a bastard, but a traitor's bastard," he was telling the men around him.
In the blink of an eye, Dany had vaulted onto the table, dagger in her hand. Pyp made a grab for her, but she wrenched her leg away, and then she was sprinting down the table and kicking the bowl from Ser Alliser's hand. Stew went flying everywhere, spattering the brothers. Thorne recoiled. People were shouting, but Dany did not hear them. She lunged at Ser Alliser's face with the dagger, slashing at those cold onyx eyes, but Sam threw himself between them and before Dany could get around him, Pyp was on her back clinging like a monkey, and Grenn was grabbing her arm while Toad wrenched the knife from her fingers.
—Jon VII, AGOT
Ser Alliser seized Dany by the arm.
Dany yanked away and grabbed the knight by the throat with such ferocity that she lifted him off the floor. She would have throttled him if the Eastwatch men had not pulled her off. Thorne staggered back, rubbing the marks Dany’s fingers had left on his neck. "You see for yourselves, brothers. The girl is a wildling."
—Jon IX, ASOS
In the end Halder and Horse had to pull her away from Iron Emmett, one man on either arm. The ranger sat on the ground dazed, his shield half in splinters, the visor of his helm knocked askew, and his sword six yards away. "Dany, enough," Halder was shouting, "he's down, you disarmed him. Enough!"
No. Not enough. Never enough. Dany let her sword drop. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “Emmett, are you hurt?”
Iron Emmett pulled his battered helm off. "Was there some part of yield you could not comprehend?" It was said amiably, though. Emmett was an amiable man, and he loved the song of swords. "Warrior defend me," he groaned, "now I know how Qhorin Halfhand must have felt."
That was too much. Dany wrenched free of her friends and retreated to the armory, alone. Her ears were still ringing from the blow Emmett had dealt her. She sat on the bench and buried her head in her hands. Why am I so angry? she asked herself, but it was a stupid question. Lady of Dragonstone. I could be the Lady of Dragonstone. My father's heir.
—Jon XII, ASOS
“Men say that freezing to death is almost peaceful. Fire, though…do you see the candle, Gilly?”
She looked at the flame. “Yes.”
“Touch it. Put your hand over the flame.”
Her big brown eyes grew bigger still. She did not move.
“Do it.” Kill the girl. “Now.”
Trembling, the girl reached out her hand, held it well above the flickering candle flame.
“Down. Let it kiss you.”
Gilly lowered her hand. An inch. Another. When the flame licked her flesh, she snatched her hand back and began to sob.
“Fire is a cruel way to die. Dalla died to give this child life, but you have nourished him, cherished him. You saved your own boy from the ice. Now save hers from the fire.”
“They’ll burn my babe, then. The red woman. If she can’t have Dalla’s, she’ll burn mine.”
“Your son has no king’s blood. Melisandre gains nothing by giving him to the fire. Stannis wants the free folk to fight for him, he will not burn an innocent without good cause. Your boy will be safe. I will find a wet nurse for him and he’ll be raised here at Castle Black under my protection. He’ll learn to hunt and ride, to fight with sword and axe and bow. I’ll even see that he is taught to read and write.” Sam would like that. “And when he is old enough, he will learn the truth of who he is. He’ll be free to seek you out if that is what he wants.”
“You will make a crow of him.” She wiped at her tears with the back of a small pale hand. “I won’t. I won’t.”
Kill the girl, thought Dany. “You will. Else I promise you, the day that they burn Dalla’s boy, yours will die as well.”
“Die,” shrieked the Old Bear’s raven. “Die, die, die.”
The girl sat hunched and shrunken, staring at the candle flame, tears glistening in her eyes. Finally Dany said, “You have my leave to go. Do not speak of this, but see that you are ready to depart an hour before first light. My men will come for you.”
—Jon II, ADWD
“Lord Janos,” Dany said, “I will give you one last chance. Put down that spoon and get to the stables. I have had your horse saddled and bridled. It is a long, hard road to Greyguard.”
“Then you had best be on your way, girl.” Slynt laughed, dribbling porridge down his chest. “Greyguard’s a good place for the likes of you, I’m thinking. Well away from decent godly folk. The mark of the beast is on you.”
“You are refusing to obey my order?”
“You can stick your order up your arse,” said Slynt, his jowls quivering.
Alliser Thorne smiled a thin smile, his black eyes fixed on Dany. At another table, Godry the Giantslayer began to laugh.
“As you will.” Dany nodded to Iron Emmett. “Please take Lord Janos to the Wall—”
—and confine him to an ice cell, she might have said. A day or ten cramped up inside the ice would leave him shivering and feverish and begging for release, Dany did not doubt. And the moment he is out, he and Thorne will begin to plot again.
—and tie him to his horse, she might have said.
If Slynt did not wish to go to Greyguard as its commander, he could go as its cook. It will only be a matter of time until he deserts, then. And how many others will he take with him?
“—and hang him,” Dany finished.
Janos Slynt’s face went as white as milk. The spoon slipped from his fingers. Edd and Emmett crossed the room, their footsteps ringing on the stone floor. Bowen Marsh’s mouth opened and closed though no words came out. Ser Alliser Thorne reached for his sword hilt. Go on, Dany thought. Dark Sister was slung across her back. Show your steel. Give me cause to do the same.
[...]
“If the girl thinks that she can frighten me, she is mistaken,” they heard Lord Janos said. “She would not dare to hang me. Janos Slynt has friends, important friends, you’ll see…” The wind whipped away the rest of his words.
This is wrong, Dany thought. “Stop.”
Emmett turned back, frowning. “My lady?”
“I will not hang him,” said Dany. “Bring him here.”
“Oh, Seven save us,” he heard Bowen Marsh cry out.
The smile that Lord Janos Slynt smiled then had all the sweetness of rancid butter. Until Dany said, “Edd, fetch me a block,” and unsheathed Dark Sister.
By the time a suitable chopping block was found, Lord Janos had retreated into the winch cage, but Iron Emmett went in after him and dragged him out. “No,” Slynt cried, as Emmett half-shoved and half-pulled him across the yard. “Unhand me…you cannot…when Tywin Lannister hears of this, you will all rue—”
Emmett kicked his legs out from under him. Dolorous Edd planted a foot on his back to keep him on his knees as Emmett shoved the block beneath his head. “This will go easier if you stay still,” Daenerys promised him. “Move to avoid the cut, and you will still die, but your dying will be uglier. Stretch out your neck, my lord.” The pale morning sunlight ran up and down her blade as Dany clasped the hilt of the sword with both hands and raised it high. “If you have any last words, now is the time to speak them,” she said, expecting one last curse.
Janos Slynt twisted his neck around to stare up at her. “Please, my lady. Mercy. I’ll…I’ll go, I will, I…”
No, thought Dany. You closed that door. Dark Sister descended.
—Jon II, ADWD
And, of course, let’s not forget about this line:
"Well, he will not want it said that Stannis rode to the defense of the realm whilst King Tommen was playing with his toys. That would bring scorn down upon House Lannister."
"It's death and destruction I want to bring down upon House Lannister, not scorn."
—Jon II, ADWD
If these scenes had been Dany’s, she would have been called a power-crazed mad bitch who’s destined to be the villain of the series. And... people still do that anyway, even though none of her scenes come close to these Jon ones. And no, this does not mean Jon is going to go mad, of course it doesn’t. I love these Jon scenes, and I think that his bursts of anger and emotion are valid and understandable. It just shows how men/boys are allowed to act in ways that would never be possible for women/girls to behave without massive, massive misogynistic interpretations and critique.
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ddarker-dreams · 3 years
Text
Deal With The Devil. Yan Hades Giorno x Reader
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Warnings: Isolation, implied kidnapping, forced marriage, brief non explicit sexual themes, and mentions of death.  Word count: 3.2k.
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Time alone is better than time spent in the company of someone you despise. 
Skillful fingers run over the wilted stems of your carnations, a frown on your face at the current lifeless appearance. Dull shades of grey slowly turn to a vivacious green where your fingers pass over. Next are the petals, which are all but gone, a far cry from the flora’s typical beauty. At your delicate touch, it’s as if the hands of time are set in reverse. Soft fibers tickle your bare your skin, petals flourishing anew, now with a rosy glow. Standing from your bed, you return the revitalized carnations to their previous position on the windowsill. 
The bright, pastel colors are in stark contrast to the obsidian colored walls that trap you. Darkness, like an everlasting night, cannot be cast aside by your pretty decorations. No matter how hard you try to do just that. The lone sources of illumination in the underworld, torches or lanterns, have also earned your scorn. How you had taken the sun for granted, the natural warmth it provided ethereal in comparison to this manufactured light. Sighing, you push the negative thoughts away, aware they do nothing for you. Wallowing in your grief harms the precious flowers you create.
The onyx marble flooring beneath your bare feet is cold and unnatural. Closing your eyes for but a moment, you remember how blades of grass used to feel in the summer and spring. Those blissful days traversing fields without a care in the world feel like centuries ago. You’ve tried to recreate grass as it is on the surface, but with mixed results, and now stick with forming flowers instead. 
You take a mental inventory of the surrounding flora to check for problems. These creations of yours are a reliable pastime and bittersweet memory. No matter the life you instill into the delicate blooms, in the underworld, they wither away at an accelerated pace. Your days are spent reviving them or creating new bouquets to decorate this dreadful bedchamber. What else is there to do? 
Nothing, you answer the question yourself, scowling. As if on cue, your poppies wilt at the sharp turn in mood, petals falling onto the ground and crumbling to dust. So the cycle continues. Understanding the passage of time when there is no sun is difficult, but if you were to guess, those poppies were just a few hours old. While you consider what to replace them with, a pair of eyes watch from nearby.
“In my brief time down here, this would be my first time seeing such beautiful flowers.” A feminine voice praises. Your eyes widen, head whipping around to find the source of the words. In front of your canopy bed stands a wispy figure. It takes the faint form of a human being, though lacking color and partially transparent. 
It takes a second of tentative thought for you to realize what this apparition is. A soul. Not just any soul, a soul of a mortal, you presume. You haven’t spoken to a mortal in some time now. How did a soul manage to find its way to you, hidden away in the depths of the underworld’s palace? As if sensing your bewilderment, the soul speaks up.
“Is it true that I am speaking to the daughter of Demeter?” The soul questions. You nod, pushing down the agony of hearing your dearest mother’s name. “Then it seems I have hope after all.” 
Silence settles in after the soul’s relieved statement. You take the time to contemplate the possible meaning of this soul’s words, reaching no conclusions. “How is it that you’re here?” 
“... You will not call on his guards?” 
Biting your bottom lip, you swallow down the bile that threatens to rise in your throat at the passing mention of him. “I will do no such thing.” 
“Then lend me your ear for but a moment,” the soul’s voice is tinged with melancholy. “I am dead now, yes, but I was once alive. At that time I was Sotiria. I mothered three children, each splendid in their way, the lights of my life... I do not say this for complaining’s sake but to offer perspective. I never was given a decent lot in life, the child of a sickly widow whose face I can no longer remember. 
Poverty was all I knew until I drew my final breath. I took work equally as it came, whether it was working the fields or being a companion to men at night. Anything for the sake of feeding three hungry mouths. But it was never enough. My youngest, Cyril, fell ill. To keep him alive I had to be by side at all hours. And so it goes… at my wit’s end from starvation, I had no choice, you must understand.” 
Sortiria’s voice grows weaker, barely reaching your ears as she finishes her sentence. “I coveted, and I stole. Nothing more than I would need to keep my children alive for another day. When they caught me, well,” she motions to her phantom-like form with a pained smile. “I was killed.” 
Your heart aches at her plight. “How terrible...” 
“Yes, I’d agree so,” she doesn’t linger on the topic, eager to move to her final point. “But it need not end this way.” 
“There is a reason I stand in your presence now. I heard rumors, waiting among the listless souls for Charon to ferry us to judgment. Rumors that gave me hope where I had none. That the god of the underworld had taken a wife, a wife who boasts a compassionate heart. You, [First].” 
The pieces she’s presented you with fall into place. Your lips part, the world around you spinning, as Sotiria presents a final plea. “Please, go to him and ask that I may return to my body. That I may return to my children. Us humans have taken to praying to you for mercy when knocking on death’s door. I implore you, hear my prayer now.” 
“I will not speak to him, no, I refuse to speak to him. Even if I did as you asked, who is to say he will listen to me? My cries for freedom have been denied, how would this be any different? I hear your prayers but have no power to answer them. My matrimony did not make me the goddess of the dead.” 
Neither of you dares to mention Giorno by name, remaining cautious of what could happen, as he’s made aware every time his name is spoken. Even the mortals fear him, you think. And for good reason. You wonder if that’s how this was presented to the humans. A requited romance between the daughter of Demeter and Giorno, a union that gives hope to those dying. None of them know the truth, that you’re forced to remain here, tucked away from the wistful life you once had. That his self proclaimed adoration is nothing but suffocating and self-serving. 
“You and you alone are the apple of his eye,” Sotiria insists with utmost urgency. “He will heed your words more than anyone else’s.” 
“He has refused me everything of value that I have begged for.” The words are spat out with venom. You fail to notice that with your growing temper, the flowers you tended to prior shrivel up at unprecedented speed, a reflection of your distraught emotional state. Your chest heaves with each strained breath, fists clenching by your side until your nails pierce your skin. Does Sotiria not understand? How could anyone empathize with how the sorrow you feel? You stand in this saturnine chamber that remains your prison, Giorno the steadfast ward. 
“I can not speak on what I don’t know,” she lowers her head. “But I do know this. You have his favor. You are his wife -- whether it was by your design or not -- and he holds affection for you in his heart. Go, speak to him, I beg of you. If not for my sake, then for my children.” 
“But--” 
“I can’t spend any more time here,” Sortiria looks around, her already faint form disappearing. “Please.” 
Then she is gone. 
You stare, eyes wide as a doe, at the spot Sortiria once occupied in your dim room. Nothing of her remains but the convicting call for action. Her words ring like funeral tolls in your mind, unrelenting, and weighing down on you. There’s no denying the effect her request has on you. Sortiria’s dedication to her children reminds you of your mother, who has tried everything to get you back. An ache in your chest pushes you forward, your legs moving subconsciously to the door. 
She risked eternal damnation to speak with you. Leaving your room that never remains locked, you’re met with a similar color palette of midnight black and crimson red bricks. Hell flame is blinding at first, but when your eyes adjust, you catch the demonic guards stationed at your door looking in surprise. Giorno has granted you the freedom to traverse his palace as you please, but you rarely take him up on the offer, preferring to spite him by remaining in your room. When he searches for your company he knows where to find you. Loneliness haunts Giorno Giovanna like a plague, never warded off successfully until he acquired you. 
No one dares question your intentions, averting their gaze to avoid eye contact as you travel down twisting halls. Your heart pounds against your ribcage through the journey, not knowing how Giorno will react to your uninvited appearance. This would be the first time you’ve sought him out of your violation. While wandering his palace, you can’t help but notice the difference in decorum compared to your room. He had tried to make adjustments to your personal space so that it would reflect a different aesthetic than the underground, fully aware of your displeasure with the gloomy architecture. 
Not that it matters, you think. Nothing could make up for what Giorno’s taken from you aside from permanently returning to the surface. Rounding a sharp turn, you hold your breath at the sight. Cerberus towers in this grand hall and immediately picks up on your presence. The daunting creature lowers itself to the ground, three pairs of eyes piercing through you. A tense moment later, it seems content to let you pass, recognizing your position as Giorno’s beloved. 
Behind Cerebrus is where your true challenge lies. Two monumentally sized doors that lead to Giorno’s throne room stand in your way. Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes, Sortiria’s words reverberating in your mind. Perhaps you are soft on the mortals, as your mother once warned you, but she was guilty of the same. Should you be successful, and Sortiria lives to tell the tale, you wonder if your mother will visit her and ask after you. 
The doors open when you take a step forward. This palace is an extension of Giorno, you’ve come to realize, bending to your whims to please you. While lacking the necessary preparation to make a sound argument, you have an idea of what may convince Giorno to do as you bid. Any confidence you may have had from knowing you have his favor melts like ice in the spring when his eyes land on you. These eyes, that belong to one of the universe’s most powerful gods, feel heavy and cumbersome. Giorno nods his head in acknowledgment, a good sign. You wish you could hear his thoughts. His sculpted face is impossible to read as ever, in comparison, you feel like an open book. 
You manage to force out a cordial greeting despite your petrified state. “I was hoping to have an audience if you’re not otherwise occupied.” 
Giorno sits on his sizeable throne, presence imposing yet regal. In contrast to his spun gold hair, the throne is dark as twilight, embedded with rubies and numerous precious gems. He isn’t just the god of the dead, you remind yourself, but also the god of wealth. That’s all Giorno has ever felt like to you, some distant figure. Nothing more, not now or ever. His attempts to kindle an intimate relationship with you have been discarded like weeds. Now in his physical presence, reverence takes place of the disgust you normally feel towards him. 
“If it pleases you.” Giorno’s voice is undeniably soothing, every syllable ringing clear as a bell. At his confirmation, you tread forward, over an expansive vermillion carpet. The walk feels like an eternal punishment. He takes the time to scrutinize your body language. You didn’t expect anything different, fully aware that he’d be taken aback by this bold arrival. Doubts in your head cry louder as you lessen the distance. That after all this time, he might see fit to punish you for this final act of entering his throne room without an invitation. Interfering with Giorno’s work might be the final insult he tolerates. You are his wife, but what respite has that granted you before? 
You bow your head down as a show of respect. “I apologize for arriving unannounced.” 
“Your presence is a welcome one,” Giorno seamlessly dismisses your concern. “Though, I might add, unexpected.” 
Despite your best efforts, your posture goes rigid, likely playing into what Giorno designed. Your husband is as pleasant as he is efficient in his conversations, you’ve learned. It’d be a fool’s wish to think otherwise. Sortiria’s words, though you wish they didn’t, held truth. All have come to know Giorno’s affection for you through his special treatment. It’s a blessing and a curse.
“I would’ve come sooner, but I feared you were busy.” 
Giorno gazes up at your through golden eyelashes, voice lowering as he speaks from the heart. “I will always make time for you.” 
Is it wise to start with your true request? The clock’s ticking and you need to decide without further delay. Anxiety and regret battle for dominance in your mind, but you keep it at bay, recalling the true priority. A mother’s tender love for her offspring. There’s nothing more important to you than doing right by this tormented soul. Sortiria’s words resurface, “Us humans have taken to praying to you for mercy when knocking on death’s door”, she had told you. You were but a minor goddess until this point, and content as you were with that, there was nothing of astonishing value for you to offer the world. Creating and maintaining gardens was all you could do. Now, you have a real chance to do good, to reunite a family. The prayers offered up to you until give strength.
“Would you please stand?” You ask with a sheepish smile. It’s a simple request to test the waters and also a way to feel less intimidated. Giorno blinks but voices no complaints. From his throne, he stands, still towering over you but feeling less intimidating. You step forward, raising your hand and placing it to his cheek. His skin is cold and smooth to the touch. It reminds you of the flower petals you adore so much. There’s no denying Giorno’s beauty, you must confess, it’s almost like his face is perfectly sculpted art. You can tell he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“Truth be told, there’s something that troubles me deeply,” you confess, to which he frowns. “That’s what I wanted to speak about.” 
Giorno prompts you to continue. “And that is?” 
The worst he can do to me is say no, you tell yourself. He’s had no difficulty doing that in the past when you’ve begged for freedom. No harm would come to you -- any spite Giorno might feel would be directed elsewhere -- but that doesn’t bring comfort. Sortiria would be punished if Giorno believed she was taking advantage of you. Sentenced to eternity in Tartarus. 
“A single request. I wish to reunite a soul with her body, so that she may continue her life that was cut short,” you rub your thumb over his cheek. “Please do me this one good.” 
“Sortiria, was it?” Giorno takes your stunned silence as confirmation, not that he needed any. The two of you were careful not to mention him by name. So he knew all along? It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but you still feel disheartened, blood draining from your face. 
“It’s a rare occurrence that I permit a soul to leave the underworld,” he explains what you already know in a calm tone. “[First], you know I hate to deny you anything, but--” 
“I wasn’t done.” You interrupt without thinking, overwhelmed by enough emotion to drown out logic. Giorno’s mannerisms and subtleties can be picked up on after all this time you’ve spent with him, and you know he was going to politely reject your request. Neither of you utters a word. It’s a split-second decision, but you set your qualms aside, considering the greater implications. 
“Giorno,” you call him by his name for the first time, his eyes widening at the slight nuance. “If… if you do this for me, I… I will allow you to finally consummate our marriage.” 
Your face feels like it’s on fire from the lascivious suggestion. There’s nothing else you can offer Giorno that’s valuable enough to convince him. Nothing other than yourself that is -- which you’ve vehemently refused him up until now -- swearing you’d sooner cast yourself into Phlegethon than let him lay with you. You hear your heart pounding in your ears as you await his final response. Giorno’s eyelids flutter shut, eyebrows scrunching together. 
“This means that much to you?” He asks, not entirely convinced himself. This fiery passion you’re portraying is new. Days of passively tending to your flowers gave him a different impression of you. Now, faced with a cause you truly believe in, you’re willing to do anything. 
“It does,” you confirm without further hesitation. “Please give me this single happiness.” 
You don’t dare breathe until Giorno speaks again. He reopens his eyes and appears deep in thought. Dread clouds your mind, dominating any thoughts that might bring you comfort. You’ve done the best you could. 
“Very well.” Giorno bends to your whims after a long moment’s deliberation. Joy blossoms in your chest, a genuine smile gracing your features. He places his hand over yours, shivers running down your spine from the cool sensation. The negotiations are far from over, as Giorno returns his attention to your prior claim. He wants to test your conviction and see if you’ll give him a piece of what he’s ached for.
He squeezes your hand gently, voice so quiet that only you could hear it. “Is what you said true?”
It’s the only viable option, is how you reaffirm yourself. A degrading option, you recognize, but no one aside from the two of you would ever know. It’s been a long and good fight that you’ve put up. Denying a god his desires is not an easy task by any stretch of the imagination. Goosebumps dot your skin, reality feeling so far away, as you seal your fate. 
“You have my word.”
Giorno smiles -- in a way you’ve never seen before -- an unidentifiable gleam in his omnipotent eyes.
“Then I will see it done.” 
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localkage · 3 years
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I JUST READ YOUR KAKASHI X VILLIAN READER POST omgg omg omg. it had me thinking BIG thoughts. Can i take it a step further and request Kakashi with an akatsuki reader???? maybe they’re misunderstood like itachi or something or evil as heck! idk but the thought has me feral omg.
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love your mind, big brain energy. once again I went batshit feral in wild territory.
warnings: this is long, like. long. and also there's a lot of angst in here :))
•••
You met in anbu, as mere children, and now, assassination partners.
Just like him, you had nothing left. Your parents died in the war, and now they had no place for you in the village, with the other chidlren, so you were called special and given a mask, to be their faceless assassin.
Fate was cruel with you both, so much so that, in a rare show of mercy, it has brought you two together, as an ointment to an open wound.
And that what you both were for each other, a balm that didn't heal, but lessened the other's pain. Through thick and thin, even when you had nothing, you had him. 
Whenever he got hurt, you'd take care of him, and you had lost count of the many times he had saved your life in the last minute.
For years, it was only you, Kakashi, Tenzo and later, Itachi. 
Yeah, Itachi. You do not understand the man's motives for doing what he did, but he's the last thing left of that cursed life you were forced to lead. 
You defected in your late teens, still young but now, old enough to understand how konoha had used you, old enough to see the village as it truly is, not for what they forced you to be believe: A twisted and corrupt state, whose leader don't actually care about the people that fight to keep the village safe. No, because they don't want soldiers, they want dogs, loyal and blind and easy to command, easy to agree to whatever the owner say is right. And you had done so much wrong for their right.
You were tired and angry but it was due time for someone to be. 
It was late, moon high in the dark sky when you had knocked at his window. Crying, you plead him to come with you.
He was the only thing in that entire village that you ever cared about, the only resemblance to a family you still had. To think of not having him at your side was as piercing as a blade through your body. 
You had high hopes of creating a better world someday, of making the countries less corrupt, making the villages good and fair, where no more children would have to be used as killers. Where you two could be happy.
But, just like in your worst nightmares, he hadn't chosen you. He stayed in that corrupted village, like a puppet whose strings are too thick to be cut, and you left alone. 
You had hoped to find something akin to what you hoped to see of the world when you left konoha. A small village, a place where things were right, where people didn't have to suffer and obey.
But the world outside wasn't any more kind.
So if the world is so deeply corrupted it cannot be fixed, it should be detroyed and rebuilt. It's the only way to end the pain, you concluded. And that's why when presented with the invitation, you joined Akatsuki.
You were partnered with Kisame and Itachi at first, and the familiarity of his presence was painfully suffocating, reminding you of the times you were still bound to that village, and the times where you still had him with you. 
You wlmost felt bad to be so thankful when Sasori died and you were put together with Deidara. That was also the time when you found out Kakashi was apparently alive, and still strong enough to almost kill Deidara. 
He really was like wraith that wouldn't stop haunting you, and you'd never know peace.
You were looking for the three tails when you crossed them. They were on a mission on the same village you got wind of a possible tailed beast. The second you spotted him, it was like the wound you tried to so hard to heal, was pried open all over again. 
He looked so different from the boy that tried to stop you from leaving and that refused to leave with you, and yet, it was still him. He looked older, and tired and he still looked as beautiful as you remembered. 
And he had pupils.  
"It's him, hm!" Deidara warned, and you both quickly made your way out to safe place, keeping your eyes out for that team.
So it really was Kakashi and those little brats that had managed to take down Sasori, and almost wipe Deidara out of this plane of existence.
You had to be careful, of course. But this was the first time you had seen him in years. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you sighed, defeated.
"I will distract them, you go to the village and try to get any hints on the beasts," You instruct, voice firm and clear.
"Why are you the one ordering me around, hm!!"
"Because I'm older, and the last time you nearly lost your arm for good to those brats."
Deidara huffed, clearly annoyed and mad to be treated like a kid. Still, before leaving, he warned, "Be careful with the copycat and the Jinchuuriki."
You smiled bitterly, "Don't worry, I know the Hatake, he can't trick me. Now go."
Deidara frowned, but then shrugged and left. 
Something shiftted in the fresh air of the night in the large hotel room. Naruto and Sai were sleeping next to him, but this feeling made Kakashi put down his book.
He feels chakra pricking his skin, making his flesh buzz with its electricity, "Naruto, Sai, get up!" 
A dark laugh echoes through the room, the sweetness in it is so creeply familiar. 
"They're paralyzed," you see the shiver that rocks through his body at the sound of your voice. See the way his whole being stiffens, on alert.
He slowly turns on his heels, and the shock on his face is a high contrast to the fake kind smile on your lips, "Genjutsu," you continue, as if this was the most normal occasion in the world, "Not as good as Itachi's, but still works when I need it."
It's you. your chakra he has been feeling this whole time. You're alive, and standing before him like an angry god.
"Hi, Kakashi," You greet, tilting your head with a smile, "It's been a while."
It's almost cruel to say you've waited for this, that you craved to have this exact moment. To see him as paralyzed as his comrades by just looking at you. But he was not bound by genjutsu, no.
His ghost was real, of flesh and bones. 
He whispers your name so carefully, as if by uttering it you'd vanish, just like in his dreams.
But you're still there, seated on the large window, watching him with a wicked glint in your beautiful eyes, as if you had just cornered the best prey, and you're about to pounce.
He can't speak, but you're more than happy to do that favor for him. The fake smile on your face can't fool him, even less so when your voice sounds so bitter.
"You're still a lap dog, I see. Helping them raise more puppies, like you and me," Your words drip with venom, hatred. You can't believe the only man you ever loved would fall so deeply for that corrupted village. He's helping ruin the lives of kids for that village, when his own life and yours were already ruined.
How could he be so blind.
"I- How? Where have you been?" He does notice the black cloak covering your body. The red clouds make his blood freeze, as if cold water is dropped onto him mercilessly. He just doesn't want to believe that after all those years, the first time he sees you in so long is also the time he will have to kill you. 
He's biding time.
You smirk, ignoring his question. Your eyes dart to the blonde boy sleeping on the floor behind him, "Is that the Jinchuuriki?"
It's like a button is pressed, and in an instant Kakashi is ready for combat. With a growl and a kunai in hand, he attacks you, as if you were nothing of the friend he knew, but a mere threat.
In a flash, you vanish before his eyes. His hands tremble, he can feel his legs weakening. He's disturbed and shocked. The love of his life was hunting down Naruto, his pupil.
He steps outside, carefully, and you are there, perched on a tree. 
The sharingan glows under the moonlight, and in that moment, he looks more sinister and menacingly than Itachi, "You won't touch him," Is a threat and a promise.
You snicker, "Don't worry. He's not useful to me, you can keep him for now."
Kakashi relaxes, even if just a bit. You are still a threat, an Akatsuki member with precious informations, that he should take down no matter his feelings. 
And yet, he can't move.
"You left me alone, Kakashi. The only time that I've ever wanted you to take a shot for me, and it was the only time you didn't," You sounded as bitter and hurt as Kakashi always thought you'd be. And he is as broken and pained as he looks.
He was your only family, the only person you still loved in this world and... He had chosen the village that had put you through hell.
"Why are you with the Akatsuki?!"
"Because I found in them what I never found with you. We'll fix the corrupted villages you try so hard to help. We'll make this world a better place."
"By killing innocents??"
"Isn't that what they do, though? Don't they put kids in the frontlines too? Don't they send them into missions they won't come back? Don't they seal beasts in them??" 
He's speechless. You can see his eyes glistening. 
Is he going to cry? 
"You are sick," He sounds defeated, voice weak as if you had stabbed him right through his heart.
"I am right," You correct, "You are just too blind by their lies to see the world as it truly is. Always have been, Kakashi." 
You see the tremor that runs through his body, see the way he forces himself to breath in order to calm down. You always hated that mask, you wanted to see his face. 
In the back of your mind, you hear a voice, familiar and commanding. You clench your jaw. Always on the worst times, Leader. 
"Do you regret it?" You ask, eyes attentive on him, searching for any change in what little you can make out of his expression.
"What?" 
"Not leaving with me."
There's silence. As long and as heavy as the years that separated you.
He finally sighs, looking down before meeting your eyes again. The look in his eyes is pained, but genuine, you conclude.
"Every day of my life." 
For the first time in years, the smile that graces your features is genuine. You chuckle, shaking your head as you feel heat pricking at your cheeks.
"I must leave," You say, getting up on the tree, "I suppose you won't be coming with me this time either?"
"I can't," His voice is weak, but his resolve is as strong as the burden on his shoulders. He can't abandon his team, his village and the people that needs him there.
You huff, mockingly, "I know. One more on your regret list."
You take one last glance at the man before you.
His hair is messy and down without the head protector, he still wears that infamous mask, but I guess that adds to his charm. He looks older, definitely, but also stronger and handsome. The years were kind to him, physically. But the turmoil in his eyes let you know that they were not as gentle with his emotions.
You give him a last, parting smile, "Bye, Kakashi."
And just like in his dreams, and in that night, you vanish before his eyes. 
Deidara is waiting for you, impatient as always. He probably got that from Sasori. 
"You are late, hm!!"
"I know, sorry about that. Leader called a meeting, yes? Sounded important."
"I think he is indtroducing a new member, hm. Ugh, I hope is not someone like hidan, hm."
You laugh as you walk with him to one of the hiding spots, but deep inside you too hope so. One hidan is already too much. 
"What took you so long, hm?" He asks, with a raised brown.
You can still feel your heart fluttering in your chest, still feel his presence as if it was ingrained on you.
You shook your head, "I got distracted," you lied.
This encounter shook you to your core, fore sure. You knew kakashi was a part of you, of your past, of your life.
You just never knew how strong it was, and how bad you wish he'd never regret that choice. 
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vvideonasties · 3 years
Text
clear-cut
"Good morning," Jon says.
"Um," Martin replies.
Jon then realises that him holding a pair of scissors so close to his eyes not long after ranting about gouging them out would be rather concerning at first glance. 
word count: 2k
pairing: jonmartin
warnings: discussion of canon related trauma, thoughts about body autonomy
While rifling through the kitchen drawers, Jon is unsurprised by the plethora of blades Daisy owns. There’s every kind of knife you could fathom and, thankfully, a few pairs of scissors. Grabbing what appears to be the sharpest pair (though they all look pretty damn sharp), he heads to the bathroom. He clutches the white of the porcelain sink and stares into the mirror impassively. 
He used to actually quite like his long hair. He’d play with it while he was working, twirling the thick locks around his fingers and untangling knots absentmindedly. When he’d get frustrated he’d pull it out of its tie and tug at it. It was a strange way to ground himself. 
Now, though. It’s been used too much for other people’s gain, has been in too many people’s hands for it to truly belong to him. The gravity it provided began to dissipate when Daisy attacked him - she’d grabbed a chunk of it and used it to yank back his head to expose the vulnerable expanse of his neck. As he’d stood there under the mercy of her blade, shaking and pleading, the stinging in his scalp lingered the entire time. It only got worse from there - the awful attempt at tenderness displayed by the Stranger as Nikola brushed aside a few strands to gain access to more flesh, to paste moisturiser onto it with her stiff fingers. The dirt he couldn’t quite scrub out of it after he left the Buried, even when he sat in the tub for hours on end. Even when the water began to run clear, he could still feel the clumps weighing him down, making his head loll to the side with it.
After all that, it wasn’t much to him. He’d wash it, dry it, tie it up. Try not to think of it. 
Jon stares down at the gleaming scissors in the sink determinedly. Cutting it off won’t solve much, if anything at all, but it would make him feel a little more comfortable. It’s one of the only things he can control about himself at the moment. If he doesn’t like the way it looks, then fine. It’ll grow back. 
His hand flexes and clenches into a fist. Tighten, relax, tighten, relax. 
He reaches for the scissors and holds a piece of hair in front of his face, the blades open, hungry, ready to receive. 
Then there comes a short, polite cough. He turns to see Martin standing just outside the bathroom, eyes a little wider than normal. 
"Good morning," Jon says.
"Um," Martin replies.
Jon then realises that him holding a pair of scissors so close to his eyes not long after ranting about gouging them out would be rather concerning at first glance. 
“I’m cutting my hair,” he clarifies, and Martin seems to relax at that. 
“Okay.” A pause. “Why?”
He puts down the scissors and shrugs, suddenly feeling self-conscious. 
“Just felt like it,” he says, which is kind of true. “Not particularly attached to it anymore.”
Martin hums, taking him at his word. He walks over on socked feet, close enough that Jon can feel the heat radiating from him. There’s a brief moment where his hands pass over the scissors.
“I could help?”
Jon turns to face him completely, brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, it’s just that I have experience? Kind of? I cut my own, and I used to cut my mum’s as well...” Martin’s mouth twists downwards at that, and Jon just frowns harder. “I won’t give you my mum’s style, I promise!” He jokes weakly. It falls flat, and the whole atmosphere feels stilted. 
“Okay. Why not.”
“...Are you sure? I don’t want to interrupt your whole-”
“It’s fine. I could use some help reaching the back anyway.” As much as he just wants to lop all of it off, he doesn’t want it to look messy. 
Martin seems to brighten, probably at the relief of having something to focus on, and he walks off to grab a chair from the small dining table as Jon hovers awkwardly. He positions it in the living room, close to the small TV they’ve been using sporadically. They’ve been steadily working their way through the small cabinet full of DVDs underneath it. However, Jon isn’t exactly sure how long they’re going to be staying, so they might have to...ration them. The week they’ve been here hasn’t exactly been the most vibrant when it comes to entertainment. Maybe one day they’ll relent and open up the dusty box of Monopoly. That could very well be a major test of their relationship, though. 
At least, Jon thinks this is a relationship. They haven’t talked about it all that much. All that mattered in the beginning was escaping the Lonely, leaving London, then getting settled here. They’re fumbling around blindly in the dark, and all Jon knows is he wants to hold onto Martin as tightly as possible. 
That little train of thought is interrupted by the small clink of Martin taking the scissors off of the sink and grabbing a towel from the rack. He gestures to the chair, inviting Jon to sit, and when he does so he feels the towel being gently wrapped around his shoulders. 
There’s the brief sensation of Jon’s hair being pulled at, only slightly, and he sucks in a sharp breath.
“Okay?” Martin whispers. He understands without knowing, somehow, and Jon is glad that he can’t see the way his face is taut with apprehension, tinged with pain. 
“Okay,” he whispers back, trying to emulate Martin’s tone. 
“Can I use your tie?” His voice is still soft, and Jon should feel patronised, but he mostly feels soothed. “Just so it’s easier to cut through.”
Jon wordlessly removes the tie from his wrist and hands it over. He tries to hide the little shiver that passes over him when their fingers brush. Martin begins to hum a tune as he gathers the hair up into one handful (not like they did, he would never, it’s Martin, always so good to him), then creates a loose ponytail that falls to his shoulders. 
“Fine so far?” Jon nods tentatively. “Alright then.” 
There’s the distinct sound of the blades opening, and in one fluid motion Jon feels the weight he’d been carrying leave him. 
“There.” Martin comes into view, holding the thick, dark ponytail aloft, smiling crookedly. 
“Oh,” he croaks. “That’s...a lot.” His hand comes up to brush his the side of his head, then travels down and grasps at thin air where hair was a second ago. The cut seems to stop at his jaw, the small strands remaining ghosting over his skin. 
“It is. Can I keep going?”
Jon, hand still close to his head, makes a noise of assent. Martin takes a second to throw away what’s been cut then returns. He sinks his hands into Jon's scalp, massaging the tension out of it, and Jon makes an unbidden noise of satisfaction that causes his motions to still.
"God, sorry, did I hurt-"
"No! No, it's okay. It felt nice." It felt really nice. 
Martin clicks his tongue and continues for a while longer, fingers digging into Jon’s scalp over and over in a wonderful, rhythmic motion until Jon is practically boneless and falling asleep in the chair. He wonders if there’s a not-weird way to ask for this again outside of a hair cutting context. 
“So how short are we going here? You kind of have a bob right now,” Martin laughs. 
Jon hadn’t really thought about that. He just wanted it off, away, binned and out of his face. He shrugs. “I don’t know, short? Whatever you think will suit me.”
“Any hairstyle would suit you,” Martin points out, like it’s nothing. Jon smiles. “But I’ll do my best.” 
A few moments of Martin muttering to himself and circling around the chair is followed by the coolness of the dual blades against the curve of Jon’s ear, the shhk of them pressing together giving him goosebumps. He clearly has done this many times before, given the confident way he navigates the scissors. Jon certainly couldn’t have done this alone, at least not without making a fool out of himself. Martin brushes some hair away from the nape of his neck. His hands are very warm. 
“Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with short hair.”
Jon turns to him, puzzled. “Really?”
The thing with Jon is, when he cares about someone a lot, he tends to insert them in all of his memories, assuming that they’ve always been around (he also has the memory of a goldfish, but he’s sure that’s a whole other thing). Martin has become such an integral part of his life, standing neatly by his side like it’s nothing. Like he was meant to be there and always has. 
“It has been quite a few years now, I suppose. Last I remember it was this short I was still in research.” When he goes to touch his head again he notes that he can feel for his ears without having to move a mountain of hair aside.
“Better late than never, I guess! I’m gonna move to the front now.”
Martin has to position himself at an awkward angle to use the scissors properly, his back practically curved into a C shape. His gaze is focused and intense, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Hair falls on Jon’s face as he snips, making him wrinkle his nose and grimace.
“Sorry. You can wash it off soon.”
Jon nods minutely. Then he sneezes. Martin just smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, then continues. 
He remembers why he rarely went to get a professional haircut now. That strange intimacy that comes with someone being so close to you - a stranger - it always disturbed him. The idle chatter that made him grit his teeth, how they’d act like they knew him. Then he didn’t have the time or energy to cut it himself after...everything. 
Now he’s looking at Martin, though. It’s odd, yes. Intimate? Definitely. He doesn’t know whether to close his eyes or keep them open. But he’s always found it very hard to turn his gaze away from Martin regardless.
His eyes are a lovely shade of deep blue, and he has far too many scars alongside the smattering of freckles on his face. He looks tired. Very much so. There’s crows feet at the corners of his eyes and lines on his forehead. He notes absently that he actually has a thick beard, too. Of course he noticed it beforehand - he’s felt it scratching the back of his neck when he wakes in the morning with Martin’s arms around him - but it’s worth pointing out. It makes him look much older, especially since the grey in it seems to be overtaking the red. 
Martin stands up straight and runs his hands through Jon’s hair a few times before standing back, head tilted to the side. 
“I think we’re done. It’s not amazing, but.”
Jon is already shrugging off the towel and heading to the bathroom mirror, feeling weirdly nervous. 
He certainly looks different. Unfortunately, though he searched high and low for them, Daisy doesn’t own any clippers. Martin did the best he could with what he had - he’s kept it a bit longer towards the front, some strands grazing his forehead, but the rest is cropped closely to his scalp. Jon tentatively touches it and leans forward. He tries to grasp a chunk of it, see if it’s long enough to pull. He fails. 
“It’s perfect.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” Jon says firmly. “It’s just what I needed.” He walks back over to Martin and wraps his arms around him instinctively, sighing with contentment when he responds in kind. 
“Thank you,” he mumbles into Martin’s t-shirt. 
“Of course.” Martin is stroking the back of his neck gently. “You look very handsome.”
Jon’s face burns at the compliment, and he chooses to hide it further rather than reply. They stand there for a while, hair scattered around the floor like autumn leaves, and it feels like a new beginning. 
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theseshipsshallsail · 2 years
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Chapter 1
The revelry from the bookstore leaves a heady buzz of la libertà flowing through their veins, and as the crescent moon climbs higher in a pin-pricked sky, Rome’s labyrinthine streets bear witness to the loss of their remaining inhibitions. Drunken kisses give way to drunken dancing - and unfortunate drunken vomiting - but the ancient cobbles are their compass on this ferragosto evening, steering them back to the complicit safety of their hotel. 
The stale scent of sex still lingers in the room, yet tempted as they are to add to it, the prospect of their imminent separation is a sobering force. Elio’s body is heavy with exhaustion. The oppressive tightness in his chest magnified by all that he’s trying to ignore. Their time is borrowed. Soon, all of this will be naught but memory. The man beside him nothing but a ghost. Haunting his every step with visions of a life denied. A future obfuscated by what-ifs and maybes.   
He refuses to sleep, however. Refuses to sacrifice a single minute to unconsciousness in spite of the grappa’s siren call. Absurd though it is, a part of him dreads waking up alone. That Oliver will disappear like a thief in the night - taking what’s left of his shattered heart with him. His guards are down - all his pretences stripped away - but here they are, stretched out on a too-small bed, solemn fingers caressing familiar skin. Worshipping each other by words, if not by the flesh. 
And it isn’t easy. Of course it isn’t. Elio’s an individuo reservato. A trait he’s uncomfortably aware of. But he can’t let that stop him from spilling his innermost thoughts. From divulging the things he wishes he’d done differently. Or not at all. In some aspects, he’s sure he’s repeating himself, but there’s just so much he needs Oliver to hear. Things he never dared tell him previously - never deemed vital - when the end of their summer idyll was a nebulous concept.  
Like how he’d leave the adjoining door open at night, hoping beyond hope that Oliver would walk through it. Or that afternoon at the tennis courts, when he’d recoiled from his massage for fear of leaning into the frisson of excitement. Needs him to understand his visceral reaction the morning after they first slept together. The crippling anxiety that twisted his intentions, necessitating a hasty - if short-lived - retreat. Wants to beg him not to forget. To remember everything. So that when next he tastes the salt-tang of the ocean upon his lips, the sweetness of apricot juice beneath a cloudless yonder, a piece of Elio - nevermind how fleeting - will slip into that parallel life, too.
All his secrets. 
All his worries. 
All he’s put off for later. 
A futile notion, admittedly, now that there is no later. 
No more chance for postponement. 
Thankfully, he isn’t the only one speaking, and Oliver lays his own regrets out like a hand of cards whenever he stumbles into a tongue-tied silence. His forearm is slung around his waist, their legs tangled at the knees, and Elio drowns in his eyes as he recalls the steely glares that once pierced him to the core, but which he now appreciates were a means of self-defence. An attempt to stave off the unavoidable.
“Did you mean it?” he whispers, twisting Oliver’s Star of David between his fingertips as he burrows into the sticky warmth of his neck. “When you said you’d been happy here?”
“How can you even ask me that?” 
“How can I not?” Elio replies, failing to control the tremor in his voice. “You tried to keep your distance when you arrived. It was me who sought you out. If I hadn’t pushed so hard -”
“I’d have probably spent ten more days kicking myself for my cowardice,” Oliver tells him, dropping kisses to his knuckles as though they’re something to be cherished. “Wearing holes in my espadrilles… trying to hide a semi each time you passed by in those swim trunks...”
Elio snorts. “The feeling’s mutual, mon ami.”
“So we’re both idiots, then?”
“Well… one of us was being purposefully difficult...”
“Goose,” Oliver growls, and Elio giggles despite himself when he’s tickled without mercy. “I’ll show you purposefully difficult.”
It soon devolves into a childish wrestling match, Elio’s wrists pinned above him as Oliver scrabbles along his sides, leaving him bow-taut and winded. “Tutto apposto! Enough!”
“You give?”
“I give,” he says, lungs heaving in his chest. “Dio… I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Nonsense.” Oliver rolls to the side, tipping his chin up to better meet his eyes. ”This is new to us both. It’s only natural to have doubts.”
Elio huffs. “Doubt is the father of inventions.”
“And may I ask what you’re inventing?”
An awkward shrug. “Nothing,” Elio says, afraid his misgivings will lead them down a destructive path. “And everything. You know how my brain works.”
“I do, yes.” Oliver brushes a thumb over his bottom lip. “Though for my sins, I’ve yet to find cause for complaint.”
“Déviant.” 
“Takes one to know one.”
Elio nips at the tormenting digit, not quite ready to let the subject go. “I want to hear it,” he murmurs, teeth scraping the nail. “I think I need to hear it.”
“Elio…”
“Just tell me,” he insists, and sighing, Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose. 
“It’s complicated.”
“Isn’t it always?” 
Impatience flares at the return of his evasiveness, and the remorse in Oliver’s gaze is immediate. “We never talked much about my family, did we?” he asks, and Elio shakes his head, shuffling closer as Oliver draws a shuddering breath. “My parents, they’re.... well. To describe them as traditional would be a kindness,” he continues. “Our relationship has been strained for years, but they have certain... expectations, I suppose. For my future, specifically. You know how it is.”
“Do I?” Elio asks, stiffening as I'm sure I'll pay for it somehow echoed from the not so distant past. 
The implication is clear, and maybe there are razor blades in his expression, because Oliver’s own turns instantly apologetic. “I guess not,” he says, sliding a conciliatory hand to his hip. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are?”
Elio frowns. “In what way?”
“With your folks,” Oliver explains. “My father would cart me off to a correctional facility.” A beat. “He still might.” 
“Only if he finds out,” his traitorous mouth blurts before his alleged genius can catch up, and Elio’s heart sinks. “But he won’t, will he?”
It’s less a question, more a statement, and Oliver’s jaw clenches as he stares at him in silent concession. “I wish things could be different.”
“I know,” Elio says, the words braver than the sentiment behind them. “Me too.”  
But the universe isn’t that lenient. Like Icarus, they’ve flown too near to the sun, and the consequences of such defiance will see their wings clipped once they crash back down to earth. He’d cautioned himself on the journey south to prepare for the blow. Peered out the grimy window of the direttissimo, knowing that when he next stands on the platform he’ll be alone. That he’ll hate it. Those rehearsals, it seems, have done little to dull the pain of what’s to come, and latent superstition has left him fumbling in the dark, regardless.
“E’ la vita,” Elio says, resorting to self-preservation as he dredges up a smile - the over-bright, false one he’s perfected through years of dinner drudgery. “Why risk it all for a bit of fun, right?”
“Don’t do that.” Apparently Elio’s not the only one who can see through a facade. “You mean more to me than some fling, and you know it.”
“But -” 
“No. Hear me out.” Earnest, Oliver smooths the hair from Elio’s temple. “These past six weeks… I don’t know how to describe how important they were to me. The freedom. The acceptance.” His throat bobs in the grey strokes of dawn. “You.”
“Me?” 
“Us.” Oliver fidgets with a loose thread on Elio’s shirt. “I meant it,” he mutters at last, winding an errant curl around the index finger of his other hand. “I have been happy here. I’ve been happy with you.” He hesitates. A quick flash of indecision. “I’m not sure I was ever really happy before you.” 
“Please don’t say that.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Per carità! That only makes it worse,” Elio says, whirling away to hide in Oliver’s collar. The sour musk of sweat is soaked into the material, and he inhales deeply, hoarding every piece of him while he still can. “You are the very best parts of me,” he confesses, lifting his head. “I don’t know what I’ll do when -”
“Hey…” Oliver’s grip tightens. “Didn’t we go over this? You’ll be -”
“Fine. You said.”
“Clearly it bears repeating.” 
Elio touches his face. Watches the ripples of emotion spread out like a pebble cast into the lake. “And you?” he returns, recollecting that night on the rock. His naivety in presuming Oliver’s ghost wouldn’t always be staring out at the horizon. Rodin’s Thinker clad in billowy cotton. “You’ll be okay?”
A breath. “I’ll be okay.”
Elio’s not sure which of them he’s trying to convince, so he kisses him gently in lieu of examining it further, his stomach flipping when Oliver pulls back with an air of exquisite softness. “What time do we need to be at the airport?” he asks, seeking sanctuary in distraction. “You have your passport, sì?”
“I do,” Oliver says, studying him carefully. “The plane leaves at noon. But don’t feel you have to -” He stops. Swallows. Tries again. “You don’t have to see me off. Not if you don’t want -”
“I want.”
“Elio -”
“Non essere ridicolo. I’m coming,” he tells him, fighting a shiver as the cool breeze from the window brings goosebumps to his skin. “Of course I’m coming.” 
The relentless tick of the clock rings loud in the sudden silence, and Elio raises up on his elbow, only for Oliver to cup his cheek before he can turn towards the wall. 
“Don’t look,” he whispers, sounding choked as he double checks the time on his watch. “It’s ten minutes fast at any rate.”
“Ten minutes?” Elio laughs. Slightly unhinged. “What difference does that make? Ten? Twenty? You still have to leave.”
He detests the unspoken word that hovers between them. The entire phrase a sullen admission of weakness: you still have to leave me.
“Don’t think of it like that,” Oliver murmurs, one hand stroking the base of his spine. ”We have a few hours yet.” 
Elio sniffs. “Not like they’ll matter tomorrow.”
“Maybe not. But they matter right now.” Oliver nudges their foreheads together. “Every second, Elio.” 
“Every second, Elio,” he echoes numbly, if only to call him by his name one last time.
He’s shaking, he realises, though in all honesty he doesn’t care that his vulnerabilities are on display. That Oliver can see how lost in him he really is. That the situation is gutting him, and he’s unable to stop the bleeding. His chest feels concave. The space below his ribs too small to contain the sheer need and protectiveness that washes through him. He wants to shelter Oliver from the storm that lies ahead. To house him beneath his breast where the burdens of this world cannot touch him. Encapsulate everything Oliver is within the confines of himself, meagre as those confines might be.
But what can he do? Implore him to stay? Ask him to give up his doctorate? His career? His responsibilities? And for what? A life in the shadows? Always looking over their shoulders. Always that sense of shame.
He thinks of the pink and yellow lilies that bloom in the giardino back in B. The delicate petals that unfurl for such a brief period of time. There’s something recherché, he knows, in such transitory beauty, yet Elio’s never lacked for stubbornness. Oliver may believe his story is already written - that their destiny is forged in stone - but no one’s ever survived a freefall by continuing to spiral. 
For something so tragically temporary, their bond has left a permanent mark. And Elio? He wants to beat his fists against this odious ending until they’re bloodied and raw.
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mai-sau · 3 years
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Prompt "give me attention" for kidnap family?
"haha, im gonna take it easy with prompts this time around, only a few hundred words -" cue spongebob title card "2.3k words later"
seriously tho thank you for the prompt!! (and sorry about the wait!) i had fun working on this one bc well i love any chance to write about this lil family of murderers and tiny bois :') hope u enjoy!!
Prompt: "Give me attention."
“Nelyo.”
“Nelyo.”
“Ne-”
Thump. Maedhros slammed his book shut. A puff of dust wheezed out from the crusty pages; Maglor could make out the swirl of particles flying about in the dim shafts of sunlight peeking into his brother’s study from windows that he was sure were clean at some point in their existence.
Said brother tossed a glare over to Maglor from the other side of his desk.
“You’re allowed to be here. Quietly.” Maedhros threw a pointed look towards the abandoned scroll in Maglor’s hands.
“But I’m so very lonely, Nelyo,” Maglor pouted, and dropped the scroll on the desk. The parchment rolled out towards Maedhros, whose face was fast approaching the same shade as his hair. “Besides, I’ve already taken care of all my correspondence for the day. Nothing much else to do, really, but seek out the company of my darling brother.”
“I’m older than you,” Maedhros grit out, rubbing his temple in terse little circles. Which one of them he was reminding Maglor couldn’t say.
“Only by a few years,” Maglor teased. He let the corners of his lip curl up - he was well aware this made him look like “a cat about to feast on the fattest saucer of milk it’s ever conned” according to his brother, and that was why he did it.
On top of that dusty old book, Maedhros’ fingers twitched. Got you.
“Come on, Nelyo,” he whined. “Give me attentiooon.”
Maedhros threw him a positively hateful look, but Maglor knew he wouldn’t throw him out just yet. By this point, Maglor liked to think he knew his brother well enough.
There were some things he didn’t, of course, and this was fine. When his brother would wake and traipse out to the courtyard in the dead of night, staring at the moon hungrily for hours and hours as if he would never glimpse its light amidst the pitch dark again; when one of the many elves around Amon Ereb would do something wrong - not when one of their craftsmen made the same excited little exclamation as Curvo used to, or hunters fletched their arrows just how Tyelko did, Maglor understood these, at least - but a request phrased too sweetly, an abrupt movement, a smile too wide, and Maedhros’ throat would tighten, his words clipped, before excusing himself to go lock himself in his room for an hour, or two, or three: these parts of his brother Maglor may never know.
But he knew much, or at least enough. A few months after they’d taken in the twins, Maglor had just finished mopping an explosion of jam on the dining floor and sweeping up the shards of what was once the hefty jar that contained it. He’d first gently let Elros know that if they wanted food, they need only ask; he’d then let him know that no, of course they wouldn’t cast him out for breaking the jam jar, with no small amount of tears or internal panic on either end of that conversation.
By the time Maglor slunk into Maedhros’ study that evening to go over reports from around the fortress, he was maybe a bit tired. When Maedhros told him to wait for just a few minutes while he wrapped something or other up, Maglor might’ve let slip a touch of petulance and no small amount of theatrics into his voice when he asked when his dear Nelyo could spare just a moment for his poor baby brother, simply wilting away from the neglect.
Maglor had frozen, fearful of what his second-most severe brother would have to say in response to - well, whining. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d let himself do so. Oh, he’d been quite the brat in Valinor, and used to be quite proud of that fact, thank you. Each and every one of his brothers’ last nerves practically had his name on it. But it seemed ever since they arrived here, it was as if they simply couldn’t afford the waste of time. Ribbing was a favored pastime of his in Aman, but Beleriand offered no such frivolities.
But living with the twins, putting on playful words and coaxing laughter from two young faces that Maglor couldn’t bear to see two seconds from breaking anymore, had apparently loosened his discipline.
He’d thought Maedhros would treat him to one of his signature frowns, barking at him that neither of them had time to make things any harder for each other, but instead he’d… laughed. Just the slightest huff of air, yes, but a laugh nonetheless. Maglor hadn’t heard his brother laugh since…
Well, if anything, he was honoring his cousin’s memory.
So Maglor experimented over the years, let a few more teases and whines slip into his day-to-day interactions with Maedhros. His brother had since mustered a valiant effort to act annoyed, but Maglor could still catch a muffled chuckle or smothered grin here and there.
So. All in all, he’s sure he knows his brother pretty well at this point, and Maedhros was not troubled (bad), just bothered (good).
Which, of course, meant they could continue to play; Maglor would show no mercy.
“Please? Please, please? Just a smidgen of tender love and care from my dearly beloved big brother?” Maglor asked, eyes wide and pleading, hands clasped in front of him as he leaned over the desk. His hair, inky black, spilled all over his scroll.
Maedhros’ nose twitched. His right ear flicked. Oh yes. He was close to a chuckle now, he could tell. His dearly beloved big brother stood no fucking chance.
“Oh dear Eru, let my brother pay attention to - MANWË’S TITS!” Maglor shrieked, springing up from his seat after spotting a dark shadow peeking through the window.
His brother whirled around. Quick as a viper, his hand darted out to grasp the hilt of his sword. Despite this, Maglor could hear a choked noise he was more than halfway certain was the chuckle he had so desperately hunted. Oh well.
A chubby face stared right back at them, eyes round as saucers. Wait, make that two faces.
Both Maglor and Maedhros sagged with relief.
“Elros, can you please come in?” Maglor croaked, feeling five feet to the left of his physical body. “You too, Elrond.”
The two of them nodded bashfully, heads bobbing as they fumbled over to the glass. And they were… flapping. Each twin sported small brown wings on their back, looking much like the falcons Tyelko used to play with as a child. Maglor supposed, thinking of a great bird soaring away over the sea with light itself clutched tight in its talons, maybe they should have expected this one in particular.
Elros pushed once, twice at the windows, tiny arms straining against the pane and looking more panicked by the second. Behind him, Elrond simply pointed to the - oh, the window latch. Yes.
Maedhros stood up and flicked it open. Elros came tumbling through, nearly bashing his skull on the desk before Maedhros caught him midair.
Elrond flew in smoothly and landed on Maglor’s empty chair, wings neatly folding in. Maedhros dumped Elros on his own chair. His wing smacked Maedhros’ arm by mistake.
“We talked about this. No new shapeshifting without me or Maglor there,” Maedhros said, fixing each of them with a stern look.
Both the twins looked down at this. Elrond wrung his little wrists.
“We’re sorry!” Elros burst out, tears welling up in his eyes. “We won’t do it again, promise!”
“That’s what you said last time, sweetheart,” Maglor told him.
“And the time before that,” Maedhros grumbled.
“What we’re saying, dear, is that we understand that you’re sorry. But keeping your word has to take first priority,” Maglor explained softly.
Maedhros coughed.
“Or, er, not doing it again,” Maglor corrected. “That’s what counts.”
“We understand,” Elros sniffled. “It’s just, we wanted to hear, but you weren’t there to check with, because well, you were here, and, well, um, yes -”
“Bringing us to the next point of order,” Maedhros rumbled. He raised a brow at both of them. “Eavesdropping. We have also been over this.”
Oh dear. Elros looked like he was about to drown in a puddle of tears. Maglor rubbed a hand between his shoulder blades soothingly, careful of the new feathery appendages.
Thankfully, Elrond stepped in. “We remember, it’s not nice because we like to be in private sometimes and it’s not fair for us to not let other people be too,” he recited shyly. “Um, we just… we know you both meet up a lot like this, and we know it's important… but… um…” His lip trembled; his voice cracked. “Do you... talk about us? Do you not want us to hear because it’s bad? Because we can do better!” He promised quickly, eyes wide and wet. “Elros is getting really good at his music lessons, he’s practicing a lot! And I’m working on my writing lessons every day!”
Something in Maglor’s chest twisted. “Oh, honey, no -”
But his brother beat him to the punch. Striding out from behind the desk, he knelt down in front of Elrond. “Can I hug you?” he asked very quietly.
Elrond bit his lip and nodded. Without another word, Maedhros wrapped him up in his arms.
They stayed like that for a moment, Maedhros’ hulking frame wrapped around Elrond’s body, like a drape of russet locks, leather and rich furs. When his brother finally pulled away, he gave a heavy look to both children.
“We will never give you away because you’re not good enough. Alright? You will always be good enough. Both of you,” he told them. He reached out and covered Elrond’s tiny hand with his own, fingers curling around and intertwining. “And not because you’re caught up on your lessons, or do what we say.”
“Though those are certainly nice,” Maglor added. He flashed them a teasing grin before taking care to soften his expression once more, and laid a gentle hand on Elros’ shoulder. “You will always have our love. And nothing, not even the worst jam spill, or missed harp lesson - don’t think I didn’t notice that last week, dearest - can ever reach in and steal it. It is your’s by blood and birthright.”
“Love you,” Elros sniffled. Elrond echoed him, voice no less wobbly.
Maedhros gifted them with a small smile. “Love you both, starlights.”
“And -” Elros started, hiccuped, and continued. “And same for me too. Nothing can change that! I’ll always love you two.”
Maglor felt a pang of sickly guilt invade his chest and looked away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maedhros stiffen.
“Me too,” Elrond said, voice suddenly clear. Maglor glanced at him and met a gaze that seemed years ahead of its time; he froze, rooted to the spot. “We’ll always love you no matter what you do.”
“Well -” Maglor started. “That’s…”
“No need to worry about us,” Maedhros recovered quickly, waving his hand. “Now then, it’s nearing bedtime, hm?”
“But wait!” Elros cried. “What were you two talking about then?”
“Yes! We saw Atya going like this,” Elrond clasped his pudgy hands together and shook them. “And his voice sounded all funny, and then he prayed to Eru about Atar paying more attention to Manwe’s t-”
“ALRIGHT!” Maglor yelped, clapping his hands. His face must’ve been steaming, his cheeks were burning, oh stars - “Bedtime!”
“But we want to know why you were saying all those funny things,” Elros complained loudly. His voice slipped into a high pitched whine, dripping with petulance. “Nelyo, Nelyo, give me attentioooon -”
“I do not sound like that!” Maglor gasped, scooping up a giggling Elrond to be carried to bed.
“I do not sound like that!”
Maglor turned around, gaping. That was not Elros’ voice.
Maedhros stared back. His eyes glinted with mirth and the most shit-eating grin curled his lips. In his arms was a starstruck Elros, who looked no less shocked than if the clouds themselves had just burst into song and danced a lively jig. And quite frankly, Maglor would be less surprised.
Maedhros dealt him one last smirk before twirling on his heel and walking out of the room to go deposit one elfling in his bed. Maglor still had the other, who poked his cheek.
“Atya? Are you okay?”
Slowly, ever so slowly, Maglor felt a smile grow across his face. His eyes stung with tears. He quickly wiped them with his sleeve before they could fatten and spill over his cheeks and probably make Elrond worry even more.
“Wonderful, dear.” He frowned for a second, considering. “Although I think there is a dreadful amount of mockery in my future.”
He looked down at Elrond. His son merely tilted his round head, offering a blank look. Maglor sighed happily. “But that’s okay.”
XXX
In time, it became clear that there was no need to worry about the looming threat of brotherly teasing paid back in full; Maedhros may have been looser with his laughter, but even this was a rare occasion still. Maglor did not mind, for any time he saw his brother’s eyes alight with anything other than fatal passion was a gift.
The true threat that lurked within Amon Ereb made itself known eventually.
Two weeks later, Maglor was scurrying to meet up with one of the smiths to discuss pending repairs but stopped short in front of a small figure in the courtyard blocking his path.
“Not now, sweetheart, Atya’s very busy,” Maglor told Elrond, harried, ready to flag down someone on the way to attend to whatever his son needed.
And then it happened. Elrond’s face crumpled just so. His eyes widened: big, round, and wet. His lip wobbled. When he opened his mouth, his voice took on a tone so absolutely, horribly pitiful that Maglor half-suspected the echo of Lúthien herself lived in his words.
“Please, Atya,” he begged, every word a death sentence. “Give me attentiooon.”
Oh Eru, Maglor despaired, even as he opened his arms for an evil little elfling to leap into, repairs forgotten. I’ve made a monster.
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mypoisonedvine · 3 years
Text
Perks of the Job | dark!Boba Fett x reader x (soft)dark!Din Djarin
summary: the only thing worse than one bounty hunter on your trail is two.  the only thing worse than a bounty hunter who wants to abuse you is a bounty hunter who wants to make you into a lesson for his makeshift apprentice.  the only thing worse than a villain is a villain who thinks he’s a hero.
word count: 5.8k
warnings: smut (noncon, including vaginal, oral m receiving, anal, and dp… so you know, basically everything), a specific kink of mine which I have dubbed "no, not there!" or NNT for short (betcha can guess what that means), din catching feelings lowkey, hair pulling, choking, bondage, forced begging, all the good stuff
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Boba had proven to be unendingly useful in bounty missions, even if he was a little bit rough around the edges and slightly more ‘shoot first ask questions later’ in his attack style.  Still, Din was grateful for his aid and was happy to tag along when Boba explained he was tracking a target to Florrum— just a smuggler, wanted by the New Republic for trafficking death sticks all across the Outer Rim, nothing too serious or high-profile.
Turned out Din was less useful than he wanted to be, because only Boba was able to get into the club he’d traced your beacon to, so Din was instead left to wait on Slave I and try not to get into any trouble in the meantime.
After less than an hour of resting his eyes in the cockpit, he heard Boba’s voice come in through the comms system.  “Target acquired,” he rasped, and Din instantly noticed the distant sounds of struggle and the destruction he must have left in his wake.  “Be ready to take off when we board.”
Din leaned forward to hold down the blue button; “Roger,” he replied quickly as he kept an eye on the camera feed of the loading platform, opening and extending it so the hunter and his bounty could board easily.  The man appeared on the visual soon after, dragging a woman by the scruff of her neck.
It was you, with your hands tied behind your back and your mouth restrained by a makeshift gag.  You were putting up quite a fight, but not nearly enough to stop a man as ruthless as Fett.  The second the two of you were inside, Din triggered the loading platform to return to its upright resting place as he started the engines, the ship’s gyroscopic insides tilting against the lift-off sequence.  He turned his attention away from the screen as he saw Boba toss you to the ground, focusing instead on his task of exiting the atmosphere and getting the ship into hyperspace so you could be returned to those who sought you.
Hyperspace was quieter, which meant he could hear the sounds of your resistance more easily even with you in another part of the ship entirely.  Wondering what all the fuss was about (and, secretly, a bit curious about this feisty young woman Fett had captured), Din made his way out of the cockpit and towards the cargo bay where Boba was wrestling with you.
It didn’t really seem like a fight, in the traditional sense of the word, since a fight implies two opposing forces— it seemed more like you were giving everything you had to try to wrench out of his grip (and go where?, Din was forced to wonder, we’re in hyperspace) while your captor was merely humoring you by not immediately knocking you out and freezing you in carbonite.
Your desperate grunts and whines were muffled by your gag, screeching to a halt as Boba used one hand to hold your torso and pull your back against his chest, the other gripping your jaw tightly.  “Stop fighting, little girl,” he hissed, “you’re just going to get yourself hurt.”  That deep commanding voice enough to intimidate even Din; thankfully, Din was on Fett’s good side, for the moment, and was pretty sure his own ‘bounty hunter voice’ (as he referred to it only in his own head) was at least 80% as scary.
You made this little motion like you were considering disobeying his instruction, but your rebellion was quelled by a gloved fist tangling into and subsequently tugging your hair.  You winced, but relaxed a bit as you gave in to the reality that you’d been bested.
Din didn’t understand what was happening when Boba bent your bound-and-gagged form over a console, but he knew it couldn’t be good: not with the way tears were pouring down your face and soaking the cloth tied through your mouth, not with the way you struggled underneath his grip in your hair and on the back of your tunic.
“What are you doing,” Din asked, although it didn’t come out quite like a question without that uptick at the end, his voice firm and steady and deep even as his heart started to race.
“What do you think I’m doing?  I’m taking my bonus,” Boba answered plainly, kicking your flailing legs apart to slot his body between them.
Boba must have seen the younger man’s confusion, even through his helmet, because he took a pause from his work to look back at Din.
“You can fuck ‘em before you chuck ‘em, you know,” Boba informed him, like it was obvious— like this was open secret that he was amazed he hadn’t already acted on.  Truly, the thought hadn’t really crossed Din’s mind before.  His upbringing had been devoid of any sexual education, even to the point of drawing a clear line between right and wrong.  Then again, right and wrong were always a blurry mix in his mind as a bounty hunter: instead of that dichotomy, he was taught that there was the Code and nothing else.  And the Code didn’t have anything to say about this, specifically, even as guilt and fear tingled up his spine along with the sickly addictive feeling burning in his gut— arousal, as he realized with a little gasp.
Fett leaned down to push his helmet against your ear, as if you’d be able to hear him any clearer even though the helmet’s modulator made it all sound mostly the same anyway.  “Don’t try to fight me,” he insisted again.  “Just stay still and keep your mouth shut.”
After a shaky breath, you nodded a little, and Boba sat back up, letting go of you with both of his hands— Din was pretty surprised to see you actually stay still, clearly the threat had gotten to you.  Fear, as the Mandalorian had learned many times, was a much more powerful tool of control than force.  Boba had you beat in both regards.
There was a little grunt from the man behind you as he reached down to fiddle with his trousers, finding the belt and opening which he reached into.  From where he was standing, Din couldn’t really see what exactly his travel companion was doing, but even he wasn’t so naive not to figure it out.
A harsh, cracked sound spilled from your mouth, muffled through the gag, as Boba roughly pulled your trousers down and slid his cock between your legs, teasing you— taunting you.  It wasn’t enough to violate you, apparently; he had to degrade you, siphon every drop of terror as he reminded you what was happening.  You shook your head, and even though your words were objectively unintelligible, it was apparent to Din that you were pleading with your captor to stop.
Din got the sense that he should leave, but his feet were welded to the floor.  His eyes were trained on you, shaking and breathing unsteadily where you were bent over and your head was turned to the side to press on the cold metal.  You closed your eyes tightly, and Din recognized the expression as ‘bracing for impact,’ although in your case, it wasn’t that you were about to be impacted but impaled.  Of course this couldn’t be right, Din knew enough to know that, in fact he was pretty sure it was illegal on some planets, but they weren’t on any planet right now, and Din had done things that are illegal on every planet.  Maybe this really was normal bounty-hunting fare, and he was just too inexperienced to realize that.  Maybe this was a relic of how hunters operated in Boba’s time; and Din, of course, had a lot of respect for tradition.
Maybe, more than anything, Din had lost track of the part of himself that cared if it was right or wrong, overpowered by a much more primal part of himself that had been chained and suppressed for far too long.  The funny thing about monsters is that they get hungrier the longer you keep them caged up.
The way your fists clenched and shook as you were forced to take the hunter’s cock inside you, the way your teeth ground together and a hiss leaked out from between them, the way you whimpered and cried and he could see the shiver run up your spine… Din was obsessed with it, and his chest burned with a foreign emotion that could be described as jealousy, but that wouldn’t explain all of it.  It was more than that, indescribable even to someone much more fluent in the language of feelings than Din was.
You sobbed quietly as your body went limp underneath his tight grip on the back of your tunic, just between your shoulder blades.  He was already moving his hips quickly, chasing the pleasure he stole from your body.  Din could see that he was hurting you, pain unmistakable in the way your expression twisted, even as the rest of your body seemed to have resigned itself.
Din wished, against every instinct of justice still firing wildly in the back of his mind, that he was hurting you like that, and not his companion.  Although, he also fancied himself noble enough that, given the opportunity, he would treat you fairer than Boba would.  And he was right, but then again, to be less cruel than Boba Fett takes little chivalry.
Your cries were sharp, loud enough at times to echo around the ship’s interior, other times completely silent as the brutality of Boba’s movements knocked the wind out of your lungs.
“Take her mouth,” Boba offered, “it’ll be a good way to shut her up.”
Din’s head was spinning as he tried to process that.  It was like his body was moving on pure instinct as he stepped closer, his trousers getting tighter as you looked up at him.  Your eyes were pleading for something: mercy, presumably, but he felt helpless to do anything but obey Boba’s order.  It was an order, right?  He had to do it.  
A gloved finger tucked under your gag and pulled it out of your mouth, the fabric falling around your neck as you licked your dry and cracked lips.
“Please,” you whispered.
He kept one hand weaved into your hair as the other opened his pants, his cock bouncing free the moment it was given any space to do so.  He held it at the base tightly, afraid it would all end too soon if he didn’t.  
“Please, don’t do this,” you insisted, whimpering a little as he rubbed his cock around your lips, smearing the clear precum over your cheek.  
The hand he’d tangled into your hair moved to grip your jaw, forcing your mouth open, and he gently pushed his cock inside— barely enough to rub his cock on your tongue, to feel the humid moisture of your breathing.  You didn’t close your lips until he pushed his cock deeper, enveloping him in the silky skin of your mouth as he tried to keep his cool.  How it felt was one thing, but how it looked was another entirely— your lips stretching over his girth, your cheeks bulging where the head of his cock pressed against the inside, your eyes blinking up at him as they brimmed with fresh tears.  He hadn’t even been creative enough to imagine something like this those few times he’d gotten himself off with his hand, those few times basic biological need overcame confusion and naivete and ineptitude.  Now it was going to be the thing he thought about every time, which was why he was doing his best to commit it to memory now.  
Every groan and whimper that Boba forced you to make was vibrating through his cock, making Din sigh shakily and hold your head with both hands.
“Maker,” Din whispered as his head fell back, even though he didn’t believe in the Maker.  At least, he hadn’t before.
“Good, isn’t it?” Boba encouraged, his voice tinted with the curl of a grin.  Din couldn’t imagine what Boba was getting out of sharing his spoils with him, but he wasn’t one to question the nature of a gift when it felt like this, like your hot, wet tongue massaging the underside of his cock.
“Yes,” Din agreed hoarsely.
You yelped around his length when Boba brought a gloved hand down to smack your rear, the sound almost as erotic as the way your flesh rippled and shook with his aggressive touch.  “Go on, suck him harder, give ‘im a real show,” Boba instructed to you darkly.  You whimpered but did as he’d said, hollowing your cheeks and creating the most wonderful pressure as you sucked on Din’s swollen head.  
Boba shed himself of his right glove, tossing it aside to palm at where your flesh had turned red in the shape of his hand already.  Din shivered as he watched Boba’s thumb move inward— he couldn’t see where it was, but he had a pretty good idea based on the way your entire body tensed up, a weak whimper of confusion echoing around Din’s cock.
Instinct told him to take his cock out of your mouth, even if the idea of not feeling you for a moment was unpleasant in so many ways.  Still, he figured he needed to hear whatever it was you had to say.
“Don’t,” you pleaded with Boba.  “Not that.”
“Bet you’ll like it,” Boba assured, and he must have pushed in to the first knuckle because your whole body jolted forward, running from the sensation as you winced.  “Relax,” Boba instructed firmly.
“Stop,” you whimpered, and Din’s heart twisted to see you in pain.
“Do what he says,” Din suggested— not a command, just his best proposal of a solution.  In situations of inequitable experience, Din deferred to Boba liberally; certainly, Boba knew more about this than he did, even if that was a very low bar.
“Please, make him stop,” you whispered to him, more of a conversation than the two of you had had before.  He was almost tempted to honor your request, even if he would never consider standing up to Boba, but his body was pulsing with need and it overrode any sense of decency left. 
“I’m sorry,” was his only consolation as he pushed into your mouth again, and though it wasn’t a lie, it wasn’t very useful to you, either.
He held your neck as he pushed himself deeper, his sense of shame deteriorating in favor of pleasure.  It was embarrassing enough to be doing this at all, let alone with Boba right there, watching him— well, Boba didn’t really seem to be watching him, too preoccupied with watching you squirm beneath him, but still, he could see it and that was a fact Din preferred to ignore.  He imagined instead that this was a private, intimate moment the way it ought to be, the way that he had deduced these activities were usually conducted.  He also imagined that you wanted to do this to him, that you were on your knees willingly as opposed to bent over a table by force.  It was so easy to picture you wanting it, begging for it, even.  Let me do this for you, I want to taste you, I want to make you feel good, you would offer as you knelt down, and he would still feel guilty for it but he wouldn’t stop you, either.  Din hadn’t previously allowed himself to fantasize about having a companion of that nature, but as he indulged himself in his imagination now, he decided you would be unendingly generous: with your time, with your love, with your body.  In return he would protect you… from exactly the sort of thing he was subjecting you to right now.  
Renewed guilt seared through his chest as reality hit: you’d never care about him, you hated him, he could see that clearly in the way you looked up at him while he used your mouth.  And he didn’t blame you for it at all, although he wished you would appreciate that it was Boba’s idea in the first place and that his crime was far worse than Din’s.  Fett seemed to get off on your reluctance, relish and savor it, while it was just a compromise to Din.
You closed your eyes with a little sigh through your nose, relaxing your mouth further for him to thrust his hips forward into.  He realized that you were trying to relax like Boba had told you, and for good reason— Fett had replaced his thumb for two fingers, and Din was almost curious enough to lean forward and try to get a glimpse of your puckered hole opening up to him.  You looked pretty with your eyes fallen shut, those eyelashes delicately resting on your cheeks, but it wasn’t as good as being able to gaze right at you.
“Don’t close your eyes,” Din instructed quickly.  When they opened again, he saw your stare dart around his helmet, seeking somewhere to latch onto.  “Right here,” he clarified, releasing one hand from your throat to tap on the tinted visor.  When you looked at where he had told you to, it was almost like you were really looking him in the eyes— although, truthfully, he was sort of glad that you couldn’t because he was sure you would find more there than he wanted you to see.  It would be impossible to hide his nervousness, his inexperience, his fear if it weren’t for the beskar in the way.  Even now, your bright eyes threatened to pierce right through him.
“You’re gonna come, aren’t you, girl?” Boba rasped, the closest Din had ever heard him to beaming with pride.
You shook your head against the intrusion in your mouth, and Din pulled out to give you a chance to talk.  (Perhaps it also served the secondary purpose of delaying Din’s orgasm, which he had been holding back for so long now as he found himself oddly insecure about his stamina, but that’s neither here nor there.)  “No,” you denied, but your voice was wavering as your eyes darted to the floor.
“She’s lying,” Din announced.
“I know,” Boba replied.  “I can feel it— on the inside,” he hissed, and Din wasn’t sure if he was addressing him or you but it made a jolt of electricity shoot up his spine either way.  You seemed to react strongly to that, too, although any verbal reaction was lost to him shoving his cock into your mouth one last time— yes, this time he had no intentions of stopping until he pumped his come right into your throat.  
It was all happening so much faster than he intended, due in part to your moans shooting right down through his shaft to his balls, which grew tight with his impending release.  He’d never felt anything like this— he hadn’t realized before that it would feel different when it wasn’t his hand.  I mean, of course everything before the orgasm would feel different, but he imagined that the peak itself was the same.  That assumption was beyond inaccurate— he’d never fucked his own hand the way he was fucking your throat, he’d never moaned the way you were making him moan now, he’d never tightened his fists like he was now, and even if he had, it wouldn’t have meant choking you and hearing all your cries come to a sudden halt.
Without your noises it was only the slapping of flesh and the occasional filtered breath through a helmet.  He missed your moans, and yet he relished his power to take them away so suddenly.
He could feel the shape of his own cock through the thick skin of your throat, bulging into his hand, accentuated by your pulse just nearby.  He could feel you fighting for air.  He understood now why Boba had more fun with this than he did with hookers in cantinas— your helplessness was his power.  Your weakness was his strength.  And Din had never felt so strong.
He relaxed his grip to give you a chance to swallow as he came, pumping into your throat, grunting with each pulse of his cock filling your mouth.
Suddenly the sensation felt like it would become too much, forcing Din to pull his cock out of you and step back.  At the same time, Fett stepped back too, which was odd because Din was pretty sure he hadn't finished: if he had, he was a lot more subtle about it than Din was.
“You want your turn, don’t you?” Boba addressed Din, making the latter feel awkwardly exposed.
“I thought this was my turn,” Din answered.
“With her pussy,” Boba clarified, and Din was sure that he had managed to blush hard enough that it was somehow visible through the helmet.
"And you?" Din asked, not wanting to impose.
"I'll be attending to… another matter," Boba explained with that audible smirk in his tone, and Din had a few ideas of what that could mean, all of which caused him to swallow thickly as Fett grabbed you and pulled you up to stand before unceremoniously dropping you to the floor.  Din joined you there, not quite sure what he should be doing but figuring he should get on with it as the other man knelt down behind you.
Pulling you onto his lap, you spread your legs to straddle him in an unexpected show of submission which Din thoroughly appreciated.  One arm held you up while the other grasped his cock, still hard and hopefully not too sensitive so he could actually do this— he could actually fuck you.  It felt unreal; it felt beyond real, hyperreal as he started to slide his cock through the soaked and swollen intricacies of your sex.  You must have come like Fett said you would, otherwise he couldn't imagine how you'd become so wet… he could even see it glistening on the inside of your thighs. 
When he found the opening he was looking for, all Din had to do was lower you down onto him, gasping slightly as he watched and felt you sink down onto and around him, a little grunt coming out of you as your hips met his.
It was lucky that he’d already come once, in your mouth, because otherwise he would’ve lost it right then and there— you were so warm inside, soaked thoroughly such that his movements were smooth and easy as he instantly started to fuck you, groaning at how perfectly your body accepted him.
“Slow down,” Boba grunted, “I need to get in.”
You cried and shivered as the other man pushed into your available entrance, your head falling exhaustedly onto Din’s shoulder.  He looked down at your face, then, and brushed your hair away so he could see it better, peeling strands from where they had been stuck to your forehead and neck by the thin layer of sweat that covered you.  He wanted to comfort you, to promise that the pain would ease soon, but he couldn’t really think of anything to say; so, he just held you tight as he began to move within you again, and saw the other hunter do the same.
He made a conscious effort to not look at Boba’s cock, for fear of comparing it to his own.  It was disturbing enough to be able to feel it, slightly, through the thin barrier your body provided.  How inconceivable that Din had woken up a virgin and would fall asleep tonight with the memory of this lodged in his mind forever.  In one day of sexual activity he’d gotten more done than many would in a lifetime, and yet he still lacked the most common things: love, passion, consent… perhaps someday he’d find those, even if it could never be from you.
Not worried anymore about an attempt to fight or flee, Din reached back and untied your wrists from each other, hoping he wouldn't get scolded for it by Fett who thankfully remained silent aside from his own restrained sounds of pleasure.  You clung to him instantly, your freshly-freed hands clutching at his back, and he decided to interpret it as a token of affection even if he knew that was a bit of a stretch.  If nothing else, maybe you recognized him as the lesser of two evils.  
He opted to take credit for the way your moans were different from before; even in his wildest fantasies could he not convince himself that he was better at this than Boba was, but he could swing at the idea that you preferred him because you were meant for him.  It was probably more outlandish, yes, but it was so easy to believe that you were made to be his when you felt so good around him.  Din hadn’t even known anything could feel this good.
Something Boba had said earlier gained clearer meaning when Din felt your inner walls seize up and shift around him.  Trying not to be too loud, he resorted to coping with the feeling by gripping your waist tightly.  The idea that he could leave bruises on your skin excited him more than he would have anticipated (if, of course, he had anticipated any of this).
Another tug on your hair from Boba wrenched your head back.  "Gonna come," he grunted at you lowly, "in this tight little ass.  You want it?"
"Please," you whispered, not quite sounding enthusiastic but managing to give him whatever he was looking for, apparently, as another choked noise signalled his release.  Your body reacted strongly to that, clenching down hard on Din's cock.
"You like it," Din posited.  "I can feel it," he reminded you when you tried to deny it with a shake of your head, "from the inside."
Boba took his time pulling out, the most peculiar sensation that made Din shudder a bit.  As tight as you were when you were full in that way, Din preferred having you to himself.
"I'll be in the fresher," Boba announced as he stood up and tucked himself back into his uniform, looking so composed in a way Din envied; he was sure, somehow, that he looked a complete mess even with the armor covering him.  "I'll leave you to your fun.  Don't take too long."
“I— I won’t last much longer,” Din stammered, wondering immediately if it was too much information.
“Not inside,” you begged suddenly.  
Boba chuckled a little as he left, and Din wondered if it was what he said or what you said that made him laugh.  The thought was forgotten as the hunter left, and he suddenly felt a wave of nerves wash over him— the way he always felt when he was alone with a pretty girl.  Not that he'd ever been alone with a pretty girl quite like this.
Not sure what to say, he opted to just not say anything as he held you tight and bucked his hips up into you.  You wouldn't let him off that easy, apparently, as you reiterated yourself: "You can't come inside, please don't—"
"This isn't a negotiation," Din reminded you firmly.
He was too close to imagine stopping now, anyway; the snug grip of your insides was too good to be ignored, his body was incapable of slowing down as he fucked you deeper and faster than ever.  He noticed which angle of his hips made you moan loudest, hoping to feel you come around him just like Boba had.  
“Come for me,” he instructed, hearing an impression of Fett in his own voice as he tried to come across as dominating, “I wanna feel it.”
You shivered a little, whimpering into the crook of his neck before he lifted you by the jaw to look at your face.  You looked exhausted, eyes blown wide and dark, lips swollen and bitten red, hair tangled and unruly from being used essentially as reigns.
“Can you do that?  Can you come?” he pressed, grinding his hips up into yours and watching you whine at the sensation of being filled so deeply.  You nodded, but that wasn’t enough for him.  “Say it.”
“Yes,” you answered, “I’ll— I’ll come.”
“Good,” he praised plainly, doing his best to hold himself back until he got his chance to feel you reach your peak.  
Your head fell back as your hands weakly tugged at his shoulders, and Din hoped that tearing your tunic down the front to grope your breasts would speed things along for you.  He hadn’t taken off his gloves, but even so he relished the weight of them in his palms, curiously pinching at a hardened nipple which made you flex around him again.
“Are you close,” he asked, losing that intonation of a question again, focusing instead on trying not to sound exasperated.
“Yes,” you hissed, “I’m gonna— fuck,” you interrupted yourself.
You were moving a bit on your own now, instead of him holding you still and letting you limply take it like a ragdoll— no, you were rocking your hips in time with him, pushing down against him.  You wanted it, obviously, and Din was more than happy to give it to you.  He slammed into you with each thrust, held you down so you couldn’t squirm, groaned when he felt your body pulse around him.  A new surge of wetness gushed between your bodies, your broken cry echoed right against his ear— if this wasn’t a dead giveaway that you were coming, he wasn’t sure what was.  Unable to hold back anymore as you sobbed and shivered on top of him, he finally released into you, everything building up so fast only to snap in a moment, an embarrassingly weak moan slipping from his lips.  
He was sure he had never been so exhausted, but it was the most incredible feeling as well.  A little tear fell down your cheek— from terror, maybe, or disgust, or even pleasure… he had no real way to tell.
As he began to catch his breath, he wondered if he should say something; and, if he should, what that would be.  Thankfully, he felt the lurch of the ship leaving hyperspace— the weight of gravity sinking a little heavier as you slumped down on top of him.
He picked you up and set you down on the floor, standing as he delicately stuffed his cock back into his trousers.  “Looks like he’ll bring you in soon,” Din mumbled, but you didn’t really seem to care much, just laying on the floor and staring into nothingness.  He watched his seed leak out of you and onto the steel, making a mental note to clean that up later, hoping you weren’t too angry with him for disobeying your request that he finish elsewhere.  “You’ll need a new tunic,” he noticed as he realized it was probably less than ideal to bring in a target who had been so obviously violated.  “I’ll bring you something to cover yourself with,” he decided.  
Heading for his sack to search for an old cape or blanket that you could wear, he passed by the cockpit where Boba was steering the ship.
“I’m keeping the reward,” Boba interjected suddenly without turning back to look towards him, making Din stop walking, “since I was generous enough to share the… fringe benefits.”
“Of course,” Din nodded, not having expected a share of the bounty in the first place since all he’d done was keep lookout during the actual hunt.  He was ready to walk away, but Boba spoke again as he turned the captain’s chair and faced Din, finally.
“Did you do what she asked?” Boba pressed.
“What?” Din choked, taking a moment to remember what he was even talking about— when you asked him not to come inside, apparently.  “Oh, um, no.”  His face warmed beneath the beskar as Fett chuckled to himself.
“Good,” he nodded.  “Never take commands from a target, or a whore.”
Din shuffled nervously but said nothing, considering he had no idea how to respond to that.
“Besides,” Boba continued as he turned back to the controls of the ship, “if she’s pregnant that’ll be the New Republic’s problem.”
Din figured he was free to go now, taking a moment to glance over Boba’s shoulder at the planet ahead before continuing ahead.  His quest for a cloak for you was nearly forgotten as he tried to clear his mind of what Boba had said so casually.  He needed a shower, desperately, but he didn’t have time before the ship landed— and Fett probably intended on making Din complete the transfer and bring the credits back, since the older hunter wasn’t exactly a friend of the Republic.  
He ended up grabbing an old shirt of his, tossing it at you when he entered the room where he’d left you, finding you standing with your trousers pulled back up.  Silently he wondered if you had made any effort to clean yourself of his come or if it was still there between your legs, but neither of you said a word as he put you in more formal shackles than the rags that Boba had tied you with originally.
The New Republic officer definitely reacted to your appearance when Din brought you forward, all but dragging you as he gripped your arm.  “When’d she get so roughed up?” the young officer interrogated as he handed Din the credits he was owed.  
“Found her like this,” Din shrugged.
He didn’t seem to buy it, with the way he scanned your form and raised an eyebrow, but he didn���t say anything else as he motioned for two guards to take you away.  Din considered looking back but decided against it, returning to the ship and immediately surrendering the credits to their rightful owner in Boba.
“Next job’s on Dantooine,” Boba informed him gruffly as he piloted the ship out of the atmosphere.  But Din wasn’t listening, instead watching your new prison shrink and disappear into a dot, hoping to find in himself the carelessness that Boba had already mastered.  He had a thousand questions he wanted to ask his hunting partner— Is this how it always goes?  Will it happen again?  Do you really think she could be pregnant? — but he wouldn’t even consider speaking any of them aloud.  It was almost funny that they had shared something so disturbingly intimate and Din still felt unable to be direct with him, although neither of them had the sense of humor to appreciate it.
“Thank you,” Din blurted out.  “For teaching me about the job.”
“My pleasure,” Boba replied gruffly, and with a jump back into hyperspace, the ship was submerged once again into silence.
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intheticklecloset · 3 years
Text
My Hero Academia Sentence Starters #21-30
A collection of the MHA sentence starters I’ve done, compiled for the sake of ease. These are all stand-alone stories.
~~~
21) Lee Bakugou, Ler Todoroki
“Get off of me!” Bakugou snapped, shoving at Todoroki, who was currently trying to crawl into his lap. “Back off!”
“You said I could if I won,” Todoroki replied calmly, pausing in his approach. “Don’t make me use ice shackles.”
Bakugou bristled. “You don’t have the guts, you—”
Todoroki wordlessly snatched up his wrists, shoved them to the head of the couch, and used his ice to freeze him in place. Then he finally reached his destination, settling himself on the blonde’s hips. “You were saying?”
“G-Get off,” Bakugou demanded again, though this time through a shiver from the cold. “Idiot, you can’t just—”
“You said…” Todoroki reached under his shirt to rake his nails down his ribcage, effectively silencing his protests and replacing them with a yelp and a few giggles. “…that if I won, I could tickle you for five minutes. And I did win. See there?” He nodded toward the TV, where his character stood over Bakugou’s in victory.
“Y-You…you cheated somehow,” Bakugou tried, trying his best not to break into another fit of giggles at the light skittering along his sides. He squirmed, twisting his head to hide his smile. “You couldn’t have w-won without cheheheating.”
Todoroki rolled his eyes, then shoved Bakugou’s shirt so far up he was able to slide it up his arms and over his eyes, blinding him. “Stubborn as always.”
“W-Wait! Icy-Hot, I can’t sehehehehehehee!” Bakugou squealed, giggling uncontrollably as Todoroki scratched lightly at his sweet spots. He could feel his cheeks growing redder by the second, but he couldn’t do anything about it, helpless as he was. “Stahahahahahap, this isn’t fahahahahahair!”
“Well now, that’s too bad.” Todoroki was smirking; Bakugou could hear it in his voice, even if he couldn’t see it. The light scratching became gentle kneading, and finally the blonde dissolved into actual laughter, squirming and kicking but going nowhere fast. Todoroki chuckled. “Maybe next time you should put up more of a fight.”
*
22) Lee Shinsou, Ler Deku
“Don’t call me cute!”
“But you are!” Deku smiled up at Shinsou, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him closer. He nuzzled himself under his boyfriend’s chin. “You’re super cute!”
Shinsou tensed, trying to pull away. “H-Hey, don’t – Midoriya, stop it—” He couldn’t help the giggle that slipped out of him as he tried to twist his head away from the mop of green hair, unable to pry himself free of his partner’s firm hold. “That tickles! Don’t—”
Deku looked up at him, eyes wide and bright with excitement. “Tickles?”
Shinsou’s cheeks turned pink. “N-No, I mean – I mean yes, but – Midoriya!”
Deku held him even closer, standing on his tiptoes to better reach his neck and collarbone, peppering them with light kisses that made Shinsou dissolve into helpless giggles. “Now you definitely can’t tell me you’re not cute, Toshi~”
“Stahahahahahap,” Shinsou giggled breathlessly, trying to push Deku away and failing. “You d-dohohohohon’t understahahahahand, it tihihihickles so much – plehehehehehease!”
“Light tickles really drive you crazy, huh?”
“Midoriya, plehehehehease – Izuku!” Shinsou squealed when Deku reached up to trail his fingers along the back of Shinsou’s neck down to his shoulder blades. Honestly it was a wonder the taller boy hadn’t completely collapsed yet. “Ahahahahahaha, nohohohohoho! Stop, plehehehease!”
Deku giggled, finally slowing his light tickles to a stop, wrapping his arms around Shinsou’s neck and pulling him down for a kiss. “Just admit it. You’re cute.”
“Ugh, fine,” Shinsou relented, grabbing Deku’s hips to both pull him closer and dig in without mercy. His boyfriend exploded into laughter, and Shinsou grinned from ear to ear at the sound. “But you’re cuter.”
*
23) Lee Deku, Ler Shinsou
“Gee, I wonder where you are~”
Deku pressed both hands over his mouth to keep his giggles at bay, waiting anxiously in the darkened closet for Shinsou to find him. Because he would find him. It was a matter of time, and Deku knew that. Probably the taller boy already knew where he was and was just messing with him by pretending he didn’t. The thought made Deku’s heart race faster.
Suddenly the door to the closet flung open, and all Deku could see was the outline of his boyfriend before Shinsou dropped to his knees, grabbed his sides, and dug his fingers in relentlessly.
“Aiieehehehehehehe!” Deku burst into giggles, squirming and kicking but not fighting back. He knew it was pointless, and besides, he was having too much fun to want to stop now. “Hitoshiehehehehehehehe!”
“Yes, Izuku?” Shinsou teased into his ear. “My, you seem especially ticklish today, don’t you?”
“No I dohohohohohon’t!”
“Yes, you do~” His fingers dug into his sides even more, one hand sliding up to his ribs as well. “Tickle, tickle~”
“Nahahahahahaha Hitoshiehehehehe!” Deku flopped backward onto his boyfriend’s lap, and Shinsou took the opportunity to worm his fingers into the smaller boy’s underarms, making him shriek with laughter, kicking the air wildly. “AHAHAHAHAHA NOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!”
“I don’t hear you asking me to stop, ‘Zuku~”
“BEHEHEHEHECAUSE I DON’T WAHAHAHAHAHANT YOU TO!!”
Shinsou beamed, hoisting Deku up so he was seated in his lap rather than lying on it, wrapping him up in a bear hug and squeezing a hip teasingly. Deku let out a scream of laughter, struggling in earnest now but going nowhere fast. “Is that so? Well, then, allow me to give you more of what you want~”
*
24) Lee Bakugou, Ler Ojiro
“Not so tough now, huh?”
Bakugou’s arms trembled with the effort to keep the shelf from tipping over while Ojiro’s tail brushed along his exposed underarms. He gritted his teeth. “J-Just gehehet the screw into the wahahall already, you i-idoit!”
One of the single shelves in the kitchen area had suddenly broken free from one of its hinges just moments before, and without really thinking about it, Bakugou darted forward to keep it from making a mess of spices and pan sprays on the ground that they’d have to clean up later. He’d successfully managed to balance the shelf while Ojiro went to the storage closet to get a new hinge and a couple of replacement screws, but now that he’d come back, all the tail hero seemed to want to do was mess with him.
Bakugou was desperately trying not to laugh. That tail of his was so soft and plush, and it tickled like crazy, but he’d rather die than give Ojiro the satisfaction of hearing him beg.
“Come on, Bakugou, you know you want to giggle,” Ojiro teased, standing with his hands on his hips, tools in his fists. He continued to brush the tail all over his underarms and neck. “Let it out, now. Come on~”
“Fihihix the shehehelf, you stupid extrahaha!” Bakugou snapped, really fighting the urge to bring his arms down to protect himself.
“Fine, I know what will make you laugh.” Ojiro stepped right up to him, pulled his shirt up to expose his ribs, and brushed his tail over the sensitive skin there.
Finally, Bakugou had no choice. Forget dying – he just wanted out of this situation. “Agh, fihihihihine, fine! Stahahahahap it before I drohohohohohop everythihihihing!”
Ojiro obliged, grinning. “That’s more like it.” And he finally got to work repairing the broken shelf.
*
25) Lee Kaminari, Ler Sero
“Dude, did you just snort?!” Sero laughed, pressing his fingertips deeper into Kaminari’s knee pits. “Oh my gosh, do it again!”
“NO!! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!” Denki was losing his mind laughing, pounding the floor with his fist in an effort to tap out. Another snort slipped out of him, making him even more embarrassed than he already was. “STAHAHAHAHAHAP, SERO!!”
Sero chuckled, finally leaving his knees alone to scribble at his thighs instead. “You’re too ticklish for your own good, my friend.”
“Tehehehehehell me sohohohohomething I dohohohohohon’t know!”
“Okay. You’re also stupid cute when you’re tickled. Bet you didn’t know that.”
Surprised, Denki lifted his head, taking in Sero’s sweet smile and blushing all over again. “I-I am nohohohohohohot!”
“Yeah, you are.” Sero scooted up to sit at his side, grabbing his waist and squeezing. “You’re super cute. Like, I might actually die, you’re so adorable.”
Denki tried to push him away but only succeeded in weakly grasping his wrists as he tickled, which only made him more sensitive. That and the teasing were really doing a number on him. “Nohohohohoho, stohohohohop it!”
“But you’re cuuuuute,” Sero whined playfully, poking randomly up and down Denki’s sides and ribs, making the blonde yelp and squeak and roll around helplessly. “So. Cute. You’re. So. Dang. Cute!” He teased with each poke, enjoying the bright pink flush that was coming over Denki’s face and ears.
“Sero,” Denki pleaded, finally managing to grab his arms and free himself from his tickly demise, if only for a moment. “Y-You can’t…just say that. Unless you…you…”
“Mean it?” Sero grinned, leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek. “I do mean it.” Then he kissed his neck, and Denki dissolved into giggles all over again. “You’re such a cute, ticklish little sparkplug~”
*
26) Lee Deku, Ler Shinsou
“You can’t make me!”
“Oh?” Shinsou leaned down to Deku’s face, smirking, pinning his wrists to the wall even harder. “Pretty sure I can make you do anything, Midoriya.”
Deku opened his mouth to reply, then clamped it shut. He was fairly certain Shinsou wouldn’t use his quirk on him without permission first, but since he wasn’t 100% sure, he decided to err on the side of caution.
Shinsou quirked a brow. “Giving me the silent treatment, huh? Well, I can fix that.” He shoved Deku’s arms above his head, crossing his wrists and pinning them both with one hand while his other reached down to scratch lightly in the smaller boy’s underarm.
“Eep!” Deku squeaked, unable to help the tiny giggles escaping him as he tried to twist away. Shinsou’s finger started digging in a little deeper, making him break instantly. “Nohohohohoho, Shinsou!”
“Gonna say it now?”
“Nahahahahahaha!”
“Very well.” Shinsou grabbed his thigh, pressing his thumb into the space where it met his hip, and Deku nearly buckled, the sensation was so strong.
“GAHAHAHAHA NOHOHOHOHOHO!!” He screamed, laughing uncontrollably. He tugged at his arms but Shinsou was surprisingly strong for how lean he was. “NO FAHAHAHAHAHAIR!! SHIHIHIHIHIHINSOU!!”
“Say it.”
“NOHOHOHOHOHO WAHAHAHAHAY!!”
With a growl, Shinsou kept drilling into that ultra-sensitive spot while leaning down to kiss Deku’s neck, making the poor boy squeal with hysterics.
“OKAYOKAYOKAHAHAHAHAY I’LL SAHAHAHAHAY IT JUST STAHAHAHAHAP!!”
“That’s more like it.” Shinsou smirked, stopping his assault but keeping a hand on his thigh in warning. “Out with it, Midoriya.”
“I-I…I’m a…” Deku groaned, turning to hide his face in his shoulder. “I’m a…c-cutie pie.” He cringed. “That’s so embarrassing, why did you make me s-s-sahahahahay thahahahahat?!” Shinsou had started scribbling over his open tummy, making him giggle all over again. “Nahahahahahaha!”
“I made you say it because it’s true,” Shinsou replied, smirking, kissing his cheek. “Duh.”
*
27) Lee Bakugou, Ler Kirishima
“Ohoho, you like to be tickled here, don’t you?” Kirishima teased over Bakugou’s roaring laughter, scratching at his bottom ribs with purposeful strokes. “But you’re just too ticklish to stand it! Hmm…what to do, what to do…?”
“KIRI STAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!!” Bakugou pleaded, writhing on the bed helplessly, his arms tied to the headboard above him with the very necktie he’d worn to school that afternoon. His uniform shirt had been unbuttoned and opened up for ease of access, and the vulnerability was making this all so much worse. “PLEHEHEHEHEHEASE, STAHAHAHAHAHAP!!”
“But you so obviously like being tickled here,” Kiri hummed in mock distress. “I don’t want to stop when you love it so much!”
Bakugou flushed red, desperately squirming everywhere he could. Kiri’s fingers kept up with him, and his face was just so cute as he so easily made the blonde fall apart, and the atomic teen was losing his mind. But the redhead was right – he did love to be tickled here, even if he couldn’t stand it. He kicked his legs uselessly, both loving and hating that he couldn’t bring his arms down to push him away.
“NO MOHOHOHOHOHORE, KIRIEHEHEHEHEHE!!” He screamed, the gentle, persistent scratching truly driving him up the wall now. He didn’t know how much longer he could take it. “AHAHAHAHAHAHA PLEHEHEHEHEHEASE!!”
“Had enough, giggles?”
Bakugou hated that nickname because it made him so dang flustered every single time. Still, he nodded frantically. “YEHEHEHEHES, YES, ENOHOHOHOHOUGH!! PLEHEHEASE!!”
Kiri gradually slowed to a stop, allowing Bakugou to reenter the world of non-tickles with as much ease as possible. Then he leaned down and planted a kiss on his lips. Bakugou hummed in surprise and appreciation, kissing right back until Kiri pulled away and grinned. “Want another round?”
*
28) Lee Kaminari, Ler Bakusquad
It was so silent you could hear a pin drop. The others stared at him. Denki could feel himself beginning to panic. Had he just said that out loud?!
“I…I mean…uh…” he stammered, trying to take it back however he could but unable to find the words. He hid his face, not knowing what else to do. “I’m sorry, forget I said that.”
“Forget?” Bakugou said incredulously.
“Oh, we’re so not going to forget that,” Sero teased.
Kirishima chuckled. “So you want to be tickle tortured, do you?”
“That’s so cuuute~” Mina squealed.
Denki was blushing so hard he felt like he’d gotten heatstroke. Seconds later his hands were being pried away from his face by Kiri’s strong arms, and Sero, Bakugou, and Mina were all wiggling their fingers at him. “Eep!”
“Here we come~” Mina teased.
Bakugou smirked. “You asked for it, dunce face.”
“I can tie you up with my tape if you’d like,” Sero said, holding up his arms for emphasis.
Denki gasped, shaking his head frantically. “No, nonono, I can’t – I’m t-too ticklish for that!”
“You’re super ticklish, huh?” Kiri teased into his ear. He chuckled. “Get him!”
And get him they did, drilling their wiggling fingers into his sides, his ribs, his belly, his underarms – even throwing in a couple of squeezes to his hips and thighs once in a while. Denki tossed his head back and unleashed a long string of laughter he’d been dying to let loose for days. God, he’d wanted this so bad, but had never had the courage to say it – until just now, apparently.
“So, what was it you said?” Sero teased, wiggling a finger into his belly button. “‘I want to be tickled until I can’t breathe’?”
Mina cooed, Kiri laughed, and Bakugou smirked evilly. “Consider it done, dunce face.”
*
29) Lee Todoroki, Ler Bakugou
Todoroki often restrained his attacks during training for one purpose: he didn’t want his friends to be scared of him. To stop tickling and teasing him mercilessly just to see him lose his mind in laughter. To be close in a way he was afraid he would put an end to by unleashing the full force of his power during training.
Unfortunately for him, Bakugou took issue with that approach.
“You better stop holding back on me!” the blonde snapped once their training session was over for the day and the entire class was beginning to pack up and leave the grounds.
Todoroki hesitated. “I just – I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Hurt me? Bah! You couldn’t lay a finger on me, Icy-Hot, especially if you’re holding back like that!”
Todoroki merely shrugged and looked away.
Bakugou growled. “I’ll make you see things my way.” In a flash, he’d kicked Todoroki’s legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground in surprised heap in the moments before Bakugou ripped off his shoes and started scribbling wildly over his socked soles.
“AIEEEAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! NAHAHAHAHAHAHA BAKUGOU!!” Todoroki screamed with laughter, unable to hold back his reactions whatsoever. Curse him for going after his worst spot right off the bat! “STAHAHAHAHAHAP I CAHAHAHAHAHAN’T TAKE IT!! PLEHEHEHEASE!!”
“Promise you’ll stop holding back on me and I’ll stop tickling you to death,” Bakugou demanded, turning to look over his shoulder at the mess he was making of the normally stoic boy. “What do you say, Icy-Hot?”
“OKAYOKAY FIHIHIHIHIHIHINE I’LL STOHOHOHOHOHOP HOLDING BAHAHAHACK!!” Todoroki pleaded, laughing hysterically as he writhed on the ground. “I’LL DEFEHEHEHEHEAT YOU NEXT TIHIHIHIHIHIME!!”
Well, that was the wrong thing to say. Bakugou ripped off his socks next, going straight for his toes. “Oh, will you, now?”
“NONONONO I’M SOHOHOHOHOHORRY I TAHAHAHAHAKE IT BAHAHAHACK—!!”
*
30) Lee Shinsou, Ler Deku
“Relax, it’s just a massage!” Deku laughed, highly amused by his poor boyfriend’s increasingly distressed state. He kneaded into his shoulder blades again for emphasis, making Shinsou choke on a laugh.
“Gah! Pfft no – no it’s nohohohohohot! You knohohohohow what you’re doing, you jeheheherk!” Shinsou tried to sound angry, but it came out as more of a whimper. His legs kicked behind him as he squeezed his arms to try and keep them in place above his head so he could rest his cheek on them. But another scribble between his blades from Deku had him cackling into the bedsheets all over again. “Nahahahahahahaha! Stahahahahahap it alreadyehehehehehe!”
“I’m literally not even trying to tickle you,” Deku giggled, swiping a finger from Shinsou’s shoulder blades to the base of his neck. “Well, at first I wasn’t, anyway.”
“Leheheheheave me alohohohohone! I cahahahahan’t take thihihihis!”
“Oh, I think you can.” Deku leaned down to press soft, feather-light kisses along Shinsou’s upper back and shoulder blades, and his usually well-composed boyfriend broke down into a long string of utterly helpless giggles, squirming desperately.
“Izuku, nohohohohohohoho! Nohohohohohot thahahahat – it tihihihihickles! Plehehehease!”
“Does it now? I would never have guessed.” Deku chuckled, trailing his kisses from his shoulders to the back of his neck, nuzzling into his ears from behind, enjoying the half-whine, half-moan that came out of his boyfriend. “Tickle, tickle, little Toshi~”
“Dohohohohohon’t call me thahahahat,” Shinsou begged, turning his face to the side to try and catch his breath a little better. “You’re smahahahahaller than me.”
“Yeah,” Deku agreed, blowing air across the back of his left ear, making him shiver and giggle at the same time. “But baby talk works way better on you, doesn’t it, my ticklish little Toshi?”
Shinsou’s cheeks turned hot pink. “Shuhuhuhuhut up…”
Deku kissed his neck again. “Never.”
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