#For one - it is the resolution and reveal that behind all the harsh words and bitterness...She really did love her son.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Don't Wormy About Me.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[inkykeiji]

what now?

character: dabi | todoroki touya

genre: smut + angst

notes: eeeee happy birthday dabi!!! sorry i’m a day late, and sorry i keep writing angst for your birthday. this piece is set directly after dabi’s touya reveal, in that dingy little safe house he seems to love so much! please heed the warnings below and stay safe!

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, rough sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dom/sub dynamics, use of master/owner/sir, fem!reader, minimal prep, biting, branding, blood, the piece switches between both dabi and touya as names, size kink + size difference, spanking, objectification, degradation + dumbification, a lil bit of praise, dabi’s pretty mean when he’s fucking, dabi carries reader, toxic relationship, dacryphilia, choking

words: 8.8k

It’s dark by the time he returns, reeking of charred flesh and ash. He had stashed you away in a decaying little safe house—a place no one else knew about, a place that was his and his alone—and had told you to wait for him. He had promised he’d return to you, no matter how long it took, no matter what happened, he’d be back, pinky swear.

Touya never breaks his pinky swears. Dabi might, though.

You had seen his video. You had been watching the news just like he told you to, anxious, waiting for any sign or indication of trouble, of terror, but the heat and the dust had been too much for the news cameras to penetrate, and there had been no reports of casualties on either side. 

Yet. 

It’s astonishing to think that the whole world knows his name now—his true name, the one buried in his blood and his bones, the one staining his soul, the one he can’t snuff out, no matter how hard he tries. You remember the first time he told it to you. 

“Touya.” 

He had said suddenly, randomly, while laying in bed with you one night back at the League’s hideout—back before all of this was set in motion, back when there was just the gentle clink of glass sounding beneath the floorboards, followed by a muddled curse and the rapid mashing of plastic buttons. 

It was muttered out in the dead of the night, when the wind was stagnant and the moonlight shimmered through grimy windows, brilliance of the beams diffused by the dirt, turning everything a hazy silver, glinting off his stitches.

“Hmm?”

“That’s my real name. Touya.”

“Touya,” you had murmured to yourself, rolling the letters around on your tongue, allowing them to seep into your flesh. “It’s beautiful.”

“Todoroki Touya.”

Oh.  

“It’s still beautiful,” you said softly, after several moments of silence, feeling Dabi melt beneath your words, tender yet resolute. “Even if the man who gave it to you isn’t.”

“Yeah,” he had responded, though his voice had sounded weird to his ears; odd, off, broken. “Fuck that guy.”

And that had been it. You hadn’t made a big deal about it, or pushed him to tell you more, or badgered him with questions and curiosities about his past. You had just accepted it and continued on. 

He had offered up shards of information over the next few months, always murmured out in the dead of night, always a piece and never a whole, always something too jagged to fit with any of the other pieces of his jigsaw he had gifted you. 

But it didn’t matter. Who he was, his past, the name he carries around and DNA twined inside his body—none of it mattered. He was, and will always be, the man you love, irregardless of the name he was born into, and the curse it bears.

The harsh unlatching of that decrepit painting startles you from your stewing thoughts, your gaze snapping toward the noise just in time to catch Dabi crawling through the trick window, entrance hidden behind the heavy gilded frame. 

Your legs toss themselves off the fraying couch the instant his gaze meets yours, heart kickstarting thick bouts of adrenaline to rush through your veins, footsteps keeping time with the tattered exhales each bang of your heart sends barrelling up your throat, body colliding into his only a moment later.

He catches you with ease, laughing loudly as he sweeps you from the floor, strong arms locked at the wrists around your lower back. Instinctively, your ankles hook together at the base of his spine, fingers immediately wandering into the dirty hair at the nape of his neck, whole body wound around his own.

He’s still laughing, bright and breathless and so, so beautiful, even as he crushes his lips to yours, even as your tongue pries past his teeth and slams against his own. It spills down your throat in warm vibrations and you swallow it readily, greedily, hands sinking further into tufts of ink-tinged ivory and twining the strands around your knuckles, desperate to tug him closer. 

The tang of death stings your tongue, earth and copper and smoke, so poignant you swear you can taste their screams, those who lost their lives to his flames and Machia’s feet and the rubble left in their wake, but you don’t care.

You don’t care, because he’s here, he’s home, he’s safe and back in your arms, with his teeth clacking against yours and his spit flooding your mouth and his unruly little giggles consistently breaking the flow of your lips. 

“Did you see it? Huh? Did you see it?” he hurls the words into your mouth, lips still mashed against your own but spread in a smile, sapphire eyes twinkling.

“I did,” you confirm with a nod, tips of your noses nudging. “I did, it was brilliant; you were brilliant, baby.”

“I know,” he snickers, foreheads knocking together, breath wafting in small, ragged pants across your face as his feet begin to move, unable to stand still. “It couldn’t have gone more perfect, I swear to fuckin’ Christ. It was—It was better than I could’ve ever imagined. I can’t even believe it.”

Words continue to tumble from his lips in excited gasps as he twirls in wide lopsided circles slow and careless around the decaying little safe house, his boots conjuring small puffs of dust beneath their soles.

“I wish you could’ve been there, baby, honest. I wish you could’ve seen that fucker’s face, it was fuckin’ priceless, and—Oh! Fuck, how could I forget the best part!” 

Halting his whirling, he pulls back to look at you more resolutely, as if he has to see the whole picture, sapphire darting around your face all wild and erratic, his smile spreading impossibly wider; uncanny, inhuman, eyes glowing with the thrill of the secret he’s about to spill.

“Shouto was there, too! How much happier could a coincidence get!” 

“Shouto?”

“I wasn’t expecting him to be there, but seriously, it was the cherry on top.” 

His feet begin to move again, resuming his impromptu dance number, adrenaline thrumming in his veins, overflowing from his orifices—smile stretching, chest swelling. 

“His presence is what really made it spectacular, you know? Sure, dad was broken, but Shouto…” Dabi shakes his head. “Little baby Shouto was knocked off his fucking feet.”

“Oh, I can only imagine…” 

…How horrifying of a realization it must’ve been; how terrifying it must’ve felt to encounter your father’s worst mistake in the breathing, bloodied flesh.

“I doubt he even remembers me—” Dabi continues, “he was only five or so when I died; he barely knew me at all.” He laughs, but it sounds tangled, caught on something buried in his throat. “Imagine that! Your big brother, only ever a ghost haunting your life, back from the grave!” 

“I’m sure he was very shocked,” you giggle, pressing your forehead to his again, fingers combing through the hair at the back of his skull. 

“Shocked? Baby, he was beyond shocked. He was—He was—I don’t even have a word for it!”

Another laugh spills from his lips, jagged and squeaky and full of razors. 

And, oh, how breathtakingly beautiful genuine happiness looks on him, even if it’s tinted with derangement—the edges of his smile a little too sharp, the glint in his eye a little too vicious.  

“The whole thing sounds magnificent,” you admit, soft and genuine, lips brushing his own. “I’m so happy it went so well.”

“It was perfect,” he gushes in a sigh. “The only way it could’ve been any more perfect is if mom, Yumi, and Natsu were there—but I’m sure they all caught the broadcast.”

You’re sure they did, too. That news programme had been playing on every major screen across the entirety of Japan; you’d have to be buried beneath a rock to have missed it.

He’s still babbling, feet still hopping and skipping around with you cradled tightly to his chest as the anticipation of his return finally wears off, clears from your system, and you take a real, good look at him. 

And your heart sinks.

New burns have bubbled up on his cheeks, leaving only a sliver of skin between them and the scars below his eyes. Staples have snapped in half, hanging precariously from chunks of dead flayed flesh, their broken edges tinged an ugly black, burnt by Todoroki flames. Speckles of crimson are splattered artfully across his hair—though whether they belong to him or someone else, it’s hard to tell—the small remaining patches of healthy skin marred by dried black dye. 

“Baby,” you breathe, struggling to keep your smile from trembling, struggling to keep concern from seeping into your voice. “You’re filthy.” 

“Yeah, you should’a saw the other guy!” he giggles at his own joke, strident and sticky in his throat, but his smile is still so bright.

“And you’re hurt.”

He blows a dismissive breath from between his lips. “Can barely feel a thing, though—and I’m not even rolling right now!” 

“Still,” you say, a frown beginning to weight the corners of your grin. “You should let me clean you up.”

“But it isn’t even painful.”

“Still,” you repeat, tender fingers brushing strands of white back from his forehead. “I want to clean you up.” 

Begrudgingly, he allows it, sat on the closed toilet lid and continuing to chatter on as you tend to his wounds, words bubbling up on breathless excitement, massive smile still slapped, almost uncomfortably so, across his face.

Oxygen keeps escaping him before he finishes his sentences, everything bouncy and enthusiastic, and it’s such a stark contrast to the Dabi you’re used to, with his languid apathetic drawl and unhurried, uninterested speech. 

And despite the subject matter, it’s nice, it’s cute. 

He tells you about his father’s paralyzation and the tears in Shouto’s eyes and the horrified panic coating their faces as careful fingers dab and wipe and smear, meticulous in their task, devoted to their cause, your head nodding along with his endless recounter, emitting the perfectly placed ooh’s and mhmm’s, asking questions when the opportunities present themselves.

And even though you love seeing him this way, full of pure joy and exhilaration, you can’t quite kill the question sprouting in the depths of your mind, chewing on the back of your brain.

What now?

It’s on the tip of your tongue, searing your tastebuds, begging to be spoken. You try to swallow it down, but it claws at the back of your tongue, clinging, curling up in your throat and refusing to be forgotten. 

What now? What’s going to happen now that Enji knows of his existence? What’s going to happen the next time he encounters his eldest child, swathed in the flames he once cherished so dearly, praised so hopefully, eating away at his boy as his hatred burns higher, blazes brighter, consumes his blood and flesh and bones and hopefully swallows down the monster that bred him in the process? 

Will there even be anything left at all? Of either of them?

Does Dabi even care? Does Touya? 

You know he’s still in there, despite the fact that his heart’s been corroded by the bitterness that’s been festering inside of him for eleven years—you’ve seen him. 

You’ve seen him, trailing along with Toga, causticity eating at his teeth as he spits that she’s fucking stupid, this is so fucking stupid, but allowing himself to be led anyway, zero resistance as her tiny hands tug him along behind her bouncing form, feet following willingly. 

You’ve seen him, meticulously picking through the glass bowls at the League’s small Halloween get together, checking and then double checking that everyone’s favourite candy is there, growling that he really doesn’t give a fuck, actually, he’s just looking for his own all the while, despite the fact that his fingers have skipped over that particular chocolate bar several times. 

You’ve seen him, on those nights where Tomura just can’t get to sleep, sprawled out on the couch in the early hours of the morning, dirty boots an inch from Tomura’s crossed legs, staring blankly at his phone and waving Kurogiri off with a go to bed already, old man. 

 So what now?

“He tried to cool me down.”

The sudden switch to a quiet, monotonous voice snaps you from your tangle of thoughts, eyes refocusing on Dabi’s face, realizing you’ve rubbed a streak of his cheek near raw. 

“What?”

“Shouto. He tried to cool me down. With his ice.” A pause, a drop of blood, balancing precariously on his lash line. “Like…Like how mom used to.” 

His Adams apple bobs with the heft of a thick swallow, his eyes blank and unblinking, staring at your shoulder. 

The blood in your veins runs frigid, hand held rigid and hovering over his wounds.

“During the fight?” 

His gaze stays fixed on that spot as he nods, slowly, just once. 

“I was overheating, and he…” 

Another beat of silence passes, the sound of your own breathing echoing in your ears, harsh and fast with the rapid beating of your heart. The blood collecting along his lashes finally overflows, escaping their confines to pool in the crinkles of dead skin and coat gold in crimson.

“Hey,” you murmur, so gentle, so soft it inspires a second wave of blood, dainty hands cupping his jaw and tilting his face to yours. 

Thumbs swipe through the thick streams of scarlet trickling down his cheeks, smearing bright strokes across healthy skin. His eyes, red and glazed but tearless, hold yours for a moment, his nostrils twitching twice. 

Beneath your palms, the hinges of his jaw flex with another dense swallow, warped smile wobbling a little.

“Whatever,” he says, voice less than an octave off from normal. “Doesn’t matter, not important.”

It does, you want to say. It is, you want to insist—

“All I want to do now is celebrate the best day of my life with the love of my life.”

Saliva pools beneath your tongue, the threat of tears thick in your throat.

“Touya…” your eyes search his face, worry woven into the wrinkles between your furrowed brow. “It—”

“Please,” he whispers, so quiet it’s barely more than a wisp of air, his eyes closing briefly for a moment as he gathers himself, lids lifting a second later. “Let me have this.” 

You want to, you so desperately want to—want to allow him this space to be happy, unfiltered and unadulterated, even in all of it’s unhinged, brainsick fervour. You don’t want to ruin this for him, the self-proclaimed Best Day of His Life, but…

What now?

It’s nipping at your lips, leaving them tingling and twitching, but you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and suck, melting the question in the smothering heat. 

Now is not the time to ask. You will save this question, will fold it into a neat little shape and stash it away in your stomach, where it will rage and roar and demand to be spoken, where you will shove it down and stomp it into submission until it is time to be released.

You refuse to steal this moment from him.

“Okay,” you finally murmur, stroking his blood-slicked cheeks. “Okay.”

It’s hard to ignore the concern scraping at the walls of your skull, to disregard the talons tearing at your heart, to snuff out the flames licking at your lungs, but you’ll do it for him.

Always for him.

And for the first time tonight, his smile softens, sharp edges gone melty with love.

Large hands, hardened by blue fire and the ends of Marlboros, skim up your bare thighs, the callouses adorning his palms scraping roughly against sensitive skin, inspiring trails of chills in their wake. The hem of your dress pools around his wrists as his touch climbs higher, filthy fingers, with dirt caked beneath their nails and grime lining their cuticles, wiggling their way beneath a frilly pink waistband, curling almost protectively around your hips, tips digging into supple flesh just shy of too hard.

“A perfect day deserves a perfect end, don’t you think?” 

The question drips from his lips in a sultry murmur, stare heavily lidded as he tugs you down into his lap, a leering smirk smeared across his face. 

“Oh, yeah?” your arms wind around his neck, nose bumping against his own. “And what’s that?” 

“Stuffing my favourite girl full of my cum.” 

Lips trace along the edge of your jaw as he speaks, words leaving sloppy strokes of saliva as his mouth moves against you skin. 

“Over,” kiss, “And over,” kiss, “And over again, until it’s leaking out of her pretty little pussy, all over her pretty thighs, all over my pretty cock.”

“I think that—ah—I think that’s a great way to end the day.”

“Mm,” he hums, painting a flat, wide stroke of saliva up the column of your neck, the tip of his tongue tracing your cupids bow, nose bumping against your own. “It’s my favourite way to end the day.” 

His lips press to yours, tongues finding each other instantly, dragging across one another in crude, sloppy caresses, heavy and slow and firm as they grind, massaging together in little circles. It’s almost as if you’re trying to soak up his taste, to permanently imbue your tastebuds with it, to keep a little reminder of him—a single piece—with you forever. 

It’s messy, thick drool oozing from the seams of your conjoined mouths, but you don’t care, licking excess saliva from the corners of his mouth, sucking the dribble steadily collecting on his bottom lip, lapping up the foamy spit coating his chin staples, leaving them gleaming with you. 

Lips clash again, teeth gnawing their way into the warm, wet heat of mouths, desperate to devour any part of each another you possibly can, sucking gasps and mewls and laughs from one throat into another, inhaling shards of your souls and swallowing them down, burying them in pits of stomachs and depths of guts—keepsakes, kept safe.

You can taste his blood in your mouth, salty with the tears that can’t fall, trickling from the edges of his eyes. Unfurling from your mouth, the tip of your tongue licks a thin strip up his ragged cheeks, over dead skin and warm bumpy metal, sopping up crimson sadness and consuming it. 

You hold it for him, extract it from him, bear it with him, letting it soak into your heart where it can stay, for as long as he needs it to.

But that isn’t enough for him, because he wants something in return; he wants your blood, too.

Sharp teeth sink into your bottom lip, sucked taut and pressed tight to his tongue, a muted chuckle vibrating in his chest at your responding yelp. The strong hinges of his jaw flex, burrowing ivory deep, deep, deeper into your flesh, until the barrier snaps and copper explodes on his tongue, sticky and potent and so, so much. 

He refuses to release you, ribs rattling with a growl when you try in vain to tug your lip free from its captors, a sob hitching in your throat, followed by a wheezy whine. 

“Stay put, goddamn it,” he mumbles the words through his occupied teeth, tongue stroking your lip in the process. “M’not finished.” 

Your squirming stops almost instantly, body deflating into his own, and he huffs out a snort, hot against your face. 

The grip of his teeth loosens marginally, the tip of his tongue laving over the steadily weeping wound in firm, thorough strokes, tracing every indent his teeth left behind, dips rapidly swelling and filling with watered down blood, a mold of six teeth carved into your flesh. 

The strength of his suction increases, siphoning fresh blood from the tiny gashes, and he moans a little, eyes rolling back in his skull as fluttery lashes frame the whites, his hips twitching up. 

Sicko. 

His cock is already hard, rutting into your core in irregular little movements, the lace of your panties so delicate you swear you can feel it throbbing, his motions molding the dainty fabric to your soaking folds with every slight jerk upward.

Slim fingers flex, grip on your hips tightening and further burying his nails in your flesh as he forces you to begin rocking in his lap, grinding down to meet each roll up.

His lips have left your own again, his mouth streaked with your blood, a pretty pink shimmer glazing the bottom half of his face. Blood is still trickling from the six tiny slashes his teeth left, overflowing from the seam of your mouth and flowing down your chin in unbroken streams. 

Swiping a thumb through the thin floods, he smears sticky crimson across your skin, collecting a healthy swap of the substance on the pad of his finger—so much so it begins dripping down the curve to settle in the lines of his knuckle and his palm.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, repeating the action, painting you in messy shades of yourself. “Just beautiful.” 

A whimper slips through your lips, eager tongue catching his thumb and curling around the appendage—protective, possessive—drawing it into the heat of your mouth. 

He lets you guide him willingly, watches with lust-blown pupils as your lips pucker around the second knuckle, slick tongue cradling his thumb as it sucks it to the roof of your mouth, pools of saliva washing your blood from his skin. 

His breath is coming out in hot, hard huffs, exhaled through parted lips as your mouth tightens, swallows his thumb down further. His pupils pulse, gnawing away at his irises as they try to devour you whole, blue so thin it’s scarcely an outline tracing gaping orbs of black.

Your hips are still gyrating against his in erratic little circles, a single palm still clasped around your waist guiding you, encouraging you as he bucks in response, straining cock rubbing along your cunt. 

It’s just barely catching your clit, nothing more than teasing little grazes, dense heat simmering in the pit of your tummy.

You need more.

“Dabi,” you whine a little, wriggling in his grasp, a desperate attempt to garner more friction. 

“Uh-huh?”

“Touya.”

“Yeah, baby,” he answers, the nonchalance in his tone contradicting the mischief glinting in his eye. “What is it?” 

Chrome chips your nails as you claw at the heavy buckle of his belt, leather squeaking against metal. His free hand captures your wrists easily, holding them together in one palm, hard enough that the bones grind together.

“You want something? Huh?” 

Brows knitting, you glare at him, bottom lip quivering a little, fighting the urge to jut into a full-blown pout, fighting the urge to spit out what do you think? 

“You know.”

He does, of course he does. 

But that doesn’t mean he’s just going to give it to you.

“C’mon, I wanna hear you say it,” he purrs as your chin puckers, your whole face scrunched up in a scowl. “C’mon, baby, c’mon, be a good little girl and ask for it.” 

Sapphire scathes your skin, almost as bright and burning as his flames, his unadulterated attention nearly too much to bear, confidence and brattiness withering beneath his scorching stare.

Lashes fluttering, your eyes flee his, tears forming to shield you from his heat, shoulders caving inward in an attempt to protect you from his unyielding scrutiny. 

“W-Want your cock.”

His tongue clicks in disapproval, a mocking frown slapped across his face barely suppressing his amusement, eyes shining, power flaring. 

“That’s not asking, sweetheart.” 

Swallowing thickly, you force your gaze to his, lids squinting a little beneath his brilliance.

“Can I please have your cock? Please?” 

“Please what?”

And although he’s acting unaffected, he can’t quite quell the spasming of his hips, jerking up in minuscule movements and grinding his cock into your sopping hole, panties clinging uncomfortably to your folds.

An eyebrow raises, a question of Well? I’m waiting… imbued in the subtle action. 

He isn’t going to give it to you unless you ask properly, like a good little girl is supposed to.

As expected.

“Please, Master,” you mewl, fingers curling over the edges of his belt and tugging, sharp leather biting into soft hands. “Please, please, let me ride your cock, Sir.”

Cavernous eyes observe you for a moment, scanning for dishonesty, grin growing when a whine vibrates in your throat, low and needy.

“Please?” you whimper, the leather of his belt creasing beneath your grip, squealing as it rubs together, a plead hitching in your chest. “Pl—Please, Sir.”

“Alright, alright,” he’s pacifying, acting as if he’s doing you some sort of favour, as if his cock isn’t jumping eagerly with each drool of pre-cum leaking from its slit. “Go on, then. Get it out.”

Words of thanks are pouring from your lips as your hands hastily undo his pants, yanking at the buckle, tugging at the zipper, shoving at the waistband, messy and urgent until his cock is finally released.

The stretch is nothing short of incredible, as it always is with him, little hole trembling as it swallows around his girth, drawing him in further and further, deeper and deeper, slow and steady until the head nudges your cervix, his hips twitching up twice, ensuring he’s hit the end, buried to the hilt with nowhere else to go, completely stuffing your cunt full. 

And despite the trademark ache, delicate flesh stinging as it splits into little fissures to accommodate him, your hips begin moving immediately, starved and raring, whimpering a little into his shoulder as you cling to him, every rotation of your hips radiating pricks of pain through your gut.

“God, you’re pathetic,” he snorts, but the insult is soft, edges dulled by love. “So fucking desperate for my cock, aren’t you?” 

“Can’t help it,” you murmur, rubbing your cheek along the curve of his neck, then his jaw, streaking your face with his sweat. “Missed you so much.” 

“I know, baby,” the tip of his tongue swipes through the blood still staining your chin. “Bet you missed my cock just as much, if not more.”

“Yes, yes, Sir,” you’re nodding in messy little motions, hips still rocking languidly against his own, clit gliding against his slick pubic bone in rhythmic strokes. “I did, I missed it s’much—”

A gasp slices through your slurred words, sharp air shoved from your chest as his hips begin snapping upward, rough and ruthless and without warning, the hands grasping your hips tightening around your flesh as he forces you to stay in place.

“Of course you did,” he grunts out, as if it’s preposterous to think otherwise. “I’m not at all surprised; my sweet lil slut can’t live without my cock, can she?” 

“Never, never, ne-never,” you babble out in confirmation, words stuttered harshly with the piston of his hips. 

Another laugh spills from his lips, airy and malicious in melody.

“No, never,” he rasps, ever-so-slightly breathless with the effort, dewdrops of sweat beginning to adorn his hairline. “Fuck, how would you ever get off without me, huh?” 

The question sends a pang searing through your heart, echoing a question you’ve been asking yourself often as of late—how would you ever survive without him? 

The thought stings your eyes, thick tears rushing to cloud your vision and rendering him nothing more than a watery blur of ivory and violet.

“I—I wouldn’t, Sir, I wouldn’t!” you cry out, rapid fluttering of your lids dislodging teardrops, streaming down your cheeks in glistening pairs. “I n-need you, I need you, always, always, al-always!” 

Your fingers curl against his shoulders, nails catching on staples, a hiss spit from the gaps of his teeth. They sink into grafted skin, dead and weathered and dusted in ash, and cling, knuckles locked and stiff as you try to pull yourself impossibly closer to him.

Gnarled flesh collects beneath the edges of your nails as your grip strengthens, chewing on his body and gathering it in your grasp, consuming whatever tiny slivers you can, a silent plead to stay.

“It’s okay, precious,” he hushes you, lips pushed into a mocking pout, contradicted by the smothering affection exuding from his eyes. “M’here, m’not going anywhere.”

God, you hope not. 

“Please, please—” 

And you drown yourself in it, drown yourself in him; his taste, spicy hickory and warm smoke, exhaled onto your hungry tongue, soaked up and swallowed down; his gaze, overflowing with adoration and intense attention, tying itself in a thick braided noose around your neck and tightening; his touch, stamping his prints into your flesh in blotchy bursts of blue, singeing his name with licks of sapphire that welt and wound, that crust and crater and scar. 

Your ribs squeeze, sucked inward by the voracious black hole your heart has morphed into—never sated, never filled, always vying for more—whole body curling beneath the strain.

But he’s right there to hold you, to steady you, to keep you intact, his hands the stitches you need to keep from unraveling.

“I know, I know,” he’s cooing as you choke on sobs, still scraping weakly at his back, “your Master’s gonna give you what you need.”

Slim fingers flex, soot-stuffed nails latching onto your flesh like tiny leeches, dug in nice and deep, using his grasp as leverage to control the speed and angle of your hips. 

Your feet skid against the chipped bathroom tile, the muscles in your legs tensing as you attempt to find stable purchase on the floor trying to aid in his movements, to fuck yourself on him.

It’s no use, though—it’s not like it matters, anyway, not when Dabi’s got complete domination over your body, over all of its movements and positions, manhandling you into whatever arrangement he pleases, reduced to nothing more than his favourite little plaything. 

“It’s real cute,” he’s telling you in that sugared condescension you’ve come to love so much, “that you’re trying so hard to help me.”

A whine escapes your lips, caught somewhere between apologetic and petulant, hips stammering as they begin to slow, and he laughs. 

“Aw, no, don’t stop,” his tongue clicks against his teeth. “Keep trying, it’s so precious.” 

And although his tone is taunting, full of characteristic derisive glee, his eyes are encouraging, begging you to keep going, for him. 

And so, you do, desperate to please him, the muscles in your thighs beginning to burn as you work in vain to pathetically hump away at him, hips knocking together irregularly as your footing continues to slip.

It doesn’t do much to assist him, but he’s happy anyway, a certain type of pride saturating his features, dulling the points of his wide smile, dimming the harsh brilliance in his eyes, turning his face into something a little softer, something a little sweeter.

Dabi keeps an iron grip on the pace—not that you’d ever expect anything different—forcing you to ride him hard and fast, bouncing you on his cock as his hips buck up in expert rhythm, completing your movements every time. The head drags over that engorged spot with each pound into you, sending a judder of scorching sparks to rush through your blood, each bout more intense than the last.

“God, look at you, you’re such a little slut for me, huh?” he pants out, rapacious eyes sweeping across your face, keen to soak up your expression. “Taking my cock like you were fuckin’ made for it.”

He’s really fucking into you now, jerking you on his cock like a toy, because you are—something that’s his to use whenever, wherever, and however he sees fit, something that’s his to own, to care for and splinter to bits and painstakingly piece back together, over and over and over again.

Tears of ecstasy are pouring from your eyes, cascading down your face in twin streams, excess dewdrops embedded in spiked lashes glittering with every rough pump of his hips.

It all hurts—always does, with Dabi, incapable of treating anything with any degree of gentleness; not a flaw, just a fact, oblivious to his own strength—but the pain only works to elevate the pleasure, pushing it higher and higher and higher until it’s choking you, smothering your lungs and stuffing your throat and spilling out your mouth in the form of messy, stringy sobs.

“S’been so long, Sir, so long,” you weep, nails burrowing further into his body, almost as if they’re desperate to reach his core—to pry past his ribs and claw into his heart and curl up in his soul. 

Because it has been so long, too long, most of Dabi’s attention soaked up by Paranormal Liberation duties and his own extensive planning as Shigaraki’s due date drew closer and closer, any scraps of time thrown your way whenever he had a spare moment to sneak off to this dilapidated safe house where he’d stashed you away, his visits sporadic and unpredictable. 

“You’re right,” he says, and there’s a tinge of melancholy to his breath. “It’s been way too long since your sweet cunt has been filled with your Owner’s cock, hasn’t it?”  

“It has, it has,” you’re nodding sloppily, tongue tangled in threads of spit.

“My poor lil pussy,” he pouts, and it’s so derisive. “Must be starving, it hasn’t been stuffed nice and full with my cum in forever.” 

“No, no, no,” you’re chanting in agreement, “feels so empty without you, Sir, feels s-so wrong.”

“Aw, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he crudely laps at the steady stream of tears, vicious bouncing causing his teeth to nick your cheek. “I’m gonna change that.”

Chapped lips find your ear, slicked with saliva, his voice dropping an octave as he continues. 

“Because tonight,” he breathes, sweltering against your ear, his tongue darting from between wet lips to trace along the curve. “I am going to stuff you so full of my cum that—ah, fu-fuck—that it’s going to flood your cute lil tummy, that it’s gonna seep into your organs, into your fucking blood, that it’s gonna be leaking out all over the fucking place.” 

“Oh, oh, please, Sir, please!” 

The pleads come out as a single string, melded together with drool and garbled on your tongue. Little jolts of fire shoot through your body with the constant ramming of his hips, flames licking at your veins as they sear through them, the sharp slap of your ass against his thighs complementing his harsh pants and your broken moans.

“Yeah, I know, my little cumslut wants that so badly, doesn’t she?”

Your brain struggles to stitch together a sentence longer than his name, your mind gone delirious for his seed—and it’s an aching, it’s an addiction, sick and depraved and downright uncontrollable—little uh-huh!’s mercilessly fucked from your throat, head bobbling along with the affirmations.

You can feel it, a taut pleasure building within your body, a fluttering that furls into a tight ball of sapphire flame in the pit of your belly, pulsing a little faster, a little harder, a little more with every drive of his cock. 

“Oh, Touya, Tou—Touya!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, say my name.” 

A growl rattles against his ribs, whole chest vibrating with the force of it, and his head dips down, slick tongue painting strokes of thick, shimmering saliva across your skin, an artist priming his favourite canvas.

“C’mon, tell me who’s making you feel this good—” and although it’s supposed to be a command, it comes out as a plead, voice tapering off into a low whine, muffled against your shoulder. “Tell me, tell me.”

“You, Touya,” you choke out, the name mangling itself in your throat. “You, you, you!” 

“You’re goddamn right, it’s me.” 

Sharp teeth bury themselves in your flesh, mouth clamped over the junction of your neck, harder and harder and harder until the barrier of your skin finally splits, syrupy copper erupting on his tongue. 

His name shatters on your lips, a dark chuckle soaking into the wound when you arch your neck, stretched and strained and offering him more room to work despite the squeal of pain sticking in your throat

It’s all so much, too much, his teeth in your flesh and his cock filling your cunt and—and—!

“Gonna—gonna—!” 

A large palm collides with your ass, sick slap echoing off the cracked walls. 

“Is that any way to ask your Master for permission?” Dabi spits, voice dripping with disappointment. “God,” he huffs out a laugh, incredulous, but the mirth shining in his eyes is so bright, so blazing it almost hurts to look at. “My cock must’ve really made you go fucking stupid, huh? Don’t you know this body belongs to me?” 

Another spank lands against your bottom, a yelp hitching in your chest with the ruthless jackhammer of his hips, his fingers sinking into the burning flesh in a bruising grip, amplifying the sting of the slap, digging it deep into your tissues. 

“This body is not allowed to cum unless I say so—so ask nicely, you little bitch.” 

“M’sorry!” you cry out, a fresh torrent of tears flooding your eyes. “M’sorry, m’so sorry, Master—”

“Yeah? Yeah?” 

His other hand snakes between your heaving, sweat-drenched bodies, thumb and forefinger clamping down on your clit and tweaking, hard enough to force a scream from your tongue, sending spikes of pain rushing through your veins. His fingers flatten against the engorged little nub a moment later, rubbing hard, quick circles into it, a malicious little giggle squeaking in his throat because it’s so swollen, baby and Christ, you must wanna cream all over his cock so badly! 

Sounds of affirmation spill uncontrollably from your lips, head nodding in frenetic little motions, whole face shimmering and sticky with salt, snot, sweat. 

“Uh-huh? Uh-huh?” 

He’s mocking you, chin tilted up in superiority, staring down the bridge of his nose to regard you in patronizing pity, eyebrows raised and imploring you to continue. 

“Apologies are not asking, baby,” his grip catches your slippery clit again, twisting it harder this time, your eyes scrunching shut as a cry shatters on your tongue, fingers scrabbling against his shoulders, tearing out staples. 

He’s right, you know he is, but he’s making it difficult to speak, difficult to ask, difficult to stitch together a single word at all, let alone a full thought, when he’s playing with your clit like that, alternating between pulsing pinches and gentle caresses, the calloused pads of his fingertips providing just the right amount of friction. 

Your whole body quivers with the effort of holding your orgasm back, muscles pulled tight and taut with the strain, and he laughs—beautiful, breathless, bona-fide—cock twitching inside of you. 

“Pl—Please, Sir,” you manage to gasp out, entreatment forced from your tongue in a single thin breath. “Please, let me cum, please, please, please!” 

The pleads melt into one gooey stream as they flow from your lips, slathered in drool and dripping from the corners of your mouth in thick cords. 

“Yeah? You want it? You wanna cum all over your Owner’s cock?” 

“Yes, yes!” you practically wail, pawing urgently at him. “Please, sir, let me cum, make me cum, I wanna—I wanna—”

“Alright, alright,” Dabi’s pacifying, but his actions don’t slow, hips merciless with their assault on your body. “Go ahead, sweetheart, make a pretty mess on me.” 

Never one to disobey a direct order from your Master, you do, almost instantly, entire body convulsing as your cunt pulses around his shaft, gushing so much slick that it floods his thighs and soaks the waistband of his pants.

The constant circles ground into your sensitive clit as you spasm around him only work to heighten the pleasure, brain gone numb with the shocks of ecstasy coursing through your body, another flurry of jolts sent through your veins with every run through the routine, skin rippling with the impact. 

He doesn’t stop his assault even after you cum, vehemently refusing to let up even as the clenching of your cunt fades into something faint and erratic, even as violent tremors loop through your veins, entire body quivering in his tight grasp, even as your fingers claw weakly at his wrist, crooking staples and scraping scarred flesh, blood rushing to fill the gouges left by your nails. 

No, he doesn’t stop until you’re teetering on the brink of passing out, wandering in and out of consciousness, his name leaving your lips in a near incomprehensible jumble, slurred and heavy with spit. 

Only then does he scoop you up in his arms, your legs dangling limply from his elbows as his palms firmly clutch your ass, hard cock still aching and buried deep inside of you, and carry your pliant body to that worn, fraying couch, with the puffs of white cotton leaking through the polyester and the exposed springs groaning beneath your weight.

You barely notice the change in scenery, though, still blissfully fucked out, nerves gnawed raw  by his overstimulation, a soft hiss slipping from between your teeth as the scratchy cushion rubs against your bare bottom, a raised imprint of Dabi’s palm and all five fingers still rapidly swelling. 

“It’s my turn now, angel,” Dabi’s words drift over your body in an indistinct haze, vision fuzzing at the edges, your head nodding instinctively. 

“Gonna—Gonna make good on your promise, Master?” 

“I always do, don’t I?” 

And then his hips are thrusting, cockhead repeatedly ramming your cervix with every harsh plunge forward, leaning down to catch fresh tears with his lips. The tip of his tongue traces their salty trajectory all the way to your bottom lashes, matted into wet little spikes, before sucking a hickey into your cheek, tiny capillaries bursting beneath his tongue, staining the thin skin with swiftly developing violet.

Tufts of ivory cling to his temples in damp clumps, dried black dye liquifying beneath his heat and running down his cheeks, leaving streaks along the line of his jaw and the curve of his neck. Sweat collects in the dips of his collarbones, shimmering gently in the flickering light spilling from the television set, a wavering news reporter recounting the tragic events of today, stuttered by static.

“God,” he nearly whines, voracious eyes sweeping across your face, desperate to soak up your twisted expression of pleasure-tinged pain—the way your lids keep drooping as you struggle to keep them pried open, eyes speckled with stars, lashes encrusted with tears; the way your tongue keeps lolling out to draw your slick lip back between your teeth, muffling your whimpers and mewls, and oh, no, he can’t have that, a gentle tut of his tongue clicking against his teeth as his thumb tugs it free from your mouth, drawing out a stringy whine in the process.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous when you go dumb from my cock.”

The words leave his lips in an airy gasp, as if he can hardly believe you’re real beneath him, as if he can hardly believe it’s his cock making you look this way, a hand leaving your waist to slide along your torso, taking the hem of your dress with it, rough palm tracing every curve and dip and bulge as it crawls to your collarbone. 

He takes his time to admire you—to appreciate the sensation of your skin beneath his touch, fingers gripping, kneading, scraping, gathering palmfuls of you in his grasp before letting go again in a stunned sort of marvel—hips slowing to an uneven rutting, unable to fully halt his fucking. 

Keeping a firm, steady grasp on your body and pinning you in place, his free hand continues to roam, hardened fingertips sinking into the pretty blue lace of your bra hard with enough force to elicit a yelp from your lips, amusement tugging at his lips. 

“So, so beautiful,” he pants, eyes skimming your now exposed body, his fiery gaze outlining every edge, dedicated in committing every contour to memory. “Fucking look at you.” 

In all the time you’ve been with him, your body has become a scrapbook of Dabi. It tells stories of him—what he’s done, how he’s felt, where he’s been, why he did it—stamped permanently into your flesh using his teeth and his tongue and his flames, in raised flesh and puckered craters and glittering scabs.

You can’t tear your stare from his face, though, too busy worshipping him, sapphire eyes gaping and glazed as they travel along your body, soft huffs of breath escaping his lips, pushed from his throat with the tender heaving of his chest, saliva glistening on his lips, smeared so prettily across the staples climbing his chin. 

Dainty fingers grope at the air, pathetic and yearning, clawing at nothing, and he laughs a little, nothing more than a smooth, deep vibration at the back of his tongue.

His touch finds the apex of your thighs again, nails dimpling flesh as he spreads your legs wide—so wide your muscles begin to burn, taut beneath the strain—a quiet groan rumbling in his chest as he stares at your stretched cunt. 

Two fingers press into your clit, still slick and swollen, grazing over it in slow caresses—back and forth, back and forth, gliding easily over the puffy nub and snorting a little at the way your hole flutters, eager and aching, squeezing his cock, sucking him in, begging for more. 

So cute. 

Eyes wide and unblinking, he plays with you in a trance, slowly but surely building up pleasure in you, pressure in you, fascinated by the way your body so readily reacts to his simple motions, grinding circles and rubbing strokes and pulsing fingertips. 

It enraptures him, puffs of hot air exhaled through slightly parted lips as he watches just his touch bring you to orgasm for the second time tonight, obsessed with the way your cunt trembles around his cock, a surge of your essence streaming from your hole, embracing him in a thick, wet heat.

Your cunt gorges on him—so fuckin’ greedy, even after cumming twice—fluttering a little around the base of his shaft, still oozing so much slick that it’s glazing your ass and his balls, steadily seeping past the tight seam of your hole. 

It’s so pretty, it’s so fuckin’ pretty, baby, he’s breathing, eyes hazy with awe, hips drawing back just a little to watch the way your body clings to his girth, sheathing his cock in a shimmering layer of arousal. 

A palm wraps around the base of his shaft, the head of his cock still buried an inch or two in your straining cunt, and he jerks himself hard and quick, sick wet slaps echoing out among the room as his hand slams between your cunt and his pelvis. 

“Fuck, f-fuck—” 

His hips start moving on their own accord, too impatient, his hand nothing compared to the sweltering ecstasy of your cunt, and he releases his cock, sticky hand collaring your throat, pinioning you to the couch, his thrusts so vicious they’re jostling your body up the cushions, the palm crushing your airway keeping you in place.

Lithe fingers flex as their grip on your neck tightens, coarse pads of his fingertips beginning to heat up, blood in your veins bubbling beneath his touch. 

Your flesh melts beneath his hold, melds itself to his grasp, desperate to stay in his hands forever. 

The sting is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, his palm and all five of his fingers singed into your skin in the prettiest, most precious permanent necklace. You can barely breathe, exhales coming as weak little wheezes, and you swear his flames must be licking into your throat, down to your lungs and straight through your veins, incinerating your blood as your body goes numb, cunt clenching around his cock for the third time, wailing out shards of his name. 

But you don’t allow his hold to let up, to loosen at all, both of your hands placed firmly over his, holding it there harder, a loud moan escaping his lips, his hips stammering out of rhythm. 

“Brand me, Master, brand me, brand me,” you’re gasping out, voice wrecked and raw. “Make me yours, mark me as yours, forever!”

“Jesus Christ,” he nearly sobs, his thrusts turned brutal, primal, losing any semblance of finesse as he relentlessly fucks you, motions stuttering as he finally cums, a violent shudder coursing through his body before he collapses on top of you, drenched in sweat as his cock throbs, filling you to the brim with hot, thick cum. 

“More, Touya, more, more!” you’re crying out, scrabbling at his shoulders as you try to pull him closer, shivering legs latching around his waist as tight as you can manage as your hips roll up to meet his own, crudely humping him. “Gimme more!” 

A groan, dense and heavy, spills from his lips, his entire body rippling with hiccups as he ruts into you—automatic, instinctual, desperate to give his sweet girl what she wants, even if it hurts.

“Yeah, yeah, ye-yeah, Touya, Touya, fill me with y’r cum!” 

And so, he does, using your cunt to milk himself even as his form quivers with every rock of his hips, chills skidding across his flesh with every bump of his cockhead against your abused cervix. 

He keeps going, just like you begged him to, just like he promised he would, until your tummy is stuffed full and your cunt is leaking with his seed, until neither of you can take it anymore, bodies shuddering with every hump and drag and grind, deliquescing into one another, a puddle of limbs. 

You stay like that for a while, his body blanketing yours, breathing as one, being as one. Gentle fingertips trail up and down the column of his spine as his bones begin to fuse and harden again, tiptoeing over the trails of staples stitching dead skin to healthy flesh and evoking a mild shudder, pads of your fingers pressing into each golden suture, counting them lovingly, kissing every one. 

Eventually, after your fingers have traversed across all thirty-one, he shifts, manhandling you onto his chest as he shuffles himself beneath you, cradled between his thighs. 

“What now?”

You don’t mean to say it, don’t mean to shatter that delicate, post-orgasmic, precarious peace with two simple words, but they claw up your throat and pry past your teeth and gnaw on your lips, desperate to be vocalized, immortalized, heard.

What now? 

They’re uttered out softly enough, lips moving against his heart, warm breath seeping into his chest, the question worming its way beneath his skin. 

His muscles go rigid, his breath stalling in his lungs.

What happens now that his goal has been reached, Part One in his plan succeeded? What’s the next step, now that the world knows Todoroki Touya is alive and simmering in his hatred, fuelled by spite and ravenous with revenge?

What happens when he goes to face his father for the final time? And what happens if he never returns?

“Oh, I dunno,” he sighs out, but his voice trembles. “We could fix this place up, all nice and swanky, have a couple’a kids, get a golden retriever—y’know, real nuclear family type shit.” 

You laugh, but it comes out strangled, sounding strange to your ears, a distorted sob. 

“The dream, huh?” 

“Yeah,” he says, quiet, nostalgia for a time that has never happened, that will never come, aching in his words. “The dream.” 

A silence settles over the two of you, as tender as the edges of a festering wound.

“I have to do it,” he says after several moments have passed, and his voice is soft—softer than you’ve ever heard it before, softer than you ever thought him capable of—infused with apology.

He does.

You know he does. You understand why. That’s how the story ends, the final chapter he’s been drafting—you were never meant to be a part of this tale, written in between lines and margins, stuffed between words, twined throughout the pages nonetheless. But ultimately, this is his story—to write, to tell, to edit, to revise, to create, to conclude. 

You know.

But the acceptance sticks in your throat, furled into a tight, hard lump, so you nod instead, punctuating your affirmative with a kiss pressed to his chest, planted right over his heart. It soaks into his skin, burrows itself into pulsating muscle and finds salvation there, finds home there, a puzzle piece that snaps into perfect place—something that’s always been missing, now complete. Something he’ll take with him, when his pen leaves the page, when his book snaps shut.

You don’t dare look at him. You don’t need to. You can feel the stutter of his chest, hear the hitch of his breath tangling on hard truths to swallow, smell the copper streaming down his cheeks again.

And you hug him tighter. 

You know. And no matter how badly you wish to, you won’t stop him. 

[lev1hei1chou]

Make Or Break

Gojo x reader Genre: Angst to Comfort Words: 925 Synopsis: You get into an argument with Gojo Masterlist

You and Satoru Gojo had always shared an unique dynamic. Banters were numerous, but actual arguments were a rare occurence. However, today's argument had escalated beyond your usual disagreements. The tension in the air was thick and overwhelming, creating an almost suffocating atmosphere in the room.

It started with a simple misunderstanding, a miscommunication that had eventually snowballed into a heated exchange of words. Gojo's piercing gaze bore into you as he argued his point vehemently, his words cutting through the air like a knife. Your own frustration bubbled to the surface, and soon, you were both caught in a whirlwind of accusations and harsh truths.

"Is it so hard for you to understand, Gojo? You never listen!" you snapped, your voice rising to match his intensity. "You act like you know everything, but you never take the time to truly understand how I feel!"

Gojo's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched in frustration. "Maybe if you were clearer about your feelings, I wouldn't have to play guessing games all the damn time!"

The room seemed to shrink as the argument intensified, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavily between you. Hurtful phrases were exchanged like rapid-fire, each one leaving a deeper wound than the last.

"You're impossible to be with, Gojo. I can't keep up with your constant need to be right!"

"Oh, please. Maybe you just can't handle someone who challenges you for once."

The words hung in the air, a painful reminder of the growing rift between you. The initial spark that had drawn you together now felt like a distant memory. The raw emotion in Gojo's eyes mirrored your own internal turmoil.

In the midst of the chaos, neither of you noticed the tears that welled up in your eyes. The realization of the damage done sank in, but the anger still lingered, preventing either of you from taking a step back.

"I need space," you declared, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and sadness.

Gojo's expression hardened, but he nodded in reluctant agreement. "Fine. Take all the space you need."

With that, you stormed out of the room, leaving Gojo alone in the echoing silence. The weight of the argument settled on both of your shoulders, the once vibrant connection now strained and fragile.

The aftermath of the heated exchange left a bitter taste in your mouth, and only time would tell whether your relationship could cross these hurdles or if it would crumble under the weight of unspoken words.

*******************************

Days passed since the explosive argument with Satoru Gojo. The silence between you two hung heavy and the tension was a constant presence in the air.

It became a silent game of avoidance, with both of you trying to find solace in the absence of each other. However, as time went on, the longing for resolution grew, and the desire to fix what was broken became too strong to ignore.

One evening, the realization hit you like a ton of bricks - you couldn't let the argument be the end of everything you'd built with Satoru. With a heavy sigh, you decided to take the first step towards reconciliation. As you approached your shared room, your heart raced with a mix of nervousness and determination.

You knocked on the door, and after a moment of tense silence, Gojo opened it. His eyes met yours, revealing a mixture of surprise and uncertainty. Without saying a word, you stepped inside, and he closed the door behind you.

The room felt charged with unspoken emotions as you both stood there, unable to look directly at each other. Finally, you broke the silence, your voice quiet but resolute. "We can't keep avoiding this, Satoru."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I know, okay? But what do you want from me?"

"I want us to talk. Really talk. Without the yelling and the accusations," you replied, your gaze meeting his. "I miss us, Satoru. I miss the connection we used to have."

He hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, me too."

You took a deep breath, choosing your words carefully. "I know we both said things we didn't mean. I just… I want to understand you better, and I want you to understand me. Can we try to find a middle ground?"

Gojo sighed again, the weight of the situation evident in his eyes. "I don't want to lose you, you know? But sometimes I feel like you're pushing me away."

The vulnerability in his voice struck a chord within you. "I'm not trying to push you away. I just need you to listen, really listen, and not just assume you know what's best for me."

There was a moment of silence, and then Gojo nodded. "I can do that. I want to do that."

The air in the room shifted as you both acknowledged the need for change. It was a small step, but a significant one. You spent the next hours talking, opening up about your fears, frustrations, and desires. Slowly, the walls that had built up during the argument began to crumble.

As the night wore on, the conversation shifted from the heavy weight of the argument to the lighter, more tender aspects of your relationship. Laughter replaced the tension, and the genuine connection you'd feared lost began to resurface.

By the time you both decided to call it a night, there was a newfound understanding between you. A mere argument can't demolish the bond that was built from years of knowing each other.

[zapreportsblog]

Hi! I have a request for Randy Meeks from a Scream (you can do scream 1 or 2 Randy ) with Reader. She comes over to his house or wherever after a long day of work and she's in pain and super hungry, stuff like that. And he comforts her.

This can be a fic or head cannons whichever you want!

Thanks!

❝stressful day❞

✭ pairing : Randy Meeks x reader

✭ fandom : slashers, scream

✭ summary : after a rough day at work (y/n) heads over to her trusted friends Randy house where she rants about her day and more things unfold

✭ slashers masterlist

The harsh fluorescent lights of the convenience store flickered overhead, casting eerie shadows on the worn linoleum floor. (Y/N) stood behind the cash register, bleary-eyed and counting the minutes until her shift ended. She had been working two part-time jobs to make ends meet, and tonight was another long and exhausting one.

As the last customer left with their late-night snacks, (Y/N) let out a heavy sigh of relief. She had a brief window of freedom before her next job at the diner across town. Two jobs meant minimal rest, and her body was feeling the strain. Her muscles ached, and her feet throbbed from standing for hours on end.

She pulled out her phone and dialed a familiar number, the one she knew by heart - Randy Meeks, her best friend since childhood. Randy had always been there for her, especially during these challenging times. He lived just a few blocks away, and she hoped he could provide the comfort she desperately needed.

After a few rings, Randy's voice crackled through the phone. "Hey, (Y/N), what's up?"

(Y/N) mustered a weak smile as she replied, "Hey, Randy. It's been a rough day, you know? Mind if I come over for a bit? I could really use some company."

Randy, ever the understanding friend, sensed the exhaustion in her voice. "Of course, (Y/N), come on over. My door is always open for you."

She thanked him and hung up, then quickly locked up the store and headed towards Randy's house. The night air was cool against her tired skin, and she shuffled along the dimly lit streets, her fatigue making every step feel heavier than the last.

Finally, (Y/N) reached Randy's doorstep and gave it a gentle knock. The door swung open, revealing her friend in his typical casual attire, a t-shirt and jeans, and his trademark glasses perched on his nose.

Randy's face lit up with a warm smile as he greeted her. "Hey, (Y/N), come on in. You look beat."

She stepped inside, and Randy led her to the cozy living room. It was a place filled with nostalgia, posters of classic movies lining the walls and shelves stacked with DVDs. A soft, worn-in couch beckoned to her, and she sank into its welcoming embrace.

Randy disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a steaming cup of tea and a sympathetic look. He handed her the cup, and (Y/N) wrapped her tired hands around it, savoring the warmth that seeped into her fingers.

The hours slipped away in Randy's cozy living room, and as (Y/N) sipped her tea, the dam holding back her emotions began to crack. She had been bottling up so much for so long, and the exhaustion had finally worn down her defenses.

With a shaky sigh, she set her cup down on the coffee table and leaned back into the couch. "Randy," she began, her voice trembling, "I don't know how much longer I can keep this up. These two jobs, the endless bills... It's suffocating, you know?"

Randy listened attentively, his concern evident in his eyes. "I can't even remember the last time I had a full night's sleep," (Y/N) continued. "And my body... It aches all the time. I'm running on fumes, Randy."

As the weight of her words settled in the room, tears welled up in (Y/N)'s eyes, spilling over onto her cheeks. Her shoulders shook as she struggled to hold back sobs, but the dam had burst, and the tears flowed freely.

Randy moved closer, his voice gentle yet resolute. "Hey, (Y/N), it's okay to feel this way. You're carrying an incredible burden right now, and it's completely understandable to break down."

Unable to contain her emotions any longer, (Y/N) cried openly, her words coming out in between choked sobs. "I just... I feel so trapped, Randy. I'm working so hard, but it's like I'm stuck in this never-ending cycle of exhaustion and bills. I don't even remember what it's like to relax, to have a life outside of work."

Randy reached out and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You're not alone in this, (Y/N). I'm here for you, and we'll find a way through this together."

(Y/N) wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, her breathing slowly returning to normal. She appreciated Randy's support more than words could express. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Randy. You're the only thing keeping me sane through all of this."

Randy smiled softly. "And you're not alone in that either. We're best friends for a reason, (Y/N). We'll figure out a plan, one that eases your burden and gives you some much-needed rest."

With Randy's reassurance, (Y/N) felt a glimmer of hope. She knew that life wouldn't magically become easy, but having someone to confide in and lean on made all the difference. They sat together, planning and talking late into the night, determined to find a way to lift the weight off (Y/N)'s tired shoulders.

As the night wore on, Randy could see that (Y/N) was still emotionally drained from her earlier outburst. He knew that going back to her cramped apartment and facing her relentless work schedule would only add to her stress. He decided it was time to offer a suggestion.

"(Y/N)," Randy began, "why don't you stay the night here? You could use a break, and we used to have sleepovers like this all the time when we were kids. It might be a nice change of pace."

(Y/N) blinked back the remnants of her tears, considering the offer. The thought of spending the night in a familiar place, away from the constant grind of her daily life, was incredibly appealing. She managed a faint smile through her exhaustion. "That sounds wonderful, Randy. I'd love that."

Randy nodded, relieved to see her agree. "Great! I'll set up the guest room for you. You can get a proper night's rest, and in the morning, we can catch up on all the movies we've missed."

With Randy's help, (Y/N) moved to the guest room, which was adorned with posters from their favorite films, just like old times. It was a comforting sight. She changed into some comfy pajamas and settled into the cozy bed, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over her.

Randy checked in on her before heading to his own room, ensuring she had everything she needed. "If you need anything during the night, don't hesitate to wake me up," he said, his caring tone unwavering.

(Y/N) nodded, a sense of security washing over her. "Thanks, Randy.”

As Randy retreated to his room, (Y/N) lay in bed, reflecting on the events of the evening. She couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia and warmth. Despite the hardships she faced, having Randy by her side, even if just for a night, was a reminder of the simple joys of life.

In the darkness of the guest room, (Y/N) drifted off to sleep with a smile on her face, grateful for the return to those cherished sleepovers of their childhood. It was a temporary escape from her demanding reality, but one she would cherish, knowing that Randy's unwavering friendship was the anchor in her turbulent life.

[rocorambles]

Reciprocate

Pairing: Akaashi x Reader

Genre/Warnings: Yandere, NSFW, Mafia AU, Kidnapping, Rape/Non-Con, Forced Impregnation, Objectification, Degradation, Humiliation

Summary: You should have known better than to think you could ever truly escape from him, especially when you carry something he treasures so dearly inside of you. 

You reminisce on the early days when you had met the beautiful dark-haired man, when you had been swept off your feet by striking blue eyes and a serene composure. 

Akaashi had never been just normal to you and you remember how he had made your head spin with the air of mystery he carried around him, how your heart whipped back and forth between the always surprising mixture of sharp blunt words and eloquent poetry he entrapped you with. He was a man full of surprises, truly multi-faceted and you remember watching in awe at how quickly he could go from easily and agilely maneuvering his toned athletic body in the gym to lazily reading classic literature with a hand posessively but gently wrapped around your waist as you curled up besides him on the couch. 

There are many words you could have used to describe Akaashi. But dangerous? Dangerous was not one of them. 

Funny how quickly things can change. 

Even as careful as Akaashi is, even he can’t foresee unexpected circumstances, especially when you are more entangled in the webs of his life than he ever meant for you to be. And he is forced to reveal who he truly is to you or kill you when you get caught up in things and with people who shouldn’t have ever even known you existed. 

You wouldn’t be the first woman he’s killed and his mind flickers to numerous dead bodies, corpses of prostitutes and other unfortunate women strewn about when things became too complicated, when they threatened his position and the safety of his clan. But he can’t bring himself to pull the trigger, can’t even bring himself to think about aiming at you. 

You’re not like the other fleeting distractions and for the first time ever, Akaashi Keiji breaks Fukurodani policies by revealing everything to you in the hopes that you’ll accept him as everything he is, that you’ll join him for the long run. 

Blue eyes storm over when you don’t look at him with the love and acceptance he expected of you, only fear and disappointment apparent in your eyes, and his hands instinctively clench into fists when you flinch away from him, scrambling to create space between the two of you when he reaches out to reassure you that underneath the terrifying family name and insignia, he’s still just him. 

Fine. You’re scared? He’ll give you something to actually be scared of.

His fingers dig deeper than necessary as they roughly drag and shove you, movements harsh and rough enough to make a very clear point, but never enough to permanently mark you. He likes his possessions as pristine as possible after all. And he smiles at how quick you are to go limp in his arms, obediently letting yourself be led when Akaashi’s silky voice patronizingly tells you what a shame it would be for your beautiful body to be decorated with bullet holes. 

You know who Boktuo Koutarou is, even if you’ve never physically met him. Everyone in your city knows who he is, his name whispered and murmured in the streets, tales of his erratic temperament and ruthless wildness spread far and wide. The Fukurodani clan has always been a powerhouse in the underground world, has always controlled your city with an iron fist, and Bokuto, even by Fukurodani standards, has more than risen to the challenge of continuing his family’s undeniable reign, garnering respect and fear even among the monsters that share his insignia. So even though you’ve never met him, you know exactly who you’re shoved to your knees in front of, who Akaashi reverently speaks to and asks for permission from to keep you at the base as his pet, and you don’t dare open your mouth or raise your head, absolute terror paralyzing you. 

Gold eyes peer at you in interest. Whores aren’t uncommon in the base, lewd moans and slick sounds sometimes making the base seem more like a brothel than the home of illicit dangerous business and Bokuto has always encouraged and rewarded his men with the best cunts money can buy especially after particularly successful or tiresome raids. But for as long as he’s known Akaashi, he can count the number of times the younger man has partaken in those base pleasures on just his fingers and even then, they’ve always been one night stands, brief flings. So he’s surprised, to say the least, when the dark haired man asks to keep you around as his little toy and he has a gut feeling that you’ll become a permanent extension of the family, but how can he deny the man who’s resolutely stayed by his side all these years, who’s pledged his life and loyalty to him? Akaashi asks for so little and if all he wants is for Bokuto to provide protection and surveillance for one more body to be happy, then so be it.     

You’re no stranger to sharing a bed with Akaashi, but this is different. You had always thought that he had been holding back with you, swearing that you saw a hint of something darker gleaming behind blue orbs only for it to dissolve away as you were swept away by sensual languid pleasure and gentle, attentive words. And you hate that you were right, voice going hoarse as you scream at the top of your lungs as you’re ruthlessly taken over and over again, a coldness in the eyes you had once loved that pierces deep within you, animalistic possessiveness in the way he marks you, long slender fingers leaving bruises in their wake as he holds your writhing body in place as he thrusts in and out of your abused lower lips. 

Day in, day out. All you know is a fitful sumber that exhaustion forces you into and Akaashi. His scent, his touch, his voice. You’re drowning in his essence. Dying. No. That would be preferable. At least there would be an end. And you silently grieve, unable to even cry real tears anymore when you wonder when this will ever end, if this will ever end. 

As much as Akaashi would love to permanently lay beside you, duty and appearances do call from time to time and he reclines across from Bokuto, watching the black and white haired man boisterously chat with Kuroo Tetsurou, the current head of Nekoma as scantily clad women surround the two men, dragging fingernails down their chests and shamelessly shoving their breasts into their faces in the hopes of gaining their favor. They sure do seem to be enjoying themselves and Akaashi grimaces when one of the prostitutes begins to loudly moan as she grinds against his leader’s swelling erection which doesn’t go unnoticed by sharp eyes. 

“Akaashi, don’t be so uptight. Why don’t I send some of them to your room tonight to help you loosen up?”

Bokuto knowingly smiles in amusement when he’s promptly rejected. 

“Ah, that’s right. You still have your cute pet. But you know Akaashi, pets are temporary. Don’t you think it’s time to make it a little more permanent? Maybe put a ring on it? Hell, I love kids. I wouldn’t mind having a few runts running around the base, especially if they’re yours.” 

Their conversation is interrupted by a rude scoff and Bokuto snarls at Kuroo’s taunting words. 

“Because God knows Bokuto isn’t having kids anytime soon. No woman could stand bearing his kids and listening to his loudmouth for the rest of her life.”

Akaashi tunes out their bickering as the gears in his mind churn. 

He had kept you on your birth control pills, not wanting to disturb his time with you as he broke you in and figured out exactly what his plan for you is. He knows he loves you, knows there’s no life for him without you. But he wasn’t a dreamer. He’s fully aware just how dangerous his life is, how impossible it is for the both of you to be able to grow old together, how much more likely it’ll be that both of you end up dead side by side in a turf war gone wrong. Yet now all he can think of is what you’d be like as a mother, how you’d look pregnant with his children and when your pills run low, he tears your prescription to shreds in front of your eyes. 

You have more fight left in you than he thought you would and he’s enraged by how much you despise the thought of carrying his children, every desperate plea for him to not cum inside of you while you’re unprotected, a direct insult to him and his love for you. All he sees is red as he breeds you over and over again, stuffing you full of his cock and his seed, never stopping until you’re filled to the brim with the sticky proof of his adoration, stomach heavy and sloshing with his declared affection. 

Turbulent emotions ransack you and you wish you could blame it solely on the hormones raging throughout your impregnated body, but you know it’s deeper than that. It had been so easy to become numb to being used, being known as nothing more than Akaashi’s pretty pet, being the victim of a cold, ruthless stranger you realize now that you never really knew. But it’s agonizing to once again see the hints of the man you had fallen in love with and your heart aches at how gentle and considerate Akaashi is to you once more as your belly begins to swell, a comforting hand rubbing your back and holding your hair away from your face as morning sickness has you heaving over the toilet bowl. And you feel something break and shatter into a million pieces inside of you when one night, as your due date quickly approaches, he kneels in front of you, slipping the engagement ring of your dreams onto your trembling hand. 

“I know this isn’t how you dreamed of any of this happening, but I promise you, once the child is born, I’m going to give you the wedding you always wanted and do my best to be the husband and father you deserve and want. I love you.”

You sob, tightly returning Akaashi’s embrace, burying your face in his chest, wishing with all your heart that things could have been different, that you could go back to those early days, that everything in between was a dream, a nightmare. 

But this is reality and as you cradle your baby bump, you know that you need to do something, anything, now that it’s not just your life on the line anymore. 

For the first time in a long time, it seems like fortune is finally on your side as Akaashi relinquishes his leash on you, trusting that your growing bump will permanently tie you to him, that you won’t even think of trying to escape in your current state. And you play your role perfectly, smiling and leaning into his careful touches, accepting the gifts and attention he lavishes you with, looking to all the world like an excited expecting mother perfectly matched with her doting fiance. 

Akaashi resumes taking up longer projects and jobs, no longer seeing a need to keep as careful of a watch over you or a need to remind you of your place besides him every night. And seeing one of their higher-ups relax makes everyone else careless, no one paying you much attention, no more armed men outside your door and windows when Akaashi is away. 

Really, it’s embarrassingly easy for you to escape, so easy that you wonder if this is a trap, almost expecting Akaashi to appear from around every corner and drag you back to the prison he had created for you, and you shudder when you can almost feel his hands against your skin, his voice murmuring cruel cutting words into your ear. 

But no one stops you and you slowly, but steadily make the long journey to Inarizaki territory, discreetly settling in and making a new home for yourself, starting a new life. Inarizaki and Fukurodani have never dealt much with each other, their territories so far apart that it’s pointless to clash or ally with each other when there are so many other enemies and friends closer to both their homes to deal with. You pray that it’s enough to hide you, to allow you to leave your wretched past behind. 

It seems like your prayers are answered as month after month passes, as your belly grows and grows, as you give birth to a beautiful baby girl. You can barely remember a life outside of motherhood, your heart overwhelmingly full of love and happiness as you watch your daughter grow. And as you watch her take her first few wobbly steps as her first birthday passes, you let yourself finally believe that you can really move on and look forward, locking the blue-eyed demon of your past behind you once and for all. 

Except that demon doesn’t want to be locked up, that demon is far too strong and cunning for your flimsy padlock, and you clutch your daughter to your chest when your door slams open one night and your apartment is swarmed by men with the Fukurodani insignia, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes when one last final figure makes their way past your threshold and you stare into familiar blue eyes. 

As if your daughter can sense your anxiety, your fear, your hopelessness, she begins to loudly wail and bawl, wrapping her little arms around your neck and drenching your neck and shirt with her tears and snot, reminding you just how much is at stake right now. 

You do your best to fake some semblance of calmness, drawing on your maternal instincts to still the quivering of your voice as you gently whisper soothing words in her ear, telling her everything will be fine, telling her that these are just mommy’s old friends, all the while watching your ex-lover gracefully make his way towards the two of you, subtly shielding her little body with yours as he approaches. 

Realistically you know there’s not much you can do if he does mean harm to her, but you’d gladly die defending her to the best of your abilities if it came down to it, already ready to beg for her to be spared and for just you to be punished for your transgressions and your betrayal. You finch when you feel his weight settle besides you on the bed as he sits on the edge of the mattress, heart pounding as you feel his familiar presence, and you quickly turn to face him, only to be completely stunned by the softness in his eyes as he gazes at your daughter. 

Relief floods through you and you hesitantly shift, allowing him easier access to see her, something bittersweet trickling inside of you as long slender fingers gently reach out to caress tear-stained cheeks, as your daughter’s sobs die down and curious eyes peer at the stranger who’s touching her. And deep inside you know Akaashi won’t harm her, will fiercely love her, as he tugs her out of your arms and pulls her into his lap, a sad smile pulling on your lips as you watch father and daughter reunite. 

Deep inside you also know that you won’t be as lucky and your fears are confirmed when Akaashi stands, still cradling your giggling daughter in his arms, blue eyes pinning you down with a look you recognize all too well. There’ll be hell to pay for your actions. 

You feel nauseous, body already aching and throbbing in anticipation of your punishment. But you plaster on a smile for your daughter as she happily plays with one of her favorite toys in the backseat of the car between Akaashi and you, peppering her tiny face with kisses as Akaashi and you tuck her into the gorgeous nursery he’s prepared for her, and wishing her good night as Akaashi leads you back out, continuously waving until the nursery door is firmly closed. And only then does your act drop and you sob as a hand harshly grips your wrist, tears only flooding down more as you recognize the hallway you’re being dragged down, body shaking when you’re shoved into a room and a bed you had tried so hard to forget. 

Clothes are being torn from your body and you thrash around as lips descend upon you, a mouth hungrily molding with yours, yelping when teeth harshly bite on your lower lip before pulling apart. You feel so exposed, so helpless, so vulnerable as icy blue eyes glare down at you, Akaashi’s body pinning you in place as he takes in your figure, scrutinizing every line and curve of your body, mapping every familiarity and difference from the last time he’s seen you. But you lay still, wincing when his grip on your wrist becomes bone crushing when you try to instinctively cover yourself from him. 

“I trusted you. I love you. And this is how you repay me? Running away from me? Keeping my daughter away from me?” 

You open your mouth to stutter out some feeble excuse, but gasp when a hand wraps around your neck, warningly tightening before relaxing. The weight of his palm still against your throat keeps you silent. 

“There’s no excuse for what you did. But I promised you that I’d be a good husband, so I’ll forgive you if you show me how sorry you are.”

You nervously watch as he completely lets go of you, eyes trailing after him as he settles his back against the headboard of the bed, beckoning you over to him with a single finger. And you can’t help but feel like foolish prey walking into a trap as you obey, body quivering in fear as he pulls you in and positions you so that your legs straddle his thighs, back arching and a cry slipping past your lips as he teasingly captures one of your nipples in his mouth and sucks. 

“Still so sensitive.” 

You hate how well he’s trained your body, how easily your body betrays you even after being separated from him for over a year, how well he knows every inch of you inside and out and shame and humiliation lance through you when a long digit easily slides into your already dripping heat. 

“I think you’re more than ready, darling.”

Even past your wanton moans, the clanging metal of his belt unbuckling echoes throughout the room and you whimper as something hard presses against your entrance. 

“Come on, love. It’s time for you to apologize. Do you know how much effort and time I spent searching for you?”

You yelp as the hands resting on your waist dig into your flesh before relaxing and rubbing soothing circles into your skin. 

“But it’s okay because you’re here now, you and our daughter are here now, and neither of you are ever leaving me again. Right?”

You vigorously nod your head as blue eyes sharply stare at you, relaxing when they soften and a small smile plays on his lips. 

“Good girl. Now prove it to me.” 

You almost wish Akaashi had just forced himself upon you, finding it so much more demeaning to sink down on his cock all by yourself as he impassively sits back and watches you. But you’re sure that’s the whole point of this, for you to show your submission and acceptance through your actions. After all, nothing he ever does is meaningless. 

And you truly do feel broken, like nothing more than a good wife, a good pet as you wildly shake your hips, bouncing up and down on his cock in a way that makes your breasts jiggle, pussy clenching even tighter and gushing even more when he orders you to look him in the eyes all the while. 

“You’re making me feel so good, sweetheart. You’re so beautiful. You were made for my cock, made for me. Tell me who you belong to.”

In hindsight you’ll be embarrassed by how quick you are to babble his name over and over again in response. But here and now? All you can think about is the warmth in your chest as he praises you, the warmth in your belly as something pleasant and overwhelming builds inside of you. And Akaashi groans at how tightly you squeeze around him as your peak nears, almost cumming from just the hazed over arousal in your lust-filled eyes, pulling you in for a sloppy kiss and swallowing your cries of ecstasy as you reach your high, body convulsing and twitching in his arms as he holds you steady, lips still locked with yours as he thrusts up a few more times before finding his own release and spilling deep inside of you. 

You slump onto him, exhausted body collapsing and still twitching from the onslaught of pleasure. But as the fog from your mind begins to ebb away, you involuntarily tense at the whispered “I love you” that sounds like nails scraping against a chalkboard, hesitating too long to respond in kind. And you know you’ve made a huge mistake when blue eyes are coldly regarding you once more, shivering from both the cold and fear as he pulls back from you before shoving you onto your back and settling between your legs.

“Looks like you need a little more encouragement to reciprocate my feelings. That’s okay. We have all the time in the world for me to show you just how much I love you.”

[get-shiggy-with-it]

Just My Type Pt. 2

Pairing: Tomura Shigaraki x Reader

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: dom/sub undertones, dom reader, subby shig, light mommy kink, anal fingering, blow jobs, smut ahead so ya know be prepared, shigs is kinda an incel but we love him anyway, 18+ MINORS DNI

Summary: Shigaraki is a full course meal that showed up on your doorstep and you are more than a little inclined to devour him whole.  

Part 1

AO3 Mirror

You liked to think you understood Tomura Shigaraki. 

Probably a bit better than he understood himself if you were being honest. 

It wasn’t that you were particularly adept at reading people, but you paid attention and he was generally a lot more obvious that he realized. You started to get the feeling your client-turned-sometimes-boss had a bit of a thing for you not too long after you started working for him. 

Mainly because he stared. 

All the time.

You weren’t certain if he was completely conscious of it, and at first you sort of assumed it was just a weird, somewhat unnerving habit. It took you all of a week to figure out, though, that his one visible eye did not seem to focus on anything other than you. 

Initially, you had been wary of him. This was a slightly more dangerous clientele than you were used to, but the rest of the League warmed up to you quickly enough. The true realization came with the little, silent fits of jealousy—nails raking down his neck and scowls so harsh they were nearly audible—whenever anyone else, usually Dabi, showed the same interest.   

And being the type of person you were, it was hard to resist pushing those newly revealed buttons just once. 

Well. 

More than a once. 

But! 

All that pressing and goading had finally culminated to this. 

Needless to say, you felt more than a little thrill when Tomura had finally taken the bait and let you drag him all the way back to shore like a fish on a hook. 

And now here he was, beached and floundering, as chilled air like ocean waves rocked against your ankles. 

So yes, you understood Tomura Shigaraki. 

He wanted you, as much as loathed to admit it. 

And you wanted him too, but not so much that you were willing to go down without a bit of a fight. 

“Are you just gonna stand there?” you asked. 

You could see the shiver your voice sent through him, like lungfuls of sweet spring air after a lifetime underground. 

“What?” he mumbled, one hand holding the clasp on his pants closed and the other reaching up to tear at his neck. 

Always so predictable. 

You hummed at the gesture and leaned back to pull the door open a bit more. “Come on, you’re letting all my heat out.” 

His eyes narrowed significantly, not so subtly flicking down to your chest before meeting your eyes—suspicion clear as the tent in his pants, but a good amount of cautiously pleasant surprise as well. 

You dipped your head down, trying to get a better look under the mop of his hair and dark hood to see the dusty rose blush creeping up his neck. His scarred and cracking skin grew pinker with every passing second. The smile on your face was impossible to hide.  

“I caught you in the window of one of the shops like six blocks in,” you said by way of explanation and waved him forward once again. “You can stand out there and freeze if you want, but something tells me you might be a little more comfortable if you came in.” 

This was a calculated game, but no one ever got anywhere without taking a few risks.  

Your stress on the last two words and the way your tongue peaked out from behind your teeth was thankfully not lost on him. 

“Fine,” Tomura swallowed once as if this really was the last thing he wanted to be doing, and you watched his throat bob as he finally shuffled over the threshold.  

You liked the way he looked here, harsh but not out of place in the domestic setting. Surrounded by the scent of crisp air and clean laundry, you breathed deeply to catch the faint hint of cheap hand soap and dust and that strange, sweet smell that always tickled your nose when he got close. Tomura took a long breath of his own when you pressed closer, the top of your leg brushing just enough at the front of his jeans to feel his dick twitch. 

Yeah, he probably thought you hadn’t noticed him lifting your coat to his face when you left for the bathroom. That you hadn’t overheard Kurogiri chewing him out for all the different bottles of detergent littering the backroom like he wasn’t scouring convenience stores to find the exact one you used. Didn’t know you knew where all those ‘lost’ gloves or elastic ties or even your socks once when you’d taken them off to dry after a storm had ended up. 

It was hard to tell with him whether those strange behaviors meant he liked you or really wanted you dead. But you’d dared to assume the former and god it felt good to be right. 

“You like to watch, don’t you?” you asked, letting the words cascade from your lips. 

“Maybe. You like to be watched, don’t you?” he rasped, clearly trying to maintain some semblance of control but your chest was brushing against him and you could hear his mouth going dry. 

You raised your brow and leaned just a fraction closer, ready to let the last of the chips fall.

“Maybe,” you mused, your lips just barely grazing his. “I don’t mind if it’s you.” 

And finally, finally you saw the little glimmer you’d been waiting for. 

Tomura Shigaraki was beginning to understand. 

You could see it in his eyes, the dawning realization. Reluctant still and forever mistrustful, but coming around. All those nights he spent observing you when he thought you weren’t looking—shrouded in smoke and keeping a safe distance—you’d never been aiming to get away. You’d never been hiding or ready to run. 

You were always trying to get closer to him. 

The way you left so soon when he sequestered himself away in his room or how you let Dabi’s hand creep just far enough up your thigh before making your escape—all of it, was just to catch his eye. 

Just playing your cards—working with the hand you were dealt.  

Tomura might have been watching you, but you had always been watching right back. Really, it was a wonder how he ever missed the way your gaze was trained on him nearly every second from the time you set foot in the bar to the ever unfortunate moment you slipped back out into the cold, lonely street. 

How many nights had you been waiting for this? 

Laying awake, thinking of the way his scarlet gaze warmed your skin like the cinnamon in Kurogiri’s nightly cocktails. You’d seen what those hands could do, watched them turn glasses and tables to ash, but that only raised the stakes. And wasn’t it so much more fun that way?

“Well,” you leaned in, tilting your head so that your mouths were centimeters away from touching, “do you want to see more?”

You were watching the levee break. Cracks forming up that skeptical and distant outer shell and letting desire leak out from every line and scar. The air was silent and heavy in the way it often is before a storm. You wondered if you’d be struck down by errant lighting before you got a chance to suck his tongue like you’d been dreaming of. 

His fist closed around your wrist, pinky poised threateningly over the skin. You let him hold you, not struggling in the slightest under his grip. Tomura could have you like that if he wanted. Could believe this was forceful, that he wasn’t giving himself away. You would gladly let him, but you had something else in mind. 

Something you were almost certain he’d enjoy more. 

All the deliciousness of the torture you planned to drown him in was completely dependent on him offering you the reigns. If he wouldn’t, well, you’d take what you could get. Encouragingly, he didn’t move further than his grip on your arm. 

Instead, he stared blankly and tugged you closer grunting under his breath, though never fully closing the distance. It took a second before your brain processed the slight pout of his bottom lip, the catch in his breath the way he subconsciously ground against your thigh. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

You’d said it before and you’d say it again: god, it felt good to be right. 

Coming to your door was his first move tonight, and now it was your turn to up the stakes. 

Grinning, you closed the small gap between your bodies and let your mouths slip against each other, filling in the cracks of his lips with your tongue. Tomura groaned when the weight of it slipped across his teeth just once before you pulled away from him altogether. 

There was barely an inch between you, but that would always be too much now. 

“You never answered me, Tomura.” Saying his name made you shiver. You wondered what it would feel like when you screamed it too. “Do you want to see more?”

“Yes,” he nodded and surged forward, knocking your teeth together and nipping sharply at your lower lip. “More, now.” 

Your grips switched, his fingers going limp around your wrist while you took hold of his and led him towards the door at the end of your hall. The soft bedroom light leaked out and illuminated the halo of baby hairs at the crown of his head. You longed to run your hands through it. By the time you got him safely inside—sat cornered on the edge of your mattress—you realized there was nothing stopping you from doing just that. 

So you did. 

Tugged his hood down and ran your fingers across his scalp, grabbing a handful and pulling firmly. The noise it earned you had goosebumps erupting down your arms. 

With his pretty face revealed, you took a moment to drink him in. The small lamp lit him from the left, leaving one side in shadow and those red eyes were so dark you could have drunk them down like expensive wine. Slowly, you lowered your lips to his scarred forehead and pressed them softly against the rough skin. 

“What would the others say, hm?” you hummed, stroking his cheek as you leaned back to look into his eyes again. “If they knew their boss was tailing around the new hire just to get a glimpse of some ass.” 

Tomura stayed resolutely silent, grumbling under his breath as he lunged forward to slip his tongue back into your mouth. Your hand in his hair tightened though and his thighs tensed below you. 

“Seems a bit desperate, huh?” 

He growled again but moved a hand to the open front of his pants, palming slowly against the growing bulge there. The swathe of light grey fabric covering his cock was already sporting a sizable stain that you were dying to taste. 

Feeling merciful, you dragged your tongue along his sharp jaw and nipped at his earlobe, “Do you really want me that bad?”

You weren’t sure what exactly was the nail in the coffin. It might have been the words themselves, or the soft, honest tone with which you whispered them, or even just the way your chest brushed against him, but that was the moment his resolve finally shattered. 

“It’s your fault,” he whimpered, hips bucking up into his own hand, “you’re the one that did this, so fix it.” 

You could only guess he was referring to the absolute rager he was sporting and the drool threatening to spill from his ragged lips. 

“Oh, you want me to make it all better?” you were having a hard time keeping it together yourself with Tomura talking like that. 

He nodded furiously and you took the opening to lick back into his mouth, tracing his teeth and biting softly on his rough bottom lip. When you pulled back, a silvery string of saliva glinted between your mouths, only breaking when you moved to roll your desk chair over and plop down on the cushions. 

Tomura’s eyes immediately drifted between your legs as you peeled off your thin shorts and spread them, propped on either arm, fingers digging absently into the meat of your thighs. 

“You didn’t get to see much before did you?” he didn’t answer but you hadn’t expected him to. “How about we start where we left off, but I want to see that pretty cock this time while you stroke it for me.” 

“Oh fuck ,” he gasped and tugged his jeans down so they pooled at his ankles. 

You smiled as he cursed. One hand still gripped his length, but you could see how thick it was from between his fingers. Long and hard and leaking so much onto his stomach where it rested. The other fisted in his hoodie, pulling it up to give you a glimpse at the lovely musculature of his torso. 

So many delicious surprises, all in one night. 

Your gaze drifted between his face and the hand slowly pumping his length. Every now and again, he’d stop to run his thumb over the tip or squeeze harshly at the base. Your hand moved too, sliding your underwear to the side and giving him a full view of just how soaked he made you. 

“Is that how you usually touch yourself?” you asked quietly, slipping two fingers down your slit and coating them in slick. 

“Yeah,” his voice was already so wrecked that you shivered at the single word. 

Your fingers found your clit, drawing languid circles over the bundle of nerves and groaning in relief. “Tell me what you think about.”

“You,” he responded simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

To his credit, it probably was but you wanted to hear him say it. 

“What about me?���

Your slow rhythm sped up to match Tomura’s hand now steadily jerking his dick, wet slaps and various groans emanating from both of you. 

“Your...mouth,” he mumbled, vision locked on the movement of your wrist as your fingers began to dip inside only to travel back to your clit and repeat the motion. “How it would feel on me, how wet and warm and tight your throat would be.” 

You let out a long moan of encouragement and nodded for him to continue, grinding down on your own wrist as he spoke. 

“I think about how you parade around like a whore every time you come over— shit —and how you’d look bent over the bar top,” he spat as he ran his palm over the head of his cock. 

Normally you’d have clapped back at the insult but you were distracted by the way the muscles in his stomach were twitching violently with every stroke of his hand. 

“That’s not all is it?” you asked between breaths. 

Your skin was buzzing, warmth rising to your cheeks as sweat broke out on your forehead despite the chill of the room. Tomura keyed you up in a way no one else ever had.

“No,” his eyes were redder than usual, glazed over and pricked in the corner with frustrated tears. He wanted to cum so badly, you could see it in the set of his feet on the floor, forcing his hips up but not getting quite what he craved. 

“Come on, Tomura,” you brought your other hand down to rub quickly at your clit, “tell me what you need.” 

“Touch me,” he hissed, head thrown back, exposing the graceful column of his scarred throat. “I want to feel you.” 

He was panting, head thrown back and mouth open with just his eyes cast down at you. You wanted a painting of this scene—Tomura, ruined and starving for you. Wanted it framed and hung in your foyer so it was the first thing you saw coming home. 

How could you deny such a pretty boy?

“Alright, I suppose you’ve earned it,” you sighed in mock annoyance and stood, honestly surprised he’d restrained himself from jumping you this long. Discarding your shirt elicited a series of wines as you stood completely bare for him. 

You thought for a moment about what you should do first, before settling on your knees between his legs and batting his slowly stroking hand away. Tomura stared, wide eyed and slack jawed down as you took his cock in your hands and admired him for a moment. 

He felt good in your palm, heavy with impressive girth and length. Leagues better than you had hoped for. Pretty veins ran up the sides and the gentle ridge of his tip was silky smooth as you leaned forward to run your tongue up the slit. 

The sound that left him was bone shattering—deep and low in a way that reverberated in your bones. 

You vowed to make him cry. 

Looking up through your lashes, you let your lips fall open to take Tomura into the warmth of your mouth.  

And if you thought his first moan was delicious. 

What fell from him next was a goddamn feast. 

Four fingers were fisted into your sheets, the balls of his feet tensing so his hips bucked up and forced his length deeper down your throat. You hummed around his length, drinking down the salty taste of him, and bringing your hands up to rub sweet circles into the skin of his thighs. Listening hungrily, you devoured all the little whimpers and moans and curses that spilled from Tomura. 

Objectively, you ought to have been offended by all this. That he was so desperate for you, blamed you for somehow leading him on (which you had to an extent but only because he refused to set foot into your traps). You should have felt a bit disgusted by the behavior he’d displayed, but instead you were invigorated. Spurred on by the knowledge that the man before you wanted you so deeply and obsessively, that just the sight of you drove him off the edge. 

Flicking your tongue over the sensitive tip, you doubled down your efforts. Hollowing your cheeks, you sucked hard and took his pulsing dick deeper, swallowing around it. 

“Oh god, yesyesyes—” Tomura cried out, hips twitching. 

It was on that particular backstroke you noticed the way he was grinding back into the sheets, rocking his ass just so and you really couldn’t help yourself from indulging a bit in the curiosity. 

Shifting a hand, you collected some of the spit and precum that had leaked from your mouth and coated the base of his dick, slicking your fingers. Slowly, you moved to give his balls a firm squeeze that had him whining before letting two fingers dip lower, between his cheeks to nudge the cute pink skin around his hole. 

“Fuck—” he gasped, staring down at you and letting himself fall immediately to the mattress, giving you full access to his pretty ass. “Hm, there please…” 

He trailed off, brain rotted with pleasure and unconcerned now with how desperate or needy he seemed. You thought it was a good look for him, and you gladly obliged his pleas. 

Just the slow circles you were tracing around the sensitive flesh seemed to drive him closer to the edge. You would have been shocked by how long he was lasting considering the unlikely possibility he’d had many partners in the past, but you were sure he’d had plenty of ‘practice’ on his own to get his stamina up to this level. 

Surprisingly, you were able to actually slip a finger past the tight ring of muscle down to the first knuckle. He was so tight your mind was flooded immediately with how good he’d look bent over—ass in the air and impaled on your strap. He made this delectable choked sound when you turned your wrist and slid a fraction of an inch deeper. But as you curled inside him and gave one particularly deft swallow around his aching cock, something even more unexpected tumbled past Tomura’s lust-loose lips. 

“Oh fuck, mommy —” 

As soon as the words left his mouth it snapped shut so hard you heard his teeth clacking. 

Well. 

You certainly hadn’t anticipated that, but thankfully, transporting required you to think on your feet often.

Tomura was beet red now, looking almost as surprised as you felt by what had slipped from him in the haze of lust and sweat that filled the room. You withdrew from him completely, pulling off his cock and planting both your hands on his slim waist. 

“What did you just call me?” you asked, tone dark, praying to hear it again. 

And of course you did, because Tomura was such a good boy . 

“M-mommy,” the tremor in his voice may have been due to residual shame or the fact that you’d nearly sucked his soul right out of his dick, “mommy, please.” 

And that, that lit something in you. All bets were off, any plans of a long, drawn out night of playing with your pretty boss until he begged for you was slipping quickly down the drain as you clambered off your knees and onto the bed. 

“Does my little boy need something?” you mused, slipping into the role easily and planting your knees on either side of his thin body while you brushed your nose against his cheek. 

He hadn’t touched you since you’d gotten him in your bed and while you thought it may have had something to do with the potentially deadly side effects, you really couldn’t have that. Reaching down, you guided his hand gently to your mouth and pressed a gentle kiss against the calloused knuckles. 

“Do you want mommy’s pussy?” 

That last question might have been boarding a bit on the evil end of teasing, but Tomura responded in equally bratty fashion by burying his face into your chest and reaching down to guide the tip of his dick into your dripping entrance. For once that night, you were the one gasping at the sudden stretch and quite frankly the fucking balls your boss displayed in surprise spearing you on his cock. 

Not that you minded, but damn. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you groaned as you dropped your hips to sink the rest of the way down his length. It took a bit, even as slick as you were, before he was bottoming out and letting out little poorly hidden sobs against you. 

Tomura’s feet still hung off the bed and couldn’t provide him the leverage to thrust up into you as he so clearly wanted to, but you could work well with this. Pulling back you got him to sit up, head still buried in the crook of your neck and braced your hands to start bouncing in his lap. 

His hands flew to your hips, any trepidation apparently lost in favor of marking you with crescent shaped bruises. You let your hands trail up his chest, thumbing over his flushed nipples before threading into the hair at the base of his head. Tilting his head back, you came up and dropped back down hard on his length, letting him strike that lovely spot inside you and making his face twist in pleasure. 

“Oh, good boy, “ you moaned, long and low. “Such a good boy for me, Tomura.” 

He whimpered loudly and you bounced faster, praise tumbling easily as the pressure in your gut began to build, “You look so perfect like this, pretty cock feels so good inside.”

On a whim, you gripped his hair tightly and pressed his face into your chest, leading his lips to the stiff peak of your nipple. He latched on immediately, moans muffled against you and lovely eyes rolling back in his head. 

You took it back— this was the picture you wanted immortalized from tonight. Tomura’s mouth was full of you, slick tongue curling over the bud and suckling softly only interrupted by the occasional graze of his teeth, his dick buried in you and pulsing as you rode him to your own high.  

A high that was coming sooner rather than later. 

You let your free hand slip from his shoulder to rub frantically at your clit, feeling yourself clenching tighter and tighter on his cock, strokes shifting into a more desperate grinding. The white hot pleasure grew stronger—spurred on by the image of Tomura’s pretty hair plastered with sweat to his forehead and his coarse lips grazing your skin—cresting and sending you hurtling over the edge, cumming hard on Tomura’s thick cock.  

“Oh, baby boy, yes, make mommy cum,” you shook and clenched around him, pussy in a vice grip around his length. 

He didn’t hold out long after that, biting down roughly on your chest he groaned and you felt the hot ropes of his release painting your walls. 

It was a bit of a blur after that. You recall lifting his mouth from you, revealing a deep bruise and the indents of teeth just around your nipple—a reminder that would stick with you of this quite eventful night. Residual clothing was abandoned and you’d agreed to forgo a shower in favor of pressing every available inch of skin against his under a light sheet. 

Tomura’s breathing had evened out a while ago, heart beat relaxing to an even tattoo from it’s initial pounding. His head was tucked securely under your chin, arms flung across your middle and legs tangled in a knot. 

You’d thought he was asleep until you felt his lips moving against your shoulder and heard the soft, whispered words, “Are you going to ask me to go?”

It had been so long since you’d had a ‘normal’ conversation with him that it took you awhile to recognize his casual tone from the wrecked and begging voice you’d been hearing from him all night. Something about that knowledge made your chest ache. 

“I’m not going to make you stay,” you responded simply. 

Which was all you could really think of to say, noncommittal but open. 

“But do you want me to?” 

His tone was harsh, but not in a purposeful way. The quiet rasp was a permanent feature of his voice you’d discovered and made it him sound far more severe than he usually meant to be. The question both surprised you and didn’t. You’d asked Tomura to give up control to you before, let you take the lead and see him vulnerable. Now he was asking for it back. Asking for a level playing field. 

“I would like it if you did, yes.” 

He nodded and you felt the brush of his lashes as he closed his eyes again, settling into you more than the mattress itself. You followed suit, at least for a bit, and rested your eyes to enjoy the feeling of finally not sleeping alone. Half dozing, you breathed in the scent of well earned pleasure and sweat and laundry detergent. 

Neither of you asked any more questions—you didn’t need to.  

Because you understood Tomura Shigaraki and he understood you. 

[sakamakisaywhat]

Hi, hope youre well. Can I please request a scenario for shu, ayato, subaru, ruki, kou, yuma and shin when they see their S/O being pecked on the cheek by a boy. Its her brother but they don't know. And then they get super mad and when she comes home they confront her. She wants to tease them so she says 'yeah, I cheated on you' and then they explode. Like maybe ayato would force a kiss or two and ruki would start to punish her. And then she says 'I cheated on u with my brother.'

Marisol: I only do scenarios for up to six characters at a time, and these turned out to be super long, so I randomly picked 3 characters (Shu, Kou and Shin). If you want to see some others you can re-request!

Also your friendly reminder that forcing a kiss on someone is sexual assault and I don’t condone that.

SHU

You didn’t have to make much effort to see that Shu was absolutely fuming. As soon as your brother had pecked you on your cheek, he’d tensed up and immediately retreated back to the car, eyes closed and body turned away from you. As stupid as you were, though, you couldn’t resist teasing him a little.

“Who was that man.” Shu said monotonously. His tone screamed danger at you, but the words came out of your mouth before you could help yourself.

“My secret lover.” You replied casually, unable to stop yourself from smirking.

Shu’s eyes open, and in that moment, he snapped. You went from sitting on the plush car seating to being pushed down on top of it, Shu hovering menacingly over you.

“Is that so?” He breathed, blue eyes boring into your soul. “I can tell when you’re lying. Do you want me to draw the truth out of you, you pervert?”

Your pulse skyrocketed when you felt his fingers stroke down the column of your neck, pushing at the buttons of your school uniform, steadily popping them open, all the while resolutely maintaining eye contact. Heat rushing to your cheeks, you gripped Shu’s wrist, stopping him in his tracks.

“It’s my brother,” you gasped out. “I’m not cheating on you.”

In a flash, Shu vanished from atop you, returning to his seat in the corner of the car. He smirked, looking unusually smug. You sat up, hoping you didn’t look as dishevelled as you felt.

“Knew it. You smell the same.” He grinned, before his gaze flickered down to your chest then back up again. “Nice bra, by the way.”

You flushed and kicked him. Guess that’s what you got for trying to tease a vampire.

KOU

Thanks to Kou’s lifestyle as a globally famous idol, you had long become accustomed to women fawning over him. All sorts of inane gifts turned up backstage addressed to him - cat ears, heartfelt declarations of love, heck, even used panties. You rarely ever complained, but when a package with your name on it and a bunch of pink roses turned up at the Mukami mansion, you were pleasantly surprised.

“What’s this, M-Neko-chan?” Your boyfriend suddenly hugged you from behind, lips brushing your ear as you picked up the bouquet.

You knew better than to take it as a simple display of affection, however - he way he clung to you was harsh, almost restrictive, and his tone of voice had a perceptibly territorial edge. When you peeled off the packaging to reveal a picture frame of you and another man in black robes, his lips pressed to your cheek, his nails dug into your skin.

“Wow, who’s this?” He practically growled into your ear, fangs brushing the side of your neck dangerously. “Is there someone that my pet wants to introduce me to?”

“Yes, actually.” You hummed, trying not to shiver at the press of those two sharp points into your skin. “My younger brother. This was his college graduation. He’s a fan of yours, actually.”

Kou paused. You couldn’t help but grin, twisting in his arms to press your lips to his, albeit at an awkward angle. “Were you jealous, baby?”

“Watch it, M-Neko-chan, unless you want to be punished.” Kou nipped at your ear, but the tension in his arms had faded. “You’d better come and give me a proper kiss, right now!!”

Laughing, you grabbed his face in your hands. “There’s no one else I love but you, Kou.”

“Of course. Who wouldn’t love someone as great as me?” Kou replied as he grabbed at your hips, but the way you smiled at his pink cheeks only made him more embarrassed.

SHIN

Shin didn’t take even his own beloved brother approaching you very well, so when he saw you leaving an unfamiliar apartment block and being pecked on the cheek by a man he didn’t know, his blood was instantly boiling. As soon as the other human went back inside, his fingers closed around your bicep in a bruising grip and dragged you, yelping, into an alleyway.

“Shin,” you said angrily, trying to jerk your arm away from him, “what the hell are you doing?”

You were cut off as soon as your boyfriend pressed you hard against the wall, wincing when the brick scraped roughly against the back of your head. When you made eye contact the pure rage in his gaze had you taken aback; Shin might not always be rational, but he didn’t flip out on you for no reason.

“You really have the guts to betray a Founder, human?” He snarled, wolflike, through gritted teeth. “And with a mortal? He is nothing compared to me. If he has so much as touched you I’ll tear him limb from limb-”

“Shin!” You interrupt, palms coming to press against his chest. His threats did spark concern in you, but his jealous expression - well, it was new, and you were trying your hardest not to laugh in case it further stoked his rage. “Shin, calm down. That’s my brother. He’s just moved here with his wife. I came here to meet them.”

As if some kind of spell had broken, the tension in Shin’s face immediately deflated, his jaw dropping slack. A pink flush began to spread across his chest, not quite reaching his cheeks (maybe he hadn’t had enough blood recently?), but his grip on you sagged all the same.

“I knew that, human.” He mumbled. “Definitely knew that.”

You ruffled his hair, grinning cheekily. “Let’s go home. I’ll give you a treat to make up for not telling you.”

“Don’t touch me, human.” He scowled, but when your boyfriend turned, your smile only widened when you saw how hard his tail was wagging.

[scarletarosa]

Belial

One of the goetic demons and is a king who serves under High King Lucifer in his domain. Like all other goetic demons, Belial is a deity who served the Source as an Angel many ages ago. This information was shared to me by Belial and also learned through my workings with this magnificent infernal god. 

Rulerships: politics, law, rhetoric, tactics, strategy, diplomacy, prosecution, truth, and justice/retribution

History: In the distant past many eternities ago, Belial was created as the second being within this Universe, many ages after Lucifer (the First-Born) came into existence. These two and the rest of the elder Angels were all directly created from the Source, the supreme god, who is formless and incomprehensible. The Angels were all created to manage the Universe and be agents of the Source and his feminine counterpart, the Queen of Heaven (who created some Angels as well). As the first-born deity of this Universe, Lucifer is the most complex, so he became leader of the Angels and was at the head of the Seraphim order. As the second-born, Belial was in charge of the Cherubim (the second-highest order of Angels) and was appointed as an Archangel as well. This lasted for countless ages until the corrupted Aeonic god, Jehovah, entered the Universe from the Void; leaving behind his duties of forming Universes in order to usurp our Universal Throne.

After arriving, he immediately began causing mass destruction and giving out malicious orders to the Angels. Lucifer began a rebellion against this, with Belial being the second Angel to join him in the Fall. After a long traumatic war, Jehovah defeated the rebels and threw them into Hell; condemning them all to this bleak wasteland. Once here, the dark and twisted energies of Hell began to alter the essences of the Fallen ones, making their energies dark as well. Their wings blackened, they grew horns, and some developed red eyes, spikes, claws, or other strange features. They were now a race that came to be called “demons”, and the strongest of these became the three High Kings of Hell: Lucifer, Satan, and Leviathan.

Since Belial had always followed close to Lucifer’s own values, he joined his kingdom and was made one of the kings. And due to Belial’s natural talent for persuasion and finding the truth, he was also appointed as Lucifer’s Truth Tester, or General Investigator. Overtime, Belial gradually became just as much connected to deceit as truth, since he realized the convenience of lies and their many uses. With deception, he often uses it as a method to teach truth (similar to how Lucifer does at times), test whether someone is telling the truth, but also lies whenever he feels the desire to. For this reason, the Christians began calling Belial the “Father of Lies”. Besides this, there was a time in the past where Belial was fond of the Samurai of Japan and encouraged their ideas of Bushido. Yet this was not to last since the Samurai were eventually all killed off by their Emperor. Nowadays, Belial does not much care for humanity in general and has very low expectations of others since people constantly make the same mistakes.

Rank: King

Elements: Air and Fire

Colours: Cream, Black, Vermillion, Metallic Grey, and Peridot Green

Appearance: An elegant gentleman in his late 30’s with short, wavy black hair, dark brown eyes, and light skin. He wears classy outfits or suits that are usually black in colour and wears leather dress shoes. Normally, Belial doesn’t manifest his horns and wings but tends to do so when angered. During battles, he wears elegant dark armour and his choice weapon is either a longsword or katana.

Personality: Belial is very confident, suave, intelligent, strategic, sophisticated, and is a connoisseur of refined tastes. He speaks smoothly and can be sarcastic, though never reveals much about himself to others. He is also willing to speak to anyone of any religion as long as they don’t waste his time or are interested in seeking truth. Belial especially loves speaking to Abrahamists in order to challenge their perspectives (which he never fails at) and takes great amusement in the terror they feel when their veils of ignorance are being lifted. Yet this is too easy of a challenge for him since it doesn’t take much for Belial to convince others of things. So far, the only one who can match Belial in the intellectual art of persuasion is Lucifer.

Overall, Belial tends to have very little patience with humans and doesn’t wish to be disturbed unless someone is serious. He wishes to either provide truth (if he chooses) or assist in certain matters. Otherwise, he won’t show up and does not like to stay around people just to be friendly. For those who work with him, Belial may act as a pedagogue and will have patience for those who try to succeed, even if they fail. However, if a person complains about things without ever trying to make things better, he will have no patience for them at all. As for those who try to sexualize Belial against his will, he severely punishes them and does not forgive it. The same thing goes for those who mock him, call him nicknames, or make him appear “soft”.

In regards to politics, Belial strongly prefers to cunningly solve things through diplomacy and making intelligent maneuvers towards prosperity (even if we must manipulate or deceive in the process). Therefore, Belial may also teach that lies have their place and are not as bad as we have been taught. He also says how truth is the most hated of all virtues because this world is in love with lies. Those who speak the truth wholeheartedly are often called liars and are usually murdered in the end. Because of this, lies are often very necessary and can be used to gradually teach certain truths that would not usually be accepted. Along with Lucifer, Belial is a master strategist able to create incredibly complex plans in order to make the best future possible. He is even in favour of space colonization, provided it is done intelligently and not greedily. For this value of progress, he tends to share his plans of a better world to promising politicians (which is difficult since the majority of politicians in every country are corrupt). Besides strategy and rhetoric, some of the other things Belial tends to enjoy are elegance, classical music, sword fighting, martial arts, horse racing, chess, the game “Go”, expensive things, Versace fashion, luxurious libraries, stock markets, Rolls-Royce cars, satin sheets, mahogany, and the following instruments: violins, pianos, clarinets, and saxophones.

How to call him: Speak to Belial as you would with any other god, be polite and considerate. Contact him through telepathically speaking in your mind, directing the words to him (you can do this verbally, but if malicious spirits hear, they may pretend to be him). When inviting a Goetic demon to you, try to dress well for them since they are divine and royalty.

What he can help with: mutually served interests and dynamic progress through smart resolution and maneuvering. Helps with resolving conflicts through strategy, silencing and/or harming enemies (if he agrees they should be punished), advises on intelligent political maneuvers towards prosperity, and teaches harsh truths

Belial’s Enn (for meditation or devotion): Lirach Tasa Vefa Wehl Belial

Offerings: champagne, pink champagne, expensive wine, spiced rum, dry gin, Irish coffee, beef liver, smoked salmon, lobster, caviar, truffle chocolates, veal, veal fillet, pigeon meat, ostrich meat, basmati rice, truffle mushrooms, ground black pepper, cinnamon, Siberian ginseng, red roses, white roses, black roses, daggers, katanas, longswords, mahogany writing desks, black marble, black tourmaline, black star sapphires, snowflake obsidian, peridot, expensive pens, expensive wristwatches, Italian leather men’s shoes, expensive men’s coats (high society), gold, gold foil in oil, silver, bonsai trees, fancy chess boards, black dice with white dots, fancy playing cards (preferably black and white), expensive colognes

*no pork or lamb offerings, he detests them

*also don’t offer chicken or turkey since he will not accept these

[lucemferto]

I wrote that Wilbur scene I talked about yesterday. I don't know if I captured any of the characters' voices, but I tried. It's around 1,800 words.

Sorry to spoil the surprise, but this scene has a twist!

„I’m not joining you.“

Wilbur’s eyes grew narrow. His cold gaze lingered on Tommy’s face. The boy’s expression was resolute; unwavering.

But there was this slight twitch in the left corner of his mouth. Just the faintest quiver in his lips. A weakness to be exploited.

“This burger van …” Tommy hesitated “… it’s just history repeating itself. It will end with us hurting people again …”

“’With us hurting people’?” Wilbur raised an eyebrow.

As he stepped closer, all the determination that Tommy had projected seemed to vanish in the blink of an eye. Wilbur gave him a wide smile – a thinly-veiled threat behind the appearance of affability.

“Tommy, we never hurt anyone! L’Manburg was a grand old time, Tommy, don’t you remember? Me as president; you as—”

“Maybe it wasn’t, Wilbur.”

Wilbur’s smile faltered. A glower displaced his once outwardly cheery disposition.

“You’re not making sense.”

“I’m not making sense?!” Tommy raised his voice, a blustering anger flaring up and painting over the insecurities that had been so apparent just moments before. “The presidency killed you, Wilbur! And it almost killed Tubbo! I can’t let that—”

“Tubbo?!” A hoarse laugh escaped Wilbur’s throat; more like the angry bellowing of a rabid dog. “Why the fuck should we care about Tubbo?! He betrayed us, Tommy!”

“T-That’s not true!”

Wilbur stepped closer; Tommy took a step back – but the walls of the van were already pressed up against his back. The older man was towering over him, casting him in shadow. A wild and manic energy was glinting in his eyes, bloodshot and red like sundown soon giving way to a dark night.

“He fucking teamed with the enemy, Tommy! What else would you call that?!”

“He still cares—”

Wilbur’s hand shot forward. Like the maw of an angry serpent, it closed itself around Tommy’s throat. All colour drained from the boy’s face – his complexion like that of a corpse.

“Don’t you fucking get it, Tommy?!” Little droplets of spittle rained on Tommy’s skin as Wilbur’s face inched ever closer to his. “Tubbo doesn’t care; he never cared! You were just a fucking tool to him, Tommy! Someone he could use and throw away once you were no longer useful!”

Wilbur’s dirty fingernails burrowed themselves into Tommy’s neck – soon trails of red were trickling down into the boy’s shirt.

“I’m the only who cares, Tommy! I’m the only one who ever cared about you!”

“Wilbur! Y-you’re hurting me!”

“Shut the fuck up, Tommy! I don’t ca—”

“STOP!”

The scene halted; as though time had frozen. A figure emerged from the darkness of the burger van.

It was Wilbur.

Though he and the Wilbur currently choking Tommy looked almost identical upon first glance, there were some striking differences: Gleaming red eyes contrasted against tired brown ones; demonic intensity against a dull exhaustion. The first Wilbur seemed almost unnaturally tall and imposing as he towered over Tommy; the second Wilbur carried himself smaller, more guarded.

“I d-don’t …” For a moment the voice of the second Wilbur seemed to falter; but soon he snapped back to a more confident bearing; all insecurity obscured behind a steadfast façade. “No more!”

A deafening silence fell upon the van. Then, slowly, as though unattached from his neck, Tommy’s head turned to Wilbur. Brilliant blue gave way to a searing crimson; fear to a wide, sharp-teethed grin.

“Whaaaat? You don’t enjoy the little play I put on just for you? And I thought you’d be impressed with all the cool ghost shit I can do now.”

With a sickening ratch, two horns ripped through Tommy’s temples. Shadow swallowed his blond locks, transforming them into dark, slicked back hair. Murky, unkempt facial hair sprout from his skin as his once lively complexion grew grey and translucent. Smokey tendrils enshrouded the red and white T-Shirt, before it emerged as a black business suit, the bloodred tie serving as the only blotch of colour.

The ghost of Schlatt had appeared before Wilbur.

“Guess it hit a little too close to home, huh?”

Wilbur’s eyes narrowed. While the illusionary Tommy had disappeared upon Glatt’s arrival, the facsimile of himself was still standing there. Frozen in eternal wrath.

Wilbur’s mouth grew thin. “I wouldn’t do that to Tommy. I would never hurt him.”

Feigned shock contorted Glatt’s mouth into a darkly comical expression. “That’s not what he told me.”

Wilbur felt something icy sting in his chest “What?”

Glatt nodded. “Yeah, it was the strangest thing. I was in my gym doing reps, snorting creatine, you know how it goes, when suddenly I hear some … some whining.”

Wilbur immediately took notice. He knew what Glatt was talking about. The lump in his throat felt like it would soon suffocate him.

Glatt didn’t seem to notice.

“The sound of some low-T beta just letting it all out. And when I go take a look, who else should I find but—"

“Tommy …”

“Don’t interrupt me. Anyway, when I turn the corner, I see this real pathetic mess just sitting on the floor, sobbing. I told him to shut the fuck up, because he was throwing me off my game. But he just wouldn’t stop, so good guy that I am – you remember how great I am with kids!”

“You never were.”

“Oh no, I was! That Tubbo-kid, he had it good in Manberg.”

Wilbur flinched – whether it was because of the bastardized name of the country he had once loved and loathed or because Glatt’s words woke some memories in him that he’d soon rather forget; he did not know.

“You had him executed.”

Glatt nodded, a wistful smile curling his ashen lips. “Good times, good times. Anyway, the little ghost-brat … he tells me his name is Gommy.”

Glatt let out a harsh, bellowing laugh. Wilbur could not share his amusement. He had almost forgotten how much he hated Schlatt’s sneering.

The ghost still had not managed to fully compose himself. “Gommy, that’s such a dumb name! Gommy … you wanna know what a good name is?”

“Is it—?”

“GLATT!”

The sound came out like a bile-filled belch. Wilbur closed his eyes in exasperation; his fingers massaging the bridge of his nose.

“I figured … Does this story have a point or are you just here to waste my time?”

Glatt frowned. “What, am I not good enough company for you?”

“Not even in the slightest.”

For the first time in their conversation, Glatt’s face grew more serious. His red stare tore into Wilbur; almost drilled into his mind. Wilbur answered the ghost’s stare with what he hoped was a cold, unreadable expression.

But he knew that in Schlatt’s presence, there were no masks to wear. No intent to hide. That ram was the only man that could strip him bare.

Finally, Wilbur had to break eye contact. With a sound of exasperation, he spat out: “Get to the point!”

“‘Get to the point’” The false Wilbur moved his lips, but it was Glatt’s mocking voice that emerged from behind them. “Man, I liked it more when you were a little ghost bitch. You used to come to my gym actually; did some reps. Annoying accent, but damn, what a cute ass.”

Wilbur’s jaw tensed. He had enough of this.

“I’m leaving.”

With a few long strides he had reached the exit of the van. The cold, fresh night air was beckoning him; away from the smell of cigarettes and alcohol.

Then that obnoxious voice called after him again: “Yeah, that’s probably for the best. Ghost-boy didn’t have the nicest things to say about you …”

Wilbur froze. His hand was on the door handle, ready to release him from this dark, stuffy room. It would be so easy to just leave; to rid himself of this headache. He did not need to stay.

“… You’re lying.”

A wide grin stretched Glatt’s thin lips – Wilbur couldn’t see it; but he could hear it in that tone of his.

“I’m the one who’s lying? No, no, no, I’m merely recounting what 'Gommy' told me.”

Wilbur turned around. Glatt’s smug smirk was even more unbearable than he had imagined.

“You know, after he was done bawling his eyes out and blubbering like a little bitch –“

Glatt’s face shifted into warped replica of Tommy’s – big shimmering eyes and a little doll like mouth quivering with exaggerated sorrow: “‘D-D-Dweam, D-Dweam, h-h-he’— Anyway, he told me that while my cabinet was having a grand old time over in Manberg, you were being very mean to him.”

Wilbur shook his head. “I-I’ve changed. I apologized!”

Tommy-Glatt let out another bellowing laugh. It cut through Wilbur like a knife through a paper door.

“You think an apology could make this better!”

Wilbur jumped back. The fake Wilbur began to move once more. With a thundering roar, his fist made contact with the fake Tommy’s temple. A loud thud; Tommy impacted with the floor of the van. But before he could get up, the fake Wilbur began kicking him in the stomach; screaming obscenities and curses.

It wasn’t Wilbur’s voice – it was so clearly Glatt’s poor imitation of his accent. With each kick, Glatt-Tommy’s eyes bulged out of his skull; not like a person, but like a grotesque cartoon. It was a farcical display.

But Wilbur – the real Wilbur – was paralyzed. His mind was clouded with memories and nightmares; fears bloated and distorted by thirteen years of isolation

“That’s not … that’s not what happened!”

Schlatt’s piercing, high-pitched cackling erupted out of Tommy’s mouth once more.

“Boy, Limbo really did a number on you!”

With a jump Glatt-Tommy was up on his feet again – his nose bloody and broken, his skin coloured black and blue; his hateful grin revealing multiple missing teeth.

“Not that you were all that together beforehand – ‘Tommy, let’s be the bad guys!’ ‘No, Wilbur don’t blow up Manberg. If you blow up Manberg, I’m gonna piss my pants—’ ‘Shut up, Tommy!’”

“I never hit him!” Wilbur’s panicked exclamation interrupted the smear show. “I never hit him!”

Glatt-Tommy shook his head; the satisfied grin not leaving his face. “That’s not what he told me! And what’s worse, when that green guy – Dream, I think his name was? – while he was using Tommy as his own personal punching bag, your ghost was off in the woods jerking off or something. And now you're calling Dream your hero!”

Wilbur felt as all colour drained from his face. The van around him began to spin; darkness and alcohol and cigarette smoke choking even the last ounce of the outside air he could smell.

“I-I …”

Slowly the façade of Tommy began to melt once more. Slowly, deliberately. A nightmarish display. Glatt’s and Tommy’s voices spoke in unison; their echo a cacophony in Wilbur’s ears.

“Face it, loverboy. You will always be a bad guy. No number of apologies will change that. He will never forgive you.”

[phantomrose96]

Blood From A Stone

(I wrote nearly all of this prior to chapter 291 being released, so take it as an AU of sorts for the pieces that don’t align.)

Enji Todoroki’s training journals come to light in the wake of Touya’s damning broadcast. They exist now for the public to do with as they please.

cw: domestic abuse, Enji Todoroki in general

...

The man in front of the camera wears his white hair slicked back from his forehead. His cheeks are round, young, and his ice-gray eyes – colored like the cloud-cover that brings snowfall – hold steady with the reporter’s gaze. For those who watched the U.A. Sports Festival, the family resemblance to Shouto Todoroki is undeniable. It is all the world is focused on right now, as they are learning for the first time that Enji Todoroki has more than one son.

He holds the front door to the Todoroki Manor open and motions with his head. The camera bobs, and the foyer swallows up the view, harsh daylight shifting with a slant to muted indoor lighting as the camera adjusts, and Natsuo Todoroki closes the front door behind them both. He takes the lead. The camera follows.

“Fuyumi isn’t here. She doesn’t want me doing this, but she says she won’t stop me either.” Natsuo walks stiffly. His words are level, but the camera films with enough resolution to catch the bead of sweat that rolls from his hairline down the nape of his neck. “She says our family is going to suffer more because of this. And she’s right. I get it. I want the nightmare to just be over too. But I’ve been dreaming of doing this for… so many years now.” He hesitates, skittish eyes shifting back to the camera for a momentary pause before pressing forward again. “I want to say I’m doing this for Mom, and for the Touya I remember, and for Shouto. But maybe that’s a lie. Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe I’m just doing this for me.”

Natsuo leads the camera down a hall to the right, tatami matting plush underfoot. The camera picks up the gentle pap of footfalls now that Natsuo has lapsed silent again. He turns down another hallway, and then a third, through a house whose enormity makes more sense now that the world knows it once housed six Todorokis, and not three.

He throws open a door near the very end of the hall, sliding it forcefully along its frame, but not forceful enough to tear its artful paper slatting. Inside is a study of sorts, all four walls stacked with shelves crafted of solid, heavy, dark wood, artfully carved with ornate pillars serving as the skeleton of each bookcase. A mahogany desk sits in the middle, littered with printed documents, pens, wells of ink, all fanned around a monitor at the center.

Natsuo pays no mind to the desk. His eyes are keenly focused on the shelf behind it. He motions once more for the camera to follow as he approaches it, and he stretches high on tip toes to reach the locked cabinet crowning the bookcase. It is an expensive thing, finished with a fine lacquer coat, its handles anchored shut by a pin-code lock between them. Natsuo sets one hand to the rotary dials. His nerves show through the shaking of his fingers as he tries to spin the numbers into place.

“Dad was always careful with his evidence. But he never knew that Touya saw the code to unlock this cabinet, and he never knew Touya told it to me.” The rotaries halt. Natsuo pulls his fingers away and threads his hand around one handle. He pulls. There’s a pop from the cabinet that follows. He swings the first door wide, and repeats with the other side, revealing three stacked storage shelves containing dated sets of dusty hand-written journals. The journals are heavily worn at the spine, the older ones in the series more rubbed-ragged than the later ones. Each bears a black-leather binding in varying states of weathering to gray. Beside the journals are several rows of sheathed VHS tapes, casings dated with sharpie. Natsuo starts by grabbing the first journal, and he turns to the camera to present it.

“If you have any doubt about what Touya said, this is everything. I’ve read them. Fuyumi hasn’t. She tried, and she said it upset her too much to continue. But I’ve read them all. It’s all Dad’s training logs, for Touya AND Shouto. Take them. Read them. Put them online for everyone to see. Whatever it takes. Let them know what he’s done.”

From behind the camera, the reporter’s hand reaches out, and he cuts the film here as he takes the first of the offered journals.

…

The full logs of Enji Todoroki are posted to this site, and all scans are backed up across several safe locations. We refuse to take these down, short of a direct legal order compelling us to. And even then, our lawyers intend to fight for our rights to practice journalistic integrity. Enji Todoroki has voluntarily made himself a servant of the public, and that public deserves to see the legacy he has left.

The logs, in their entirety, comprise 8,453 pages. All 8,453 are available for your perusal, as well as the roughly 249 hours of video. This landing page contains excerpts our journalists have aggregated to give the best, consumable look into the actions of Enji Todoroki. Reader discretion is advised for what follows.

…

June 24th 20XX:

Touya: 6 years old, 6 months

I am in despair today. I look back on this last year and wonder what could have gone so wrong. What signs did I miss between this June and last?

Touya’s performance deficit widens by the very day. Every benchmark I set for him, from endurance to quirk intensity to basic reflexes, all fall devastatingly short of my projection. His flame perpetuation, which I had hoped would reach 5 consecutive minutes at this age, has instead regressed from 4 to 3. His flames should measure at least 3000 lumens, yet they do not cross the 1000 mark, horrifyingly less than the 2200 mark he could consistently hit last June. Even temperature, which should be the simplest to regulate, fluctuates wildly with a 20 degree range of error around the benchmarks I present to him.

I have not altered my teachings from this time last year. I am sick with the fear that it is because Touya has inherited no heat resistance from Rei, and instead may be becoming actively weaker to his own quirk as a result of his mixed blood. It is the only explanation I have for the decline in his fire power.

This heaviness in my heart is worsened by the certainty I have that Natsuo is quirkless. The doctors refuse to confirm this yet. He may be a late bloomer, they claim. But Touya’s quirk had manifested at age two, as had mine and Rei’s, and Natsuo is fast approaching three. My agony is worsened by my waning faith in Touya, and my certainty that Fuyumi is much too weak to carry on my legacy.

I am kept aloft only by the knowledge that Rei is pregnant again. The doctors have not confirmed this either, but she is hardly able to move from bed just as with the first two pregnancies. I may have to pour all of my hope into that child. I can start again. I cannot let this despair swallow me. I can start again with a new child as many times as I need to.

…

August 15th20XX:

Touya: 6 years old, 8 months

Touya’s training fell short today, just as it has every day of this year so far. I may need to accept this and rework his entire training plan. I do not know how much more lenient I can make his regimen while maintaining any faith in his ability to surpass All Might.

But he cannot continue like this. He ends every session curled on the floor and wailing, distraught to the point that he cannot even produce flames. Does he know the resentment this begins to breed in me? How unsightly it makes him become? How much I mourn the loss of the prodigy I believed him to be?

I’ve started encouraging him to interact more with Natsuo and Fuyumi on the hope that Touya’s current weakness is mental and not physical. I had hoped his bond with Fuyumi may be strong given their proximity in age, but Touya seems to gravitate to Natsuo more. I think Natsuo is too young to be a proper companion to Touya right now, but I will not interfere with Touya’s choice.

Rei is now four months into her pregnancy. This one has taken a harsher toll on her than the previous two. I hope this is a sign that the child is strong. The doctors have confirmed it is a boy. Rei has not proposed any names, which is unusual for her. I have several in mind.

…

October 7th20XX:

Touya: 6 years old, 10 months

I’ve shut myself in my office today. Touya’s hands erupted in cracked skin and blisters during his resistance training. I had to cancel Touya’s training sessions for tomorrow, and I will be taking him to the family doctor instead. I cling to hope in my gut that he is suffering from an unrelated skin condition. Because if my hunch is right, and he is in fact losing his immunity to his quirk, then despair fills my heart too strongly.

I’ve opted to separate him from Rei for the time being. She has become insufferable in her begging that I stop his training. I had attributed this to pregnancy hormones, but I suspect now it may run deeper than that. Her interference demoralizes Touya. He’s begun asking for leniency, where previously he showed only strength and eagerness, and I know his mother has planted the seed in his head. I do not dare touch Rei while she carries our son, but I can forbid her from interacting any further with Touya.

I am considering whether it would be prudent of me to send Rei, Natsuo, and Fuyumi away once our son is born. I recognize how cold that may appear, but I am growing desperate. I cannot feel that same ease and confidence from Touya’s younger years. The situation is graver now. Their presence does not strengthen Touya. They are too much of a distraction instead, for Touya and for myself. I can send them away to focus only on Touya. The cost of a second house does not worry me.

…

November 18th20XX:

Touya: 6 years old, 11 months

I hold on to a shred of optimism for Touya’s future. The salve has been working well on his hands, and he can maintain flames in them again. I remain optimistic that his power will return once the blistering heals entirely. The doctors say quirk growth spurts are not uncommon. It may be that Touya has reached new heights of his power, and his body needs time to catch up.

I have adjusted his training plan in the meantime, and I have lowered my expectations for the immediate future. I fear he may not get into U.A. at this rate. I’ll be increasing my yearly contribution, starting with this new year, in hopes of swaying their favor. Realistically I must prepare for his rejection. I will reshape my training plan for him. Perhaps a degree from U.A. isn’t required.

Rei, Natsuo, and Fuyumi remain in the house. Perhaps I was being too hasty before in thinking to send them away. Touya has hope yet.

…

December 20th 20XX:

Touya: 7 years old, 0 months

Rei has come to me with a proposition. She promises not to love the baby she is carrying. She says she will hand the boy over to me at his birth with no resistance. She has not picked out a name for him, and she will not think of him as her son, and I am free to mold him as I please. Rei asks in return that I give Touya back over to her, and I end his training plan here. She wants full custody of him, and Natsuo and Fuyumi. In exchange she will let me do as I please with our new son, whom I have decided to name Shouto.

I have not accepted her proposal of course. I need to prepare myself for the possibility that Shouto too may be quirkless. Although I feel a resonance with the baby that sends thrills down my neck. I feel in my heart that he will be more powerfully quirked than Rei or I alone.

I cannot be distracted by Shouto just yet. Until I can see the manifestation of his quirk with my own eyes, I must keep my focus on Touya.

…

January 15th 20XX:

Touya: 7 years old, 1 month

Shouto is home with us from the hospital. Rei refuses to hold him except to feed him. I have hired a few more attendants to remain at the manor with us and care for him around the clock. Rei has not spoken to me either except to ask about Touya.

I am not superstitious about quirk inheritance patterns, yet I find myself seeing Shouto’s defined streaks of red and white hair as an auspicious sign. If his left is fire, and his right is ice, then he will be strong. He will be everything I have dreamed of for the last 10 years.

Touya’s number are improving. I have motivated him with the reward of seeing his brother Shouto, whom he finds fascinating and asks often to hold. Given his affinity for Natsuo, this does not surprise me. I wonder if Touya’s fondness would change were I to inform him that Shouto may usurp his position from him. I dare not find that out. Touya’s mental state is crucial if he stands any chance of success. For all Touya’s failings, he excels in his dedication to the path I have set before him. He believes there is no other future for him.

…

June 7th 20XX:

Touya: 7 years old, 6 months

The blistering on Touya’s hands has returned with a vengeance. It has spread to his arms as well. He’s achieved a new threshold of power, and with it has come the terrible confirmation that his quirk immunity is wasting away. There remains no doubt in my mind. I am losing my hope. I am losing my identity. I am paralyzed by spurts of rage I find harder and harder to quell with each terrible passing day.

Rei cries to me every day now about Touya. She begs for him back. I believe Natsuo has told her about Touya’s injury, because she came shrieking to me worse than ever. She is much easier to silence now that I can physically force her to be quiet without fear of hurting Shouto.

Touya is inconsolable. I know he is more disappointed in himself than I am. I’ve opted to separate Natsuo from Rei as well, starting tomorrow, since he brings Touya comfort, and I no longer want him to act as a conduit of information between Touya and Rei. I will tell Rei to busy herself with Fuyumi for now, and forget about the boys.

I watch Shouto in his crib every day. His small hands curl and grasp at nothing. He does not know the weight they carry, my weight, my future, my dream. He does not know he is my last tie keeping me from sinking deep back into the depths of my own hatred and despair.

…

January 18th 20XX:

Touya: 8 years old, 1 month

Touya’s physical strength is sapping away. I am watching a slow decay of integrity, an unsightly one, of too much blood and mucus and tears. I hate the certainty I have that he is trying his hardest, because his hardest falls far and away short of anything that could conceivably surpass All Might. He ends most days sobbing that he is trying – though I think he speaks to assure himself, and not me. His waning strength seems to scare him.

He keeps trying to heighten the power of his flames, and his flesh burns worse each day. I see the terror blooming in Natsuo’s eyes every day when he sees Touya. I use Natsuo as a barometer of sorts. He seems to have more insight into Touya’s mindset than I do, and more confidence in him than I can muster. Natsuo has started asking me to halt Touya’s training, and I take this as a terrible sign for Touya’s prospects.

Shouto can take two steps at a time now with the help of the attendants. They are old grandmotherly women whose names often escape me, and I do not trust them for their assessment of his power, but they understand child milestones well. They raised Touya at this age. They speak far more highly of Shouto’s development than of his.

I look at the division of white and red in Shouto’s hair, and I pray to see the day that ice and fire claim those very lines.

I have purchased the second house.

…

May 26th 20XX:

Touya: 8 years old, 5 months

Touya’s face has begun to blister along with his hands. He grows more unsightly by the day. Natsuo, not even five years old yet, begs me every day to stop training him. Touya silences him. Touya is insistent that he continues training. Though I sense his resolve cracking. I sense it is a fear of failure, and not a drive for success, which motivates Touya these days.

I cannot lighten the load of Touya’s training anymore. I have reverted to the regimen I had in place when he was newly 5, and it agonizes me to see him fail. I remember his bright smile, his boundless prospects, when he practiced this regimen the first time. Touya is bright. Surely he knows these are the same trainings he once surpassed with such ease. Surely he shares in my despair.

Today marks five months since I moved Rei and Fuyumi into our second home. I have not spoken directly to Rei in all this time. It is better for my peace of mind, and better for Touya. Rei tries desperately to contact me about Natsuo and Touya, but I do not bother to respond. I cannot be bothered. She is the last of my worries now.

It is possible that I have no further need for Rei. I think this whenever I see Shouto sleeping in his crib. He will be the one to save me. I need to believe this is true. I might go mad otherwise.

…

October 8th 20XX:

Touya: 8 years old, 10 months

One of Touya’s wounds is infected. I have halted his training for the week.

Shouto babbles now. He will be two in a few months’ time. I work myself into a frenzy every time I remember. Touya was 2 years and 6 month old when his quirk manifested. The doctors said that was exceptionally fast, but it is average for his bloodline. I have even higher expectations for Shouto.

…

January 12th 20XX:

Touya: 9 years old, 1 month

ICE!! ICE! One day after Shouto’s second birthday, he’s covered one bar of his crib with frost.

I am giddy. I am young again. I am 20 years old again. I am staring at the prospect of surpassing All Might. God, what a jolt to the bloodstream!

I stare at his left side and hope. Do I dare hope? I do. I fantasize about a lick of flame manifesting on that red, red shock of hair. I would never have to worry a day in my life about how Rei’s weak constitution may afflict him, not when he may thermoregulate himself.

Touya asks every day about his training. I tell him it is suspended until his wounds heal, and he seems more distraught with each passing day at the vacuum of answers this brings. He spends nearly all his time with Natsuo.

I may send them both back to Rei.

…

January 18th 20XX:

FIRE!!! FIRE!!!! MY BRILLIANT, PERFECT SON!!! MY PRODIGY!! MY SHOUTO. A WEIGHT MORE THAN TEN YEARS IN THE MAKING HAS LIFTED FROM MY HEART. MY SHOUTO!! MY SHOUTO HAS DONE IT.

I AM ELATED!! I AM DELIGHTED!!! I AM UNABLE TO CONTAIN MYSELF!!! THIS DARK, DARK, DARK CLOUD HAS PASSED. MY MISERY, MY FEAR, THEY ARE GONE! BANISHED! I will never again take for granted what I have before me!

I must begin drafting my plans for Shouto’s training, which is still several years away, but to prepare thoroughly I must begin now. I must execute this perfectly, and not allow myself to set one single toe out of place. I must not drift into that lenient, flippant, half-commitment I did when Touya was younger. I will not allow myself to be so swayed by the cuteness of young faces, or those family feelings, not after they cost me so dearly and plunged me so deep into misery. I am a changed man. I will not take this blessing for granted.

I’ve sent Natsuo and Touya back to Rei. Ironic, isn’t it, that Touya refused to go. He screamed the whole time, promising he could prove himself to me. He begged me not to throw him away. Soon he’ll understand that this is all for the best. Though I took no delight in the agony on Rei’s face trying to receive him. She appears to have aged many years since I last saw her.

This marks the beginning of my logs for Shouto.

Shouto: 2 years, 0 months

…

March 19th 20XX:

Shouto: 2 years, 2 months

I can encourage crystals of ice from Shouto with the right manipulation of his palm. His fire side is more hesitant, but blooming stronger. I have amassed the same team of educators, tutors, and governesses who raised Touya, all now without Rei here for distraction. I will mold Shouto perfectly.

Touya called using Rei’s phone today. I answered, expecting to hear Rei’s voice. It was Touya begging to know when he was coming back. He tried telling me his flames have gotten stronger. It seemed cruel to continue this charade with him, so I have informed Touya that Shouto has replaced him. I heard no response from him before I ended the call.

…

May 19th, 20XX:

Shouto: 2 years, 4 months

Shouto understands both the words ‘ice’ and ‘fire’. He can coat things in frost on the command I give of ‘ice’, and smolder with the most imperceptible wisp of smoke at ‘fire’. Touya could not summon his quirk at will until after his third birthday. I am alive anew every day.

Rei called today. She’s requested to come back, her and the three other children. This surprised me. Rei has no reason to wish to return. I suspected Touya asked her to do it, but she claimed it is because she wishes to see Shouto. It was the first time I heard her say his name.

I refused.

I made good on our deal. She has Touya and the other two children. I have Shouto. She cannot renege on a promise.

…

May 13th, 20XX:

Shouto: 3 years, 4 months

After nearly a year of silence from Rei, I received a chilling phone call from a lawyer affiliated with U.A. Allegations of domestic violence have crept up online, targeted at me. My blood turns to ice at the thought of what may happen if this spreads – I am too sick to eat.

The lawyers assure me they can purge the postings, that they have not spread to a critical mass, and thus can be quickly forgotten in the maelstrom of endless rumors that plague professional heroes. The U.A. lawyers are fantastic at what they do, I know this with certainty.

But this has served as a lesson to me. It was foolish of me to let Rei fall so far outside of my control. I had thought she would remain loyal to me for the financial support I provide, for the sake of our shared children. What reason does she have to disturb the past?

I realized late into the night what must have been her catalyst – she does love Shouto, as much as she promised she wouldn’t. She must have begun speaking out, perhaps in the early stages of planning how she may do away with me, and claim custody of Shouto.

I will not have this happen. I am bringing Rei, Natsuo, Fuyumi, and Touya back under this roof. I am confident I can convince Rei to come back by using Shouto as collateral. I will promise normal, carefree lives for Natsuo, Fuyumi, and Touya. But she will need to come back.

…

June 3rd, 20XX:

Shouto: 3 years, 4 months

The children have moved back in. Fuyumi is much much older since I last saw her. She is excited at the prospect of her own bathroom, which she will have in this house. Touya greeted me with an unsightly desperation in his eyes. Natsuo has not deigned to speak to me.

Rei looks at me now with nothing in her eyes. She asked first thing where Shouto was. I took her to him while the movers unloaded her things. Shouto did not recognize her. I informed him that she was his mother. She held him for a long time, rocking with him and apologizing. I worry this may impact his development in a negative manner.

I will allow it in the meantime.

I have been exceedingly cautious with this move. Rei’s internet access and telephone communication will be strictly monitored. I have informed her that I will take Touya back at the first toe she steps out of line.

…

January 11th, 20XX:

Shouto: 4 years, 0 months

Today is Shouto’s fourth birthday. His training has begun, officially. He showed intense surprise with the first physical offense I landed on him – a very light, simple offense that would not so much as sting – and he regained composure much more quickly than Touya ever did. He even managed to block me with a small barrier of ice on the fourth hit.

The session ended early, only about an hour in, once Shouto broke down into a tantrum and refused to cooperate anymore. I am not disappointed. He lasted longer than I expected, and will only improve from here.

Currently, he is refusing to speak to me. He has gone crying to Rei instead. This is fine. He can cry out his resentment and come back fresh tomorrow.  

…

July 20th, 20XX:

Shouto: 4 years, 6 months

Shouto can douse his entire left arm in flame, and he can cover his entire right arm in ice. His fine control is immaculate for his age. I am invigorated every day that I come to train him.

I worry that his mother is getting to him. I sense a resentment in his eyes when he thinks I have gotten unfairly physical in our training. He does not carry that same devoted resolve as Touya to follow my path for him. That is fine. It speaks well to a hardy, stubborn will which will no doubt catapult him through the ranks once I have properly swayed him to follow my lead.

Rei’s doting on Shouto has intensified greatly since her return. I wonder if she does it to convince herself that coming back to the house was the right choice. He was truly the only trump card I held over her, and I curse my own carelessness for that. Shouto’s future would never have begun if Rei had sunk my career in scandal. Luckily I no longer have to fear that.

…

December 17th, 20XX:

Shouto: 4 years, 11 months

Rei has begun interfering with Shouto’s training. I am reminded all over of her insufferable meddling with Touya, and I fear it worse now since Shouto holds her in such high regard. I need to be cautious with how physical I get with Rei to keep her in line, since Shouto is now old enough to understand and resent me for it.

Resent is perhaps too kind a word. He hates me. I wonder why Touya never did.

Some deeply curious part of my mind wishes to ask Touya this question. But I think it best I do not have any interaction with Natsuo, Fuyumi, or Touya anymore. They are to lead purely normal lives from here on out. The U.A. lawyers tell me this is for the best. Fuyumi witnessed next to nothing when it comes to her brothers’ training. Natsuo was much too young to understand what was transpiring – at least, for a court to take him seriously, given some careful leading questions from lawyers who can outsmart a child.

Touya would be the most damning case against me. But he loves me too much to speak out. I doubt he ever will.

…

February 24th, 20XX:

Shouto: 5 years, 1 month

Rei tried to shield Shouto during our training session today. I grew more irate with her than I should have, and struck her hard in front of Shouto. I need to be more careful. With how powerful Shouto will be, my biggest thing to fear is his own autonomy. I need to work harder to keep him under my thumb.

He begged to play with his siblings today. That was also my fault for walking him past the courtyard where they were playing ball. I simply told him not to look. They are not from his world. Hopefully he grasps this soon.

Today’s training has left marks on Shouto’s back and side. Another thing I need to be more cautious about. I will be much more composed tomorrow.

…

March 11th, 20XX:

Shouto: 5 years, 2 months

Touya is in the hospital.

Rei says he overused his quirk and covered his body in third degree burns. She says he’s been training every single day, even after I chose Shouto over him, trying to cling to the purpose in life I gave him. This has no doubt been unhealthy for him, and I am deeply disappointed in Rei for letting this continue for so long. The other three children have been her responsibility. I will have the attendants take over Rei’s duties for those three.

Rei has begged me to come visit him in the hospital. She says he asks for me every moment he can.

I will visit in two days from now – if he is not home by then. That is Shouto’s rest day for the week. Until then, I am much too busy.

…

March 12th, 20XX:

Shouto: 5 years, 2 months

Shouto can deflect attacks with his flames. I had not projected him to reach this level of acuity until well past his sixth birthday. He is the prodigy I dreamed of. He is my path to success.

…

March 13th, 20XX:

Shouto: 5 years, 2 months

Touya is dead.

I underestimated the severity of his burns when Rei relayed the information over the phone the other day. Rei called me this morning to inform me that Touya is dead.

Rei cannot be trusted with any of the children’s care. I am angry beyond words. My only solace is that Shouto remains unaware. This will hopefully not impact his development badly, given that he never knew his brother. I intend not to tell him.

Natsuo will need therapy. Rei says he was present for Touya’s injury. I do not know about Fuyumi.

I can hardly see past the red in my vision. Despicable woman. Despicable wife. Thank god for Shouto. Thank god for Shouto.

…

April 3rd, 20XX:

Shouto: 5 years, 2 months

Rei clings to Shouto with every chance she has. She coddles him far too much. The look in her eyes fills me with such intense unease. She has not spoken of Touya since his funeral.

Right now, she sits on the couch with Shouto on her lap watching a broadcast of All Might. She strokes his hair like he is a baby. I may have to separate them soon. Though I fail to think of anything else to use to keep Rei in line.

…

July 19th, 20XX:

Shouto: 5 years, 6 months

Shouto has left training in tears every day this week. He frustrates me. I know he has the integrity to endure so much more, but his mental fortitude is weak. He spends too much time fawned over like a baby by his mother. I miss Touya’s loyalty.

No matter. I choose to view this positively – Shouto is capable of performing at a capacity much higher than his current output, and he has already far surpassed every expectation I have set in his path. His fire power is already much higher than Touya’s ever was, and his ice output far surpasses Rei’s. He will make it into U.A. effortlessly.

Rei’s face continues to unsettle me. She hovers, still, during Shouto’s training sessions. Shouto now insists on having her there. She flinches whenever Shouto activates his left side.

It occurs to me that she may have been present when Touya’s body went up in flames. I have not asked.

…

August 8th, 20XX:

Shouto: 5 years, 6 months

I’ve sent her away. She is gone, and she is never coming back. She scarred Shouto’s face. With boiling water of all things. Poured it on him until his face blistered.

I do not care what happens to her. She is gone from my thoughts. Disfiguring Shouto is a line far too grave to cross. She is gone and dead to me.

Worse, Shouto has convinced himself that I am to blame. He stares at me with eyes more filled with hatred than I’ve seen in my life.

The only silver lining this presents: Rei is no longer a threat to me. Any blackmail she could set against me has lost all credibility. She is an insane woman, who maimed her own son. She is no one anymore.

The U.A. lawyer Fujimori has been here all day. He says he has no intention of going home any time soon. He needs time to speak with Shouto, Natsuo, and Fuyumi, and ensure their stories all align to something that cannot damage me in court. He is not worried. He says he has done this a dozen times before. I trust him, but I cannot be calm until this is all over.

My Shouto… My Shouto’s face…

…

August 10th, 20XX:

Shouto: 5 years, 6 months

Fujimori spends six hours a day locked in a room with Shouto. Fujimori laughs when he tells me not to worry – he is just grooming and molding Shouto’s story for the courts. ‘He’s five. It’s easy to outsmart a five year old,’ he says.

Shouto ended the day physically ill after his session with Fujimori. There will be no training today. Possibly, I will have to halt all training until his face heals, and until the courts have settled.

…

August 18th, 20XX:

Shouto: 5 years, 7 months

Fujimori’s performance for the court was immaculate. Even Shouto’s testimony dragged Rei across the coals, though Shouto has been sobbing ever since we returned home.

I’ve been granted full custody of all three children. No further investigation is set to follow.

…

August 21th, 20XX:

Shouto: 5 years, 7 months

Shouto cries for Rei every day. He cries harder when I tell him she is not coming back. When he is not crying, he is viciously attacking me – as viciously as a five year old can. With simple-worded threats and all the hate in his eyes he can muster.

Only corporal persuasion works on him now.

Once he is over his mother, I have faith his training can become more amicable.

…

September 15th, 20XX:

Shouto: 5 years, 8 months

Shouto has begin cooperating with my training again. However, he refuses to use his flames. He will only attack and defend with his ice. I have threatened to increase his punishments if he keeps this up. He says he does not care.

…

May 13th, 20XX:

Shouto: 6 years, 2 months

Shouto refuses to use his flames.

…

April 4th, 20XX:

Shouto: 7 years, 5 months

Shouto refuses to use his flames.

…

December 15th, 20XX:

Shouto: 9 years, 11 months

Shouto’s ice has reached a new threshold. I will have to move all future training to the empty lawn, as the courtyard is too small to contain his cascades of ice.

His ice alone is magnificent. The moment Shouto concedes to use his flames is the moment I can declare absolute victory.

…

June 2nd, 20XX:

Shouto: 11 years, 4 months

Shouto refuses to use his flames.

…

January 13th, 20XX:

Shouto: 13 years, 0 months

Shouto defeated me in a sparring match for the first time. I held back, of course, but the ingenuity, agility, and drive for success that Shouto displayed far and away surpassed everything he’d demonstrated until now. I had not intended to lose. I am elated at my own defeat.

Now that I’ve seen that drive for victory in him, I am confident I can coax him into using his flames. They’ve been strengthening with him, even in disuse. It is only a matter of time until he needs them for the kind of complete victory I’ve given him a taste for.

…

April 1st, 20XX:

Shouto: 14 years, 3 months

Natsuo has moved out. The attendants informed me.

…

February 18th, 20XX:

Shouto: 15 years, 1 month

Shouto has been accepted by recommendation into U.A.

He is exactly on track to become my perfect creation. The last and only remaining hurdle is his flames, of course, and I am more confident than ever that I can break his resolve with time. The fierce competition at U.A. will startle him from his small, coddled world. I am sure some member of his class will be able to back him far enough against the wall to will the flames from his left side.

…

May 15th, 20XX:

Shouto: 15 years, 4 months

FLAMES!!!!!!! HE’S DONE IT. HE’S USED HIS LEFT SIDE. BROADCAST FOR THE WORLD TO SEE NO LESS! I know nothing of the Midoriya boy who faced him, but I could very well send a bouquet of flowers to his doorstep for the milestone he’s unlocked.

I’ve spent much of today remembering the sea of darkness I faced 15 years ago.

The despair I felt looking into Touya’s weak, weak eyes.

The miasma of terror Rei carried.

The symbols of defeat that Fuyumi and Natsuo represented.

Not two days ago, I looked into All Might’s self-assured, insufferable face, feeling so far beneath him.

No longer.

None of that plagues me any longer.

I am free from all the shackles of my failures.

I have only Shouto before me, finally compliant, finally complicit, finally understanding his role in my ambition.

Today marks my true start line.

Today is the start of all my ambitions coming to fruition.

Shouto, my perfect creation, my perfect vessel, how worth-it this all was to create you.

Now rise.

…

The camera pulls in and out of focus on the face of Shouto Todoroki, sitting upright in a hospital bed. He bears the same roundness to his cheeks as Natsuo Todoroki, though fuller, and significantly younger – looking even smaller against the backdrop of white linen. His eyes are etched with sleeplessness.

His father Enji Todoroki is in the same hospital, in much worse condition. Enji is kept far, far apart from Shouto. The guards fanning Enji’s room are not for Enji’s own protection.

“The villain Dabi, who claims he is Touya Todoroki, went on air earlier to condemn your father for the abusive upbringing he subjected you and your siblings to. You’re aware, yes?” the reporter behind the camera says.

Shouto takes pause. There is a deep unease in his eye. He doesn’t maintain eye contact with the camera for long.

“…I’ve been told. I haven’t seen it. My father and I were fighting him… Dabi… while this was happening.”

“Do you remember your older brother Touya?”

“No.”

“He alleges that both you and he were subjected to inhuman training from the age of four to fulfill your father’s dream of surpassing All Might. And Touya himself was tossed aside when you were born. Is this true?”

Shouto does not respond. He pulls in a visible breath, which seems to stutter in his throat. His eyes shift up and to the left with the sound of a door clicking, and feet shuffling.

“Your brother Natsuo gave me some journals earlier. Your father’s training journals, for you and Touya both. We’ve scanned and uploaded them to our news site, with your brother’s permission.”

This steals back Shouto’s full attention, eyes pulling wider, almost imperceptibly as they reaffix to the camera. As much as he works to hide it from his expression, the whitening of his face is unmistakable, and the palpitating cadence of his heart rate monitor betrays him.

“…I didn’t give you permission to take those,” Shouto says, weakly.

“Sorry. But it was Natsuo’s idea.” The camera shifts, adjusting closer. “You’ve never spoken out against your father. Why is that?”

Shouto’s eyes flicker up again, to whatever person has entered from behind the camera. Shouto does not have a response prepared.

“Is this live?” he asks, quietly.

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to answer.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want my words used against me.”

“How can they be used against you? This is live, like I said, no editing your words. People want to hear what you have to say. People are on your side.”

“…I don’t believe that.”

“They are.”

“Then where have they been all this time?”

“No one knew. How could they be there for you if they didn’t know? You never told them.”

Some flicker of offense snags Shouto’s lip, pulls it up a fraction. There’s condemnation in his eyes. “I did. I tried. And it got Mom taken away.”

“No one is trying to manipulate your words this time around. I’d like to hear your side of that, Shouto. What happened with your mother?”

“…Turn it off.”

“Why?”

“I don’t have any reason to trust you.”

“Do you think I’m trying to blame you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not.” The camera shifts. The reporter dips down, taking the seat beside Shouto’s hospital bed, settling in so that he and Shouto face each other at eye-level. “The broadcast from Touya, and the journals – they all make it explicitly clear you had no say in this. They exonerate you, from any and all blame you think you’ll receive for this. This all was your father’s plan.”

“…I never stopped him,” Shouto admits along a whisper. “That’s what it looks like, doesn’t it? That’s what you’re thinking? That’s what you’re trying to get out of me? It’s selfish of me to still be a hero, and still use my flames, and still work with him. That’s what you want to blame me for, isn’t it?”

“I don’t blame you for anything, Shouto. I’m just here to report--”

“You don’t know--” Shouto sweeps a hand out, harsh enough to rock his balance. “--how I had to claw my identity back from him! How hard it’s been to feel like he doesn’t own me! They took my phone away but I saw the—I’ve seen the—I saw what people are saying. Online. About this. If my father’s a monster and my brother’s a murderer, then what am I? If the Hero Society itself is corrupt then what about me, huh? If I was around for this training why didn’t I ever try to do anything to stop it?”

Shouto stares forward, a glassy haunting entering his eyes, dancing like flame as he stares at nothing. His words drop to a mutter. “Why haven’t I left him? Why haven’t I exposed him? Why do I still work with him? Why haven’t I helped my mother? They pull up images from the Sports Festival and say ‘He looks the same’ as if my father—as if I—as if we’re the same. They think that. They say I look like him. I’m not him. You don’t know how hard I worked to find peace with that.”

“And I believe you—”

“Then what do you want from me?”

“I want the world to know this is not your fault.”

A flash of surprise, of wetness, clouds Shouto’s eyes, as if slapped, as if unable to accept the words. His mouth shuts. His heartrate monitor hastens its metronome beat, and words fail him.

A clatter of footsteps erupts from behind the camera. A boy in heavy bandages with unkempt green hair – the source of the door opening a few minutes prior – runs into view. The audience knows this boy, because the audience has been rewatching the televised Sports Festival in earnest to inspect Shouto. The boy – Midoriya – throws his arms around both of Shouto’s shoulders and pulls him in, Midoriya’s back shielding Shouto from camera view. Sharp eyes turn over his shoulder and pierce the camera. “He said turn it off.”

These are the last words caught on film.

The camera clicks.

The broadcast ends.

The audience of a million eyes on the Todoroki family is left to stare into their own reflections of the blackened screens before them.

In the hospital, time and sound have paused, suspended in a vacuum of sorts, as a place of few televisions, few computers, few newscasts. It is a small reprieve just lenient enough for Shouto Todoroki to pull himself back together.

…

Fuyumi Todoroki sits in the dark. All electronics are shut off, all social media deactivated. Her leave of absence letter has been submitted.

She has not seen Shouto’s interview. She has not read the journal entries online. She has not watched Touya’s broadcast to completion.

Fuyumi will not see her school children for a long time. She will not speak to friends for a long while. She sits in the dark at the Todoroki Manor with her head buried into her knees, her arms hugged around her legs, unseeing eyes staring down. She stares, and stares, and wonders what all these suffocating years of keeping the peace had been for.

[malereader-inserts]

Not Impossible

Fandom: Harry Potter Pairing: Marauders & Male!Reader Summary: It’s all theoretical, really Word Count:  1,822 A/n: Just like End-Game we can ignore the flaws of time travelling here

“Professor?”

You looked at your head of house, she sat in her office, looking up at you confused to why you would venture out for her at the hour, very early in the morning before breakfast as even started. You looked sheepish, your tie done loosely and your shirt untucked for its pants. 

“What can I help you with?”

“I have a question, one that I usually asked Professor Dumbledore, but seeing he’s not here I would go to the next best professor,” McGonagall smiles at your compliment, “If you were to go into the future with a time turner, unlikely but not impossible when you return to your time - will you have the knowledge of the future sticking in your memory? I know that you cannot be seen by your future or past self, but other people?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity, ma’am,” You replied with a shrug, standing at her doorway, “After all, I did get hat stall with Ravenclaw, curiosity is just natural with me.”

“Well,” McGonagall hums, thinking before looking at you with sharp eyes, “I would assume so - explain further by what you mean.”

“Say I travel to the future, I have married with kids, and my kids see me - I know their names and who I marry, but not asking how it came about, technically I am not ruining the future because I’m not stopping what will come to be, right? Therefore, I should remember my time in the future and is the reason I named my kids because I met them.”

“Interesting,” McGonagall nods, “I would assume, by your logic, you would be correct - though I do wonder how you came to this conclusion.”

“I asked dad once why he called me (Y/n),” You say, there was a thoughtful look on your face, “He said I’ll understand in due time - it’s always has stuck with me so I was just thinking-”

“If your father travelled in the future and met you...”

“It’s unlikely, but not impossible.”

McGonagall had a twinkle in her eye, as if she knew something, a few years ago a group of boys come barreling into her office late in the night. You looked at her uneasy before she comes to approach you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. 

“You are correct, try not to think too much for it. You have exams to concern yourself with and a quidditch match tomorrow to think about.”

“First game against the slimy-”

“Umh!”

“Sorry,” You looked at her sheepishly, “With the Slytherin team.”

“Well, off you go, I don’t want us to miss breakfast and look smart - your father looked better in that uniform than you do!”

You smiled cheekily before dashing away from the office, McGonagall locking her office for a time being, there was a glint in her eyes as she noticed the date. Reminding herself to tell your teachers of the day that you’ll be missing on their lessons for special reasons. You walked down to the great hall, you had quidditch practise that night. Your robe draped over your shoulder bag as you tried to look presentable.

That was until you heard voices murmuring, as you went closer to an empty classroom you could hear harsh whispers. Out of curiosity, you opened the door to see four boys looking like they were just caught. Your eyes widen as they had Gryffindor ties - you know all the boys in your house, after all, prefect went to you rather to Ron - who was very relieved

“Who are you and why are you posing as Gryffindor boys?” You asked as they looked at you with wide eyes.

“We’re um-” The long hair boy spluttered, looking at glasses for support. 

As you gave them a harder look, you realised something, you had recognised them, old pictures in your dad’s photo album.

“I know you!” You exclaimed.

“Oi Lupin!” Your head snapped outside to see Seamus waving you down, “You’re going to miss breakfast!” 

“Fuck off Finnegan, no I won’t,” You say as the Irish boy chortles before dragging his friends away from you. 

You sighed as you entered the room and closing the door behind you, looking at the boys in front of you.

“You’re James Potter,” he waves, as you turn to the long-haired teen, “And you, Sirius Black!”

“Yeah, I am.”

“You’re Remus,” You smile fondly, how can you possibly miss your dad’s awkward smile? Before turning to look bitter, “And Peter Pettigrew.”

“How do you know us?” James asked.

“What year is this?” Peter asked meekly.

“Hang on,” Remus exclaimed loudly, “We’re ignoring that they said you’re a Lupin, but I don’t-”

“The year is 1996, late April, and I know you because how can I not? You’re famous whether you like it or not,” You replied, shrugging your shoulders, “By any chance have you fiddled with a time turner?”

There was silence as you crossed your arm, sharply looking at them before James broke under your stare - it was all too familiar. 

“No?”

“James,” You say lowly before he looks at Remus who reveals that he had the time turner around his neck, “You’re all idiots, the lot of you!”

“Well, we’re aware of that,” Sirius says boldly, as you glared at him.

“Well, I don’t know how long you’ll be staying here. But, you better fix it. Because what you’ve created is a paradox. This shouldn’t have happened.”

“Ah, unlikely but not impossible,” Remus pointed out.

You opened your mouth before closing them, this is what your dad means when you’ll soon find out about your name. You finally picked up on McGonagall look towards you, you sighed, running your hand down your face.

“Well, breakfast will be ending in half an hour, you stay put and I mean it - I’ll help you sort this out and you go back to whatever year you are in. How old are you even?”

“Sixteen, the lot of us, Wormtail here just turned sixteen two weeks ago.”

“Oh cool,” You answered, nodding, “Guessing in nicknames that you’ve recently able to shift into your animagus forms?”

“Yeah, how do you know that?” Peter asked as you had to hold back a glare for the lad, he’s just an innocent sixteen year old who has the whole world coming for him.

“I know you guys better than the world does,” You shrugged your shoulders.

“You haven’t answered Lupin’s question,” Sirius says.

You smirked, “You’ll find out in due time. Now, will you guys promise to stay put if I get food for you?”

They all looked to each other and nodded, you sighed in relief as you placed your bag down, before leaving the room. The group of boys looking loss before obeying and getting themselves comfortable, you had returned with goodies. 

“I’m starving!” Sirius says, ready to pounce before Remus grabbed the back of his collar, “Aw, Moony!”

“Sorry about them,” Remus says as he helps you out to distribute food, “Thank you.”

You waved them off as the five of you get to work in how to get them back to their year, not much with you telling about the future for them, but dropping sublet hints for them.

“I miss Evans,” James sighs wistfully, the three other boys ignoring him - used to his pining as you stare at him, “What?”

“Oh nothing,” You hummed before looking back at your books - which you had to make a trip to the library to bring the boys some books to look for information, “Have you ever tried referring her with her first name?”

“Trust us, Evans is scary when you call her by Lily,” Sirius responded, “I tell you, bloody scary gingers - the lot of them.”

“Tell me about it,” You say thinking about Ginny Weasley, what a fiery girl, “Well, don’t give up James, might work out.”

“You think?”

“I think.”

“James, you’re asking someone from the future - it would make sense, he would know,” Remus replied dryly.

“Do I have a kid?!” James asked excitedly.

“I’m not telling?” You give him a look, “I’m not an idiot in telling you that, Merlin’s beard, knowing you idiots you would ruin the bloody future. My future - if anything, the only one I trust is Remus!”

“Yeah, make sense,” Peter answered, even you chuckled in his response.

“Well, I’m not surprised - you do share a last name.”

You give them a glare before they all got to work. You sighed back, by midday you were hoping to find a resolution. 

“God, I’m going to be tired for practice,” You yawned as you shut the sixth book of the day, standing up to stretch, “Angelina is going to be pissed.”

“You play quidditch?”

“Yeah? Chaser,” You say, before waving it off, “Not important really.”

“I think it is, Remus doesn’t like playing quidditch but knowing that you a Lupin does - it’s fascinating!” James teases as you rolled your eyes.

Your quidditch practise started at seven, luckily it was about five that you were able to finish up with the group of idiots. You had neatly stacked some books to bring back to the library. You had a nice day, you learnt more stuff about them, stuff that you wouldn’t have known, you got them to talk about their time at school.

“We’re making a map, of the whole school, but we’re not really sure what to name it. We don’t have a group name for us, by now we were hoping someone in school would name our group for us,” Sirius mention before James nudges him, telling him that he shouldn’t have told you.

You a bit preoccupied, answered without a thought, “Oh, marauders fits you idiots quite well.”

“Marauders?” Peter asked inquisitively. 

“One who roams from one place to another, it fits well with a map if you ask me,” You hummed before looking at them, all of them huddled with a chain around their necks. Remus holding the time turner, he looks at you.

“Wait, we never got your name or who you are,” He says, you smile at him.

“Oh, I’m (Y/n) Lupin, I’m your son,” With that, you started the turns of their time tuner, as Remus looks at you wide-eye, “Told you, you’d understand in due time.”

With that, you step back watching the boys fade away. You sighed and continue with your dad as you left the classroom to make your way to the library then to the great hall, you just can’t help be send a strongly worded letter to your father - hoping he reads it to Sirius. 

“Bunch of wankers,” You muttered to yourself.

“Are you okay, Mr Lupin?” McGonagall asked as you looked at her, “Muttering yourself again? How was your day?”

“It was eventful, more than I thought it would be.”

“Well, I shouldn’t keep you too long, hope you had a lovely day.”

You nodded, “Yeah, what an unlikely day I’ve had.”

[syndianites]

A Queen Serves and Protects

Chapter Two

Last Chapter --> Current --> Next Chapter!

Summary:

Post-Style Queen, Pre-Queen Wasp.

Chloe finds the Bee Miraculous, but instead of finding an obliging, subservient Kwami, she finds the Kwami of Order and Subjugation, and Pollen is not about to let herself be used like Nooroo was.

Granted, the only danger in a teenage girl is the damage she poses to herself. Can Pollen shape Chloe into a hero? Or will she stubbornly refuse to change and remain the bitter, harsh person the city has long since known?

[My take on how Chloe’s character could have developed] ——————————————————————————————

Twenty four hours went by excruciatingly slow for Pollen.

First, she had to wait through the night. Chloe hadn’t unboxed her until late in the day, when the sun was almost gone. That left little time in the day for much interaction with others.

But she didn’t spend this time twiddling her thumbs. She did what research she could. After observing Chloe- who she learned the name of moments after their deal- meander on her phone and laptop for a few hours, she had a dubious grasp on how the current technology worked.

It was quite the adventure.

But after trial and error, she managed to look Chloe up on the internet. (And what a fascinating thing!). The results gave her a basic background; Daughter of the Mayor of Paris, Mother is a renowned expert in the fashion industry, and so on. She seemed clean, for all Pollen could tell.

So she searched her room. Most of what she could see was clearly expensive, from shiny new gadgets to prim and proper clothes. Beyond some Ladybug merchandise- and oh boy was this girl a fan of Ladybug- nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

A sneak around the hotel didn’t reveal much about Chloe, herself, but her parents on the other hand….

What disasters!

Calling their relationship dysfunctional would be a complement. They were completely polarized opposites, and not in the good, healthy way. Her mother was derisive and cruel, refusing to associate with those she believed were below her and didn’t meet her exceptional standards. Her father was, despite his position, a lapdog. He would bend over backwards to please his wife, acting like a doormat.

Together, they were the perfect image of an Evil Queen and her loyal Servant.

It didn’t give Pollen any good feelings about how Chloe herself would act. Would she take after her parents? Or would she be her own person?

Day time did not ease her fears. Chloe was brash and rude, clearly taking after her mother. She didn’t remember anyone’s names, was haughty and snappy towards her staff, and clearly was comfortable acting above everyone else.

Not a good sign at all.

The way she treated her ‘friend’ was yet another bad sign. Just like her mother had her father as a lapdog she, too, had her friend as a lapdog. However, Pollen took note of how she did remember her name. That must count for something, she considered doubtfully.

School was a disaster for Pollen.

Chloe started out just as haughty as she had in the hotel. Somehow, she got worse. Rude to other students, sneering at and belittling them, and outright mean. Treating her ‘friend’ as a servant. Disregarding other’s feelings. Causing chaos in the class.

There was little Pollen saw as redeemable for Chloe. Between her attitude towards those who worked for her and her family and those who she spent most of her time around, acts of kindness were nigh impossible to find.

As they made their way home, Pollen mulled over how to find Ladybug or Master Fu. In theory, she could try and call out to the other kwami, but such an act took a lot of power and could draw the attention of Hawkmoth or worse. She could camp out until Ladybug and Chat Noir had to come out for another akuma, but how would she manage to transport her miraculous across the city without getting snatched by said akuma?

But as Chloe walked into the lobby of the hotel, her mother’s voice caught her attention.

“Clara!” Audrey strutted up to her daughter, typing away at her phone with one hand. “I need you to fetch me something dear.”

‘Clara?’ Pollen mused, ‘Her name’s Chloe.’

Chloe perked up. “Of course mother. And my name’s Chloe. What can I do for you?”

Audrey waved her hand, “Whatever you say, Cindy. I heard that Adrien Agreste, Gabriel’s son, is in your class. I need you to ensure that Gabriel seated me in the correct location this time. The reshoot of the fashion show is today and I will not be in the second row again.”

From where she could just see Chloe from the gap in her purse, Pollen watched her face fall before she straightened back up with a nod. “Of course! Putting you in the second row is ridiculous, utterly ridiculous!”

“Yes, yes, now please leave. I have business to attend to Carrie.” Audrey dismissed Chloe with a wave before heading deeper into the hotel.

Chloe, despite being misnamed three times in a row, seemed determined to please her mother. She gripped the handle of her bag tighter before rummaging in it to fish out her phone. Barely looking up, she wandered towards the elevator that would take her to her penthouse suite.

When the doors closed and left Chloe alone in the elevator, Pollen poked her head out of the bag. “Is it often your mother gets your name wrong?”

Her lips thinned as she pressed them together. “Yes.” Chloe’s response was short and clipped.

Pollen mulled this response over. Pieces of the puzzle that was Chloe were falling into place. As the doors opened again, Pollen ducked back down into the purse.

Chloe continued to text until a smile lit her face up. “Oh, Adrikins! I can always count on you.”

She skipped into her room, shooting a text to her mother- who didn’t respond- that her seat was guaranteed to be in the front row. Chloe went to toss her bag before remembering that it was occupied and lowering it down on a chair gently.

“Alright, Pollen, how was I? As great as you imagined I would be?” Chloe placed the back of her hand under her chin proudly.

In lieu of an answer, Pollen merely replied,”It hasn’t been twenty four hours yet, Chloe.”

Chloe groaned, grumbling complaints about how her heroic qualities should be obvious by now, but ultimately let it go. They had made a deal, after all.

“Oh,” Chloe said suddenly, “Sabrina will be coming over soon, so you’ll want to hide out for a while.”

A perfect opportunity to see what Chloe was like behind closed doors.

Turns out, she was strangely sweet. 

Sabrina and Chloe played together like any teens would; watching shows together, gossiping- albeit in a less than kind way- doing each others’ make-up, and most embarrassingly playing ‘Ladybug and Chat Noir’. Despite herself, Pollen found it endearing.

Still, it was not enough to sway her. Endearing or not, Chloe was not fit for being a superhero.

///////

The fashion show was cute. True to word, Chloe and her family were sat in the front row where Audrey critiqued- quite loudly for such an event- each outfit that came about. A few she praised, but they were few and far between. 

When Adrien Agreste appeared, the Style Queen gave an appreciative hum. “What quality craftsmanship. Surely an exceptional designer made that hat.”

It wasn’t until after the show that things went south.

Audrey had approached Adrien and, to many’s surprise, Gabriel Agreste in the flesh to discuss the fashion. 

“My dear, it seems you’ve set up yet another exceptional line of clothing. That hat dear Adrien is wearing is quite the gem among them.” Audrey gushed to a polite but stone-faced Gabriel.

“Ah,” Gabriel began, “That hat is not a design of my own.”

Adrien piped up here, “It was actually made by a friend of mine! Marianette,” he called over his shoulder, locking eyes with a shocked dark haired girl. “Come show Audrey this hat you made!” 

Nervous and stuttering, Marianette explained the logistics of her hat and its design, from the synthetic feather to the careful craftsmanship. Audrey, a known harsh critic, glowed as she listened.

“Fabulous, my dear!” she crowed, “I simply must see more of your work. How would you like to come to New York with me to design more fashion for a line of mine?”

Pollen, invested in the conversation, was pulled out of it by a shaking sensation. She looked up to see Chloe outright trembling as she pulled her hands into fists.

“Mother! Why would you take her of all people!” Chloe burst out. All eyes turned to her. 

“Why, Connie, it’s because she is quite exceptional! I would recognize such talent a country away,” Audrey replied with a dismissive wave.

“So am I!” 

A laugh. “Dear, the only exceptional thing about you is your mother.”

Had it not been for the hubbub of people around them, you could have heard a pin drop. Chloe stared resolutely at the floor, teeth grinding together and tears threatening to fall. Marianette, for her part, looked like a deer in headlights, stuck between a sharp drop off a cliff and an incoming car.

“Now Audrey,” Gabriel started, before getting cut off.

“I am exceptional!” Chloe shouted. “I will show you! I’m going to be a super heroine! Just you wait, I’ll be better than this girl will ever be!”

Audrey outright cackled. “Oh honey, keep dreaming. There is not a heroic bone in your body.”

Eyes watering and lips trembling, Chloe turned on a dime and stormed off. Pollen caught Marianette make an aborted move towards her, but was stopped by Adrien putting a hand on her arm.

Fuming and ready to bawl, Chloe bust out the front doors and began running down the sidewalk. For minutes, safely tucked into Chloe’s bag, all Pollen can hear is hard footsteps, people shouting, and Chloe’s heavy breathing.

After hearing doors slam open and closed repeatedly, Chloe and Pollen are left in silence. When Pollen braved a look out the purse, she sees that they have found their way back to the locker room at Chloe’s school. Seeing that they were alone, she moved out into the open.

“Fuck!” Chloe exploded. “How dare she!”

Feeling the rage roiling off Chloe, Pollen rushed to calm her. “Chloe, take a deep breath. Give yourself a minute to let it simmer.”

Icy eyes shot up to look at Pollen. “Take a breath? Let it simmer? Are you kidding! I have done my best to make my mother see I am exceptional, so show her that  I am good enough, and what does she do? Invites Dupain-Cheng of all people to go with her to New York.”

Pacing back and forth in front of the benches, Chloe growled. “Do you know when the last time I saw my mother for more than a day was? Years ago! Years, Pollen!” Tears trickled down her cheeks as Chloe caved in on herself. “I’ve done my best to be just like her, to show her I can be great too. Why won’t she ever look at me?”

With a hesitant pause, Pollen reached a paw out to Chloe’s shoulder. “Some people can’t be pleased, Chloe. You shouldn’t base your self worth on the word of another.”

Chloe jerked her shoulder away, turning her back to Pollen. “You don’t understand.”

“My mother left when I was young.” She walked forward towards the door so that she could peer out the window. “I didn’t understand why. She didn’t even say goodbye.”

“But,” Chloe continued, “If I can just get her to see that I’m worth staying for, she’ll stay here. Maybe, just maybe, I can convince her to be part of our family again.”

Red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks turned back to Pollen. “It’s just so hard. She hardly cares for me at all.”

A pause. “Pollen?” Chloe bit her lip. “Am I unlovable?”

“Of course not. Chloe, no one is beyond love. Not even the worst of people.” Pollen could feel the tides shifting. Before, she was determined to leave Chloe behind. But now? Her heart ached at the thought of abandoning her.

Chloe starts to say something else, but all Pollen could hear was the flap of wings. Her eyes flicked to behind Chloe to where the locker room door was just set ajar. A delicate butterfly of deep, cracked purple squeezed its way inside.

“Chloe!” Pollen yelled. But it was too late. The butterfly touched down on her white sunglasses and disappeared without a sound.

A sudden blank look came across Chloe’s face. A purple butterfly mask appeared across her eyes. Every part of Pollen screamed that she was in danger. Not just from an akumatized Chloe, but from Hawkmoth knowing that she was with Chloe.

Her eyes darted around the room. She needed to hide. It would be safer for the both of them if she kept herself unknown.

“Yes, Hawkmoth.”

[the-silentium]

A story of being idiots

Masterlist - A story of shirts - A story of having each others back

Pairing: Hunter x Reader, Bad Batch x Reader

Words: 1579 words

Warnings: Fluff for once. Hot kissing.

A/N: I think we’ve had enough of angst for this week. Here’s a lil’ piece of fluff until the world come crashing down :) (No, this chap is not because I didn’t have time to write much because my brother bought me the Halo:Master Chief Collection game. Totally not for that.)

Taglist: @haloangel391 @clone-rambles

"One of you will get hurt at some point." 

Tech's grumble did little to nothing to stop you and Wrecker from wrestling. The difference of strength was irrelevant here, you didn't care for the copious amount of time he easily pushed you to the ground. What you did care about was that none of you managed to throw the other down the ramp yet. 

The game was simple. The one to tumble down the flight of stairs lose. 

Now, Wrecker thought it was an easy win. Just like Crosshair and Tech did. But you had an advantage. You were a stubborn son of a bitch that liked to win against her loud bubbly brother. Plus, Hunter wasn't there yet to put an end to your game. 

You loved your brother. But as everyone knows, love hurts. And he'd be the one flying down the stairs on his ass. 

You fought against his arms trying to get a hold of yours to keep you from grabbing the door frame again. With a knee to the stomach, you kept your arms free. You almost win with your signature kick behind the knee and a push forward, but Hunter definitely chose this moment to make his way up the ramp and put an end to your fun. 

"What the hell is going on here?" 

You abruptly stopped your movement to push the big guy out of the ship, the idea of getting Hunter down the stairs with his brother wasn't one to entertain. You'd be in so much trouble that even your imploring eyes, pouty lips, and apologetic kisses would not be enough to help. 

"Just some harmless sibling bonding, that's all." You replied with your best innocent smile. You hoped he hadn't noticed the crates Wrecker and you were supposed to load into the ship instead of messing around. 

"I said no hitting your teammates." He crossed his arms over his chest, moving his unappreciative gaze from yours to Wrecker's. 

"But it's no hitting. It's just pushing." You countered as Wrecker got up from his position on the floor. 

It was a lie. You clearly hit Wrecker a couple of times, simply because you knew that your fists couldn't hurt him in the slightest. You'd never be able to bruise his skin so why would the rule apply to you? Oh right. Wrecker loved to follow the law of retaliation. 

"Game's over." He lifted his finger to point at the two of you. "No more pushing around like kids." 

Wrecker diligently obeyed like the good soldier he was deep down and walked away to find a new occupation, but you weren't. 

Hunter's eyes reduced to slits when you rolled your eyes, fingers twitching around the bag loop in his hand. You knew he hated your eye rolls at his expense, the harsh kisses and lip biting that usually followed were enough of an indication. You loved the intense make out as much as he hated the annoyed movement so he was at a disadvantage. 

He tried denying you the contact of his lips for a while, saying that brats didn't deserve his kisses, to which you answered with an eye roll. His resolution lasted for 2 days only. After 13 eye rolls from your part, he'd had enough. You were clearly doing it more often on purpose and it worked, you got to taste the caf he was previously drinking from the soft skin of his lips, and even got some of the hottest sounds you've heard from him up to this date. 

The bag loop fell from his shoulder so he could not so gently put the bag on the nearest counter and pull you behind him to the cockpit, as far away from the rest of the troopers as possible. 

Crosshair stayed silent while Tech sighed because he knew his cockpit would not be as organized as it was when his big brother was done with you. Just before the door closed behind you, Wrecker cheered at you to get some just before an excited squeal for hot food escaped his mouth. 

"You got food from the village?" You asked excitedly. Finally, a nice meal that wasn't the usual tasteless military rations. 

"Not for brats." He pushed you against the door, arms at each side of your head to effectively trap you. 

His face lowered to yours in a heartbeat, lips clashing in frustration and hunger. You eagerly accepted every ounce of irritation towards you, moaning slightly as his tongue entered your mouth to express his dominance. It was useless to fight him, his sharp senses deciphered every one of your weak spots that he could use at will to make you putty between his fingers. 

Calloused fingers reached your hips to move upwards, slipping under your shirt to dig into the flesh of your sides. The circles drawn onto the skin right under your ribs were blissful, almost causing you to shudder under his fingertips. 

Clothes have never been shed before and now wasn't the moment to start, but hands slipping under each other's shirts to feel the warm skin beneath has become a more common occurrence lately, after the bed-sharing.

It wasn't by territoriality or jealousy, it has come to your understanding that Hunter was fine with the fact that Crosshair was interested in a relationship with you, he simply didn't want to be tossed aside or forgotten. No, the touches were simply the next step in your agreed rhythm, slowly building towards more physical contact without jumping into the other's pants right away. 

The hands massaging your sides moved to your ass, the quick squeeze of his fingers telling you to jump without him having to separate his mouth from yours. 

Your fingers pulled at the hair on his neck, the newfound friction provided by his codpiece was too much for you to stay still. He grunted almost painfully, fully aware of the effect he had on your lower parts, the smells and touches and sounds all making him dizzy with lust. 

But now wasn't the time. His mouth unlatched from yours, allowing your head to fall back against the door for him to lick and kiss at your throat. He visited every spot that made you breathless, enjoying the feeling of your shaking flesh under his tongue while he could still take it. 

Soon he reached his point of no return and forced himself away from your skin, fingers gripping your hips under the effort. His face fell on your shoulder to calm his breathing, concentrating on your fingers slipping through his strands slowly, careful to not pull so you wouldn’t accidentally revive the dying fire in his lower abdomen. 

He pulled away to meet your eyes, his pupils were dilated, almost consuming all of the gorgeous brown rings that you loved to admire. He didn’t have to talk, his orbs were telling enough and you were sure yours were just as revealing. 

You fell for that man and he fell for you just as much. 

Your forehead moved to his, both your breath mending together. A smile pulled at your lips at something hitting the door behind you, the vibrations passing from the door to your back. 

“Stop eating each other’s faces. Lunch’s served.” You weren’t surprised at Crosshair’s annoyance. You knew the sniper was eagerly waiting for his turn to assault your lips. Apparently, he got addicted pretty quickly.  

“Not hungry for food.” He whispered, eyes glued to your lips once again.

“But I am.” You pushed against his chest after pecking his lips one last time. He followed your mouth, but you didn’t have any of it.

Back on your own feet, you passed a hand through your hair while another pair of hands straightened your shirt. 

Hunter opened the door and with a last kiss, you made your way to the back of the ship.

"I hope it's not too much of a battlefield in there." Tech seemed really unamused, poking at his plate when you entered the room.

"You’ll have fun cleaning everything up later." You snickered at his horrified look. This time nothing was out of place, so you could tease him. 

You took the seat right next to him and right in front of Wrecker who pushed a plate of vegetables with some brown cereal and a slice of unknown meat before you. It looked as delicious as it smelled. 

You immediately thanked him, not losing a second to feed the savory nutrients to your starving stomach. 

Hunter seated himself at his brother's side, leaving only Tech and yourself on your side of the table. 

"Need a drink?" Wrecker got up from his seat, stopping long enough to get your answer. 

With your full appreciation, you nodded to your big brother who got onto his feet to get bottles in the supply crates that were yet to be loaded onto the ship, thanks to two easily distractible soldiers. 

Your heart stopped as you saw him trip on his feet and fall down the ramp, painful yelps filling the common area of the ship. The rest of the oblivious boys jumped in their seat, not at the ruckus of their brother hitting the stairs in quick succession, but at your sudden victory cry. 

Laughing hard, you fell down your chair to clasp at your sides, leaving the rest of them to comprehend what actually happened by themselves. 

Soon you were a laughing, crying, breathless mess on the floor of the Marauder, totally unable to answer Tech's questions as Wrecker's low whines reached your ears, fuelling your laughter for another couple of minutes. 

You won.

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

As Long as the Forest Stands Tall, I’ll Be With You

Title: As Long As The Forest Stands Tall, I’ll Be With You

Summary: Humans come to Logan’s tree in all sorts of shapes and sizes. They ask for good crops, to find true love and to strike riches beyond their wildest dreams. Rarely, however, does a child stand beneath his tree, shivering and hiccuping in the bitter cold of winter.

Pairings: Familial Analogical, Background Platonic Logicality and Familial Intruroyality

Word-Count: 2.6-k

Warnings: Human Sacrifice, Death Mention, Body Horror, Morally Gray Logan, Angst with a Happy Ending

This fic is inspired by an anon ask sent to me awhile back that I just now finished. It’s also the Cryptid Logan fic that won the poll of next published wip, so hope y’all all enjoy :)

-

A human child stands at the base of his tree, shivering and hiccuping in the bitter cold of winter. Indeed, the child’s stick arms hugs its frame in a poor attempt to stay warm. The child does not have a coat, and its threadbare stockings could hardly count as shoes. 

Logan finds himself mystified by the sight.

 Humans came to his tree, in all sorts of shapes and sizes. They asked for good crops, to find true love and to strike riches beyond their wildest dreams. He granted them all, as long as they left an appropriate gift in its place. Things like books and knowledge he favored most of all, but he often did not turn away a cow or two if it was all they had to offer.

However a child? Rarely do children come seeking his help. Adolescents do not have the same worries as their often self-absorbed older counterparts. The few children that have come his way in decades past asked for things for others. The appearance of the child is enough to wake him fully from his winter rest.

“Hello.” He speaks, the wind carrying his message, through the dead tree branches and over the mounds of snow below. 

He forms at the base of his tree, in a shape familiar yet alien to a human’s eye. Centuries of practicing shapeshifting and he still has not perfected a form that does not send a human’s flight-or-fight’s reflexes into overdrive. Humans are innately good picking up on minuscule anomalies. If it is not the nose this time, then it is the ears he has gotten wrong. Too pointy, too many. He’s certain this time he has the right amount of body parts.

The child leaps in the air at his greeting. They turn to face him, trembling even more. He does not think it is from the cold.

“H-hello.” The child returns the greeting, dipping their head in reverence.

“What is your name, child?” He asks, “and what do you seek?”

The child makes a weird, muffled noise. Their head is still lowered, facing away from Logan’s searching gaze.

“My name is Virgil, I--I’ve come to seek an end to this harsh winter. That you--you bring about a prosperous out-pour of crops this Spring.” The child speaks, slow and stilted. Like words firmly pressed into their mouth by someone else and not a genuine request from the child himself.

A flash of anger passes through Logan. If humans think by sending out a sapling their chances will double, they are wrong. Logan values knowledge and wisdom, not emotional manipulation.

 Logan hums in acknowledgement of Virgil’s words, “I see. And what shall you offer in payment?”

“Myself.”

“What?” Logan asks, for he is sure he misunderstood the child.

“I--it’s--Chief Habrok said as an orphan I’m not good for much else and that this is the highest honor I could bring to the village. So I offer myself as a sacrifice.” Virgil looks up at him, glistening tears half-frozen to his cheeks. So much of both fear and determination radiates from the small being. 

Logan’s ire has kindled to a raging forest-fire. This is worse than simply thinking Logan would be softer to a child’s pleas than an adult’s. Humans have bargained with him using livestock but one of their own young? A child that has lost so much already? It is revolting. All around them, the forest creaks, branches shifting not from the blizzard’s winds but of their own volition. Virgil flinches. 

He reaches down, softly cusping Virgil’s chin with a hand to direct the child’s attention towards himself.

“I will take you far away from here. Somewhere you’ll be safe and loved for as long as this tree stands tall. Okay?” 

“And my village--you’ll take care of them?” Virgil asks, confusion and doubt swirling around him. Much like the fierce snowfall sweeping through the forest.

Logan’s lips twitches. “You have my word that they’ll be taken care of.” 

“O-okay.” Virgil agrees, voice soft and small.

Logan drops his hand away, holding it out by his side. “Take my hand.”

Most would hesitate touching the hand of a spirit. They’d fear to be swept away, to never see the light of day again. The fear is very much present within the child. But again so is that firm, resolute determination. Virgil’s tiny hand shoots forward, latching onto Logan’s larger one with a startlingly strong grip. The wind picks up as the trees shake themselves from their foundations, their roots. They stretch, relishing the freedom of movement.  

“Close your eyes.” Logan murmurs. It’s his only warning before he calls forth to the forest. Logan is not this one tree like the humans believe. He is all of them. He is the whole forest. Each of them are perfectly formed clones connected by the same root system. 

He integrates Virgil’s soul into the system, careful to keep the child’s individuality intact. Somewhere in the bidding snowstorm, a young three-foot sapling sprouts bright green leaves much like the tree the two stand under. Certain of his work, he withdraws. He underestimates the drain of his powers, because he nearly collapses to the ground.

“You!” Virgil gasps, staring at Logan with bulging eyes. Logan looks at himself, no longer ambiguously human in appearance. Ah, yes. He’s quite forgotten how frightening his true form can be for humans. It is a shimmery indigo blue that is almost translucent. He has a multitude of eyes and just as many limbs. His hair is mossy, with bits of berries and flowers poking out of it. His eyes are a pupiless navy blue with whirling black rings.

“You look different as well,” Logan says, pointing out that the child’s form has taken on a glowing purple hue. Hmm, purple. Unusual color for a spirit. He still looks much like a human aside from the color. Give it enough time, however, and the child’s appearance will shift to reflect his newfound nature.

“Am I dead?” The child blurts out.

“Not in the slightest.” Logan reassures. The child does not look reassured despite this, “Now come, I know someone who will take good care of you.”

“B-but I thought, you’d--” The child stutters, unable to form a coherent sentence.

“Oh no, I’m terrible with children. I promise that you will be quite safe with him.” Logan says, blinking out the dizzying nausea. He frowns in distaste. Maintaining a physical presence is annoying and draining. This is why he seldoms ventures out to the physical realm if he can help it. 

“Now shall we?” Logan asks, shouting over the blizzard at this point. Virgil huddles closer, burying his head into Logan’s robes, away from the roaring blizzard. Logan’s robes become wet with tears. Logan places a tentative hand on the child’s back. \

Then he pulls both of them away--their physical forms dissolving completely. They reappear in a dwelling in the depths of the astral realm. A calamity of voices greets them. A kind, older one overlaid by two energetic young ones. 

“--you two shouldn’t go off without permiss--”

“Logey, Logey!” The two young voices say in unison, as a set of green and red blurs come dashing towards Logan’s direction. The green one looks human enough except for their bottom half made up of swishing, swirling tentacles. The red one sports shimmery see-through wings and insectoid eyes. 

The child presses closer to Logan, his heart rate accelerating by a substantial amount. In response, Logan draws his limbs around to shield Virgil while holding one hand out in warning. He supposes new faces, especially inhuman ones, is frightening for the young child.

“Remus, Roman,” He says, breathing labored, “I ask we forgo the usual hug-tackle just this once.”

The saplings stop short, their faces flashing with confusion. One of them opens his mouth to protest, but a blue pair of hands with talon-like nails rest on each of their shoulders.  

“Logan, what’s going on?” Patton asks, “shouldn’t you be slumbering still?”

Logan doesn’t answer him at first. He glances down, craning his neck towards Virgil. “Would you like to meet my friend?” He whispers lowly. Virgil tightens his grip on Logan’s robes but nods. Satisfied, Logan draws his limbs back, revealing the child to Patton and the saplings. Twin gasps erupt from Remus and Roman.

“This is Virgil.” Logan informs them, “Virgil, this is Patton and his sons--”

“I’m Remus and this is Stinky!” Remus says, thrusting his thumb towards his brother.

“No I’m NOT! My name’s Roman!” Roman shrieks, his indignation however is quickly forgotten as he holds out a hand towards Virgil, “Hey you want to play knights and dragons? You and I can be the knights!”

“No fair! I want him to be a dragon with me!” Remus stomps his foot. Roman glares back and it seemed like the two were on the verge of a wrestling match when a tentative voice speaks up.

“Can I...can I be a dragon knight?” 

Remus and Roman stare at Virgil, who mostly hidden himself behind Logan at this point. Just a purple tuft of hair and eyes are visible.

“That’s...that’d be cool!” The twins say in unison. It’s times like then that Logan is reminded they were once one; Romulus. Once a highly respected river spirit until humans’ actions caused him to split and reform anew.

“Why don’t you three go along and play in the fort? Logan and I have some things to discuss.” Patton suggests, smiling brightly. Too bright. Logan withholds a shudder. 

Remus and Roman don’t protest, too excited at the prospect of a new playmate. Roman extends a hand towards Virgil, who looks up at Logan in askance. 

“Well, go on.” Logan raises an eyebrow, “it is alright.”

Virgil takes Roman’s hand and the three are gone in a blink of an eye. So has Patton’s smile. 

“Logan--what have you done?” 

“What do you mean?” Logan deflects, gritting his teeth. He extends a few limbs, looking for something to steady himself with. A warm pair of arms steady him, guiding him to a chair. Trust Patton to help even in the midst of being upset.

“Don’t. Not right now. Virgil--he is a part of you, I can sense it. But he isn’t--”

“The human village near my forest sent him as a sacrifice.”

Patton almost lets go of him, “You didn’t!”

“Of course not,” Logan rolls his eyes as he sits down in the chair with a grunt, “but I couldn’t send him back there or leave him completely alone to die. Humans can’t survive our realm, you know this. Integrating his soul as a part of me was the only option.”

“And the village?” 

“I’ve taken care to make sure they get what they justifiably deserve.” Logan answers, closing his eyes as he shares a vision with Patton. 

For a fleeting second, he sees flashes of the forest marching among the white visage of a raging blizzard. Flickers of drab buildings caught in gnarled branches being torn apart. A hundred voices screaming in terror. 

He opens his eyes and sees Patton again. The air spirit regards him with raised eyebrows and a small frown tugging at his lips. Not quite approval, nor disapproval.

“You plan to look after Virgil, then?” 

“No, of course not,” Logan says, “I thought that was rather obvious. You are good with saplings--I am not. Besides you are always saying how it’d be nice to have around a peer Roman’s and Remus’ age for their benefits.”

As to prove his point, several delighted laughter echoes from the children in the distance. Logan smirks, satisfied. He rises from his chair, desperate to return to his winter slumber, when Patton pushes him back into it. He is embarrassed that it was more of a gentle shove than anything else.

“Logan, you can’t just--you have a responsibility to Virgil! He is of you now, if you leave--it’ll be detrimental to both of you. Remember when Romul--when Remus and Roman first came into being, if separated it caused them--”

“This is different. I made sure to account for that,” Logan snaps, “Please Patton, could you at least watch over him until--”

 Logan stops abruptly as a pain burrows into him. After centuries of existence, Logan has experienced pain, both great and minimal. But he was not prepared for this type of pain. The aching, spluttering kind. He could not breathe. It was like he was drowning and being burned alive at the same time. But it isn’t oxygen he needs. It’s something else. And every second he isn’t reunited with this something, the pain only continues to worsen. 

“Dad! Dad!”

“Something’s wrong--”

“I didn’t hit him!”

“--hurt--”

Something is deposited onto his lap. A shaking, quivering Virgil. Who Logan had promised would be safe here. Not writhing in pain. Logan gathers his limbs around the child tightly. A low rumble like trees creaking in the wind emanates from Logan. A lullaby that forest spirits know well. A human might find it frightening. It does not frighten Virgil. He can feel the child relaxing in his hold, cries quietening. Virgil is not human anymore, after all. The pain ebbs away but still Logan’s focus remains on Virgil.

“Are you alright now?” Logan asks.

Virgil nods, hesitating.  “I’m sorry.”

Logan’s many eyes blink in confusion. He looks over to Patton and the twins, who he’d almost forgotten. Patton’s lips are pressed firmly together in a signature “I told you so” move. He is missing his usual gleam in his eyes, however. His gaze darts between Logan and Virgil before landing solidly on Logan. It doesn’t take him long to decipher what that means.

“What do you have to be sorry for?” Logan asks Virgil. 

“I did something bad--didn’t I? And you punished me so that’s why I--”

“No,” Logan cuts in, causing the child to jolt, “you did not do anything wrong. I should be apologizing to you. I inadvertently caused harm to you when I promised safety.”

“You mean it?” Virgil asks, his little eyes squinting up at Logan. There’s so much wariness and mistrust in those eyes. Too much for a child as young as Virgil.

“I do. I apologize for causing further harm to befall you. While it hadn’t been my intention, it still hurt you and so I take responsibility for it.” Logan tells him, bowing his head. It is a serious matter when spirits break a promise. He cannot blame the young sapling if he chooses to not to accept his apology. Especially after the hurt Virgil has already endured in his short lifespan. 

Logan is as old as the forest. He has seen many things and knows twice that of things in the world. Still, nothing quite prepares him for Virgil’s response.

“Okay,” The child says, and then, “promise you won’t leave me?”

He raises his head to look at Virgil. Doubt still dances in those little eyes, but so does hope. Logan wants to laugh. What a stubborn, brave thing to have. He’s still willing to trust Logan even though he’d broken his promise not even a hour after making it. It’s illogical, foolish yet heartwarming all the same.

“As long as the forest stands tall, I will be with you.” Logan promises, a much more serious oath than the first.

Then a small smile graces Virgil’s face and oh! Oh, for all his infinite wisdom, Logan does not know how to raise a sapling. How could he, when he had no mother tree? No one to nurture and nourish him as a young, vulnerable sapling? But he knows Virgil already has him wrapped around his roots. That upon sensing the child at his tree, his fate at once had been sealed.

For once not knowing something does not agitate him. In fact, as he wraps a limb over the child in a loose embrace, he thinks he does not mind it.

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Kiro’s Winter Tour Date

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date, 冬游之约, which has not been released in English servers! 🍒

[ Released on 24 January 2021 ]

[ PROLOGUE ]

Despite the cold and harsh wind, the strands of Kiro’s hair are drenched with sweat as he rides a motocross in a dashing manner from within the camera lens. 

With a “cut!” from the director, today’s shoot once again ends early and smoothly. While all the staff are still present, I clear my throat.

MC: It’s not easy filming a variety show outdoors during winter. Everyone has worked hard this month!

This time round, the shoot is taking place in a faraway city in the northwest. Even though the scenery is magnificent, the filming conditions are rather trying. 

I pause for a moment, continuing with a grin.

MC: Now, I’m going to announce a piece of good news. Because we’re ahead of schedule for the filming, the production team has decided that there’ll be a two day vacation. Have a good rest, everyone!

The crowd immediately bursts into cheers, but my gaze has already landed on the figure who is currently walking towards me. 

Kiro casually wipes his sweat drenched hair, looking at me with bright eyes. 

Kiro: How was the scene earlier? 

MC: You could ride it in such a dashing manner despite being a beginner. Very incredible!

Kiro: Hearing this from you, I can rest easy. The company put in a lot of effort for this plan, and everyone has worked hard. I must definitely showcase my most perfect self, and not disappoint everyone. 

As the light gradually dims in this cold winter, I can clearly see the seriousness and resoluteness in his eyes.

MC: Don’t worry, you're always more amazing than you think.

I deliberately give his fatigued cheeks a rub, shooting him a mischievous smile. 

MC: Since work has already ended, let’s not dwell on it. Come to think of it, how do you want to spend the vacation tomorrow?

Thinking about the continuous filming he has done this month, I hurriedly search for the best way to relax.

MC: Mm... how about a spa?

Kiro: Even though this idea isn’t bad, it’s rare for us to come to such a faraway place. It’d be such a waste if we don’t walk around.

Blinking his sparking eyes, Kiro offers me his hand. 

Kiro: Miss Chips, are you interested in accompanying me on an exploration trip?

-

[ THE ACTUAL DATE ]

Kiro: Oh no... did I really remember it wrongly?

Kiro scratches his head, a perplexed look on his face, lowering his head in dismay.

Watching as the ends of his golden coloured hair curl upwards with his action, I can’t help but laugh aloud. 

MC: It’s okay. Anyway, it isn’t the first time...

Kiro places his hands behind his back, pretending to look incredibly angry.

Kiro: It’s just that the road recognition system in my mind has temporarily short-circuited. Wait for it to reboot. I’ll definitely find the correct direction!

While speaking, he makes a huge show of scanning his surroundings, rubbing his chin as though he’s in deep contemplation.

[ flashback starts ]

Very quickly, we’ve come to the last day of break. Kiro and I start a day of vacation without a goal in mind.

Walking and pausing aimlessly, we munch on food and take photographs, spending this “Idle Winter Strolling Day” in a leisurely manner.

When evening arrives, Kiro suggests returning to the plum blossom park where we had taken pictures at before, but...

Kiro: I think this should be the street. There’s a convenience store, a newspaper box, but where’s the park...

With Kiro leading us confidently, we head in the direction of the setting sun. However, the surroundings look increasingly dilapidated.

He furrows his brows, pursing his lips tightly.

After making another turn, he gives up struggling and starts searching for the destination on the map of his phone. However, it becomes clear that... the situation is a little complicated.

[ flashback ends ]

MC: How is it? Has the “road recognition system” rebooted?

Kiro pouts. 

Kiro: It doesn’t happen that quickly. Rebooting always requires some time...

With a “pfft”, I chuckle and take his hand in mine.

MC: Let’s not waste “battery” then. Let’s just “continue in our mistakes”! We might even have an unexpected encounter!

I pause, mimicking his tone as I speak.

MC: Mr Kiro, would you be interested in going on another exploration trip?

Kiro blinks, the expression in his eyes relaxing considerably. 

Kiro: In that case, looks like MC will be the one pointing the direction. Should we head to the left or right for our “unexpected encounter”?

MC: How about forward?

Pointing at a pile of solid iron bars and the dirt road ahead, my eyes flit to Kiro with interest.

Kiro leans his head closer to me, gazing towards the direction I’m pointing at.

Kiro: Crossing the pile of iron bars? Looks like it’s truly an unknown adventure.

He turns his head to look at me, his eyes crinkled into a smile, the corners of his lips curled into a handsome arc.

Kiro: Since it’s an invitation from Miss Chips, of course it isn’t a problem!

Kiro tugs me along, and we very quickly climb over the pile of iron bars and reach a layer of flat ground.

At the side of the somewhat empty and spacious road, there’s a colourful building. Drawing closer to it, we realise that it’s actually an amusement arcade.

Stepping in excitedly, we find that it’s completely empty. There’s only a middle-aged man, who appears to the boss, packing some items.

Noticing us from the corner of his eye, he greets us immediately.

Boss: Welcome. I’m really sorry, but our arcade will only be officially open for business tomorrow.

Hearing the apologetic explanation from the boss, Kiro’s initially excited gaze dims in an instant.

Kiro: Ah... what a pity. 

Kiro: We won’t bother you then. Wishing you a happy opening tomorrow!

A smile reminiscent of sunlight once again surfaces on Kiro’s lips, but his line of sight sweeps across the amusement arcade longingly.

In the next second, his eyes light up. Excited, he points at a spot nearby and leans close to my ear, lowering his voice.

Kiro: Look, that’s the shooting game I mentioned before. This place even has Taiko no Tatsujin and Whac-A-Mole... this place is basically a treasure trove!

Perhaps meeting a customer who “knows all about the goods”, the boss’ interest is piqued. He suddenly calls out to us. 

Boss: Lad, so you’re an connoisseur! Since we share an affinity, you’re welcome to try the games for free if you’re interested! Just treat it as a large bargain sale before the business starts.

MC: ...huh?!

Kiro: !!!

Faced with such an unexpected surprise, I subconsciously turn to Kiro, and see disbelief flowing in his large eyes. 

Seeing that we’re bursting with anticipation, the boss smiles even more widely.

Boss: Anyway, I need to make a trip to the warehouse. The two of you can just help yourselves.

-

After the boss leaves, Kiro is unable to contain himself, and he steps in front of the game consoles, an excited expression dancing on his face. Meanwhile, I also become increasingly elated.

Kiro walks over to my side, his azure eyes sparkling.

Kiro: As expected of a miraculous MC... Seems like we’ve really triggered an “unexpected encounter”! Are you ready to begin this “unexpected gaming encounter”?

Meeting his expectant gaze, I release a large grin, nodding furiously.

Kiro: Let’s start from...

MC: There’s a capsule machine selling bear cubs! I remember that you’ve been collecting this set.

Kiro: That’s right. Other than the red one, I’ve already collected the other nine!

Kiro tilts his chin upwards, revealing a proud yet satisfied smile.

Kiro: I’ll tell you a secret - I’m a mini expert at capsule machines.

He leans closer to me, his warm breath filling my nose.

Kiro: Which baby bear does MC want? If you make a wish now, I might even fulfil it immediately for you.

MC: In that case... the red one!

Hearing my response, Kiro blinks his crystal clear eyes, an amused smile on his lips. 

Kiro: It’s definitely not a problem! 

He lifts up a game coin, clasping it in both of his hands. After pretending to recite some words, he inserts the coin into the slot of the capsule machine smoothly.

Along with the sound of the hand-crank turning, I soon hear a clear “thud”.

Kiro retrieves the fallen capsule, shaking it gently at his ear.  He lowers his voice, deliberately mysterious.

Kiro: Make a guess - do you think we’ll succeed with one try?

Seeing how animated Kiro looks, I suddenly feel like teasing him with the opposite. 

MC: I don’t think so. We probably need at least five or six tries!

Hearing this, Kiro’s mouth turns into the shape of an “O” from shock, just as I expected.

Kiro: MC, I’m trying to fulfil your wish!

Watching me laugh gleefully, Kiro puffs up his cheeks. With a soft “hmph”, he turns his head, then pumps himself up light-heartedly.

Kiro: With the mini capsule expert Kiro personally turning the hand-crank, it’d definitely be a success on the first try!

After saying this, he cups the capsule with both hands, pretentiously blowing a puff of air onto his palms. Then, he’s filled with confidence as he turns the capsule--

But in the next second, his shoulders sag in disappointment - what’s inside is a small yellow bear.

Kiro: ...it was just an accident. 

Kiro: I vow on the bear cub that the next one will definitely be red!

Carrying this lofty aspiration, Kiro tries five more times.

He didn’t expect that with each determined turn, his face would morph into a crestfallen expression the moment he opens the capsule. 

With these repeated coincidences, Kiro lowers his eyes dejectedly, curling his finger and tapping against the glass of the capsule machine.

Kiro: Capsule Machine, tell me secretly - did you discuss this beforehand with MC behind my back?

Hearing Kiro’s mutters, I mimic him and speak softly.

MC: Capsule Machine, you can’t disclose our secret.

Kiro’s eyes grow wide, and he raises his hands in mock anger.

Kiro: I hereby announce that the mini expert has gone on strike because of unfair treatment! MC will have to do the next try.

He purses his lips, adding another soft, indignant grumble.

Kiro: [softly] I want to see if the capsule machine is truly that biased.

The corners of my lips involuntarily curl upwards. With light-hearted movements, I insert the coin into the slot. Very soon, a capsule falls out.

Mimicking his earlier posture, I bring the capsule to my ear and give it a shake. Then, I grin as I hold it out to Kiro.

MC: The capsule told me that there’s probably a red one inside! Since there’s such a lucky opportunity, give it one more try!

Kiro takes it from me doubtfully, raising it to his left eye. Squinting with his right eye, he attempts to peer into the capsule.

With a forceful twist -- there’s really a red coloured bear cub!

The light of dusk streams in through the glass window, casting the disobedient strand of hair beneath Kiro’s cap with a glittering glow.

He very carefully retrieves the small red bear from the capsule, eyes filled will disbelief. Even I’m left flabbergasted for a long while, mouth hanging open.

Kiro: ...Miss Chips, I really believe the whispering between you and the capsule machine now.

After the initial shock passes, Kiro straightens his back, confidence slowly returning to him.

Kiro: [clears throat] In that case, I’ll have to ask MC to greet it on my behalf. So that it’d also give me a red bear cub soon!

Taking the small bear, I lift my head to see a flashing anticipation in those blue eyes. I immediately furl my fingers.

MC: Whispering too many times will lose its effectiveness. But giving this small bear to you... I could consider it.

Kiro watches me eagerly. I pretend to keep the bear, but he swiftly takes my hand in the next second. 

Kiro: “Consider”? What’s there to consider? If you can’t think of an idea, I have one.

Standing next to the capsule machine, the corners of Kiro’s lips lift into a large arc, and his smile is full of confidence. 

Kiro: Let’s have a competition! There are so many games here. Let’s pick one and have a competition to decide who's the winner and loser. If I win, you’ll give the bear to me. How’s that?

MC: That’s not a bad idea... but what if I win?

Kiro: You’re free to decide on the condition!

Since the game would determine the winner, Kiro and I walk around the amusement arcade, carefully selecting a game.

Just when I plan to ask if the simulation game before us would work, Kiro’s eyes suddenly widen when he looks at a corner behind us.

Kiro: Eh? Hold on--

He jogs over to the machine, eyes brimming with a surprised light.

Kiro: It’s really this music game...

MC: Have you played it before?

Kiro lifts his head sharply, pulling on my hand with excitement.

Kiro: I didn’t just play it! This music game is a classic. Last time, I often sneaked out to the amusement arcades to play this...

Kiro subconsciously pinches my fingers, a tinge of nostalgia flashing across his eyes.

Kiro: When I first went overseas, I didn’t have many friends, so I could only go to amusement arcades on my own to pass the time. It’s been so many years, and I wonder if my skills have deteriorated.

Even though he only mentioned it casually, the thought of a young Kiro being alone abroad causes the tip of my heart to clench tightly.

Kiro: Hm? What kind of an expression is that?

Kiro leans his head over abruptly, his azure eyes in front of mine, a smile hidden in their depths. 

Kiro: Those things happened a very long time ago.

All of a sudden, Kiro is struck with an idea.

Kiro: MC... do you want to experience the charm of this music game?

Even without realising it, I nod lightly.

Kiro immediately reveals a smile reminiscent of someone who has gotten his way.

Kiro: [laughs] Let’s use it for the competition then! It’s been a long time since I played it, and I miss it a little.

Before I come to my senses, Kiro has already pulled me over to the PK area in front of the music game. 

Unfurling his long and slender fingers, he places them gently on the round ‘start’ button. 

Turning his head, he shoots me a beautiful wink. At this moment, a beam of slyness appears in his eyes, which are as pure as the sky.

Kiro: Ready? The time to witness Kiro’s incredibly high skills begins now!

Cheery and lively music sounds. The screen of the game lights up with all sorts of colours and icons. Taken by surprise, I quickly and clumsily tap on them.

Even though the tune doesn’t have a fast rhythm, I just can’t tap on them in time. 

Watching the messy “BAD” and “MISS” filling the screen, I get increasingly frantic, and my movements become even less synchronised.

Sweeping a glance at Kiro beside me, he’s already completely in the zone, nodding and tapping leisurely along with the melody, humming softly.

MC: ...! Why did I miss it again!!

While Kiro plays the game skilfully and with ease, he can’t help but laugh aloud at my embarrassing display. 

MC: ...Kiro, how dare you laugh! Hurry up and help me. Why can’t I tap them in time?

Quickly forgetting that this is a PK determining who the winner is, I instinctively ask him for help. 

Kiro looks at my screen from behind, then stops his actions without realising it.

Kiro: ...right now! No no, that’s too early...

Seeing that teaching verbally isn’t effective, Kiro, who is fully engrossed in teaching, stretches out his long arms and cages me from behind.

In the next second, the familiar body temperature leans even closer -- he reaches out from behind me, latching onto my fingers tightly.

With his chest pressed against me, I can’t help but pause. However, Kiro doesn’t seem to notice, and he continues bobbing his head as he hums along with the melody.

Warm breaths gently brush the back of my head, causing me to move along with his rhythm.

What moves with my body is also my thrumming heartbeat. 

Kiro: An easy feat... How is it? Isn’t it pretty easy? Look, just like this -- Perfect!

Kiro seems to have his head bowed, sticking against my ear. Hearing him call my name, I instinctively lift my head--

In that moment, his lips gently brush against my ear.

What surrounds me is his nice-smelling scent. My heart thumps continuously, and my mind is completely filled with him and nothing else.

Kiro also freezes for a second. Soon after, those azure eyes, reminiscent of the sea, seem to become ignited.

His face grows larger in my vision. Moist and tender lips plant a gentle kiss on the tip of my nose. 

“Game over!”

Along with the loud and clear electronic beep, the game coincidentally reaches its end. The multiplayer music game quickly rolls out the scores. 

My face is slightly red, stunned by his action. Suddenly, I hear a loud voice at my ear.

Kiro: What?! 

Following Kiro’s stupefied line of sight, I turn my head--

I actually obtained the highest score?!

I can’t believe my eyes. Behind me, Kiro pouts and jokes around.

Kiro: Terrible... I fell for Miss Chips’ trap so easily.

MC: No, I didn’t--

Kiro: But it’s fine, I’m willing to admit defeat.

Kiro nuzzles his head on the crook of my neck. Tightening his grip on our laced fingers, he takes me into his arms gently.

Kiro: Tell me, what’s your request?

His muffled voice drifts from the side of my neck, his warm breaths tickling my ear, causing my heart to stir.

MC: My request is actually very simple. Kiro, when you go back tonight, don’t look at your script. Sleep early, okay?

When Kiro hears this, he straightens up. His arms deftly turn me around to face him. Then, he pretends to give me a salute.

Kiro: Miss Producer, don’t worry. I’m a very professional artiste. Even without rest, I can finish filming the variety show in perfect condition.

Even though I know he’s just joking, I give Kiro a glare, then rub his cheeks.

MC: Work is just one part of life. Even if you want to do your best for this variety show, you have to take care of your body first, right?

Kiro nods, his crystal clear eyes looking at me, a brilliant smile on his face.

Kiro: Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.

He tilts his head sideways, giving me a drawn out and focused gaze. Lifting his hand, he tousles my hair. 

Kiro: You’ve been following me around this month and didn’t much rest either. I’m the one who feels a little worried...

MC: It’s not the same! Whether it’s working with you or walking around aimlessly, as long as as I’m with you... it makes me feel very happy and at peace.

Kiro: To me, MC is also my only happy medicine.

He blurts out. 

The remaining light from the setting sun dances on Kiro’s smiling face, leaving me unable to avert my gaze.

Kiro: For example, even though the conditions and timelines for this shoot are really tough, it’s a combination of both mine and MC’s effort. 

Kiro: Once I think about how you’re keeping me company from behind the camera, and think about the incredible results from our twin efforts, I don’t feel tired at all. Because I know we share the same feelings.

Kiro embraces me tightly, resting his chin on my shoulder. Although I can’t see his expression, his voice enters my ears clearly.

Kiro: The strength you give me is of far greater importance than you can imagine.

Kiro: Which is why even without additional promises, we can be each other’s strength. 

Kiro: That’s how I’ve always been thinking.

In the empty amusement arcade, the lights are akin to twinkling stars, illuminating the area brightly.

🧸 Moments and Texts: here

🧸 Support the cafe by dropping by the tip jar!

[timextoxhajima]

Love Me A Little Less: Chapter 4 - The Guest

LOVE ME A LITTLE LESS CHAPTER MASTERLIST

Member: (3rd person pov) arranged marriage au with Lee Juyeon

Genre: angsty wangsty

Taglist: @sunwoowuvbot @hyunjaethereal​​​

“Get the guest out of my fucking office.”

Jang Won grimly knocks on the door, looking down to ensure Younghoon was carrying more than a fruit basket - a briefcase, worth half a million in cash, in case she needed to bribe a certain someone. Her eyes befall the apple sitting in the fruit basket, and she peels apart the wrapper to remove the bruised item, mindlessly hurling it into the trash can right by the lift. 

The door clicks open, the sound of the door chain reminding her that she needs to handle this one with care and caution.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hi Mrs Nam, I’m Kim Jang Won and this is--”

“I know who you are. I’m asking what you’re here for.”

“Straight to the point I see,” Jang Won cocks a brow. “Look, we don’t want to make things difficult for you, but we’d just like to find out if you happened to know anything about the body swap regarding your husband.”

Mrs Nam’s breathing gets stuck in her throat. She swallows, eyes flitting back and forth between Jang Won and Younghoon. 

“I know nothing. After he died, I visit him every month. I didn’t even know his body was moved until the news.”

Jang Won feels like she’s being strangled, all her nerves shutting down one by one like a tidal surge through her. But Younghoon tugs on the end of her blazer, out of sight, and shifts to talk to Mrs Nam instead.

“Do you mind if we come in and have a chat about it? We’d just like to know more about Mr Nam so we can figure out who did it. Don’t you at least want to know who shifted your husband’s body?”

A hint of curiosity and anger flickers in her eyes despite the slight hesitation. Mrs Nam subtly nods, head looking down but gaze still stuck to Younghoon as she gently closes the door.

“You don’t have to be in there if you don’t want to,” He murmurs, loud enough for her to hear while watching her in the corner of his eyes. 

Jang Won sniffles, finger rubbing the tip of her nose as she composes herself. The jingle of the chain being removed sounds through the door. 

“I’ll be in there because I want to, not because I can.”

The door clicks open, and Mrs Nam keeps it wide for Jang Won and Younghoon to enter. The apartment is rather neat and simple - a couple of single sofa seats around a circular table and a standing television. Pictures on the shelves framing the television. 

Drawn to the pictures first, Jang Won wanders to the photographs. 

A son, older than Younghoon, stands in most of the pictures. A degree in culinary sciences. A picture shot in Paris. Multiple pictures in Europe. A family portrait of him and his wife, Caucasian. 

Younghoon sits opposite Mrs Nam, who looks more tired and drained than anything else, like the anger from before has completely dissipated.

He glances through the pictures, aware that something must’ve caught his sister’s attention because Jang Won wasn’t being very focused now. “We just wanted to know more about him. He might’ve worked at Artemis and I’ve yet to check with his ex-colleagues but I just wanted to know if he was happy there, or if he wasn’t, did he have any... enemies?”

Mrs Nam takes in a deep breath, rubbing an eye before her hands come together on her lap. “No, he was happy, as far as I knew. The only thing he was upset about was my son moving to France and settling there. But otherwise, he was easy-going. Kind. Helpful. I can’t think of anybody who would want to deliberately shift his... body... because he had offended them.”

“I hate to be the one to suggest this but could your father have done anything to anger your son... to the point where--”

“No,” She says with such resolution, it finally tears Jang Won’s attention off the photos. “Never. Their love might’ve been tough but they’ll never do anything to hurt each other.”

Younghoon glances at his sister before returning to Mrs Nam. “So... nobody, huh?”

“None that I can think of.”

Jang Won blinks her emotions away, fingers fiddling with her rings as she looks to Younghoon. His eyes sink to the floor, licking his lips in slight anxiety as he realises they’ve hit a dead end. 

They leave the apartment with only the briefcase, and Mrs Nam closes the door before they can even walk off. The lift ride was exceptionally quiet, Younghoon merely watching Jang Won zip in and out of reality in the reflection of the lift mirrors. 

He looks over, watching the layer of tears thicken over her eyes. Reaching out and rubbing her shoulder, he contains the emotions he’s feeling, just by watching his cold-hearted sister reveal the hint of humanity in her. 

“I told you not to go in if you couldn’t.”

“And I could,” Jang Won clears her throat. “I don’t need you to baby me. It’s been a long time anyway. I’ll deal with it.”

The lift door dings open, and sees Jang Won walking out the doors, leaving Younghoon behind as she struts off. 

Unfortunately, this soft side of Jang Won remains short-lived, for Younghoon finds himself holding her back from tearing the skin off their father’s face when they reach home. 

“What the Hell is this?” Jang Won frowns, facial lines deepening in her skin when the staff is crowded in her office but none of them were moving. Her father, standing by her desk, looks up from the loaded query. 

“Ah, child! I was just waiting to--”

“Are you... moving into my office?”

Her father opens his mouth, lips wide enough for her to see her teeth when Mr Ro finally joins the party. 

“What is going on here?”

“Sir,” One of the housemaids lowers her head, almost like she was embarrassed. “Our guest-- Mr Kim... asked for us to help shift Miss Kim’s belongings out of her office. We were told not to tell you.”

Jang Won’s eyes almost double in size when she processes the words, the tips of her feet already turning to her father. Mr Ro looks up from his subordinate with distaste and disapproval, unable to believe the things he was trying to accomplish. 

“Just which part of June did you not fucking understand? Huh?” Jang Won takes one step forward, but Younghoon grabs her wrist and then wraps his palms around her upper arms. “Playing possum killed your braincells too?”

“No...! No! I wanted things to be early, smooth. So that you wouldn’t be pressured to shift out in June--”

“Bold of you to assume you’ll get it in June!” She hisses, harshly ripping herself out from Younghoon’s grip. “From now on you are a guest and a guest only. This is my house and you will touch nothing that does not belong to you.”

“Aw, come on, daughter--”

“Don’t--” She seethes, finger almost at his nose now. “Call me that. From now on, we just share the same surname... But if you want mercy on the account that I am something you created, then I’d rather you wait until I die.”

The staff in the room lower their head as she storms by them toward the door, and as dramatic as she is, she pulls the doors open and smiles widely at her staff. “A kind, kind reminder that all these people standing before you, Mr Kim Jo-Pil... they work for me. They answer to Mr Ro, and Mr Ro answers to me. So, shall you require any assistance in possibly fucking something else up... do get it to me through Mr Ro.”

She smiles sweetly, tilting her head to the side. “Now, get the guest out of my fucking office.”

The wind brushes through Juyeon’s hair relentlessly, his dark blue, almost black, locks ruffled and made messy in the wind. The yacht makes small jumps against the water, the sun reflected off the surface of the water and into his eyes, the motion of the vehicle spraying some of it onto his hands that were over the railing. 

“Are you sure you want to get yourself involved in this... Jang Won and The Board, I mean,” Sunwoo joins Juyeon by the cockpit, grabbing a bottle of Sprite and cracking the cap open. He takes a sip and smacks his lips, letting the wind do its job in his hair too. “I mean, I know it wasn’t your choice but... that stunt at the press conference last week? Damn, son.”

Juyeon smirks and scoffs, looking at Sunwoo through the lens of his sunglasses. “Maybe it was fueled by her, I don’t know... But I’d be lying if I said being at the same table with her doesn’t make me feel powerful. It feels like I could do anything I wanted as long as she was by my side and it’d... it’ll work, you know?”

“‘It’ll work’?” Sunwoo chuckles sarcastically. “You’re talking about the most powerful figure of The Board of your generation. Hell, it’s Hera’s Princess you’re dealing with here. I’m sure if you played by her rules a hundred percent, she’d buy you an island if you wanted.”

The continuous splash of the water just a few metres down the railing brings some kind of peace to Juyeon, despite the idea of being married to Kim Jang Won being tasteless.

“What about her brother? The Prince of Artemis, right? Kim Younghoon. He must’ve had something to say about Apple-Korea’s next director smooching his little sister on national TV,” Sunwoo snorts, taking another gulp of his drink. 

Juyeon shakes his head, apart from providing Sunwoo a patient smile. “I haven’t met her brother, actually. But word has it he’s the calmer of the two, which I’m actually pretty grateful for.”

“Maybe you should get acquainted with him. Get on Kim Jang Won’s good side by making friends with Kim Younghoon,” Sunwoo places the bottle back into the ice box, noticing the yacht slowing down to a halt. Juyeon peels himself off the railings, finally standing and giving his own limbs a big stretch. 

“Nah,” Juyeon shakes his head and pulls off his sunglasses, squinting away from the harsh sunlight. “The thing about Jang Won is that you shouldn’t indirectly find ways to get on her good side... you gotta do it in her face. That’s how she plays her games. Straightforward. Ruthless.”

“So like... borderline crazy and a control freak too, right?”

Juyeon snickers, pulling off his shirt to reveal the diving suit he’s got underneath. “Pretty sure if your dad came back from the dead and took over your life’s work, you would too.”

Sunwoo smirks, stripping the pieces of clothes off himself too. “Defending the missus already, I see.”

Rolling his eyes and pulling on an oxygen tank with a mask, Juyeon then glares at the younger. “Well, if she’s offering me all the cents I can count, I might as well work it to my best effort, right?”

He cocks a smug brow, giving his goggles one last adjustment before heading to the edge of the yacht. The hues of blue calm his nerves, already able to see the world of life beneath the surface. It has always been his paradise, and always will be.

“Today, we celebrate the love between two of The Board’s most powerful figures: Lee Juyeon, the next director of Apple-Korea, and The Board’s very own Hera’s Princess, Kim Jang Won. Just a last month, the return of Kim Jo-Pil shocked the country...”

Jang Won dips her finger into the glass of lemon-infused water, contorting the image of the television beyond the table and the space of the room. Still in her pajamas, she cannot find the motivation and strength to leave her bed. She can already hear the crowd bustling downstairs, getting ready for her hair, makeup, fittings--

Knock knock

“Oh, Mr Ro,” She covers her eyes, tired. The door clicks open and she groans to herself, refusing to open her eyes. “Please just kill me. I hate it. I hate all of this. Why did he have to climb out of his own grave?”

“I don’t know. His body was swapped, wasn’t it?”

The voice jolts Jang Won out of her laziness, and she sits up like she had been summoned from the dead too. 

“When did you get here?” 

Juyeon smiles, somewhat genuine, and leans against the door frame. He was already in a simple button up shirt, meant to be hidden under a gorgeous, white and silver blazer. His hair’s still wet though, his fringe covering his eyebrows and some portion of his eyes. 

Jang Won can’t help but soften at the sight of him half a foot into his room - if only Lee Juyeon knew how much her friends back in high school swooned over him. 

“Also, I don’t think killing you would be a great idea. Wouldn’t want to see you climb out of your own grave too. Family traits seem to run in the blood of the Kims.”

Jang Won rolls her eyes and crawls her way out of the bed that’s too big for her, feet finding her fluffy, cotton slippers by the bed and shuffling about the bedroom with her hair in a mess. 

“Not very good at answering questions, are you?” She sniffles, not bothering to close the bathroom door behind her as she ties her hair gracefully, pulling a hair towel over her head to keep her fringe out of her face. She hears the door click, and Juyeon appears behind her in the reflection of the mirror. 

The scent of mint from the toothpaste wafts through her nose. 

“Well,” He shrugs and leans against the doorframe again, brushing his fringe out of his eyes. “I answered yours.”

Jang Won chokes on the toothpaste foam, gripping the edges of the sink as she retches into the marble. “Your butler... Mr Ro, called me over. Offered to cover my fitting and everything for today. He said it’s on the house, or rather, yours, I suppose.”

Jang Won finishes up on her brushing, spitting out the leftover foam. “Still didn’t answer my question, y’know.”

Juyeon removes himself off the doorframe, watching her struggle by throwing her hair behind her shoulder. Some locks keep sliding back down around her neck, and her hands are already lathering some facial wash. She tuts in frustration, unable to get her hair out of the way.

Then Juyeon gently gathers her hair behind her neck, his warm fingers barely brushing against her skin. “Morning. Just about two hours ago,” He waits for Jang Won to squint at him, before she provides enough trust to shut her eyes and rub the lotion into her cheeks. 

“Mr Ro wanted to come wake you up, but something seemed to crop up with the tea and cake catering, so.”

“What? What’s wrong with the tea and cake catering? I paid good money for that bullshit,” She looks up from the sink, face smeared in some greenish-blue cream.

He grins, chuckling under his breath as she glares at him in the mirror. “Paying good money for ‘bullshit’, huh? How much did the ‘bullshit’ cost then?”

“Well,” She hesitates and frowns, creating lines in the lotion on her face. “Enough to piss me off if they don’t give me what I want.”

Leaning towards the sink, she runs her hands under the water and washes the lotion off her face.

“What company is the catering from? Need my help?”

She scoffs, waving his hand off her hair, grabbing a cotton towel and pressing it to her face. “To what? What are you gonna do? ‘Hey there, I’m the next director of Apple-Korea and I’d like my tarts and cupcakes this afternoon’.”

He leans his rear into the edge of the platform where the sink was built into, back facing the mirror while she carefully hangs the towel over the metal bar mounted into the beige marble wall. “What else would you want me to say, since that’s just exactly what I want?”

“I’on’t know, buy the company or something.”

He raises both brows in extreme shock, his lips pouting in disbelief that he should’ve been prepared for anyway. “What a solution.”

“Got a better idea?” She rolls her eyes, pulling a robe into the shower cubicle. “Also, are you going to stand there and watch me strip?”

Juyeon’s eyes flit off her instantly, hands pushing himself off the edge of the sink. “Could’ve just asked me to leave instead of being so crude.”

“Well now, I didn’t ask you to leave, I asked--”

“I know- I know what you asked-” Juyeon grimaces, blowing some air into the pockets between his teeth and lips. He sucks in a deep breath and exhales loudly through an ‘o’, giving Jang Won some kind of sadistic pleasure. “Do you ever get tired of that? Messing with people?”

Jang Won’s brown orbs rise to the ceiling, actually giving thought to the question. Her lower lip juts out as she shrugs. “Well... yeah. Yeah,” She finally nods. “But hey! I have different degrees of messing-with-people. There’s the I-kinda-wanna-mess-with-you-by-making-you-awkward kind and there’s the I-might-wanna-rebury-my-dad kind-”

“Alright, you have a nice bath.” 

Snorting, Juyeon waves her nonsense off and walks out the bathroom, sliding the door shut.