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sobaism · 5 days ago

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Anomaly (Chapter 3) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Ever since he was rescued by All Might from All For One, Shimura Tenko's led a charmed life - except that he's a beta, in a society where alphas are privileged, omegas are prioritized, and betas are an afterthought. But when Tenko finds himself investigating a series of designation-swaps that have devastated the lives of the victims, he comes face to face with the terrible truths at the heart of society's placid, inflexible structure, and the enigmatic villain who's bent on exposing it all. The one they call Love's Executioner - otherwise known as, you. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

dividers by @cafekitsune

Chapter 3

As soon as they’ve got a clean-ish photo of the villain, the HPSC hands it over to the news and creates a tipline for civilians to call if they see her. Just like Magne predicted, the media does their worst, and by the time the first tip’s been called in, they’ve already given the villain a name.

“Love’s Executioner?” Tenko repeats. “That’s melodramatic.”

“It kind of fits the gravity of the thing,” Spinner says. “Most of the population is alphas or omegas, and they’re scared shitless. And based on what happens to people she switches, it’s not exactly wrong.”

But it should be. Tenko knows it’s one of those things that betas can’t understand, but it still seems wrong to him — loving somebody one second, being unable to stand them the next, just because their designation changed. If he had a mate, it wouldn’t matter what their designation was. They’d still be his mate. As long as they were still the same person, he could make anything else work. The only things alphas and omegas see when they look at someone is their designation. Tenko will never understand that.

Once the tip line is up and running, the HPSC gives the all clear to resume regular hero work. All Might and a bunch of other top heroes wind up on some kind of hellish HPSC Zoom meeting to discuss a response, while everyone else is supposed to go back to business as usual. Everyone except Tenko, who’s told to take the dispatch desk and stay there.

It’s bullshit. Tenko’s got more experience than all the sidekicks who are going out, and half the heroes, too. He should be out there helping people instead of in here routing calls. Failing that, he should be at the stupid strategy meeting. He’s the one who’s going to have to fight the villain — Love’s Executioner. That’s way too long of a name. Why would the media name her something that stupid? If he shortens it to ‘the Executioner’ it makes her sound crazy intimidating, when she’s never directly killed anyone. He can’t shorten it to “love”, either. That’s a pet name. A stupid one. If Tenko had a mate, he wouldn’t use pet names for them. Or let them use one for him. Why is Tenko thinking so much about having a mate? He’s not going to have one. That’s not how things work for betas.

But he’s going to fight Love’s Executioner. If she gets the upper hand on him, he might not be a beta anymore.

The thought sends a lightning bolt of discomfort and anticipation down Tenko’s spine. What is he thinking? He knows what happens to people whose designations are swapped. People are sick, people are miserable. People kill themselves over it. Tenko doesn’t want to be an alpha or an omega. He doesn’t want to know what heats or ruts feel like. He just doesn’t want to be alone. If he faces Love’s Executioner, he’s going to take her down, so she can’t hurt anyone else. End of story.

He’s half-asleep at the desk, routing calls, when Midoriya skids to a stop in front of him. “They found her,” he bursts out. “She’s in the Ibuki Mountains, on foot. She’s alone.”

“On foot,” Tenko repeats. “How did they spot her?”

“Kyoto’s in lockdown, but Shiga isn’t. Somebody spotted her and raised the alarm.” Midoriya is practically vibrating. “It’s genius, isn’t it? We’ve been watching public transport, but of course she wouldn’t use that. She could have taken the train out of Kyoto last night, picked a stop, and started walking.”

“It’s not that genius,” Tenko says. “She’s in an isolated area, and she sticks out like a sore thumb. Did she really think no one would spot her? And if she’s all alone, she can’t use hostages to negotiate with us —”

Midoriya gives Tenko a weird look. “What do you mean?”

“It’s weird that she’s not worried,” Tenko says. Midoriya looks even more confused than before. “That we might kill her.”

“Heroes don’t kill people.”

All Might killed Sensei. Lady Nagant killed criminals before she decided to switch it up and start killing public officials. “Even if we did,” Midoriya continues, “we can’t. We need her to change them back.”

“Who said she can do that?”

“There are people. Not many, but a few. Toga brought the reports.” Midoriya drops a folder onto the desk in front of Tenko. “Unless there’s somebody else with the same quirk running around, she can take it back if she wants to.”

Midoriya’s phone buzzes with a Hero Network alert and he races off, leaving Tenko to flip through the reports. At first he’s wondering if there’s a time limit on the swaps, where they’d revert back automatically, but the time each of the eight people in the file spent with their designation messed up varies dramatically. Some people dealt with the swap for a day or two, others for weeks. One person, a beta from Okayama, got swapped back within the hour.

That fits with Love’s Executioner’s pattern, at least in Tenko’s head. There are hundreds of victims. But she doesn’t swap kids — except by mistake, apparently. All eight people who’ve been swapped and reverted back to their original designation are under twenty. That’s weird, for a villain who’s operating at this level. Sensei never cared about who he hurt. He didn’t want Tenko to care, either. But Love’s Executioner cares, apparently — enough to go back and fix her mistakes, at what’s probably a serious risk of getting caught. She’s put in a lot of effort covering her tracks.

With that in mind, the Kyoto attack makes even less sense. Based on her MO up until now, Love’s Executioner isn’t within a thousand kilometers of stupid. She had to know that the attack would bring the full strength of Japan’s heroes down on her head. And now she’s alone in the mountains, with no cover and no backup, nowhere to hide. It’s like she’s trying to get caught.

If she wants to get caught, Tenko’s glad to make it happen. The HPSC taps him to make the capture, just like All Might predicted — and they want Midoriya to back him up, which All Might didn’t predict at all. “It’s just a precaution,” Midoriya shouts in Tenko’s ear as they’re hustling across the helipad and into the chopper that will fly them out to the mountains. “If she gets the upper hand on you and uses her quirk, I can tell us everything we need to know about her!”

Midoriya’s quirk is called Quirk Analysis, and it does pretty much exactly what it says on the tin. If a person activates their quirk while Midoriya’s looking at them, Midoriya gets an instant download of everything there is to know about how that person’s quirk functions, including any and all potential awakenings. Tenko can’t deny that it would be helpful, although if he gets swapped, he probably won’t care much. But he can think of a better use for Midoriya, given that Midoriya’s got One For All. “Is there any reason you can’t use Blackwhip to restrain her?”

“When I’m using it on someone, it’s a physical extension of me,” Midoriya says. “Same as Hawks’s feathers or Tokoyami’s Dark Shadow. Based on our knowledge of how the victims were attacked, anything that’s physically connected to our bodies can carry the quirk.”

Tenko’s starting to see why Love’s Executioner is going to be such a difficult catch. She can swap anybody who touches her, even if they’re touching her through a medium that’s not skin on skin. Long-range attacks would be ideal, but those tend to do damage, and they need her alive. Not just alive, but in a mood to cooperate. Tenko’s watched the police try to get criminals to cooperate before. The ones who got beat to shit beforehand usually aren’t interested.

All Might debriefs them in the helicopter, shouting into his headset. It’s a pretty simple mission. They’ll drop Tenko into the mountains near the villain’s position, then drop Midoriya somewhere with a good line of sight. Midoriya and Tenko will coordinate to find Love’s Executioner, and then Tenko will capture her. Alive, and as close to unhurt as possible. It makes perfect sense. Except for the HPSC’s instruction, which All Might delivers with a pinched look on his face. “For this mission, Tenko, it’s gloves off.”

“Are you kidding?” Tenko asks. All Might shakes his head. “You just said to capture her in one piece.”

“You have the control you need,” All Might says. “The HPSC wants Love’s Executioner to understand that the threat is real. To be as reluctant to touch you as you are to touch her.”

“Okay, but if touching is the problem, how come Lemillion isn’t doing this?”

It’s quiet for a second. “I guess you didn’t hear,” Midoriya says. “Lemillion was in Kyoto.”

Tenko’s stomach clenches. “There’s a strong suspicion that she chose Kyoto specifically to target him,” All Might says. He looks worried now. Tenko’s not a mindless All Might fan — he’s watched All Might burn toast too many times to think All Might’s infallible — but All Might looking worried is never a good sign. “We are not dealing with someone who acts without thinking. If she took this escape route, there is a reason why. You will need to be very, very careful.”

The more All Might talks about it, the less Tenko wants to do it. But if he can’t get out of it, the next best thing is to do it fast. “I will.”

Tenko gets dropped into the woods, as close as possible to the villain’s last known position while still keeping the helicopter out of earshot. He knows people hike around here. There are plenty of trails to follow, and he sets off down one of them, Midoriya talking in his ear from the instant he lands. “Okay, I see her. She’s doesn’t look wounded but she’s not moving too fast. It’s definitely her. I can see the fingertips. No visible weaponry, but she could have something hidden under the coat. She’s aiming for that clearing up ahead. If you catch up to her there I’ll have a clear view.”

“Where are you, anyway?”

“Up around the rim trail, towards the bridge. I have a great — huh.” Midoriya trails off. “She was there a second ago.”

“You lost track of her?”

“No. I was looking right at her, she just — she’s only got one quirk, right?”

“People can’t have more than one quirk,” Tenko says. He changes direction slightly, angling up towards the rim trail. If they don’t have eyes on Love’s Executioner any longer, there’s no point in operating separately. “Keep looking.”

“I’m looking,” Midoriya says. It’s quiet for a second. “I have more than one quirk. All Might said that All For One —”

“Yeah, well, she’s not All Might and she’s not All For One,” Tenko says shortly. He doesn’t like talking about Sensei with anyone, Midoriya least of all. Midoriya won’t understand, can’t understand. “So just shut up and look.”

Midoriya actually shuts up for once, and Tenko keeps hiking upwards, towards the rim trail. Multiple quirks? No way. Sensei’s dead. He couldn’t give Love’s Executioner extra quirks, unless she’d had them since — however old she was when All Might rescued Tenko. And Tenko would have known if there’d been another person with him in Sensei’s clutches. Love’s Executioner only has one quirk, and Midoriya probably just blinked, and she’ll resurface any second now. And Tenko was kind of an asshole. “I don’t think she has more than one quirk, but she could have stopped moving and disguised herself. If you haven’t seen her yet, go back to the spot you last saw her and look for anything out of the ordinary. Okay?”

Midoriya doesn’t say anything. Tenko gets that he was kind of an asshole, but mid-mission isn’t the time for the silent treatment. “Okay? Midoriya, acknowledge.” Nothing. Tenko picks up his pace through the woods. “Midoriya, acknowledge.”

“Acknowledge,” Midoriya says, but his voice sounds wrong. “She’s here —”

Fuck. Tenko picks up the pace, wishing — like always — that he’d put some or any effort into cardio the last time he was training. He knows it’s not going to matter how fast he gets there, that Love’s Executioner could have swapped Midoriya back and forth a dozen times already. How is she restraining him? How is he letting her? Tenko didn’t think that Midoriya would be so scared of getting his designation switched that he wouldn’t take down a villain. But it doesn’t matter. Taking her down isn’t Midoriya’s job, it’s Tenko’s. And taking Midoriya hostage is the first thing Love’s Executioner has done that’s made sense. Tenko breaks through the tree line and onto the rim trail, heading towards the bridge.

It’s a decent bridge. Scenic, probably, over a gorge with a nice view of the river, wide and flat. Love’s Executioner stands near the middle of it, holding Midoriya in a control grip. Midoriya’s blindfolded. Neither of her hands are making contact with Midoriya’s skin, but the threat is there. Gloves off. Just like Tenko is.

Tenko steps to the edge of the bridge, leaving his hands open at his side. “You’re not going to kill him or swap him,” he says to Love’s Executioner. “Why not just let him go?”

“Who says I won’t swap him?”

Tenko knows that voice. He doesn’t know from where, but he’s heard it before. “He’s eighteen. You don’t swap kids. When you do, you swap them back.”

“Civilian kids,” Love’s Executioner says. “This one’s a hero. He signed up to deal with things like me.”

“Sure.” Tenko takes a minute step closer. “Seriously, though. He’s just a kid. Do you get off on wrecking other people’s lives?”

Love’s Executioner laughs harshly. “Do you care?”

That voice. Tenko knows he’s heard it before. “I care about stopping this.”

“Stopping it?” A shake of the head. “You don’t even know —”

What started it. “You,” Tenko says, shocked, and you incline your head. “You’re the one — from Shiroiwa —”

You were the one who gave Tenko the tip about designation swapping, and you had a mask on. Tenko remembers thinking that it was because you were embarrassed, but now he knows the truth — you were in disguise, lurking around the scene of the crime, messing with him. Or you would have been messing with him, if you hadn’t told him exactly what was going on. Why would you give yourself away like that? “What is wrong with you?”

“Don’t sweet-talk me like that. People will say we’re in love.” You adjust your grip on Midoriya, and Tenko realizes that you’re one move away from breaking Midoriya’s neck. You have been this whole time. “It’s this situation that’s fucked, not me. I just shut down an entire prefecture, and the HPSC sent the Wonder Twins to stop me instead of an army? Don’t act all big and bad when you’re nothing but cannon fodder.”

“Cannon fodder? Give me a break.” Tenko steps closer, and you rotate, keeping Midoriya between you and him. “You think pretty highly of yourself for somebody who sneak-attacks civilians.”

“Think about it, Shimura. They sent a beta hero to face me, and his backup is somebody whose quirk lets them analyze other quirks.” Your eyes are cold. “This isn’t a capture mission. It’s intel. They’re hoping you get swapped so they can learn more about me.”

Tenko keeps his expression blank. Blank should have been his default this whole time, but it’s not too late. He can walk it back. He doesn’t have to show you how quickly it all snapped into place for him, how stupid he feels for not realizing it before. You don’t need to know that you’re right. That the HPSC looked at what happened to Lemillion and decided to throw somebody who doesn’t matter right into your path.

You nod, even though Tenko hasn’t said anything. “I’m not going to play their stupid game,” you say. You shove Midoriya towards Tenko with enough force to send them both sprawling. “Get lost.”

Tenko doesn’t have time to check on Midoriya. Midoriya is conscious and can take off his own blindfold. You might have been right about this stupid mission, but it’s still Tenko’s job to capture you. Fuck the HPSC. You’ve been hurting people. Tenko doesn’t care about anything but stopping you.

You’ve got about two seconds’ head start, but Tenko’s gauntlets are loaded with tripwires. He fires one off, then tackles you just as you’ve gotten your ankles separated and risen to your knees. He straddles you, pins your hands down, only for you to knee him hard in the back, get your feet back down, and arch your back hard enough to destabilize him. His mistake, for not getting high enough on your chest. Tenko grits his teeth against the pain and grabs for you again.

This time he catches you around the waist as you’re trying to rise and throws you down, pinning you from the side instead. But he’s a second too slow in dropping his weight, and you slither free, flipping him over and straddling him instead. Unlike him, you didn’t fuck up your positioning. Tenko can’t knee you or throw you off, and you’ve pinned both his hands. Your red hair falls in a curtain around Tenko’s face and yours, and he makes eye contact, his mouth dry and his heart racing. “Stay down,” you order, and you try to run the other way this time.

Tenko can’t figure out why you’d go that way. Midoriya’s that way, and given that you’ve decided against swapping either of them, he can take you out. But Midoriya’s still got his blindfold on. Fuck. Tenko vaults onto the bridge’s railing to cut you off. “Why don’t you just come quietly? That’ll be faster.”

“All of this will be faster if you run, Shimura.” You draw a knife from the inside pocket of your coat, and based on your grip, you know how to use it. “Stop trying to make me play your game.”

Tenko can’t just let you escape. You have to know that. But you’ve got a foolproof escape, and you aren’t using it. “A knife? This is a weird time to get shy about your quirk.”

“It’s a weirder time to get shy about yours,” you say. “You’re half-assing this and you know it. Come at me with everything you’ve got or leave me alone.”

“If that’s what you want, fine.” When Tenko charges you this time, he aims for your knife.

Getting it away from you is way harder than it should be. Your grip is covering the entire handle, which means Tenko has to Decay it from the blade, and you’re delivering punch after punch while he’s trying to get a grip that won’t cut his palm to ribbons. He twists your wrist with a four-fingered grip and you drop the blade, but Tenko doesn’t loosen up until you drive your knee into his abdomen. You’re doing twice as much damage to him as he is to you. Being a hero fucking sucks.

But the HPSC didn’t send him out here to be a hero, apparently. Maybe they’ll think twice about using him as bait after he brings you back in one piece. Or mostly in one piece. If Tenko’s not a hero, he doesn’t have to act like one. When his attempt to throw you goes awry, he slaps one hand against your abdomen and activates Decay.

His control is good enough that he only Decays what he wants, which is the first two layers of skin off the spot his hand is touching. That should be more than enough, and any discomfort Tenko feels about using his quirk on a human being dissipates the instant he feels the fight go out of you. You’re not going to die. You’ll get all the medical treatment you need in the prison hospital, and you won’t be able to hurt anyone else. Tenko catches you as you topple sideways. If you hit your head too hard, you might forget how to use your quirk, and there are a lot of people you need to swap back.

You’re limp in his arms, head thrown back, throat exposed. Something about it catches Tenko’s attention in a way he’s not familiar with, and he’s so busy trying to figure it out that he doesn’t see your hand rising to the side of his face until it’s already too late. “I didn’t want to do this,” you say through gritted teeth. You lift your head and Tenko sees your eyes, bright with awareness and fury. “Have fun.”

Your touch is soft against Tenko’s cheek, but the activation of your quirk feels like a tsunami crashing down on him. Everything goes haywire — sight, sound, taste, smell, every nerve ending in his body lighting up on fire, so unlike anything Tenko’s felt before that his mind simply closes up shop. It all goes black —

— but only for a split second, before the fucking smells wake him back up. Midoriya’s caught him. Midoriya’s finally got his blindfold off, and he smells awful. Tenko shoves him away, gagging and struggling to speak. “Not me. Her. Get her!”

Midoriya lets go of Tenko and turns towards you, but you’re already scrambling clear. Through hazy, watering eyes, Tenko sees you climb up onto the railing and jump off. He wants to tell Midoriya to catch you. Use Blackwhip, use something, forget all about your stupid quirk, but catch you — but then he opens his mouth and Midoriya’s disgusting scent drifts in and Tenko’s gagging all over again.

Midoriya’s gone for a while, long enough for Tenko to get some fresh air, and long enough for him to fumble a pheromone-filtering mask out of his utility belt and put it on. It doesn’t work all the way — he can still smell it — but he can’t taste it anymore. “Did you get her?”

“She fell too fast. I couldn’t even see her in the water.” Midoriya looks miserable. Tenko would feel miserable, too, if he could feel anything but sick. “I called for help. They’re coming to pick us up, and they’re sending search parties downstream. They’ll find her.”

Or they’ll find what’s left of you. That was too long of a fall. Midoriya thinks so, too, or he wouldn’t be making that face. But that’s not the only thing that’s off — Midoriya stinks, he looks like he’s going to cry, and there are patches of raw skin all around his eyes. “What the fuck happened to your face?”

“The blindfold,” Midoriya says. “She superglued it down. That’s why I couldn’t get it off in time.”

Somewhere in the midst of the miasma of disgusting smells, Tenko’s heart manages to sink. “You didn’t see her use it.”

Midoriya shakes his head. Tenko can hear sirens approaching from somewhere. People will be here soon. They’ll find out he got swapped. The capture was a bust, and so was the intel-gathering, because you neutralized Midoriya before Tenko even got there. It was all for nothing. Tenko using his quirk on you was for nothing, too, and that’s why this happened. You didn’t use yours on him until after he’d used his.

Midoriya is apologizing to Tenko. Tenko puts his head down on the concrete and closes his eyes. “Did you get anything?”

“Yeah. One thing,” Midoriya says. “There was this, like — pheromone burst when she activated her quirk, but it was all from you. I went up and down the bridge and I couldn’t smell anyone else.”

“So she’s on suppressants.”

“I’m on suppressants, and you can’t even breathe around me without a mask,” Midoriya says. “She’s not an omega or an alpha. She doesn’t have any designation at all.”

<- Chapter 2

taglist: @qardasngan @eliankm @clemsoup @absurdlogik @chimaerakirin @commercialbreakings @shiggy-my-babygirl @hayesemmanuel @aikakuro33 @valentineshearts @fiiveweeniies @sobaism @sota-soka @babybehh @atspiss @baking-ghoul @boogiemansbitch @handumb @agente707 @warxhammer @shikiblessed @cheeseonatower @koohiii @stardustdreamersisi @xeveryxstarfallx @lacrimae-lotos @aslutforfictionalmen @evilcookie5 @issaortiz @lvtuss @dance-with-me-in-hell @minniessskii @f3r4lfr0gg3r @deadhands69 @shigarakislaughter

#❤❤❤

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sobaism · 9 days ago

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you’re all i know, angel

You’re not moving fast enough.

Six months in an official relationship be damned, you’re not moving fast enough. This isn’t what he pictured when he saw you, isn’t what he planned.

Why? Why is it not enough?

Do you just–not love him like he loves you? Does it not consume you, tighten around you like a vice, change you to the core, nearly steal life from you?

. . .To be clear, Izuku didn’t just fall in love with you. Not even on a whim, no he grew in love with you. He nurtured the little plant that turned the soil of his heart and sprouted new buds with every moment you’re together. Even when the roots threatened to kill him, choke the life out of him, he still untangled them, washed them, and planted them again, deeper, deeper, deeper still.

Izuku didn’t fall in love because this love could never end. Not like a fall.

No, he’s a good sower, he will have this love grow and blossom and fill him completely. Fill you completely with time.

He doesn’t do half-measures for your future.

Well, he did once, but now he can’t. Not anymore.

He hates that he has to do this, but you leave him no choice.

. . .You’ll be better for it. . .

. . .it’s cute that you think Izuku’s only been to your home while you were there, even with his new key.

Again, thank you for that. That Frankenstein key he made was getting duller by the day.

read here ｡𖦹°‧!!

#midoriya x reader #oh my god #wet #i love you freak izuku ❤#fic recs

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sobaism · 10 days ago

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blood for the wip guessing game! :)

Thanks for the ask! Here's a sentence with your chosen word from The Yawning Grave (the found-footage horror au):

“This looks like blood,” he says, and three cameras zoom in on the spot he’s pointing to.

#aaaa #im so excited #found footage au you have my heart ❤

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sobaism · 10 days ago

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Cee I am here for degradation kink deku

he lovessss itttttt. he loves when you wrinkle your nose at him like you think he's gross for any of the strange kinks he has, he groans like you stabbed him when you see his big, fat cock and push it away with your foot like "ew, why is it like that? don't touch me with that thing. like, truly, you end up being into most of the weird shit he's into, too, but you both have fun engaging in a bit of you pretending to think it's disgusting the first few times you try it, for spice lol.

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sobaism · 10 days ago

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i think you have an established safeword with deku even for vanilla sex, because you get off on telling him how gross and perverted he is and how he should stop and he gets off on all of that even harder when he just keeps going

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sobaism · 11 days ago

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hi i love all ur fics, especially ur shinsou ones! do u think u could write for shinsou using this prompt:

"i’m obsessed with a food blogger who writes about cheap ways to be gourmet in your 20s and i flirt with them over comments but they never post pictures of their face and ALSO there’s a really cute grocery bagger at the store down the street who teases me and always asks to join me for dinner and i definitely want to say yes"

SOMETIMES

You really like flirting with the cute cashier at your clocks grocery store. You also really like flirting with the funny faceless YouTuber in his comment section

(thank u sm for this ask i loved it)

—————————————————————————-

GOCHUJANG MAC & CHEESE PIZZA MindJack · 459k subscribers 7 hours ago · 15:39 · 679k views Description Burnt the shit out of my mouth eating this but it was worth it… [SHOW MORE]

perfect first date meal icl y/neats 6 hours ago Reply [Thumbs Up] 1.9k [Thumbs Down]

⤷Are u asking me out rn… MindJack 5 hours ago Reply [Thumbs Up] 1.9k [Thumbs Down]

⤷are you saying yes rn…. y/neats 5 hours ago Reply [Thumbs Up] 1.9k [Thumbs Down]

—--

Despite what the contents of your fridge might suggest, you are actually quite a terrible cook.

You don’t want to be. If it was your choice you’d be the next chef on Hell’s Kitchen, yelling alongside Gordon Ramsey. But, unfortunately, you completely lack the skillset to even think about auditioning. You burn things, you overmix them, you undercook them. No matter how closely you follow a recipe you somehow manage to mess things up. It doesn’t help that most of the ingredients you buy are substitutes for the expensive things you really should be using. But it’s not your fault. You’re just a college student trying to get by, your low paying part time job nowhere near enough to fund your hobby. Even with the detailed tutorials made by your favourite YouTuber, you still struggle.

In all honesty, he's probably the reason you’re so into cooking. You’d found his account on a whim, when he only had about a hundred subscribers, and you’d instantly fallen in love with his content, the recipes that looked like they came straight out of a Michelin stars restaurant.

His channel is different from most of the cooking content you see. He doesn’t talk, other than the very rare occasions you catch a glimpse of the soft lilt of his voice. He uses captions that shouldn’t be as funny as they are, and lots of different angles of his cooking. It’s a testament to how good of a cook he is that he’s amassed as many subscribers as he has with only his words.

He doesn’t show his face, but you just know he’s attractive. The smooth planes of his hands that he’s not shy to pan the camera too, the flowery apron he always has on tied over what you think is a pretty muscular chest.

It only makes the fact he actually knows you even better. Well. Knows might be an overstatement. Your relationship is solely an online one, with you commenting under all of his posts and him replying every time. It helps that you’re one of his oldest fans, and so you think he’s memorised your handle by now. You even sometimes get a mention, your name sweet against his tongue as he teases you about your horrible cooking that you’ve warned him about.

Mina likes to remind you that he’s faceless, and so there is a chance you could be flirting with a seventy year old man, but you doubt any seventy year old looks like that. And if he really is a senior that does, then you think you’re okay with it.

It’s all just for fun, anyway. You guys don’t really talk outside of a comment section, both of you are too scared to cross over the line from a fan and a creator to actual friends.

Today's recipe looked incredible. That’s why you find yourself milling about the grocery store near your college accommodation. It’s a nice place, only a ten minute walk, and it has pretty much everything you could need. The only issue is, you have to look presentable, considering the fact that everyone who works there are students from UA, including your favourite cashier, Shinsou Hitoshi.

He’s cute. He’s really cute. Soft purple hair, these dimples that crease his face every time he smiles. He always looks tired, mainly because he usually works night shifts, but you think it makes him all the more attractive. Shinsou also seems very familiar for reasons you can’t quite place, but you’re always shopping in the middle of the night, so your brain is never working hard enough to figure it out.

A chill settles over your skin as you walk through the vegetable aisle. Your UA hoodie is baggy and overworn, and you pull the material over your hands. You don’t even know why you’re in the vegetable aisle. You don’t even need any. You consult your phone as you wander around, dropping things aimlessly in your basket.

When you’re ready to pay, you walk right past the self-checkout to Shinsou. He’s sitting behind the till, and when you get close enough you can see him playing block blast on his phone. You peer over just in time to see him lose. He tuts softly and you shake your head.

Shinsou glances up and the smile that graces his lips is almost instant at the sight of you.

“I was wondering when you’d show up.” He nods in greeting, shutting off his phone and placing it to the side.

You hoist your basket up. “It hit one am so I thought I’d get up and get my shopping done.”

He snorts a laugh. “You know, you could be normal and do your shopping during the day.”

“Yeah, but then I wouldn’t get to see your insomniac ass.” You tease.

Shinsou rolls his eyes but you see the tips of his ears turn red. He peers at the ingredients in your basket suspiciously. The flour, gochujang and macaroni.

“What the hell are you making?”

“Don’t look at my delicious ingredients like that,” You pout. “It’s this recipe I saw online.”

Shinsou looks wary and you scowl. “What’s that face for?”

“This face is for worry.” He grabs a plastic bag from under the counter, free of charge for you. “You should probably warn the building manager.” He muses.

You cross your arms, but it's hard to look angry with the smile that's fighting to fill your face. “And why is that?”

“Make sure the building is up to code. Fire safety is no joke, Y/N.” He fixes you with a look, and you splutter.

“I’m not going to set the building on fire!”

“Only time will tell.”

Shinsou is well aware of your horrible cooking, courtesy of the countless pictures you’ve shown him of all your failures. He thinks they’re very funny. Shinsou always has advice ticjingnto fall off his tongue, because according to him, he's an excellent cook. You’ll believe it when you see it.

You take your bag out of his hands. “You just watch. Today is the day I will persevere and cook the greatest meal you will ever see in your life.” You say determinedly.

“Tonight.” he corrects you.

“Shut up.”

Shinsou watches with hooded eyes as you clumsily shove your bank card back into your wallet, his chin resting on his hand. The dark green polo he wears, embossed with the store’s logo, fits loosely against his chest. He has nice hands, you think. And nice biceps.

“I could just cook for you.” He suggests, and you ignore the soft lilt in his voice, no matter how enticing it is. “And I can assure you it won’t taste like shit.”

“My food doesn't taste like shit.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“It doesn’t taste like shit all the time.”

You want to accept his offer. You really really do. But the last guy you’d spoken to had left your crying in your room for a week, and you refuse to let any more college boys trample all over your heart. You’re sure Shinsou wouldn’t do any trampling, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. But god, if he doesn’t make your resolve weak. He seems to enjoy the little back and forth you two have, though, so you hope the two of you can keep flirting and acting like you both don’t want something more.

“You’ll see, Shinsou. It’s going to be great. I’ll bring you a plate.” You promise.

“Please don’t.”

He’s right to be scared, seeing as you in fact do burn your pizza.

STRAWBERRY CHEESECAKE COOKIES MindJack · 459k subscribers 4 hours ago · 19:32 · 403k views Description Heaven in a cookie if you can ignore the obscene price of strawberries… [SHOW MORE]

sweet just like you y/neats 3 hours ago Reply [Thumbs Up] 426 [Thumbs Down]

⤷Cringe MindJack 3 hours ago Reply [Thumbs Up] 993 [Thumbs Down]

⤷ur supposed to flirt back.. y/neats 2 hours ago Reply [Thumbs Up] 327 [Thumbs Down]

⤷Not on main baby MindJack 1 hours ago Reply [Thumbs Up] 376 [Thumbs Down]

–

“You’re just over-mixing, I think. And your oven is too hot.” Shinsou’s nose wrinkles a little as he breaks one of your cookies in half.

Cookies might be an overstatement, because they’re somehow rock hard on the outside and gooey on the inside. They’re still slightly warm, seeing as you’d baked them only a few hours ago, and Shinsou is doing a pretty good job in being polite about it all. You’re currently leaning against the register as he lays them out in front of him.

It’s late, again, and there’s only a few other people milling about the store. You didn’t actually need any groceries today. You’re supposed to be finishing the essay that’s getting dangerously close to its due date, but you were bored, and made up some excuse to yourself that an energy drink would help you work better. You’d bought the cookies on a whim to see if all his culinary bragging had any bite to it.

And it did. At least you think it did. He gives you some pretty helpful advice.

“But how do I know when to stop mixing?” You ask.

“Well, the butter and sugar is hard to over mix. Once you add your dry ingredients, the second the flour streaks are gone and everything is combined, you stop.” Shinsou explains it in a way that doesn’t make you feel stupid.

You nod slowly. “I see.”

You push the container toward him. “Try one, please.”

Shinsou fixes you with a look. “No.”

“What? You have to, I brought them all this way!”

He shakes his head, pushing the container back towards you. “Don’t try to poison me while I’m working.”

Your brows furrow. You don’t actually care if he eats them or not. You just think it’ll be funny, considering the fact you tried them yourself so you know they taste like crap. You shake the container in a way you hope is enticing.

“Come on, please? For me?” You try to make your voice sound as syrupy sweet as you can.

He looks at you for another beat, before sighing heavily.

“Fine. Only because you’re begging so nicely.”

“I- Shut up.” You mumble, looking down to ignore the teasing smirk on his face.

Shinsou grabs the one that looks the least deformed. He eyes it warily, his tongue darting out to lick his lip.

He shuts his eyes. “Deliver us from evil-“

“Just try it!”

He does. A very small, tentative bite. But It's a bite nonetheless, so you can’t complain. There’s a beat and you watch his jaw work as he chews. You allow yourself to hope for a second that maybe they’re not that bad, but then he winces, pretty features creasing.

“Y/N.”

“Shinsou.”

He shakes his head. He reaches under the counter for some water. He swallows, and you watch his Adam Apple bob as he leans his head back.

Shinsou groans, shuddering. “You need to never bake again.”

“It’s not- I’m trying, at least.” You pout.

The container clicks as he shuts it swiftly. You crack open the Redbull you’d just brought. The sound echoes through the nearly empty store. The drink is cold and refreshing, and the can cools your palms.

“Trying how? Where are you even finding these recipes?” He laughs.

You grab your phone out of your pocket. “This guy I follow on YouTube.”

“I think you should follow someone else.”

You shove his shoulder. “No. I love him, he’s so cool. I’m always flirting with him in his comments, you know.” You smile mischievously, showing him the YouTube page.

Shinsou has a very weird reaction to that. His eyes widen just slightly, his mouth parting to speak words that don’t make their way out. You squint at him.

“Are you alright there?” You half joking and half asking, because he doesn’t really look alright.

His eyes search for something in your face. “Are you fucking with me?”

Your brows furrow, your phone going a little limp in your hand. “What?”

Shinsou seems to shake himself out of whatever shock he was in, because he slips your phone out of your hand and starts scrolling through his page.

“Nothing.”

“You’re so weird.” You say, but you drop it, leaning in a little closer so you can watch with him.

He nods approvingly as you point out your favourite recipes. “Wow. Amazing. These videos look incredible.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

“I’m being serious!” He exclaims, and you snatch your phone out of his hand.

“No, you’re being sarcastic. Or mocking. Or both, actually.” You sigh dreamily. “That’s my boyfriend you’re making fun of.”

“Your what?” Shinsou splutters.

“You heard me. It’s only a matter of time before we make it official.” You wiggle your left hand at him and point dramatically at your ring finger.

“You’re delusional.”

“He literally wants me. Look.”

You pull up the most recent of your interaction, and Shinsou’s jaw drops a little.

“That’s you?”

“Yes!” You grin. “Isn’t it romantic?”

Shinsou just nods wordlessly. He rubs at his eyes, shaking his head slightly. “Do you know who he is? Is- Isn’t he like, faceless?”

You pat his arm. “Oh, Shinsou. I don’t even need to see him to know he’s fine. Look at his biceps. And his arms. And those beautiful hands. What I’d let those hands do to me.”

You pull up a random video and hold it up to him. Shinsou, again, reacts differently than what you expect. He doesn’t say much, just nods along to your words. You think he’s blushing.

“And he cooks? And really well, at that? I’d let him wine and dine and f-“

“Okay!” He cuts you off. “Let’s calm down.”

You laugh. “Is all this talk too much for you?”

“Yes.”

You glance at the time and curse. “Shit, I should probably get going. I have an essay to write.” You mumble.

You grab the snacks you’d brought and give Shinsou a wave. “Think about me if you get bored.”

“Definitely won’t.”

—-

SCALLION FLATBREAD WITH CHILLI OIL MindJack · 460k subscribers 10 hours ago · 13:02 · 679k views Description If you don’t like spicy food then grow up because this… [SHOW MORE]

that shot at the end is insta worthy 🙏love that flowery apron y/neats 8 hours ago Reply [Thumbs Up] 1.0k [Thumbs Down]

⤷Shall I post MindJack 5 hours ago Reply [Thumbs Up] 1.9k [Thumbs Down]

⤷yes mindjack insta page when?? post cooking thirst traps plz y/neats 5 hours ago Reply [Thumbs Up] 489 [Thumbs Down]

—-

You were joking about the Instagram page.

Well, only slightly joking. Mindjack solely resided on YouTube and TikTok, the latter only being clips from his videos condensed for engagement purposes. You thought Instagram would be a nice place to get a little more content from him if anything else.

Your conversation with Shinsou was another stark reminder that you actually didn’t know what MindJack looked like. Obviously, it’s not like your flirting was going to go anywhere. But, on the one in a million chance it did, you’d like to know who it was you were thinking incredibly inappropriate thoughts about.

So, when you glance at your phone during your lecture after it buzzes on the table, your heart nearly falls out of your ass when you see what it is.

MindJack has requested to follow you. 56s

You think it’s a fake account at first. You have the same username on all your socials, so it’s no surprise that if someone was sad enough to pretend to be him, they’d find your account. Your comments on his videos are not exactly private.

You open up the request, glancing up at the lecturer you’ve been trying to focus on. She’s looking away and you’re sitting in the far back, so you don’t feel rude to pick up your phone with more purpose.

The page is blank. He has the same caption as his other socials, the same profile picture. If you’re being honest it looks pretty legit. And what’s the worst that’s going to happen if you accept? It’s not like you’re going to get hacked. Probably. So you approve the request and shut your phone off, not thinking much of it.

And then your phone buzzes again.

You shoot an apologetic look to the person next to you, who’s getting increasingly annoyed at your phone. You look at it once more.

MindJack

1.2k followers . 0 posts

You follow each other on Instagram

MindJack: Hey

This is getting weird now. Maybe weird is not the right word to describe it. Exciting might be better.

Y/Neats: hiiii

A few minutes pass without the reply, and the read receipt stares back at you mockingly. You pout, disappointed in falling for someone’s stupid prank.

MindJack: I have no idea what to say right now

Y/Neats: wait so is this actually MindJack

Y/Neats: or am I being punk’d

MindJack: Punked?

Y/Neats: YOU NEVER WATCHED PUNK’D??

Y/Neats: it’s like a hidden camera prank show that I might be staring in.. seeing as ur ass could be a fake

MindJack: No my ass is real

MindJack: Workijf on getting that verification

So it is him. The nerves you had that he wasn’t disappear almost instantly, and the excitement increases. Your chest fills with a weirdly sappy feeling that he’d actually taken the time to find you socials, request it and message it. Maybe all those YouTube comments weren’t just for fun. It’ll be a nice story to tell your kids, at least.

You spend the rest of your lecture texting. The conversation is stilted at first, only slightly, but you get past the awkwardness quite easily. He’s fun to talk to. You find yourself trying to stifle laughter at some of the stuff he says, and when you have to pack up and leave you immediately miss him.

And, surprisingly enough, when you make your usual nightly trip to the grocery store, MindJack seems to be on Shinsou’s mind too. Because when you rock up to the counter with only a pack of m&ms, he frowns.

“You not cooking tonight?”

“Nope.” You sigh. “I’m not in a mood to nearly burn my kitchen down again.” The card machine beeps at you to pay, and you dig around your pockets to look for your wallet.

Shinsou tilts his head a little. “But Mindjack posted a new video.”

Your eyes dart up to his the second the name leaves his mouth. It seems you can’t avoid the guy.

“Yeah, but the recipe is too difficult for me.” You shake your head. “And I have none of the right equipment.”

Shinsou nods slowly. You’re still eyeing him a little, because he looks lost in thought, and you're sure you haven’t said anything for him to look that confused. Just before you’re about to ask if he’s okay, he speaks up.

“Come over to mine tonight and we can make it together.”

This request feels a little different. Not like his usual jokey flirting the two of you do, but it feels real.

“Are you being serious?”

“I always am. But tonight more than most.”

You realise, while he’s speaking, that he’s nervous. He looks fine, but you can see his hands wringing beneath the counter where he thinks you can’t see. You smile a little shyly.

You want to. You really want to. You think texting MindJack has made the little burning feeling in your chest for some romantic attention worse. It makes the fear that you’ve been harbouring over dating dissipate, and the hopeful way Shinsou is looking at you certainly makes your decision easier.

So, against your better judgment, you nod.

“Alright.”

Shinsou looks just as surprised as you feel at your acceptance, but he recovers quickly, flashing you a bright smile that makes your cheeks flush.

“Perfect. I get off in ten, if you can hang around.”

You glance at your phone and laugh a little. “So you’re taking me out on a date at five in the morning?”

Shinsou raises his eyebrows. “A date, huh?”

You blush. You shake your head quickly. “Well- Hang out, I mean. Not a date. This-“

“Oh, it is a date.” He reassures you, his smile easy. “It’s just cute seeing you all flustered.”

“You- I’m going to wait by the front.” You say, ignoring his teasing laugh as you do.

He doesn’t take too long. Shinsou looks nice outside of work. He’s wearing one of the campus hoodies and a pair of jeans that fit him nicely. He’s got two cans of Monster in his hand and he passes you one. You grab it, the condensation cooling your hands.

“Hey, this is my favourite flavour.” You crack it open and it fizzes over your fingers.

“I know.”

“I can’t decide if that’s charming or creepy.”

Shinsou hums, holding out his arm for you to take. “I prefer charming.”

You think your arm fits perfectly between his. The sunrise creeps behind the buildings, the deep orange light warming your side. You’re used to catching the sunrise. Most of your shopping trips tend to be in the early hours of the morning, and, much like the cute guy on your arm, you’re quite the insomniac.

Conversation blurs easily with Shinsou. You talk about your course and he talks about his, and you find there’s a lot more to him than your conversations at the till. He plays bass, and he has been trying to figure out how to sneak a pet cat in without his nosy next-door neighbour telling on him.

The walk doesn’t take long, and Shinsou makes you close your eyes so he can quickly tidy up. You think you look a bit stupid standing in his doorway with your hands over your eyes, but he’d insisted.

You sigh. “Shinsou, I don’t care what your place looks like.”

“Well, I do.” He sounds a little out of breath from all the running around. “I have to impress you.”

A minute passes, and then you feel two warm hands circle your wrists. Shinsou pulls your hands off your face and you're greeted by a very handsome face.

“Hi.” He says.

You bite back a smile. “Hey. Can I look at your place now?”

“If you must.”

It’s the same setup as your place, and it’s what you assume all the student accommodations look like. The very tiny seating area, the slightly bigger kitchen and the room that’s tucked away. Shinsou place is decorated quite nicely. There's lots of vinyls hanging up around his wall, plants tucked into every corner of the room. There’s a few pictures hung on the wall and also a hole.

Shinsou sees you looking at it and laughs a little awkwardly. “Yeah, my friend is a very destructive drunk.”

“You know you’re not going to get the deposit back cause of that.” You chide and he rolls his eyes.

“I’ll make him pay. Bakugo has a shit ton of money saved, he’s so anal about that stuff.” Shinsou says.

Your kitchen is definitely your favourite part. It seems Shinsou has spent most of his time decorating this place, with the expensive cooking equipment and the fridge that’s stacked with all the pricy ingredients you never have the guts to buy.

It looks oddly familiar.

You don’t know why. Something about the counters, or the decor. You can’t quite place it. You figure it’s probably just the fact it looks the same like all the other student accommodations. It’s also nearing half five in the morning, and you think you need more rest before you can figure anything out.

“Alright! I’m ready to bake. Or cook. Or whatever we’re doing.” You cheer.

“Baking today. Scallion flatbread, according to MindJack.” Shinsou reads off his phone.

“Do you have all the ingredients?”

“Yes.”

You furrow your brows. “You haven’t even checked.”

Shinsou leads you to stand behind his counter. “I just know. I have a cooking sixth-sense.”

You drum your fingers on it. “I’m excited! This might be the first time I ever cook something that doesn’t turn out like shit.”

Shinsou snorts. He’s busied himself with pulling out ingredients and bowls. “I hope your bad cooking juju doesn’t rub off on me.”

“What- I don’t have bad cooking juju!”

Shinsou winces a little. “Yeah. Of course you don’t.”

Shinsou finishes grabbing everything he needs. He quickly tugs off his hoodie and you act like you’re not trying to catch a glimpse of his bare skin when his shirt rides up.

He rubs his hands together. “Okay, so. Grab me flour. We need three hundred grams.” Shinsou points to the bowl, and you salute.

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, you can definitely keep calling me that.”

You elbow his side lightly. Shinsou searches in a drawer for a scale, but honestly there’s really no need because you quickly dump what you think looks like three hundred grams into the bowl.

“Okay, so- Y/N, what are you doing?” Shinsou speaks around a laugh, grabbing the flour out of your hand.

“What? It’s three hundred grams.”

He looks at you like you’ve grown another head. “Are you being serious?”

You frown, grabbing the bowl protectively. “Did I do something wrong?”

Shinsou laughs boldly now. “This is why your baking is horrible. You need to measure.”

You roll your eyes as he tugs the bowl out of your hands. He pours the flour back into the bag as gracefully as he can so he can measure them again. You draw little hearts in the mess he makes on the table.

“I don’t have a scale, though. Only my eyes.” You pout.

He scoffs. “You’re not real.”

“I am!”

Shinsou decides to measure the remaining ingredients. He slides the bowl over to you once everything is inside. You’d pushed the sleeves of his t-shirt up for him and the strong muscles of his forearms are dusted with flour.

“Now mix. Carefully.” He instructs. “I need to clean the counter.”

“Okay.”

You do mix. The dough feels sticky in your hands, and you mush it between your fingers. You make a face and you hear Shinsou snicker behind you.

“Stop laughing at me.” You stick your tongue out at him and he flicks water in your face.

It’s fun cooking and actually being good at it. Shinsou shows you how to roll out the fough, how to crinkle it in the pan. You let him do that, a little too nervous to get your hands so close to the hot metal. Your eyes sting from the heat of the chilli oil and your hands are silky because of the oil you spilt, but it might be the most fun you’ve had all week.

He presents the flatbreads on a pretty marble plate.

“Wow! I can’t believe we made these.” You marvel.

“Yep.” Shinsou breathes. “Looks almost exactly like MindJack’s, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. I hope it tastes the same too.” You add.

Your fingers burn a little, since the food is so fresh. The bread crunches as you bite into it and you make a noise that sounds strangely similar to a moan.

“Oh my god.” You speak around a mouthful. “That’s so good.”

Shinsou only hums in reply. His fingers tap the table a little impatiently. You’re too busy munching on the flatbreads to notice. You’ve never made anything even remotely as good at this, which you think makes it tastes all that nicer.

“These are so nice! I love-“

“You still haven’t realised?” He cuts you off quickly.

You look up at him. He’s watching you intensely, biting at his lip nervously.

“Are you okay?” You ask, brushing your fingers on a tissue.

He nods. Then shakes his head.

“I’m okay. I just. I thought you’d have noticed by now. I thought I was being kind of obvious.” He explains.

You’re confused. The sunrise is creeping in fully through Shinsou’s open windows, the chirping of the birds and the start of the morning rush cutting through the calmness of his kitchen. It’s too early for all this problem-solving. “What the hell are you on about?”

Shinsou stammers. He tries to explain, you think, but his mouth clicks shut. Instead, he quickly walks over to the closet by the front door. You lean over the counter and watch him pull something out that he hides behind his back.

“Close your eyes.”

“Shinsou, not again.”

“Humour me. Please?”

You can’t say no to those bright eyes. You reluctantly close them again. You hear a bit of a commotion and you almost open your eyes. You fumble around the table for the flatbreads.

“Okay. You can look.”

You do. And you’re greeted by Shinsou, wearing a pretty flowery apron that looks like it belongs in your grandma's kitchen.

You stifle a laugh. “You look stupid. Is this what the big reveal was for? You-“

And then it clicks.

Because you recognise that apron. It’s the same flowery apron you’ve unfortunately thirsted over multiple times. And it’s like everything just sort of clicks. The familiarity of Shinsou’s kitchen and his voice. The weird way he reacted when you brought up MindJack. Everything sort of falls into place, and you’re not sure whether to feel excited or completely and utterly mortified.

“Oh my god.” Your breathe.

Shinsou laughs a little. “Yeah.”

“Oh my god.” You groan, covering your face with your palms. “There’s no way.”

“Have you finally connected the dots?” He teases, walking back over to you.

“Oh my god. Please don’t look at me.” You wave your hands at him but he doesn’t flinch, leaning his elbows on the counter beside you.

“Why? You’re my biggest fan, after all. I’ve been dying to meet you.” He drawls and you peek at him through your fingers.

“So I’m guessing you know I’m y/neats.”

Shinsou snorts. “You did tell me yourself. And very cute username, by the way.”

He runs a hand through his hair. You rub at your eyes as if it’ll help erase you almost telling Shinsou he could wine and dine and fuck you.

“When did you even realise it was me?” You mumble.

“Two days ago. When you showed me my own YouTube page.” He reminds you and you wince.

Your brain feels like it’s running six hundred miles a minute. Shinsou and MindJack being the same person does sort of make sense. They both have the same humour, the affinity for cooking. That uncanny ability to make you feel like your fifteen with a crush again. The chances feel one in a million, and while you should still feel embarrassed, you’re starting to get a little excited.

“You’re like, famous, you know.”

Shinsou smiles. “I know.”

You take another bit of the flatbread. It’s so good. It’s now dawning on you that you’re eating food made by it’s original creator, which makes it taste a hundred times better.

The room has been silent for a beat too long and Shinsou watches you carefully. “Have I weirded you out?”

“No! No, not at all, I’m just. I’m shocked. And embarrassed. I’ve been- I’ve been thirsting over you to your face.” You rush out, eyes darting away from the careful look on his face.

Shinsou holds up his hands. “Hey, don’t stop on my account.”

You huff a laugh. Shinsou still looks worried, though. He sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“The second I realised, I knew I had to tell you. I felt- I don’t know, I thought it’d be weird if I knew and you didn’t.”

“I thought you’d figure it out while we were cooking.” He gestures towards his kitchen. “It’s the same setup as my videos, you know.”

You yawn. “Shinsou, it’s six in the morning and I haven’t slept a wink. You think I have the energy to figure out this mystery?”

He snorts. “Apologies, apologies. I thought the baking was a nice touch.”

You smile. “Yeah, a little.”

“Well. Now that you know, and we’ve gotten all the awkward introductions out the way.” Shinsou looks at you again with those bright purple eyes, his hand reaches down to grab yours. “Will you finally say yes to my request for dinner?”

“Hm. If you let me help you cook, then sure.”

—————————————————————————-

anon I love u lemme lips u.. this is such a good prompt it was so fun to write!!!! And guys plz formatting all that text nearly killed me.

I hope u all enjoyed!!

#CUTTE

162 notes · View notes

sobaism · 13 days ago

Text

you and shinsou pretend not to know each other at a work conference and he lasts about five minutes before he has to drag you off to a quiet corner, hitch your thigh over his shoulder, and lick your pussy through your tights while you bite down on your clutch purse to keep from screaming

267 notes · View notes

sobaism · 15 days ago

Note

Imagine Endgame dreaming about Tomura again and he sees the reader comforting Tomura after a nightmare and how much the reader loves him

VS Bubble Girl saying “gross” and kicking him out after he has a nightmare 🥲

Him waking up like, oh maybe I deserve better tbh 😭

(Also him wanting to text the reader but holding back is so sad especially because the reader doesn’t even know 😭😭😭)

#READERGAME FOREVER

Hi anon! Thank you so much for this ask, and apologies for the time it took to answer. It spawned yet another fic.

If the dream includes Tomura, Endgame knows it’s a nightmare, even if it doesn’t feel like one. Sometimes he’s watching what happens to a world that lives in fear of his other self, of all the things he’s done and the things he could do. Those are bad enough, but Endgame hates it most when he is Tomura, inside Tomura’s head, seeing things through Tomura’s eyes. Endgame can never talk to him. Never stop him. All he can do is watch Tomura’s hands, his hands, do terrible things, until the dream falls apart and he wakes up on the couch in the living room, soaked in cold sweat and completely alone.

At the beginning of the dream, Endgame thinks he’s just woken up, lurching upright to escape the nightmare. The cold sweat is familiar, and the shaking, and the feeling like he’s being dropped from a height. But he went to sleep on the couch, not the bed, and when he looks down at his hands, slowly uncurling themselves from fists on his thighs, he realizes that he’s short a couple of fingers on his left hand. He’s still asleep. He’s not watching Tomura. He is Tomura, again, and Endgame feels a surge of frustration. Tomura is the source of Endgame’s nightmares. There’s no reason for him to have nightmares of his own.

But it was a nightmare. Endgame can’t remember what Tomura was dreaming about, but the aftermath is unmistakable. What kind of things can scare the Symbol of Fear? Endgame doesn’t want to know. He hates that he’s here, hates that he’s not safe even in his own bad dreams. Tomura infests everything. Tomura ruins everything. And unlike Tenko, who’s been sleeping on the couch from the word go for the last two weeks, Tomura gets to have his nightmares in a bed.

Tomura’s hands won’t stop shaking, and even as he draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, he’s shaking so badly that his body rattles. “Hey.” Something moves in Tomura’s field of vision, rolling over in bed next to him. A hand emerges from the sheets, touches Tomura’s arm and holds on. “Are you okay?”

Endgame knows that voice. In the time it takes him to recognize where he knows it from, you’re already levering yourself upright, swallowing a yawn in the process. Endgame can feel your touch distantly, just a faint pressure and warmth on Tomura’s forearm, and for the first time, he wishes he was more than a passenger in his other self’s body. He wants to know what it feels like for you to touch him instead of the other way around. Endgame’s caught you when you’ve fallen, held you up when you were reeling from blood loss or your last overdose, but you’ve never reached for him first.

Tomura must be used to it. Tomura barely reacts. “Just a dream,” he mutters.

“A bad dream?” you ask, your voice softer than Endgame’s ever heard it. Tomura shrugs. “Want to talk about it?”

Tomura shakes his head, and Endgame wants to grab his spine and shake the rest of him until he gets his shit together. You’re asking him to talk. You haven’t told him to leave. You haven’t let him go yet. Why is Tomura sitting here ignoring it, when Endgame would give anything to — “Okay,” you say, and you let go. “I’ll be right back.”

Where are you going? Your hand lifts away from Tomura’s arm, and as Tomura turns his head to watch you, Endgame spots track marks on your arms. He hasn’t seen those in a while. Not since they were fresh, barely scabbed over, and it catches him by surprise to see them healed. He shouldn’t be. It’s been years now. He’s known you for years, and you keep so much of yourself hidden from him. From everyone, maybe — but Endgame doesn’t think so. Not with the way Eri talks about you, the way the other people at the treatment center do. You and Endgame are friends, aren’t you? Why do you spend so much time pulling away?

You’re not pulling away from Tomura. You slide out of bed, disappearing into the darkness, only to come back seconds later with a towel. Endgame tenses as it settles around Tomura’s shoulders, as you pick up one corner and start wiping at his neck, his jaw. Tomura’s shoulders relax under your touch. “Surprised you stick around,” he mumbles. “I’m gross.”

Your hands go still for a second, and Endgame’s seized again with the urge to shake Tomura until his brain rattles in his skull. But your hands pick up the pace again, so light Endgame can barely feel them. Your voice stays soft, just like your lips are when you lean in to kiss Tomura’s scarred shoulder. “I love you,” you say, “but sometimes you say the weirdest things.”

You love him. Tomura’s breathing evens out, but Endgame’s heart races in response, worse when you kiss Tomura’s shoulder again. He knows you have this in you. He’s seen you on shift after shift, reaching out to people who need someone, anyone to care. You’ve never been a hero. If you’re sleeping alongside Tomura in Endgame’s dream, you’re probably a villain. But Endgame knows how you are. He just didn’t think about what it would be like to be on the other side of it.

Tomura stays quiet as you dry him off, speaking up as you’re lifting his hair away from the back of his neck, where it’s been stuck since he woke up. “It was a bad one,” he says. “You died.”

“Yeah?” You edge closer to Tomura in bed, close enough that Endgame can convince himself that he feels your body heat. “How’d I die?”

Tomura shakes his head. “You died,” he says again, his voice going rough. “None of it mattered anymore.”

“It would still matter,” you say. You set the towel aside and close the distance between you and Tomura, wrapping your arms around him even though he’s still shaky and sticky and cold. “So many people love you. Not just me. But you’re not getting rid of me that easily. I’ll always find you.”

“Possessive much?” Tomura’s mouth curves ever so slightly upwards. “I’ll make it easy on you and stay here.”

“Good,” you say. Your hand finds its way up to the back of Tomura’s neck, your fingers sliding through his damp hair. “What do you want to do now? Go back to sleep? Talk for a bit? Play some games?”

Endgame’s heart aches, wide and empty in a way he hasn’t felt in a decade or more. Or hasn’t admitted to feeling, like ignoring it makes it go away. Tomura leans in against you, and Endgame feels you straighten your back to hold him there. “Don’t you need to sleep?”

“I’ll sleep better if you do,” you say. Tomura kisses you.

Endgame can’t watch this. Can’t feel it from a distance. It feels like it’ll kill him to sit here a second longer, and he wrenches himself out of the dream with such force that he falls off the couch in his living room, tangled up in his blankets and just as cold as ever.

As soon as he’s awake, he wishes he wasn’t. He hears footsteps in the hall, and a second later, the kitchen light clicks on. Tenko squeezes his eyes shut, but he can’t close his ears to Kaoruko’s voice. “Tenko? Is that you?”

“It’s me.” Why does Tenko’s voice sound like that? Tenko coughs, trying to clear it out. “I’m fine.”

Why did he say that? He’s not fine. He feels so fucking empty and awful that he can barely breathe around it. Tomura is a monster, just like Tenko would have been if one thing had been different, and he has nightmares — and when he has a nightmare, no one shies away from him or kicks him out to the couch. How come Tomura gets that and Tenko doesn’t? What did Tenko fuck up so badly that he doesn’t deserve help at all?

Be too emotional. Too needy. Too much of a bleeding heart, too focused on the margins at the expense of the center when it comes to being a hero. Tenko’s too much. He’s been too much, and until he can stop, he doesn’t deserve —

And then he hears your voice, sees your face. You didn’t push back on the deserving thing for yourself, but you’d push back for him. Tenko knows it. Tenko knows you. How?

“Ten?” Kaoruko comes a few steps closer. “Are you okay?”

Maybe a month ago Tenko would have been relieved to hear her ask. Relieved that she was coming closer to him instead of telling him to clear out. Right now, after a month of sleeping on the couch, he’s not anything except done. “I said I’m fine.”

“Don’t be like that,” Kao says. She comes a few steps closer, almost within reach but not quite. “You haven’t come to bed with me in two weeks.”

“Yeah. Because I got sick of you kicking me out,” Tenko says. “I’m tired, Kao. Go back to sleep.”

Kao crosses her arms over her chest. “I miss you.”

Now she misses Tenko. Tenko’s been right here the whole time, waiting for her to change her mind, feeling worse with every night that passes. He knows what he should be doing — giving Kaoruko a chance to be different, accepting an apology she hasn’t given. He knows, and he doesn’t want to. Tenko wants —

I’ll always find you. “It’s late,” he says. He lies back down on the couch, pulling up the blanket and rolling over so he wouldn’t see Kao even if he opened his eyes. “Go back to bed.”

Kaoruko’s footsteps sound more like stomps as she leaves the living room. Tenko feels bad for their neighbors, somewhere in the midst of all the other bad feelings he’s struggling with. He knows one of them is guilt, mixed with embarrassment. He blew off his wife over a dream version of you who had enough screws loose to love Shigaraki Tomura. That person isn’t real, any more than Tomura is. You're just ghosts in Tenko’s head.

But Tenko remembers what it felt like to have someone reach for him first. To give someone an easy out and see them dismiss it and come back. Tenko pulls the blanket closer around himself and tries to go back to sleep, your voice echoing softly against the thoughts that have clawed at him for as long as he can remember. I’ll always find you. It’s the kind of thing that Kao always swoons over when they watch romcoms, the kind Tenko rolls his eyes over until he gets dizzy. It sounds nice, but it’s not a promise anybody can keep.

Except you, maybe. If Tenko heard you say that, he’d believe it. It’s been a month since he saw you. He decides as he slips under, searching for the same nightmare as before, that he needs to see you again.

#💔💔💔#they make me sick your honour

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sobaism · 18 days ago

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You feel hot to the top of your head. Sure you’re sweating in an ugly way when you perch up onto your knees beside him on the couch. Just high enough to be brave enough to be stupid.

“Can I see it?” you ask. Your voice comes out breathless.

Bakugo swallows. Stares at you, a flush rising up the back of his neck into the tips of his ears. “It.”

You nod, so emphatic that your teeth clack together in your skull. “Yeah,” you say. “Your…” Your eyes drop to his crotch. “Your cock.”

Bakugo exhales so loudly it makes you startle, his hands balling up into fists where they’re resting on his thighs. His chest heaves as he swallows down whatever reaction had burst from him just then. “You want to see it.” His voice is a rasp.

You wet your lips unconsciously. You can’t move your eyes from the loose sweatpants bunched at Bakugo’s hips. “Take it out,” you say. “I wanna see. Please.”

The two of you stay frozen for a long, lingering beat. Long enough that you see apprehension start to creep in at the edges of his expression, and you feel a bolt of fear that whatever strange, stifling moment you’re in with him will slip away from you.

“Unless you’re scared.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Bakugo spits, slipping back into anger like it’s a relief as he reaches down and tugs his waistband down.

#aaaaaa

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sobaism · 20 days ago

Text

Savior (Chapter 2) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

When you broke up with Shigaraki Tomura at the end of high school, you never expected him to stalk you for years, and when you and Chisaki Kai got married, you thought you'd finally broken free. But life with Kai turns quickly from a dream into a waking nightmare, and with every month that passes, you can feel your chances to escape dwindling. Almost out of time, with no good choices left, you turn to the one person who swore he'd never give up on you -- and hope he's less interested in stalking you than he is in saving your life.

AU - no quirks. Past (and future) Tomura x reader, present Overhaul x reader. Dead Dove Do Not Eat. Depictions of dubcon, domestic violence, and reproductive coercion (Overhaul). References to past stalking behavior (Tomura). Angst. Hurt/no comfort for the majority of the fic. If you find any of the above too triggering to read about, please go check out some of the other fics in the fandom! there are lots of them waiting to be discovered and loved. beta-read by @threadbearsweater, dividers by @cafekitsune

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

When you and Kai get home at three in the morning, dragging your suitcases through the door, you know instantly that something’s off. Maybe it’s the temperature of the air. Maybe there’s a different scent, something subtle but out of place. Maybe a shadow just inside your doorway that shouldn’t be there. You can’t put your finger on what it is, but you’re dead certain: Something’s happened. Someone was here.

Or maybe you’re just insane. Kai hasn’t noticed anything at all. He’s in a bad mood, shoulders hunched, jet-lagged or something worse. He drops his suitcase in the hall. “I hate this part.”

He doesn’t say things like that very often. “Go shower off,” you tell him. You help him out of his coat, surprised when he lets you. “I’ll unpack and get the laundry started.”

Kai glances your way, the motion unusually slow and heavy. “Why?”

“You did such a good job planning our trip,” you say. “We saw everything I wanted to see, and I didn’t have to worry about a thing. I can take care of this. Go shower. You’ll feel better afterward.”

Kai must be feeling bad. He doesn’t argue. He goes upstairs to shower, and as soon as you hear the water switch on, you leap into action. You don’t have much time. You have to figure out what happened here before Kai comes out.

The first thing you do is check the doors and windows. Sure enough, the one in the downstairs bathroom is slightly cracked. Like that, it’s too small for a person to fit through, but if it was entirely open, someone with a slim build could easily slither in and back out. You shut it, your heart racing like it used to in college, back when you’d discover some clue that Tomura had broken in. He always left something for you to find.

He always took something, too. If Tomura really was here, he’ll have taken something that isn’t for everyday, something valuable only to you. At first you’d thought he was doing it to hurt you, to punish you for leaving him, but something about that explanation didn’t track. It took almost a year of him stalking you for you to understand what he was really doing – taking things that mattered but didn’t, hoping you’d reach out to ask for them back. What would he have taken this time? You try to keep quiet as you move through the house, but your heart is hammering so loudly the neighbors can probably hear it. What would you notice missing that Kai wouldn’t? Nothing. Kai notices everything.

You’re still holding Kai’s coat. You stifle the urge to ball it up and leave it on the floor and hang it neatly instead. You unpack the suitcases, separate the dirty clothes, load the washing machine but hold off on starting it. You turn down the sheets on Kai’s side of the bed, and as you straighten up, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror at the back of the walk-in closet. You look frantic, just as struck by anxiety as you feel, and the earrings Kai bought you are still in your ears.

All at once they’re too heavy. You take them out, pulling almost hard enough to hurt, and turn to your jewelry box – and that’s when you see it. The lid of your jewelry box is ever so slightly askew.

You make your way carefully towards it, like you’re trying to catch it by surprise or something. Paranoia’s made you do weirder things. You’re meticulous as you sift through it, checking in on every piece of jewelry Kai bought you first, then onto everything you bought for yourself or inherited from somebody else. Then the things that are sentimental and nothing more, and at first you think nothing’s been taken. Maybe you left it like this the last time you looked in it. But then you look a little harder, and you realize with a jolt that something has been taken – and replaced, with something that looks almost identical.

You and Tomura had been dating for two months on Valentine’s Day, and Tomura’s friends and yours had been razzing him about getting you a gift. Tomura didn’t have any money, not since his dad went to prison, and you told him over and over again that he didn’t need to get you anything. He really didn’t. You hadn’t gotten a boyfriend because you wanted presents. If he wanted to get you something for your birthday, he could, but you weren’t worried about it. You were consistent. Sometimes you thought he believed you.

But your friends’ boyfriends went all out for the week leading up to Valentine’s Day, showering them in chocolate and presents, and you knew it bothered Tomura that he couldn’t do the same thing. On Valentine’s Day, you presented him with a box of chocolates you’d made yourself. I wanted to get you a fancy one, but they always have weird stuff in them, you remember saying. This way it only has the stuff you like.

Tomura didn’t thank you, but the way he held onto the box white-knuckled for a moment before setting it aside told you what you needed to know. Then he reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out something small enough to fit completely in his closed fist. I got you something, too.

Tomura –

Just take it. He was averting his eyes, embarrassed already. You held out your hand and he dropped two necklaces into it. The charm on one of them said Best. The other said Friends. You were speechless, and in your silence, Tomura started talking. They said to get jewelry or something. I can’t afford that stuff – not the nice stuff. We’re not best friends. We’re dating. This was stupid. I just –

You kissed him. I think it’s really nice, you said. He gave you a skeptical look. I couldn’t date somebody who wasn’t my friend, too.

And maybe he was your best friend by that point. You two spent a lot of time together, about the same as all your other friends added up, and you liked spending time with him a lot. More than your friends liked spending time with their boyfriends. You remember thinking that meant something good. I really like it, you told Tomura. Which one do you want?

Tomura picked Friends. You got Best, and even when the two of you broke up, you kept it at the bottom of your jewelry box, never wearing it again but always knowing it was there. But your half of the friendship necklace isn’t there anymore. The charm on the tarnished chain says Friends.

He was here. You can’t tell if the feeling that cuts the tendons in your legs and drops you to the floor is relief or fear, but you know you got your wish. Tomura’s here, somehow. He’s watching, again. That was the first step. Now what?

Even as you’re weighing the question, you’re aware that you have to figure out what’s wrong with Kai. It’s clear to you that he picked something up on the plane home, but he won’t go to the doctor or even admit he’s not feeling well, meaning that he’s short-tempered and sharper than usual with you. You’ve seen Kai like this a few times in the past. You know it’ll fade at some point, but for now, the tension in the house is palpable.

The two of you took an extra day off after the trip to recover from jet lag – Kai’s idea, so you can both go back to work at your best. You suggest to Kai that he should actually rest instead of just working from home. The curtness with which he responds to you tells you not to open your mouth on the subject again.

But when the two of you are making dinner, sharing the kitchen as usual, you realize that you can’t let it go any longer. Kai’s hands are shaking where he grasps the knife he’s using to cut up the ingredients, and he’s this close to amputating a finger. When you brush against him, you find that he’s drenched in cold sweat, and his face has taken on a pale, clammy cast. “Kai, are you okay?”

He mumbles something through clenched teeth. You don’t dare ask him to repeat himself, and he says it again without prompting. “I’m fine,” he says. “I –”

His expression contorts, and he whirls away from you, throwing up in the sink – mostly. The mess is bad enough. You know how much Kai hates a mess. The imperative to clean it up as much as possible, as quickly as possible, clashes with your need to get out of here before something worse happens, and somewhere in the middle of it is a vestigial urge to reach out to someone who needs help. The latter urge wins out. “Kai –”

“Stay away.”

He sounds awful. He needs help. You have a strong immune system, and you can wash your hands. You take a step forward. “Kai, I’m worried –”

“Stay away!” He doesn’t turn on you, but he lashes out with one hand. The hand that’s still holding the knife.

The blade catches you in the shoulder, pierces through your shirt, drawing a jagged line across your chest. The pain is sharp and agonizing, and it comes as such a shock that you don’t even scream. The sharp gasp you let out is more of surprise than anything else. Kai drops the knife, straightens up. His eyes are wide as he stares at you. You’ve seen that expression maybe once before, when you regained consciousness after he knocked you out. Surprise at seeing what he’s done, shock that he went this far. If Kai told you right now that he didn’t mean to hurt you, you’d believe him.

There’s blood staining your shirt, vomit in the sink and on the counter and the floor, and your sick husband is staring at you, stunned like he’s the one who was just attacked with a knife. Kai’s not functioning right now. You are, mainly because Kai’s hurt you so many times that you know the world can’t stop because of it. You pull an empty mixing bowl off the counter, hand it to Kai, and shoo him out of the kitchen. “I’ll clean up and come check on you. Don’t drink or eat anything. I’ll bring you some water once I’m done.”

Kai doesn’t argue with you. You leave him on the floor of the living room – he won’t sit on the couch – and go back to the kitchen. The food’s a loss, and everything needs disinfecting. You know Kai’s exacting standards, know how unlikely it is that you’ll meet them, and at the same time, you think you might be safe for a little while. He won’t be back in the kitchen any time soon. If he had just admitted he was sick – if he had just listened to you –

You crumple the thought into a ball and throw it away. Kai hurt you again. He did it with a weapon this time. You can’t make any mistakes.

It takes you half an hour to disinfect the kitchen, time enough that it should be safe to give Kai some water. You bring it in a clean glass, filled with water from the filter in the refrigerator, and set it down on the coffee table – on a coaster, so you don’t ruin the wood. He’s punished you for that before. There was a while where his preferred method was pinching you so hard you’d get bruises.

Kai doesn’t look like he’s in pinching shape right now, but you never know. “Do you feel any better?” you ask him from well out of reach. “Please don’t lie. I can’t take care of you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“Fever. Nausea.” Kai shivers. “Chills. It’s viral. I don’t need a doctor.”

Good. Kai hates going to the doctor. He looks at you through hazy eyes, and to your horror, his gaze sharpens. “You should.”

“I’m not sick,” you say, bewildered, and Kai lifts one shaky hand and points. You look down to find the front of your shirt stained and shiny with blood. In your race to clean everything up, you completely forgot. “Oh. Um –”

“Urgent care. Now.”

He must really be sick. As much as he hates the doctor for himself, he hates sending you there even more, because any trip to the doctor creates a record of suspicious injuries. “I don’t think it’s that –”

“I was cutting meat with that knife. It was in my hand when I vomited. That wound won’t close on its own.” Kai shuts his eyes and leans back against the couch. “Call a rideshare. If you get lightheaded, you won’t be able to drive.”

All at once, you see the upside of a visit to the urgent care. Kai can’t drive you. Kai’s too sick to stand up straight. If you go to the urgent care, the likelihood that you’ll be prescribed something is high, and you’ll have to go to the pharmacy to pick it up – and you can buy more Plan B while you’re there. But you can’t sound too excited. “I’m worried about you –”

“I’ll contact you regularly. Go.” Kai sounds like he’s done with everything, you included. “And change your shirt.”

You do, while you’re waiting for the rideshare, but peeling off the stained shirt rips off the scab that’s formed when you pull it away from the wound. By the time you get in the rideshare you’re right back where you started, and the driver spends half the trip staring at you in the rearview mirror. The nurse who checks you in at the urgent care stares, too, and sticks you in an exam room before she’s even asked you to confirm your address. While you’re waiting for someone to examine you, your phone buzzes with a text from Kai: Tell them it was self-inflicted. With your history they’ll believe it.

Is anybody who looks at this going to believe you did it to yourself? In your opinion, claiming it was you is like claiming you fell and hit your face on the doorknob. It looks weirder than telling some version of the truth. When the doctor asks how you were hurt, you tell him it was a kitchen accident, and you’re so practiced, so composed at lying about what Kai’s done to you that the doctor buys it without a second thought. You get seventeen stitches and a prescription for three days of antibiotics, which gets sent to a pharmacy across the street. To keep up appearances, you text Kai where you’re going and ask him if he needs anything. He responds with a list.

That complicates things. You were going to pay for the antibiotics and the Plan B with your card. With all of this stuff, you’ll have to pay for it and the antibiotic on the shared card, then run a separate transaction for the Plan B. You take a deep breath. It’s not a complication, it’s just an extra step. It’s fine. Everything will be fine.

Your prescription’s not quite ready when you’re done collecting everything on Kai’s list, so you sit down in the waiting area. There’s only one other person there, an auburn-haired woman who’s wearing sunglasses inside and reading a gossip magazine. She looks up after a few seconds of you rustling around with your shopping basket, and her eyebrows lift sharply. “What happened to you, honey? You’re looking a little too much like a final girl for comfort.”

A final girl. You’ve heard that phrase before, but you can’t think where. “Kitchen accident. I’m just waiting on my antibiotics.”

“What kind of kitchen accident leaves that kind of mark?” She’s counting your stitches through your shirt. “You could run into his knife ten times and that would still look more accidental than this does.”

You catch the Cell Block Tango reference and feel a slight smile come to your face. “If that’s the scenario, shouldn’t I be the one with the knife?”

“If you had the knife, it wouldn’t be an accident,” the woman says. Her expression is serious as she gestures at you. “Just like this isn’t.”

You should have asked the doctor if you could have a scrub shirt to wear over this one. “Maybe I’m into that.”

“If you were into that, you wouldn’t have done something that needed stitches. And nobody who’s into that would do it right there.” She gestures again. You don’t know enough about people who are into knifeplay to argue. “You’re in trouble. You’re crazy if you think nobody sees it.”

You know nobody sees it. Kai’s too careful, and you’re too afraid of what Kai will do if anyone finds out. This is his biggest slip-up since your suicide attempt, and you know already that it’ll be a one-off – or if it’s not, Kai will stitch you up at home rather than letting a doctor have a look. Your life looks perfect from the outside. And even if somebody could see what was happening underneath – “It doesn’t matter who sees it if nobody does anything.”

The bitterness in your own voice shocks you. The woman sits forward, setting her magazine aside. “If somebody wanted to do something, would you let him?”

Before you can answer, or figure out why that question feels like being hit by lightning, the pharmacist calls you up to the counter. You stumble through your separate transactions, spend a while at the cash register trying to store everything in two separate bags, call your rideshare, and stumble out past the waiting area. The woman who called you a pathetic battered wife is nowhere to be found. Of course. And she left before you could give her the real answer to her stupid question: Nobody’s coming to save you. And of course she assumed the person saving you would be a man, or else she wouldn’t have said –

You stop in your tracks just inside the door. She called you a final girl. You’ve heard that before, all the way back in high school, watching horror movies with Tomura. For some reason he liked the old movies with the hokey special effects, and you remember him dissecting the movies while you listened and tried to ignore the fountains of fake blood onscreen. Sure, it’s probably a widely used term among horror fans, and sure, a person with blood all over their shirt draws attention no matter what – but that woman talked to you. She wouldn’t let it go. And when she asked if you’d let someone save you, you don’t think she was asking about just any someone. She asked about him. Like she meant one person in particular. Like she was asking for somebody else.

Tomura’s never sent someone to spy on you directly before, or if he has, you’ve never caught them at it. Why would he change his MO now? What if it wasn’t Tomura who sent that woman at all? What if it was Kai, testing you, testing your loyalty? You tried, but you must not have tried hard enough, or you wouldn’t feel sick to your stomach. When your rideshare arrives, the driver has to lean on the horn to get your attention. You’re too busy throwing up in the gutter to keep an eye out for the car.

When you get home, Kai doesn’t give any indication that he sent someone to keep an eye on you. He’s sleeping facedown on the couch, snoring slightly, the bucket and water glass empty on the floor beside it. You used to think Kai was cute like this, cute when he looked rumpled and awkward and human, and maybe it’s still true – but only when he’s asleep. When Kai looks like this wide awake, he’s so terrifying that it’s hard to believe you ever thought you loved him.

He was terrifying like that today, and you didn’t realize until it was too late. He’s never used a weapon on you before, and even if it was accidental, that line’s been crossed now. Crossing it will get easier for him every time he does it, just like it did the first time he struck you with a closed fist instead of an open hand, just like it did the first time he kicked you after he threw you to the ground. Maybe it’ll be like it was after he knocked you out, but maybe not. Brain trauma can’t be fixed, but you can always get a blood transfusion.

As you conceal the Plan B in your workbag, your mind wanders, back to the waiting area, to the woman telling you how much trouble you’re in. As if you didn’t know. As if you weren’t sitting there with seventeen stitches after your husband slashed you with a knife, already scared of what you’d be walking into at home. Maybe you imagined her. She was gone before you got back, and you didn’t hear anyone else get called up to the counter. And like any good daydream, she told you what you wanted to hear – that Tomura wants to save you, if you’ll let him. But as much as you want to believe that, you don’t have the heart. Nobody would want to save you. You’re on your own.

Kai’s sick all week long, so sick that his boss sends a doctor to the house to check on him, since his boss is apparently well aware of how much Kai hates the urgent care. Kai’s own diagnosis turns out to be right – a virus, specifically a norovirus – and as soon as the doctor realizes what it is, he bans you and Kai from interacting at all until Kai’s been symptom-free for twenty-four hours. Kai was unhappy about that, and so were you – he’s pissed when you aren’t available when he wants you to be, and you don’t like what happens when he’s pissed at you. Everything would be easier if you could take care of him.

The doctor was firm. “I believe you and your wife are looking to start a family. Undue stress on her body – such as the stress provided by an illness like this one – will make that more difficult, not less.”

That’s enough to keep Kai quiet. The doctor’s instruction to rest is enough to keep him still. And the quarantine is enough to keep you driving to work, going for a walk, having dinner out rather than cooking in the contaminated kitchen – and doing all of it by yourself. Or sometimes by yourself. When Emi figures out that you’ve got a night to yourself for once, she drags you out with her crew for dinner and drinks.

You protest that Kai’s expecting you home, and they’ve got a whole set of excuses for you to give him. Big project, staying late at work, deadline moved up, boss unhappy. They’ll back you up if anyone asks. It strikes you as a little weird that they thought far enough ahead to give you what you’d need to lie, but then again, maybe Kai’s not unusual in wanting to know exactly where his wife is when she isn’t at home. Maybe that’s just a guy thing. The fact that no one comments on you leaving your phone in your car at work and hitching a ride to dinner with Emi just proves it.

You’ve never been to the bar they take you to, but you know it’s the kind of place you’d have loved – a little dingy, a little eccentric, full of character and characters. Somewhere that’s trying to be so many different things that it’s not sure what it really is. Kai hates places like this. You know exactly what he’d say after a good look around: This is beneath you. He’d say that, but he’d be wrong. You’re a stereotypical battered wife married to a sociopath, shotgunning Plan B so you won’t get pregnant with his baby, and you’re so twisted up inside that you’re hallucinating about your ex-boyfriend who you dumped ten years ago coming to save you. A place that doesn’t know what it’s doing is exactly where you belong.

Going out is kind of fun. You forgot about that. You get one drink, drink it early, and eat, knowing you’ll need to sober up completely before you risk going home. Emi has way more friends at work than you do, but she folds you in among them effortlessly, and whenever the topic of your husband – you’re the only one who’s married – comes up, she steers the ship away. “Hey, she’s a lot more than her husband! And she just went on a big trip. I want to hear about Cairo.”

“It was amazing,” you say, and as the words leave your mouth, you feel a smile come with them.

You tell the stories like you wish they’d happened, like you’d done this alone or with a friend, instead of trying to enjoy somewhere ancient and fascinating with your husband hovering over your shoulder. Kai looms large over every aspect of your life, but sometimes you can edit him out, and this time you do. Visiting the pyramids and the sphinx at Giza, wandering through museums, checking out the open-air market –things you could imagine doing, on a trip you planned yourself, one where you could spend as much time as you wanted before moving on.

But even as you paint your trip in broad brushstrokes, Kai haunts the details, and he makes it back into the conversation eventually, when a girl named Kaoruko who’s had three to your one asks if you flew first class or economy. “First class,” you say. “Kai insists.”

That’s not all Kai insisted on. There was what happened in the first-class bathroom, and the memory of Tomura you had to feed through a mental paper shredder to stay even marginally sane. Across the table, Kaoruko sighs enviously. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and land somebody like him.”

Yue from Marketing laughs. “Somebody rich?”

“No. Somebody who pays that much attention,” Kaoruko says. “All the little things that go into a trip like that. Don’t you want somebody who knows you so well? Somebody who can make everything perfect?”

“No,” you say before you can stop yourself. Everyone looks at you, and you struggle to scrape together a follow-up that doesn’t make you sound as crazy as you feel. “He’s not perfect. You should hear how he snores.”

That gets a laugh, just like you were hoping it would, but you know how Kai feels about even gentle teasing. You know what will happen to you if Emi ever brings up what you just said in front of him, just like you know you can’t ask everyone at the table to forget what they heard. Maybe Kai already knows. Maybe he has somebody following you, listening to you. Maybe he’ll be waiting when you get home, fist closed to strike you, foot drawn back to kick. Or maybe this time he’ll have a knife.

The panic closes its jaws around your heart tight enough to crush it, but you’ve been through this before. You know better than to show it. You excuse yourself to the bathroom, walking with slow, measured steps, praying that at least one bathroom is single-occupancy. You get lucky – they’re all single-occupancy – but at first they all look busy. Then you take a second look, realize that the one on the end is open, and lock yourself in. By the time the motion-activated lights come on, you’re already crying silently, your face buried in your hands.

You can’t escape Kai. No matter what you do, he’s everywhere – his name, his voice, his hands, his will. Even if you could get away from him, even if you could make it stick, you’d always be looking over your shoulder. You’ll never be safe, never be free, and those two thoughts play on repeat in your head until your head hurts too much to cry.

It’s time to start damage control. You can’t look like you’ve been crying in a restaurant bathroom when you head back out there. You blow your nose with a paper towel, then wet another one with cold water to press down over your eyes. Once it turns lukewarm, you lift it off and turn to the mirror to check what progress, if any, has been made. The first thing you register is that you still look like shit. The second thing is that you aren’t alone.

For one heartstopping moment you’re sure it’s Kai. But Kai’s taller. Kai’s sick at home. Kai wouldn’t be caught dead in a hoodie. Pale hands rise to grasp the edges of the hood and pull it back, and you watch through the mirror as Tomura reveals himself for the first time since the night you broke up.

In the seven years he spent stalking you, you never saw him even once. He stayed frozen in time when you thought about him, with messy blue hair and dry skin around his eyes and a mouth that was always one wrong move from turning down into a pout. Ten years out from the breakup, he’s changed. He’s gained at least ten centimeters in height, and his shoulders have broadened enough to change the way he holds himself, even as he leans back against the wall in a pose you could describe with your eyes closed. The biggest difference of all is his hair. It’s longer than you’ve ever seen it, falling loose and wild past his shoulders. And it’s white.

Still, his eyes are the same. The languid, almost careless way he moves is the same. Even the hand that rises to scratch his neck is familiar. All the awkward, endearing traits you remember are right where they belong – but when you look at Tomura, not a kid any longer, everything you recognize only serves to make you more uncertain. He’s not who you knew before. He’s something more.

All you can do is look at him as he takes one step forward, then another. His voice has barely changed from the last time you heard it. “Maybe you should turn around.”

You do. He’s close enough to touch, but he’d have to reach, and he’s not grabbing for you. You’d almost trust him more if he did – thanks to Kai, you read stillness to be just as threatening as motion. Tomura doesn’t prompt you, doesn’t ask a question you’re doomed to answer wrong. He just stands there, waiting for you to find your voice.

When you do, it’s awful. “I thought I imagined it,” you say. “You came back.”

“I kept my distance. I never left,” Tomura says. “I thought maybe he was right. You were better off with him.”

Your vision zooms in and out. “You talked to Kai?”

“He talked to me,” Tomura says. You didn’t know. You didn’t have a clue. “Said if I really loved you so much, I should fuck off – no, he said make myself scarce – and let him make you happy. I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t looked it. Even after you had that accident.”

An accident. He doesn’t sound like he’s mocking you, which means he bought the story Kai fed everyone, that you were in a hit-and-run accident instead of that you stepped into the road. Kai is that good. “I left you that picture, and I kept an eye on things,” Tomura says. “There wasn’t anything to see until a week ago.”

Your mouth’s gone dry. You swallow a few times. “A week ago?”

“A week ago. When you made that post.” Tomura doesn’t wait for you to respond. “With that fucking bite mark. I know damn well you’re not into that.”

“Maybe I am. It’s been a long time,” you say. You can’t raise your voice louder than a whisper. “We were just kids.”

“We were watching Hellraiser. The one with the Cenobites. You said you couldn’t figure out why anyone would try to solve the Lament Configuration, and I said there are people who are into that.” Tomura has a better memory than you thought he did, at least when it comes to you. “And you said you wouldn’t like being hurt by somebody who loves you. And then you got all embarrassed and looked at me and said –”

“Sorry,” you murmur. You remember Tomura giving you the weirdest look after you apologized. Don’t be stupid, he said, and spent so long kissing you that the two of you missed all but the last ten minutes of the movie. I wouldn’t solve it, either.

“You do remember.” A smile lights Tomura’s face, and something twists inside you. The smile fades fast. “I know you. I know you didn’t want that. And there’s no fucking way you wanted this.”

Kai would touch it. He’d run his finger over the line of stitches, and you’d hold still, knowing what would happen if you flinched. Tomura draws the line across his own chest with a hand that shakes, and when he speaks, it’s through clenched teeth. “This has been going on for a while, right? If he’d slashed you with a knife out of nowhere, you’d leave. Don’t answer that. I know. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I told you that you couldn’t run from me forever. Why did you keep trying?”

He’s not asking why you didn’t leave. The fear of that question, of the shame and judgment that would follow it, has kept you silent so many times, kept you from reaching for help when it was tantalizingly close. Sometimes you wonder if Kai knows that. But Tomura’s not blaming you for staying. He wants to know why you didn’t let him know. Because if you had let him know –

“Don’t say you’ll keep me safe,” you say. Tomura opens his mouth, and you cut him off. “Kai said the same thing about you.”

Tomura’s expression twists. “Don’t compare me to him. I didn’t hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

“No, you just followed me. For years! I was –” Not scared. Never scared. Frustrated, on edge, anxious, uncertain – but not scared. “I never got to be alone. I never had to time to think, because I knew you could be watching – because you were always there –”

“I didn’t come here to talk about that,” Tomura says. You feel an odd twinge of relief when you realize that he isn’t denying it. “And that’s not why you called for me. Tell me why you posted that picture.”

The words of the woman from the pharmacy ring through your head: If someone wanted to help you, would you let him? “Kai – he hurts me,” you say. You’ve never said it out loud before, and you thought it would be a relief, but it isn’t. “He has for years. And now he wants a baby, and I can’t – I won’t. I don’t know what to do.”

That’s wrong. You do know what to do. “I need to leave,” you say. “I need to leave and I don’t know how. I don’t know if I can do it alone.”

“If you could, you’d have done it by now,” Tomura says. “I’ll get you out of there.”

He’s confident. That’s a similarity between Tomura and Kai, maybe the only similarity – once they’ve decided how something’s going to be, they’re unshakeable. “How?”

“Let me worry about that,” Tomura says. “The less you know, the less you’ll have to lie.”

Is Tomura going to kill him? You don’t want that – or do you? One of your half-formed escape plans ends with Kai dead, but it always struck you as the most implausible, eclipsed only by the idea that he’d ever let you go in peace. What you want, more than anything, is to be free, to know you’ll never have to see Kai again. But if you can’t have that, you’ll settle for a clean break. Or any break at all.

But even that feels fantastical, hallucinatory. Too easy. “Tomura –”

He smiles, softer than before. “I missed hearing you say that.”

The twist inside you hurts more this time. “I don’t understand,” you say. “It’s been so long. I broke up with you. I married him. Why would you still –”

“I don’t care about that.” Tomura reaches across the space between you, slowly enough that you don’t flinch. His hand lands carefully on your shoulder, well clear of your stitches. “I care that you called for me.”

Your eyes prickle, then start to burn. You glance down and away, and Tomura lets you, where Kai would grab your chin and make you look. Tomura’s hand shifts, sliding down along your arm until he’s got a clumsy grasp on your hand. Tomura’s always had a strange way of holding hands. No matter what else he does, he holds on tight, like he’s trying to fuse your fingers with his. Kai’s hated holding hands since you met him. Tomura never wanted to let go.

And he doesn’t – not until someone knocks on the bathroom door, startling him and scaring you. “Hey, are you okay in there?” Emi asks. “It’s been kind of a while, and you didn’t look so good when you stood up.”

Tomura glances at the door, then back to you. “She’s good,” you say as quietly as possible. “A friend.”

“Good.” Tomura raises your hand to his mouth for a long moment that’s not so much a kiss as a puff of breath against your skin, then lets it fall. “Go. I’m here. I’ll find you again soon.”

“Okay,” you say, and he lets you go, melting back into the shadows behind the door. You open it and face Emi, seeing the worried look on her face. “Hi. Sorry. I just got nauseous for a second.”

Emi’s worry doesn’t fade the way you wanted it to. But since it’s Emi, she covers up by cracking a joke. “You’d better not be getting morning sickness on me. Who’s going to listen to me talk about Aizawa if you’re on maternity leave?”

“No morning sickness,” you say, forcing a smile. “Maybe it was the alcohol.”

“You had one drink. Who knew you were such a lightweight?” Emi teases. She links her arm with yours as you step out of the bathroom. “Come on. I want to hear about Istanbul.”

Back at the table, you talk about Istanbul – and Kai, when the story can’t avoid him. It feels ever so slightly easier than it did half an hour ago, and it’s because of Tomura, because of the weight of his hand on your shoulder, the warmth of his fingers folded around yours. His promise to help you isn’t one you can believe, but you never hoped for that. All you wanted was someone to see, someone to know. Now he knows. And you feel a little less alone than you did before.

<- Chapter 1

#hope ch*saki spends the rest of his life rotting in prison or something omg #aaaa i love tomura

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sobaism · 20 days ago

Text

Excitation Point

read on ao3 Rating: Explicit Type: One-shot, PWP Words: 6,362 Tags: Ford Pines/(gender neutral) Reader; Masturbation; Panty Kink; Panty Raid; Ford being an opportunistic perv (what else is new) Summary: ""Technically, you're supposed to be under there for fifteen minutes." He actually feels a little apologetic on that front. "Fifteen minutes?!" "You're... also supposed to shed any clothes," he continues, less sorry about that particular idea. "But I think you're probably fine." "'Probably?'" you repeat incredulously. "What do you mean, 'probably?'" "I mean..." He rocks back on his heels a little. "It might be prudent?"

One would think that, after thirty-odd years of traipsing the multiverse, Ford would hardly consider anything a curveball. He has seen his surfeit of oddities, and then some — he always makes sure to be prepared to the teeth, ready for whatever life throws at him. He’s resourceful, he’s savvy, he’s incisive. It’s served him extremely well in just about every endeavor he has ever set out on, and he prides himself in it.

And now, a majority of his days on land look like this: in his laboratory, with you, working separately and in reveric silence and companionship, unassuming and routine and ordinary. Surely, at this point in his life, nothing could phase him.

More fool him.

“Ugh! Gross!”

The sharp and sudden exclamation startles Ford out of his concentration, where he is doing delicate work with a pipette. Immediately catapulted into panic, his internal warning sirens start blaring. He spins around get his eyes on you. “What?!”

“I got gooped,” you complain, with no degree of urgency. You wipe a gloved hand over the lower half of your face, under the large safety goggles you are sporting, then flick your wrist a few times to get something off of it. The something is viscous and green and has splattered all over your front, across the borrowed lab coat you are wearing, and even on your clothes, where they are vulnerable in the gap. “It’s like I’m on Nickelodeon.”

Your cavalier attitude notwithstanding, the sight rouses Ford and he leaps into action. He crosses the lab in a handful of brisk strides, hardly bothering to stop and think what the stuff might be. Already wearing his own pair of gloves, he grips you by the shoulders and begins forcing you to walk backwards.

You sputter a wordless objection to being manhandled, but are forced to comply with his direction as his baseline strength overpowers yours.

Once he has you exactly where he wants you, Ford steps back, reaches out to grasp the handle of the chain dangling from the ceiling, and yanks.

You literally shriek as the water from the safety shower cascades over you. But, even through your clearly bewildered state, you must grasp what the situation is. Despite your obvious protest, you stay put under the steady stream of water pattering on the linoleum, looking up at the blue shower head above you huffily.

Arms crossed tightly across your chest against the chill, rivulets streak down your safety goggles as you snap your head back down to address him. “What the hell?!”

Lab safety is no joke, at least when it comes to you, so he doesn’t bother apologizing for his actions. Instead, Ford asks, insistently, “What happened?”

You huff and only cross your arms tighter, shoulders hunched up to your ears. “Found the excitation point for ectoplasm,” you explain flatly. The safety shower does its assigned job and is slowly washing the green substance off you, diluting it so it slowly swirls down the drain at your feet. You are steadily becoming more and more soaked, and you wring your hands together, washing them to get off any excess goo. Then, you wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to rid your face of the stuff.

The alarm in him pops like a soap bubble; ectoplasm is relatively harmless and is hardly toxic. Mollified, Ford raises his eyebrows expectantly.

You only take notice when he continues not to speak. “Somewhere in the negative eighty to negative ninety millivolt range,” you tell him. You scrub at your safety goggles next, but only succeed in making everything streakier. By now, the ectoplasm seems to be wiped from your bare skin. “It’s hyperpolarized as all hell. Can I come out now?”

Even with the benign nature of the stuff, he still shakes his head. “Technically, you’re supposed to be under there for fifteen minutes.” He actually feels a little apologetic on this front.

“Fifteen minutes?!”

“You’re… also supposed to shed any clothes,” he continues, less sorry about that particular idea. “But I think you’re probably fine.”

“‘Probably?’” you repeat incredulously. “What do you mean, ‘probably?’”

“I mean…” He rocks back on his heels a little. “It might be prudent?”

“I hate you,” you announce with an entirely flippant kind of conviction, back to trying to wash anything that might be lingering on your face. The press of your hands contorts your whatever expression you are trying to make. “So fucking much right now.”

He shrugs, knowing it to be untrue. Still, he sympathizes with your dour attitude, and the sudden and soggy turn of your, otherwise entirely ordinary, day.

You are still patiently, yet miserably, standing under the steady spray, back to crossing your arms. Even with half your face obscured, he can see the resigned expression there. But, you are staying put. Ford has the inane compulsion to give you a gold star for your behavior.

“Am I really supposed to strip in this thing?” you ask, sounding shy about the idea.

His mouth becomes a desert, and he has to actively wet his tongue to respond. While the idea is appealing, the last thing he needs right now is to think about you, naked, in his lab; he has a hard enough time concentrating with you, clothed, in his lab.

“Like I said,” he finally manages, hoping the quiet chorus of water on linoleum drowns out how his voice wavers, as he tries not to stare too heavily. “You’re probably fine. It looks like the lab coat got the brunt of it.”

You nod, then begin slipping the thing off your shoulders, one arm at a time.

Ford’s heart feels like it stops, but thankfully, blessedly, you stop there, dropping it in a drenched pile next to the drain. Your clothes underneath are just as wet, clinging to you in ways that should not be incriminating but still make him swallow thickly. You pull the hem of your shirt slightly away from you to peer down at it, trying to assess for goop-related damage.

“But… maybe not all of it,” you say, dejected.

Before he can truly realize the implications of what he is saying, Ford tells you, “Then you’ll need to change. Anything the ectoplasm touched qualifies as a biohazard.” Technically…

“Ugh.”

“Even washed, the chances of it having seeped into the fabric are…”

“Ugh.” Whatever look you try to give him is obscured by the haze of the lab goggles. “I get it.”

It definitely crosses the line of professionalism he has worked so hard to maintain over these past few weeks — hell, it probably pole vaults the thing entirely — but he offers, “I’ll lend you some.”

The idea makes him hot around the collar, but it’s not like you have any other option; at the most, he could offer to root around the kids’ room to see if they left any articles of clothing behind, as if any of that would fit you…

The expression shifts, and you look taken aback by his offer. “Oh. Okay.” Then, you venture, “… Can I also get a real shower? Maybe with water above lukewarm?”

Chuckling, he nods. “That can be arranged.”

This soothes over any of your ire, and you visibly relax.

Aiming to occupy you while the minutes pass, Ford asks, “Did the numbers line up with your estimation for the subthreshold membrane oscillation?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, and it is hard to tell past the safety goggles but he gets the impression you are rolling your eyes. Still, there is a small smile on your face. “Go ahead and check my math. You know how bad I am at it.”

He shrugs, thoroughly satisfied that you won’t move until the time limit is up, and turns on a heel to approach your work station. It really does look like you took the brunt of the goo-related explosion, as there are only a few small puddles on the stuff on the floor. He easily sidesteps them and starts looking amongst your notes for said math.

Belatedly, he replies, “You’ve gotten better.”

“Low hurdle,” you say sardonically.

“Let me review this now,” he says, spotting the handful of pages your equations are scrawled on.

“Yeah,” you say. “Reassure me that this,” you motion up and down to your person, “wasn’t all for waste.”

Your designated fifteen watery minutes pass excruciatingly slow, as Ford sits at his desk and begins his audit. Every so often, you call out to ask, “Time?” and he responds in turn, always glancing over his shoulder to make sure you still haven’t moved.

He pretends to check your work but in truth, his brain is too caught up in a licentious fantasy of you wandering his lab, completely naked while you shoot him a series of coy looks to test his resolve. Or, maybe just in the lab coat? Both options are equally enticing…

The fact of the matter is, Ford has come to accept these little mental asides. Since you have become a regular part of his working day, they now haunt his waking hours as much as his dreams, and every day begets a new challenge. While he is a man of reason and rationality, he still has an unfortunate compulsive streak, and you have unintentionally put his self-control to the test. More than once have you startled him out of a daydream, leaving him unguarded and almost saying something wildly incriminating.

You seem completely unaware of any of his struggles. By now, you two have established a loose but sturdy routine: you arrive in the morning; he lets you into the lab via remote access; you completely forgo any empty pleasantries to instead ask whatever questions you came up with overnight; and finally, you smile at him with an infectious kind of warmth and say, cheerily, “To work?”

He practically has a Pavlovian response to the phrase now. Even thinking it makes his chest ache with fondness.

Nothing in your behavior indicates that you have suddenly developed telepathic powers, making you able to see just how frequent his increasingly debauched fantasies about you are.

Small blessings.

“Time?” you call.

He checks his watch. “Your minutes are up.”

You whoop! under your breath, and the chain squeaks as you yank it, shutting off the spray of water.

Ford pushes away from his desk to stand, turning to see you back at your work station and shedding the safety goggles, revealing the imprint they have left around your eyes.

When you catch him looking, you ask, “Do you have a towel, or something?”

“Hmm?” He draws himself back into reality where you are not, in fact, only wearing the lab coat, but are instead wearing everything but the lab coat, and actively forming a small puddle under your feet. “Oh, yes. Hold on.”

Once he pulls a towel from a cabinet and hands it off, you wrap it around your shoulders like a cape, noticeably shivering in the brisk temperature of the lab. “Is fifteen minutes really the standard, or were you just being a dick?” Now fully visible, there is a shine to your eyes that indicates you’re joking.

If he wanted to be a dick, he would have insisted you strip fully. “Last I checked, it was the OSHA standard.”

You shrug. “Safety third, right?”

“Only you say that,” he responds, more xeric than intended.

Another shrug. “Normal shower time?” you prompt. “I’m freezing down here.”

He nods, hoping his face is nowhere near as red as it feels. “Right, normal shower. C’mon.”

The elevator ride up is awkwardly silent, and you only look slightly surprised when you bypass the first floor completely to take it all the way up to his room. Still, it is mercifully quick, and Ford squeezes through the doors the second they begin to open.

“The bathroom’s back there,” he says, voice a little too gruff, as he makes a beeline for his dresser to find a suitable change of clothes.

You putter out much more hesitantly, but don’t bypass him for the bathroom. When he realizes this, he glances over his shoulder nervously, he sees you standing in the center of his room, head swiveling from side-to-side.

“… What?” he asks, feeling self-conscious as you blatantly peer at everything.

“This is your room?” you ask curiously.

Although it may seem obvious, Ford realizes you have no frame of reference: he has no legitimate reason to ever bring you up here. You have, occasionally, gone topside in the rest of the house, usually for grabbing some kind of snack out of their kitchen or to use the bathroom. But, you’ve never been past the first floor.

“Yes…?” he answers.

“It’s so… normal.”

His room has the bare essentials: a bed large enough for himself, a modest dresser, a mirror on the back of the door, some overflowing bookshelves, a handful of trinkets. It is a place he hardly spends time in, cutting his waking hours between field research, the lab, or his study — he has never felt the need to decorate it, because no one else was ever going to see it. When he and Stanley had built this house, all that had mattered was the mattress was comfortable and that he had an en suite.

The only true indulgence is the large, stained glass window that sits above his bed, casting the room with a few patches of colorful light.

Ford clears his throat, and your attention snaps back to him, looking like you have been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.

“Sorry,” you laugh awkwardly. “Um. Is there something wrong with the guest bathroom?”

No. “Shower’s broken,” Ford lies in an admirably strong tone.

You accept the answer with a one-shouldered shrug, then step past him to enter the bathroom. To his chagrin, the door clicks shut behind you. A few moments later, he hears the squeak of the handle as the shower turns on.

It takes him another minute of rifling but he eventually comes up with an appropriate, if not mismatched, outfit for you to change into: a chronically underused button-up shirt and an extra pair of sweatpants whose existence he had forgotten about until putting eyes on them.

Swallowing, Ford raps his knuckles on the door and calls out your name.

“Yeah?”

“Can I — I have — there’s clothes,” he stammers. “I have clothes. The change of clothes. Can I come in?”

“Yeah!” you call. “Door’s unlocked.”

True to your word, the handle turns easily under his hand.

The room has already begun to steam up, and even with the translucent shower curtain obscuring you, he still averts his eyes as he places his clothes on the bathroom sink. You have left the towel atop the closed toilet seat and your pile of used clothes are in a heap next to the shower tub.

But his self-control is threadbare and another part of it snaps as he risks a glance.

Which is a bad idea. Even your silhouette through the curtain as you go through the motions of lathering yourself is somehow obscenely erotic.

“Thanks,” you say, not halting your movements as you presumably work the soap over your arms, over your shoulders, across your chest…

Is it hot in here or is it just him?

“I’ll be outside,” Ford strangles out, already halfway out the door before he does something he’ll regret. “If you need anything.”

He stands outside the bathroom door like some stalwart guard against some invisible, peeping threat. In truth, the only threat of you being spied upon is from him, but he is already so appalled by his previous indulgent look that he takes the position up as some kind of penance.

Soon thereafter, the door opens behind him; with a steadying breath, he turns to face you.

His clothes practically swallow you whole. You work to roll up the cuffs of a sleeve once, twice, a third time, before giving up and pushing it past your elbow with a slightly agitated huff. You have kept the top few buttons of the shirt dangerously undone, teasing a hint of your chest, and Ford finds his eyes naturally drawn to the exposed patch of skin as you go about bunching the other sleeve as well.

For practical reasons, he keeps his lab cold and you have complained about it more than once, with varying degrees of seriousness — but they are complaints nonetheless. He picked this specific pair of clothing to give you as much coverage as possible while keeping in mind that there might be another ectoplasm-related accident. They had seemed like a practical and innocent choice, but now that he realizes he had bypassed the opportunity to put you in any of his clothes…

Satisfied once you cuff the pants several times as well, to not trip over the hem, you glance back up to him with a refreshed and warm smile. “Thanks,” you say, much more relaxed than earlier. “What should I do with my biohazard-y clothes?”

“I’ll handle them,” he tells you. “They’ll need to be properly disposed of.”

You nod, finding it reasonable. He practically jumps to attention when you say, “To work, then?”

A few minutes later, Ford re-enters the bathroom with a biohazard bag and a freshly-steeled resolve. Steam still lingers, condensation dewing on the mirror, and he immediately goes for the pile of clothes on his floor.

This is fine. This is perfectly fine, he tells himself as he begins stuffing the soggy clothes into the red plastic bag. This will continue to be a perfectly standard and boringly ordinary day, all he needs to do is keep himself in check while watching you wander around his lab, in his clothes, probably also smelling of him since using his body wash, and —

Ford stops all the useless posturing when he spots, separated from the rest of the clothes, that you have left your underwear here.

He idles for far too long, staring at it, his mind hitting the equivalent of a dial tone. He idles for far, far too long. A million different thoughts fire off in his head, all varying levels of depraved, and he wonders if he can —

Ford snatches it, and everything else, in his arms and heads back downstairs before he can get much further on that thought.

Then, he is left standing in front of the incinerator in the back corner of the lab, your articles of clothing still clutched in his hands.

“I can’t believe you have an incinerator,” you comment idly from across the lab. “Actually, I take that back. I completely believe it.”

“Decontamination procedures are no joke,” he replies automatically, over his shoulder. When he opens the door, he is buffeted with the yawning heat. He hardly gives a second thought to tossing your shirt and pants inside, hoping the momentum will take him the rest of the way, but regrettably, he hesitates once he gets to your underwear.

Ford swallows thickly, staring down at the piece of fabric in his hands. It is a practical thing, cotton by the feel of it and slightly damp from your first bout of showering. The elastic of the waistband is worn slightly, and there is nothing special about it; just a standard set of underclothes. The fabric is even pilling slightly, and…

And he abruptly realizes that you are, currently, in this very moment, standing around in his laboratory without any underwear on.

The room is suddenly much, much warmer than before, for reasons that are not incinerator-related.

Typically, and perhaps ideally, this would be a classic shoulder-a-devil-and-angel situation. If he turns and raises the topic, you’ll know that he went through your (literal) dirty laundry. In practicality, he could give them back, but then you’d still know he went through your (literal) dirty laundry. He could burn them with the rest of your clothes, to end the matter entirely. He, in fact, should burn them with the rest of your clothes.

That thought is fleeting and weightless.

There is something deeply askew within him; Ford is not so obtuse to not know this about himself. Now that he actually has the time to focus on things other than dire survival and bitter revenge, like some tacky protagonist, he has become startlingly aware of his own personal desires. Like his fantasies, he acknowledges and lives with them, trying never to linger too long.

The rub is that he also has no baseline for what constitutes as normal in any scenario now, and by proxy, everything is laced with some degree of shame.

His internal compass has also experienced some polar magnetic shifts, because not only has he come to accept this shame, but he sometimes revels in it. It is a self-perpetuating cycle that he has yet to break free of.

But the impulse he has in this moment to smell the damn thing in his hands is a whole new level of depravity, even for him.

Still, he lifts it to his face.

Ford barely gets a whiff of the concentration of your scent leftover from being between your thighs, before you are asking, sounding perplexed, “Ford? You okay?”

In a split second, blindingly panicked decision, he stuffs your underwear into one of the front pockets of his pants before you can see what he was doing. “Yes,” he replies, hoping the distance means you don’t hear how his voice wavers. “I’m fine. Completely fine.”

When he glances over his shoulder, petrified at what he might see, you just shrug it off and return to your work.

He crosses the room to his desk and waits for you to fully turn your back before opening the first drawer he finds and shoving your underwear inside it.

You don’t even turn when it closes at an incriminating volume.

The next few hours pass torturously.

Ford can hardly keep his eyes off you — this is, admittedly, nothing new. He has always found your idiosyncratic methods entertaining to watch. You drag an unused whiteboard over and start scribbling on it, connecting dots between various points like a private eye in a network only you can see. You are so absorbed in your own work that you don’t seem to take notice that Ford has halted his own completely.

He’ll catch up later.

If the sight of you in his clothes isn’t intoxicating enough, his mind gleefully shuffles through possibilities this presents. What he gave you is clearly oversized — could he vie to put you in something else? Maybe one of his sweaters? He still has those absurd green shorts from his college days — how good would your ass look in those? Or, maybe just a normal tee-shirt. He owns a few. Some have even shrunk in the wash…

The thoughts slowly become more sordid and debased: every time he catches a peek of skin, he thinks about getting you out of the clothes. He thinks about posturing that he needs to examine you for possible contamination — thoroughly. Extremely thoroughly. Bare enough that he can make diagrams.

After the impulsive onus to steal your underwear, he just can’t find himself to care to rein in his wandering imagination. All he thinks about is your underwear sitting in his desk drawer, the brief smell he got of it, the fact that only a single layer of clothing is what is keeping him from it, currently…

“Okay,” you say abruptly, turning away from the whiteboard and capping the marker. “I’m calling it.”

It startles him right out of the daydream of the various ways he can get his face between your thighs. “What are you calling?”

You roll your eyes a little. “I’m calling it a day. My brain is shot and my math is getting twisted because of it.”

He concedes with a slight nod of his head. “Fair.” As if he is getting any kind of work done while you are here.

You nod back resolutely and go about packing your things, having to tug the waistband of his sweatpants higher on your hips at least twice, pulling the drawstring taut. Once everything is in order, you sling your bag over your shoulder and approach his desk, looking at him expectantly.

With a dawning horror, Ford realizes two things in quick succession: one, this is the part where he ritualistically walks you to the door; two, he has been sitting at his desk to cover the fact he has been half-hard most of the day.

His entire perception of the world narrows in on this exact moment.

He brusquely clears his throat. “Right.” As he stands, he snatches a random clipboard from his desk and, not unlike a teenager, conveniently holds it in front of him as he walks towards the door.

Thankfully, you don’t seem to realize anything is amiss; you cross the lab with him while keeping a respectable distance and stop in front of the exit.

“Thanks again for making sure I didn’t, uh…” Your eyebrows furrow, as you look up at him with a perplexed gaze. “What does ectoplasm do when in contact with human skin, exactly?”

The answer is, at most, an unpleasant tingle and maybe a small rash, but nothing more. Realizing he needs to justify literally burning your clothes, he replies, “Nothing good.”

You rock your head back and forth minutely, weighing his response. “Well, thanks anyway. I’ll get these washed tonight and return them tomorrow, yeah?” You pluck at the collar of his borrowed and still dangerously unbuttoned shirt. It draws his eyes back to the dip of your exposed collarbone.

Ford barely stops himself from blurting, You don’t have to do that, in some kind of perverted attempt to start a collection of things that smell like you. “No rush,” he says instead, appalled when he hears how the edge of his voice is actively fraying as the seconds pass. He shifts from foot to foot, uncomfortably.

You nod, either not hearing it or not acknowledging it. “Cool. And, uh, did you get to look over my math yet? For the subthreshold oscillation.”

Ah, yes, the exact thing he has been ignoring all afternoon. “I’ll review tonight and give them back tomorrow,” he promises, perhaps falsely. He is starting to get an inkling of what his evening is going to look like, and it is nothing good.

“Great. See you tomorrow, then.” You flash him a warm and unassuming smile, eyes crinkling, then pull the door open and embark up the stairs.

Before the exit door even closes, Ford is booking it to his desk.

With a few mouse clicks, he brings up one of the security cameras aimed at the front yard, watching as you climb into your vehicle. He waits with bated breath for you to leave, not quite sure what he is about to indulge in but knowing it is nothing he wants you in proximity to. But then… you just sit there. In the driver’s seat. Not leaving.

It is difficult to tell exactly from the angle of the camera, but he thinks he sees you lift the collar of his shirt and turn your face into it.

The moment hardly lasts long enough for him to give it much thought; soon thereafter, you throw your vehicle into gear and trundle across the front yard, then out of sight down the dirt road.

Ford is fumbling with the drawer handle and snatching your underwear from inside it before he even puts conscious thought to the action.

Immediately, he presses it against his nose and over his mouth and breathes in greedily. Even hours later, the lingering scent is strong and musky, laced with the lingering stench of sweat from being between your thighs all day, all the while still smelling so distinctly of you that it makes him a little lightheaded.

Or maybe that is just all the blood swiftly exiting his brain and towards his dick.

With another slow inhale, his eyes fall closed of their own accord and his imagination picks up the slack in the theater of his mind.

Ford imagines you perched at the edge of his desk, legs spread, while he kneels on the floor with his face between your thighs as he finally, finally gets his mouth on you. Although he has no evidence to the fact, it’s his fantasy and in it, he buries his nose in the thick tuft of coarse pubic hair at the apex, fully engulfing himself in your scent and it is most potent while he lavishes you, reveling in the taste.

Already half-hard and desperate for attention, his cock twitches in his pants and he shifts in his chair to try and get more comfortable as he palms himself. This is all undeniably self-indulgent but he has been thinking about variations on this theme all day — it is hardly his fault that his self-control has unravelled by proxy.

He imagines one of your hands in his hair, using the tight grip as leverage to move him just as you want him, while your other hand grips at the edge of the desk for balance, skin pulled taut over your knuckles.

“Oh, shit,” you moan, thighs twitching, hitching one leg up to rest your foot over his shoulder and dig a heel into his back, giving him better access. The feeling is overwhelming and intoxicating and he never wants to leave it. “Fuck — fuck, you’re doing so well, yes, oh, fuck, yes-!”

Even alone, his groan is soft and low-pitched, naturally guarded. He pants hotly, mouth open, the fabric damping on the small patch that falls across his tongue with each sharp inhale.

The need coursing through him spikes abruptly and suddenly he is fumbling to undo his belt, metal jangling. He yanks it through the belt loops so fast it practically snaps in the air, and drops it to the floor with a sharp sound. He has to use both hands to pop the button and get his zipper down, hands shaking a little, then lifts his hips to shove his pants down his thighs just enough to free his erection from its confines.

Having not let go of your underwear the entire time, the frantic series of actions bring it close to his cock, which is full and curving towards his stomach proudly. Free from anyone’s scrutiny, Ford ogles at the sight, jaw still hanging open.

Never did he think he would end up in this kind of scenario but, at least in the present moment, he is hardly complaining. He hasn’t been this blatantly aroused since that time you asked whether perturbation theory could be used to quantify a deviation from an approximate solvable problem.

He had jerked off just after you left the lab that time, too.

Experimentally, he wraps the hand still holding your underwear around his cock. This time, his groan is much louder as the softness of the fabric engulfs him. Gentle in his movements to mind any friction, Ford begins moving his hand with slow and measured pumps, twisting at the head just the way he likes.

Returning to his mind, he now has you pulled to the edge of his bed, once again kneeling on the floor with his face buried between your thighs as you moan unabashedly. Saliva dribbles down his chin as he works you with his mouth with a singular purpose, both his hands clutching your hips to keep you right where he wants you.

Even in fantasy, or maybe because of it, it does not take long for you to notice the slight bounce of the mattress as he humps the bed in small movements.

You make a breathless chastising noise, using your hold of his hair to lift him off you. “Ford,” you admonish, the heat of your gaze branding him. “Did I say you could get off?”

Congruent with the fantasy, he tortuously manages to stop the movement of his hand. Still grasping himself at the base tightly, breathing much heavier, his hips make small, traitorous thrusts beyond his control, trying to chase the pleasure from a moment ago.

“No,” he confesses. In the present, his mouth forms the word without the sound ever leaving his mouth.

“So desperate,” you croon, trailing your hand down his face with a light touch, down his cheek, until you are pressing your thumb against the plush of his spit-slick lower lip. You press in farther, minutely, so the pad is resting against his bottom teeth, the tip of his tongue. “That you’d hump anything, like an animal, so desperate that you’d…”

Without conscious input, his mind morphs the fantasy: now, you are standing over him with your hands on your hips, glaring down with blatant disgust, a wicked twist of an expression he has never seen on you. You had forgotten something in the lab and had returned to grab it, only to catch him in this exact position, doing this exact act.

“… so desperate that you’d fuck anything, huh?” you finish saying, with an uncharacteristic sneer.

A pathetic noise that probably classifies as a whimper escapes him, eyes squeezing shut against the indistinguishable mix of humiliation and arousal that burns through him. It is hardly an escape; behind his eyes, he is unable to look away while you scrutinize him, with his hand still on his throbbing cock, too caught up in the undercurrent of gratification to stop what he is doing, even in fantasy.

“I’m sorry.” He chokes it out as a whisper. “I’m sorry, I don’t, I shouldn’t have…”

You watch him for another moment, eyes flickering between the desperation on his face and how he is still squeezing himself, trying to keep his hips still.

“… Well,” you finally say, crossing your arms and leaning back against the edge of the desk. “Go on.”

Ford makes a confused, choked-off noise.

“You wanna jerk off?” you ask, looking at him with expectantly raised brows. “Then go ahead. Don’t let me stop you.”

This time, he moans loudly and murmurs, shakily, “Okay. Okay.” With the permission fictionally granted, he starts moving his hand again, with small, tentative strokes.

Every part of his body feels like it is overheating, despite the chilly temperature of the lab. Some sweat starts to bead at his forehead. Ford has seen you disappointed before — at results, at sources, at your own work — so it is not hard to imagine that downturned, borderline bored expression being leveled at him as he works himself with jerky, uneven movements, chest heaving.

When the friction starts to become a little too overwhelming, Ford switches hands, using his free one to smear the pre-cum dribbling down his tip as he fists himself again; without the buffer of your underwear, he can feel just how hot and heavy he is. Everything feels ten times more sensitive than it has ever been, and his whole lower half rocks up for a second when he rubs his thumb over the head of his cock.

Still clutched in his other hand, he presses the crotch of the fabric to his nose again, inhaling deeply. The fabric is warm now and its scent has a much muskier undercurrent before; he half-realizes it must be his own smell. Although the mix is intoxicating, it is not hard to identify your own scent again, over it all, and his hand speeds up involuntarily.

His mind rapidly cycles through the rolodex of fantasies he keeps as he gets closer to the edge, trying to keep a rhythm as his hips flex up and off the chair. He has you bent over his desk, you’re riding him in his chair, you’re on your sides while he fucks you from behind, he’s making notes while you lay, naked, on the examination table, he drives into you up against a tree in the woods, you are pinning him to the bed as you use his cock for your own pleasure, inescapable and unyielding and shit, shit, he’s so close, he’s going to —

Ford cums hard and with a pitiful moan, long and desperate and deafening in his own ears in the otherwise silent lab; the noise lasts until his lungs have run out of air and he has to take in a gasping breath before he gets more lightheaded. His hips snap forward in an off-rhythm to his hand while his heels squeak against the linoleum, both legs shooting out and his entire body shaking with the intensity of his climax. The ecstasy borderlines on unbearable as the wave of it overtakes him completely, so much so that his mind actually goes blank, just existing in sheer bliss for a few moments.

When he finally comes to, Ford is breathing heavily and still pressing your underwear against his nose. He blinks his eyes open, slowly returning to reality. There is some cum dribbling down his fingers, caught in his frantic motions, but most of it has unfortunately landed on his desk. Some has even splattered across the notes he has out, the ones he is meant to be reviewing. Your notes.

Right. He had promised you feedback on those. By tomorrow.

With a reluctant sigh, he tucks himself back into his pants and, deciding there is no possible branch of the multiverse where he returns your underwear, uses it to clean the spend off his desk. Still, he fists them tightly, not quite ready to let go of this hedonistic piece of you. Something repugnant is starting to rise in him, but he can’t quite find it in himself to be truly ashamed of his actions.

As he stares down at your notes, only half-seeing them, he hears you in his mind, brightly asking, To work?

“Yes,” he mutters to himself, pulling up closer to the desk. He will have to rewrite your work, claiming to have spilled coffee on it, and you’ll be none the wiser.

Probably.

Hopefully.

The shame and its accompanying perverted satisfaction threatens to crest over him and derail the rest of his evening, and in a desperate bid to keep his mind off it, Ford says aloud, to no one: “To work.”

#aaaaaa love

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