#honestly this idea is the most painful thing I've seen in ages

[teezertales]

let him eat cake // kim hongjoong

pairing: kim hongjoong x reader genre: light smut an: this is the first fic i think i've written in years so we're in this together wc: 3k warnings: spanking, voyeurism, punishment, pain, dom!hongjoong,

You don't think you've laughed so hard in ages. It was one thing that you were even able to get Wooyoung's attention.

It was another entirely that he listened to you.

Everyone knew that Woo tended to be the most ill-behaved of them all, so it shouldn't have surprised you that he actually wanted to go along with the idea. You had thought since this was in front of thousands of Atiny, Woo might think twice about embarrassing his captain in such a public setting.

Then again, everyone also knew that Woo was a glutton for punishment.

Initially, you stood shocked when the cake smeared its black frosting across Hongjoong's face, blinking rapidly as if the scene in front of you wasn't really happening. It took all of a few seconds for the sound of the stadium's erupted laughter to register with you and you were then joining in, sides aching from how hard you laughed in utter disbelief. He took it with all the composure of the team's captain as the crowd began to settle down.

That should have been the end of it, but Hongjoong had then looked at you. Really looked at you. You'd seen that look countless times when the members acted up. It was a look that told them to come to his room later, that everyone joked was where Hongjoong would punish them by spanking them.

You honestly brushed it off at first, and would've forgotten about it had his gaze not found you when he returned to stage a few minutes later, face unfortunately still frosted.

Your stomach sank and you felt a tightness in your chest as his eyes lingered on yours. The remainder of the show was spent with your heart racing, from the adrenaline of the concert to the seriousness of his gaze each time it found you throughout the rest of the night.

You felt as if you had run a mile at the end of the show, the floor clearing out little by little until there were only a handful of groups lingering here or there. You had started on your way out of the venue when a masked staff member stopped you and asked you to follow them. That was when your heart really started to hammer away, heat rising to your cheeks. Were you going to be in trouble? Did Wooyoung somehow blame it on you, and now you were going to take the fall?

All sorts of possibilities ran through your mind as you followed them through hallway after hallway until you reached an empty green room. The staff member didn't say much as they gestured for you to sit on the loveseat, where a form and pen sat waiting for you on the coffee table.

There's no fucking way…

You looked bewildered and didn't even have the chance to hide your surprise as you stared open mouthed between the Non-Disclosure Agreement and the staff member who waited patiently with a raised brow. "One of the members would like to meet you, and in order to do that we'll need you to sign this. This is just an agreement that--"

"I-I know what it is, thank you. I'll sign it."

You hadn't meant to come off so short, but you were freaking out internally. There was a slight tremble to your hand as it reached for the pen while your eyes scanned the document. Jokes were made about this exact situation all the time and you hadn't expected to ever find yourself in it. The worst part was that you had no idea what would follow once you signed. Even so, you had.

The staff member collected the document wordlessly and slipped it into a folder behind them before they had gestured for you to follow. You stood on wobbly legs but followed out regardless, your heart pounding as heat flooded your neck and face. The possibilities of what was to come had your stomach doing flips and you silently chewed the inside of your cheek. You hadn't gone far before they stopped and you had to stop yourself from running into their back while they rapped their knuckles on the door.

"Come in," came a familiar voice that sent a chill down your spine.

The staff member pushed the door open and inward, staying in the hallway while they gestured you inside. And what greeted you when you stepped inside made your heart stop in your chest and all of the breath leave your lungs.

Kim Hongjoong.

His dark gaze flicked behind you, the silent command enough as the door shut behind you, the sound making you startle, effectively bringing you back to earth. "It was Wooyoung's i--!" had quickly rushed out of your mouth, the sentence abruptly ended by a deadly smile and finger to the lips by Hongjoong, the idol you had always dreamed of meeting.

Though you could have never pictured something like this.

The look in his eyes made your heart skip several beats, making your head swim. He knew it too, could see it in the way your eyes had widened at him like saucers with worry knitted in your brow, your lips parted in shock. Most of the frosting had been cleaned from his face, but there were still dark smudges visible--evidence of your involvement.

"Don't you remember? Wooyoung said it was your idea. He wouldn't do it if a certain Atiny did not encourage him," he said, head tilted to the side with a predatory glint in his eye. That look made your stomach coil, your legs squeeze together. You knew you were probably beet red right now, and that realization only made it worse. Hongjoong chuckled.

"I-I'm so sorry, I didn't think he'd actually…I didn't even think he'd see me--! Oh my god…" You had begun, panicking once more as you ran a hand through your hair with worry etched deep in your features. Hongjoong only chuckled and stood, holding up his hands and shaking his head. "Relax, ….?" he cooed, brow raised prompting you for your name.

"Oh-- Y/N. My name is Y/N."

"Y/N…very pretty name," he said with a smile, sitting back down before he pat the cushion beside him. "Y/N, I asked before, but are you sure you are Atiny? Because my Atiny knows what happens when someone gets into trouble." You stared at him wide-eyed and quickly nodded your head. "Of course I'm Atiny! And...of course I know…" you had started out strong, determined to prove yourself as an Atiny. But your voice had faltered, quieting as you remembered what happened to those who got into trouble with the captain.

The few seconds it took you to cross the space and sit next to him--a healthy gap between the two of you--felt like an eternity as the edges of your vision darkened what was in front of you into a tunnel. You were conscious of how loud your heart hammered in your chest while the watch on your wrist vibrated to alert you of your increased heartrate. Hongjoong lifted a brow, that ever-present smirk taunting you and he nodded. "You do know? So you did it anyway, mm? It's almost like you wanted this to happen." It felt impossible for you to blush any harder but your body had become uncomfortably hot and you avoided meeting his gaze. There was no use in denying it, he knew that. He knew what his older Atiny thought of him and the rest of his members. You did want this. While you were lost in your thoughts, refusing to believe the reality before you, the very real and breathing captain watched you intently. The feeling of cool fingers on your chin made your hazy thoughts disappear in a blink and you sucked in a gasp. Hongjoong had captured your chin between his thumb and forefinger and forced you to look at him.

The second you did, all of your willpower had crumbled and the quietest whimper sounded in your throat. That made him smile, the sound of his chuckle making you press your thighs together. His head did not move as his eyes watched the subtle movement, brows raising as his smirk grew. You'd seen that look before in so many fancams, but seeing it in real life was devastating. "Y/N, I can hear how loud your heart is beating for me," he teased you as you sat awestruck, frozen under his gaze. At some point he had maneuvered himself closer to you, thigh brushing against yours and you wondered when he had had the time to do that without your notice. His face leaned into yours, his cheek brushing yours and your hand instinctively moved to cover your mouth as you sucked in a gasp. The hand that had held your chin moved to cup the back of your neck, thumb positioned on your cheek opposite his face. His breath caressed your ear as he spoke which sent a full body shiver down your spine while his other hand had moved to the dip where your hip met your thigh and squeezed once. "Y/N, I have to punish you, you know this?" When you didn't answer, the hand at your hip squeezed harder. "That was a question, Y/N." "Y-Yes..." "Yes, what?" "Yes, C..Captain." He chuckled against your ear. "Good girl. Come here," he commanded as he pulled away, patting his lap. The hand at your neck moved down your arm to your wrist to guide you closer until you were laid across his lap. You couldn't hear anything over the sound of your blood roaring in your ears while your heart pounded against your ribs. You were both embarrassed and enthralled, panicked and excited as his hands settled on your body. One moved to brush the hair that hung in front of your face behind your ear while the other rested on the small of your back. "Hmmm," Hongjoong mused, the hand on your back rubbing small circles, each circle widening until his hand rested on your ass. "I wonder how many would be enough? It is my birthday, so maybe I should do one for each year, hm? I think that is only fair. What do you say, Y/N?" You swallowed the thick lump that had formed in your throat and nodded once. "Y-Yes, Captain." "You learn quickly, I like that." CRACK. There was no warning when the first smack came and you cried out, the sting sharp even through the fabric of your pants. Hongjoong knew what he was doing as the blow landed not at the crest of where you ass was roundest, but right beneath. Right where all your weight would be whenever you sat. "Count." It was not a question and you swallowed a breath before you spoke, voice trembling. "O..One..." His hand rubbed the sting into your flesh, letting it fade before raising it and letting the second blow come without a moment's hesitation. CRACK. One of your hands covered your mouth to stifle your cry of pain, shaking as it moved away for you to count. "T-Two..." Even if it was a punishment, the soothing strokes of his palm after each slap was comforting. Hongjoong knew how to be careful, and it was clear all the rumors were true. "If it's too much, tell me to stop," he said as he massaged your already burning flesh. But he was surprised when you shook your head, glancing at him from over your shoulder. "I-I can handle it," you replied confidently despite how your voice wavered. The smile that spread across Hongjoong's face was dark, and you could see why he was part of the demon line. "Good girl." CRACK. "Three--!" CRACK. "F-Four.."

It didn't escape Hongjoong's notice how your thighs squeezed together with each blow, judging by how his hand would brush the apex of your thighs while he soothed your flesh. At some point your cries of pain had become moaning whimpers that you muffled behind your hand and you looked forward to the next and the next, your heart pounding now for other reasons. Hongjoong was enjoying it too, you could tell. If what had slowly begun to press into your abdomen while lying across his lap was any indication, he was thrilled by your responses. CRACK. "T-hirteen..." Your ass was burning, and you knew that sitting would be pain for the next few days. But God was it worth it. Hongjoong was impressed with how well you took the punishment, never asking him to stop for even a moment. The hand that wasn't spanking you would take turns caressing your back or running fingers through your hair, even moving to your mouth for you to bite down on should you grow too loud. CRACK. You wailed against his hand, a tremble in your thighs beginning to grow. Your ass was aching, heat radiating from the throbbing pain and Hongjoong waited patiently for you to gather yourself. "N.." You let out a trembling breath. "Nineteen." You tensed for the next blow only for it not to come. When you glanced over your shoulder, Hongjoong was staring intently at the door, brows narrowed. His eyes dropped to the crack beneath the door where a shadow moved. His hand rested possessively against your throbbing flesh and he spoke. "I know you are there, Wooyoung." Your head whipped toward the door as heat flooded your face. The silence felt like an eternity, and a few moments later the door slowly opened to a sheepish Wooyoung, eyes wide as his gaze fell on you across the captain's lap. Hongjoong commanded him wordlessly with a look and the door was then closed, Wooyoung crossing the room to sit in a chair opposite the couch you two were on. "How long have you been eavesdropping, Wooyoung?" He couldn't take his eyes off of the two of you, staring directly at you as he answered the captain's question. "Four.." came his simple answer before his gaze peeled from yours and moved up to Hongjoong's. "Four? And you were going to let Y/N take your punishment and listen from the outside? Naughty boy." Hongjoong scolded him, rubbing soothing circles into your ass. You were surprisingly grateful for the respite, but there were only five more to go. Wooyoung said nothing as his gaze dropped to the floor, eyes glancing at yours every now and then. "Apologize to her, Wooyoung. Make it convincing." Wooyoung looked at you for a moment before mumbling an apology. Hongjoong tensed beneath you and you felt your blush heat your face. "That wasn't very convincing. Do it properly."

Wooyoung's head snapped up to look at Hongjoong with a pleading gaze that was silenced by his hard stare. Woo stood from his chair and bowed at the waist, apologizing to you formally. He was still bowed when Hongjoong's hand suddenly cracked across your ass and you yelped, startling Wooyoung who abruptly straightened with wide eyes, his mouth agape. You began to speak, counting the spank when Hongjoong shushed you, his gaze never leaving Wooyoung's. "Count for her, you know where we left off since you've been outside the entire time." "Twenty.." came Wooyoung's quiet voice. CRACK. "Louder." CRACK. "Twenty-one--!" With each remaining blow, Wooyoung couldn't keep his eyes off of you, gaze snapping to your ass each time Hongjoong's hand met the suppled flesh. He squirmed where he stood, his own face flooded with heat. Watching the captain punish you coupled with the sounds you made had his hands folded in front of his lap, quickly getting a rise out of him. Feeling Hongjoong's arousal pressing tightly into your abdomen while watching Wooyoung's excitement grow was wreaking havoc on your mind and body. The dampness between your legs had grown so obviously that Hongjoong chuckled when his hand dipped between your thighs after each slap. "You like having Wooyoung watch don't you, Y/N?" When you didn't answer, he laughed again and glanced up at Wooyoung as he continued speaking to you. "Don't worry, I think he likes watching you, too." His free hand dipped to your cheek, caressing it softly with the pad of his thumb as he leaned in closer to your face. "You've been good, Y/N. Last one, okay?" You nodded, a whimper sounding in your throat as your hands tightly gripped his thigh beneath you. He rubbed gentle circles against your ass before lifting his hand, letting it crack harder than it had before which caused you to cry out in pain, body jerking underneath him which elicited a small groan from the man. "Mmn..twenty-four," Hongjoong said, gently soothing the sting with his own aching hand, fingers dancing between your thighs each time his hand circled low. Wooyoung was momentarily ignored as Hongjoong began to praise you. "What a good girl you were for me, Y/N. But you won't be getting in trouble again, will you? You've learned your lesson?" You were breathless, panting in his lap as you nodded weakly in response. "Y-Yes, Captain. I won't do it again.." you mumbled, letting your full weight rest in his lap. His hand had stopped rubbing circles across your ass and had now begun to settle between your thighs which made your breath catch in your throat. It was then that Hongjoong acknowledged Wooyoung again. "Since our brave Y/N took the punishment for the both of you, it's only fair you help me reward her for being so good, don't you think Wooyoung? After all, you didn't think I'd let you watch and listen without doing anything, did you? You need to make it up to her." Wooyoung blinked between the two of you before he settled on Hongjoong, nodding quickly. "O-Of course. I owe her that much," he replied as he crossed the space between you. Hongjoong jerked his chin towards Wooyoung with a grin. "On your knees, then." Woo did as he was told and Hongjoong helped you sit up off of his lap gently, guiding you to lie back against the couch before he grabbed your hips and slid your ass towards the edge of the couch. Hongjoong grinned, guiding Wooyoung between your parted thighs before straightening up behind him, arms crossed over his chest. "Mm, happy birthday to me."

[themosleyreview]

The Mosley Review: Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes

What continues to be fascinating about this franchise is the amount of humanity that is found in the world of the apes. The amazing Caesar trilogy brought us a fresh take on the franchise that focused on the apes rising as we watched humanity fall and how much of our worldly views influenced how they would live among us. That made his trilogy special and set up a future that was ripe for exploring. This film carries that same torch and takes a very natural turn that is familiar and special in its execution. The idea of what Caesar fought for and believed in was on display of apes living together in peace, but the idea of one ape twisting his word to something more sinister was fun to watch and added that layer of drama that kept me invested. I honestly could've just watched the apes live in their village and be satisfied. The adventure doesn't take long to begin and where we are taken was essentially a rescue mission and along the way we learn what has happened many generations after Caesar. Where the film benefits is in the apes of course and when the humans are introduced it becomes a balancing act between the retrieving of the main characters' family and the humans slowly trying to reconnect with each other. It works for the most part, but there are moments where I wished it followed just the apes.

Owen Teague takes the lead as Noa in this new story and I loved his performance. He delivers so much warmth and innocence through his eyes and the compassion he has for his friends and family. I liked that he was constantly learning about the world beyond and above his village. As the film progress, he matures quickly from the young boy type to a man fighting for his clan. Its a classic coming of age story for a young warrior that works everytime. Lydia Peckham and Travis Jeffery were great as his friends Anaya and Soona. You feel the tender care and building of a relationship between Noa and Anaya that was sweet. The bond between Noa and Soona was fun and their banter in the beginning was great. I wouldn't mind another adventure with just the three of them together. Peter Macon was excellent as Raka and I loved his jovial nature. He was a wealth of knowledge that Noa needed to see and hear about and I loved the time we spent with him. He highlighted the real ideals of Caesar and he even felt like a preacher more than a historian. On the human side, Freya Allan joins the franchise as Mae and I thought she was great. The survivalist nature of humanity always bounces between the background and foreground in these films and she was no different. She didn’t take up space and I liked that for the majority of the film she was silent and showed off her physicality in conveying emotion and thought. William H. Macy was fun as a more dare I say, domesticated human to Proximus Caesar, Trevathan. He was so defeated, fearful and yet at ease with giving up the thought of the before apes ruled. He gave a different yet familiar view of stockholm syndrome. Speaking of Proximus Caesar, the very underrated and outstanding Kevin Durand delivers an incredible and dominating performance as the antagonistic king. He exudes power and ambition as the one thing he desires is yet a few feet from him. He had a vision even if it was a cruel and sometimes violent one. Through him and thanks to Trevathan's teachings, you see a complete mirror of how the Roman Empire created civilization, but in ape form.

Composer John Paesano brought to life this new look at the world in a very emotional and epic way. His score elevated the pain of loss during the bridge scene and highlighted the tension when Noah meets Proximus. Visually the film is as stunning and rich as the previous films and the CGI used to bring the motion capture performances to life is some of the best this franchise has ever seen. As I've always said since the beginning of the current wave of Apes films, I care more for the apes than the humans. If this film was solely following the journey of Noah and no humans were in it, I would be even more happy. This was still a great entry to the franchise and Director Wes Ball has done an incredible job bringing us back to the Planet of the Apes franchise. Let me know what you thought of the film or my review in comments below. Thanks for reading!

[wilhelmsbee]

Okay honestly? I'll just take you up on that offer because I'm obsessed with your edits in general, but if you ever feel like talking some more about that Wilhelm edit you did to the song Ribs by Lorde??? Would love that because that edit lives rent-free in my head! (no pressure though, I just like the idea of like... director's commentary or something for edits haha)

I HOPE EVERYONE IS READY FOR ME TO BE INSANELY DEEP ABOUT THIS EDIT OH MY GOD

preface: i talk ab why i chose each scene for the lyrics, then colouring/font, idk if this is the directors commentary you wanted but like this is how I think about all my edits

We're reeling through the midnight streets- initially, I actually wanted to start it on the this dream isn't feeling sweet line but it just didn't fit in instagrams 1-minute time frame ANYWAY This scene has always been the most painful to me. Wilhelm realises at this moment that he's truly, undeniably alone in his life. Everyone he trusts (or is supposed to trust) has left him, and he has nobody left to go to. He's alone, going through his own personal hell, finding out his only family cares more about public perception than him as a person. It's like the beginning of the worst spiral we see from Wilhelm. Its quite a literal scene-to-lyric moment, but also the we're part feels (to me) like him-as-well-as his public self. Crown Prince Wilhelm and Wille are such separate parts, and its all he has left.

And I've never felt more alone- The THERAPY SCENE! Specifically this is the I think it's better not knowing how it could feel scene, because that truly is the most heartbreaking viewpoint I've ever seen from a character. It was better not being in love because I couldn't miss it. He might be getting closer to the other boys in the secret society, as well as Felice, but he's not really breaking past the surface level with anyone. Not even Felice knows the depths of his pain, he keeps it all to himself. The loneliness crushes him, he wishes he didn't know how love felt. As far as he's concerned, he's never loving someone else again (true) and he's never going to be able to love Simon again (false). In this moment there's this feeling of emptiness. He has nothing he actually cares about, and he wishes that he never cared in the first place.

It feels so scary, getting old- He wasn't supposed to fill this role, giving a speech as the Crown Prince of Sweden about his brother's passing. Wilhelm's character (obviously) fundamentally switches after Erik's death. He used to be a lot sillier, more reckless and more willing to fight back against his parents. But now he's got every single eye on him, watching him. Put into an adult role at the age of sixteen, forced to carry the burden of spare his whole childhood, then suddenly forced to be the sole heir. Even if he had planned to maybe one day be the heir (which he didn't, judging by the he should be here instead of me comment) it wasn't supposed to happen until he was older and wiser. He stops acting like a kid because he can't be a kid anymore. The cuts between the frog/getting the frog/breaking the globe aimed to emphasise this. He's lost all connection to his brother, he's in a place he didn't expect to be until he was extremely old (if ever), and he's lost control of his own life.

We can talk it so good, we can make it so divine, we can talk it good how we wish it would be all the time- I wanted to frame Simon in this as a sort of healthy distraction for Wilhelm. He was the only person in his life who actually looked out for him and cared. They're happy and they're smiling, all the clips are intimate even if there's someone else there. It highlights how they care. It's good, it's divine. It's what kept him happy after the hardest thing in his life (so far). In this edit, he desperately wants it back because he knows how much it helped. It was the only bright thing he had. The cutting to Wilhelm alone in s2 after how we wish it would be all the time just aims to really enforce that he wished it was still like that, wishing for someone who truly cared and loved him. It's all yearning, pining, wishing things were better. Every single clip is a clip in which Wilhelm has been pining over Simon. There's an ache he expresses that was just so, so important to this edit.

This dream isn't feeling sweet- Lots of clips of Wilhelm trying to process things. He's been forced to change his entire life, after all being a prince is a privilege, not a punishment. The 'dream' of being royal crushes him, despite the fact he can't ever voice it. Walking down the halls of his castle, sitting in his private boarding school therapy session with an actual therapist, being driven home in a private car from the party where he was filmed fighting. These luxuries juxtaposed with his actual circumstances hurt. He can't complain because he's got it best in the country, but it isn't a system designed for him, it doesn't want to help him, it wants to make him conform. It isn't fair, but he can't say that.

We're reeling through the midnight streets- He's forcing himself to try and fit the mould while also being himself, and all it causes is pain. He's actively fighting against the institution he was raised in simply by existing. The panic attack from being perceived holding Simon's hand. Deleting his contact after his mother told him 'no more mistakes.' Trying to play nice at the dinner table even though his whole life was crumbling around him and the institution was failing everyone even though nobody believed him. The panic attack/anxiety vomit from Simon going public, against Wilhelm's institution, knowing that he might not be able to protect him. He's got no control in any of these scenes, its a desperate fight against himself. He's a publicity risk to his own family if he is true to himself, and he's a risk to himself if he isn't.

And I've never felt more alone- Desperately trying to comfort himself when nobody else can (or wants to) comfort him. After the fight at the party all his family cared about was the PR response. When August said that Simon would take the fall for the drugs, all he cared about was getting Alexander back. During the uniform tailoring, all Jan-Olof cared about was tradition and making Simon as background as he could. When Wilhelm gave up meditating to soothe his anxiety, he was upset at his inability to calm down, despite the fact he's never been given an opportunity to be calm. Nobody really knows about his mental health struggles, he just has to fight through them and desperately try to self-soothe. Nobody else will comfort him after all.

It feels so scary getting old- Each of these scenes show Wilhelm being viewed as his role instead of being viewed as a person. He clearly struggles with being viewed as just the Crown Prince of Sweden, especially since that was never supposed to be his role, so of course it hurts when he's viewed as just a pawn in the Royal Family. Especially from people he loves. Yes, it was undeniably hard when he first became the Crown Prince, and it absolutely would've crushed him to know that when he had a panic attack he couldn't be alone. But these scenes are interlaced with him being viewed as a political pawn by Simon and his mother. People he loves, people he trusts. He's just a public statement to his mother, and he's just a human representation of the Crown to Simon (in these scenes not in general ofc). He's never going to be able to be his own person again, because he's got a country to run when he grows up and a public image to form between now and then.

This dream isn't feeling sweet- The lyrics are now getting more compounding, it's louder and it's closer. He's fighting to be heard, he's being ripped off of his desk, he's forcing down a panic attack because he needs to be happy for Simon. His emotions aren't allowed, he can't feel anything negative so he won't feel anything at all. Nothing in his life feels good anymore, so he's fighting the losing battle to just try to break even. Nobody would dream of this, I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. He can't even voice that, though.

We're reeling through the midnight streets- Now he's reminiscing about when things were easier, but they weren't, really. Yes, the placard was there the night he first kissed Simon, but that was also the beginning of the horrific realisation he wasn't built for the world he is forced to live in. His mother says 'no more mistakes' and he already knows it means he has to leave Simon. When that doesn't work and it all falls out, he's left to try and clean his own image up by nailing the closet shut with every fibre of his being. His life wasn't better, he's grasping for anything to show him life will be okay again. Everything has crumbled and now he's got nothing, so he yearns for when he had something, even if it was just something to lose.

And I've never felt more alone- He is constantly left. Something that isn't brought up enough is how often he's just abandoned. He has no one to talk to, he's forced to work through his struggles alone because his existence is political and any sign of weakness being public could reflect badly on his family. He becomes the embodiment of the Prince he could never be. Walking to the lake and reminiscing about when he would be happy there. Being left alone by his brother, who didn't even reply to him asking to say hi to his mother and father, who he then never sees in person again. Then wearing his brother's jacket. He's alone, and all he does is pine for a time when he wasn't. All he wants to do is go back and do it all again, and he can't. But he also can't move forward, he doesn't want to, he doesn't know how.

It feels so scary- Only two scenes so I'll discuss 'em one by one: -At Erik's funeral, there's a more literal fear of getting old. I don't want to repeat myself more than I already have but obviously, that forced Wilhelm to grow up and be more mature, and act like a Crown Prince instead of just the Prince. More attention, less room for error. He's terrified of fucking it up, and there's nobody who can help him. -The breakup scene is more metaphorical. He has to grow up and figure out what he wants to do with his life, while also having to grow to understand what he actually has the ability to do with his life. He's not ready to do this because he wants things to be good and happy but it was ripped away from him. He can't just pretend everything is alright anymore, but the amount of maturing he needs to do seems impossible at this moment, especially knowing he was in love with a boy when he wasn't allowed to be. He tries to be both a Prince and Wilhelm and all it did was betray his boyfriend's trust.

getting old- Wilhelm shutting his computer and pressing his hands to his eyes. It's exhausting. He's exhausted. Constantly working to try and be who he's supposed to be as well as being himself and trying to navigate his emotions in a vulnerable state is just too much. He can't carry it all, so he just gives up for a moment. It all goes quiet, but not in a good way. When you're that overwhelmed, the lack of anything just leaves more room to spiral.

FONT CHOICES

Intro: literally my handwriting. I wanted this to feel personal and almost like a desperate written plea to go back to when it was good, and what's more personal than my own handwriting am I right!!!

First chorus loop: Magazine font, it's in pieces and it doesn't match. There's a sporadic chaos, like he's beginning to feel it but it isn't there yet. The text isn't fully opaque, it's in front of him. We're seeing it before he does in this context. Trying to reflect how the media knows things before he does, like his brothers death, the tape leaking, all that good stuff.

Second chorus loop: Big, Bold, Unavoidable! I rotobrushed Wilhelm in every scene so that the text could be intertwined with him. He can't escape the reality of his situation, he is getting crushed by these feelings. The song gets louder and more claustrophobic, the text is in the scenes with him. It haunts him, it's everywhere. When he closes the laptop and it all goes silent, its not relaxing, it just makes you anxious in a different way.

COLOURING

I actually chose the blues from the intro scene, mainly in the night sky bit of the frame. Also! All the happy Wilmon scenes have a higher saturation, though you can't tell because of how I did the colouring. It just results in them being a little bit brighter, because things were good then and I believe it should feel good then, too.

[winguontheweb]

Long, ranty/venty post ahead

god I'm really frustrated as of late

I've known and dealt with tendonitis and RSI on and off (mostly on) since 2020. Also a few times like earlier this year and sometime last year, I threatened carpal tunnel, even. I felt the tingling in my fingertips. It's frustrating when I am often at the height of my passion and drive to have to cut it short by resting and care and avoiding drawing or anything intensive for about as long as I was drawing passionately.

I keep wanting so bad to jump right back into stuff but it just keeps happening, and it gets worse if I'm too impatient. So I just have to sit here spinning my wheels, dealing with the fact I NEVER stop thinking of ideas to draw. I literally cannot stop thinking of awesome fucking pictures I want to draw. It's a constant flow of creativity.

But like. The thing is... I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I mean sure, my posture might not be perfect, I might not have all the right ergonomics and equipment, but, I feel like for the most part, I can't deduce the thing that I'm doing wrong, other than... drawing.

I don't viciously slouch while drawing - like I said, my posture's not perfect, but it's good enough I think

I take breaks, especially if like, dinner gets ready while I'm drawing, I try to take opportunities to stretch my wrist and hands. I'm bad at remembering to do the whole routines people have given me/I've seen online, but I still try my best to get some in.

I'm not like, crimping my wrist on anything, my tablet's flat on my desk, and I feel decently good about how my hand position is on it.

I do own a wrist brace, but, honestly, I often feel WORSE after drawing with it, and I get conflicting opinions online as to whether or not I should wear it while drawing, or if I should avoid wearing it while drawing.

I get plenty of water

I don't grip the pen with a ton of pressure, I even specifically have CSP's pen pressure altered to better advantage me using less pen pressure

When I'm feeling soreness, pain, etc. in my hand, I'll either ice or heat it using the packs we have in the house.

and other stuff I forgot

like... with all of this, all this I have in mind, and from talking to others about it, I feel like I've come to the conclusion that I'm literally not doing anything wrong. So like, I guess it could be from overuse, something that I'd be more prepared to accept...

...if I didn't literally have friends who, multiple times per week, have multi-hour sessions of drawing straight with minimal breaks (and also just drawing all the time outside of those sessions too), have been doing those for months or years, and have told me they experience NO HAND PAIN. And apparently have never felt it.

Like, I'm sorry, I want to not sound like I'm viciously jealous of my friends, but also, how the fuck? How? How??? How do they get to draw multiple hours in a row with minimal breaks like it's some whatever thing they always do, and I get fucking punished for doing my most passionate hobby?? Like, that's what it feels like to me, especially when I compare myself to others who do exactly the level of drawing I want to do. It feels like I'm being punished for no reason other than wanting to do the thing that makes me happy. I'm excited for friends who are capable but it just makes me look at myself and wonder what the fuck I'm doing wrong.

What's different about me?

I've been told I'm not doing anything wrong, but clearly there's something different!! And I have no clue what it is! Other than something fundamental to my body and nobody else's - something genetic? Like, I do have a family with arthritis, my dad has osteoarthritis specifically. But even if I inherited it, surely I've not worn-and-torn my wrist down to developing it at 22 fucking years of age. Especially since I've been trying to practice good wrist health management as best I can ever since I learned about tendonitis??

Like I'm also not that strong. My skinny-ass arms are the main point of my body I feel dysphoric about because they just look so disproportionate from the rest of my body and it leaves me with so little in the way of upper body strength. But I wanted to get better, lift weights, work towards making my arms BIGGER. But earlier this year I had to take a BREAK because too much weight lifting every day/every other day, and push-ups, and all that shit, my arms and wrist were hurting, threatening carpal tunnel.

Ever since then I haven't been able to get back into the swing and so the rare times I find myself trying to lift a 3 pound weight with my wrist, my wrist is sore and feeling even worse for like 2 days straight.

It just feels so fucking unfair. My issues aren't always pain, it doesn't always prevent me from just living my day-to-day life. Often it's soreness, discomfort, hotness in my fingers and wrist, but not pain. The pain I've had in my fingers is rare and typically a point I know when to stop. But it's never been enough that I feel like I'd get taken seriously at physical therapy, especially when everyone else going to PT is trying to actually regain mobility. Or it'll get better by the time I get a PT appointment and I'll awkwardly not know what to say. I went to PT once for a free consultation and basically just got a slip of stretches they told me to do. I did those daily for a while, fell out of the habit, but I never felt like it actually particularly helped prevent the hand pain/soreness.

It just... I'm so tired. I'm so tired and frustrated of this happening every single month at this point, confronting the mortality and precarious situation of my drawing hand. I don't know what I'd do in life without art. I don't know if I can continue forever into old age with a mind that's pushing so far ahead of my body. I need a way for my body to catch up. But it just doesn't seem feasible because it feels like I was just inherently dealt a hand where I can't.

I guess, if anyone has any advice, please let me know. This has been the most comprehensive description of my wrist issues I've ever made and I just want to be vulnerable and openly frustrated for a bit. I know others deal with chronic pain that's debilitating and I sympathize very much. But I guess from my perspective I just don't know what to do. I don't want to wreck my wrist and have to quit drawing by 25.

[the-wayward-arc]

Considering Jaune's... well, personality and morality (at least to my understanding of it. Exactly what it's like after ten thousand years chilling with Malace I have no idea), would he actually kill the entombed Emperor on his Golden Throne? Because it isn't just killing him.

Straight up, the Emperor and the Golden Throne is preventing the failed webway project from consuming Terra and turning it into a daemon world. Off the bat, that is trillions of lives (most of whom are innocent of anything beyond staying alive in the 40k Imperium) who are going to die a truly horrific, painful death.

Then you get all the ships in the warp depending on the lighthouse that the Emperor is powering. That light suddenly goes out and most of them are also going to die in a surprisingly large variety of ways. Then you have all the planets that are depending on warp travel in order to give them resources and supplies because so many worlds have either been specialized towards one thing or simply have too big a population to feed themselves. Not to mention all the military forces that now cannot travel to fight threats like the Nids or Orks.

The Emperor dying literally triggers an age of pain, death and suffering on a scale that hasn't been seen since the Age of Strife. Jaune seems like a smart enough boy to know this... so would he still do it? Or is there another plan to put into action if he can claim the Imperial Palace?

So I've more less redoing Chaos Jaune, as he just doesn't care about the black crusades or the Imperium, he and his legion are doing something far more important. But here is what would have happened if I continued;

Jaune has lost everything. His planet was rendered uninhabitable, a majority of his people were either killed or taken in as slaves for their "crimes", and his entire family was killed. Pyrrha and their children were burned within their home. The legions families all killed off or enslaved. They weren't there to save them. Then for 10k years, the Imperium has become this bloated corpse that is barely kept alive, humanity as whole is just an ugly festing creature that has no redemption in Jaune's eyes. To him, the humanity he was fighting to protect died with his world, he's far gone. His entire legion is far gone. They don't care whatsoever, they know what will happen once they finally kill the Emperor and honestly? They don't care. To Jaune? The Imperium deserves more punishment.

So when he faces his father one last time, when he finally rips him off that throne, Jaune will sit. He will sit on the throne and watch as the entire galaxy finally burns. Then he will finally rest. Then he will finally realize how utterly fucken stupid he was. How he was nothing more than a means to an end, just like his brother before him. He's nothing but a tool that has no further use.

[thessalian]

Thess vs That Gameplay Trailer

So ... given how my Tumblr dash is blowing up, I don't feel like I have to be particularly careful about spoilers. You've seen it or you haven't. So ... here comes my opinion about the Dragon Age: Veilguard trailer:

It looks fun. I think. It also looks like I might not be able to play it. Like, at all.

And it's not because I'm hating on it, by the way. It looks ... interesting, for sure. My problem is actually accessibility, because there is a lot that gameplay trailers don't show you in games like this.

They're using a controller for input. I cannot use a controller, so I have no idea what the keybinds are going to look like. I don't know if you can lock on to your desired target, I don't know if you have to keep hitting the Attack button just to keep hitting something until it actually dies.

They used the flashiest-looking class, I imagine, so there was Rogue. A lot of dodge-rolling. That plus the "HEY LOOK AT THE WEAK SPOT" targeting spot on larger creatures (and probably the whole "darkness and demons" look to what we saw, honestly, but more on that later) basically put me in mind of Baby's First Dark Souls. Like, Souls-Ultra-Lite. I know that's The Hotness right now, and I'm not hating on that. Honestly, I'm not hating on any of it in and of itself. They went in a direction. Was it a good one? Depends on where you're standing.

Again, my issue is accessibility. Because I came away from that gameplay demonstration with the following:

A collosal migraine

A horrible feeling that the controls are going to be a nightmare for me personally

The migraine was a combination of the heavy contrast between the dark setting and the Big Glowing Demons, with the added fun of the flashy things indicating which direction magic blasts are going to come at you and all of the other artefacts, aaaaaaaaand the way combat moved. Because that much dodge-roll just had the camera going fucking everywhere. I struggle with that a lot. Not as much when I play it as when I'm watching it, because I'm at least nominally controlling it, but ... see, that's the problem. I can choose to not move the camera so much in most of my games. This one ... just the way basic mooks that you hit at level 1 involves so much bouncing around the area that ... yeah, migraine. And that wouldn't be much better if it was me causing all the bouncing around; not with those lighting effects, anyway.

(Also wondering how that's going to work for a mage. The last game I saw that did this kind of thing that I could actually play was Kingdoms of Amalur: Reckoning, and I couldn't play a mage in that because spellcasting took forever and I kept getting interrupted either by being hit or by having to dodge before I could finish casting. But anyway.)

So there's the migraine issue ... and then there's the fibro issue. I can't say for sure without seeing how the UI works when using keyboard and mouse, but this looks like it's going to be torture on bad pain days. I imagine it's going to limit the hell out of what classes I can play, at minimum. (Hell, Inquisition already did that; having to follow enemies around and keep pressing R to stab them repeatedly wasn't something I could do, so I had to leave melee-rogue and warrior alone, sticking entirely with ranged-rogue and mage). I'm reliably informed that you can change playstyle as well as difficulty on this one, but I don't exactly know what that means or how that might be helpful.

All I can really comment on is what I've seen. And what I have seen indicates to me that aside from anything else, Bioware seems to have put the New Hotness of the current style of action RPG ahead of accessibility. That makes me sad and disinclined to discuss the thing, or to get too attached to any of the characters, because it's entirely possible that I may be entirely unable to play it for health reasons anyway, so why bother getting hyped?

Also I am grumpy because, again, migraine. I'm hoping that it's just that one was building anyway and that just tipped me over the edge. Not that that's much better, since sometimes migraines sneak up and I sometimes don't see the edge until it's agony and aphasia, but at least if it was that, I could pretend that there might be some days I could play that game without crippling myself.

[lindentreeisle]

Raz died a week ago today

I'd inadvertently turned my ringer off, but I picked up the phone and the text I'd received said "There is an emergency and I can't get in touch with you or your emergency contact. Please call me back." I've never received a text like that. I knew the news was more likely to be about my bird than my cat, and I knew it was going to be devastating.

On Christmas Day, they told me, she was chirping and seemed normal. On the 26th, she was motionless on her side on the bottom of the cage. I had them send me photos. I had them promise to freeze her for me since I wasn't due home til the 31st. Then I broke down and sobbed before cleaning myself up so I could go out in the living room and break down again as I told my parents and brother and a pair of family friends what had happened.

There's no sign on her body or in the cage of what could have killed her. Even if I got a vet to agree to a necropsy I'd probably never know for sure. It could have been a virus, or bacteria, or nothing at all. She was 9 and a half, which is late middle age if not old for a budgie. It might have been something that if I'd been there, I would have seen the symptoms and acted- birds hide illness even better than cats, and close observation is often the only way to realize something is wrong. But I might not have. It's quite possible that if I'd been home, I would have been the one walking into the house after work or a night's sleep or a trip to visit a friend and finding her dead.

I don't feel guilty for not being there; I'm honestly glad that it wasn't me that found her. Stupidly, the thing I felt guilty about was that the week before I left on my trip, she'd barely gotten any out of cage time because I'd been so preoccupied by work stress, emotional stress, and some pain issues I was struggling with. I felt bad leaving her to spend all day every day in the cage while I was out of town, and I promised that when I got home I would spend some quality time with her.

I'm glad I was with my family when I found out: I had distractions, people to talk to and hug, reassurance that even when we were just hanging out in the same room with our separate pursuits, I wasn't alone. By the time I flew out on Sunday, I thought I was as ready to go home as I was going to be. The thought of cleaning out her cage no longer broke me into pieces. I had researched crematories. I was still looking often at pictures and videos of Raz, but I no longer cried continuously while I did it; I was able to look at them with fondness instead of just fixating on the fact that I would never hear that call, see that behavior, ever again. I was starting to think about getting more birds and looking at breeders; the idea of cleaning out Raz's things felt more bearable when I thought of it as preparing for future tenancy rather than clearing away the remains of a life.

Sitting in the airport and then on the plane, I was full of anxiety and dread, which seemed out of proportion to what I was facing.

The first thing I did after turning on the lights and putting down my luggage was to go to the freezer and examine her, because I had to know if there were any obvious signs of what killed her. When I've euthanized cats, I was holding them when they still died. Maybe it's that slow transition of the body from something alive to something clearly dead that makes holding it at that moment so painful. Raz was the first pet I'd seen dead without experiencing the death. It wasn't hard or even really sad: it wasn't her, she wasn't there. It was when I walked upstairs and into the back bedroom (her room, my office) that I burst into tears, looking into her empty cage.

I didn't sleep until 4 am, when I was too exhausted to feel sad any more. A friend chatted with me on the phone for most of it, keeping me company. Yesterday I kept the grief at bay by keeping busy: breaking down some old furniture I'm throwing out, cleaning out the cage, throwing away the toys too worn to reuse or impossible to sterilize, washing and boiling the ones I decided to keep. Trying to think ahead, not back. I even managed to collect all my photos and videos of her from their various sources and make sure all were backed up in two locations.

Grief can be delayed, but not denied. Not when the house itself, which Raz has lived in as long as I have, is a reminder of loss. I come home through the backyard after dark and the light in the back bedroom is off- because Raz doesn't live there any more. I start up the stairs and want to call out "hey birben!" and hear her call back, but I can see the back bedroom door is ajar and the room is dark- because Raz doesn't live there any more. I get up in the morning and want to go to the bedroom and pull the cover off her cage, saying "good morning, smallest friend!"- but Raz doesn't live there any more. At 10 pm it's bird bedtime and I want to cover the cage, turn off the lights, and hear the chorpling that only happens when she settles down to sleep- but Raz doesn't live here any more.

I don't know how to live in this house without her in it. I don't know how to sit at this desk in my back bedroom without her sitting next to me. I don't know how to exist in total silence without her friendly chatter- yells and shrieks of outrage or excitement, sharp chirps to greet or check on me, soft "nheck"s of affection and acknowledgement, gentle squeaking when I was nearby and she was thoroughly happy.

I have people who will talk to me, keep me company, try to comfort me, when I need them. I'm grateful. But it doesn't ease this unshakeable sense of absence, the sadness that comes from the near-constant reminders that despite Marduk's company, despite the support of friends and family, I've lost something that I valued immensely but have only now realized was a much larger part of my life than I had fully appreciated.

I just miss my friend.

[good-to-drive]

The fact that people have romanticized or even sexualized your childhood trauma is disgusting. I'm genuinely so sorry that happened.

Can I tell you why I think it's important that talking about Paul McCartneys childhood trauma and it's effects on him become just as mainstreamed as talking about John Lennon's childhood trauma and it's effects on him has always been in Beatles fandom?

First, on a personal level. Have you heard of Ruby Franke, the Mormon momfluencer who has been charged with child abuse? My parents were A LOT like her and though my friends always recognized that we were "one of those" Mormon families, what they did was very normalized and justified. So, naturally, I don't like seeing abuse normalized or justified.

But more importantly on a public level. If we don't get comfortable talking about the truth of Paul's childhood and the effects of it on his thought processes, behaviors, and traits, and therefore him as a person and artist, we are going to have a flawed understanding of the Beatles music, group dynamics, and story.

Obviously none of it should be romanticized or sexualized. It needs to be taken seriously.

Yeah, I feel like that's my point.

Aside from the "it is your moral duty to hate John and if you don't you're as bad as he is" camp most people are capable of talking about John's experiences in a reasonable way, but with Paul there's a lot more resistance. I think that's partly because Paul has received a lot of undeserved criticism and hate over the years so (some of) his fans are a bit hypersensitive to anything that smacks of negativity, completely ignoring the fact that acknowledging someone's pain and trauma is not, in fact, negative or insulting (and it's arguably insulting to say that it is). And it's also probably that Paul's issues in particular are cartoonishly vilified in pop culture right now, to the point that it's almost impossible to even have a conversation about them (try talking to the average internet user about narcissism and you'll see what I mean).

But, frankly, it's also to do with deep misconceptions about the cycle of abuse and what it means to exist within it (which sounds like something you understand as well) and the savior complex a lot of people have about their faves that makes them really, really want Paul to be a poor precious kitten who just needs lots of cuddle sessions and weepy sex to fix his "issues." Which, like I originally said, is basically fine if that's what you want to do. It's essentially fiction, after all. But I wouldn't consider romanticizing abuse or infantilizing survivors to be the same thing as raising awareness around abuse, and I don't honestly think it helps us understand the group dynamic either. (I do agree that we'll never understand Paul and John's relationship if we can't accept that Paul is a human being with a past and a complex inner life just like John. That's something I've been bitching about for ages.)

I hope this isn't too nosy, but I've noticed you saying in tags that people jump on you and accuse you of "woobifying" Paul sometimes. If you're just trying to acknowledge that Paul faced trauma and deserves actual compassion and understanding then of course those people are out of line and I'm sorry that's happened, but if your idea of acknowledging this is "oh poor precious baby let me kiss it better" then, well.... You do you, but I don't think you can fairly claim there's any value in that. Yes, it's talking about abuse, but not in a way that I think we can reasonably claim is compassionate or productive.

No hate, though -- I haven't seen the posts you're referring to so idk what people are criticizing you for.

This is a really thoughtful and interesting take and I really appreciate you sending it to me.

[scourge-lover]

A lot of questions ik, but these are for Sapphire x Anduin and or Sapphire x Wrathion >:33

If they get married, who proposes?

What kind of nicknames do they call each other?

What’s their height difference? Age difference?

Did they have an official first date? If so, what was it like?

Did any of their friends or family want them to get together?

Who felt romantic feelings first?

Did either of them try to resist their feelings?

@wolf-of-stormwind

1. Sapphire proposes to Anduin. Wrathion proposes to Sapphire!

2. Sapphire calls Anduin my sunrise because he's as beautiful as a sunrise. Anduin calls her my angel because he thought he was dead the first time he met her. Wrathion calls Sapphire my dear because....DEER. Sapphire calls Wrathion my little darkness because he's a black dragon. Anduin calls him a pain in the ass. Wrathion calls Anduin my prince.

3. Sapphire is much shorter than both Anduin and Wrathion both. I've seen that Anduin is like 6 feet as adult. As an adult she's like at most 5' 4" She's also younger than Anduin. He's like 15 in War Crimes and she's 14.

4. I've already got a draft for a first date for Anduin and Sapphire! They have a picnic by the lake near Stormwind Keep. Sapphire falls into the lake and panics because of her fear of water. Anduin has to save her.

5. BOLVAR. Bolvar orchestrates them meeting and constantly manipulates events into keeping them close together. A certain black dragon wasn't a part of the plan but luckily it works out just fine. Marwyn loves the idea of Sapphire dating a prince she deserves nice things.

Arthas likes to think he's different than any stupid mortal but he falls for typical Dad behavior and HATES Anduin and Wrathion ("what do you mean Sapphire is dating TWO princes????" - Arthas)

6. Anduin and Wrathion honestly fell for each other *and* Sapphire first.

7. Sapphire's confused on her feelings for a long time because she's afraid to get close and admit any feelings. She thinks it'll never work because she's a *literal* monster. Anduin being a whole ass prince complicates things. She's a MENETHIL. Honestly at least Wrathion is easier to consider because he's a dragon and KNOWS Sapphire's identity.

[prettygirlsarepsycho]

Female Suffering is beautiful?

I have not posted on tumblr in a while because I was not doing well mentally. I've honestly been struggling a lot with depression, anxiety, and my bpd. One thing I've noticed in particular over the past few months, when you're not feeling well and you like some posts online that fit your depressed mood, it happens quickly that the algorithm keeps suggesting more and more to you on that particular topic/mood causing you to fall down a rabbit hole.

Regardless of this, it is also not unheard of that in the "coquette community" one often encounters stories that romanticize the pain, suffering and oppression of women. Some good examples of this in music are Lana del Rey's "Ultraviolence," in which the singer talks about, among other things, not being able to leave a violent relationship because every punch from her counterpart feels as good as a kiss. Another example in film is "The Lover (1992)", where a young girl, despite abuse, stays with her way too-old husband and it is presented as a beautiful love story.

But why do we romanticise and downplay suffering especially when it comes to the female gender? Why does depression suddenly become this poetic, desirable, fascinating thing?

In order to answer this question properly we have to talk about gender roles and how women came to be "the weaker sex". Nowadays, it is assumed that thousands of years ago, when the human species came into being and men and women had no understanding of each other they still shared a strong bond called  ‘The Naked Ape’, despite their physical and behavioral differences. Males and females stayed together thereby creating family like arrangements. Starting from birth their human babies required care and supervision, regardless of gender. But when they approached the age of puberty, significant differences were experienced by them due to biological differences.

Girls started menstruating and had no control over it. Because humans were hunters and had seen blood only in life-ending situations, they started associating menstrual blood with physical disability. This belief was strengthened due to the pains and cramps experienced by menstruating women. Further, women kept on bearing children as there was no understanding of control on child birth. Both these facts, added to the then prevalent short life expectancy, led to a situation where women were either in the stage of pregnancy or post partum care during most of their adult life.

As a result, women in general were never in a state of physical or emotional fitness which would enable them to leave their abode and participate in typically male activities such as hunting and collecting food. During all these stages, they required complete care and support from men, both physically and emotionally. Thus, women became dependent upon men. This strong feeling of weak physical health in their minds made them literally a ‘weaker’sex.

As said, the labor to which women are condemned, like the process of childbirth, generates sensitivity and empathy in us. From this comes a moral knowledge for women, not because they are in a female body, but because of what female bodies are made to do. Giving birth is not only a psychological task, but also a physically demanding one. Because we are able to endure such pain and bounce back shortly after to care for our children, studies show that hospitals often overestimate women's ability to endure pain. This pattern is also evident in the commonly used saying, "If you hit a woman, you hit a rock." This sounds tremendously empowering and encouraging, but I believe that such rhetoric does more harm than good. I believe that women should not be rocks because being hit is inevitable. When we romanticize the idea that women are made to endure suffering and that their strength lies in their resilience, we create more room for abuse of power against them.

Now that we have clarified the historical background of why women are considered more fragile, why is their suffering ultimately beautiful?

Susan Sontag has described the nineteenth-century flowering of a "nihilistic and sentimental" logic that found appeal in female suffering: "Sadness made one 'interesting.' It was a sign of sophistication, of sensitivity, to be sad. It meant being powerless." This attraction largely carried over to the disease: "Sadness and tuberculosis became synonyms," she writes, and both were coveted. Sadness was interesting, and the disease was its servant, providing not only cause but symptoms and metaphors: an agonizing cough, a pallid pallor, an emaciated body. "The melancholic character was a superior character: sensitive, creative, an independent being," she writes. Illness was "a burgeoning weakness … symbolized an attractive vulnerability, a superior sensitivity, [and] became more and more the ideal look for women."

Women's pain turns them into kittens and rabbits and sunsets and dirty goddesses of red satin; it makes them pale and bloody and starves them, delivers them to death camps and sends their strands of hair to the stars. Men put them on trains and under trains. Violence makes them heavenly. Age makes them old. We cannot look away. We can't stop thinking up new ways to hurt them!

I cannot lie and say that I have not become a victim of this romanticization of grief. Why would I see my depression as an illness that makes it difficult for me to take care of my physical health, hygiene and goals, when I can ignore the harsh reality and present it as a fascinating melancholic experience? It's just easier to deal with when mental illness is portrayed desirably.

Thank you guys for reading!! If there's anything you need to talk about you can write me a dm on Instagram @purelypoisonousapple

-Lia ♡

[b-blushes]

okay this is gonna be the last time i talk about it bc of the aforementioned shame but. when i think about this stuff and realise only when writing it out 'hey bud, that's a wild thing to say and believe about yourself. sucks that you're doing that!' which is yet another judgemental thing about thinking unfair judgemental things i'm reminded of conversations like recently someone (with similar health stuff) said to me that they don't know what they'd do if that (my health conditions to the degree that they are/being disabled in my early twenties) happened to them at my age and it's hard not to hear that as 'one of the most painful and shameful things has happened to us. our lives look so much different and mostly worse than we imagined them as kids, and we should do everything we can to not be like this' rather than how they probably intended it as 'i, as someone twice your age, struggle with the difficulties we have in common, and admire how you handle them at your own age'. And how confusing that conversation (mostly navigating and correctly interpreting the subtext of it, which can change to have completely opposite meanings each of the many many times you have it) is. Honestly as backwards as it sounds i often feel so ashamed to feel 'deserving' of the idea that someone could mean the first version about me. It feels like, idk, an indulgent thing to entertain, given all the good things i know i have, and gross to even consider that there are things that i could struggle with, feel hopeless about, it feels like I should only ever be allowed to take things like that ("i can't imagine what i'd do if that happened to me!") as a compliment! I don't really know how that makes sense! I think that's the shameful bit, to feel deserving of calling myself disabled! Does everyone feel like that? How can someone feel guilty about something that's broadly viewed as bad, except by us when we're reclaiming our existence as a neutral an existence as any other person, or unless we're doing really well for trying to not be hopeless, miserable, and ashamed about the dire life we've found ourselves in (or worse still brought upon ourselves somehow), like does that logic even work? I guess it's the fear of faking it and being somehow 'found out', and the fear that you can somehow be making it up and exaggerating at the same time as your every day reality being pitiful and worthy of shame?

It's hard to balance! I'm constantly finding it difficult! Sometimes I can go outside and do the things that I *am* able to do and other times it's hard to persuade myself i even 'deserve' to leave the house (or a million other things *within* my house, even out of sight of anyone except myself). The confusion about how ashamed i 'should' be is like hands around my throat. The shame is somehow both the most embarrassing thing I could feel (how could I dare to feel so bad about myself and feel that I shouldn't be seen when I have so much and am so fortunate?) and the most justified (how could anyone bare to see what i've become, what i am.). I'm always making a big deal out of nothing, or desperately trying to have the Real Something witnessed and validated, and it's both about the same thing. Even now, it feels like feeling this way is a sign of my own moral failing, and a sign that I'm bad. It is a feeling uniquely about myself, and I've got to believe that that's not true, but it is hard! I'm constantly telling myself it's not that deep, you're reading cruelty into a neutral thing and making up your own difficulties, but surely I'm not making it all up? Anyway. I'm sure all of these things are true sometimes. Sometimes I must be blowing things out of proportion and need to get a grip and some perspective. Other times I feel like it really does suck and i'm justified in feeling all types of bad for a little while, just until the waves die down again (as justified as anyone is about feeling anything! i don't know!). It's hard to think of a situation where ranking struggles and discarding anyone who doesn't have it The Worst benefits anyone. Me feeling so ashamed of all of this, and then about my confusion about all of this, probably doesn't do any good for anything. I guess I will just continue to try to hold all the seemingly contradictory things in my hands at once and try to be as kind as possible.

I am torn between 'yo that's too personal and messed up to share online' and 'the whole crux of this is me personally being ashamed to exist as I am at times, feeling ashamed of *that*, and hiding those things just reinforces them, so.' It's also probably not just me who feels this way (and feels strangled by it) so. handshake if you do too

[thewurstgirlfriend]

On: Drugs

So in a prior post I alluded to having a surgery(it was unrelated to my transition) and it was such a wild experience! The only other time I had been put under anesthesia before was when I had my wisdom teeth removed, so that was the litmus I was gauging it by.

I showed up in the early afternoon, I was admitted and shown a bed & given a gown to change into. They hooked an IV up to my left wrist with one of those rolly carts. I had to bring it with me like 3 times to the bathroom cuz of the old t-blocker peeing...and they kept me waiting for almost 2 hours before the doctors were ready for me so I was anxious AF about it too. But they finally wheeled me in and Holy Crap! after never having seen an operating theater before I was impressed by the medical tech on display.

The anesthesiologist was a little firecracker of a Chinese woman, we spoke for a few minutes and she asked me about my meds because she couldn't figure out why I was on such a high dose of a blood pressure medication at my age and there was this awkward moment where I had to explain that I'm trans & that's part of my HRT. I still haven't submitted the paperwork to change my gender indicator on all my ID,and THAT will be another writing unto itself. But the doctor had the nurse put a breathing mask over my face and she told me it was oxygen, after a moment she goes "OK! Medicine now!" and I took about three breaths then gasped awake in a different room.

It was entirely weird! I had been put under for almost 3 hours but when I awoke I didn't feel as if I was missing time, it felt like seconds to me. I was also a lot more alert and lucid then I expected to be, I was hauling my IV cart for a pee just a few minutes after waking up. I thought I'd be groggy and feel almost drunk, and be generally unable to move. They told me they pumped me full of freezing which probably helped a great deal when I took the stairs up to my loft. They had given me a prescription for painkillers but the pharmacy was closed when I got back home so I had to wait. Again, I had the false impression that they'd send me home with the medication in hand. My logic being that even though it was a simple routine surgery, an open operation is still a major surgery. I was anxious about the entire ordeal, I expected things to be entirely different.

The next morning I hobbled down my stairs and to the pharmacy across the street, I was in pain but not excruciatingly so. In classic doctor shorthand, I had no idea which medication I was waiting on. They called me over for a consult & it turns out it was hydromorphone! It came with a giant warning package with it about all the associated risks and I took it quite seriously....I have been closely affected by the opioid crisis several times, as recently as 6 weeks ago a friend passed in a questionable overdose. And I know all too well the power of addiction.

In addition to the statistics surrounding mental health disorders and self-harm behaviors in the trans community, addiction rates are also disproportionately high, and I am no exception to these numbers. Waxing honestly, coming from a troubled childhood home I've been linked into the mental healthcare system for most of my life. I have been diagnosed with dysthymia and Cluster-B characteristics in addition to having ADHD. I have struggled with alcohol for most of my life, I was introduced to it by family at a young age & became a problem drinker in my teens and early 20s. I had been sober almost 6 years when my marriage ended just a few months before the first COVID-19 lock-downs...around this time I was laid-off and had my car repo'd because I could no longer keep up the payments. Now, I know I'm not the only casualty of the pandemic but I did NOT handle all that disaster in my life all at once and I relapsed into drinking for about 2 years. I'm currently 10 months alcohol free, and I stopped smoking cigarettes. I still smoke a fair amount of cannabis but it's legal where I am and just as hard to avoid as booze. I occasionally use psylocibin mushrooms but I approach that more therapeutically, as does my therapist. She's a beautiful soul, I owe her my life. I've worked with her closely for 3 years now...she's helped me get sober & help me work up the courage to live honestly. And 20 years ago my counselor would have given me proper crap about "eating shrooms" and I would've been kicked out of the program. Now I tell her and she's curious about how helpful the experience was....the science is there, I don't make this up. It is what it is, fight me in the comments. But what the hell was I even saying??

Oh yeah, opiates...So I took 2 doses of the hydromorphone, exactly as prescribed, and that was enough to make me itchy if you know what I mean. It's a powerful drug omg, don't get me wrong it does what it's supposed to. It dulled my surgical pain beautifully and I slept better than I had in quite some time. And there's the rub, just like that I felt I wanted to use it every day. Not to get high of course, but that deep rest was alluring.....I'm not alone here & it's crazy because we're talking about single-use event addiction pathways!! I ended up bringing the pills back to the pharmacy because I never really needed them in the first place, plus... in a low moment after 3 days in bed, I realized there was enough drug in that jar to make ALL of my problems go away....not that I'm any more sad than usual but that's how readily I can think like that.

This experience opened my eyes, bearing in mind that this is all IMHO, and knowing that everybody's unique experience is exactly that....perhaps physicians are over-prescribing and over-medicating? Should there be a better screening process to ensure these drugs are the most appropriate for the correct circumstances in the right patients? Absolutely, there are legitimate conditions for their clinical use, and one of the bigger factors is non-pharmaceutical grade drugs infiltrating city streets. What are we to do? I'm left perplexed, all I have is questions and more questions where no answers are coming.

Going forward, I had a sweaty, sleepy day after I took the pills back... I was able to manage the pain with plain old acetaminophen. A few more days in bed and I was back on my feet. Its been 11 days since the surgery and I feel great and I'm healing well! I've had more time to pull this girl together and a more permanent transition into womanhood is on the horizon in the new year. My writing is going to be a huge part of my healing, and my becoming whole. Make sure you like/follow/subscribe and do all the things! Talk soon!

Much Love

Genni Bee

[writeblrcafe]

Digital interview with @thewritersplace

Our editor & barista Kendra (@thewritersplace) puts the kettle on and makes herself a cup of tea, then pulls a chair up behind the counter. She is currently writing a book and is still writing fanfiction. Her favourite genres include fiction, romance, fantasy, mystery, historical fiction, and paranormal/supernatural.

What got you into writing?

It's been a long time since I started writing, so I don't recollect the first instance very well, but the most likely thing that got me into writing would probably be Nanowrimo's Young Writers Program that my 6th grade homeroom teacher suggested I look into, since I wrote a lot of what she thought were interesting stories for the English class writing prompts she gave us at the beginning of every class.

What inspires you to write?

Beyond the pettiness of I see something and think "I could do this better"? Probably just the excitement of exploring various ideas from various pieces of media that I like, or age-old tropes and concepts that I've seen in favorite books/movies.

Which are recurring themes in your writing?

You know, honestly, I'm not sure. You're probably better off asking my best friend that, since she's read pretty much everything I've ever written. I don't necessarily focus on themes when I write. So, I'd probably have to read all my stuff over again with 'themes' in mind and get back to you with an updated answer.

How would you describe your writing style?

Not to repeat myself, but what I said to the previous question also applies here. I don't know what the writing style would be since I don't really know what types/options there are. I guess I'd say mine is hopefully elegant but straight-forward and clear. I've never been a fan of flowery writing, because while it's very pretty, it's a total pain to read through. I'd have to ask my best friend what she thinks the style is because like I said in my answer to the previous question, she's read all my stuff and could probably figure out what the style is.

How do you deal with writer's block?

I don't really get writer's block, so this might be more like tips on how I avoid getting it, rather than how do I deal with it. I usually listen to music related to my WIP(s), or work on another story or fanfic, or talk with my best friend about whatever ideas and stuff I have, and where I might be getting a bit stuck. She's probably the real reason I don't get writer's block, honestly.

Do you have a wip? Tell us about it:

I do! Technically, I have six, but the main one I'm trying to focus on right now is my Dracula-inspired one, called The Road To Eternity Is Paved With Blood. I'm more or less pulling from the novel, with some other stuff being pulled from the movie Dracula Untold, and some inspiration from the anime Hellsing. The latter was actually the biggest inspiration for my novel, and I've written fanfic for it, but my story obviously is different not just for reasons like copyright, but also for the fact that I've always wanted to do a Dracula/vampire story and put my own spin on it.

Have you already published your writing? Include a link to your published work so we can share it.

When I did the Nanowrimo Young Writers Program in middle school, they published the two novels I did for the event (one for each year I did it), but I've never been able to find either version online at this point. I have hard copies of the second book, though they are lost to the abyss that is my parents' house at this point. The other two things I've published are an academic paper that was my senior thesis, and a poem to a lit magazine. Unfortunately, the lit magazine's website is currently protected by a WordPress login, so I don't have the ability to get that link to the poem, but for those interested in viewing it, here is the tumblr link (this is my main blog). You can find the academic paper here.

You can tell us more interesting stuff about you here:

I don't really have much that I deem 'interesting', but a few facts about me are that I have been writing for over a decade, and while most of that has been fanfic, I've worked on a few original works here and there, including my six current ones. Outside of writing, I'm a graduate student in her last term, and work as a part-time studio manager for a small yoga studio. For those interested in her because of the mentions I made in some of my answers, here is my best friend's tumblr @bwaldorf

Get interviewed by Writeblr Café!

Any writer can participate. Just fill in this form by clicking on the link below. Maybe we will host interviews in an audio format if you are more interested in listening to an interview than reading it.

[torestoreamends]

Just the way you look tonight – a Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Fic

1.7k words, G rated

Scorpius will never forget watching his parents dance to his mum’s favourite song. So one night, when he catches his dad dancing alone, he asks if he can join in.

Inspired by this gorgeous art by @scorpiusdraco.

Read the fic on AO3

*

The record crackles into life and vibrant music croons through the ballroom. Scorpius immediately drops the toy he’s playing with and looks up. Music can only mean one thing – his parents are going to dance, and there’s nothing he loves more than watching them dance.

He watches enrapt as his mother waltzes across the room on her own, her skirt flaring out, hair flying. A broad grin stretches across her face and she closes her eyes. Lost in her own little world for a moment.

In the corner, his father is still reclining in his big, carved wooden throne. Although he hasn’t moved, Scorpius can see his gaze is completely focused on Astoria. The corners of his lips twitch up into a soft, soppy little smile. His fingers tap the arm of the chair in time to the music, the emerald facets of his rings glittering in the candlelight.

Halfway across the room, Astoria opens her eyes. She never stops dancing, but she fixes her eyes on Draco and stretches a hand out towards him.

“Come and dance with me, dear.”

Draco’s smile widens and he settles himself deeper into his chair. “But I’m quite content just watching you.”

Astoria switches her gaze to Scorpius. “Do you think Daddy should dance with me? Is he being lazy?”

Scorpius nods enthusiastically. “Yes, yes, yes! Dance, Daddy, dance!”

Draco sighs, but Scorpius can see that he’s only pretending to hesitate. “It’s been a very long day, and...”

Astoria twirls over, and takes his hand. “And... this is my favourite song. Come on.”

“Fine, but only because it’s your favourite.”

He lets her pull him to his feet and Scorpius applauds very briefly before clasping his hands together and falling silent to watch.

Draco settles a hand on Astoria’s waist, and she beams as she alights her hand gently on his shoulder. They turn their bodies in towards one another, resting their foreheads together.

The rest of the world might as well not matter to them. They’re gazing into each other’s eyes, and it’s the most amazing thing Scorpius has ever seen. Better than any book he’s ever read, or any picture he’s examined. So much love. Intense, focused, beautiful. Just knowing something like that exists in the world makes him feel safer and warmer.

He melts against the wall and hugs himself as he watches them. Feet moving in perfect rhythmic precision. Fingers twined together. At one point, Draco twirls Astoria round and dips her. She tightens her grip on his shoulder, but he lifts her smoothly back to her feet and starts to sing along to the music as they move off again.

His voice is deep, breathless from the dancing and a little off key, but Astoria doesn’t seem to care as she blushes and giggles.

“With each word your tenderness grows, Tearing my fear apart, And that laugh that wrinkles your nose, Touches my foolish heart...”

Scorpius gazes at his parents with stars in his eyes and a heart of molten gold, and he knows he’s going to remember this moment – this night, this song – forever.

*

Scorpius sneaks down the stairs, footsteps feather light, breath held, making for the door down to the kitchen. It’s almost midnight, which means it’s snack time. His dad doesn’t seem to be around, so mission Pepper Imp is a go.

As he tiptoes towards the ballroom, however, a record crackles into life that makes him stop in his tracks.

Some day, when I'm awfully low, When the world is cold, I will feel a glow, Just thinking of you, And the way you look tonight.

The door is open and golden light spills out into the hall. Scorpius had been planning to run straight past, but now he’s frozen in the doorway, staring.

His dad has a glass of wine in his hand and is dancing on his own. He holds his arms outstretched as if he’s waiting for someone to waltz into them, and he hums softly along with the music. As he dances and sings, he rotates on the spot. Scorpius knows he should move, that he’s not supposed to be out of bed and he’s definitely not supposed to be witnessing this, but he’s transfixed.

So when his dad turns to face him, he’s stuck on the spot, and all he can do is swallows give a cheerful little wave.

“Um... h-hi, Dad!”

Draco drops his arms and takes a sip of his wine. He never blushes, but there’s a hint of colour on his cheeks all of a sudden.

“I thought you were in bed.”

Scorpius gestures over his shoulder towards the kitchen. “I needed a snack.”

“I see.”

They look at each other, at an awkward stalemate. Scorpius knows he should leave his dad to it and go and get his Imps, but he can’t. He’s tethered in place by the song that’s wound its way through his heart and into his memories.

“This was Mum’s favourite song.” He steps cautiously into the room. “You used to dance to it together.”

Draco hesitates, then sets his wine glass down on the wooden seat of the throne he used to in. “I thought you might have been too young to remember that.”

Scorpius shakes his head. “No. No, I remember! You would dip her and make her laugh. And you were so... so in love.” He looks down at his hands, heart wilting. This is too dangerous a topic for midnight on a Tuesday, even if it is the Christmas holidays.

“Yes,” Draco says simply.

For a moment, Scorpius thinks that’s all he’s going to get, and he starts planning his escape to the kitchen. He might be needing more than just Pepper Imps to cope with this.

But then Draco draws in a breath and twists one of his rings round his finger. “She was a beautiful dancer, wasn’t she?”

Scorpius looks up and nods eagerly. “She was. You both were. I...” He dares another step into the room. “Dad? C-can I, um... can I dance? With you? Would you mind?”

His dad blinks at him. “You want to dance?”

Scorpius nods. “Yes please. If it’s alright...” He trails off as the music finishes, leaving behind crackling silence and the uplifting memory of a love song.

His dad walks away, over to the record player. Scorpius watches his retreating back, pin straight and impenetrable. It feels like a dismissal.

“Never mind,” he murmurs, stepping back. “It’s not important. I should probably go back to bed anyway. Sorry I interrupted.”

He turns to flee, straight back up the stairs to the safety of his room, but before he can move an inch further, the music hums back into life. The bright beat and brassy chords ring out through the ballroom as Draco turns on his heel with a swoosh of his robes and holds his hand out to Scorpius.

“I hope you can keep up.”

Scorpius doesn’t grin. He’s so surprised that his emotions haven’t caught up. While his brain knows his dad is offering him a dance, the pieces of his heart are still scattered somewhere out in the dark hallway.

His feet carry him across the room and he takes his dad’s hand.

“You’re an old man,” he hears himself say, “of course I can keep up.”

“We’ll see.”

And then he’s flying. His dad spins him round so fast that he’s not sure if he’s dancing or falling. The room is a kaleidoscope blur of light. A bubble of laughter carries over the music and he thinks it belongs to him.

When the spinning stops he clings to his dad for dear life so he doesn’t fall, and his dad grins at him. At some point Scorpius’s heart catches up, beating in time to the music, soaring with every step across the ballroom floor.

It’s been so long since they last danced that he’s amazed he can still remember the steps, but they’re there. His feet find their mark, his shoulders relax, he stops gripping his dad’s hand, and when he remembers to stop panicking and look up, he finds his dad beaming at him.

It’s the sort of bright, fond smile that Scorpius always assumed was reserved for Astoria, but here it is, directed at him. He’s briefly dazzled by it, like he’s looked right at the sun on a summer day. What it means, he has no idea. But it makes him feel...

It makes him feel like he did as a child, watching his parents dance. Safe and warm. Full up inside. Like his heart is a rich pool of molten gold.

His dad squeezes his hand and sings along with the music, in his pitchy, imprecise voice.

“Lovely... Never ever change, Keep that breathless charm, Won’t you please arrange it, Cause I love you, Just the way you look tonight.”

Scorpius can’t say why, but the fact that it’s such a mess, off key and rough around the edges, makes it better. Maybe because it’s his dad, and it’s real, and raw, and means something.

He clings to the dying moments of the song like he clung to the memory of his parents dancing. When the last note fades, he hesitates to let go of his dad, and his dad must feel the same, because all of a sudden Scorpius finds himself wrapped up in an enormous, tight hug.

“I love you,” Draco murmurs. “I hope you know that.”

Scorpius thinks of his dad beaming at him as they danced, and he finally understands. It’s overwhelming and amazing and he thinks his heart might burst from it. He buries his face in his dad’s chest and nods.

“Love you too,” he mumbles.

This time he can practically feel his dad smiling. His grip tightens around Scorpius and a contented sigh resonates through him. He ducks down and presses a kiss to the top of Scorpius’s head, as Scorpius closes his eyes and focuses on storing this memory forever too. Two matching snap shots of love. Side by side and connected by a dance, and a song that was once his mother’s favourite.

[gv80gb]

Belleview Clinic

This was my ninth month in the Belleview clinic. Nine months since I've been outside. And nine months carrying my child. When I first got to the Belleview clinic was because I saw an ad on the internet about it. They offered $2,000 if you let them perform some lab tests on you. I desperately needed the money; I was about to get thrown out of my apartment for lack of payment. The ad said that the only thing they were going to do to you were blood tests, because they were running an investigation on fertility. And even though I had always been scared of needles, I needed the money, so I guess I could swallow my fears. It also specified that they needed women between 18 and 25 years old. So, I, at my 22 years old thought I had nothing to lose. I thought it would be easy money that would allow me to keep having a home. Boy, was I wrong.

The first day here a nice nurse received me. She gave me a hospital gown and told me to put it on, she led me to a nice room that had a doctor's office chair, so I sat down. After a few minutes a doctor came in, she started talking, and everything seemed normal. She was preparing a needle, I started getting dizzy from the sight, so I closed my eyes and turned my head. It was better if I didn't saw the process of the needle coming inside of me. But still, I felt it. Something willed me to turn, I don't now what it was, but as I did, I realized they were not extracting my blood, they were injecting me something. I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could do anything everything faded to black.

When I woke up, I was in a small bedroom with two individual beds. The walls painted in an olive green, combining with the covers on the beds. A girl around my age was laying in the bed next to mine, she was sleep or maybe passed out just as I had been. The chamber had two doors. I got up and went to open them. Behind one of the there was a modest bathroom, with a shower, a toilet and a sink. It was provided with towels and toiletries. The other one didn't open at all. I sat back down on my bed wondering if maybe I was dreaming when my roommate woke up.

––Where am I?–– she asked.

––I have no idea –– I answered honestly.

That's how I met Izzy, the only person I have seen in the last 9 months. Soon after that day, we realized we were not getting out. Three times a day the otherwise permanently closed door would open, always revealing food and sometimes other thing we might need, like clean towels or sheets, new clothes for our growing bodies, among others. And on the other side of the door there was the smallest room (where they left the tray with the things and were we would leave the dirty plates and clothes and towels so they would return them to us clean) and another door, one that we never ever saw or could open. They fed us well and they provided everything for us to live comfortably on those conditions. We had a notepad and a pen, and we could write notes to our captors with things we needed, and most of the time they would give them to us, they would give us books, movies and games to keep us entertained among other things, we even asked for a full length mirror and a table for our room, and they gave that to us as well. But it wasn't life.

A few months in the clinic Izzy and I realized we were pregnant. Neither of us remembers when we got impregnated, but that's when it clicked. That's why we were here, the Belleview clinic was a breeding center. Probably lots of more women were in the same condition as us in the same building. But there was nothing we could do to help them or help us for that matter.

It had been nine months since our first day here, so both Izzy and I were in full term of our pregnancy. I woke up that day feeling cramps in my lower belly.  I was very aware that the baby could come any day now, so I was keeping track of the pains. Right now, it's 8:15 in the morning, breakfast is usually served at 8:30, so I'm considering writing a note informing about the cramps I'm having so I can leave it there when the door opens.

Izzy got out of the shower like 10 minutes ago and she hasn't gotten out of the bathroom yet. I needed to pee. I got up from my bed and wobbled towards the bathroom door. I knocked before saying–– What's taking you so long Iz?

The door flew open and I found a naked Izzy with a panicked look on her face ––Ali I think I will have my baby today.

––What? You are in labor?  –– I asked her in surprise ––I think I'm in labor too.

––Oh god Ally, what are we going to do?

––We have to let them know. They have to help us.

Izzy nodded and followed me out into our bedroom.

––Do you mind if I don't put clothes on? I feel so hot I don't think I can handle them –– She said with her huge belly popping out of them.

––Sure, I might follow you in a bit, but I still can handle them.

I went to get our notepad and wrote in my neat handwriting. We are probably both in labor, we need help, please. At 8:30 sharp the door opened, two plates of waffles waiting for us. I took them and placed them in the table, before the door closed, I placed the note on the tray, hoping someone would come.

We ate quietly. I noticed Izzy wincing every once in a while. My stomach was tensing up with 10 minute breaks in between, and the contraction was lasting about 30 seconds.

––How are you feeling? –– I asked her.

––It hurts, but it is not unmanageable. My contractions are about 8 minutes apart. Yours?

––Around ten, and they are lasting about 30 seconds.

––Yeah, mine too.

Around 11:00 am the door opened. It usually never opened at that time, so I went to check it out. There was a basket filled with things. Lots of towels, new sheets, two white onesies, a pair of scissors, and a note that read Good luck. I felt rage grow inside of me. Was this their help? Was this all we were getting?

Izzy was standing behind of me, analyzing our package ––Seems like we are doing this on our own –– She said.

––I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS. HOW ARE WE–– I interrupted myself because liquid started running down my legs. In that moment a stronger pain hit me like a truck and I had to grab onto Izzy's shoulder for support ––Oh God, my water broke. Fuck fuck fuck.

––Okay calm down, breathe –– Izzy said and a contraction hit her too, grabbing now onto me ––We are doing this, we are doing this together okay?

I just nodded.

––Let me get out of my wet clothes. How long do you think until we have them?

––I have no idea –– Izzy replied.

4:00 pm and I was panting in pain, 10 hours of labor and I could feel the moment approaching. Izzy's water broke about 20 minutes ago and she was also in agony.

––Ali –– She moaned in pain –– I can feel the baby against my cervix, the moment is getting close.

Just as if Izzy had said magic words, I felt my baby getting lower and its way against my cervix.

––Alright, seems like we are doing this now –– I said, set on bringing these babies into the world ––. This I what we are going to do. Sit right here –– I brought her to my bed, holding her back –– Sit in the middle and face the headboard –– She followed my instructions wincing –– Yeah, exactly like that. And now... –– I climbed on top of the bed sitting right in front of her, both of us in our naked glory –– Move closer to me, we have to be close if we want this to work –– A contraction interrupted me, stealing my breath. Once it was gone I helped Izzy move closer.

––Are you sure this will work? –– She asked

––It hast to –– And it did had to because we couldn't deliver our babies on our own ––Now open your legs wide and put one above mine and I will put one above your other one. This way we will have access to the other.

We did that and now we sat facing each other, in the middle of my bed, with our legs intertwined and with our groins at an arm's length. Our bellies were barely separated, but they still allowed for us to see each other's vaginas and their progress.

––I feel the head against me Ali, could you feel me up and check it? –– Izzy asked me, her face filled with pain.

––Of course, of course ––  I said. I slipped my fingers inside her hole, reaching upwards, finally I felt something hairy ––Yeah, I can fill it, the head is right there.

She smiled, knowing this would be over sooner than later –– Do you want me to check you?

––Yes, please –– Izzy's hand roamed over my bulging pussy, and in between all the pain I felt a wave of pleasure. I moaned and felt her finger slide into me just as my belly tensed up, so I moaned again, this time painfully.

––I feel... something–– Izzy said, her hand still inside me –– Ali...–– she looked at me with panic in her eyes –– I think your baby is breech, I think I touched its butt. Fuck Ali, this is going to be harder than I thought, but you can do it, I know you can.

Suddenly I started feeling this urge to push, the pressure of my baby building inside of me––. Oh god, Izzy –– I said pushing a little –– It's cominggghhh.

She answered me with a scream of her own, grabbing her belly and pushing too. The pain was so intense, and I could feel the baby drop onto my birth canal.

Izzy and I were both pushing and panting, neither of us making much progress. This technique of each one doing her own thing in front of each other wasn't working.

––Listen to me –– I said grabbing the back of her neck and bringing her face closer to mine –– You need my help and I need yours, okay? We will get nowhere on our own. I can see your baby bulging against your entrance, mine is still a little higher up, so this is what we will do –– She nodded in response –– I will help you deliver the head, and then while we wait for the baby to turn you will help me make progress. Once your baby is fully turned I will go back to helping you, and once your baby is born we will focus on mine. Is that okay?

––Yeah, I think that will work–– Izzy said.

I put all my will into not pushing with the next contraction, the effort of not doing it was producing so much pain within me, but I needed to focus on Izzy ––Okay Izzy, now push.

She did. She was pushing and I could see her baby beginning to crown, slowly but it was getting there.

––God, it. Burns. It burns so bad –– Izzy screamed in between pushes. My contractions were still coming, coming one on top of the other. Please wait baby, please please.

––I know Iz, but you have to push, come on.

She pushed harder, more hair was visible with each of her efforts. The head was getting to the widest point and she screamed ––AGHNNNNHHHHHHHHH. God, it burns Ali. SO MUCH –– She said as she pushed further. I couldn't even answer her because I was using all my efforts in not pushing. Another push and the head was slipping again.

––It's almost out Iz, you are at the eyebrows. You can do it! –– I tried telling her reassuringly. She was doing a great job. She grabbed my shoulders and pulled me closer to her for support, she placed her forehead on mine and with the biggest push of her life, the head was out ––. Oh my god Izzy! It's out! –– I reached out to try to feel the cord, but it was nowhere to be found.

––Good ––. She cleaned the sweat from her forehead ––. Your turn. Come on Ali. Before it turns.

She didn't have to say it twice. My contractions weren't even stopping at this point. I felt the baby pushing against my entrance. So, I did, I pushed with all I had ––Nggggghhhhhhh –– I felt the baby stretching me, it wasn't moving a lot, but at least there was progress.

After 5 minutes of pushing, I looked down on Izzy and her baby was all turned out ––. Izzy –– I panted –– Your baby, your turn.

––Are you sure? –– she looked red from the effort, so I just nodded. My friend needed to get her baby out now.

I stopped pushing and shifted my position so I could reach her, and with that, all my effort was futile, my baby slid back in, removing the progress I made ––OHH nonono, baby no –– I said, pain striking me.    

––Oh, Ali, I'm sorry  ––Izzy said through her pain

––Don't worry about me right now, let's focus on your baby –– I said, even though the pain was killing me. The baby had slid back in, but it was trying to push their way out once more. I tried closing my legs a little so I could stop their progress ––Push with all you have Izzy

She pushed, an ear-piercing scream coming from her mouth –– Grab onto me if you need to but keep pushing –– I said. Her hand immediately found my shoulders, her nails were digging into my skin, but not even that could subdue the pain on my groin. My efforts of keeping the baby inside of me were not being that effective. I could feel the bulge forming and opening me up.

Izzy dropped her head back in defeat –– I can't do this anymore, I'm too tired, it hurts too much –– She said.

A contraction surged through me in that moment and I grabbed her chin hard, making her look at me ––Listen to me Izzy, you can do this –– I winced in pain ––You have to do this, I need you to do this, okay? My baby is tearing me apart and I need you to be done so you can be there for me –– I held her stare –– SO DON'T TELL ME YOU CAN'T BECAUSE YOU WILL –– I screamed at her in the middle of the strongest contraction I've had.

She nodded ––Yes, sorry Ali, I know. Imma do this and then it will be your turn, okay?

––Okay –– I answered –– PUSH!

She bore down and finally, the shoulders slid out of her. I was grabbing the baby for support and to be ready to catch it. With one more push a baby boy was in my arms. In that moment a wave of liquid drowned us both. Izzy looked at me apologetically ––I'm sorry about this mess.

––I literally couldn't care less about it––. Grabbing the scissors I cut the cord and held the boy to his mother–– You had a boy Izzy–– I said with a smile on my face. The smile didn't last long though, because a renovated wave of pain started within me ––. NGHHHHAAAAAH–– It was as if my body knew that it was my turn, because the baby started stretching my lips mercilessly.

––Okay, okay. Time for you Ali –– She deposited her baby in between our legs while she attended me ––Alright, push.

I never could have imagined the power my body had. With all my strength I started pushing. My contractions weren't stopping, and neither was I. This baby had to be out NOW!  In a few pushes the bottom of my baby was out, his feet still hanging inside of me.

––The feet are hurting me –– I yelled.

––I know sweetie, try pushing them out ––Izzy said. I pushed again for a couple minutes but the feet wouldn't come out ––. Alright I'll try to maneuver them out of you, okay? –– I nodded. I could feel Izzy's fingers working my lips bigger. She grabbed one of the baby's knees and pushed it forward, and she slipped one of the legs out of me. I breathed out with the relief that provided me with ––. Alright, now the other one –– She did the same thing but somehow the second foot didn't slip as easily. It got trapped and I yelled in pain. Izzy stretched the piece of skin the foot was caught in and it released ––Okay, feet are out of the way, you can continue to push–– She said.

I fisted the soaked sheets underneath me and pulled them closer to me as I followed the urge my body had of bearing down. The rest of the body flowed quickly outside of me and now only the head was missing. Izzy grabbed the baby from underneath and lifted it a little bit.

––OOOOOOWWWW GOD. Take it out already –– I screamed. The pain growing by the second if that's even possible.

––He will be out with your next push if you give it your all. Come on Ali, you're almost there.

––He? –– I asked, tears building in my eyes.

Izzy nodded smiling –– C'mon Ali. This is it.

And suddenly, my baby was out and crying. I held him up as Izzy held up hers. And we smiled at each other. Relieved from the pain, but deep inside we were scared, because we knew we would not have much time with our babies before they took them. And we also knew it wouldn't be long before they impregnated us again and we had to do this all over again.

[palbabor-writes]

OK so please consider typical Shig/reader where theres unspoken mutual attraction and they're not quite together but it's Post-kamino Shig, like IMMEDIATE post-kamino where he's still processing and incredibly vulnerable from just losing his sensei. I've had this in my head for a while but IDK how it would go and I think you'd do it justice (just ignore this if u don't wanna i just needed to put it out there 😌)

ugh, i loved this idea. where do you find them lydia? they just live in your mind rent free and i want to go to there. gosh, thank you for the ask.

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Adult language, SMUT, NSFW/18+ only, mild angst, pivotal life moments, TW: drinking/drug use, masturbation, blow jobs, face fucking, spanking/mild pain play, vaginal fingering, cunniliginus, overstimulation, switching, dirty talk, loss of virginity (if you squint), dominance, vaginal sex     

Word Count: 11,800

Notes: oh man. so, if the word count didn’t give it away, this is plot, with a hefty dose of porn. in my mind, this is all part of the grieving process for shigaraki and he’s having a rough time coming to terms with what he’s needing to do. yeah, AFO supported him and enabled him to build a following, but he also hid all of the major pieces from him (i.e. the doctor & gigantomachia) so i can see him mourning for AFO as a teacher & as a psudo loved one, after all, at the end of that chapter he’s clutching those hands to him like he’ll fall apart without them. 

Edited by the lovely Lydia: @kugutsuu. she is the best and if you’re not reading her works, all I have to say is: YOU SHOULD BE. 

Mise en Place

/mē-ˌzäⁿ-ˈpläs/ noun or verb  a French culinary phrase which means "putting in place" or "everything in its place.”

This has got to be the strangest, hole in the wall, bar you’ve ever worked at. 

The patrons are touchy and most seem downright dangerous. The whole lot of them are more like mid level criminals than the usual haggard, overworked, regular, citizens you find in local watering holes.  Meanwhile, the gentleman who runs the day to day operations shares more similarities with a will o’ the wisp than a man, and the bar itself is smack dab in one of the seediest parts of town. 

The liquor selection, however, is top of the line. Some of the labels you haven’t seen outside of posh hotels or high class country clubs, and many of the older bottles are rarities. Honestly, there are so many of the high brow bottles that you’re not sure who to ask about the rail selection. There’s no real order to the place and it’s the most free reign you’ve ever been given with your mixology experiments. There’s not even a listing of drinks to go off of. But, if the disgruntled evening crowd is happy, then so is the upper management. All they ask is that you lock up before you leave.

No, nothing about this place makes sense. But, it does pay well and, right now, that’s the only thing you need to worry about.

There’s one other barkeep, a stogy man named Akio. He usually works the day shift, but late yesterday afternoon, he’d given you a call and asked if the two of you could swap for the duration of next week. At first, you’d balked, worried you’d need to schmooze with an unfamiliar bunch of regulars, who’d then decline to tip simply because you were new. But, Akio had sweetened the pot with the promise of $20,000 yen, so, you’d agreed. 

“It’s fairly quiet in the afternoon,” Akio reassured you. “It’s really just putting away shipment and serving the odd customer who happens to pass by. The only thing...well, I’m sure you’ve met him. You’ve been working there for over a month, no way you could miss him.” 

“Who?” you ask, twirling your spoon in your mid-morning coffee, curious, but not wanting to seem overly eager in your questioning. You like your night shift and you’re not wanting this to become a regular swap. You detest having to lug heavy boxes to and fro, pulling liquor and checking lot numbers, ick. Plus, if it really is that slow in the afternoons, it would only be a matter of time before Kurogiri would come after you with a duster and ask you to clean the upper shelves. Yeah, no, thanks. This would be a one week deal, ONLY.

“His name is Shigaraki. He’s, er, different. I suppose you’ll meet him soon, if you haven’t already.”

“Shigaraki? No, that name doesn’t ring a bell. Is he--”

“I have to go, my son is here. Thanks again for the swap and talk soon, (Y/N).”

The line clicks and you let your phone fall from your ear, clattering the metal and plastic along your kitchen table. Shigaraki, you think, taking a scalding sip of your coffee, no, that’s not a name you’ve heard before. Wonder what it is about him that has Akio so on edge. It’s not like him to give you, er, whatever that strange heads-up had been. Either way, it would take more than a vague descriptor like different, to spook you off. 

******

Akio was right, on all counts, about the haze of monotony that permeated the afternoon shift at the bar. 

Well, right on everything except a sighting of that elusive Shigaraki guy. No, the whole afternoon it’s just been you, Kurogiri, and one, rather sloshed old man, who you’ve long since cut off, and propped at the far end of the bartop. It’s been a dull, slow, day. Thank God you’d taken that extra cash from Akio, or this might not even turn out to be worth your while. 

You’re slipping another bottle of whiskey on the lower shelf when you hear a barstool scrape back. You turn at the sound, your head already lifted and a small, friendly, smile lingering on your lips. There’s a lanky guy, dressed all in black with a mop of wavy white hair, working himself onto the small seat. His head is lowered and he hasn’t bothered to look up at you, not yet, anyway. He looks, not really young, but you can’t tell and you’re not about to let some underaged kid worm his way in here. You’ve had enough of those punks sneaking in in the evening, thank you. 

“Gimme a shot of scotch,” the man says, his voice low, with a quiet rasp racing along the tone. It’s a strange timbre and it makes you pause, your eyes scanning those pearlescent strands of hair that are hiding his face from view.

“Hmph,” you snort, arching a brow at his attempts at concealment. He must be underage, who comes up to a barkeep with a ducked head and demands a scotch? 

“Let me give you a piece of advice, don’t come into a bar and immediately refuse to make eye contact with the bartender. We’re like animals at the zoo, we startle easily and don’t like surprises. And, with your face tucked like that, I can’t gauge your age. So, before I get you that unnamed and unbranded scotch, I’m gonna to need to see some ID.”

The man lifts his head at your preamble and you feel your breath catch at the raw annoyance that’s etched across his scarred and cracked face. His eyes are a rich red, closer to ruby and they latch onto yours, insistent and sharp. It’s a deeply intense stare and you can’t seem to pull yourself away, your brow furrowing at his sudden shift in demeanor. 

“I don’t have an ID,” he snaps, his lips lifting into a snarl, showing you the vivid whiteness of his teeth. 

You lick your lips and his gaze follows the motion, eyes lowering, freeing you from that uneasy imprisonment he’d abruptly ensnared you in.

Your heart is beating rapidly against your throat and you shake your head, refocusing your bewildering reaction to this guy's presence. “I-I haven’t heard that one before,” you say, taking a few steadying breaths and tossing a dirty glass in the dishwasher, looking for any task that will let you step away from this strange interaction. 

“You must be new,” he says, leaning back and hunching those dark shoulders. You watch him out of the corner of your eye and shut the dishwasher door, hitting the button to run a cycle. 

“Nope,” you correct him, pulling out two fresh glasses and lining them up on the bartop, reaching for the rail scotch. “I’ve worked here for over a month.”

“Never seen you before.”

“That makes two of us,” you reply, flipping the bottle up and filling both glasses with four counts of the dark liquor. You press one to him and lift the other for yourself. The man narrows his eyes at you and looks pointedly at the glass in your hands. 

“You supposed to drink on the clock?”

You laugh and he shifts back at the sound, his head bowing forward, another scowl lifting his lips. Realizing you must have made him uncomfortable, you step toward him and clumsily clink your glass against his, tilting your head at the surrealness of this whole conversation. “They don’t really care what I do. Come on, stranger who has no ID, bottoms up.”

He looks from you to the shot a few times before finally relenting and taking the vessel in a strange four fingered grip, his middle finger arched carefully away. Once you’re sure he’s actually going to toast with you, you sling your shot back, enjoying the sharp burn of the rich liquor. 

You’re about to ask your new drinking companion another question when you hear his chair scrape back. By the time you’re stepping toward him, he’s already pacing down a back hallway, blending into the darkness and disappearing from your sight.

“Um! You can’t...I don’t think you can go back there. And you gotta pay, dude! Hey--”

“He doesn’t need to pay.” 

You always hear Kurogiri before you see him and today is no exception. He’s standing at the entrance to the back of the bartop and he’s watching the path the strange young man took, his shifting face turned from you. You cock your head at his assertion and swiftly place your empty glass into the soapy water of the filled sink. He likely saw you take the shot, but you’re not about to leave evidence behind. 

“What do you mean?” You ask, watching as the wisp like man turns and steps toward you, his amber slits watchful. It’s like he’s sizing you up and you shift on your feet, uncomfortable at the frank, open, assessment.  

“He’s Tomura Shigaraki, and he owns this bar.”

******     

You’re off for the next two days and the wait, the silence, is abjectly harrowing. You can’t sit down, can’t relax, can’t focus. The one time you decide to get overly familiar, of fucking course, it would be with the owner. But no one has called, and no one has sent you any messages. The empty static of your job's reticence doesn’t alleviate your nerves. 

Who knows, they might want to act out the sick power play of having you show up for your shift, only be fired as soon as you darken the doorway.

The next afternoon, you take a familiar route to the bar, your feet tapping hollowly along the steps and alleyways that wind to the rusty entrance. You come in the front, blinking against the darkness, and lock the door behind you. Everything is quiet. But, in forty minutes, the open sign will switch on and you need to get your bar set up, plus slap on a little bit of makeup. You’re so lost in thought that you’re almost to the long bartop when you spot him.

It’s Tomura Shigaraki. He’s sitting at the same bar stool and his head turns as you approach, those unearthly red eyes lingering over you. It’s a different look, very, very removed from that harsh glare he’d given you the other day. He looks less hostile and more, well, curious. 

You give him a cursory nod and pad behind the high counter, taking the final glasses out of the dishwasher and removing the stoppers from all the open liquor bottles. He’s still watching you and you can feel his gaze as it bores into your back, your side, your front. You attempt to ignore him, but the constant threat of those insistent red eyes is beginning to frustrate you. Finally, once you’ve replaced the cash drawer, you lift your gaze to his. 

“What is it?” Your voice sounds waspish, but you don’t care.

“Nothing,” he replies, leaning forward and propping his chin on his palm, not breaking that unsettling leer. 

“So stop staring at me,” you bristle, unsure why your heart is starting to beat a rapid tattoo against your ribs. You don’t know this guy. Sure, he’s mysterious and almost handsome, in a dark horse kinda way, but there’s no reason for him to give you this odd staredown. You’ve done absolutely nothing to warrant this attention, well, besides drinking on the job, but he could just fire you for that, if it was so troublesome. Either way, he should either speak up, or knock it off. 

He smirks at your impudence and murmurs a raspy, “No,” back, his head tilting, waiting for your next move. 

“You’re a real charmer, you know that?” You scoff, crossing your arms and jutting your chin defiantly. 

“Whatever you say,” he breathes, that smile of his deepening, making his vermillion eyes shine. And, just like that, the two of you wander into a stilted game of give and take. 

For the first few days, he makes sure he’s there before you arrive for the last of your afternoon shifts, his dark back already perched over the bartop as you shut the door behind you. Then, when you transition back to the evening shifts, he’s there too, sitting at that familiar perch, his eyes always, always watching, observing. You continue to ignore him and he seems to relish your agitated silence, flashing you dark smirks and quiet laughs.

Finally, two weeks into this stagnated stalemate, you make a point to strike up a real conversation with him. He’s obviously taken aback by your first few questions, his eyes wide and jaw tense, but he plays along. 

Over time, the two of you carefully erect a haphazard friendship. And that chair of his? That center barstool? He used to not mind if another person was sitting in it when he arrived late, but recently that’s all changed. Now he guards it ferociously. Snapping and glaring at anyone who is stupid enough to drift into it. 

Along with the lingering looks and burgeoning, almost flirty, dialogue you’ve pushed him into, he’s also gotten very demanding of your attention. If you spend too much time talking with another customer, or with Kurogiri, he pouts and darkens until you return, his tense form losing that sharpness.  It's almost like he’s got a crush on you, but he’s not sure what to do with the newfound sensation, lost and confounded by your teases and grins. 

Most people, you notice, give him a wide berth, but not you. No, you like his keen wit and heated musings. He’s fascinating and you want to see more. And in his flustered confusion, he lets you lean in, blinking and wide eyed at your open, flagrant interest in him.

******   

As the weeks drift into summer, things start to change at the bar. 

There’s some atypical deposit of power that’s been bestowed upon the place. People you’ve never seen before, begin to frequent the premises, sharing videos and whispered conversations about that man, Chizome Akaguro, better known to the general public as the Hero Killer. 

Tomura flits between several, dark moods, clutching his newly injured shoulder and murmuring complaints about hero society, All Might and the Hero Killer. Apparently, there had been an altercation between the two of them and Tomura didn’t hide his ire, his agitation from you. No, he would vent to you, his voice gravel and ash as he snarled his rage.  

Then, as if things couldn’t get any stranger, one evening a young girl begins to hang around, pestering you for a soda and prattling on and on about blood. Another new guy slips in a few hours later, his skin marred by thick, ragged burns and staples. He’s quiet, rudely demanding a shot and nursing it in a corner, his bright blue eyes flashing as he stares vacantly out at the crowd by the well. 

A quiet man, called Spinner, asks you for a water, and you acquiesce, watching as his green hands wrap around the glass, downing the liquid in a quick gulp. Later, there’s a robust, loud, clearly confused guy, wearing a skin tight black bodysuit loitering by your bartop. He keeps entreating you for a drink, then tells you to buzz off seconds later. Exasperated, you plunk a whole bottle down beside his glass and continue on with your work, ignoring his chatter. 

Finally, a man in a white mask and a top hat rounds out the strange posse and the group gathers together, hovering around Tomura, asking questions and listening to his rasping answers. 

Thankfully, the rag-tag group leaves soon after closing, all of them shouldering their way back out into the night. You shake your head as the door closes behind them, gathering the collection of dirty glasses they left in their wake. Only Tomura remains, sipping meditatively on his drink, his red eyes foggy and unfocused. You know from experience that it’s not a good time to ask him questions, so you continue with your closing duties, keeping your eyes down.

Something is going on, that much is clear. But, unless you could worm the information out of Tomura, you’d likely never fully know all of the details. Part of you warns that it’s likely dangerous. Many of the people who haunt the bar are low level villains or brokers, not a winning combination if you’re wanting to stay out of the fray, and on the right side of the law. 

You finish wiping everything down and return to Tomura, asking him softly if you can wash his empty glass. His eyes lift to yours and the expression that greets you almost makes you want to reach out and cup his cheek. He looks tired, worn thin and so, so needy. You’ve never seen him like this. It almost feels like he’s showing you something he’s never revealed to anyone else, a vulnerability that only you can see. He’s giving you access to a quiet secret that can hang between the two of you, safe in the knowledge that he can trust you with it. That urge to stroke a finger down his roughed brow rises again, but you shove the impulse away, rattled by your sudden, visceral, reaction to him. 

To distract yourself, you snatch up his glass, and turn from the intensity of his stare, a slow prickle of gooseflesh trembling along your skin. As you run hot water and soap over the vessel, you feel your heart begin to pound and you chance another peek at Tomura’s quiet form. As usual, he’s watching you, but he looks unfocused again, that broken vulnerability tucked away. You want to ask him if he’s ok, but before you can croak the words out, he pushes his stool back and paces down the dark hallway, leaving you alone and bewildered. 

******

A few days later, you ask Kurogiri if you can sneak away for a minute, you need a break. The bar has been packed since nine and you could use a quick breather. It’s the first night Tomura hasn’t stopped by and his absence has bothered you. You missed his grumpy quips and his persistent glances. All this time, you’d thought it was just him that was catching any kind of feelings, but it looks like he’s somehow managed to nag his way into your psyche, too. 

You take the back stairs quietly and let yourself out onto the alleyway balcony, climbing the rickety fire escape to the rooftop. You’d found the access to the roof your second week and it’s still your favorite place in the whole bar. On a clear night, you can see all the way to downtown Tokyo. It’s always quiet this high up, tranquil and serene. You brace yourself against the concrete wall and watch the lights of the city glimmer, like distant jewels, in the darkness.

You pull a small joint from your pant pocket and flick your lighter on, setting the edge of the rolling paper alight and taking a slow drag. The inhale fills your lungs with a light pressure and you savor the feeling before blowing a thin line of smoke into the night. You get a few more hits in before you hear the fire escape stairs rattle, signaling that someone is coming your way. You debate dampening your roach, but you don’t want to waste it, so you tuck the smoldering paper in your other hand, maneuvering it out of sight. 

The white shine of his hair always gives him away. 

Tomura hops over the ledge and his eyes are already lifting, searching for yours as he stands. You arch an eyebrow at his tense stance and you can’t help your giddy smile. “Everything ok?” 

“Kurogiri said you were taking a break,” he replies, dipping his long fingers into his pockets and sauntering over to the patch of concrete you’re braced against. 

“Yeah,” you confirm, waiting until he’s closer to lift the joint back to your lips, taking a steadying pull and scooting over, so he can fit beside you on the wall. “It’s busy, and I’ve been slinging drinks all night. Just wanted to decompress for a bit.”

Tomura doesn’t reply, but he does slot himself close, the warmth of his broad shoulder radiating against yours. The two of you drift into a companionable silence, and the only sounds that greet you is the quiet hush of traffic below and your inhales and exhales of smoke. 

“You got another meeting?” you ask, crossing your arms and pressing minutely closer, enjoying the distant shiver Tomura gifts you. 

“No,” he murmurs, his voice low. You think that might be the end of the conversation but he continues a few seconds later, his head tilting toward yours, those red eyes scanning your upturned face. “They’re on a mission. I’m not able to participate. It will need to be like a SIM game. They are the pieces that I’ll move over the board, they’ll act to my battle plan.”

You turn to him, your eyes wide. “So, they’re just...pawns? Little NPC’s that don’t matter?”

Tomura laughs and his teeth gleam in the moonlight and distant shine of the neon lights. “Of course not. Do I look that heartless? No, they’re valuable players and if this goes right, we’ll be able to take on the next level with a decided edge.” 

You let that last comment hover, pausing to take another huff, your eyes lowered, brooding over his words. “So, you’re their vanguard leader?”

“Sure,” Tomura nods, “We can’t keep grinding each mission, hoping to pick up any XP these heroes happen to drop. We need to make waves of our own.”

“Oh? Like the Hero Killer?”

“No,” Tomura snarls, his arm tensing beside yours, a hand rising to scritch at his scarred neck agitatedly. “Nothing like him. We’re looking past him. He was too short sighted, so busy following his own code of justice that he didn’t notice he was breeding more heroes, not putting them down.”

“Hmm,” you sigh, thumping your head lightly against the concrete behind you. “That is true. But, you can’t deny he’s brought up some serious divisions. It’s funny, really. It makes me think of this little hero toy I had when I was younger. 

It was of an older hero, he prolly died long ago, but I loved that toy when I was a kid. Then, as I got older, it stopped mattering and one day, without me even realizing it, it lost its importance entirely. I wonder if hero society will ever shift to that. With the fractures that have been seen at UA and all over Japan, it could be a matter of time before real change starts to happen. Anyway, I wasn’t meaning to grill you on your, uh, projects. I was--”

“What toy?” 

His question nonpluses you and you cock your head, blinking up at his peripheral stare. “Um, I think it was of that fast hero, O’clock. It was my older brothers originally, but he passed it down to me. No idea where it is now. It likely got lost in a move or accidentally left behind.”

Tomura lifts his eyes from yours, his jaw clenching and a slow gulp echoing down his lean throat. You watch the bob of his Adam’s apple, fascinated by the movement. That urge to touch him is back and you have to clench your fingers into your palms to quiet it. 

You’re so distracted by your primal reaction to him, that you miss his question and he has to repeat it, his eyes slipping back to yours, the red dark. 

“What?” you ask, blinking against the acuteness of his gaze. 

“Can I take a hit of that?”

“Of what...oh.” You lift the half smoked joint and chuckle at yourself, pressing the smoldering paper toward him. “Sure. You had one before?”

“Does it matter?” He scoffs, carefully taking the white roach from you and raising it to his chapped lips.

“Go slow,” you warn as he begins to inhale, his eyes drifting to a half mast, concentrating.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he grumbles, pulling a tentative, but heavy, drag into his lungs.

“Fine,” you scoff playfully, “do what you want. But don’t blame me when you’re coughing up a lung.”

He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t heed your advice and, seconds later, he’s clutching at his throat, dropping the joint onto the broken gravel and concrete as he heaves. Instinctively, you thump him on his back and run your palm soothingly over his lean shoulder blades, surprised by the corded muscle that greets you. For a relatively thin guy, he’s certainly packing some strength under that unassuming form of his. 

Tomura startles at your touch and he yanks himself away from you, his head ducked, eyes fastening onto yours, the irises accusatory and bright, burning with some underlying emotion that you’re too nervous to name right now. 

“Uh,” you begin, aghast that you’ve upset him, “m-my bad…”

But, he’s already leaving, his head firmly turned from you, clambering over the edge and back onto the fire escape, leaving you alone in the darkness. 

******                

After that night, you can’t slip him out of your mind. Even when you sleep, you can see those red eyes of his, gleaming and hungry. One evening, you’d even woken with your fingers firmly pressed to your throbbing clit, stumbling and gasping, shaking free of a dream of him. He’d felt so real, so in focus and you can’t catch your breath, fingers still rubbing a tight circle over your quivering bundle of nerves. You pant as you break yourself, sukling in the whites and reds that haze over your vision. Yeah, that crush of his definitely isn’t a one sided thing.

The next shift you work, he’s waiting for you, perched in his familiar seat, his shoulders curved and tight. You give him a glance, but he doesn’t meet your eyes. His hands are lowered, fiddling with something under the bartop. You begin to open your bar, trying to quiet your wandering thoughts, not wanting to perturb him again. You’re uncorking a red wine when he presses something across the mahogany wood of the bar, toward you.

It’s small, with dark colors and a tiny, familiar, upper half mask. You let the bottle of wine thud against the counter, abandoning the half opened bottle to move closer. It’s...it’s your-- No. It can’t be yours, but it is the same toy, the one you’d mentioned on the roof the other night. How did he?

You gulp and look up at him, your heart pulsing wildly against your ribs. For the first time, he looks away from you first, his white hair pillowing across his brow. His lips start to rise in an all too habitual scowl and his raspy voice lifts to your ears. “If you don’t want it,” he grouses, one hand pulling away from the offered toy, clearly flustered by your wondering gaze. Without thinking, you slip your fingertips over the top of his hand, prolonging the touch, sulking in the warmth of him. 

His fingers curl, some unconscious tremor racing along his digits. He almost yanks himself away, but then he stops, sighing as his eyes lift to yours. For a long moment, the two of you watch the other. You can hear his breathing speed up and you can almost smell the shift in the air. All it would take is one, tiny push to break that delicious tension. 

Tomura’s nostrils flare as you start to lean closer, your body curving toward his, fingers still pressing into his skin. Your tongue dips out, wetting your lower lip and pulling it into your mouth, sucking on the plush flesh. His eyelids have lowered and he’s mirroring your motions, his elbows assisting his lift, his face upturning, seeking, reaching.

With a bang, the front door is flung open and it breaks the spell that’s fallen over the two of you. Tomura leans away first, his eyes narrowed in agitation, sliding from your open face to the darkness of the entryway. You exhale a shaking breath and follow Tomura’s gaze. It’s that masked man, the one with the top hat and he’s already striding confidently forward, peppering Tomura with a series of questions. 

Snagging up his gift to you, you walk back to your bottle of wine. 

******    

You don’t have a chance to see Tomura again until he tells you, one evening, that the bar is going to be closed for the next few days. Then, over his shoulder, you spot the blonde boy, strapped and bound into a stiff chair and you blanch, stunned, too overwrought to give him more than a one word acknowledgement before stumbling back outside. In all of your talks, he’d never mentioned anything like this. That boy looked like a kid, barely past middle school, his eyes wild and defiant, but also so, so frightened. 

No, you think, pacing your apartment, it’s impossible to come to terms with this. You can’t stay there, can’t work there. It’s too dangerous, too close to a real criminal den for comfort. You have to look out for yourself, no matter your feelings for the man who’s wandering down some long, lost pathway, toward a future you can’t even comprehend, let alone see.

So, you hand in your written resignation. 

Kurogiri is behind the bar when you bring it in, and you’re hoping that the early morning conversation will spare you from having to see him. The wispy, purple hand of Kurogiri is just about to take your letter when Tomura barges down the hallway. His eyes immediately land on you and he steps forward, a dark look passing over his palled features. 

“Why?” he growls, fingers snatching the paper from Kurogiri and crumbling the parchment to bits, his quirk rendering your typed words to nothingness. 

“I don’t want to be a part of any kidnapping. It…” you pause, looking toward Kurogiri and, to your surprise, he nods to Tomura and moves away, leaving the two of you alone in the vacant bar. Tomura is still glaring at you, but he’s waiting for you to finish your thought, his jaw grinding quietly. 

“This doesn’t feel like you.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Tomura scoffs, his chin jutting at the assertion. 

“This doesn’t change society. This is just some petty attempt to get back at the UA staff. It’s like...It’s like you’re asking for trouble to seek you out. You’re smarter than this. Besides, what are you going to do with him?” you smart, crossing your arms and balling your fingers into your fists. 

“What do you know about anything? That kid’s been oppressed by hero society, literally muzzled and bound--”

“As if you’re doing any better! He’s still muzzled and bound, Tomura! He’s just in a different location. This is insanity. Who put you up to doing--”

“That doesn’t matter. This conversation has nothing to do with that. You can’t leave,” Tomura snaps, his head lowering, soft white hair falling over his face. “Give it a few more days.”

“What? I can’t stay if the bar is raided and it’s prolly gonna be if you keep that kid. Besides, that’s not--”

“Just...just give me a few more days. I don’t want to beg you, I shouldn’t fucking need to beg you. It’s not an impossible request (Y/N). Just--”

“Fine,” you sigh, uncrossing your arms and watching him. He looks on edge, haggard and angry. Those emotions aren’t projected at you, you know that. Nevertheless, it doesn’t lessen the danger he’s asking you to stand with him in. But, you can give him a few days and you tell him so, trying to ignore the pattering of your heart when he looks at you and smiles.

******

Then, Kamino happens. 

You weren’t there, thank God. But he was, and now, no matter what he’d asked of you, no matter what he’d hoped for, everything shifts apart. Days linger into weeks and you’re trying your best to reason that he’d made it out in one piece. Surely, you would have heard something. The capture of the leader of the League of Villains would have been a morsel that the media would have wanted to crow about, especially after the loss of All Might. 

Late one evening, your phone rings. 

It’s an unknown, blacked out number, but something tells you to answer, so you pick it up. You almost gasp when you hear that familiar rasp and you listen to what he tells you. You can’t get over how brittle and cracked his voice sounds but you write down the address he gives you. He cloaks his true motivations with a lie. Apparently, he has your last paycheck. Like that even matters to you. Honestly, you’re just glad he’s safe and whole. But, he’s gone to all this effort to build a bridge back to him, so of course you’re going to go.

You check and double check the directions, carefully maneuvering and weaving through bus stops and back streets. Somehow, you make it and find yourself pressing open a dilapidated door and stepping into a small room. Only darkness greets you, even though the bright midday sun is shining outside. The place he’s brought you to is on a dock, on the outskirts of town, close to the salty edge of a bay. You can hear the mournful cries of a seagull as you close the door behind you, sealing yourself inside and blinking into the gloom.

It takes you a minute to catch sight of him.

He’s lingering along the edges but you can make out the glow of his eyes, red and fierce. He looks different. It’s only been a few weeks, but it looks like the weight of years has crushed him under its unfeeling grind in that short amount of time. No, Kamino has changed him, rendering him unhinged and dangerous, drifting along the peripheral of your vision. Still, you haven’t come here to witness him falling to bits at your feet. No, you’d come here with another, darker motive. 

Now, to work.

“What happened?” you ask, keeping your back firmly against the door. Watching him move closer, those red shoes of his glinting over the dark wooden floors.

“Sensei is...gone,” he replies, his voice hollow and faint. He’s mentioned his Sensei before and you’d heard the man’s strange voice echoing from that back television, like some distant, terrifying specter. But, you knew he was important to Tomura, more like a father than a teacher. However, you’d seen the news. You knew he was beaten to a pulp and captured, locked away and out of Tomura’s reach. Now, he can’t ask his Sensei for advice or support, not anymore. Even knowing what little you’ve gleaned about the strange man, Tomura must be devastated by his loss.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, genuine in your sympathy.

Tomura nods and fishes for something in the pocket of his trench coat, lifting a thin slip of paper out and showing it to you. “Here,” he sighs, still not meeting your eyes directly. 

“Oh,” you say, moving away from the door and taking a few steps toward him. “You really did ask me here for the check, huh?”

“What else did you want?” he grumbles, his voice regaining a small slice of that familiar rasping. The question lingers and you feel your pulse speed up, your palms itching at your sides. “Or, did you want to scold me again?” Tomura continues disgruntled, and you can see a grimace pass over his face.

“You deserved it,” you confirm, taking another step, only wavering when you’re a few feet from him. “You wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn't kidnapped that UA student. Now, the kid, and your Sensei are gone and you’re stuck here. Wherever here is”

“Look at you, quite the oracle aren’t you? So, you did come here to berate me.” Tomura snaps, dropping your pay stub to the dusty floor. 

“No,” you shake your head, not wanting this to spiral out of your control, not wanting him to simply shut you out, alone on that pier, left with all of your what ifs. “No, I didn’t come here to do that. I-I...it’s just that...well...that wasn’t you. That whole plan...it still doesn’t make sense”

“How the fuck would you know what is, or isn’t, me? You said that that morning, too. I didn’t like it then and I don’t like it now,” Tomura bristles, closing the distance and bowing up to you. You can feel the sheer heat of him radiating against your shirt and you shiver at the sensation. If you lift your hand you could touch him, you think distantly. He’s so close...He’s so... 

You gulp, trying to quell your rising emotions. “I guess, I don’t know then.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Fine,” you say, biting your lip.

“Fine,” he repeats, no doubt thinking that will be the end of it, but you’re not finished.

“You’re better than this you know,” you tell him, eyes searching for his, not relenting your glare until he finally meets you halfway, his red eyes flashing.

“Better than what? Better than you? A half baked woman, slumming her way from mid range bar, to mid range bar. Hoping you’ll catch the eye of the right person, someone who can pluck you from all the muck and grime that you lift that pretty little nose of yours at.”

“What?” you breathe, a snarl of your own etching across your face.

“Don’t act like you didn’t know what you were doing. Fucking leading me on like that--”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You thought I’d be your ticket out, or you could wager me later for a better piece, something stronger, someone that could do something for you.” Tomura is seething, his chest bumping against yours, the red of his eyes burning as he glowers at you. 

“Tomura- I don’t know what you’re talk--”

“Stop saying that. You stupid, or something? And stop saying my name like that. Like it fucking matters. You could have had anything, you know? But...but you took it all for granted. You had the world...and then it...it’s...it’s just gone.”

He’s not talking about you anymore. Even though he’s growling and spitting rage at you, he’s not talking about you. “Shigaraki,” you begin, trying to see some way to reason with him. To bring him back to you. 

“Don’t call me that,” he groans, his head dipping, almost resting against your shoulder. “I haven’t earned...that’s not me.” 

“Alright. What am I supposed to call you?” you whisper, overwhelmed and trying to resist that urge to pull him into your arms. You’ve never seen him like this, and you don’t know, you don’t…

“There you go again, acting like you care.” Tomura scoffs, rolling his eyes. 

“I do care, you ass,” you bite, turning your head toward him and letting your voice fall beside his ear. He snarls at the assertion and presses impossibly closer, trying his best to put on a show of wavering strength, knowing you might still be bullied into backing down, into denying him. But it’s not working, no you’ve come this far and you don’t want to leave him, not like this. 

“I care,” you repeat, still murmuring next to his cheek, so near you can hear, and feel, his ragged breaths, hot against your skin.

“About what?” he grunts, moving his head from you, determined to not let you win.

“About, well, you.”

“Liar,” he spits, but his voice wavers, showing you a tiny, tiny sliver of hope.

“Am not,” you counter and watch as he leans back, those vermillion eyes searching for yours. One of his hands lifts and he ghosts the digits over the top of your shoulder, watching as you shift toward the distant touch, pulled to him, like a magnet.

“Such a liar,” he posits, fingers hovering beside your neck, twitching with want. 

“No, I’m not,” you gasp, your voice so faint, you’re worried he might not hear it. But he does and he dips his head toward you, inches from your face, lips already parted and waiting. 

“Prove it,” he challenges, his voice deepening, losing that sharpened edge at long last.

So, you shove him. 

You’re not sure why that’s your first, instinctive reaction, but it’s too late to question your motives and it sparks a crazed response from the man in front of you, snapping him out of his head and refocusing him. 

He fumbles backwards, caught off guard, his red shoes catching as he lumbers, trying to not fall. His eyes flash at you and he instantly rights himself, moving back to you. Through it all, you can hear yourself saying something. It sounds like it might have been another taunt, but you can’t focus, not when he’s pressing himself against you, his fingers finally, finally touching you. 

Tomura can’t seem to settle now that he’s gotten ahold of you, his fingers tracing over your neck, your shoulders, your face, your sides. He’s panting and gasping, his fevered exhales fanning over your prickling skin.

“Get off me,” you moan, batting at his wandering hands.

“No,” he sighs, cupping your jaw and dragging you to his shaking lips. His kiss is clumsy, almost childlike. He lifts and leans, pressing halting smacks against you, grunting when you twist from him, fighting his hold.

“You don’t deserve it,” you tell him, wanting to lance that boil that’s festering in his mind, knowing he needs the pain before he can handle the sweetness of the pleasure. The last thing he needs is love. No, not right now. Hopefully, there will be time for that later. But for now, he needs something raw and shattered, something that will let him see that it’s not impossible to pick up the pieces, that he can be whole again, he just needs to try.

He drags his rough lips over yours and you lower your fingers into his snowy hair, pulling him closer, demanding that he give you more. He gasps at the sudden shift and you slip your tongue into his mouth, tangling it with his and yanking stammering moans from him. Your lips are slick now and you use the extra lubrication to slip down his neck, leaving him trembling above you. 

You dip into each and every scar, laving over all those old hurts until he’s snarling. You leave a bruising bite against his pulse and he snatches your face between his palms, dragging you back to his lips. 

“Stop squirming,” he complains, his forehead bumping against yours, trying to keep up with your rapid fire laps and sucks. 

“No,” you laugh, fingers lacing into the lapels of his trench coat and using the leverage to drag your breasts over his hardened pectorals. He grunts at the sensation, one arm wrapping around your lower back, pinning you to him. When he finally manages to work his way free of your frantic presses, he lowers his lips to your neck, mimicking the same path you’d taken with him, his teeth nipping and pulling until your humming, giving him a thin cry of encouragement that spurs him on. 

Tomura drags a canine over your pulse and you shiver, folding into his crumpled embrace. He’s almost having to hold you upright and he growls when you slip from his arms, annoyed you’re making this so fucking difficult. 

“I said, keep still,” he reminds you, heaving you back up, lean forearms bracing you to him. You smile and lace your arms around his neck, wanting his lips again. He allows the pull, loving the contrast of your plush skin against his. He’s a fast learner and this time, it’s his tongue taps and maneuvers for entrance, swallowing down your needy pants. His nose presses into your cheek and you cup at his jaw, stroking the warm skin until he slows his frantic pace, meeting you halfway, and lingering in your wet softness.

Then, just as he’s getting comfortable, you dig your teeth into his lower lip, pulling until you bleed out a little taste of copper. He snarls and shoves you away, lifting the side of his hand to his injured mouth. 

“What was that for?” He snaps, tapping his fingers against the wound, watching as they come back red. “The fuck is wrong with…” His ire stutters to a halt when he catches sight of you. 

You’ve already slipped your shirt over your head and now your fingers are twisting until you unclasp your bra, sliding the lace down your arms. The cool air makes your nipples tighten but you don’t attempt to cover yourself from him. Instead, you arch an eyebrow at his abashed expression and begin to unbutton your pants, your fingers teasingly lingering over the button and zipper, before lowering the denim down the curve of your hips. 

You don’t even hear him approach. No, you’re too distracted by your little show to notice him until you feel those warm fingers tracing over the newly bared swells of your skin. You lift your head and your eyes catch his, smiling at the hazy hunger that’s blazing out at you. His touch is tentative and you roll your eyes openly at him, lifting your own hands over his, pressing him until he’s digging those four digits into your sumptuous flesh. 

His thumb rubs over your pebbled nipple and you reward him with a low moan, your eyes slipping behind your heavy eyelids. He cups at your other breast and lifts the weight of you into his palm, openly marveling at the feel of you. Still, it’s not enough and if you’re going to get your point across, you need him to give you more than these lazy strokes. 

“Take off your jacket,” you tell him, stepping away from him, quaking minutely in the loss of his warmth. 

“What?” he asks, clearly too overwrought to hear you. So, you help him along. Your fingers snatch the shoulders of his trench and you yank it off him, tossing the fabric down to the gritty floors. Then, you shove at him again. He isn’t as taken aback this time and he rallies immediately, snatching at you and dragging you against him, making you gasp at the harsh sensation of his dark clothes against your bare front. 

“What do you want?” you ask him, licking your tongue along the underside of his jaw, listening to his shuddering breaths. “What do you want to do to me, Tomura? Come on, I know you’ve got some idea. Fucking show me. Don’t let me boss you around, unless that’s what you’re wanting today to be about. I can take those reigns from you. I’m better at this after all. Less...flustered,” you pause, sucking and nipping at his neck, enjoying the indecisive flex of his fingers on your upper arms.

He allows you one more bite and then he’s tossing you down, not caring where you land. Thankfully, you sprawl over his discarded jacket, the fabric sparing you from the neglected wooden floor. You’re trying to regain your bearings when you hear his belt clatter to the floor. You look up at him, watching as he flings that dark shirt away, showing you the lean muscles that you’ve wondered about for so long. God, for someone so lanky, he looks fucking good. 

Tomura smirks at your expression and swiftly yanks his pants and boxers away too, revealing something even more mouthwatering. Fuck, fuck, you think, an involuntary gasp leaving your lips. His cock is thick, pulsing and absolutely dripping with his precum. The tip is a lovely pink, curving toward that chiseled stomach of his and damn, you want to suck on it until he’s putty in your hands. 

As if he can read your mind, Tomura steps closer, giving himself a few tugs as he peers down on you, imperious and almost perfectly in control. “You want it?” He asks, trying to hide that sudden shift in his voice, wanting to show you that he understands what you’re expecting from him. You nod and bite your lip, looking up at him from feathery eyelashes. 

“Come here,” he requests, slowing those pulls and letting his precum slip from his fist to the floor, tempting you with those tiny droplets of arousal. Obediently, you rise to your knees, fingers tracing up his thighs, smiling at the light buckling he gives you, his calves twitching and shaking. 

You tease your way to the apex of his hips and pause, lingering along that dip of his stomach. “Can I taste you?” you question coquettishly and you adore the moan that falls from his lips. 

Taking that as a yes, you slowly lower your mouth to him, ghosting the tip of him over you. Rubbing him back and forth, painting that thick precum over your lips until they’re glistening. Tiring of this little game, his fingers dip into your hair and he grips you, hard. With one pull, he’s burying that velvet heat of his length past the ring of your lips and into the sweet cavern of your mouth. His cock swells and throbs as you lap ravenous at the hefty weight of him.

He’s salty and earthy and you let your tongue swirl over his slit, lapping into that leaking gap until he’s murmuring nonsense over you. He’s almost too big for you to take, so one of your hands lifts and wraps around his base, easing your sucks and ensuring that none of him is left out of this gift of mind numbing ecstasy you’re bestowing upon him. 

There are several veins, racing along the side of his cock and you tickle along each of them, pressing until you can feel the beat of his heart, frantic and fluttering. Soon, he begins to silently ask you for more, rutting his hips against your face, scraping himself along the back of your throat. When you heave around him he lets out a loud, elongated moan and digs in again, lingering until you’re nearly choking. 

You chance a peek up at him and are surprised to see him gazing right back, those red eyes of his clouded and muddled. His hand keeps an insistent pressure against the back of your head, demanding that you keep going. So, you pick up the pace, lapping and sucking, hollowing your cheeks until a thin line of your drool begins to trickle along your chin, dripping onto your knees.

“Can...can I…” he begins, fingers starting to tremble, his knees buckling. No, that’s not what you want from him. You shake free of his hand, letting him slip from your mouth, and he stammers and sputters at the loss, his eyes narrowed and dark, glaring at you with a raw frustration. 

“No,” you tell him, keeping one hand on him, stroking him, maintaining that steady pressure until he’s grunting, his hips instinctively canting into the tantalizing motion. “No, you don’t ask me for anything. Yeah, I can finish you off, if you need me to take control, but it’s not going to be on your terms. If you’re wanting something Tomura, you better fucking take it. Stop asking me for permission. I’m not-- mmph--”

He rips your hand off of his dick and his fingers curl beside your ears, forcing your mouth back, and impaling you on his length, immediately gagging you on his heady thrusts. You inhale sharply, your breath catching, failing as he keeps railing into you. More saliva slides out of your lips and you falter, a weak whimper echoing around him. 

“Mmm,” he growls, holding your face as he presses against the back of your throat loving the clenching and mewls you give him. “That feels fucking good, (Y/N). Taking all of my cock, ah- fucking choking on it. You’re so fucking greedy. Don’t worry, I’ll give you more. Let’s see, what would make this even better, oh, I know. Saw it in a porn once. Put your hands behind your back and don’t move them unless I tell you to.”

Immediately, you clasp your fingers together, letting them rest against your lower back. The suspension knocks you off kilter, but Tomura braces your head with his other hand, pinning you between his palms. His dick is still lancing in and out of your mouth, scraping against your tonsils, making you swallow and open, trying to push yourself past that oppressive gagging sensation.

“Ahhh, such a good girl, now spread your legs and lift up, just a little bit, yes- right there. Better keep those hands still,” he taunts, pulling his cock out until it hangs against your lower lip, glimmering with the sheen of your ministrations. Then, he dives back in, thrusting and grinding until his balls are papping against your soaking chin. Your legs tremble as you hold yourself up and you can feel your own arousal, slipping down your inner thighs, splattering onto that dark trench coat of his. 

You’re heaving under him, grunting and slobbering trying to not fucking choke on the girth that’s being pistoned into you. He’s gasping praise at you, his white head thrown back, and his lower abdomen is rippling, letting you know he’s so, so close to spilling down your abused throat. He bows over you as he cums, spewing thick ropes of his release into you. You gulp at him, determined to let every last drop slither down your waiting throat, longing to savor everything that he’s giving you. 

True to your promise, you keep your hands clasped and you nearly topple over when he tugs free of your lips. Tomura takes pity on your wilted form and lowers himself to his knees, wrapping one hand around you and tapping twice on your shaking digits, letting you know you can relax your grip. You fall forward, and he waits above you, watching you with a mounting fascination. Once you catch your breath, you look up at him, not caring that you’re still covered in a mix of tears, spit and his cum. He smirks at your dishevelment, pleased by your open display of your wanton lust for him. 

“See? It’s not hard to take what you want, to do what you want,” you pant, still trying to gulp down a few more rough intakes of air.

Tomura sucks his teeth at your bravado, but you notice he’s having a little bit of trouble steading his own breathing and his hands are twitching as they reach for you. You hum when he cups at your dips and curves, lingering over spots that make you moan for him. As he plucks at one of your puckered nipples his eyes lift to yours and he leans close, pressing a wet line of kisses against your collarbone.

“Lay back,” he rumbles, still sucking at the hollow of your throat. You do as he says, propping yourself on your elbows, curious and waiting. He’s slowed down now that he’s slaked that first brush of pent up aggression, but he’s still got a little more to burn. You can see it, lingering behind his vermillion eyes, gleaming under the carnal intrigue. 

His fingers, so dangerous and deadly, race down your sides, falling to the juncture of your legs and dipping into the slick that he finds. He parts your folds, bracing himself over you, his lips sucking bruises into your skin. The gossamer threads of your leaking cunt run down his fingers and onto his open palm and he groans into your neck, nuzzling his nose to your skin and inhaling, deeply. 

“Does that feel good?” He asks, his voice scraping, like sandpaper, hoarse and undone along your heated cheek. Ok, you think, arching as he dips one digit into you, you can let him have that one question, especially when your mind is fogging over like this, unable to think of anything but that ache that’s pounding through your core. You roll your hips again, urging that finger to slip further and he hisses as you pull him in, your walls trembling at the intrusion. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, lifting himself to look down at you, his eyes wide with an awed marvel. “You’re so…”

“Mmm, so what?” you ask, wanting him to keep talking to you, loving rasp of his tone as it tells you such sinful things.

“So soft and warm and...God...so wet,” he replies, adding another finger, watching as you whine for him, your lower lips parting and welcoming him. He pumps the digits, in and out, at a steady rate, waiting for each quiver and ripple, trying to feel his way along, wanting to please you. 

“Can--” he stops himself, flushing as your eyes open and snap to his, a rough displeasure written over your face. He tears his gaze from yours and scowls, letting his fingers press a rougher rhythm into you, sucking his teeth at his unspoken inexperience. 

“This feels good,” you reassure him, not wanting to completely leave him adrift, knowing that he does need a little piece of guidance, for this part, at least. “Why don’t you get a closer look?” 

Tomura looks back to you and nods before sliding down your body, lowering himself until he’s face to face with his prize. His mouth drops and he licks at his chapped lips, painting a few, warm, exhales against your sensitive folds. You squirm at the sensation and he grins, leaning closer, his free hand spreading you for his inspection. 

“Is this…” his voice trails off and you can feel him wandering his way to just the right spot. When he lifts the fleshy hood of your clit and thumbs the distended pearl you gasp and shiver, your head falling back against his jacket, thumping against the floor. 

He laughs and you can feel him getting ready to swipe at you again, his thumb already slippery and near, the heat of it radiating against that sensitive bundle. “You like that,” he crows, repeating the motion until you’re writhing. “But—” he ponders, moving so his lips are pressed against you, resting on those sopping folds, waiting for you to look up at him. Once your head lifts and your eyes meet his, he lowers his mouth, sliding his tongue over you. 

“Oh,” you whisper, your hands automatically lifting and curling into his hair, threading the white tendrils along your palms. His tongue is rough and bumpy as it glides along, pausing to lap at some of your arousal. He smacks his lips at the taste, savoring the flavor before voraciously pressing back into you for more. When he pauses his explorations to give your clit a soft suck, you can’t help but flail, your back bowing and thighs tightening around his head. 

Tomura grunts at the rough treatment, prying your legs apart but not letting up on that suction, pleased he’s found something that makes you tremble to pieces in his hands. He’s always liked working you up, so it makes sense that, in this instance, he’s no different. 

His long digits are scraping into you, dragging along your quivering walls and spreading your cunt apart, leaking your arousal all over his jacket and onto his chin. He’s not satisfied yet, you’re not satisfied yet, so he keeps going, listening and watching, catching on to what makes you cry out his name, learning and adapting at an alarming speed. 

“T-Tomura,” you keen, your hips lifting, grinding yourself against his face, begging him to not stop. You feel a smirk lift his lips and his tongue begins to circle and lick over your clit, maintaining a steady pressure. Meanwhile, his fingers have latched onto something delicate and spongy within your pussy, repeating an arched gesture, curling and uncurling as they stroke your budding flames higher. 

“So good…” you murmur, hardly able to form the words as you feel that all encompassing tingle race along your bloodstream. “You’re doing so f-fucking good.” 

In response, he begins to suckle on your clit, lightly tracing a canine over the pulsing bundle and that’s all that it takes. Your head dips back, pressing into the floor so hard that your neck arches with your back and your legs wrap around him, holding him to you as you quiver and shake under him. You can feel your heartbeat as you return to yourself, thumping a rapid beat over your breastbone and radiating out to your fingers and toes. 

Tomura, for his part, hadn’t stopped lapping at you, his tongue replacing his fingers as he pushes the wet appendage into you, soaking up each wave of your release. Even when you’d dropped your death grip, your legs and arms flopping away from him, boneless and shaking, he’d kept on. After a few minutes of this, his lips suddenly feel a little too ragged, the chapped skin scratching against your sensitive, overstimulated, flushed lower lips. You do your best to wriggle away, but he stills your movements, not quite finished. 

“Ah- that...it’s starting to hurt,” you grouse, pushing a hand against his bowed head. That declaration seems to get through and, finally placated, he gives you one last lick and lifts his head, his eyes glinting down on you, dark and mischievous. 

“I want to fuck you,” he tells you, wiping a hand across his mouth, dragging the last of your essence away. You tilt your head and grin up at him. “So fuck me,” you reply, spreading your legs again, making room for his trim hips.

“Not like this,” he qualifies, his eyes hooded as he runs a hand along your leg, enjoying your skin, warm and pliant under his palm.

“Then how?” you ask, a little bewildered by this shift in attitude. Tomura leans up, resting on his haunches, leering at your nakedness, another smirk lifting his lips, arching that scar.

“Stand up,” he instructs. 

You pull your legs away and slowly rise to your feet, waiting for him to do the same. Once the two of you are eye level again, he tugs you to him, his lips pulling and nipping at yours. You can’t help but melt into his persistent touch and when he feels you slacken against him, he starts to push you backwards. He walks you slowly, carefully, but once your back touches the cold wall, his caresses become rougher, more insistent. 

He’s lifting your chin and his teeth are doing more biting than nipping, pulling at your lips until you’re gasping and swollen. He begins to lift away and you protest the movement, but his hand presses into your chest, shoving you back to the wall. You freeze at the forceful treatment, your eyes opening and fastening onto his. Waiting for his next move.

Tomura’s regained that wild look, his eyes hardening, sharpening like ruby slips of flint as they linger over you. “Turn around and brace your hands against the wall,” he commands and, for an instant, you debate pushing back, challenging his order, but that’s not what you’re here for. No, you’d come here with one thought in mind. 

To see if you could show him what choices, what strong inner drive, wholly independent of his Sensei, he did have. 

You’d watched that kidnapping debacle and all you could think about was how much better, how much stronger he’d be if he could just get out from under the thumb of that man, that voice on the tv. Even with this informal exercise of your own, Tomura had taken to your carnal lessons like a fish to water. He had always been a natural born leader, someone who cultivated and demanded change, he just needs a chance to try. A chance to prove that he didn’t need to ask permission, to ask questions. No, he only needed to act and he could make his aspirations a reality. 

So, you turn, splaying your fingers against the wall and waiting for his next move, tilting your head, wanting to see him. He runs a calloused hand over the plush swell of your ass, kneading the skin and stepping closer. Once his hips are flush with your posterior, he ruts his newly re-hardened cock against you, his ever copious precum aiding his motion, letting him glide between your cheeks, easing into that cleft. You groan and press back, wordlessly asking for him to keep going. 

Suddenly, his palm smacks against your ass, stinging the flesh and sending a sharp crack around the barren room. “I said, push out more. How am I supposed to fuck you when you’re plastered to the wall like that?” Tomura questions, his voice deep and guttural. You brace your hands against the peeling wallpaper and jut your ass out, presenting yourself to him, quietly hoping he’ll reward you with another spank. Pleased, Tomura does just that, his other hand lifting and smarting against your other, neglected cheek, imprinting his mark on you, even if it’s only for a brief moment, and his fingers linger on the warmth he’s raised from your skin. 

“Good girl,” he groans, taking his cock in his hand and searching for that weeping entrance to your waiting pussy. You aid him as best as you can, arching your hips until he finally, finally slips into you. Tomura lets out a deep sigh as your cunt devours his cock, slicking him into the heat of your rippling channel. “Oh, fuck,” he moans, pressing until his hips are flush with your ass, grinding his bony hipbone into your supple softness.

He gives you a brief second to adjust before he bows his head over your shoulder, panting and grunting. “Hold on,” he gasps, slowly pulling his hips back and then ramming his straining cock back into you. You mewl at the sudden ferocity of his thrusts, your head dipping against the steady weight of the wall. 

He offers you no reprieve as he pounds into you, his teeth latching onto your skin, sucking and drooling, losing himself in you. His balls tap against your swelled ass and you moan when he traces one hand around you, his fingers seeking your clit and pinching at the nub. 

Your teeth begin to chatter, but he doesn’t let up, maintaining that mind numbing pace, pressing and grinding until you can’t fucking think straight. He’s completely untethered and he slakes out all of those pent up questions, feelings, hurts and wants against you. After a time, he begins to murmur things to you, finally sucking up his loose tongue and resting his chin on the mess he’s left on your skin.

He’s worried he can’t do it. 

He’s never been alone, not like this. 

Sure, he has the others, he has Kurogiri, but it’s not the fucking same. 

He needs to see this through. 

He wants to, he has to.

Where do you go, when there’s no one else to turn to?

It’s like a confessional, this rutting he’s doing and it’s bleeding all of those thoughts away, letting them pool against the front of his mind and then, pop, they shift away. 

Oh this helps, he thinks, loving how you’re fucking taking him, how much you fucking need him. He can’t let you go. He can’t, he won’t. You’re all he has left. After all this, he can’t lose anything else. No, you were right, he’s gotta start taking things, snatching up pieces until he becomes this unstoppable force, greater than his Sensei, greater than All Might, greater than all of them. Yes, yes, yes, when he has you like this, everything else feels so fucking simple. 

He’s slowing, his hips beginning to stutter and press erratically against you. There’s no need to worry about you cumming for him, not when you’ve already broken around him so many times in the last few minutes. No, the second he started panting all of those thoughts against you, you were lost, your cunt gripping him so tightly you were worried it might never let go. 

Finally, with one last thrust, Tomura grinds his hips against you, his cock swelling and pulsing as he spills himself into you. The sensation of his cum splashing against your walls hurtles you over that edge one last time and you almost collapse, your legs shaking so badly you can't support your own weight. The only thing that prevents you from falling is Tomura. His arms snake around your waist and he holds you to him, his forehead resting heavily against your shoulder, sticking to your skin. 

After a long beat, Tomura pulls himself out of you, grunting at the loss of your warmth and sinks to the floor, dragging you with him. Naked and gasping, the two of you cling to the other, waiting for the world to stop spinning as you come back to yourselves. Tomura recovers first, tugging you to his chest and wrapping himself around you, his chin perched on the familiar slope of your shoulder.

“You didn’t...you didn’t need to do this, but...” Tomura halts, his voice soft as his lips press rough kisses to your skin, silently saying what he really means, what you mean to him.

“That’s not true,” you counter, turning your head toward him. “You deserve to make a choice for yourself. You’re your own boss now. Now all you have to do is act like it. Don’t make those mistakes again. You call the shots, not your Sensei, not anyone else in the League, just you. You’ll have other choices soon, so don’t doubt yourself, it’s not like you.”

He huffs out a laugh and buries his nose in your neck, inhaling your scent as he licks at a rising bruise. “I don’t think you’ll like my next choice,” he rumbles, one hand drifting over your side and cupping the soft mound of your breast.

“That depends on what it is,” you smile, your eyes closing at the tempting touch.

“Mmm, do me a favor,” he begins, nipping at your earlobe. “Get on your knees and open your mouth. You looked so fucking pretty when you were sucking on my cock, I wanna see it, one more time.”

“What?” you question, absolutely incredulous, “again?”

“Do as I say (Y/N),” he replies, rubbing his rising length along your ass.

“God,” you gasp, bucking at the sensation, “what have I done? At this rate, I won’t be able to walk for a week.”

“You’ll like it,” Tomura promises, his voice dark, “I’ll make sure that you do.”

Notes: never have i ever liked that kidnapping bullshit. i guess it lets AFO face off with All Might, but for Tomura’s development? it makes no sense and he’s never done anything like that again, in canon. so, uh, yeah. booo kidnapping scheme. 

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