#but i like drawing the tattered sleeves okay?

[im-smart-i-swear]

heres some doodles of The Funky Guys TM from yesterday!

i havent really had the energy to really finish any larger piece for WEEKS so doodles are all youre gonna get for now.....

you KNOW im rotating that purple fucker(eenek) in my head when i can only draw them sobbing and angry and scared and frustrated over and over again :) 

MAN ive been thinkin about ‘em recently....... uhhh im gonna put some stuff about eeneks’s upbringing under the cut if anyone wants to read it(its a mess of paragraphs i didnt use when answering an ask lol so its propably not very good:/ its just some of my thoughts on een and galra as a whole)

okay so eenek is... how do i put this... fixated on the idea of the galran empire that they grew up surrounded by. they have this idealised view of how the world works and lets just say 'clones of the black paladin helping a galran and being overall nice people' doesnt really fit in there...

(btw for this au's sake lets assume an average galran lifespan is roughly similiar to humans or slightly longer, cause its way more interesting that way imo)

zarkon was the emperor for 10 000 years. ten thousand. thats generations upon generations of galrans raised in a culture of violence and hate and a sense of superiority. like..... thats fucked up right?? thats insane? after so many generations, can you even separate galran culture from the war itself?

so Eenek grew up surrounded by propaganda and war, convinced the galran empire is the best thing to ever happen to the universe. their life was relatively normal(or as close as you could get) until they were the galran equivalent of around eight. death somewhere in space or ‘in the trenches’ was propably a common occurance - sometimes it would be a friend's parent or a distant relative or some other person just distant enough to be bearable... until it wasnt.

i dont know yet if it was a parent or a sibling, but either way - they were gone. Eenek just lost a loved one, and it hit them hard. BUT instead of starting to question if the conquest was really worth all the grief, they just sunk in deeper. beacuse it has to be worth it, right? all the pain and death wasnt, couldnt be for nothing, their loved one didnt die in a pointless conflict right?? right???

and so Eenek decides to dedicate their life to the galran empire(at like. 8 years old..)

 its calm for a couple years after that(though they slowly drift away from their dad(who is actually secretly forging documents and helping escaped prisoners&deserters flee the empire but shhhhh eenek doesnt know that)) and theN QUIZNKING VOLTRON APPEARS and its all downhill from there :)

(damn the more i think about them the more i realise they really ARE like a chihuahua)

[rosemaze-reveries]

This is going to be a heavy request, so if it's not your cup of tea please feel free to delete this or not acknowledge it, please.

That being said, would it be okay to request a comforting scenario involving at least Norton with a reader who struggles with SH? And if I had to push, maybe Ithaqua and Luchino as well?

On a separate note, I love your writing and blog. Your past posts are both entertaining and comforting to read. I don't use Tumblr a lot but I check back in to see if you and a few other blogs have updated. Thank you for your time, and I hope you're well.

this kind of comfort fic can be hard to come by, i know 🥲 thank you for the req and the well wishes♡ same to you

inspiration hit for luchino first so i'll post his for now. the others will be linked here as they get finished. they won't all be this heavy on the medical care, i promise!

luchino diruse x you he dresses your wounds; you worry you're a burden to him

⚠️ graphic SH wounds, medical treatment (stitches)

Luchino’s ears prick at the sound of your footsteps.

He could hear you from a mile away—one of the perks of being part-reptile—as you sidestep the creaks in the floorboards, careful not to draw the attention of any curious night prowlers. He hears you pause at his door, your fist hovering above the wood, mustering the strength for that impossible knock. This happens occasionally. Sometimes you decide against it and retreat back to your room. Luchino never stops you, just like he never tells you that he’s been counting each of your visits, even the ones you think escape his notice.

Just when he thinks the silence has lasted a beat too long, his gaze drifts to the door, and it creaks open without a knock. Apparently you’ve decided to skip over it altogether. Not that that bothers him; he was hoping you’d choose him from the start. You’re slow and deliberate when you push the door in, giving him time to protest if he needs to. He doesn’t.

“Still awake?” you whisper.

Luchino is sitting in his reading chair. It’s the only lit corner of his room, with an open book in his lap and an apple core browning on the table beside him. Clearly he’s retired for the night. The sight of it makes your stomach churn, as you know you’re disturbing his quiet evening, but you’re not sure what else you expected. He flashes you a tender smile.

“As a matter of fact,” he says, closing his book and passing it to the table, “sleep has abandoned me entirely. Staying here tonight?”

His question doesn’t hear its answer. You wander into the room, shutting the door behind you. It wouldn’t take a fool to know you’re a little out of sorts—you haven’t even acknowledged him, and your eyes sweep the room erratically, trying to land on anything but him. Luchino watches you with curious patience. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. Best to just get it out with.

“Stitches came out again,” you say.

He doesn’t bat an eye. “On their own?”

“Mhm.”

As he stands up, your legs stiffen, hanging under you like lead. All you can do is send him a glassy stare when he comes to inspect your arm. Luchino had just refitted your sutures a few days ago, after their first instance of “falling out on their own.” He’s well aware that wasn’t really the case. Even if he won’t admit to it outright, you know he knows, and you both keep the lie going anyway. He’s considerate like that. Or maybe he’s just placating you. Blaming sloppy stitches should be a blatant insult to his medical expertise, and Luchino is far from unskilled with the needle. Even so, this is one detail he never questions you on.

He curls his fingers gently around your wrist. You’re wearing a loose nightshirt with sleeves that reach your elbows. Somewhere in the back of his head, he finds it unusual that you’d walk around the manor with your forearms exposed, but he reasons that this was urgent enough to warrant an exception. It’s a grisly sight. Frayed silk knots dot your skin, all tattered and picked at, and the wounds between them have begun to pool again. He heaves a sigh as he examines it all. Guilt spikes through your throat.

“I could go find Dr. Dyer instead,” you offer, already trying to pull away. Luchino’s gaze flicks up from your arm. The eyes reflecting back at him are wide and winded and pierce straight through him, as if afraid of something he can’t see. He cups a warm hand around the base of your neck.

“This is nothing you and I can’t manage,” he says. His thumb tenderly traces over your cheek. “They won’t heal as neatly as they might’ve before, that’s all. Wait in my chair.”

He releases you to rummage through his bedside cabinet, where he fishes out some ampoules and a leather tool bag. You don’t move right away. The longer your eyes linger on Luchino’s frame, a burning sensation prickles over them, but no tears want to fall. He turns around with an armful of medical supplies.

“Are you feeling faint?” he asks.

“Kind of,” you admit. The dizziness hasn’t whittled away your consciousness yet, at least.

“Well, I’d rather not have you testing gravity today. Sit down.”

His chair is still warm from his late-night reading. You watch him clear away his book and the apple core before spreading a cloth on the table. You’re thankful he’s able to stay so calm each time this happens, chatting with you as if this is a practised routine. But he surely can’t be ecstatic about having extra work to do this late. Work that could’ve been avoidable, at that. The guilt clouding your mind wins you over again.

“You’re too good to me,” you murmur, eyes drifting to the floor. “Do you ever regret it?”

“Being good to you?”

“Putting up with me. I can’t imagine it’s been fun.”

“No,” he agrees, unraveling the leather bag. “Seeing you this way grieves me in a way I’ve never known before—hold out your arm.” One of the ampoules contains some kind of clear fluid, an anesthetic he made himself. He breaks off the neck. “But I’ve never considered this to be ‘putting up’ with you.”

“Would’ve been easier to find someone who doesn’t have all these problems.”

“And lose out on you? Not a chance, my dear.”

That cheeky pet name prompts you to shoot him a glance. He ruffles your hair.

“Too good to me,” you mutter again, looking away.

“One of the many pitfalls of being in love, I’m afraid.”

Forceps, scissors, needle and thread. As he lays out the rest of his equipment, your heart skips a beat. This is always the worst part. You always forget how much you dread it until it’s right in front of you. Watching him draw a syringe of that anesthetic, you instinctively squeeze your thighs, clenching your jaw and fists to steel your nerves.

It takes two doses to numb each stitch. Luchino says he’s working on a stronger anesthetic, one that can be ingested, or at the very least one that numbs a larger area. But he is staunchly against the idea of using you as a lab rat, so you’re not sure how far along its progress has gotten. For now you’re stuck with this method. You suppose you don’t hide the unease on your face very well. All he needs is one look at you before he reaches for the foot of his bed. There he grabs the crumpled shirt he wore earlier that day, balling it tight and holding it to your lips.

“Open.”

Thankful to have something to bite down on, you roll your eyes to the ceiling, toes curling off the floor.

Luchino works quickly. You can’t bring yourself to watch, though. He finishes dressing your fresh stitches in thick layers of gauze. You’re sure it’s to deter you from picking at them again. At least for another night, you think, but you refuse to voice that thought. You murmur out an awkward thank-you for treating you.

Instead of answering Luchino keeps his gaze fixed on your arm. It’s silent and scrutinizing, lost in thought. You know that look in his eye—he’s caught on to something. You quickly jump up, trying to sidle past him, but he catches your arm.

“(Y/N),” he starts, standing with you. You don’t say anything. His fingers find your sleeve and slowly begin to roll it up your shoulder. There’s no hiding this from him anymore. He’d figured out your patterns a long time ago. You can’t stop your secret from being exposed, but you can keep your gaze locked on him, searching anxiously for a flash of annoyance, exhaustion, bitterness—anything to reveal how much of a nuisance he finds you. Surprise, you think. More work for you. Aren’t I inconvenient?

Luchino lets no indication of his thoughts appear on his face. All he does is trace a gentle finger alongside a barely-congealed string of blood. These ones are new. There’s a long strip of them, neatly in a row, just a few hours old.

“They’re not too deep,” he observes. “The bleeding’s already stopped. I’ll bandage them now.”

He smoothes down your sleeve and looks at you for a moment. Then he lets out a sigh, drawing your body into his chest. You let him hold you, not quite returning the embrace.

“Will you find me before this happens next time?” he asks.

You don’t answer.

[goldenamaranthe-blog]

The Battered Dragon

Buckle up, buttercups. This is a long one.

Jaune: Soooo... (continues looking around at the "forest" around him) where do you guys think we are?

Ruby: I don't know. I honestly didn't think I'd find anyone that quickly. Even if half of the group was tied up my a village of mice.

Weiss: (plucking a thorn out of her sleeve)They were... craftier than I would have thought.

Blake: (ears wilt) It makes me wonder where Yang is, or if she's okay.

Weiss: (places a hand on Blake's shoulder comfortingly) I'm sure we'll find Yang. You have to remember that this is Yang we're talking about. If anyone can manage surviving in an unknown world filled with random dangers, I'd place the charred remains of the Schnee fortune on it.

Blake: (ears perk up slightly) Yeah, you're right.

Weiss: (watches as Ruby and Jaune discuss what steps they should take next) You know. When we find her, it might be a good idea to have a bit of a heart-to-heart with Yang.

Blake: (ears spring skyward) I-I don't know what you're talking about.

Weiss: Blake, you almost jumped off the platform after Yang. I dragged you off the literal brink, and you immediately went feral on Neo afterwards.

Blake: I'm that obvious, huh?

Weiss: To everyone except Yang herself... (watches as Ruby trips over a random tree root and pulls Jaune down to the ground with her) And maybe those two.

Blake: (chuckles softly)

Jaune: Hey! Do you guys think we'll see the Lively Carpenter or the Battered Dragon???

Ruby: The Battered Dragon? I don't remember that character from the story.

Blake: The Battered Dragon was a strong warrior that fought back the night in a fiery blaze, but was always warm and kind towards the people in the book.

Weiss: We're not in a storybook. But! If we were, I wouldn't mind meeting the Lively Carpenter. They were so sweet in the story.

Jaune: I remember the Battered Dragon was like a barbarian of sorts. Super cool and strong who fought with her fists.

Ruby: I don't remember Yang ever reading that character. Actually, I don't remember her reading me that story at all.

Jaune: Huh... That's odd. I would have though- (draws sword) INCOMIIIIIING!!!

Jabberwalker: (bounds through the canopy into the clearing and slashes at Jaune)

Ruby: Jaune! (pulls Jaune out of the way)

Blake: Ruby! (throws Gambol Shroud, wraps the ribbon around Ruby, and yanks her back)

Weiss: (glyph attacks Jabberwalker and blasts it back)

Jabberwalker: Seeking - Searching - Contacting - DEVOURING!!! (leaps towards the group and slashes at the group wildly)

RWBJ: (get tossed to the ground)

Jabberwalker: (tail whips Blake to pin her down and leaps onto her)

Blake: (blocks claws with her sword and struggles to keep the claw from her face)

RWJ: Blake!

??? : I said I wasn't done with you yet!!!

-Burning fireball of stone barrels in and slams against the Jabberwalker's head, shattering into a million smoldering pieces as molten rock oozes over spiral horns-

??? : (rugged, dark brown leather adorned with intricate patterns and fur trims, well-worn trousers and boots, tanned leather tank top with tatters at the hem where the bottom has been torn off, revealing muscular abs and a few battle scars, and a blazing heart tattoo on a well-endowed chest. Scarred left arm is on display, muscles rippling as powerful hands grab the Jabberwalker's horns, while a paint chipped, slightly rusted metallic right arm glints dully in the sunshine. A purple bandana tied off where the metal meets flesh. Black and brown leather hand armor and pauldron adorn the left shoulder and hand with golden brown/grey whisps of fur protrude from under the plates. Burning golden hair burn out in a long trail behind a scorched, wooden dragon mask)

??? : Did you honestly think I'd let you hurt anyone here? (punches Jabberwalker a few times in the face) Then you're crazier than I thought! (throws Jabberwalker over to the next acre)

RWBJ: (stare in shock)

Jaune: (gasps like an excited child) Oh, my gosh! It's the Battered Dragon!!!

Blake: The Battered Dragon! In PERSON!

Weiss: We're actually in a fairytale....

Battered Dragon: (panting before squaring her shoulders and turning to RWBJ) Dammit! (takes off her mask, revealing one lilac and one crimson eye and three scars on her jaw) You guys weren't supposed to be here.

Jaune: Is that...?

Weiss: Yang?

Ruby: (walks up to the Battered Dragon) Yang?

Battered Dragon: (shakes her head, dislodging the tears in her eyes before nodding firmly) Yeah, Rubes. It's me. And you guys weren't supposed to-

Ruby: (grabs Yang's hand tightly) If you didn't think we'd come looking for you, then you must have forgotten who raised me.

Battered Dragon Yang: (sniffs and holds Ruby's hand) Right. I'm just... glad to see you guys again after all this ti- PUAH!!!

Blake: (tackles BDY to the ground and hugs her tight) Yang~

Battered Dragon Yang: (shocked eyes glance at Blake briefly before tears slip from her eyes, her nose wrinkles in an attempt to keep from crying, and she breaks. Arms wrap around Blake like a lifeline) It's actually you....

Weiss: (after a few minutes) Yang, what happened to you?

Battered Dragon Yang: It's... a long story...

[bjfinn]

A DAY AT THE BEACH

(based on a drawing by @jennifer stolzer; video by a friend of mine, taken at St Zotique Beach, Quebec)

Note: Originally I called this story "Beached Beej", but I was never very happy with that title, so I renamed it.

"What are you guys doing?" Beej asked.

"It's Labour Day weekend," Lydia replied as she Charles and Delia packed a couple of bags. "We're going to the beach."

"The beach?" Beej echoed. "Why? What's there to do at the beach?"

"Well, there's swimming, of course --" Delia told him.

"Too much like bathing," the demon said, scowling. "What else you got?"

"We can play volleyball," Lydia suggested.

"Next."

"There's a number of nesting sites for sea birds," offered Charles.

Beej grinned. "Sure, okay -- that sounds good. Anything else?"

"There's lots of food trucks," Lydia told him.

Beej's ears perked up at that. "What kind of food trucks?"

"Hot dogs, hamburgers, lobster rolls, fried clams, falafel, tacos, ice cream -- you name it."

"Plus I've got a picnic basket," Delia added.

"Well, what're we waitin' for?" Beej said. "Come on -- let's get going already!"

"You can't go to the beach dressed like that," Lydia told him. "You need swimming trunks, sandals, a summer shirt ..."

"Like this?" he asked. He snapped his fingers and instantly his tattered and mouldy striped suit was replaced with a black-and-white striped short-sleeved shirt, a pair of bright green swimming trunks with a black beetle motif and a pair of flip-flops. And to complete the outfit, he had on a pair of slatted hot pink sunglasses. He looked adorably ridiculous.

"Perfect," Lydia said -- as usual, the joke was lost on the demon.

"Now can we go?" he asked impatiently.

*****

"Where's the food?" Beej asked when they arrived at the beach and got out of the car.

"Beej!" Lydia chided. "Give us a minute, will you?"

"Well, hurry up -- I'm hungry!" he grumbled.

Lydia opened the picnic basket and pulled out a sandwich in a Ziploc bag. She waved it in front of his face. He made a grab for it, but she was quicker.

"Ah, come on!"

"Fetch!" Lydia said, and threw it out of the car as far as she could. Beej tore off after it.

"Lydia," Delia said. "He's not a dog!"

Beej returned, munching happily on the sandwich. "It's okay, Mom," he said, and Delia's heart, as always, skipped a beat to hear him call her that. "I don't mind -- Lydia's my best friend."

"Where should we set ourselves up?" Charles asked, looking around.

"There's a nice spot over there," Delia replied, pointing to an unoccupied stretch of sand near the north end, just in front of a cluster of trees. "Some sun, some shade ..."

*****

After lunch, Lydia tried to persuade Beej to go swimming. "You can't go to the beach and not get in the water!"

"Nuh-uh," he said, crossing his arms defiantly. "Nothin' doin', kid. This demon doesn't go in the water for anyone!"

"Why not?" she asked. "Are you gonna melt or something?"

"No," he said petulantly. "I just don't like water, that's all."

"I bet you can't swim," she said. "You're afraid, aren't you?"

"I'm not afraid!" he scowled.

"Yes, you are -- you're a big, fat scaredy cat!" She put her hands on her hips and stuck out her tongue. "Scaredy cat, scaredy cat, scaredy cat!"

He glared at her, his hair turning magenta as he started huffing and puffing angrily. "I'll show you who's a scaredy cat!"

He hastily removed his shirt. Lydia got her phone out to capture the moment on video.

"RRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!" Beej yelled as he made a mad dash for the water. He was waist deep in the frigid Atlantic when he dove in headfirst.

Lydia and the others expected him to surface immediately, sputtering and coughing -- but he didn't.

"Beej?" Lydia called. "Beej! Are you okay?"

No answer. Lydia began to worry about her friend.

"BEEJ!" she screamed.

Nothing.

"Do you think he's all right?" Delia asked.

"I don't know," Charles replied, holding her. "Maybe there's a good reason he doesn't like water."

"BEEEEEJ!" Lydia, frantic now, ran into the water just as the demon had done, heading towards the spot where he'd disappeared.

Just as she got there, the demon erupted from the waves, grinning happily. He gave her two thumbs up. "I sure showed you, didn't I?" he said.

"You ... you rotten sonofa--" she wailed, half in anger and half in relief, tears flowing as she began beating her fists against his chest.

Beej grabbed her and held her tight. "Hey," he said quietly. "Hey -- I'm okay! It was just a joke." He grinned mischievously. "Who's the scaredy cat now?"

"You big jerk!" she replied. "I thought .. I didn't know --" She pulled away from him and smacked his shoulder. "What were you doing under there all that time, anyway?"

In reply, the demon reached into the pocket of his trunks, holding a tiny crab in the palm of his hand.

"Oh, he's so cute!" Lydia said, smiling at the little creature. "Hi there!"

The crab raised its claws in a defensive gesture.

"I think he likes you."

"We should put him back," Lydia told him.

"Okay," Beej replied, and he gently lowered his hand into the water and released the crustacean. "I just thought you'd like to meet him."

"Let's head back to the beach," Lydia said.

(Rare footage of a demon voluntarily entering the water)

[randompajamaalt]

okay I’m gonna go on a rant real quick(spoiler alert it’s not real quick)

So you know how in Simon’s episode everyone’s talking about how he wrote the fionna and cake stories? And just not letting him live them down? That must suck so much because hearing everyone talk about them like he wrote them makes him feel like nobody can recognize just how different he is from ice king. Everyone thinks of them as the same person, like Simon is just the ice king but boring and not as fun. Even Finn talks about the stories to Simon like Simon himself wrote them, not the ice king, and it makes him feel awful. Like he just can’t get away from it. He’s traumatized, genuinely, and everyone around him is treating him like the ice king is better than him. Can’t be fun.

and I have a lot of headcannons for simon(I mean what did you expect), but a lot of my main ones are stuff like he doesn’t feel cold as much anymore, and he accidentally takes near-freezing showers when he’s zoned out or dissociating purely because he doesn’t realize. And another thing is I think he can’t even take normal showers anymore- the normal hot water feels suffocating, and he overheats too quickly. That’s actually a thing I have personally- in middleschool I went on a week-long field-trip like thing where I had to spend a week camping in the dead winter with a team of 15 other kids and it really messed me up. I felt cold like I never had before- I’ve gotta say I haven’t felt much cold like it since. I almost got hypothermia multiple times. And since then my body temperature runs a bit lower, my hands don’t circulate well so they’re always near ice cold, and I take cold showers because I overheat too easily. And I think simon also has a lot of those things, but like- boosted. To an insane amount. He was the ice king for a thousand years, so it makes sense. I think his house is always ice cold and he doesn’t realize it. I think he has to buy special sheets and pillow covers and blankets optimized for summer and high temperatures because normal ones overheat him. I think he practically dies whenever summertime rolls around and just sits in his house 24/7 with the AC on max. All that jazz. And don’t get me wrong, the idea of Simon cozied up in the wintertime with a bunch of blankets is wonderful, but to me I think he would do something of the opposite. Whenever you look in Christmas photos of him and the gang, everyone else is bundled up and he’s in a tank top or a t shirt or something to that extent. And yes, I know he wears a lot of jackets and long sleeved things in the show, BUT! BUT! What if this is for other reasons. Could be a work uniform or a work-provided wardrobe. Could be the only thing you could find, just pulled off a scarecrow. Could be something forced on you by your weird alternate universe yassified clone. Etc, etc, you get the gist. I think once he opens up more you see him with far shorter sleeves in pictures and just in general. Also, when we see Fionna shivering in the Winter King episode, Simon doesn’t bat an eye when he’s wearing thin tattered clothes and NO SOCKS OR SHOES. ON ICE. That takes either insane willpower and pain tolerance or just flat out cold immunity. Also I think it would be really cute if whenever an event calls for a Christmas sweater Marcy sews or crochets him a custom sleeveless one <333 their dynamic is amazing(and you cannot convince me Marcy doesn’t crochet)!! I might end up just drawing a bunch of stuff where Simon is wearing tank tops because why the heck not. Also he likes Big Bang theory and he watches it with PB and Marcy sometimes LET ME LIVE. also I think he used to watch it a lot with Betty as well. I’m sad now

Sorry that was longer than planned Uh- yay simon!! I may or may not draw/write something inspired by this, who knows

[plixiedust]

Okay. Chiro if she was a little fucking freak. I’ll explain all the headcanon stuff below if you care LOL..the self projection is insane

-gave him a mullet/longer hair. She deserves it. Also it’s naturally messy YESSS CHOPPY BANGS WE LOVE TO SEE IT GIRL🗣️

-either a scar or birthmark in the shape of sunrays over his eye. I think it’s interesting and it shows that he’s truly the chosen one or something idk. I’ll think of something interesting with it I just thought it looked cool (he probably puts makeup over it most of the time though)

-also a scarred eyebrow to match up with the birthmark thing

-the orange stripes on the mask are more shaped like a stream of tears if that makes sense ??? I always thought the stripes looked like a trail of tears kinda. And the spikes line up with the birthmark thing so I’m satisfied

-very raggedy scarf and clothes, VERY VERY heavily inspired off of her look in S2E3, I promise they weren’t that tattered originally though. I love tattered clothes like this sorry they look badass (once again this is why I say this isn’t a complete redesign because if it was they would not look like that. I just wanted to bc it looks cool)

-short sleeves and more sun symbolism on the sleeves, yay!

-wearing a dress (my gender-fluid chiro headcanon is REAL) and it’s meant to be styled the same as my silver antauri gijinka’s dress on purpose. On the orange inside part it’s supposed to look like sunrays (again)

-jinmay’s heart as a necklace. He wears it with pride

-baggy pants and combat boots combo my favveeeeee :3

-acne and a toothgap and (I was gonna add freckles but I feared it would be too much so just pretend freckles are there) because she’s still just 14 and most teenagers have acne!!!! we are wild with the self projection today

-actually somewhat muscular looking now

-her mask ties around in the back and for some reason I didn’t draw a side profile to show it but a long ribbon from the mask goes down in the back

okay that’s all it’s 2 am I’m going to sleep now

[thegrandlinesimp]

This turned out to be less kink and more character study, my brain saw it as a prompt and I rolled with it. And just so you know I headcanon Kid is left handed (for reasons that would take too long to explain here).

Also, did I look up images of amputee stumps mere days post operation because I’m a slut for authenticity and Oda is a pussy in not drawing it? Yes, yes I did.

Warnings: not much really, a bit angsty, some mentions of blood but nothing terrible, vague mentions of past child abuse (Kid’s mum is a bitch)

Word count: 3.5k

The Victoria Punk rocked steadily on the dark sea, waves lapping at her sides as she creaked in response. The moon was high in the sky and stars shining above, their sparkling light reflected off the surface of the calm waters. A castle loomed over the ship, turrets crumbling with age and the water had long since smoothed the once rocky beach. Most of the ship’s crew were inside the ancient walls, save for a small few, one of which was staring out at the open waters from behind a striped mask.

Killer sighed as he leaned against the ship’s railing, staring out to the midnight shrouded sea with a heavy heart. His stomach twisted at a memory from a few nights ago, a rather heated verbal fight he’d had with his captain that - for the first time since they’d started dating - didn’t end with a rough, carnal fuck.

Though much to Killer’s unease, they hadn’t had sex in a solid four months, even though Kid had been given the ‘okay’ by Doc three weeks ago, so long as he went easy. He’d expected Kid to jump him that night at the very latest, but nothing happened. Nothing continued to happen for two and a half weeks, with Kid continuing to go bed wearing an old, long sleeved jumper he’d found in storage a few months prior. During the day the young captain would cling to the left side of his coat, as if scared it’d fall away to reveal-

There was a flash of a blade, Kid let out a roar of agony as he stumbled and fell.

His stomach twisted again and he leaned over the railing, he gripped it tight with one hand while with the other he grabbed his mask, ready to tear it off should he suddenly be sick.

Blood, gore and death had never fazed Killer, it was how he’d earned his name, just a nameless orphan on the streets often found with blood on his hands around the time a body turned up. Though it was usually scumbags, and people turned a blind eye to the marines as they were well hated on his home island. No, he’d seen limbs go flying, sent them so with his own blade. Sometimes it wasn’t him who dismembered a person in the middle of a fight, but that had never effected him.

But this was different.

This was Kid.

If Doc hadn’t been there, he would’ve…

Killer just wanted to hold him, to have him in his arms, feel that he was real. He still remembered his beloved captain, pale, still, silent in the med bay, his precious Punk in tatters as she barely made it to dry land. Kid’s fire had dulled since then, a soft ember that flickered with defiance every now and then, giving Killer a glimmer of hope.

He knew why kid was like this, when you know someone for so long you can just see the way their brain thinks. That, and having the redhead yell at him the other night “why fuck? You won’t even be able to get up what with how gross I look!” was a dead giveaway. When he used to get a new scar he’d flex his muscles, telling the tale of how he’d won the battle, coming out alive.

But that was just it, he’d barley made it this time, this time he’d lost.

He knew Kid didn’t feel worthy, old childhood wounds his mother gave him opening back up from the severe blow to his ego. Insults like ‘tattered little scumbag’ and ‘scrawny, worthless sewerage waste’ were some of the nicer things she had called him while dealing out punishment. Kid had an odd, silent pride in his looks now that he was a lot older, the new scars, not to mention the missing arm, had destroyed the self image he’d made. He’d tossed all his jewellery into the ships treasure hoard with a look of disgust on his face, punching a mirror and shattering it to piece only a couple of days later.

This couldn’t go on.

He needed his captain back.

He needed Kid back.

Killer grit his teeth and straightened, mind made up as he turned, and made his way below deck to Kid’s workshop.

He needed to let Kid know how he felt, and if talking wouldn’t do it, then the captain’s favourite pass time would have to do.

He paused, making the quick decision to stop off at his and Kid’s cabin first. Perhaps drastic times called for even more drastic measures.

***

Kid gave another glance to the schematics Doc had given him, his gaze coming to his own rough sketch of what he wanted the prosthetic to look like and finally to the metal skeletal structure in front of him. Wires hung this way and that, the technician side of his current project confusing him to no end as he gnawed on the handle of his screwdriver, teeth marks already etched deep into the old tool.

It still didn’t seem quite right.

Then again, the last two attempts seemed about the same at this stage, promptly hurled across the room in a fit of rage at his own ineptitude.

He was just about to fall into the same pattern of descent into self hatred and rage when the door to his workshop was unlocked. There’d been no scraping of the key on the other side as the wielder tried to put it in the hole, so either the old man hadn’t been drinking too much, or it was-

Killer nodded at him as he walked in, “Kid.”

Or it was the last person he wanted to see…

He bit harder on the screwdriver, sparing his first mate a glance and a grunt before trying to hyper focus on his current task.

It was a bit difficult, though, with Killer just standing there, staring at him from behind his mask.

“What?” He finally said as he whirled around to face the older man, tone far sharper than he intended it to be.

Killer, of course, didn’t seemed fazed, not even showing the little uncomfortable shift only Kid saw. He tilted his head slightly to one side and Kid’s heart plummeted, he knew that one. That wasn’t an uncomfortable shift.

It was a coy look.

“You seem tense,” the suggestive tone drove his worries home.

Kid bared his teeth in a sneer, “Whatever,” and turned back to his work table.

It wasn’t a clear no, something he knew Killer would take for certainty, but he didn’t want to push him away too harshly.

Didn’t want him to leave him.

Leave him alone, yes, but not…

Though instead of hearing the sound of footsteps walking away, there was a soft clunk of something being placed of the table. When Kid looked up, he immediately wished he hadn’t, because no matter how much he wanted to look away, he couldn’t.

Killer’s eyes had always had a glint of curiosity in them, regarding the redhead from behind long bangs, but to Kid it was a look of knowing, of seeing right through someone or something. It was a calculating gaze that studied him, tried to soak in every inch of his being, made him grab the left side of his coat and pull it closer, not wanting to see the way blonde’s face would twist in disgust when he saw the extent of the damage.

The blonde’s movement was precise when he walked forward, a hand coming to rest on Kid’s right shoulder, yet he stood behind him to the left. Kid sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, body going ridged as he grit his teeth. Oh god he wanted what Killer was offering him, needed it even. He bowed his head and hunched his shoulders, but didn’t say anything.

He didn’t want to get into another fight.

He was happy to fight with anyone.

But not Killer, never Killer.

Kid gasped as warm air ghosted against the back of his neck, lips brushing against scars that hadn’t yet properly formed. He shivered, face heating up as warmth pooled in his gut. He didn’t know if it was on instinct or out of habit, but he leaned forward and bared the back of his neck, his only hand resting on the table.

He was deeply relieved when Killer moved so he was standing on Kid’s right side.

“Kid,” voice so familiar, so understanding and soft that he wanted to pull its owner close and never let go.

“We…shouldn’t…” Kid but his lip, refraining from turning to look at his right hand man.

“Why?”

Such a simple question, and so simply answered too, but Kid hated everything about ‘why’.

He wanted to push Killer away, should push him away, “You’ll hate what you see.”

“Hate you?” a hand cupped the side of his face, forcing him to turn his head even though he desperately wanted to anyway.

Kid could never get enough of the depth of this man’s eyes, how they swum with lust and love for him.

All the more reason they shouldn’t, it’d break him if Killer couldn’t stand the sight of him. He’d rather face the entirety of the Marine fleet, with full knowledge he’d die, than see the slightest grimace on the older man’s face.

“How could I ever hate you?”

Kissing Killer was probably the most familiar thing Kid had ever done, even the first time on the other side of the world it had felt like coming home.

This time felt exactly the same.

The rub of lipstick on lipstick, the line he painted across Kid’s red stained lips, the way he tilted his head to damn near fuck Kid’s mouth with his tongue.

He loved all of it.

He’d missed all of it.

Fingers curled through scarlet locks as Killer sucked on his tongue, the warmth in his stomach quickly fanned into flames as he groaned. There was a firm tug on hair and he gasped, head jerking back, baring his neck. Lips pressed against his pulse, tongue swirling over the spot as his heartbeat quickened at the feeling.

“Kil,” Kid panted, going to lift the hand that was resting behind him on the table to tangle it in the blonde’s long hair.

Killer, however, was leaning against him too hard, the loss of his hand on the surface behind him nearly caused Kid to fall back. His hand slammed back down and he snarled, throat tightening as tears threatened to well up in his eyes.

“Fucking, stupid piece of-“

“Shh,” Killer hushed him, taking a step back and allowing Kid to stand up straight, he grabbed Kid’s now free hand and tugged, “Couch.”

God, the way his voice dropped, the air of command about him. Kid wanted to give in so badly…

Fuck it, fuck this, fuck everything!

Kid took a deep breath and held it for a moment, mind going blank as he made it up. He looked Killer right in the eyes as he pulled his hand back, the other man’s brow raising in surprise. He pulled his arm through he’s black vest, casting off his coat on the right side at the same time. The weight of the red fabric pulled at the vest and with so little holding it up on the left side it all crumpled to the ground.

Leaving Kid bare from the waist up.

His throat tightened as Killer stared at what remained of his left arm, Doc told him to keep the bandage off for as long as possible to ‘let the skin breathe’, get it get used to sensations. A bunch of bullshit of course, but he owed the man his life and Doc had never steered him wrong. He was regretting it now, though.

A bunch of tissue and stuff had been removed, allowing the skin to be sewed over the open wound, making a stump, twisted and deformed. Scars were scattered up what remained of his arm, ending over his left eye, a few too many sword swipes that had been too fast to dodge or use his powers to reflect. He felt gross, wrong, standing there in front of Killer, with his beautiful long hair, soft blue eyes. Sure, his left arm was fucked up from the fight with Red-Hair, but he still looked pretty damn-

“Perfect,” Killer whispered, breaking Kid from his barreling train of self loathing, “you’re perfect.”

His face felt hot as Killer stared down at him, blue eyes so tender as he reached down and hooked some stray hair behind Kid’s ear. Kid bit his lip, body tense, still not too sure about being on the receiving end with another man; old hangups from how his mother’s clients would tell her how ‘pretty’ her seven year old son looked, their gaze leering and making his skin crawl. The only reason he was doing this was because it was Killer. Killer would never hurt him.

And in that he found solace.

“You’re perfect,” Killer murmured, a soft smile curling in his lips.

His heart skipped a beat as he looked to the side-

“Sh-shut up,” he muttered, looking away just as he did back then, during that wild first night.

And just as he did back then, Killer chuckled, pinching Kid’s chin between his index finger and thumb and forcing his head to turn back to look at him, “But you are.”

“Bastard,” Kid mumbled.

Yet the blonde just gave him a soft smile, reaching up to pull off Kid’s welding goggles, letting his hair fall down over his ears and eyes, placing them carefully on the workbench.

“Hmm, and so handsome.”

“You’re one to talk,” Kid scoffed.

“Oh,” Killer chuckled, the sound always made Kid’s heart soar, “a compliment from the great Eustass ‘Captain’ Kid? I must be a lucky man.”

Kid huffed, smirking, the tip of his nose bumping against the blonde’s, “Just shut up and kiss me, dumbass.”

The two of them spun around, Killer now standing with his back to the work table, purple lips pressing against his red ones. Hands placed on his chest prompted him to walk back, pausing nearly every step to steady his lips against Killer’s. Kid’s breath hitched as the heel of his boot hit the couch and he allowed himself to be shoved down.

“Strip,” Killer all but growled, hands trembling as he fumbled with his belt buckle, “‘m gonna ride you.”

Kid had already been kicking off his boots before Killer had even started talking, but he began scrambling after hearing that, struggling to shove his pants down without undoing his belt. By the time he got his pants and boxers around his bare ankles, the older man was already stripped naked.

“Lube’s, uh,” fucking hell, why where his pants so hard to get off?

“Don’t need it,” Killer said, and he promptly shoved Kid to lay on his back, pulling off the redhead’s pants the rest of the way.

He groaned as warm, soft lips wrapped around his already half-hard cock, tongue rubbing down the underside as Killer took him in. Kid’s one hand darted to tangle in the mop of golden locks bouncing up and down above his length, cock throbbing every time Killer gagged or choked on him.

“Fuck,” he panted, a lopsided smirk forming on his lips, “Never seen ya so desperate to suck my dick.”

Kid mentally kicked himself for having a big mouth as Killer pulled off him, though the dark look in those blue eyes promised something far better than a mouth to fuck.

“Can’t help it,” Killer said, tone surprisingly soft for how vigorously he’d been sucking the redhead off, he got up on the couch, gracefully swing a leg over him to straddling his hips, “missed you.”

That shut him up, his cheeks and ears turning a similar shade of red to his hair.

Kid’s breath hitched as the tip of his cock nudged Killer’s lubed hole. Fucking hell, he’d gone and prepped himself for this, the idea of the blonde coming in here with the specific goal of riding him made Kid’s head spin. Killer only bottomed when he offered it to his captain, and even then it was with specific rules: he had to be facing Kid, Killer was in charge and no finishing inside. Sure, he offered now and then, but it was always a calm question, sometimes a reward or something, not bursting into his workshop and seducing him onto the couch!

It was like one of his fantasies was playing out.

“You’ve gone awfully quiet, Kid,” the way Killer drew out his name as he rocked back against his cock had him groaning.

“Fuck, c’mon, need ya to- fuck,” he slammed his head back against the cushion beneath him as the blonde slowly sank down.

“What was that?” Killer huffed, shifting to grab the back of the couch with one hand and slowly jerk himself off with the other, “Can’t hear you through your whimpering.”

“F-fuck off,” but all the bite had left his voice, too subdued by the tight heat slowly engulfing his dick.

They both groaned when Killer’s sat fully on Kid’s length, the redhead’s eyes fixated on the ceiling and his one hand holding Killer’s hip in a death grip.

The blonde sighed as he circled his hips, slowly rocking on Kid’s lap, head falling back as he continued to lazily stroke his cock, “Fuck, I missed this.”

All Kid could do was whimper, it had been too long and he hadn’t been able to properly get off for a few days, still not used to using his non dominant hand to jerk off. The tension in his lower back was maddening as he fought to not move, knowing he’d come as soon as he did.

“K-Kil,” he all but whined, hand trying to get the older man to stop moving, “f-fuck, pull off, ‘m gonna-“

“Do it,” Killer purred as he started to bounce on Kid’s lap, the light slap of skin on skin fogging Kid’s mind further with lust, “want you to come inside, wanna feel you for days.”

“Fuck! Oh fuck,” his thighs shook and he snapped his hips up, eyes rolling as he came the hardest he had in months.

Killer panted, eyes blown wide with lust as he gazed down at Kid, cock hard and red with arousal. He seemed to take a moment to centre himself, and Kid couldn’t help but worry if he’d changed his mind about wanting his captain to finish inside. But instead of making a face as he lifted himself off Kid’s still hard length, Killer’s eyes focused on the workbench. The blonde got off the couch, a drop of cum running down a trembling inner thigh as he made his way to the table.The older man rummaged through a draw, letting out a huff as he pulled out a half empty tube of lube. Kid groaned and bit his lip as Killer began to lather up his own cock.

“My turn,” he said with a dark smile.

Kid whimpered, excitement coiling in his gut.

***

(Bonus)

Sweat stuck to his forehead, eyes fixed on nothing as he gazed up at the ceiling and he lightly rubbed his hand on Killer’s shoulder, heartbeat finally at a calm pace. The blonde hummed, nuzzling against his chest, body half draped over his, being careful to not put any of his weight on Kid’s injured side.

“Kid?” Killer finally broke the peaceful air with his soft, questioning tone.

Kid hummed to let the blonde know he’d heard, bringing his hand up to gently scratch the back of the man’s head.

“That sketch,” Killer nodded to his workbench, “is that gonna be your prosthetic?”

His chest swelled with pride as he smirked, “Yep, looks pretty awesome, doesn’t it.”

“…Does it…are those…cannons?”

Kid blinked, frowning, “Course, that’s why it’s awesome! Gonna be fully functional and everything.”

“There’s…four?” Killer’s said with a tone of disbelief, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Five,” he corrected, a smug smile spreading across his face, “gonna have the hand turn into the fifth.”

Above him, Killer began to tremble, shoulders shaking as he turned his head to bury his face in the back of the couch.

“Are you…” Kid’s hairless brow shot up, “oi! Bastard! Don’t laugh!”

Killer threw back his head and cackled, never ashamed to laugh when it was just in front of his captain. Kid’s face flushed and he bit his lip, as much as he hated it when people laughed at him, he never cared if it was Killer, the sound of full blown laughter so rare from the blonde that he’d get his head stuck in the ship’s railing if it meant hearing it. Blonde locks covered his chest as Killer pressed his forehead between his pecs.

After a couple more seconds the older man calmed down, lifting his head to grin at Kid, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before saying: “God I love you, you absolute dumbass.”

Now Kid’s face was beet red, “Sh-…shut up!”

[sarah-sandwich-writes]

Woolen Hollow sounds so intriguing and draws me in!! Tell me about it!!

Okay so Woolen Hollow is my fantasy novel that I got 10k into and then realized it was boring so I set aside the draft and started over but this time in 1st person POV (which I've never written in before) to give it a more engaging voice and I started with them already on the road rather than dinking around at home and I like it sooooo much better now. Unfortunately I've only written just over 1k because other things have the priority rn

But there is magic! The kind you control and the kind that controls you. And there is love! The kind between siblings (for better or for worse), between two boys lost in the woods and the world, and between a girl and her sheep. And there is a conniving lying cheat of a fiance who thinks she's hot shit but is ultimately going to be taken down by a closeted shut-in who will carry the guilt of scrambling her noodle for the rest of his life. There will be choices and consequences and lots of bickering and banter because I'm still me.

Anyway, meet Midge and Jax!

*

“Sweet soil, Midge. Keep it down or they’ll think we raised you with the sheep.”

I don’t pause my cursing for a second as Jax squats in front of me where I’m sat, filthy and tear-stained, at the base of the tree that did me wrong. He reaches for my arm but a hard boot to his knee knocks him on his ass and gives me precious seconds to come to terms with the hot, sharp pain radiating from my forearm.

Jax shakes his hair out of his eyes and glares. “The longer you drag this out, the further behind we’re going to fall and you know none of them will wait for us.”

“You’re not even supposed to be here,” I spit. I draw my arm against my chest and press back into the tree as he gets to his knees. “This is my thing. You should be at home in your closet.”

“Did I hallucinate your last ten birthdays? You sound like a child.” He reaches for me again. “Hold still. I need to see how bad it is.”

With grit teeth, I hold very still.

Jax sighs. “You are the most obstinate— Let me see it.”

With great reluctance, I uncurl from around my arm and hold it aloft for him to see. It looks fine. Normal. There’s some blood on my sleeve but that’s from earlier when I had to chase Sarsaparilla out of the bramble. I’ll be up for hours tonight combing the stickers from her wool while she’s too drowsy to put her usual fight.

With deft fingers, Jax unties the leather cord that keeps my sleeve flush against my skin, both for insulation and to keep from leaving tattered bits of cloth all through the forest, and rolls back my sleeve.

I suck in a sharp breath and look away. Blood I can handle. Feces, fine. Snot, sweat, sheep urine, and other various oozes and slimes—bring it on.

But bodies bending where they should not? Lumps that speak of damage unseen under the surface, broken with no clear simple treatment? It makes my skin crawl.

Jax clicks his tongue. “You got yourself good, smidgling.”

“Take your dirt nap, jaxass.”

He ignores me. “I have some [APOTHECARY STUFF] in my pack. It’ll help with the pain and swelling. If you take [MORE APOTHECARY STUFF] and let me splint it, it should be usable by next week.”

“That’s forever. There’s so much I have to—,”

“I can’t work miracles,” he snaps. “I’m telling you what I can do.”

He juts to his feet and towers over me, but not in an intimidating way. More like a stick bug—all bones with no meat—or a single reed in a field of clover, doomed to be slapped around in the wind without the protection of a bed. If he didn’t hole himself up with his cauldron day in and day out, he’d be as broad as Ham. Instead, he’s thin, whippy, and about as threatening as a cooked noodle.

I stagger to my feet and don’t bother trying to swat away the dirt that clings to my pants. Sudden movement makes a shooting pain fly up my arm, through my shoulder, and into my teeth. You only chew tin foil once before you learn to not fucking do that.

“Let’s catch up to the group. Maybe Ham can grow me a new arm. I bet it’ll only take a minute.”

Jax makes a sour face and turns on his heel. His long-legged stride takes no consideration for my short quick steps. “If we’re lucky he’ll grow you a new head while he’s at it.”

The rock I kick ricochets off his ankle and disappears into the forest but he doesn’t give me the satisfaction of looking back.

Brothers.

[thewalkingcigarette]

the mirror is an imperfect reflection.

it does not tell enough, and speaks its mind too fervently. it has no mouth, yet punctuates each insult with exclamation points roaring.

the mirror lays flat, it has no mind to think. it cannot bring about images, memories, feelings. it has never been held, hit, kissed, caressed, or fucked. it has only ever hung upon that glass white wall.

so who is it to tremble with such vicious words? who is it to draw such painful sentiments? it is not even a "who", but a what, just a thing, a contraption stolen from still blue waters that once pulled Narcissist to his death. now we are all punished with his curse.

thats all it is, an imitation. so it has no right, no jurisdiction, no responsibility, to behave so cruelly.

or perhaps it is i, shaking with villainy, consumed with malice, that is the cruel one.

if i lift my shirt, the fabric pulls gently at the crease of my grip. it hugs my ribs, as though to confirm the shape they cut out in space. hair blooms across my gut. sporadic. accidental. the touch of hormones bringing life to patches of grass still riddled with dead spots.

the shape of myself. i dare not allow such an idea to transport me back to that hollow auditorium, equations and triangles scrawled forlornly in scratchy expo. perhaps i am one with the fruit bowl, a feminine concept, meant to soften the blow of being told you were too round, (apple), too flat, (pear), too thin, (banana), too this, too that, you are only to be consumed after all. swallowed.

the paler of my skin. why might my eyes be permanently scarred by lack of sleep? why does the color fade when i flip my wrist? why does red paint decorum past my shoulder blades? slashed. blushed. bruised. exposed canvas ripped and shredded by an artist who used his paint like knives on a cutting board.

when i roll my sleeves up, i cannot help but glare at the lines that wreck my flesh. i did that. i enjoyed it. i even enjoyed the reminder of doing it. i enjoyed every ounce of it. and now it mars my skin. it tatters it, taints it. it tells a story to every eye that lingers and every palm that dare feather across. raised bumps. jagged. uncoordinated, revealing gaps in time, switch in tools. that will always be a part of my body.

the mirror tells me. it has no mind to tell it not to say what should not be spoken, not to observe so honestly, unashamed and ruthless.

the mirror works against your eyes. you cannot twist and contort yourself enough to access every possible angle of your being. to make matters more dire, you cannot smile authentically, laugh vividly, cry realistically, or share any real emotion with it. all there can be is the blank emptiness you present forward. the way you never actually appear to others. the angles no one actually ever regards you in. a torturous reality.

hair on my legs. am i supposed to like that? what should i like about my body, and what should i hate? should i hate that? should i hate this? is it okay to be okay with that? will that earn me looks? laughs? judgement? however i might feel means nothing. there will be stranger's thoughts that outweigh my own.

i flick the light off, and the mirror shuts its mouth. after all, it is not anything, and cannot do much when banished to black.

[warmblanketwhump]

🛁+💙!

🛁 warm bath/shower | 💙cold & flu symptoms

A cinches their coat tighter against the bitter winter wind and ducks their head lower. After a long day at work, they were already planning their dinner for the evening - hot soup, fresh bread, and warm cider to top it all off.

They just had to make it home.

As they cross the street onto the final block before they reach their apartment, they’re stopped by the sound of rustling in an alley. Immediately, their senses go on high alert - this part of town wasn’t the safest, especially at this time of night.

“Hey! Who’s there?” They make their voice big, drawing up their shoulders to try and add to their stature. But nothing comes out. A almost thinks they imagined it – until they hear the smallest cough.

Creeping forward, A keeps their guard up as they search for the source of the sound, which they finally locate in the pile of garbage behind the dumpster.

There, curled up among the trash, was someone A hadn't seen for years.

"B," they whisper cautiously, unwilling to believe their eyes, "is that you?"

B whimpers and coughs again, gripping a tattered jacket closer around their frail body. A can see that their knuckles are cracked and bleeding, rubbed raw by what could only have been days outdoors, unsheltered from the brutal elements. A kneels down next to them and slips their hand out of their glove before brushing the matted curls away from their forehead, feeling the fever radiating off of them.

B sniffles weakly, leaning into the touch - they haven't even acknowledged A, and A's not sure that they're fully conscious. Their breath comes in short, shallow wheezes that make A’s chest ache in sympathy.

“You’re freezing out here,” A says, wrapping an arm around B’s shoulders and hoisting them up. “You’re coming back with me.” B moans again, and A tries not to think about light they are, how easy it was to hoist them upright.

The pair stagger the remaining blocks to the building, and A pulls B into the warm light of their apartment lobby. After riding the elevator to their floor, they make it to their comfortably furnished apartment and settle B on the edge of the couch before lighting a fire in the hearth and flicking on the lamp. In the dim light, A can see a clearer picture - and they don’t like what they see.

B’s clearly sick - visibly shaking, unable to catch their breath, forehead speckled with sweat even as their teeth chatter. They’re filthy from head to toe, cheeks smudged with dirt and grime, and they’re gripping their arms close to their body, as if moving in the slightest is too painful to consider.

A gently places a finger under B’s chin and lifts it to their eyes, making B look at them for the first time. “B, look at me.”

B whimpers again, but they don’t break eye contact, and something sparks in their expression. They do recognize me, A thinks with relief.

“Can you tell me what hurts?”

“Everything.” The cracked whisper breaks A’s heart. “I hurt all over.”

In a moment, everything flashes before their eyes. Growing up with B. Childhood memories in the sunlight. Laughter. All the good things that they had once known together, now swallowed up by whatever darkness and hell B had been through.

But you can help bring them back.

A snaps back into focus. B doesn’t need someone who’ll cry over them right now. No, they need help.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, okay? How does a bath sound?”

B nods weakly, and A wraps their arms around them once again before half-carrying them to the bathroom, setting the water to run at a comfortable warm and dumping some rose-scented bubble bath into the tub.

Then, they turn back to B.

“Do you…want me to stay? Or leave?” The question feels obviously stupid - of course B needs help - but they desperately want B to just feel safe, like they have at least a little control over what’s happening to them now.

“No,” B whispers weakly, grabbing at A’s sleeve. “Stay, please. Help me.”

And so A does - easing them into the warm water, working their hands through their hair with the lather of fresh shampoo, gently scrubbing the dirt from B’s skin, and quietly making conversation with B as B stares back at them with glassy, grateful eyes.

The clothes are beyond help, so A stuffs them in a garbage bag and sets them outside the bathroom. They pause, then go in their bedroom to retrieve some clothes of theirs for B to wear - an old, oversized sweatshirt and a pair of pajama pants. They’d likely be too big on them - but they’d be warm and dry, and that’s all that matters.

After B is dried off and dressed, A wraps an arm around them and leads them back to the fireplace, gives them a dose of cold medicine, and wraps their feverish body in two blankets before laying them back down on the couch. "I'm going to make some soup, alright? You look like you could use something to eat."

“I’ll…go soon…” B mumbles, eyes half open, blinking in the firelight. “Won’t….bother you…”

“B, you’re not…” A can’t quite believe what they’re hearing. “I just found you half dead and frozen in an alley after not seeing you for literal years. You’re not bothering me.”

B closes their eyes wearily, coughing several times into the blanket. "Isn't always that way...with others." Opening them again, they momentarily glance up at A before casting their eyes downward again. "So thank you."

"B." A kneels down next to them, brushing a piece of damp hair off their forehead. "Believe me. You're not a burden, and you're not a bother. I've missed you so much. And I'm glad you're here."

A small sob catches in B's throat. "I....wanted to come back. So many times."

"Shhhh....never mind that. You're home now, aren't you?" A adjusts the blankets so they're pulled up to B's chin, and B nestles into them.

A holds the back of their hand up against B's forehead, then flips their hand to rest gently on their head so B can lean into the touch. Too warm, that was for sure. And that cough sounded painful. But for now, B was safe and warm and cared for - and if A had anything to say about it, they'd never be without a home again.

[apocalypticgargoyle]

YES YES YES REBEL PUNZ PLEASEEEE I NEED IT FOR SCIENCE PLEASEEEE

-🐉anon

Okay so *sigh* I know I keep saying this about all our boys but I love heem

𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐋. ☥ 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐞𝐥!𝐏𝐮𝐧𝐳

pairing: rebel!Punz x fm!reader

word count: ~ 3500

warnings: smut (18+), pure filth basically, language, blood, fighting, illegal activities, degradation, praise, domination, spanking, etc.

playlists: Rebel!Punz, EDGERS

The basement was only accessible through one door which was stationed at the back of Techno’s motorcycle shop. The door was bolted from the inside, only to be unlocked after the murmuring of a password known by word of mouth.

Behind the door was a flight of stairs going downward. The walls are reminiscent of walking through a damp tunnel, the air hanging thick, smelling of rotting soil and burning leaves. A man stationed on one of the landings would open the door at the end of the staircase and then move back upstairs as one would continue through the dark hallway, faintly hearing the sounds of men shouting. Finally, the last entryway and the gateway into a different universe: two double doors made of decaying wood.

The hinges always creaked when pried opened, giving the illusion that the basement was nothing more than storage, yet through those doors laid a bustling room of cockroaches and their bookies. Men in all shapes and sizes, in suits and sweatpants, with elaborate hairstyles and hats clustered around a giant roped-off area in the center of the basement.

Ritual followers of the activities referred to it as the Ring.

The dingy atmosphere of expensive cologne and cigar smoke was a trip back in the twenties when similar tactics were just for the high of living. Underground matches are like alcohol during the prohibition and the Ring was the modern-day speakeasy.

And that’s where you were, swimming in the stale fog of cigar smoke and sweaty bodies as you scored percentages into your small notebook, taking the bribes as cash was handed to you. The men with the expensive appearances always flaunted their exaggerated statistics, testing your knowledge about the Ring as if they weren’t facilitating some kind of kill match. They treated you as if you were the equivalent of a cigarette girl when in reality, you held their fortunes in your hand and controlled the fate of the fight.

You were Techno’s eyes, ears, and author. He would observe from afar, crossing his arms over his chest as you eyed Punz, telling him which way to fix the fight to make Techno the most money. Punz was completely attuned to you, his light eyes trained to search for your mild quirks and subtle hints as you pretended to add up the odds. Regretfully, it was a losing night against an outside competitor.

Punz drew in a sharp breath as you chewed the inside of your cheek, barely instructing him. You flashed him four of your fingers, knowing full-well that Techno was guaranteed at least a $10,000 payout if Punz let the competitor wail on him for that long. You always preferred the nights when you could nod for him to flatten the challenger in under two rounds, but nights like tonight left your stomach in knots.

You rolled the sleeves of your white button-up shirt, your suit jacket hanging on a fold-out chair nearest to Techno as you continued to work the floor. As you walked the perimeter, your gaze glued to Punz, who was wrapping white tape around his knuckles and watching you. You knew that his heavy-handed approach in the first few rounds would leave the protection in nothing but white tatters, peeling away from his butchered skin.

His lip was still busted from the match a few days prior, cheekbone tinted with a purple hue and eyes set tired to avoid giving away the adrenaline you knew was pulsing through his body. His hand flexed against the tape, giving him more motion. Your sights settled on the healing cut that divided his eyebrow, the memory of seeing Dream’s ring cut into Punz’s face making your blood boil.

You liked to stand on the opposite end of the make-shift ring from Punz. There were days when you wished you weren’t some kind of conductor for the underground matches, mainly so you could cheer on your lover like the rest of the spectators.

But alas, you were the puppeteer and Punz was your obedient marionette.

The fight began with the ringing of an ancient-looking shift bell, Punz stepping back on the balls of his feet as his opponent remained defensive. Punz rolled his eyes, sights flashing to you before moving to land the first blow; a heavy shot to the man’s side. You crossed your arms, nodding as if to tell him he only needed to lose by a hair.

At your direction the fight became bloodier, knuckles cracking against bone and rib cages, drawing the crimson streams of life from their bodies. In an ideal world where Punz was fighting for his own mercy and not the money bags of his boss, Punz would have wasted the opposing man, smiling as he did so.

Punz always seemed to gain stamina the more he was battered, thriving off of the blood pooling in his teeth or streaming down the side of his head. In bare-knuckle matches, he was almost unrecognizable in his blood lust.

The bell chimed again, the rounds moving quicker as Punz pretended to be worn out from the weaker jabs of his competitor. You chuckled to yourself, a smirk settling on your lips as he rolled his shoulders. His expression tilted towards you, seemingly noticing your amusement as he fought not to grin himself.

Punz launched his fist into his opponent’s face, blood gushing instantly from the man’s nose as Punz hammered another blow into his torso. The man retaliated by driving his elbow into Punz’s stomach before throwing his knuckles into Punz’s jaw. Punz’s t-shirt clung to his sweat-drenched body, the thought of peeling him out of those clothes later in the night made your skin prickle with goosebumps. His messy hair and concentrated eyes were allusions of unadulterated sin as he brushed the back of his hand over his mouth, wiping away the thread of blood trickling down his chin from his re-busted lip.

Punz knew to wear down, letting the man knock him against the ropes, Punz’s light eyes looking up at you with nearly a breath between the two of you. “Good boy,” you stated, only loud enough for him to hear. His eyebrow quirked at your words to combat the cocky grin wanting to break through his tough façade with your praise. He stood up straighter and submitted to losing as his competitor landed another punch.

After the fight, you indulged in the sound of your heels clicking against the staircase as you moved back up to the shop, the area quiet and desolate after the cockroaches had scampered away back into their crevices. You turned, starting down the long hallway towards the locker room, grabbing the First Aid kit off the wall on your way. The envelope of money felt heavy in your hand, its manilla coloring almost too obvious against your suited attire.

You pushed the door open with your foot, peering down one of the rows of lockers before spotting Punz, yawning slightly as he pulled off his shirt, revealing various old-style tattoos that matched the ones painted across his knuckles. Whenever you saw him in this state, you silently thanked George for his hours of work and steady hand.

Punz’s eyes perked up as you entered the room; the familiar sight of you ready to patch up his wounds brought a content smile to his bruised features. “How’d I do, dove?” He coaxed looking up at you as he sat on the dividing bench. His voice was raspy and deep from exhaustion.

You gave him a small smile, tossing your jacket on the other side of him and taking his face in your hand, pressing your lips against his briefly. Your nose brushed his as you placed a kiss on his cheek. “So good,” you hummed. He moved to straddle the bench as you sat in front of him, digging into the aid kit.

Before you could even start in on his wounds, his hands were snaking up your legs to grip your thighs, pulling you closer to him on the bench. You propped your knee against his, taking one of his hands and dabbing away the dried blood on his knuckles as he dug his face into the crook of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin as he took in your scent, his lips pressing against your neck before he unclasped the top few buttons of your shirt. His other hand moved to press against your freshly exposed skin, teeth nibbling at your ear lobe.

You let out a quiet giggle at his antics, moving your head to brush against his cheek and shrug him off. “Cut it out. You’ll distract me,” you muttered, stifling the obvious grin in your tone.

He let out a low chuckle, moving your hair out of the way before settling in the crook of your neck again, hand moving to wrap around your waist and draw you closer. “There’s no way. You’re too stubborn,” he jested, his stubble tickling your chest as he nibbled at the sensitive skin on your throat.

Once you finished with his hands, you moved onto his face, tending to the small cuts and scrapes. Punz continued his own form of clean-up as he pressed his lips against the inside of your wrist. You knew he was coming off of his fight high and you were waiting on him to rag you about wincing during some of the harder hits. He got off on the idea that your calm and indifferent surface cracked when it came to him.

His hands hooked around the back of your knees, tugging you practically into his lap as you rolled your eyes. His fingers untucked your shirt, slipping between the material and your skin as his lips traveled the length of your jaw. His blunt nails raked down your back, his neediness unmasked by the slight roll of his hips against yours.

You dropped what you were working on, running your fingers into his blond hair as he moaned against your skin. You moved your legs to wrap around his waist, letting him grip onto your hips and press you against his body. He sealed his lips against yours, hungrily kissing you with a groan. You tugged on his hair, his tongue slipping into your mouth.

His fingers unbuttoned the rest of your shirt, slipping it off your shoulders as your teeth moved to dig into his shoulder. His hands moved to tug your pants down your thighs. You pushed him back against the bench, balancing yourself on his lap as you settled his hands on your thighs, leaning down to kiss him again.

He gripped onto your hips, driving you to grind against him, a moan of his hand slipping through your lips in praise. Your fingers raked down his chest as you ground your hips against him, making him bite his lips to keep himself quiet.

He pushed himself into you, making you groan as you adjusted to his size, hungry for more friction. As you rolled your hips, his hands moved to your chest. You pulled his arm towards you, pressing your lips to the tattoo across his wrist in your handwriting. "You did so well tonight, baby," you cooed, earning a moan from him at your praise. "I'm so proud of you."

You leaned down, swallowing his lustful noises and you pressing your lips against his as you thrust against him. The tension from the night and the sight of him submitting to you completely.

His head tipped back against the wood, his hips swirling against yours as his mouth opened with a slight whimper. You clenched around him, feeling him throb inside of you. You bit back a smile, watching how easy it was to get him off as his cheeks flushed, a lazy grin on his face as you moved on top of him. "Fuck look how much you want me," you mocked, his hands moving to dig into your hips.

His brows furrowed as he mumbled your name, making you pick up your pace. "Shit, don't stop," he nearly begged.

You curled your hips, leaning down to press your lips to his neck. "You deserve it, my good boy," you husked, tongue flattening against his collarbone as he moaned at the feeling.

He pushed himself to sit up, giving you a new angle as you drove him deeper into you, thrusting against his body and tugging at his hair. He dug his face into the crook of your neck, quietly pleading out your name as if he were confessing his sins to you.

His coarse hands dug into your back, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as your head fell back, moaning about how good he was making you feel.

It didn't take long for him to finish, his hot seed spreading between your legs as he groaned darkly in your ear. You combed your fingers through his hair, letting him roll his hips against yours and ride out his high.

Dream kicked his feet up on Techno’s desk, popping a few jelly beans in his mouth from his position on the other side of Sapnap, the bone tattoos on his fingers making you slightly grateful for Punz's ink choices. Sapnap leaned his head back against the edge of his chair, closing his eyes tiredly as you crossed your legs, flipping through one of the magazines that Techno had stacked in the corner of his office. Punz flexed his hands, still sore from the previous night’s fight, as he watched your skirt ride up your thighs a few centimeters.

The office was silent between the four of you, waiting for the man in charge after he’d called all of you in for an “emergency meeting.” Punz looked over your shoulder at what you were reading and you angled yourself to share the magazine with him, trying to ignore the tension he was building between the two of you as his thigh brushed yours.

The bag of jelly beans in Dream’s pocket made shuffling noises as he moved closer to whisper something to Sapnap, making him chuckle softly. The door swung open, sending the four of you on your feet as Techno’s secretary rattled off what was on his docket for the day. He ran his fingers through his short pink hair, eyes zoning out slightly as he took a seat behind his desk before thanking the woman and sending her on her way. He motioned for all of you to sit.

“My anxiety is through the roof, I just need to know if I’m in trouble first, Tech,” Dream started in, making Punz’s eyes roll and you to let out a small laugh.

Techno began to feather through some of the papers on his desk, pulling on his glasses. His t-shirt flexed against his muscular arms. You were surprised to see him in casual clothes in the middle of the week, but you figured he had plans with Sapnap after the meeting. “No, you’re fine, Dream.”

Dream chewed on one of the jelly beans. “Are you sure, because I can’t figure out why I’d be in here. Like, I’m just,” he paused, leaning forward to look at you before snapping his fingers a few times searching for a word. “What do you call it?”

You scoffed. “A floater. Snap at me again and I’ll break your dick off,” you bit, making Punz subtly cover his mouth to conceal his grin.

Dream winked at you. “Sounds like one hell of a handjob,” he quipped back without missing a beat.

“Dream, shut the fuck up,” Sapnap sighed, looking at Techno as if to urge him to continue. Dream snickered at Sapnap.

Techno cleared his throat. “Okay, now that that’s out of our system,” he pulled a page from the stack. “Dream, I’m giving you more matches to take some of the weight off of Punz.”

You tilted your head. “What?” Techno’s gaze shifted to you as if commanding you to elaborate. “Punz makes you the most money out of all of them. You’re losing profit with Dream.” You weren’t going to sit idly by and let your lover get knocked down a peg. Especially, not for Dream to step up in his place.

Techno nodded. “It looks bad on my part if one of my fighters dies in the middle of a match though, doesn’t it?”

“It’s illegal underground fighting. He knows the risks-” Punz reached over to cover your mouth.

He sighed. “That sounds fine. No less than three a week, though.”

Dream let out a low whistle. “Damn, she let you borrow your balls just for this?”

Punz turned his head to him, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Hmmm. What does that bracelet say, sweet boy?” Sapnap laughed at Punz’s comment, making Dream punch his arm. Techno shook his head at all of you, settling his glasses on top of his head, pushing his bangs out of his eyes.

“You guys are all simps,” Techno murmured to end the discussion. “Sapnap, I have a new model I want you to test out. Punz, I’m leaving the shop to the two of you while I’m gone.” He gestured between you and Punz before tilting his head to Dream. “I mean this with the utmost respect but, go mutilate your body or something at George’s. I don’t trust you and Punz in the same room for more than ten minutes.”

You snorted and Dream shrugged at his words. As you all stood to leave, Sapnap and Techno began to discuss his new car modifications. “Hey, Dream. Can you get my name?” You teased and he pinched your cheek.

“Right above my ass because I know you’ll be staring at it anyway,” he jested. Punz moved to stand behind Techno’s desk, flipping through his account book. His knuckle tattoos flexed as his fingers searched for a specific tab.

You sighed. “Finally, I’ll have something to look at,” you countered, biting back a smirk. Dream mocked a pained expression before heading out the door. You turned back to Punz, walking behind Techno’s desk as well, your hands running along his black jacket. “You’re quiet today,” you muttered, fingers looping through his thin silver chain to draw it from beneath his shirt. You’d bought it for him for your anniversary a few years prior.

He turned towards you, his deadpan look sending shivers down your spine as his hand wrapped around your wrist. “You think I can’t defend myself?” He dared, eyes flickering with lust and heat as he looked at you. His hand moved to hold your chin, your breath hitching as his lips threatened to brush against yours. “I have half a mind to teach you a lesson for that.” His voice was mellow and low as he spoke to you, making your ears burn red.

His thumb moved to brush against your lip, your mouth opening to take his digit between your teeth almost instinctively. There was no way any of the guys would take you seriously if they knew how whipped you actually were for Punz, which was most of the reason why he let you lead when you were around them.

The other half of him liked when you were scary and in charge.

Punz knocked you against the desk, your torso hitting the wood as you bit back a giggle, gripping onto the edge of the wood as he kicked your legs apart. “Speaking for me like you’re my master,” he jabbed, pushing your skirt further up your waist and grinding against you. He tsked as you moaned, pressing your cheek to the grain, shoving Techno’s pen display to the side.

He gripped the collar of your shirt, snapping a few of your buttons. “Christ, Luke,” you moaned, voice uneven and out of breath. “I’m gonna run out of shirts,” you barely whined.

His lips pressed against your shoulder, nose moving to brush against behind your ear. “Are you complaining, pet?” He hissed, hand settling on the edge beside your own, grinding his hips against yours. You shook your head violently, making him lean off you. The sound of his belt dropping to the floor behind you made your head spin, your knees weak.

His hand brushed over your waistband, dipping below your skirt and smacking the curve of your ass. You whimpered at the impact, heart racing as your body throbbed for his attention. "Filthy slut. You like when I punish you, don't you?" Punz chided, pressing his knee between your legs and knotting his fingers into your hair. You rolled back against his thigh almost as if by instinct, hungry for his antics.

His palm smacked you again, gripping onto the sensitive, burning skin with his strong hand as if it were a trophy for him. Truth be told, you were his trophy, especially when you gave in like you were.

As you heard his zipper, your face flushed, gripping onto the wood as you readied yourself, submitting to Punz's mercy with a grin on your face.

Punz Tag List: (to join, please follow this link :))

@more-like-reyna @froggyy06 @drunkpumpkincake @aroyaldarknessblr @camerondiaz48104 @madsbbg @alm334 @acidluvs @bbigbbrainn @generallysleepdeprived @froggerrrr @ribbitsworld @bunnylotl @thegirlwhowritesawksh-t @bobbyftmydad @twist3dtinkerbell @book-of-anarchy

[youmistme]

Masterlist ☃︎♡

🀦 started- 2021 

🀩 last updated - july ‘22

I’ve only written Taehyung fanfics till now so this m.list only contains Tae fics! 

Note: 

These are ALL fictional works! I, in no way intend to represent the artist wrongly. These all works of fiction, from my imagination and written purely for entertainment purposes only!! 

Do not let my work influence the way you view the artist. 

+ Eventhough I write with a female Y/n | OC in mind, you can imagine yourself in these fanfictions regardless of your gender identity and pronouns. 

KEY-  ✿- fluff  ☂︎- angst ♤- explicit 

KIM TAEHYUNG ✦

trace the colours of our skin

✿

✑Pairing: non idol! Taehyung x Reader ☞ Summary: It was comforting knowing you could see the rawest and truest form of your blind date just like how he could. OR: agreeing to go on a blind date for a YouTube video where you both are naked and talk about yourselves  while drawing each other might have been the best idea.

In Two Lines | KTH | MASTERLIST

read the below three fanfic drabbles all together here ↧

Our Love in two lines

✿  ☂︎

✑Pairing: Idol Boyfriend! Taehyung X Pregnant artist! Reader

☞ Summary: Taehyung always wears his heart out on his sleeves. You get pregnant unexpectedly, why don’t his emotions come rushing through as usual?

↝ prequel to Our Love in two lines 

- Her Love in two lines 

✿

✑Pairing: OLI2L! Taehyung X OLI2L! reader 

☞ Summary: It’s Valentines’ day and you’re very late. But thats okay. Taehyung says you’re worth all the wait. 

↝ sequel to Our Love in two lines

His Love in two lines 

✿ ☂︎

✑Pairing: OLI2L! Taehyung X OLI2L! reader

☞ Summary: The mother of his child, his beautiful girlfriend, the love of his life; all portrayed through his rose coloured lenses  

Inebriated  

☂︎ ♤

✑Pairing : Mafia heir! Taehyung x Mafia heir! Female OC ☞ Summary: Hearts that love, bullets that blind. or, in which, they are so inebriated by each other that they couldn’t sense the danger.

The third Kim

 ✿  ☂︎

✑Pairing : Whipped introverted Popular! Taehyung x Art student sarcastic! Y/N ☞ Summary: After the rumour spread that Kim Taehyung has a crush on the art student with caramel eyes, all doom hails upon you- the art student with caramel eyes.

Humility is Alien to her

✿  ☂︎

✑Pairing : Warrior in training! Taehyung x Village Thief! female Y/N ☞ Summary: He had a boyish grin and sun-kissed skin, he wanted to be a man. She had tattered clothes and guilty eyes, she ran. In which, Y/N who despite her want to have an honest living has to resort to theft and Taehyung is the sweetest and not so intimidating warrior in training who wants to lend a hand.

[nagipops]

hi!! i think the ask box is open right now but what about a fem! reader that was kinda adopted by all the hashiras when she was small, and on her first mission, she gets turned into a demon? and like they're all conflicted but it's kinda sad how the reader wants to die because she was turned :( if you can't write it it's okay! i love ur works sm <3

SWEET NOTHINGS, BITTER ENDINGS PART I.

SUMMARY: in which your overwhelming tenacity leads you to suffer a demonic fate.

WARNINGS: blood, profanity

A/N: thank you darling! this got a bit long so i’ve split it into two parts— the second part will be posted very shortly! link to part two

“(Y/N)!” Giyuu barked. “Get back!”

You steadily held your nichirin blade in front of you with both hands, staring down the towering demon in front of you. Three veiny arms sprouted out from each side of its body, taunting your group as its flaring yellow eyes locked onto yours.

Clutching the handle of your blade tighter, you panted heavily to control your breathing, clenching your teeth. “I’ve got this!” you hollered back, your knuckles turning white.

You heard a clink of metal and the whirling of a sword as a short purple-haired hashira stepped in front of you. “It’s too dangerous.” Her typical honey-sweet voice was darkened with concern and anger. “Please, (Y/N).”

You were shaking with anger, and... envy? All you wanted was to be strong. To bring home a kill on your first mission. To not be seen as a child anymore by the nine pillars who had taken you under your wing when you were just a baby.

I’m not a kid anymore, you wanted to scream. I want to show you what I can do.

“Go,” Giyuu commanded, casting a glance at Shinobu before briefly locking eyes with you. “We’ll handle this.”

Biting your tongue, you glared at the demon for a moment longer before turning on your heel and retreating to the rest of your squad.

“(Y/N)-chan!” Mitsuri wailed, throwing her arms around you. Over her shoulder, you spotted a fuming Obanai glaring daggers at you; whether he was jealous of the pink-haired girl draped over you or angry at your reckless actions, you couldn’t tell. “We were so worried about you!”

“No, we weren’t,” Obanai hissed. “What you did was idiotic and careless. You were putting everyone in danger.”

“Iguro-kun, always so protective!” Mitsuri giggled, patting you on the head before releasing you from her surprisingly tight hold, her expression growing serious. “Tomioka and Shinobu might need our assistance. (Y/N), go find Sanemi and see if he needs help. Iguro, come with me!” She quickly flounced off with a seething Obanai in tow.

Huffing a sigh, you entered the mass of trees behind you to search for the white-haired hashira.

Lofty, swaying pines loomed over you as the sounds of battle crashed throughout the forest. A flock of crows frantically flapped out from the canopy, shooting into the sky as their noisy caws rang through the air. Frigid winds whipped all around you as you hunted down the wind pillar.

A piercing clink of metal, not unlike the noise of a nichirin blade, sounded from your left. Sanemi? Cautiously drawing your sword from its sheath on your hip, you slowly made your way to the source of the noise.

As you neared a small clearing, the sound grew louder and louder, but you still could not locate any hashira or any demons for that matter. You spotted a thick tree to your right and fled over to hide behind it while you scouted out the area.

The clinking continued, and as you listened more closely, it seemed to be coming from...

Above?

Your heart went cold as you realized you didn’t hear any human voices around you.

At all.

You slowly slid your gaze upwards, not daring to move a single muscle.

And there it was. With a rotting arm clutching a chipped, bloodied blade, carving out the remains of a tattered corpse, three feral red eyes piercing through the dark shade and locking onto yours...

A demon.

Fear pooled instantly in your stomach as you felt bile rise in your throat. The putrid stench of rotten flesh and blood nearly made you hurl on the spot, yet your horror kept your nausea at bay.

Were you going to die here?

You felt your terrified breaths grow shallow as the demon above you licked its lips, tossing the corpse down in front of you with a thud.

“N-nemi?” you whispered in fear, praying, praying to the gods that this wasn’t one of your brothers. You quickly studied the corpse and your surroundings, searching for any sign that this bloodied body wasn’t him. You searched for his sword hilt, his white hair, his signature haori, but the darkness of the deep night made any hint or clue futile.

Glaring at the bloodthirsty demon above you, you were petrified with fear. Your heavy feet were locked into place. Your thumping heart nearly burst out of your chest. But you stared the beast down with all your might, slowly reaching your blade out to the corpse in front of you in attempt to retrieve the scrappy remains of what was left of it.

Inch by inch, your gaze unwavering with the demon’s bloodshot eyes, you dragged the body closer and closer to you until it was just within arm’s reach. Steeling yourself, you swiftly grabbed the body and darted away.

You had no time to check whose body you were holding. All you knew was that you had to—

“Kff!”

All of a sudden, your back hit the ground. Hard. With the wind knocked out of your lungs, all you could see was black. You felt your blade slip out of your grasp as your spine seared with red-hot pain. Once you regained your senses, you opened your eyes...

Oh, shit.

Impossibly sharp fangs loomed over you, dripping with foul saliva that oozed onto your heaving chest. Crazed yellow eyes speckled with pumping red veins latched onto yours, a rotting jade-colored head thrashing back and forth as its piercing claws pinned you to the ground. Its breath was the most vile scent you’ve ever smelled in your entire life, reeking of blood and flesh and who knows what else.

And it was just mere inches away from your face.

Stifling a wave of nausea, you swiftly pulled your knees up to your chest and pushed, kicking the demon backwards by its torso as hard as your body would let you.

Darting over to your blade which had fallen to the ground just a few feet away from you, you picked it up and pointed it at the snarling demon who was picking its burly body off of the forest floor.

“You!” you shouted, wiping your slimy face on the sleeve of your uniform. “I’m not scared of you!”

The demon responded with a warbling noise, something that sounded like... laughing?

Your nerves set on fire. Oh, that’s it. You would end this vile monster right here, right now.

“Leaf Breathing, Second Form: Whirlwind of Fronds!” Exhaling sharply through clenched teeth, you felt cool winds start to whip around you, picking up speed as leaves and needles rapidly gravitated towards you as though you were a magnet.

Now!

Growling with fury, you charged at the gremlin with all your might, the swirling flurry of foliage honing in on the center of its chest. Each leaf transformed into sharp, miniature daggers, piercing through the demon’s grayish skin and buying you just enough time to move in close. Wielding your blade with both hands, you raised it above your head before forcefully slicing downwards with a roar, aiming for the neck.

But your opponent was nimble, and it barely dodged its head out of the way, landing you a clean shot down its shoulder to its flank. Shit, the arm can just regenerate itself, you cursed, quickly angling your sword laterally for a slice through the neck as the demon howled in pain.

You slashed your sword as hard as you could, but instead of cutting through soft flesh, you were met with thick, gnarly bone. The demon had raised its other arm in defense, keeping your lethal blade at bay. Struggling to push back against the sturdy bone, you gritted your teeth as you attempted to release your sword from its muscle.

But the demon had already beaten you to it and whipped its hefty arm outwards to shake you off, hurling you across the clearing.

“Hkk!” You landed straight on your back once again with a heavy thud, but you noticed that your blade was still lodged into the creature’s arm. Perfect. Even though single nerve in your body was screaming in pain, even as your limbs trembled as you shakily picked yourself up off the ground, you would never back down from a fight. “Hey, ugly! Let’s finish this!”

The demon howled furiously, clamoring to rip your blade out of its arm.

“Third Form: Drill of Needles!”

Hundreds of thousands of pine needles descended from the midnight sky at your command, whirling into a tight cone while speeding towards the neck of the monster. You heard the earsplitting drilling of flesh and wood followed by a deafening groan and huffed in triumph as the pent-up exhaustion began to release throughout your body.

You nearly hit the ground for the third time when you caught some movement out of the corner of your eye.

Oh, hell no.

There was the same demon, its bright yellow eyes even more furious now, perched high up in a tree.

“B-but...” your mind and vision grew hazy as you noticed the gaping hole in the demon’s chest, with its neck still intact. I missed? You cursed sharply at the sight of your chipped blade thrown carelessly on the ground a great distance away from you.

What do I do? Giyuu, Shinobu, what do I do? Mitsuri? Obanai? Is anyone there?

Your felt your body begin to admit defeat, your legs shaking as they threatened to give out from underneath you, your heaving lungs burning and aching for rest.

The corpse.

Where was the corpse? The same one that got you into this mess?

Sanemi?

You struggled to keep your vision trained on the demon high above as your body started to wobble in exhaustion. “Hey,” you slurred. “Come out here! We’re not— kff! We’re not done yet!”

A snarl sounded from over your shoulder as the familiar stench of rotting flesh flooded your nose once again.

This time, you plummeted to the ground face-first, hearing your nose crack in the process. But your body was too drained for you to properly register the pain.

You were so numb.

Groaning, you slowly rolled onto your back and gazed into the eyes of the demon hovering above you hungrily. Its arm that you had sliced off had already fully recovered, while the other arm choked your neck with an iron grip.

Your vision was nearly white now, your oxygen supply running low as blood trickled out of your neck where the demon’s claw had pierced the skin.

Die. Die. You were going to die. On your first mission. Without a single kill under your belt.

Forcing a smirk onto your face, you squeezed your eyes shut as you endured the pain as best you could. “Hey, now— hck... If there’s anything that Sanemi taught me... it’s that humans... always get the last laugh...” You cracked open one eye, staring straight into the demon’s yellow orbs.

“Noxious... nectar...” you gasped out one last command, watching the bloody pinpricks dotted all around the demon’s greying skin transform into purple specks of poison. The monster thrashed around, violently clutching its head at the pain seeping through its entire body. You watched as your first and last kill take place right in front of you as your vision began to fade.

But not before the demon’s deadly blood dripped into your open wounds.

link to part two.

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[palbabor-writes]

Adhesion

Pairing: Dabi/Touya Todoroki x Fem!Reader

Warnings: SMUT/18+ only, unbalanced/unhealthy relationships, TA/student dynamics, tw.mild drug use, tw.bribery, tw.recording without consent, tw.dubcon, brat taming, fingering, cucking 

Words: 8,915

You can feel his gaze; can tell he’s watching you from hooded eyelids and you do your best to resist his pull, not wanting to be drawn in by that eerie blue of his eyes. It’s not that you don’t like his eyes; no, if anything, you like them a little too much. They’re a beautiful shade of shifting cerulean and possibly the only positive thing about the man. 

“You sound upset, babe,” he taunts, taking another drag on his silver vape.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, don’t call me that. And me? Upset? You’re a real Sherlock, you know? What fucking gave that away? Oh, maybe the fact that I pay this university good money for these classes and I could actually use some support. But what do I get instead? A lazy TA who can’t be bothered to do anything more than the bare minimum. It’s a goddamn miracle I’m passing, and it’s certainly no thanks to you,” you snarl, twisting back to your work, ignoring the sound of his chair, gliding ever closer.

Notes: i bribed @libiraki and this fic is my part of the bargain. you heard it here folks, full stop, i am trash. 

this story falls under the University AU that i’m working on: Licentia Docendi - the first fic is Practicum & is all about Professor Shigaraki. For Adhesion, Dabi is a TA: Teacher’s Assistant in a college chemistry class. 

my reward for completing this is User 433 by libiraki. go read it, it’s killer & i’m so fucking pleased my nefarious deeds have paid off.     

Adhesion ad·he·sion /ədˈhēZH(ə)n/ noun the molecular force of attraction in the area of contact between two unlike bodies that acts to hold them together

What time did he say this was supposed to start at? There’s no way you’re late. Did he tell you the wrong room number? You paw into your low slung backpack and wiggle out the [Teacher’s Assistant (TA) handout for Organic Chemistry II]. Nope, you’re not in the wrong room, so it looks like he’s the one who’s late. 

Not too surprising, judging from his appearance. 

You’d only caught a glimpse of him that morning. He’d sauntered to the front of class when the professor had finished with the preliminaries of the syllabus and introduced the lanky man with inky black hair and some of the scruffiest clothes you’d ever seen, as nothing other than, DABI. No last name, no other credentials, just a simple, ah, here’s the TA for this class; he’ll give you a handout on meeting times and be sure to follow his lead with the labs. This Dabi fellow hadn’t even grunted out a hello. He’d merely waited, hands tucked firmly into his jacket pockets, and dropped down from the raised platform once the professor finished his brief introduction. 

You tend to avoid the TA sessions. They’re usually just reviews and endless reminders on the readings, and study prep has never been a weak spot for you, but this semester is different. You’re a junior and you’ve got to push through six classes this term if you want to graduate on time. You haven’t slacked off, haven’t taken less than a full course load. No, it’s just bad luck that they only offered organic chemistry during the Fall term this year.

Thanks to the addition of Organic Chemistry, now all of your classes are heavy sciences. Ick. Well, it’s the price you’ll have to pay for your pharmaceutical degree. It’s not that you don’t like the classes. Honestly, they’re fascinating, chock full of information and techniques that you love to dive into. Nah, it’s not the material of the classes themselves, but the course load and labs that’ll be your downfall if you don’t keep pace. 

So, here you are, waiting in an empty room in the library’s basement for the errant TA of organic chemistry to show. You’re a little shocked that no one else has come to this session. Maybe they’ll try for the other times, or they might be under the blissful impression that they can score the ‘A’ with no outside help. Who knows? 

You’re twiddling with your phone and debating leaving when the study hall door opens. His dark hair is the first thing you notice. It gleams in the bright light of the fluorescents, and you’re distracted by the sheen. It’s almost a little too black. 

It’s not that it doesn’t fit him. If anything, it makes the angled features of his face and neck stand out and draws your eyes to his pale patches of skin. They’re patches because his collarbone and lower neckline are wrapped with spiraling whorls of tattoos; they’re everywhere. How had you missed that? Was his jacket zipped up when he stood in front of the class?

“What’s up?” he calls out, tilting his chin at your wide eyes. He pauses beside the table you’re sitting at and regards you frankly. His eyes are half hidden by his fringed mop of hair, but you can see that they’re a vibrant blue. It’s a haunting color, almost otherworldly. You don’t particularly like the coldness that’s reflected at you, so you focus on the rest of his face instead. He’s got a few nostril piercings, three little studs that shine out when he wrinkles his nose at your bewildered expression. 

“You hard of hearing or something?” Dabi scolds, crossing his arms and glaring down at you. You shake your head and loosen your heavy tongue, finally pulling your gaze away from him. 

“I-I’m here for the TA session.”

“No fucking way!” he mocks, a barked laugh escaping his quirked lips. “Alright captain obvious, let’s get you set up so I can go about my day. Sign this and I’ll give you the power point slides for this week.”

He yanks his backpack forward and tosses a few mismatched papers your way. One is so badly crumpled you have to iron it out with your arm, ignoring the slight stick that clings to one side. Ah, it’s a sign-up sheet. But, hang on, isn’t he supposed to poll the class on these meeting times? He can’t just pick the times himself, can he? You’ve never seen that before. What’s going on?

“Hey, aren’t you supposed to ask which time works best for us before you set the schedule?” you question, sliding the paper back to him. 

His long fingers catch the sheet before it can tumble off of the narrow table and he gives you a wolfish smirk. “Ah, you’re gonna be one of those,” he grumbles, pulling back one chair and flopping into it, splaying his long legs out in front of him. 

“Tch, what do you mean by, ‘one of those?’ I’m not some green freshman, I’ve been to TA meetings before. You ask us for the times.”

“Hmph, okay. Let’s put it this way then, you’re here now, right?”

“Yeah. I–”

“So it’s fair for me to assume that you can make this time?”

“I can today, but what if it’s a one-time thing? What if I have another class or a job?”

“Do you?” his voice drops as he lingers on that ultimate word, lacing his fingers together and leaning forward, blue eyes watching you closely. 

“N-no, I don’t personally have any objections to this time. But what if others–”

“Others?” he scoffs. “I’m sorry, do you see anyone else in here? We’ve been talking, what, five minutes? And I was, eh, almost fifteen minutes late? That sound right? Hate to say it, but I think it’s just gonna be me and you babe.” 

“Ew. Don’t call me that! It’s (F/N)(L/N). Gross, who does that? Babe? You don’t even know me,” you sputter, leaning away from his hunched gaze, earning yourself another clipped chuckle. 

“Ooh, so sensitive! Alright, miss. “I’m not a freshman,” if there are no more objections from the peanut gallery, go ahead and sign this so I can conclude this session. Don’t particularly like chatting with you either, since you’re taking years off my life with these pointless questions.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a dick,” you bristle, crossing your arms and glowering down at the crinkled sign-up sheet that Dabi’s pushed back toward you. 

“Damn, we’re already talking about my dick! I usually reserve that kinda thing for the third week, but I’ll let it slide. Now, be a good little girl and sign that paper for me.”

A month in this whole TA arrangement hasn’t gotten any easier. 

Half of the time Dabi doesn’t even show up, opting to text you the notes and study guides, waving you off with some vague excuse, or promise to make it up next time. The days he appears for the session, he’s always late and glumly sits beside you in the vacant study hall, tinkering with his phone and doing his best to avoid any kind of work. 

But today? Today takes the cake. 

He’s got his booted feet on the table and is taking quiet hits on his vape pen, exhaling long breaths of clear steam into the study hall. “Dabi,” you hiss across the room, aghast at his cavalier attitude. “You’re not supposed to smoke in here! Wait. Oh, my god! Is that weed?”

“Shhh, Jesus. Keep your voice down, mom,” Dabi sneers, puffing a wisp of smoke your way. “Why don’t you try focusing on your work, huh? You’ve got twelve more molecules to stabilize and your functional groups are a mess; you don’t have time to worry about me. Come on, chop, chop. I’ve got places to be.”

“Ugh. Places to be. What a load of bullshit. You know what? I wonder what might help me speed things up? Oh! I know! What if you did your job instead of getting stoned out of your mind?”

Dabi swivels around in his rolling chair, lowering his legs from the table and cocking a dark eyebrow at you. He’s foregone his tattered jacket today, and the sleeves of tattoos that lace up the chorded muscles of his arms are on full display. He’s done that on purpose, the bastard; likely noticed that you like to stare at them, your eyes engrossed by the shadings and designs. Not your fault you like some of the artwork. You’re not looking at him, not admiring any kind of twist or pull of his forearms. Not thinking about how nice they look when he wears a low cut shirt, or rolls up his sleeves. Nope, you promise yourself, careful to keep your eyes down and on your notes, it’s not that.  

You can feel his gaze; can tell he’s watching you from hooded eyelids and you do your best to resist his pull, not wanting to be drawn in by that eerie blue of his eyes. It’s not that you don’t like his eyes; no, if anything, you like them a little too much. They’re a beautiful shade of shifting cerulean and possibly the only positive thing about the man. 

“You sound upset, babe,” he taunts, taking another drag on his silver vape.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, don’t call me that. And me? Upset? You’re a real Sherlock, you know? What fucking gave that away? Oh, maybe the fact that I pay this university good money for these classes and I could actually use some support. But what do I get instead? A lazy TA who can’t be bothered to do anything more than the bare minimum. It’s a goddamn miracle I’m passing, and it’s certainly no thanks to you,” you snarl, twisting back to your work, ignoring the sound of his chair, gliding ever closer.

“Such a fucking sour puss. I bet you’d look a lot prettier if you’d wipe that scowl off your face every once in a while. Lemme see what you’ve got,” Dabi snorts, sauntering out of his chair and bending over your work. 

His tattooed arm braces itself beside your shoulder and the exposed skin brushes against you, making you unconsciously scoot awkwardly to one side.

“Don’t get so close,” you chastise, doing your best to ignore the pull of his cologne. It’s got a hint of patchouli and oranges, and it mixes so well with the cloying sweetness of his lingering vape smoke that it makes your head swim.

What’s he doing? This… well, it’s not like him. He never “checks” your answers, he usually just tells you to submit it to his email and he’ll get back to you later, which he never does. You don’t like this. Nope, not one fucking bit.

He takes his time studying your work, one long finger etching its way across your scribblings. His skin is warm; almost too warm. The heat of it against your clothed side makes you shiver and you duck your head at your unbidden reaction, balling your hands into fists and scrunching them against your tense thighs.

When he finally replies, he dips his head close to your ear, keeping his voice low and steady. “Not bad, (L/N). Nice to see you have some capacity for development after all.”

“What the hell does that mean?” you huff, whipping your head to his.

Oh, that’s right; he’s close.

The lazy smirk he gives you stretch his lips over his teeth and his eyes fall to a half mast as he leans closer, ghosting his breath over your face. “It means, you did a good job, babe. I’m impressed.”

You must be gaping at him; there’s no way that you’re not, but you can’t fucking think, not when he’s so close. If he wanted to, he could close that gap and he’d be against you. His lips look nice from here, smooth and pink, and you suddenly have a wild urge to see what he tastes like. Heart pounding, you feel yourself tilting your chin upwards, your lips parted, tongue dancing across the open plushness, dampening them, waiting, hoping that he’ll just…

“Practice your Lewis structures. Some of those compounds look fucking ridiculous,” Dabi replies, pushing himself off of the table and peering down at you, eyes gleaming with poorly concealed mirth. “But, you’re on the right track. Finish this shit up. Gotta go.”

“W-what?” you sputter, trying to quiet your pounding heart and steady yourself, upended by his short-lived…seduction? What exactly was that?

“Already told you, got some place to be. Send me the screenshots, if you wanna’, but I’m prolly’ not gonna look at them until after the weekend. Well, see ya’ around, (L/N).” And, with a last wave, he snatches up his backpack and saunters out the double doors, leaving you alone.

“So what are you thinking? Just go up to the dean’s office and ask to file a report against him?” your boyfriend questions, his voice hazy and distant through the filter of your earbuds. You’d called him a few minutes ago, once you had a good signal and filled him in on, well, most of the details. 

After Dabi left, you’d gathered up your things and paced the floors of the library, debating your next move. He’s not doing his job. That much is a fucking given. You’d even talked with a few of the other students in your class the other day and they all said the same thing: He’s lazy and he can’t be bothered to help. Apparently, you’re the only student who had one on one sessions with him, but the group meetups sound worse. They told you he usually just opened the textbook and asked them to copy down definitions, and those were the days when he showed up for the meetings.   

“Yeah, and today he really outdid himself. The jerk basically… well… he’s not doing his job,” you flounder at the omission of Dabi coming onto you. If you’re honest with yourself, he hadn’t really done much, and you’d been the one who was surging forward, suddenly tempted by his closeness, his scent, and those rippling sets of tattoos and bright blue eyes. No. Stop it. It’s the last straw, you remind yourself, shaking your head and refocusing on the familiar tone of your boyfriend’s voice.

“I’m sick of it. Midterms are coming, and I’m not about to let him hold the fate of my GPA in his stupid hands.”

“Go get em,’ love! You’re totally right, you’ve worked so hard and you shouldn’t have to put up with some middle-aged asshole’s antics. It’s been a crazy week for you, so dinner’s on me tonight. Wherever you wanna’ go, name the place and I’ll make sure we get a smile back on your face!”

That… that’s so like your boyfriend. He’s always so sweet and caring. Always looking out for you, ready to pick you back up and dust you off each time you feel you’ve fallen short. He’s perfect. He’s all you want, all you need… right?

Goddamn it, you think after you hang up your phone and hop on the elevator that will whisk you up to the dean’s offices, you’d almost kissed your TA. Here’s your boyfriend, being the most supportive and loving thing in the entire world and all you can think about is how fucking good Dabi’s cologne had smelt has he leaned over you. Some partner you are. 

The dean’s office is emptier than you expected. There’s a single secretary, who is sitting behind a low desk, twirling a dark lock of hair and skimming over the pages of a magazine. She looks up when you clear your throat and a practiced smile lifts her lips. 

“Hey there! How can I help you?”

“I uh, need to file a complaint against someone in the College of Sciences,” you explain, dropping your heavy backpack from your shoulders and scratching at the back of your head balefully. You’re likely not the first one to file a grievance against the Dabi, so why are you suddenly bothered by the idea? It’s not going to get better. Just remember all the shitty, half-baked sessions he’s made you sit through (Y/N) and get this over with. 

“Oh! I’m sorry to hear that! Let me grab you the registry of TA’s and adjunct professors,” the secretary chirps, pushing her rolling chair across the wooden floors to snatch at a heavy binder on a shelf. 

“I can, um, just tell you his name. If that makes it any easier,” you quietly reply, one foot tapping agitatedly against the other. What is this uneasy feeling that keeps zinging through your mind? It’s going to be an anonymous complaint. It’s not like he’ll ever see it. He likely won’t even know it’s you. Some of the other students had discussed the idea. He could think it’s one of them, not you.  

“No, no,” the secretary replies, sliding the binder across the glass counter of the desk. “It’s no trouble at all! Just search for their name and fill out all the particulars on the university system. Doing our best to reduce waste! Gotta keep that paper trail down! We’ve got a little kiosk outside, close to the elevators. It’ll help you with all the details, just click on the form and it will file it into our online system. The dean’s office closes in fifteen minutes, so be sure to bring the binder back as soon as you’re done!” 

“Uh, ok,” you mumble, hefting the thick book into your hands. “Do you want me to take it with me, or just look it up here?”

“You can take it out there! It’s sorted by department, for ease of use, so it shouldn’t take you long to find them.” 

Great. 

You lug the binder to one of the many empty tables outside the sliding doors of the office. Slipping your backpack into a vacant chair, you flip through the lists and sections. Chemistry, chemistry… ah! Okay, you’re in the right section. Now to find Dabi, should be easy enough.

Yeah, no. There’s no one in here listed as “Dabi.” What the hell is this? Some kind of elaborate scheme? Is he just a random student who’s fronting as a TA? It would explain some of his general disinterest, but he knows more about molecular chemistry than anyone you’ve ever met, and that skill isn’t exactly a common parlor trick. 

Oh? My secret talent? Well, I can tell you about isotopic labeling and the exact timing of the reaction speeds! Wanna hear more? 

No. No one does. Plus, the professor had introduced him to the class on the first day. He knew him and Dabi’s not exactly inconspicuous. There’s gotta be something you’re missing. 

You close the heavy book and make your way back into the office, fingernails tapping out a disjointed pattern against the plastic of the binder. “Hey, um, sorry to bother,” you begin, tilting your head and biting your lip at the secretary’s beaming face.

“No bother! Did you find them? Everything work okay in the system?”

“No. I, uh, couldn’t find their name? He said his name was Dabi, never gave us a last name so, um, that’s all I have to go on,” you explain, placing the binder back on her desk and praying she’ll give you some kind of explanation.

“Ooh! Dabi! Sorry about that, he’s a special case, since he goes by his nickname. He’s under the adjunct section. I believe his last name is Todoroki,” she twists the book toward herself and flips through the pages at an alarming rate, eyes skimming over the names. 

“Here he is! Touya Todoroki! They don’t put nicknames, or preferred names, since it’s an official listing. He’s a brilliant man and one of our brightest junior professors. I know the university is hoping to snap him up this coming semester, get him on track for a tenured position. 

He’s a little unconventional, but he’s a super nice guy and… oh! Wait a minute, you wanted to file a complaint against him, right? I’m so sorry, here I am, running my mouth! You want a pen and paper? So you can jot his university number and info down? Lets me keep the book in here. Four minutes to closing after all, might as well save you the trip back.” She whips out the procured sheet of blank printer paper and a university stamped pen, holding them both toward you, a friendly smile still crinkling her eyes.

“Thanks,” you sigh, a little bewildered by her chatter. From the sound of it, Dabi’s got some university backing and is a ‘nice guy’. Coulda’ fooled you. Doesn’t matter, you think, crossing the t’s of his first and last name; he’s likely just skimming by on the promise of tenure, and the sooner the school knows about his lackadaisical attitude, the better. 

You’re typing in Todoroki, Touya when the secretary closes up the office of the dean, flicking off the lights and waving a goodbye to your tensed expression. A few minutes later, the elevator swallows her up and the only sound that fills the empty space is the clacking of the keys as you finish typing out your complaint. 

Alright. Got most of the minor points out of the way. 

Inattentive to the lessons, frequent absences, missing materials, smoking in the library; you’ll leave out the mention of weed, it’s not like you can claim innocence on that charge yourself and you’re not looking to have the guy arrested, just stripped of his TA status. You could mention the near kiss, but it feels too vague, and it’s not like he made a move on you. No, all that shifting forward rests squarely on your own shoulders. Damn it, stop thinking about that! You’ve got a boyfriend, someone who loves you, who’s going to take you to dinner! Hit complete and get the fuck outta’ here, before someone–

“Whatcha’ doing?”

His voice makes you jump half a foot into the air, your right knee contacting the protruding keyboard of the university kiosk. “Fuck,” you hiss, twisting around and hunching over at the bright spots of pain that flash across your vision as you rub your fingers over the hurt. The soft footfalls of his approach snap you out of your dazed reverie and your head snaps up, eyes widening at the sight of him.

He’s got a loose fitting white shirt on and you can see the coiling of his tattooed muscles under the thin fabric. His chin is lowered and his eyes are distant pinpricks of blue flame in the low lights. Booted feet take a few more steps toward you, but he pauses beside the table that your backpack is sitting on, hands sliding into his dark jeans, waiting for your response. You gulp back your nerves and lift your eyes to his, hoping some of your ire and defiance will shine through. “I’m putting something into the system,” you reply, your voice holding steady as you re-straighten your spine. 

“Can see that,” he counters, head tilting, dark hair falling to one side of his soft jawline. “Why are you doing it up here? This is the College of Science’s dean’s office. Most people don’t come up here to adjust their university login. So let me ask you again, whatcha’ doing, Ms. (L/N)?”

“Filing a complaint,” you snap, fingers curling into tight fists, shoulders rising and fall with your quickening breaths. That’s right, asshole, and it’s a complaint about you. How do you like that? Not much you can do about… about it now…. oh, shit. Fuck.  

You haven’t hit the enter key. 

The fucking e-document is just sitting there, unattended and completely vulnerable. He might not have seen that you haven’t sent it through and if you could just step a few feet to the right, then you can slip one finger against the keypad and hit that all important “enter.” 

You look up at him again, praying he won’t notice you scooting your shoes backwards, doing your best to keep him wholly focused on your face. “What did you expect?” you taunt, eyes narrowed, arms wrapping around your back, fingers unconsciously stretching out, feeling for the lift of the keyboard. “You’ve been shit. Midterms are in a week and half of the class says you’re not showing up for their sessions. Don’t look so shocked. This can’t possibly be your first run in with something like this? No wonder you go by that silly name, Dabi. What’s the matter? Upset that I know your actual name now?”

As you ramble on, his face has dropped all pretense of blank civility and now his entire body is hunching forward, shoulders curving, hands pulling free of his pockets and coiling outward, reaching, palms tilted upward. 

“So much fucking talk (Y/N). Looks to me like you forgot that last step. Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing,” he begins, a wicked grin twisting across his lips, not quite reaching the glare of his narrowed eyes. “Ah, babe. Why you gotta be this way? Make you a deal, huh? Walk away now and I’ll forget the whole thing. No repercussions, no questions asked. Never even saw you up here, scout’s honor.” 

The keyboard is close; you can hear the hum of the monitor, buzzing as it holds the screen with your complaint against Touya Todoroki steady, waiting for your inspection, for that final command. Dabi is close, his looming form heavy against your wide eyes, but it’s now or never. You’ve got to turn around, got to let the predatory lumber of your ill-appointed TA slip from your mind, you have to do this. It doesn’t matter what kinda promises he’ll make to you. That changes nothing, absolutely nothing. 

Now! Do it now!

You whirl around, hands shaking as they search for the right keystrokes, the right submission link. It feels like minutes have passed, not seconds. Even though you’ve pressed all the buttons and heard the computer chime, a sent message alert into the sudden, reverberating silence, you can’t take your eyes off the burning gleam of the screen. Not until that thank you pops up. 

He’s still behind you. You can hear his boots as they click across the wood. His movements have slowed, but he’s still advancing. It’s too late for you Dabi, you think, watching as the submission page fades to a pleasing orange, the school mascot waving a large “Thanks!” as it dances, close to the bottom of the page. You did it! There’s nothing he can do. Nothing that–

His powerful arm drapes across your stiffened shoulders, his wrist popped beside your face, fingers dangling lazily into the open air. “Ahhh,” he sighs, leaning over you, resting his head beside yours. You half turn your face to see him, aghast that he’s so close again, that he’s touching you, holding you in place with his weight. His muscled side presses against your back, leaning heavily into you as he gives you a rakish smirk. “Well, looks like we get to do this the hard way.”

“What the fuck? The hard way? What does–hey! HEY!” He’s stepped away from you, and that arm that was braced over your shoulders shifts to the back of your neck, ramming your face down into the keyboard, mashing out a random string of commands. Your nose stings from the impact and your eyes wince shut, protecting themselves from the threat of the black letters. 

“Warned you about sending that,” he replies, and you can hear the grin in his voice. He’s stroking a hand down your head, tangling his long fingers in your hair, pulling at the strands until you’re groaning in pain. “Now we have to do this another way. Gotta even the score, don’t we? Need to make sure you’ve got some kinda blemish on your record, too! I know that secretary filled you in on my upcoming tenure. No way she didn’t. She’s a fucking leaky faucet and I know you had to ask her about my name to fill out that complaint. No, no. We gotta fix this, babe.”

His voice has dropped into a terrifying lower octave, his words sharp, barbed, lancing into your mind like a showering of sticks and stones. He fucking sounds like he’s seconds away from losing his goddamn mind. The hand that’s wrapped around your hair is tugging against you in earnest, jerking your neck away from the threat of the keyboard, forcing you to look up at his leering face. The pupils of his eyes are blown, the black eating away at the shine of the blue until there’s almost nothing left. His teeth are bared in a grimace and his cheeks are pinched, making the silver of his piercings stand out against his flushed skin.

You do your best to gasp out another set of questions, but he’s yanking you back, holding you against his broad chest and wrapping those ink sleeved arms around you. They coil over your stomach and across your breasts, digging into the globes and heaving them under his forearms. His lips are tracing over your arched neck, teeth nipping against your bared pulse. 

“You always smell so good, babe. What are you wearing? Hmm?”

“W-what… get off me! You sick fuck! Why are you… ow… damn,” you whimper as he sucks a bruise into your skin, gnawing and pulling until you’re writhing in his arms. You keep attempting to slip away, to shift your feet forward, but that mouth of his won’t let up. Each time you shake yourself free from those quick pants and hums he’s dashing across your neckline, he moves to another spot, or his hands cup and squeeze at your heaving chest and shivering waist, distracting you. 

“Mmm, this is unexpected. Looks like you just might enjoy what’s about to happen,” Dabi teases, licking a wet line under your jaw. “Come on, let’s go somewhere a little more private, shall we?”

You exhale a shuddering breath and remain perfectly still, hoping your feigned submission will lull him. Thankfully, it works. He chuckles and spits something out about being a ‘good girl,’ but when he moves back, his arms unlacing from you, you stumble forward, one heel raised, cracking down over his booted feet with as much force as you can muster. 

Dabi hisses out a string of low curses, his body coiling over itself protectively. You do your best to squirm out of his grasp, but one of his broad hands reaches out for you, snatching at your leg and forcing you back to him. The sudden shift jolts you off your feet and you tumble to the wood, your palms skinning against the uneven surface. 

“Stop it!” you shout, kicking your feet, trying to dislodge his iron grip. 

“Kick me again and I’ll knock you out,” Dabi threatens, lowering himself to your level and jerking you underneath him, trapping you, bracing his knees on either side of your hips. 

“Fuck you,” you screech out, bucking upwards, trying to dislodge his weight.

“That’s the idea,” he croons, long fingers curling under your clenched chin, forcing you to look up at him. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you and stop acting like you don’t want me. You were practically salivating for me this afternoon. I bet you’re already wet. Let’s find out, hmmm?”

His other hand drifts to the clasp of your jeans, flicking past the barrier of your button and dipping his hand into your pants. His touch lingers around the elastic band of your panties, yanking and teasing at the seam as he works your zipper down. Unconsciously, your traitorous hips roll under him and he gives you a sharp grin, blue eyes blazing. “There you go, babe, just relax. Don’t worry, I’ll make it good for you,” he whispers, his voice catching as his touch slips downward, tapping across your curls and snagging against your slippery folds. “Maybe… ahhh… look at that,” he moans, a satisfied grin lifting those tempting lips of his. 

His middle finger brushes between your quivering flesh, gathering droplets of your arousal onto his finger pad. You choke back a staggered breath and your head flops weightlessly against the floor as you arch pitifully into his hand. One of his nails digs into your clit and faint stars pulse over your eyes. “S-stop it,” you stutter, unable to control the shiver that echoes up your spine.

“Tch,” Dabi scorns, adding the pressure of another finger. “Figures,” he continues, his mouth dropping into a pleased smile as you writhe under him. “I thought you liked being difficult. You’re so fucking cute when you’re mad, you know? So what happened to all that vigor, (Y/N)? Not gonna struggle anymore? I’m disappointed, I was hoping you’d keep it up.”

“You’re disgusting,” you snap, your fingers lifting from your side, grabbing the loose collar of his shirt and jerking him to your waiting lips. You can feel the lift of his grin, but he allows the caress, sharp nose digging into your upper cheek. This is wrong. So fucking wrong. But, if you have to endure it, it’s only fair you get a little bit of enjoyment out of this sick power play, so you nip at his lower lip, giving him soft presses and sharper pulls. Dabi, for all of his earlier barbs of prowess, is a bit taken aback by your sudden interest, his hands cupping at the back of your head, urging you on each time you maneuver away from his open-mouthed kisses. 

“You want to fuck me here? Right in front of the elevator?” you question breathlessly, fingers coiling into his dark hair, carding through the rough strands until he’s groaning above you. 

“Nah,” he pants, pulling away from your lips and leaning back. His fingers are still working their way against you, but it’s not enough friction and you wriggle under him, slipping him from your clit. “The fuck are you doing, babe? You gonna try and make a break for it again?” he laughs, pulling his hand from your pants and licking at the faint sweetness that you’ve left for him. 

“Why bother?” you reply, twisting your neck, your head dragging over the grains of the flooring. “You’re just going to catch me. I don’t know my way around this part of the building, so even if I got away, you’d only find me and I don’t really like being tossed around. Not good for me, you know? Why do you care? I thought you said you were gonna fuck me?”

“Oh, I am,” he assures you, one hand snagging under your chin, forcing your eyes to lock onto his. “Just wanted to know what changed.”

“Nothing,” you barb, tugging your chin free and fixing him with a pointed stare. “This whole thing means nothing. I’ve got a boyfriend, and he’s buying me dinner tonight, so, just get through this and I’m free to go, right?”

“A boyfriend,” Dabi muses, knees tightening around your hips. “Should we call him? I’d hate to think how he’d feel about all this. Knowing that his girl is letting her TA take advantage of her this way.” 

“Hmph,” you snort, arms bracing under you, pushing yourself upward, doing your utmost to level this shitty playing field he’s laid out for you. “Like you give a shit.”

“You’re right,” he affirms, hands snatching under your arms and pulling you out from under him. “I couldn’t care less.”

His office is small. 

You keep a sharp eye on the door, watching to see if he locks it. Fingers crossed, he’ll get himself off and that’ll be the end of this. But that tone he’d shifted into, when he’d told you that you’d need to fix this, to erase the complaint, to walk it back, that made your spine tingle and skin prickle. There’s something else, something he’s not telling you, he’s a smart guy, there’s no way it’s this simple. He’s paced behind his desk, fiddling with something in one drawer, his eyes lifting to observe you each time you shift on the couch he’d gestured for you to sit on.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice a dull monotone. You don’t care, you remind yourself, hands wrapping around your stomach. No matter how good he looks, or how skilled his fingers are, you don’t care (Y/N) and it’s pathetic that you have to keep reminding yourself of that.

“Just making sure everything is ready,” he answers, eyes flicking over you. “Take off your pants and shirt, but leave your bra and panties on.”

“Huh?” you question, shoulders tensing as you glare up at him. “Why?”

“Does it matter?” he responds, closing his desk drawer and stepping back to you, kicking his boots and socks off as he gets closer.

“I-I guess not, but I don’t understand why you–”

“Don’t worry, I’ll explain it all when I’m finished,” he reassures you, kneeling on the floor and propping an elbow against his tattered couch. “You can make a show of taking your clothes off, I won’t mind.” 

“You’re revolting,” you snarl, curling your fingers over the hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric up. 

“Mmm,” Dabi agrees, one palm rising to run over your exposed skin. “Whatever you say.” 

“Ugh,” you grunt, popping your hips up and yanking your jeans down your long legs, not wanting to give him too much of a viewing as you pull them along your calves and onto the floor.

“Cute,” he murmurs, one finger racing along the lace of your panties, curving around your hip and onto the soft skin of your ass. “Oooh, did you wear these just for me?” he asks, cupping a broad hand under your soft skin and tugging it into his palm. “Love a girl in a thong,” he murmurs, fingers pressing and lifting into the plush flesh.

“Stop it,” you groan, lifting your hips up, depriving him of his lecherous grip. “I’d never do anything for you.” 

“Always such a stuck up little thing, let’s see if I can’t change your mind,” Dabi laughs, pushing you back and splaying you against the haggard cushions. His long fingers hook under the band of your thong and steadily work it over the curve of your hips and down the line of your calves. Instinctually, you clamp your thighs together, rubbing against the ache that’s budding between your clenched legs. 

“Come on,” Dabi encourages you, slapping his hand against your round thigh, smoothing his palm over the redness that he’s left behind. “Open up babe, let me see you.” 

“Don’t, ah—” you bite out, leaning away from his ravenous gaze and bracing yourself on your elbows as Dabi leers over the sight you’ve been forced to open for him. He glances up at you for a single moment, the blue of his eyes ensnaring your attention and leaving you gaping against the cushions. Seconds later, he’s diving between your spread thighs, his curious tongue lapping over the exposed folds of your cunt.

He slows his licks as he passes by your clit, pausing against the bud before wrapping his lips around the nub, sucking a swift rhythm over you. Your feet rise from the floor to brace against his broad shoulders and you coil your hips upward, urging him on, your head falling into the swath of pillows that rest under your neck. Tense fingers wrench into the cushions and you give a soft gasp, your lips stumbling over his name.

“What was that?” Dabi asks, lifting his head from your curls, lips wet with your slick, his blue eyes watching the contours of your face.

“Fuck you. I-I know… I know you heard me… D-Dabi,” you moan, hissing when he brings a digit against the quivering ring of your entrance. 

“Dabi, huh?” he ponders, letting the edge of his fingernail tease over you. “Don’t know if I like that. I think I’d much rather hear you screaming out my name, my real name.” 

“What?” you question, popping your head up and giving him a blank stare.

“You remember,” he grins, poking out his tongue and dragging it over you, smiling as you buck under his hands. “Come on,” he taunts, sucking at your clit again. “I know you know it. Go on, say it for me.”

“Wha-what’s wrong with Dabi?” you smart, bracing your feet against the couch and forcing him to insert his wavering finger, digging it forward until it hits the second knuckle. 

“Nothing, I just wanna’ hear how the other name sounds. I want to know what it’s like when you’re choking on it, barely able to gasp it out cus’ I’m making you feel so good. Come on, (Y/N), indulge me, huh?” 

“Fine,” you huff, legs trembling as he shoves another finger into you, curling them upward, poking and prodding until you’re squirming. “Keep going. Make me cum all over your mouth, Touya.” 

“Oh, fuck,” Dabi hisses, his teeth catching over your clit. “That sounds real nice, baby.”

His lips seal over you again and he drags another finger into you, stretching you until you feel you’re close to bursting. It’s a low ache he’s working up, but you love the burn. It’s not like your boyfriend can’t do this, but you’ve never worked up the courage to ask. How do you even go about that? Hey, I want you to pin me down and… no. That doesn’t matter, you remind yourself; fingers sinking into Dabi’s black hair, pulling him closer. You just need to get him off and get the hell outta’ here. Don’t think about it. Just relax and get this over with. 

“You need more, don’t you?” Dabi questions, tilting his head and cracking one cerulean eye open, watching as you writhe and cant under his skillful hands. 

“I-I just need…” your voice fails you as he resumes that suction, tugging your engorged clit between his sharp teeth and giving you a few rapid fire nips. “Al-almost, just… keep… oh fuck…” you sigh, thighs tensing around his dark head. His fingers speed up that sinful drag and he wriggles them forward with each push, tapping and stroking over the spongy patch of nerves within your cunt. 

Then, right when you’re breaths away from a mind blowing release, he yanks his fingers from your sopping pussy, laughing as you pant and whine for him. “Ahhh, come on babe,” he sneers. “Why would I reward you when you’ve been such a fucking pain?” 

You openly gape at him, your eyes blinking back dots of frustration and distant flashes of lingering starlight arousal. “What the fuck,” you pant, shifting away from his slicked lips and crossing your legs. “Wh-what what was that for?”

Dabi pushes himself onto his haunches, licking the last traces of you off of his fingers before digging his hand into his jean pocket. He returns with a small remote and waggles it in front of your aghast expression. “Got all I needed,” he informs you, flicking it toward a bookcase. You swiftly whip your head to the shelves and spy the tiny camcorder resting above the topmost set of books. 

“You fucking ASS,” you screech, hands reaching for the dangling remote, not caring that your sopping pussy and half naked breasts are on full display. Dabi hovers the remote above the two of you, cracking that all too familiar grin over his thin lips.

“So, about that complaint,” he taunts, scoffing at your desperation, leaning on his heels to watch you scramble up from the frayed pillows of his couch. 

“Y-you, why… I… give me that! You can’t record me without my permission!”

“Awe, babe,” Dabi barks, his laugh echoing around the small space. “Too bad for you, huh? I don’t need two party consent.”

“That’s for phone calls,” you bite out, finally snagging his wrist, yanking him toward you. 

“Who said the video was on?” 

“You fucking jackass! That’s why you wanted me to say your name!”

“Calm down, I won’t release it if you walk back the complaint,” Dabi counters, letting you pull him closer, his lips teasingly reaching for yours. You dodge his touch and fix him with a pointed glower, nose wrinkling and brow furrowing. 

“This sounds like a well oiled routine,” you accuse, dropping your hold on him and crossing your arms over your exposed stomach. 

“Tch, you jealous?” Dabi sneers, cupping both of his hands under your bent elbows, forcing you to lean into his hold. You shake your head at his accusation and grit your teeth, tilting your face away from his seeking touch. 

“What are you going to do about this part? Where I’m yelling about what a son of a bitch you are?”

“Edit it out,” Dabi informs you, lips latching onto the hollow of your throat, teeth worrying your tender skin between their grasp. “Again, if you walk back the accusation, all of this goes away.”

“What if…” you pause, biting your lower lip and shrugging Dabi off of you. He leans away, bright eyes studying your face, pausing at the dip of your lips, following the pink indentations that your teeth leave behind. “What if I wanna’ fuck you?”

“Oh?” Dabi hums, nose flaring, making those three tiny piercings gleam under the low light of the moon that’s streaming through his window. “Now you wanna’ fuck me? You sure about that? Not that I blame you, I’m pretty good, pretty big, too.”

“Ugh, don’t say shit like that,” you reply, lifting a shaking hand to his neck, tracing your fingertips over the indentations of his tattoos.

“Hmm,” he groans, already leaning into your touch, his skin prickling under the gentle strokes of your fingers. “One condition. I get to record it. This time with the video on.”

“Fine,” you confirm, coiling your hands into his inky hair. “Never know, you might want it for later.”

“For what?” Dabi asks, yanking himself away from your intoxicating strokes to jerk his white shirt over his head. You shake your head at his question, not wanting to think about the ramifications of this situation, distracting yourself with the new patterns and whorls of dark ink that are bared to you. He twists back to the camcorder, hitting a few buttons before tossing his remote across the room, the plastic clattering over the wood.

You can just make out the outline of wisps of blue flames beside his ribs when he kicks his pants and boxers down, finally lowering the curtain on the dip of his hipbones, displaying his straining length to your ravenous gaze. He’s covered in piercings. A silver Prince Albert is gleaming at his tip, catching the drips and bubbles of pre-cum that are hovering against his slit. His cock curls proudly toward his stomach when he releases it from the thin protection of his boxers and you catch sight of the Jacob’s ladder that climbs up his impressive girth. Unconsciously, you gulp in a swift breath and shake your head, not wanting to show him your wavering uncertainty. 

He’ll undoubtedly be the biggest cock you’ve ever taken, and you’re not sure that he’s stretched you out properly. He’d paused too soon and you can still feel the shuddering echoes of your faint brush with release travel up your spine as you gape at him. It’s not enough… it’s not…

“What?” Dabi questions, one black brow arched. “Worried I’m too big for you?”

You’re about to respond when he shoves you down and maneuvers you sideways, stretching you along the cushions, his hand a steady pressure against your windpipe, choking out any reservations that threaten to escape your lips. He’s on top of you seconds later, the sheer weight of him pinning you under him, and you let out a whine when he spreads your legs, popping the brittle muscles of your hips in his rush. 

“I’ll make you like it,” he promises, looming over you, his lips tracing up your neck as his hands dig under your back, unfastening your bra and stripping you of your final defense. “You’ve got a nice rack, babe,” Dabi praises, lowering himself, ghosting over your peaked nipples, tongue lapping out to dip over the puffy areola. 

“Stop saying shit like that, I might think you mean it,” you snarl, throat catching on your gasps of strained pleasure. He sucks one stiffened peak between his lips and suckles, hard. The pressure makes your back bow off the cushions, fingers reaching for him, clawing and scratching your way down the muscled plains of his back. 

“Mmm,” Dabi groans, popping his lips free from the distraction of your nipples. “Do that again, but put some effort behind it.” 

Well, why let him down now? You dig your nails into him, yanking until you feel his skin part under you, splitting from the drag of your touch. “Fuck, yes,” he grunts, his hips jerking into you, blindly seeking your entrance. “I’m gonna fuck you,” Dabi warns, teeth biting the hollow of your neck. “I’m gonna fuck you until all you can say is my name.” 

He blindly reaches for your hips, two fingers searching for your cunt. Once he finds it, he grasps the swollen length of his cock, jerking himself a few times, splashing his hot pre-cum against your inner thighs. There’s no warning, no call for preparation, or a quick kiss, instead there’s just the heady press of his hips and the weight of his length as it splits you in two. Your neck arches off of the cushions and your hips fall away, shying from the keening sting that he’s thrusting into you. A low hiss slips from your lips and your toes curl, legs unconsciously wrapping around his thin waist, heels digging into the soft dip of his back. 

“F-fuck,” Dabi chokes out, hands bracing themselves over the swell of your hips. “You’re fucking tight, babe. Goddamn it.”

“Dabi,” you moan, curling upwards, praying he’ll give you a few more seconds, positive you’ll shake yourself to bits if he tries to move now. Your hand finally lifts from his back and makes its way toward the crest of your thighs, desperate to tweak and roll your pulsing clit. Once you’re inches away, one of Dabi’s hands unlatches from your waist and snatches your seeking fingers away. “Don’t you dare,” he warns, lips rising to suck against the lines of your neck. “Only if I tell you,” he continues, warm tongue dipping and licking over your ear. “Understand?”

You nod, still reeling from the steady stretch of his cock as he tugs it out of your sopping cunt. It pricks and bites and your heels do their best to restrict his movements, pinning themselves to his lower back and grinding down. He ignores your hints and starts a steady push and pull within you, the rungs of his piercings catching on the edge of your leaking pussy. Each thrust snags against a piece of you that sends a scattering of sparks and stars over your vision and you coil yourself forward every time he yanks back, anticipating that ignition, that ache, as he braces himself to slip into you again. 

“How the fuck are you still so tight?” he complains, hands jerking your chin upward, demanding that you kiss him. The bittersweet sting of pain is still too close for you to get into his caress, so he soon gives up, finally settling the pad of his calloused thumb over your clit. “Is this what you need?” he asks, hips lancing into yours, picking up the pace of his ruts. You nod as your teeth chatter, a thin slip of drool escaping your parted lips. Dabi grins at your overwrought expression and his tongue laps at the traces of saliva, nose pressing into your skin, his hisses of exhaled air hot against your cheek. 

“You’re getting real tight (Y/N). Wanna cum? You wanna’ cum on my dick?” he asks, his voice shaking with effort, trying to ignore the insistent envelopment of your slick cunt. “Hey, come on, answer me!”

His deep pitch of exasperation snaps you out of your stupor and you fix your hazy attention on him, closing your swollen lips and giving him a cruel smile. “I don’t think you’ve done enough,” you taunt, a laugh bubbling from your throat. “Looks like you’re gonna cum first. Turns out you’re not as impressive as you think, huh, Touya?”

He’d usually ignore you, keep pressing and teasing until you’re putty in his hands, but it feels too good. It’s too much. Your fucking cunt feels like heaven and he can’t help himself, thrusting and pounding into you like he’s fucking fifteen again, all hormones and no finesse. There’s nothing he can do to stop himself, it’s too good, it’s just too fucking good.

With a half-formed groan he spills into you, his cock pulsing and swelling, hands bracing themselves against the swell of your hips, lifting you to him until those dots leave his vision. “Fuck. Fuck, that was… you were… God. That felt so fucking good.” 

You sprawl under him, your eyes languidly meeting his as you crack a sly grin. “Ahhh, Touya, like I said, you were so close. Too bad. Thought you’d last a little longer. Haha! Maybe next time, hmmm?”

Tags: @spicy-skull​, @xwildskullx​, @evesmores​

notes: editing always takes me so long :((((

[rayshippouuchiha]

Nezu finding a younger Izuku and helping him hone his analysis skill (and build some confidence and ultimately creating a terrifying child who can analyze anyone in seconds and take them down just as fast with a smile) and then enlisting him to actually teach classes on the subject

just imagine Aizawa having to interact with this terrifying nightmare child who can read him better than a book

~Ah hell here we go again~ Read More Below!

Nezu doesn’t often leave UA’s grounds these days and even more rarely does he venture out unaccompanied in some way.  He has made it a habit of sorts to stay on the campus as much as possible ever since he solidified his hold on the school almost a decade ago.

It’s a move that is he admits, even if only to himself, fueled by equal parts pragmatism and paranoia.

After all UA has most of everything he needs within it already including a set of private apartments scaled just perfectly to his size and tastes despite what impression the large, human suited desk in his public office tends to give any visitors to his domain.  Why should he worry about venturing out into the city when anything the campus might not be able to provide for him can easily be procured by his minions dear employees or through delivery via secured drone?

And the fewer trips he makes off campus means the fewer opportunities there are for those who are still displeased with something someone such as himself holding such a position of power over such a prestigious hero school to take action.  He, of course, has all faith in his ability to protect himself from whatever ham-fisted assassin might come his way but Nezu is, above almost all else, pragmatic.

The fewer bodies left in his wake the smoother his daily life tends to run.

It had, after all, been such a pain to get the records from his time at the tender mercies of his human captors completely sealed and the quietly buried.

The humans involved in the case had finally agreed though and in the years since they did so like to tout how the illustrious UA Principle had been “rescued” from the laboratories.

Few remained who remembered what the heroes who’d raided that hellish place had actually found when they’d arrived.

Those unlucky few who did remember had long since been silenced by hook or by crook.  That had been one of the first things Nezu had done when he’d finally managed to accumulated enough power that his subtle threats and sharp toothed promises had finally come to hold real meaning on more than one level.

When he’d finally managed to bite and claw himself into a position of power that showed him as the threat he always had been for those who might dare cross him.

That had been the very first secret he’d ensured would be kept as it was one that posed the biggest threat to his reputations in a number of circles.

Nezu’s intellect wasn’t his only weapon after all, only his most dangerous. Though his teeth and claws could work in a pinch if the situation called for it.  And when they’d tried to take his eye it had certainly called for it.

A self professed level of resentment and sadism could be excused by most of humanity for someone of Nezu’s circumstances.

But a body count?  Well. That’s when humans tended to get ... tetchy. 

So while Nezu does, of course, have a residence of his own off campus for paperwork purposes and as a secondary fall back location, UA’s campus has been his unofficial residence for some number of years now.  And it will be his official one as well as soon as he manages to finally get the dorm system he’s been aching to implement passed through.

They will have to pry that school, his school, and what he’s attempting to build there from his cold, dead paws and whatever other insurance policies he manages to put into action between now and his inevitable death. Which will, of course, be some time in the far far future if he has anything to say or do about it.  And he will.

All of that aside there are times when leaving the campus is unavoidable, this being one of them.  An unfortunate scheduling conflict and a private meeting that absolutely had to be conducted in person had left him where he is now, strolling down the sidewalks of Musutafu and quietly lamenting how very oversized so many things were.

It truly was a pity that more accommodations had not been made for those whose quirks and circumstances of birth left them on the smaller side instead of on the larger scale.  But progress could be rather unfortunately slow and so it was just one more issue Nezu hoped to begin subtly influencing in the coming years.

He’s just turning a corner, intent on visiting a nearby cafe with an excellent tea selection before he returns to UA (one must have their indulgences and a good brew and a finely crafted cigarette have long been amongst Nezu’s chosen pleasures), when he hears it.

“Get back here and get what you deserve, Deku,” a voice, rough and young but edged with a viciousness that makes the backs of Nezu’s teeth itch, practically howls.

Nezu, attention instantly captured, pauses just long enough to avoid being mowed down by the child who comes tearing around the corner.

For a split second their eyes meet, a blazing green gaze Nezu can’t help but admire just a bit locking with his own, as the boy sees him and swerves to avoid running into Nezu in his obviously frantic escape.

Nezu hops backwards a half step just as the boy loses his footing and crashing painfully to the side walk beside him.

“A-Are you o-okay?” the boy half stutters, half pants as he looks up at him, eyes wide and seemingly uncaring of the blood Nezu can already smell on his scraped palms and likely ripped kneecaps.

“Are you?” Nezu asks back evenly, eyes tracking over the boy and instantly compiling details and facts as he takes in the tattered school uniform, the pale face, the singed backpack and the bruises he can see just peeking out from beneath unseasonal long sleeves.

Everything about the boy screams battered to Nezu’s sense.

And then he looks down at his feet and sees his shoes.

His distinctive red shoes at that, vibrant in color and thick soled, subtly different in make and construction than most ordinary shoes seen these days, much like the footwear Nezu himself wears even now.

Which means that this boy either has a quirk that affects his feet or ...

“Thought you were going to get away didn’t you, you Quirkless fuck?” A small group of boys rounds the corner then, ignoring Nezu entirely and focusing on the boy who abruptly goes even paler somehow.  “Just cause sensei couldn’t prove you cheated doesn’t mean we’re gonna let you get away with it.”

Ah, Nezu thinks even as he presses the urge to snarl down and away, option two then.

The green boy, because Nezu will not be calling him Deku even in his own mind, scrambled up onto his feet then.  But, surprisingly enough, he doesn’t turn to run.

Instead he edges forward just a bit, sliding a shoulder and a foot forward until he’s standing almost protectively in front of Nezu himself.

“K-Kacchan,” the green one stutters, “I-I didn’t cheat I s-swear!  I wouldn’t d-do that.”

“Tsk,” the blond leader, Kacchan, tisks then, a snarl thick and heavy on his young face.  At his sides his hands flex in a move Nezu knows must be related to his quirk.  “Bullshit.  No way you’d get top of the class in anything without cheating, you worm.”

Nezu has known this child for roughly 6 seconds and he finds that he does not care for him at all.  But then he’s never been overly fond of most of humanity either so perhaps that’s to be expected.

“H-Heroes don’t cheat,” Green insists, the naïve if well meant words sounding like a declaration.  “If I’m g-going to be a hero then I c-can’t either.”

That explanation only seems to enrage Kacchan even further if the way his hands begin to pop and crackle is anything to go by.

This, Nezu knows as the scent of burnt caramel begins to fill the air around them, is going to escalate quickly.

“Public quirk usage is ~illegal~,” Nezu singsongs as he steps around the green boy and plants himself firmly in front of him instead, abruptly drawing the blond boy and his followers attention toward him.  One paw slips into his vest pocket to remove the specially designed cell phone he’s never without.  “I would hate to be forced to report this to the proper authorities.”

Never mind that, technically, he is the proper authorities.

The blond glares at him for a long moment before he huffs.

“This isn’t over Deku,” he snarls.  “I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

It’s an obvious threat but the boy turns on his heel, shoves his way through his friends, and stalks off back around the corner in the direction he came.

So Nezu lets it go.  For now.

“Now that that has been handled for the moment, young man,” Nezu turns towards the green boy beside him with all of the showmanship that’s come to define his patented introduction, “let me introduce myself! Am I a dog, a rat, or a bear? Either way I am Nezu th-”

“Y-You’re the Intel Hero Nezu,” the green boy says brightly, cutting Nezu’s introduction off even as he rubs raw and bloody palms against his black slacks and starts to dig through his backpack, “You solved the H-Hanamura kidnapping and the Inugami murders! You’re one of my favorite heroes!”

Nezu can’t help the way he stalls out just a bit at that because ... well he’s never been anyone’s favorite anything.  Their nightmare yes but not their favorite.  Especially not a child.  Children around this age normally tend to have more simplistic reactions to him.  And most of them don’t know about the string of rather gruesome ritualistic homicides he’d solved or the high profile kidnapping cases he consults on in his down time.

“C-Can you please sign my notebook?” the boy says then, head bowed low and a notebook and pen held out in Nezu’s direction.

Nezu admits to being slightly intrigued when he sees the way the cover is labeled Hero Analysis For The Future Vol 8.

That intrigue only grows when he opens it and his attention is immediately captured by the rather impressively done sketch of Pro Hero Starstreak that he finds there.

Unable to help himself Nezu reads over the page quickly and then keeps going.

Well now, Nezu can’t help but think just a bit gleefully as he sees the absolutely unbelieve level of analysis this young, quirkless boy has compiled, isn’t this interesting.

[greenygreenland]

Fireflies: Morro x Reader

-i was originally writing this on a whim but saw a request and was like, okay this fits PERFECTLY for that request, so here ya go -okay don’t judge me but I think Morro’s cool -banc is some random guy i made up just now lmaooo -you’re an elemental master and Morro’s childhood friend because yeahhhh

Summary: Humans are insignificant, tiny beings. Your time is drawing near and you’re sure your life was a waste.

Dreams were powerful. They became the very thing that drove people to the edge. But they were also the very thing that drove people forward, and taught them to keep looking up in the dark. When you were young, you used to wish upon a star. You used to lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling in thought.

Now, you couldn’t. Your breaths began to slow, your eyes fluttered open and closed. This was the final blow. Your final stand. Was it really okay to be out here all alone? At least you had the stars and the moon to keep you company. They had lit your way and guided you to your target. If it weren’t for those tiny little specks above, you wouldn’t have completed the stupid mission.

Sometimes you wondered if things could have been different. Before you left the monastery, you should have given Morro a tighter hug, a longer smile, a bigger laugh. You should have told your sensei how much you adored having him around, how much you admired and respected him for what he did. You should have sent another letter to Garmadon and written about how boring it was without having him around. 

There were so many things left unsaid. Unwritten. Forgotten. Why didn’t you cling tighter to them? 

“(Y/n)!” 

Your breath hitched. Was that...?

“(Y/N)!”

You let out a strangled wheeze. “M-Morro...” The grass parted around you and swished with the breeze. He collapsed by your side, heaving and mumbling under his breath. “What happened?” he demanded. “Where were you?! We captured that guy, but then you just disappeared!” Morro didn’t even try to hide the fear in his voice as he ripped his sleeve and tied it around your wounds.

The man you were trying to catch was a serial killer. You thought he was some lowly idiot, but it turned out he had an entourage of killing machines. He experimented on them, and that gave them abilities no normal people should possessed. “Morro...” You winced. “Leave. That guy, he...he has these people who...”

“Just shut up.” His was holding back tears. “You aren’t dying on me, and even if that guy had backup, you bet Sensei won’t have trouble taking them out. I’m bringing you home, so don’t you dare sleep on me.” You intertwined your bloody hand with his. “Morro, please. Go.” He clenched his teeth.

“No!” His voice came out harsh, but you knew it was good-natured. “I’m not leaving you! Not again.” You turned to stare at the starry sky. What was Morro referring to? Whatever it was felt like so long ago--or was that just your hazy memory? No, you had incredible memory. 

“(Y/n), stay awake!”

You were sleepy. The stars were beginning to fade, along with Morro’s beautiful eyes glazed over with tears. Fireflies rose from the grass, fluttering past your view in little specks of light. You wondered what it felt like to be so free and insignificant. They had no responsibilities, no nothing save for living.

What did that feel like?

“Hey...” you whispered. “Remember that time you...helped me up...after I...after I scraped my knee?” Morro squeezed your hand, but it was like he hadn’t at all. Your limbs were numb in pain.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded. “Save your strength--”

You laughed and it was melancholy and broken and sad and all the things Morro wished he never heard. This wasn’t you. It wasn’t what he wanted for you. The sky was blurring in a mix of pale moonlight and scattered dots of stars. You thought back to that day, the one where you had scrapped your knee.

Blood gushed out of the tattered skin. You winced, wishing with bitter regret that you hadn’t overstepped your attack. It wouldn’t have happened if you were paying more attention, but how could you when Morro was so attractively distracting?

He glanced at you from over his shoulder and paused. “Hold on,” he told his sparring partner. You blew on the open wound. Maybe it would help ease the pain, you weren’t sure. “First Spinjitzu Master, urgh.”

Morro knelt by your side, eyes all soft and warm. “You’re such a clutz sometimes.” You huffed. “I wouldn’t be if you weren’t so freaking...” Heat rose to your cheeks, reddening them like apples. There was no way you’d openly admit he made you trip over your own two feet.

“’So freaking’ what?” he inquired, raising a brow. Your rosy cheeks darkened and Morro let out a bright laugh. “Wait here.” He stood and hurried inside the monastery. His sparring partner, Banc, sent you big thumbs up. You rolled your eyes at him and threw your scabbard at him. He easily caught it with a smirk grin.

“When are you going to tell him?”

You raised a brow. “Tell him what?”

“That you like him.” Banc said it like it was the mot obvious thing in all of Ninjago, but it wasn’t like he was wrong. Sensei Wu saw it, Garmadon saw it, everyone saw it. What a miracle it would be if it was a secret, or at least a quiet thing.

“Morro’s the only one who doesn’t realise it.” you muttered. Banc rolled his eyes. “Then tell him! I’ll go insane if you keep your mouth shut for another day.” The Monastery doors opened and Morro jogged out with a wet handkerchief and a bandage. “I don’t mean to keep you guys waiting,” he said, “but this is important.”

“To you.” Banc jested. Morro rolled his eyes playfully. He knelt back by your side and gently wiped the wound. “(Y/n) could die if the wound gets infected, so it’s important anyway.” You snorted. “A wound’s not going to kill me.”

“It very well could if one is not careful.”

You turned to look at the open doors. Sensei waltzed out, bamboo staff in one hand and straw hat in the other. His bag, heavy around his shoulders, was big and filled with as much stuff as he could fit. You wondered if it was because of tea or scrolls. “Are you going somewhere?”

He nodded. “I’m afraid so. In the mean time, I hope you all come to realise what’s hidden under the surface. Whether it be hidden feelings,” he cast you a knowing look, “or personal progression. Keep the Monastery tidy and please don’t forget to pickle the vegetables. I’d hate not to have any pickled radish without my rice.”

You all shared a good-natured chuckle. Morro wrapped your knee in a bandage and turned to glance at Sensei with curious eyes. They sparkled like the clouds in the rising sunlight, just like little nuggets of gold. “What do you mean by ‘hidden feelings’?” Sensei smiled warmly. “You will have to find that out on your own. I’ll be off now, you will see me in seven days’ time.”

The moment Sensei disappeared down the front steps and Banc had closed the doors tight, silence fell over you three. Banc kept looking at you with that stupid grin of his and you had to admit, it was getting annoying. Whenever Morro turned his back to you, he motioned for you to tell him.

An hour passed, then five and six. The sun began to set along the horizon, and that was when Banc decided it was high time you fulfilled your task.

“Morro,” Banc announced. “(Y/n) has something to tell you.”

At the foot of the mountain, you lay in a large field. Morro was on your right, and Banc on your left. The fireflies that flitted past your vision were as bright as the stars, maybe even brighter. A single one landed on your nose and Morro couldn’t help but think about how beautiful you were in that moment.

“What do you want to tell me?” he inquired. You stared at the lone firefly, cheeks a dim red in its glow. “Uh...it’s...it’s nothing.”

“Are you sure? Banc looks like he wants to yell at you.” he said with a chuckle. The firefly launched off your nose and joined its family in a swarm of bright specks of light.

“Okay, okay. Maybe I do have something to say. It’s just that I...uh...I...”

A soft smile rested upon your lips. “You didn’t...didn’t forget that day...did you?” Morro touched his forehead to yours. His tears glistened in the moonlight and touched your cheeks like a misty morning drizzle. “No,” he whispered. “Of course I didn’t forget. How...how could I?”

You released one of his hands and shakily placed it on his damp cheeks. This was it, nothing else could stop time and save you from your last moments. No magic, no element, no god would or could come to your aid. But that was okay. As long as you Morro stayed right here in these moments, you’d be happy.

Happy. What a funny word.

“I...I don’t want to die.” Your voice cracked and Morro didn’t ignore it. “I don’t want you to die either.”

“What...what will...happen when I’m dead?” Morro heaved in a sharp breath and shook his head. “You won’t die,” --he chocked back a sob-- “I won’t let you.” That was a lie. Even though he didn’t want you to die, how could he save you? Morro was the Master of Wind, not death or resurrection. There wasn’t anything to do, no matter what he said.

“When...when I’m gone...promise you’ll...move on?”

A look of horror snapped through his eyes, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of ever having to let you go. It wasn’t what he did. How could he when you were his light, his life? If you hadn’t been around, then he would have died trying to prove Destiny wrong.

“I...I love you Morro.”

“I love you more.” He pulled you close into the security of his arms and hugged you tight. “But please, please don’t go.” You smiled again with the last of your strength. It was all you could do when the world was fading, blurring into dots and colours.

You shut your eyes. Your hand went limp.

Morro stilled and tightened his hold on your dead body. Fireflies flew past him in glowing paths of specks. A single firefly landed on your nose, illuminating the dried splatter of blood on your cheeks. In that moment, he couldn’t help but notice how beautiful you were.

“I love you (Y/n). I love you more than anything in Ninjago.”

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